Emily Kenyon 01 - A Cold Dark Place

good for you. You’ve been through so much. We just have to tell her what happened”
    Nick extricated himself from Jenna’s arm. “Your mom will never understand. No one would. This is such a lame mistake, Jenna. All of this is bullshit. My family didn’t understand me. Your mom isn’t going to, either.”
    “I’m here,” she said. “I get it. I understand”
    Nick got up and walked toward the fissure of light around the casing of the door.
    “Stop. I’m here for you,” she said.
    He turned around. He was more handsome than menacing, with dark eyes that sucked the life force out of the room. His hair was curly, dark, almost black, though he’d cajoled his mother, Peg, into using one of those home highlighting kits. The highlights were supposed to be golden, though they looked more like brass. He wore blue jeans low on his hips, revealing the black band of Joe Boxer briefs against his very white skin. A vintage Metallica T-shirt and scruffy black Doc Martens completed the look. A closer examination would reveal twin pinprick scars through his eyebrows; the only reminder of a piercing look that he didn’t think was cool anymore. Through the tears on his pallid face, he managed a smile.
    “I know. Now and forever,” he said. “You’re the only one I can count on “
    Jenna pulled him closer. It was tentative. Not in the way that a woman pulls a man closer, but as a girl comforts a brother.
    “I have to talk to my mother,” she said.
    Nick pulled away, and took a step backward. His eyes followed Jenna as she slumped back down on the dirty sofa. “I don’t trust your mother. You know what she thinks about me. Everyone thinks that about me”
    Jenna Kenyon knew that Nick was right. She wondered how she had gotten herself into such a mess, but more urgently, she worried if she was going to be able to get out of it in time.

Chapter Fourteen
    Thursday, noon, Cherrystone, Washington
    Emily Kenyon hadn’t eaten much in almost a week. Her last real meal had been the pasta that Jenna had made the night before she disappeared. Emily’s clothes no longer flattered her figure; they draped limply. Her shoulders were wire hangers now. Aware of this, she smoothed out the wrinkles in the cotton blend skirt she’d put on that morning. But it was more than the forlorn fabric of the outfit that made her such a mess. It was her entire life. Her forever-marriage had been torpedoed by a husband who insisted his needs weren’t being met-and found a way to rally in the arms of another, a younger, woman. She’d thought that living in Cherrystone among old friends and familiar surroundings would be a tonic for her troubles. But she was wrong about that, too. Even living in the family home, as lovely and as steeped in cherished memories as it was, had been somewhat of a mistake. Old homes take a lot of new money, and a detective’s salary and the child support of a doctor-ex didn’t add up to nearly enough.
    Worst of all, Jenna was still gone. Emily had finally talked to David. She’d got her old friends in the Seattle PD to check it all out. And she was now convinced that David had been telling the truth. Jenna was on her own. Or worse. She was helping someone, she’d said. Emily knew it had to be Nicholas Martin.
    Despite every effort of the sheriff, and of law enforcement all over the state, there was no clue where they were.
    Emily had been adamant. She didn’t want the public to know that her daughter was with Nick. That would make her personal involvement in the case a liability. It might tempt him to hurt her. So while there was a concerted effort to find Nick and ask him about his dead family, no one in Cherrystone except Shali and a few kids at school knew with certainty that Jenna was missing. Instead Emily had explained she was with her dad for a while.
    When Randazzo’s office at Cherrystone High demanded to know if Jenna was coming back, Emily said she would let them know what the situation was when she knew, that the family was working through some issues, and that her investigation of the Martin homicides had made the situation even more difficult. Randazzo had had the decency to back off.
    So there Emily sat in her office, fishing through messages from the media, amid fermenting latte cups in the trash, and a legal pad headed with “Call Today” on her desk. She tapped her pen against the paper. She felt empty, depressed, and heartbroken. On some level the Martin case would have been a