Comes the Night

Prologue

From the Diary of Connie Harvell

October 11, 1962

Dear Diary,

I went out again tonight.

I just had to! There was no room for anything in me beyond the need to escape. As soon as my legs would hold me, I got off that cot and crossed my attic prison to the stained glass window. I looked at the Madonna trapped there in the colored glass. Her image was dull in the night, yet—in its own way—alive with the moonlight shining through. I saw her eyes clearly. And it really felt like she saw mine too—saw my horror.

Yes, this gentle lady knows my suffering. She’s silent yet offering. And it’s terrifying, what she offers!

I will not be damned for what I must do. I. Will. Not!

I touched the cold glass, Dear Diary. I laid my hands on it and looked up into those blue eyes. I smiled, despite the nightmare of this room. I smiled as I prepared to say the words that would set me free, if only for these darkened hours.

Because out there... out there I’m free from the locks, the bindings. The pain. Even my lonely isolation. Out there I join with the night. And it joins with me!

I spoke the words. I whispered them as I tapped on the window. Then, once again, I was one with the dark night.

It was terrifying... And yes—it was wonderful.

Chapter 1

The Bleeding Rose

Alex

Present day

IT WAS THE cold that woke her.

Eyes still glued shut with sleep, Alex Robbins threw her arm wide, fumbling for the covers she must have thrown off in the night. Except her knuckles came in stinging contact with a hard surface instead of a soft mattress.

What the hell? Her eyes flew open.

The ceiling above was unfamiliar, but from the way it slanted so sharply, with raw, exposed beams, it had to be an attic.

She was in an attic!

She jackknifed up, then wished she hadn’t as sharp, stinging pain arrowed up from between her legs. Gasping, she leaned to the right, shifting her weight onto her hip to alleviate the discomfort. Oh, God, her naked hip! Her shirt hung open, buttons missing, and she wore nothing from the waist down.

Her heart pounded, and a wave of nausea rolled over her as she struggled to process the obvious.

Who had done this to her?

The memory was like a hammer, just outside her awareness. Relentlessly pounding. Forcefully driving at the walls of her mind in an attempt to break through the barrier. She pressed her fists to her forehead for long moments, straining for the memory. But it wouldn’t come. Oh God, it wouldn’t come! But something had happened! And that terrified her, like nothing had ever terrified her before.

She turned her frantic attention back to the room. Definitely an attic, but where? Everything was dusty and gray and still, as if stopped in time. The dark rafters above her rose to a peaked roof. The lighting was low, only the smallest amount of diffused sunlight filtered into the room.

Sunlight—there had to be a window.

Alex cringed at the pain low in her belly as she turned. Beside her lay a musty, dirt-streaked overcoat and she pulled it up around her, covering her nakedness. A low window was directly behind her and she only had to scoot back a few feet to look outside. The top two-thirds of the window shone with a multitude of bright colors, but she didn’t even look at the pattern in the stained glass. She just raised herself up enough to peer through the clear glass at the bottom.

It was barely morning. Probably just past six, judging from the rising sun. Alex was looking out on a river—the Saint John River. She recognized this stretch of it. At least she was still in Mansbridge. And as she studied more of her surroundings through the window—the buildings around the bend in the river, a transport truck rumbling down the road on the other side of the Saint John—she knew where she was.

I’m still in Harvell House! she whispered. There was little comfort in that.

Alex had come back to school early; the other students wouldn’t be arriving for two more days. She’d had little choice in the pre-Labor Day arrival. Her parents had had enough of her, and she’d certainly had enough of them. Two phone calls and it was arranged, Harvell House would take her early. Reject Row the town called it. Harvell House was the residence where the loneliest went, the oddest ones, and of course, as in Alex’s case, the very worst of the bad apples who attended the Streep Academy.

She turned her attention back to the room. As her eyes adjusted to the low lighting, she could make out more detail. A mattressless crib, its sides high and slats wide apart, stood in one corner, flanked by two dressers and an old rocking chair. Alex’s stomach clenched as she saw the wide cot, the one tatter of thick rope knotted onto the metal frame.

But no, it hadn’t happened there.

She pulled the dirty coat tighter around her. Whoever had done this to her—whoever had raped her—hadn’t done it there on the cot, but here on the floor. Here where she sat now. She couldn’t remember it happening, but with stomach-churning sickness and body-burning anger, she knew the truth of it.

And it had to have been rape. Her sexual experience was a whole lot thinner than most people probably thought, but she knew enough to know consensual sex didn’t leave you feeling like this.

The memory hammered—again and again. Closer.

Under the meager covering of the coat, Alex brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. The action caused the coat to gape at the top. She looked down at herself, at her beloved tattoo just above her right breast—a bleeding red rose. She’d gotten it back home in Halifax during the summer in celebration of her 17th birthday. They’d all gotten one—Alex and Anika and Chelsea. Anika had dared a small musical note on her ankle. Chelsea a wide, blue tramp stamp on her lower back. But Alex had been drawn to the bleeding red rose displayed on the tattoo shop’s wall. She’d gotten that. Gone back once more over the summer to have the job completed.

And now, at the sight of the bruise from unknown hands continuing to form around that bleeding flower, she curled up into a ball on the floor let the tough-girl tears flow.

How had this happened? She’d been back in Mansbridge twenty-four hours. Last night had been her first night at Harvell House. Who could have done this to her? Who would have dared? Who even knew she was back?

How did she get here?

Come on, girl, remember!

But that was just it. She couldn’t. No matter how hard she tried.

Had she been roofied?

The caretaker—John Smith—had signed her in to Harvell. Quiet, harmless-looking old geezer. As always, he’d barely made eye contact with her. The housemother, Mrs. Betts, had been summoned. Tired, apathetic, annoyed to be woken at two in the afternoon, she’d shown Alex to the second-floor room she’d be sharing in September with two girls, one of whom she’d never even heard of, and the other she knew to be a total B. She fully intended to bunk with Leah and Kassidy again this year, but she would save that news for when her posse could back her up. So instead of arguing about it, Alex had lain down on the bed. She’d read for a bit, had a short nap, cracked open her flask and... Her flask! Was that it? Had someone on the bus ride slipped something into her bottle? Unlikely. She’d had it in her carry-on and had used that as a pillow most of the way. She’d changed buses in Moncton, but the bag hadn’t been out of her sight. Not for a minute.

She just couldn’t remember. And if she couldn’t remember, how could she tell anyone? Especially with her reputation in Mansbridge. She’d had almost as many run-ins with the local law here as she’d had with the Halifax Regional Police. And the force was so much smaller here. Every one of them knew her. Or thought they did.

She’d get up. Of course she would. She’d fight this feeling of brokenness. She’d get up and wrap the coat around her and make her way back to her room, and get showered and dressed. But she was going to stop crying first. Get a hold of herself.

Starting by getting out of this stupid fetal position. She wasn’t a baby.

She rolled onto her back. Through tear-filled eyes she glared up at the rafters steepling above her, silent witness to her—There was something there. She wiped at her eyes to get a better look. Papers?

No not papers, exactly—a yellow-edged book, way up on the rafters, tucked in what looked to be a rough-carved place in the wooden beam. She wouldn’t have even noticed it had she not been lying flat on the floor.

Alex got to her feet and pulled the coat around her. The musty, sickening smell of the coat’s fabric filled her nostrils, but she pushed her nausea aside and crossed the floor to look up at the rafter. How could she reach it?

She scanned the room. The rocking chair! It wouldn’t boost her high enough to reach the hidden book, but if she used it to get up on the dresser... No sooner had she formed the thought than she was moving the heavy dresser, lifting each side by turns and inching it quietly to the center of the room.

Alex climbed. As much as her world felt like it was falling apart, she was pulled to the tiny book, like the distraction of discovering its contents would somehow be enough to help her survive this awful moment. She stood on top of the dresser, balanced on her bare feet and reached. With careful, digging fingers she pulled the book from its wooden nest and held it close to her as she climbed down to the floor again.

She flipped through the pages as she stood there, reading a bit here and there of the shaking handwriting on the yellowed paper. Omigod, a diary.

She flipped to the front page and read the name there. Connie Edwina Harvell. She closed the book and her fingers touched the tiniest rose, drawn on one lower corner of the cover.

Alex tucked the diary securely into the top of the tightly-belted coat and eased the dresser back into place. Then, with practiced stealth, she made her way soundlessly back down to her room.

She showered, standing under the stinging hot spray until the water ran cold. She dressed. She cried again and pounded her pillow. She fought and fought with the memory and the memory fought with her.

And then, as she sat tight in a corner, Alex Robbins began reading the yellowed pages of Connie’s diary.

Chapter 2

Tabula Rasa

Maryanne

MARYANNE HEMLOCK HAD been in more awkward situations than this over the course of her seventeen years. But darned if she could think of one of those situations right now as she sat on the edge of her bed in her assigned room at Harvell House. Her gaze traveled between her two roommates—Alex Robbins and Brooke Saunders. Their single beds, identical to Maryanne’s, snugged up against two of the other walls of the perfectly square, perfectly plain, high-ceilinged room.

Eyes shifted.

It was like some kind of Mexican standoff, without the guns.

What the heck was she doing here?

No sooner did the thought form than the answer came. Along with the sad resolve. Because she had to be here.

Jason.

She still missed him. Still grieved her baby brother’s death as if it were yesterday. Twelve months and twelve days, that had been his whole life. She didn’t grieve him with the same anguished desperation as her mother did. Nor with the same stoic heartache as her father. But she missed him and mourned him in her own way.

Like no one would ever—could ever!—know.

It wasn’t that Jason had been the adored sibling. No more and no less the center of her parents’ world than she had been. They’d both been cherished, and known it. She’d been their first born child; he’d been their ‘miracle’ baby. The pleasant surprise. And he’d fit.

Jason had fit perfectly into their little family. Made it all the cozier.

She supposed that they had been an extraordinarily close-knit family. Skip Hemlock, her slightly eccentric father, had been a content stay-at-home dad who made the most amazing lasagna and was famous in their little subdivision for his pecan pie, which was Maryanne’s favorite. He’d made Jason’s baby food himself, and kept it all organic. Maryanne’s mother, Kelly Webb-Hemlock, was the CEO of a very successful Toronto IT security firm, but she had never missed a single one of Maryanne’s Christmas concerts, piano lessons or swim meets. She’d aahed and oohed over every one of Jason’s first words, marveled at his smile. So had Maryanne.

But then on that nightmare night just last May, Jason’s life had ended.

And the guilt crushed her still.

It’s not like her little brother had been the glue that had held the family together. But nevertheless without him, they’d come undone. And rightly or wrongly, she’d had to get away. Away from her parents whose marriage was crumbling right before her eyes. Away from all the sympathetic souls who told Maryanne how sorry they were for her loss, how much Jason had adored her, and worst of all—what a very good big sister she’d been.

A few Google searches later and she’d had the answer: Streep Academy in Mansbridge, New Brunswick.

I wasn’t like Streep was her only choice. Her marks had been good enough to get her into any private school in the country, and her parents could afford to send her. But this little school in this small town had seemed just right. Just far enough away from her Burlington, Ontario home. Neither of her parents protested. In fact, her mother cut the tuition check the very day Maryanne broached the idea. She’d opened up a generous line of credit for her remaining child with the instructions, Don’t go without. And four weeks later, her father hugged her goodbye at the airport.

Short hours after that tremulous hug, she’d stood before Harvell house—the only dorm left in town that had a vacancy—and smiled. Awesome!

Yeah, it’s pretty grand, the taxi driver agreed, placing her bags on the sidewalk. Can’t imagine why Mr. Stanley doesn’t sell it. He could get a good price for it.

She passed him a tip and took the handle of her suitcase. I’m glad he hasn’t.

The Academy’s website had boasted this as one of the oldest homes in a town bursting with old homes. Apparently, it was owned by a Mr. C. W. Stanley, an oil man from Alberta who had visited Mansbridge years ago, fell in love with the little town, and spent a ton of money to modernize the property.

About a decade ago, he’d donated use of the house to Streep Academy. But even from the low-res pictures on the Streep website, Maryanne knew Harvell was the place for her. She’d always ‘felt’ places, their vibes, though that particular quirk was something she kept to herself, ever since Angela Carlin had called her a weirdo back in Grade 3 when she’d described the school’s small gym as angry.

But it wouldn’t take someone with Maryanne’s sensitivity to feel the lonesomeness that permeated the huge, old house. It practically breathed out through the clapboards. Disquiet stared from every window of Harvell House, even the smallest ones.

Oh wow, especially the smallest ones.

Maryanne looked around quickly to see if anyone had seen her talking to herself. Not exactly the first impression she wanted to make. But only the cab driver was there to hear her. He smiled and got back into his vehicle.

As the taxi pulled away, Maryanne climbed the steps and walked into the enormous old house, knowing she’d made the right choice. She’d breathe here a little while, while her parents survived, marriage intact or not, back in Burlington. She’d grieve here. Work through the feelings as best she could. And what was left, she would shove in a box in the corner of her mind so she could go on. Then she’d head home in the summer and prepare for university.

That was the plan.

Someone cleared their throat, dragging Maryanne away from her drifting thoughts and back to the present. Right. She was supposed to be getting to know these two. After all, these were her roommates for the next ten months. They seemed an unlikely trio.

Alex was clearly a scene kid. Skinny-legged jeans, slip on Vans, tight band t-shirt. Two lip rings on her bottom lip, one on either side, and the requisite black hair skimming her shoulders at the back, but bangs cut jaggedly short at the front. The only thing missing was the heavy eyeliner. Maryanne could all too easily imagine those gray-blue eyes darkly outlined in that delicate, heart-shaped face. But even without dramatic makeup, Alex’s eyes were very pretty, if a little sad.

Brooke’s looks, on the other hand, were a sharp contrast with Alex’s. Not that Maryanne was vying for the title of fashion czar, since comfy jeans and a loose-fitting sweater was her fall fashion statement. But Brooke was clearly going for something altogether different. She was definitely high-end. Long brunette hair, parted in the middle, and doubtlessly enhanced by a salon versus Alex’s home dye job. Perfect oval of a face. Dark, impeccably groomed eyebrows and a slightly olive-tinted complexion that probably never broke out and required nothing more than a moisturizer. Even her clothes looked expensive. Maryanne didn’t know one designer from another, but even she could see the difference $300 made to a pair of jeans. Top it with a nice shirt and a tailored leather jacket and Brooke Saunders looked like sheer confidence on a pair of spike-heeled shoes. What was she doing in Harvell House? Maryanne would lay money that she was a late enrollment, too. Too late for one of the better dorms.

Soooo, Maryanne edged out. Someone had to break the ice. It would be a pretty damn long year otherwise. You guys come here often?

Not a chuckle. But at least it started a conversation.

This is my second year, Brooke said.

At Harvell or Streep? Maryanne wondered. Do you like it here?

At Harvell or Streep?

The echo of her own question rattled Maryanne for a moment. Brooke actually chose to come back to Harvell? She shrugged. Both.

Brooke sighed. Quiet town. Small school. Boring house.

Alex snorted.

Okay, Brooke amended. "Nothing much happens in my world around here. With a purposeful and sly smile, she looked over at Alex. But that’s just me. I guess I hang with the boring crowd. You know, the ones on this side of the law."

Maryanne waited for Alex to reply, but she didn’t. In fact, her raven-haired roommate suddenly seemed to be barely registering the conversation. She seemed... lost. Not for words; Maryanne had the feeling Alex Robbins wouldn’t be too shy about tearing a strip off of anyone, if the situation demanded. But right now, she seemed lost in some interior maze of thought. Without knowing exactly why, Maryanne felt a pang of compassion for the girl.

I’m from New York, Brooke offered.

Maryanne swung her gaze back to Brooke. What brings you to Mansbridge?

She shrugged. Same reason most of the girls are here. Things went wrong at home. Or home didn’t fit anymore. It was a boundaries thing. Take your pick. For me, that translates into my mother remarried.

You don’t like the guy? Maryanne asked.

He’s a freakin’ Nazi, Brooke pulled a nail file out of her purse. Or pride of the NYPD computer crime division, depending on how you look at it.

Your mom must like him.

Brooke snorted. My mother—she’s a district attorney—met him three years ago when she was prosecuting some corporate weasel who was hacking into competitors’ systems, then undercutting everyone on industry bids.

Bad stuff.

Brooke waved a hand dismissively. Anyway, boy meets girl, boy marries girl, boy starts trying to set curfews and acts like a total authoritarian dipstick. The upshot—darling daughter gets sent away to boarding school.

Ouch. Guess $300 jeans didn’t fix everything. Why Streep?

To piss my mother off. Brooke smiled as she said it. Streep was my idea.

Maryanne nodded. You must find it a real... culture shock, being in such a small town.

I get by. And it’s almost over. Last year. Brooke turned to the other girl. Your last year too, huh, Alex?

Alex stared at her for a moment, as if hitting an internal rewind button to trace back the conversation. Yeah, one more year.

What brings you to Harvell House? It was Brooke’s turn to ask the questions, and she was pointing them at Maryanne.

Under Brooke’s sharp gaze, Maryanne fought to control the sudden pounding of her heart in the long and empty pause. She couldn’t tell. Didn’t want to. Not yet.

She smiled, lifted one shoulder in a shrug. You know, just needed a change of pace.

Brooke smirked, Which translates into... ?

Just that. Change of pace. Maryanne stood and walked to the window overlooking the Saint John River. Traffic was picking up. School would be starting tomorrow. Not just Streep, but the nearby community college, high school and grade schools. God, but it was a pretty town. Picture-book pretty, with the cozy little shops lining the streets, the trail along the river, the sidewalks and crosswalks. She had to smile as she saw a black cat scoot out to the crosswalk. Every car came to a stop for the feline and the drivers seemed to wait each other out after it passed. Just who was going to go first to cross the black cat’s path?

I think I’ll go for a walk tonight, Maryanne announced. Explore a little.

Don’t!

Maryanne startled at Alex’s near shout. Their eyes met.

Alex ran a hand over her hair. Things... things aren’t always as safe as they seem around here.

Someone’s hurt her. Maryanne knew it instantly. She didn’t know who nor why nor how, but she knew that someone had hurt this girl to make her so on edge. So cautious and quiet.

Well, aren’t you the little den mother all of a sudden, Brooke said.

Alex sent her a quelling look. She’s new here, Brooke. She doesn’t know her way around town yet. And you don’t... you don’t know who’s around.

There was a knock at the door. Maryanne saw Alex stiffen, her eyes growing wide.

Come in, Brooke called, and the door swung open.

It was the caretaker, the one who’d carried Maryanne’s bag up to this second floor room when she’d arrived. He didn’t glance up at any of them, but instead looked down at the floor like a meek boy rather than the man of sixty-some years he had to be. Mrs. Betts needs to see you all, he said. In the main parlor. Right away.

Problem? Maryanne asked.

Nah, she just likes to lay down the house rules, Brooke answered for John Smith, and the man backed gratefully away from the door. "Study hard. Be good. No drinking. No boys. Bet you can’t wait to break them all again this year, huh Alex?"

The look Alex returned was ice cold. It’s a new year, Brooke.

Yeah, but same old Alex. You’ll be on probation within a week.

Alex bit her lip, the lower one with the double piercing. People change.

Not so much, in my experience. On that note, Brooke stood. She tucked her purse under her arm and headed toward the door. Stopping with her hand on the doorknob, she turned to Maryanne. Coming?

I’ll be right along.

Suit yourself.

Alex stood. She drifted over to the window and stood gazing out of it, hands tucked deep in her jeans pockets.

What was it with this girl? What was her sad story?

Hey, Maryanne said. At the meeting downstairs... mind if I sit with you?

There was a worry in Alex’s eyes as she contemplated the idea. Whatever, she finally said, and stalked out into the hallway.

Chapter 3

The World That Tightens Around

Alex

ALEX FLOPPED INTO the first empty seat she came to. Not because it was the most comfortable one left in the old parlor. It wasn’t. If anything, the old, narrow-bottomed, straight-backed dining chair looked as if it could be transformed into a fairly efficient torture device with very little effort. Or very little imagination. But Alex claimed it because it was the closest one to the door. And she wasn’t sure she could catch her breath if she went further into the room.

The panicky feeling she’d woken with in that damned attic was still with her. Instead of fading over the intervening days, it seemed to have burrowed down inside, surfacing at odd intervals. It was making itself known in this crowded room. This crowded room with only one exit.

From across the room, Alex saw Leah give a head jerk over here gesture. Beside Leah, Kassidy scowled off a freshman who was about to claim the empty seat between them. They were obviously holding it for Alex. But with her left foot flat on the floor, and her right jacked up on the bottom rung for emphasis—Alex stayed put in the chair by the door.

A second later, Maryanne sat down in the equally narrow-bottomed, straight-backed piece of crap beside her. Alex shot her a quick look. Maryanne flashed her a smile, then turned away to scan the faces of the assembled students.

Huh. After Alex’s less than warm reception of Maryanne’s suggestion that they sit together, she really hadn’t expected the other girl to park it next to her. Especially when there were more comfy chairs further inside.

Alex shrugged. Whatever. If Maryanne wanted to sit in that torture device, so be it.

The room filled up quickly. Alex glanced around the large parlor, then stared out the door into the hallway. She’d leave. If it got to be too much, she’d just walk out. Already she could feel the closeness of the room pressing in around her. Felt the first trickles of warmth, then the tightness in her chest. It hadn’t been like this before. It shouldn’t be like this. But everything felt entrapping now. Threatening. Like she was suffocating within her own skin.

While she battled that feeling of suffocation, Patricia Betts came up behind her and laid a hand on Alex’s shoulder. Alex jumped in her seat and swore.

Those who dared, and those who’d never met Alex Robbins, snickered.

Good heavens, I didn’t mean to startle you. Mrs. Betts thrust a handful of colorful pages out toward her. Hand these out for me please, Alex.

Alex didn’t budge as the seconds ticked by. Not in defiance, but because the room suddenly did feel that close. She felt her knees tremble.

I’ll do it, Mrs. Betts. I need to stretch my legs.

Maryanne was on her feet with papers in hand before Betts had time to utter a protest. But in true Patricia Betts fashion, she just rolled her eyes, sighed and let it go as she took her place at the front of the room behind the podium, an old scarred-up music stand that was almost guaranteed to get knocked over before the meeting was done. Betts took a pair of reading glasses from a case and perched them on her nose. She looked down at the pages before her—the same ones Maryanne was handing out—as if she’d bothered to add anything different from all the previous years. As if she’d actually take the time to—He’s looking at me.

Alex knew John Smith’s eyes were on her even before she looked his way. Her darting eyes were quick enough to catch the caretaker staring. Quickly he lowered his glance. He almost seemed to lower his head.

Was it him? The old dude who always looked so harmless?

Smith could have slipped into her room while she was in the bathroom and put something in her flask. He knew Alex was back at Harvell House. He could access the attic. Maybe he only seemed harmless. Maybe it was all an act. Maybe he’d been stalking her for years. Watching her. Waiting until he could—

Alex shook her head. Fought down the breaths that she just now realized were coming far too fast. She was driving herself crazy. But dammit, who wouldn’t be driven out of their mind if they’d been drugged and raped and left to wake half-naked and confused in a dingy old attic? Left there like a used tissue or some bit of garbage they were finished with.

The only thing worse than that, was not knowing who’d done it.

Alex bristled as Maryanne sat down again beside her, passing her the last of the handouts.

Now, we’ll start with the yellow sheet, Mrs. Betts said. The yellow sheets were two sheets down in the small packets of colorful pages, which made no sense to anyone. The rustle of turning pages filled the room. Alex glanced down.

Oh God, the yellow sheet. Introductions.

Before Mrs. Betts even announced his name, the school’s benefactor C. W. Stanley rose from his chair beside the podium. He bowed like a Southern gentleman in an old Civil War movie, removing his hat as if he