At First Light Read online

  Yet in the end, I hadn’t even managed to save myself.

  Angry now, I push her from my mind. Concentrate on the brute behind me, his dirty nails digging into my flesh.

  “Just fucking do it,” I growl, trying to turn my head. “I’m done here!”

  My captor ignores me, yanking me to my feet instead, dragging me toward the door. My pulse kicks up and my heart slams against my ribcage. He’s taking me outside? Why is he taking me outside?

  To kill me?

  Or . . .

  I haven’t been out of the hole in three months, by my rough count, and the sunlight nearly blinds me as it hits me full on. I blink and I squint and I stumble, my body weak from near starvation. When I finally do manage to right myself, I realize I’m standing in front of the man who captured me that first day. He is unshaven, a wicked scar down his cheek.

  “Your government has met our demands,” he tells me in halting English. “You are free to go.”

  You are free to go.

  I shot up in bed, eyes wide. Sweat pooling down my chest, my breaths coming in short gasps. I swallowed hard, blinking my eyes a few times, then reached over for the bedside lamp, the idea of on-demand electricity still feeling like a miracle after months in the dark. The first couple weeks back I’d slept with the lights on. But it had felt like a pussy move and I’d turned them all off the night before.

  Inviting the nightmares back with a vengeance.

  “Get a grip, Troy,” I muttered under my breath as I flicked on the switch, prompting the room to flood with warm, golden light. I exhaled. Kicking my legs out from under the covers, I swung them to the side of the bed then stood up, walking across the cold hardwood floor to the bedroom window. I pulled back the curtain and stared outside.

  From here, in this little apartment on the hill, I could see downtown San Diego in the distance, sparkling with light. It was only one AM according to my bedside clock, which meant there were probably people still out there, drinking, dancing—without a care in the world. Without a thought in their empty heads of those stuck in dark holes, being tortured . . . or worse . . .

  No, those people out there, those dancers, those drinkers—they were too busy Instagramming and Snapchatting and selfie-ing or whatever the hell else kids did these days. Content to live their small lives with blinders on—oblivious to the rest of the planet.

  I didn’t know whether I hated them . . . or envied them.

  I groaned, raking a hand through my hair. I’d gotten it all shaved off when I’d first set foot back on US soil, but it was already growing back. I’d need another haircut soon to wrestle it back into shape, but that would require calling a salon and making an appointment. To sit down at the mercy of some hairdresser who might have secretly wished they’d left me in that hole.

  Oh God. I needed to pull myself together. Tomorrow I’d be officially reentering society, starting my new job as a reporter at News 9 San Diego, and I couldn’t let them see me sweat. I needed this job and I knew I was lucky to have gotten it, given the circumstances. But still, it was hard to get excited. Mostly because it felt a lot like a pity gig—the news director doing me a favor.

  Not that I wasn’t experienced enough for the position—if anything my five years as a national news foreign correspondent made me overqualified for some local news gig. Hell, covering fires and car chases and other mundane first-world-problem news should be a cakewalk after what I’d done. What I’d been through.

  Should being the operative word here.

  I walked to the living room and turned on the TV, mindlessly flipping through the channels, trying to settle on a station. But they all seemed too loud, the characters yelling at me over the airwaves until I turned the volume down so low I couldn’t hear them at all. The light was too bright, too. Hurting my eyes. Eventually I just turned if off altogether. Grabbed a beer from the fridge and slugged it down. Then I lay down on the couch and pulled a pillow over my head, waiting for dawn.

  • • •

  It seemed I’d just fallen asleep when the alarm woke me up, announcing the start of the day. Or the middle of the day, as the case might be. Thankfully my shift didn’t start until noon. I rolled off the couch feeling sore and exhausted, my knee twanging as my foot hit the floor a little too hard. They’d dislocated it when I’d first been captured, and it never did set right. I’d gone to a doctor when I first got back and he said I’d need surgery to get it fixed. Add it to my list.

  I worked to get dressed, then got into my car and headed to my job. It still felt strange to be driving down the street not looking over my shoulder to see if anyone was following. To watch others go about their lives, pumping gas, dropping off kids, living this weird, surreal normal life that for so long had felt like an impossible dream. My car itself felt impossible, too. Back-up cameras, air-conditioning, GPS. Luxuries I had once taken for granted, but since forgotten all about. Of course you didn’t need a ton of air conditioning in San Diego. The weather was perfect. No more breaking out into a sweat the second I walked out my front door.

  I pulled into the TV station a few minutes later, parking the car and getting out, slamming the door behind me. I stood there for a moment, surveying the building, my eyes darting to each perimeter, observing and recording each exit, even though I knew that wasn’t necessary anymore. Just a habit left over from the last five years of going into buildings where it was.

  Inside the front door, a pretty brunette greeted me at the front desk. I informed her who I was and showed my ID, and she buzzed me in. I took note of the bulletproof glass and double-door entry and felt a little better as I stepped through.

  “There you are! You made it!”

  I looked up. A Latino man with a short, trim beard stepped toward me as I entered the newsroom, holding out his hand. When I gave him what must have looked like a doubtful expression he grinned. “Sorry. I’m Javier. Your new photographer.”

  My first instinct was to ask how he knew who I was. But that was stupid. The entire country knew my face at this point. I took his hand and shook it.

  “Good to meet you, man,” he said. “And thanks for your service.”

  I nodded stiffly, feeling my face heat. People had been saying shit like that to me since I’d gotten back. Thanks for your service. Missing the fact that I was a journalist, not a soldier. I felt guilty accepting their misplaced gratitude, but knew it would be even worse to try to argue that I wasn’t worthy of it.

  We walked into the newsroom together and I tried not to wince at all the bright lights and loud noises assaulting my senses. The place looked like a deranged nightclub with TVs hanging from every available surface and neon lights flashing everywhere else. It was open concept with little pods of desks for the producers and writers of the newscast scattered throughout. On the far walls were doors presumably leading to the executive offices and special projects department. I wondered if it would sound too prima donna to ask for an office of my own. Because working out here in the open was going to drive me completely crazy on day one.

  I realized everyone’s eyes were on me now and I found myself breaking out into a cold sweat, despite the cool air conditioning. I tried to pretend it was all my imagination—that they weren’t actually looking at me—but that was ridiculous. After all, I was one of the most famous people in the country right now. #AmericasHero or #ShouldaLetHimDie, depending on your point of view. For weeks I’d been courted by all the networks—including my former employer—to tell my story. I was hotter than Ryan Reynolds.

  I swallowed hard. Maybe this was a mistake.

  Thankfully Javier seemed to sense my unease. “Come on, man,” he said. “Let me show you the photographer’s lounge. It’s a lot quieter there.”

  I followed him gratefully through the newsroom, trying my best to ignore the stares. We headed down a hall and into a small room, just off the editing bays. It was filled with ragged armchair
s and threadbare couches and a small TV hung from a wall, broadcasting the news. It was quiet, too. At the moment, no one else was there. As Javier went straight to the coffeemaker and grabbed two cups, I settled down into a chair and let out a long sigh. Much better.

  Javier loaded up the Keurig and turned back to me, his eyes shining. He shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re actually here,” he said with a low whistle. “You are a fucking legend, man. I can’t believe I actually get to work with you.”

  I felt my cheeks redden. “I’m really not a big deal,” I muttered.

  “Are you kidding? What about that time you were on the front lines, reporting live from the hood of a freaking tank? That was so hard-core.”

  I stifled a grimace. Hard-core, maybe. Stupid and ridiculous, definitely. Back then I’d fancied myself as some kind of superhero cowboy reporter. Made of Teflon—nothing could touch me.

  “Well, that was my old life,” I said. “And it didn’t exactly end well.”

  Javier blushed. “Yeah. Sorry, man. I can’t even imagine.” He trailed off, catching my expression. “Sorry,” he said again. “You probably don’t want to talk about it, huh? That’s cool with me. I have a cousin who was in the service. He never says a word about his time over there. In fact, every time some idiot brings it up he has to leave the room.”

  I nodded absently, kind of wanting to leave the room myself. Or maybe the entire building. This had clearly been a mistake. I was so not ready for this. I hadn’t even started working yet and my skin was prickling and my heart was beating a mile a minute.

  Come on, Troy. Pull it together.

  I forced my eyes to meet the television set on the wall, trying to focus on something besides the room. The noon anchors were announcing the entertainment block—a new movie review of some mindless rom-com I had never heard of. I started to turn back to Javier. But then something stopped me in my tracks.

  Make that someone . . .

  My eyes widened. I stared at the screen. At the beautiful blonde talking into the camera. “Who is that?” I asked, though I was pretty sure I had already made a positive identification.

  Sure enough, Javier confirmed it. “That’s Sarah Martin,” he said. “Our entertainment reporter. Her dad’s our mayor and a big advertiser, too. Not that I’m sure that had anything to do with her getting the gig.” He rolled his eyes. “She’s hot, though, I’ll give her that. And she seems to know her stuff. Though how hard can it be to watch movies for a living?”

  I didn’t answer and instead attempted to pull in a breath. But the air was suddenly ice-cold, and made my lungs ache. Oh God. Sarah Martin. Sarah Martin working here? As an entertainment reporter?

  Swallowing hard, I turned back to the TV where Sarah was now sitting, interviewing some celebrity I didn’t recognize. She was dressed in a silky sky-blue blouse that, in my opinion, was cut way too low for TV. And her skirt? It was so short it made her legs look as if they went on forever. She completed the look with a pair of red-soled shoes, and her hair was smooth and long and perfect, styled within an inch of its life.

  No. This wasn’t my Sarah. My Sarah with her ripped jeans and ratty political T-shirts and Converse sneakers on her feet. With her messy ponytail and fresh face, devoid of any makeup.

  I sighed. I guess we all had changed. And not necessarily for the better.

  A sudden voice broke out into the room and it made me almost jump out of my skin. “Desk to Javier. Are you loaded up?”

  I dropped my shoulders. Right. It was just the walkie-talkie.

  Javier shot me a look. “You okay, man?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.” I gritted my teeth. “Just . . . startled me is all.”

  He nodded, pulling out his walkie. “Yeah, I’m loaded. And I’ve got Troy here.” He let his finger off the button. “Are you good to go?” he asked. When I nodded, he pressed the button again. “Where do you need us?”

  “We’re getting reports of some kind of robbery and police pursuit just south of downtown,” the assignment desk editor informed us. “Do you want to head down there and see if there’s anything to it?”

  “Roger that,” Javier said, looking pleased. “We’re on it.” He stuffed the walkie into his pocket and crossed the room, over to a set of lockers. I watched him, curious. Especially when he pulled out a bulletproof vest and threw it at me.

  I caught it, giving him a questioning look. He grinned. “I know it’s silly,” he said. “But I love wearing them. Makes me feel like a badass.” He shoved his arms into the vest and strapped it up. Then he laughed. “That probably sounds lame to someone like you.”

  “No. It’s smart,” I admitted, reaching out to take the other vest and strapping it to myself. Just like old times. Not that the vest had done me any good during those old times.

  And the way my heart was pounding in my chest? I wasn’t sure it was going be much help now, either.

  three

  SARAH

  I stepped out of the studio after finishing my live intro to the Liam Hemsworth interview I’d done a couple days before. Now I had to work on my actual movie review, which would air on Thursday, the night before the film’s opening. I’d gone to the press screening last week where I had struggled to not fall asleep in the middle of the film, which was basically packed with mindless action, little plot, and a lot of gratuitous Hemsworth ab close-ups. (So, you know, not a total waste.)

  In the end, I’d decided to give it a B+, rounded up from the C- I’d originally planned after being reminded by News 9’s owner, Mrs. Anderson, that in addition to being in the business of making crappy movies, this particular studio was also a major News 9 advertiser. And therefore it would be . . . appropriate . . . for us to be generous.

  It was funny; when I had first been offered this job I’d been over the moon. After all, I’d started as a film major in college and had seen just about every movie made from back in the Golden Age of Hollywood and had a special place in my heart for foreign films as well. I spent my twenty-first birthday at a Fellini Film Festival and had once watched all of Kieslowski’s Decalogue films in one sitting. (That’s over nine hours of English subtitles, people! I was pretty sure I was going to go blind by the end.)

  Of course that was all before I’d gotten involved with Troy and his do-gooder friends. Switched my major to Environmental Studies and attempted to save the world. To Troy, movies were a waste of time. A diversion to lull us into complacency and distract us from what was truly going on in the world—not to mention in our own backyards. Troy didn’t even own a television set—in fact he had a bumper sticker on his car that read Kill Your TV—something at the time I thought was so rebellious and cool.

  And when, in the end, he left me high and dry? When instead of killing his TV he decided to become a network star? I ordered every single cable station imaginable just out of spite. Binge watching the most mindless reality shows—which, oddly enough, were not nearly as fake as our relationship had turned out to be.

  At that point it was too late to go back to film. And after the Troy debacle I had lost all faith in the idea of saving the world. So I bounced around for a while doing social media and public relations gigs for art galleries and small businesses, ultimately going to work for my father and his mayoral bid.

  So when this job opened up, just after my dad’s election, I jumped at it, seeing it as a chance to return to my roots. Instead, it had turned out to be just another PR job for big Hollywood films that didn’t really need it.

  Case in point, this particular blockbuster.

  A month ago I had begged the executive producer to send me out to the SXSW film festival in Austin, Texas, to report for a week on all the smart, innovative indie film selections for the show. Instead, I’d been dragged to L.A. for a press junket and a bunch of red carpet crap for a slew of “reimaginings” of old eighties films—the only thing they seemed to make anymore in Hollywoo
d.

  Everyone likes a good do-over, I guess.

  “Hey, Sarah!” My producer, Ben, greeted me at the doorway to the entertainment center, pushing his thick, black-rimmed glasses up his nose. Ben was my salvation at News 9. The only guy whose appreciation for old movies rivaled my own. “Did you hear about the noir film festival they’re holding this weekend?”

  I grinned. “I already have my full access pass,” I assured him.

  “Oh my God. Jealous,” he pronounced. “Who are you going with?”

  “No one, actually. I’m just going by myself.”

  “Seriously?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. I mean, I go to the movies by myself all the time,” he admitted. “It’s just . . . I didn’t think someone like you would have to.”

  I choked out a laugh, even though I wanted to scowl. It was the kind of comment I got all the time from people. People who thought they knew me, just from a quick glance. A good-looking blonde. A rich chick. That was all they needed to know before making their assumptions.

  “Maybe I enjoy going to movies by myself,” I said. “Ever think of that?”

  He gave me a skeptical look. Of course. “Well,” he said, “if you change your mind and would like a noir-loving nerd to share your popcorn with, just let me know.”

  I gave him a smile. “I may take you up on that, actually.”

  He paused and I watched him shuffle from foot to foot. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I was just . . . wondering. Have you heard who they’re going to put in the new He Said, She Said movie review segment yet? I mean, obviously you’re the she. But I didn’t know if . . .” He trailed off, looking sheepish.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I haven’t heard anything.” I gave him a rueful look. “Fingers crossed though, right?”

  He nodded, holding up both hands with crossed fingers. Then he turned back to his work. I watched him for a moment, feeling kind of bad for him. I knew how much he wanted to be on air. To do this segment. Heck, it was his idea to begin with and there was no doubt he’d be amazing at the job. But I wasn’t sure the studio brass was going to care about that when they selected their talent. The way things went around here, looks trumped skill almost every time. And Ben, well, he wasn’t exactly suave, to say the least, with his wrinkled shirts and high-water jeans and unkempt hair.