Young Writers Society

Peter 'Viggo' Carlsen and Nyssa Malik are on the run from Russel Pierce, a corrupt cop. They've just agreed to go back to San Francisco to take care of him.

But unbeknownst to them, Russ has a lead.

To know more, read Chapter 18.2.

For half a dozen years now, Peter Carlsen had come awake at the crack of dawn to the sound of a bell. It didn’t matter that he was now a free man. He still woke up every day, promptly, at four thirty. Usually, he just rolled on his other side and went right back to sleep.

Not that morning.

He opened his eyes to the near darkness. Nyssa’s pretty head rested on his chest. He could only see the gold and chestnut silk of her hair over his heart. He wished he could pet those beautiful curls. He wished he could touch her face, study it until her every feature was committed to his memory.

But that would be selfish. What if she woke up?

His eyes fluttered closed. Everything was so sharply defined, as if his senses were soaking up the last drops of happiness. The white house on the beach was peaceful around him. The melody of the surf echoed through the emptiness downstairs. He could also hear the dog. Scruffy’s claws clinked on the kitchen’s tile, the chain around his neck rattled against the rim of his water bowl.

Nyssa sighed in her sleep and pressed her nose to his chest. She had fallen asleep naked as the day she had been born. Her nipples rubbed against his side as she nuzzled closer. Her trust was such a precious, fragile thing. She had no idea how innocent she looked or how much she mattered to him.

He kissed the top of her head, breathed her in. Mint. Honey. Citrus. Nobody smelled quite like Nyssa. He had never realized how much he missed the scent of her until he had gotten to see her again without a glass plate between them.

After their long night – and day – together, the smell had permeated his skin. It would be different, this time, he thought. He couldn’t ever be truly alone again. He would take the light of her everywhere with him. He would walk off with the knowledge that someone knew him inside out and trusted him no matter what.

He managed not to disturb her as he stole out of bed. He stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, staring at her, feeling cold and lonely and wrong. He wanted, needed her softness, her vulnerability, her warmth. He hated that he was about to hurt her…She was going to wake up and find him gone. She was going to find herself all alone in the world. Again.

His desertion would wreck her. Or perhaps it wouldn’t. Perhaps she would hate him and move on with her life. He almost wished her just that. This was one occasion when hate would have been easier than love. He should know. He had unwittingly given her a hold on his heart and, now, here he was, feeling torn, uncertain.

His lips shaped the words, but he didn’t voice them, “I love you.”

His stuff was next door, ready. He had packed everything before joining Nyssa in bed, the night before. He had known she was too stubborn to let him go and he had wanted one last day, one last night – he had needed them. He had packed clothes, fake IDs and money. He had followed her example and booked a car on the internet. That’s one thing that had become so much easier while he was in jail.

He looked down at the bags and had no energy to keep going. What if…What if…? So many things could happen – to her, to him. She was right. Together was better, together would be saner, safer. If he let her go, he would spend every minute of every day worrying about her. He would worry about her. He wouldn’t ever stop worrying about her. It was who he was.

He couldn’t help worrying about her.

He dug into a bag for the gun he had lifted from the prison guard and he put it down on the coffee table. Nyssa was a smart girl. She might not like firearms, but she would use one to protect herself and he had long taught her how to.

He tore through the room looking for a pen and paper. Now that he needed one, he couldn’t find a damn sheet of paper anywhere! He settled for a sharpie and a white pillowcase.

He got dressed, shouldered his bag and tiptoed down the stairs. The dog raced to him the moment he took a step downstairs.

“Hush, Scruffy. We don’t want to wake her up, right?” He knelt to rub the dog’s throat. “You’ll take care of her, won’t you? Take care of our girl, Scruffy. Until my return.”

But there would be no returning, he knew that. He had made sure that there was no way they could find each other again. Given the least bit of a clue, she would follow him to San Francisco. He didn’t want her anywhere near Russ.

But maybe he could have set a place ahead of time, somewhere they could meet up if he got away okay. He paused mid-stride as he was about to step over the threshold. That way, she wouldn’t be tempted to look for him, and he couldn’t lose her forever. Not like that.

Idiot. He wasn’t going to lose her, she was losing him. He wasn’t going to escape from San Francisco with his life. He knew her. If he gave her somewhere to wait for him, she would feel an obligation to. He refused to hold her back. He had already made her a prisoner without chains and bars once.

He closed the door quietly behind him.

Nyssa’s trust was misplaced. He could escape Saint-Paul but not the darkness in him. They couldn’t possibly build something new, something better upon his sins. Once upon a time, he had taken a pledge to protect and serve. And, then, he had gone on to be a self-serving SOB, to protect his sick, perverted partner. Why? Because he had been afraid of making waves, of being rat, of becoming unpopular?

Russ’s crimes were on him too. Now was the time to pay the piper.

Viggo took a deep breath, pushed away memories of the last time he had walked away from a woman he loved. He had come home with Angela after his birthday-party. He had made love to her, then, after she had fallen asleep, he had snuck back downstairs and turned on Nyssa’s tablet. The red dot had blinked at him from the Defoes’ street.

He had almost shaken Angela awake but no, his desire to deal with the mole on his own had once again prevailed. He had gotten dressed and left their house under the cover of darkness.

Viggo's desertion of Nyssa reminds him of when he lost Angela.

To finally know everything about the Defoe murders, read Chapter 19.2.