Page 45 of Love Me Darkly
Flipping the page, his gaze fell on an image. A young girl with dark skin and wide, brown eyes. Eyes filled with sadness and with pain. Eyes that reflected everything he’d ever seen while looking into them in person. Beneath that photo was a name, one that he traced with his index finger as he soaked it in.
Melody Frank.
Melody stared at her cell phone, her thumb slowly swiping lines of text up the screen. Her bedroom curtains were shut against the light of the morning sun, and it filtered through the sheer fabric with a red-orange glow. The sounds of the French Quarter coming alive for the day filtered through her window, but she blocked it all out. She had only been awake for a few minutes, having left the bed long enough to use the bathroom before throwing herself back onto the mattress. It was nine a.m., way too early for her to be awake after working at Solstice the night before until after closing. But when her eyes snapped open, she had been unable to close them again, even after burying her head under the blanket and remaining there for a good ten minutes.
Drowsiness tugged on the edges of her subconscious, and she found herself thinking she could happily sleep the rest of the day away. She was off tonight, which gave her a good twenty-four hours before she needed to go anywhere or do anything. Being able to close herself off from the world, for even so short a time, should have been comforting. It should have brought her great relief. Instead, she was filled with a restlessness she couldn’t overcome. It had her looking over her shoulder everywhere she went, craning her neck at every little sound, flinching in anticipation of a brutal hand grasping the back of her neck. It made life difficult as she teetered on a tightrope, doing her best to keep her balance and find her way to the other side.
With a sigh, she finished the news story she had been reading and scrolled back to the top. Her breath caught in her throat at the image nestled at the top of the page. A man standing behind a podium at a press conference, hands gripping the edge. Wearing a dress shirt with the sleeves cuffed at the elbows and a loosened tie, he stared the camera down with dark, unflinching eyes. Eyes filled with experience and secrets and pain. Eyes that had scorched through her on more than one occasion, seeking the things she kept hidden.
The caption below the image read: FBI Supervisory Special Agent Mateo Garcia shares details of the investigation into captured serial killer, Canton Haines.
This story was one of a handful she had found when running a Google search on Mateo once her curiosity had become unbearable. Now that he had given her his last name, she could dig into his life. Only, because of his profession, there was very little to find. There were a few stories from local and regional news outlets located in and around D.C. Only this story had an accompanying photo, though some of the others mentioned him as the lead investigator in this case or referred to him in a similar context. There were also some quotes from him, banal remarks that revealed only what the bureau put into his mouth—words about crimes, justice, and victims.
Logging into her secret Facebook account—on which she used a fake name and a generic flower as a profile photo—she searched profiles under his name, but a few minutes of scrolling through them revealed that not one of the Mateo Garcias she found was hers.
Hers. What a weird way to think of a man she barely knew. A man who seemed to have become obsessed with her and her secrets. A man who scared the daylights out of her while intriguing her to no end.
Switching to Instagram, she searched every string of keywords she could think of, becoming increasingly frustrated. It made sense for him to have no social media. She wasn’t sure how high up the food chain a supervisory agent might be, but the stories she’d read indicated that he was a man of importance, someone with a decent amount of clout and power. It meant his secrets would be harder to dig up than a normal person’s.
For a second, she experienced shame over what she was doing. What was she, sixteen, internet stalking some guy she had a crush on? With a snort, she rolled her eyes. To call what she felt toward Mateo a ‘crush’ was as ridiculous as it was ingenuous. A crush was what a girl felt for her hot, young, 11th grade English teacher. It was probably the mildest word anyone could think of to describe the knee-shaking, belly-quivering, mouthwatering waves of fear and arousal and euphoria that swept over her when Mateo was anywhere near her.
Thoughts like those would only lead her back to last night, to those stolen moments in the storage room, so she resumed her search. All it took to wash away her shame was remembering that every time she had turned around over the past few weeks, Mateo had been there. Her shadow. Two could play the stalking game, and Melody needed as much information on him as she could find. She had to know how dangerous he might be to her situation. The few things she found pertained to his official position with the FBI, so maybe she was using the wrong search terms. She began using keywords that would show her anything connected to the FBI in the Washington D.C. area. A few minutes of scrolling had Melody sitting up in bed, holding her breath at what she found. There were mostly pictures of families and some official looking photos that looked like they had been taken at office events or official ceremonies. Proud spouses of agents sharing whatever moments they might be allowed—wedding photos, selfies, candid shots, and babies.
She studied the profiles attached to the photos, selecting the one that read @FBIWivesDC. The description told her this was a page for the wives of agents in a D.C. field office. What were the chances that this was the office connected to Mateo?
She had her answer when she went to the most recent post, which had gone up nearly two years ago. Apparently, the account was now dead. Underneath a carousel of images, she read the caption: Backyard crew and & the guys working overtime. #FBIFamily #FourthOfJulyThrowback #TBT #FBIWivesDC.
Melody flipped through the images, her gaze flickering over men in T-shirts and tank tops and shorts mingling with women and children in similar attire. A few aesthetic images had been thrown in—food and drinks, cups arranged on red, white, and blue tablecloths, sweating bottles of beer, and a perfectly arranged hot dog on a plate. And then, on the last image, she paused, mouth falling open.
It had obviously been taken toward the end of the day, and the setting sun sent streaks of pink and orange across the horizon. Sprawled on a lawn chair on a stretch of perfectly green grass sat Mateo. She pulled the phone closer, drinking in every detail. He wore a pair of shorts and a plain black T-shirt, one of his tattoos showing on his bicep. She couldn’t make it out, but recognized it as being different than the one she’d seen in person on his other arm. How many tattoos did he have? She bit her lip at the thought of stripping him out of his clothes and finding out for herself.
Focus, Mel!
Shaking her head, she pushed aside her wandering thoughts. The man in the photo was a far cry from the one she had met that night at Solstice. There was looseness to his limbs, the legs that stretched out before him, the arm that hung at his side. The hand balancing a bottle of beer on his knee was steady but relaxed, nothing like the grip that had tangled in her hair or clenched at her waist. The face was smoother, free of lines and strain. His dark hair was shorter, as if he were more fastidious back then about getting it cut. His deep-set eyes were focused somewhere beyond the camera, twinkling with mischief. Like a little boy. His full, shapely mouth was pulled into a soft smirk, completing the picture.
Melody stared at the photo for several minutes, inclining her head and comparing this image of Mateo to the man who had appeared before her one day like something out of a dream. It only took a single thought to conjure up his face as she knew it—a strong jaw often shadowed with dark stubble, cheekbones carved with quiet authority, and a jaw that looked like it could take more than a few punches. A nose that looked like it had been broken at least once before, slightly crooked on the bridge. His lips had drawn her eye from the beginning—curved on the lower lip, slightly bowed on the upper lip. That mouth of his was full of potential and promise, not that he let it show. If his lips weren’t slanted into a frown or pinched into a scowl, they were a straight, stern line, giving nothing away. Except for the few times she had managed to poke through his armor. That night on the dance floor. In her apartment. In the storage room at Solstice. His mouth had delivered on those unspoken promises in more ways than one.
And his eyes … they were the worst of all. Deep set, dark, and heavy-lidded, as if he was always slightly inebriated. Bedroom eyes. Eyes that were deceptive in their sleepiness, until the moment he locked them on her. Then, they sparked to life with heat and dark fire. Smoldering. Intense. Soul-bearing, those eyes.
She read through the string of comments, zeroing in on one that made her mouth go dry.
Mari.garcia_love: Such a great day! Can’t wait for next year!
Her thumb hovered over the icon of the profile picture. It was of a woman with dark hair who had the same last name as Mateo. Melody tapped it before she could lose her nerve, pulling up the profile. The bio said that she was a wife and a mother from California. Melody couldn’t scroll fast enough, her rabid gaze inundated with images and captions and hashtags. The posts were old, having come to a stop a little over a year ago, which Melody found odd. History indicated that this Mari woman had posted almost every day before then. There were photos of a craft room and sewing projects, as well as aesthetic images of coffee cups and various home-cooked dishes, and some very flattering selfies. She was beautiful, with golden skin, dark brown hair and hazel eyes that radiated warmth. Melody had begun to think maybe she had stumbled on a sister or a cousin of Mateo, until she came across a photo that took her breath away.
The man in the photo lay shirtless on a bed, the covers fallen to his waist. He appeared to be asleep, but his head was turned away so Melody couldn’t be sure. One thing she was certain of … it was him. She felt like she would recognize Mateo anywhere, even when only being able to see his torso and the back of his head. She knew those tousled strands of hair, so black they took a bluish tint in the sunlight. She knew the hands resting on that abdomen, strong and long-fingered and bulging with prominent veins. She knew that tattoo—the helmet, rifle, and combat boots she’d noticed at the café. He had been bulkier when the photo was taken, thick with muscle across his chest and arms. The width and breadth of his frame were the same now, but he was harder now than he appeared in his photo, tighter, jacked, every muscle pulled taut over his bones.
Sleepy Papa Bear #marriedlife #saturdaymornings, the caption read. As Melody scrolled, she found more faceless photos of Mateo—him walking down a crowded city street from behind. Him jogging down the sidewalk in front of what she assumed must be their house. Him bent over a workbench with his head lowered and a hammer raised in one hand. The captions were sweet and loving, the adoration this woman felt toward Mateo clear as day. Melody’s eyes stung as she lingered over a black and white wedding photo. Mari smiled into the camera, a white veil framing her face and delicate lace covering her shoulders and arms. Mateo pressed his lips to her cheek, his eyes closed, his arm wrapped around her waist. She took in the lowered eyelids, the long lashes, the strong jaw. Then she noticed other things. The protective hold of his hand at her waist, the intensity furrowing his brow as he leaned in toward his bride. The glittering diamond on Mari’s hand, which rested over the arm Mateo held her with.
This caption was in Spanish: Te amo siempre. Feliz aniversario. #anniversary #couplegoals.
A tear slid down her cheek, and she swiped it away, angry with herself. Men had been disappointing Melody her entire life. Not one of them had ever given her something for nothing, and every one of them had fixed their mouths at some time to lie to her. Mateo wasn’t the first man who’d turned out to be married after she’d fucked him. With her track record, she doubted he would be her last.
She was just about to close down the app when a sudden thought occurred to her. Why had both the FBI wives’ page and Mari’s personal page gone dead? The FBI wives page hadn’t been posted on in two years, and her personal page had been silent for about thirteen months. Scrolling back up, Melody tapped on the last selfie of Mari that had been posted. It had more comments and likes than anything she had ever shared. Melody’s heart gave a painful twinge as she read the comments, and what she had overlooked became clear.
RIP Mari.
Such a beautiful soul. Gone too soon.
