Free Gone Black by Linda Ladd Page A

loops on the front, threw it down as hard as she could, and left it in a crumpled heap on the rug. She walked into the bathroom and scrubbed every trace of makeup off her face and jerked down her hair from its stupid pins and stiff hairspray. She hated the way she looked. She hated everything. She hated herself. She hated her life. And she hated Black for leaving her like this, without warning, just up and getting killed on their wedding day. She jerked on a black T-shirt and faded jeans, trying to clear all thoughts of him out of her mind, but that sure as hell didn’t work. Her hands still trembled and her stomach churned in anger and disbelief.
    Then, as she stood there alone, trembling, the realization that he really was dead hit her, that she would never see his face again, not ever in her life. That’s when the grief hit her full force, and she knew there wasn’t a single thing she could do about it. Her life with him was just over, just like that. In seconds. She frowned and tried to pull herself together again, because the music just kept on playing. Her fists clenched and so did her jaw, and she kept trying to shake away her devastated, destroyed emotions. Then, after a few moments, she finally came to herself enough to realize that Black’s song wasn’t coming from outside, wasn’t the sound track at all. It was coming from her iPhone, low and haunting, where the cellular lay vibrating around on the bedside table. Black had put that song into her phone, to alert her when he was calling, he’d said, to make her remember how much he loved her. He had done that just the other night before he left for Italy. Oh, God, it was him calling! It had to be. It was his phone!
    Rushing across to the bed, Claire grabbed up the phone, and punched On with trembling fingers, her voice coming out shrill and anxious. “Black? Where are you? Are you okay?”
    Then she realized that the call had come in to her on FaceTime, and she could see him. Up close. She could see his face. That’s when her heart nearly stopped and then just plummeted down to the ground. She hardly recognized him. His face was black and blue and swollen from a terrible beating. His pure blue eyes were half closed, the right one almost swollen shut, and he looked dazed. But, oh, thank you, God, he was still alive. He was breathing and trying hard to focus his eyes on her.
    â€œClaire, Claire, listen to me, gotta listen, gotta . . .” Black sounded breathless, his voice hoarse, as if it was difficult for him to speak. He was mumbling, his bottom lip split open and bleeding. Oh, damn, damn, somebody had punched him in the mouth, hit him repeatedly in the face. Who? Where was he? What was going on? He kept trying to focus on her but couldn’t quite seem to do it. He looked half drugged. And then, while Claire watched, something came into the picture and whacked up hard against his temple. Black’s eyes rolled back into his head, and his head fell forward. Then she could hear him groaning, and her fingers clenched so hard around the phone that she thought the screen would crack. She was so angry and horrified and shocked that someone was hurting him like that. She couldn’t stand it!
    Then the phone’s camera slowly moved away from Black and turned around until Claire was staring at a very young woman. One with pale white skin that was covered with red freckles, so many that it looked like sunburn. Her dark red hair was loose and flowing down over her shoulders like a silk waterfall, partially covering one eye. She was smiling into the camera, a pink weighted sap held up for Claire to see. “Oh, hello there, love. You must be Claire Morgan. You’re Dr. Black’s favorite fiancée, is that right? So sorry for keeping your groom from attending your wedding, and all that bother.” She spoke in English but with an accent. Claire was almost positive that it was colored by some French