This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First US edition March 2017
Copyright © 2017 by Cheryl Bradshaw
Cover Design Copyright 2017 © Indie Designz
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1544009097
ISBN: 978-1544009094
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means whatsoever (electronic, mechanical, etc.) without the prior written permission and consent of the author.
To Susan Payne
For teaching me to follow my bliss, pushing me to
achieve my dreams, and for always believing in me.
I miss you.
“The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present. The occasion is piled high with difficulty, and we must rise—with the occasion. As our case is new, so we must think anew, and act anew.”
—Abraham Lincoln
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
About Cheryl Bradshaw
Books by Cheryl Bradshaw
CHAPTER 1
Alexandra Weston fiddled with the cap on her black Sharpie pen, popping it off and on while gazing out the window at the patchy drops of rain bleeding from a bleak, overcast sky. It was December. And it was cold. Not frigid cold, but cold enough.
One hour and forty-two minutes had passed since her book signing began at Bienville Street Bookstore. She was aware of the exact time because the shop had a square metal clock the size of a card table hanging from the center of the wall on the second floor. And because she was in the home stretch, the last eighteen minutes of the final stop of her book tour.
A crooked smile broadened across Alexandra’s face just thinking of how good it felt to be home again. Home. The word itself enveloped her like the warmth of a wool blanket.
It was Alexandra’s first night back in New Orleans, and she knew exactly how she would spend it—at home with her daughter, sharing a full plate of Louisiana crab cakes and a celebratory bottle of wine. After weeks spent in three-inch heels, dresses one or two sizes too small, and strained smiles while she forced herself to answer the same tedious, repetitive fan questions over and over again, she deserved an evening of indulgence. She also deserved a good night’s sleep, but rest—the “knock you on your ass so you feel like a million bucks the next morning” kind—didn’t come easily. Not since the nightmares had started again.
Soon her life would change forever.
Soon the world would know the truth.
She welcomed it and feared it at the same time.
For now, she had a few more copies of her newest book to sign.
Alexandra’s original true-crime story, The Devil Died at Midnight, based on the life of serial killer Elias Pratt, was an instant hit when it had first released twenty-five years earlier in 1990. The book propelled to the top of the New York Times bestsellers list, where it remained for eight consecutive weeks. She wasn’t surprised. People had insatiable appetites for dissecting the minds of notorious killers, especially when it came to the dashing, debonair Elias, whose conviction was surrounded by controversy. Everyone believed he was guilty, but not everyone believed he deserved the death penalty.
A year earlier, her agent, Barbara Berry had pitched Alexandra an idea to revive Elias’s story. Her publisher was interested in releasing a special twenty-five year edition of Elias Pratt’s story, a “where are they now” look at his victims and their families.
“It will be simple,” Barbara had said. “All you have to do is conduct a few interviews, tack a few brief chapters onto the original book, add a few new, never-before-seen photos, go on a short book tour, then sit back and collect royalties. Easy peasy.”
To Alexandra, there was nothing easy about it. And the timing was bad. She had other ideas. She didn’t want this book to spoil them. When she declined a second time, Barbara offered an ultimatum. Either she agreed to what the publisher wanted or the publishing house would release the amended version using another author: up-and-coming true-crime writer and television host Joss Jax.
Joss flipping Jax?
Even with Joss’s recent success, the mere thought of her researching Elias’s story was offensive. Joss was a child compared to her. Joss didn’t know Elias. Alexandra did. And Alexandra wasn’t about to allow Joss the satisfaction of poaching her own story. So she did a few interviews, wrote a few updates, and rebranded the title, which was now called The Devil Wakes.
Overall, her career had been a success, even if it hadn’t started out that way. While her friends’ parents praised the achievements of their own daughters, Alexandra’s mother had always been unsupportive. Her Westons never amount to anything attitude led
to years of self-doubt, especially in the early days, where rejections were a frequent occurrence. “You’re a Weston,” her mother had said. “Westons aren’t authors, or lawyers, or doctors, or anything fancy like that. We’re ordinary, hard-working people. Best you accept it now than face years of disappointment trying to be someone you’re not.”
Alexandra could have accepted her mother’s words, could have suffocated and cowered from the years spent dealing with her mother’s cruelty and abuse, but she didn’t. Instead, she let the words wash over her, allowing them to fuel her drive and determination to succeed. Now when her deceased mother’s voice rang in her ear, she smiled, knowing her mother had been wrong, and wishing her mother had been alive long enough to realize it.
With five minutes remaining before the book signing concluded, Alexandra shifted her focus to the last two people in line. One man, one woman. The woman was familiar, in her thirties, wearing a violet zip-up hoodie, a beanie on her head, boot-cut jeans, and gray Converse shoes. The majority of her hair was tucked behind the beanie, but a few violet wisps peeked through, just enough to reveal her identity.
The man standing in front of the woman was pushing fifty and had a receding hairline to prove it. Alexandra waved him over. He approached the table like a timid mouse and grinned, showing off a giant monstrosity of a thing—a snaggletooth
jutting from the upper left side of his mouth. Alexandra averted her eyes, pretended she hadn’t noticed the dental disaster. She doubted it worked. She was gifted at playing it cool, but this was a bit much.
Alexandra reached for the book he was holding and said, “Hello.”
The man tossed the book onto the table instead of into her hand, pushing his pointer finger onto the center of the cover and sliding it across the table in her direction. She flipped it open to the title page, watched him rub his hands together in rapid motion like an overexcited child on his birthday.
“Is it true?” he asked, eyes wide, glossy.
She knew what was coming next, of course. The same comment that always came next. Still, she indulged it like she’d done so many times before. “Is what true?”
“Were you really there when Elias fried in the electric chair? Did you see it? Did you watch?”
“Yes.”
The man was practically salivating now. “And he looked you in the eye before he died?”
Again, she answered, “Yes.”
Even sitting here now, in front of a man she’d never met, his eyes bugging out, she could still picture Elias’s death like it happened only yesterday.
“What was it like to be there? I mean, watching the life get sucked out of him must have been wicked cool.”
Wicked?
Yes.
Cool?
Not so much.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Lester.”
She signed the paperback and handed it to him. “Well, Lester, the answers to all your questions are in the book.”
He clutched the autographed copy in both hands, pressed it to his chest, and stood there, hovering over her like a cat ready to pounce. “It’s just so great to meet you in person, to meet the woman who spent so many years of her life getting close to Elias Pratt, getting to know all the killers you’ve interviewed in your lifetime.”
Over the past several weeks, Alexandra had seen far too many of Lester’s kind—people only interested in meeting her because they assumed she’d had an intimate bond with Elias. Most fans were normal, average, exhibiting a harmless curiosity in Elias’s story. Then there were the others, cultish, those in awe of serial killers. People like Lester. These fans were of a certain breed, like test-tube rats, holding Elias on a pedestal that even death couldn’t decimate.
“You were close to Elias, weren’t you?” Lester pressed.
“I wasn’t close to Mr. Pratt,” she replied. “Getting to know him was purely for the sake of research for the book. Nothing more.”
He squinted one eye, curving his lips into a crooked grin. “I bet that’s what you tell everyone, huh? Does anyone actually believe that garbage?”
Alexandra’s heart pulsed inside her chest, fast and heavy. Dut-dum. Dut-dum. “Excuse me?”
He licked his lips, leaned in even closer, his fevered breath moistening her cheek. “How ’bout I buy you a drink tonight, maybe get to know you better? Talk some more about this book of yours. You like that?”
Alexandra stroked her chin, a rehearsed gesture aimed at the security guard standing twenty feet away: we have a live one. A fanatic. A freak alert. But before the guard shuffled his considerable girth in her direction, the woman standing behind Lester stepped forward, tapping him on the shoulder. “How about you back the hell off Mrs. Weston?”
Lester didn’t move. His eyes remained fixed on Alexandra.
“Now,” the woman said.
“Wasn’t talkin’ to you,” he grunted.
“Your book is signed, and the store is about to close,” the woman continued. “Time for you to leave.”
The man grimaced then arced his body around. “This conversation don’t concern you, ma’am. Mind your business.”
The woman crossed her arms in front of her, bending her head to the side like she was toying with him in the same way he’d just toyed with Alexandra. “Let me put it to you in a way you can understand, m’kay? You have five seconds to back away from Mrs. Weston’s table and leave the store, or I’ll show you just how concerned I can be.”
Alexandra glanced at the store’s security guard once more, an oafish, overweight man named Louis, who, up to now, had exhibited no bite in his bark whatsoever. Panting, Louis reached Alexandra’s desk and raised a brow, blinking at her as if his few brain cells couldn’t determine what he was supposed to do next—step in or hold off.
Lester flattened a hand and thrust it against the woman’s shoulder. “I don’t have to go nowhere.”
Alexandra smacked the security guard’s chest with the back of her hand. “Don’t just stand there, you idiot. Do something!”
A confused Louis reached for Lester, but his hand didn’t connect before the woman’s hand did. With a single swoop she wrenched Lester’s arm behind his body, smacking his face into the wall.
“Move an inch and your arm gets broken,” the woman said.
A young, angel-faced male employee observing the commotion from across the room leapt into the scene. He looked at the woman who’d subdued Lester and squeaked, “Excuse me, what’s going on here? You need to let the man go or I’ll call the cops.”
“Call them. Right now.” The woman tipped a head toward Louis. “And we’re going to need an actual cop, not mall security. Got it?”
The employee’s jaw gaped open. Louis’s jaw gaped open.
“You heard the lady,” Alexandra chimed in. “The man she’s restraining verbally assaulted me and then physically attacked her. Don’t just stand there gawking. Make the damned call!”
The employee muttered an apology in Alexandra’s direction and dashed away. Minutes later, the police arrived, asking a series of questions before placing zip-ties on Lester’s wrists and carting him away. Conflict over, the woman stepped up to the table.
Alexandra accepted the book from the woman’s hands, set it on the table, and smiled at the woman in front of her. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Miss Jax.”
Joss Jax pulled the beanie off her head, her dark locks falling around her shoulders. She combed her fingers through her hair. “Are you sure about that?”
Alexandra laughed. “Of course. We’re fellow authors. Though you did make a play for Elias’s story.”
“I was suggested as an alternative if you refused. I wasn’t interested. They only mentioned it to get you focused. It looks like it worked.”
She was witty and sharp, more personable than Alexandra expected. “I’ve seen your show.”
“How do you like it so far?”
“It’s not bad, but then, I’d watch those investigative shows all day if I could.”
“To be honest, I was surprised they hired me to host.”
“Why?”
“I’m a writer. I know little about television.”
“How did you get the job then?”
“The producers heard I was a fan of the network. They were looking for a public figure with a general knowledge of forensics.”
“You definitely look the part. You’re edgy. Likeable. Captivating with those dark eyes of yours. I’m sure you appeal to their demographic.” Alexandra signed Joss’s book, handed it back to her, grabbed the few remaining books off the table, and shoved them inside a plastic bin on the floor. “I appreciate you coming to my aid tonight.”
“I hope this kind of thing doesn’t happen often.”
Alexandra swished a hand through the air. “Not usually. You?”
“Not much.”
“I had a young stick of a thing follow me back to my hotel room once after a signing. She was harmless. Just an overzealous fan obsessed with the man I was writing about at the time. I don’t get creeps like this Lester fellow often. He’s crazy, but not the I’m here to kill you kind of crazy.”
Joss laughed. “I heard you’re retiring soon.”
“It’s true. I don’t have a passion for writing like I once did.”
Joss raised the book in the air. “Is this your
last book then?”
Alexandra’s eyes lingered on Joss for a few seconds. Was she making general conversation or fishing for something else? “What brings you to New Orleans?”
“The show is on hiatus. I thought I’d get away for a while.”
“How long are you here?”
“A few more days.”
Alexandra reached into her handbag, pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. “Thanks again for standing up for me tonight. Here’s my home address. If you have some time tomorrow, why don’t you stop by? My daughter Chelsea would love to meet you. She’s seen every episode of your show.”
Joss didn’t appear to be listening. She was focused on Alexandra’s hands. “Are you all right?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Your hands, they’re shaking.”
Alexandra looked down. Joss was right. Her hands were trembling. She placed them on her lap, out of sight. “I’m just a bit jittery. Perhaps it’s all the coffee I’ve had.”
“Or what Lester put you through.”
Either excuse was plausible, except for one thing.
Alexandra’s face felt numb, her body weak, her perfect vision blurred and fuzzy.
She didn’t know what caused it exactly.
She only knew something wasn’t right.
CHAPTER 2
Alexandra needed to pee. She also suffered from an intense, churning pressure in her abdomen, making her feel as though she needed to vomit. With Joss gone, she located a restroom adjacent to the children’s book section of the store and entered the second of three bathroom stalls. In addition to the nausea, the numbness in her face had spread, and her heart was racing.
A minute later, the bathroom door opened and closed.
And then ... silence.
No one entered the stall on either side of her.
No one turned the faucet on.
But a woman was there.
Lurking.
Alexandra could hear her breathing.
Slow. Heavy. Impatient breaths.
Alexandra heard a distinct click, like the door to the bathroom had been bolted. She flushed the toilet, flipped the latch on the metal stall door, and pushed it open, shocked to find the other occupant in the room wasn’t a woman like she’d assumed—it was a man. At least she thought it was a man. He wore baggy clothes, leather gloves, and a plain, dingy, gray beanie on his head. His face was masked with a full beard, and he wore a pair of dark, round, mirrored glasses.
The Perfect Lie Page 1