by Penny Wynter
Still A Stranger
Penny Wynter
A Dark Romance
Contents
Still A Stranger
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Still A Stranger
Six years ago, someone bashed in my skull and left me for dead. But I'm not dead. I also don't remember who attacked me or why.
My therapists say that's why I feel compelled to work on cold cases and solve long-forgotten mysteries.
Working on one of these cases, I meet a tall, dark and handsome stranger. You know the kind your mother warns you about.
He says that he knows who I am and that he's willing to share that information with me—for a price that I might not be willing to pay.
This is a dark and twisted romance novella with a guaranteed HEA.
1
"That's it for today. Tune in next week when we'll talk about the Cedar Falls killings. I'm your host Ramsey Jacoby."
My partner nods at me, and without missing a beat, I add, "And I'm Amber Alderwood. Thanks for listening and goodbye."
Smiling, Ramsey takes off his headphones. "Another one down. I'm already wondering if it'll perform as well as the episode about that serial killer. What was his name again?"
"Stephen C. Hintz."
"Yeah, that's right. What a creepy motherfucker." Ramsey shakes his head and starts gathering his things. Although we share a table during the recording of our weekly podcast, it's mostly littered with his things. Ramsey has a very organized brain that likes to be surrounded by chaos. He has not two, but three mugs on the table, among other knickknacks that we surely don't need to record. I don't mind his mess, though. It's a nice contrast to my need to keep things tidy. I have my tablet and a stylus to take digital notes, and that's basically it. Yeah, there's a lip balm in my bag along with my wallet, phone, and car keys but other than that I don't bring a lot of stuff.
That's probably because I—or should I say–Amber Alderwood doesn't own a lot. It's hard to accumulate "stuff" if you've only been in existence for roughly six years.
Before I can dwell further on my mysterious past, Ramsey puts his hand on mine and squeezes. I have to fight the impulse to pull my hand back as he looks at me like a puppy. "I still don't like the idea of you driving all that way alone."
"It's not that far."
"But the snow." He huffs. "No one in their right minds drives to Minnesota in the middle of winter."
"Come on, buddy. It's already March. It won't be that bad." During the last couple of weeks, I've started to call him "buddy" rather than "Ramsey." It's my way of friend-zoning him. Only I'm afraid he doesn't take the hint too well, or maybe he simply doesn't want to take it.
"The forecast says otherwise. Why won't you let me accompany you?"
"Because it would be boring as hell for you, and I would feel bad about it. You know the drill. I go there, listen to the story, try to get as much information as possible, and as soon as I'm home, I'll write the first draft of the book. It's a lonely profession, to be honest."
"I wouldn't mind waiting for you, Amber." He squeezes my hand a bit tighter and gives me even bigger puppy dog eyes.
I should be frank with him and tell him that I will never get romantically involved with him, but ever since "then" I've avoided confrontation. Not that I even know if I ever was the confrontational type, but I sure as hell am not now.
"No, you stay here and prep everything for next week. Someone needs to be the brains behind our hit show." I get up and pocket my tablet, happy to have an excuse to take my hand away. My skin feels slightly sweaty where he touched me. Not because Ramsey has sweaty hands but because I don't like being touched. At all. It makes me shudder, fills my stomach with dread, and repulses me. I look down to where the nail of my left ring finger had been missing when they found me and wonder how many more therapists I will need to get over this.
Ramsey can't help himself and accompanies me to the door of the little office where we record our episodes. He'll stay a little longer to take care of our emails and to deal with our sponsors and patrons. I used to feel bad about him working these long hours, but writing my books also takes a lot of time, and they've really helped make our show even more popular. We've talked about this, and Ramsey sees managing the stuff behind the scenes as his job. But maybe that's the crush he has on me talking.
He holds the door open for me, and as I turn to him for one last smile, I see him leaning in. I take a step back before he actually kisses me. Staring at his lips, my heart racing, knees weak, I inch back further. I don't like this. Not one bit.
"Bye," I choke, and it's all I manage before I practically flee from the building. Besides the fact that I don't want to be touched–let alone kissed–Ramsey also isn't my type.
Not that I know what type Amber Alderwood actually has. Although I suspect her taste in men might be quite shitty considering that the police consider my attacker to be male—judging by the blunt force he used to bash in my skull before he left me to die.
Unfortunately for him, said skull is way thicker than it appears. Luckily for him though, I don't remember one second of my life before I woke up in a hospital bed in Canada after being in a coma for three weeks.
That was six years ago, and now I make a living by solving cold cases and long-forgotten mysteries. One of my therapists claims that I do this because I can't figure out my own past. No shit, Sherlock. Anyone with half a brain could have figured that one out.
Putting my bag on the passenger seat, I get behind the wheel and start the ignition. It will be a long drive, but I like the solitude.
While leaving the parking garage, I contemplate switching the radio on. Before I can do so, my phone rings. As I answer it, Donna's voice fills my car.
"Are you en route already?" She asks.
"Yes, boss." I smile as I turn on the windshield wipers. Rain is pouring down like the world is about to end.
"Good. This book will really tug on your reader's heartstrings." Donna sounds satisfied, although I haven't even written a single word yet.
"Let me check the story out first, okay?"
She clicks her tongue. "All your stories are great, and this time we're going to make this a national bestseller with all the attention it deserves."
I immediately feel uncomfortable. "Donna, we've talked about this. I don't want to go on TV."
"Why not? Think about all the money, darling."
"I'm also thinking about the fact that someone tried to kill me six years ago, and it isn't exactly the smartest thing to alert that person to how very much alive I am."
I know how this conversation will go down. She will ask why I do the podcast next, and I will explain how the podcast doesn't involve my fucking face, and she will say that six years is a long time.
With a sigh, I grip the steering wheel harder. "I'm sorry, but I have to focus on the road with this weather. Why don't we talk about this when I get back? I'll call you." I hang up. Only a small part of me feels that I've been rude, but Donna really needs to accept my boundaries. The books are already raking in enough money without my face being exposed. I don't intend to change that.
It's not like I'm lying. Someone tried to kill me. And that someone is still out there and thanks to my fucked up brain, I have no idea who or where he/she/they might be.
I take a deep breath, switch on the radio, and focus on the long drive ahead of me. Worrying about ghosts is useless. Almost all of my therapists share the notion that my memory will be
triggered one day, and it will all come back to me.
I'm not so sure I want that to happen because I imagine that it most likely will happen should I meet my attacker.
No. If I could choose, I would rather be Amber Alderwood forever. I'm busy enough figuring out other people's secrets, so I don't need to deal with my own.
2
Pine Falls is even smaller than I expected it to be. My last stop before driving to Emmie Cassidy's house is a homely diner serving the most perfect apple pie I have ever eaten. Although, given that my memory includes only six years, that surely isn't saying much.
As I sip the coffee after absolutely demolishing the slice of pie, I read Mrs. Cassidy's letter one last time. It's really tugging at my heartstrings. I've already considered including it in my book about the case of her missing daughter—as long as I determine that her daughter is actually missing.
During my time doing this, I've encountered a lot of people hoping to get donations and time on TV or even a book deal of their own by pretending a loved one is missing. One husband even went as far as killing his wife to make sure she was actually "missing." That's when my career really gained traction because I figured it out while speaking to him. After I said my goodbye, I went straight to the police, and they found her body buried in the woods behind his house.
But this is not the vibe I get from Mrs. Cassidy's letter. She writes very hesitantly about the fact that she never had the best relationship with her daughter, and yet she can't imagine her daughter simply disappearing like she did, leaving her dog Topher behind. The poor animal was nearly starving to death when Mrs. Cassidy went to her daughter's house to check in on her after she didn't respond to calls and text messages.
Mrs. Cassidy is right. I get around a hundred letters per week from all over the country. People of all ages and backgrounds looking for loved ones. But the dog—damn, the dog really got me.
As I get up to leave, I overhear a bunch of locals talking about the bad weather. To be honest, it scares me a little as I thought Minnesotans would shrug this kind of weather off as if it was nothing.
It's currently only two degrees, and the snow seems to be falling faster with every passing minute. The roads have been cleared, but it still slowed me down to the point that I'm currently two hours late. The sun has long set.
I try calling Mrs. Cassidy, but she doesn't answer.
Pulling the beanie further down, I hurry to the car and start the ignition. I use my smartphone to guide me for the rest of the way. The houses get few and far between, and soon only the snow and the long road are visible in the rearview mirror.
It takes me another forty minutes before I reach Mrs. Cassidy's house. There's a huge gate surrounding her property, which seems extensive. It's hard to tell in the dark and with the massive amounts of snow covering everything.
I'm not sure how close I can get to her house without driving over anything that might be covered in snow—decorative statues, a walkway, or something like that.
Since there's only one other house around, maybe 200 yards away, I decide to stop on the road. I'm too much of a chicken to drive off the road which has at least been cleared.
I make sure that my beanie covers my sensitive ears, slip on my gloves, and grab my bag before I open the door and make my way to the gates. The snow reaches up to my hips, and I'm not really prepared for that.
As I approach the giant fence, I notice that the gate isn't closed. There's an intercom next to the entrance, but someone's taped a sheet of paper over it. "Out of order."
Great. With a huff, I start marching up the driveway while wondering if I could drive the car through the thick snow blocking the path to the gate.
The closer I get to the house, the more suspicious I become. There's no light and no smoke coming from the chimney.
Somewhere in the distance, a crow coos, sending a shiver down my spine. It's ridiculous, but it feels like something is off. I turn around but can't see anything. Only a lot of snow. A whole fucking lot of it.
I almost fall face-first into the snow when my boots hit what must be stairs leading up to the door of the mansion.
Curse words are on the tip of my tongue. Mrs. Cassidy knows I'm coming, couldn't she at least have cleared the stairs before I break my neck?
Leaning forward, I use my hands to shovel the snow to the side until I'm certain there are stairs. Four of them. I climb them up and ring the bell.
Nothing happens, so I ring again before knocking on the door.
"Mrs. Cassidy?" I yell out, my breath visible before my lips. "Mrs. Cassidy? It's Amber Alderwood."
The cold is already creeping through my shoes and clothes. I can't stay out here for long. Damn it.
Making sure to hit all the steps, I climb back down and start walking around the house. I peek through every window I come across, but it's useless. The house is dark and seems to be completely empty.
I don't understand this. I've talked twice on the phone with Mrs. Cassidy. She definitely knows I'm arriving today. She even booked a room for me to stay in overnight back in town.
Leaning in against the cold wind, hugging myself, I hurry back to my car and get in. I take my phone in one last attempt to reach her. It shouldn't surprise me but the reception is awful out here. I have only one bar, and that's if I keep my hand extremely steady next to the steering wheel.
There's a clicking sound before an automated voice tells me that the number I'm trying to reach is no longer in use.
Perplexed, I stare at my phone, then at the house, trying to make sense of this.
I just hope that nothing has happened to Mrs. Cassidy. Since I'm out of options, I should head back to the town and ask around if someone knows what's happened to her.
I turn the keys in the ignition of my trustworthy Ford. Nothing happens. Within a split-second, my pulse is racing, and my heart is beating like crazy in my chest.
Don't panic; I tell myself. That does nothing.
I turn the key again, but the motor keeps quiet.
No. No. No. I can't get stuck out here. It's way too cold to walk back into town, so I try again and again and again.
I try turning the keys until I'm almost sobbing.
Okay, this clearly doesn't work. Think, Amber, what would you do back home?
Call a towing service, of course.
I take the phone back into my shaking hands, and the last bar of reception has vanished. So I need to get back out into the cold and find a spot with reception to call for help.
Trying to encourage myself, I put my hand on the door opener as someone knocks on my window.
3
The knock startles me so much that I turn towards the door, blood rushing in my ears, and my elbow hits the horn. I only see a shadow outside, but the sudden noise seems to startle the person who knocked as much as me.
"Are you okay?" A deep voice asks. A man.
I'm not sure why but there's something in his voice that makes my heart beat even quicker. Biting down on my lip, I contemplate my options, and all of a sudden, my car seems too small. If the man attacks me, I won't have enough space to defend myself.
Although I'm cursing myself for the decision, I open the door and get out of the car.
The man is standing a couple of feet away and shows me his hands covered with thick gloves. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
He's every bit as attractive as his delicious voice had me believe. He's tall, and I can't see much because, like me, he's wrapped in a fluffy coat with a hat pulled down and a scarf around his neck.
"My car doesn't start." I sound like an idiot, but I don't know what else to say to a stranger in the middle of nowhere.
"I figured that much. You can't stay out in this weather for long. I can take a look at your car, but I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were you. I don't understand a lot about cars."
"Okay." Leaning back, I pop the hood open and watch as he disappears behind it.
"Nope." He says after a while. "All I can t
ell you is that this is most definitely a motor." He closes the hood again and eyes me instead. "I live right there. You can come with me, and we'll call Gary."
"Who's Gary?"
"He owns the local garage."
I gaze at his house in the distance. It's not like I want to go with him, but the bone-deep chill creeping through my body tells me that I might not have another chance.
"Do you know where Mrs. Cassidy is?" I point at her house.
"Who? The old lady?"
"Yes."
"No, sorry. I'm not from around here."
He does absolutely nothing to calm me down. What the hell is he doing standing here in the middle of the road if he doesn't live in Pine Falls?
I really don't want to go with him, but my numb fingers insist. "Just let me get my bag."
"Sure." He turns around and starts walking towards the house.
I can't help but lock the car although it's obviously not going anywhere, and there's no one around to steal it.
I catch up with him. "You live here in the middle of nowhere, but you're not from around here? How does that work?"
"I'm just here for six months, filming two seasons of a new show for Netflix back to back. We needed snow—but not this much. So production has come to a halt for the past week. I hope we can resume filming next Tuesday, or else we might be in trouble."
Now that sounds interesting. And at least somewhat plausible, making me a bit less hesitant to follow him inside. The warm envelopes me immediately, and I enjoy every second of it.
"I'm Dominico Fanucci," he says, as he pulls off his gloves and offers me his hand. "All my friends call me Dom."
I take my own gloves off. "Amber Alderwood."