by L. P. Dover
I let her go and she took off out of the woods toward the apartments, while I raced back to mine. There was only one thing I could do. Once I was in my apartment, I grabbed the phone out of my pocket and found my father’s number. He picked up by the end of the first ring.
“What’s wrong, son?”
I leaned against the door, knowing my life was about to get exponentially more fucked up. “I’m ready. Just tell me what I have to do.”
Preston
(Eight Years Later)
“Summer’s coming. It’s getting warmer every day,” Linda said, setting down my plate of eggs and bacon. She was in her late sixties, with short, white hair. I don’t think there was ever a morning where she didn’t wear something pink.
I took a sip of my coffee. “That it is. Luckily, I don’t plan on staying in town for much longer.” For the past two months, I’d eaten breakfast at her and her husband’s diner every morning. Boston was just one of the cities on my list. It was time to move on.
Her brows furrowed. “You moving?”
I nodded. “New York. Lots of people over there I want to . . . see.”
Frowning, she filled up my coffee cup. “I hate to see you go, young man. I’m going to miss seeing you in here every morning. Make sure to stop in again if you’re ever in town.”
“I will.”
Once she was gone, I turned my attention to the window. The second I heard the sirens, I grinned. Others in the diner rushed to the windows, jockeying for position to see what was going on. I knew it was only a matter of time before they found his body.
The crowd grew thick with onlookers, especially when the media showed up. Linda turned on the TV so we could hear the live coverage. “Another Trigger victim . . .” That was one of the names they called me, Trigger. The others were: serial killer, murderer, vigilante, and the list went on and on. I didn’t give a fuck what the people thought. I did what I had to do.
I finished my breakfast and walked up to the counter. Linda’s husband came out from the kitchen and stood beside her, both of their eyes fixed on the TV. “I bet it’s that serial killer again,” she stated. “It’s making me nervous.”
Roger put his arm around her. “I’ll protect you, sweetheart.”
Pulling out my wallet, I placed my money on the counter. “From what I understand, the victims are all criminals. I think you’ll be fine.”
Linda looked at me and sighed. “He’s still a killer. Only God is allowed to dole out that kind of punishment.”
“True, but not everyone wants to wait for an eternity.” I slid the money over to her. “Be safe out there.” I walked out of the restaurant and down the street to my car. My bags were packed and I had my rifle secured in the trunk. New York was going to keep me busy for a while.
My phone rang as soon as I got onto the highway. The caller’s name popped up on my dashboard, and I blew out a frustrated breath as I pressed the button to accept it. “Hello, Glenn.”
Glenn Chandler was my superior and also a good friend of my father’s. They’d worked together for years in the Coast Guard, until Glenn branched out and not only joined a secret group headed by the FBI, but built a multi-billion-dollar company as well. We were fully trained, lethal assassins. I never knew anything like that existed, until my father wanted me to join. I’d spent the past eight years training and working for the FBI.
“Would you like to explain what the fuck you’re doing up there?” Glenn demanded.
“I’m heading to New York. My time in Boston’s done.”
“You’re damn right it is. What the hell were you thinking? You can’t keep doing this, son. If you get caught, my superiors will be up my ass even more so than they are right now. They want you to slow down.”
Releasing a heavy sigh, I sat back in my seat. “It had to be done.”
“Not like that it didn’t. We have to be careful. A kill here and there is fine, but every day? It’s too much. I want to kill the bastards as much as you do, but we can’t risk exposing what we are. If you can’t follow the rules, you’re out.”
I couldn’t afford to be kicked out. I needed the group. Killing was an addiction I couldn’t let go. It was all I had left. “I need this, Glenn. You know that.”
He blew out a shaky breath. “I know, son. But I don’t want to see you go down the same path your father did.”
And there it was . . . the one thing I didn’t want to hear. I hadn’t seen my father in years. Not since he got drunk and wrapped his car around a telephone pole, paralyzing himself. Now he was a resident of Green Meadows, an assisted living facility.
“I’m not that stupid,” I snarled.
“Now don’t start that shit. You don’t know how hard it was for him when your mother and sister were murdered. He blamed himself for not being there.”
“Bullshit. He blamed me. It was my fault we weren’t there to protect them. Why else do you think he tried to recruit me when I turned eighteen? He thought it was my duty.” I’d been the one who wanted to go on that fishing trip. If it wasn’t for us leaving home, they’d still be alive. That was why I left Charleston, to get away from it all.
“He wanted your support, Preston. The desire to find the man who killed your family was too much on him.”
“And look where that got us. It’s been thirteen years and we still don’t know who the fucker is.”
The line went quiet, before Glenn sighed. “I need you in Charleston.”
“Fuck that. I’m going to New York.”
“It’s an order, Hale. Either you come down to Charleston, or I’ll have my sons hunt you down. You know very well they’ll find you.”
“Fuck,” I growled, slamming my hand on the steering wheel so hard the pain shot up my arm. “What the hell are you even doing down there?” Glenn’s multi-billion-dollar company was in Charlotte, North Carolina. There was no reason for him to be in Charleston, other than to see my father.
“I’m here visiting your father. It’s time you saw him too.” I knew it. “But there’s something else . . .”
“What’s that?” I grumbled. The exit to New York City drew closer, but instead of taking it, I continued south on Interstate 95. I couldn’t believe I was doing this shit.
“Your mother and sister’s case is going to be reopened,” he informed me.
It was as if everything around me came to a halt. Swerving to the side of the road, I slammed on the brakes, tires screeching. “What happened?” For them to reopen the case after so many years, they had to have new evidence.
Glenn cleared his throat. “There was a murder last night. I wanted to catch you before you saw it on the news.”
“Go on,” I snapped. My whole body shook, my hands aching to hold the cold metal of a gun between them.
“Judging by the details, I think he’s the one.”
Heart racing, I could feel the rage coursing through my body. Stepping on the gas, I hurled back onto the interstate. “On my way.”
Sneak Peek of My Unexpected Love
By Heidi McLaughlin
Elle
My head rests against the glass of the backseat window. Raindrops slide down, one meeting the other, forming a longer stream of water. Each one’s only visible when we happen to pass under a streetlight. The edge of my fingernail follows the path until the small ball of water at the end meets the bottom of the window. I glance quickly at my phone, pressing the home button to bring it to life, only the solid black screen stares back at me.
It’s dead, like how I feel on the inside.
“What time is it?” My voice is garbled and my breath poisoned by the harsh aftertaste of vodka, tequila, and whatever else I managed to get my hands on, causing my stomach to twist. Being underage hasn’t stopped me from hitting every hotspot in Los Angeles, nor has it stopped the bouncers from letting me in. They all know who I am and not a single one of them cares because they know I’m there to spend money. Not to mention, I bring an entourage with me. For the club, it’s free promotion
considering every one of my friends details our outings on social media.
“Just after three.” The driver’s foreign accent makes it sound like he said tree or maybe it was free. My mind is mush and I feel like I’m on the verge of passing out. I lift my head to glance at his GPS, only to have a wave of nausea roll through me. I press my forehead back to the cold window and close my eyes.
“How much longer?”
“We’re here.” The car comes to an abrupt stop, throwing my body forward. I look into the rearview mirror and meet the driver’s eyes, and I swear he smirks. Blindly, I ruffle through my bag and pull out a twenty. The rate on the dash reads nineteen and some change.
“Here ya go.” I toss the bill at him and exit the car. He screeches away within seconds of me closing the door. “Asshole,” I mutter into the darkness.
Each step I take toward the apartment I share with my brother Quinn is painful. Tonight’s outing is definitely one for the record books. Aside from the copious amounts of flowing alcohol, the all night dancing has done a number on my muscles.
I don’t know how long it takes with me fumbling around, trying to get my key in the lock, before it opens. Quinn stands there, with his arm holding the door. The muscles in his arm strain, likely from the grip he has on the edge of the wood. The bright light from our living room lamp highlights his scowl almost perfectly, which is different for him because usually he’s expressionless, always stoic. It’s the troubled soul of a musician, only he’s not troubled. I swear if he were, I don’t think I’d be able to live with him.
“Thanks.” I step in, brushing against him.
“We need to talk, Elle.”
“Did someone die?” This is my automatic response to a statement like this. Quinn looks at me, his eyes cold and steady. I shrug. I know it’s a bad joke, but whatever. I don’t know why he’d expect anything different from me.
The door slams shut. The sound reverberates through the room, causing me to jump. “All right, can we at least turn the light off?” I shield my eyes when I look at him, exaggerating the fact that the light is too bright. His expression seems to worsen as he glares at me.
“Sit down.” Quinn’s command is forceful, demanding. He points to one of the two chairs we own. He’s set them up across from one another in the middle of our living room, almost like an interrogation or better yet an intervention.
“What’s going on?” I sit with a huff, slouching in the chair with my legs kicked out in front of me. My brother sits down and grips the armrests, keeping his back straight and his eyes set on mine. Quinn is hard to read, always has been. I’m not joking when I say he’s a tortured or troubled musician, even though he grew up in the lap of luxury. The stigma still applies to him. He’s an old soul, according to our grandma, and carries some imaginary burden that only Quinn knows how to combat. “Quinn?”
“The partying has to stop, Elle.”
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t stutter. Since… for the past year, you’ve been out of control. Most nights, you don’t even make it home. At first, I didn’t think it was anything. Nothing out of the ordinary, since you’re in college and this is what kids our age do, but recently, your habits are all over social media and Mom and Dad are throwing around words like court ordered rehab.”
My mouth suddenly dries, my stomach rolls and my temper is on the verge of exploding. No one, not Quinn, my parents or even my sister can understand what I’ve been going through. What Quinn couldn’t bring himself to say is that since my twin sister almost died, since she was smashed up in a car, much like our father, and had to fight for her life, I haven’t been right. Nothing in my life seems right anymore, and partying is the only way I know how to cope. The drinking allows me to stay numb, it keeps my mind in a fog so I don’t have to deal with the endless questions about how I’m doing, how Peyton is coming along or when am I going to settle down like her. The constant comparison, whether its about our physical health or mental well-being is taking its toll. People seem to forget that we’re twins, but we’re not the same person. “You have no right.”
“I have every right. I’m tired of watching you self-destruct. I was there too, Elle. I almost lost my sister as well, but you don’t see me drowning myself night after night, with people who don’t care about me, who won’t protect me if something were to go wrong.”
“No, you’re perfect, right? You don’t let anything affect you. You don’t drink, do drugs or attempt to live life! You sit in your room, and write your songs, day after day and play them night after night at whatever bar or coffee shop will let you, until you get your big break. You sing to people who don’t care about you, who won’t rescue you if something were to go wrong. Seems we’re not much different in the way we’re coping.”
Quinn shakes his head. “I’m not coping, Elle. I’ve moved on. I’ve come to terms with the fact Peyton almost died. It took me months, but you, it’s… this has to stop. No one’s saying you can’t go out and have fun, but the night after night drunken escapades have to come to an end. We are all in agreement, things have to change.”
“Who’s we?”
“Mom and Dad. Peyton and I. Ben.”
“Ben?” My eyes divert to Quinn’s and he nods. I shake my head, wondering when my best friend decided to betray me. He’s supposed to be my ride or die, but lately, he’s been distant, standoffish. Maybe this is why. Could it be he’s had enough of my crap and is trying to put some space between us? No, I don’t believe it. If anything, he’s got his nose to the books and is preparing for our upcoming finals.
“He’s worried about you. We all are.”
“None of you knows anything about me.” My hands push into my hair as I grunt. I want to scream, to push Quinn against the wall and yell until he finally understands what it’s like to be me, if only for five minutes. Be Elle Powell-James, sister of Peyton who is engaged to Noah Westbury, and living their happy little life on social media for everyone to see. I shouldn’t think this way when it comes to my sister because she’s my lifeline, my best friend. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her, and if she knew how I felt, she’d crumble. The last thing she would ever want to do is hurt me.
Quinn sighs and rubs his hands down the front of his legs. He’s dressed like our dad, khaki shorts with combat boots with some random band shirt, likely a group from the seventies when ‘music was real’ and made with instruments and not computers.
“Dad received a call earlier tonight. He called me looking for you because your cell was going to voicemail.”
“It’s dead.”
Quinn nods. “Anyway, I’m sure you know how your night went, but Mom and Dad received an eyeful when some journalists sent them pictures of you. I had to talk Dad into staying home, but he’s angry, Elle.”
“Well, his sister didn’t almost die, did she?”
“At some point Peyton’s accident can no longer be your excuse. You used it to ditch out of a semester of school. You’ve used it for your grades and now this.”
I turn away when I feel unshed tears threatening to escape. My throat tightens and my body starts to ache. The impending onslaught of tears makes it hard to speak.
“These people you’re hanging out with are making sure everyone knows everything about you. Every night they posts videos of the person we love, falling down drunk, hanging on strange men, and almost passed out in random clubs, for our viewing pleasure.”
“I haven’t seen anything like that. How do I know you’re not making this up?”
“Why would I? Why would I stay up until after three a.m. to have this talk with you if I were making any of this up? I value my sleep, Elle.”
“My friends wouldn’t do this.”
“They’re not your friends. They’re leeches, using you for your connections. They’re using you for the star power that comes with saying they’ve hung out with you. They don’t care about you, no more than you care about them. How do you think Mom feels when she sees her daughter like tha
t? Or Dad? Or the industry? You want to be a manager, but who’s going to bring you on staff when they can Google you and see what your lifestyle is like. Like it or not, we’re expected to act a certain way, behave as respected adults in the community. I don’t think our parents are asking too much of us.”
“And what if I don’t want to, huh?” My tone is defiant and harsh.
“You don’t have a choice.”
“Says who?”
Quinn adjusts in the chair. He pulls out his phone and by his movements, I’m guessing he’s thumbing through his apps. He clears his throat. “Mr. and Mrs. James, We’re writing to let you know our facility can accommodate Elle Powell-James when you see fit to admit her. Please note, this is an intense ninety-day treatment and visitors will not be allowed unless family counseling is needed. We will restrict all outside communications as well. We have a strict paparazzi rule and our guards will ensure that all photographers are kept off the property to protect Elle’s privacy. Once you have your legal affairs in order, please let us know.”
I swallow hard as I try to understand what Quinn is reading, and am unable to hold my tears at bay any longer. My parents aren’t messing around, but what they don’t understand is, I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions. If I want to party, I can. If I want to drop out of school, I can. If I want…
“As you can see, Mom and Dad have had enough.” Quinn interrupts my thoughts. “And I think you know this, which is why you’ve been ignoring their calls, not going home to see them and dodging their visits.”
“I haven’t--”
“You have. Before Peyton’s accident, you and Mom spoke daily. When’s the last time you spoke with her? When’s the last time you’ve been home? If I had to guess it was when Peyton was living there, but you haven’t been back since.”