Alice Boone
The Kidnapper’s Brother
A Dark Criminal Romance
Copyright © 2020 by Alice Boone
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Also by Alice Boone
Chapter One
My features wouldn’t relax until I knew the door was locked behind me— not totally, at least. The click of the lock was my Pavlovian whistle. Once that sound hit my ears, my face finally fell into the frown I worked so hard to hide, my shoulders falling into a pathetic slouch. Every muscle in my back, my face, was stiff after working a double. My feet ached for release, but they carried me to the finish line anyway.
Finally, I was safe.
Finally, I was home.
My sigh relaxed my muscles a little further, finally pushing off the door as I stepped into the quiet home. Sweat-coated hair was drawn up into a messy bun, and within the dark, I got to pretend I didn’t hate the chocolate locks I pulled off my freckled shoulders. The house had been in my family for generations, and after refusing to redecorate the home that was handed to me, the layout from my childhood had become tattooed in my mind. After a long night at work, I didn’t need the lights on to navigate the two-bedroom bungalow. I didn’t have to do a double check to make sure the filthy shirt I stripped off landed on my grandmother’s couch or that the trainers I kicked off my feet landed on the shoe rack my grandfather built. I didn’t need to see the ottoman to avoid the damn thing as I rushed for the kitchen.
As I stripped out of the rest of my work clothes, leaving the sweaty pieces on the ground as I walked, a calm flooded my system. This was the only part of my day that felt easy anymore. Keys in the bowl, mail on the table, and metallic water from my kitchen sink were quickly becoming a favourite routine. It was the only sequence of events that seemed to keep those nagging thoughts at bay anymore, that made it comfortable for me to stay in a house that reeked of dog and death.
As a kid, Granny’s house had always seemed so full of life. She was learning something, doing something, being something that I could never truly understand. One afternoon, the place would smell like pumpkin pie and the next, she decided she wanted to focus on acrylic paints instead. Even as she grew older, sicker, more distant from me, Gran never really seemed to change. It had been six months since she’d left me, abandoning me in a house that now felt lifeless, and I could still smell the peppermint she soaked into the rug the last time she decided to try making her own herbal remedies.
It wasn’t really a time for tears, though.
Even if no one was around to see them.
Cujo’s whimper of hunger jerked my head back up, and just as I finished one routine, another took its place. Gran’s neighbour to the north, Frank, had bought Cujo from some freak online just two months before, and I was beginning to think he’d never even bought a bag of food. The pit-mix waited twelve hours for me to get home, only to give those little whimpers until I caved to him. I wanted to groan out, to be annoyed, to give a shout that if the neighbors wanted to own a dog, then they had to take care of a dog, but that never seemed to do much. Screaming had never gotten me anywhere. If something was going to get done, I really had to just do it myself. No more excuses, no more waiting around. Chasing the rest of the water down my throat, I slammed my glass back onto the counter and turned to get to work.
First, I would have to put on pants.
Then, I could take on the rest of the world.
Once I set my sights on the room down the hall, not even the ring of my phone could distract me. The urgency wasn’t quite the same when I already knew exactly who it was. Sam, an older woman I’d grown close to at work, had demanded I meet her for a late-night coffee, and as desperately as I wanted to bark out the truth, I caved when she shot me those puppy dog eyes. I wanted to curl up in bed and forget about the world for a few days. Instead, I’d have to sit and listen to mindless gossip for another three hours, living off coffee and Sammy’s second-hand smoke.
Though, Gran always had said that life was anything but fair.
I wouldn’t bother flicking on the lights as I made my way through the house. I didn’t need another constant reminder of the people who were gone. Instead, I kept my footwork light as I slid down the tiny hallway, avoiding the closed room on the right and shifting my attention to the open doorway on the left. Six months and I still couldn’t walk in the empty bedroom, couldn’t stand the thought of admitting I’d have to live in a world without my best friend. It wasn’t right that the room that held so many memories would forever hold my worst. On the bed where we used to watch Christmas movies, she had passed away, and I wasn’t even around to say goodbye. While I was out of town, I had asked Gran’s favourite son to stop by, I had asked my father to stop in to check on her.
I should have known better.
Dad was never good for much besides drinking.
The coroner said Gran was there four days, that she had passed just hours after I left.
While she’d been careful to make me promise to get rid of her things, to donate every miniscule piece of her, the act had proven more of a challenge than either of us thought. I’d given up boxing her belongings after the second bout of tears, after my tenth attempt to enter the room. The very thought of the broken promise left her wedding ring burning against my finger— the one reminder of her I didn’t think I’d ever be willing to part with.
My voice didn’t light up the dark until a grumble of annoyance left my lips. A few flips of my bedroom’s light switch was enough to remind me of yet another job I’d have to get around to. Though, it shouldn’t have been much of a surprise that this place was breaking down. With lighting that hadn’t been updated since 1998, the only thing that did surprise me was the fact the entire place didn’t catch fire while I slept. Shifting through the dark, I made my way carefully to my wardrobe, pulling out the change of clothing I’d need for another uncomfortably long night. When Sammy poked fun at the bland choice of outfit, I’d tell her that it was just because I prioritized comfort over anything else. Truthfully, my daily life had become just as boring as my dark work uniform— a grey sweater branded with the logo of a school I hardly remember going to, a black tank top to cover up my faded red bra, and torn jeans that probably should have been washed when I got dirt on them last week.
When a poppy ringtone played through the lifeless house, my attention jerked from my mirror and back to the hallway. “Be kinder with me, Sammy,” I groaned, checking my watch with the light from a streetlamp. I’d barely been done work for 20 minutes and she was already demanding my attention, probably leaving a chaotic voicemail on my monotone machine. Still, pulling my hair up into a ponytail brought me a sense of forced peace. Annoyance settled into my stomach as I focused on the tasks at hand.
I had to call her back first. Gran would whip me if she knew
I didn’t return a friend’s phone call.
Second, I’d race to the diner down the street and pretend her newest drama wasn’t petty.
Then, the night would be mine to mope as I pleased.
The dark didn’t hold me back as I rushed through my bedroom— but the pain ricocheting through my leg had other plans. I couldn’t even feel the damn thing until it was too late, couldn’t breathe by the time my body crumbled to the floor in a messy heap. The pain of my scraped elbow was nothing compared to the sharpness in my foot. My cry bounced off the walls around me, a wail of pain filling my head as I stupidly grabbed for my leg, pulling the injured foot into my lap in a desperate attempt to immobilize it.
The dark did nothing to hide the blood coating my skin.
Panic raced up my spine, a new sickness settling in before I could even put together what was wrong. I swallowed another cry as I worked to pull the biggest shard of glass from my foot, leaving an even bigger mess of torn and stained skin. Breath wouldn’t fill my lungs as my intuition crept up my spine. As I worked on a second piece, fumbling within the dark, I couldn’t stop myself from searching the room. Glass from a shattered overhead light covered the floor, and while I wanted so desperately to write it off as a loose bulb, my dry throat wouldn’t let me.
The screw was still in the socket.
This wasn’t an accident.
Someone had smashed my bulb.
By the time the creek of a crypt door filled my head, I couldn’t move. My scream didn’t have time to bubble out— not when the footsteps came rushing so quickly. I couldn’t turn around, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe before someone was on top of me, a disgusting hand on my throat, the other over my mouth, my nose. The scream caught in my chest didn’t force its way out until my hands started to traverse my attacker fully, resting only momentarily on the sickening erection pressed into my abdomen.
Then, all I could do was sob.
All I could do was beg.
All I could do was surrender.
Fear shot through me, my legs beginning to grow useless as my head turned fuzzy. My body was relaxing without me knowing it, and the man on top of me let out a chuckle, his lips grazing my ear lobe as the fight sunk out of me.
“I’m right here, baby,” he cooed. “I’m not going anywhere. Not ever again.”
Suddenly, the world darkened and the scent of Gran’s peppermint was gone.
I was alone again.
Chapter Two
The stench hit me before I’d even opened the door.
That awful stink of death— the one that lived in the floorboards.
The thing they didn’t tell you about homecomings was you needed a home to come back to, and this was no home. Returning to that place felt more like torture than it did reprieve, and maybe that’s why it felt so difficult to lug my bag up the front porch steps. If the sun was going down, it meant that I had been driving for hours already, but time had started blurring together after my 36th hour awake. This pain in my head wouldn’t stop throbbing, the brightness of the sunset too strong for my dark shades, and peace didn’t come when I needed it the most. I’d become so good at moving from one moment to the next, from one day to the next, from one year to the next, that I’d forgotten how to search for the rest I needed the most.
With a final push forward, I made my way through the unlocked door— something else I’d have to snarl about. A groan was the only way I could even attempt to relax, pushing my dark hair out of my face and dropping my duffle bag on aging wood floors. Then, another forced attempt to lower my shoulders down my back, to untense my jaw muscles as I slipped my car keys onto the hook by the door. The ache in my bones screamed for rest, reached out for the impossibly comfortable couch sitting in the corner of my eye, but even that would have to wait. Everything had a place, and an aching head wouldn’t trick me into assuming my bag’s place was at the front fuckin’ door.
As I crouched to gather the rest of my things, a sound from the kitchen pulled my head up. The Victorian home was in need of care, walls and floors rotting through to foundation as it housed two men who couldn’t give a shit, but the open design made it a little easier for me to keep an eye on things. The front door gave a clear shot to the living room and, beyond that, the kitchen. Tucked behind an open door, with the front of his body burrowed beneath our sink, my brother’s bony ass was unmistakable— especially after I’d rotated between beating it and watching over it for the better part of 28 years. When the man could barely peek up from his work, couldn’t even be bothered to do much more than lazily wave his hand, I bit back my bark.
Six hours driving, two days spent with that asshole in the city, and Toby couldn’t even look at me?
Fuck that shit.
“Hey.”
Finally, my brother jerked up from his workplace— if only for a moment. His buzzed head and bright blue eyes were the only things even remotely alive under this roof, his sharp nose a glaring reminder of our mother’s. Though, all of that was gone as he turned his attention back to whatever the fuck was so important in our cabinet. An air of annoyance hissed through my teeth before I made my way back over to the sofa. For the first time in a week, I found myself able to relax back against something comfortable. My feet propped up on top of the coffee table as my head leaned back into the couch, and when I couldn’t stand to look at the water-damaged ceiling, I let my eyes close, let my breath still.
Despite hiding out here for three years, the Victorian estate would never feel like a home to me. The only thing it did offer was a sense of predictability, and predictability meant a level of safety. Though, near Toby, safety never did have a habit of staying for long. When my brother didn’t follow his usual routine of annoying the shit out of me with the most asinine questions, my chest tightened. Jerking my head up, I stole a careful glance at the boy in the kitchen.
“I did this shit for you, ya know,” I reminded him with a snarl. “Not even gonna ask me how it fuckin’ went?”
As the man rested back on his feet, crouched in a low squat, his eyes flashed between me and his lap. “What did he say?”
Hesitantly, I let my head fall back against the couch. “Said we could get in on 50k,” I called out, my eyes closing again. “He wants more frag traps.”
“That’s good.”
“The fuck do you mean ‘that’s good’?” I spat, my body tensing all over again. Still crouched, Toby remained completely unaware of the trouble his bullshit was costing me. “Gonna take at least two weeks to make, plus the drive to get the right parts.”
“It’s a good deal.”
When the sickness of anxiety took over, it didn’t feel right to lounge on a god damn stained sofa, to let that shit into my lungs. My body jerked forward, my head in my hands and my elbows on my knees. The peace I found with closed eyes was long gone now, images of the future far too bloody to live in.
“Not really what I was concerned about,” I breathed, a tightening chest making it impossible to voice the nagging that had been chewing away at my heart all day, all week, all year. Another breath whistled through my nose as Toby’s movements tore my attention to the side. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
My jaw tightened. If he hadn’t been so obsessed with this childish ‘gangster’ fantasy he clung onto, Toby would have been an evangelist. I mean, it would have been a means to an end— the end being some grandma’s savings account— but still. There wouldn’t be a job on earth that would accept his lack of sobriety, his mood swings. Toby was a toddler in a 22-year-old’s body. If he wasn’t talking to me, it was because he was up to his eyes in bullshit.
An erratic heart wouldn’t rush my movements. Carefully, I lifted myself from the couch and began to make my way towards the kitchen, aiming to circle behind the man as he worked. “I’m not goin’ there by myself again,” I started, earning a slight shift from the man as I drew closer. Circling around the kitchen table, I started to organize the trash Toby had left behind t
hroughout the weekend, stealing a glance over to him only when I was certain I wouldn’t push him. “Jax was a grade-A cock before he got involved with those assholes. Now he thinks his shit doesn—”
I’d never be certain if it was my heart or the fuckin’ world that stopped. Another knock at my head, at my chest, left me praying to a god I didn’t quite believe in, hoping that this shit was just another nightmare. All I wanted was one god damn moment of peace. Instead, I had to come back to this shit hole and clean up another one of his messes. Crouched in front of the sink, Toby looked up at me, covered in blood and grinning like he hadn’t just doused us both in kerosene.
“What the fuck did you do?” My snarl forced his attention back to his bloodied hands and left my heart in a panic. The only thing that reminded me I was alive anymore were those awful little moments with him, the sick memories that refused to let me sleep. “Toby, what the fuck did you do?”
A nervous chuckle fell from his lips, his eyes jumping back down to the dried blood on his hands. As he wiped his hands on his pants, I couldn’t stop myself from falling into a routine I hated, a routine I never asked for. Lunging forward, I jerked my brother up from the ground, started the sink, and worked his palms into a lather. Beside me, the man softened a little, his eyes wandering back to the staircase behind him. As my hands rubbed the rest of the blood off his skin, I looked for anything to bring me peace of mind— a scratch, a scrape, a god damn papercut. Anything to tell me the blood was his. Anything to stop my mind from making these disgusting snuff films in the dead of night.
“I didn’t mean to, Al.”
“Fucking Christ.“
As the snarl hissed through my teeth, whatever gentleness Toby found was gone. The man pulled his hands away from me, wiping the soap off on his pants and reminding me of the danger of moving too far too fast. I didn’t let myself flinch when his elbow came in contact with my stomach, when he pushed me out of the way to finish the job himself.
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