Forgotten Obsessions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 1)

by Talia Maxwell

  Forgotten Obsessions

  Book One in the Love is Murder Social Club Series

  Talia Maxwell

  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

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Talia Maxwell

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Derek Shelton was asleep in the basement the night of his parents’ anniversary. The night the Woodstock Killer tore a slit through their back screen and crawled through the mesh to the people inside.

  That summer, he slept in a small bedroom off the staircase, unfinished and damp, a twin mattress on the floor. From his view on the ground, he looked out into a long hallway, a bathroom to the right, and he shared its space with the hot water heater boxed clumsily with plywood, and his mother’s sewing machine. The walls of his temporary room were plaster and sheetrock; exposed electrical wires hung from panels, and the detritus of busy lives lay scattered around in mislabeled boxes shoved into the corner.

  He’d done what he could to make it a place of his own. But, no matter how hard he tried to transform the space into an area cool enough for a teenage boy, it still felt transitional in nature. It was a holding cell until he’d outgrown his mopey confusion. His father gifted him a small television and old gaming console, and he spent the evenings holed up in his basement hideaway, playing games, listening to the inconsistent pounding of footsteps upstairs.

  Every moment in the basement was a moment of independence carved into his oppressive adolescence.

  He was thirteen, going on eighteen, going on seven. He could wax political with his mother about current events one moment and burst into tears about a broken toy the next. He wobbled toward adulthood, slouching toward the inevitable with deft precision, learning about the world in large gulps—nothing slipped by Derek. His awareness was deep and cutthroat. And when he ruminated about the planet, he spoke in fearful generalizations. Derek believed the world was a dark and scary place; he accepted no one’s optimism.

  And on the night of their anniversary, his mom and dad asked Ginny, a seventeen-year-old babysitter to come and stay until midnight. He didn’t need a babysitter and he was resentful of the intrusion, but his little sister was a terror.

  His parents didn’t trust him, at least that’s what he told himself.

  After that night, his problems took on a different hue.

  It was impossible not to divide life into a before and after the murders—and before the murders, he was an older brother to an obnoxious, beautiful, joyous sister. His only memories of her were the stories told by others and illustrated in his brain, weaving a tapestry of memories together: how he imagined her, what he thought the world was like back then.

  Most of his memories before that time were swallowed by the nightmare of that summer night. A night when he was supposed to die. A night when he fought and clawed, and scraped, and punched, and screamed, and crawled out of the void toward life.

  He’d told the story so many times he didn’t know where to start or where to stop—he never knew what people knew or what they didn’t. There was a time when the story dominated every newspaper and every magazine; he was a celebrity because he survived. Because people saw the leaked crime scene photos, his blood (from his nose, broken) smeared on his sheets and after pitying him, they celebrated him.

  For a time, telling the story was the most important part of their lives. Everyone rushed forward and needed the details spun again, and again, and again. There they were, a family of three, a gaping hole where they used to be four. Tragedy Porn, someone coined, someone smart who understood the emotional impact of simultaneously feeling sad for a grieving family and happy that it wasn’t you.

  Whenever Derek told the story, he knew the precise moment he had his audience’s attention.

  Every time. He knew.

  People heard the broad strokes so many times they were unaffected by the generic retelling of the night he was almost killed. But no matter what they had heard before, Derek could supply the detailed moment of his life in the balance with such removed, rehearsed, unbelievable timing that audiences trembled and slept with lights on for nights after.

  Yes, Derek knew how to capture the scene.

  He’d been taught well how to make them hold their breath and lean forward.

  At first, he was coached, but with time the rhythm of the story was entirely his own.

  He told them in a whisper, his eyes heavy-lidded, as if he was remembering every single detail:

  “My sister was dead, but I didn’t know it at that point in the night, and I don’t know what woke me, maybe a scream or a thud, but honestly I just woke up. Startled and disoriented, I looked up. And I sat up straight in bed, straight up, like they do in the movies. And I stared out in the hallway.” Pause. “There was a light from the bathroom illuminating a section of hallway outside my door. At first, I thought it was my imagination playing tricks on me and it was my dog slinking toward my bedroom. So, I called for our dog, in a whisper. Here, boy. His paws thudded down the hall, but as my dog trotted across the floor, I realized it wasn’t a dog at all. The paws were gloves and the fur was hair, and it was a man. He was crawling down the hall, his arms out in front of him, his body catching up, and his head was lifted as he stared right at me. I didn’t know what to do. But I knew there was a man crawling toward me rapidly down the hall toward my room and I was frozen. I yelled for Ginny. I yelled, and yelled, and yelled. I yelled for my mom and my dad.”

  He took another long pause to give everyone a chance to really picture the scene.

  “Remember,” he reminded them, “the mattress is on the floor. And I push myself back against the bedroom wall and try to scramble away But this intruder is now inside my room and he’s still crawling, arm and fist over arm and fist, and I kick. I remember that kick. One single, swift extension of my leg and I knock him in the chin. His face is masked, crudely. He punches me, breaks my nose. And that’s when I knew I was going to die. His hands come toward me, wrap around my neck briefly, and I kick again. I make a pact; I don’t want to die. So, I fight. I scrape and punch and he’s wearing layers of clothes, so it’s mostly futile, but I fight and fight, flailing and grabbing at anything I could find.”

  At that point, the audience was always riveted and fully committed to wherever Derek took them next; he knew they could see exactly what was happening from the vantage point of their own childhood bedrooms or current bedrooms, the listeners imagining the scene from their point of view. Legs extended, under covers, bolting upright in bed with a madman making his way in a hurried fashion toward them. Some imagined him covered in blood. Some imagined him as an inhumane monster—part beast—as Derek had all those years ago.

  After his father wrote the book about the attack, he was the headline storyteller, and when Derek was telling the story at an event with his father, that was the po
int in the story when he would turn and say, “I’d been shot in the leg and was losing blood, and the man began to scramble away. But now’s the point in the story where my dad can tell the rest. From his perspective. You’re in for a real treat to hear the story straight from him. So, here, everyone is Timothy Shelton, the man who stopped the Woodstock Killer.”

  Chapter Two

  Maeve Montgomery’s six-hour shift at one of North East Portland’s trendy little Italian joints ended when she slipped on spilled Barbera d’Asti and took out the busser in one fell swoop.

  She didn’t even have time to cry out before they toppled together across the tile, dirty dishes splattering the kitchen walkway to the chagrin and embarrassment of everyone involved. Broken wine glasses and strewn fettuccini noodles littered the ground and Maeve and the guy she barely knew crawled around together, tidying up the broken glass, ignoring the rush of servers around them.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, picking herself up off the ground.

  “It couldn’t be helped,” the kid replied, and as he shuffled off to attend to tables Maeve wondered if that could be the catchphrase for her life. She was a force of movement and all of her actions hurled away from her—spiraling into chaos. Even as a grown-ass adult she spent a good amount of time in complete shambles. It couldn’t be helped.

  Esposito’s Eatery dinner rush was winding down, but Maeve nursed her wounded knees, ankles, and pride, and begged her manager to be cut from the floor. The bulk of her Saturday earnings were already tucked away in her pocket, and she felt a sudden desire to flee the restaurant as quickly as possible—taking her tomato stained white-button down blouse and the scent of garlic with her.

  Maeve didn’t even check her phone when she slipped out the back door of Esposito’s and made her way to her green Toyota Camry. Soon she was traversing side streets on the five-minute jaunt back to her place.

  If she had messages, they could wait.

  She’d charmed and smiled her way through every table, accepted blame for lukewarm food and menu misconceptions, and now she wanted to retreat to her apartment and become a total vegetable. It was her Saturday night ritual—run around in a starchy white shirt and black pants, pour wine, sneak extra complimentary bread to her favorites and memorize specials, all before she fell asleep on her couch watching crime shows.

  The week before, she’d drifted off to the story of a man who murdered his own grandmother with cyanide. And she’d memorized the details in her well-worn Ann Rule paperbacks; spouting off vague facts about Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy, recommending books about love triangles gone wrong and haunting, decades old cold cases. As a Native Portlander, she was tormented by the disappearance of a school-aged boy who vanished from his science fair one spring morning a while back. And of Diane Downs, the woman who killed her own child. Lots of murderers lurked in the Pacific Northwest. Come for the coffee and micro-brews, stay for the serial killers.

  But Maeve wasn’t just some crime junkie without a life—she majored in Criminology and put her money, literally, where her interests were. Her original plans post-college were law school or work in the penal system. If she didn’t want to talk about her degree or college experiences she told people she majored in sociology. Criminology sounded exciting to those prone to small talk. Maeve preferred instead to launch into grisly details of murders she’d read about and watch people’s faces for a reaction.

  Maeve’s 500 square foot, one-bedroom on NE Mason cost more per month than her parent’s mortgage payments, but the red brick exterior, private keyless entry, and a washer and dryer in the unit made the historical building a decent find in the ever-increasing world of Portland rentals.

  After parking her Camry on the street, Maeve hustled into the courtyard of her building and waited.

  A visitor stumbled through their calling system and waited for a buzz upstairs. Maeve tried to busy herself with her phone so she wouldn’t appear rude: But there was no way she’d be responsible for admitting a burglar into their secure foyer. Maeve didn’t buzz up strangers. That’s how people got murdered.

  She was once yelled at in the elevator for refusing a resident’s mom into the building. Even though the elderly woman was visiting from West Virginia and sported a large white-billed sun visor and thousands of dollars worth of boutique items from Mississippi Ave. Maeve was apologetic but firm. There were rules to protect people like her—single women living alone three stories above the city with only a pink can of mace as protection from little old lady robbers.

  The door buzzed and the visitor disappeared into the building, and only then did Maeve follow. She checked her mail, empty, stole a magazine from a side table in the foyer—People—and made her way to the elevator.

  The elevator doors opened the second she hit the button, and as she looked inside the metal box, her eyes were drawn to a series of signs taped in a wobbly line along the back wall: Is this your dog? it read, and grinning up at the camera, tongue blepping, wild-eyed was her black lab, Roger. I rode the elevator today, Mom. Come get me in the Manager’s Office.

  Maeve didn’t even move as the doors closed, eclipsing the announcement and the face of her little-safety-hazard.

  “You have my dog?” Maeve asked the Night Manager, and author of the sign, Hugo, who answered her buzzing within seconds.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Hugo said. He disappeared behind his apartment door and returned with a panting and drooling ball of boxer. “He’s cute. So, he’s got that going for him.”

  “I’m really sorry about it, Hugo. I’ll look into the high locks again. Or the strappy locks. Whatever they’re called,” Maeve apologized and took him into her arms where he licked her face in wild abandon, his tail hitting everything it could reach with strong thwaps. She set him quickly on the ground where he jumped and bounced, pawing at her chest.

  “It wasn’t so bad. Everyone looking at a place today wanted to know if he came with,” Hugo said, as he leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. The fifty-something super was in good shape for his age, fit and toned, with a salt and pepper beard. She’d thought of setting him up with her mom, but then realized if the relationship went south, she’d have to move, and she was rent-controlled for three years. That wasn’t nothing. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll come put the locks on in the next week or so, okay? Free of charge. And I’ll replace the wood he ate without threatening the deposit. Okay? But I need a six pack for the dog-sitting. Microbrew. We live in Portland, 307, I don’t drink cheap shit.”

  “Thanks, Hugo,” Maeve said as she backed away, tugging on Roger’s collar, as Hugo shut the door behind her, mumbling something about seeing her next time, which she sighed away.

  Maeve walked back to the elevator and when the doors closed she tugged the posters off the wall. She turned and watched in distress as Roger lifted his leg and began to pee, a pleading look on his face, and his ears back.

  “Shit! Shit!” Maeve raised her voice and Roger backed away, the puddle beneath him growing. “Seriously?” Without a better option, she threw the magazine on to the dog pee and tried to sop it up as best she could. Then she used her apron on the rest and stood looking at the damp, urine-smelling, smear across the corner.

  Rolling her eyes, she unbuttoned her blouse and used it to wrap up the bundle of dog-pee soaked items in her arms. She was too tired to care if the neighbors saw her in a black camisole.

  Maeve glared at her dog.

  “I can’t afford new locks again, so you’re a lucky bastard. How did you open the door this time? Roger, you’re an asshole. Do you know how petrified I am that you can just open a door? Jesus. I’m trying not to be a headline. Also, I can’t afford to get kicked out of his apartment. I can’t even afford this apartment,” Maeve said to the dog. “I swear to God if you get us evicted from this place, I will not live with my parents. And you know you’d just want to eat the damn cat anyway, so that’s a no. A hard no. Get it together.”

  The door opened on the third floor and Maeve swoo
ped up the dog just in time to prevent him from bolting down the hallway, barking at every mat and door along the way, waking up neighbors and making friends.

  Her door had been re-shut and locked, thanks to Hugo, and she let herself in with her key in one hand while holding Roger’s collar with the other. She used her head to nudge the door to her studio open and paused for a second to inspect everything inside.

  There was the lamp in the corner she always left on—still on. And her lunch dishes still sat unmolested on the counter, a pile of laundry, unfolded, on her couch.

  This was her ritual—was everything in its place? Had anyone been inside? Was she alone? Her unease was exacerbated by her dumb dog.

  Grumbling, Maeve put on a new shirt, grabbed his leash and a box of Clorox wipes and trudged back to the elevator, locking up her place as she went. After a more thorough job of cleaning the elevator, she took Roger for a walk around the block before heading back upstairs and running through the same routine: light on, clothes untouched, nobody in each room, turn all the other lights on, done.

  Exhausted, Maeve refilled Roger’s water dish, shed her work clothes, washed up, and crawled on to her couch, pulling a blanket up over her legs and balanced her laptop against her stomach. She went through her texts and messages: two from her mom, three from her sister.

  She read her sister’s texts and hit the call button without reply.

  When Millie answered on the second ring, Maeve laughed, “A Murder Club? Tomorrow? What the hell? This is like four blocks away. Where do you even find these things?”