Sever

by J. M. Miller

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1 Present

  2 Past

  3 Present

  4 Past

  5 Present

  6 Past

  7 Present

  8 Past

  9 Present

  10 Past

  11 Present

  12 Past

  13 Present

  14 Past

  15 Present

  16 Past

  17 Present

  18 Past

  19 Present

  20 Past

  21 Present

  22 Past

  23 Present

  24

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  J.M. Miller

  Sever

  Copyright © 2015

  J. M. Miller

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, events, occurrences, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and the story lines are created from the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Staci Brillhart (www.quirky-bird.com)

  Editing by C. Marie (www.facebook.com/EditingByCMarie)

  Will-

  Words will never be enough.

  Why am I doing this? That was always the first question that came to mind when my fingers worked a pick set into an unfamiliar lock. Always.

  I pushed a nervous breath through my gritted teeth and glanced around the property. The night was pitch black and held a chill in its autumn air that turned my breath to smoke. The darkness eased the fear of being caught breaking into someone’s home, but it didn’t ease my mind. B and E on a house was something I’d vowed I’d never do. Too bad my own place had been hit, leaving me no other choice.

  After spending the night in a Maryland jail for a warrant on an old fine and seeing a judge about payments early in the morning, I’d gone back to my apartment in Newark, Delaware, only to find it ravaged. My furniture was wrecked. The cash stash I’d kept under my bed was missing. All of my DJ equipment was gone: speakers, decks, laptop, portable setup, external backup with all of my mixes, my favorite headphones.

  Every. Single. Record.

  “No,” I whispered to the sky, tears pooling inside my eyes for the hundredth time in one day.

  I was broke. I owed the court almost a year’s worth of what I paid in rent. Aside from the four wheels of junk parked down the road and less than fifty bucks in the bank, I had nothing to my name and nothing to go home to. Low had taken on a whole new meaning.

  That was the reason this time, the reason for this lock.

  Forest wrapped around the front of the house with trees tall enough to hide the moon, had it been out. Like the darkness, the isolation also helped calm some of my nerves. With the lack of nearby houses and the mile long driveway, there was a definite sense of security. No neighbors would happen to see me shaking at the side door of their friend’s house, cussing at the deadbolt—which was being extremely uncooperative.

  “Ugh,” I grumbled, switching from the short hook to the rake pick as I held the tension wrench in place. Stupid five pin.

  My hands trembled. Stop psyching yourself out, Syn. I shook my fingers out then got back to work. The deadbolt was killing me. I was out of practice. These days, my fingers were used to spinning records, not picking locks.

  I raked the lock again and finally felt the tension wrench give way, retracting the deadbolt. The knob turned without resistance and I slipped inside the house. My eyes strained to make out the dark interior, so I dug my phone out of my hoodie pocket and used its light to take in my surroundings. I was in an empty mudroom with waist-high cabinetry on one side and a closet with sliding doors on the other.

  I stepped into a bare hallway and continued toward the underside of an open staircase at the back of the house. My phone vibrated, humming loudly in my hand. I fumbled with it, grasping the sides to set it to silent mode since even vibrate was too loud. The screen flashed Tanner’s name with a text.

  Almost to my spot. All ok?

  I replied, In now. Ok.

  Within a second, my screen lit up again. Text when done or check in if longer. Don’t break any crystal cats.

  Smartass, I thought, but texted back, Same to you.

  Before today, it had been about a year since I’d spoken to Tanner. He had dug deeper into crime while I had battled to stay out. I’d told myself I’d never call him for job, that I’d never get to this point. I never wanted to ask myself the same question: why am I doing this? But this time was different. It wasn’t an emotional escape, like all the other locks I’d picked since I was ten. This time it was for my livelihood.

  Despite the circumstances, Tanner was happy I’d contacted him. Two jobs had come up last minute, both with a small kickback on completion. This one was rumored to have some music equipment, no alarm, and a new owner who was away for a few days. Tanner had gotten the info from his usual guy and the job was cleared by an inside person, possibly a mover, cable guy, or electrician. Tanner already had a job for the night and couldn’t back out, so I had to fly solo.

  I was fine with hitting the place alone, but finding out it was located near the upper portion of the Chesapeake Bay in Charlestown, Maryland, didn’t exactly give me warm fuzzies. It was too close to Havre de Grace. Home. I knew the area well, but had never known there was a house here until I’d walked up the driveway.

  I rounded the hallway corner and stepped into an open living room and kitchen. Two accent lights in the kitchen cast a glow throughout the space, revealing a black leather couch, a couple circular lounge chairs, and a TV on the back wall. A pub table butted against the kitchen island and had a lone chair pushed in at one end. Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned the length of the room and I was instantly drawn to the huge panels of glass, noticing one was actually a door to a deck overlooking the north section of the bay. With so many trees in front of the house, I hadn’t even noticed it was so close to the water. I leaned toward the glass, looking out past the vacant deck. There were no boat lights to break up the darkness of the water, but there were tiny house lights across the way. This house sat higher in comparison, like it was on a bluff.

  On a bluff, in Charlestown, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay.

  I gasped as the memory hit me and the sound ripped through the stark silence almost as violently as a scream. My hands shot up instinctively. This might be the house. The windows, the deck—it was awfully familiar. I had seen this house before walking up the driveway, but I’d admired it from the bay, standing on Damian’s boat.

  This was the house he wanted.

  It’d been five years since I’d walked away from us, and I’d spent those five years knowing I’d never find anyone like him again.

  I blinked hard and shook my head. The day had been bad enough. There was no sense dredging up the past.

  Refocusing, I spun around to fully take in the room.

  Where to start?

  I moved toward the kitchen and turned down the front door hallway. The adjacent dining room was empty aside from the three remaining pub table chairs sitting in the center. The soft kitchen light faded as I walked farther, so I held my phone up again before stepping through double doors into an office. Bookcases lined the back wall with enough space for hundreds of books, but there were only a few unpacked on their shelves. A desk sat in front of them, flanked by open bo
xes. There was no real reason to go in. Books and paperwork were useless. Cash, hardware, and software were my focus, but my feet moved me toward the desk anyway, driven by curiosity.

  My fingers slipped under the flaps of a cardboard box to lift it and I moved the light closer.

  Squeak.

  It sounded like a normal house creak, but I killed my phone’s light anyway and reached into my back pocket for my knife, listening for any noises louder than my rapid heartbeat. After a minute of focusing on my own breaths, I decided to move on. It was better that I didn’t know whose house I was hitting anyway. A name would only make it more real.

  I crept back to the living room and climbed the stairs, pausing every few steps to confirm the silence. After walking into the large master suite, I pulled out my phone again. Like the rest of the house, it was barely set up. Regardless of how recently the owner had actually moved in, I could tell by the lack of belongings that they were minimalists, or at least that they’d moved from a much smaller place. Based on the lack of pictures and pretty things, I also had a feeling the person was a guy.

  I held the phone light up and stared at the unmade bed across the room.

  Probably single.

  Pale sheets and a thin gray cover sat in a twisted mess on top of the wide bed. Its dark gray frame sat low to the floor with a button upholstered headboard of the same color and nearly twice the height.

  Windows covered the far wall just like in the living room and kitchen. Beyond my phone light’s reflection in their glass, there was the balcony. The one I’d seen from the bay. I turned around and glanced inside the bathroom and closet, noticing only male products on the sink and men’s clothing on hangers. There was also an open suitcase on the floor, halfway filled with unfolded T-shirts and pants.

  I took a deep breath and rushed to check the small dresser near the bed, worry and doubt fueling my movements. Underwear and shorts. I huffed then opened the lone nightstand’s drawer to a box of unopened condoms and a bottle of lotion. Nice.

  There had to be something in the house.

  I killed my phone light again and traveled out onto the lofted walkway, which opened to the living room below. As I thought about how long I’d already been here, panic kicked in and my palms started to sweat. I rubbed my hands on my jeans and stepped lightly down the hall despite the urge to tear through the remaining rooms as fast as possible. Being quiet was still essential.

  Three doors were left. When I opened the closest one, I expected an empty guest room, void and lonely like the rest of the house. Instead, I held my breath to keep from screaming with excitement.

  It was a sound room, or at least the start of one.

  Jackpot.

  Sheets of acoustic foam and audio tile were stacked beside a custom DJ booth, and crates of vinyl records lined the walls. Heaven. I ran my fingers along the edge of the booth, checking the setup: four decks, interface, mixer, laptop—it was gorgeous. Far better than my at-home turntable setup and the portable all-in-one jam I used for parties, both of which I no longer had. There was no way to carry it all, so I’d have to decide what I could personally use and what would fetch the biggest stack of cash.

  The vinyl and the laptop were the obvious choices to start. I scoped a few cases at the edge of the room. One soft shell case had vinyl sleeves with quite a few records already packed inside. Perfect. It also had room for a laptop. Deciding to check its worth, I flipped the laptop’s lid open and pressed the power button. A lighthouse decal near the mouse pad caught my eye just as the screen lit up. The background image flashed in my peripheral vision before switching to a blank lock screen. It took a moment for my brain to process the image, but I finally realized it had been letters. A single word: Stripes.

  I gasped. It couldn’t be. There was no way. Sure, Stripes had been his nickname. And he had wanted this house …

  I punched some of the keys, attempting to see it again. No luck.

  Rushing over to the boxes, I started digging for something, anything to disprove the reason for my heavy breaths and pounding heart. I climbed behind the booth to open its thin drawers. A sixty-four button MIDI touchpad lay inside one, along with pages of old set lists. Reading the pages, I noticed a track titled “Synful Stripes.”

  The panic kicked up a notch, jolting my body. I flipped more pages around with trembling hands, refusing to admit that all the connections were adding up. When a picture shuffled out of the papers into view, I nearly collapsed.

  It was me.

  My eighteen-year-old self was wearing fringed cutoff shorts and the black and white ultra thin flannel I loved to wear over tank tops. I stood at Rewind’s DJ table with my fingers on a turntable. It was a side view, taken from the music store’s office, but I could still see a huge smile on my face, one I’d been missing for a long time. It was sincere and strong, with a little something more than the usual joy I got from standing behind the decks. It was his smile. Only for him. Because Damian had taken this picture.

  And this was his house.

  “Hike!”

  I twisted my back foot, digging it deeper into the patchy grass, focusing on the prize clutched in the new kid’s hands.

  One one thousand.

  Seth had invited himself into our game ten minutes before. None of us knew him. He’d just shown up with a cocky attitude and a good arm, ready to takeover. It only took me a minute to hate him, and not solely because of the irritating black spikes gelled perfectly on his head. It was mainly due to the arrogance blasting from his loud mouth. I was used to guys talking trash before they saw me play, but this guy had managed to spit an entire book of girl jokes at me within minutes of arriving.

  He hadn’t said why he was in Havre de Grace. I hoped he was only in town to visit a relative or something. The thought of him staying here, playing with us every day during my last few weeks, made my stomach reconsider the hoagie I’d had for lunch.

  Shifting his feet behind the line and eying his receivers, he muttered, “I’m not sure why they let you on the field, princess. You should just have a seat. Or better yet, go grab us some drinks.” He shuffled down the line and I scrambled to follow.

  Two one thousand.

  “This is my field, dickhead. I don’t give a shit who you are,” I spat, anger shaking my body, making me look like a scared little girl despite my words. Dammit.

  He chuckled loud enough for me to hear as he pumped the football.

  “Three one thousand!” I screamed, tearing over the line.

  “Shit,” Seth grumbled, backtracking toward the opposite sideline—the outfield fence of the little league field—and crossing the line of scrimmage. He was running it.

  I cut just as fast, feeling my shoelaces strain under the pressure of the turn. It didn’t last long, though. Within a second, my feet and legs were moving full speed again. Ashamed at the small lead I’d allowed him to gain, I gritted my teeth and tapped into every ounce of strength my thighs had left to chase him.

  Physically, he looked a couple of years older than me. I was twelve, the same age as most of the guys who played backyard football at River Park. My mom constantly questioned my choice to play football with the guys and reminded me that the physical equality wouldn’t last. I understood, and I certainly wouldn’t complain. With our history, I was grateful she let me leave the house alone at all. But they were the only ones who never hesitated to be my friend. They were the ones who never cared that my mom had killed a man. Seeing Seth’s abilities, though, made me really consider Mom’s concerns for the first time.

  My teammates, the ginger twins, a.k.a. Cody and Carter, noticed the play and abandoned their cover of Tanner and Ed. Seth realized and cut back, turning straight at me.

  I kept my pace, watching his face for signs of his next move. Nothing. Within five feet, his goal was clear. He had no intention to outmaneuver me. He wanted to level me.

  At the last possible moment, I dipped into a bend. His thigh collided with my shoulder and I stood as it hit, using his
momentum to help throw his tall frame into the air. He rotated a full flip and kept going until his hands and face smacked a bare patch of dirt. Lying two feet from his arm was the football. Fumble.

  I rushed over, snatched up the ball, and took off downfield.

  “Go, Syn, go!” Cody and Carter yelled, their voices nearly drowned out by my heavy breaths.

  I leapt across the end zone and spun around, fully prepared to spike the ball and break out my best robot moves. I never got the chance.

  Seth’s body appeared out of nowhere, pummeling me before I could blink. His shoulder slammed into my chest, knocking the air from my lungs. When my back hit the ground, all the remaining air escaped in a raspy grunt. My lungs screamed as Seth’s weight pressed my body into the ground.

  “What’s wrong, princess? Can’t take a hit from the big boys?” he whispered close to my closed eyes before I felt his weight lift off me.

  “That was bullshit!” I heard Tanner yell as a bunch of hurried footsteps landed in the grass close by.

  “Yeah, she already had the TD, man. We all saw. That was a dick move,” Ed said.

  I opened my eyes to Tanner standing at my side with his hand extended. His green eyes looked sympathetic and possibly apologetic for letting Seth join our game.

  Screw that.

  I never asked for pity. They knew I wasn’t the type.

  Ignoring Tanner’s hand, I rolled onto my feet. Carter and Cody had already started trailing behind Seth, scolding him as he walked toward the park’s side road.

  He laughed. “Whatever, man. She needed a wakeup call.”

  My feet moved faster than my logic, pushing me past the guys. Seth was bigger than me, and he was most definitely stronger. In that moment, I didn’t care. After dodging Carter and Cody’s arms as they attempted to stop me, I collided with Seth’s back, tackling him with every ounce of my weight.

  As soon as we hit the patchy grass, he rolled beneath me. His eyes narrowed to slits and his nostrils flared. Before he had a chance to move, I cocked back and slammed my fist to his eye.