Disturbed Mind (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Series Book 2)

by Charlotte Raine

  “Well, you know me,” he says, a big smile on his face. “I’m always willing to help Grace when there’s a killer on the loose.”

  “It seems like it,” I say.

  “Jason was just telling me that they’re saying this death was a suicide,” Kevin says. “It’s so strange that someone can seem happy and then just kill themselves.”

  “I just don’t get it, man,” Jason says, shaking his head so hard that his curly black hair bounces. “I never saw him depressed. Never. I mean, sure he joked about killing himself a few times when he was with me and Bryce, but he was joking. He was talking about how annoying his family was and how he would rather kill himself than spend another year in the house. But…I can’t see why he would really do it. Things were going well for him. Michelle from school was really starting to dig him. Was it because he was probably moving again? Did he just get tired of moving?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. Kevin tilts his head.

  “I wonder if Bryce noticed that Zach was depressed,” he says. I watch his puppy begin to chew on its leash.

  “Who is Bryce?” I ask. “Did the Schneiders have another kid?”

  Kevin laughs. “No. Bryce works for Steve Rolf, the landscaping guy. I helped him get the job and he’s gotten along well with Zach and Jason. I think the kid was just a drifter and liked having some company. Steve’s been thanking me for recommending him, too, since he’s a bright, capable guy who just needs a little encouragement to come out of his shell. I’m hoping Steve might do some work for free for me after this because I have an apple tree that’s falling apart out back. Hell, Bryce might even be able to do it. He’s only been here since the middle of March, but Steve is already giving him lots of responsibility…I imagine it’s because Steve’s own son lives with his mama in France, and Steve’s transferring his fatherly feelings to Bryce, but what do I know? I only supervise schools full of children with their parents hovering nearby.”

  “I could always help you out with the tree,” I tell him. “I’m pretty sure Grace and I owe you by now.”

  “Nah,” he says. “Grace told me that you’re busy with a nasty murder. I wouldn’t want to distract you from catching these killers.”

  “Nasty?” Jason asks, perking up. “What makes it nasty?”

  “The face was destroyed,” I tell him. “The teeth taken out, the fingertips scraped off, and the skull was bashed in. That makes it hard to figure out who the victim is to begin with, but the body was also submerged in water for about three weeks…”

  Three weeks ago was in the middle of March. I turn back to Kevin.

  “Do you know where Bryce is from?” I ask. Kevin frowns, and then shrugs.

  “No idea,” he says. I turn to Jason. He shrugs, too.

  “I don’t know much about his personal life, just that he’s good at basketball,” he says. “He even had a last name that had the word ball in it. I think it was Scottish. Ballick? Ballencia? Ballavia?”

  “Do you know anything else about him?” I ask. Jason is still lost in thought, trying to think of Bryce’s last name. “Jason!”

  “What?” Jason asks. “Oh, um, he has a younger sister. Kayla. He talks about her all of the time. She’s young. Like twelve or thirteen years old…”

  I’m pretty certain Grace mentioned that Francis was an only child. Even if he had picked up a fake name, there would be no sense in him making up a fake sibling that he would obsess over.

  “Ballthazar? Ballzine? Balline? Ball…Ballentine! That’s it. Bryce Ballentine,” Jason says, grinning. His eyes glance over at the Schneiders and the smile disappears. “Who’s going to tell him about Zach?”

  “I could…” I say, though I’m not too certain that I want to. He might not be Francis, but his arrival is still around the same time as the murder of my John Doe. “Do you know where Bryce is staying?”

  Jason shakes his head.

  “You could call Steve,” Kevin says. “He would know where Bryce is. Grace has his number. She just called him last night to ask him to get her a quote on that landscaping cleanup that she wanted.”

  “I need to talk to Grace once she gets home later,” I say, grimacing. “I have a feeling that I need to give her a long apology.”

  “You know what’s better than a long apology?” Kevin asks.

  “What?”

  “An honest one,” he says. I smile despite everything that’s happening.

  “I’ll try that,” I say. Kevin’s puppy raises its leg and begins to pee on Jason’s shoe. I walk away from the two of them before Jason notices and begins to howl about his ruined, brand new Nike sneakers.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Grace, 2015

  (Sunday Afternoon; Dr. Schumer’s Office, Murray, Virginia)

  DR. SCHUMER looks like the lovechild of Colonel Sanders and Abraham Lincoln. He has the thin face of Lincoln with the large ears and prominent nose, but he has the white hair, mustache, goatee, and glasses of Sanders. Throughout my therapy sessions, he continuously pushes the glasses back up to the bridge of his nose.

  “You seem more anxious than usual today,” he says, gesturing toward my thumbnail that I’m nibbling on. I pull my thumb away from my mouth and fold my hands on my lap. “Did something happen? You made it seem important to meet on a Sunday.”

  “No,” I say.

  He gives me a condescending smile. “Have you had any more nightmares?”

  I sit up, realizing this is my scapegoat—something that I can blame my anxiety on instead of admitting aloud that Francis Tate is free and I’m paranoid that he will try to exact revenge on me for testifying against him and getting him thrown in prison.

  “Yeah, I actually had one last night,” I tell him, which I realize is the truth. You forget about nightmares when your life is pollinated with fear.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?” he asks. Not especially, but he’ll find it more suspicious if I don’t tell him.

  “Well, the first part of the dream I remember is being at my family’s farmhouse, in the kitchen…there was a very pungent scent of apple pie…it’s what I was making when Francis came…except in my dream, I finished making the pie. In real life, I never finished it. I remember being in the hospital, bleeding out and wondering if I left the oven on…anyway, in the dream, I cut out a slice of the pie. The pie begins to leak out something red, and at first, I think that I accidentally filled the pie with cherries. In the dream, my mind thought it made sense that I would mistake apples for cherries. But then, I think it’s blood. I begin screaming and my mom comes into the kitchen. She asks me why I’m screaming. I point to the apple pie, but it’s not there anymore.”

  “What happened to it?” he asks.

  I swallow.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “The only thing left on the counter was the knife I used to cut a slice of it with. When I stepped closer to the knife—it was one of those big cake knives—I couldn’t see my reflection in it. Then, I woke up.”

  He jots something down on his pad of paper.

  “What do you think that means?” he asks.

  I shrug. If I knew, it wouldn’t bother me or at least it would bother me less.

  “Can I tell you what I think?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, most of the dream relates to the attack. The apple pie, the knife, the blood, your family’s farmhouse…those are just traumatic memories replaying themselves, sometimes in a jumbled fashion. But there are two new factors: the fact that you finished the pie and the part about not seeing your reflection. The unfinished pie could be your mind trying to tell you that you left something incomplete in your old life—likely, you feel that you didn’t accomplish as much as you wanted with your students, but it could be something in your personal life as well. The absence of your reflection…well, that one is harder to pinpoint, but I would think it’s connected to a feeling of your loss of identity after the attack or an indication that your conscious doesn’t feel like you’re facing your true self. Of c
ourse, this is all conjecture, so you could have just had really bad pie the night before.”

  I force a smile. “No, I didn’t have any pie. I actually haven’t had any since the attack.”

  “Well, in real life, there won’t be any blood.”

  “I hope so.”

  I feel my cell phone vibrate in my bag.

  “Can I answer that?” I ask.

  Dr. Schumer shrugs. “You’re paying for this time. It’s up to you.”

  I take out my phone. It’s Sam.

  “Hey,” I answer. “What’s up?”

  “Sorry, sorry, I know you’re with your friends right now,” he says. “I just need something really quick.”

  “What?”

  “Steve Rolf’s number.”

  I grit my teeth. “Why do you need Steve’s number?”

  “I just…need to talk to him,” he says. “I wanted to, uh, make sure that he doesn’t chop up the willow tree. It might be bad for the house, but how many people know that? I doubt any tree aficionados will be looking into buying the house.”

  “Can I just text it to you?” I ask. “Why didn’t you just text me this question?”

  “Yeah, that’d be good. I just…needed the answer as quick as possible,” he says. I can hear the deceit in his voice, but I can’t figure out why he’s lying about calling Steve. “I thought if I texted, you might not feel your phone vibrate.”

  “I’ll text it to you,” I tell him. I hang up. I find Steve’s number in my phone and send it to him. When I look back up at Dr. Schumer, both of his eyebrows are raised.

  “That seemed like a tense conversation,” he says.

  “We’ve just had a lot going on,” I say. “Him, being new as a medical examiner. Me, going to college again and teaching at a new school. He has a new murder and I’m trying to sell my brother’s house. It’s really chaotic.”

  “Have you thought much about your relationship with Sam?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well…I’ve thought this before, but I was waiting to see if you brought it up…your relationship was formed because you were nearly killed and he saved you. That forms a power dynamic and a status quo—you as the damsel in distress and Sam as the savior—”

  “I don’t need to be saved,” I interrupt, heat creeping up my neck.

  “I know, Grace,” he says. “I’m just wondering if your relationship is strong without the presence of danger. If a relationship is only good when there’s excitement and chaos…it’s not the person you’re in love with. You’re in love with the adrenaline and the feeling of standing on the edge of the world. If you’re on the edge of a precipice, is Sam pulling you closer to the ledge or is he pulling you away from it?”

  “What is he supposed to be doing?” I ask, annoyed with his metaphors.

  “Neither,” he says. “He’s supposed to stand beside you. Does he?”

  I open my mouth, but I can’t find the right answer to say. Sam has had a history of avoiding difficult conversations and uncomfortable moments. This is something that I can’t simply lie to my therapist about. With the new knowledge that Francis Tate is free, I should feel fine turning to Sam for comfort, but I haven’t. It’s because I’m afraid he will decide I’m too much to deal with. I’m afraid that when I confess to everything that I’m feeling, I will finally see my reflection and neither of us will like what we see.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Francis, 2015

  (Sunday Afternoon; Fox Trot Diner, Murray, Virginia)

  I SHOVE MY HANDS into the torn-up jacket that I had gotten from the First Baptist Church. I’ve spent many nights wondering about its original owner—did the tear on the right sleeve come from a dog attack? What about the hole on the back shoulder? Was somebody stabbed or did it wear down after time?

  “Good afternoon, sir,” a hostess says. Her blond hair is pulled up into a tight ponytail and she has a chubby face, but I suppose that’s hard to concentrate on when her shirt is so low-cut that I can see the hot-pink bra peeking out. “Is it just you or will you have company?”

  “There’s another guy coming,” I say. She stares at me blankly. “So…I need a table for two.”

  “Awesome!” she exclaims. I watch her ass as she walks me to a booth. I never really got into the dating scene—I was too much of a loser in high school for any girl to give me a second glance, with the exception being Grace, and in college, I was obsessed with trying to become good enough that Grace would understand how much of an influence she would have on me. I wanted to become so good that she would see her own good reflected in me. But she didn’t, so I suppose in the end that I wasn’t that good.

  The hostess gestures to the last booth.

  “Here you go, sir,” she says. “Your waitress is Tiffany and she will be here in a minute.”

  I sit down on the right side of the booth and clasp my hands on the table. It’s strange being in prison for two years and suddenly being free. It’s not what you would expect—it’s not endless joy and celebration. It’s confusing—in prison you’re told when to sleep, when to eat, when to shower, when to shut up and get frisked. Outside of prison…the choices are endless. Should I have eggs for breakfast? Cereal? Toast? Bagels? Waffles? Yogurt? Homes fries? Hash browns? It’s overwhelming. Choices are overwhelming. Being told what to do is insulting and patronizing, but it takes away the stress of an endless array of possibilities. People need a set of laws that will lead them to a goal—new world order, peace, violence, revenge.

  “Hey, Bryce.” A man sits across from me. Steve Rolf is the kind of man who has been short all of his life, so he makes up for it by running every other landscaper out of business—including middle school kids who just wanted to earn a few bucks mowing. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

  “Of course, boss,” I say.

  “I just wanted to know how it went,” he says. I glance down at my clothes. I had already changed at the hotel—it was a bloodless kill, but I still feel like death lingers on my skin. It doesn’t bother me when I’m alone, but it makes me paranoid that others could sense it. “It must be intimidating to do it alone. I would have gone with you, but my lady friend wanted me to go with her to check some cars out.”

  “It was fine,” I tell him. “I didn’t see Mrs. Schneider. There wasn’t any cars, either. I think they were all at church.”

  “That’s a good time to check out the yard,” he says. “I hate surveying someone’s land while they’re around. You have to tell them everything that you’re thinking and then they argue with you the whole time.”

  “Yep. Church is saving landscapers everywhere. Praise the Lord.”

  A waitress with a long black ponytail walks up to the table. “Good afternoon, gentlemen, my name is Tiffany and I’ll be your waitress today. Can I get you two something to drink?”

  Steve eyes her chest for a second too long. She gives him a scathing look and his face goes bright red.

  “Could I get some Pepsi?” I ask.

  “I’ll have a Bud Light,” Steve mumbles. Without a word, Tiffany pivots on her heel and walks back toward the kitchen.

  “I wouldn’t drink whatever she gets you,” I tell him. “It’s probably poisoned.”

  “I’m a man. I can’t help it if I stare.”

  His cell phone rings. His ringtone sounds like a doorbell and everyone in the restaurant turns to stare at him.

  “Jesus, I can’t catch a break today,” he says. He flips open his phone that looks like it’s from the ‘90s. “Hello?”

  There’s a pause as Steve listens to who called him. I take five sugar packets out of the porcelain container and form a box with them. I exhale and the box falls down. I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down. I wonder if someone found Zach’s body yet or if his body will rot where I hung it until dinner time.

  "What can I do you for, Dr. Meadows?” Steve asks.

  I sneer down at the sugar packets. Steve is looking out the window, so he doesn’
t notice my reaction. Dr. Sam Meadows, a cardiologist, a medical examiner, and the asshole living with Grace. I don’t see why Grace seems to have become attached to him. He’s just another guy that will eventually break her heart.

  “I already talked with Miss Grace about the yard cleanup. In fact, I’ve got Bryce putting together a project plan for—Bryce? Yeah. He's right here with me. …You want to talk to him? Sure."

  Steve holds the phone out to me. I raise an eyebrow, but I take the phone from him. The waitress returns with our drinks, setting them down in front of us before walking away again. Steve eyes his beer, as if he’s searching for poison or spit.

  “Hello?” I ask.

  “Hey, Bryce,” Sam says. “I’m a friend of Grace Ellery. I was just wondering if you noticed anything strange while you were at her brother’s house.”

  “Uh, not that I can think of, sir,” I say. It’s true. I didn’t see anything strange—I saw Zach’s face turn a shade of purple I’ve never seen before and a noise slip out of his throat that sounded like metal scraping against a chalkboard, but I wouldn’t consider that strange.

  “Was there anyone else at the house?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. There wasn’t any cars there. I just walked around the outside of the house. I didn’t notice anybody. I guess there could have been, but I didn’t see them. Why? Was the house robbed?” Lying is even easier than telling the truth—you just let the words flow until you sound like the person that you need to be.

  “Did you notice any vehicles around that didn’t belong there?” he asks, ignoring my questions.

  “No, sir, but I haven’t kept track of which cars belong in the neighborhood,” I say.

  “Did you murder Zach Schneider?”

  “What! God!” I yell. My mind races—did I leave something behind at the crime scene that implicates me? Something in the yard that showed I walked into the house? "What the fuck? Are you crazy?"