Steve, his brows furrowed, grabs the phone from me.
“What the hell are you asking my employee, Dr. Meadows?” he asks. “What?…He’s dead?…Suicide?”
I lean in closer to Steve, so I can hear Sam’s voice through the phone.
"We don't know, yet. Your guy Bryce there just said he was at the house this morning, right?" Sam asks.
"Yeah, he was. But only out in the yard. He already told you that he didn't see any cars."
"Look, I'm sorry if I upset him too much. You should let him know that he's probably going to be questioned by the police,” Sam says. “I have to go. I was just checking to see if there was any information I could get before Zach gets to the morgue. Thank you for your time, Steve.”
Sam hangs up. I lean back into the booth. Steve takes a sip of his beer.
"I can't be questioned by the police, Steve.”
"Why?" he asks, setting his beer back down. I watch the condensation run down, biding my time before I come up with an answer.
"I don't want it to get onto the news. I saw how Dr. Meadows was in the news this fall because somebody tried to kill Miss Grace, and I figured maybe people are just watching this town to see if anything else goes wrong. Look, I…I don't want my family to know where to find me, Steve. I've even been telling my little sister that I'm making a big success of myself in New York, because if they knew I was doing what Dad does for a living, they'd make me come home, and try to force me into the life they want for me.”
"Your dad—"
"Is a general contractor." Or rather, Bryce Ballentine's father is a chronically unemployed unlicensed general contractor.
"So that's how you know how to do this." Steve laughs. "Son of a bitch. Impressive. And you know, you could have said something."
"Thanks."
"Let me talk to Dr. Meadows tomorrow. He's a reasonable guy. He might have some suggestions about how we can let you tell your story to the police without anyone else finding out."
“Thanks, Steve,” I say. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sam, 2015
(Sunday Afternoon; Sam’s House, Murray, Virginia)
AS I DRIVE HOME, my mind is a kaleidoscope with all of my separate thoughts spinning until it’s all a blur. Zach Schneider is currently in the morgue and a medical examiner from Richmond was going to come in to examine him. As I stop at a red light, I send a quick text to Miranda Bliss, a morgue attendant who used to work for me at my cardiology office.
Me: Have you figured out how the Schneider boy died?
The light turns green and I continue to drive. I’m only a few minutes away from my house. The image of the John Doe that we found in Neabsco Creek keeps flashing in my mind. Why did the murderer try to hide his identity? He must have known him, right? But how could you destroy someone that violently that you knew?
As I’m about to turn into my driveway, I realize that Grace’s truck is already there. I hear my phone ping as someone texts me. I pick up my phone and check the message.
Miranda: Not completely sure. The rope cut into his throat around the thyroid cartilage where it should have, but there’s deeper lines lower than that where the rope wouldn’t have been, unless there was a strange circumstance that led the rope to be lower, then shift higher up. I doubt it though…at the angle he was hanging the rope only should have been right below his jawline.
So, in other words, it’s murder by strangulation. I get out of my car and walk into my house, my footsteps heavy. What is the chance that’s there two murderers around Murray? Or is there a single serial killer? The murders were so different though…why wouldn’t the killer disfigure Zach’s face as well?
I open the door and step in. I hear the shower running. I look around the house as I hear the water shut off. I pass by the bathroom door as Grace opens it. She has a white towel wrapped tightly around her body and another, smaller towel wrapped around her hair.
“I thought I asked you to not be alone,” are the first words out of my mouth. I know they sound impolite and crude, but fury is running through my veins like a fire.
“But I’m not anymore,” she teases, reaching toward me. I step back. Her lips slightly part and she tilts her head as she realizes how angry I am. All I want to do is kiss her, make love to her, feel the comfort and familiarity of her body.
“That’s not funny,” I say. “Or cute.”
She frowns. “Look, I needed to be alone for a little bit. Kevin is great, but it feels awkward to be imposing on his private space. I just wanted to shower and wait for you to get home.”
“There’s a killer out there,” I say. Or two. “He killed Zach Schneider.”
“What?” She blurts. “How? When? Why would anyone kill Zach? I mean, I didn’t get along with him, but he was just a child—”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know anything. Nobody knows anything, which is why you shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m not a child, Sam,” she says. “Don’t treat me like one. You’ve been alone, haven’t you? Do the rules not apply for you, too?”
“I’m more likely to be able to fend for myself!” I shout. “What’s the likelihood that you’ll be able to protect yourself from a full-grown man?”
“I killed Deacon, didn’t I?” she hisses.
I cross my arms over my chest. “You were defending yourself. You don’t still feel guilty about that, do you? He was going to kill you if you didn’t kill him first.”
“Of course I know that,” she says. “But I still feel guilty. He could have had a whole life in front of him. He could have been the guy to cure cancer or marry some woman and make her happier than anyone else on Earth.”
“He was a killer,” I reply.
“He was a child, too,” she snaps. “And that’s not even the point. I can defend myself just fine.”
“What? Are you just going to carry around a knife?” I demand. “Because I recall you telling me a time when grabbing a knife didn’t work out for you.”
“Don’t you dare bring up Francis,” she snarls. She pushes past me to my bedroom. She grabs some of her clothes out of her drawer—the top one—and pulls her towel off. For a second, my carnal nature takes over and all I notice is the ease of her curves and the pale shade of her skin that has barely been touched by sunlight. I shake my head and grit my teeth.
“Grace,” I say as she puts on her pale pink lingerie. “I’m just trying to make sure that you’re safe.”
“I understand that, Sam, but I can’t spend my life being afraid every time someone gets murdered.”
“Of course you can. That’s human nature!”
She pulls on a pair of jeans and snaps the button into place.
“Is something going on?” she asks. “Are you being so agitated because of the murdered body or is there something else?”
“What else would there be?” Other than the fact that it could be the guy who already tried to kill you.
“I don’t know,” she says. “You haven’t talked about Alicia in a while. Is something happening there?”
“What? No!” I shout. “How can you even think that?”
“Because she pops up in our lives, she worms her way into selling my brother’s house, you keep pushing me to use her as my real estate agent, and then you stop talking about her.”
“I’ve been busy trying to deal with a murderer!”
She pulls on her shirt, grabs her purse and her backpack.
“Where are you going now?” I ask.
“Away from here,” she says. “I think we need some time apart.”
“Are you kidding me?” I ask. “After I just told you that you shouldn’t be alone?”
She scowls. “Don’t follow me.”
She opens the front door and walks out. As she gets into her truck, Alicia pulls up in her ruby red Ford Mustang. She watches as Grace’s tires squeak as she makes a sharp turn out of the driveway.
When Alicia gets out of her car, her
eyebrow is raised.
“Trouble in paradise?” she asks, closing her car door.
I rub my temple. “Why are women so complicated?”
“Maybe you try too hard to generalize us,” she says, smiling. She walks up to me and wraps her arm around my shoulders. “Why don’t I mix you a drink? Remember when I used to bartend?”
I hesitate. After Grace’s accusation, it seems like a bad idea to have a drink with my ex-girlfriend.
Alicia smiles, her shiny peach-colored lipstick making her lips seem larger than they are.
“Should I call Grace and see if it’s okay with her?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Of course not. I don’t need her permission.”
As I open the door for Alicia and she walks into my house, I realize that my statement is a reflection of what Grace had been trying to tell me all along.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Francis, 2015
(Sunday Afternoon; The Guardian Inn, Room #403)
I WAS TOO ARROGANT.
I let my emotions cloud my judgment.
I never should have killed on whim. Bryce’s death would never be connected to me because I had it all planned on my head. I was angry with Zach. Angry at the times he made fun of Grace, angry with him for mocking me when he scared me by knocking on the sliding glass door…that was my mistake when I attempted to kill Grace, too. I let my emotions take over and control my body. I can’t allow that to happen again.
I pace back and forth in my hotel room. It takes me seven seconds to walk from one side to the other. I don’t know if I can trust Steve to be able to get me out of having a conversation with the police—Steve was persistent, but police could be downright bullheaded. If they decided I was guilty, I’m sure they would plant evidence on me to prove it. I could cut my losses and disappear.
No. Disappearance wasn’t acceptable. I’ve come too far and I’m so close to getting Grace right where I need her to be that walking away would be a sign of cowardice.
What would Deke Cochrane do in the same situation?
It’s strange, I admit, to take inspiration from a dead messed-up kid—one that failed in his mission—but I can’t help but admire his tenacity. According to the news media, he tried to kill her three different times. He may have been stupid and reckless, but he was persistent. They say he was looking into becoming a soldier, specifically part of the U.S. army, and I suppose the motto fits: be all you can be. If all you can be is a killer, at least try to be a good one.
I continue to pace. I could try to kill the detectives involved in the investigation, but that would only cast more suspicion and apply more pressure on finding the killer. I could try to get someone to be my alibi, but I would have to trust someone to not turn against me when the police question him and I don’t trust anybody. I wouldn’t even trust anybody to sit in this room with me, much less provide a false alibi.
I hear an engine sputtering in the parking lot. It takes me the seven seconds to walk back to the window. I see a black Toyota Tacoma parking in front of the hotel.
It’s the same vehicle that Grace drives.
A woman gets out of the truck, her dark-blond hair flipping over her shoulder as she takes out a backpack.
It’s Grace.
Am I hallucinating?
Is she checking in?
Is this God's way of telling me that I’m on the right track?
Or maybe it's Deke Cochrane's.
I sit down on the bed. A plan begins to formulate in my head as if every skill, memory, and knowledge I have is a puzzle piece and they are all falling into place. I stand up, grab my hotel key, and slip out of the room. I walk out of the hotel through one of the back doors, go to my truck, and grab a toolkit from the bed.
I’m not being arrogant this time or emotional.
I’m confident and tactical.
I also know exactly where to plunge a knife to cause the most pain and where to slice to cause someone to quickly bleed out. I intend to use both on Grace.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sam, 2015
(Sunday Afternoon; Sam’s House, Murray, Virginia)
I TAKE THE LAST SIP of whiskey in my glass. Alicia taps the bottle with her red, manicured nail.
“Do you want some more?” she asks. I shrug. She opens the bottle and pours more into the glass. I take it, the gold liquid splashing inside, and drink from it. Alicia sweeps her brown bangs out of her eyes. “So, can I ask you what happened with Grace?”
I shake my head. “I must be bad at relationships. I keep trying to do the right thing, but Grace isn’t happy with anything I do. I just want her to be safe, but she thinks I’m trying to control her. I mean, there has been back-to-back murders…one of them looks like suicide, but I’m pretty sure Zach was murdered. And the more brutal murder—my John Doe—has connections to Ohio. Do you know who came from Ohio? Grace. Do you know who else came from Ohio? Francis Tate, the guy who tried to kill her before.”
“Did you tell her all of this?” she asks. The smile on her face tells me that she already knows the answer to her question. I suppose I am predictable.
“I’m not certain it’s Francis Tate,” I tell her. “I don’t want her to lose all of the progress she’s made since the attack because of a suspicion.”
She shrugs. “Maybe she will realize that she’s being a little crazy and that you’re just trying to protect her.”
“Do you really think so?” I ask.
She smiles. “No…Grace seems like a stubborn girl, but I can hope for you, can’t I?”
“I need more than hope,” I say. “I’m going to die alone.”
“I don’t think you’re going to die alone.” She leans so close to me that I can smell her white musk perfume. “I think you’ll have a white picket fence, a wife, and three kids in a couple of years.”
“Two kids,” I say. “Three is more than I could handle. I don’t even know if I can handle two. I’m not entirely sure I can handle myself.”
“That’s all right,” she says. “I can handle you.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Francis, 2015
(Sunday Afternoon; Lobby, The Guardian Inn, Murray, Virginia)
THE FRONT DESK CLERK—a short, curvy brunette—is batting her eyelashes at a burly, grease-smeared man that has a T-shirt on that states: Tom’s Towing Truck Service.
“You look tired,” the clerk says. “Are you late because you were partying without me last night? I kept trying to call you, but you never picked up.”
“Nah, of course not,” he says. “Those parties wouldn’t be fun without you. I’d tell you where I’ve been this week, but…the police wouldn’t be too happy if I did.”
“The police?” she asks. “Oh my God, you didn’t get arrested did you? They didn’t find our little pot farm in your basement, did they?”
“No, no! Nothing like that,” he says. “I had to help the police out on Thursday. Some teenagers were swimming around in Neabsco Creek and they saw a Honda Civic was deep in the water. I was called in to take care of it.”
“Really?” the clerk asks.
“All of the police forensics folks were climbing all over it and they still needed me to tow the car.”
“Why were the police there?”
“Oh? I didn’t mention that?” the man asks with a sly smile. “There was a body in the car. Or at least…it was a body. The face was all messed-up and the medical examiner was saying that the killer must have busted it up to make it hard to identify him.”
“Holy shit,” she whispers.
“I’m telling you, whoever that guy was that was murdered…it was brutal,” he says. “I about near puked when I saw it, and I didn't get nearly as good a look at it as Dr. Meadows. I’m pretty sure he puked.”
“Dr. Meadows?”
“Oh. He's my dad's cardiologist. He's also the county medical examiner,” he says. “He’s a pretty chill guy. Not that talkative though.”
“Wow,” she says. “So…are
you involved in the case now?”
“Maybe,” he teases. “Maybe I’m 007 now and I need my hot babe to help me investigate.”
She blushes, turning away from him and noticing me for the first time.
“Oh, hey, Bryce. Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Can I help you?” she asks.
“Um…” My brain is reeling. What is the chance that a guy who was on the scene of my crime is here the same time that Grace is here? It seems more likely that she is bait for a poorly planned trap, one set because I hadn’t been so eager to meet with Sam Meadows, who probably has my mugshot from prison just waiting to compare with “Bryce’s” face. This wasn’t God’s or Deke’s miracle. It was the police trying to set up Judgment Day for me.
“Bryce?” the clerk asks again.
“You…you…wouldn't happen to have a roll of quarters, w-would you? I need to go do some laundry,” I say.
“No, sorry, I gave my last roll to the restaurant in the hotel,” she says. “I could exchange four quarters for a dollar.”
“I only have a ten dollar bill,” I tell her, recomposing myself. I can’t slip into my old pattern of stuttering. “Thanks, anyway.”
Time for a new plan.
The medical examiner was saying that the killer must have busted it up to make it hard to identify him.
I didn’t get nearly as good a look as Dr. Meadows.
He’s a pretty chill guy.
I just couldn’t get Sam Meadows to stop invading my life and the fact that he was with Grace…
I’ll kill him. He seems to be the one investigating me—a detective should have called me if the police were suspicious—and it will hurt Grace in a way that she never even imagined.
I’ll tear both their hearts out except with Grace it will only be metaphorically.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Disturbed Mind (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Series Book 2) Page 12