by Lisa Jackson
Books by Lisa Jackson
Stand-Alones
SEE HOW SHE DIES
FINAL SCREAM
RUNNING SCARED
WHISPERS
TWICE KISSED
UNSPOKEN
DEEP FREEZE
FATAL BURN
MOST LIKELY TO DIE
WICKED GAME
WICKED LIES
SOMETHING WICKED
WICKED WAYS
SINISTER
WITHOUT MERCY
YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW
CLOSE TO HOME
AFTER SHE’S GONE
REVENGE
YOU WILL PAY
OMINOUS
RUTHLESS
ONE LAST BREATH
LIAR, LIAR
PARANOID
Anthony Paterno/Cahill
Family Novels
IF SHE ONLY KNEW
ALMOST DEAD
Rick Bentz/Reuben Montoya
Novels
HOT BLOODED
COLD BLOODED
SHIVER
ABSOLUTE FEAR
LOST SOULS
MALICE
DEVIOUS
NEVER DIE ALONE
Pierce Reed/Nikki Gillette
Novels
THE NIGHT BEFORE
THE MORNING AFTER
TELL ME
Selena Alvarez/Regan Pescoli
Novels
LEFT TO DIE
CHOSEN TO DIE
BORN TO DIE
AFRAID TO DIE
READY TO DIE
DESERVES TO DIE
EXPECTING TO DIE
WILLING TO DIE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
LISA JACKSON
PARANOID
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
AUTHOR’S NOTE
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10019
Copyright © 2019 by Lisa Jackson LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2019932231
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2246-1
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: July 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2700-8 (trade)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2700-2 (trade)
ISBN-13: 978-1-61773-472-4 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-61773-472-1 (ebook)
Now
Patient: “I see him. I see Luke. He’s . . . he’s alive and he’s smiling. He says—oh, God—he says, ‘I forgive you.’”
Therapist: “Where is he?”
Patient: “In the warehouse, I mean fish cannery . . . the abandoned one on the waterfront, built on piers over the river.”
Therapist: “I know the one you mean. You’ve told me about it before.”
Patient: “But it’s been condemned. For a long time.”
Therapist: “I know. Is anyone else there?”
Patient: “Yes. Oh yes. We are all there. The ones who were there on the night . . . on the night Luke died.”
Therapist: “The night you were playing the game?”
Patient, frowning, voice a whisper: “Yes . . . it was supposed to be a game. We had those pretend guns. Trying to shoot each other.”
Therapist: “Your friends?”
Patient, a deeper frown as the patient’s head moves side to side: “No. Not all friends. Others were there.”
Therapist: “You saw them?”
Patient: “It was too dark. But they were there.”
Therapist: “And now? They’re back?”
Patient, swallowing hard: “I don’t know. But I think so. It’s so dark.”
Therapist: “But you’re certain you’re in the cannery.”
Patient: “Yes. Yes! I hear the river running beneath the floor—smell it—and I hear voices of the other kids but not what they’re saying. It’s too noisy. All those clicking guns and pounding footsteps.”
Therapist: “But you see Luke?”
Patient: “Yes!” The patient’s lips twist into a fleeting smile. “Oh my God! He’s . . . he’s alive!”
Therapist: “You’re talking to him?”
Patient: “Yes. I told you.” The patient pauses. The smile fades. “But it’s hard to hear him. Other kids are talking, and laughing; some of the guns are going off and echoing. The building is so big. So dark. So . . .”
Therapist: “So, what?”
Patient, becoming sober, almost frightened, hesitating before whispering: “Evil. It’s like . . . it’s like there’s something else in that old building. Something hiding in the darkness.” The patient’s voice begins to tremble. “Something . . . malicious.” Then the panic sets in. As it always does. “Oh, God.” The patient’s tone is suddenly frantic. “I—we—have to get out. We have to leave. Now! We have to get out. We have to!”
Therapist, calmly: “It’s time. You’re rising. Getting out of the cannery. Leaving the building and the evil far behind you.”
Patient: “But Luke! No! I can’t abandon him. Oh my God. He’s been shot! He’s bleeding! I have to save him!”
Therapist: “You are becoming more aware.”
Patient: “No! No! No! I can’t leave him. I have to help!” The patient is in a full-blown panic. “Someone! Help!”
Therapist: “You must surface now. Leave this place for the time being. You are leaving the building. You must save yourself.” The therapist is insistent, in control. “On my count.”
Patient, frantic: “Yes! Okay. But . . . but I have to hurry! And bring Luke—”
Therapist: “Three. And you’re leaving the Sea View cannery and the past behind.”
Patient: “If I leave Luke, he’ll die. All over again. I can’t—”
Therapist, firmly: “Two. And you’re nearly awake.”
Patient: “I—I need to talk to him. To explain.” But the patient is acquiescing.
Therapist: “One.”
The patient’s eyes open to the small, dimly lit room that smells faintly of jasmine. As the patient lies in the recliner staring at the ceiling, the patient’s breathing returns to normal. Calm restored, the patient meets the therapist’s eyes.
Smiling benignly, the therapist says softly, “And you’re back.”
; PROLOGUE
20 years ago
Midnight
Edgewater, Oregon
Are you out of your frickin’ mind?
The nagging voice in Rachel’s brain chased after her as she ran through the dry weeds that had sprouted through decades-old asphalt. The night was dark, just a sliver of the moon visible, its pale light a dim glow that came and went in the undulating clouds overhead. Soon the clouds would settle and sprawl over the river, fog oozing and crawling through the forgotten piers and pilings to encase this abandoned building and move inland to cover the town. Through the thin mist, only one dim security light offered any sort of illumination, and she tripped twice before reaching the mesh fence surrounding the abandoned fish cannery.
You can’t do this, Rachel. Really. Think about it. Your dad’s a cop. A damned detective. Stop!
She didn’t. Instead she slipped through a hole in the fence, her backpack catching on a jagged piece of wiring and ripping as she pressed forward, following her friend. Well, at least her once-upon-a-time friend. Now Rachel wasn’t so sure. Petite, vibrant Lila was more interested in Rachel’s older brother, Luke, than she was in Rachel.
“Hurry up!” Lila called over her shoulder from twenty yards ahead. Her blond hair reflected the weak light as she ran along the bridge, a narrow, crumbling roadway built on piers over the water.
Rachel sped up, following.
As she had forever, it seemed. Lila always came up with the plans and Rachel went along.
“I don’t know why you do it,” Luke had said about six months ago while driving home from school, Rachel riding shotgun. “It’s like you’re some kind of lap dog, y’know, a puppy following her around.” He’d slid a glance her way, his blue eyes knowing.
“I am not,” she’d argued, glancing out the window at the gray Oregon day, rain drizzling down the glass, but she’d felt the little sting of it, the truth to it. Luke had been right, though she’d hated to admit it.
Now, the tables had turned as he and Lila had become a “thing.” Which was probably worse.
“Rach! Come on!” Lila now called over her shoulder. “We’re already late!”
“Yeah, to our own funeral.”
“Wha–oh, shut up!” Lila waved off Rachel’s reticence and kept moving. According to Rachel’s mother, Lila was a good girl gone bad, one who went through boyfriends faster than most people used up a roll of paper towels. “She’s too smart and pretty for her own good. Always looking for trouble, that one,” Melinda Gaston had warned on more than one occasion. “She’s the kind of girl who sees what she wants and goes for it, no matter who she steps on in the process.”
Most likely true. No, absolutely true.
“Come on!”
Rachel sped up, following the faint light of the reflective strips on the back of Lila’s running shoes. Following. Ever following. A problem. She’d work on that, but not tonight.
The brackish smell of the river was thick as Rachel caught up with her friend at the largest of the buildings, a hulking barn-like structure built on now-rotting pilings. It rose dark and daunting, a huge, decrepit edifice that had been condemned years before.
“Great.” Lila’s tone was one of disgust. “Everyone else is already here.”
“How do you know?” Rachel spoke in hushed tones, afraid that someone might hear her. She glanced around the empty pockmarked lot surrounding the long-vacant buildings, but saw no one. Still the back of her neck prickled in apprehension.
“I just do, okay?” A pause. “Listen. . . . Hear that?”
Sounds emanated through the ancient wooden walls. Muted voices, running footsteps, even a staccato Pop! Pop! Pop! Not like real gunfire. Just loud clicks.
Air guns.
Safe.
Still. It made her nervous. Rachel’s stomach was in knots.
Another burst from an automatic.
Heart pounding, Rachel watched as Lila unzipped her own pack and pulled out a pistol, one that glinted in the bluish glare from the thin light of the single security lamp.
Rachel swallowed hard. Though she knew Lila’s gun was just a replica that shot pellets, not bullets, it looked real. As did her own.
“I don’t know—”
“What? You’re going to wuss out now?” Lila said, unable to hide her disapproval. “After all your talk about wanting to do something ‘outside the box,’ something that would shock your mom and dad?”
“No, but—”
“Sure.” Lila wasn’t buying it. “Fine. Do what you want. You always do anyway. But I need to talk to Luke.”
“Here?”
“Wherever.”
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
“What the hell is that?” Rachel demanded at the loud, quick-fire reports. “A real gun?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Then what?”
“Shit. It could be Moretti. Nate said he and Max were going to bring firecrackers to, you know, make the game more ‘real.’ Like it’s not scary enough.”
“What?”
“I know. Crazy, right?” Lila seemed undeterred. “Nate’s such a dweeb! Never knows when to dial it back. He even has one of those things that make the gun sound louder and spark, y’know.”
This was sounding worse by the minute. She knew Nate. The son of a doctor, he was Luke’s best friend even though they had been in different classes in high school. “I think we should forget this—”
“I can’t. I have to see Luke.” Before Rachel could come up with any further arguments, Lila slipped through the narrow gap where the huge barn door hung open. Stomach churning, Rachel followed after.
Inside, the cavernous building was even eerier. Maybe it was her own mind playing tricks on her, but Rachel thought she smelled the remains of ancient fish guts and scales that had been stripped from the catch and dropped through open chutes in the floor to splash into the water below, where waiting harbor seals, sea lions, seagulls, and other scavengers snatched the bloody carcasses.
All in your mind. Remember that. This place has been abandoned for years.
That thought didn’t calm her jangling nerves.
Just inside, Rachel paused at the door, getting her bearings. What no one else knew, not even Lila, was that she’d been here earlier, in the fading summer daylight, scoping out the interior to give herself a bit of an advantage. She had tried to embed in her mind a map of the hazards, the treacherous holes in the floor, the stacks of rusted barrels, the ladders and pulleys. Though she couldn’t see anyone, she heard the others. Whispered conversation, footsteps scurrying along the ancient floor. The thud of feet climbing a metal ladder or shuffling across a catwalk overhead. The noises were barely audible over the wild beating of her heart.
These were her friends, she reminded herself, some kids she went to school with, others recent grads. Nothing to worry about—
Click! Click! Click, click, click!
A pellet gun went off behind her, firing rapidly. Missiles flying past her.
She flinched. Whipped around. Her hair flew over her eyes as she raised her pistol to aim at . . . nothing. Son of a bitch! Squinting, heart hammering, she thought she saw a shadow moving near the partially open door. Maybe . . . Her throat tightened and she aimed. But then again . . . maybe not. Her finger paused over the trigger. A bead of sweat ran down her face.
Could she really do it? Shoot the pistol at a person? After all the warnings and admonitions from her parents? Heart clamoring, sweat oozing out of her pores, she swallowed against a desert dry throat. This was crazy. Nuts!
Rachel lowered her gun. “Lila, I don’t think—” she started, her voice barely audible over scurrying feet and other whispers. But Lila had disappeared. Of course. Running after Luke.
She inched around the wall, remembering the central staircase, the catwalks overhead, the high rafters near a ceiling that rose cathedral-like above the remaining conveyor belts. Beneath the belts were a series of huge holes in the floor where the chutes, once covere
d, were now open.
Another automatic burst of pellets and Rachel automatically ducked, running to a spot under the open stairs, peering through the metal steps.
Bam, bam, bam! Someone clambered up the stairs at a dead run.
Rachel backed up quickly, nearly tripped and banged her head on a bit of fallen railing.
“Crap,” she whispered under her breath as she heard, following the sharp series of shots, a flurry of footsteps, several people running, scrambling away, some laughing, others whispering. Her heart was pounding, her head throbbing, and though she told herself over and over again that there was nothing to worry about, she couldn’t calm down. She was certain her folks would discover that she and Lila had lied, each telling their parents they were staying over at the other girl’s home. Lila’s mother might cover for them, but Rachel’s parents, despite their upcoming divorce, would unite against their daughter’s disobedience and lies. And if they were caught, trespassing in a condemned building . . . no, she should never have come.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
A series of shots rang through the building.
“Ow! Jesus!” a male voice shouted angrily. “Shit! Not in the face! Shit! You’re a dead man, Hollander!” Nate Moretti. Furious as hell.
More shots. Louder. Or firecrackers? Kids were running. Frantic footsteps behind her. “Get out!” someone yelled.
“Reva? Where are you?” A girl . . . Geez, maybe Violet. “Reva! Mercedes!” The girl sounded frantic.
“Vi?” Rachel whispered. “Is that you?” She was holding up her gun and it shook in her hand.
Someone flew up the stairs, boots ringing.
More shots . . . with a flurry of flashes.
Everything about this was wrong!
“Rachel!” Violet again. Closer. Crack! “Oh! Shit! Aaaggghh! Frick! Damn it.”
“What?”
“I ran into something. God, it hurts! My leg. My shin. Oh, I think . . . I think I’m bleeding. Oooh.” Her voice was trembling, wet sounding. “It’s so dark in here!”