Haunting Adeline (Cat and Mouse Duet Book 1)

by H. D. Carlton

  "Yes, Daya Pierson?" a woman’s voice asks.

  "This is her," she responds, anxiety making her eyes pinball around the room. She chews her bottom lip, the tiny gap between her front teeth on display, while I abuse mine just the same.

  "Yeah, I got the results back pertaining to the sample you sent in.” She pauses, and it feels like when a rollercoaster crests the top of the hill. And just for a single second, you're suspended in time before you go crashing back to the ground. “We did get a match. Genevieve Parsons.”

  Brown eyes clash with green in a symphony of shock and excitement. Daya clears her throat.

  "Perfect, thank you, Gloria. I appreciate it."

  "No problem," she chirps before the line disconnects. Mutual silence descends as Daya and I both process the new information.

  "Holy fuck."

  Before I can fully process the information, Daya reaches over to her bag and pulls out a thick manilla envelope.

  “I had some testing and research of my own done. I went ahead and found a sample of Frank’s handwriting in a police report and the note we found and sent it in to an analyst. Now just to make you aware, graphology isn’t always taken seriously in the name of science, but there have been cases where it held up in court. Regardless, I think it’ll be good evidence to have.”

  My eyes widen with excitement. “Really? Let me see.”

  She holds up a finger, signaling for me to wait. “Also, remember how the serial number was illegible on the watch?” When I nod, she continues. “I have a friend that’s pretty good at deciphering shit like that, and he thinks he got a match. This, Addie, is where the real evidence is. If we confirm it’s Frank’s watch that had Gigi’s blood all over it, and if the handwriting is a match, that’s sufficient evidence to prove that Frank was the murderer.”

  “And?”

  She bites her lip. “I wanted to wait to open the email with you. So, you ready?”

  I nod my head eagerly, impatience ballooning in my chest.

  She opens the envelope first and slides out the results. Laying them flat on the island, we both nearly bonk heads in our pursuit to read them.

  …concerning the two samples provided, it has been determined that the handwriting…

  “Oh my God. It’s a match!” I squeal, almost breathless from excitement.

  Daya grins, giddy with her own excitement.

  “Okay, now for the real test.” She slides her laptop closer, her email already pulled up. She clicks on an unopened message.

  Daya,

  I checked into the serial number like you asked. It was pretty fucking difficult, whoever scratched that number did it pretty good. But not well enough to get past me. The serial number was tracked down to a buyer by the name of Frank Seinburg. Hope this helps.

  James

  “Oh my god!” I shout, nearly jumping out of the seat with excitement.

  “Holy shit,” Daya breathes, her expression full of shock and awe. “He did it. It was fucking Frank.”

  "He was in love with her, and he must've found out about Ronaldo and killed her in a fit of anger," I conclude, nearly stumbling over my words.

  Daya whips around, grabbing the bottle of Grey Goose sitting on the counter. "This calls for a celebratory shot. We can finally bring justice to Gigi. Even if Frank is dead, at least the world will know that he was a piece of shit.”

  I grin, a weird mix of emotion clogging my throat. I'm thrilled that we solved her case. But I'm also sad. And I'm struggling to pin down why exactly. This murder investigation consumed a large part of my life for the past several months. And letting it go almost feels like losing a small piece of myself.

  "We still don't know who hid the watch," I muse before taking the shot. My face screws up from the taste. I don't care what anyone says. Alcohol tastes like shit when it's not mixed with something. I will die on that hill.

  But I do relish in the burn as it slides down my throat and settles in my stomach, fire blooming and warming me from the inside out.

  I scoot the shot glass back to her, signaling another.

  Daya glances at me, and what looks like shame is clouded in her sage eyes.

  "What?" I ask flatly.

  She points towards my refilled shot glass before shooting hers back. I follow suit. This time it feels like this shot is to gain courage. For what, apparently only Daya knows.

  "So, I uh, Frank’s note wasn’t the only one I sent in," Daya starts, hesitation prominent in her expression. Her hand lifts to fiddle with her nose ring, but she catches herself and twists her fingers together instead.

  "Okay," I say, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. She's being weird. And not the kind of weird that involves us taking our pants off and dancing to I'm a Barbie Girl at three o'clock in the morning while drinking boxed wine.

  That’s only happened once, but we both woke up the next morning with regrets.

  She sucks in a deep breath, and I'm tempted to tell her that we're sharing the same oxygen—she's not going to find any particles in there that will give her superpowers and make her brave. I'd know, because I want to run and hide from whatever she's about to say.

  She picks up the manilla envelope and slides out two more pieces of paper. Shooting one last glance my way, she sets down the documents and we both read them over.

  One says it’s a match, and another says no match.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “The handwriting in the confession note matches your Nana's handwriting," she rushes out so quickly, it takes several beats before I comprehend what she said.

  "What?"

  That's all I'm capable of uttering. She groans and pours another shot.

  “This is for the confession note and a sample of your Nana’s and John’s handwriting.”

  “Okay, wait," I say, splaying my hands out. "You had suspicions about my Nana being the one to cover up the murder?”

  Her lips tighten into a hard line. "Yes."

  I shake my head, at a loss for words. “Why?”

  She throws her hands up. "Because it would've had to be someone that lived in this house, Addie. It was either John or your Nana. And your grandmother was attached to the attic, was she not?"

  "Where did you even get a hold of things with their handwriting on it?"

  "You put aside some old documents she had written on. I took pictures. And well, John was a bit more complicated, but I managed to scrounge up a will he had written on.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me you were doing this?”

  She sighs. "Because I knew you'd have a bad reaction to it. I wanted to be sure of my suspicions before I ruined your day."

  Blowing out a breath, I nod.

  "You’re right," I concede. "It makes sense.” It sounds like I'm trying to convince myself. Probably because I am.

  She stays quiet, giving me space to process the fact that my Nana helped cover up her mother's murder.

  “She was forced to,” I say finally, glancing over Nana’s confession lying on the island, the note I had found in the attic after seeing what I think was Gigi’s apparition. I don’t move to pick it up, but I remember the words well. The quick scrawl on a piece of paper containing words of a young girl forced to cover up her own mother’s murder.

  “Your Nana was what, sixteen when Gigi was murdered? Frank obviously threatened her, and she felt she had no choice. He was a detective, for God’s sake, of course, she would’ve believed him.”

  I nod, a frown marring my features. The fear Nana must’ve felt. And the absolute sickening feeling knowing she was helping Gigi’s murderer.

  Jesus.

  I can’t even begin to imagine how she must’ve felt.

  “That’s probably why she spent so much time up there—why she stayed in this house. She was probably punishing herself. Forcing herself to stay in a house with such terrible memories as penance for helping cover it up, even if it wasn’t her choice. I mean, who knows what was going through her head. God, Daya, she was always so damn
bright and happy. But on the inside… she must’ve felt such dark things.”

  Sympathy etches into the lines around Daya’s frown. “She lived a long, happy life. I’m sure of that. Especially because she had you.”

  The alcohol has started to kick in, creating a pleasant buzz in my head. It makes the revelation a little bit more bearable. But not enough to deter the stabbing pain in my chest.

  I’m heartbroken for Nana. She lived until she was ninety-one years old. Seventy-five years carrying that weight on her shoulders.

  I wonder if Grandpa ever knew. He was a quiet man that loved Nana fiercely. I’d like to think he did and shouldered some of the weight for her.

  A memory sparks of about two years ago, a year before she had passed. Nana sitting in Gigi’s chair, staring out the window at the rain.

  I was in town visiting her, and she looked so sad.

  “What’s wrong, Nana? You feeling okay?”

  “Yeah, baby, I’m fine. Nana’s just tired.”

  “Why don’t you lay down and rest?”

  A small, sad smile graced her lips. “Not that kind of tired, my love. But you’re right. I’ll go lay down for a bit.”

  Another memory replaces that one of when I was about twelve years old. I was coloring at the kitchen island when I had asked her a seemingly innocent and random question.

  “Nana, if you won a million dollars, what would you buy?”

  “No money in the world could buy me what I truly want,” Nana says, a teasing grin on her face.

  “Well, what do you want?”

  Her smile drops, just for a second, too quick for my twelve-year-old brain to think much of it.

  “Peace, baby. All I want is peace.”

  I go to bed that night just a little drunk and even sadder.

  I miss Zade.

  He’s off doing something dangerous tonight—some dinner party. I know he's there to save a little girl, but there's still that selfish part of me that wishes he were here.

  My instinct is to hate myself for it. Part of me still does. I don't know how long it's going to take before I fully accept the fact that I've started to fall for him. That I'm accepting him into my life.

  How long has he been stalking me for? Three months? Not very long at all. In fact, that's such an insignificant amount of time, it almost makes me sick. There's still so much I don't know about him. What's his favorite color? Does he have allergies? I hope he's allergic to all my favorite foods so I don't have to share. Or, at least I hope he doesn't like them. More for me.

  And I hope I don't like his favorite foods because if I do, I'll probably eat off his plate, too.

  He probably wouldn't mind. And that softens my heart into a pile of mush. Because somehow a man that wouldn't care if I ate his food fell in love with me. That's so fucking cute.

  I flop onto my bed and groan. Daya left an hour ago. We spent the rest of the day working on our respective work. She let me be for the most part while I stewed over the revelations. And after she left, I kept drinking until I stopped thinking about it.

  Tomorrow, I'll regret it. I'm not even halfway through the next installment in my series, and I have a lot of readers pushing for it. The pressure always starts getting heavy when several months pass between releases.

  Whatever. Maybe Zade will stop by and magically cure my hangover since he's good at making me feel things that should be physically impossible. Especially when he arches his brow and that wicked grin graces his lips.

  I clench my thighs, a flood of arousal stirring between my thighs. My breathing escalates, just with the memory of one look, and I'm melting. How is that possible?

  I kick off my leggings, a burning sensation in my stomach spreading until it feels like I'm drowning in a pit of flames. A flush is already forming on my chest, and I know pretty soon it'll start creeping up my neck.

  Next, I rip my t-shirt over my head, leaving me in only my matching bra and panty set. It's white and silky, and that insane part of me wishes Zade was here to see it. He'd probably think I look so innocent. An angel and a demon. Forbidden but drawn to each other anyways.

  That could be a book... based on the attraction between two opposite souls.

  Biting my lip, I snake my hand down the front of my underwear, the tip of my finger scarcely brushing across my clit. The contact is so light but yet has electricity zipping through my veins. I close my eyes, releasing a shaky breath. And I pretend that Zade is kneeling before me. Ordering me to touch myself for him. To show him what I do when he's not here.

  My heart pounds heavily in my chest, like a basketball on a court. I slip my fingers further down, dipping the tip into the pool of wetness that has gathered. I'm embarrassingly wet.

  Licking my lips, I plunge my two fingers inside, a moan falling from my lips as my body seizes with pleasure.

  Zade's deep, bottomless voice whispers in my mind of all the dirty things he's growled in my ear. All the words that have stopped my heart in my chest.

  My redemption will become your salvation.

  I was convinced he would be my damnation. But at this moment, it feels like I've walked into paradise.

  Nirvana.

  Just like he said when his tongue was plunged deep inside of me, like my fingers are now.

  I moan louder, the crescendo building as the image flickers to Zade sitting behind me in my car, feasting on me—no, drinking from me like a dying man deprived of water.

  The pleasure builds as I swirl my sopping fingers up to my clit and rub the sensitive bud in tight circles. My head kicks back as my spine curves. Panting out breathless moans, I circle my clit faster and harder until I'm nearly chasing the orgasm.

  And finally, I tip over the edge. I yelp loudly, calling out Zade’s name as the orgasm crashes through me quickly and without remorse. It's over before I'm able to regain my breath.

  Slumping, I heave out a sigh, the corners of my lips pulling into a frown. My body is languid and boneless, but my chest—it's tight still. That orgasm was only a temporary reprieve. And I realize that the weight isn't going to go anywhere.

  Tonight, I'm just... sad.

  Chapter 39

  The Shadow

  “Y

  ou eat meat raw?” I question, the deep note of my tone traveling across the table. Everyone quietens.

  “Well, of course not!” Daniel booms, laughing at what he probably considers a stupid question.

  “A sacrifice must be made first. Then we drink the blood and take her—”

  “We don’t get to have fun with her first?” I interrupt, my voice deepening with disappointment. “That’s half the fun, brother.”

  Eyes shift, glancing at each other, waiting for Daniel’s response to my demands. He stares at me, a slight smile on his face. I cock a brow, waiting for my answer.

  When I do, Daniel laughs, a pleasant surprise radiating from his face. My own is serious, eyes never straying from Daniel’s.

  He breaks eye contact first, looking over to where the servant is holding the scared little girl.

  “Bring her here.”

  I rest back in my chair, my movements languid and relaxed. On the inside, there’s a war raging—the battlefield in my gut bloody and vicious. I want to tear this entire house down, shredding every sick individual in here with only my hands and teeth.

  I’ll show them what it feels like to be eaten by a monster.

  The servant hurdles the girl forward, consistently shoving the girl forward due to her digging her little heels in. She knows something bad is coming.

  But what she doesn’t know is I will do everything in my power to stop that from happening.

  When the girl reaches us, my hand snaps out, gripping the girl’s tiny wrist in my hand. Her wide eyes jerk to mine, and what I see in them nearly breaks my heart. Her eyes are swirling with sorrow and fear. It’s an expression no child should ever wear on their face.

  “What’s your name?”

  Dan scoffs, but I ignore him. “S-Sarah,”
she says quietly, her voice mousy. I want to hurl her into my chest and run out of here, but I think we both know that’s not possible.

  “Sit on my lap, Sarah,” I order firmly.

  Reluctantly, she listens. Her eyes drop as she climbs on my lap, but I don’t miss the tears welling in her eyes beforehand.

  The sick feeling grows more potent as I help her up, keeping her body at my knees with one hand high on her back and my other on her knee. Areas that are not sexual but will be perceived as dominating to the others. I’d prefer not to touch her at all—she’s viewing this as something predatory—but I feel safest with her close when there’s a bunch of adults eyeing her like she’s their next meal.

  Literally.

  I force a predatory smile on my face and lean in, my lips at her ear, and whisper so only she can hear, “You’re safe with me. Keep quiet.”

  Dan observes the interaction closely, a hint of displeasure in his eyes. From his vantage point, he wouldn’t have been able to read my lips. And he’s not the type of man that appreciates secrets being told in front of his face.

  Sarah is smart. She doesn’t react. Doesn’t nod or speak. She just continues to look at her clasped hands, tremors wracking her petite body as if she’s in the middle of a snowstorm.

  I look up at Daniel. “Am I expected to have an audience, or can I enjoy her elsewhere?” I ask, looking at the girl with anticipation.

  He will think I'm anticipating all the ways I'm going to hurt her, but in reality, I'm picturing little Sarah being carried away by Ruby while I poise his head over a knife.

  Dan’s mouth quirks at the look on my face, his expression softening back into ease once more.

  I’m a damn good actor. I’d never survive in this field of work otherwise.

  “We would love to watch,” Dan says smoothly, leaning back in his own chair, while one hand snakes under the table. I can’t see what he’s doing from my angle, but I don’t need to in order to know that he’s squeezing himself.

  I’m going to enjoy killing him.

  “P-please take me home,” Sarah cries, the dam bursting as tears spill over her lashes and down her cherub cheeks.