by ML Guida
Immortal
ML Guida
Buffalo Mountain Press
Copyright © 2019 by ML Guida
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Foreword
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
Epilogue
Dear Reader
About the Author
Also by ML Guida
Foreword
I’m so glad you decided to read Immortal. This was originally published as Betrayal, Angels of Death. Immortal has now been edited again and has a new cover. I hope you enjoy this fun book!
Chapter 1
Guilt ate away at Heather’s heart. It was her fault that her sister was dead.
Heather stared at the wreathe of red roses with the Beloved Sister ribbon that lay draped across her sister’s coffin. Red roses had been Rosemary’s favorite flower.
“We ask you, dear Lord, to deliver Rosemary’s soul into your hands.”
Father David McCarthy’s soft words did nothing to ease the pain squatting in Heather’s breaking heart. Tears stung her eyes, but she didn’t break down. She’d be strong for Rosemary.
Gray clouds grumbled and lightning flashed over Mount Olivet Cemetery. Heavy rain and wind whipped the salt and pepper hair across Father David’s forehead. He sprinkled holy water onto the black shiny coffin. “Our Father who art in heaven...”
Heather recited the Lord’s Prayer, but the words failed to warm the cold fracturing her heart. She closed her eyes tightly and hoped Rosemary was finally at peace. The wind and rain grew stronger. She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, hugging her black wool coat. Her aunt Sherry said that a rainstorm at a funeral meant angels wept. Were angels sad Rosemary died, or did they even care?
It had been a closed coffin. The mortician couldn’t repair the damage the bus had done to her beloved sister’s face. She hoped Rodriquez had been right and Rosemary had died instantly, that she hadn’t withered in agony alone on the dark pavement, gasping until her last breath. Heather should have been there to hold Rosemary’s hand as she passed onto the next life. Emptiness sank into Heather’s stomach and numbness spread to her limbs. Rain splashed onto Heather’s cheeks, mixing with her tears.
Father lowered his stretched out hands. “Amen.” He walked to Heather and clasped her trembling hands. “She’s at peace now.”
She inhaled the smell of amber and citrus—her father’s favorite cologne. Her empty stomach revolted, and she swallowed bile. Luckily, she had eaten nothing, or she would have spewed all over Father McCarthy’s neat black cassock. “Thank you, Father,” she murmured.
She loathed that scent. Her father practically drowned himself in it. She’d smelled the cologne before he opened her and Rosemary’s door. He’d force seven-year-old Rosemary to pleasure him, while Heather hid under the covers, clutching her teddy bear. She prayed her father wouldn’t come for her. She hated herself for it. She’d been a coward, a traitor.
She cleared her throat. “Father?”
“Yes, my child?”
“Thank you for coming to the morgue and performing the last rites.”
He patted her hands. “Of course.”
Father McCarthy was a tall, broad-shouldered man, but unlike her father, he was one of the kindest men she’d ever known. But did he have to wear that ghastly cologne?
He squeezed her shoulders. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call.”
“I won’t.”
He moved down the line to console her Aunt Sherry and cousins.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Heather?”
Heather turned. Her best friend Susan looked at her with concern. Her usual perfect eyeliner and mascara were smeared, and she looked like a masked bandit. “Are you okay?”
“The truth? No.”
Susan rubbed her back. “I’m so sorry.”
Heather faced the coffin. Susan didn’t realize how lucky she was to be so close to her young sister. Both blue-eyed blondes, they practically looked like twins. They’d finish each other’s sentences and had always been close. Not true with Heather and Rosemary. They barely exchanged Christmas cards.
More thunder rumbled. The rat-a-tat-tat of the rain pounded harder as if the angels cried louder. A huge bouquet of roses draped over the casket. Heather ran her shaking hand over the sleek casket, then took a rose and inhaled its fragrant scent. “I promise I’ll find out who did this to you.”
Her voice trembled and tears blurred her vision.
She stood, then motioned to Susan. She didn’t want her aunt or cousin to hear. They had written Rosemary off long ago as a hopeless drug addict.
“Did I tell you I talked to the coroner?”
Susan rubbed her arm. “What did he say?”
“He said he found a hallucinogenic ten times more powerful than meth in Heather’s system.”
She shook her head. “PCP?”
Heather bristled at her judgmental tone. Even Susan thought Rosemary had relapsed. Heather didn’t believe it. “No. He said he’d never seen anything like it. He didn’t know what it was, but he said the drug caused her brain to swell and put pressure on her skull. He said he’d never seen a hallucinogenic or a stimulant so deadly.”
Even as a drug and alcohol counselor, she’d never heard of such a thing, and she’d seen it all.
“That’s really strange.” Susan sighed and wrapped her arm around her shoulder. “Come on, honey, family car is waiting.”
Heather allowed Susan to escort her, but she couldn’t understand what the coroner said. She leaned against Susan and inhaled her favorite scent of apple blossoms. Weariness beat her down, and she could barely keep her eyes open.
Soft rain changed to angry pelts that stung her face. They walked toward the limousine. Her black open-toed pumps sank into puddles, freezing her feet, but Heather didn’t care. Numbness gripped her, and she was thankful for it. She was tired of the pain, the guilt, the loss.
A distinguished chauffeur held the car door. “Watch your head.”
She slipped into the heated back seat next to her Aunt Sherry. Her mother’s twin sister, Sherry looked just like her with her shoulder length hair, dark eyes, and smooth porcelain skin, but that’s where the resemblance ended. Aunt Sherry never hit or raised her voice. How could identical twins be so different?
Susan scooted next to her. “Hi, Aunt Sherry.”
“Hello, dear.”
Aunt Sherry studied Heather and worry filled her eyes. “Are you all right, my dear?”
Heather shivered. “Yes, I’m fine.” A lie, but she didn’t want to talk right now. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, her lids too heavy to keep open.
Aunt Sherry patted her thigh. “Sleep, dear. You’re so tired. You should take some time off.”
Heather lifted her head. “No, if I stay home, all I do is think of Rosemary. I need to work.”
Her twenty-seven-year-old cousin, Alice, snorted. Her
long blond hair shrouded her face, but Heather could feel her glaring at her beneath those strands. Alice had never liked her, probably because Rosemary had shared her deepest, darkest secrets with her. Something she’d never done with Heather and now never would.
Susan grabbed her hand and gave her a reassuring smile. “Are you sure? Poor Rosemary is—”
Heather tightened her grip. “Something is wrong. No matter how high she got, Rosemary was never violent. She’d never hurt someone, no matter how stoned she was. Someone made her do this.”
Susan winced.
“Honey, I loved Rosemary, too, but no one forced her to commit murder. She used an illegal drug, and someone else got hurt.” Her voice choked. “Not that I blame her, after what her father did to her.” She wiped her plump cheeks.
Heather gritted her teeth. “Unlike Mother, you believed Rosemary when she reported Dad had raped her. Why can’t you believe in her innocence now?”
“Honey, I love both you girls like I do my sweet Alice.” She touched Alice’s thigh.
Alice scooted away and folded her arms tightly around her waist. Aunt dabbed her eyes with a tissue and sniffed.
Heather clenched her fists and kept them close to her side to keep from slapping Alice. Didn’t she realize how lucky she was? Her mother told her how much she loved her every day—not like her own mother, who never said she loved her not even the day she died.
Susan cleared her throat and clasped Heather’s arm. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to talk to you about tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?” Aunt Sherry asked.
“The detectives investigating Rosemary’s case want to talk to Heather,” Susan said. “I’ve stalled them as long as I can.”
Heather put her fingers between the bridge of her nose. “Did they say what time?”
“Tomorrow at eight.”
Heather’s stomach tightened. She dropped her hand and stared out the window. “Fine, I’ll be there.” Did she have a choice?
“Susan, why do the detectives want to talk to Heather? Hasn’t she been through enough?”
Heather tensed, shaking her head slightly. The last thing she wanted her aunt to know was she’d rambled on to the police about a mysterious man.
Susan flashed a knowing smile. “I think they just want more information about Rosemary.” She winked at Heather. “I’m sure it’s just routine.”
Aunt pulled another tissue out of her purse. “At least, Rosemary will be at peace. I just wish my sister would have made amends before she died. Maybe she and Rosemary will heal their relationship on the other side.”
“I don’t want to hear about Mother, especially not today.”
“I’m sorry, honey. I don’t know what to say about my sister. She had this insane obsession to believe in your father’s innocence. Although we were twins, I never understood her.”
Heather clamped her lips tightly and counted down from a hundred. She didn’t want to argue with Aunt today. She loved her aunt dearly, but sometimes Aunt wasn’t good at social timing, today being one of them.
Tomorrow, she’d try to convince Detective Hewitt that someone forced Rosemary to take the drug, and she was innocent, as long as he didn’t lock her up in an insane asylum.
Chapter 2
The following morning, Heather whipped her Pathfinder out of the garage, determined to convince Detective Hewitt not to rule Rosemary as a homicidal/suicidal junkie. A large lump of regret rotted in her gut. She missed Rosemary so much. There had been so much unsaid between them, so many ugly secrets.
Last night, she’d tossed and turned going over what she should have said to Rosemary instead of holding onto her damn pride. She glanced in the rearview mirror and winced. Dark circles under her blood-shot eyes made her face pale. How many people looked like Little Mary Sunshine after going to their sister’s funeral?
She picked up her coffee cup and sipped. The hot brown liquid warmed her stiff limbs and chased away the tightness in her chest. She placed the coffee mug into the holder. How was she going to live without Rosemary? Tears threatened to fall again. She shook her head. “No. No more tears.”
On the radio, Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger came on and she forced herself to sing. “Just a woman and her will to survive.”
Rosemary had changed the lyrics and taught her they had to fight to be strong, to never give up. When they were in foster care, Rosemary had taught her to defend herself. “Look sis,” she said. “I can’t always be there to stop them. Always hold your fists in front of your face like this.”
Heather grinned. She’d be nine and Rosemary twelve when they were placed in a foster home. Heather had been quite the scrapper and had knocked bullies twice her age on their asses. She glanced in the mirror and frowned. Rosemary had protected her at every angle. How did she repay her? By betraying her.
The radio announcer said it was seven fifty-five. Oh, shit! She only had five minutes until the interrogation. Why was she always late? She’d taken too long in the shower trying to wake up. Susan would be so damn mad.
She sped into the police parking and shoved her SUV into park. She jumped out and hurried inside.
Susan paced back and forth. She stopped. “What took you so long?”
“I’m sorry. I overslept.”
“You don’t look well.” She motioned for the clerk to buzz them inside.
“Thanks a lot.” Heather put her hand on her forehead.
A police woman with short, dark, curly hair opened a glass door. The slight movement made the buttons on her stretched shirt threatened to pop off. “This way.”
Squish. Squish. Squish.
Her thick thighs stuffed into polyester pants rubbed together as she walked down the narrow hallway.
The clocks ticked loudly. Officers murmured on the phone. Heather’s nerves twisted into knots, and she struggled to breathe.
She glanced at a calendar and froze.
She rubbed her sweaty forehead. “Oh, no.”
Susan turned. “What’s the matter?”
Heather’s heart raced. “I forgot I have a damn interview today at ten o’clock for a new drug and alcohol counselor. Will I be done in time?”
“Can’t anyone else do it?”
Heather shook her head. “Not unless we wanted to be short on the floor, and with all the bizarre happenings at Serenity House, I can’t risk it.”
“I’ll make sure we’re done in time. At least, I hope we are.”
The officer gestured to a white pristine door. “Wait here. I’ll let them know you’re here.”
“Thank you,” Susan said.
Heather followed Susan into a small room with green walls and a dull white tile. They each sat on metal chairs and waited. Heather wrinkled her nose. The scent of body odor and stale coffee lingered. The fluorescent light flickered overhead. She felt like she was in one of those television cop shows.
The clock ticked slowly and Heather tapped her shoe. At this rate, she’d miss the interview.
A pitcher was on the table. Susan picked up a Styrofoam cup and poured water. “Here, drink this. You need to be calm.”
“I’m trying. What are they doing?”
The door opened. Detective Hewitt and another younger man impeccably dressed in a black-striped suit entered. With his perfect styled blond hair, crystal blues, dimpled chin, he could rival any model on GQ magazine.
Heather put the cup down and hid her shaking hand underneath the table.
“Good morning.” Detective Hewitt sat opposite Heather. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Bowen.”
“It’s not like I had a choice.”
“I’m Detective Stan Mason.” His voice was ice cold. He sat next to Hewitt and clicked and twirled a pen in between his manicured fingers. He tilted his head. “This is Detective Hewitt.”
“Yes, I know. We met.”
Tiredness seeped into Hewitt’s green eyes. He scratched his bald head and yawned. He was one step away from retirement. “How are you doing today
?”
Heather squirmed in her seat. She didn’t like small talk. Small talk was just a way to hide uneasiness. She preferred people to be upfront. “As well as to be expected.” Her mouth went dry. She sipped the water, but it did nothing to moisten her mouth.
Mason put his hands on the table and leaned forward slightly. “We need some answers about your sister’s drug use and the murder victim, Carolyn Carmichael.”
She inhaled his leather and suede cologne and nearly choked on it. Didn’t he know that the bad guys would smell him way before they ever saw him? “I’ve never met Ms. Carmichael.”
“Don’t play games with me, Ms. Bowen. Your sister was a cold-blooded killer.”
She stiffened. “I beg your pardon? Rosemary wasn’t a killer. Somebody drugged her and forced her to do it.”
Mason snorted. “Yeah, right. Some mysterious force possessed your sister and made her murder an innocent woman.” He rolled his eyes. “Tell that to Carmichael’s grieving husband.”
Hewitt cast Mason a stern look. “Lay off, Mason.” He turned to Heather. “First of all, Ms. Bowen, I’d like to offer you our condolences for your loss.”
Heather relaxed her tense muscles. “Thank you.”
She glanced between the two detectives, so this was the game they were going to play—good cop, bad cop?
“When was the last time you saw your sister?”
Hewitt’s voice softened.
“About three weeks ago.”
“That seems like a long time for you not to have contact.”
Heather blurted. “We weren’t all that close.”
Mason stared at her hard. “So, she could have been using and you wouldn’t have known it?”