Skin and Bone: A Psychological Thriller
Page 1
Skin and Bone
T.L. Keary
Contents
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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
A Tale of Insidious Obsession…
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About the Author
Copyright © 2019 T.L. Keary
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
First Edition: November 2019
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Keary, T.L., 1987-
Skin and Bone: a novel / by T.L. Keary. – 1st ed.
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House of Royals Saga
Garden of Thorns Trilogy
Crown of Death Saga
THE FALL OF ANGELS TRILOGY
THE NERON RISING SAGA
THE EDEN TRILOGY
Also by Annie K. (contemporary romance pen name)
THE McCAIN SAGA
WHAT I DIDN’T SAY
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Chapter One
Eight surgeries, twelve hair dye experiments, 1,834 hours of video observation, two years of yoga practice to try to make up that extra inch of height, and the public loss of gluten.
That’s what I’ve gone through for love. That’s everything I’ve given up–all the money I’ve spent, all the hours I’ve invested–to finally be with the man I’ve loved for more than a decade.
They say nothing worth having comes easy.
Everything comes with a price.
I’ve paid my dues. I’ve been more patient than anyone could ever comprehend.
And now it’s finally my time.
I step from the closet into the bathroom. I check my makeup. What the surgeries couldn’t accomplish is made up for with some well-practiced cosmetic techniques. The contour is just right. The eyebrow lift did exactly what was needed. My jaw is still sore, even though all of the swelling and bruising has finally gone away.
But as I apply a coat of lipstick—Apple Sunrise, her default color—I smile at myself.
Even my teeth required altering. Thirty-five thousand dollars, and they look just right; are just the right shade of white.
It’s perfect.
I’m perfect.
I am my own creation and I have to admire my hard work.
It’s brilliant.
I press my lips together, blowing my own reflection a kiss, and step out of the bathroom. I cut through the nearly empty bedroom and aim for the dining room. My laptop sits on it, a cheap piece of technology, because after today, it’s going in the crusher of the cement company down the road.
Can’t leave any evidence behind.
Which is tragic, because really, this amounts to the same amount of work as a doctoral degree.
It’s okay though. I’ll take the loss, so long as it gets me the prize, the reward for all my hard work.
I open the web browser and sign into my email.
iamsawyerjames@gmail.com
Just seeing the signature at the top of the page feels good. My insides flutter in excitement. Goosebumps wash over my skin.
Sawyer James at IMT Homes, I type in the address. I attach just one file and leave the body of the email empty. In the subject line, I type It was never really about you.
But that’s a lie. She may not be my main target, my main motivation, but there are fourteen years’ worth of resentment that brought us to this point.
My gaze re-focuses on the screen, and once more, I see my reflection.
Perfect, soft blonde hair. Blue eyes that border on green, thanks to contacts that are purely for color, not prescription.
A pretty face with hope in her eyes.
Here we are. One last out before it all goes down.
One last opportunity to change my mind.
I see myself smile in the screen.
Not a chance. I’ve worked too hard for this.
I press SEND and smile.
Chapter Two
Sawyer
“We’ll do the walk-through on Friday,” Dina, my assistant, says as we walk through the office. We’re just getting back from lunch, which was eaten in a hurry, like it always is. I’ve got three phone calls waiting to be made, and an appointment with a client in twenty minutes. “The owners say they have a list of seventeen points they want to go over with you and Jared.”
“Of course they do,” I say, taking a deep breath. Walk-throughs are my least favorite part of this process, but they’re a necessary middle step in this job of mine.
“Can you call the design center on the Spencer project?” I ask as we round Dina’s desk. “I’m not going to get to it today, and I know there’s already an email from them waiting for me.”
“I’m on it,” she says, dropping into her chair and immediately digging in.
I take a tiny breath of relief, and push open the door of my office. My hand covers the letters carefully placed on the glass door.
Sawyer James, Architectural Design Head.
I hang my bag on the hook and sink into my office chair. With the click of the mouse, my computer wakes back to life.
There are fifteen emails waiting for me, all arrived in the span I left for lunch.
I start from the oldest and work my way forward in time.
Two design center concerns, which shouldn’t be my problem, but when you have a knack for it, people ask for your opinion.
One brand new project with the list of the owner’s must haves.
And—
My finger stalls just before I click on the next email.
It was never really about you. My eyes slide to the left, and read the sender’s name.
iamsawyerjames@gmail.com
“What?” I mutter, my mind trying to sort out what kind of new email cloning junk virus this may be.
I’m about to delete it, because I’ve seen this kind of scam before. But as the phone rings, I startle, and my finger clicks on it, opening the email.
I answer the phone. It’s another client, calling about our meeting next Tuesday and asking if they can change the date.<
br />
I’m only half listening, trying to find the delete button before the email can steal anything important from my computer.
But I still, because there’s an attachment, and the thumbnail preview is a very clear picture of me.
“Yeah, my assistant manages my calendar, is it okay if I switch you back to her and she can let you know when I’m available?” Somehow the words come out automatic and clear. I’ve been doing this for enough years now that the words just fill in, even with my brain not giving them any attention.
“Thanks, talk to you soon,” I end the call.
I bite my lower lip, looking around.
No one is watching. No one would think anything of me looking at my computer screen, which faces me and the window out the eleventh floor. I’m nothing but a model employee.
I should just delete the email.
But that’s me.
The sender claims my own name.
I click on it, even as my stomach ignites with black electricity.
I’m seeing an outdoor patio area, with a dozen tables spread along the side of the brown brick building. It looks familiar, but I can’t quite place it. There’s an older couple toward the back, sipping their coffee without talking. In the middle section of the seats, there’s a man, though he’s turned away from me just enough I can’t see who he is. He’s sitting alone, slowly sipping at his coffee, scrolling through his phone.
I startle as a woman walks out from behind the camera. She’s skinny and in good shape, with long blonde hair, wearing white jeans and a cute, coral-colored top. Even her tan wedge sandals are adorable. I wonder where she got the entire outfit. It’s totally something I would wear.
As she walks down the sidewalk, I see the guy sitting alone perk up when he sees her. He does a double take, sitting up straighter, setting his coffee down on the table.
“Sawyer?” he says, though he sounds unsure and he doesn’t say it loud.
My brows furrow together, and I lean in toward my screen just another inch.
The woman turns, as if startled, catching eyes with the man.
He stands up then, faces the camera a little better, and something goes cold in my stomach.
“Ezra?” the woman says. “Is that you?”
She steps forward, and I’m granted a profile view of her face.
I lean in a little closer. “What?” I breathe again. I’m so close to the computer screen that my breath fogs the monitor. Desperately, I wipe my hand across it, clearing away the condensation.
“Oh my gosh, Ezra!” the woman says excitedly. She steps forward, and I can see her even more clearly now.
Blonde hair. Blue, almost green eyes. Arched eyebrows. Happy, smiling lips.
It’s me.
I blink five times, trying to clear my vision, or waiting for the image on the screen to clear. But it doesn’t change.
That’s me.
That’s my hair. Those are my ears. My jaw. My nose.
That’s me who steps forward and wraps her arms around Ezra Knox, smiling and chatting so casual and comfortable.
I know why that building looks familiar now. It’s the coffee shop just two blocks down from the bar Ezra’s brother bought forever ago. It’s just around the corner from our old high school.
That’s my hometown, Snohomish, where I grew up, from the time I was twelve.
“Ez?” I breathe, leaning forward.
That me on the screen slips her hands into her back pockets and chats away with Ezra, talking about how they haven’t seen each other in, what…seven years? At least. That me on the screen tells him I’m still working in Bellevue, that I’m the head of my department.
I blink again. Even the way she puts her hands in her back pockets is me. My friends are always making fun of me for doing that when I’m talking to men, like I’m trying to push my boobs in their face.
I guess it works. I see Ezra’s eyes going up and down me. The problem is that he knows what everything under those clothes looks like.
Wait. But that’s not me. That can’t be me.
I haven’t been back to Snohomish in a year, not since Dad had a heart attack two years ago, and then mom followed him a year later when she fell asleep at the wheel one late night and crashed into a tree. I sold the house and haven’t been back since. I haven’t been by that coffee shop in…I don’t even know.
And I know for sure that I haven’t seen Ezra Knox in seven years.
“You know, I’m thinking about moving back,” the woman in the video says, looking flirtatiously at Ezra. “That’s actually why I’m here today. I’m looking at places.”
“What?” Ezra asks, and he doesn’t hold back the surprise and excitement in his voice. He was never very good at masking what he was feeling. “I thought you’d taken off for good.”
The woman shrugs. “I guess there’s just some things I miss about home.”
I lean back, shaking my head. Even that shrug was exactly the same as mine.
“They say there’s no place like home for a reason,” Ezra says, and that smile on his face is way too wide, way too hopeful.
It makes something in my stomach twist.
Ezra is a good guy. There’s a reason we were together for almost a year in high school. He goes in with his whole heart. And I knew it wasn’t what he wanted, at all, when we broke up.
I figured he’d be involved now, all these years later. I figured he’d be married. That I’d be married. He’s thirty-one now, and I’m about to turn thirty-one in a few weeks.
I know that hope and excitement in Ezra’s eyes.
“Hey, um, I have to get going,” that woman says, pointing over her shoulder. “I have a couple houses to look at right now. But, um, do you…want to maybe go grab some dinner Friday?”
The breath snags in my throat and I shake my head again as I lean forward once more.
“You mean that, Sawyer?” Ezra asks, his tone guarded. “I mean, it’s been a lot of years, but you made things pretty clear when you left.”
“No, Ez,” I say, covering my mouth as I shake my head again. “No.”
The woman actually manages to blush. She takes a step forward. “I know I was…abrupt. But being back, it just kind of reminds me of the good days.”
Ezra studies her, and she’s looking at him with such open, genuine eyes.
I wish I could scream through the computer, to tell him to back away.
What the hell, what the hell, what the hell? The words chant through my brain, over and over.
“’K,” Ezra says. His tone is guarded, and for that I’m grateful. “Meet you at Chucks at seven?”
Good boy, Ez, don’t pick her up.
“That sounds great,” the woman says, flashing him a bright smile.
I think I’m going to throw up. Those are even my freaking teeth.
“I’ll see you later, Ez.”
Of course she said Ez. I always called him Ez.
He offers a cautious smile and a wave as the woman turns and heads back down the street. She goes fifteen steps before she turns and looks back over her shoulder. Catching Ezra watching her walk away, she offers a shy smile and a wave, before continuing on her way.
Ezra runs his hand through his thick, dark hair, letting out a slow breath. He blinks seven times, and then a smile breaks out over his face. He shakes his head, grabs his coffee, and walks off, out of the camera’s view.
The camera cuts to black. It stays black for about two seconds, and abruptly comes back on. Right in the camera, clear and close, is me.
She just looks at the camera, and I’m given a close up view.
There’s no doubt about it. That’s my nose. Those are my lips. The eye color is just right. Her hair is my same shade.
It’s like looking in a mirror.
She even has that small scar just under the inside of her left brow from when I had chickenpox as a toddler.
The woman looks square into the camera and a slow, small smile begins to form on her lips. She turn
s her face to one side, then the other, as if she’s putting herself on display for me to see.
It’s insane. The details. The level of work that had to go into transforming into me.
Once again, she looks straight into the camera.
“It was never really about you,” the woman says, sobering. “But I’ve tried all the other options. It’s my turn now.”
And abruptly, the video cuts to black and ends.
“Sawyer!”
My stomach completely disappears and I sit up straight. I honestly almost throw up.
Dina stands in my doorway, looking at me with wide eyes. “Something going on? Your clients have been waiting in the conference room for ten minutes.”
My mouth opens once, but I still feel like I’m going to be sick. My brain is spinning a million miles an hour. I barely register what she’s just said.
“What’s wrong?” Dina asks, her expression falling as she looks at me.
“Nothing,” the word comes across my lips as little more than a hoarse whisper. “I’m coming.”
Robot mode. That’s what I slip into, because my mind is not in my head. The robot in me grabs the files from my desk. My feet know where they’re going, which is to the conference room. I went to school for this for five years, so my brain takes over, going over designs and plans and options for bathrooms and home theaters.
But my mind is still frozen in my office, staring at that screen. I’m replaying that end scene, over and over again, of that woman and her face.