by Liz Lovelock
WITH LOVE
Copyright © 2017 Liz Lovelock
All Rights Reserved
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover Design by Cover Me Darling
Edited by Swish Design & Editing and Lauren Clarke Editing
Proofread by Virginia Tesi Carey
Formatted by Tami at Integrity Formatting
www.lizlovelockauthor.com
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Forever Yours ~ Letters in Blood Book Three
Also by Liz Lovelock
About Liz Lovelock
Acknowledgements
To my sister from another mister,
Jemma Brown.
Your friendship is one I’m truly glad to have in my life.
You inspire me.
You push me.
You help me become better.
You’re always there for me when I need you to kick my butt into gear.
Thank you.
“We all at certain times in our lives find ourselves broken.
True strength is found in picking up the pieces.”
~ Jill Pendley
When your life flashes before your eyes, what do you expect to see?
Joyful memories of your childhood.
The love of your life.
Friends who mean the world to you.
But when all you see is the man in the mask, it pushes you on. There are no memories of friends or family, just the desire and hope that you make it to the next day. That you survive.
My name is Elenore. My time came, and I was told to run. So that’s what I did—I ran, even though the sticks and rocks dug farther into the cuts on my sliced feet. The pain only reminded me of what lurked behind.
Nothing would stop me.
Well, except maybe one thing.
A bullet.
Searing pain tears through my upper thigh, as the echo of the gunshot rings out in the empty night. I collapse face first into the grass and rocks. More pain develops on my cheek as a stone pierces my skin. Not a sound escapes me, but I know I should be crying out. The burning in my leg is excruciating and causes my head to spin.
Get up, Elenore! Get up! My brain screams at me. I momentarily forgot where I was—now it all floods back.
Kidnapping.
Torture.
A memory of his voice yelling “Run!”
Being shot.
The man in the mask. I wonder if he’s ever not killed one of his girls on the first shot. Why am I not dead?
Quickly, I pull my thoughts together and gather forward my willpower. I need to push into the forest line. That’s where I was heading. I manage to pull myself up onto all fours, even though the agony is almost too much to bear.
My stomach heaves. Nothing but bile emerges. I push myself up onto wobbly legs. Glancing behind me, I see my captor with his head down, placed in his hands. What’s going on with him? Who cares? I need to keep moving. Sluggishly, I begin moving at what feels like a turtle’s pace, but each step bringing me closer to the edge spurs me on. My feet become quicker, even with one leg dragging, but somehow I manage to block out the pain in my thigh.
I meant what I said when I told my captor that I was stronger than he realized. I’ll show him.
A stick snaps behind me. I spin and come face to face with those evil eyes. I fall backward.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he hisses at me with such hate in the enunciated words. Swallowing hard, I remain quiet, my breath heavy. “Answer me!” he roars. It echoes out into the woods.
Sucking in a tight breath, my chest constricts, only allowing a small intake of air. Clearing my throat, I swallow the hard lump in my throat. “You told me to run.”
On my butt, I continue to use one leg to creep back ever-so-slowly. My captor turns away from me, looking around, then up at the sky. He appears torn. When his gaze falls back on me, he seems unsure, as if he’s second guessing something.
Perhaps befriending him could save my life.
“Are you all right?” Sitting upright, I stop trying to move back. I can’t see the gun in his hands, but I don’t doubt that it’s within his immediate reach.
At the sound of my voice, he pauses. I sense a battle waging within him as I feel my forehead crinkle with lines. If I was any other girl, I’d be dead by now. As much as I hate my past and the living hell I went through, it could be the one thing that saves me from this monster.
“Why would you ask me something like that?” Anger drips from his words.
Looking around, I’m still a reasonable distance from the forest, so I know I won’t make it there if I try to run. Right now, it’s stand and fight. I have so much hate welling inside me for this man, my captor, standing before me. He doesn’t need to know that though—especially if I can twist it to work in my favor.
“Umm… you seem torn. Can’t you let me go? I haven’t seen your face. Please?” I beg, with the hope of changing his mind against killing me.
Without another word he storms toward me, grabbing my arm and yanking me to stand on my feet. His strength astounds me. His composure is fragile. Tonight didn’t go as he planned, and I’m guessing it’s all my fault. With his grip still attached to my upper arm, he stalks back toward the house. I stumble with each step taken and the agony shoots right through my leg causing me to stumble.
I try pulling my arm away from him. “Please let me go. I’ll never tell a soul,” I plead. With the thoughts of being locked up in that cell again, staring at the bloodstained walls, panic seizes my chest.
“No. You are mine.” He yanks my arm not stopping—he’s a man on a mission. What’s the mission though? To cause me more pain?
I attempt to ground my feet, but the strain brings sharp pain to my leg, which gives way beneath me. A cry tears its way out of my throat, and I collapse on the ground once again. He releases his hold on me.
“Get up!” he roars, turning to face me, and pausing. He gives another shake of his head, then reaches for me again. As he gets closer, I bring my hand up, curled into a fist, and I strike him. When my hand connects with his face, I cry out again. My malnourished body isn’t coping with the strain I’m placing on it.
I quickly attempt to scurry away, but he pounces on me like a tiger on its prey.
“You bitch. You’ll pay for that.” There’s promise in what he’s said. I need a plan. I want to sur
vive.
Hate for this man gives me the strength I need to get me through to the next day and the day after that. I’ll never give up.
My captor pulls me to my feet once again.
I step closer. He steps back. As much as I want him to believe I care, I don’t want to appear weak. With every bit of strength I can muster, I say, “Do your worst. Break me. I don’t care. You’re the weak one, not me.”
What the hell is this girl playing at? A mixture of anger, frustration, and confusion constricts my thoughts and actions. What is so different about this girl? Why did I miss my kill shot? And now because of that, here she stands before me, calling me weak. Deep down, I believe her; I am weak. I can’t show her that, though. Shaking away my thoughts, rage causes my blood to pulse through my ears. My hand lashes out, striking her across her tear-stained face.
“Never speak to me like that again. I won’t miss a second time.”
“Go on then. Shoot me!” She shrugs my hand off her and stands back with her arms wide open, waiting for me to pull out my gun and squeeze the trigger. She has a death wish. Yet, I can’t bring myself to do it. Not now. A part of me wants to know more about her and what she’s been through.
“I’ll get you when you least expect it. I’ll enjoy hearing your cries of pain—they feed and replenish me. That cell is going to be your home for a long time. Hope you like living in hell because you’re about to have an extended stay.” My laughter fills the silence of the night.
Taking her arm, I pull her along with me once again. She tries to tug away with every chance she gets. It comes to the point when I’ve had enough of the struggle and heave her over my shoulder.
She relaxes against me, which I find extremely odd. We enter the house. Looking around, I realize it’s my own empty cell. We aren’t so different, her and I.
Nothing in this house can be traced back to me. Always have a fallback, my father drilled into me, so I’ve had this place set up in case something ever went wrong. I never stay here—I have a different location, a home away from home, if you could call it that. I do love the outdoors here; it’s something I miss when I’m away for work. Thank goodness technology has improved, and I can check in with cameras that are installed randomly around the property.
Once we’re back in the cell, I drop her slack body onto the floor. It’s then I realize something’s wrong. Her eyes are closed. Her breathing short and very faint. She can’t die like this. It’s not the correct way. I race upstairs and out to my car where I keep a first-aid kit. Running back toward the house, I catch a glimpse of something out of place. Stopping, I refocus. It’s her. She’s running out into the night, toward the trees. Here I was thinking she’s on her deathbed; instead, she’s played me. Dropping the kit, I go after her. Even with a limp in her stride, she keeps going toward the forest.
I underestimated her.
That won’t happen again.
My stride is longer and quicker, and it doesn’t take long to catch up with her, tackling her to the ground.
“Get off of me, you creep!” She screams a mouthful of curses at me. Not only that, but she also manages to flip over and attempt to take off my mask. She pulls my head back, and an onslaught of blows are delivered to my neck. She lands one right on my Adam’s apple. I’m left breathless for a moment, followed by a coughing fit. “Let me go!” she continues to scream.
“Shut it!” I say through clenched teeth. I stand huffing and puffing. I’m sick of putting up with her childish tantrums. I should have taken that second shot.
“Kill me then. I’m basically dead anyway, whether you keep me alive now or not. I’m sure you don’t keep survivors. I may not be able to see your face, but your eyes speak to me in volumes.”
Her words astound me. “You know nothing about me.” I pull out the gun, which was tucked in my jeans, and aim it at her, flicking off the safety.
I watch her, amazed at her willpower. The nights before her were so still, until she came along and showed me such force. I wanted my songs of the night, the screams filling my ears. Now, this girl seems to have done something to me. I can’t bring myself to do what needs to be done. She gets up and stands before me. I watch her struggle while her face scrunches up in pain. The whole episode bringing a slight curve to my lips. She flicks her messy brown hair away from her face and holds her arms out wide as if she’s waiting for something.
“Shoot me. Get it over and done with. Stop making those who care about me suffer. Or do you want me to run again? I’m not sure I have much left in me, since you’ve starved me for the past week.” She’s not afraid. There’s a fierceness to her I admire. She keeps telling me to kill her.
If my father were here, he wouldn’t hesitate. I continue to hold my gun trained on her head. My finger dances with the trigger in disinclination. I observe her; she’s basically skin and bones. Yes, I’ve starved her—it’s what I’ve done with all of them. She sways slightly, as though she’s a feather about to be swept away. Her tears are dried up, and her blue eyes pierce mine.
What did she say? My eyes speak volumes…
What can she see that I don’t already know about myself? I know I’m a monster. I’m damaged. I’m a killer, and I don’t know if I could ever change. Does she see the fight I have brewing within me? My monster, the killer inside me, wants to keep going. Then there’s the other part of me. Though it’s small, it’s constantly there, wanting me to stop. With her standing before me basically giving herself over to my death sentence, the more humane part of me wants to take over. That’s where the battle starts. I can’t decide where my head and heart are.
I put the gun away. Her arms drop, then she sways again, and this time I catch her eyes rolling back into her head. Damn! Scooping her up before she falls onto the rocks again, I throw her over my shoulder. With a grunt and groan from her, I take her back inside collecting the kit on my way.
What am I going to do?
Let the battle of wills commence. It will either end in her survival or death.
After a rough and long night, I stand outside Elenore’s apartment door, a hot black coffee in my hand. Let’s hope this wakes me up for the day. A couple of uniformed police officers had gone through her apartment the night she went missing. They’d been let in by the landlord. They reported back to Pierce and me, saying nothing appeared disturbed or out of place. I wanted to check it out myself.
My phone rings.
“Blackwood,” I answer sharply.
“Where are you?” Pierce’s angry tone slithers through the line. He’s wound up lately, so much more than usual.
“I’m standing at the door of Elenore’s place. I wanted to check it out for myself.”
“You do realize he usually keeps them a week then disposes of their bodies?”
Rolling my eyes, I respond, “Yes, I know that. I’ve been on these cases as long as you have. Perhaps we need to consider other options as well. What if we’re wrong about who’s got her?”
“I know and I’m always open to looking into other possibilities. You do realize today’s the day something’s supposed to turn up if it is the person we’ve been after?”
Anger burns inside me. Have I not stressed enough that this girl is actually special to me? If he were standing in front of me right now, I’d probably punch him.
“Pierce, don’t remind me,” I growl. “I’m hoping she’s as strong as Suzie makes her out to be.”
I hear a deep sigh on the end of the line. “I know. I’m sorry, man. These cases are really taking a toll on me.”
“You and me both. How’s this guy escaping us? His actions leave nothing for us to follow up. I keep asking myself the same damn questions every day.” The community is stressed about the bodies of young girls that keep turning up. The police have no answers, except that we’re doing our best. When he doesn’t leave anything for us to trace, it makes me believe he’s been doing this for much longer than we suspect.
“Me too. Let me know if you find anything new a
t Elenore’s place.”
I tell him I will, and we end our call. Taking another sip of my coffee, I pull the key Suzie gave me from my pocket.
“What do you think you’re doing?” an angry, yet familiar voice yells. Spinning around, I come face to face with Lewis—the jerk.
“My job,” I sneer, before turning my back and unlocking the door. I hear rushing footsteps behind me. Turning around, I press my hand on his chest. “You can’t go in here. It’s an ongoing investigation.”
He pushes against my hand to get right up in my face. “Weren’t you supposed to be with her that night? Yet, Elenore’s not here anymore. Good job! Who knows where and when her body might show up… today, another day. Now, I’ve lost two friends.” His voice cracks.
This is the kind of response I’ve seen a number of times in my career. Family and friends show anger because they don’t want to deal with the worst possible outcome.
“I was running five minutes late. Cut me some slack. You don’t think I’m torn up about this?” I shove him back, and Lewis stumbles slightly. His shoulders slump, in defeat.
He heaves a heavy sigh while running his fingers through his already messy hair. “Sorry. I just can’t lose her as well. Now, I think it’s too late.”
“I’m truly sorry, Lewis. I’m doing the best I can. Please let me and the rest of the team do their jobs.” This is how I talk to someone who’s lost someone special. Delivering bad news about loved ones is always so difficult, and it makes me nervous every time. This time isn’t any easier. My emotions are all over the place, yet I have to keep them in check to be able to do my job to the best of my ability. I desperately want to find Elenore before it’s too late.
“Sorry for being a jerk,” Lewis says, before turning and walking away. His disheveled attire looks as if he hasn’t slept or changed in days. His unshaven stubble, the food stains on his light blue button-up shirt, and the dark rings under his eyes are a clear indicator.
“Hey Lewis, how about you go get a shower and a change of clothes? You look terrible.”