by Blake Pierce
F A C E
O F
F U R Y
(A Zoe Prime Mystery—Book Five)
B L A K E P I E R C E
Blake Pierce
Blake Pierce is the USA Today bestselling author of the RILEY PAGE mystery series, which includes seventeen books. Blake Pierce is also the author of the MACKENZIE WHITE mystery series, comprising fourteen books; of the AVERY BLACK mystery series, comprising six books; of the KERI LOCKE mystery series, comprising five books; of the MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE mystery series, comprising six books; of the KATE WISE mystery series, comprising seven books; of the CHLOE FINE psychological suspense mystery, comprising six books; of the JESSE HUNT psychological suspense thriller series, comprising fourteen books (and counting); of the AU PAIR psychological suspense thriller series, comprising three books; of the ZOE PRIME mystery series, comprising four books (and counting); of the new ADELE SHARP mystery series, comprising four six books (and counting); and of the new EUROPEAN VOYAGE cozy mystery series.
ONCE GONE (a Riley Paige Mystery--Book #1), BEFORE HE KILLS (A Mackenzie White Mystery—Book 1), CAUSE TO KILL (An Avery Black Mystery—Book 1), A TRACE OF DEATH (A Keri Locke Mystery—Book 1), WATCHING (The Making of Riley Paige—Book 1), NEXT DOOR (A Chloe Fine Psychological Suspense Mystery—Book 1), THE PERFECT WIFE (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book One), and IF SHE KNEW (A Kate Wise Mystery—Book 1) are each available as a free download on Amazon!
An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Blake loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.blakepierceauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.
Copyright © 2020 by Blake Pierce. 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 permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Fernando Batista used under license from Shutterstock.com.
BOOKS BY BLAKE PIERCE
EUROPEAN VOYAGE COZY MYSTERY SERIES
MURDER (AND BAKLAVA) (Book #1)
DEATH (AND APPLE STRUDEL) (Book #2)
CRIME (AND LAGER) (Book #3)
ADELE SHARP MYSTERY SERIES
LEFT TO DIE (Book #1)
LEFT TO RUN (Book #2)
LEFT TO HIDE (Book #3)
LEFT TO KILL (Book #4)
LEFT TO MURDER (Book #5)
LEFT TO ENVY (Book #6)
LEFT TO LAPSE (Book #7)
THE AU PAIR SERIES
ALMOST GONE (Book#1)
ALMOST LOST (Book #2)
ALMOST DEAD (Book #3)
ZOE PRIME MYSTERY SERIES
FACE OF DEATH (Book#1)
FACE OF MURDER (Book #2)
FACE OF FEAR (Book #3)
FACE OF MADNESS (Book #4)
FACE OF FURY (Book #5)
FACE OF DARKNESS (Book #6)
A JESSIE HUNT PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE SERIES
THE PERFECT WIFE (Book #1)
THE PERFECT BLOCK (Book #2)
THE PERFECT HOUSE (Book #3)
THE PERFECT SMILE (Book #4)
THE PERFECT LIE (Book #5)
THE PERFECT LOOK (Book #6)
THE PERFECT AFFAIR (Book #7)
THE PERFECT ALIBI (Book #8)
THE PERFECT NEIGHBOR (Book #9)
THE PERFECT DISGUISE (Book #10)
THE PERFECT SECRET (Book #11)
THE PERFECT FAÇADE (Book #12)
THE PERFECT IMPRESSION (Book #13)
THE PERFECT DECEIT (Book #14)
THE PERFECT MISTRESS (Book #15)
CHLOE FINE PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE SERIES
NEXT DOOR (Book #1)
A NEIGHBOR’S LIE (Book #2)
CUL DE SAC (Book #3)
SILENT NEIGHBOR (Book #4)
HOMECOMING (Book #5)
TINTED WINDOWS (Book #6)
KATE WISE MYSTERY SERIES
IF SHE KNEW (Book #1)
IF SHE SAW (Book #2)
IF SHE RAN (Book #3)
IF SHE HID (Book #4)
IF SHE FLED (Book #5)
IF SHE FEARED (Book #6)
IF SHE HEARD (Book #7)
THE MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE SERIES
WATCHING (Book #1)
WAITING (Book #2)
LURING (Book #3)
TAKING (Book #4)
STALKING (Book #5)
KILLING (Book #6)
RILEY PAIGE MYSTERY SERIES
ONCE GONE (Book #1)
ONCE TAKEN (Book #2)
ONCE CRAVED (Book #3)
ONCE LURED (Book #4)
ONCE HUNTED (Book #5)
ONCE PINED (Book #6)
ONCE FORSAKEN (Book #7)
ONCE COLD (Book #8)
ONCE STALKED (Book #9)
ONCE LOST (Book #10)
ONCE BURIED (Book #11)
ONCE BOUND (Book #12)
ONCE TRAPPED (Book #13)
ONCE DORMANT (Book #14)
ONCE SHUNNED (Book #15)
ONCE MISSED (Book #16)
ONCE CHOSEN (Book #17)
MACKENZIE WHITE MYSTERY SERIES
BEFORE HE KILLS (Book #1)
BEFORE HE SEES (Book #2)
BEFORE HE COVETS (Book #3)
BEFORE HE TAKES (Book #4)
BEFORE HE NEEDS (Book #5)
BEFORE HE FEELS (Book #6)
BEFORE HE SINS (Book #7)
BEFORE HE HUNTS (Book #8)
BEFORE HE PREYS (Book #9)
BEFORE HE LONGS (Book #10)
BEFORE HE LAPSES (Book #11)
BEFORE HE ENVIES (Book #12)
BEFORE HE STALKS (Book #13)
BEFORE HE HARMS (Book #14)
AVERY BLACK MYSTERY SERIES
CAUSE TO KILL (Book #1)
CAUSE TO RUN (Book #2)
CAUSE TO HIDE (Book #3)
CAUSE TO FEAR (Book #4)
CAUSE TO SAVE (Book #5)
CAUSE TO DREAD (Book #6)
KERI LOCKE MYSTERY SERIES
A TRACE OF DEATH (Book #1)
A TRACE OF MUDER (Book #2)
A TRACE OF VICE (Book #3)
A TRACE OF CRIME (Book #4)
A TRACE OF HOPE (Book #5)
CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENT
Y SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
CHAPTER ONE
Zoe closed her eyes, tilting her head to lean against the back of the sofa. It didn’t matter either way. Outside her open curtains, darkness had fallen over Bethesda, and she hadn’t bothered to get up to turn the lights on. In the distance, yellow pinpricks in the skyline told her that Washington, D.C., was still awake, and she was tired of staring at them.
That was not her world anymore. All she saw when she looked at it were the numbers: the floors in every building and how many windows they had, the distance from the ground, the amount of time it would take a falling object to hit the sidewalk from any given window. The number of buildings, the divisions of streets and the angles at which they intersected each other, around and around in her head, until all she wanted to do was bury herself in darkness and shut it all out for good.
And then, with her eyes closed, her other senses would take over. The seconds ticking audibly from her watch, which she had days since taken off and thrown across the room so that she would not be able to hear it anymore. She could still count them. Even the bubbles popping from inside the bottle of her beer began to take on a pattern of their own: calculating the time between pops, the volume left in the bottle, the velocity of the bubbles’ movement when she squinted at the liquid in the half-light.
Zoe took another swig, thinking that finishing the bottle would serve two purposes: one, removing the popping bubbles from her immediate vicinity, and two, dulling her senses. Maybe the next bottle would not pop quite so loudly.
One of her cats, Euler judging by the particular sound of his delicate claw-grips in the fabric, eased himself casually along the back of the sofa and spread out behind her, making almost no noise as he settled his furry warmth against her short-cropped dark hair. But he did make noise. He had a heartbeat, a breathing rhythm. As quiet as they might be, they were there, and with everything else shut out, Zoe knew she would soon begin to count them.
She stirred slightly, reaching for her cell phone. It lay uselessly on the arm of the sofa, turned off. She hadn’t turned it on in days. At the beginning, when she first came home from the case that had gotten her suspended, she had left it on. There had been messages, notifications, alerts, all ringing and buzzing and annoying the hell out of her until she switched it off. Then she would turn it on once a day, read the messages, turn it off. Now she didn’t even want to do that. It was too much.
Zoe wasn’t expecting anything new anyway. She had cut everyone off, shut them out, and over the weeks they had stopped trying. There would be nothing from work—after she had badly beaten the murderer who took the life of her partner, Special Agent Shelley Rose, SAIC Maitland had had no choice but to send her home. Not before she’d solved the case, and she took grim satisfaction in that. Not that it was enough. She’d still let it happen.
Let him kill Shelley right under her nose.
Zoe shifted her weight on the sofa, staring at the phone, calculating its dimensions, weight, the outline of each button on the side. Even the numbers were better than thinking about that.
And it wasn’t just the FBI who weren’t contacting her anymore. Zoe had been dating John for long enough to start trusting him, to think about telling him about the numbers; she’d even planned it, set a date. But after Shelley’s death, there didn’t seem to be any point in seeing him again.
He’d called daily at first. Then texts, three a day, two a day, one a day. They had petered out rapidly, until John stopped trying. He’d sent her a message that she had by now memorized: I’ll be here if/when you want to talk.
Nine words. Thirty-eight characters. And that was the last message he had sent, twenty-seven days ago. Zoe knew without looking, because her internal clock wouldn’t stop counting, that it was a few hours away from being twenty-eight. Each day slipped away with the same intolerable length, an equal measurement stretching out behind her and in front of her, the same thing over and over again for as far as she could see.
Zoe was reaching for her second beer of the night when she flinched hard, almost dropping it on the floor. The knock on the door was forceful, numbers instantly flashing through Zoe’s head: the weight of the fist doing the knocking, the velocity, the force. And she knew, without a doubt, who was attached to that fist.
“Zoe?” The voice floated under the door and through the quiet apartment, too loud. Dr. Francesca Applewhite had come by almost every one of the twenty-seven days since John’s last text, and every day before that, too. Thirty-six knocks on the door. Given that Dr. Applewhite almost always knocked in a pattern of four raps—one, one-two, one—that was one hundred forty-four individual knocks, impacts on the frame, on Dr. Applewhite’s knuckles.
And Zoe had never opened the door once.
“Zoe, I just want to hear your voice,” Dr. Applewhite said. “Just let me know that you’re okay.”
Zoe’s eyes slid closed. Dr. Applewhite’s voice came through the door at sixty-five decibels, only slightly raised from normal speaking level. Just loud enough to be heard through the door. Through the apartment. There was nowhere Zoe could go where she couldn’t hear the voice calling through the door. It was too small of a space. She had tried.
“Zoe!”
Sixty-nine decibels. Zoe clamped her hands over her ears, trying not to hear the numbers anymore. “Go away!” she shouted, unable to stop herself. “Just leave me alone!”
There was a soft noise in the corridor outside. “All right, Zoe.” Sixty decibels. Low and calm. “I’m going now. Just call me if you need anything.”
There was a hesitant pause, a wait for a response. Zoe said nothing. Finally Dr. Applewhite’s footsteps walked away, Zoe tracing their path to the stairs, knowing from the sound that Dr. Applewhite still weighed one hundred twenty-nine pounds.
Zoe rubbed a hand over her eyes and took the beer out of the refrigerator. She cracked it open and took a long swig, draining as much of it as she could manage in one go. Almost exactly one-half, she noted as she measured the volume with her eyes. She turned to look at the sofa but did not move, the apartment seeming stiflingly close now, too small, too circular a space for her thoughts to rush around in.
She couldn’t stay here, not with the numbers, not for the whole of the rest of the night. She couldn’t listen to them echoing in her head with no response. They were everywhere, and even though she knew they were also out there, at least the numbers outside of the apartment would be new.
She waited seventeen minutes after the last of Dr. Applewhite’s audible footsteps to allow her time to be out of the neighborhood entirely, downed the rest of the second bottle of beer and threw it in the trash, and went to put on her shoes.
***
Zoe stumbled, almost tripping over a loose stone on the edge of the sidewalk. On closer inspection, it transpired that the stone was actually part of the sidewalk itself, an edging slab put in during construction. Well. They shouldn’t have put it there. Zoe straightened carefully, making sure not to wobble over again.
She looked up at the street and realized where she was with a sinking feeling: the same place she often ended up when she attempted to wander through the night after a few drinks. Or during a few drinks, since she had carried the rest of the six-pack with her, and now her hands were empty. It wasn’t exactly a short walk, which meant that she had deliberately come this way, even if she couldn’t remember actually making the decision. Still, here she was, right in front of that same house.
The house that Zoe normally never would have dared to stand in front of. It was no coincidence that she only came here at night, under the cover of darkness, and when the alcohol had stripped away some of her nerves. It meant they weren’t likely to see her, and she could stand there and wallow in her guilt like a coward, and never actually do anything.
It was
n’t as though she didn’t want to. Zoe wanted more than anything to go up to that house and knock on the door. She wanted it to open and for Agent Shelley Rose to be standing there, her blonde chignon perfectly in place, her pink lipstick without a smudge. She wanted Shelley to smile and say something like, “Read to go, Z?”, and they would get on a plane together and go solve a murder, and everything would be all right.
But it wouldn’t, because Shelley was no longer there. Shelley was in the ground. Zoe had watched them do it, watched them lower her into a fresh pit while her husband and daughter watched at the side of the grave. She had wanted to say something then, but she couldn’t. She wanted to say something now, but she still couldn’t. She didn’t deserve that closure.
Shelley’s husband, left without a wife. Shelley’s daughter, left without a mother. Zoe could knock on the door now and tell them that she was sorry, that it was all her fault, that she hadn’t been able to stop it. She could have shouldered all the blame, taken their hate, whatever they wanted to throw her way. Made them feel better.
But whether it was for their benefit or her own, she couldn’t do that. It wasn’t just about what she deserved. It wasn’t even about whether she had the guts. Zoe looked up at that house and tried to think of something that she could say to them, and all she could think was the house has five windows facing the road, each divided into four panes; the door is six and a half feet tall; the path to the door is six feet long and contains twelve paving slabs; each paving slab is half a foot long, or 15.24 centimeters, or six inches, or 0.167 of a yard, or…
Zoe had no words to tell them. She only had numbers. She turned away from the familiar house and all of its dimensions, forcing herself to take the necessary steps toward home. Every time she ended up here, she felt even lower than when she set off. But still, her feet kept finding the way.
Sooner or later, she was going to have to stop going out at all. The risk wasn’t worth it.