Bleeding Hearts: A Dark Captive Romance (Heartbreaker Book 1)

by Stella Hart

  “Okay.” I cringed internally at the thought of having to spend any more time on the Morrison Wright Memorial Hospital campus. It brought back all kinds of nasty memories.

  Unfortunately, it was very likely the only place I could afford. My college—Chatham University—had some sort of arrangement with Morrison where students could get discounts on fees for all sorts of medical treatments. If I went anywhere else, I’d probably have to sell a kidney on the black market to pay for it.

  Dr. Pompeo typed something else on her computer, then cleared her throat. “Also, there’s something else I’d like to mention. When you’re stressed or upset, nerves become even more sensitive, because stress causes those outlets they run through to constrict. This can make recovery take longer. Would you say there’s a lot of stress in your life?”

  I hesitated. Let’s see… my mother died from liver disease six months ago, right here at this hospital, right in front of me. I have no other family, because my father died when I was six, and I have no siblings, aunts, uncles, or cousins. Nothing. I also have three different part-time jobs that I have to work to stay afloat, and even then I can barely afford food. My friends all think I’ve lost the plot. On top of that, I have an internship that takes up twenty-five hours a week. Oh, and half my body feels like it’s been set on fire through all of that. Stressful enough for you?

  “Um. Yeah, I’d say there’s a fair amount of stress,” I finally replied in a small voice. Truthfully, I couldn’t remember the last time I didn’t feel stressed or anxious.

  She gave me another gentle smile. “We need to work on minimizing that, Celeste. It’ll help, trust me.”

  I frowned and sat up straight. “But I—”

  She held a hand up, cutting me off. “I know, I know. It’s much easier said than done. That’s why I often recommend that people with conditions like this go and see a therapist as well. It can really help sort through all your issues and identify stressors that can be removed or resolved, as well as teaching you mindfulness exercises to aid in dealing with those stressors that can’t be eliminated.”

  I slumped in my seat again. “So I need head therapy as well as physical therapy,” I said slowly, trying to add up the costs in my mind. Samara saw a therapist a few times after a bad breakup last year, and I was pretty sure it cost her about a hundred and fifty dollars per session. Not exactly cheap. That plus the physical therapy costs would send me into a financial pit, even with the college student discount.

  My mind whirled with images of kidneys, bathtubs filled with ice, and black market buyers again.

  Then I perked up as something occurred to me. It was early September, which meant my twenty-first birthday was only in five weeks. In the haze of pain and suffering, I’d lost track of things and completely forgotten about it. But if I could just hold out for that much longer, I’d finally have some trust fund money coming through to tide me over and cover my medical costs, seeing as I was set to receive it on my birthday. It wasn’t a huge amount—certainly not enough to live on forever—but it was enough to make myself more comfortable and cover my medical bills.

  Of course, there’d be paperwork for me to sign, so I wouldn’t see the money till the day after my birthday, or perhaps even the week after, but just knowing that it was coming in the not-too-distant future made me relax a little. One stressor down, one million to go.

  “Is therapy something you’d consider?” Dr. Pompeo asked, her fingers poised above her keyboard. “I know it can add up in costs, but it’s well worth it.”

  I took a deep breath and nodded. “I can make it work.”

  Work being the operative word. To tide myself over till my birthday, I’d have to double my usual amount of shifts at one of my part-time jobs for the next few weeks. My boss at the Homestead home improvement store I worked at on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons was always looking for people to do more shifts, so I could probably try and fit that around the internship. I didn’t need to worry about fitting in college for the time being, as the FBI internship was run via Chatham and counted toward multiple credits, so there was no need to attend any classes this semester.

  Dr. Pompeo nodded and scribbled a note on her pad. “Good. I think identifying and removing the major sources of stress in your life will help your brain turn that mental smoke alarm off.” She winked. “Possibly even more than the physical therapy.”

  I cocked my head to the side and crinkled my brows. “Why not recommend that first, then?”

  She sighed. “It’s hard to get most patients on board with it, truthfully. When we suggest therapy, a lot of people tend to get offended and think we are implying that the pain is simply all in their head and not real, as if they’re mentally unstable or making things up. But that’s not the case at all. No matter how much we try to explain the logic behind it, they’re too set in their ways to process it.”

  I nodded. “I get it, don’t worry. I’m not offended.”

  “Great. I’d like you to start with all of that that as soon as possible. I’d recommend Emma Mulder for PT. She’s dealt with a lot of TOS patients. As for a therapist… hm….” She trailed off and knitted her brows in a frown, staring at her computer screen again. She clicked her mouse a few times. “Most of the therapists here at Morrison’s mental health clinic are booked out for months in advance, but I might just call and ask if there’s any chance one of them could fit you in. I don’t want you waiting months for this.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  She picked up her phone and dialed an extension number. “Hi, Angela. I have a patient here with thoracic outlet syndrome, and I’ve recommended therapy for her as well as PT. I see that you and your colleagues are all booked out, but I was wondering if any of them could somehow fit her in. Just one appointment a week would be great.” She paused, listening to the other doctor’s response. “Uh-huh. Her name is Celeste Riley, and she’s twenty years old. She… oh, really? That’d be great. Thanks so much. Yes, you too.”

  She hung up the phone and turned to me. “Good news! Dr. Fitzgibbons herself has offered to take you on for one appointment per week.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s the head of the mental health clinic here at Morrison. She’s usually very busy, but she’s dealt with several TOS patients before, so she’s keen to help.”

  “Wow. Great. Thanks, Dr. Pompeo.”

  “No problem.” She glanced at her watch, and her forehead creased slightly. “Anyway, we’re way over time. I’ll print some referral letters for you, which you’ll need to take to your appointments once you’ve called and arranged them. I’ll also email you the PT and therapist’s details so you know who to contact to make those appointments.”

  “Okay.”

  For the first time in months, my heart lifted. There was finally a light at the end of the tunnel. My pain was real; I wasn’t just going mad like a couple of my friends had begun to assume. The physical and mental therapy was going to help me, and I might be back to normal in a matter of months.

  With renewed vigor and a little spring in my step, I stepped out of Dr. Pompeo’s office a few minutes later. Then I caught sight of myself in a mirror behind the receptionist’s desk as I paid for my appointment. Jesus. I looked like an extra from a zombie film set.

  I smiled anyway. I still felt the burning in my shoulder blades and the numbness in my hands, but now that I knew it wasn’t permanent, a huge weight had been lifted. Just like my mom once told me, all pain had to end somewhere.

  I was a little bit concerned about the therapy, though. My life had been marked with stress, anxiety, and constant overthinking since I was a child. That all came well before my mother’s death, my injury, and all my other current stressors. So if that needed to change for the sake of my nerves, I had a feeling the therapist would want to delve deep into my history to try and uncover all possible causes of stress.

  A horrifying scene suddenly flashed through my mind. Crisp snow blanketing the earth like frosting on a cake. Sca
rlet blood that once flowed thickly through veins, spilled all over that bright white ground. Black boots. A shadowy face.

  I closed my eyes.

  Horrible gurgling sounds and a metallic scent seemed to fill my ears and nose. And then—

  I abruptly pushed it all aside, opened my eyes, and wrenched the clinic door open. I didn’t want to think about those things. Not now.

  There was slightly less pep in my step as I headed out to the parking lot, now that these dark memories were surfacing. Again. I knew the therapist would ask me about it, ask me what I recalled of that day. What I felt. What I did. But I wasn’t ready to go there just yet….

  I was a little afraid of what I might find out about myself.

  2

  Alex

  The little cul-de-sac in Point Breeze was lined with hemlocks, the foliage on each tree dusted with a light sprinkling of frost. Just like last year, the cold weather had arrived early. Only September, and the air was already frigid, turning breath to vapor and rain to ice.

  Though the street ahead was dimly-lit, cast into shadow by the tall trees and darkening night sky, the moon was brilliant, making the trunks glow along their edges and the frost crystals shimmer on each shoot. I smiled at the magnificent natural beauty and hooked my left arm into a sling.

  It was time to pay Mr. Paul Halston a visit.

  I waited behind a thick tree trunk across from his house for ten minutes, checking my watch every so often. Usually he’d be here by now. I’d been following his daily routines for a month now, trying to determine the best time to call on him.

  Finally, his Lexus pulled into the cul-de-sac, wheels crunching over stones as he stopped in his driveway. I stepped out from behind the tree and headed toward him as he exited the vehicle, pasting a genial smile on my face. “Hi, there. Sorry to bother you.”

  He looked up at me, his nose slightly curled in disdain. “Yes?”

  “I’m moving into number four, just down there.” I jerked the thumb of my right hand in the direction of the house I’d parked outside. “Thought I could manage the boxes on my own, and I did get all the smaller ones, but there’s a few big ones I can’t quite lift. With this… you know.” I tilted my head to the left.

  His gaze softened when he finally noticed the sling on my arm. Selfish prick should’ve noticed it right away, but he was too busy worrying about himself. Typical.

  “Oh, sure. I can help. Just give me a sec.” He turned and closed his car door, then clicked a button on his key fob to lock it before turning to face me again. His eyes coasted over my expensive, understated jacket, then up to my neatly-trimmed hair. His shoulders visibly relaxed at the sight. I was one of ‘them’, as far as he was concerned—someone from the same circle as him. I wasn’t scruffy and tattooed, wasn’t going to mug him for a few dollars.

  Fucking pretentious idiot. I could do so much worse than any random street mugger.

  “What happened to your arm?” he asked as he stepped toward me, finally returning my fake smile.

  “Sprained it while rock-climbing. I do it whenever I’ve got time off from the wife and kids. But probably not so much now that I’ve done this.” I made an attempt to lift the arm slightly, wincing in faux pain at the exact right second.

  Halston smiled and fell into step beside me as I began to walk. “Ah, I see. I used to do that when I was a bit younger.” He patted his chest. “Course, the old ticker stopped that. Gotta be more careful with what I do now.”

  I cocked my head to the side and smiled pleasantly, feigning interest in his health. “Heart issues?”

  “Yeah, had a bypass a few years back.” He shook his head a second later. “Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Paul Halston.”

  “Josh Bennington,” I said, giving him the fake name I dreamed up while I waited behind the tree earlier. Classy, but not overly so in a way which might arouse suspicion.

  “What do you do, Josh?”

  “I’m a doctor. Believe it or not, I just started specializing in cardio. Have a pretty big heart surgery coming up, actually.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Oh, excellent. Having a cardio specialist around will be great. Seeing you right down the street might be enough of a guilt trip for me to stop eating so much red meat.” He winked.

  I chuckled, vaguely wondering why he didn’t already feel guilty. “Sure. And I’d love to take a look at your heart at some point, too.”

  “Great.” He nodded. “You said you only just started specializing in cardio. What did you specialize in before that? General medicine?”

  I turned my head and looked him in the eye. “No. Pain specialist.”

  “Oh, one of those guys who treats chronic stuff, eh? Nice.”

  “Yeah. Very rewarding.”

  I gestured toward my black SUV as we arrived at number four. I’d left the back open, knowing no one would be in the house to see what happened next. They were on vacation; I’d made sure of it. As for everyone else in the neighborhood, it was too dark, and the expensive, spacious blocks and thick greenery in this area meant they wouldn’t see or hear a thing unless I was extremely unlucky. “Anyway, here it is. Just three or four boxes.”

  “No problem.” Halston headed around to the back of my SUV. He sniffed as he leaned forward to grab a strategically-placed box. “Didn’t even know the Ulrichs moved out of this place.”

  “They didn’t.”

  “What? But you said you just moved—”

  He slumped forward with a strangled cry as I jabbed a needle into his neck. I looked down at him calmly as he struggled against the drug coursing through his veins, choking out gibberish and trying to maneuver his body out of the car. Pointless. His arms and legs were already limp noodles.

  Just as the darkness began to seep in and his eyelids became heavy, I smiled and replied.

  “I lied. But don’t worry, Paul. I’ll take good care of your heart.”

  3

  Celeste

  “Paul Halston, a prominent attorney at Halston, Banks & Meagher, has been missing for three weeks after vanishing from his home in Point Breeze on the fourth of September. Authorities believe he may be the latest victim of the Pittsburgh area serial killer known as the Allegheny Ripper, or more commonly, the Heartbreaker. The Heartbreaker is known to keep victims captive for weeks before their murders, sometimes even months, so police and agents from the FBI’s local field office are pursuing the disappearance fr—”

  I shuddered and flicked the dusty clock radio off. I’d turned it on a few seconds ago, hoping for a morning weather update before I headed out for the day, but instead I was assaulted with yet another update on our city’s most dangerous individual. Apparently the lawyer he allegedly kidnapped had disappeared from his own driveway, while his wife and two young children were only yards away in the house, waiting for him to step inside.

  Terrible.

  I stepped outside. My neighbor Cora was sitting on her porch, inhaling the steam billowing from the top of her coffee mug. When she spotted me, she put the coffee down and stood, reaching for the faded lawn chair that always sat to one side of her porch—whenever it wasn’t reserving my parking space, that is. Cora was the sweetest old lady. Every time she noticed me leaving the house, she put the chair there to make sure no one else took the spot outside my house. She’d been doing it for two years now, ever since I first moved in.

  I waved at her. “Thanks, Cora, but I’m taking the bus today. It’s quicker to get to my appointment that way instead of dealing with all the damn traffic on the parkway.”

  She smiled and absentmindedly smoothed down her white hair. “That’s fair enough. Want a coffee before you go?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve gotta get going before I miss the bus. But I have this for you.” I reached into my tote and pulled out a plastic Ziploc bag. “I had some spare time last night when my shift ended early, so I made cookies. Your favorite, right?”

  I headed toward her, and she accepted the bag gratefully. “Oh, you’re suc
h a dear. I love choc chip! Have a good day, sweetie.”

  I didn’t let her see my smile falter as I turned back around to head down to the street. My mom used to call me sweetie. Almost seven months since she passed, and it still hit me like a ton of bricks when I thought about her being gone forever.

  It wasn’t like I didn’t know it was coming at the time. I did. Her end-stage cirrhosis diagnosis hadn’t come as a surprise at all, given her history of alcohol abuse. But that didn’t make it any easier when she died. I could step onto the road and know a car was going to hit me, and that didn’t make it hurt any less.

  I tucked a stray strand of chestnut hair behind my ear, then started down the pavement toward the nearest bus stop. I kept my head up and my gaze straight ahead as I walked.

  Larimer had a pretty bad reputation, but I’d lived in worse areas before. I knew all about the people skulking around those places, ready to grab unsuspecting passersby for their wallets. Or worse, their bodies. So I knew all the rules. Never wear headphones, so you can hear if anyone’s coming up behind you. Always keep a key wedged in between your thumb and forefinger as you walk, sharp side facing outward, in case anyone tries to attack. Carry as little other items as possible so you don’t look like a rich walking target. No phone out in your hands. No iPod. Nothing. Make purposeful eye contact with people you pass, not for too long, but enough to send the message that you are paying attention and have seen them, because people who aren’t aware of their surroundings are more likely to be taken advantage of.

  I didn’t really need to follow those rules so much in this area. It wasn’t like I lived in Homewood, a neighborhood so riddled with violence that many people simply refused to step foot anywhere near it. But I followed them anyway. Just in case. I liked following rules. It made everything so much easier.