Six months ago, it all changed though.
She met her match in a man named Pete Andrews.
She never used her real name—but she always made sure she found theirs. It wasn’t hard. Most men were reckless idiots when it came to booking her. They thought they were so sneaky—it was part of the charm, she supposed. But it was always easy enough to sneak a peek at their license, to see them around town and put it together, or to ask another of the women to figure it out.
She hadn’t known his name that night. He was smarter than most. More cunning, more confident than the typical man who came through. Better in bed.
And also more power-hungry than she’d anticipated.
The first hit had shocked her. The second and third had hurt. The fourth had knocked her unconscious. She didn’t know what happened after that—only that when she came to, the bastard was gone. He’d left her there with a wad of cash on her naked body like he’d claimed her as his own. That pissed her off. It would’ve been better if he left without paying at all.
Darla didn’t like to be owned. Prostitution for her was about having the upper hand, even if the men didn’t realize it. She was always in control. She could put an end to them, could own them, could make them bow down to her.
When she’d returned home after the Pete Andrews ordeal with a black eye and obviously banged up, Jameson had been furious. He’d asked who’d done it to her, and when she wouldn’t answer, he assumed Joe. It was laughable, how her artsy son who read too many books and was so soft-spoken thought he could make him pay. It was cute in the way a child plays pretend with their fake little kitchen set or trains. She didn’t correct him, of course. There were many secrets a mother should keep from her child.
She spent the next week investigating, figuring out who the asshole in a suit had been. She questioned the other girls, did some digging. A few of the other girls had seen him recently, but none had gotten a look at his wallet. Darla thought it was a lost cause. He never called back for her, after all. For a while, it seemed like he had disappeared off the face of the earth. She kept her ear to the ground and waited.
And then he returned. Girl after girl. Never her, of course. He wasn’t that stupid. But girl after girl had a romp with him, talked about his odd sexual behaviors, his Christian Grey sort of shit. Darla kept waiting to figure it out. Revenge was on her mind, but she knew you had to go slow. She was used to being careful and patient. He had no idea who he had fucked with.
And then a hit. One of the girls gave her a heads up. She waited for his car to pull in. She wrote down his license plate, and for a quick trick with the officer a few towns over who sometimes visited, she got a name. Got an address. Got her chance.
She was careful not to jump straight to him. These things couldn’t be done linearly. She didn’t need a reason to burn…but now she had one. She’d wait a while. Until he least expected it. She was a patient woman, she was. She had many faults, but impulsivity wasn’t one of them. Besides, as she made preparations and started setting practice fires, she found the desire was reawakened. She wasn’t rusty at all. It was like riding a bike or baking her favorite recipe; she was born for it.
She started setting practice fires around him. Part of the fun was the ability to toy with him. To play cat and mouse, even if he was too dumb to catch on. But a piece of her felt that even a cocky son-of-a-bitch like Pete Andrews would have to wonder, have to fear, have to be a little scared.
That silent terror fed her soul. It always had. Dad had taught her well, after all.
She returned to the attic to pull her Ace of Diamonds cards. There was a stack waiting for her, unfinished business she was perhaps destined to return to. It had always been her dad’s favorite card. She thought the homage would make him proud.
Ace after ace she placed. A serial arsonist, the news announced.
And then, she felt it in her bones—it was time.
She waited for the perfect night. The wife left, and she knew it was time to make him pay for his sins. After all, it wasn’t the wife’s fault. She shouldn’t pay for her husband’s sins. Darla was a principled woman. She wouldn’t kill her.
But she’d made a mistake.
The baby. She hadn’t realized the baby was inside. She’d thought he took him somewhere. She’d thought maybe a grandparent had him. She thought the house was empty when she struck the match, when she watched it light up with the accelerant she’d carefully placed. She didn’t find out until later that her fire had killed the newborn.
She did feel guilty for that. A pang of guilt that the innocent child had been caught up in the flames of revenge. But he was, she decided, collateral damage. And, in reality, she’d probably done the world a favor. The boy would grow up to be another Pete Andrews, sleeping around and abusing women and thinking he ruled the world. Every man like that deserved to be put in their place.
She thought fire would satiate her thirst, but it only fanned the flames. She found herself drawn to the feel of it again, obsessed with the power at her fingertips. She kept burning. Another house in Elmwood. One a few towns over. Fire after fire, card after card.
It took away the suspicion. With so many scattered targets, there seemed to be no motive—and without a motive, the idiocy of the police shone through. Then came the fucking copycats. The shed fire. The small fires around town were embarrassing, laughably amateur. She was insulted that the officers attributed them to the same person. Whoever set those fires was a kid playing at an expert’s game.
She snapped back to the present, the waters of the ocean flapping against the sand. She didn’t know how long she would stay in this place, how long it would be safe. The police were thousands of miles away, ready to lock up Pete Andrews for life for the crimes he committed. It pissed her off a little bit that Pete got to take credit for her mastery. That asshole wasn’t capable of lighting a cigarette let alone of possessing the finesse to set those fires, to burn down parts of the town, to instill fear. He didn’t have that kind of power.
Still, it was fitting. He would go down for the crimes. The police had found their scapegoat. There was nothing they liked more than a case closed, even if it was with the wrongly accused. He deserved it for what he did to her son.
She held the urn, a symbol more than a practical vessel for him. She stroked it, thinking of the quiet, odd boy who was forever silenced by the flames. It was poetic, in a way, but also deeply morose. She’d tried to protect him from her secret life, from the burning. She’d tried to shield him from the flames the best ways she knew how. She thought he could follow a different path, his own.
But in the end, he had burned, too.
She’d let them all burn. She wanted to grieve her son, to grieve a life lost. She wanted to feel the motherly pain she only read about. She thought, though, the passion for fire had overtaken too much of her. There wasn’t enough left for anything else. Maybe it was all for the best, then, she thought as she opened the lid to the urn. She reached in and pulled out the bits of dust. They told her they’d recovered his ashes. It seemed unlikely, just a police rouse to make her feel better. It was probably just flecks of dust. Who would know the difference?
Still, the gritty texture between her rough fingers sent a chill through her spine. She loved the smell, the feel of ashes. She usually didn’t get this close to them because she was always long gone. Feeling them, she smiled the familiar grin as she imagined the flames lapping against him, lapping against them all once more.
She let them burn over and over again in her mind’s eye as she stared into oblivion, waiting for death to come. A death that would not be warm like the others.
She thought about the red-leather journal tucked safely away in the attic. She’d put it away when she killed him. She should’ve grabbed it. Why hadn’t she brought it along? It would’ve been a nice memento.
She settled her mind, thinking she really should utter a prayer or a wish, but what could you wish for the dead? She flung the ashes into the whipping, tro
pical wind. When they had all blown away, she wiped her hands clean of it, stood up, and looked into the horizon of possibility.
She thought about that journal, wondering if anyone would find it. Wondering if her legacy would at least live on in that way. She sighed. She still had time to build her legacy. Her life was an open road now, filled with possibilities, with freedom, and with the ability to burn.
Let them all burn, she thought as she plucked her toes from the hot sand and turned to go on with her day.
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Acknowledgements
First, I want to thank all of my readers who have picked up my books, read my stories, and given a small-town girl’s dreams a chance. I couldn’t do this without all of you and your support. Sometimes, this author journey is lonely and hard, but you all inspire me to keep going.
I also want to thank my husband, who always encourages me to tell the stories on my heart and “Write for the wolves.” I love you so much for being there for me, for encouraging me, and for listening to all of my crazy ideas. You’re my best friend forever.
Thank you to my parents for instilling a love of learning, reading, and writing in me at a young age. You taught me the power of words and dreams.
Thank you to all of my friends, family, teachers, and co-workers who have supported me on this journey. I am so blessed to have so many people in my corner.
And finally, a big thanks to Henry, my mastiff, for being my editing buddy and for always being up for a stress-relieving cupcake. I love you.
About the Author
L.A. Detwiler is a USA Today Bestselling author of thriller and horror novels. Her debut thriller, The Widow Next Door, was published with HarperCollins Uk/Avon Books. The Diary of a Serial Killer’s Daughter won the bronze medal for psychological thriller from Readers’ Favorite.
L.A. is a high school English teacher in her hometown in Pennsylvania. She is married to her junior high sweetheart. They have six rescued cats and a mastiff named Henry, who appears in all of her works. She loves shopping, chocolate, Starbucks, and Outlander. She dreams of meeting Sam Heughan, so if anyone has any strings they can pull…just kidding. Not kidding…
Email: [email protected]
Blog: www.ladetwiler.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/ladetwiler
Sign-up for L.A. Detwiler’s VIP reader’s club for FREE and get a FREE copy of her short story, “I’d Kill for You” as a thank-you: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/bx3spg4ri7
Her father’s a serial killer.
He’s her only family.
Will she turn him in, or start killing, too?
Buy the bestselling thriller The Diary of a Serial Killer’s Daughter now and find out.
From the USA Today and International Bestselling author of The Widow Next Door comes a demented page-turner and winner of the Readers' Favorite Bronze Medal for Psychological Thriller
If you knew your father’s darkest secret, would you turn him in?
What if his secret was connected to you?
Ruby Marlowe’s always been a daddy’s girl. Her mother died when she was two, and her single father has ensured she has everything she needs. However, everyone has dark secrets, and Ruby’s father is no exception…
When she's young, she doesn’t understand the weight of her father’s killing game. However, as she ages, she realizes her obsessive tendencies aren’t the only elements that separate her from her peers. After she begins to investigate her mother’s life and death, Ruby starts to believe there are some secrets even she doesn’t know about the serial killer she calls Daddy.
As her father’s killing grows rampant, the secrets get harder and harder to hide—and she fears it will all come crashing down. Will Ruby seek a different life for herself and betray the only person who has ever loved her, or will she get wrapped up in his sinister path?
A twisted page-turner that shines an eerie light on the father-daughter bond from the USA Today and International Bestseller L.A. Detwiler.
The dead do talk…if you’re brave enough to listen.
Read on for a sample from my paranormal horror, The Redwood Asylum.
Prologue
On a winding road, concealed in a dark forest of overpowering trees and forgotten memories, sits a seemingly ancient building. The town it belongs to, Oakwood, likes to forget its existence, but the prisoners harbored behind the decaying stone walls know very much what the place is. Not many places like it have subsisted in its form, but since 1834, the Redwood Asylum has stood proud and tall, welcoming its patients in and feasting on whatever remains of their mental states.
It began with good intentions in 1834, if misguided by the cruel realities of medicine at the time. Francis Weathergate’s sister, Claudette, was struggling with what medical doctors deemed nervous conditions due to her melancholic behaviors, tantrums, and risk-taking penchants. In modern times, medical doctors would deem her a teenager, but the era was different. We cannot always fault people for being who they are in the time they are born into.
The son of a wealthy mine owner, Francis did what he knew to do—he threw money at the problem, building the most state-of-the-art, five-story facility dedicated to asylum medicine of the time. And for a while, Redwood, from the exterior, was a picturesque building one could smile at, a sort of vacation home quality permeating every facet of its existence. The wealthy felt good about locking up the members of their families labeled inferior. The outside was glossy, picture-worthy, and stunning.
But as with all facilities of this nature, the interior was a horror that couldn’t be so readily masked. Some said if you got too close, you could hear the screams of not only the living. The deceased inhabitants supposedly strolled aimlessly through the thick forest at night, stuck in Redwood’s claws even after death. Some said their minds were too far gone to even know when to die. Others still thought maybe something was amiss at Redwood but of course didn’t worry enough to investigate. After all, they were ten miles away in the town center, drinking coffee and chasing dollars and feeling the warm sunshine on their pale faces. Thus, the town went quiet, leaving the asylum to its dark devices in the midst of its forest island so far on the outskirts of town, it was practically its very own.
Today, Redwood Asylum would be a tourist attraction, a place for the photographer to visit, to smile in front of, to garnish attention. But Oakwood already has plenty of money, so it prefers to keep Redwood somewhat of a secret, a forgotten relic of the past that is still functioning. In fact, if you were to visit Oakwood, you would not hear a whisper about the building with a maniacal interior. And even if you stumbled upon the building, you may not even realize that the prisoners still remain—both living and dead.
Certainly, the sign out front has been transformed from The Redwood Asylum to The Redwood Psychiatric Center, a play on words that sounds more pleasing to the ear of the mentally stable. But make no mistake—the residents, as they’re now called formally, know exactly what the sign out front should say. And the residents of the past know exactly what the current residents should expect.
The nurses and staff at Redwood aren’t evil monsters. No, most are simply desperate for work or desperate to disappear from the world in a sense. Some are eager to remind themselves that they are of the mentally sound side, and there’s nothing like working with the most intense mentally disturbed cases to do just that.
Still, this living artifact carries with it an evil past and an equally as frightening future. For once inside, the criminally insane, the darkly disturbed, and the eternally confused residents learn one thing very quickly: they are now at the mercy of others.
If you know anything about human nature, you know that mercy rarely overstays its welcome.
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