Disturbed Mind (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Series Book 2) (12 page)

(
S
unday Afternoon
; Fox Trot Diner, Murray, Virginia)

I SHOVE MY HANDS
into the torn-up jacket that I had gotten from the First Baptist Church. I’ve spent many nights wondering about its original owner—did the tear on the right sleeve come from a dog attack? What about the hole on the back shoulder? Was somebody stabbed or did it wear down after time?

“Good afternoon, sir,” a hostess says. Her blond hair is pulled up into a tight ponytail and she has a chubby face, but I suppose that’s hard to concentrate on when her shirt is so low-cut that I can see the hot-pink bra peeking out. “Is it just you or will you have company?”

“There’s another guy coming,” I say. She stares at me blankly. “So…I need a table for two.”

“Awesome!” she exclaims. I watch her ass as she walks me to a booth. I never really got into the dating scene—I was too much of a loser in high school for any girl to give me a second glance, with the exception being Grace, and in college, I was obsessed with trying to become good enough that Grace would understand how much of an influence she would have on me. I wanted to become so good that she would see her own good reflected in me. But she didn’t, so I suppose in the end that I wasn’t that good.

The hostess gestures to the last booth.

“Here you go, sir,” she says. “Your waitress is Tiffany and she will be here in a minute.”

I sit down on the right side of the booth and clasp my hands on the table. It’s strange being in prison for two years and suddenly being free. It’s not what you would expect—it’s not endless joy and celebration. It’s confusing—in prison you’re told when to sleep, when to eat, when to shower, when to shut up and get frisked. Outside of prison…the choices are endless. Should I have eggs for breakfast? Cereal? Toast? Bagels? Waffles? Yogurt? Homes fries? Hash browns? It’s overwhelming. Choices are overwhelming. Being told what to do is insulting and patronizing, but it takes away the stress of an endless array of possibilities. People need a set of laws that will lead them to a goal—new world order, peace, violence, revenge.

“Hey, Bryce.” A man sits across from me. Steve Rolf is the kind of man who has been short all of his life, so he makes up for it by running every other landscaper out of business—including middle school kids who just wanted to earn a few bucks mowing. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

“Of course, boss,” I say.

“I just wanted to know how it went,” he says. I glance down at my clothes. I had already changed at the hotel—it was a bloodless kill, but I still feel like death lingers on my skin. It doesn’t bother me when I’m alone, but it makes me paranoid that others could sense it. “It must be intimidating to do it alone. I would have gone with you, but my lady friend wanted me to go with her to check some cars out.”

“It was fine,” I tell him. “I didn’t see Mrs. Schneider. There wasn’t any cars, either. I think they were all at church.”

“That’s a good time to check out the yard,” he says. “I hate surveying someone’s land while they’re around. You have to tell them everything that you’re thinking and then they argue with you the whole time.”

“Yep. Church is saving landscapers everywhere. Praise the Lord.”

A waitress with a long black ponytail walks up to the table. “Good afternoon, gentlemen, my name is Tiffany and I’ll be your waitress today. Can I get you two something to drink?”

Steve eyes her chest for a second too long. She gives him a scathing look and his face goes bright red.

“Could I get some Pepsi?” I ask.

“I’ll have a Bud Light,” Steve mumbles. Without a word, Tiffany pivots on her heel and walks back toward the kitchen.

“I wouldn’t drink whatever she gets you,” I tell him. “It’s probably poisoned.”

“I’m a man. I can’t help it if I stare.”

His cell phone rings. His ringtone sounds like a doorbell and everyone in the restaurant turns to stare at him.

“Jesus, I can’t catch a break today,” he says. He flips open his phone that looks like it’s from the ‘90s. “Hello?”

There’s a pause as Steve listens to who called him. I take five sugar packets out of the porcelain container and form a box with them. I exhale and the box falls down.
I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.
I wonder if someone found Zach’s body yet or if his body will rot where I hung it until dinner time.

"What can I do you for, Dr. Meadows?” Steve asks.

I sneer down at the sugar packets. Steve is looking out the window, so he doesn’t notice my reaction. Dr. Sam Meadows, a cardiologist, a medical examiner, and the asshole living with Grace. I don’t see why Grace seems to have become attached to him. He’s just another guy that will eventually break her heart.

“I already talked with Miss Grace about the yard cleanup. In fact, I’ve got Bryce putting together a project plan for—Bryce? Yeah. He's right here with me. …You want to talk to him? Sure."

Steve holds the phone out to me. I raise an eyebrow, but I take the phone from him. The waitress returns with our drinks, setting them down in front of us before walking away again. Steve eyes his beer, as if he’s searching for poison or spit.

“Hello?” I ask.

“Hey, Bryce,” Sam says. “I’m a friend of Grace Ellery. I was just wondering if you noticed anything strange while you were at her brother’s house.”

“Uh, not that I can think of, sir,” I say. It’s true. I didn’t see anything strange—I saw Zach’s face turn a shade of purple I’ve never seen before and a noise slip out of his throat that sounded like metal scraping against a chalkboard, but I wouldn’t consider that strange.

“Was there anyone else at the house?”

“I don’t think so, sir. There wasn’t any cars there. I just walked around the outside of the house. I didn’t notice anybody. I guess there could have been, but I didn’t see them. Why? Was the house robbed?” Lying is even easier than telling the truth—you just let the words flow until you sound like the person that you need to be.

“Did you notice any vehicles around that didn’t belong there?” he asks, ignoring my questions.

“No, sir, but I haven’t kept track of which cars belong in the neighborhood,” I say.

“Did you murder Zach Schneider?”

“What! God!” I yell. My mind races—did I leave something behind at the crime scene that implicates me? Something in the yard that showed I walked into the house? "What the fuck? Are you crazy?"

Steve, his brows furrowed, grabs the phone from me.

“What the hell are you asking my employee, Dr. Meadows?” he asks. “What?…He’s dead?…Suicide?”

I lean in closer to Steve, so I can hear Sam’s voice through the phone.

"We don't know, yet. Your guy Bryce there just said he was at the house this morning, right?" Sam asks.

"Yeah, he was. But only out in the yard. He already told you that he didn't see any cars."

"Look, I'm sorry if I upset him too much. You should let him know that he's probably going to be questioned by the police,” Sam says. “I have to go. I was just checking to see if there was any information I could get before Zach gets to the morgue. Thank you for your time, Steve.”

Sam hangs up. I lean back into the booth. Steve takes a sip of his beer.

"I can't be questioned by the police, Steve.”

"Why?" he asks, setting his beer back down. I watch the condensation run down, biding my time before I come up with an answer.

"I don't want it to get onto the news. I saw how Dr. Meadows was in the news this fall because somebody tried to kill Miss Grace, and I figured maybe people are just watching this town to see if anything else goes wrong. Look, I…I don't want my family to know where to find me, Steve. I've even been telling my little sister that I'm making a big success of myself in New York, because if they knew I was doing what Dad does for a living, they'd make me come home, and try to force me into the life they want for me.”

"Your dad—"

"Is a general contractor." Or rather, Bryce Ballentine's father is a chronically unemployed unlicensed general contractor.

"So that's how you know how to do this." Steve laughs. "Son of a bitch. Impressive. And you know, you could have said something."

"Thanks."

"Let me talk to Dr. Meadows tomorrow. He's a reasonable guy. He might have some suggestions about how we can let you tell your story to the police without anyone else finding out."

“Thanks, Steve,” I say. “You’re a lifesaver.”

(
S
unday Afternoon
; Sam’s House, Murray, Virginia)

AS I DRIVE HOME,
my mind is a kaleidoscope with all of my separate thoughts spinning until it’s all a blur. Zach Schneider is currently in the morgue and a medical examiner from Richmond was going to come in to examine him. As I stop at a red light, I send a quick text to Miranda Bliss, a morgue attendant who used to work for me at my cardiology office.

Me: Have you figured out how the Schneider boy died?

The light turns green and I continue to drive. I’m only a few minutes away from my house. The image of the John Doe that we found in Neabsco Creek keeps flashing in my mind. Why did the murderer try to hide his identity? He must have known him, right? But how could you destroy someone that violently that you knew?

As I’m about to turn into my driveway, I realize that Grace’s truck is already there. I hear my phone ping as someone texts me. I pick up my phone and check the message.

Miranda: Not completely sure. The rope cut into his throat around the thyroid cartilage where it should have, but there’s deeper lines lower than that where the rope wouldn’t have been, unless there was a strange circumstance that led the rope to be lower, then shift higher up. I doubt it though…at the angle he was hanging the rope only should have been right below his jawline.

So, in other words, it’s murder by strangulation. I get out of my car and walk into my house, my footsteps heavy. What is the chance that’s there two murderers around Murray? Or is there a single serial killer? The murders were so different though…why wouldn’t the killer disfigure Zach’s face as well?

I open the door and step in. I hear the shower running. I look around the house as I hear the water shut off. I pass by the bathroom door as Grace opens it. She has a white towel wrapped tightly around her body and another, smaller towel wrapped around her hair.

“I thought I asked you to not be alone,” are the first words out of my mouth. I know they sound impolite and crude, but fury is running through my veins like a fire.

“But I’m not anymore,” she teases, reaching toward me. I step back. Her lips slightly part and she tilts her head as she realizes how angry I am. All I want to do is kiss her, make love to her, feel the comfort and familiarity of her body.

“That’s not funny,” I say. “Or cute.”

She frowns. “Look, I needed to be alone for a little bit. Kevin is great, but it feels awkward to be imposing on his private space. I just wanted to shower and wait for you to get home.”

“There’s a killer out there,” I say.
Or two
. “He killed Zach Schneider.”

“What?” She blurts. “How? When? Why would anyone kill Zach? I mean, I didn’t get along with him, but he was just a child—”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know anything. Nobody knows anything, which is why you shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’m not a child, Sam,” she says. “Don’t treat me like one. You’ve been alone, haven’t you? Do the rules not apply for you, too?”

“I’m more likely to be able to fend for myself!” I shout. “What’s the likelihood that you’ll be able to protect yourself from a full-grown man?”

“I killed Deacon, didn’t I?” she hisses.

I cross my arms over my chest. “You were defending yourself. You don’t still feel guilty about that, do you? He was going to kill you if you didn’t kill him first.”

“Of course I know that,” she says. “But I still feel guilty. He could have had a whole life in front of him. He could have been the guy to cure cancer or marry some woman and make her happier than anyone else on Earth.”

“He was a killer,” I reply.

“He was a child, too,” she snaps. “And that’s not even the point. I can defend myself just fine.”

“What? Are you just going to carry around a knife?” I demand. “Because I recall you telling me a time when grabbing a knife didn’t work out for you.”

“Don’t you dare bring up Francis,” she snarls. She pushes past me to my bedroom. She grabs some of her clothes out of her drawer—the top one—and pulls her towel off. For a second, my carnal nature takes over and all I notice is the ease of her curves and the pale shade of her skin that has barely been touched by sunlight. I shake my head and grit my teeth.

“Grace,” I say as she puts on her pale pink lingerie. “I’m just trying to make sure that you’re safe.”

“I understand that, Sam, but I can’t spend my life being afraid every time someone gets murdered.”

“Of course you can. That’s human nature!”

She pulls on a pair of jeans and snaps the button into place.

“Is something going on?” she asks. “Are you being so agitated because of the murdered body or is there something else?”

“What else would there be?” Other than the fact that it could be the guy who already tried to kill you.

“I don’t know,” she says. “You haven’t talked about Alicia in a while. Is something happening there?”

“What? No!” I shout. “How can you even think that?”

“Because she pops up in our lives, she worms her way into selling my brother’s house, you keep pushing me to use her as my real estate agent, and then you stop talking about her.”

“I’ve been busy trying to deal with a murderer!”

She pulls on her shirt, grabs her purse and her backpack.

“Where are you going now?” I ask.

“Away from here,” she says. “I think we need some time apart.”

“Are you kidding me?” I ask. “After I just told you that you shouldn’t be alone?”

She scowls. “Don’t follow me.”

She opens the front door and walks out. As she gets into her truck, Alicia pulls up in her ruby red Ford Mustang. She watches as Grace’s tires squeak as she makes a sharp turn out of the driveway.

When Alicia gets out of her car, her eyebrow is raised.

“Trouble in paradise?” she asks, closing her car door.

I rub my temple. “Why are women so complicated?”

“Maybe you try too hard to generalize us,” she says, smiling. She walks up to me and wraps her arm around my shoulders. “Why don’t I mix you a drink? Remember when I used to bartend?”

I hesitate. After Grace’s accusation, it seems like a bad idea to have a drink with my ex-girlfriend.

Alicia smiles, her shiny peach-colored lipstick making her lips seem larger than they are.

“Should I call Grace and see if it’s okay with her?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Of course not. I don’t need her permission.”

As I open the door for Alicia and she walks into my house, I realize that my statement is a reflection of what Grace had been trying to tell me all along.