Disturbed Mind (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Series Book 2) (14 page)

(
L
ate Sunday Afternoon
; The Guardian Inn and Connor's House, Murray, Virginia)

THE EASIEST CLASS
to teach and grade is math. Everything is simple in math. There is one answer—at least until you get to proofs and everything becomes complicated after that—to every question. There’s no answer that’s mostly right, partly right, halfway right…it’s correct or it’s incorrect.

I wish life were like that.

When I was a substitute the questions were, “Solve for X: 2x=10” and the answer was “x=5.” Now I have questions like “In
To Kill a Mockingbird,
how does Scout change throughout the novel? Are there ways in which she remains the same?” and the answer is five pages long.

I also used to be happy in my solitude—or at least content—but now I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about my relationship with Sam and missing him so much that it feels worse than being stabbed. At least when Francis attacked me, my body numbed itself to deal with the pain. Why doesn’t it do the same with emotional distress?

My phone rings. I lunge for it, thinking it must be Sam.

“Hello?” I blurt.

“Grace?”

I try to match the woman’s voice to a person, but I can’t figure out who it is. Have I become that unattached from reality?

“Yes?”

“It’s Rayna,” she says. Oh. My real estate agent.

“Rayna, it’s not a good time—”

“Grace, something happened at the house,” she says. “I was going to take the Akimotos to take another look at it, but now I can't get in the house because the police are there. The house is cordoned off with yellow tape and there are literally police everywhere. Nobody will tell me what is going on. They’re acting like it’s something big though.”

I close my eyes. “Rayna, I should have called you. I found out a couple hours ago that Zach Schneider may have been killed.”

“What? Oh, my God.”

“Do you see Sam there?” I ask. “I need to talk to him.”

“Um, I haven’t seen him yet,” she says. “Let me ask around.”

I hear the buzz of people talking as Rayna is probably walking around, interspersed with her asking people if they have “seen Dr. Sam Meadows, the medical examiner.”

After a few minutes, when I’m about to hang up and just call his cell phone, I hear a woman’s voice say, “You’re looking for Dr. Meadows?”

“Well, not me,” Rayna says. “His girlfriend, Grace, who is also Connor's sister, who has power of attorney over the residence, wants to talk to him.”

I hear a rustling sound, as if the phone is being passed between hands.

“Hello,” the woman’s voice says. “My name is Dr. Carter. I am acting as the medical examiner since Sam can’t work the case.”

“Why can’t he work the case?”

“He didn’t tell you?” she asks. “He has a conflict of interest in the case since you’re his fiancée.”

"He's my fiancé?"

"He's your fiancé. Or…" The hesitation in her voice is palpable. “Maybe not. He has mentioned wanting to marry you, so I thought…I guess I was mistaken.”

“I guess,” I repeat, but I realize I want to marry Sam. Now. I want other people to call me his fiancée and all of our other issues seem minuscule in comparison to the fact that I want to spend a lifetime with him. I want to wake up every morning and thank God that I get to see his face right beside me. I don’t want to lose him. “We’re…we’re working on it. We’re trying to figure everything out.”

"I see."

"What's going on?" I ask. “Have you decided if it was murder or suicide?

“We found impact marks on the closet frame that suggests there may have been a struggle. Some hair traces…Could you tell all of this to Sam? He may not be officially able to work on the case, but I know he would want to know.”

“Of course,” I say. “Can you get DNA from the hair traces?"

"We can, and have. It's out for a CODIS match now. We're checking Ohio agencies first. Want to let me in on the secret as to why Sam's really interested in Ohio records?" she asks.

I close my eyes. “I used to live in Ohio. I was attacked by one of my former students there—”

"Ooooh. I remember that. It was on CNN,” she says. I manage to not groan.

"His name is Francis Tate. He cut a deal with a prosecutor and he’s out of prison,” I say.

"And do you think he still holds a grudge against you?"

"Yes."

"Enough that he'd start killing people you knew and cared about one by one just to get to you? Or to make sure you were alone?"

"Yes. Likely…and Sam's not wanted me to be alone—God, he really does think Francis Tate's come here, hasn't—I need to call him. No. I should go apologize. Excuse me."

I hang up. Sam was just trying to protect me, in his own, silent way. Francis Tate may have killed both Sam’s John Doe and Zach Schneider. My legs shake as I stand up. Life is complicated, but right now, there is only one answer.

Find Sam, apologize, and then deal with Francis Tate.

(
E
arly Sunday Evening
; Sam’s House, Murray, Virginia)

THE PROBLEM WITH ATTACKING
a man is that there is a chance that he’s stronger than you.

This problem disappears when you’ve spent two years locked in a prison cell and all you can do is workout.

I take my bowie knife out of my pocket and charge at Sam. He tries to stumble onto his feet, but I slam into him before he can and thrust the knife into his chest. The knife doesn’t get far—the breastbone stops it—but Sam screams and that’s satisfying enough for me. I hold the knife against his throat.

“Shut up,” I snarl. “Shut up or I’ll leave your blood all over this house for your girlfriend to find. Then, I’ll kill her, too, and everyone will know this house as the place where a double homicide was committed by the infamous Francis Tate.”

“Don’t hurt her,” he says. “She never did anything wrong.”

“She sent me to prison.” I growl, pressing the knife harder against his throat, so a thin line of blood appears. “She led me on and then refused to love me.”

I pull out the cable ties I grabbed from Steve Rolf’s truck. “Roll onto your stomach. If you try anything to get away or hurt me, I swear to God…I will call Grace here and you’ll get to see her die.”

He rolls onto his stomach as his body slumps in defeat. Good. I press my knee into the center of his back, so he can’t flip back over. I grab his wrists and tie them together with two cable ties.

“Tell me something,” I say. “What makes you so special? Why is she with you?”

“I don’t know,” he says. I flip him over onto his back.

“How can you not know?” I demand.

“I don’t,” he says. “Trust me. I’m as amazed that she wants to be with me as anyone is.”

I press the tip of the knife in the center of his clavicle. I cut into his skin. His whole body tenses, but he doesn’t make a sound. I keep cutting, making a trail down to his navel.

“Is it because you saved her life?” I ask. “Is that really how high her standards are? Should I…shove her in front of a train and pull her away in the nick of time?”

“No,” he says. “You should leave her alone. Respect the fact that she isn’t in love with you.”

“She should have respected me first,” I say. “I was listening to you. I’ve been outside your house for hours. You want to marry Grace. Isn’t that so…sweet?”

“I haven’t proposed,” he says.

“But you want to.” I jerk his hands out from under him and pull his ring finger away from the rest of his hand. I press the knife against it. “Maybe we should make sure you can’t wear a wedding ring.”

“Please,” he says. “If you’re going to kill me, just kill me. But leave Grace alone.”

I lay his hand flat and stab the knife through his palm. His scream sounds like it could split the house in two. I’m not worried. His neighbors are too far away to hear anything, but I suppose I should take a precaution.

“I’m not going to just kill you,” I tell him. “We’re just starting to have fun. Let me just get something to gag you and then we’ll really see how much the body can take. You’re a cardiologist and a medical examiner, right? So you should know how much blood you could lose before you die. How much is that?”

“It depends on body size,” he mumbles.

I laugh. Doctors always feel the need to give a noncommittal answer. “Okay, so how much for you?”

“About four pints,” he says, his voice sounding exhausted.

I look around the kitchen. “I guess we need to find a measuring cup, don’t we?”

The adrenaline rush of playing God fills me. This will be better than the time I attacked Grace. This time, I am in complete control and the devil inside me knows exactly what he’s doing.

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

WHEN I PULL MY CAR
into Sam’s driveway, something feels wrong. It’s as if the trees have shifted, casting a larger and darker shadow over the house. It’s as if the trees are shielding the moon and the stars from seeing what is happening inside the house.

I step out of car and the air is colder than it’s been in recent weeks. It has the same chill as when winter is approaching quickly and no has had time to prepare for the storm.

I knock on Sam’s door, my paranoia reaching a climax. I wait. For a moment, I think I hear something inside, but nobody comes to the door. I knock again.

I hear something that sounds like a combination of a sob and a restrained scream. It feels a lot like one of my dreams—everything is telling me to run except now, in reality, there is one thing pulling me forward. Sam.

I put my hand on the doorknob, unsure if it’s locked. It turns. The moment I step into the house, I can smell the metallic scent of blood.

"You should have stayed at the hotel.”

It feels like my own blood freezes in my veins. I could never forget Francis’s voice and it sounds like prison only made it more cold and callous.

I force myself to keep moving forward because I know it can’t be his blood that I smell. He would not be calm if he were bleeding that much blood.

There’s no lights on in the kitchen, but I can discern Sam lying on the floor, a dark pool of blood around him. There’s an array of measuring cups around his body, some partly filled with blood.

“Francis…” I say, trying to find the right words to get Sam and me out of there alive. If he is still alive…I’m praying that Francis wouldn’t still be here if he was dead.

“I was going to call you,” he says. “I’ve been working for Steve Rolf—his apprentice, you might say—and convince you to meet me here because your lover wanted us all to meet together. When you came, I would have had him in pieces…I suppose I should have called sooner before he blacked out, so you could watch, but I got lost in the moment. It doesn’t matter. Now that you’re here you can tell me what pieces of your lover you want. Maybe I can wrap it in a bow for you and we can call it an anniversary gift.”

He wipes some sweat off his brow with his right hand. It leaves a streak of blood on his forehead.

“Francis, don’t do this,” I say. “You kill a medical examiner and you’ll have every police force in Virginia coming after you.”

He shrugs. “You think I care about prison? I thrived there. I met people just like me who were screwed by people just like you. You used to tell me that if I believed I could do something, I would be able to do it. And now I have you here, so I suppose you were right.”

“You’re right,” I say, trying to appease him. “I was wrong. I should have seen how much you cared. I should have cared for you in the same way. You’re the one I should have been with.”

“You’re lying.” He hisses. “You’re a manipulative bitch and you deserve everything that’s happening right now.”

I take a step forward, trying to get closer to Sam, but I slip on a pool of blood. In the dark kitchen, lit only by fading outdoor light, Francis must mistake my movement for a lunge because he dives at me, knife ready. I instinctively roll out of the way and the knife slams against the floor tiles. I grab one of the heavy wooden kitchen stools that are used at the kitchen island. Without thinking, I thrust it in Francis’s direction. It knocks him down. As I scramble to my feet, he’s already on his knees. I grab the stool and hit him again. He stumbles backward, but grabs onto the stool’s legs. He yanks it out of my grasp. He swings it at my legs, but I manage to step out of the way.

I haul myself on top of the kitchen island as he tries to hit me again. When I see his eyes glint in the dimming light, I pick up a Mexican-pottery fruit bowl and throw it at him.

He ducks and I drop to the other side of the kitchen island. I grab a knife from the block. Once again, it's a desperation move, but this time, fear isn’t controlling me. I know that Sam is closer to losing his life with every drop of blood that seeps out of him. I know I need to end this now to save him.

“Really?” Francis sneers. “Haven’t we been through this act before? You know how it ended last time…but this time, I won’t leave you alive. Your mommy isn’t here to save you this time.”

“I don’t need anyone to save me…and I’m leaving with Sam alive. You asked me what part of him I wanted. I want all of him. Every bit of him. Intact. I love him. I’m going to marry him.”

He growls, a sound more feral than any animal could emit, and launches himself at me.

He’s right. We have been through this act before, but I am not the same woman.

His hand reaches up, preparing to grab my arm so I can’t use the knife. I drop the knife back onto the counter. Confusion clouds his eyes and his footsteps falter. With my other hand, I hit him as hard as I can, aiming for his eye.

He stumbles back, clutching the right side of his face.

“You bitch,” he snarls, but I’m already picking the knife back up. I thrust it into his throat. He makes a gurgling noise and stumbles into the kitchen island. I jerk the knife from his body. Blood gushes out. His knees buckle and he falls to the floor.

I rush over to Sam. I grab his wrist, wrapping my fingers around it to find a pulse. I don’t feel anything. I feel the warmth of tears in my eyes when Sam stirs, his eyes flickering open.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he mumbles.

“Sam. Oh, thank God. Wait, I’m going to call 9-1-1.”

I grab his phone and dial 9-1-1. I glance around the kitchen, still a bundle of nerves. Either we’re going to need to sell another house or we’re going to need a massive amount of bleach.