Disturbed Mind (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Series Book 2) (6 page)

(
F
riday Late Morning
; Murray Hospital, Murray, Virginia)

JOHN DOE IS USED
as a placeholder name for a corpse with an unknown identity. It might seem strange to give someone a generic name, but it’s actually better this way. It allows me to be detached from the body—I can pretend it’s just flesh, bones, blood, and organs. I can pretend they weren’t alive before, that they didn’t have a family, that they didn’t have a future. I can be a scientist instead of a coroner.

I set the bone shards and slivers from John Doe’s skull on a metal tray. I’m not sure if there’s enough there to reconstruct the face. It seems like some of the bone washed away into the lake, which is unfortunate because it seems like facial reconstruction is the only thing I can do that would help the investigation.

There’s a small knock on the door before it swings open. Alicia strides in, her hair whipping behind her like a runway model.

Alicia is, in the generic sense of the word, “flawless.” She has long, flowing chestnut brown hair that belongs in a shampoo commercial and blue eyes that remind me of the Caribbean Sea. She takes her fashion cues from beauty pageant winners (she even drives out of town to have her dental work done by a dentist who has done whitening and straightening for a number of Miss Virginia winners) and posh fashion magazines. If she's not in a chic suit or pantsuit, she's in ultrafashionable workout attire, even though she never works out in public. She's always the sort of person who shows up at Starbucks looking radiant, as if she might have just been running or doing yoga. She does work out daily at her home—or at least she did while we were dating. I think she didn’t want anyone to see her sweating or struggling, but I could never quite figure out how her mind worked.

She wrinkles her nose, taking a step back toward the doors. “That looks nasty.”

I cover John Doe with a plastic sheet.

“It’s pretty bad,” I say. “What’s up?”

“Oh, I just had some ideas for how to sell Grace’s house faster
and
make a better profit.” She brings me over a pastel pink folder. I flip it open to see pictures cut out of magazines and paint samples. “I thought we could paint some of the rooms some bright colors—that will make buyers feel happier when they walk in and that cream color the walls have now just isn’t that…enticing. It reminds me of a hospital or an old person’s home. Then, for less than two hundred fifty dollars, we could buy some things from the Red Silk store. They have the cutest decorations, including this wooden vase that has flowers carved into it.”

She gestures to a picture of the vase. It is beautiful.

“Wouldn’t water soak into a wood vase?” I ask. “How would you keep flowers in it?”

She lightly slaps my arm. “It’s just decoration, silly. You could fill it with anything. Fake flowers, marbles, cattails, a candle…oh, my gosh, do you remember that time we went to that five-star restaurant that we got reservations for three months beforehand…and we thought we left a candle burning in the living room?”

“I remember that I had to run back home while you had to stall the waiter,” I say, smiling at the memory. “I don’t think I’ve run so fast in my life…and the candle wasn’t even burning. I don’t think we ever actually lit it that day.”

“And I had to convince the waiter that you were talking on your cell phone right outside the restaurant the whole time so we didn’t lose our table. We were crazy, weren’t we?” she asks. “Those were good times.”

“I agree,” I glance back at my John Doe. At least they were simpler times.

“Are you doing okay?” she asks. I force a smile, turning back to her.

“Yeah, I’m great.”

“Really? Because I’ve known you for a long time and I know you’re faking a smile when your eyes don’t have those crow’s feet next to them.”

“I don’t have crow’s feet,” I say. “I’m not that old yet.”

“You don’t have them when you’re upset,” she says. She snaps the folder shut. “So, tell me what’s going on. I’m a really good listener. I went to therapy for three years, so I know how to listen like a therapist.”

She leans forward onto a nearby gurney, rests her chin on her hand, and stares intently at me.

“Nothing is wrong.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” she says. “Do you kiss Grace with those lying lips?”

I hesitate. She notices, standing straight up. I can’t remember the last time Grace and I kissed. It had to have been a few days ago. Right?

“What happened?” she asks. “Did she cheat? I can’t see you cheating. You’re too much of a Boy Scout, but Grace…I could see her hooking up with a gym teacher. Or the principal.”

“She did not cheat,” I say firmly. “It’s…I wanted more commitment from her a few months ago and she…didn’t want to go that far. So, it’s been a bit awkward ever since. I know it’s my fault because I should be able to accept her rejection and I understand she’s had a lot to struggle within the last few years…but it doesn’t change my feelings. I’m hoping everything will straighten itself out eventually.”

“Look at you, Samuel Meadows, actually sharing his feelings,” she teases. “Grace certainly changed you. But you should know…things generally don’t straighten themselves out. They certainly don’t straighten themselves out after months have passed by. I mean, if the world worked like that, you would have sold the house by now. Maybe that’s a sign. Maybe the gods are telling you both that the house shouldn’t be sold because Grace should still live there.”

“Grace can’t go back there,” I tell her. “She has issues with the family that lives there.”

Alicia shrugs. “They could move out.”

“They won’t.”

“Sam,” she says, putting her hand on my shoulder. “You need to think about yourself sometimes. You can’t be superman all of the time. If the relationship isn’t going to work out, you should call it quits.”

“It’s going to work out,” I say. “I love her.”

She inhales sharply then exhales as if she were performing a three-second meditation. “Well, why don’t you think about what I said and look through the folder—seriously consider it because the amount of money you spend on paint and decorations will be paid back by selling the house—and I am going to go because that death smell is getting to me. I may not be able to eat for the rest of the day…which wouldn’t be a bad thing because I’m trying to lose a few pounds.”

She turns on her heel and I watch her walk toward the door. She opens it and the light from the hallway pools inside the morgue.

“Alicia,” I call out. She glances back at me. “I think you look great. You don’t need to lose weight.”

She smiles, flashing her perfect, straight teeth. “That’s sweet of you, Sam, but it’s not about how I look on the outside right now.”

“It’s about how you feel on the inside?” I guess.

“No, it’s a precaution for future weight gain,” she says. “You have to stay ahead of any possible disasters, Sam. That’s something you always did terrible at.”

She walks through the doors and they slam closed behind her. I return to my John Doe, sliding the plastic sheet back off him.

“I think I prepare pretty well,” I mutter to the corpse. “I mean, my job as a cardiologist is to warn people of future illness. Though, my job here has me arriving at the problem too late.”

I shake my head. I need to stop working at some point and have a social life again or else I’ll start talking to all of my corpses. I need to see Grace and feel the softness of her face in my hands. I look back at the skull fragments on the tray. I run my finger along the space where the corpse’s teeth should be.

What happened to them? Did the killer take them or would he have thrown them out? Could they still be in the lake?

This man’s identity was erased by his killer. I wonder if his family is aware that he’s missing or if they care.

When I’m gone, what will my identity be? Cardiologist? Medical examiner? Son? I won’t be a husband if I die anytime soon. Would my family notice if I disappeared? Whom would I notice if they disappeared?

Grace. Mom. Dad. My brother, Jake. My best friend, John Seoh.

I run my tongue along my teeth. At least I still have my teeth, but if I have to get to that level of optimism, I may be too late to fix the mess that my life has become.

(
L
ate Friday Morning
; Stoddard High School, Lake Sarabelle, Virginia)

“THE LAST POEM
we’re going to look at today is “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”
by Dylan Thomas. This poem is about Thomas’s father and how his father’s old age meant that he was approaching death. Unlike many poems about death that talk about peacefully dying, Thomas encourages his father to fight against death—Thomas says to ‘burn and rave’
and ‘rage, rage against the dying of the light.’ Dylan also uses a plethora of imagery. Did anyone have anything they liked specifically?”

“I liked ‘blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be…gay,’” Devon Wright says.

“Yeah, that’s probably because you are gay.” Rick Burrow snickers.

“Rick,” I snap. “Go to the principal’s office.”

“WHAT?” he yells. “Because I stated a fact? That’s not fair.”

“Rick,” I repeat. “Go to the principal’s office. Now.”

Rick grabs his backpack and storms out of the classroom. It reminds me of when I was teaching at Bishop Alternative High School and Francis had been bullied for his stuttering. Is that why he became violent later in life? Because his classmates teased him and made him feel alienated? Could Devon grow up to be a killer because some kid doesn’t know how deep his jokes can sting?

“You know what? Let’s end class a couple of minutes early,” I say, forcing a smile. “It’s almost the holidays and I know you guys have a lot of tests right before we go on break. So, go to lunch early. Just be quiet in the halls. Remember, ‘burn and rave,’ but…you know, do it legally.”

A few of the kids laugh for my benefit before gathering all of their books and notes. They shove it into their bags before rushing out of the room. Devon is one of the last ones to walk past me.

“Devon, could you stay here for a minute?” I ask. “I just want to have a short chat with you.”

He looks up at me, his eyes pleading for me to simply let him walk through life without being noticed. He just wants to be invisible so that he can’t be taunted. But I can’t allow him to be disregarded because that could lead him to ignore the fact that his actions have consequences on the rest of the world. If he goes on to create a program that helps end bullying, he could affect millions of children. If he goes on to try to stab people to death, it will affect that victim, their friends, and family. It could, both literally and figuratively, kill me.

I sit on the edge of my desk. “How are you doing? You moved here this year, right?”

He nods, but doesn’t answer my first question.

“Have you made some friends yet?”

He shrugs. “I don’t need friends here. I have a few back home in Michigan.”

“But that’s quite a distance from here,” I say. “Have you joined any clubs or sports teams?”

He shakes his head, a condescending smirk on his face. Clearly, he’s not the type to join in regular school extracurriculars. I try to remember what I learned in Professor Kingston’s lectures—don’t look for the cause of their pain, just try to find the treatment.

“Well, you know, I’ve noticed that you seem a lot more interested in poetry than prose, so I have a book that you might like,” I say, walking over to look at my bookshelf in the corner of the room.

“I hope it’s not the Bible,” he says, following me. “No offense—it’s just not my thing.”

“It’s not the Bible,” I assure him. As I look for the book, I can sense Devon about four inches behind me. It makes me nervous, but I do my best to ignore it. He is not Francis Tate or Deacon Cochrane. Yet. “It’s Walt Whitman’s
Leaves of Grass.
He has a very unique voice and I think you’ll enjoy his poems. He was very introspective. Could you please take a step back?”

He flushes, less than two inches away from me. He takes several steps back.

“I’m sorry, Miss Ellery. I was just reading the titles of the other books.”

“It’s fine, Devon, I just don’t like people being that close to me when my back is turned.”

“Because of the two students who attacked you?” he asks.

It’s my turn to blush. Of course all of my students would know about that. It was all over the news—the teacher who had been attacked twice by two different students. I can only assume I was hired here because of Kevin, otherwise, I can’t imagine a school board hiring me after two of my students became homicidal maniacs.

“Yes,” I admit.

“It’s all right, Miss Ellery, I’m not crazy,” he says.

“I’m sure you’re not,” I say, handing him the book. He takes it. “It just makes me uncomfortable.”

“You know my grandma told me before she died that one thing she noticed in life is that the people who tended to avoid their fears all of their life were the same people who never found happiness because they spent all of their time avoiding something instead of chasing after what they wanted,” he says. “She said it better, but I thought you should know that.”

“Thank you, Devon,” I say. He nods before scuttling out of the room. Maybe I do need to stop worrying about Francis. How would he ever find me?

I need to focus on what I want…which would be easier if I knew what that was.

(
F
riday Evening
; Outside the Ballentines’ House, Bethlehem, Pennsylvania)

AFTER FINDING THE ADDRESS
of Bryce’s family online, I took three buses to get to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Finding people is shockingly easy these days—I had called a series of numbers pretending to be a debt collector to get Grace’s new address. When I stand in front of the Ballentines’ house, I am astounded to find that the house has Cape Cod-style architecture and exudes “upper class.” It’s only one and a half stories tall but it looks like it must have a dozen rooms. It has multi-pane windows, which have intricately designed frames and an arched entryway made of stones. There’s a beautiful garden on both sides of the porch.

I linger at the edge of the driveway, my hand resting on a red steel mailbox. I need to see what Kayla looks like, but right now, I just want to imagine what it’s like for her to grow up here. I imagine her small feet running through the soft grass and to the house when the bus drops her off.

I walk toward the house. I peek into the garage. There’s a white van inside, but I didn’t expect anything less. It’s Friday evening, where else would the family be?

I circle around to the back of the house. I glance into the first window I pass by. I see into a living room, filled with blue and white furniture. A large family portrait hangs over the fireplace. Instead of the type of clothes Bryce was wearing when I met him, he’s wearing a polo and khakis. His father is the spitting image of him, except his face has more lines on it and his neck is thicker. His mother is short—between five foot and five foot two. She has dirty-blond hair and bright hazel eyes. In front of all of them is a young girl.

Kayla had to be a few years younger than thirteen in the photograph. Her hair—miraculously light blond, possibly from being dyed, though it looks completely genuine—flows down her shoulders. Her eyes are the same color as her mother’s but they are filled with life. She has the finest bone structure, but her smile makes it so it comes off more angelic than fragile.

She needs someone who would protect her better than Bryce ever could.

Her mother steps into the living room and our eyes lock. She begins to scream as I duck…already knowing I’m too late. I can’t allow her to go to the police, tell them about seeing me, and allow them to become suspicious of Bryce’s absence. The police might try to get ahold of Bryce and that could eventually lead him to his body.

I grab the sliding door handle and jerk it open. Mrs. Ballentine is screaming. The sound is piercing, but all I can see is the slight vibration of her throat from the sound. I tackle her to the ground as a man—Mr. Ballentine—runs into the room. I grab Mrs. Ballentine by the hair, jerk her head back, and hold up my bowie knife—a special gift I bought myself as soon as I was out of prison—to Mrs. Ballentine’s throat.

“Come any closer and we’ll see how much this bitch bleeds,” I snarl. Mr. Ballentine stops, raising his hands in surrender.

“Look, sir, you can take whatever you want,” he says. “We have plenty of things that you can sell for good money…we have jewelry that will at least get you a thousand dollars. Just don’t hurt my wife.”

“Where is your daughter?” I ask, gesturing toward the family portrait. Mr. Ballentine glances at it.

“My daughter is at dance practice. My son is in New York City,” he says. “Please. They need their mother and their father. You can’t…you wouldn’t let children grow up without their parents, would you?”

I eventually did, didn’t I?

“Child,” I correct. “You should be asking if I wouldn’t let your
child
grow up without her parents. Your son is dead.”

“What?” Mr. Ballentine blurts. Mrs. Ballentine jerks her head to the side, trying to look at me. The knife makes a small cut against her skin from her movement. She squeals.

“I killed him,” I tell them. “Why do you think I came
here
?
Kill
might not actually be the correct word. I slit his throat and bashed in his skull. I still have his teeth. He was thinking of returning home before I killed him. It’s a shame that he’s so easy to flatter and so very, very gullible.”

“You’re lying,” Mr. Ballentine says, his voice low and full of uncertainty.

“I sent you and your wife his last e-mail. While I was pretending to be Bryce, I told you I would tell you two when I was ready to return home. It’s rather rude that neither of you responded.”

I feel Mrs. Ballentine’s body begin to crumple as she faints, but before I can react, Mr. Ballentine charges at me. My primal side takes over. I flip the knife in my fist and lunge it forward.

The knife sinks into Mr. Ballentine’s neck. He stops as if the knife caused a shield between us. He tries to look at the knife, but it’s barely within his periphery. I thrust it back out. Mrs. Ballentine stumbles to the floor, the last of her stamina disappearing. Mr. Ballentine’s eyes flicker up to mine. I look at him for a second before I jab the knife into his carotid artery.

For a second, I think I missed the artery because he keeps standing. He takes one step back. Then, another one. He falls back, the knife still in his neck and his eyes wide open. He lands on his back. I see his hands fumble around the knife.

I walk over to him. I put my foot on his chest and jerk the knife out of his neck. Blood flows out like a stream. I turn around to look at Mrs. Ballentine. She must have succumbed to unconsciousness because her eyes are closed and she’s still.

I really need to get a gun. It would make this so much faster. At least there’s no bullets in their bodies that would leave evidence behind.

I stride over to her, ready to puncture both her carotid arteries to make her death quick—not because I want it to be painless for her, but because I need to get rid of their bodies before Kayla returns.

I kneel down next to her body. As I raise the knife to get enough momentum to strike through her skin, her eyes shoot open, and she grabs my wrist.

She was faking her blackout.

For a moment, I think of Grace and how I grabbed her wrist when she tried to stab me, too. Rage courses through me, filling me until all I see is red. I grip Mrs. Ballentine’s wrist and wrench it away from me. I blindly stab at her neck, not caring about what veins or arteries I could hit. Blood spatters back on my face.

When her body is completely still beneath me, I wipe the blood off my face. Good thing the floor is made of wood. It will be easier to clean up. I’ll have to use their van to get rid of the bodies. Maybe I’ll just leave a note for the police that makes it seem like the two adult Ballentines were sick of their life and decided to start over without their children. It may be harsh for Kayla, but it’s better than finding out both her parents were murdered.

I look back up at the family portrait.

I realize why I’ve been obsessing over Kayla. It has nothing to do with wanting a younger sister. She is the symbol of innocence and possibility before it’s taken away by a stranger’s actions. Grace was once her. I was once her.

Now she is one of us, so at least I can say I have a legacy, which is more than I can say for most people. I know I won't talk to her again. She will return home—to a place meant to comfort and protect her—and her parents will be gone. Her innocence will burn away until she finds out that her whole family is dead and then it will turn to smoke and dissipate. She will be just as jaded as I am, and I don't need that in my life.