Disturbed Mind (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Series Book 2) (9 page)

(
L
ate Saturday Afternoon
; Kevin’s House, Murray, Virginia)

“HEY, GRACE,
I’m heading back to the morgue for the night. I just want to double-check under my John Doe’s fingernails and another body came in. The hospital is pretty certain it’s a heart attack, but they want me to check it out to be sure…” Sam’s voicemail trails off for a second as if he was distracted by something. “…Anyway, I’ll make it up to you. We’ll have a date night soon…Uh, could you stay at Kevin’s again? There’s still a murderer out there and I just want you to be safe. I’ll text or call you sometime tonight, depending on when I get done, but I’m probably not going to be done until around midnight, so it’ll probably be a text. Again, I’m sorry. I love you. Bye.”

I set my phone back down, already sitting in Kevin’s driveway. This is the second time I’ve listened to Sam’s message, trying to find some hidden message in his words. He had called at twelve fifty this afternoon, five minutes after my university class begins. Did he purposely do that, so he wouldn’t have to talk to me? Or am I just being paranoid?

Or do I feel so guilty for rejecting his proposal that I believe he has been pulling away from me?

I turn my head to look at my brother’s old house. I won’t miss it when it’s sold.

Then, I see him.

Francis Tate, getting into a white truck.

Knock, knock, knock.

I jerk as a face appears in my window.

It’s Kevin.

I glance back over at my brother’s house. Nobody is there. No van, no Francis, nothing.

“Have you seen anybody over at the Schneider house?” I ask Kevin.

“You mean your house since it is legally
your
house?” he asks. He shakes his head. “Other than the Schneiders and their friends? No, nobody. Steve Rolf has been lingering around with his boy, but that’s it. Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

I rub my face. “I’ve just been really stressed. A lot has been going on. I think it’s all starting to get to me.”

“Well, why don’t you come in and we can try to treat that stress with some puppy love and beer,” he says. I nod, opening the truck door. I follow him into his house.

“Kevin?” I ask as I sit on his couch.

“Yeah?”

“Did you and your wife ever have any rough patches?”

“Of course we did. We weren’t perfect. I mean, I was the furthest from perfect that someone could get.”

“What kind of issues did you two have?”

He sighs, sitting across from me in his suede armchair. “Where do I begin? Finances, flirting, family…the three F’s…kids, cleaning, religion, politics, whether or not supercalifragilisticexpialidocious could be considered a real word and if it was the longest word in the dictionary. Why? Are you and Sam having problems?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Something happened back in December and I think…I think he resents me for it.”

Rhett Butler, Kevin’s dog comes charging at me. He seems to have grown an inch or two in the last couple of days. He bounds onto my lap and licks furiously at my face.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, petting his back. “How are you doing?”

“I can’t imagine many things would make Sam resent you,” Kevin says. “You’re two peas in a pod.”

“Could you imagine him resenting me if I rejected his marriage proposal?” I ask.

Kevin winces. “That is pretty bad. Why would you reject him? I thought you two were pretty in love.”

“We are in love,” I say. “Or we were. I don’t know what his feelings toward me are anymore, but I’m still in love with him. I don’t know what’s happening to us. He just seems distant lately.”

“Well…this happened back in December and you two are still together, so he must still love you,” Kevin says.

“Or he’s just afraid of upsetting the girl who was nearly murdered twice,” I say, voicing my real fears for the first time.

“He’s not that kind of guy.”

“But he is,” I say. “He cares a lot about how the community sees him. He wouldn’t want people to think he’s a bad guy, so at the very least he would wait a few years until after the Deacon Cochrane situation to break up with me.”

“He won’t break up with you,” Kevin insists. “Look, I’ve talked to Sam about you. He is clearly, two hundred percent in love you.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.” Rhett Butler licks my chin. I scratch his head.

“Well, I’ve noticed that Dr. Sam Meadows is not the best at communication and know from my vast experiences with women that women tend to need verbal confirmations of love,” he says. “Sam has a hard time with the personal things. He just needs a little budge.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I do.”

I exhale. “I don’t want to lose him.”

“I know,” he says. “And you won’t. You two will work everything out.”

“And if we don’t?”

He glances over at his photograph of him and his wife.

“Then you move on until you find someone that you can work everything out with,” he says.

“I don’t think I can have a better relationship with anyone else,” I say.

“Then you should try to make it work,” he says, and then stands up. “How are you liking Stoddard High School?”

“It’s great,” I say. “Rick Burrows is a bit of a handful.”

“Yeah, that one is a troublemaker,” he says. “I get to see him quite often. His ass imprint is in my office chair by now.”

He stretches.

“Well, it’s late,” he says. “I gotta get some sleep.”

“Thank you, Kevin,” I say. I stand up and hug him. “You’ve been a great friend.”

He claps my back. “It’s been my pleasure, Grace.”

He pulls back and shuffles his way down to his bedroom. I take the blanket and pillow that he had placed on the coach leather club chair. I lay the pillow down on the couch, lie down, and wrap myself in the blanket. When I close my eyes, I can still see Francis. He’s invading my thoughts and I’m not sure that there’s a way to cleanse my mind of his presence.

(
S
unday Morning
; Connor’s House, Murray, Virginia)

THE HOUSE IS UNDER
Connor Ellery’s name. There aren’t any cars in the driveway. I walk up to the garage and peek in. Nobody is home.

I let myself into the yard through the back gate. I’ve wandered around the house a few times—usually during working hours, so nobody ever notices—and it’s never been locked. I suppose with a community like this, they don’t think about locking their gates.

I’d read the news about Deacon Cochrane. From the reports, he seems a little too compassionate to me and his relationship to his grandfather a little too close. In the fall, Deacon’s journals were leaked—it was suspected that one of the Murray policemen sold the information. A national news magazine published it. It was picked up by just about every news outlet on the Internet. Deacon’s enraged grandfather, Albert Cochrane, sued everyone he could, and found a decent lawyer willing to represent him in that suit. He won enough settlement money to move out of Murray—away from the place that only saw Deacon as a monster—and he was last known to be living in Texas. Albert seems like a nice enough guy, but if I had a family member like that, I certainly would have killed them. Emotional attachments are a weakness—my attachment to Grace showed me that. Deacon thought that by killing off his grandfather’s competition that he was doing something noble and in the end, all that happened was that he got killed.

By Grace.

For a moment, I wonder if Grace felt the same powerful feeling that I did from killing someone. I could see the two of us traveling together, killing together…an even more vicious and terrifying version of Bonnie and Clyde. But could I risk her turning against me again? Could I risk the feeling of betrayal and abandonment?

No.

I survey the property. A willow tree could be problematic—their roots have a tendency to destroy sewage pipes, water lines, house foundations, and their branches make a mess in yards. People always think that they look beautiful without understanding how insidious they are. It’s just like Grace—while you’re busy staring at the gorgeous sweeping branches, it’s already twisting around your livelihood and squeezing until everything that keeps you grounded is destroyed.

A loud knocking sound interrupts my thoughts. I flinch, the sound reminding me of my time in prison, and my eyes dart left and right searching for some prison guard that finally caught up to me.

Finally, with my heart pounding in my chest and my eyes wide with surprise, I notice Zach Schneider on the other side of the sliding glass door. Zach’s body is doubled over and his face is red from laughter. I can hear the sound of his delight even through the glass. The cereal bowl that’s in one of his hands has milk sloshing out of it from how hard he’s laughing.

He points at me. “You look like you nearly pissed yourself! I’m gonna tell everyone about this!”

He sets his bowl of cereal on the kitchen island and bolts away from the door.

Anger settles in my stomach like embers. With every breath I exhale, the embers become hotter and hotter until the flames are surging through my whole body.

Elementary, middle school, high school, college, prison…I was always the joke. Even though I made myself to look like the jocks after high school, people could still tell that I was odd and I could never fit into their world. They didn’t need to tell me that I didn’t fit in with the rest of them—I was well aware. Everyone looked at me as if I was an exhibition at the freak show.

Not anymore. I’m going to ensure that people don’t look at me with revulsion and disdain. I will make them feel fear that they couldn’t even conjure in their worst nightmares and horror movies.

I take off my Dr. Martens steel toe boots outside, leaving them in the wet grass, and in socked feet, I walk across the patio. I take Connor’s house key that I copied out of my pocket. I unlock the glass door and slide it open. I walk inside and pass by the kitchen. I hear footsteps upstairs. I take each step up the stairs with bated breath.

I follow the sound of someone scurrying around. When I reach the room, I see Zach searching through his closet. His room is painted the same shade of orange as a basketball and his room is a collection of sports paraphernalia, clothes, shoes, and posters of women in bikinis standing in front of sports cars.

Zach’s cell phone vibrates. As he turns around to get it, he notices me. His eyes widen as he sees me on the threshold of his bedroom. His jaw slackens and he takes a step back.

I laugh.

Not a loud, booming laugh, but one that builds up from a giggle to a chuckle. It’s the kind of laugh that commands the room without being aggressive.

Zach’s expression changes—his forehead furrows and his lips tighten into a small line. His eyes narrow.

I stop laughing and smile at him.

“How did you get in the house?” he asks.

“The door was unlocked,” I tell him. He stares at me. I can see his thoughts swishing through his small brain, trying to figure out if any of the doors were unlocked. I decide to end his excruciating pain of trying to form a cohesive thought.

“Do you want to go get some real breakfast?” I ask.

“I don’t have a car.”

“I have the utility truck,” I tell him. I see him trying to think again. Since it’s Sunday and the house has a few crosses hanging on the wall, I can assume that his family is at church. Zach, like most teenage boys, didn’t want to go to church but, like most upper-middle class families that thank God for their snotty children, they will eat out at some diner or pancake chain restaurant. I don’t blame Zach for not going there—who wants to hear babies screaming while they eat half-baked pancakes with their preaching parents?

“Sure,” he says “But not to Emma’s Diner.”

Ah. Emma’s Diner. I read people too well for my own good. Well, I also read people too well for their own good, too.

“Do you have a sweater I could use or something?” I ask, gesturing to my plain white T-shirt that has three holes in it. He nods, turning back to his closet. I walk up behind him, the confident laughter about to burst out of my chest again.

(
J
anuary
; Franklin County Municipal Court, Columbus, Ohio)

“THE PROSECUTION CALLS
Grace Ellery to the stand,” the prosecutor, Janice Richter, states. Grace looks incredibly small as she shuffles her feet to the stand. Her hair appears lank—not the usual shine it had in the two years that she taught me—and her eyes seem lost as she looks at everything but me in the small courtroom. I feel my fists clench when I see her. I would have thought that the anger would leave me as soon as I let it out by stabbing her, but it still claws inside my stomach, growing more than ever.

Grace states her name and address for the court. I note that she uses her mother’s address and not her own, so she must have moved in between the time I stabbed her and now. It’s a shame. If my court-appointed lawyer had gotten me off, or even when I get out of prison, I would have liked to see her house or apartment.

“Could you tell us how you know the defendant, Francis Tate?” Janice asks. Grace tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Even in her distressed state and the nervous gaze of a deer that knows a hunter is nearby, she is beautiful. Stunning.

“I…I was his teacher for American history,” she mumbles into the microphone. For less than a second, her eyes catch mine. I smile. Her gaze drop down to her lap.

“At what school?”

“Bishop Alternative High School”

“How long had you worked there?”

“Three years,” she mumbles.

“What was your initial impression of Francis Tate?”

“He was smart,” she says. I can feel her struggle to not look up at me. “I could also tell that he was troubled—like a lot of students I taught—but I thought it was because he was bullied. I never pictured him as someone who would…attack someone else…certainly not his teacher…”

“I don’t think anyone could have predicted that,
Miss Ellery. Now, I know it’s difficult, but could you walk the jury through what happened on the night of November third?”

She tries to look up at the jury, but quickly focuses on her hands again. “I was at my mother’s house because I was helping her prepare for winter. After she left to go to her job as a nurse at Select Specialty Hospital, I cut up some wood for the wood stove and began making a pie…while I was making the pie, F-Francis knocked on the door. I answered it. H-he had brought flowers and he expressed…romantic interest in me. I…I…I…”

Grace is visibly shaking now. I imagine my hand on her arm or leg, feeling the vibration of her body…feeling the fear that curls under her skin.

“It’s okay, Miss Ellery, just take a deep breath,” Janice says. The judge hands Janice a box of tissues. Janice takes one out and tries to hand it to Grace, but Grace shakes her head and wipes away the tears in her eyes.

Like I said, she’s stunning.

Grace takes a deep breath. “A-and he became aggressive. I tried to…get away from him, but he had me cornered in the kitchen. So, I grabbed the one thing that was n-nearby. A knife from the knife block on the counter. H-he wrestled it o-out of my hand…and he stabbed me.”

“Do you know how many times he stabbed you?”

“I d-didn’t realize it then, but I’m told by the doctor that it was—“

“Objection!” Jacob Little, my court-appointed lawyer, shouts. “Hearsay.”

“It’s not hearsay, Your Honor,” Janice says. “Hearsay would be if I asked Miss Ellery if someone else said that they saw Mr. Tate stab her. It’s not hearsay because it’s a medical diagnosis.”

“I know what hearsay is, Mrs. Richter,” Judge Harold Boyle says. “I’ll allow it.”

“Miss Ellery, how many times does your
medical
record say that you were stabbed?” Janice asks, giving Jacob a scathing look. What a bitch.

“Twelve times,” Grace mutters. Janice nods, faking sympathy. I suppose she and Grace are two of a kind.

“The defendant, Francis Tate, states that he could not possibly have attacked you because he was a witness to his father killing his mother and therefore, could never commit violence himself, much less stand the sight of blood,” Janice states. I really hate this woman. I’m not sure if it’s because of the tight bun that makes her black hair seem infinitely darker and alien-like or her condescending attitude. Maybe she reminds me of my mother. “Has Francis Tate ever demonstrated any behavior—prior to you being stabbed multiple times—”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Jacob shouts. “Mrs. Richter assumes facts that are not in evidence. She does not need to talk about Francis Tate being connected to the attack on Miss Ellery.”

“Your Honor, I stated that she was attacked, not that Francis Tate attacked her,” Janice says.

“Proceed,” Judge Boyle says.

I am so completely and utterly screwed.

“Miss Ellery, can you think of any behavior that Francis Tate demonstrated in which he showed violence or the ability to be around blood without feeling nauseous?” Janice asks Grace again.

“Um, yes,” Grace whispers into the microphone. Her arms are crossed over her stomach and her face twinges in pain when she leans forward. It must still cause her pain, though it’s been nearly three months since the attack. It’s amazing that I had that much of an effect on her…and slightly less amazing that I could end up in a cell for the next decade. I would get out when I was thirty-four years old. It would essentially be my youth. “We, uh, did a war reenactment in my history class. It was the Civil War…two classes were split into the Union and the Confederacy. We needed the Confederacy to have a home advantage, so we did the reenactment outside, where the Confederacy had put up a bunch of obstacles and places for them to hide. We used toy guns with foam balls and foam arrows. F-Francis was part of the Union. One of the students who was in the Confederacy shot him right away. It was within seconds of the game starting…Francis became really angry and beat the other student. Two other students had to drag him off. The student had a bloody nose. Francis…he wasn’t even fazed that he had hurt the student, much less worried about the blood. He was still angry…”

“Thank you, Miss Ellery,” Janice says. My lawyer glares at me. I shrug. I don’t remember the student’s name, but he was an asshole that always targeted me in gym class, too. He deserved to have his nose broken. If it’s any consolation, I broke my hand, too. Of course, no one mentions that because even if someone else starts a battle, it’s the person who ends the battle that is blamed for the damage. “Now, as the
medical record
shows, you were stabbed
twelve times
, which is a very traumatic event in someone’s life. Have you experienced any effects since you were stabbed
twelve times
?”

“Yes,” Grace mumbles into the microphone. Her hair falls in front of her face. I lean to the side, so I can continue to look at her eyes. Jacob grabs my arm and pulls me back upright.

“Could you tell us what those effects are?”

“I…I have trouble sleeping…and when I do sleep, I have nightmares a-about the attack. Even though I’ve known that…that he’s in prison, I worry about him showing up at the house or anywhere else I go. Sometimes I do think I see him…I take anti-anxiety medication now…and I see a therapist.”

“So, all in all, this attack has had a massively negative effect on your life?” Janice asks. Grace nods. Janice raises her eyebrow. I suppose Grace needs to speak aloud for it to be put onto record. Even going through foster care in my mid and late teens, I’ve seen all of the courtroom TV shows.

“Yes,” Grace whispers.

“Thank you again, Miss Ellery. That is all.” Janice walks back to the prosecution table and sits down. Jacob stands up, taking a deep breath.

“Miss Ellery, let me assure you that we are all upset that you were violently attacked,” he says. Grace’s forehead furrows in confusion. Maybe this lawyer is worth something.

“Thank you,” Grace mumbles.

“Now, you and Mrs. Richter were talking about your medical records…a point that Mrs. Richter liked to emphasize,” Jacob says. Grace nods, though I don’t think her agreement is necessary. “You talked about taking medication, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Grace says.

“Can you tell me which medications you take?”

Grace bites her lip. She knows she’s walking into a trap, but she doesn’t know how to stop herself from being ensnared. I like this Jacob guy. “Um, I’m taking Anexor for general anxiety, Mialopine for depression, Filorine for when I have a panic attack, and I take an over-the-counter sleep aid.”

“Right,” Jacob says. “Now, I read up on your prescriptions, so tell me if I’m wrong—you began taking Mialopine before the attack?”

“Um, yes,” Grace says, blinking several times. “I began taking it…in my sophomore year of college. I was diagnosed with chronic depression and I went to a psychiatrist, Dr. Oh, who prescribed them to me.

“Do you know what the side effects are to Mialopine?”

“Um, not all of them.” Grace begins to nibble on her thumbnail. Cute. “I think nausea and weight gain are two of them.”

“Your Honor, I would like to enter this prescription drug information from the U.S. Food and Drug Administration as Exhibit A,” Jacob says. Showing the judge a sheet of paper. Judge Boyle nods. He puts the paper in front of Grace. She takes it. “Can you read the side effects of Mialopine aloud for the jury?”

“Um, fatigue, nausea, increased appetite, weight gain, loss of sexual desire, insomnia, constipation, irritability, blurred vision, hallucinations, worsening depression—“

“Okay, okay,” Jacob says. “You mentioned hallucinations and blurred vision.”

“…Yes…”

“And while talking to Mrs. Richter, you mentioned sometimes thinking that you saw Mr. Tate, which is impossible because he’s in a high-security prison,” Jacob says. Grace wilts in her seat.

“I…I didn’t mean literally,” she says.

“You didn’t mean it
literally
? Well, did you mean that you were stabbed by Mr. Tate literally or did your blurred vision and hallucinations cause you to see someone else? Could you—a person who spends all of her time in her classroom—have had a fantasy about a student being in love with you and you wished it so hard that it came true? Could you have—”

“Objection! Conjecture, Your Honor! And badgering the witness!” Janice shouts, slamming her hand against the table.

“Sustained,” Judge Boyle says. “Tread lightly, Mr. Little.”

“Okay, Miss Ellery, let me rephrase the question. Is it possible that you could have had hallucinations because of your use of Mialopine?”

“…I don’t think—”

“That should be a yes or no answer, Miss Ellery,” Jacob states. Grace hangs her head.

“It is possible.”

I cover my mouth to hide my smile. Maybe I should have become a lawyer. It must be a beautiful thing to come into people’s lives as a stranger and leave as the man who single-handedly destroyed everything you put your faith into. It’s the closest you can get to being a god besides being a murderer.

A
s the jury
walks back into the courtroom, they are all avoiding my gaze. I can assume that’s bad. It’s a shame. I suppose I should have appreciated the outside world more before I was arrested, but I was a bit busy trying to capture the heart of the woman I was in love with. Was? Maybe I still am in love with her.

Judge Boyle sighs. “Jury, have you reached a verdict?”

A woman in her thirties with blond highlights, which are too chunky to look good, stands up. “We did…we have decided, Your Honor.”

“Is the verdict unanimous?”

The woman glances at the other jury members. A few of them nodded. She turns back to the judge. “It’s unanimous.”

The woman hands a note to the court clerk. The clerk hands the paper to the judge. The judge unfolds the note. I can feel every breath leave my lungs, but it doesn’t matter because I know this is the last time I will be able to see Grace for a long time.

Don’t die, I tell her telepathically. Don’t die until I’m finished with you.

For a second, I swear she hears my thoughts because for the first time she looks directly at me. Her green eyes remind me of the beer bottles my father used to drink from until fear streaks through them. Then, they remind me of my mother and the same look she gave me before I shot her.

How pure. How primal. How starkly, delicately, immeasurably gorgeous.

“Will the defendant rise?” Judge Boyle commands. I get onto my feet, still looking at Grace. I will memorize every part of her. The angle of her nose, the tiny scar on chin—from chicken pox or acne, the exact length of her eyelashes. I will store it in my mind and bring it up every second of my time in prison. It will almost be freedom. Then, when I’m free, I will find her and memorize her body in new ways—preferably with a knife that will carve out her nose, the scar, her eyelids. This single thought will keep me alive until I am a free man.

“In the matter of
The State of Ohio
versus
Francis Tate
, on the count of attempted murder, how do you find?”

The woman in the jury box takes a deep breath. She looks directly at me, trying to be brave. It’s like a tiny rabbit trying to stand up to the wolf—ridiculous, dimwitted, and certainly worthy of death. She’ll be the first person I kill when I get out. I bet she has a nice car that I could take off her hands. I’ll need one to get to Grace.

The woman clears her throat. “We find him guilty.”

Grace bursts into tears, but I can’t help but smile. I know the emotions I’m supposed to be feeling—dread, anger, sadness, possibly resignation—but I already have everything figured out. Now I just need to be patient.

“Stop smiling,” Jacob grumbles to me. I begin to laugh, my shoulders shaking from the sound. Grace glances up and looks at me again. I wink at her.

We’ll be united again and I will turn her beauty into something horrific.