Unleashed (35 page)

I lowered myself into the hole. Loud banging came from down the hall. My feet hit the boat. It wobbled until I crouched into it. I motioned for Blue to join me, but he just stood at the edge, looking down at me, whining.

"Get in here," I hissed at him. He didn't move, so I grabbed his front paws and dragged him down. He fell, all legs, into the boat. I fought with the knot holding us to the building. The lights went out. For a moment all sound stopped. The power was gone. I fumbled in the darkness, trying to free us from Eighty-Eight East End Avenue. The building's generator whirred, and the bulb above my head flickered back to life. The knot gave, and the current took us. We headed into an impossible blackness. I stayed low, holding onto Blue, trusting that Mulberry was right. That this would end with the river.

We spent an immeasurable amount of time in that damp darkness. Blue whined softly. I listened to the gentle splashing of water against the hull. When I thought that we would drift in the depths of the city's drainage system forever, I saw a glow. We moved toward it quickly, and in a rush the sky was above us, Queens was to our right, Manhattan to our left. The East River was carrying us through the city, shrouded in darkness. Sirens screamed, and I heard the distant sounds of people yelling and horns honking—the excitement and mayhem of a blackout.

The wind blew steadily, and the waves carried us up and down. Water splashed against the boat, spraying over its sides, coating us in a fine, briny mist. The moon reflected against the black water, and we were gone. Into the night. Into the future.

T
he sun flirted with the horizon, reflecting off the Sea of Cortez. I dug my feet into the sand past the warmed top layer down into the moist, heavy stuff. A plate of oysters and an unmarked bottle of tequila sat on the table next to me. Blue slept under the table, his nose and tail sticking out of either end

"How've you been?" asked a voice behind me. Blue lifted his head to turn and look. I kept watching the sea. I knew the voice, and I knew there was nothing to hurry about. The sun was getting ready to make a plunge, and I didn't want to miss it.

"Have a seat," I motioned to a chair. Mulberry sat, his weight pushing the plastic legs deep into the sand. "You've gained weight," I said.

He laughed, his round belly shaking softly. "I know," he said. "I know."

We sat for a while, in silence, watching the sun splash the clouds with gold and pink and purple. The ocean changed too. The sky's personal mirror reflected the sun's work, distorting it only slightly to make it more dramatic. The dark blue crept up behind us and started over our heads, invading the sky, forcing the sun to retreat. I turned to my oysters, splashed one with tequila and sucked it into my mouth.

"You want one?" I asked Mulberry, looking him in the eyes. He looked happy, I thought.

"You look like shit. Something haunting you?" Mulberry asked.

I soaked another oyster and slid it down my throat before answering him. "No."

He laughed again. It was filled with ease and comfort. "You're right where I left you," he said. "Wasting away down here." I didn't answer him. "What's your plan—sit on this beach for the rest of your life, eat oysters from a dirty fucking shack?" He waved at the shack behind us where I'd bought my oysters from a slow-moving man named Ramone. I still didn't answer him. I had nothing to say. He sat back in his chair. "I want you to come work for me. I've got a business I set up with some people. I could use you."

"I'm happily unemployed." I skipped the oyster this time, going straight for tequila.

Mulberry was smiling. I spent every day nauseous and afraid and every night sweating and hoping it would just stop. And Mulberry was smiling at me.

"You're down here making yourself miserable for no reason." He picked up one of my oysters, and splashed some tequila on it.

"I'm fine."

"The only problem is your name."

I turned back to the sea. Thanks to Jacqueline Saperstein, Mayor Kurt Jessup was exposed for the killer he was. Jackie took my letter and ran with it. She kept pushing until the city was forced to acknowledge the truth. Jackie called me a hero. Others called me a cold-blooded killer. The police called me wanted. I considered myself a failure.

I hadn't told anyone that Kurt was dead when I got there. And no one mentioned that there was more than one type of bullet imbedded in the corpse. Recently promoted Detective Declan Doyle named me the killer, and only I was the wiser. Declan did tell me that Kurt would reap what he sowed. Karma is what he'd called it. Murder is what most people would.

I guessed my Karma would come around someday soon. It turned out the mayor was right about one thing: He owed people, and they came a calling. I was still testing his theory about treasure making you free.

Mulberry laughed. "Don't tell me it's guilt about James." The name stabbed me in the gut, and Mulberry saw it. "Jesus, you think that's what he wants? You think he wants his only sister down here moping away into the sunset because a psycho killed him?"

"He would have never died if it hadn't been for me."

Mulberry laughed and threw his hands in the air. "Of course he would have died. Everyone dies."

"I mean not so soon."

"Not so soon. Who cares when it happened? It happened. He's dead, and guess what? You're not. No matter how much you try and make out like you are, you're not. So what do you say? Join me?" He was smiling at me, all confidence. I turned back to the sun. It sat on the horizon, wavering between sky and sea, glowing gold and gorgeous.

"I'm a fugitive," I said.

Mulberry pulled out a passport, as dark blue as the sky creeping up on us, and threw it onto the table.

"What's that?"

"Open it." Inside was a picture of me, the new me with the scars, next to the name Sydney Rye. I looked at Mulberry. He was smiling. "Sydney, you've got talent."

"Talent?" I hissed. "I got my brother killed, myself exiled—what are you talking about, talent?" I spit the word at him.

He just smiled, so relaxed and unwound. "Join me."

"I can't." I put the passport down and stared back out at the darkening sky.

Mulberry sighed. "However you want it." He pushed on the table to help himself stand. It wobbled under his weight. He stood over me. "You're never going to be happy here. You're never going to be happy again until you get off your ass and do something right." I looked up. His eyes were locked onto mine. "Dammit, Joy." He slammed his fist down on the table, knocking over the bottle of tequila and making the oysters quiver in their shells.

"What do you want from me?" I yelled back at him.

"I want you to work for me. I want you to get off your ass and do what's right. I want you to be Sydney Rye."

"I don't think I can." I felt my face grow hot and tears well in my eyes. Mulberry grabbed the collar of my shirt and hauled me out of my seat. Blue stood up from under the table and growled.

"Don't give me that bullshit," Mulberry said, his face close to mine. I pulled at his hand, but although his belly had softened, his arms were still made of boulders. "You know what you are. There's nothing else you can be. Do you get that? You don't have a choice. You're stuck, as stuck as me." I looked up at him and realized he was right. "You're a detective, God help you. You're Sydney Rye, private investigator now, and you better stop crying and start thanking me for saving your sorry ass." He dropped me back into my chair, turned, and started to walk up the beach.

I sat for a moment, regaining my breath. He was right, I thought. I wasn't Joy anymore. I hadn't been for a long time. Somewhere between the beginning of this story and the end, without even trying or knowing or wanting to, I became Sydney mother-fucking Rye.

The last glint of the sun dropped into the sea leaving the sky streaked with violet, soft-pink, and pale baby blue. I looked at Mulberry's retreating figure and yelled, "Wait!" Mulberry didn't turn. "Wait!" I hauled my sorry ass out of that chair and ran down the beach after him, Blue on my heel.

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

About the Author:

Emily splits her time between the Hudson Valley and traveling the world with her husband, Sean, and her dog, Kinsey (named after Sue Grafton's Kinsey Milhone), researching exciting locations for the Sydney Rye Series. Kimelman has a passion for traveling and spends as much time as possible in the pursuit of adventure.

You can follow along on their adventures through Instagram,
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The Sydney Rye series feature a strong female protagonist and her canine best friend. It is recommended for the 18+ who enjoy some violence, don't mind dirty language, and are up for a dash of sex. Not to mention an awesome, rollicking good mystery!

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The Sydney Rye Series

UNLEASHED (A Sydney Rye Novel, #1)

DEATH IN THE DARK (A Sydney Rye Novella, #2)

INSATIABLE (A Sydney Rye Novel, #3)

STRINGS OF GLASS (A Sydney Rye Novel, #4)

THE DEVIL'S BREATH (A Sydney Rye Novel, #5)

INVITING FIRE (A Sydney Rye Novel, #6)

A Note from the Author:

Thank you for reading my novel, UNLEASHED. I'm excited that you made it through my whole bio right here to my "note". I'm guessing that means that you enjoyed my story. If so, would you please write a review for UNLEASHED? You have no idea how much it warms my heart to get a new review. And this isn't just for me, mind you. Think of all the people out there who need reviews to make decisions. The children who need to be told this book is not for them. And the people about to go away on vacation who could have so much fun reading this on the plane. Consider it an act of kindness to me, to the children, to humanity.

Let people know what you thought about UNLEASHED on Goodreads or iTunes.

* * *

Start Reading DEATH IN THE DARK (A Sydney Rye novella, #2) Now...

––––––––

"W
ait!" My voice strained against the wind blowing off the Sea of Cortez. I pushed through the sand, running after him. My dog, Blue, stayed by my side, his gait lopsided. Mulberry was a slow-moving figure several yards ahead of me. Solid looking in the hazy light of dusk, he took his time crossing the sand.

He didn't turn until I grabbed his arm. "Wait," I panted. "You're right. I need your help."

Mulberry grinned, pushing his crow's feet into sharp relief as his yellow-green eyes brightened. "I know," he laughed. "You're such a fucking mess."

Mulberry wrapped me in a hug with one strong arm around my waist and the other across my shoulders. He buried his head in my hair and pulled my face into his chest. At first, in that dark intimacy, I felt like I was suffocating. Almost immediately, though, I felt relief wash over me. I was not totally alone in this world, my only companion a limping mutt.

Blue yelped, excited by our embrace, and circled us, churning up the sand. Mulberry smelled like clean laundry, sea salt, and carried an unmistakable odor that was all him. Pulling away, he left his hands on my shoulders and looked down into my face. While Mulberry was only a little taller than me, it seemed like he was so much bigger, so much stronger and smarter, and under control. I felt like a blurry image next to his stark silhouette.

"Come on, I'll buy you dinner." He threw his arm around me and we walked back toward the Oyster Farm. I'd been living there for months, ever since we'd crossed into Mexico. I'd come for the oysters and had stayed for the isolation.

"So, where've you been?" I asked. "It's been what? Four months?" After turning our treasure into money, which made us both rich, Mulberry left, and I stayed at my Oyster Farm, despite his begging for me to come with him. "You went to Paris, right?" I asked.

The sun was beneath the sea now, and the deep blue of the sky was turning black at the edge. "Yeah, Paris, then London. Like I said, I've been setting up a business."

Back at my plastic table, a couple of oysters sat in their half-shells, waiting to be eaten. I righted the fallen bottle of tequila, but did not take a sip. The passport was there, too; dark blue and embossed with the American seal, it sat waiting for me to pick it up and become a new woman: Sydney Rye.

"Go on, take it," Mulberry said. "You might get carded at the bar." He laughed at his own joke, and I smiled.

"Yeah, right. That will be the day."

But I didn't pick up the passport. It suddenly felt like a betrayal to take on a new identity. I was, and should always be, the-fuck-up Joy Humbolt. Didn't I deserve the sentence I'd meted out to myself? Could a new name—a new life—change the darkness that lived inside me? It was the same darkness that haunted my every movement, and drove me to the brink of despair.

I laughed out loud.

"What?" Mulberry asked.

"I just don't know when I got so damn morose." I swiped at a tear that was suddenly moving down my cheek.

"You don't have to be, Joy." We waited in silence, listening to the gentle waves lapping at the hard-packed beach. A bird called out its final goodnight, stars popped out in the sky above us.

I reached out and toyed with the edge of the passport, peeking under its cover to look at the photo again. There she was, Sydney Rye: 5'6", blonde hair, scarred face, steel gray eyes. It would be my first passport. I'd never left the country before coming here. Well, fleeing here. Mulberry waited patiently for me to put the thing in my pocket, to accept that it was my only way out; I was no longer Joy Humbolt. She was a mess. Sydney Rye was a detective. I pushed it into the back pocket of my torn jeans, and turned to Mulberry.

"I'm ready."

At the bar, we were greeted by the owner, Andre. He was excited to see us again. "It's been too long," he called when we stepped under the awning. Andre, an Italian expat, hurried through the packed tables, his white linen shirt glowing under the soft lights strung above the patio. He shook Mulberry's hand with gusto. Andre's jet black hair, gelled into place, lay undisturbed by his large gestures. Spotting Blue, Andre reached over and scratched his ears vigorously. Blue accepted the petting gladly, and his eyelids drifted closed in pleasure.