Inheriting Evil

by K S Logan

  Copyright © 2020 K S Logan

  ISBN: 978-1-7772149-1-3 Paperback

  ISBN: 978-1-7772149-0-6 eBook

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of research, private study, criticism or review, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Purse. Now.”

  “Okay, okay. It’s in the front,” Grace said. He led her to the storefront, keeping her neck crooked tightly in one arm.

  “Hurry up, bitch,” he growled in her ear.

  She grabbed her purse from behind the counter and handed it to him. He let go of her and rummaged through the bag.

  “Any other cash in this place?” he asked, as his eyes scanned the window.

  “I have a little in the drawer here but not much. I don’t—”

  “Shut up, and give it to me.” He took the money out of her wallet and threw her purse at her as Grace took out what cash she had, around eighty pounds, and handed it to him. He grabbed it out of her hands and left the shop.

  Grace locked the shop door, ran up the stairs to her office and called the police from her cell phone. She stood there, breathing heavily, unsure of what to do next. Crossfield Books was now added to the growing list of burglaries committed on the block.

  Grace went back down the stairs to the kitchen and waited for the police. Her legs felt rubbery, and she couldn’t stop the trembling in her hands. Coffee was spilled everywhere, even on the ceiling and her favorite mug, the one Wesley bought her that read, ‘I like big books, and I cannot lie,’ lay broken on the wood floor.

  That’s how her day from hell ended. It didn’t start out much better...

  The bell on the door announced a customer, finally. Grace got up from her desk and looked to the bookstore floor below. Unfortunately, it was not a customer. It was her landlord.

  “Hi, Mr. Resnik,” she called. She tried to sound pleased to see him, but in truth, he always made her feel uneasy with his wandering eyes.

  “Hi, Grace. Bring that pretty face down here a minute. I need a word.” He was a short, stout man, balding, and Grace noticed that he always had an odd smell about him, like a long-forgotten closet.

  Grace made her way down from the upstairs loft that held her office. The winding, wrought iron staircase that led to her bookshop below was one of her favorite elements of the space. It reflected the Georgian era of the building, simple and uniform, not yet influenced by the more detailed Gothic Revival style.

  She rented the store from Mr. Armin Resnik as well as a small flat above. He owned the whole block of little shops and apartments in the magnificent eighteenth century building. Along with Grace’s bookstore, there were a couple of offices, a hearing center, a thrift store, and a coffee shop that was run by Grace’s close friend Devita and her family. She had been warned early on to be wary of Mr. Resnik, one of the tenants even referred to him as a first-class sleaze ball.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Grace accidentally dropped her water bottle. She bent down to pick it up and bumped heads with him as he had also bent down to get it. An unpleasant mix of garlic and sweat offended her nose.

  “Allow me, sweetheart,” he said with a grin. His face had a permanent sneer, and his eyes were always shifting under half-shut lids. She was suddenly glad she’d opted for the high-buttoned blouse this morning.

  “What brings you ‘round?” she asked, moving away from him. “I’ve just brewed some fresh coffee. Care for a cup?” She headed for the back room, in a rush to put some distance between them.

  “No, thank you,” he was picking his teeth with his tongue. “I’m afraid I’m making my rounds this morning to tell you that I’m going to have to raise the rents again.”

  “What? Oh no. Another increase?” She’d spent most of the morning in her office working on the books, which looked bleak, as usual. Her bookstore meant everything to her. She had fulfilled a lifelong dream when she opened it. Unfortunately, something always needed repairing in the old shop, and in her tiny flat. She was already behind in her bills; higher rent would really sting. “You can’t do that, Mr. Resnik. You’ll put me out of business.” She felt warmth rise under her collar, her hands began to sweat, and she was sure her face was turning red. She tried to hold eye contact with him and remain assertive, even though her body was giving her insecurity away. All her life, when Grace experienced stress, it revealed itself to the world.

  He put his hairy hands on his broad hips. He always wore the same clothes: a yellowing collared shirt and gray polyester slacks. His pants were too long for his short, stocky legs and pooled around his brown penny loafers.

  “The lease states that if repairs are of a safety concern, I have the right to obtain money from shop owners. Have you looked at the eaves, Grace? Dangerous. They’re going to fall on someone’s head one of these days. You wouldn’t want a lawsuit, would you?”

  “No, of course not. I’ll figure something out.” Yeah, right, she thought. What was there to figure out? She was in trouble and right now couldn’t see a way out of it.

  “Mind if I use the loo? The wife’s coffee always runs right through me.”

  Grace stood there, absolutely depressed and discouraged. She looked around at her beloved bookstore with its many collections and rare editions.

  She knew she’d probably never get wealthy selling books; that was never her goal. She just wanted to make a decent living surrounded by everything she loved. She enjoyed her regular clientele, who also appreciated the architecture of the space, with its creaky floors and quaint, comfy alcoves.

  Grace scrimped and saved to decorate the bookstore with a sensitivity to the period: dark wood, curvilinear chairs, patterned oriental rugs on the stone floor, antique tables and sideboards. She had collected some Imari style table lamps from an estate sale as well as oil paintings and portraits that added to the ambiance of the tidy little shop.

  She’d made use of all the rooms in the place that was originally a private home in 1724. Rumors had circulated about the original owner haunting the dining room, the largest room with a fireplace, and that brought customers in as well. Her assistant, Wesley, had the idea of placing the Bloods and Penny D
readfuls in there and she noticed it had boosted those sales somewhat.

  The life she built herself here in England, with her store and a few close friends, was the happiest of all her thirty-four years. She had made her dream of opening a bookshop a reality, and there was no way she was losing it. She had even started on her first manuscript. All her life, she longed to see her name on the spine of a book. Finding the time to write when you had your own business was difficult though, especially with the constant upkeep of the old building.

  The bathroom door opened, and Mr. Resnik walked out, still in the process of pulling up his fly.

  He walked toward the door and without turning around, she heard him mutter, “I’ll expect an extra one-eighty on your check for November.”

  Grace straightened a crooked line of books, “I don’t know how I’m going to come up with it, but I guess I’ll have to try.”

  He stopped short of the door and took a survey of the wall and ceiling. Without looking at Grace, he said, “By the way, your toilet wouldn’t flush. You see what I mean, dear. The old place needs some TLC and TLC costs money.”

  That’s just great, thought Grace, wanting to throw up. She felt relieved that he left before he noticed any other costly issues but was crushed by the news of another increase. Not to mention another problem with her toilet and having to deal with whatever he left behind in there.

  She slumped to the small kitchen and poured herself a coffee, racking her brain for ideas to cut more corners. She couldn’t lose her little shop. She’d come so far, done so well, all on her own.

  Her family back in Scotland had money. She couldn’t ask them, though; she’d left on bad terms long ago.

  She hadn’t seen or spoken to her mother or sister in almost eighteen years; ever since she left for boarding school and later to attend business school in England. She’d paid for that all on her own, working two jobs and living in shared housing. She had sent letters to her mother, she did miss her, even though there was a lot of resentment. But she never heard back. Some were returned unopened.

  After her father’s disappearance, she’d had no reason to stay and put up with her sister’s poor treatment of her any longer. Fourteen years of abuse and torment was long enough. Morvin was much older than Grace and held power over her with master manipulation. Her sister had a talent for pushing things to the limit and then drawing back the torture. She’d pull out Grace’s hair or pinch and bite her, but leave no deep marks or blood.

  “Oh, Gracie,” her mother would say, “stop your bubbling. Your sister’s just teasing. It’s how she says she loves you.”

  Grace resented the fact that her parents, especially her mother, let the abuse continue and never took her tears seriously. So, Grace went off to boarding school soon after and, since then, had only spoken to her Aunt Lena, her mother’s sister, a few times.

  Coffee in hand, Grace headed back to her office to face her red numbers again. That’s when she had let out a scream and dropped her cup as the hooded man grabbed her from behind.

  “Well, could’ve been my neck that’s broken instead,” she said, as she picked up the broken pieces. Tears began streaming down her face. “What a bloody day.” She was just about to add ‘what next?’ when she heard the toilet begin to run.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Now, what did that customer want?” Grace looked down at the order sheet. “Oh yeah, a first edition The Far Pavilions.” She scanned her store inventory list. “Aha. I do have one. Let’s see, where are you?” She walked to the back wall, where some of her hard copies were stored.

  The trauma of the robbery was still raw, but she was beginning to put it behind her. The fact that the police had apprehended the young thief that very afternoon certainly helped. Staying busy in her beloved bookstore also kept her mind occupied and away from replaying the scene continuously in her mind.

  After putting herself through business school, Grace worked her way up the ranks and eventually became a regional sales manager for one of the larger bookstore chains in Britain. Within a few years, she’d saved enough money to pay the deposit on this little gem—a bookstore in an immensely charming eighteenth-century building.

  Books seemed to belong in an old building. The mystery held between the covers should be stored in a space with mystery as well. Books, especially antique books, belonged with creaky floors, sculpted archways, and labyrinthine corridors. A bookshop needed to smell of nineteenth-century pulp paper, decayed bindings and the settled dust of centuries past. Grace still found herself intoxicated by those aromas every time she walked through her front door.

  She worked hard for her little business, never turning much, if any, profit. But Grace felt her life was abundant because she was doing it on her own, and doing what she loved.

  “There you are.” She spied the thick volume way up on the top shelf. “Figures.” She sighed loudly and grabbed the nearby library ladder. She tucked a strand of her curly brown hair behind an ear and kicked off her heels. She climbed up to the sixth step and steadied herself with one hip, resting it on a rung then shimmied the heavy book out with her left hand until it was almost ready to fall. With one more nudge, she let the book land heavily on her chin, and then fall to her chest, where she could manage to raise her right shoulder and bicep high enough to secure it. She then safely grabbed it with her trustworthy left hand.

  “I saw that. Why don’t you ask for help?” asked Wesley from below.

  “I managed, didn’t I?” answered Grace, feeling the warmth of a welt beginning to form on her chin. Grace had been born with Erb’s Palsy in her right arm, a disability caused by traumatic birth. It caused her right arm to have limited movement and weakness, and it was also slightly smaller than her left. Although it sometimes made everyday tasks difficult and caused her frequent pain, she had never let it stop her. Managing a large corporation—no problem; zipping up her coat—challenging. Over the years, Grace became good at hiding her disability. She never expected, nor wanted sympathy and rarely asked for help. Most people, unless they were highly observant, never even noticed it.

  “I didn’t want to keep you from fixing the toilet,” Grace said, as she wriggled back into her shoes.

  “Can’t be fixed by me, I’m afraid,” he said, “We need a plumber. How are you doing anyway, Grace? After the whole break-in thing. Why didn’t you just ‘Kung Fu’ his ass?”

  “It’s not Kung Fu, Wesley, its kickboxing, and I don’t know. It all happened so fast. I guess I didn’t get an opportunity. A plumber?” Grace wanted to change the subject. “I don’t have money for that, Wesley.” Grace was hoping it was going to be an easy fix. She didn’t want to give Mr. Resnik any reason to raise the rents again, but the old building did need so much work. Yes, the architecture and character were gorgeous, but it did come with its headaches. He kept raising the rents to pay for much-needed repair and maintenance but really, she didn’t see much getting done. One of his big plans that was going to ‘cost us all a fortune’ was to reface the old building completely. Grace was dead set against this; she preferred restoration instead of refacing.

  “I’ll pay for the plumber. Just pay me double next month. I can handle it, no problem,” said Wesley. “And use whatever’s left to change that stupid name on the storefront.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Again, Wesley? I don’t see what’s so bad about Crossfield Books. I mean, I guess it’s a little boring, but we are in Crossfield, England.” Grace began descending the ladder. “Anyway, no, Wes. I already owe you some back pay.” She misstepped the last rung; thankfully Wesley caught her arm before she fell. She smiled at him in thanks. “I’ll figure something out,” she seemed to be saying that a lot lately. “You’re so sweet, though.” She knew Wesley would work in her store for free if she asked him.

  He loved old books and literature almost as much as she, although he also had a passion for graphic novels, something that held no interest for her. He had talked her into selling a few editions that he claimed contained ‘s
erious literary themes and sophisticated artwork.’ She had to admit they sold well. Now the genre had a whole section at the back of the store and Wesley was in full charge of it.

  “I’ve been thinking about cool names for the store again, though,” he said. How about ‘The Raven and Glass Classical Bookstore,’ or ‘The Dusty Shelf?’” Wesley followed her to the front desk. “Hey, this is a good one—I thought of it while I was playing D & D last night with Josh, ‘The Iron Key.’ He spread one hand in a long line in front of him as he said it and then looked at Grace with a proud smile.

  “Okaayy,” Grace drawled. “Those are worse than last time, except for the second one. I kind of like that. And it suits this place—take a look at those cobwebs in that corner.” She gave him a wink.

  Grace sounded light and cheery, but in actuality, she was in real danger of losing her little shop. With ever-increasing high rent and the poor condition of the old place, she was beginning to sink fast. It killed her to think of losing everything she’d worked so hard for, everything she loved. Failure would be crushing, especially when she’d done so much, all on her own, with no help from her wealthy family.

  “Maybe Marc will be able to fix the toilet,” she said. Marc was Wesley’s older brother and Grace’s boyfriend.

  “Oh please,” he replied, “if I can’t fix it, what makes you think Prince Charming can?”

  The two brothers were like honey and lemons, in manner and appearance. Wesley was the younger of the two by eight years. He was heavyset with a round, pleasant face, still marked with adolescence even though he was in his early twenties. He had a gentle nature and a soft heart.

  Marc, on the other hand, was tall and lean, with a chiseled chin and prominent features. Everywhere they went, women followed him with their eyes, and he knew it. He was charismatic and sophisticated. Too bad you couldn’t mix the two brothers and have the perfect man.

  Marc wasn’t Grace’s type, but he pursued her so romantically, leaving flowers at the door in the mornings, wining and dining her, sending sweet texts on her phone. He’d even quoted some of her favorite authors to impress her.