by J. Conrad
Blood Red Summer
A Thriller
J. Conrad
Blood Red Summer
A Trent & Aria Mystery Thriller Book 2
Other books in this series:
* * *
Blood Red Winter
Blood in Truth
Flesh and Blood
Blood Is Thicker
Copyright © 2021 J. Conrad. Previously published as Almost Dead in 2018.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. While references might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
1. One Year Ago
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
5. Present Day
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
32. Present Day
1
One Year Ago
Above our once green Central Texas backyard hangs a thin cloud of hazy, gray smoke. Like fog, it blankets the atmosphere and the people within, blurring my vision as my gaze strains to pierce it. I stare across the dry grass to the mostly standing pile of blackened boards. They belonged to our storage shed. Now charred studs and a jagged half-wall grin back at me like matte black teeth under the August sun. Acrid odors of sulfur, fuel, and chemicals infiltrate my nose and lungs. The airborne taste of bitter ashes cloys my tongue.
“Ms. Owen?” says the police officer beside me on the porch. His voice is kind. He’s one of several from the Round Rock Police Department who responded to my 911 call.
I want to answer but can’t. As I stand mute, my hand finds its way to my pounding forehead. I follow the motions of the firemen in their tan bunker gear with fluorescent yellow hazard trim around the cuffs and hems. Two men direct the high-pressure hose’s jet behind the small, ruined structure where the fire tore a path to the greenbelt behind our house. A few flames still lick and dance in defiance. Succumbing at last to the unrelenting spray, they sputter and die. A puddle of molasses pools in their wake as steam and smoke billow out and add to the hovering veil. It levitates more densely now. Sticky.
Near what remains of the outbuilding, officers cluster around an indiscernible lump on the ground. I crane my neck. The authorities block my view. A few stand while several others stoop or crouch beside the unknown object. A man in a red polo shirt and khakis emerges from the huddle with a camera swinging from a lanyard around his neck. A Condor backpack hangs off his shoulder, and his left hand grips a clipboard. He steps back and writes something before walking to the other side of the seared shed, where he squats and unzips his bag.
I can’t see the firetruck from here because it’s parked out front. But I know it’s there, cherry red with a huge, silver ladder on top, crammed obtrusively across the entire width of our little street. It’s not as narrow as the country roads but could be wider since my stepmom’s neighborhood isn’t one of the swanky, newer ones. The engine obscured, my gaze pulls to the tense outline of the pressurized firehose. It strains from its unseen source around the side of our house to the edges of the smoldering backyard.
A chill crawls over my sweaty skin, and I resist sinking into the porch chair. The wind was in my favor. It could have pushed the blaze straight to the house, but it didn’t. That’s what Carol would say if she were here, but she’s not the first real estate agent to work Saturdays. I remember now. I passed out on the couch after calling 911 and never even notified my stepmom about what happened.
“Are you Ms. Aria Owen?” asks the officer.
He towers over me, but I’ve barely looked at him. Numbness floods my every cell, much like the sooty river of firehose-water gushing toward the wild tract of land. My legs teeter, and I grip the white, wooden porch railing with hands equally as pale. “Yes. I’m sorry. I need a minute.”
“All right, ma’am. Take your time,” he says. He shifts his weight, and the boards creak beneath the tread of his black boots.
His boots. The sound of Ayden’s heavy steps on the dusty shed floor breaks through in echoic memory. When I was alone, he entered uninvited. He told me he was my boyfriend Korey’s brother. Oh God, what have I done?
My back pocket rings and my heels come off the floor. I cast an apologetic glance at the police officer. I retrieve my cell and smash it against my ear. “Carol.”
“Aria! Are you all right? Red said the backyard is on fire.” My stepmom’s voice falters in a shrill pitch.
Red is our next-door neighbor, a woman whose house is to the left of ours if you’re facing the street. “I’m okay. I’m fine. The shed caught fire when the gas can spilled, but I—I got out time. I got out in time. I called 911 right away, and the fire department already put it out. And the house is okay.” My temples throb, and my face heats to a sharp crimson. Damn this heat exhaustion.
Carol lets out a breath. “Oh, thank God. I’m coming home. I’m leaving the office right now.” A pause. “Aria, have you been drinking?”
“No,” I say. “You know I don’t drink.”
“What?” she asks.
I swallow and concentrate. “Hardly ever. That’s what I meant.”
“Because it really sounds like you’ve been drinking.”
I tighten my grip on the phone and risk a few paces by the porch railing—anything to ease the tension. Even when I manage to pronounce everything correctly, the cadence of my sentences rises and dips unnaturally. Well, it’s no wonder putting words together feels like bathing a cat. Not only is it over one hundred degrees out here, but I hit my head pretty hard.
“I know. I know it does,” I say.
In Carol’s background, a car door slams. Keys jingle. “How did it happen? You said gasoline, but how did it ignite?”
I sniff, and with guilt thicker than the heat, peek at the officer. Davis, I think. I can’t believe he’s still waiting and not forcing me to do… something. Give a statement? Explain? Because if I were him, I’d probably be reading me my rights about now and guiding my head into the back of a cruiser. “I have to go. The police need to speak with me. He’s waiting.”
“Okay,” she says. She loudly exhales as she starts the engine. “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”
We hang up. Another wave of grogginess shakes my awareness. I grab the chalky handrail again. I wonder whether the police or the medical personnel got here first. I don’t know how long it’s been since I called. Before I shove my mobile back into my pocket, I check. Only thirty minutes.
Besides a couple of people in blue pressed around whatever lies on the ground, I don’t see anyone who looks like an EMT. My skull continues pounding, and I lift my fingers to the most painful spot. The golf-ball-s
ized knot on my scalp has mostly scabbed over. Sticky goo comes away at the touch. The medics have probably been administering life-saving procedures to Ayden—giving him CPR, fluids and preparing him for hospital transport. That’s why no one has come to check on me yet.
The uniformed men and women huddling around the indistinct object on the ground begin to stir. The crowd parts. They reveal a mass resembling a human body covered in a white sheet.
He’s dead. Ayden’s dead.
Two men in black shirts with gold lettering each grab an end of the stretcher. When they lift it, the bright fabric flutters in the ascension like wisps of a ghost. The first responders briskly carry their charge away from the blackened shed, the strip of charred grass reaching toward the greenbelt, and the small gathering of emergency crew. They pass beyond view around the side of the house to the street where the vehicles are parked—the firetruck, the squad cars, the crime scene van, and probably an ambulance too. But dead men don’t go to the hospital. They go to the morgue.
A hot draft of air brushes my face. The ever-present smell of gasoline twists my stomach into a knot. I grip the porch railing tighter, my trembling arms betraying the fear of falling. I’ve fought the dizziness this long, but now it hammers me into submission. My knees buckle, and I lose my grip. Back I go.
Officer Davis catches me under the arms and thrusts me to a standing position. “Let’s get you inside.”
My body jerks. “Yes,” I try to say.
I force my legs to straighten beneath me. I mostly get my balance. Davis keeps a hand on my back as he directs me inside the house. I shouldn’t have come out, but I couldn’t help it. I had to know.
Right behind us, two EMTs make their way up the porch steps. Officer Davis holds the door, and after a few words from me, the four of us convene in the kitchen. Davis stands aside again—the man has patience—and I take a seat in a wooden chair. I stare at our brown and white tiled floor while the paramedics work me over.
The woman speaks the most. She tells me her name. It’s something pretty and exotic, but it’s already a blank. I focus on her accent that floats almost tangibly like strands of warm honey as she asks me questions. The man draws my blood. Then the lady cleans my head wound. She gives me something for the pain but nothing drastic. Tylenol, I think. They’ll be back shortly, she says, and I wonder what for.
After they depart, for the time being, I lean on my elbows. I prop my heavy eyelids open with sheer will and a little bit of luck. I ask Officer Davis, “Would you like to sit down?”
“Thank you, no,” he says. He stands with his clipboard while I finally explain what happened.
I do my best to force out every consciously available detail. Compelling my uncooperative voice to enunciate each syllable, I try not to skip anything, but I probably still do. When I finish, he thanks me. I wonder when he’ll take me to jail. Shouldn’t he have cuffed me by now? I’ve already forgotten what I told him. When the backdoor swings closed on Davis’s way out, my thoughts go muddy.
I remind myself that today was because of Ayden. No, today was because of me. I did this. Ayden came here, but he died in the backyard, and now he’s at the morgue. And Korey doesn’t know.
The overbearing drowsiness finally wins, and my upper body sags against the table. I let my right cheek press the cool finish of the smooth wood. My eyelids flutter. I slip into blackness.
A cool hand strokes my cheek, and I flinch. I moan and try to lift my head.
“Aria?” says a voice. It sounds like Carol’s.
I push against something soft. My body sinks into it, and my fingers curl around a fuzziness that smells like ocean breeze fabric softener. A delicious, embracing sleep wraps around me and won’t loosen its hold. “Yeah?”
“Do you need help getting to bed?” my stepmom asks.
The gears in my head spin as I try to process what she’s asking me. At long last, I pry my eyes open. Carol. She’s here. I guess she finally made it home. With a grunt, I push myself into a sitting position on the couch. A velvety, rouge blanket slides off my shoulders. “What time is it?”
“It’s a little after eight o’clock. How are you feeling?” she asks. She sits on the ottoman, her concern wrinkles pressing more deeply than usual. Her hair of frizzy brown puffs out from the ponytail behind her head.
“Eight o’clock? I thought you were heading straight here,” I say. A bitter taste lingers on my tongue, and I swallow. I scan for my bottled water but don’t see it. Lemonade? No, I drank that already. I wish the dizziness would stop. I swing my socked feet to the tan carpeting.
Carol gives me a sad smile. “I did. It’s been quite a day. Are you feeling any better?”
My shoulders slump, my gaze finding the closed back door. At the top, one of those half-moon-shaped windows lets in a little light from the backyard.
The backyard. My core clenches, and I look back at my stepmom. “I feel…”
Carol collects a few magazines from the ottoman and sets them on the coffee table so that she can scoot over. I trace her motions with my eyes. The coffee table. There’s something about that—something I should remember. I wish I knew what it was. Seconds tick by, and I stare blankly without answering her question.
“Yeah?” she asks.
“My head doesn’t hurt so much. I just can’t stay awake,” I say. I rub my face. My sweaty palms smell like rubbing alcohol. Or is that gasoline? I don’t recall getting any on me.
She chuckles. “That’s okay. You need to rest. Besides, it’s bedtime anyway—bedtime for both of us. Come on. I’ll help you to your room.”
Carol rises, takes my hands, and pulls me to my feet. I glance down to see jeans, black dress socks, and my favorite fitted blue blouse with a crinkly texture. I can’t even remember getting dressed this morning.
“Thanks,” I say. After taking a faltering step, something on the coffee table pulls my attention. A small, off-white glazed ceramic dish with a lid rests there. Red and pink flowers and green leaves encircle the top around a gold ball for a handle. Not really my style, but it reminds me of my grandmother. My cotton ball dish. That’s the thing—the thing I was supposed to remember.
“Aria?”
“Wait,” I say. “I left this here by mistake.”
“I was wondering why that was out here,” Carol says.
I wonder too. A sick dread tugs at me, reminding me of the terrible thing that evades my memory. But Carol doesn’t seem to know either, so I won’t tell her. Anyway, I can’t reveal what I don’t know myself.
My trembling fingers close around the decorative container. I clutch it as my stepmom guides me along as though I’m old and frail instead of twenty-four years old. Walking would be so much easier if the floor would stay still. I stumble into my room and set the dish on my nightstand. Scents of vanilla and apricot leak out of my wall diffuser.
“Do you want help changing?” Carol asks. She gives me a wink. She knows that’s the last thing I want.
I manage a grin. “No, but thanks. I can do it.”
We say goodnight, and she pulls the door closed. All I want is sleep. The desire fills every part of me, and I long to dive into oblivion and stay there. My bed is neat and tidy the way I left it. Its overstuffed gray comforter and marigold throw pillows beckon to me. But I can’t give in yet. I have to look inside the container.
I turn and drag myself to the nightstand, where I stand rigidly with a poised hand. While I brace myself like someone about to bring a shoe down on a venomous spider, a few seconds go by with my heart hammering. Then I grasp the gold ball and whisk off the lid.
A bloody eye. I jump and slap a hand over my mouth to silence my scream. As I reel backward and get my balance, I refocus and realize that no—that’s not what I’m seeing. Thank God and all that is good in the world, I didn’t just find a severed human eye in my cotton ball dish. But what is there isn’t much better. A cold, plunging sensation stabs through my chest and into the pit of my stomach.
My gaze ta
kes in the object I misperceived—a ring. A large, gold ring, probably a man’s but instead of holding a jewel setting like a college ring, there’s a blue eye. It has all the trappings of the real thing—the white sclera with tiny, red capillaries, a deep blue iris, and a black pupil. Streaks of gooey red cover the surface, and beneath the gold band lies a dried puddle of Ayden’s blood.
My heart hammers as I scrub my hands in the bathroom sink. I have to tell the police about this. I must. They’ll need to retrieve it for evidence and submit it to the forensics lab with whatever else they got today. As I dry my hands on the towel, I swear I catch the scent of some bodily fluid—something unclean. The mild, pus-like vapor reminds me of the faint odor a cut emits when you take the bandage off. The smell comes and goes between whiffs of cucumber melon hand soap—or do I imagine that?
I don’t care if I do. Grimacing, I press down on the soap dispenser and dump four globs of gel onto my palm before furiously washing my hands all over again. The ghost odor even sours my dry tongue. Different scenarios race through my mind frantically as I consider them. Or, more correctly, I half-watch them as they flick by, almost as though I’m an outsider to my own thoughts. There’s only one explanation that makes sense.
The ring is a souvenir. A trophy. A reminder kept of the dark conquest that evades memory.
I dry my hands again and sit on the bed. My quivering fingers reach for my cell phone on the nightstand but withdraw. The dizziness won’t quit. My head starts pounding once more, and my heart rate dizzies me. I rub my face. The metallic smell of blood adheres to my palms—I swear it does—but that’s insane. I didn’t touch the ring, only looked at it. I stand and readjust the floral lid.
