This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First edition July 2018
Eye for Revenge Copyright © 2015
The Devil Died at Midnight © 2017
Hickory Dickory Dead © 2016
by Cheryl Bradshaw
Cover Design Copyright 2018 © Indie Designz
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means whatsoever (electronic, mechanical, etc.) without the prior written permission and consent of the author. A few excerpts have been taken from other Cheryl Bradshaw works to complete this collection.
Table of Contents
Eye For Revenge
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
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
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
The Perfect Lie
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
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
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
Hickory Dickory Dead
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
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
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
About Cheryl Bradshaw
Books by Cheryl Bradshaw
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to lost love and found love.
It’s never too late to follow your heart.
“Adhere to your purpose and you will soon feel as well as you ever did. On the contrary, if you falter, and give up, you will lose the power of keeping any resolution, and will regret it all your life.”
—Abraham Lincoln
CHAPTER 1
Evie Richelle soared down the cracked sidewalk, legs spread, rubber tires spinning. Summer was here at last, fanning a soft, warm breeze through the air that slapped her uncombed, blond locks against her face like willows in the wind. Her new Roadmaster Aerobee Renegade bike was everything she’d asked for in a bike, only it wasn’t new. It was something her Grandma Ruby called “vintage.” Eleven-year-old Evie didn’t know what the word “vintage” meant, and she didn’t care either. As far as she was concerned, it was cool. And cool suited her just fine.
Tough and yellow, the bike had a brawny bee painted on the side. But the bee wasn’t what Evie loved most. It was the way the wide handlebars curved down at the ends. When her fingers wound around the stiff, rubber grips, she no longer felt like she was on an ordinary bike—she felt like she was on a motorcycle.
A few minutes earlier when she whizzed by the house next door, Ronnie, the boy who lived there, shook his head and said, “You’re a girl. Why are you riding a boy’s bike?”
Evie snickered and replied, “No duh. Why do you play with Barbie’s?”
Ronnie’s eyes widened. “Do not!”
“Do too!”
And he did. She’d seen him one day through her bedroom window. She was one-hundred-percent sure it was him too because he had the most oval-shaped head of any boy she’d ever seen. It made him look like an extraterrestrial. So much so, sometimes she imagined what he’d look like if he pulled his head off his body, revealing what he really looked like underneath.
Green.
Rubbery.
Alien.
Ronnie threw a stick, narrowly missing Evie’s head. She thought about turning around, waving her middle finger in his direction, something she’d seen her grandmother do once when they were in the car together on the freeway, but she didn’t. He’d just tell his mother, his mother would tell her grandmother, and her bike would be taken away.
No crybaby was worth that.
Besides, she had places to go.
She stuck her tongue out and cranked her foot down on the pedal before Ronnie reached for a handful of gravel. Ronnie hurled the small rocks into the air, aiming for her head, but his pitch was weak. Nothing hit her. Not a single one.
Crisis averted, Evie reached the park and rolled to
a stop. She hopped off the bike, leaning it against a sawed-off trunk of a tree. She was debating whether or not it would be safe to leave it there when she heard a sound—a voice—someone screaming. She climbed the grassy hillside to investigate. In the sand in front of the swings, she saw a girl who looked to be about her same age. The girl was on her knees. She was crying. But not just crying. Out and out bawling. Two boys hovered over the girl—one of them taunting, laughing—the other awkward and still. The boys looked older by maybe a year or two. Given she could only see the backs of the boys’ heads, it was too hard to tell their ages for sure.
She needed to get closer, check things out.
“What’s the matter, little girl?” one of the boys teased. “Did someone take your swing away?”
“My name’s not ’little girl.’ It’s Quinn, and you pushed me!”
“It’s our turn on the swings,” the same boy said. “Besides, what are you going do about it?”
Apparently nothing.
Evie waited, giving Quinn a full minute to buck up and defend herself. But the girl remained where she was, staring at the ground, still crying.
“Hey!” Evie yelled. “Maybe she’s not gonna do something about it, but I will.”
The boy responsible for the taunting roared with laughter until he turned around, saw Evie standing in front of them, one of her fists raised in front of his face.
The other boy said, “Evie? What are you doing here?”
Evie ignored him, looked at Quinn, noticed a tear in the knee of her thick, light blue stockings, sand scattered throughout her long, dark pigtails. Evie looked up at the boy who addressed her. “Roman Tanner, say you’re sorry!”
“He’s not gonna do that,” the other boy said. “We told little girl here to get off the swing and she didn’t. Too bad if she got scraped up when I booted her. She should have done what I asked the first time.”
Roman stood still, his eyes never leaving Evie as he said, “Dylan, maybe we should—”
“You kiddin’ me?” Dylan said. “No way. Don’t let a girl tell you what to do.”
Evie drilled her fist straight forward. It connected with Dylan’s nose. Blood splashed out.
Quinn gasped. Roman froze. Evie produced a smug smile.
“Did ... you ... see ... what ... she ... did ... to ... me?!” Dylan cried.
Evie turned her attention to Roman. “Say ... you’re ... sorry. Do it!”
Roman raised his hands in front of him. “All right, all right. I’m sorry!”
“Not to me, you idiot,” Evie said. “To her.”
Roman pressed his eyes together until they were tiny slits. “Sorry. Okay?”
“Like you mean it,” Evie scolded.
“Sorry!”
“Good. Now get out of here. Both of you.”
The boys turned and went, Dylan shooting Evie a look like she may have gotten her way this time, but it was far from over. Evie didn’t care. Grandma Ruby always told her bullies were usually the biggest wimps of them all, and looking at the tear trailing down Dylan’s cheek now, she believed her.
Evie held out a hand, Quinn took it and stood up.
“Wow,” Quinn said. “They’re really scared of you.”
“Not me, my Grandma Ruby. She’s friends with Roman’s grandma. He knows what would happen if I told her what he did. I wouldn’t though. I’m no squealer. And I’ve learned how to take care of myself. You should too.”
Quinn shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Evie knew Quinn wasn’t the type of girl to defend herself though. One look at Quinn’s blue dress and matching hair bows, and she knew everything she needed to know. She was soft, easy, the perfect kind of girl to tease. And she was thin, a lightweight. Evie imagined if she jabbed her with a pinkie finger she’d tip right over again.
“Why haven’t I seen you before?” Evie asked.
“We just moved here a couple weeks ago.”
“Who’s we?”
“My mom, dad, and my ... umm ... sister.”
“Younger or older?” Evie asked.
“What?”
“Your sister.”
“Younger.” Quinn rolled her eyes. “She’s a pain. Follows me around everywhere.”
Evie smiled. Maybe Quinn wasn’t so sweet after all. “I’m Evie.”
“Quinn.”
“What grade are you going into this year?”
“Fifth.”
“Me too. Who’s your teacher?”
“Landers.”
“Hey, mine too.” Quinn may have dressed a little too girly for Evie’s tastes, but Evie admired the chain she wore around her neck. It was silver with two hearts interlocked around each other. “Cool necklace, by the way.”
Quinn reached a hand behind her, unclasped the necklace, held it out to Evie. “It’s yours.”
“Oh, hey. You don’t have to give it to me just because I like it.”
Quinn dropped the necklace into Evie’s hands. “It’s okay. I want you to have it. Friends?”
Evie nodded. “Have you met anyone else since you moved here?”
“No, why?”
“I was wondering if you wanna hang out with me this year at school.”
Quinn shrugged. “Sure.”
“Good.”
In the distance, Evie heard someone calling Quinn’s name.
“That’s my mom,” Quinn said. “I have to go. See you around ’kay? Hopefully we’ll be together next time those boys come around again.”
Evie swished a hand through the air. “Aww, don’t worry about them. When you’re with me, I won’t ever let anything bad happen to you.”
CHAPTER 2
Fifteen Years Later
Quinn Montgomery woke to the kind of blank darkness that left her feeling like she’d been tangled inside a web, suffocating for a good part of her adult life. Only she wasn’t awake. Not really. If someone had asked her to explain where she was or how she got there, she couldn’t say. At the moment she was swimming inside a dream, but none of her dreams had ever been this hollow before.
Sounds bounced in and out of her consciousness—echoing, swirling like they were being broadcasted inside her mind through an elongated tunnel. The sounds wove together, forming words she actually understood for the first time since her mind occupied this peculiar space. “Quinn, I need you to listen to me, to hear my voice. Wake up. Open your eyes.”
The words were crisp and decisive, laced with blind faith. The voice was familiar, one she recognized. Her father.
Where was he?
Better yet—where was she?
A damp mist warmed her face. Someone’s breath on her cheek. Possibly her
father’s.
“Come on, honey,” he prompted. “Please. Open your eyes. Come back to us.”
How could she?
She didn’t have the slightest idea how.
In a futile attempt to disengage from the endless sea of black, she endeavored to push her eyelids open. They wouldn’t budge. They were stuck to her lashes, matted as if fused together, the weight of them pressing down into her sockets.
A mixture of odors, pungent and sharp, penetrated her nostrils. She breathed, sucking in a lungful of sterile air. The smell was like a cloth had been doused in blood and vinegar and then slathered all over the room, if in fact, she was in a room. She imagined she was underwater, holding her breath until she ran out of air. Anything to stop the foul stench from climbing inside her again. For a moment it worked. The fetid odor was replaced by another sensation—pressure, someone clutching her hand, squeezing so hard she was sure one of her knuckles cracked.
“Quinn, can you hear me?”
This time the voice was a woman’s. Her mother.
“We’re right here,” her mother continued. “Both of us. Right here with you, honey.”
Her mother’s voice was frail and thin. Scared.
Fingers caressed Quinn’s hair, combing through a mass of long, coffee-colored curls.
She heard her father say, “She’s not responding. Why don’t you give it a try?”
Who was he talking to?
Her mother?
Someone else?
Give what a try?
“I ... I don’t know,” came the response.
It wasn’t her mother. Her father was talking to someone else. Talking to him. Marcus. Her husband.
“I wouldn’t know what to say,” Marcus said.
He never did. Admitting to it was the most forthright thing he’d done all year.
“I don’t think it matters what you say,” her father replied. “Quinn needs to know you’re here, that you support her.”
She wanted to laugh out loud. Support. She doubted Marcus understood the true meaning of the word.
“Talk to her like you would if she was awake,” her father added. “That’s all you need to do.”
Yeah, Marcus. Go on. Talk to me. Let’s hear it.
“If she was awake, she wouldn’t talk to me,” Marcus said. “Not after ...”
Her father’s confident words continued, his voice becoming increasingly distant the more he talked.
Where was he going?
Was he leaving?
“You’re her husband,” her father said. “Right now she needs you.”
Except she didn’t need him. Not anymore.
Thick, calloused digits wound around her bony arm. Internally she cringed. She knew those particular fingers all too well. She didn’t like Marcus touching her, whispering in her ear, pretending to care with his fake, detached sentiments. She didn’t believe him, didn’t believe a word he said—until four simple words jolted her mind, making recent events clear again: “I’m sorry about Evie.”
Evie.
That’s why all of this was happening, why she was here, wherever here was.
She remembered now. Everything. All of it.
Evie was dead.
Quinn supposed a part of herself had been in shock when she received the bad news about Evie’s death over the phone the night before. She’d fled the house after an inflamed argument with Marcus—the same tired, monotonous quarrel they engaged in almost daily for the last several months.
Quinn wanted to go back to work again.
Marcus didn’t approve.
He never approved.
Her desire to get out of the house and do something with her life baffled him. In his mind, she didn’t need to work. He made more than enough money to provide for the two of them. He preferred her tucked away, stashed on a shelf in a box where he could keep an eye on her.
A View to a Kill Page 1
