The Art of Fear (The Little Things That Kill Series Book 1)

by Pamela Crane

  But instead of answers, he just listened. And sat silently when I finished.

  “So? What do you think? Do you think it’s Killian who killed his father? Maybe hired by Tina’s trafficker? Or Tina getting revenge? I don’t know what to think anymore. My brain’s fried, Tristan.”

  For a moment he simply watched me.

  Then he spoke, carefully. “Wow, that’s some stellar investigative work. You work in retail? I think you’re definitely in the wrong profession.”

  “But does it all sound crazy?”

  “No …” he wavered, his voice edging on maybe. “But I think you need to step away from this. I think you’re in way over your head.”

  I knew it. There was something murky in front of me, but I couldn’t see through the quagmire. Not yet, at least. Perhaps this was bigger than I thought; the excitement of discovery made me tingle all over. “So you agree—there’s something going on? I’m on to something, aren’t I?”

  “Possibly … yes, maybe something. But if someone killed Tina’s father, then followed it up by going after her, you need to get out of the line of fire. You told the cops. Let the professionals do their job.”

  I huffed. “Except they already think it’s a closed case. Suicide. I’m sure they’ll tell me Tina’s attack is circumstantial.”

  “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Just please give it a rest before you start wading in too deep?”

  Ha! Oh, I left the shallow waters several laps ago and felt the rip current trying to sweep me out to sea. It was scary but thrilling, and I liked it. But I wasn’t trying to be confrontational with Tristan … just yet. We had plenty of time before I should show him my true colors.

  “I guess once Tina pulls through we’ll find out who hurt her and get some answers. I’ll keep my hands and eyes to myself in the meantime.”

  I hated making promises I had no intention of keeping.

  Chapter 28

  Ari

  Five days until dead

  The cushion behind me was cool and empty, the starkness of it alarming. The space that Tristan had filled, the length of my body pressed into him like a hand cupping a hot mug, was now devoid of his heat. Only his musky scent lingered.

  The apartment was filled with the silence of abandonment. I wandered toward the bathroom, hoping he might be quietly freshening up so as not to wake me. But the neatly hung towels and untouched washcloths told a different story. He had left in a hurry.

  I hate mornings, but a cup of coffee helped tame the beast. Lumbering into the kitchen with the weight of fatigue slowing me down, I saw that the coffeemaker had already been started, with a note tucked under a clean coffee cup set out for me:

  Hope you don’t mind me rooting through your cabinets, but you don’t make it easy to find where you keep stuff. Luckily I randomly opened your freezer, where I found your coffee grounds. I hope fresh coffee makes up for me sneaking out. I got called into work suddenly, but I’d love to see you again soon. Even if it is a 3 AM booty call … sans booty.

  Tristan

  Like a schoolgirl whose first crush said hi to her in the hallway, I grinned in giddy triumph. He had written!

  But my smile faded as quickly as it came when I realized I had no idea what “work” meant for Tristan. Who gets called into work in the middle of the night? Was he an emergency medical technician? Or a firefighter? No—he wore too much leather to be either of those. He looked more like the lead singer of a rock band, but rockers were busy getting laid by their groupies at three a.m., I supposed. Lucky groupies.

  It was disturbing how little I actually knew about him, and yet he knew everything about me.

  Was he becoming my … therapist?

  No way in hell, I couldn’t let our potential romance die a miserable death before it even started. Especially if it meant I would be the basket case and he would be the proverbial sounding board. That didn’t sound grueling—having a baggage-toting girlfriend with more drama than the entire cast of Days of Our Lives. But there was hope for us yet. His note meant we were salvageable, so I needed to pull us out of therapy mode, toss my baggage to the curb, and make him fall in love with me, damn it.

  With my morning open and an ability to fall back asleep impossible, I decided to check in on Tina before my afternoon shift. I had told the nurse to call me the moment anything happened, if she woke up, but judging how frantic the ICU was with nurses bustling about as if they were on speed, I figured my request got shoved in the bottom of the mile-high pile of other patient requests.

  Parking was a breeze before nine o’clock—a time I would usually be entering another REM cycle. I tapped on Tina’s closed door and it shifted a crack open. The television was on … and Tina was watching it! My heart leaped as I ran in, a hot mess of tears and laughter.

  “You’re okay!” My voice got caught in the salt in my throat. Despite the tears blurring my vision and snot dripping down my lip, I jumped in for a hug and kiss.

  Tina wiped away whatever residue I had left on her cheek, chuckling. “Yes, I’m okay, silly. In a crazy amount of pain, but alive. Though when I woke up, I wished I hadn’t.”

  She mumbled a complaint of searing pangs in her stomach and how the nurses couldn’t care less.

  “You were stabbed, dumbass. It’s to be expected you’re gonna have a lot of pain. Didn’t they give you any painkillers?”

  Tina frowned childishly. “They’re being frugal with them … because of the whole attempted suicide thing. The dosage they’re giving me is barely touching this.”

  “Do you want me to ask them to give you more?”

  “Pretty please,” Tina said with a grimacing grin.

  I pressed a button that paged the nurse’s station.

  “While we wait, I wanna know what happened. Did you see who it was?”

  Tina heaved, then winced. “I wish I knew. I was asleep. Me and Killian—”

  Then she stopped. Just clammed up.

  “You and Killian what?”

  “He came to visit me.”

  I knew it, the bastard. He promised he’d let me intervene.

  Unless he had planned on going after Tina.

  It was only logical if he was working for her trafficker.

  But I couldn’t say what I was thinking—not with Tina in this critical state.

  “We were talking about a bunch of stuff … he confessed how he came to America to free me, but then after him and Dad arrived they got in a fight about money. Dad couldn’t find work and wanted to leave me with George for a couple more months until he got on his feet, but Killian wanted me out right away. Apparently it got ugly, Killian left, and they hadn’t seen each other since.”

  Until Killian killed him, that is. He conveniently left that part out.

  “Anyways,” Tina continued, “Killian didn’t know exactly how to find me until just recently—thanks to you.”

  “I’m sorry I slipped up—” I sputtered.

  “No, it’s okay.” She waved me off. “It’s good we reconnected. He has a girlfriend—some married cougar, not sure what I should call her—and got his GED. You know he’s only sixteen and graduated already? He’s really smart.”

  Yeah, smart enough to get away with murder—the first time. But not a second time, because I was on to him.

  “He got a job doing construction—”

  Or do you mean sex trafficking little girls? I wanted to say.

  “And he’s saving up for college—”

  “Instead of using his precious savings to get these traffickers off your back?” I interjected, not bothering to mince my words.

  I couldn’t stay silent a moment longer.

  How blind was Tina to reality? Her brother was an asshole. Maybe even a homicidal asshole.

  “I didn’t bring that up, Ari, and I would never ask him to do that for me. He needs to take care of himself just like I need to take care of myself.”

  “Whatever. Sounds like a crock of shit to me, but it’s your family.” How could Tina overlo
ok the clear-as-day fingers pointing to Killian lurking behind their father’s death? He conveniently had a fight with Josef right before he died. He was conveniently at Tina’s bedside right before the attack. What more did Tina need? She was tangoing with a killer—her attempted killer! But instead she wanted to remain oblivious—all for the sake of family. Screw family.

  “Yeah, it is my family. Anyways, we watched some TV and it actually felt … normal. Like a normal brother-sister visit. Like we were siblings again, like back when we were kids. Kinda surreal.” The nostalgia in her voice annoyed me.

  “And then what?” I prompted.

  “I ended up falling asleep while he was here. I don’t know how long I was out, but I woke up to a pillow on my face suffocating me. I fought back—I really tried—but then whoever it was stabbed me and I lost consciousness. Never saw anyone. Next thing I know I’m in intensive care. But hey, at least the nurses are nicer in this unit!” Her voice rose with a chipper laugh that spread like an irritating rash.

  “This isn’t funny. You almost died.”

  Tina turned to me, her face flat and deadpan. “You think I care about dying? I think those monsters making me live in fear is my punishment. I’ve spent two years in hiding, watching over my shoulder, wondering if today will be my last day of freedom—if being chained to dread is really freedom. I’m just waiting, biding time until I’ll be passed around from pervert to pervert again like a bowl of spaghetti. So if I wanna laugh, I’ll laugh. And when those monsters finally succeed in killing me, then I’ll really be free. Because some things are worse than death.”

  And here I thought I knew all there was to know about life and suffering. I was clueless. I have never known real anxiety.

  “We can catch them—the monsters. We can put those bastards in cages so they’ll never get out or hurt you. Please help me help you.”

  “I told everything I know to the police. They said they’ll take another look at the hospital surveillance footage and get back to me. And they scraped my fingernails so hopefully I’ll have gotten some DNA that will lead back to who did it. I’m leaving it in the cops’ hands; I just want to step away from it.”

  Exactly the same thing Tristan had asked me to do.

  I felt no different than a two-year-old having a fit after her blankie was taken away. But I actually wanted to help Tina. It filled my battered brain with something other than anxiety attacks and regret. What the hell was so wrong with me stepping up to help … and maybe exorcising my demons in the process?

  Chapter 29

  Ari

  Five days until dead

  “You’re gonna love staying with me,” I assured Tina as I fished for my keys in my labyrinthine handbag.

  In a momentary relapse, it reminded me of my mom’s purse when I was a child. Sitting in church, Carli and I would ask for gum, and Mom would tell us to look for it, always handing her bag to me with its many zippered pouches and silk-lined pockets. For the next thirty minutes at least—through the prayers and the sermon and the Bible reading—we’d busily search for the elusive pack of gum in her cluttered purse. We’d rummage through a collection of tissues, loose change, mom’s hairbrush, and an assortment of odds and ends, usually never finding that gum. But it didn’t matter. We had fun making a scavenger hunt out of it, which passed the time and kept us still. I now wondered if Mom had set the whole thing up simply to occupy us during those long, boring services that I suddenly ached for.

  Carli and I, our bony legs dangling off the wooden pew seat. The choir singing old-school hymns, the rise and fall of our bodies as we knelt and stood in tandem, the message of hope and perseverance delivered from the pulpit. Better days, those were. Innocent days when our family of four wrestled ourselves out the front door in an argumentative frenzy to make it to church on time, then plopped into our usual welcoming corner of the sanctuary, releasing the chaos of the morning into the dusty air.

  I had hated sitting through the church service back then, but now I longed for it. The normalcy of it.

  The rattle of my keys brought me back to Tina. Although she should have stayed another day or two to recover in the hospital, Tina checked out against medical advice. Even though security had been stepped up since the assault, it was just too risky to leave her there, exposed, vulnerable, just waiting for the killer to come back and finish the job. Her original plan was to live with Rosalita in her rundown motel, but I wouldn’t have it. No, she needed a secure home to recover in with a full kitchen and home-cooked meals—or my offerings of canned soup and grilled cheese—not some pay-per-night place with a bug-ridden bed and mini-fridge.

  I fiddled with the stubborn lock. “It’s a quiet complex, and the neighbors are nice enough. I know it doesn’t look like much from the outside, but it’s not too bad.” Little white lies. Did it really matter, though, considering where Tina had come from? I’m sure she wasn’t one to judge.

  When the door finally budged open, my chatter stopped and crickets chirped. There was a gasping silence as we both stood there—me in shock, Tina in confusion.

  “Uh, in need of some housekeeping?” she asked tentatively.

  The sofa and coffee table were overturned, the chairs upended, papers and books and movies and junk scattered across the carpet. Some jackoff had tossed my place.

  And right as I was assuring Tina of her safety here.

  Nice place, my ass. Luckily, my precious TV had been spared.

  I threw my arm out as Tina took a step forward. “I need to make sure no one’s here.” If the perpetrator was lingering, I’d have a surprise for him. I tiptoed to the kitchen and grabbed a steak knife from the drawer. With stealthy steps I wove around the scattered remains of my possessions, checking each room with my knife aimed and ready to strike.

  But the apartment was empty. I was almost disappointed.

  “C’mon in. It’s safe.” I waved Tina in weakly. “Welcome to my shit hole.”

  My things—my personal stuff. I felt nakedly vulnerable.

  “What the … I don’t even …” No words. No words could capture my fury. I had bounced right past fear and plunged into pissed off.

  “Who would do this?” Tina speculated aloud.

  “Maybe the same person who tried to kill you? Your traffickers, your brother—”

  “Whoa there, girl. Don’t go blaming Killian for this. He’s innocent.”

  “Until proven guilty,” I added churlishly.

  As far as I knew, it could have been any number of people. The trafficking minions were first on the list, but I couldn’t rule out Killian, since he was last at the scene when Tina was attacked. Maybe he had beef with me for snooping and this was my message. It was adolescent enough to be him.

  Then there was Rosalita, who clearly voiced her disdain for Josef and knew I was helping Tina find his killer. Was this a passive-aggressive plea for me to back off my little investigation side-job? It seemed a little classless for an old lady, but this wasn’t exactly the behavior of a well-adjusted person.

  “Why don’t you call the police while I start cleaning up,” Tina offered.

  “Why the hell do I need to call them?” It was none of their damn business, if you asked me. It could have been anyone, and it was an easy enough job to break into a no-security first-floor apartment around here. A little jiggling of the cheap sliding glass door on my porch was enough to loosen the lock free. I’d learned this trick after numerous times locking myself out.

  “You have to report this.”

  “Why? What’s the point? No one got hurt. Police don’t give a shit.”

  “Because it could be related to my attack. There could be evidence here. Just do it, Ari. But help me with this sofa first. Don’t wanna tear my stitches.”

  We pushed the sofa upright and it landed with a thud.

  “You sure you don’t want to rest while I clean?”

  “It’s the least I can do for dragging you into this.”

  But there was no dragging about it. I wanted
this. Needed it, even. It felt good to be doing something other than hauling vacuum cleaners down warehouse stairs, or folding and hanging pile after pile of women’s fitting room clothes. I needed something more, and this was exactly that.

  It was my purpose.

  At Tina’s nagging I dialed the local Durham Police Department direct and was transferred to an Officer Buchanan—whom I aptly named Undertaker (after the WWE legend) because with a voice like that he had to be a six-foot-four steel-muscled badass … and also because I was running out of witticisms—and told the Barry White baritone what we came home to. I added details about Tina’s attack, asking if he could look into whether they had identified a face or gotten the DNA tests back. He assured me he’d check, then advised me not to touch anything, since he’d want to see if anything was missing and check for fingerprints. I doubted whoever did it would have left such a glaring trail, but I obliged.

  Upon arrival, Undertaker lived up to my expectation. Towering over me, the pecs on his thick chest stood out like two hams, straining the buttons in his painted-on cop shirt to the max. A neckless head, square as a box, sat upon the widest shoulders I’d ever seen. He had a blue five-o’clock shadow and an old-fashioned flattop graying the temples. A lipless gash served for a mouth and the dark eyes underneath the Frankensteinian brow were cold and unsmiling. He looked like he’d fallen off a wanted poster himself, but damn was he efficient. Sweeping through each room, he did his thing—powdering furniture here and there with black dust, picking up random spewed papers, checking windows and doors—and finished in about ten minutes while I recapped recent events. Nope, no fingerprints, big surprise. After I leafed through the debris strewn all over the floor, I assured him that nope, nothing was missing, so he shrugged his way to the door.

  “Looks like the intruder came in through your porch. Easy enough to do. You should have your landlord put in a better lock.”