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

by Pamela Crane

  “You almost died, Ari. Actually, you did die. Your heart stopped and they had to revive you. I almost lost you.” By the quaver in his words, I could tell he was barely holding it together. “It’s lucky Tina was able to get free and call an ambulance.” By now he wasn’t even trying to check his emotions. “I can’t lose you. You’ve changed me, you know.”

  He wept against my shoulder, stifling the sobs in my hospital gown. “Doing what I do—catching criminals—made me lose a part of myself that values life, that values flawed people. But then you came along, with your magnetism for those broken souls, Ari. My broken soul. You made me believe in humanity again, my own humanity.” He wiped at his runny nose. “Attractive, huh? I guess even tough guys like me have pansy moments.”

  I adored his pansy moment.

  “Hey, it’s okay. And I’m okay. I can’t say the same for my gown, though.”

  He lifted his face to mine, his mouth a breath away. “I really like you, Ari. I don’t think you realize how much.”

  “Oh, I have an idea,” I whispered.

  He leaned forward and kissed me, sweeping me into an eddy of desire and passion.

  I wouldn’t have admitted it to him before this kiss, but I really liked him too.

  Epilogue

  The lake was placid, occasionally ruffled by a gusty breeze. Maidenhair fern lined one edge of the lake where the soil ended in a subtle cliff of exposed roots and rocks. I shifted my weight when one leg went numb, crunching the crushed shingle underfoot. The beach was empty, save for our humble group of friends. Tristan held my hand as I stood next to Tina, the sun sinking into the burnt orange and purpled horizon. It was the perfect setting for a funeral, a last goodbye.

  Everyone from the suicide support group was kind enough to show, me in clean jeans and a button-down black blouse, everyone else wearing more appropriate attire. Blame my unrefined funeral etiquette on my lack of upbringing. Standing in a semi-circle in the balm of evening, we allowed Tina and Killian to meditate in silence, to remember what they wanted to remember and forget what they wanted to forget. Even Rosalita made an appearance, though her jaw remained clenched as she lingered in the background.

  No one spoke. There were no priests or caskets or flowers or door-sized pictures of Josef or Mercedes smiling. Just two urns of his-and-her ashes, a husband and wife, a father and mother. That’s how we would honor them.

  Carli’s was the only other funeral I had attended, so I wasn’t sure what was appropriate to say or do or feel. So I did nothing. I simply held Tina’s hand when she needed it, and let it go when she stepped a pace toward the lake and gazed stoically. No tears for her.

  I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

  First Tina emptied the ashes of their mother over the beach, then Killian emptied their father’s, allowing the wind to whisk them away into the water where the dust settled on the glass until clusters of fish picked at them. I lost sight of where the ripples eventually carried them.

  It was a pristine moment, one I was glad Tina suggested after her adamancy against a funeral that first day I met her eons ago. Well, at least it felt like eons.

  “I’m thinking of having a memorial for my parents after all,” she had suggested a week ago. “Just to say goodbye. Whatd’ya think?”

  “I think it’s perfect,” I had agreed.

  And it was.

  No grand finale. Just two siblings bidding adieu to their lousy parents. We’d decided against a formal wake but instead offered up a potluck dinner back at my place. It was about time I started opening my front door—and life—to people.

  “So that went well,” I commented to Tristan and Tina as we scattered back to our cars. We piled into his sedan, shutting out the warm breeze edging in on the deepening evening.

  “Yeah, I feel like I at least got some closure.” Tina’s voice was softer than usual, as if her loss had chipped away her rough edges. “You know, losing my parents has got me thinking. I want to find Giana, my baby. Do you think you could help me, Ari?”

  “Me?” It was flattering, yes, but what did I know? I stumbled upon a murder or two and suddenly I was an expert in solving cases? But what the hell. It was something to do. “I don’t know anything about investigative stuff, but sure, I’ll try my best. Thankfully, I think I have an in with the police department. What was Undertaker’s name again? Buchanan? Do you think he’s single?”

  “Oh shut up!” Tristan laughed. “And what the hell kind of name is Undertaker?”

  “You’ve never watched wrestling?” I huffed. “Well, I guess that explains the bracelets.”

  “I’m never gonna live that down, am I?”

  “Nope.” But I sweetened it with a quick smirk.

  “Private Investigator Ari Wilburn,” Tristan said. “It’s got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  It actually did. In fact, I really liked the sound of it.

  “You think so?” I asked. Tristan joked so much it was hard to tell when he was serious or sarcastic.

  “Absolutely. Bitch by day, PI by night. Fits you perfectly.”

  But I didn’t want the jokes. I needed it straight. Did I have a chance at doing something I loved … and succeeding? I didn’t succeed at anything in life up to this point. So why now? When would this house of cards topple into a pile of discarded dreams? I couldn’t bear to taste something sweet, only to find out it was poison. I’d lost too much already. Hope was all I had left.

  “No, seriously, Tristan, do you think I can do it?”

  “Why not? You got your sister’s killer to confess after over a decade, you put a major child trafficker behind bars, and you solved a murder. I think you earned the credentials. Just take some criminal justice classes to learn the ropes, buy some useful Internet and database software, and I’ll even get you one of those detective badges from the Dollar Tree.”

  “You just had to end that with being an ass, huh?”

  “Always, babe. You can always count on me for ass.”

  I rolled my eyes and turned to face Tina in the backseat. “Excuse the little boy up here. Some kids never grow up.”

  Tina chuckled, then said, “You know, I believe in you too, Ari. So what’s your first job as a PI gonna be?”

  Find out what nefarious business my dad was involved in that cost my sister’s life? Find Tina’s baby? Save the whales? Achieve world peace? Take your pick.

  “Reuniting you with your baby, of course. Duh. And finding out whose dog keeps shitting right outside my back porch, then kicking the owner’s ass for not cleaning it up.”

  Tristan started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

  “You’re so professional,” Tina adulated.

  “I know.” I winked back at her. “So, anything you can think of that I can start with—like do you remember the day Giana was taken from you? Details like who was there, when it happened?”

  Even though I had turned my attention to the road to avoid getting carsick, I could picture the tears stinging her eyes as her voice cracked with each word, teetering on the brink of sobs. “I’ll never forget it. George of course was there, and Giana was a month old. I guess he was biding his time for the highest bidder. But a guy shows up at the house with a black duffel bag of money—cash, but I don’t know how much—and I’m sitting on the sofa watching TV when he walks in the baby’s room.

  Tina’s voice quickened, intensified, heated as the words tumbled out.

  “I immediately jump up and start clawing at him, pleading with him to leave her alone, but George comes up behind me, restrains me, and the guy takes her out of her crib and walks out, just like that. Not a glance back at me. Nothing. Wouldn’t even let me say goodbye to her. It was awful. Losing Giana was worse than everything those men had ever done to me.”

  She was quiet for a moment, except for the random gasp of a stifled sob, then her words rolled out forcefully. “But it wasn’t just me. There were others that he tortured.”

  I heard the zipper of Tina’s purse wh
oosh open, then a crackle of paper.

  “Here, read this.” She handed me a folded piece of paper yellowed with age—a carefully clipped news article.

  Missing Girl Found Dead in Eno River Park

  June 12, 2015

  Durham, NC

  The body of Marla Rivers, a 10-year-old Durham County girl who has been missing since December of 2013, was found in Eno River Park on Monday when a pair of hikers wandered off their trail. The hikers noticed a large area of disturbed dirt where an animal had unearthed part of Rivers’ skeletal remains, buried in a shallow pit and covered with organic debris.

  After accessing recent missing persons reports and using dental records, investigators concluded that it was Marla Rivers. At this time the cause of death has not been determined.

  Rivers first went missing after school on Friday, December 6, after taking the bus home from school. The bus driver, Anna Burke, remembered dropping her off at her usual stop at the corner of Heckley Road and Bridgestone Drive. But an hour later, when Marla never arrived home, her parents Bill and Justine called Durham Police, requesting a search be conducted for their daughter.

  With no substantial leads, Marla’s disappearance eventually became a cold case.

  Police are currently searching for forensics evidence that will identify the killer. No suspects have been named for Rivers’ murder.

  Marla is survived by her parents and younger brother, Tyler. The details of her funeral will be made public once they’re available.

  Police are asking that if anyone has any information that might lead to Marla’s killer, please come forward and contact the Durham Police Department.

  I saw the writing on the wall. The scrawl of a killer. “Did George do this?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but Marla was with me right before I left. I wanted to go back and help her, but I was scared for Giana. I didn’t know what to do. So I did nothing—and she ended up dead.”

  “It’s not your fault, Tina, that he did what he did. He was holding your daughter’s life over you to coerce you to obey. You didn’t have a choice. He killed her, not you. But you can testify against him, you can make sure he never gets out of jail. You can give Marla’s family peace and closure now about what happened to their little girl.”

  I knew from life experience that closure was for doors, not for the murder of a loved one. But knowing justice was carried out made healing a little easier.

  “But he’s the only one who knows where Giana is. If I testify against him, he’ll never tell me how to find her. Plus what if he can still get to her—you know, through his contacts? What if he hurts her to get back at me?”

  I saw Tristan’s eyes dart to the rearview mirror, pass over Tina’s face, then return back to the road. Unreadable. But he was silently absorbing every detail.

  “Tristan, you can’t say anything … not yet. We need to figure out how to protect Giana first.”

  “Maybe we can work out some kind of plea bargain to get Giana back in exchange for reduced charges. We’ll figure it out, I promise.”

  I trusted Tristan. For the first time in years I actually trusted someone.

  “Please don’t make me regret telling you,” Tina pleaded.

  “We’ll find her.” My oath felt awfully empty. I didn’t know the first thing about tracking down a stolen child. But there had to be enough clues to work with. Certainly George couldn’t be the only person who knew of Giana’s whereabouts. He wasn’t singlehandedly selling babies. There had to be other hands in the pot. I just needed to follow the trail to sniff them out.

  Tina witnessed every bleeding moment. Someone else was there. Someone else took Giana.

  “What about the man who actually took her? Did you get a good look at him?”

  “If you can describe him to our sketch artist,” Tristan added, “we could look him up in our criminal database and see if we get some hits. Guys like that usually have some kind of criminal history, even if it’s minor.”

  “Do you remember his features, Tina?” I probed. It was a long shot, having been about three years ago, but some faces you never forget. Especially the face of the man who stole your baby.

  “I’ll never forget,” she whispered. A trancelike silence fell upon the three of us while I let her stew in her memories. She sat for a long moment, then gasped.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Oh my God, Ari. I know who took her.”

  “You know a name?” How could this only now be coming up?

  “Well, I didn’t before, but now I do. He changed a little since then—he lost the mustache. But remember how I thought your dad looked familiar?”

  Mother. Effing. No. Way.

  Was that the dark secret my father had been harboring? He was selling babies on the side?

  “It was him—Burt, your dad. I can still see his face, it was definitely him. I remember him looking so dejected, like he was truly sorry, until he walked away with my baby and never came back …”

  We were lucky I wasn’t driving, because I would have definitely run off the road and headed straight into a tree, oncoming traffic, a house. This wasn’t what I had expected to learn about my own father. It couldn’t be true. My father was a bank manager. A typical everyday workingman who came home every night for dinner, pushed his daughters on the swings, laughed along to episodes of Home Improvement, and barbequed on weekends. He couldn’t possibly be involved in a major criminal network … could he?

  Then I thought of Carli. Richie’s hired hit-and-run. Jay’s attack on Dad the night before. The business associate named George. All the lies. All the cloak-and-dagger shit. The many countless secrets. What did I really know about him, other than that my family pushed me away, holding their lies closer than their own daughter?

  I realized that this was my moment. Everyone gets one, but most people spoil them. That moment when they can change the course of their lives with a single decision. This was that decision—to uproot myself from my tiny, comfortable, ill-fitting life and do something big with myself. I vowed to uncover my family’s skeletons, I would find Giana and bring her home, and I would be the best damn PI this side of the Mississippi.

  Private Investigator Ari Wilburn—I had died and been reborn with purpose. And it felt damn good.

  What did you think of the book? Please leave your review by clicking HERE.

  Continue The Little Things That Kill Series with The Death of Life, and discover if Ari’s able to find Tina’s long-lost baby and uncover her parents’ dark secrets.

  THE DEATH OF LIFE

  Author’s Note

  As a mother of four young children, ever since that first moment I held my oldest in my arms I’ve dedicated my life to them. Everything I do is for them. Even my darkest fears revolve around their safety. Once upon a time I put myself first; those days are long gone.

  With parenthood comes a lingering fear of something horrible happening to one of my kids. As news stories pop up more and more often of children being abducted from grocery stores, I began to research child trafficking. As destiny would have it, I ended up meeting a woman who was a victim of child trafficking, and thus this story was born.

  Child trafficking is a real horror that exists in our world. It’s a perverted underground lifestyle that many children are subjected to, and it’s growing at an alarming rate. But it’s not a hopeless situation. Being a friend to your neighbors and getting to know the kids you meet can go a long way in detecting child abuse and sex trafficking, because unfortunately, it is that close to home.

  The Art of Fear, inspired by my friend’s personal experiences in the sex-trafficking industry, shares a small glimpse of what it was like for her. Her own neighbors had no idea they were living next to a child predator. But she was a lucky one. She broke free. And there are many more happy endings out there when we open our eyes to the needs and struggles of those around us.

  I hope you enjoyed the tale and will stick around for the next book as Ari, Tina, and Tristan set out to
find Tina’s missing baby … and find themselves in the midst of a murder spree.

  Acknowledgments

  The people who have supported me along the way are too numerous to name. But I’ll try, regardless.

  Not a single word is typed without the support of my husband, Craig. It’s the kid-free time he provides that allows me to escape to my writing world, and without him I wouldn’t be living the dream. So to him I owe it all.

  Then there’s you, my dear readers. When you buy a book, you are supporting a family of six, allowing me to give my special needs son the focus he needs at home, donating to a horse rescue farm (and a rescue of countless other animals that cross our path), supporting autism awareness, and hopefully enjoying the book along the way. I write for you—to tell the tales of people I’ve met in my life who have inspired me or intrigued me.

  Of course there’s my family and friends—my beta readers, my editors, my support group, and my thin grip on sanity. They keep me from going bald from the stress of late-night work hours, they talk me off the ledge after a dozen diaper changes in a day, and they remind me of the many reasons life is worth living to the fullest.

  To my editor Kevin Cook and the team at Proofed to Perfection who strive to bring out the beauty and power of my words—you guys are the best.

  Lastly, to my children: Talia, Kainen, Kiara, and Ariana. You drive me nuts, but I wouldn’t want it any other way. I live for you, I love for you, and I write for you, my darlings.

  A Final Word

  If you enjoyed The Art of Fear, follow the next book in The Little Things That Kill Series called The Death of Life, as Private Investigator Ari Wilburn uncovers the truth about her family’s scandal and searches for Tina’s long-lost baby. And you might meet a serial killer targeting the suicide group … but can Ari and Tristan catch the killer before one of them becomes the next victim?