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

by Pamela Crane

  My eyes slid closed and I conjured an image of “normal”—Dad, Mom, and me sitting around our dining room table chatting over the day’s events, laughing and smiling as Dad teased me about the pink streak of dye in my hair or my Paula Abdul dance moves for the school talent show, picking at me good-naturedly as he was wont to do.

  Then I wondered if I’d ever smile again.

  Chapter 2

  Hillsborough, North Carolina

  Saturday, April 5, 2014

  9:03 a.m.

  My glance wandered upward, noting how the cedar branches grabbed fistfuls of sunlight before tossing shards around me. Spring always came too late, in my opinion. If I could avoid winter altogether, I would, but Florida had never been a viable option. The mere suggestion of me moving that far away would have killed my mom—emotionally, that is. After my father’s death, I was all she had. Though, the constant interrogations about when I would give her grandbabies was enough to drive me to the Eastern hemisphere.

  A row of yellow daffodils and red tulips nestled against the walkway beneath my feet. Stray weeds peeked up through cracks in the concrete, a reminder that nature had the final say. No matter how much mankind bulldozed or built, all was vulnerable to Mother Nature’s whims.

  Each step was brisk as I approached my boyfriend’s apartment door. I had endured an endless, grueling week of work, anxiously waiting to see Brad Thomas—the love of my life—until at last the weekend had arrived. I reached his door, knocked once, then pushed the door open.

  “Brad?” I called out. “It’s Mia.”

  I heard the news broadcasting from the living room, so I headed in. When I turned the corner from the entryway, I whiffed the heavenly aroma of bacon—and the salivating began.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” Brad called from his position at the stove. “Hungry?”

  Even wearing an apron, he was all man. And gorgeous. He made brown eyes and brown hair striking. The dusting of scruff on his jaw gave this sweetheart a bad boy appeal that I could never resist. That, and his devilish grin. I was charmed, to say the least.

  And as I told my mom in not-so-graphic detail, I could totally see myself making babies with Brad.

  I threw my purse on the sofa and traipsed to the kitchen, sliding myself behind him. I slipped my arms around him and kissed his neck, where part of his back tattoo peeked out from under his T-shirt. “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” I teased. It was a phrase my dad had used daily with my mom when he came home from work and dinner was cooking, one of the many things I fondly remembered about him.

  “Eggs Benedict over homemade English muffins … and of course bacon.”

  My favorite.

  “Showoff,” I said. “I would have been happy with Cheerios—Honey Nut, of course.”

  “You are a nut,” he teased. “Besides, a professional chef serving Cheerios? I don’t think so.”

  Brad’s culinary genius was one of my favorite things about him. Although being a chef demanded sacrificing most evenings and weekends together, it sure paid off at home when he experimented with new dishes. I loved being his guinea pig.

  “Though I’m thinking about skipping breakfast,” he said with a suggestive grin as he swiveled around to pull me up against his chest, “and going straight to dessert. Whaddya say, Miss Germaine?”

  “I do have a sweet tooth,” I quipped.

  His trail of kisses started at my lips and tiptoed down the ridge of my chin, further down my neck, then trailing the length of my collarbone until I squirmed away. Only a couple of inches further along was the beginnings of the scar that my cosmetic surgeons assured me would one day barely be noticeable.

  Lies. That “one day” never came.

  The angry pink line stretched vertically down the length of my breastbone, a constant and ugly reminder of my past. I spent years of my adolescence practicing the art of camouflaging it, but no amount of concealer could fully hide my disfigurement.

  When I turned twenty-one I decided to get a tattoo over my heart—a rose. A symbol of my life, though I never told anyone the depths of what it represented. If I wore a shirt low-cut enough for the blossom’s edge to peek out, or on the rare occasion I wore a swimming suit, viewers merely noted how “pretty” it was. To them it was a flower. To me it was much more. Yet no one, not even the current love of my life, seemed trustworthy enough to share that part of my soul and my past with.

  So, eventually my chest became a no-see and no-touch zone with the men I dated … which luckily were few.

  Until Brad Thomas.

  Brad had been the first “keeper” of the bunch. A tough gentleman who loved me, scars and all. Yet the insecurity of my scar forced a barrier between us, an obstacle that I wasn’t going to be able to hurdle anytime soon. While he’d certainly caught glimpses of it when I undressed, I always shut off the lights and wore a shirt when we made love. We’d had a handful of conversations about it—mainly Brad telling me not to hide it, that he loved every part of me—but to me it was a disfigurement. It made me ugly. I would never accept it, even if Brad assured me he did. Luckily Brad wasn’t in a race to overcome this emotional wall I erected, and neither was I. Things were good, and we were content—as far as I knew.

  “Let’s not burn breakfast,” I said coyly as I pulled away, pretending my forestalling tactic was about eating, not my imperfections.

  “It’s just about ready. You wanna grab a couple plates and forks?”

  I grabbed two beige ceramic plates and set the makeshift dining-slash-coffee table. I threw a pile of clothes and his Durham Bulls baseball hat on the floor beside me. Brad could be such a bachelor at times. His sparsely furnished apartment resembled a guy’s college dorm room, boasting only the “necessities,” he’d argue—a sofa, television, video game console, and two TV trays—until I gifted him a coffee table for Christmas last year. How could men live like this? It was so Third World.

  With the last flip of the bacon, Brad carried his culinary masterpiece into the living room and served us both, then sat next to me. While we ate, an anchor from WRAL was covering the local news. Gunshots at Northgate Mall, a fire in Woodcroft. Local spring festivals, Durham Bulls baseball stats.

  A panning shot of downtown Durham played across the screen, focusing on the packed Durham Bulls Athletic Park where fans decked in royal blue cheered on the local baseball team for their season opener two nights ago against the Gwinnett Braves. Our team opened with a win but lost last night. “The sorry bums,” Brad grumbled.

  Zooming across the street to the American Tobacco Historic District, the screen showed the newly renovated tobacco warehouse that now housed an eclectic and thriving mix of shops, restaurants, and office spaces. Handsome red brick walkways and an industrial-style concrete waterway graced the popular venue. The Lucky Strike tower sparkled with lights in the epicenter of the campus, creating a romantic atmosphere that Brad and I had enjoyed several times when dining downtown.

  On and on the perfectly coiffed female news anchor droned. Some bad news, some good news. The norm. Then something drew my attention with such force that I couldn’t chew, couldn’t swallow, only watch.

  “In breaking news,” the anchor said soberly, “a teen death has rocked the Raleigh area. Thirteen-year-old Gina Martinez was found last night in her Apex home with fatal stab wounds to her abdomen.” A picture of a smiling, golden-skinned teen flashed on the screen. Her black hair cascaded down her shoulders in heavy waves.

  “After an evening out, parents Roy and Amelia Martinez came home to find their daughter, Gina, passed out from blood loss. She was rushed to WakeMed where she was pronounced dead. There was no sign of forced entry, which leads investigators to believe the family knew the assailant. Police report stab wound patterns that are consistent with a murder committed last March, when police found twelve-year-old Violet Hansen brutally murdered in a local park. Investigators found Miss Martinez with her makeup removed, leading police to recognize this as the work of a serial killer now dubbed the Triangle
Terror, though no suspects have been named. A memorial will be held for Miss Martinez at St. Thomas’ Church on Monday.”

  As the anchor moved on, I couldn’t. I numbly found the remote and turned the TV off just as the anchor cheerily segued into coverage of upcoming “Got to Be NC Festival.”

  “You okay, Mia?” Brad’s voice was barely a whisper above my crowding thoughts.

  I shook my head.

  I was going to hurl.

  Rising to my feet, I darted to the bathroom and frantically flipped up the toilet seat. I dunked my head inside and emptied my eggs into its awaiting porcelain maw.

  A moment later I felt Brad’s hands pull my shoulder-length hair back. When I felt sure there was nothing left in my stomach, I stood and leaned over the sink to wash the sweat from my face. I swished a mouthful of cold water to get rid of the taste of bile.

  Brad sweetly stood by, rubbing my back.

  What a gem.

  I rested my weight against the sink, staring at my own vacant hazel eyes in the vanity mirror. Brown strands of sweat-soaked hair stuck to the side of my face, and I pushed them away. I knew food poisoning when it hit me. This wasn’t a reaction to rotten eggs. It was a reaction to bad news. It seemed preposterous. Why would a random sad news story make me sick? It didn’t make sense. But I sure as heck didn’t want to find out. I preferred blissful ignorance.

  “My cooking that bad, huh?” Brad said with a chuckle.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” I said after one final mouth rinse. “I’m so sorry.” I wiped my mouth on the hand towel. “And I promise not to gripe about you leaving the toilet seat up again. I didn’t think I was going to make it …” I said, attempting humor.

  “It’s okay, Mia. Don’t apologize. Just sit down and rest.”

  He guided me back to the couch, allowing me to sink into his able arms. Arms that seemed to ward off all fear. They felt safe.

  I closed my eyes, but all I could see was blood splatter. A sharp pain surged through my chest, and I grabbed where my heart was. Was I having a heart attack? The pain intensified, and I couldn’t catch my breath.

  “I think I’m having a heart attack!” I said between hard breaths.

  “What? Should I call 9-1-1?” Brad asked frantically. “Try breathing slowly, Mia. You’re hyperventilating.”

  I dropped my head between my knees and concentrated on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Within a couple of minutes my breaths slowed and my chest pain began to subside.

  “Do I need to take you to the hospital, honey?” Brad asked again.

  “No,” I answered, sitting upright. “I think I’m okay now.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My heart just started hurting really bad.” But then I remembered something.

  “Do you think it was a heart attack?” Brad probed.

  “I’m not sure.”

  I hadn’t thought about it in years, but now the memory was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. Brad’s hand cupped mine, giving me the courage to speak.

  “You know how I told you that when I was a kid I was in a horrible car accident?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, this young guy lost control going around a sharp turn and somehow ran into the side of us as we were turning. I got crushed underneath the side door and almost died. When I got to the hospital, they had to give me a heart transplant—you know, the reason for my scar. I never had complications or anything, but this heart pain just made me think about it.”

  “Is this the same accident that killed your father?” Brad asked tentatively. It was a touchy subject, one we had only discussed once before.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Well, stuff happens. Gotta move on, right?”

  Brad squeezed me tenderly.

  “Did the guy go to jail?”

  “No, my mom never pressed charges. It really was a no-fault. Since he wasn’t drunk or anything, he didn’t deserve to do jail time. And I was okay with that, since there’s no point in one mistake taking two lives. He was just another typical teenage driver who probably considered himself invincible and lost control of the wheel. It happens. I’m sure the pain of knowing he killed a man was more anguish than a jail sentence could’ve inflicted. I never did find out who he was, though. My mom felt it was better I didn’t know.”

  I shrugged. Water under the bridge.

  “What about your heart donor—did you find out who that was?”

  “Nope. I only know that she was a girl my age—twelve. And local. I don’t even know how she died. Part of me wishes I could find out, you know? But the hospital wouldn’t disclose organ donor names when I looked into it in the past. It’s a sealed record, they told me. Other than through hospital records, how am I supposed to figure out who she was?”

  “I dunno, Mia, maybe you’re not supposed to know what happened. That sounds kind of morbid to know whose heart you have and what killed her. Besides, how will knowing be of any benefit?”

  “It’s not about benefiting anyone. It’s about closure.”

  “Closure from what? You had nothing to do with her death.”

  “But someone did, Brad. Someone, or something, killed her. And she’s a part of me now. She’s what keeps me alive.” My voice rose an octave as my words grew terse. A passion that was never there before surfaced. I didn’t know why I cared so much now, but it didn’t change the fact that she died and I lived. “I want to know who, and why. She was only a child. She didn’t deserve to die.”

  “Are you saying you think she was murdered? She could have died of natural causes, you know.”

  “A twelve-year-old suddenly dead, and not from a disease? Because they wouldn’t have harvested her organs if she had a terminal illness. Sounds like something shady to me.”

  “I don’t know …” Brad said, shaking his head.

  “I suppose I’ll never know the truth, will I?”

  Brad eyed me skeptically. He obviously had no idea what it felt like to be in my position.

  “Look,” I said with a razor’s edge to my tone, “you can’t possibly understand because you’re not borrowing someone else’s time. Her heart was alive inside her before I took it. It bothers me, okay?”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t get upset with me. Do what you want to do.” I heard the bite to his voice.

  Was this our first fight? It was beginning to sound like it, and I had never intended the subject to escalate. Though I didn’t feel I owed him an apology. I was right, after all, even though I wasn’t sure what I was right about.

  Surrender was never pretty when pride was at stake, especially among couples. I’d yet to meet a humble married couple.

  “Let’s just try to salvage the rest of this day before it’s ruined,” I said, trying to smooth over the tension. The last thing I wanted was our first fight to be about my scar. It should be about picking up dirty clothes off the floor, or whose turn it was to do the dishes. Not about my past. “I just hope nothing’s wrong with my heart,” I added warily.

  “Don’t worry, baby. It’s probably nothing, but get checked out just to be sure. Okay?”

  “Yeah, I will,” I mumbled.

  But Brad’s offering was no reassurance, for somehow, deep in the recesses of my now-empty gut, I knew something was wrong. Something big. And it had to do with murder, a serial killer, and a dead girl.

  Read the rest of the book by clicking here:

  A Secondhand Life

  * * *

  [1] See A Secondhand Life by Pamela Crane at http://www.pamelacrane.com

 

 

 
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