Trinity Found: The Lost Daughter Of Angor Series - Book 1

by Settle Myer

  Trinity Found

  The Lost Daughter Of Angor Series ~ Book 1

  Settle Myer

  Copyright © 2020 Settle Myer

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by: Canva

  Playlist

  The Perfect Crime #2 - The Decemberists

  Saved My Life - Sia

  Overwhelmed - Royal and the Serpent

  Ok not to be Ok - Marshmello, Demi Lovato

  Control - Zoe Wees

  Hell and High Water - Major Lazer, Alessia Cara

  Courage to Change - Sia

  The One Moment - Ok Go

  Like Real People Do - Hozier

  Wonder - Shawn Mendes

  Conversations In The Dark - John Legend

  Let's Love - David Guetta, Sia

  You Are The Reason - Calum Scott

  Beneath Your Beautiful - Labrinth, Emeli Sandé

  Once Upon Another Time - Sara Bareilles

  Outro - M83

  Dedication

  I owe my life to my amazing beta readers, especially Stephanie Patton who always takes time away from being a super hero to read my creations. And thank you to Xan Garcia for being a part of this journey. You truly are part of my family away from home. Writing Trinity & Julian’s journey kept me sane during the pandemic. Hopefully it can do the same, allowing you to escape from reality.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  EPILOGUE – 3 YEARS LATER

  About The Author

  Social media

  Chapter 1

  The clock on the grease-stained wall moves like molasses, and it probably doesn’t help that I've looked at it at least five times in the past minute. I tap my pen on the sparkling-clean counter and stare down the elderly couple in the corner booth. They’ve been here for at least two hours, and it’s now an hour past closing. But I can’t just kick them out. They’re regular customers, and they tip at least forty percent – every time. So, I bite back my frustration and walk over to their table.

  “Mister and Mrs. Frampton, is there anything else I can get for you tonight?” I push the check a little closer to the tiny old man’s free hand. The other squeezes his wife’s hand tighter than a jar of pickles. He regards her with all the love the world has to offer. It’s sweet and adorable, and it burns my chest with jealousy.

  “Trinity, we are so sorry to keep you here this late, but it’s our anniversary. We met here at Donnie’s in this exact booth, fifty years ago today,” Mrs. Frampton says, daring not to take her eyes off the silver-haired man next to her. It’s as if she’s seeing him for the first time and falling in love all over again.

  “Wow! Fifty years is a long time. Congratulations.” I try to sound sincere, but I'm tired, and all I want to do is pass out in my bed. My lack of enthusiasm for the couple’s celebratory dinner finally brings Mrs. Frampton out of her love spell.

  “Oh, honey, you are exhausted. George, give her money and let this young lady go home.” She glances down to just above my chest and notices the embarrassing button I wear. “And it’s your birthday? Why on Earth are you working on your birthday?”

  I silently curse my manager for making me wear the birthday button. “It’s actually tomorrow. Or I guess here in about thirty minutes at midnight. I’m off tomorrow so I can celebrate then,” I lie. I actually do work tomorrow. My manager just thought I could get more tips if I wore the birthday button two days in a row. He was right, I made a killing. Anyway, I didn’t want Mrs. Frampton to know I had to work. Plus, I am not in the mood to hear a lecture. She’s way too concerned with my life, to begin with, always asking me about my schooling, where I plan to go to college, what I want to do when I grow up. So, one little white lie to save me from the berating is well worth the risk.

  “Well, that’s good. You are young, you should be out celebrating. You’re turning how old now?”

  “Eighteen.” I cringe slightly at the thought of entering adulthood. I'm just two months from graduating from high school, and I still don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life. Despite my lack of direction, I've been accepted to New York University. Major: undeclared. I’ll figure that out later.

  The couple gathers their belongings and slides out of the booth. I notice Mister Frampton placing a hundred-dollar bill on the table.

  “Oh, no, Mister Frampton, this is entirely too much! Your check was only thirty-three dollars.”

  He stands in front of me and takes both of my hands into his. I instantly calm, like the old man had transferred his carefree spirit onto me.

  “You are the sweetest young woman, our favorite waitress in all of Harlem. No, all of New York City,” he says. “You deserve this and more. Please. It’s our birthday gift to you.” And, with that, he kisses my cheek and turns to walk away. Mrs. Frampton gathers me in a tight hug and follows shortly behind her beloved husband.

  I watch the love-stricken couple walk out the door and grab my necklace. I trace the edges of the tiny black rectangle box, something I do a dozen times a day. My fingers find the etched letters spelling out my first name. The mindless motion is somewhat of a nervous tick. For some reason, the necklace brings me comfort, and I'd say, nine out of ten times, I don’t even realize I'm holding it.

  “Well, that was nice of them,” a voice murmurs next to my ear. I jump a mile high and nearly karate-chop my co-worker's head off.

  “Shiloh! I told you to stop walking up on me like that. One day, I will drop kick you.” I playfully push him away then lock the pizza shop’s door. I start clearing the Framptons’ table as it was the only thing left on my long list of closing duties.

  “Oh, please. Trinity Parks, beating me to a bloody pulp? Don’t you know I’m a prize-winning UFC fighter?” Shiloh says, grabbing the dirty dishes so I can wipe the table down.

  I pause and stare at Shiloh Suárez, ignoring the restless butterflies coming to life in the pit of my stomach. Shiloh is handsome, too handsome for a girl like me. He’s a twenty-year-old, dark and handsome Latino with not one ounce of fat on his muscle-packed body. He smiles, flashing those perfect white teeth at me. If he only knew how much that smile made me melt just a little inside. I imagine kissing his full, pink lips before shaking myself from my sexually frustrated teenage fantasy.

  I sigh. “You’re a former UFC champion. And it was only one regional tournament last year.”

  “Oh, it’s like that?”

  “And, for your information, I am a badass. I once gave Kitty Harvey a black eye for spreading rumors about me at school.”

  Shiloh holds up his hands like he’s afraid of all five foot six, buck twenty me. I punch his shoulder, and he pretends it hurts. Then, I give the dining area one more dirt check. Satisfied there is no gri
me left, I head to the back to gather my belongings, turning off the dining room lights along the way. Shiloh trails right behind.

  “Did you make some good money on deliveries tonight?” I ask, shutting my locker and swinging my purse over my shoulder. I tuck my tips into the side pocket of my jeans. With the Framptons’ generous birthday present, I made a total of three hundred and thirty-three dollars. That's triple what I usually make on a busy weekend night. And it was Thursday, which made my hefty tip collection even more impressive.

  We walk out the back, and Shiloh locks the door. “I made fifty on deliveries. It was a slow night. But I hear you made bank! Happy Birthday, by the way.” He searches his pocket for a cigarette, and I scrunch up my nose as he lights it. He notices my disgust and laughs. “Hey, I have to meet my friend Brandon at a bar in Hell's Kitchen. Are you going to be okay walking home?”

  I shrug. “It’s just a couple of blocks. Plus, I’m a badass, remember? No one will mess with me.”

  Shiloh takes a big drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke through his nose and mouth. He runs his hand through his buzzed, pitch-black hair before patting me on the back like I’m his little sister who had just won a spelling bee. “Take it easy, kid. See you tomorrow.”

  I watch the nearly six-foot-tall hunk of meat walk away and release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Kid. I’m no kid. I glance at my phone. Ten minutes until midnight. Almost not a kid anyways. I choke back my disappointment and birthday loneliness and start walking home. How pathetic am I? Fawning over someone who considers me nothing more than a sister.

  Ok, so Shiloh doesn’t lust over me like I lust over him. No surprise there. I’m not a beauty queen. Far from it. My skin is too pale, and my dirty blonde hair, while falling halfway down my back, is typically frizzy with lifeless waves. I suppose Shiloh and I had known each other since I first started working at Donnie’s when I was sixteen, and my body was still filling out. Perhaps he really did see me as his little sister. Whatever. Screw him. Puberty blessed me with a great rack and a not-so-flat ass. You know what? I’m just going to say it. I’m curvaceous, and any guy with eyes would see that and fall in love. Ugh. Why am I lying to myself? If that were true, all the guys at school would be lining up to date me. Instead, the only dudes who pay me any attention are the freshman in AV club. Maybe those geeks love a woman in power since I’m the AV Club president.

  I roll my eyes and realize my loathsome thoughts kept me busy from noticing how dark and deserted Lenox Avenue is right now. I cross 126th street, now only two blocks from home. Loud footsteps barreling toward me spark a strange electric shock in my gut. I stop walking and hold my stomach, nearly keeling over. A man dressed in a black hoodie and jeans approaches, and I gather my nerves before shakily standing straight. My heart jumps into my throat as I’m overwhelmed with rage and malice, not from me but from him. The man picks up his pace. Every part of my sane mind is telling me to turn and run. Yet, I don’t move. I keep the man in my eyesight and take my phone out of my pocket. I dial 911, not even looking down at the screen, just knowing I dialed it right. My hands shake violently, and the phone drops out of my hand. I hear the clack of the plastic hitting the ground just as the dispatcher picks up the line.

  What am I doing? Run. But I don’t. I stand there, waiting. My brain reasons with my body, but my body is now in control. The man is now just a few feet away. He takes a gun out of his hoodie pocket. I’m about to be robbed.

  “Stupid girl, standing there instead of running away.” He points the gun at me. “Give me your purse. And that necklace.”

  “I don’t think so.” What? Why would I say that? “You picked the wrong person to rob tonight. If I were you, I’d turn around and go back to whatever cardboard box you call home. Maybe throw that gun away, too, and reevaluate your life choices.”

  “Are you insane? I have a gun pointing at you, you dumb bitch.”

  He takes a step closer, the gun’s cool barrel now against my forehead. That’s when something triggers inside me. I reach out and twist his wrist. He screams out in pain and drops the gun. He tries to grab me with his other hand, but I stop it mid-way. I shove my palm into his chest, the force propelling him to the ground, ten feet back. I stroll over to him, gawking at my shaking, alien hands. How am I doing this? The man grabs his chest, groaning. I can see his face clearly now. He’s a young, white man. His slim face paler than my own, with sunken-in cheeks and dark circles underneath his eyes. A drug addict robbing me for his next fix? Probably. He sees me nearing him, and frantically tries to escape in a clumsy crab walk maneuver. Fear fills his eyes, and it sweeps over my body, settling on my skin before coursing through my veins. His terror only fuels my charge. I pin his shoulder down with my foot. In the distance, I hear police sirens. They are fast approaching.

  “I told you not to mess with me. You should have listened,” I growl in a voice that sounds like mine, yet it’s unrecognizable. Clearly, I’ve been possessed by some crime-fighting demon. This demon uses the back of my hand to slap the wannabe mugger across the jaw. The impact sends him into unconsciousness. What? How? I barely touched him. Red and blue flashing lights illuminate the street a few blocks away. Right, I was the one who called the police. I find my phone up against a wall and pick it up. The screen is cracked all to hell.

  “Hello?” I breathe out into the phone. The 911 dispatcher is still on the line.

  “Ma’am, are you okay? Are you hurt? What’s your name?”

  “Trinity Parks. And I’m okay.” I take the phone away from my ear and look at the time. Two minutes after midnight. Suddenly, I am lightheaded and start to swagger, barely able to keep my balance. I hold on to the wall for support, and, as the police lights grow brighter, my world falls into darkness.

  Voices crowd my head, muffled as if I were under water. My eyes flutter, letting in flashes of bright lights. The smell of antiseptic stings my nose. What a horrible nightmare. Or was it real? My eyes shoot open, and I spring up in bed. I draw in a deep breath and hold my throat, stretching medical cords attached to my body.

  “Trinity! It’s okay. You’re okay!” I recognize that voice. My mother, Angela Parks.

  “Mom!” I sob and fall into her open arms.

  “I’ll go get the doctor,” says a petite nurse before running out of the room.

  “How are you feeling? Do you know what happened?” She pets my head, refusing to let me go.

  I nod into her chest, and she pulls away.

  “I… I was mugged.” Or some low-life criminal tried. Did I beat up a mugger? “No, he didn’t mug me. I fought him.”

  My mother smiles. It’s not a happy smile. It’s full of dismay.

  “Yes,” she whispers. Her brown eyes glazed with worry.

  “Trinny, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

  My dad, John, enters the room and sets a bag on a chair. He walks over to my bed, giving me a gentle hug as if I were fragile. Or dangerous. I sense defeat from him, and all of my energy drains. I notice wrinkles encase my dad’s dark-blue eyes. His silver hair is a mess, and his clothes mismatched. I look at my mother, who’s just as disheveled. Her box-dyed brown hair in a messy bun and makeup smeared. Obviously, the two were woken up by a police call and rushed to put on whatever clothes were nearest to them, not even giving themselves a glance in the mirror beforehand.

  “I’m fine, Dad. Really. What about you two? You look a mess. Who picked out those outfits?” I giggle.

  They smile faintly. Guess it’s too soon for jokes.

  “Mother has been here all night with you.” He points his thumb at the chair behind him, where he set the backpack. “I went home to grab you a few clean outfits. I should have changed, too, huh?”

  My lip quivers. “No, dad. I’m sorry, I was just trying to lighten things up. Thank you for bringing me clothes. I love you, guys.”

  My dad pulls me in for a hug and rubs my back. “We’re just glad you’re okay.” He releases me, wiping away my tears before giving me a for
ced smile. I only knew it was forced because unease and worry radiate off of him, and it nearly suffocates me.

  I reach for my neck for that familiar boxed shape and instead find dread at the tip of my fingers. My hand skims my collar bone before frantically pulling back the sheets of the hospital bed.

  “My necklace! It’s gone!” More tears build behind my eyes. The necklace, a simple black rectangular cube with my name etched on the side, is one of the two things I have connecting me to my biological parents.

  “Honey, calm down. It’s right here in this plastic baggie with the rest of your belongings the police found at the crime scene,” my mother says softly. Concern plagues her voice and seeps into my veins as if trying to infect me.

  My dad places his palm on my shoulder. “I’ll put the baggie in the backpack with your clothes. Your book is in there, too. I knew you’d want it with you.”

  “How’s our little hero doing?” a man in a white lab coat interrupts. He walks up to my bed, holding a clipboard. “Hi, I’m Doctor Bently. Mister and Mrs. Parks?” He shakes my parents’ hands before going over my vitals. “We have a fighter here. X-rays are clear. Blood work is normal. There are no signs of trauma, no bruising, broken bones. Did the mugger even have a chance?” he chuckles.

  Shame nips at my nerves. Did I do something wrong? Because it sure seems like I did.

  “You are one lucky young lady. But I do want to keep you here one more night just as a precaution.” He glances out to the hallway. “The police is here. They want to talk to you. Are you feeling up to it?”