Midnight Sun: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (A Grant & Daniels Trilogy Book 1)

by Raine, Charlotte

  “It wasn’t a drug ring. I occasionally sold some pot in Anchorage. Those two worthless pieces of shit who kidnapped you wanted me to start selling meth there, but I refused. And I was trying to find you during the fire. I was afraid you would die in the fire, so I began searching harder. Does the police report even mention that I’m the one who found you? I was the one who found you and that’s why the police suspect me. They must want the credit or something. You know cops. They’re power-hungry. They couldn’t find you for three days! They were barely even trying! It’s easier to blame me. I’m sure they’ll say I was impeding their investigation.”

  “They did,” she says. “They said you were accusing Dad and trying to mislead them.”

  I raise my eyebrow. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Dad was involved, but I wouldn’t throw him under the bus. After losing Debbie, I know there’s nothing more important than family.”

  “I saw Debbie. In a dream. While I was in that mine.”

  “Did you?” I ask. “What did she say?”

  “She said I was a lioness and I needed to fight back.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Maybe you should.”

  “I need your help,” she says. “You know people in the city. I need a gun.”

  “For what?” I ask.

  “I’m going to kill every single person who has ever laid a finger on me.”

  Now this could be interesting.

  * * *

  48

  Excerpt from Devil’s Dawn

  Below is a special sneak peak of book two in this series.

  DEVIL’S DAWN by Charlotte Raine

  DOCTOR JORDAN WALSH clicks her pen twice before she scribbles something down on her pale-yellow legal pad. It must be a strange habit she 's gained after a decade of dealing with crazy people, because we've been talking for almost forty-five minutes now and she does it every time before she writes.

  I like to imagine drilling the pen through her ear and seeing if she can hear the clicking noise when it's inside her head.

  "So, you think Mason wasn't involved in your kidnapping, even though the police believe he was?" she asks.

  "Well, yeah. I mean…the two guys who kidnapped me…they were both shot and they died. Dad says Detective Grant was a suspect originally before they shifted the blame to Mason. What if they were just trying to find a scapegoat? What if Detective Grant did kill the two kidnappers, but he didn't want that on his record?"

  "That seems very…suspicious of you. You don't believe the police's version of events at all?" she asks.

  I shrug. I don't want to seem paranoid, but maybe all of the conspiracy theorists are right. Maybe everything in life—the media, the politicians, the police—are all trying to get us to believe the lie that we aren't just marionettes in their puppet show.

  "I think he was more involved with my kidnappers in other affairs than he's let on, but I can understand why he wouldn't want our father to know that," I say.

  "Why do you think you understand that, Sarah?"

  "Because Dad is…Dad."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  I know Dr. Walsh has reviewed all of the testimonies in the case against Mason, even the plea made by Wendy Norris to consider his "troubled relationship" with our father as a mitigating factor. I know Dr. Walsh is just itching for me to say that my father beat me or abused me in some other way, but I don't intend to give her what she wants—at least not yet.

  "He likes to make a big deal out of everything." I try to get my voice to portray restrained vulnerability.

  Doctor Walsh leans forward, taking my bait like the guppy fish she is. "Can you expand on that?"

  I shake my head then lower it, so she can't see my eyes. I wrap my arms around my waist, making myself seem like I am closing myself off from the conversation.

  "Well, I think we've done enough for today," she says. "You did very well, and I think we made some breakthroughs. Like I told you at the end of our previous session, you can call me any time of the day or at night if you need help."

  Debbie snorts. She's leaning against the bookcase that is full of leather-bound books. The Science of Behavior. Personality Disorders and the Gene Game, Antisocial or Asocial? "That seems like a fatal weakness for a shrink," Debbie says. "You might as well put an ad in the newspaper asking all sociopaths to visit your house."

  I almost nod before I catch Dr. Walsh staring at me.

  "Did you see something over there?" she asks, glancing at the bookshelf.

  "Oh, no. I was just reading the titles of your books. Have you written any of them?"

  "No, no." She shakes her head, smiling. Flattery gets people to lower their defenses and suspicions every time. "I've written a few papers for scientific journals, but not a book yet. Someday, hopefully, I'll get around to it."

  "Well, I'll get going, so maybe you can start thinking about it." I gather my new Wyatt High School jacket—my old one was ruined while being in the mine—and my new black and white backpack, which has geometric patterns—my mother bought it as a sorry you were kidnapped gift. "Maybe you could even write my story."

  "That would be an interesting book," she says. "The girl who survived three days in an abandoned mine."

  "I would be the first one to buy it." I flash her a smile because she doesn't know the second half would be called, and then she killed everyone who thought they were the Big Bad Wolf and she was Little Red Riding Hood.

  Fuck the red hood. I'm shedding it, killing the wolf, and wearing its fur to show everyone that I'm the beast they all should have feared.

  * * *

  I park my truck half a mile from Brianna's house in the entrance of a walking trail. It's hidden from the road by a row of Sitka spruce trees. I change into some clothes I bought from a thrift store in Anchorage. There's black leggings, a long-sleeved black shirt, and men's boots that are about three sizes too big for me. I was originally looking at boots that were only a size larger than what I would usually wear, but I figured I should get something much larger, so if the police find footprints, they'll automatically start looking for an adult male.

  I grab my duffle bag, which holds my father's rifle, and begin walking through the woods toward Brianna's house. Sometimes Debbie walks beside me. Sometimes she falls behind. Other times, she seems to flicker ahead of me, barely as visible as a hologram.

  Once I get within view of Brianna's driveway, I settle behind her family's firewood rack. There isn't much wood there—I'm not sure if they haven't begun to chop down trees yet or if they have already burned through a large portion of it. It doesn't matter. It gives me a good place to level my rifle without my arms getting tired.

  After a little while, Brianna flies into the driveway—running late, just as I expected her to be—with one hand on the wheel and one hand on her phone as she texts like mad. She's still texting as she gets out of the car, lingering with her hand on the door as she smiles at something she wrote. Debbie hums the national anthem as I wrap my finger around the trigger.

  Brianna's white-crystal phone goes flying when the bullet goes through the left side of her face, between her jaw and cheekbone. She spins, her purple-and-white plaid skirt flaring, and looks toward me when the second bullet smashes into the bridge of her nose.

  I can hear Debbie's harsh breathing in my ear. "I don't think she saw you."

  "I'm not sure." I set the rifle against the woodpile and stand up. I glance down at my hands, and I'm amused to find they aren't shaking at all. Is it really that easy to take a life?

  I don't rush back to my truck. I don't need to hurry. I don't need to run or panic because there's nobody home at the Culls' house, and their beagles bark all the time anyway. Add the fact that it's hunting season, and I've chosen the perfect time to commit murder.

  I take a meandering, indirect route back to where I parked my truck, and a different route than the direct one I'd taken down the hill to get to the house

  In my opinion, Mason didn't know how to plan, and that's why he was
so fucked up and his ass was in jail, even if he really was innocent, like he says he is. But if there's one thing I'm good at, it's planning. I've created a list in my head of all the people who have hurt me and the time frame I'd need to kill them in order to avoid raising too much suspicion. The police and the FBI will come down eventually; I'm sure, because my list is absolutely long enough that it will attract the attention of the federal government. But if they get in the way, I'll simply eliminate them, too. I won't ever be scared into submission again.

  I get to my truck and throw my duffle bag, with the rifle, into the under-seat storage compartment. When I slide into the driver's seat, I realize Debbie has been silent, walking behind me the whole way back. I start the truck and change into my cheerleader uniform—and stuff the thrift store clothes back into the extra large Ziploc bag I'd stashed them in. I'll burn them later.

  "What's your issue?" I ask.

  "What makes you think I have any issue?" Debbie checks herself out in the side view mirror, rubbing in her lip gloss with her fingertip.

  "Half the time I can't get you to shut up," I say. "It makes it very hard to appear normal when you keep talking. Doctor Walsh almost caught us today."

  She huffs, slamming her back into the seat. "I agree that Mason was a poor planner and that's why he got caught. But he's not innocent. I mean, come on. You've seen him. He's a manipulator, just like you. He's the one who originally wanted you to kill Brianna, which was completely against your original plan to only kill those who have hurt you—"

  "Brianna hurt me. She told my father about Paul Gossard."

  "That's barely worth a murder," she says. "And you know it. She wasn't purposely trying to hurt you. Our plan was to go after other predators…and Brianna didn't have any claws. Mason, on the other hand, wanted her dead because she testified against him. He's a self-serving asshole who still thinks of you as his dumb half sister. You know you're going to have to kill him eventually, don't you?"

  "He probably wants me to kill him—he hates prison that much. And it's a stupid move. I'd get myself locked up for the rest of my life since I'm eighteen now, and we don't have the death penalty."

  "And they'd call you the Cheerleader Killer."

  I make a face at her. She chuckles.

  For the rest of the drive, she's silent except for cursing at a driver who cuts us off. She seems to be contemplating our next move, but I'm already confident our plan is perfect and every kill after it'll feel just as good.

  A loud buzzing fills the truck.

  "Well, that would be great if the truck broke down while you have a rifle in the back and clothes in a plastic bag," Debbie says.

  "It's my burner phone," I mutter. "It must be Nick. He's the only one who has the number. At least I've got a legitimate excuse to ignore the text until I'm in The Charcoal Grill's parking lot."

  "Why do you keep that jerk-off around? He's a liability."

  "He's also in constant contact with the acting chief of police," I say. "And willing to tell me what Chief Grant is up to. I'm going to need that more than ever now."

  "It's a good thing men can only think with their dicks," she mutters. "Or he would have seen right through your act by now."

  When I stop in front of The Charcoal Grill, I take the phone out of my glove compartment.

  Nick: How did your appt. with Dr. Walsh go?

  Me: Sorry I didn't answer right away. I was driving. It went well. We talked about Mason and my dad. What's going on over there?

  Nick: Aaron is at Teresa's. It's Teresa's birthday, so Aaron probably won't be coming back until tomorrow morning. He might even go straight to work like he usually does when he stays over at her apartment.

  "Somebody is feeling horny," Debbie says. "I'm pretty sure that's his version of my parents are out of town."

  I ignore her and send Nick a reply.

  Cool.

  Nick: Can you get away tonight at all?

  Me: It's my first night back at work after cheerleading practice. I might be tired.

  Nick: Oh, okay. I might come by and grab a burger for dinner. We could have fun pretending we don't know each other.

  "Somebody is desperate." Debbie yawns.

  As I begin to answer Nick, I glance over to find Debbie has disappeared. That's getting really annoying.

  Me: Sounds fun.

  I throw the phone back into the glove compartment, get out of the truck and lock it, and head into The Charcoal Grill. The smell of french fries assaults my nostrils, and the red-and-white checkered pattern of the walls and floors fill my vision. The restaurant has eighteen white melamine tables and a red take-out counter at the back. I think the owner, Patrick Duff, was trying to make it feel like a "classic" burger restaurant, but it just looks like red and white were the cheapest colors available for him to buy.

  I walk up to the take-out counter. "Hey, Birdie."

  Birdie is a senior at Wyatt High School like me. Her real name is Yellow Bird, but in elementary school, teachers shortened it to Yellow, which she hated, so she told everyone to call her Birdie. I guess her parents are half-Swedish and half-Inuit hippies, and Birdie inherited the more conventionally beautiful sides of both heritages—she has the dark hair and eyes of the Inuits, but the fine bone structure of her Swedish side. She has a hundred nervous tics, which could be because she's always juggling high school with taking care of her younger siblings, or because her mother was doing drugs while she was pregnant.

  "Hey, um, Sarah," she says, drying her hands on a rag. "What's up? You're not supposed to be working yet, right?

  Birdie took over for me when I was recovering in the hospital after my kidnapping. I know she's paranoid about losing her job once I'm back to working my normal shifts. I wonder if her first reaction to hearing that Brianna is dead will be relief since she will get to keep her job. It would be amusing if it were so obvious that Birdie would become suspect number one, even though she's probably got a solid alibi. Birdie doesn't do anything, but work and take care of her younger brothers and sisters, because her parents are stoners who don't give a shit how they're hurting their kids, so she was likely there or here during the time frame the police come up with.

  "Could I get ten small milkshakes?" I ask her. I smile as she nods, getting out her pad of paper. I take out my phone because I have all of the squad's favorite flavors jotted down on a note on my phone—my regular phone, not the burner that's solely to keep in contact with Nick or whatever else I may need it for in the future. "I need three vanillas, four chocolates, and three strawberries."

  "No problem," Birdie says. "It will be out in a minute."

  She disappears into the kitchen. She's such a nice girl who was dealt a shitty hand in life—like me. Maybe I should help her out by killing her parents.

  "Or not," Debbie says. I turn to see her sitting on the counter, her legs swaying over the edge. "You already have a plan in place and you wouldn't gain anything by killing her parents. Stick to the plan. Don't be nice unless it gets you something. Remember, the only threat to a predator—"

  "—is arrogance," I finish for her.

  A little boy turns in his chair, his forehead furrowed in confusion, wondering whom I'm talking to. I flash him a smile. His cheeks turn bright red and he turns back around to finish eating his burger. And a predator's greatest asset is camouflage. Nothing makes prey feel safer than thinking there isn't a single predator in sight.

  * * *

  CLICK HERE TO ORDER

  Also by Charlotte Raine

  Do You Want To Play

  * * *

  Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Series

  Teacher Beware FREE (Book 1)

  Disturbed Mind (Book 2)

  * * *

  Grant & Daniels Romantic Suspense Series

  Midnight Sun (Book 1)

  Devil’s Dawn (Book 2)

  Blood Moon (Book 3)

  Complete Series Box Set

  * * *

  The Gun Runner - Short Story Series


  Major Threat (Book 1)

  Trigger Point (Book 2)

  Safe At Last (Book 3)

  Complete Series Box Set

  About the Author

  Charlotte Raine is a best selling romantic suspense author. She lives near Vail, Colorado with her cat Jackson. If she isn’t writing her next novel she is skiing, meditating, gardening or chatting up the locals at her favorite coffee shops. If you are ever in the high country of Colorado look for her at Yeti’s Grind or Loaded Joe’s.

  Use the links below to find her online…

  @crainebooks

  ILoveRomanticSuspense

  www.charlotteraine.com

  crainebooks@gmail.com

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