Exposure
Brandilyn Collins
When your worst fear comes true. Someone is watching Kaycee Raye. But who will believe her? Everyone knows she's a little crazy. Kaycee's popular syndicated newspaper column pokes fun at her own paranoia and multiple fears. The police in her small town are well aware she makes money writing of her experiences. Worse yet, she has no proof of the threats. Pictures of a dead man mysteriously appear in her home---then vanish before police arrive. Multisensory images flood Kaycee's mind. Where is all this coming from? Maybe she is going over the edge. High action and psychological suspense collide in this story of terror, twists, and desperate faith. The startling questions surrounding Kaycee pile high. Her descent to answers may prove more than she can survive.
EXPOSURE
For my mom,
Ruth Seamands,
and the denizens of Wilmore
There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves torment.
1 John 4:18, NKJV
PART 1
Of all the liars in the world, sometimes the worst are your own fears.
Rudyard Kipling
ONE
She’d forgotten to turn on the porch lights.
Kaycee Raye pulled into her driveway and slowed her red PT Cruiser. Her gaze bored into the night. The streetlamp across the road behind her dispelled too few shadows. Someone could be out there, watching.
Her gaze cut left to the neighbor’s decrepit black barn and its fence in need of paint. The barn hulked sullen and taunting, its bowed slats the perfect hiding place for peering eyes.
Kaycee shuddered.
She looked down Village Circle, running to the left of the barn into the apartment complex of Jessamine Village. All was quiet. Not unusual for nighttime in Wilmore, Kentucky, a small town about twenty minutes south of Lexington.
To the right of Kaycee’s house old Mrs. Foley’s wide front porch was lit. Kaycee stared into the dimness beyond the lamplight, searching for movement.
A curtain on Mrs. Foley’s side living room window edged back. Kaycee tensed. Backlit by a yellow glow, the elderly woman’s thin frame hunched behind the glass. Watching.
Kaycee’s fingers curled around the steering wheel. It’s only Mrs. Foley, it’s only Mrs. Foley. The woman was harmless. Still, a vise clamped around Kaycee’s chest. Since childhood she’d fought the strangling sense of being watched. Talk about Las Vegas odds — what were the chances of her buying a house next to a snoopy old woman?
Kaycee struggled to grasp the coping skills she’d learned over the years. Rational argument. Deep breathing for calm. Willing her muscles to relax. But her lungs only constricted more.
Swallowing hard, she eyed Mrs. Foley’s silhouette. Las Vegas odds? Maybe. But fears could come true, even one’s worst fear. Hadn’t that happened to Kaycee’s best friend, Mandy Parksley? Mandy had been plagued by the fear that, like her own mother, she would die young and leave her daughter, Hannah, behind. Kaycee insisted that would never come to pass. Mandy was healthy and fit. But at thirty-three she’d suddenly developed a brain tumor — and died within nine months.
Mrs. Foley’s head moved slightly, as if she was trying to see inside Kaycee’s car. That did it. Time to flush the woman out. Kaycee flicked on the light inside her Cruiser, leaned sideways, and waved with animation. “Hey there, Mrs. Foley!” She forced the words through clenched teeth.
The woman jerked away from the window, her curtain fluttering shut.
Breath returned to Kaycee slowly.
The bulb in her car seemed to brighten, exposing her to the night. Kaycee smacked off the light and glanced around.
Push back the fear.
But she couldn’t. At Mandy’s death a year ago, Kaycee’s lifelong coping skills had crumbled. Rational thinking no longer worked. If Mandy’s worst fear could happen, why couldn’t Kaycee’s? Maybe there were people out there watching.
How ironic that Mandy had been drawn to her through Kaycee’s syndicated newspaper column about overcoming fear. “Who’s There?” had millions of readers across the country, all so grateful to Kaycee for helping them fight back. Crazy but courageous Kaycee Raye. If she could overcome her multiple fears, so could they.
In the end, she hadn’t been able to help Mandy.
If her readers only knew how far down she’d spiraled since then.
Shoulders tight, Kaycee hit the remote button to open her garage and drove inside. As the door closed she slid from her car, gripping her purse. She hurried under the covered walkway to her back entrance, key in hand. Kaycee shoved open the door, her fingers scrabbling around the door frame for the overhead light switch. As the fluorescent light flickered on, she whisked inside, shut the door, and locked it.
Eyes closed, she exhaled.
The weight upon her lifted. In her own home she could relax. Unlike her mother, she didn’t peer out windows every minute. How she missed inheriting that habit, she’d never know. Still, all blinds and curtains had to be closed at night. She needed to complete that task. When she’d left to visit Hannah, it had been daylight.
Kaycee’s heart squeezed. Every time Kaycee was with Hannah — which was often, after she’d slid into place as surrogate mother — Mandy’s death hit her all over again. But this particular visit had been unusually heartrending. It had taken every ounce of fortitude Kaycee could muster to tell the begging, grief-stricken nine-year-old that she couldn’t leave her father and new stepmom and come live with her.
Kaycee placed her purse and key on the gray Formica counter at her left — the short bottom of a long-stemmed L of cabinets and sink — and inhaled the comforting smell of home. Tonight it mixed the regular scent of the old house’s wood with the chicken baked for supper. For once Kaycee had eaten a regular meal.
As the tension in her shoulders unwound, Kaycee breathed a prayer for Hannah. It wasn’t fair to lose your mother at that young age. But to see your father remarry within months, bringing a new mom with a daughter of her own into the house — Kaycee could strangle the man, even as she’d assured Hannah, “You can’t leave your dad; he loves you.”
“Yeah, like he loved Mom,” Hannah sobbed. “She might as well have been a dog that died. Just go out and get another one.”
Kaycee sighed. Families were so hard. But so was not having one.
Someday. At thirty, she still had time.
Kaycee stepped away from the counter — and heard a click. A flash lit the room.
Her head snapped up, her gaze cutting to the round table across the wide kitchen. A camera sat upon it.
Where had that come from?
It had taken a picture. All by itself.
She stared at the camera, stunned. It was small and black. Looked like a digital point-and-shoot. She had one of those. Only hers was silver. And bigger. And the last time she saw the thing it was in its case, sitting in the bottom drawer of her desk.
The camera’s lens stuck out. Aimed at her. It had taken a picture of her.
Kaycee looked around wildly, her paranoia like a thousand skittering insects across her back. Who had done this? Somebody could be watching her by remote through that lens right now.
No. The thought was too petrifying. And far-fetched. Someone was just pulling a joke.
But who would do that? And how would they get into her house? She hadn’t given a key to anyone.
Kaycee edged toward the table sideways, palms up, as if the camera might explode in her face. Dark imaginings filled her head. Somewhere in a shadowy room sat a man, eyes glued to a monitor, chuckling at her terror as she approached.
Who was he? What group was he a part of? What did they want?
Kaycee, stop it. There’s a rational explanation . . .
Her thigh grazed the
table. The camera sat no higher than that part of her body. Did it have a wide enough lens to include her face when it took the picture?
She extended a trembling arm and knocked the camera ninety degrees. There. Now they couldn’t see her.
Shallow-breathing, she leaned over to look down at the black rectangle. Its “on” light glowed golden.
What other pictures had it taken? Had they gone around her house, photographing every room?
Nobody was here. It’s a joke, just a joke.
Kaycee reached out a tentative hand, drew it back. Reached out again. On the third try she picked up the camera.
She flipped it around and studied its controls on the back. Turned a dial to the “view” mode. A picture of herself filled the screen — with her head cropped off. Kaycee saw only her wiry body, the loose-fitting jeans, and three-quarter-sleeve purple top. So much for a wide lens.
Her finger hesitated over the back arrow button, then pressed.
Onto the screen jumped the close-up gruesome face of a dead man. Eyes half open, dark red holes in his jaw and forehead. Blood matted his hair. Printed in bold in the bottom left corner of the picture, across his neck: WE SEE YOU.
Kaycee dropped the camera and screamed.
TWO
Hannah Parksley slumped on her bed, knees pulled up to her chin. Her eyes burned, her throat ached, and her insides felt empty. Just dead. She should have begged Kaycee harder to go live with her. Hannah knew she wanted to say yes. Kaycee was always there for her. But tonight while Hannah poured out her heart to Kaycee behind the closed door of her bedroom, where was her own father? Out in the den with Gail, his new wife, and Gail’s twelve-year-old daughter, Becky. Watching TV.
Fresh tears filled Hannah’s eyes. How could she stay in this house another night?
Sniffing, she picked a piece of lint off her pink bedspread and dropped it onto the carpet.
A little over a year ago Hannah’s mom would have been putting her to bed right now, even though she was weak from fighting cancer. That was another lifetime.
Hannah didn’t even know who she was anymore.
Pushing off her bed, she crossed to her dresser and picked up the gold-framed picture of her mom. It had been taken two years ago, when her mother was healthy and normal. When she still had her shiny brown hair and could laugh like in the photo, with her head thrown back and eyes half squinted.
Hannah hugged the frame to her chest. If only she could press her mom inside her heart so she could fill the big hole that ached and ached there.
She heard laughter from the den. The sound wrenched Hannah’s insides. Weren’t they just one happy family. Laughing at a TV show. Like they didn’t even care she was in here by herself, crying.
Truth was, they didn’t.
She might as well face it: this wasn’t going to change. Her mom was never coming back. Looking through the house, except for this bedroom, you’d never know Hannah’s mom had even lived here. All pictures of her on the fireplace mantel, in the master bedroom — gone. All her clothes cleaned out. Everything in the house she loved, even the color of the den and kitchen — gone. The walls had been repainted, their old couch traded for a new one. All because Gail thought the colors were “too blue.” The plates Hannah’s mom had loved, and her silverware — gone. Gail had brought her own.
Hannah set her mom’s picture on the dresser and pressed her palm against the glass. She closed her eyes, remembering the feel of her mother’s hugs. Her smell. Her voice. Hannah’s heart ripped at the memories. She backed away from the picture, pressing fists to her chest. And now she didn’t have her father either. He kept telling her they had to “build a new life.” She didn’t want to build a new life. She just wanted her old one back.
“Can you see me from heaven?” Hannah whispered to the photo. “Please tell God to make Dad send Gail away.”
A loud cackle from the den. Gail, laughing.
Hannah’s teeth clenched. She stared toward the den, picturing Gail with her bleached blonde hair, the red, red lipstick. Hannah knew the truth about her and Hannah’s dad. He’d started hanging around with Gail before Hannah’s mom even died. He didn’t think Hannah knew that. Well, she did.
In the picture, Hannah’s mom smiled on. Had she known when she was sick and dying? Had she known she’d already been pushed aside?
The terrible thought swept Hannah into motion. She swiveled toward her closet and threw open the door.
She yanked out her small pink roller suitcase and dragged it to her dresser. Out of a drawer she pulled a couple pair of jeans and three tops. Threw them into the suitcase. Her hands worked feverishly, her breath hitching on little sobs as she opened her top drawer and scraped through underwear and socks. Hannah tossed some of each into the case. Then added her pajamas. She ran to her bed, picked up the small white pillow she’d had since a baby, and pressed it inside. Then stood in the middle of her room, turning in a frantic circle, thinking, What else, what else?
Only then did it hit her. She really was running away.
Hannah picked up her mother’s picture and placed it on top of her small pillow.
Tears rolling down her cheeks, she zipped the suitcase. She turned it upright and pulled out the handle.
A note. Shouldn’t she say something to her dad?
Hannah fumbled in the middle drawer of her little desk and pulled out a piece of paper and pen. She wrote the first thing that came to her mind and stuffed the note under her pillow. The paper and pen went back in the drawer.
Her eyes roamed to the window. It was dark out there.
She gazed into the night, courage flagging. Where would she go? In her mind’s eye she saw herself hurrying down her street and through her neighborhood. At Main she’d turn right and go over the railroad tracks, past the downtown area to South Maple. Kaycee lived at the very end of that street. Of course. Hannah would go to Kaycee’s. She’d convince Kaycee to let her stay there.
It would be a long, scary walk.
Hannah gazed at her bed — where she’d cried countless tears — and knew she couldn’t sleep there again. If she stayed in this house another night, she would drown. Hannah looked back to the window. She could do this. Didn’t Kaycee always write about fighting your fears?
Hannah swiped at her cheeks. No one here would miss her anyway.
She returned to her dresser, grabbed a sweatshirt, and put it on.
Quietly she opened the door to her room. The sound of the TV grew louder. She could hear Becky giggling. Hannah’s mouth tightened. Pulling her suitcase into the hall, she closed the door behind her. The carpet hushed her footsteps as she crept toward the kitchen. Every step she took gave her more courage. No changing her mind now. She couldn’t bear to face Gail’s anger if she was caught.
Reaching the end of the hall Hannah turned into the kitchen. She couldn’t get to the front door without being spotted. On the linoleum she slowed, picking up her sneakered feet so they wouldn’t squeak. The rubber wheels on her suitcase made no sound.
At the door to the garage Hannah held her breath as she rotated the knob. Holding the door open with her body, she picked her suitcase up over the threshold. Inch by inch she closed the door. She turned the outside knob, brought the door into place, then slowly released the handle.
Hannah wiped her forehead and listened. No sound from the kitchen.
She grabbed the handle on her suitcase and scurried past two cars to the side garage door. Hannah slipped through it quickly.
Fresh air slapped her in the face. It wasn’t that chilly, just dark here between her house and the neighbor’s. Hannah drew in her shoulders and surveyed the sidewalk out front. Streetlamps would light her way. Please, please, no one see me. Especially some policeman driving by. She’d be stopped for sure.
Heart beating in her ears, Hannah clutched her suitcase and ventured into the night.
THREE
Kaycee jumped back from the table, casting crazed looks all around. A dead man. That mangled, b
loodied face . . .
We see you.
Her worst fear come true.
Kaycee tore across the kitchen and grabbed her keys. She rammed out the back door and hurtled to her car. With its engine running, she barely waited for the garage door to open before screeching backwards, down her driveway, out onto the street. Gripping the steering wheel, she punched the accelerator and flew down South Maple. She skidded right onto Main and down a block. Kaycee carved out a parking space in front of Casa de José Mexican Restaurant. She jumped from her car, leaving keys in the ignition, and raced across the deserted street toward the white stone building that housed the Wilmore police station. Inside the entrance she veered left past the Ale-8-One and Pepsi machines and pounded on the locked door to the offices. She pulled back, gasping. Kaycee caught sight of herself in the one-way mirror — her face white, her kinky-curled red hair wilder than ever. Her light blue eyes glazed with shock.
The police station door shoved open to reveal Officer Mark Burnett. Great, of all the policemen it would have to be thirty-five-year-old Mark. Last month he’d accused her of “living off other people’s fears” through writing her column. She’d known he was just being defensive. “Who’s There?” had apparently struck a nerve about his own private fear. Not that he’d ever admit reading it. But the memory still stung.
“Kaycee.” Mark pulled her inside the station. “What is it?”
Her tongue tied. “I . . . there’s a camera in my house . . . a dead man.”
“A dead man in your house?”
“No, he’s in the camera.”
“A dead man in a camera?”
“No-no, in a picture.”
Mark raised his eyebrows, turning them into their signature spread V. His deep brown eyes narrowed. “Who’s the dead man?”
“I’ve never seen him before. He’s all bloodied and . . . dead!”
Exposure Page 1
