Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Colleen Gleason

  And if Garrett woke and told them about him? He had a plan for that, as well. One that he’d already set in motion. His hidey-hole in the woods was well stocked. He could disappear there, and with the food and water he’d stored over the weeks, live there for months undetected. When the search for him grew cold, he’d use the money, fake IDs and passports he’d accumulated and put Wisconsin behind him.

  As he drove out of the parking lot, an inner peace settled within him. Garrett would hopefully be dead by this time tomorrow, leaving him two last loose strings.

  Guilt no longer entered the equation when he thought about Garrett lying dead and rotting in a pine box. They’d had their fun, but he’d become too much of a liability. Besides, when it came to them killing together, the old adage, three’s a crowd, rang true.

  Garrett had crowded him, had suffocated the raw need to dominate the means and facilitation of how the women they’d taken suffered and died. A cord around the neck had become boring and anticlimactic. He needed more to regain the rush he’d felt when they’d started killing twelve years ago. He needed a replacement for the incredible orgasm that shot through him when he’d stared into Garrett’s eyes as he gave the whores they’d killed what they deserved. After the time he’d spent with his Deb, his fifteen-inch hunting knife had given him what he needed. A release as powerful and potent as any drug. A powerful and potent replacement for Garrett.

  As he drove home, to her, dark talons of lust sank their claws inside him, hardened his dick to the point of pain, and caused him to break into a sweat. The stress brought on by Garrett’s original arrest, Hoyt’s failure to kill him, and now the uncertainty of whether Garrett would reveal his identity had him on the verge of running before even placing plan C into motion.

  He sought the peace that had settled over him as he’d left the hospital parking lot before a full-blown panic attack overtook him. Gripping the steering wheel with sweaty palms, and clenching his jaw tight, he fought back the anxiety, the haze of fear. He thought about Evie Lumbford.

  Ugly Evie.

  She would be his eyes and ears. He would make her tell him what gossip traveled around the hospital regarding Garrett. He’d even have her place a few phone calls while he held her in his workshop. Monitored of course. Gossip traveled fast in the hospital, and if Garrett did wake and tell the Sheriff and Kain about him, he’d know, and he’d run.

  The peace returned. His heart rate slowed, and now the sweat cooled his feverish skin. Everything would go according to plan. Garrett would die, thanks to Ugly Evie, and while Roy and Kain tripped over themselves trying to figure out who Garrett’s partner was, he’d have fun experimenting on Evie.

  After that, he’d take care of the noose around his neck. He’d finally be able to free himself of the necessary mirage and burden. She’d served her purpose, but at this moment, with the lust and need for release—any release—still burning his brain cells, a part of him wished he hadn’t broken her. Not out of love, there was only one being on the planet that he loved, and he would be dead this time tomorrow. Right now, he needed a body, willing or not, to ease him until he took what he needed from Evie.

  Impossible. He shook his head in the dark cab of his truck as he eased into his driveway. He couldn’t use the bitch in his bed tonight. He’d have to wait. For Evie. The appetizer to his main course. Celeste.

  * * *

  Dr. Alex Trumane sat at the counter of the diner, stunned and staring at Kira’s sugary sweet smile.

  “Well?” she asked, her hazel eyes sensual, wanting, yet holding a hint of nervousness.

  She had asked him out on a date. To be precise, she’d asked him over to her apartment for dinner. While elated at the prospect of actually spending quality time with her outside of the diner, he also panicked at the thought.

  He hadn’t had a date since he’d been sober, and before that, he wouldn’t call meeting a woman in a hotel, doing drugs, drinking and a night of sexual debauchery a date. He hadn’t taken a woman to a restaurant or to a movie since he’d been married, and even then, those evenings had been a rarity. Because he hadn’t been able to stay sober, he hadn’t been able to remain faithful.

  While he’d changed for the better, he knew in the depths of his soul that given the chance, he’d never betray Kira’s trust by falling off the wagon and womanizing again. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, make love to her. He wanted to wake in the morning to her bright smile, and fall asleep at night with her lying next to him.

  He’d love nothing more than to take her from this crappy diner, give her financial security, pretty clothes, a new car, and exotic vacations. How could he, though? Once he found Number Twenty-Two, his life could change for the worse. He could face the loss of his medical license. Hell, he could face a prison sentence.

  “I’m sorry I put you on the spot.” Kira absently wiped the counter, the disappointment evident on her pretty face. “Forget I asked.”

  He grabbed her hand before she could walk away. “You didn’t put me on the spot. You just surprised me. Honestly, I’ve wanted to ask you out since the first moment I laid eyes on you.”

  She cocked her head. “Really,” she said with a hint of sarcasm.

  Grinning, he rubbed his thumb across her rough knuckles. She had nice hands, but working at the diner had left them raw and chapped. He’d add weekly manicures and pedicures to all the things he wanted to give to her. “It’s true.”

  “Uh-huh, so then what have you been waiting for?”

  The million dollar question and one he’d answer honestly. He’d learned from his mistakes and refused to begin a relationship with Kira based on lies. “I, uh, needed to make sure I came to you a whole man.”

  She dropped the rag on the counter and gripped his hand with both of hers. “What are you talking about, Alex?”

  “AA’s twelve steps, I haven’t completed them yet. I think the only way I can feel...worthy enough to be with you, is to complete the program.”

  “Admirable,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes. “And I respect you for wanting to succeed. But don’t let those twelve steps be your only guidance. Let your heart guide you, too. I’ve been where you are. I know what you’ve gone through, what you’ll continue to go through.”

  “And you still want to get involved with me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? You’re funny, when you’re not being so serious. You’re smart, thoughtful, and ah...” She wet her bottom lip before glancing around the diner. “Quite a hunk of man,” she added, lowering her voice to a sexy, husky drawl.

  He laughed even as his cheeks heated. He didn’t think he’d ever been called a hunk in his life. “You’re something else,” he said. “Something very special.”

  “So, does this mean you’ll come over for dinner?”

  “As much as I’d love a home-cooked meal, for our first date, I want to take you somewhere nice.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to. I’m tired of watching you wait on everybody else. You deserve to be waited on and treated like a princess.”

  A blush stole across her cheeks. “My best dress is from a thrift shop. I’m more pauper than princess.”

  “Do you think I care?”

  “You’re a doctor. I don’t want to embarrass you.”

  “Embarrass me? Kira, before I became clean and sober, I was a despicable, selfish man. I would drive around in my flashy car, drunk, high, with even flashier women while my wife and kids sat at home. I’m embarrassed by my past. Embarrassed and ashamed for everything I’ve done.” Number Twenty-Two flashed in his mind. “If anything, you should be embarrassed to be seen with me.”

  “You’re a good man, Alex. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, least of all yourself. I’d be honored to go to dinner with you.”

  “Kira,” the short order cook shouted. “The food’s not gonna walk itself to the table.”

  “I’ve got to run.”

  “I do, too.” The diner would start to fill with the bar c
rowd, and he wanted a chance to research Wissota Falls for any link to Number Twenty-Two. Miranda Gates. “When is your next night off?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Sunday it is, then. Can I call you tomorrow?”

  She quickly scribbled her number on her note pad, then handed it to him. “I’m looking forward to Sunday.” She gave him a shy smile, then quickly turned and retrieved the plates of food waiting under the heat lamps.

  “Me, too,” he murmured to himself, then after leaving her a hefty tip, he sauntered into the balmy night. As he walked toward his car, he passed numerous bars along the way without an ounce of temptation.

  He didn’t need to complete the whole twelve steps to come to Kira as a whole man. But he did need to find Miranda before he could offer Kira the love and life she deserved. His past embarrassments, the shame and disgrace he’d placed upon his family, would pale in comparison if he lost his medical license, or even worse, ended up in prison.

  AA’s twelve steps had forced this journey to atonement. He could quit his search and simply cross Number Twenty-Two from his list and leave Miranda in the past. He’d made headway with his family and friends. Why dredge up something that could ruin the life he’d struggled to put back together?

  Because the only thing he’d ever quit in his life had been alcohol. He wasn’t a quitter, and quitting his search was not an option. Not because of the twelve steps, they were there for guidance as Kira had said. No, his heart and conscience had been guiding him on this search. Now he prayed Anna Gates’s will would help guide him the rest of the way.

  Chapter 23

  UGLY EVIE LUMBFORD sat strapped to a wooden chair. Duct tape kept her hands and feet immobile. An old rag shoved into her mouth would keep her screams muffled once she woke. If she woke, he thought and scratched an itch through the ski mask that had begun to grow suffocating.

  Shortly after six this morning, with dark, gray clouds hiding the early morning light, he’d attacked her as she’d walked home from her night shift at the hospital. Wearing the ski mask, along with a mechanic’s jumpsuit he’d soak in bleach later—as he’d always done after a kill—he’d slapped a rag doused with chloroform over her mouth until she’d grown limp and passed out cold. Petite and weighing next to nothing, he’d easily stashed her in his waiting truck, then he’d brought her to his workshop.

  He glanced at the digital clock on the workbench. He’d knocked her out over an hour ago, and now he worried he’d underestimated the amount of chloroform she’d inhaled. Usually his victims, or even Garrett’s, were awake within twenty minutes. He knew she was alive, though. Her pulse thudded at the base of her throat. Bits of the rag sticking out of her mouth moved from the air exhaling from her nose.

  He glanced at the clock again. Time wasn’t on his side. He needed her awake, he needed her to understand what he expected from her. He needed to do it now. Normalcy and his rigid routine would keep him from any suspicion. Showing up late for work was not an option, even if he could fabricate a legitimate excuse.

  With a gloved hand and no room for patience, he slapped her face. Not hard, he didn’t want to leave her bruised yet. She did have to show up to work later.

  When she didn’t respond, he gave her shoulders a hard shake. Over and over, her head whipped back and forth like a bobble-head doll. Finally, she moaned and her lashes began to flutter.

  “Wake up, Evie. I have a job for you.”

  She snapped her eyes open, darted her gaze around her surroundings, until landing it on the hunting knife next to him. Screaming beneath the rag, she twisted against the duct tape and thrashed her head.

  Worried she’d cause a noticeable injury to herself, he waved the knife in her face. “Don’t move. Don’t scream. Don’t do anything unless I say. Do you understand?”

  Wide-eyed, staring at the knife, tears streaming down her face, she nodded and whimpered.

  “Good.” He stroked the flat of the blade along her cheek careful to not leave a mark. “Have you heard of Garrett Winston?”

  She nodded again, her eyes nearly crossing as she followed the movement of the blade.

  “Have you cleaned his hospital room?”

  Another nod.

  “Excellent,” he said as set the knife on the workbench. He pulled a stool from the corner and sat in front of her. The fear in her eyes made his dick hard. He loved the fear, the power, but knew he had to caution himself.

  He didn’t want to kill her yet. Well, he really did want to. He eyed the hunting knife, the way the blade shined beneath the lone bulb hanging from the ceiling. But she was Plan C. She was all he had left.

  “I will let you live,” he began with his first of what would likely become many lies before he was finished with Ugly Evie. “I will not harm anyone you love. But you have to do one thing for me. And after you’ve done it, I’ll never ask you for another thing again.” Because she’d be dead, he smiled beneath the ski mask.

  “If you don’t do this for me, or if you go to the cops, I will kill you. Slowly, painfully. Do you understand?”

  More tears streamed down her face as she bobbed her head.

  “Good girl,” he crooned as if talking to a dog. “Now, I need you to sleep some more.” He withdrew a syringe from the pocket of his mechanic’s suit. “You’ve used these on yourself, haven’t you?”

  She shook her head vehemently.

  “Don’t lie to me, Evie. I know you like your drugs. Maybe you don’t shoot up, or maybe you like to snort it or smoke it. Either way, I don’t care. Get used to the syringe.” He pressed the needle into her arm. “Because you’re going to use one like this tonight when you kill Garrett Winston.”

  * * *

  After Celeste had woken him...properly, John lay in bed while she showered. He would have joined her, but he was so relaxed and satisfied curling against her pillow, smelling her scent on the sheets, he couldn’t bring himself to move.

  His cell phone rang. With a frustrated sigh, he rolled to his side and grabbed it off the nightstand. Rachel’s name lit up the caller ID and he tensed.

  “Hey, John. Hope I’m not disturbing your beauty sleep.”

  “I’ve been up for hours.”

  “Liar. If that were true you would have already called me after the emails I sent you.”

  Busted. “Okay, okay,” he grumbled and climbed out of the warm bed. “So I had a late night. What do you have for me?”

  “How about a stack of pictures of Winston’s known victims sitting at the Sheriff’s Department? Or even better, how about the scoop on Winston?”

  A rush of adrenaline pushed through his veins as he headed for Celeste’s home office at the end of the hallway. “DNA comparisons?” he asked as he searched for paper and a pen.

  “Oh yeah, he’s cooked.”

  “Excellent. Let’s hear.”

  “Okay, so, Winston was born in Pensacola, Florida. His mother, Susan Haney, was only seventeen at the time. Apparently, her folks were fanatical Christians, and when they found out their daughter was pregnant, they kicked her out of their trailer park.”

  “There’s some good Christians,” he said, and let the sarcasm roll. “What about the father?”

  “Patrick Winston was eighteen. His parents wanted to take Haney in, but she refused, then disappeared. Right after, Winston’s dad took off, too. He’d gotten into some trouble with the law and has been in and out of prison since. He’s currently doing a short stint in Georgia right now for B & E and won’t be released for another two years.”

  “Where’s the mom, now?”

  “Dead, but don’t rush me. I’m going for the big dun, dun, dun moment.”

  He smiled. “Right. Sorry.”

  “Anyway, mom was a piece of work. Involved in drugs and prostitution, she was arrested a few times, but never served any time. After Pensacola, she bounced around Alabama for a while, had another son, then ended up in Mississippi...Biloxi, then Gulfport. Eventually she landed in Jackson where she died from an overdose years la
ter.”

  He stopped taking notes. “Please tell me your dun, dun, dun moment has to do with the name of Winston’s brother.”

  “It does. Thanks for ruining my big moment.” She let out a dramatic sigh. “Winston’s half-brother is Tobias Haney. Only I have no record of him once he turned eighteen.”

  “Did you check—?”

  “Everything. Trust me. I was able to get a sample of Haney’s fingerprints, though.”

  “Really? How’d…never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  “Probably not.”

  “What about a photo ID, or driver’s license?”

  “No driver’s license. The only picture that I’ve found was taken when Haney was first placed in the foster care system. It’s black and white, grainy and basically useless for performing an age progression. I tried, though.”

  “What else?”

  “Okay, so when I found out that Susan Haney died in Jackson, on a hunch, I made some calls. After I’d gotten the whole, ‘you need to go through the proper channels’ crap from some bozo with his PD, I did some...um, hacking and found the home phone number for the homicide detective who’d worked Susan Haney’s case. He’s retired now, but—”

  “Homicide? I thought you said she’d died of an overdose.”

  She blew out a deep breath. “She did. Only who overdoses on heroin and window cleaner? By the way, she’d apparently broken her neck, too.”

  He hovered the pen over the paper as a chill ran through him. “And this retired detective...”

  “Jack Conahan.”

  “What does Conahan think?”

  “That her kids murdered her. But because he had other ongoing investigations, he’d been told to let this one lie. Haney was a known junky and there was no evidence of foul play. It looked as if she’d OD’d on some bad crank.”

  “But?” John prompted.

  “Conahan said he’d done as he was told, and let the case drop, but only to a degree. He was so convinced the kids had killed their mom, that on his own time, he’d looked into her background. He talked to neighbors, Haney’s friends, and discovered good ol’ mom was trading sexual favors for drugs.”