by Tara Brown
Second Nature
Crimson Cove Mysteries
Book Two
A Novel by Tara Brown
Copyright 2015 Tara Brown
http://TaraBrown22.blogspot.com
Amazon Edition
This ebook is a work of fiction and is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. No alteration or copying of content is permitted. This book is a work of the author’s crazy mind—any similarities are coincidental. Any similarities are by chance and not intentional.
Cover Art by Lori Follet at Wicked Book Covers
Edited by Andrea Burns
Other YA books by Tara Brown
The Born Trilogy
Born
Born to Fight
Reborn
Crimson Cove Mysteries
If At First
Second Nature
Third Time’s a Charm
The Light Series
The Light of the World
The Four Horsemen
The End of Days
Imaginations
Imaginations
Duplicities
The Blood Trail Chronicles
Vengeance
Vanquished
First Kiss
Sunder
White Girl Problems
The Seventh Day
Long, long ago in a seaside hamlet overrun with fake smiles and empty heads, there were five girls—five wickedly spoiled princesses. Each one was more petulant and snobby than the next.
Thus far, they had spent their lives in charge, dominating the world around them, and never thinking of others.
But as summer passed and one of the princesses fell, the others started to see that a new era had come.
Gone were their comfort and their ease.
It was time for a new leader, a new queen bee.
Anonymous
Prologue
Halloween Scream
October 31, 2015
Sierra
The noise of the creaking stairs, the ones I had just crept up, echoed in my ears. Had someone followed us there or was Jenson back with the champagne?
I almost laughed at myself for being silly, but the past couple of months had been horrible and laughing at noises in the dark was a foolish mistake I no longer made.
“Jenson,” I whispered, hoping he was messing around. If he was, I would be angry. Taking a step I cringed at the sound of my heel clicking on the floor.
I lifted one leg after the other and slipped my high heels off, holding them both so I could tiptoe through the half-constructed mansion without making noise.
Jenson didn't answer, but the footsteps had stopped from the moment I whispered.
The scary movie marathon we’d had before Rachel died flashed through my head, bringing ideas and memories with it. I tiptoed around the corner, brushing my Frankenstein’s bride dress on the rough edge where the unfinished walls met. The drywall scraped against me, making me wince as I hurried along the corridor to the back deck. Whoever was in the house with me was either moving silently too or they were standing still, listening.
Either way, I had a terrible feeling this wasn't a game.
That meant one of several options was happening: Jenson was either injured, hiding, or he hadn’t come back yet.
Which meant I was alone with the killer.
My heart raced, my eyes burned from not blinking—fearful I would miss something—and my throat was as dry as a mouthful of popcorn.
The floor creaked.
I froze.
“Sierra,” someone whispered into the dark.
My skin crawled when I realized it wasn't Jenson. It wasn't his whisper. I’d heard that enough times, always in the dark, to know it wasn't him.
“Sierra, don't be scared.” It sounded like something it couldn't be, but I didn't believe in ghosts.
I stayed perfectly still, waiting for the moment I needed to run to the back deck and jump down onto the sandy beach.
What had the girls in the horror movies done wrong?
What could I avoid?
My mind raced, remembering the runners always got caught. But that was because they were stupid about running. They looked back, which everyone knows slows you down. That was why they always got stabbed, usually in the back just as they looked back to scream.
Dumb bitches.
The thought of it made my skin burn where I imagined the knife would slice.
The hiders always got caught too. They were the ones breathing too loudly or hiding in stupid places.
I could avoid both of those outcomes.
Once my feet hit that sand, I wasn't looking back.
“Sierra, I won’t hurt you if you come to me.”
I squeezed my eyes shut for half a second and waited for the answer, the right choice, to pop into my head.
A dog barked, making me jump and open my eyes. The sound was joined by the creaking of the floorboards again.
With gentle breaths and controlled movements I crept along the hallway, entering the spot where the kitchen or master bedroom would likely go. The house was freshly sealed with windows and doors, but it was still in the drywall stage with plywood floors.
The massive back deck was through the white French doors, facing the beach and open ocean. The full moon offered light, enough to make shadows move with me.
I hurried to an alcove I assumed would one day be a nook for a breakfast bar or maybe the ensuite soaker tub. I pressed my back against the wall and stared at the bright white French doors. If I could make it to them, I was free.
If only I had my cell phone, I could call the police or Jake or Vincent or the girls. Someone would come and help me. Even Ashton might come if Rita wasn't sucking his face off somewhere.
But none of that was an option. I’d left my phone on the counter at Rita’s by accident.
I scolded myself for my weakness and forced my focus to be on the doors. They were my answer. They were my hope.
As I exhaled and plotted my moment to run and everything I would do from that point on, the floor creaked in the hallway behind me.
It was now or never.
Live or die.
Chapter One
Filthy mudblood
Friday, September 4, 2015, two months earlier
Lainey
- We had started getting ready at about 7 p.m. at Lindsey’s house. Yes, it was just after 7. Lindsey was complaining about even going and hadn’t been ready when we arrived to pick her up.
- Of course Sage helped me do my contacts and makeup, and then we left around 7:30. Maybe it was closer to 8?
I tapped my lip absentmindedly and filed each memory of the night one of my best friends, Rachel, had died into the catalogue my brain always made. It was hard because I didn't see clocks much that night—I didn't check the time. Everything was now a guesstimate. I knew we were late, that was all.
- I liked firm timelines, but I had to live with the fact it was roughly between 7:30 and 8 p.m. when we left Lindsey’s house.
- That was when we saw Ashton. He was leaving his house for Rachel’s party.
Sighing, I remembered the way his dark-blue eyes had jetted toward mine, flashing a kind look for a moment before Sage started being a complete ass to him. That look was the food I lived on. I had a separate memory file in my mind of all the times our eyes had
met.
I glanced back at the corkboard, forcing my brain to focus and stay on track. Ashton wasn't the murderer so he wasn't pertinent information just yet. I had to focus if I was ever going to take the suspicion off him though.
- After we saw Ash, we went inside Sage’s house, and that was when Sierra showed up. She made a lesbian joke which was totally off side, as usual.
- We rode in her dad’s limo around 8:30 p.m. We arrived late to the party. Closer to 9? Yeah, we all assumed it was about 9.
- We had been told to be there by 7.
- But the driver changed the route—why hadn’t I found that suspicious at the time? It had taken forever to get there.
- When we got out of the limo the wind was warm, like there was a hint of a storm still brewing, a heaviness in the air.
- I believed the driver’s story about the tree coming down because of the wind. If there was a breeze at Rachel’s it was blowing hard everywhere else.
- We were late.
- My stomach was a bit tense. I was worried Rachel would yell at us and make us feel bad for being late.
- But Rachel hadn’t even really acknowledged the rest of us, which made me relax a little. She was too busy fighting with Ashton. He had looked so angry when he left.
- It was the last time I saw him.
Shaking off the sadness of his absence, I recalled the next detail that was important.
- It was the moment a hand reached to Lindsey and I, offering a drink. It belonged to someone dressed similarly to Sierra. No, not similarly. Identically. That made sense now, whereas in the moment it had happened, it was nothing. I hadn’t even really noticed the dress matched Sierra’s. I hadn’t cared. Now it was clear as a bell. The dresses were identical. Obviously planned that way.
The only oddities of that night were the dress and the driver so they had to be clues. Pausing, I bit my lip, not sure where they fit into the puzzle I was building from each piece.
I stepped back from the corkboard I had hung inside my dressing room and pondered the spider web of details before me. Hand-drawn pictures and likenesses lined the wall with notes detailing each moment of the day Rachel died.
There, in the particulars—the pictures in my mind that I would always recall in perfect imagery—was the truth. I just didn't see it yet. The puzzle was still sitting on the floor, not put together.
But I would figure it out.
Nothing could hide from me, not for long anyway.
I slumped and leaned against the wall, constantly reliving that night. It had been my bane for a month since it had happened.
My ability to recall details so clearly meant I would remember it all my life, but it didn't mean I’d solve the murder, not yet. As events were unfolding the night it happened, all the separate particulars had felt sort of random.
But adding them altogether and stepping back, made the randomness vanish. The pieces were starting to take shape.
- The late arrival due to the driver, Sierra’s dress, and the drinks. None of which was a coincidence.
Which told me I needed to start at the very beginning—I needed to find whoever had tried to give Lindsey and me that drink. That person had known what Sierra was going to wear—which was nearly impossible. Sierra was so spastic there was no way she herself could have predicted her outfit for that night. Sierra was big on planning her outfits but even bigger on changing her mind.
That was the one clue I had to go on. It was rough, but there had to be an answer in the dress.
- The chauffeur and the person who offered Lindsey and me a drink were either the killers or an integral part of the killer’s plan.
- There was also the shape of Rachel’s body. The broken bones were positioned to create something that was later reproduced exactly with Mr. Henning’s body. Whatever that shape was, it was the calling card of the killer.
My eyes darted to the place where I had drawn the contorted shape in which Rachel and Mr. Henning’s bodies were found.
At least it was a starting place. It was better than nothing.
“Lainey!”
My eyes darted to the doorway as my mother’s impatient voice called for me. Turning the corkboard back against the wall, I grabbed a sweater and walked out. “Yeah?”
“It’s yes, not yeah.” She sighed when she saw me, squeezing her lips together tightly as her eyes roamed my outfit with an unimpressed glare.
It was the one thing I hated most about having an eidetic memory—my mother’s face. So regularly that face wore a disgusted or disappointed look when it glanced my way. And there was no way I could forget any of the faces she made. For me, they had become a sea of low self-esteem that made me second-guess myself constantly.
“What are you wearing? It’s the first day of school—the only day you don't have to wear a uniform until the dances. Why can’t you just try to look nice?” She brushed past, no longer talking to me, but discussing me with whomever it was she spoke to that the rest of us couldn't see. I imagined it was an angry spirit animal, like a weasel, that agreed that the rest of us were nothing more than inconvenient soul suckers. “I don't understand why she thinks it’s acceptable to go out of the house dressed like she’s suffering through an eternity of laundry days like some sort of low-income slob.” Her muttered tone dragged on, reminding me of the suffering I had caused her.
All of that might have stung before, but nothing she said pricked me anymore. For as long as I could remember, her words had set a bar of abuse I could tolerate, always upped by the next day’s cruelty. My tolerance was remarkable.
Adding to everything, my father was having an affair with my mother’s best friend, Judith, and had a son with her. It made me feel sorry for my mom more than anything else. Even if it was her misery that drove him to it, no one deserved that fate.
And I had a brother I shouldn't know about, meaning I knew her marriage was a sham. In the moments of her cruelty, that was powerful information. My mother’s meanness was nothing, compared to the realization that she was terribly unhappy.
The knowledge was something I had yet to actually accept. It was tucked away like socks I didn't want to wear, rolled into a ball and shoved to the back of the drawer that was my mind.
I tried to focus on the positive part of the story—she was mean because she was miserable, which meant it wasn't my fault. That too was powerful information.
In my mother’s mind, she was the victim of this story.
Her kids were disappointments, and her husband was never there for her. That was without adding the fact that he was having an affair, which I had to assume she was aware of. But I didn't think she knew about Mike, and I was glad. Adding him would have fed the self-pitying monster, creating something far worse than she was. It would be obvious if she knew. Obvious to us anyway. The rest of the world would be oblivious. Out of this house she was all sorts of pleasant, but only if you were the right sort of people. She was the inventor of resting bitch face and the queen of the mean girls, the Desperate Housewives edition. The queen bee. Her family was the oldest money on the East Coast, the Cabots. My incredibly wealthy father and his family were considered new money. Marrying him had been a step down for her, but she had done her duty as a daughter.
Apart from the miserable existence she suffered through, she was also enduring the inconvenience of our home currently being under construction. The workers had finished fixing the house, but the back deck and yard were still being mended. The sound of the workers—no, the very breath they labored with as they strained to do their physical jobs—drove her to near insanity. Which was a feat. Our house was so massive I could hardly believe there were workers in the yard.
But not her.
Every time she looked through the window, down on them, she sighed and wrinkled her nose, disgusted at the inconvenience they represented in her perfect world. Or maybe it was the dead body they reminded her of.
My friend Andrew Henning’s dad had died. His family was torn and devastated by the murd
er, but the true victim in all of it was my mother.
His cold dead body and thickening blood had touched her lawn and shrubberies. It was tainted forever, and she was already discussing selling the house, though building another would take a year or two.
She hadn’t even asked me how I was coping with it, knowing I couldn't get the image of finding his dead body out of my head. I wouldn't get it out. I would recall it in perfect detail for the rest of my life.
No, the highlight of this was her soldiering on with a brave face.
“I suppose this will have to do. But she is going to meet up with Vivienne in New York next week for a shop. This is ridiculous. Her closet is bare.” She flicked a dress at me and sauntered from my room, still muttering insults like she was Kreacher off of Harry Potter. She might as well have called me a mudblood and gotten it over with.
Staring down at my leggings and extra long baggy tunic, I sighed and silently wished to be anywhere but here. Of course that would mean bringing Mazy and Jewels, my little sister and our cat. We had already stayed at Lindsey’s house for two weeks during the major part of the renovation, and when we arrived home Mommy Dearest had been in rare form. I imagined at any given moment she might grab a martini while donning a white silk negligée and tell us all the woes of her life in a perfect Katharine Hepburn accent. All these dramatics would be the start of her ranting over the inconvenience of a man dying in our yard, somehow making us the victims of an attack. Forget the poor Henning family—we had a burn mark in our yard and his blood soaked into our earth.
Maybe if we really pushed her over the edge she might take a potato into the yard and give a speech before biting it.
I would have rolled my eyes at her, had the fight been worth it.
Even my dad was avoiding the house except to sleep, which was saying a lot. Before this all happened he was only ever home on Sundays. He even slept at "the office” most weekdays.
