by RC Boldt
WASHED AWAY
RC BOLDT
Contents
About The Book
Introduction
Prologue
Untitled
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Eight and a half years old
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Nine Years Old
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Ten years old
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Eleven Years Old
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Twelve Years Old
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Thirteen Years Old
Chapter 27
Fifteen Years Old
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Sixteen Years Old
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Seventeen Years Old
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Untitled
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Untitled
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Epilogue
Dedication
Excerpt from Truth in Pieces
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Copyright © 2021 by RC Boldt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by trademark owners. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features in any media form are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if one of these terms are used in this work of fiction.
Cover design by By Hang Le
Visit my website at www.rcboldtbooks.com.
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To Matty,
I’m incredibly thankful that I get to grow older with you, fall more in love with you each day, and cop a feel whenever I want. :)
P.S. I still love you more. #Facts
To A,
I love your wanderlust and adventurous spirit, but most of all, I love your enormous heart.
Te amo tan mucho, mi amor. Siempre.
About The Book
All that’s forgotten isn’t always gone…
I’m at death’s doorstep when my body washes up on shore in a remote town in Panama.
My memory is a blank slate. I can’t even remember my name. I don’t know who shot me and left me for dead—or why.
Patient and kind, the lone doctor there mends my body while offering me refuge.
But as tiny flashbacks of my past occur, I wonder if there’s anyone I can trust.
It’s up to me to discover whether I’m in danger or a danger to others. Whether I’ve actually found love or if it’s all been a lie.
I need answers to find out who I really am.
If only I could remember…
Introduction
Most little girls dream of tales where a handsome prince whisks the princess away from all the evils of the world. A princess who, after experiencing heartache and loss on a grand scale, finally gets her whimsical happily ever after.
My story is nothing like that.
My life was infused with agonizing loss, my heart branded with unyielding pain at an early age.
I never had a handsome prince rescue me. Instead, it was an entirely different kind of man.
One would think an individual with a list of committed sins long enough to circumference the earth would taint me. Drag me down to the hollows of hell.
Instead, he bettered himself to save me.
Then tragedy struck, and I resorted to some of the very sins he’d long since left behind.
I had no way of knowing that would be the end for me. Yet it would also serve as a beginning.
By laying waste to the innocent girl I once was, I would uncover the truth.
However, the truth doesn’t always set you free.
Sometimes, it ensnares you further.
Sometimes, it provokes you.
And sometimes, no matter how hard one might try, the truth leads to sins that cannot be washed away.
Prologue
Journal Note
If you’ve just found this and begun to read, it means I’m already dead.
Words will never be able to convey the full gamut of my emotions during my final days. How heartbreaking loss hollowed my soul, leaving me with a brittle outer layer.
There’s nothing romantic about heartache, loss, or vengeance. They’re merely different strains of agony one endures.
I can only hope I achieved my goal in some way and that I made them suffer greatly. They deserved it and so much more.
Whether I rot in hell for my deeds remains to be seen.
Either way, I have no regrets because vengeance was mine to deliver.
“I hope to arrive at my death late, in love, and a little drunk.”
—Atticus
Chapter 1
DR. LIAM KING
Punta Blanca, Panama
Population: 473
Living at eight degrees latitude means the sun sinks quickly on the horizon, leaving a myriad of colors behind before darkness engulfs them.
Here, the nighttime is more foe than friend. Jungle creatures roam freely in the dark, which is why I always carry my machete on walks. One can never be too careful or prepared in these parts.
I’m late for my final check of the day because a patient wished for me to oversee the homebirth of her third child. Then, of course, the husband insi
sted on celebrating with a shot of seco. Though the Panamanian alcohol is quite potent and I needed to head home, I couldn’t risk insulting him by declining.
Now, as I venture closer to the corner of my property where it extends to the Pacific shoreline, I can’t shake the unsettling sense of foreboding. The hairs on the back of my neck and along my arms stand on end, and I scan the dense jungle bordering my property, searching for anything out of place.
At first sight of the body, my stride stutters. Hand gripping my machete, I glance around, but when I find no one else lurking, I immediately set off running toward the lifeless woman sprawled on the wet sand.
Dropping to my knees, I slide my machete into the sheath at my hip and check her pulse.
Nothing.
“Fuck!” I wipe the blood off the side of her face, check her airways, and reposition my fingers on her neck. “Don’t you dare take the easy way out. Come on. Give me something—”
Wait—there it is. Goddamn, it’s faint as hell, but it’s there. A quick assessment reveals a nasty gash at her temple.
She’s barefoot and clad in only a black sports bra and tattered yoga pants, making it easy to spot the gunshot wounds at her shoulder and hip, and the stab wound on her side.
What the hell happened to her?
She doesn’t make a sound or even rouse the slightest bit as I ease her lean body into my arms. Before setting off for my house, I take another look around.
This is some shady shit. Not at all the norm for Punta Blanca.
It’s why I live in this remote town, bordered by thick jungle. It’s peaceful, and the locals are good people. They respect each other’s privacy and take care of one another. And they nearly worship the sole doctor here.
Me.
Carrying the woman inside, I lock up behind me and carefully set her on the cushioned hospital gurney. I move around the room on autopilot, grabbing everything I need. Before I can tend to her injuries, I need to get her hydrated.
After starting an IV and placing a pulse oximeter on her finger, I cut her clothes clean off her body to determine exactly how many wounds we’re dealing with.
Once she lies bared, my mouth parts in shock. I’ve seen some shit in my day, but it’s a goddamn miracle this woman’s still alive.
I wheel my mobile X-ray unit beside the table and scan each segment of her body, watching as they display on each quadrant of the monitor.
The two bullets in her shoulder are embedded at an angle. Did she anticipate them and turn to run? Two other bullets appear on the screen. One is just shy of her pelvic bone while the other has embedded itself in her side, near a stab wound. Whoever did it dragged the blade up along her side, shy of her lowest rib.
Evidently, she put up a fight because her hands are battered and knuckles bloodied. With swift but deliberate movements, I extract the bullets, clean her wounds, and bandage them.
While I work, I intermittently glance at the woman. Not once does she regain consciousness or show even the barest signs of rousing while I tend to her injuries.
Stepping back to look at my handiwork, I heave out a breath. Damn, her face looks like she singlehandedly took on a heavyweight champion in the ring. Even with the brutal-looking wounds, there’s no doubt she’s a beautiful woman.
Her long dark hair lies in a damp mess, sand clinging to the strands. I can’t have that gravitating to her wounds, so I grab a small container of baby powder, a towel, and the rarely used box of hospital-grade hair caps. This is the best I can do for now, short of manipulating her body even more and potentially adding to her trauma.
I sprinkle a liberal amount of the powder on her hair; it dries the sand enough so I can whisk the bulk of it away from her scalp with the towel. Then I twist the long strands inside the hair cap and tend to the wounds on her face.
She should be able to heal properly, assuming no infection sets in or any complications arise. The dose of antibiotics in her IV is to assist with that. But ultimately, it’s up to whether she has any will left.
Considering she’s held on this long, she might actually have a chance.
I hesitate but finally give in because it’s for the best at this rate. Once I dispose of my gloves and wash my hands, I tug on a fresh pair of latex gloves. Grabbing the necessary cleaning solution, I gently spread her legs and clean her properly. Then applying the anesthetic gel, I wait the allotted five minutes to take effect and insert the catheter.
Ensuring it’s secure and the drain bag is properly affixed, I dispose of my gloves and wash my hands before covering her with a blanket. Carefully, I lift the hand with the IV port and place it atop the blanket, then do the same with her other which has the pulse oximeter.
My eyes snag on the veins in her hands, prominent even after the trauma she’s endured. Releasing a breath, I grab another pair of gloves and the necessary equipment for a blood draw.
Once I dig out the tests and apply the blood sample needed, I exit the room, heading to my own for a shower and a quick change of clothes.
Within minutes, I settle in the chair opposite where the woman lies to better monitor her.
I’ve done my part. Now, it’s up to her.
If she pulls through, I’ll need some serious answers.
Chapter 2
DR. LIAM KING
36 hours later
Just as I’m checking her wounds to ensure there’s no sign of infection, her eyes flash open. Blinking rapidly, she appears to be struggling to focus on her surroundings.
Fury and pain mar her features. Her hand immediately goes to her IV port, and I grip her wrist tightly enough to prevent her from dislodging it.
“Stop.” I will her to heed my command, but she doesn’t. She’s far stronger than a person should be in her condition, and I have to tighten my grip on her wrist, so much that I fear I’ll injure her. “Stop moving, or you’ll reopen your wounds.”
As she struggles against my hold, one jerk must cause her immense pain because her eyes roll back and her body goes limp.
Motherfucker. Her pulse beats steadily, which is already worlds better than before, but I have a feeling she disrupted one of her wounds.
I wait a moment before grabbing the restraints I haven’t had to use in years. Not since I had to tend to a wound on Sandro, the local blacksmith.
I run my eyes over her, inspecting her closely, noting the gash on her side has reopened. Dammit. I restrain her opposite arm and leg before repairing the mess she made of my work on the front end of the wound. Once I finish, I secure her other arm and leg.
Taking a step back, I stare at where she lies. Her fingers twitch intermittently while her face remains placid.
I remove my latex gloves and toss them in the trash. Gripping the stiff muscles in the back of my neck, I exhale slowly, willing my tension to subside even a fraction.
It’s futile, of course. Especially with my gaze locked on the woman lying here in restraints in my exam room.
“Of all the things to wash up on shore in front of my house…”
Chapter 3
HER
Eight years old
South Africa
Bullets are flying, coming at us from every angle as we run.
My mother and I race toward the row of homes ahead of us where we can take cover, but the bullets seem to veer even closer.
I feel it before I hear it. In an instant, my mother becomes dead weight, her hand still in mine, before I hear the rat-tat-tat of gunfire. Her body plummets against mine, pinning my legs to the ground.
Using all my might, I twist out from beneath her. I grab a fistful of my mother’s dress and drag her with me as I crawl. Inch by inch, past the bodies of others and the pools of blood spilling out from beneath them, my knees are scraped open by the rough dirt, pebbled with rocks. It seems to take forever until I make it to the row of houses.
I’m covered in sweat and filth, and my lungs and muscles burn. When her dress begins to rip, I grab a fistful of her hair and drag her the rest of th
e way.
Silently, I apologize to her. I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry I couldn’t run fast enough to get us to safety.
Panic mixes with fear, reminding me I’m all alone now. When my eyes begin to burn, I fight back the tears with anger instead. I won’t let them kill me easily.
