Disturbed Mind (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Series Book 2)

by Charlotte Raine

  “You know what? Let’s end class a couple of minutes early,” I say, forcing a smile. “It’s almost the holidays and I know you guys have a lot of tests right before we go on break. So, go to lunch early. Just be quiet in the halls. Remember, ‘burn and rave,’ but…you know, do it legally.”

  A few of the kids laugh for my benefit before gathering all of their books and notes. They shove it into their bags before rushing out of the room. Devon is one of the last ones to walk past me.

  “Devon, could you stay here for a minute?” I ask. “I just want to have a short chat with you.”

  He looks up at me, his eyes pleading for me to simply let him walk through life without being noticed. He just wants to be invisible so that he can’t be taunted. But I can’t allow him to be disregarded because that could lead him to ignore the fact that his actions have consequences on the rest of the world. If he goes on to create a program that helps end bullying, he could affect millions of children. If he goes on to try to stab people to death, it will affect that victim, their friends, and family. It could, both literally and figuratively, kill me.

  I sit on the edge of my desk. “How are you doing? You moved here this year, right?”

  He nods, but doesn’t answer my first question.

  “Have you made some friends yet?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t need friends here. I have a few back home in Michigan.”

  “But that’s quite a distance from here,” I say. “Have you joined any clubs or sports teams?”

  He shakes his head, a condescending smirk on his face. Clearly, he’s not the type to join in regular school extracurriculars. I try to remember what I learned in Professor Kingston’s lectures—don’t look for the cause of their pain, just try to find the treatment.

  “Well, you know, I’ve noticed that you seem a lot more interested in poetry than prose, so I have a book that you might like,” I say, walking over to look at my bookshelf in the corner of the room.

  “I hope it’s not the Bible,” he says, following me. “No offense—it’s just not my thing.”

  “It’s not the Bible,” I assure him. As I look for the book, I can sense Devon about four inches behind me. It makes me nervous, but I do my best to ignore it. He is not Francis Tate or Deacon Cochrane. Yet. “It’s Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. He has a very unique voice and I think you’ll enjoy his poems. He was very introspective. Could you please take a step back?”

  He flushes, less than two inches away from me. He takes several steps back.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Ellery. I was just reading the titles of the other books.”

  “It’s fine, Devon, I just don’t like people being that close to me when my back is turned.”

  “Because of the two students who attacked you?” he asks.

  It’s my turn to blush. Of course all of my students would know about that. It was all over the news—the teacher who had been attacked twice by two different students. I can only assume I was hired here because of Kevin, otherwise, I can’t imagine a school board hiring me after two of my students became homicidal maniacs.

  “Yes,” I admit.

  “It’s all right, Miss Ellery, I’m not crazy,” he says.

  “I’m sure you’re not,” I say, handing him the book. He takes it. “It just makes me uncomfortable.”

  “You know my grandma told me before she died that one thing she noticed in life is that the people who tended to avoid their fears all of their life were the same people who never found happiness because they spent all of their time avoiding something instead of chasing after what they wanted,” he says. “She said it better, but I thought you should know that.”

  “Thank you, Devon,” I say. He nods before scuttling out of the room. Maybe I do need to stop worrying about Francis. How would he ever find me?

  I need to focus on what I want…which would be easier if I knew what that was.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Francis, 2015

  (Friday Evening; Outside the Ballentines’ House, Bethlehem, Pennsylvania)

  AFTER FINDING THE ADDRESS of Bryce’s family online, I took three buses to get to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Finding people is shockingly easy these days—I had called a series of numbers pretending to be a debt collector to get Grace’s new address. When I stand in front of the Ballentines’ house, I am astounded to find that the house has Cape Cod-style architecture and exudes “upper class.” It’s only one and a half stories tall but it looks like it must have a dozen rooms. It has multi-pane windows, which have intricately designed frames and an arched entryway made of stones. There’s a beautiful garden on both sides of the porch.

  I linger at the edge of the driveway, my hand resting on a red steel mailbox. I need to see what Kayla looks like, but right now, I just want to imagine what it’s like for her to grow up here. I imagine her small feet running through the soft grass and to the house when the bus drops her off.

  I walk toward the house. I peek into the garage. There’s a white van inside, but I didn’t expect anything less. It’s Friday evening, where else would the family be?

  I circle around to the back of the house. I glance into the first window I pass by. I see into a living room, filled with blue and white furniture. A large family portrait hangs over the fireplace. Instead of the type of clothes Bryce was wearing when I met him, he’s wearing a polo and khakis. His father is the spitting image of him, except his face has more lines on it and his neck is thicker. His mother is short—between five foot and five foot two. She has dirty-blond hair and bright hazel eyes. In front of all of them is a young girl.

  Kayla had to be a few years younger than thirteen in the photograph. Her hair—miraculously light blond, possibly from being dyed, though it looks completely genuine—flows down her shoulders. Her eyes are the same color as her mother’s but they are filled with life. She has the finest bone structure, but her smile makes it so it comes off more angelic than fragile.

  She needs someone who would protect her better than Bryce ever could.

  Her mother steps into the living room and our eyes lock. She begins to scream as I duck…already knowing I’m too late. I can’t allow her to go to the police, tell them about seeing me, and allow them to become suspicious of Bryce’s absence. The police might try to get ahold of Bryce and that could eventually lead him to his body.

  I grab the sliding door handle and jerk it open. Mrs. Ballentine is screaming. The sound is piercing, but all I can see is the slight vibration of her throat from the sound. I tackle her to the ground as a man—Mr. Ballentine—runs into the room. I grab Mrs. Ballentine by the hair, jerk her head back, and hold up my bowie knife—a special gift I bought myself as soon as I was out of prison—to Mrs. Ballentine’s throat.

  “Come any closer and we’ll see how much this bitch bleeds,” I snarl. Mr. Ballentine stops, raising his hands in surrender.

  “Look, sir, you can take whatever you want,” he says. “We have plenty of things that you can sell for good money…we have jewelry that will at least get you a thousand dollars. Just don’t hurt my wife.”

  “Where is your daughter?” I ask, gesturing toward the family portrait. Mr. Ballentine glances at it.

  “My daughter is at dance practice. My son is in New York City,” he says. “Please. They need their mother and their father. You can’t…you wouldn’t let children grow up without their parents, would you?”

  I eventually did, didn’t I?

  “Child,” I correct. “You should be asking if I wouldn’t let your child grow up without her parents. Your son is dead.”

  “What?” Mr. Ballentine blurts. Mrs. Ballentine jerks her head to the side, trying to look at me. The knife makes a small cut against her skin from her movement. She squeals.

  “I killed him,” I tell them. “Why do you think I came here? Kill might not actually be the correct word. I slit his throat and bashed in his skull. I still have his teeth. He was thinking of returning home before I killed him. It’s a shame that he’s so e
asy to flatter and so very, very gullible.”

  “You’re lying,” Mr. Ballentine says, his voice low and full of uncertainty.

  “I sent you and your wife his last e-mail. While I was pretending to be Bryce, I told you I would tell you two when I was ready to return home. It’s rather rude that neither of you responded.”

  I feel Mrs. Ballentine’s body begin to crumple as she faints, but before I can react, Mr. Ballentine charges at me. My primal side takes over. I flip the knife in my fist and lunge it forward.

  The knife sinks into Mr. Ballentine’s neck. He stops as if the knife caused a shield between us. He tries to look at the knife, but it’s barely within his periphery. I thrust it back out. Mrs. Ballentine stumbles to the floor, the last of her stamina disappearing. Mr. Ballentine’s eyes flicker up to mine. I look at him for a second before I jab the knife into his carotid artery.

  For a second, I think I missed the artery because he keeps standing. He takes one step back. Then, another one. He falls back, the knife still in his neck and his eyes wide open. He lands on his back. I see his hands fumble around the knife.

  I walk over to him. I put my foot on his chest and jerk the knife out of his neck. Blood flows out like a stream. I turn around to look at Mrs. Ballentine. She must have succumbed to unconsciousness because her eyes are closed and she’s still.

  I really need to get a gun. It would make this so much faster. At least there’s no bullets in their bodies that would leave evidence behind.

  I stride over to her, ready to puncture both her carotid arteries to make her death quick—not because I want it to be painless for her, but because I need to get rid of their bodies before Kayla returns.

  I kneel down next to her body. As I raise the knife to get enough momentum to strike through her skin, her eyes shoot open, and she grabs my wrist.

  She was faking her blackout.

  For a moment, I think of Grace and how I grabbed her wrist when she tried to stab me, too. Rage courses through me, filling me until all I see is red. I grip Mrs. Ballentine’s wrist and wrench it away from me. I blindly stab at her neck, not caring about what veins or arteries I could hit. Blood spatters back on my face.

  When her body is completely still beneath me, I wipe the blood off my face. Good thing the floor is made of wood. It will be easier to clean up. I’ll have to use their van to get rid of the bodies. Maybe I’ll just leave a note for the police that makes it seem like the two adult Ballentines were sick of their life and decided to start over without their children. It may be harsh for Kayla, but it’s better than finding out both her parents were murdered.

  I look back up at the family portrait.

  I realize why I’ve been obsessing over Kayla. It has nothing to do with wanting a younger sister. She is the symbol of innocence and possibility before it’s taken away by a stranger’s actions. Grace was once her. I was once her.

  Now she is one of us, so at least I can say I have a legacy, which is more than I can say for most people. I know I won't talk to her again. She will return home—to a place meant to comfort and protect her—and her parents will be gone. Her innocence will burn away until she finds out that her whole family is dead and then it will turn to smoke and dissipate. She will be just as jaded as I am, and I don't need that in my life.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Francis, 2015

  (Late Friday Night; Bethlehem, Pennsylvania)

  I PARK THE BALLENTINE’S VAN on a back road. Mrs. Ballentine lies on top of Mr. Ballentine’s body on the floor between the front and back seats. I pick up a small water bottle filled with gasoline, which I’d poured from a gas can in the Ballentine’s garage, and a long rag from the middle console. I switch the car to drive and jump out. The van lazily moves forward until it dips into the ditch on the side of the road.

  I hope the cops that come to investigate this are as stupid as they are in Murray.

  I immerse the tip of the rag into the gas. I unscrew the cap of the van’s gas tank and stuff the dry end of the rag inside it. I take a lighter out of my pocket and flick the spark wheel until a flame appears. I place the flame under the gas-soaked tip of the rag. As soon as I see the rag catch fire, I run.

  In all probability, it will take a few minutes for the fuse to hit the gas inside the tank, but I’m not taking any risks. I slip into the woods to avoid being seen running from an exploding car. I run and run and run, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not getting any farther away from the danger. The danger is inside me and I am surely seconds away from immolation.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sam, 2015

  (Friday Night; Sam’s House, Murray, Virginia)

  AFTER ALL DAY in the morgue, all I want to do is fall into my bed and never wake up. But I need to know when Grace returns home, so I know she’s safe. I spread out the notes of my John Doe on the dining room table. It’s mostly grotesque photographs and a some notes about the health condition of his body. He died about three weeks ago. He has no notable birthmarks, scars, or tattoos. He didn’t have any notable diseases. The only thing that really set him apart from any other body (besides the fact that the killer destroyed his face) is that he had written something on his hand. It had mostly faded, but the ink had sunk deep enough in the epidermis that the water hadn’t dissolved all of it. It says, call Kayla which is incredibly unhelpful. Kayla could be a girlfriend, a friend, a sister, some random girl he found while traveling.

  The front door swings open, causing some of the papers to blow off the table, and Grace walks in. She fumbles with her bag as she takes it off and begins searching through it without acknowledging me. I stand up and grab the pieces of paper off the floor.

  “How was work?” I ask.

  “Oh, it was…you know, work.”

  “I do know,” I say. “I was with a corpse all day.”

  “Oh, right,” she says, glancing up at me. “Did you figure out anything new? You already know the cause of death, right?”

  “Yeah, his neck was sliced open. The killer went straight for the carotid artery. He knows what he was doing.”

  “Oh,” she says and starts to search through her bag again before finding lip balm. She rubs it against her lips. “So, do you have any clues to who the killer is?”

  I shake my head. “There’s no evidence left. It’s not like when someone is shot and a bullet is left in the body. This guy used a knife—a small one, but I couldn’t say exactly what kind since it was used to slice the throat…if it was used to stab the guy, I could have figured out the exact size and shape of it. But no. I have nothing to go on. I was looking through my notes to try and figure out if I missed anything, but I’m not seeing anything.”

  “Could I look?” she asks.

  “I’m not sure you would want to. They’re gruesome and…it involves knives.”

  “I can deal with it,” she says. She walks around me to the table. Her step falters for a second as she sees the photographs. “Wow. That’s…the killer really tried to destroy this person’s humanity.”

  “And identity,” I say. “We still don’t know who he is. None of the missing kids that fit the age range are a close enough match to this guy for me to even consider them to be him. For some reason, his friends and family just don’t care that he hasn’t contacted them in a month.”

  “That’s sad to think about,” she says. “I would hope my mom would at least contact the police if she couldn’t get ahold of me after a couple of weeks without hearing from me.”

  “I would track you down myself.”

  She laughs. At first, it stings because I think she’s making fun of my comment. But then, she kisses my cheek.

  “Thank you,” she says. She kisses my lips. I had forgotten how her lips feel—warm, soft, smooth—like satin. Had it really been that long since we kissed? Or was this simply the first time in a long time that I had noticed the way it felt again?

  I put my hands on her waist. We continue to kiss, two dysfunctional people trying to make s
ense of a dysfunctional world. She moves her hands under my shirt, her fingertips tracing the muscles underneath it. She begins to unbutton the shirt, her small fingers undoing each clear button with precise care.

  I place my hand over hers, stopping her.

  “I have to work,” I tell her. She frowns, folding her arms over her chest.

  “Are we doing okay?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Is our relationship doing okay? Is there a problem that we need to talk about?”

  “What would we need to talk about?”

  She sighs, shaking her head. I do know what she’s talking about. Her rejection of my proposal. But I can’t help my resentment. I try to be a better person, but sometimes that doesn’t work.

  “I need to sleep,” she says. “It felt like today would never end. How much longer are you going to be working?”

  “Just an hour, maybe an hour and a half,” I tell her. She nods before retreating into the bedroom. I sit back down at the table, reorganizing all of the papers and photographs. I stare at the images of John Doe’s destroyed face. Nobody could do that much damage to someone if they had known them well. There has to be another reason that the killer would go through such efforts to hide the man’s identity.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sam, 2015

  (Valentine’s Day; Sam’s House, Murray, Virginia)

  I’VE NEVER BEEN GOOD at Valentine’s Day. It involves romance, expressed feelings, and the simple act of remembering the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day. So, of course, I forget until it’s nearly five o’clock. Luckily, Grace needed to be at the university until six, so I stopped by the dollar store and bought every object with a heart on it and some red and white roses.