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

by Charlotte Raine

  “It’s not you, Lori,” Benjamin says, wrapping his arm around my waist. He kisses me and I lean against him. “He’s a teenage boy. Irresponsibility comes with the age.”

  “Well, I raised him better than that,” I say. I walk back out toward the front entrance and step onto the stairway. “ZACH! Get down here!”

  I turn to Benjamin when silence greets me again.

  “What do you think he’s doing?” I ask. “Do you think he went back to sleep? Or he’s wearing those stupid headphones while playing his video games? If he keeps playing those games, his brain is going to rot.”

  Benjamin pats me on the back.

  “I’ll go talk to him,” he says. His feet fall heavy on the stairs as he walks up. I turn to Brianna and Kit.

  “Well, thank God that you two turned out to be good kids,” I say. “What should our family activity be today? We should ask your father if he wants to dig some holes in the garden, so we can plant some tulips.”

  I look up the stairway. Why isn’t Benjamin stomping back downstairs, complaining about Zach’s attitude or the way that his room is a constant mess? What’s taking him so long?

  “Ben?” I call out. A second passes before I jog up the stairs. The moment before I step into Zach’s room, something changes inside me. It feels like all of the fresh air leaves my lungs, leaving only stale remnants of oxygen.

  First, I see Benjamin staring into the closet. My feet feel heavier than bricks as I make my way across the room. My body already knows that some terrible injustice has occurred, though I know my mind will take months to figure it out.

  When I gaze into the closet, I see Zach. His feet are less than an inch above the carpet. His arms limp by his sides, his eyes wide open, and a nylon belt cutting into his throat as it hangs from the closet rail.

  My presence seems to snap Benjamin out of his trance. Without thinking, he grabs Zach’s body around the waist and yanks him so hard that the closet rail jerks out of the closet and all of Zach’s clothes fall on top of Benjamin and Zach’s still body. Benjamin is only disoriented for a second before he loosens the belt from Zach’s neck and lays him flat on the floor.

  As he begins to perform CPR, his hands pumping against Zach’s chest, Brianna and Kit rush into the room. They must have heard the noise of the closet rail falling, but I can’t get the words out to warn them from seeing their brother’s lifeless body.

  “Holy shit,” Brianna says. “Holy shit.”

  Kit mumbles something about the swear jar, but my mind is wandering through fog. None of this can be real.

  “Mom, do we call 9-1-1?” Brianna asks. “Mom, what do we do?”

  The son that I gave birth to is gone. While I was in church, his last breath was taken. Was this suicide? Did I miss some symptom that would have tipped me off that he was depressed? Was it because we moved so often? Or that I was always nagging him to do his chores?

  “Mom!” Brianna yells, waving her arms in front of me. “What do we do?”

  “I’ll call,” Kit says. She slips out of the room, but I barely register her absence.

  Benjamin stops performing chest compressions. He turns to me, his eyes void of any emotion. I know how he feels. Once we let any drop of emotion escape, the dam will break, and the whole house will flood with grief.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sam, 2015

  (Early Sunday Afternoon; Sam’s House, Murray, Virginia)

  IT FEELS LIKE I’ve barely closed my eyes when my phone starts ringing. I’m rolled in a cocoon of blankets and the last thing I want to do is talk after working all night in the morgue, but it could only be Grace calling me this early.

  I pull my arm out from under my blankets and grab my phone off the pillow next to me. I should have gotten Grace and brought her back home with me, so we could sleep together, but it was late and I was sure she would be falling asleep already. Or I just didn’t want to look at her and think about the possibility that the man who tried to kill her could be here to try again.

  “Hey,” I mumble into the phone, avoiding looking into the bright light of the screen. “How did you sleep?”

  “Well…I didn’t, no thanks to this deadbeat,” a woman’s voice says. It takes me several seconds to realize it’s not Grace. I blearily check the screen. Dr. Bridget Carter. Oh.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Carter. I thought you were my girlfriend.”

  “That’s all right,” she says. “I’ll try not to tip her off that you’re asking other women how they slept.”

  I rub my eyes as she laughs. At least someone can be in a good mood while being sleep deprived.

  “So, you wanted to know about DNA matches…” she says. I sit up, wide-awake now.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” she says. “There's no match for the DNA in CODIS, neither within the search parameters you suggested, nor the database as a whole. It doesn't rule out that the DNA's from someone who has been arrested…just whomever it is was never arrested for a felony in the state of Ohio, or any state that takes DNA samples from arrestees or convicts.”

  “What would we try next?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “From the bone structure, I would predict the victim is in his late teens or early twenties…”

  Which may or may not mean it could have been Francis. He was in his early twenties when he attacked Grace, but by now, he would be twenty-four or twenty-five.

  “…I have my people searching the car. Maybe they'll get lucky and find something from the killer that happened to survive through the water submersion.”

  “You don’t sound hopeful,” I say.

  “Hope is for people who don’t rely on facts. And the fact is that this killer knew what he was doing,” she says. “He’s smart. I don’t like smart criminals. I like my criminals holding a gun with fingerprints all over it.”

  “That would be a nice if that happened. Do you think we could convince them to be more conspicuous?” I say. My cell phone pings. I glance at the screen. It’s a text message from the county police. This time, it comes with an address instead of just GPA coordinates. I recognize the address right away—it's Connor's house. I put the phone back up to my ear. “Dr. Carter, I have to go. Please keep investigating the body. There has to be something there.”

  “Okay, I’ll—“

  I hang up before she can finished her sentence. I find Grace’s name in my phone and send a text.

  Me: Please be okay

  I stare at the message I sent. A minute passes by. Then two. I’m about to storm out of the house when my phone pings again and her message flashes onto the screen.

  Grace: Yeah. Eating pancakes. Was about to call you. Is something wrong?

  Me: I’ll tell you when I have more info. Got another call from the police. Stay at Kevin’s, if you can.

  Grace: Yeah, sure. Why can’t you tell me what’s going on?

  Me: It’s complicated. See you later.

  I set my phone down and begin to gather some clothes to wear. I hear my phone ping, but I don’t retrieve it. I can’t have Grace distracting me right now. Something ugly is happening in Murray and I need to be ready to shield her from it.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Francis, 2012

  (February; Christopher Tate’s House, Dayton, Ohio)

  DAD WORKS OUT OF TOWN after the school he worked at fired him. I don’t know a lot about what caused him to be fired—I heard a thirteen-year-old girl was involved, but I didn’t want to find out more after that. I think my parents contemplated divorce, but Mom is too dependent on Dad for financial support and my father needs someone to take to bed when he returns.

  I dump a can of soup into a pot and turn on the stove. I take out my homework, so I can work on it while it cooks. I’m not sure where Mom is right now or if I should be making more food, so that she will have something to eat, too.

  As I finish a trigonometry equation as I hear the door open. I look over my shoulder to see Mom stumblin
g into the kitchen with some strange man holding her up. The man has to be over six feet tall and he’s wearing a leather jacket that has a patch on the right side. I can’t read the patch from where he’s standing, but I can see the image of a naked woman with her legs sprawled out underneath it.

  “Francis!” Mom exclaims rushing toward me. She almost knocks me over as she wraps her arms around me. Her head slides down to my chest and then she falls to the floor, giggling.

  “Mom, are you drunk?” I ask. She laughs louder. The man rolls his eyes, walks over to her, grabs her arm, and jerks her up to a standing position.

  “She’s just a little tipsy,” the man says. Mom leans against him, closing her eyes. “So, uh, where’s her bedroom?”

  “I can take her there.” I step forward.

  The man shakes his head, a deep scowl forming. “I don’t need help, boy. Just point me to the bedroom.”

  I stand straight like a man is supposed to. “I don’t think so. My mom is married and she’s drunk.”

  He glares down at me. He loosens his arm, so that Mom falls back to the floor, her body limp. As I’m focused on her, he hits me against the face. Hard.

  I stumble back against the stove. I push myself back up, touching my cheek that’s burning red. I can feel tears welling in my eyes but I can’t cry. I won’t cry. I’m not a baby anymore.

  I ball my hands into fists and I throw a punch. He blocks it with a flick of his hand and hits me across the face again. I crash to the floor.

  Mom begins to awaken, her eyes blearily looking out at the man and me. She blinks several times but doesn’t react.

  As I push myself back onto my feet, the man grabs the pot of hot soup and throws the liquid onto me.

  It’s hotter than I could ever imagine. I scream, cry, and try to shake the soup off me as the man laughs at my manic behavior. I run toward the bathroom.

  I turn the shower on and jump in, still in my clothes. The cold water pours down at me and I can see red splotches rising under my skin.

  When my skin feels cooled off, I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel. It’s not very effective with my clothes on, but I need to check on Mom.

  When I step out of the bathroom, I can see that they are no longer in the kitchen. I glance around the house until I see that my parents’ bedroom door is closed.

  I walk toward the door, but stop when I hear my mother.

  “Come on.” She slurs. “I need you right here, right now.”

  “I’m coming for you, babe,” the man mutters.

  I turn away from the door and rush into my room. I collapse onto my bed, a range of emotions rushing through me. I can’t believe I cared enough to try to protect her. She’s a bitch and she always has been. I can’t keep worrying about her and giving a shit about someone who couldn’t care less about me. My only option is to get rid of her.

  I roll onto my back. I check my arms, where welts are still rising. My plan will have to be seamless. I will have to either make her disappear completely or frame someone else for the murder.

  At the end of my desk is a family portrait. It was from a Christmas when I was four years old. We all look happy in it, but I distinctly remember Dad rampaging through the house earlier that morning because the fire stove would refuse to keep burning. I stare at the photo until my eyes water and the photograph becomes something that could be destroyed with the slightest bit of ill intent.

  Chapter Thirty

  Francis, 2012

  (March; Christopher Tate’s House, Dayton, Ohio)

  “I’M WORKING MY ass off while you just sit here and drink every fucking bottle in Dayton, Ohio!” Dad yells. “How fucking dare you accuse me of being lazy? What have you done lately? Huh? Have you even tried to get your stupid son to do any sports like I asked you to? Or have you been too busy being a drunk whore?”

  “He’s your son!” Mom shouts. “You’re the one who wanted a child so badly! Well, that’s what you get. You don’t get to pick and choose what comes out of my uterus. Maybe if you were around more, you could raise him to be a man.”

  “You’re the one who’s here all day!” Dad screams. I take my headphones off, the music from my CD player not blocking out their fight. I’ve wanted an MP3 player forever, but all I ever get for my birthday or Christmas is clothes and soap. I suppose my family is too poor to afford it, but they still manage to binge on liquor and beer every day while Mom fills the house with angel figurines.

  The angels. She used to tell me that she wanted the house to look like heaven, filled with all of God’s servants. She said God would look down and see all of the angels in the house and know that we were worthy of protection.

  We aren’t worthy at all.

  I hear the front door slam shut. I jump to my feet and yank my bottom dresser drawer open. I grab Dad’s revolver out from under my clothes. Now is the time. The neighbors had to have heard the fight—and knowing Dad, he’s retreating out into the woods, so he can think and drink alone—so they won’t know that he left the house. I run out of my room and take a sharp turn into my parents’ bedroom.

  Mom is sitting on the bed, her face in her hands, sobbing. For a moment, I falter. When did I reach this point? What is happening to me?

  Mom turns, sensing my presence. She stares at me, her eyes still filled with tears, not noticing the gun in my hand.

  “What do you want?” she grumbles, looking back down at her hands. “You’ve taken everything from me. My youth, my dreams, my husband. I hate you. I wish you had never been born.”

  My heart hardens again. I can literally feel it—like concrete was poured over it and it’s solidifying. I raise the gun. She notices the gun a second before I pull the trigger.

  It’s as if time slows because there is no possible way I could see the bullet, but I do. I watch it leave the gun chamber and slam into her chest. She falls back onto the bed, making a choking noise.

  I don’t check on her. I don’t make sure she’s dead. I leave the room. I sprint out of the house. I escape this hellhole.

  I planned to get rid of the gun at the house—wipe the fingerprints, plant it somewhere the police would find, but the adrenaline rush makes me want to run until I’m halfway around the world. My heart is singing a song with my heart forming the percussion.

  While I’m still running, I hear the police sirens. I dodge into the woods. I’ll have to bury the gun so far in that nobody will be able to find it. I’ll tell the police that I was in the house, but I ran when I saw my Dad shoot my Mom. It’s a perfect plan. I will finally be free.

  I smile. Whoever draws first blood in a boxing match tends to have the advantage and I plan to win this fight against the world.

  One day everyone will know my name.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Sam, 2015

  (Sunday Afternoon; Connor’s House, Murray, Virginia)

  AS I PARK MY CAR in front of Connor’s house, my mind goes through the possible victims: Lori, Benjamin, Brianna, Zach, Kit…maybe even that boy Zach is always hanging out with…Jason. I hope it’s not one of the kids. It’s not that I have anything against Lori or Benjamin, but I’ve already had to do an autopsy on a kid who died after an asthma attack. I had to take a break every ten minutes because the implication that a child was unable to get to experience all of life’s miracles was too much to handle.

  As I cross the yard, I see a policeman talking to Lori, Benjamin, Brianna, and Kit. Something tells me that Jason wouldn’t have been over here this early on a Sunday afternoon, which means that it was Zach. Zach was a bit of a jerk toward Grace, but I still feel my stomach curl at the thought of him dying so young. He could have grown up to be a great person. Now, nobody will ever know what he could have accomplished.

  “You,” Benjamin snarls, looking at me. “Are you really here to harass my family about the house again? Can’t you see that…can’t you see that something terrible happened? What kind of sick bastard comes up to a good family like mine and bothers them while t
he police are investigating…they’re investigating my son’s…my son’s…”

  Lori embraces Benjamin as he begins to shake—with rage or grief, I can’t be sure. She glares at me before she whispers reassurances into his ear.

  “Mr. Schneider, I am terribly sorry for your loss.” I bow my head. “But I’m the local medical examiner and…your son needs to be examined.”

  “Not by you,” Benjamin snaps. He turns to the policeman. “You need to get another medical examiner to look at my son. This one has a conflict of interest and hangs around with people that I don’t trust.”

  My face burns bright red as the policeman glances at me. I force myself to shrug before pivoting on my heel and walking back to my car. The Schneiders will have to wait awhile for another medical examiner to have the time to look at a body that’s not even in their jurisdiction. As I put my postmortem evidence collection kit into the backseat, I notice Jason talking to Kevin Deats, who had come out of his house to walk a new puppy—or, more likely, to find out what the police were doing parked next door.

  I lock my car back up—even in suburbia, I don’t trust someone to not break into my car since Deacon Cochrane broke into Grace’s hotel room last year and tried to frame me for the murder of David Pattinson.

  David Pattinson. I had seen Deacon’s journals—at least the parts that various news stations showed—and I know how he felt about David. Deacon believed that David should have become Deacon and his brother’s guardian since that is what Deacon’s father wanted, but David had ignored that responsibility and instead it fell onto the shoulders of Deacon’s grandfather, Albert. Maybe Deacon wouldn’t have become a serial killer if David had taken him in. Maybe everything changes if you decide that someone else’s fate matters even if it inconveniences you.

  “Hey, Kevin!” I call out, walking over toward Jason and Kevin. Kevin nods at me. “Thanks for letting Grace crash at your place last night.”