She'll Never Know
The Albany Beach Murders
Book Two
by
Hunter Morgan
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ISBN: 978-1-61417-998-6
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Table of Contents
Cover
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Meet the Author
Prologue
The Bloodsucker opened the refrigerator and the interior light spilled onto the tiled floor at his sneakers. Holding the door with one hand, he peered inside, pushing aside a can of soda, an apple with one bite taken out of it, and a half empty bottle of ketchup. Spotting the plastic container of yogurt he sought, he reached for it. As his pulled his hand out, he accidentally struck the two vials of blood. He could see what was about to happen, but he reacted a split second too late. He dropped the yogurt and caught one of the vials in midair, but the second hit the floor with a crack and a splinter of glass.
Suddenly, the Bloodsucker was trembling all over. He stared at the blood splattered on the floor. The thick, rich, red blood with its white and red cells, its life-sustaining plasma...
Slowly, feeling like a character in one of Hitchcock's old movies, the Bloodsucker eased his hand into the refrigerator and carefully set down the rescued vial. His yogurt and hunger forgotten, he eased the door shut, unable to tear his gaze from the puddle of blood at his feet.
He had to clean it up. He knew he couldn't leave it there. But it was so lovely, so utterly perfect in its existence that he couldn't help but take this moment to admire it. That was what life was all about, wasn't it? Living in the beauty of the moment? He felt his chest tighten with joy. Tears sprang to his eyes.
He stooped over the blood that glistened with shards of glass. The puddle had taken on the shape of its own living cell... an amoeba or one of those very first single-cell organisms that the whole world, universe maybe, had been created from. To the Bloodsucker, it was alive... quivering, shimmering in the light that came from the fluorescent tubes overhead.
Knowing he mustn't touch the blood, but unable to resist its beauty, he ever so slowly lowered his hand, his finger extended. The cool wetness on his fingertip was so exquisite that he gasped with pleasure. His eyelids fluttered and he felt that tightness in his groin. "Oh," he breathed.
His finger still in the blood, he opened his eyes, trembling. Slowly he drew his finger across the tile to form a letter. P... Then another. H. It was as if his hand had taken on a life of its own. No... it was the blood... the power of the precious elixir. O... E... B... E
He stared at the name written in the blood on the floor. Phoebe. He smiled. It was time to let bygones be bygones. Phoebe had not been what he had wanted. He had known that when he had carried her from his car. When he had cut her. When he had watched the blood flow from her veins. But maybe she had been what he needed.
And now it was time to put Phoebe aside. To move on.
He took another shuddering breath.
It was time to clean up the blood. To begin anew.
He rose and turned away from the puddle of blood with purpose. He grabbed a handful of paper towels and went back to mop it up. It seemed like lot of blood on the floor, but really it wasn't. Four super-soaker paper towels and it was completely gone. At least no one else could see it. He tossed the paper towels in the trashcan, pulled the bag out, tied it, and left it near the door, then added a fresh bag to the can.
Last, he grabbed a bottle of cleaner from beneath the sink, took two more paper towels, and went back to the place where the blood had been. He squirted some cleaner. Lemon fresh. He wiped the tile, tossed the paper towels that showed no evidence of blood into the fresh trash bag, and returned the cleaner to its place, taking care to be sure the nozzle was off. A person could never be too careful with cleaning fluids.
At the sink, the Bloodsucker turned on the hot water and squirted some antibacterial soap on his hands. He washed them with the care of a surgeon, then rinsed in the hot water and grabbed another paper towel, using it to turn off the faucet. He started to dry off his hands but halted, staring at his finger. The finger that had touched the blood.
Again his breathing became shallow. He stared at the finger until he could see the blood. Smell it. Slowly he lifted the finger to his mouth and suckled it like a baby.
Chapter 1
There were times when a woman realized she was at a defining moment in her life, and Jillian sensed that when she walked into the old-fashioned diner in Albany Beach, Delaware, that hot, July 1st afternoon. She didn't know a soul in the diner. Didn't know a soul in the town... or on the earth for that matter, except for the doctors and nurses who had treated her in the hospital in Portsmouth, Virginia, and Mrs. Angelina Jefferson of the Amnesia Society. Still, even being a stranger in an unfamiliar town, Jillian felt an overwhelming sense of exhilaration when she stepped through the door. Something was going to happen to her in this town, something wonderful. She could feel it in her bones.
As Jillian made her way to one of the stools at the lunch counter, she took in her surroundings. The diner was right out of the fifties, like a scene from Mayberry with its shiny chrome trim, Formica counters, and out-of-date Naugahyde-upholstered booths. Close to five in the afternoon, the place was busy with what looked to be tourists and locals alike. Among others, she spotted a woman in a beach cover-up sharing a milkshake with her daughter, a nice-looking blond man in his mid-thirties drinking a cup of coffee while he read the paper, and a scruffy young guy, mid-twenties, in sunglasses, eating scrambled eggs and bacon, who appeared to have a serious hangover.
No one seemed to give her any mind as she settled on the stool; it was almost as if she belonged there. As if she had been there before.
'"Lo there, little lady." A man in his mid-fifties, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair, leaned on the counter opposite Jillian. "What can I get you for?"
She hesitated, glancing at the large, poofy-haired waitress in a floral apron at the cash register, then back at the man in the dirty, wet, white apron. "I was wondering
if I could get a soda?"
"You bet. See, I'm a jack-of-all-trades 'round here. Loretta"—he indicated the obese woman at the cash register laughing with a young, good-looking uniformed cop—"she owns this place, but she can't run it without me. Can you, Loretta?" he called to her.
Loretta flapped a pudgy hand, dismissing him without a glance, and went on ringing up the cop's bill.
"See, I can get your drink, bus your table when you're through, and then wash that glass, clean as a whistle." The jack-of-all trades, who looked more like a dishwasher to her, pursed his lips and gave a low whistle.
Jillian half smiled, forcing herself not to pull back from the stranger, who frightened her a little. She was still on shaky ground here. She felt uncomfortable everywhere, with everyone, but yesterday when Angelina had come to the hotel to see Jillian off, she'd been straightforward with her advice. Angel, her advisor with the Amnesia Society who had turned out to be a true angel sent from heaven, said the only way for an amnesia victim to become a part of society again was to immerse herself in it. Jillian had to go to public places like restaurants and museums, and she had to talk to people in libraries, in line at the grocery store, even if she had to make herself do it. Angel said that some form of paranoia was common with most amnesia victims and that Jillian would just have to work through it. It was the only way to become a part of the world again, one of the living.
"I was hoping I could get that soda to go, if it's not too much trouble," Jillian said, making eye contact with the dishwasher.
"No problem, sweet thing. I got Styrofoam cups here with lids." He grinned as he picked one off the top of a stack. "What would you like old Ralph to get you?"
"Coke" she answered, proud of herself for knowing the answer. Six weeks ago when she woke in the hospital, she couldn't have responded to his question. She hadn't known who she was or how she got there, much less what cold beverage she preferred. Now, at least, she knew a few things about herself. She knew she loved the color blue, and the Beatles, and despised diet soda. It was a little thing, but one more "baby step," as Angel called it.
"Coming right up." Ralph filled the cup with ice, leaned on the rear counter, and hit the button to dispense the soda. "Staying the week on vacation? Longer, maybe?"
"Actually, I don't know. I didn't have any specific plans," she said, trying to be vague without sounding like a fruitcake. "I have a few weeks off, and I'm just driving up the coast, stopping here and there." It was only a half lie. She was driving up the coast, stopping here and there. Only right now, she had the rest of her life off because she didn't know what job she was supposed to be returning to in what state.
"Albany Beach is a great little town." Ralph popped a plastic lid onto her cup and grabbed a straw from a box. "We still got a few vacancies, but you better grab one up quick, if you mean to stay. Fourth of July is a big holiday here. We have a parade with fire trucks, a band, the whole enchilada. And some say we got the best view of the Atlantic Ocean of anyone." He winked.
Jillian took the cup from Ralph's hand. When his fingertips brushed her skin, she didn't recoil the way she had whenever someone touched her the first few days in the hospital after she woke from her surgery. Angel said it was normal for an amnesia victim to get spooked by human touch and that it would fade with time and regular contact with others. "Thanks for the soda." She slid off the bar stool.
"You bet." Ralph followed her to the cash register, where Loretta was just handing the cop his change.
"Have a good day, Patrolman McCormick." Loretta punched the drawer of the ancient cash register closed.
"You bet." The officer picked up his paper to-go bag and turned to Jillian. He nodded, acknowledging her, as he slid his wallet into the rear pocket of his pressed khaki uniform pants.
Jillian smiled and nodded shyly as she turned to the woman behind the cash register. "Just the drink."
"Large," Ralph offered, looking over the proprietor's shoulder at the cash register.
"You've got a stack of dirty dishes calling your name, Ralph." Loretta hooked a thumb in the direction of the kitchen behind the lunch counter. "Hop to it."
Ralph looked to Jillian. "You have a fine day—sorry, I didn't catch your name."
Jillian hesitated, a little uncomfortable with giving the stranger her name. But then she thought, what the heck, it wasn't her real name. What did she care? She'd probably be gone by morning, anyway. "Jillian," she said. "Jillian Deere."
"Nice to meet you, Jillian Deere." Loretta handed her the change from her dollar bill and a big smile. "You come back and have breakfast with us, you get the chance. I make the best blueberry hotcakes on the East Coast. Ask anyone."
Jillian picked up her drink. "I just might do that. Thanks. Have a good day." On her way out, a blond man in his mid-thirties coming in the door held it open for her.
"Good afternoon," he said, smiling wider than she liked. He was wearing a navy blazer with a name tag with a realty company name on it. She only caught his first name. Seth. He didn't look like a Seth to her. He was a little too polished, his teeth a little too white.
She offered a quick, perfunctory smile, walking through the doorway onto the stair landing. She didn't make eye contact. "Thanks."
He turned to watch her go the way she had observed that construction workers and highway employees often did when a pretty woman passed. "You bet."
He was still ogling her when she took a quick look over her shoulder halfway across the parking lot. Jillian picked up her pace, hurrying to her car. A loaner from the Amnesia Society. The private organization did what it could to help "unidentified" amnesia victims build a normal life. They provided places to live, cash, even used Hondas with a hundred and twenty thousand miles on them. The only stipulation the organization had was that if recipients ever got back on their feet again, they were to make a donation to help others in the same predicament they had experienced. If they ever got on their feet again. Angel's ominous words still terrified Jillian.
In the car, she dropped her drink into the cup holder on the console, rolled down the window, and slipped the key in the ignition. The old Honda's engine turned over and purred. She backed out of the parking space and pulled out of the parking lot. As she turned onto the street, she noticed the police officer from the diner sitting in his marked green and tan car, still in the parking lot. Again he nodded solemnly, but this time he flashed a cocky smile.
Jillian gripped the wheel and buzzed down the street. The cop had been flirting with her. Sort of. And she didn't know how she felt about it. In the last few weeks, she'd run into men in the hospital, in stores, who flirted with her, but she still wasn't certain how to respond. She could look in the mirror and see that she was beautiful, by present standards, with her long blond hair, slightly up-turned nose, and bright blue eyes, but it really didn't mean anything to her. Right now, she'd have exchanged this face and her Coke for a few memories in a heartbeat. How could she flirt with a man not knowing who she was or who she had relationships with? What if she was married?
Of course she had entered the emergency room wearing no wedding ring, and as Angel had pointed out, she didn't even have an indentation from a wedding band on her left ring finger. Women who were recently divorced, or even robbed, had at least the imprint of a ring. Jillian had no proof she was married or had a significant other, just a weird feeling that there had been someone in her life. A man she loved.
That, of course, led to the next question. Where was he? She signaled and turned off the main road onto a tree-lined street. She had no idea where she was going, only that she was getting closer to the ocean. She could smell it on the hot, humid, late afternoon breeze.
If Jillian had a husband, why hadn't he been looking for her? No one had called or come to the hospital in search of a blond, blue-eyed woman in her mid-thirties in the days after she turned up at the hospital. No one had contacted the Portsmouth police, or any police in the state, not even weeks later when she had recovered and had nowhere to
go.
In the days following her mysterious arrival at the door of the Portsmouth ER, Jillian had talked with a psychiatrist, and several psychologists, and had even been hypnotized, but no one had been able to help her draw any conclusions. She didn't know who she was or where she had come from, and she didn't know who had shot her or why. She had continued to be listed as a Jane Doe until the hospital put her in contact with the Amnesia Society and Angel had come to her rescue. Literally.
And now, here she was, on her quest to find herself.
Angel had suggested taking a few days to drive around the area and see if anything looked familiar, or perhaps jolted her memory. She said that many amnesia victims who did not have a friend or relative identify them, often found their identity on their own just this way. Either they spotted a familiar house that turned out to be theirs, or they bumped into an old friend in a grocery store who asked them if they'd been on vacation. Angel said the world was full of surprises; it was just a matter of going out and looking for them.
Full of surprises? The elderly woman with her flame-red hair and ever-present cigarette dangling from the corner of her lipsticked mouth had that one right. Jillian was surprised every day, nearly every hour, as she slowly uncovered aspects of the personality that was somehow locked inside her head.
Jillian spotted a small green street sign that read Juniper. She turned onto it without signaling, a sense of excitement coursing through her blood. There was something about the street name... or maybe the street. The way the maple trees hung over. Checking to be sure no one was behind her, she slowed down to less than twenty miles an hour, gazing from one side of the street to the other. She was obviously in an older section of town. The multi-story condos had given way to small, square, cedar-sided and whitewashed cottages. Some were freshly painted, while others were a little the worse for wear. On other streets, she had seen tourists walking with children in bathing suits in tow, carrying armfuls of chairs and wet beach towels. On this little side street, she spotted an elderly woman in her side yard taking down laundry from a clothesline. A middle-aged couple sat on a porch snapping fresh beans. They both waved as she drove by as if they had known her her whole life.
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