by Casey Diam
Table of Contents
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Next Book in Series
About the Author
Copyright © 2018 by Casey Diam
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please contact [email protected]. Thank you for supporting writers and respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
https://www.caseydiam.com
Copyeditor: Jovana Shirley, Unforseenediting
Cover Design and Formatting: Jersey Girl Design
Proofreading: AW Editing, Emerald Eyes
Chapter One
Paige
It was like any normal night that summer.
Reese, Alaina, and I would be sent to bed before ten.
Mom was strict with our bedtimes, but we never obeyed. Alaina would be up, messaging her boyfriend—or so she said. At thirteen, she wasn’t allowed to have a boyfriend. I wasn’t either, and I didn’t, but I would still be up late, practicing chords on my guitar or writing corny teenage lyrics. Reese, on the other hand, was the oldest, and if it were a weekend, she would be on a date with her high school sweetheart. But it wasn’t a weekend, so she was lying in my bed with me, watching television as I strummed my guitar.
“It isn’t fair that you have the musical talent,” Reese said.
“It isn’t fair that you’re leaving me to go to college in two weeks.”
“I know,” she agreed, picking up her phone.
We went silent as we caught the moment of reality; maybe it would be something we could both look back on.
“Hey, let’s go steal Laina’s phone and text her boyfriend,” Reese suggested.
“I’ll be there in a second. I need to put Dad’s guitar back in the studio,” I muttered.
As she exited my room, I turned my attention to the Kim Possible episode playing on the television. It was almost finished. Kim was propelling off a building to save her best friend, Ron. He had tried but failed in his attempt to help fight the bad guys.
Five minutes later, I changed into my nightdress. With Dad’s guitar in hand, I jogged a few stairs down to the first floor. Usually, I would switch on the lights before I came down, but a lamp was already on by the couch.
There was no need to tiptoe around the mansion late at night. My sisters and I even joked about having a party on the other side of the house without Mom or Dad ever knowing. But something was different about tonight as I walked through one of the three family rooms. Dad must have been working late. I could see the light glowing from inside his music workroom. Though with the studio door wide open, I didn’t expect to find him inside.
He didn’t mind what time we went to bed like Mom did. Although, when he saw I was up this late, he’d frown and then smile before hugging me good night.
A glass-breaking scream penetrated the walls of the house, and a weird, stifled blow followed. Then there was silence. It was either Reese or Alaina. It hadn’t sounded like they were playing. That scream was more like a cry for help. A signal to someone that something was wrong.
My feet stopped moving, the hairs on my skin stood as a chill passed through my body. I turned, still maintaining a tight grip on Dad’s guitar. Two choices swirled around my head: go see what was wrong or leave Dad’s guitar since I was already so close to the studio. I chose option two because, as much as I wanted to rush to my sisters, a gnawing feeling encouraged me toward the studio.
My dad was reclined in his chair, head hanging over the back, and there was blood. Glops of blood. On the wall. The floor.
Dad.
My chest constricted. The organs inside my body shuddered as I walked toward him.
“Dad,” I whispered.
Then, I saw it—a gunshot wound on the side of his head.
His lifeless gaze haunted me as I retreated my steps.
Mom, Reese, and Alaina.
Bending, I placed the guitar on the floor, not knowing what I was going to do, just that I needed to get help. My phone was in my room on the third floor, and judging from the scream earlier, I shouldn’t go back up there. A killer was in our house.
My hands shook, and then I realized my whole body was shaking.
My vision blurred.
Phone.
I looked back to my dad, my throat closing as I searched the blood-spattered desk covered with letters and music sheets—his office landline. Grabbing the phone, I pressed three digits as fast as my fingers could manage.
A rough male voice filtered into the studio from the living room. “We can’t find her. The other three are searching the whole building from top to bottom...”
“Nine-one-one. Please state your emergency,” a female said in my ear.
My vision grew hazy again, watching the door. He would hear me if I spoke.
“What do you want us to do? We got everything else,” the man said.
My breath caught. Mom. Reese. Alaina. I looked behind me. Dad.
“Killer,” I whispered into the phone.
“Hold on. I think I heard something.” The man’s voice sounded even closer.
Tears spilled onto the keypad of the phone, and I crouched on the floor as if it would make me invisible.
The deep voice spoke again. “No, I got her phone. Plus, we have the evidence to plant if it come
s to that. It’s too easy... everyone will think they had kidnapped her... I’ll find her.”
Terror gripped my heart. It was then I realized that I needed to get out of the house. They were looking for me. They knew I was here.
So, at least five guys including the one on the phone; although, it doesn’t sound like he’s here. And guns.
Why hadn’t I heard the gunshots?
Wait a minute. Window. I can get out that way.
I looked at the window as my plan of escape formed.
“Can you repeat—” the operator started.
After setting the phone down, I dashed to the door, locked it, and hurried back to the phone. “About four or five men are in my house. They have guns. Please send help.”
A hard thud shook the door, and I hit the speaker button. Rushing to the window, I spoke my address aloud. Then, I fidgeted with the lock on the window, seeming to forget how it worked. I heard the crack of the door giving way, but the window opened. Fear consumed me. He could outrun me or just shoot me. But I couldn’t give up so easily.
I jumped, throwing myself at the mesh covering the opened window and fell through the large opening. Thinking there could be a vehicle waiting in the front, I scrambled to my feet, picking up speed as I sprinted down the side of the house in the opposite direction.
I could hear him behind me, gaining on me fast. I hopped on the steel fire escape ladder at the side of the house and climbed up. I didn’t think about this being the act that would save my life because, at this point, I’d stopped thinking.
❧
“The nurses said you haven’t been eating,” the psychologist noted.
“I want to see my grandparents,” I said.
It’d been a month since I was admitted to the ward because I’d panicked. For hours. I couldn’t control it or myself at the hospital when I heard everyone else had died in the house that night. Dad. Mom. Reese. Alaina. All dead. The nurses had called it a panic attack. But that was only the beginning.
“They are not your grandparents. Continuing to believe that isn’t going to help you come to terms with the truth.”
“It isn’t the truth.”
“Your name is Madelyn Wells. Your parents died when you were two weeks old—”
“No, it’s Sawyer.” I raised my voice. “My name is Paige Sawyer.”
“Have you been taking your medication?”
And there it was—the crazy eyes. I knew she tried to hide that look, but I could see it.
“It helps.” She placed her forearms on the desk and tapped her pen on the clipboard in front of her.
I stared her down until she looked at her notes on the clipboard.
I’d been seeing her twice a week. She looked the same every time. Same shoulder-length black hair parted in the middle. Prissy, dark skirt suits.
“It’s been weeks since we went over that night. Let’s go through what happened again.” She tried. “The more you talk about, the more likely it will be for you to move past it.”
“No.”
“You haven’t spoken to anyone since you’ve been here and haven’t visited any of the support groups. Everyone here is trying to get better. Don’t you want that?”
I let that sink in for a moment. “I would be better if everyone stopped lying to me, feeling pity for me, and looking at me as if I were crazy. I’m not crazy.”
She chewed on her lip and jotted something on her notepad. She had the power; I gave it to her. My words were powerful. At fifteen years old, I’d begun to realize; I could take that power away because I was the one giving it to her.
“I’m scared,” I started. “I’m scared of the truth because how could it be possible that the people who raised me from when I was a baby were also my kidnappers and the people who murdered my real parents?” I flinched at the words because they weren’t the truth. It was the lie they wanted me to believe, but I continued, “I know my symptoms. I’m not stupid, and yeah, I haven’t been taking my medication because...” I looked at my lap, twisting a loose thread on my scrubs around my finger. I’m scared the men might still be after me. Scared I could be next. Working up a smile, I found her eyes. “I wasn’t ready, but I am now.”
Chapter Two
Paige
Four Years and Seven Months Later
Breathe. Punch. Breathe. Kick. Breathe. Uppercut. Breathe. High knee. Breathe. Head kick. Breathe. Superman punch. Breathe—
“Wells!” Graham’s voice was a meek echo behind the blaring rock music.
I turned my head from the two-hundred-fifty-pound dummy to Graham, the owner of the gym. He was in his fifties with a full head of dark hair, dusted by a few grays. He was the mastermind behind what we called the Dungeon. The small back room in the gym with mats, kickboxing equipment, and a cage. Exclusive members trained here, but mostly after hours.
Removing my boxing gloves, I ran over to the sound system and nixed the music. “Yeah?”
“It’s nine thirty,” Graham said.
“Oh, no problem, Ham. I’ll have it ready.”
“Ham?” Roxie stood at the door with her bright pink gym bag slung over one shoulder. It was the only thing girlie about her muscular five-foot-seven physique.
“Yeah, because, you know, he goes ham on the bag,” I said, doing a little punching motion.
“What? I’ve been training here for two years, and I’m just now hearing about this Ham nickname?”
“Are you trying not to get paid tonight, Wells?”
“What? No way.” I turned to Roxie. “I meant, he likes ham, like bacon or when I say ham and cheese sandwich—”
“Wells—”
“Working.” I smiled, running up to the container of disinfecting wipes. The dummy was the last thing I needed to wipe down, and I had started to earlier, but then it’d looked at me the wrong way. Okay, so it hadn’t looked at me the wrong way.
“I need a sparring partner tonight, Ham—Graham,” Roxie said.
Graham threw his hands up in defeat. “Fine, just make sure the gym’s ready for the 5:00 a.m. crew.”
My heart swelled, and a smile stretched across my face. “Will do.”
Roxie winked at me, catching her long black hair up into a ponytail and winding it around into a tight bun. She knew how much I enjoyed training with her group at night.
This was my safe house, and these were my family. They just didn’t know it.
“Hell yeah,” Andy said, marching into the room. “Just the motivation I need tonight. You know, Paige, it would really help me to know when to ask you out if you worked a less flexible schedule. Are you free Friday night?”
Andy was a six-foot UFC middleweight champion. All his fights ended with a knockout. Lethal.
So, I wasn’t joking when I said, “Sorry, but maybe if you were a ballet dancer, things could work out between us, but seeing that you aren’t...”
“Ballet dancer? Over this?” Andy flexed his tattooed biceps, and Popeye the Sailor Man looked like he’d swallowed a can of spinach as he enlarged.
“She doesn’t date clients,” Graham said, sitting at a small desk in the corner.
My boss was right. I didn’t date clients or anyone. Period. Dating meant I would have to talk about myself—my past, my family, my life, why I took three metros to get home when I only needed one.
Shit. Breathe, Paige. Breathe.
“And don’t even ask because the pretty blonde is sparring with me,” Roxie announced, walking toward me.
Three more members had arrived and were stuffing their gym bags onto the wooden shelves.
“You good?” Roxie asked.
“Yeah, I just remembered I didn’t do a class assignment I’d thought I did.” My go-to answer. I’d been using that excuse for years since my anxiety began happening. It was the easiest explanation to remember when I pulled myself out of it.
❧
A little after midnight, I closed the gym and headed home. And, like a thief in the night, I entered the old brick buildin
g, watching either end of the corridor as I pushed the key into my lock. A menacing doom crawled over my spine, and I hurried inside. My apartment leases were kept at six months or less so I could contain this feeling because any longer than six months, and I knew they would find me.
The men. The killers.
Pulling the handgun from my backpack, I closed one of the locks on my door. My backpack was my lifeline; it always held a change of clothes and my toiletries. Some nights my anxiety—it—would be so bad, I would opt not to return home. But when I did return, I would investigate. I turned. The coat closet first. Then the kitchen cupboards. The bathroom cupboards. I left the shower curtain open for this reason; a figure standing in my bath behind a curtain was almost too scary to bear. Next, it was under the bed and then the closet, which I also left opened. The window, the fire escape, and back to the front door. Close one, two, three, and four latches. Reentering apartment routine completed.
I almost felt safe.
But knowing they weren’t here, inside my studio apartment, was something. I switched on the pipe in my bath and caught the first whiff of lavender. After a few minutes of soaking and reading, a car honked, making me jump. Crazy because, in the city of Boston, honking horns were standard. But that was how I knew it was going to be one of those nights. The nights where just the sound of the AC switching on would make my heart race.
In slow motion, I exited the bathtub, dried myself, and slipped into shorts and a tank. My body remained on high alert as I went to my door to listen to the other side. After two minutes of listening and not hearing anything, I went to lay down.
As I was about to drift off, I could feel them. Climbing the fire escape, dressed in all black, moving with precision from years of practice, years of patience, waiting for the right moment to come back and finish what they’d started. At the sound of a door closing, I reached for the compact 9mm under my extra pillow and scrambled out of bed. Whatever happened, I needed to see them coming. Needed to stay vigilant.
Normal people called it paranoia. I called it advantage. Because I could feel it in my gut. They’d found me. They were coming. I used to pray that the men who had killed my family would get caught. Some days, I wished I could kill them myself. I hadn’t had the heart to do it back then, and I still didn’t know if I had the heart. The one thing I knew was that it was safer to keep running, even with the constant battle in my head.
