OBSESSION (The Bening Files (Novella) Book 4)

by Trautmiller, Rachel

  Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  OTHER TITLES

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  BLURB

  PROLOGUE

  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

  DEAR READER (E)

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER TITLES by RACHEL TRAUTMILLER

  Linked

  Disconnect

  Aftermath

  OBSESSION

  Copyright © 2016 Rachel Trautmiller

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles without prior written consent of the author.

  Individual Novella Cover Design by Rachel Trautmiller

  Published by RT-Miller Press

  Edited by Cheri Hagnauer

  Photo © 2014 by Mere May Studios

  Previously published in SMOKE AND MIRRORS: A ROMANTIC SUSPENSE COLLECTION 2016

  This book is a work of fiction. When real establishments, organizations, events or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements and all characters in this novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  In the eyes of some, it is an obsession.

  To you, Dad.

  Thank you for showing me what following a dream looks like.

  A sudden surge in crime has left two homeless women dead and Detective Amanda Nettles' Alzheimer's-riddled mother as the prime suspect. Between raising a teenager determined to thwart every protective effort made, and a city hell-bent on shunning her new family based on preconceived ideas about the past—and fear about what the future might hold—she'll have to decide if her obsession with protecting Charlotte is bigger than the needs of her family. Or if they are one and the same.

  And if breaking the rules means the end of everything, as she knows it.

  Baker Jackson Robinson knows all about protecting the seemingly innocent. Except this time he's able to see the big picture a little clearer and the facts aren't adding up. With his wife playing a dangerous game of hide-and-seek with a remorseless serial killer, he doesn't intend to let her fight alone.

  No matter what anyone else says.

  **This book is part of a series. Reading the books in order will heighten your enjoyment of the characters within each story.**

  PROLOGUE

  Paige’s Journal Entry

  DURING MY TIME away, I often thought of home. What my mom—the woman I have called Mom since birth anyway—might be doing. If she and my dad missed me. Did they go into my room, pick up the sweater I’d left on the floor the day before I disappeared and press it to their faces? For just a minute more of hope. A lingering bit of my scent, prolonging the daydream they’d had of the three of us as a family.

  Did they think about everything our lives should have encompassed, at the moment of their deaths? Did they die without hope?

  I’ll never have answers, never utter those questions, not even to a woman who seems like she might understand. A girl only gets the perfect family once. No amount of talking it out can erase the truth. I was taken captive—stolen from my adoptive parents’ home—and lived, when so many others didn’t. I see their faces every day. I’m not naive enough to think that will ever change.

  Amanda—a biological aunt I’d never met until the day she rescued me—believes one day she’ll be able to make everything right. It is evident in everything. Like the way she fusses over me, but is afraid to get too close, as if I might break at the slightest touch.

  As if giving me a home after my ordeal and shoving me in counseling will restore the girl I once was.

  It doesn’t change the blood rushing through my veins connecting me to family—some of them dead for heinous crimes, and others just dead because of their way of life.

  And if Amanda and Robbie knew I’d even glimpsed the woman who is my biological grandmother, they’d freak out.

  I can’t help wondering when they’ll get it.

  Damaged is damaged.

  CHAPTER ONE

  RULE NUMBER ONE: Stick to the truth.

  When doing that isn’t possible—omit. Defer. Detour. Circumvent.

  And then get out. Don’t linger. Never, ever look back.

  Even when she followed the ingrained-from-birth rules, the sick carousel never stopped. It ebbed, for small periods of time, allowing reprieve that usually left her with exhaustion heavier than an eight-ton boat anchor. Left her wondering where the next attack would come from, and when.

  Alleviation wasn’t on the horizon today, with relief so quick it seemed more fiction than reality. Instead, a climbing swirl attacked the lining of Detective Charleen Davis’ stomach.

  If she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, concentrated on anything but the suffocating June heat kicking up the stench of rotting garbage, unwashed flesh, urine and the metallic odor clinging to the prone body lying in front of her, she might be okay.

  Maybe.

  A layer of sweat popped up across her brow. A spot trailed down her back in a chill that left her insides a quivering mess. It aided the humidity in dampening her blazer and slacks. She must look like she’d come to this crime scene straight from the gym, without changing clothes.

  If she blocked all of that, she might make it. Might keep her breakfast where it belonged and not have to wash her shoes this week. Or have Amanda asking if she was sick or pregnant. On drugs, hungover or…

  None of those things.

  There was no explaining it. No truth to give. Nor a quick exit. She’d accepted that. It didn’t stop people from prying, giving her funny looks, or avoiding her as if she were invisible.

  “I asked for Detective Nettles.” The male voice grated up Charleen’s nerves and had been doing that for the last ten minutes. Ever since she’d been called on-site and discovered Rupert Dillon was somehow involved.

  The guy had the worst timing ever, which illuminated how far out of her element she was. She hadn’t expected to see him. Hadn’t prepared for his nuances or anything else. Just walked in as if today was a normal day and she was a normal girl.

  Aren’t you just the idiot of the bunch?

  “I’d prefer it if you called her.” The edge of panic slipped into his voice as if he were faced with a toddler doing this job instead of…

  An experienced detective.

  It didn’t matter that her experience was subjective at best.

  Charleen opened her eyes. She tried blocking out the young woman lying on the asphalt, curled on her right side, behind Gamegon’s imposing structure in downtown Charlotte. A lopsided pool of red soaked the clothing stretched over a swollen abdomen. It spread around the left side of her body and to the unforgiving surface, covering a fetus that never had a chance. Tattered, dirty clothing hung from an otherwise skinny frame.

  The clear waves of heat rising from the ground halted at the cold stillness emanating from this woman. The steady silence in an activity-filled area teeming with cops, medical personnel and other detectives amped up the buzz inside Charleen’s veins. It was impossible to think, let alone breathe.

  Every body was cold—even when they weren’t. Lifeless. Gone. U
ntold stories locked behind blue lips and sightless eyes.

  Her stomach surged upward. She didn’t move, and instead swallowed back the salty mixture in her mouth.

  Get it together.

  Amanda probably wouldn’t want to run for the nearest bathroom. Wouldn’t need to pray to God she made it, knowing that wouldn’t happen. No, she’d assess the scene with calm. See the big picture in seconds. Have the Crime Scene Unit whizzing around in anticipation of finding that piece of evidence she knew was tucked just out of sight.

  And if that wasn’t the case, she’d do anything to find their guy—or girl.

  Case closed. Even if it meant risk with too low a payout.

  Charleen pressed the back of her forearm to her mouth. She was stuck with freakin’ Rupert Dillon and a CSU with which she had no rapport. And a body that barely functioned most days.

  “Are you going to call Amanda or should I?” His deep voice shot sharp aggravation through her system.

  She resisted sending a glare in his direction. “She’s busy.”

  Understatement. The senior detective should have taken more than two weeks off following their last case. Discussing the logic of it with Amanda was the equivalent of having a conversation with a brick wall.

  She wouldn’t change her mind. She was back at work with a full caseload, trying to act like the world hadn’t changed.

  It had. It always did.

  The man standing in front of her produced a phone from his suit pocket. “Then I’ll call my brother.”

  No. The word screamed through her body and hovered on top of all the other emotions charging throughout. Dealing with Jordan and Rupert would be a complete nightmare. Her personal life was enough of one, she didn’t need the professional side following suit.

  She stood and removed the gloves from her hands, then swiped the phone from his grasp and closed it with a resounding click.

  “What the…?” A dark head whipped toward her. Brown eyes focused on her face, then bounced to the device in her hand, assessing her as if she might do something crazy.

  Like pitch the phone into the bushes surrounding Gamegon’s building. Or into the dumpster twenty feet beyond where they stood. She tightened her fingers around it. If it wouldn’t contaminate possible evidence, she’d consider it.

  “Get off my crime scene, Dillon.”

  “This is my property.” His back straightened. “And a woman was murdered here. A homeless woman.”

  Charleen sucked in what she hoped was a discreet breath. “How do you know she was homeless?”

  His eyebrows crinkled together. He gestured toward the body donned in rag-tag clothing. “Seems pretty obvious.”

  And welcome to part of the nightmare. “You know how odd that sounds, right? You making assumptions about a woman you don’t even know. I guess we better pack up, guys.” She spun toward the CSU team, who eyed her as if she belonged anywhere but here. “She was obviously homeless. No need to make a fuss.” Then she turned back toward him. “Or maybe you’d like it to be that simple.” An excuse for his fingerprints on scene.

  He stuffed one hand in his pocket. “I don’t have anything to hide.”

  “I’m sure you and your pain-in-the-butt attitude have more pressing matters inside the building. You know, rotting children’s brains with nonsensical video games.” She signaled the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department’s Crime Scene Unit, thankful she didn’t have to give much direction. The team knew how many pictures to take, what evidence to collect and who to keep off scene.

  Amanda had and could work off of less, whether she was ready to or not.

  Which was perfect, because Charleen’s stomach gurgled like a clogged up sink full of gunk looking for a bubbling release. The last thing she needed was Rupert Dillon witnessing a spectacularly disgusting show of stomach contents. Followed by the inevitable question that had no answer.

  Why are you a cop?

  A few more minutes and she’d be free.

  Until the next body showed up. The next scene. The next…

  “Where are you going?”

  The open menace in his voice made her stop. She shouldn’t have. She didn’t owe him anything. And she certainly wasn’t afraid of him. Her heart was jangling against her ribcage for a different reason altogether.

  Breathe. It’s not a big deal.

  She turned back. Expected to find him in the same spot. Instead, he was at her side, towering over her in a way that should have sent irritation slicing through her body. The kind that left people with the imprint of knuckles and her in a heap of trouble.

  Get in. Get out.

  Too bad all her nerve endings were already alive with simmering emotion. It made the swirling storm in her stomach tick up ten notches. Sent her heart skyrocketing for some unknown object.

  Rupert reached toward her. The shift in the air around them made all the hair on her body stand on end.

  Nope. Not happening.

  As if she hadn’t noticed his seemingly platonic gesture, she stepped away. Hoped her actions portrayed that the route had been her intention all along. “I’ve got a job to do. I suggest going back to—what was it you said you were doing when you found this woman?”

  “Taking out the trash.” His jaw flexed. His eyes glittered.

  The answer was quick. Even more so than the first time. He didn’t make eye contact. And all sorts of red flags were waving. Too bad she couldn’t tell if they were related to this scene or something else.

  There’d been no nearby trash bag. No scuff marks or blood on his clothing, indicating he’d rushed to this woman’s aid or tried to determine if she was alive or dead. No scratches on his face. And yet something wasn’t ringing true.

  She doubted the CEO of a multi-million-dollar gaming corporation took the time to help the cleaning crew.

  She swallowed back a heavy dose of bile and resisted the urge to lie down and curl in a ball. “Why don’t you tell me what you were really doing back here?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  DOING THE RIGHT thing had never felt so wrong.

  Last week had been easier. The week before that, even, where the number of days wasn’t important to the process, or pivotal in healing. Just had a make-it-through-until-tomorrow type of attitude that worked well.

  Until it didn’t.

  Amanda Nettles, now Robinson—a last name she was still getting used to with only thirty days of actual use under her belt—gripped a travel mug of steaming coffee between her palms. She stared at the red-brick building in front of them without actually seeing it. Instead, a dry-erase board she’d tacked to the refrigerator, in their spacious kitchen, floated into her mind.

  No. It wasn’t their kitchen. Not technically. It only came with the teenager they’d—well, it came with Paige and a slew of other things no one wanted to discuss. In the light of day or the wee hours of the morning.

  Especially the wee hours.

  In her mind, doctor’s appointments mingled with a summer-school schedule and landed on the date she’d circled in red, sometime last week. Was it Monday? Tuesday? Somewhere in her idiotic brain, she’d thought the two-dimensional shape might alleviate the heavy cloud riding above the Robinson household. That organization might take a storm, worse than a category five hurricane gaining speed over a large, warm body of water, and help it dissipate.

  It was a mistake. The looming red shape. The stark white calendar. Not evacuating when hints of the figurative atmospheric phenomenon had first hit the news.

  The quiet teenager standing next to her, in front of Rosedale Junior High, was proof of it. The tense conditions permeated the house they had no right staying in. The foreign surroundings once owned by now deceased people meant so much to her niece and yet hurt her at the same time. Because those people—a loving mother and father—were gone.

  The poor kid was stuck with Amanda and Robinson, who were as adequate parents as a duck was to a bear cub. At least, she was. Robinson on the other hand…

  Better fig
ure it out.

  Amanda’s gaze strayed to the ever-present private security detail a few paces behind them, and to the person dressed in rags a block down the street. Unnatural stillness emanated from the woman covered by a dirty sweatshirt and torn jeans. At least, from the small stature and curves, Amanda guessed a female resided beneath the clothing. She sat against a storefront.

  Even in the sweltering morning temps, a hood covered long, stringy blonde hair and shielded her face. Was she asleep?

  And since when had one of Charlotte’s northern school districts started having loitering issues? The campus police were usually on top of those things. Today, there was no one in sight.

  One problem at a time.

  The words came to her in Robinson’s deep voice, meant to be soothing, but his frustration was evident in the syllables spoken in the dead of night. A giant King Kong in their lives. Everybody saw the dangers. Big guy. Little city. Giant toddler tantrum.

  Nobody was talking about it.

  Beside her, Paige shifted her backpack and tucked a strand of long brown hair behind one ear. She stared straight ahead, as if the building were shifting toward them in some sort of horrific Halloween spook. Dark circles rimmed her brown eyes, courtesy of nightmares Amanda was powerless against.

  How did she convince Paige the images weren’t real, but a by-product of surviving trauma? In the daylight there was a fifty-fifty shot. Three a.m. was a different monster altogether, where the near-wordlessness of the teenager was anything but okay.

  You’re okay. You’re safe.

  She could only repeat the phrases so many times before they sounded like lies. The kid was safe, but okay? Well, that remained a far-off dream.

  “You have everything?”

  “Yup.” The response was automatic and left little room for a reply.

  Amanda rubbed a clammy hand down her slacks. Tried not to let annoyance crawl up her back and take root in her spine. She wasn’t that out of touch that she didn’t know what interested teenagers anymore, right? She didn’t have a problem connecting with Robinson’s niece, so what was the deal here?