Waterfall Effect

by K. K. Allen

  Table of Contents

  Playlist

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  Epilogue

  For My Readers

  Want More?

  Thank You!

  Other Books

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by K.K. Allen

  Cover Design: Sarah Hansen © Okay Creations

  Editor: Shauna Ward

  Developmental Editor: Evident Ink

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  For more information, please contact K.K. Allen at SayHello@KK-Allen.com

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  To those brave enough to see truth beyond the shadows.

  He enters the courtroom with his head down and feet shuffling, the shackles on his wrists and ankles providing minimal room for movement. His wiry body swims in his khaki slacks and blue button down top, appearing far too conservative to be a threat. Untamed salt and pepper hair frames his downturned head and emotionless face, and exhaustion is evident in his forehead creases and the pillows beneath his half-closed lids.

  There’s a tremor in my chest I don’t quite understand. A medley of nerves, confusion, and sorrow. My life has become a circus of law enforcement, nosey media, and probing doctor visits since awakening from a coma nearly one year ago. And it’s all supposed to end today. At least, that’s what my aunt Cyndi tells me.

  A frenzied whisper snakes through the crowd, drawing my eyes to the man the public has branded a monster. A monster with a mental disorder who has been labeled a threat to society—and to me.

  Seven disappearances. Seven girls. Three years. The only tie between us, eerie carvings of our initials found on trees scattered around the woods near where each of us disappeared. Beside each one, a checkmark and a tally where he numbered his victims like we were trophies.

  Ice fills my veins as it does every time I think of what could have been. They say I was Henry June’s seventh and last victim. The only one of us found alive. Somehow, I escaped the same fate as the others. Though the whereabouts of their bodies and the details of what happened remain a mystery.

  My eyes steady on the man who slows his awkward gait to my left. My skin explodes with goosebumps. My chest fills to the brim with a panic I’m mostly able to suppress—thanks to my medication—but I’m not immune. Especially not when faced with an accused murderer. I’m seated directly behind the plaintiff’s table, between my aunt Cyndi and my best friend, Scott—only a few feet from the man who should riddle me with hurt and rage.

  I’m too confused to pinpoint my reactions—the way my eyes bulge at the sight of him, the way my fingers sweep my bare-skinned knees like the flick of a brush, the way my chest feels heavy with fire while my veins still pump ice. None of it makes sense.

  Chains rattle as the guard shakes the man’s arm to move him forward. The man resists, his whiskered chin tilting toward me as if he senses his prey, but his eyes remain fixed on the floor. Does he feel my presence? Because I’m more than certain that I would be able to feel his. I adjust my posture in an aim for comfort, but the effort is useless under the circumstances.

  The man’s eyes snap to mine.

  A hush falls over the room as he leans toward me, his stare dark and empty as a vibration takes over his body. It’s like he’s looking right through me. Would he hear me if I spoke?

  I move to stand, to face him, to ask him if what the others say is true. Aunt Cyndi holds out her arm to stop me. I wish she wouldn’t. I need to know. Because if it is true—how could he be so cold, so heartless?

  Schizophrenic delusions aside, the reality is that after over six months of court hearings, the evidence presented in the case of the other six victims has only made his guilt more unclear than ever.

  “You were dead.” It’s just a gravelly whisper, sandpaper to my heart. “I saw you. I—I held your limp body in my hands.” He peers down at his shackled hands and shakes them hard. “You bled for your sins. You should be dead,” he hisses, then squeezes his lids together. His head whips left and right, as if trying to wake from a nightmare. When his eyes fly open again, they land on mine with conviction. “You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real.” He whispers these words on repeat like they calm him.

  Emotion crushes my throat as an unspoken plea fills my mind. Please make it stop, I want to scream. Just let the nightmare end.

  “Let’s go, June. Straight ahead.” The corrections officer’s boom echoes through the room as he continues to wrestle with the man in chains, gripping his arm and tugging him forward. The prisoner gives in, but he keeps his bloodshot eyes locked on me from over his shoulder as he’s dragged away. No more words come, but he finally rips his eyes from mine as if the sight of me pains him. Maybe it does. Maybe he knows what he did. Maybe somewhere in that disturbed brain of his lies a man with compassion.

  There’s a shuffle of feet as everyone settles into their seats again, somber, ready for the judge to read the final verdict. They may not have found enough evidence to try the man for murdering the other victims, but they have me, my blood on his hands the day I was found, and a convincing testimony from someone I allowed too close to my heart. The circumstantial evidence is enough to convict a person for decades, but not for life.

  However, with the rumor of a plea deal on the table, who knows what will happen today. Not even I am privy to such information.

  Aunt Cyndi’s dainty arm snakes around my stiff shoulders, yanking me from my thoughts and pulling me close.

  “Are you okay?” Her whispered tone soothes me some. I know I’m not alone. Neither she nor Scott would ever let me go through something like this without a shoulder to lean on.

  I don’t respond to her yet. I’m not sure how to. Of course I am not okay. Nothing about this situation is or ever will be okay.

  “He’s sick, Aurora.” She takes a shaky breath, still doing her best to stay calm, but I detect anger there, too.

  “His voices will never hurt you again,” she says. “He’s crazy. He’s a monster,” is what she means.

  When I return her statement with a blank stare and silence, she gives my shoulders another squeeze. She understands well enough; no amount of comforting words or warm hugs can right the wrongs that led us all her
e.

  They say that under the influence of alcohol, the danger of the man on trial grows, as it did the night of November twenty-sixth. The night I went missing, only to be found three days later in my father’s arms, bruised, disoriented, and on the brink of death.

  Because the man on trial—my father—tried to kill me.

  What’s worse? I don’t remember any of it.

  Not guilty by reason of insanity.

  The verdict rings in my ears long after security has forced everyone out of the courtroom. Except for me. They let me stay, my body frozen, as the doors close. I just need a minute to myself.

  Eerie quiet settles in the air, bringing a sense of calm to the chaos I’ve felt since that day I awoke with tubes in odd parts of me and a mind as blank as the day I was born. Aunt Cyndi and Scott started to fill in some of the gaps, but with every kernel of knowledge they bestowed came a dozen more questions. Every day was a challenge, both mentally and physically. The more I remembered, the more painful it became to grasp. I didn’t want those memories. I didn’t want the pain that came with it. I’d already lived through the death of my mother, my father’s downward spiral, and the heartbreak that comes with first love. And with my memory returning in chunks at a time, I was having to relive each heart-wrenching event of my life all over again.

  Still, after all that time, three days of darkness remain, blotting out my memory like an eclipse frozen at totality.

  It all led to this: my father’s arrest, the trial, a sudden change in plea, and now the verdict that will be forever etched in history via public records, newspapers, and even an upcoming made-for-TV movie. I don’t think I ever wanted to be famous, but if I had, this would not be the way I’d envision it happening.

  With medical testimony that confirmed my father’s diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia, his crimes were explained away by mental illness—but there’s no sidestepping his guilt, no matter what he pleaded in the end. It was still my blood he wore on his hands. It was still my body he rocked in a state of shock and denial. And now, my father goes to a mental health facility. Ten years for first degree felonious restraint and committing bodily harm with the intent to kill.

  It’s over.

  The last nine months have been hell. Doctors, police, investigators, psychologists, lawyers, reporters. In an endless frenzy to collect evidence and witness testimonies, I’ve lost almost one year of my life. And while all I’ve wanted is for it to end, this isn’t the feeling I expected to have. This isn’t closure. This is a loss more tragic than death. In the past year, I’ve lost everything. My parents, my home, my—

  The clang of the heavy courtroom door disrupts my thoughts. Loud chatter from activity in the halls fades in, then out as the door closes. I turn to the door, expecting to see a security guard, Scott, Aunt Cyndi…anyone but him.

  Jaxon Mills.

  Just the sight of him causes a mixture of love and devastation to swarm my chest, latch onto my ribs, and beg for entry. The last time we were left in a room alone together, I told him to leave. I pushed him away. And while it hurt more than I could have ever imagined, it crushed me when he did as I said. But what else could either of us do?

  His crisp, black button-down shirt makes him look like a fraud. Even with the sleeves rolled up to hug his forearms and the deep creases where it was once tucked into his gray dress pants, he looks and feels like a stranger to me now. The freckles on his creamy cheeks are gone, leaving only a sprinkling of light brown dots on his nose. His coppery brown hair is longer than when I last saw him, his wild curls dipping below his thick brows and reaching a good two inches past his ears. His normally confident smirk is conspicuously absent. And the fire that’s always burned from within him is nowhere to be found.

  He looks just as lost as I feel.

  My gaze travels up to meet his signature stormy eyes. They’re like lightning the way they fill me with the brightest light and zap me with their intensity, making me feel like I’m full of life and dying all at once. And all I can do is absorb every single second of it.

  It’s funny how our memories latch onto the comfort of an embrace, the warmth of a smile, the tingling of affection when we find love. Those feelings are hard to part with, even when they no longer belong to us.

  I exit the row and meet him in the aisle, stopping a few yards away. Any closer and this conversation will be harder than it already is. I tilt my chin downward, my thick, coffee brown hair swinging over my narrow shoulders. What’s left to say?

  I knew Jaxon would come today. He was the first person I looked for when the Balsam Grove crowd arrived. It took me only a second to spot him sitting among the angry mob beside his parents. Just one glance was enough to undo me.

  How can two people so deeply in love fall apart so quickly? My stomach churns acid at the thought of how far we’ve grown from each other over the past year. He shuffles his feet, showing me he’s nervous, too.

  Why did he come? Was his intention the same as the others’? To get gratification from the final verdict? To celebrate the conviction of the Balsam Grove Monster? Was the drop of the gavel enough to bring the nightmare to a close for the town? Probably.

  But me? I’ve lost everything.

  I look up. “You shouldn’t be here,” I say, my voice shaking with anger.

  “Neither should you.” His retort is quick, steaming with the same frustration from our last conversation.

  In the past nine months, I’ve only seen or heard from him a few times. First, on the phone after leaving the hospital when I was too weak to avoid him but too hurt to hear him out. Then at Aunt Cyndi’s when he showed up months later, uninvited, to warn me he was going to testify against my father in court. And finally, one month ago, when he sat in front of the courtroom and divulged information about my father’s character, situations he’d witnessed, and private conversations he’d had with me—thoughts and fears I was ashamed to have, let alone have made public. And each time we spoke, he pleaded his case for why I belong in Balsam Grove despite the horrific events I was a part of. Maybe he can ignore the reasons I left, but I can’t.

  Even if I wasn’t furious at Jaxon for his betrayal, I would have never gone back to that town. Not with my father’s alleged crimes hanging over me like a dark cloud. Not with the harsh whispers of my peers and neighbors nipping at my back. And on top of it all, Jaxon and I weren’t on the best of terms when it all went down.

  Sighing, he dips his fingers into his pockets and looks at his shoes, a lock of wavy hair shielding his eyes. “I didn’t come here to argue.” His voice has softened, but somehow the pain in his tone has grown louder. “I’m sorry—about your father. I really am, Auror—”

  A bubble of disbelief escapes my throat as tears threaten to follow. “You always hated my father. Don’t give me your sympathy, Jaxon. Not now.”

  His eyes snap to mine. “Then what do I give you? I won’t lie to you. I’ve never told you lies, and I won’t start now. Yes, I may have had trouble understanding your father’s…actions at times, but I never hated him. He’s your dad, Aurora. And that means something to me. But I wasn’t going to stand by after what happened without saying a word. Whether he was responsible for his actions or not, you almost died. The man needs help, and now he’s going to get it.”

  I lower my eyes. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “It will always matter.” His words come out choked, and he takes a step forward like he wants to comfort me. But something stops him in his tracks as if he senses I’m not ready for his embrace. That his touch would be anything but comfort. He deflates a bit.

  “There’s so much to say, but now isn’t the time. Come home, Aurora. You belong in Balsam Grove. With me.”

  A sting hits the back of my eyes at the mention of my old home. Does he really think I could just go back to a town filled with rage and live a happy, normal life? Typical Jaxon. Ignoring the issues for the sake of moving on. Meanwhile, the issues never go away. They chip aw
ay at us, piece by piece, until we’re finally forced to confront them. By then, it’s too late.

  It’s too late now. There’s too much damage. Too much left unresolved. Too much history tainted by what my father did. And Jaxon testifying in court only adds insult to injury. Grief for all the above swells within me, like a humidity weighing me down until my breaths are pure vapor, and all that I need to overcome thickens into a dark sea of loss.

  I won’t fight the current. Not anymore. I take a stuttered breath and regain my composure to speak again. To close this door once and for all. To remind him why this could never work.

  “I think you’re forgetting the reason I ran into the storm that night in the first place.”

  That was a low blow, I know, but he’s the one who stepped into this courtroom while the wounds of my father’s conviction were still fresh. He might as well have stepped into a warzone.

  “That’s not fair,” he growls, his expression twisting with shock.

  My chest flames with determination. I feel like I’ve just found my enemy’s weakness in the boxing ring. I don’t believe in violence, and I’m sickened with myself for sharpening my words as if they’re weapons, but this is just as much about protecting Jaxon as it is about protecting myself.

  “Not fair? Let me tell you what’s not fair, Jaxon. You keeping secrets from me. You making decisions that affect the both of us, alone. You giving up everything you’ve been working so hard for, just to wait around for me when your life could be so much better than that.”

  His face twists in disagreement. “How can you be upset at me for wanting to wait for you to finish school?”

  I ignore him, not wanting to admit that there are still parts of that night before my abduction that feel fuzzy. I remember showing up at his house in a rage. I remember our fight. I just can’t remember what prompted it. How had I found out about his decision to give up his dreams? And why couldn’t I listen to his side of things? Instead of sorting through it all, I ignore his question.