A Secondhand Life

by Pamela Crane

  A

  SECOND

  HAND

  LIFE

  A

  SECOND

  HAND

  LIFE

  PAMELA CRANE

  Tabella House

  Hillsborough, North Carolina

  Copyright © 2015 by Pamela Crane

  Tabella House

  Hillsborough, NC

  www.tabellahouse.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  www.pamelacrane.com

  ISBN: 978-1-940662-046 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-940662-053 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015932102

  Other books by Pamela Crane:

  The Little Things That Kill Series

  The Scream of Silence

  The Art of Fear

  The Death of Life (coming soon)

  The Mental Madness Series

  A Fatal Affair

  The Admirer’s Secret

  The Killer Thriller Series

  A Secondhand Lie

  A Secondhand Life

  This book is dedicated to the man who breathes life into my dreams with his unwavering support. My darling Craig, we both know you’re my everything.

  Murder and Mayhem

  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

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Murder and Mayhem

  Want more from Pamela Crane?

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  Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye.

  — H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

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  Prologue

  721 Willoughby Way

  Durham, North Carolina

  Wednesday, March 4, 1992

  8:13 p.m.

  I didn’t wake up one morning and randomly decide to be a killer; rather, somewhere in the recesses of my soulless being, there it was—a primal urge for blood, for manipulating life and death. Yet all the while I was unable to control my own mind. I had become an animal.

  I wasn’t always a murderer, as far as I know. Born with it, or raised into it? Nature versus nurture. The question of the day. One that has baffled therapists for decades. As one of the monsters they studied, even I had no answers. Picking apart my gray matter proved fruitless.

  I never tortured cats, pulled the wings off of butterflies, or watched too much graphic news. In fact, I hated what television represented, what it took from us. It stole our youth, our time, our minds. Yet our lives revolved around it. So much power granted to one inanimate object. Perhaps I was jealous.

  But jealousy didn’t mutilate my soul. Something else awakened within me over time, eroding my humanity to the point where I despised what society had become. Perverted. Impure. Corrupt. It was a shame what people had turned into with the help of a malevolent social order.

  And I thought I was evil.

  Look around you. Look at what people do behind closed doors. Neglecting their kids. Abusing their spouses. Drinking themselves into oblivion …

  They’re the ugly ones, not me.

  I was their savior.

  So what exactly turned me into … this? I will probably never know.

  But today I challenged all theories of humanity’s innate goodness as the girl’s limp neck hung in my hands, my dirt-stained fingers wrapped around her flawless pink flesh like a snake coiled around its prey. I hadn’t planned on squeezing until she vented a terror-stricken scream, potentially spooking the neighbors and sealing my red-and-blue-flashing fate. Reflexively my hands tightened their grip, summoning Death to take its victim.

  If my chokehold didn’t kill her, certainly the stab wound would. She had made it easy enough for me. Sitting in the recliner watching Beverly Hills, 90210—a filthy show no twelve-year-old should be watching—snacking on Doritos, unaware of the threatening shadow lurking behind her. Without hesitation I had placed my hand over her mouth, letting her struggle a bit as she kicked over several empty beer bottles from the coffee table in her frantic state, then I plunged the kitchen knife into her side, feeling the squishy flesh part beneath the blade. I had been pleased with how smoothly the metal edge entered her. A moment later, a pool of crimson drizzled down, soaking the chair in blood.

  “Shhh …” I had soothed. “You must remain quiet, Alexis. If you don’t stay quiet, I’m going to have to hurt you more.”

  When I had sensed her terror prompting her to scream louder, I had shifted my hands to her neck to snuff out the noise and set her at ease.

  First, a gentle rub. Under my kneading palm her shoulders tensed.

  “It’s okay,” I had lied, blowing my hot breath against her cool ear. Pierced, of course, with a garish bauble dangling from the tender lobe.

  That’s when my grip tightened, and her fight-or-flight instincts kicked in.

  She had chosen fight, and let out a scream meant to alert anyone within a quarter mile.

  Silly girl.

  In her last battle against surrender, I felt the girl squirm and reach up behind her—for I could not bear to stand before her and meet her eyes, a numbness that would take time to mature, I assumed—to claw at my wrists. Her neon-pink painted nails scraped against my sleeves, searching for traction in my flesh. Her hands gripped my wrists, pulling, tugging. Of course, her meager efforts were futile against my hundred-pound advantage.

  Beneath my fingers her surging lifeblood slowed and weakened. I wrung harder, feeling the neck muscles relax. I choked out any last remnants of a scream, then the sweet release of the end arrived as I felt her pulse wane. A mixture o
f delight and fear overwhelmed me at that moment—a desire to watch the light of her youth fade from her green eyes, yet a debilitating dread held me back from looking … from seeing my masterpiece as I purged the sin from her. I feared regret for something I couldn’t change. I couldn’t bring back the dead.

  Tomorrow I would wake up different. Life would never be the same after my first victim. So young, she was. Only twelve. And prematurely snuffed out. Because of me.

  Me. Once a nobody, now a somebody. The author of death.

  I released my hold and looked down at her once-pure face tainted with whorish makeup. I pulled a wrapped alcohol pad from my pocket, tore it open, and dabbed gently at her skin. Each wipe restored more of her purity as the lipstick, the blush, and the eye shadow disappeared. Sure enough, she became a young girl again—who she truly was beneath the makeup mask. When I finished, I headed for the phone hanging on the kitchen wall and punched in 9-1-1.

  “9-1-1. Please state your emergency,” the operator said.

  In my softest whisper, hoping it was sufficient to mask my voice, I said, “Please help.”

  Then I dropped the receiver. By the time they could trace the call and paramedics arrived, I would have sufficiently finished my staging.

  I turned back to my victim, stumbled toward her, and stopped cold. I simply stared. Her black hair, braided in two pigtails, framed a sweet, cherubic face—eyelids closed like she was slumbering, an eternal sleep. Red handprints circled her pale neck, below which her Bart Simpson “Don’t have a cow, man!” T-shirt hung loosely on her lithe frame. I hadn’t noticed how tiny she was before now—seventy pounds soaking wet. Shame burrowed its way into me. I reminded myself why I had done it: so she might never lose that purity. She would become incorruptible in death.

  What happened next, however, surprised me … and little surprised me. In sympathy with her discovery of the afterlife, I felt my own life waver. Blood rushed to my head and a blackness crept to the corners of my vision, closing in on me. I was going to pass out.

  The taste of bile lurched from my stomach into my mouth, its grassy tang lingering foully on my tongue for a split second. The floodgates opened. I spewed epically on the floor, deluging the rivulets of blood. The acrid scent of vomit wafted upward, prodding more. Hunched over, my gut pumped its contents out—a mixture of undigested lunch and afternoon snack.

  It was at this point I knew my weakness would be my demise. I couldn’t stomach the job.

  And I left evidence everywhere.

  Frenziedly, I grabbed a roll of paper towels and a bottle of bleach, and started slopping up my vomit, slipping on a bloody trail as I fell to my knees. A stinging pain coursed through my right kneecap. I paused to examine it and found a sliver of colored glass jutting out from one of the broken beer bottles. I pulled the shard out, but I’d have to nurse it later. Time was running out, and my hands were covered in blood. My jeans and shirt were stained.

  I heard sirens in the distance and worked at a fevered pitch. When I figured I had gotten most of the evidence cleared, I threw it into the garbage and grabbed the bag. I tossed a glance at my first victim. Her glassy eyes had opened partway during her cleansing, but she appeared lifeless. In the background I heard Luke Perry talking his way into the pants of a dreamy-eyed girl. An adolescent just like Alexis.

  Ah, yes. I was forgetting something.

  I limped back to the living room and kicked over the television with my good leg, sending the Beverly Hills sluts into black-screen oblivion.

  Take that, you life-sucking machine. You ruin young girls’ purity, but I’m here to take it back.

  With one last look at Alexis, I felt a twinge of sadness. She didn’t appear as peaceful as I had expected. Instead, her head hung at a crooked angle, her shoulders slumped, her arms sprawled. What should have appeared serene instead looked dead and mutilated.

  Nausea rose once again. The sight of blood and murder was too much. The smell of a bleach-infused metallic cocktail too much. The taste of bile too much.

  I needed out. Air.

  As I ran out the back door to the cadence of approaching sirens, I vowed to never be weak again.

  Chapter 1

  Duke Hospital

  Durham, North Carolina

  Wednesday, March 4, 1992

  8:22 p.m.

  The last thing I remembered was my life splintering—the crack of bones, the crunch of glass, the shriek of scraping metal … normalcy as I knew it gone forever and in its place a ghastly existence. After the accident, my life would never be the same.

  Gone were the days of carefree antics and childish joys. All that remained of my life was a higher calling, a calling I never asked for but had no choice but to accept.

  **

  Duke Hospital

  Durham, North Carolina

  Thursday, March 5, 1992

  10:15 a.m.

  I woke up to a bright light, which at first I thought was my entrance into heaven, but when a foreign face peered down at me, I realized I hadn’t died. I only felt like death.

  His honest eyes gazed into mine a little too intimately. “Mia, do you know where you are?”

  My pupils hurt too much to get a sense of my surroundings. Only white. White everywhere. And beeping. I noticed his blue scrubs, but nothing registered.

  “Um…” but I couldn’t push the word “no” from my cracked lips. My throat felt like the Sahara. I shook my head faintly.

  “Nurse, some water, please. She’s parched,” Scrubs ordered someone I couldn’t see. I heard a door click shut. “You’re in the hospital, Mia.”

  I wiped a layer of crust off my eyes and opened them a little more, then peered around. Tubes taped to my wrists, machines standing sentry on both sides of me, a stiff blue chair in the corner, a window shrouded by cheap aluminum blinds. Yes, it was definitely the hospital. And the pain … the pain was intense. And everywhere in my body. But especially my chest. It ached like it had been ripped open.

  After another door click, a nurse sidled up beside me and propped me upright with a pillow, holding a pink straw to my lips. With my tongue I guided the straw into my mouth and slowly sipped. Water—an oasis to my throat. When my throat was soothed enough for me to speak, I looked at Scrubs.

  “What happened to me? Where’s my mom and dad?”

  “You’ve been in a car accident, Mia. Your mom is down the hall. Once she gets here we can talk about what happened, okay?” His voice was too nurturing. It gave me the sense that something was wrong. Very wrong.

  But I didn’t get a chance to plead for more answers, because that’s when my mom came rushing to my bedside, her hands smoothing my matted hair aside.

  “Baby girl, are you alright?”

  “I think so,” I said. “But everything hurts.”

  She planted kisses all over my face, and that’s when I noticed her bloodshot eyes. She had been crying.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m okay.”

  With my words the floodgates opened. Tears coursed down her cheeks. Apparently she knew something I didn’t.

  “Mom, am I okay?”

  “Yes, sweetie.” Her fingertip touched my lips. “Honey, a lot has happened.”

  “What do you mean?” That’s when my brain suddenly caught up—a flash of me standing in front of my bedroom mirror wearing my gymnastics leotard, then Dad and I in the car, then my screams, and then … nothing. Despite my neck’s achy protest, I scanned the room of unknown faces. My dad wasn’t here. “Where’s Dad?”

  Mom swiped at a tear and shook her head, clearly unable to speak.

  All kinds of horrific scenarios swam through my head. “Is Dad …?” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Honey, you and your dad were in the car when someone hit you. Your dad is alive, but he’s in a coma. We’re hoping he’ll wake up soon.”

  I was too shocked to cry, to react, to do anything. A somber silence enveloped the room, and I couldn’t speak. Mom had run out of words too. There was no comfort ava
ilable when the outcome felt so bleak.

  “But I don’t want you to worry about your dad,” she finally continued. “Your dad is tough. And you are too. Just focus on getting better and getting home. You’ve been through a lot.”

  What was I supposed to feel right now? I couldn’t feel what I needed to feel. I couldn’t feel the sadness or anger that yearned to surface. I was emotionally void. All I felt was the throbbing in my chest. My hand touched where it hurt—my heart.

  “It hurts so bad, Mom.”

  “You’ve had emergency surgery, honey. You needed a heart transplant. We were lucky, though. You were able to get one right away. It saved your life.”

  Odd as it seems, the thought of losing an organ jarred me more than news of the car accident or my dad’s coma. It wasn’t my heart anymore.

  I pulled open my hospital gown and peered down at my chest. Large black staples ran up it, with dried blood clinging to where the halves of my chest cavity met. The skin was shiny and tight around the incision, and blotchy red with yellow crust all over the wound. Little bunches of flesh overflowed where each staple clipped it together. Could this really be my body? I was hideous!

  Tears formed, then a sob escaped. After that I couldn’t stop bawling.

  “Oh, honey …” Even my mom couldn’t say anything reassuring. She knew it as well as I did—I was disfigured. Doomed to spinsterhood.

  “Mia, it’s okay,” Scrubs chimed in. “Those stitches will heal, and you will hardly see any scarring. By swimsuit season you’d never know anything happened.”

  “Promise?” I needed his word.

  “I promise. You’ll have to put ointment on it several times a day, which will help nourish the skin. But I’ll make sure you get the best cosmetic care available.”

  I felt a little relief, but something else was bugging me.