A Secondhand Life (The Killer Thriller Series Book 2)

by Pamela Crane

  Oh, so Landon wanted to rumble? It was on.

  “What’s going on, Landon, is that another sweet, innocent girl was murdered and no one is lifting a finger to find the guy who did it. You’re all too busy playing politics and worrying about what people will think if you were to—God forbid—ask questions. Screw that! I care about saving lives, and your buddy in there should be thinking the same way, or else maybe he shouldn’t be claiming to protect and serve.”

  Landon made a gesture to speak, but I wasn’t done yet.

  “And you think your uncle’s so innocent? Would an innocent man be in and out of jail every other month? Would an innocent man hang the phone up on his sister-in-law when she calls to tell him his niece was killed? The man has no heart. Plus he’s doped up all the time and clearly has no respect for the law.”

  Landon’s piercing green eyes narrowed on me. He stepped between me and my car, placing his palm on my door, blocking me from any chance of escaping our confrontation. “You know I didn’t appreciate you going behind my back to talk to my uncle in the first place. But since clearly you think my family is a bunch of killers, are you gonna interrogate my mother too? And how about me?”

  “What?” I asked, a little befuddled. “No, I don’t think that …” I stammered, unsure how to defend myself. I had no defense. True, I had gone behind his back and looked up his uncle and questioned him. But I thought it was water under the bridge that Landon wanted to burn.

  “I can’t play favorites. Yes, he’s your family, but that doesn’t give him a free pass to murder people. If he didn’t do it, then his innocence will prove itself. All I’m asking is that you keep an open mind.”

  “What about the presumption of innocence? Have you forgotten basic American human rights in your quest to find the killer? Does it boil down to ‘at all costs’ with you?”

  At all costs? Landon didn’t know the first thing about what this was costing me. He became a hot mess at the mention of his uncle being questioned, but that was nothing compared to what I was willing to sacrifice. If not me, then who? Any decent human being should be willing to take a bullet to save a child’s life. Or had decency gone out the window along with chivalry?

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you’re going to end up losing everything to solve this case. Your boyfriend wants nothing to do with you, you’re going to end up getting fired from your job if you don’t get back on track at work, you’re losing your mind, and you’re going to lose me too—a friend who genuinely cares about you. When will you wake up to reality, Mia? This case is bigger than you. You can’t win. It only took me two decades to figure that out.”

  A horn honking at the nearest stoplight drew my attention. Life went on for everyone but me. Bustling cars full of passengers heading to Arby’s for a roast beef sandwich, or Food Lion for groceries, or the Goodwill for a bargain buy. Everyone going somewhere, and here I was stuck in the same place I’d been for twenty years.

  I pushed past him toward my car, then shoved him aside as I opened the door and got inside.

  “You know what? I am fully awake. I know what I’m willing to give up to help these girls. Apparently you don’t want to even get a little uncomfortable. But that’s fine. Just stay out of my way, okay?”

  I never heard his retort over the din of traffic noise as I slammed the door and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving Landon to choke on the smoke of laid rubber.

  Chapter 25

  Cold. Ice cold.

  A chill clung to me like a wet sweater. My teeth chattered as a result, but I couldn’t make them stop. I wondered why I was shuddering so hard, why I felt so frigid.

  I glanced down at my trembling hands, covered in a sticky goo that I couldn’t identify. When I attempted to wipe my fingers clean, they left a crimson streak on a borrowed pair of Guess jeans, pegged at the ankles. That’s when I realized it was my blood. I was going to bleed to death.

  With feeble pressure I pressed my hands against the gaping hole in my abdomen, which by now had grown numb to the indescribable agony. My eyelids felt too heavy to keep open, but I needed to stay awake. I feared that if I gave into the serenity of sleep, I’d never wake up again. Remaining conscious was my only hope for survival.

  Everything around me was a crooked blur. As I hung my head over the cushioned arm of the chair, my world rested wearily on its side. The television was knocked over. Beer bottles were scattered along the floor. A puddle of blood pooled below me.

  All was eerily silent, like the eye of a storm. Then I heard banging behind me, followed by a garbled tenor belonging to a man, but my head was too fuzzy to make sense of the sounds.

  A moment later a hazy silhouette circled around the sofa to examine me, then he knelt down at my side and touched his fingers to my throat. As he dropped down, his features came into crisp view. He examined me with intense blue eyes that scared me, for I knew he recognized death when he saw me.

  He said something to me, but I couldn’t read his lips from my tilted angle, and my hearing was impaired by a debilitating case of tinnitus.

  With tender fingers he cupped my chin, righted it so I could see him, and spoke. This time I understood what he was saying.

  “I’m so sorry, Alexis.”

  With that my faculties abandoned me. His farewell sent me off into another land, a land of darkness and peace and slumber. I granted my eyelids what they had yearned for and closed my eyes at last, hoping that his face wasn’t the last thing I would ever see.

  More than ever before, I just wanted my mom and dad.

  **

  Evan Williams. It was him. He was there.

  I woke up from the dream with a twenty-year-old version of Evan on the edge of my mind—the last person Alexis saw while alive. Not to mention that it was the only face that had come into view in any of my dreams. I remember him saying that he was the first responder to the call, but he was supposed to be supervised. According to the dream, it didn’t seem like anyone else was there. And how did he get there so quickly—even before the paramedics?

  It felt monumental—case closed.

  I had recognized him immediately in my dream. Those blue eyes, that blond cropped hair, that chiseled jaw. He had definitely been there the night of her murder, but in what capacity? As friend or foe?

  I needed a better angle, more details. Was he wearing the jeans that the killer had been wearing in my previous dreams? Or was he in a police uniform? At what point during the evening of her attack did this moment take place? The full story was somewhere in the backdrop, but I couldn’t fit the puzzle pieces together. The timeline was a mess; there were too many gaps in the overall picture for me to get a sense of what had happened.

  Closing my eyes, I attempted to conjure up the dream again, but to no avail. I couldn’t figure out how to control when my dreams came and what details they conveyed. It seemed that Alexis held the reins on that.

  Then a thought occurred to me.

  Dr. Weaver. She had mastered the art of dreams and possessed extensive knowledge of the dream state. I wondered if she could help me. After all, I did owe her a follow-up visit.

  Picking up my cell phone, I looked for Dr. Weaver’s number in my contact list and clicked the call button.

  “Dr. Avella Weaver’s office. How can I help you?”

  “Hi, Dr. Weaver. This is Mia Germaine, the patient with the, um, organ memory.”

  Apparently I was unforgettable. “Ah, Mia! How are you, darling?”

  “Well, that’s what I wanted to see you about. I’m doing … not so good. I was wondering if I could come in this week if you have a free spot in your schedule.”

  “Anything you need, you can come to me. What’s it regarding?”

  “I’m trying to conjure up certain memories, or dreams or whatever, but I can’t seem to control them. Is this something you can help me with?”

  “I think so, darling. It’s not always formulaic, but we can try. So there is a specific memor
y you want access to?”

  “Yeah. I just had this dream, but I need to see it more clearly. I can’t focus on the details. Is it even possible to force myself to focus while dreaming?”

  “Oh, yes. I do that a lot—help clients communicate with their subconscious in order to find dream objects or clarify hazy images. Come on in and we can work through this. I have an opening in my schedule at four o’clock this afternoon. Can you make that time?”

  I checked the clock. That gave me time to log in some work hours before I ended up fired. I’m sure I was already sitting in the hot seat at work for not showing up, so what was one more day? But as long as I met my deadlines I hoped Jackie would be merciful.

  “Yep, I can make it. I’ll see you then.”

  **

  Four o’clock couldn’t come fast enough. For five hours I slogged through my editing projects, snacked on Cheetos in memory of Amy, and cleaned out my e-mail inbox. For a dose of good nutrition I ate an apple—smothered in caramel, of course. Oh, how I missed fine dining at Brad’s! Without him to cook for me, I relied on grilled cheese, bagged salad, and take-out, particularly over-salted chicken lo mein.

  After emptying my bag of Cheetos and feeling sorry for myself, I decided to call Brad. I missed him. And with Landon not speaking to me either, I truly had no one. My only real friend at work, Jackie, had probably given up on me ever showing up back at the office. I avoided talking to my mom, for fear of the dreaded “How’s Brad?” conversation and subsequent interrogation. Besides, she was happily busy with her knitting circle, her book club, and her latest passion: yoga. She didn’t need dragged into my misery. Meanwhile, my social life was nil. All that I had were just me and my thoughts—and Alexis, if you wanted to count a dead girl’s borrowed organ as a friend.

  Yep, I was officially pathetic.

  I dialed Brad’s number, wondering if he had already deleted my name from his contacts. My prayer that he’d pick up was answered three rings later.

  “Hey, Mia. It’s been a while.”

  “Hey, Brad. Yeah, it has been, hasn’t it? I guess I haven’t been exiled from your caller ID?”

  “Nah, not yet, at least,” he said with a nervous chuckle.

  An awkward silence drifted between us, two once-upon-a-time lovers now emotionally wedged apart. Would he ever hold me again? Would our lips ever passionately meet? Oh, how I missed his kisses!

  “So what are you calling me for?” he said, his tone chilly.

  And that’s when I knew the hard reality. He was falling out of love with me. It was inevitable—I was losing him. My obsession with this case was costing me every ounce of happiness I had ever known.

  “I just miss you. I was hoping maybe we could get a cup of coffee or something.”

  “I don’t know, Mia …” He sounded uncertain, which meant that I still had a chance.

  “Please just consider it. I still love you.”

  “Do you? Or do you love yourself more?”

  “Well, that’s a stupid question. Everyone loves himself more than others. But that’s beside the point. I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing it for the victims. Did you see the news? Another girl is dead. How can you not respect me for trying to help stop the killer?”

  His heavy sigh on the other end cut my tirade short.

  “Honey”—I relished his word choice, by the way—“I do respect you. And yes, maybe I’m being selfish too, by not wanting you to be in harm’s way. But I haven’t changed my position on this whole thing. You know how I feel, and it still stands. Maybe once all of this is over we can grab that cup of coffee, okay?” He paused, and I didn’t know what to say. “Look, I better get going. I wish you the best, Mia.”

  It sounded like another good-bye to me—for real this time—and I wanted to plead with him, beg him not to leave me, but I still had an ounce of pride left. So I let him go.

  “Alright, if that’s what you want,” I said. “Have a good life then.”

  I hung up, embarrassed that I had ended the conversation with a pathetically dramatic cliché.

  **

  When I arrived at Dr. Weaver’s office at a quarter till four, she ushered me through the rain forest that she called a lobby and into the same room where we had met before. Upon entering, I noticed half a dozen candles lit around the room and soft nature sounds coming from a CD player on a corner shelf. The lights were off, and the strong scent of incense made me cough.

  “What’s all this for, Dr. Weaver?” I asked.

  “Avella, please,” she corrected while pulling me into a hug. “These stimuli are necessary to put you in the right frame of mind. We’re going to practice what’s called wake induced lucid dreaming. It’s going to feel like a dream, but you’ll be awake and can control it. I’m going to try to help you nudge the dream state along by probing your organ memories. I can’t guarantee that this will work on our first try, but since you already seem to have an aptitude for connecting with your dream state, I’m hoping we’ll have some luck.”

  I thanked her as she glided toward the sofa and waved me to follow. On the table sat an antique Wedgwood tea set. Avella poured two cups of a flowery herbal brew from the cheery teapot into two cups. The heady aroma was almost overpowering.

  “Sugar and cream?” she offered.

  “Yes, please.”

  She plopped a spoonful of sugar into the liquid, then poured a stream of milk in, stirred it, and handed the steaming beverage to me. I sipped it and grimaced. The flowery taste was a bit strong.

  “I know it’s a bit tart, but this will help relax you before we begin.”

  In one big gulp I downed the drink, wanting to get it over with as quick as possible. I set the teacup down and relaxed.

  “Well, don’t enjoy it too much,” Avella chided with a smile. “Now, I need you to lie down and close your eyes.”

  She patted a velvety green pillow at one end of the sofa and I took the cue to rest my head on it. I wiggled off my shoes and let them fall to the floor with a thump.

  “Get comfortable and just breathe. In … and out. In … and out.”

  As she spoke, I heard her move to her own chair and sit down. The mechanical rhythmic sounds of pattering rain and chirping birds soothed my nerves.

  Her comforting voice continued. “Think about how you fall asleep at night. I’m going to help you replicate that process, but as your body falls asleep, your mind will stay awake.”

  She talked me through releasing my body and embracing my subconscious awareness. “As you inhale and exhale, you’ll begin to feel your limbs grow heavy and your mind chatter will fade. Allow the sound of my voice to transport you into a state of tranquility.”

  As I began to feel swept into a deeper state of mental and physical relaxation, I noticed a subtle hovering sensation. My body began drifting along freely, as if timeless and unguarded.

  “I want you to empty your mind and gaze into the blackness. If a thought comes into your mind, don’t focus on it. Allow it to pass. You may start to feel like your body is softening, or floating. As you soar, think of the dreamscape you want to envision. Detach yourself from the real world and visualize yourself stepping into your dream state—your past.”

  The darkness enveloped me, its weight almost suffocating, until colors started filling in the blackness. The swirling patterns began to hypnotize me, drawing my awareness away from Avella, from her office, from my worries and my crumbling life.

  “Imagine below you the room where the murder took place. You’re looking down on it, hovering above the day that caused you grief. Now stop and descend into the room. What happened that caused you pain?”

  With each passing moment my physical body sank further into the sofa, growing numb, as my mental state let go. Soon my internal dream world evolved into what felt like a tangible place.

  I heard Avella’s voice resume, distant now, remote. “The scenery … explore it. What do the walls look like? Imagine the room. What is under your feet? Can you feel the flooring?
Where are you? Sitting, or standing? What do you smell?”

  The more I let go of my current reality, the more I submerged into the alternate one, instead of viewing it from above. Once I dropped out of my lucid state, I felt a vibration, like electricity pulsing through me, clouding out Avella’s words with the noise. Then I found myself there, in Alexis’s home. Only I’d left myself behind and had taken over Alexis’s body.

  The walls came alive with their old-fashioned floral paintings. The cold of stained hardwood floors seeped into my feet. I felt the scratchy wool of the armchair beneath me. And the smell … the smell of blood, almost metallic—rusty, like iron.

  “What do you feel?” Avella’s soft voice broke through, conjuring more scenery to life.

  A stabbing sensation in my abdomen suddenly pierced me, and my hand reacted, grabbing where it cramped.

  “Are you hurt? Are you bleeding?” she prompted.

  “Yes, I’ve been stabbed,” I mumbled, unaware that I was speaking. “Pain. Blood. Afraid.” As I spoke, I didn’t recognize the voice. While the words were coming from my lips, they sounded like they belonged to a young girl.

  “Look around you. Is anyone there? Do you hear someone coming?”

  A loud thud. The rattle of a doorknob. Booted footsteps approaching. Then the man approached me and cupped my chin. Evan.

  I looked harder at him, but the seconds were passing too quickly.

  “Stop,” I ordered myself.

  In one tidy instant my dreamscape halted, like an unblemished scene from a movie on pause. Upon suspending the events in my mind, I was able to examine Evan further as he stood before me. As if frozen in time, the setting and its players stood motionless, like mannequins in a storefront window display. Finally I found what I’d been searching for.

  Evan’s clothes—he was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, not a uniform after all. I couldn’t have forgotten it if I tried. It was the same attire that the murderer had been wearing.