The Debt

by Karina Halle

  The Debt

  A Novel

  by Karina Halle

  Also by Karina Halle

  Contemporary Romance Novels

  Love, in English

  Love, in Spanish

  Where Sea Meets Sky (from Atria Books)

  Racing the Sun (from Atria Books)

  Bright Midnight (from Atria Books)

  The Pact

  The Offer

  The Play

  The Lie

  The Debt

  Romantic Suspense Novels

  Sins and Needles (The Artists Trilogy #1)

  On Every Street (An Artists Trilogy Novella #0.5)

  Shooting Scars (The Artists Trilogy #2)

  Bold Tricks (The Artists Trilogy #3)

  Dirty Angels

  Dirty Deeds

  Dirty Promises

  Paranormal/Horror Romance Novels

  The Devil’s Metal (Devils #1)

  The Devil’s Reprise (Devils #2)

  Donners of the Dead

  Darkhouse (Experiment in Terror #1)

  Red Fox (EIT #2)

  The Benson (EIT #2.5)

  Dead Sky Morning (EIT #3)

  Lying Season (EIT #4)

  On Demon Wings (EIT #5)

  Old Blood (EIT #5.5)

  The Dex-Files (EIT #5.7)

  Into the Hollow (EIT #6)

  And With Madness Comes the Light (EIT #6.5)

  Come Alive (EIT #7)

  Ashes to Ashes (EIT #8)

  Dust to Dust (EIT #9)

  Veiled

  First edition published by

  Metal Blonde Books August 2016

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

  Copyright © 2016 by Karina Halle

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Cover design by Hang Le Designs

  Edited by Kara Maclinczak

  Metal Blonde Books

  P.O. Box 845

  Point Roberts, WA

  98281 USA

  Manufactured in the USA

  For more information about the series and author visit:

  http://authorkarinahalle.com/

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  For those who live in the dark depths of guilt. Let it go and kick upwards—there’s light at the surface and I’m right there, swimming with you.

  Guilt is to the spirit what pain is to the body – Elder David. A. Bednar

  You wear guilt like shackles on your feet, like a halo in reverse – Depeche Mode, “Halo”

  I must be a mermaid...I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living. – Anaïs Nin

  PROLOGUE

  Jessica

  August

  There’s nothing so infuriating as having to pass up a tall pint of beer on a blindingly hot summer day. Especially when that summer day takes place in the UK, where summer is more of an idea than an actual reality.

  And yet, I had to say no to my friends, telling them that I’d like to do some shopping on Oxford Street before my flight back to Edinburgh this evening. The thing is, I’m not even lying—those summer sales are calling my name and I’ve been waiting for a certain dress at Zara to be discounted.

  But my friends are disappointed all the same. I rarely see them, and though I wasn’t even supposed to be in London this weekend, I feel like a total ass for turning them down, not to mention I’m slipping into the “no fun” category sooner than I thought.

  I met Paula, Jo, and Sean six years ago when I took the one-month intensive program at London Yoga’s training facility. At the time I was directionless, having just moved to the UK from Canada, and yoga was the only thing that made sense in my life. There’s something to be said for the friendships formed when you’re young, broke, and untethered. They ground you like nothing else can, and even years later, they ground you to who you were.

  But the real reason I’m not going out for drinks with them after the UK’s largest health and wellness conference is far too complicated for me to admit. After the last two days of attending seminar after seminar, perusing the trade show booths and drinking my weight in herbal tea, I just want to be by myself. A few months ago I had a clear idea of who I was and where my place was in the world. Now, I’m afraid I don’t know anything.

  And I’m just plain afraid.

  “Are you sure?” Paula asks me, laying her hand on my shoulder as we stand outside the convention center. Jo and Sean watch from the sidelines, their arms bundled with bags of promotional shit they’ve been collecting all day, hoping Paula can change my mind.

  I’m still the closest with Paula, usually seeing her a few times a year and talking online at least every other day. She has this way about her that I envy deeply, the ability to soothe with just her touch or the sound of her voice. She can usually convince me to jump off a bridge but this time I’m being firm. My willpower will not wane.

  I playfully shrug her off, not wanting her to read too deeply into this. “I’m fine. I really should get ready for my flight.”

  “But it’s beer,” Sean says again for the millionth time. “You never say no to beer, Jessica.”

  And it’s true. I’m a health fanatic, paleo and all that, and follow as close to a gluten-free diet as I can, but beer is my vice, my Achilles heel. It’s been weeks since I last had one and I can still taste it.

  “Don’t tempt me,” I say, flashing them a smile. I whip out my phone and give it a glance, pretending to check the time. “I really should go. This trip was so last minute anyway. I’m just glad I got to see you guys.”

  I hadn’t planned on coming to the conference to begin with, but then the yoga studio I teach at had to close for the weekend to deal with an insect problem (I know, gross) and Paula had an extra pass through the wellness center that she and Jo opened together. It didn’t take much convincing. On Friday night I kissed my boyfriend Mark goodbye and hopped on the plane, eager to get away for a few days, to see old friends and do some thinking. Sometimes distance puts everything in the right perspective.

  Jo sighs despondently, blowing a wayward piece of long blonde hair out of her eyes. “All right. We get it. You’re too good for us now that you live up in Scotland,” she says, but there’s a teasing smile on her lips, as always.

  “Whatever,” I tell her, glad that they’re letting me go without too much of a fuss. I give them each a big hug and promise I’ll try and pop down to London soon. Of course they could always come up and see me—I’ve been in Edinburgh for a few years now—but the big city life has its grip on them.

  I head for the tube, sighing in relief at my solitude which then leads to coughing from the fumes of the passing cabs. The traffic here is absolutely atrocious, getting worse every time I visit, and I have to wonder where my friends find their peace in this city. Or maybe that’s why they turned to yoga to begin with—instead of finding peace, they cre
ated their own.

  I had the same idea once. I moved to Edinburgh after my mother died so I could be with my sister. I left my life in Canada behind—the one that was supposed to bring me peace, if not escape—and got used to a new reality. What was supposed to be a couple of years has now turned into six and I’ve managed to carve out a new life that isn’t shaped by my past.

  The only problem is…well, sometimes life gives you what you want while taking another piece away.

  The tube ride to Oxford Circus is hot and cramped, and nausea sweeps through me as I’m crammed between a business woman who smells like she’s doused herself in cheap perfume and a man with intense body odor and onion breath. I close my eyes and try to keep my stomach contents down. I’ve only been having dry rice toast in the mornings now because of this damn queasy stomach.

  When the doors finally open, I’m sucked out through the crowd and ushered up the escalator until I’m in the bright sunshine and streaming bodies of Oxford Street. Double decker buses rumble past, narrowly missing bike couriers while Union Jack flags dance above the street.

  There’s a great sense of anonymity in this city. You could be anyone and no one would care. Just another face in the crowd, another life, another secret. For all the traffic and dirt and noise, that’s a plus about London. The ability to escape who you are.

  I let the throngs of people guide me where I need to go. Everyone is out and enjoying the rare heat wave, the late season sales, the dying days of summer, and I drift among them, completely aimless, pretending I have no responsibilities or matters of the heart to attend to.

  I go to Zara and find the dress I want, but of course it’s not in my size. I leave with a short silk scarf, the kind Grace Kelly would knot around her neck, and then later wear around her head during a convertible drive on the French Riviera. It’s royal blue with faint watercolor mermaids on it and sets off my red hair like it’s on fire.

  I head off down the street, meandering until the crowds become too much for me to handle. I duck down a narrow side street to take a breather. The nausea is clawing through my system again. I have to eat something soon or else I’ll end up lying in an alley somewhere, one weak and hungry bitch.

  The height of the buildings cast me in deep shade and I stand there for a few moments, feeling like my world is balancing on the edge of the unknown and utter chaos. It’s a strange sensation, cutting in deep. But I can’t pretend I don’t know where it’s coming from.

  When my nausea abates and my stomach starts grumbling, probably resentment for not going to the pub after all, I spy a Pret A Manger on the other side of Oxford Street and start heading for it.

  I go for the lights, about to hurry across the intersection to beat the signal when the walk hand flashes stop. I won’t make it in time.

  So I wait, the crowd of pedestrians building at my back with each passing second.

  A flock of pigeons take flight nearby, causing a wave of people to instinctively duck, trying to avoid getting pooped on. The birds fly into the bright blue sky, past the dancing Union Jack flags that are strung across the street, repeating until they disappear around a curve.

  Everything goes strangely silent.

  The world pulses with a different beat.

  The hair at the back of my neck stands up and I have no idea why.

  Then I hear it.

  A scream.

  It comes from across the street, on the other side of the bus that is racing across the intersection to make the light before it changes.

  And when the bus clears, horror sets in.

  Horror so precise that my mouth goes dry.

  Across the road is a man.

  A man with a shotgun in his hands.

  The world moves in slow motion as I watch him.

  He’s walking.

  He’s now in the middle of the intersection.

  He’s stopped.

  For a moment no one moves and that one woman’s scream hangs in the air.

  Then the man raises the shotgun, aiming it at the crowd, maybe two heads down from me.

  And the world that was teetering on the brink of utter chaos now plunges into it.

  Everyone screams.

  Everyone runs.

  Everyone except for me.

  Because I am frozen in place and can’t believe my eyes.

  This just can’t be real.

  It can’t be.

  It can’t be.

  It’s some sort of trick. A joke. A film come to life. I’m caught in the middle of a movie.

  Or I’m dreaming, still back in my hotel room. Maybe this whole weekend was a dream and I’m really back at home, having a horribly vivid nightmare.

  The fact that there is a man walking toward me holding a shotgun can’t possibly be real life. This can’t be happening.

  And if it is, he can’t possibly be aiming to shoot.

  But…

  Then he does.

  He pulls the trigger.

  At least he must.

  I’m watching him so closely yet I don’t even see him do it. I’m taking in everything about him, whether I mean to or not. He’s tall, but not that tall. Skinny. White as a ghost. Sunken cheekbones. Brown half moons under his eyes. His hair is straggly, dirty blonde, looking like it hasn’t been cut in a long time. He’s wearing camouflage from head to toe, but I don’t know if it’s official army gear or something he picked up at a hunting shop.

  And his eyes. His eyes are focused on whoever he’s aiming at but in them I see absence of humanity. I see someone who has been wiped clean. Someone who is shooting to kill because he believes it’s the only way that he’ll survive, maybe the only way that he’ll be saved. He’s not seeing us, the frightened crowd, at all, he’s seeing a sea of monsters.

  I never want those eyes to see me.

  But the blast goes off.

  His gun fires, and the explosion—he must only be ten feet away from me—is so loud that it finally jars some sense into my brain. It hits deep in my instinctual core and it tells my feet to run. To flee. To live.

  I turn and start running.

  I don’t know if I’m screaming or not, all sounds muddle into one, becoming garbled and distant. My hands are out in front of me, the crowd all scampering, the sound of terror and horror rising high into the air. Some people trip, others shove into each other. If I could look down at the scene from one of the buildings I would see people scattering away from him, like a school of fish in a darkened sea.

  Another blast sounds and then someone’s head a few feet over from me explodes into a red mess.

  I am coated in hot blood, my body shutting down into shock, allowing me not to think about it. I don’t even know if it was a man or a woman. It doesn’t matter, it can’t matter. To think is to die.

  The body topples to the ground and more screams erupt as people try and jump over it, desperation clawing the air. I can smell pennies, a metallic tang that might be blood, fear, or adrenaline, but it’s all around me, choking my nose as I try to move.

  I can feel him at my back. I know there’s no one else behind me but him. I know I’m running toward Zara, the very store I was just in back when my life made a lot more sense.

  I know he’s no longer in the intersection. I hear horns honking, the traffic both static and frantic, drivers unsure whether to drive safely away, whether to stop and help, whether to take their cars onto the sidewalk and mow down the man.

  But if that happens, it’s not happening right now. Beneath the screams and the horns and the smacking of feet on pavement, I can hear the shotgun being pumped, hear his heavy footfalls, the raspiness of his breath like he’s running too.

  I hear the next blast.

  It’s close.

  Very close.

  I don’t feel anything.

  But I fall.

  Mid-stride, my right leg stops moving, stops listening to my nervous system, and I fall to the ground, the pavement rushing up to meet my face. My hands go out in front of me to break my
fall and I feel the sting of dirt and rough concrete cut into my skin.

  Get up, get up, get up!

  It’s all I can think as I hit the ground, sprawled out.

  Run, run, run.

  He’s coming!

  But that’s when I feel it.

  The pain.

  The real pain.

  The wallop of fire and knives, something so incredibly intense that it swallows me whole, coming from one of my legs. Everything is pure agony, so large and vast that I can’t even tell which leg hurts.

  I’ve been shot.

  I’ve been hit.

  I can’t believe I’ve been shot.

  I’m going to die.

  I can’t focus on anything else except that and the pain, the fire eating up my leg, the feeling of utter destruction from the inside out.

  He’s still here.

  This thought makes me stop, prevents me from pushing myself up, prevents me from rolling over to look at my leg (maybe it’s just a grazing, maybe it’s superficial, maybe I’m okay). It makes me lie still, it stifles my screams so that the agony is trapped in my chest, in my throat, choking me.

  I lift my head in time to see his brown boots walk past. His shotgun pumps again, a shell drops, bounces on the ground, rolls back toward me.

  Play dead, play dead, I tell myself.

  The shell stops when it runs into my outstretched fingers.

  I’m not sure if I’m breathing or not. Everything is going cold. Fuzzy.

  But I still see him walking away from me, four feet, five feet, six feet.

  Further and further away.

  Keep going, keep going, I plead.

  His shoulders tense as he raises his gun and aims at someone else.

  Fires.

  Another scream among the chorus of screams.

  Another person goes down.

  Then he stops where he is, just a feet from Zara.

  He shoots through the windows, shattering the glass.

  He pumps the gun.

  He shoots again.

  He pumps the gun.

  He swings around and aims the gun to the left, down the pavement at people running.

  Shoots again.

  Does the same on the other side.

  And the whole time I’m watching his face, watching it blur and become sharp again as my body struggles to pump my own blood and the pain starts to subside as I go into shock. I don’t want to look at my leg and see how much blood I’m losing. I don’t want to do anything but watch the profile of this man as he lines up another shot and pulls the trigger.