PAINTED WALLS
MEGAN MITCHAM
MEGAN MITCHAM
CONTENTS
Copyright
Dedication
1986
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
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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Published by MM Publishing LLC
Edited by Lacey Thacker
Cover Design by Deranged Doctor Designs
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Painted Walls
All Rights Are Reserved. Copyright 2015 by Megan Mitcham
First electronic publication: October 2015
First print publication: October 2015
Digital ISBN: 978-1-941899-15-1
Print ISBN: 978-1-941899-16-8
ISBN: 978-1-941899-15-1
To the broken ones. And really, aren’t we all beautifully broken at some point in our lives?
1986
Sarah shuffled through the family room with a large basket of folded clothes on her hip. The familiar electronic chime of the nightly news intro caught her attention. Determined to complete the job she’d begun before taking in the broadcast, she continued on toward the hallway. Two hours obsessing over the four large carpet samples that lined the far wall had eaten her free time for the day. And she still couldn’t decide between sea foam green and boring beige.
Tom Brokaw’s ominous lilt hit her ears. “Good evening. A gruesome discovery in Monroe, Louisiana today.”
Her feet sank into the plush shag, stalling her progress. She turned toward the television. The static-laced picture on the screen beckoned. Sarah sank to the bright orange carpet. She released the plastic hamper and hugged her middle without sparing the flooring another thought.
Her eyes locked onto the scene outside a suburban home similar to her own. A trim green lawn edged the ranch-style house. Vibrant flowers and orderly beds garnished the brick. A garden gnome peeked around the square hedges. The sharp arch of a swing set loomed over the tall white fence. The starkest contrast, though, was the whirling red and blue lights atop the line of police cars that rimmed the yard.
Her stomach shimmied.
The camera angle shifted left, revealing a young reporter in a tan suit and maroon tie. He cleared his throat, lifted his chin, and gave a carnival mask of concern. His eyes held the glimmer of excitement.
“Authorities have found the body of a young mother slain in her home. Officials have yet to release the victim’s name or the circumstances behind her death, but, Tom, this is believed to be the work of the Blood Red Killer.”
The scene shrank to a small window above the anchor’s side-swept hair.
“The murderer’s signature is clear. For more than a decade he has killed young women in their homes, drained their bodies of blood, and painted an entire wall with it. And yet, droves of evidence haven’t helped authorities capture this monster. No significant leads have been pursued in the south’s string of terror killings.” His head shook and his lips pursed. “We’ll have more on this story later in the broadcast.”
Sarah made the sign of the cross and prayed for the young woman’s soul. She also offered a plea of safety for herself and her young daughter. Living in Louisiana, the epicenter of this madman’s death field, made these prayers habitual. Ten years of fear and nightly prayers hadn’t stopped the killings. What ever would?
An engine roared into the driveway. She couldn’t see through the drawn curtains, but she jumped so high at the rumbling horses she nearly levitated above the hideous carpet. Her hand clutched her churning heart.
Sarah’s gaze jumped to the waxed shine of the grandfather clock, to the open corridor leading to the bedrooms, and then back to the ticking hands. The ornate gold arms showed the time. Five thirty-four.
Her fingers relaxed. She forced a long, weighty breath through her lips and chuckled at her fluttering nerves. Of course it was five-thirty. The news cast had just started. Of course a car rumbled in the driveway. It was five-thirty. The end of another long week of single parenting. It seemed every time her husband came home from a business trip she had another murder to tell him about. But she wouldn’t open with sad news. They had so much to be happy about.
A smile spread across Sarah’s face. She scrambled to her feet and turned away from the television, the horrors forgotten for now. “Daddy’s home!”
Light, yet fiercely rapid, footfalls echoed down the hall. Her daughter breached the living room at a sprint. Chubby legs pumped small bare feet toward the front door, not sparing her a glance. Giddy laughter sang from her angel’s bright pink lips. Sarah’s breath caught in equal parts awe and irritation. Two smears of purple colored her daughter’s lids.
“Race you,” the little one challenged over one shoulder as she zipped past.
“Miss.” Sarah popped both hands onto her hips. Those little feet slowed. “I told you last time not to get into my makeup.”
Her daughter snapped her head around so quickly that the long, vibrant red ponytail Sarah had pulled back that morning smacked her daughter on the cheek. “I didn’t.” Miniature hands showed major exacerbation, stretching wide and spearing toward the parquet floor at the foyer.
“I know your eyelids weren’t purple at birth.”
A crinkle appeared between her light red brows. Her lips puckered. “Momma, what’s burf?”
“Never mind that. Why did you get into my cosmetics bag after I told you not—”
An exaggerated sigh cut her off. Knobby shoulders drooped. “It’s markers. Not your cosmics.”
Sarah bit her lips together to keep from smiling. The girl had a point. She hadn’t told her daughter not to color her face. “We’ll talk about this in a few minutes. Right now, let’s go greet your daddy.”
Once again, Sarah found herself left in the dust as her growing tot rocketed to the sturdy oak door. Her dainty hands gripped the fat golden knob. Sarah hurried over. She reached out a hand in assistance.
“I do it myself!” her stubborn child admonished with a cut of her green eyes and a tone that told Sarah she’d done a fine job chastising her daughter when the need arose.
“All right. All right.” She retracted her hand. “Do it yourself. Women should be independent.” Yeah, just like she was…not. She’d had plans to continue on for her m
aster’s degree, and even bigger plans for her career, but she’d met James Red Hardy her senior year at Louisiana State University. Somehow, she’d managed to get married, and then pregnant, all within a month of graduation.
Doggedly, her daughter maneuvered the handle this way and that, tugging and grunting with all her might. Sarah waited with false patience to watch her daughter solve the puzzle. Because planned or not, her family was the very best thing in her life—and the thought of having them all under one roof transformed her into an atomic bomb of glee...at least until her husband’s next business trip. Single parenting was hard work.
It took one more attempt before the girl realized she had to twist the lock in order to successfully open the door. With a three-year-old it was particularly important to keep the chain on the door at all times. If it wasn’t for this sadistic killer on the loose, the thoughts of even locking the front door would have never occurred to Sarah.
They lived in a post-WWII subdivision of lovely ranch-style homes in a crush of old gentry—the land of green lawns and fancy cars, where the men and women constantly tried to outdo one another with the newest gadgetry and fashions. It was a place where everybody knew your name, your parents’ names, and where you went to school and church. And of course, they also gossiped about your latest news long before it was public.
The girls hustled down the short concrete path to the driveway where the shiny grey Oldsmobile had parked. The driver swung the heavy door wide and bolted like a track star to the little girl. He scooped her into his arms and kept coming until he reached Sarah. His muscled arms wrapped around her waist and the ground disappeared under her feet.
James spun them around and around. Laughter and giggles filled the neatly-manicured lawn. Sarah buried her face against his neck and inhaled. “I’m so glad you’re home,” she moaned.
He pulled back and his green gaze danced between her and their beautiful girl. A smile curved his full lips. “Oh, my girls, I’ve missed y’all!”
“I miss you so much, Daddy.” Their daughter’s bow mouth plumped into a pout.
His hold tightened around Sarah’s middle. “What would you say if I quit my job and stayed home with you girls all the time?”
Sarah shook her head while her daughter’s bobbed with abandon. “Oh no you don’t. If you stayed home I’d never get any hugs from her,” she said, tickling tiny ribs. “That girl has you up on a pedestal.”
“Well you do too,” James pointed out with a waggle of a brow.
“Yeah,” she smiled. “I understand her feelings. I just don’t like being the leftovers.”
“Daddy! I drive.” The little one wiggled in his arms.
“Anything you want, Ruby Slippers,” James drawled. He set those tiny feet on the concrete walkway and they pattered the short distance to the car.
“That’s why I’m second fiddle,” Sarah explained. “You let her get away with murder.” She gently pinched his firm pectoral for emphasis.
His gaze snapped from their daughter to her. He leaned over, tipping her back at the middle. Sarah’s fingers tightened on the lapel of his suit. His mouth connected with hers and pressed a near punishing kiss onto her lips.
“You’re not second fiddle or leftovers,” he growled. “You’re ripe and fresh.” She clung to him, pulling him closer. He nibbled a trail along her jaw. When his voice reached her ear it was gruff. “And I plan to have my fill shortly.”
A zing of anticipation pierced her belly.
After another kiss, James righted them. They shared a stare that chased away the memory of five cold nights spent alone. Then he turned his attention to the car. “My Ruby.” He spoke with a quiet reverence as he looked at his daughter. James kissed her cheek. “I’ll be right back.” He hurried to the trunk, extricated his suitcase, and closed the trunk. Suitcase in hand, he rounded the car and gave his Ruby a wide sweep of his arm. “Come over here and tell me about your week.” She bailed from the door and charged. He stepped back several feet and dropped his bag, allowing her to reach maximum velocity.
All Sarah could see was her precious daughter tripping and planting her baby teeth into the concrete. She closed her eyes until an uproarious giggle filled the air—along with Ruby. Her father tossed her into the stratosphere and caught her with tender hands. James kissed her nose, plucked his suitcase off the ground, and headed her way.
Sarah hugged herself to keep her swelling heart inside her chest.
“You coming, gorgeous?” James winked as he walked past her.
She turned toward him. “I’ll close the car door, grab the mail, and meet you two inside. Oh, ask her about her H-O-R-S-E.”
His eyes shot wide. “We don’t have one in the backyard, do we?”
“No, silly. She drew one at story time this week.”
“Ooh!” That small, but effective, mouth shouted. “We read Bonny’s Day at the library.” Her daughter clapped.
“Bonny’s Big Day,” Sarah corrected.
Soft red waves shook vigorously. “Yeah, Bonny is a horse. It’s a white one. I want Bonny. She’s pretty.”
“You do, huh?” James grinned.
The two headed for the house with their foreheads together in serious conference. One small hand splayed on his handsome face while the other repeatedly smoothed over his blazing red hair.
Sarah sighed and headed for the sedan. Several feet away new car scent wafted from the interior. Three years old and the thing still looked as though it belonged on a dealer’s show floor.
If only he’d attend the inside of the house with such gusto.
She chuckled. That’d be the day. The day that rain fell up, the moon rose in the morning, and the sun appeared at night.
She shoved the door with her hip to avoid smudges on the waxed paint. A loud thud echoed in the bustling neighborhood and blended in with a thousand other noises. Across the street, the Wooldridge’s contractor hammered the last of the wood siding on their new addition. Three houses down, a gangly teenager dribbled a basketball up the driveway to the rim attached above the garage. Somewhere a mower hacked at the grass that perpetually strived for the height of pine trees.
No one noticed the resounding gong her hips created, but Sarah heard the message loud and clear.
Lay off the beignets.
With a grumble she walked faster than usual to the mailbox and swung her arms for added calorie burning. Like a one-thousandth of a mile walk would do any good. Like she should care. Her husband loved her soft curves and so did she.
Sarah yanked open the small metal door to retrieve a water bill and one leaflet for Fortress Insurance. Why they sent promo to their own customers and—even better—an employee was beyond her comprehension. She shrugged, closed the box, and headed up the drive.
As she neared James’ car the stench of bleach stung her nostrils and yanked her attention from the stupid pamphlet. A slit of grey peeked out from the trunk’s interior. When he’d fetched his suitcase the lid must not have latched.
She hurried forward to secure the hatch, but again a punch of bleach gagged her. Sarah glanced left and right, looking for the source of the stench, but found none.
Her fingers grazed the cool metal and her muscles contracted to slam the top. Again the bleach singed her nostrils. Sara’s gaze narrowed on the trunk.
There was clean, and there was overboard.
An alien emotion coiled around her spine. Despite the glaring sun and soaring temperatures, goose flesh spread across her skin. Instinct pumped the blood in her veins at a frantic pace, telling her to run.
One inch at a time she lifted the lid.
Bleach stung her eyes. She blinked and turned her chin until James’ red car-washing bucket snagged her gaze. A terrycloth washrag and bottle of bleach were nestled in the bucket.
Sarah lifted the terrycloth. Her heart plummeted onto the driveway and rolled to the street. Maybe a passing car would put her out of her misery.
A short stack of Polaroids stood maybe ten deep. She c
ould easily make out the woman’s long, lean legs, her bare breasts, and hair flowing over the edge of a bed.
How? Why? Who was she?
Irrational rationalization explained away the pictures in a manner of seconds. He wouldn’t cheat on her. He wouldn’t destroy their family over a roll in the sheets. She trusted him. For the five years they’d been married she hadn’t once questioned his business trips. Jealousy hadn’t once tainted her mind or emotions.
Trembling fingers eased the photos from the trunk. And then everything in a thousand-mile area screeched to a halt.
Dead eyes stared into the camera. Severed skin flayed wide on the woman’s neck and dripped into a bucket—James’ red car wash bucket.
Sarah stumbled backward. Her knees hit the driveway. She looked to the house where inside the most notorious serial killer talked horses with her daughter. The pictures scattered along with her life.
1
Shopping bags crackled against the heavy door of Ava Shepherd’s apartment building. She pressed her backside onto the glass and held it open for her friend. Annelise Braden hoisted the black garment bags into the air to keep the bottom from dragging the ground. At barely five feet the tea-length dress Ava had chosen at Neiman Marcus hit her petite partner-in-crime at the ankles.
“It’s a good thing I work out.” A sheen of sweat glistened above the woman’s red lips in the portico’s light. She dabbed at it with the back of her free hand and sauntered through the entry on classic black pumps that matched her classic black suit. The neon-rainbow blouse underneath, however, muted the ensemble’s timeless appeal. “Otherwise I’d have dropped your gorgeous coral dress three blocks ago.”
“I’ll send your personal trainer flowers.” Ava grinned.
“Forget Frank.” Her hand swatted the air. “Send them to me.”
“As long as Fiona doesn’t get jealous,” she said, falling into step with her one friend in all the world. Their heels clacked against the gray-tiled floor.
“Please.” She flipped her long blonde hair off of her face. “You like dick. Therefore, Fee has nothing to get jealous about.” Annelise slowed and tossed a look over her shoulder. “You do like dick, don’t you?” She shrugged. “I mean,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “you haven’t exactly been on the prowl for a guy, but I still know you’re not a lesbian.”
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