Split

by JB Salsbury

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

  Copyright © 2016 by JB Salsbury

  Cover design by Elizabeth Turner. Cover photo by Claudio Marinesco. Cover copyright © 2016 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Forever

  Hachette Book Group

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  First Edition: November 2016

  Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  ISBNs: 978-1-4555-9633-1 (trade paperback), 978-1-4555-9635-5 (ebook)

  E3-20161012-DA-NF

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  To Amanda

  Because you believed I could…

  So I did.

  Acknowledgments

  First off, I want to thank God for allowing me the ability to tell stories. All good things come from you.

  Thank you to my husband, who is and always will be the only hero in my life. It’s your love that inspires me and your support that anchors me.

  Thank you to my babies, who have made me feel like I’m the greatest novelist the world has ever seen, even though they have no idea what I write. I love their blind faith.

  To my parents and my brother for being the best pimps and my number one fans, thank you. I’d never have the courage to do this if it weren’t for you.

  A huge thank you to Evelyn Johnson for always having my back and for allowing me to drag her all over the country for signings and events. Your friendship and loyalty are unparalleled.

  Thank you to my dear friend Amanda Simpson. From the moment this story was conceived, you’ve been my biggest supporter. You went above and beyond the call of duty: reading, critiquing, brainstorming, and shoving me on when I had my doubts. I’ll never be able to pay you back for all you’ve done for me, not only as a friend, but also as my business partner. I appreciate you more than words can express. To my friend Jonas Lee, thank you for taking on the hefty responsibility of critiquing this story for me. Your insight on this was invaluable. You could’ve easily blown me off but instead you worked hard to help me iron out all the wrinkles while being a huge source of encouragement. Thank you will never be enough.

  Thank you, Sara Sellars, for your expertise in the inner workings of broadcast news that helped bring Shyann Jennings to life.

  To my agent MacKenzie Frasier-Bub, thank you for believing in me and encouraging me to try something new. You are, like, totally, the most bitchin’ agent, like, ever.

  Huge thank you to Megha Parekh for not only believing in the writer that I am, but also in the one I have the potential to become. I will not let you down.

  Always a huge thank you to the talented Elizabeth Reyes. I’d never have had the cajones to write if it weren’t for your encouragement and support. Thank you for your time and, more importantly, your friendship.

  None of this would be possible if it weren’t for the readers who’ve given my books a chance. There are so many incredible authors out there, and I’m humbled and honored every time a reader picks one of my books. Thank you for taking a chance on me.

  Last but not least and probably the most important, thank you to all the Fighting Girls who support me and my books with the kind of steadfast love only an FG is capable of. I’d be nowhere without you girls. You mean the world to me.

  Prologue

  Ten years ago…

  It’s dark. Like when I hide under my bed and can’t see my hand in front of my face. But I’m not under my bed now.

  Cold seeps into my body. My head rings; static blares in my ears.

  I blacked out again, but this is different. Everything about this feels different.

  There’s shuffling… some kind of panic in the air. My heart pounds and with the rapid blood flow brings a sharp stabbing pain that explodes in my neck. I try to open my eyes, push at the dark and reach for light, but a sticky coating covers my face. I suck in a breath, cough against the thick sludge that clogs my nose and throat. The metallic tang of blood turns my gut. I retch, hacking up something thick, and agony slices through my jaw.

  “Oh fuck!” A deep masculine voice rips through my panic. “This one’s alive!”

  I try again to open my eyes.

  “We need an EMT!”

  I need to get up, find somewhere to hide. Mom always gets angry after one of my blackouts and with the pain…oh God the pain…I can’t take one of her punishments.

  My arms ache but I force them to my eyes to clear the dark haze that clouds my vision. Weight presses against my shoulder, keeping me down. No, I have to get out of here.

  “Don’t move.” The voice, I try to place it. A neighbor? I don’t know who else—“ETA on the ambulance! This kid’s gonna bleed out!”

  “What…” My voice makes no sound, only a low gurgle within my chest. I try to push up, reach out. Help me! Shadows dance behind my eyes.

  “God have mercy—we’re gonna lose him!”

  “Stay down!” A male voice is close. “Oh shit…don’t move!”

  I slip in and out. Voices frantic but muted in my ears.

  “Neighbors said he’s fifteen…”

  “…fucking bloodbath…”

  “Help…” I cough and reach for the fire blazing in my jaw.

  A firm grip wraps my neck. I struggle against it as it cuts off what little breath I’m able to take. “Hang on, son.” It loosens and I suck in a gulp of blessed air mixed with fluid that makes me cough.

&nbs
p; “He’s gonna drown in his own blood if we don’t get him—”

  “Son, can you hear us?”

  I nod as best I can, reaching for the light. Don’t black out. Don’t give up.

  “Did you do this, boy?” The thick growl of a different man sounds in the distance. His voice deeper. Angrier.

  I’m in so much trouble. I want to tell him I don’t remember. I have a condition. Lapses in memory. But I can’t get the words to make it to my mouth.

  “They’re all dead.”

  My heart kicks behind my ribs.

  Dead? Who’s dead?

  Dizziness washes over me and I don’t fight it. Nausea rips through my gut. The biting taste of vomit mixed with blood floods my mouth. I suck air, fight through the mud for oxygen. My lungs burn. I absorb the words and pray for a blackout to come. The dark that takes away all the pain, the shadow that tucks me in and shelters me.

  The pounding pulse in my neck slows to a dull throb. The static between my ears turns to a purr. Warmth envelopes me.

  “Son of a bitch.” More shuffling. “He’s our only witness.”

  Words blur as I drift in and out of darkness. Not like the blackouts, but something different. Deeper. As if sleep pulls me, then releases me like a yo-yo.

  “Dammit! We’re gonna lose him.”

  The pain dies off. Peacefulness wraps around me. I drift back into night and welcome the dark I know will protect me.

  One

  Shyann

  Present day

  There isn’t a single moment in life that compares to this one. Eh…I suppose if one day I meet the right guy who doesn’t mind playing second to my career goals, maybe a wedding would compare. Or not. I mean, weddings mean family and family means ripping open old wounds, and, well, that idea alone makes me want to barf all over my knock-off Jimmy Choos.

  No, I was right the first time. This moment is a game changer. It’s hit or miss, no room for second place. Five years in college, working my ass off and pulling in more student loans than I’ll be able to pay back in four lifetimes all teeters on thirty seconds of live newsfeed.

  I shift restlessly in my seat, squinting back and forth between my phone and the dark road through the windshield. “Should be right up here, less than a mile.”

  “Know that. Got the same address you did.” My cameraman turns left into a residential area, a decent part of town, middle- to lower-class neighborhood. “Besides, the place will be crawling with police. There’s no way we’ll miss it.”

  I turn toward him and grin. “Police, but we’ll be the first and only news van.” I’m downright giddy! “This has to be perfect. We can’t afford to fuck this up.”

  He grunts and I glare, annoyed by his nonchalance.

  “I’m serious, Leaf. Make sure you get the right angle. I need this to be perfect. If the camera hits me funky, I look like a Cabbage Patch doll.” I smooth my skirt and blouse, wishing the outfit brought me more confidence, but instead I feel like one of those assassin bugs that wears the corpses of other bugs as armor. Not what I’m most comfortable in but at least I look enough the part to be taken seriously.

  Fake it till you make it, Shyann.

  “I got just as much riding on this as you do.” His voice is more animated than his usual lazy hippie drawl. He eyeballs me for a second. “Sure you’re ready for this?”

  I swallow my nerves. “Of course I am. I was born ready for this.” My toes curl up, already cramping in my Timmy Shoos. Not sure they were even worth the eighteen bucks I paid for them.

  “Good to hear, ’cause”—he squints at a grouping of emergency vehicles in front of a single-level home and slows to a stop—“it’s go time.”

  I lean forward to gaze out the front window. An officer glares at our news van. Typical. An ambulance sits in the driveway, and the back doors are open and the cavity inside is empty. “They haven’t brought her out yet?”

  “Shit! Let’s hurry!” Leaf scrambles between the seats into the back to grab his equipment.

  “Do you have any idea what this means?” I pull the mirror down and frantically swipe on some lipstick. “It only happened, what, like—”

  “Fourteen minutes ago.” The van door slides open with a loud whoosh.

  I was at the station the second the call came over the police scanner. Code 240. Aggravated assault. Female. Unconscious, strangulation, no sign of forced entry.

  After a string of serial assaults on women in Phoenix, less than 150 miles from the mountain town of Flagstaff, the similarities of this assault were too unique to ignore. Assault on women wasn’t unusual, but whoever was committing them over the last few months wasn’t sexually assaulting his victims. They were, as the Phoenix police had announced, “unusual in nature.” And now we had one in our town.

  Possibly.

  It’s a long shot, but it’s a shot worth taking.

  Reporters from Phoenix won’t be here until morning. If this is what I think it is, we’ll be picked up live for the nine o’clock news. Only a few months out of school and I’ll be live in a top-ranking—number eleven to be exact—media market newscast.

  Hopping from the van, heart pounding in my chest, I circle the front to find Leaf lining up a good shot. Butterflies explode in my gut as I shrug on my Burberry raincoat. The tag says Blurrberry and the signature plaid pattern is off by a black stripe or two, but a chance at national exposure calls for my very best fake designer clothes.

  “This is it.” I pop in my earpiece and check the time. “Nine o’clock news starts in ten minutes. We have to be ready.”

  Leaf mumbles something I ignore and I start planning my intro.

  “Ladies and gentlemen…” I clear my throat and lower my voice. “The scene before us…” No, more emotion. That’s the key to this job, being completely emotionless, but infusing enough fake emotion so the viewers relate. Only the best broadcasters can do it, and I’m determined to be one of the best. “Big city terror ravages the town of Flagstaff, as what is speculated to be the eighth victim in a serial assault on women—”

  “Shyann, you there?”

  I adjust my earpiece at the sound of my producer Trevor’s voice, then speak into my mic. “We’re here.”

  “Leaf, move left. If they bring out the woman on a stretcher, we’ll get a perfect view.” I shuffle into position. “There, good. We don’t have time to interview neighbors, but we’ll do the live feed and then you two get some faces on video. Tears, fear, all the shit that makes a great story.” He clears his throat. “Shyann, straighten your coat. You look like you just rolled out of bed in it.”

  I glare at the camera and at the sound of Trevor’s chuckle, then roll my eyes.

  “No smart-ass retort, honey? I’m shocked.”

  My body heats with embarrassment and anger, which is kind of nice, seeing as we’re headed into the autumn months and my cheesy coat is doing very little to fight off the evening chill.

  Trevor, my semi-boyfriend, loves humiliating me on-screen. He swears it keeps me humble. Says I’m hungrier than most, driven beyond what’s healthy. He also says I’m ruthless and have the emotional capacity of a gnat. Maybe he’s right, but I refuse to see my striving for success as a negative thing.

  “Wake up, Shyann!” Trevor’s voice powers through my earpiece.

  “I’m awake, asshole.” I press it and dip my chin to listen, not wanting to miss a single word of direction.

  “There’s my girl.”

  He’s not a bad guy; matter of fact, he’s a lot like me—motivated to do something big in order to make a name for himself. He’s ambitious and detached from petty things that get in the way of success. Now that I think about it, that’s where our similarities end. “How much time until we’re live?”

  “We’re opening with your story. Tell us the basics, then stand by. We’ll do the local news but pop in as developments unravel.” He clears his throat and mumbles something to someone in the studio. “Be ready in five.”

  I flash five fingers and
then roll one to Leaf and he nods. “In five. We’re ready.”

  “All right, Leaf’s feed, looks like he’s got a good visual of the police and the front door. If we can get them bringing the body bag out, that’s our money shot.”

  “Body bag? The victims in Phoenix all survived the assaults.”

  “I guess she could be alive, but if so, why are they taking so long to get her to the hospital? Either way, the shot’ll be epic if we get it.”

  A fissure of discomfort slithers through my chest at the casual way we deal with death in the news. Sure, on-screen we’re the caring and empathetic news reporter, but inside we’re rejoicing to get a shot of a dead body? No, I push all that shit back and focus.

  “Let’s do this— Whoa!” The heel of my shoe sinks into the ground. I flap my arms for balance and barely recover. The earth is mushier than usual after a couple days of rain, and even though this is one of the more developed neighborhoods in Flag, it’s still a city in the mountains, which means lots of natural ground.

  “You better be all right. We’re on in three.”

  Thanks for the concern, dick. “I’m good.” I put on a mask of professionalism while my skin practically vibrates with nervous energy.

  “Stand by.”

  I take my position, smooth my hair, and focus on my words.

  If all goes well, I’ll get out of this hole-in-hell town and into a bigger market, which is one step closer to anchor. No one just out of college gets this kind of an opportunity. My professors always encouraged me to go for an anchor job, my half–Native American blood making me look just dark enough to be considered a minority but light enough to be desirable. It’s total bullshit, but I don’t make the rules. Can’t hate a girl for taking advantage, though. I have very specific career goals, and if using my ethnicity helps me to get there, so be it.

  My momma always said I was meant for big things. I can still hear her voice in my head: “You’re too big for this world, Shyann.” Said I came out of the womb with goals and never stopped reaching for them. My chest cramps at the pride my momma would feel if she were alive today. She always pushed me to chase my dreams. God, I hope she can see me now.