Kill Me If You Can

by Nicole Young

  My arm throbbed. I covered the bloodstained bandage with my hand. The warmth of my palm soothed it for a moment.

  A rescue worker saw me, her eyes squinched with concern. She put a finger in the air as if to say, I’ll be with you in a minute. Then she turned back to the blanket-covered body on the lawn.

  I wandered through the yard like a Night of the Living Dead costar. My heart was missing from my chest. My brain was numb.

  There was nothing here for me now.

  What had Brad said? Go to Del Gloria—a safe place to land. But I didn’t care about safety anymore. It would have been merciful if the bullet had shot me through the heart instead of my arm.

  Now all I cared about was getting away from here . . . away from the days of mourning that lay ahead. Sam could have her place next to Brad’s coffin. She was his sister. His blood. And who was I? Not a wife. Not even a fiancée. Just a friend.

  I didn’t want to be here when my loss would become reality. Then, Cupid’s Creek, my woods, my living room, all would become reminders. Reminders of this moment. This nightmare.

  But if I went to Del Gloria . . . I could forget. There were no markers to jog my memory. Only strangers and strange surroundings. No Brad. No death. No grief in my wretched heart.

  Fingers sticky with blood, I reached in my pocket and pulled out the note Brad had given me.

  Denton Braddock, he’d written. A mentor. A quiet, obscure life for me. I half-smiled, recalling the anger I’d felt when Brad first told me about this Denton guy. But now—

  The pain in my arm flared. Ahead was Brad’s SUV. The door hung open and the keys were still in the ignition, as if he’d just stepped out for a moment.

  I got behind the wheel, and hesitated. My driver’s license. My cell phone. My checkbook. I should get them.

  My foot flinched, ready to make a move.

  No.

  Ties to the past. Ties to my sorrow. That’s all those things were. I didn’t want them along. The debit card still in my back pocket from last night’s fill-up was all I’d take with me.

  A slam of the door. A turn of the key. The engine rumbled and I pulled ahead, past the array of emergency vehicles.

  In a minute I was at the end of the driveway. Then at US-2.

  I turned west. Toward Del Gloria.

  With a glance at the speedometer, I set the cruise. The melodic sound of the wheels on blacktop seemed to lessen the pain in my arm. Scenery whooshed past. A soothing calm gushed through my mind. I relaxed against the leather and let all thoughts drain away.

  A few more miles, and my time with Brad would be just a dream.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Vern Annelin for his arson expertise and great stories from his years as a rescue worker.

  Thanks to Ray and Kathy Young for their help with EMT details in the final scene.

  Thanks to Vicki, Barb, and Kristin for their patience and inspiration during the editing process.

  A Sneak Peek

  BOOK 3

  Kiss Me

  If You Dare

  A PATRICIA AMBLE MYSTERY

  1

  In the sweep of the headlights, the house on the hill looked like a gaudy mansion dating from California’s gold rush era. Exhilaration surged through me. Digging my teeth into this place would make the perfect distraction. I could imagine the view of the mighty Pacific I’d have in the morning from windows overlooking the cliffs. And the thought of crumbling plaster around the panes actually got my blood pumping.

  Chunks of heaving cement led to an old-fashioned carport at one side of the home. The vehicle pulled behind an older model Honda and stopped.

  The driver cut the engine and touched my arm. “Miss Rigg’s appearance may be disquieting, but she’s here to help where she can. Please don’t undermine her desire.” He held my gaze for an extra beat, an Einstein look-alike with his shaggy white hair and Coke-bottle glasses. The lab-coat look with mix-n-match clothes beneath screamed “permanently out to lunch.” He got out of the vehicle and disappeared inside.

  Relief swept over me with his departure. We’d been cooped up in the car together on and off for the past seventy-two hours. And while Professor Denton Braddock obviously meant well with his endless stream of words to the wise, I felt like a four-year-old trapped in a Mr. Rogers episode.

  A blast of pain shot up my arm. The moist ocean air with its tinge of salt seemed to add to the agony. I rubbed at the wrap that extended from elbow to shoulder, ready for another painkiller. I grabbed at the handle with my good arm and opened the car door.

  A single bulb dangled above me in the weathered porch area. Shadows shrank and grew as the stiff breeze sent the light scuttling. I shivered, though the early summer evening was balmy.

  I stared at the entry to my newest renovation project and sighed. I hadn’t planned this. Fixing up houses and selling them for a profit had been my living for much of the past decade. But I’d decided to make the log cabin back in the deep woods of Michigan my final project. I’d been ready to settle down. Thanks to the redneck mafia, I now had to live with Plan B.

  Ahead, warped steps led up to a screen door and into the house. I put a foot on the bottom tread. This was the first time I’d arrived at a renovation empty-handed. No cot. No sleeping bag. No coffeemaker. No tools. No Goodwill bargains. No identification.

  Just the clothes on my back. I even had to go under another name while I hid out in Del Gloria. No more Patricia Louise Amble, the name on my birth certificate. I was now Alisha Marie Braddock, the professor’s supposed niece visiting from Galveston.

  “Why Galveston?” I’d asked him somewhere between Minnesota and Wyoming.

  “I like how it sounds.”

  “I’ve never been to Galveston,” I said.

  “Then you can’t give any details about your previous life, can you?”

  I hated his answer. I’d once walked away from great romantic possibilities in order to dig into my past. It hadn’t felt right starting a relationship when I couldn’t give an intelligent account of my ancestry. According to Denton, I was now supposed to brush off any questions that would give clues to my identity.

  I scuffed across the porch and through the screen door. It slammed behind me.

  Beyond an entryway, I found the kitchen, tall and narrow with cupboards stretching beyond human reach along two walls. A library ladder would have been at home in the galley layout.

  Far overhead, two bulbs cast a dim light on the room. The cream-colored walls seemed in perfect condition. The finish on the dark cabinetry shone to a high gloss, without a fingerprint in sight. I ran my hand along the cool stone countertop. Though clearly a replacement, the flawless surface looked original to the home. All in all, a remarkable restoration job.

  I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter. When Brad set me up with this hideout, he’d assured me that Denton was offering food and shelter in exchange for my restoration skills. I could only assume the rest of the house was barely livable.

  The thought of Brad delivered a new dose of pain, starting at my heart and radiating to every limb.

  A door swung open at one end of the kitchen.

  “Welcome, Miss Braddock,” said a woman’s voice.

  Remembering my name change, I stood to attention at the brisk Irish accent.

  “Do you need help with your bags or can you get them yourself?” The speaker shuffled into the light. She was a tiny woman wearing a black cotton dress over black socks and black sneakers. White legs poked out beneath her hem with each step. As she drew closer, I realized her small stature was due to a curved spine. The hump on her back rose almost as high as the top of her head.

  Miss Rigg, I deduced. I tried not to stare. “No. I’m fine. I have no bags.”

  “Then what about food? You must be hungry.”

  I focused my mind on my stomach. It growled on cue. “Food would be great. Thanks.”

  The words seemed to trip a switch. The woman moved with purpose to the stove a
nd lifted the lid on an oversize pot. “Beef stew. The professor’s favorite.”

  Steam billowed as she stirred. The succulent scent of juicy tomatoes and spice filled the air.

  “Mmmm. Smells delicious.” I liked the thought of a built-in cook during my stay in Del Gloria.

  She plopped the lid back and retrieved a stepping stool from a corner of the kitchen. She set it down near the sink and pulled open a cabinet. Even with the added height, she still struggled to reach the bowls. At her grunt, I intervened.

  “Here. Let me help with those.” I was a tall woman, a feature that came in handy in the restoration business. Those hard-to-reach corners came easy for me. Long arms, long neck, long legs . . . I resembled either a supermodel or an ostrich.

  The fingers of my good arm barely touched the smooth ceramic bowls before Miss Rigg swatted me away.

  “Don’t you be interfering in my kitchen.” Her voice rose to shrill peaks. “It’s bad enough the professor agreed to take you in. Barely through the door and you think you own the place.” Gray hair in a bun shook loose with her anger. “Well, you don’t own it yet. Relation or not, you’ll not be taking my place in this house.”

  I recoiled at her words. “I’m sorry. I just meant to help. And please, don’t worry about me. I’m not really—”

  The far door swung open.

  “Alisha.”

  Professor Braddock strode in. For a moment he seemed strong and decisive, not the awkward nerd-type I’d ridden here with.

  He took me by the arm. I winced at the pressure on my bandage.

  “I’m showing Alisha to her room. She can help herself to stew later.” Denton led me out of the kitchen. We stopped just outside the door.

  He turned me toward him, showing no mercy to my wound. “You must heed my words, Patricia. You will not survive if anyone suspects you are not who I say you are.”

  I shook off his grip. “Sorry.” I cradled my arm. “She got so defensive. I didn’t want her thinking I was here permanently.”

  “Perhaps you are here permanently. We won’t know for some time.” His lips pursed under a bushy moustache. “I warned you about Miss Rigg. I specifically asked you not to help her.”

  I thought back to his parting words in the car and couldn’t remember him saying anything along those lines. “I had no idea she’d be so offended. I was just trying to help.”

  “Now you know. Don’t help.”

  I stared at a mole on his cheek. Denton certainly offered asylum—as in loony bin, not sanctuary. What had Brad been thinking? When I found the body in my basement two projects ago, the killer had been behind bars within six months. Could I last around here for six months?

  I sighed and followed Denton. It wasn’t as if I had a choice.

  Nicole Young resides in Garden, Michigan, with her children, cats, and tiny Yorkie. Home renovation is a way of life for the author whose first project was converting a Victorian in lower Michigan into a thriving bed & breakfast. She returned to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula in 2001, where she owns and upkeeps vacation rental homes. Nicole plays fiddle and sings with two local bands and enjoys horseback riding on the beautiful Garden Peninsula.

  Books by Nicole Young

  Patricia Amble Mystery series

  Love Me If You Must

  Kill Me If You Can

  Kiss Me If You Dare

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  Acknowledgments

  A Sneak Peek: Book 3

  About the Author

  Other Books by Author

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