by Violet Paige
Sounds Like Obsession
Sounds Like Series
Violet Paige
Copyright © 2018 by Violet Paige
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Keep in touch with Violet
Prologue
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
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
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Prologue
His fingers curled around mine. Tight and strong as if he was offering to let me siphon his strength. If we could hold on a little longer this would be over.
Over.
It was a word that had fractured us before. Now, it was more threatening and severe. A finality I hadn’t been willing to face. Not when he slipped out of my life. Not when darkness consumed me. Not when I struggled to carry on. Not when everything barricaded my next step.
He squeezed again. I looked down at the way our fingers threaded through each other’s. It was as if they belonged that way, tangled and meshed. As if they fit together. As if they had never held any other hands but these.
Maybe he clasped with such a fierce grip to siphon my strength. He needed me as deeply as I always had needed him.
Was that our connection? Had it always been? Was it give and take? Need ingrained with want? Or something so consuming we drained each other?
The suitcases and crates rattled across from us. We were wedged in a corner. Our backs against the metal cavern. Our feet tucked under us in an awkward position. I was grateful I wasn’t alone, but I didn’t want it to be like this.
I lifted my eyes to AJ.
There was no explanation for why he was here now. For how we had collided in this cruel joke. It almost didn’t matter. I had gotten past the shock. Enough to realize we weren’t going to have a happy ending.
“I’m sorry, Syd.” The words sounded bitter and full of regret.
I nodded. I didn’t think I could put it into a sentence. “I know,” I whispered. “I know.”
“I should have told you sooner. I should have—”
I stopped him. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“If only I had—”
“No,” I snapped. “Just no.”
“I haven’t given up,” he replied.
“And if I have?”
The only light came from a crack under the door. Our ankles were bound with zip ties. Any movement and they pinched together, cutting into my tender skin. The blood had seeped through my jeans. A few droplets oozed into my shoe.
My head pounded. The cut over AJ’s left eye looked vicious. He needed stitches. I knew the skin over his brow was thin, and the bleeding was naturally worse in that area, but it looked like something out of slasher film. For the time being it had crusted over enough to keep the blood from running into his eye.
That was how I was measuring our wins down here. The breaths I could still take. The beats my heart could still make. The pain my body still felt.
Pain was good.
Pain meant we hadn’t died.
Yet.
Chapter One
Twenty-four hours ago
My eyes opened, and for a second I forgot where I was. It was my third trip in less than two months. I stared at the ceiling. It was nondescript and bland like all the other hotels. I closed my eyes again. Dallas. I was in Dallas.
The twinge of pain at my temple reminded me of the two margaritas I’d drank last night at the hotel’s boutique bar.
The air conditioning hummed. The room was dark, but I had adjusted to the lack of light enough to identity my surroundings. Sometime during the night I had turned off the TV. I’d fallen asleep watching one of the late shows. The remote still rested on my chest.
My eyes traveled along the seams where the ceiling met the wall and floated downward. I sat upright when I saw a bulge in the drapes. A wide awkward mass that was planted inside. The remote hit the floor with a clunky thump. My hands immediately went to my throat. I tried to say something, but the words were trapped. It was like one of those sleep paralysis dreams where I couldn’t move, but this time I knew I was fully awake. My mouth was already dry.
The curtain fluttered and the fear spiked in my veins once more before I could exhale. The panic was replaced by inner embarrassment. A ripple of shame. What was wrong with me?
It was only the airflow billowing the drapes into a 3D shape. A shape that looked less like a man and more like curtains once I stopped to study it.
I turned on the lamp next to the bed. I hadn’t relaxed completely. It was absurd to think someone was hiding in my hotel room. I had been on edge the entire trip. I couldn’t sleep.
I was a night owl by nature, but lately it had felt like a full-blown case of insomnia. It was far worse than catching my second wind at midnight and struggling to wind down. I couldn’t sleep, and when I did I had chilling dreams. Dreams that seemed to linger in the room when I awakened.
Trying to dampen the insomnia with a few margaritas hadn’t worked either. And truthfully, I wasn’t entirely sure that it hadn’t made it worse. I blamed the tequila for a fitful sleep. That and the email I’d received when I touched down in Dallas. It had been six months since one had popped up in my inbox.
Long enough for me to almost forget they existed. Almost.
I shuffled out of bed and walked to the bathroom. It was past ten. Too late to order breakfast room service. I wasn’t in the mood to order off the lunch menu. I would have to pick up coffee on my way out. I thought I remembered seeing a gourmet coffee bar near the reservation desk in the lobby when I checked in last night.
I pulled my long auburn hair into a bun on top of my head before brushing my teeth. By the time I showered and dressed it was close to eleven. I wiggled into a pair of jeans and pulled on a fitted tank top. Even though summer was over, there was still a trace of my summer tan on the tops of my shoulders.
I checked over my equipment one more time and repacked it in its case. Each piece had been charged overnight. The settings were configured. All I had to do when I reached my destination was hit record.
That was probably the most paralyzing and yet freeing part of the project. Once I tapped the record button, everything became real. There was no denying the truth. It
was something I had grappled with for six months. When someone told me their story. Revealed their part of the puzzle, I couldn’t undo that. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know just a little bit more. That I understood things a little deeper. That I was one step closer to the truth.
I heaved the bag over my shoulder and let the door close behind me. The key was tucked in my purse. It was ornate and heavy. A custom relic leftover from the hotel’s history.
I walked toward the elevator, thinking about my interview today. In some ways I felt as if I knew what I was doing. Like I was a pro at asking questions and hunting down clues. After all, I had a made a living doing just that. Only, it had been in the secret underbelly of the dark net. A place I swore I’d never visit again.
But each time, I faced more uncertainty. More questions than answers. More doubt. Less hope.
My neck turned when I heard another door in the corridor open. When I looked, there were only closed doors. God, I was still paranoid from the dream. There was no one there. It was likely there never had been.
I walked between the elevator doors as they retracted.
There was one name on my list today. Ethan Howard.
I knew he was forty-eight and single with two divorces under his belt. There were no kids that I knew of. He worked at a metal plant nearby. He was a Cowboys fan and a weekend hunter. It was easy to put together a small profile from his social media, but he didn’t post often. Just enough to stay relevant. Just enough for me to know a few things about him.
So far I hadn’t been able to make contact with him. He never answered the cell I had dug up for him. He didn’t respond to emails. I restricted myself to certain channels. I was reformed. No more hacking. No more stealing information. I stayed on course, even when it went against all my instincts.
I knew there was an easier way. Staying off the back channels of the net for a hacker was like an alcoholic staying away from the mini-bar in the hotel. I ignored the twitch in my fingers every time I went online. I wanted my story to be authentic. I wanted to prove I was worthy of the truth. I couldn’t do that if I stole the answers.
I had parked the rental car in the private garage adjacent to the hotel. Parking in downtown Dallas was scarce. I could Uber or use a car service, but I liked having my own car, even when I didn’t know my way around the city.
After a few minutes the car was cool and I was headed toward Arlington. The address I had for Ethan was only fifteen minutes out.
When I pulled in the driveway I did what I always did. I pushed out the hope. I squeezed it far down until it wasn’t there anymore. I trained myself to stop having expectations. I trained to stay objective, even though this was the most personal assignment of my life.
I stepped out of the car and reached for the microphone and recorder. It was my traveling set. Light. Compact. Simple.
I cleared my throat before I flipped the switch to on.
Chapter Two
I observed my surroundings before I started speaking into the microphone. I knew I had to paint a picture for my listeners. Every stop along the way had to be tangible to them. It needed to resonate in a way that was only possible if I took a deep breath and looked at where I was from the eyes of a listener.
I learned when I played my first two interviews back that I hadn’t exactly nailed it. Storytelling didn’t come naturally to me. Hacking did. Digging into the recesses of the dark was easier than standing in the light. Being visible and transparent was a raw and vulnerable feeling. But this was the new me. The one who pushed myself to be authentic. The girl who didn’t live in the shadows any longer.
I prayed Ethan was home for this. Without him, I didn’t have a full episode. Worse than that, I wouldn’t have answers.
I pressed the record button.
“Hey, everyone it’s Sydney. I’m in Dallas, Texas. Last time, we were in Phoenix where I learned that my mom was friends with a man on her hall named Ethan Howard. Right now I’m outside Ethan’s house. It’s a one-story ranch. Light bricks, almost an orange hue. It’s Saturday so I hope I can catch him at home. I haven’t been able to set up an appointment with him, so I should let all of you know he’s going to be surprised.
“I don’t know much about him. I’m not sure how close he was to my mom, but he lived on her floor when she was pregnant. Ethan might be able to tell me something. Let’s see how this goes.”
I let the recorder continue to run as I walked along the sidewalk. Weeds struggled to grow through the cracks. The flower bed was covered in rocks instead of mulch. The summer had been brutal here. Most things looked crisp and brown, but not from a natural change of seasons. It was like someone had seared the tips of the leaves with a match.
I knocked on the door and waited. It was tempting to note every movement into the mic, but I knew when I got the audio back, I’d be able to edit out the long gaps in action. I didn’t know what to expect from my conversation with Ethan. This could be everything or nothing.
So far I had enough material for four podcast episodes. None of them were live yet. I wanted a full picture before I finished editing. This was my story. My journey. I couldn’t drop pieces like bread crumbs on the airwaves until I knew the outcome. There was a lot of post-production editing ahead of me.
I tipped a little closer to the door, listening for movement inside. I knocked again, waiting for Ethan to answer.
I gave up on the front door and walked around to the side of the house. There was a small stoop that led to a screen door. The screen was open.
“Hello?” I called through the screen. “Ethan?”
“Yep. Who’s asking?”
My stomach flipped. He was home after all.
“You’re here. I didn’t think you were home.”
I jumped when a dog barked. His shaggy white fur covered his eyes. He growled at the door.
“Who’s asking for me?” He looked over his shoulder. “Stop it, Max.”
I only saw his shadow through the screen door. From this angle, he looked large and looming. I felt smaller than my 5’8” frame and a little off-balance in my high boots.
“Hi. I’m Sydney Miller.” I smiled.
As he approached the door, his face came into focus. He had a receding hairline and deep creases around his eyes, as if he spent a lot of time outside. I’d already assessed he didn’t spend it taking care of his yard. I knew he used to be an athlete, but now it looked like he drank beer mostly. His stomach was paunchy.
“Are you selling something?” he asked. “It’s not Girl Scout cookie time already, is it? I don’t need cookies.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m not a Girl Scout.”
“I don’t want anything political. Just pass on by if that’s what it is, darlin’.” He placed his hand on the door knob.
“No. No. It’s nothing like that. Actually, Ethan I’m here to try to find my parents.”
He pulled back as if the handle was on fire. “Oh no. I’m not your daddy.” Max barked again. He must have sensed his owner was upset.
“I know.” I stopped. “Can I come in and talk for a little bit? I wanted to ask you about a girl you went to college with. Someone I think might be my birth mother. I think you could help me.”
His eyes bulged. “I don’t know. Isn’t there someone who does this kind of thing for you? An investigator?”
I lifted the recorder. “I’d rather not hire someone. I want to do this on my own.” It was hard to explain to someone in the span of five seconds why I had to do this. Why it was so important to me. Why it had wound its way inside my being. “I’m recording my story. It’s a podcast that I hope will help other people like me looking for answers about where they came from. I’d love to talk to you about it. About her. Please. Just a few minutes.”
He looked over his shoulder, but I didn’t think it was to silence Max. I wondered if there was someone else in the house.
“Who do you want to ask me about? I might not even know this girl. You might have the wrong person. I might
not be able to help you, darlin’.”
“Penny Neworth,” I answered.
It had happened before. And until I found her, I knew it would continue to happen. Something in my gut told me this wouldn’t be the last time.
Ethan Howard slammed the door in my face and turned the lock.
Chapter Three
I waited until after dinner before I knocked on Ethan Howard’s door again. I ate at a diner near the hotel, nibbled half a grilled chicken sandwich and sipped a Diet Coke, waiting for enough time to pass before I headed back to his house. The sun had started to set, and the air was a few degrees cooler.
I had flown from Washington D.C. to Dallas for the weekend to interview him. I couldn’t walk away just because I’d had one door slammed in my face. I hadn’t given up when I traveled to the suburbs of Chicago, or during the trip to Charleston. That’s how I got Ethan’s name in the first place.
It took perseverance and a little persuasion. This was my journey. My story to tell. However long it took to tell it.
It would have been easier if my birth mother had gone to college in the age of the Internet, but she was at in college before the age of email. Recovering digital records of students, roommates, and hallmates wasn’t an option. They might as well have been erased from the web. Almost non-existent. There hadn’t been any social media in 1990. There had been no chatrooms or web pages. Back then, they didn’t have email on campus or even computers in their dorm rooms. I was on a true hunt for a needle in a haystack. But I knew she was out there somewhere. So was my father. I had parents. Everyone did. Mine just seemed to be harder to find.
