Cold Dark Places (Cady Maddix Mystery Book 1)
Page 1
PRAISE FOR KYLIE BRANT
“Kylie Brant is destined to become a star!”
—Cindy Gerard, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
“A complex, page-turning mystery plus a heartfelt romance blend into a fast-paced story that kept me reading until the wee hours.”
—Allison Brennan, New York Times bestselling author of Make Them Pay on Deadly Dreams
“Dark and compelling suspense.”
—Anne Frasier, author of The Body Reader
“Pretty Girls Dancing is a complex and character-driven mystery that will keep you turning pages until late at night.”
—Kendra Elliot, Daphne du Maurier Award–winning author of A Merciful Truth
“Pretty Girls Dancing is Kylie Brant at her chilling best as she delivers a compelling thriller with a shocking twist.”
—Loreth Anne White, author of A Dark Lure
ALSO BY KYLIE BRANT
The Circle of Evil Trilogy
Chasing Evil
Touching Evil
Facing Evil
Other Works
Pretty Girls Dancing
Deep as the Dead
What the Dead Know
Secrets of the Dead
11
Waking Nightmare
Waking Evil
Waking the Dead
Deadly Intent
Deadly Dreams
Deadly Sins
Terms of Attraction
Terms of Engagement
Terms of Surrender
The Last Warrior
The Business of Strangers
Close to the Edge
In Sight of the Enemy
Dangerous Deception
Truth or Lies
Entrapment
Alias Smith and Jones
Hard to Tame
Hard to Resist
Born in Secret
Hard to Handle
Undercover Bride
Falling Hard and Fast
Heartbreak Ranch
Undercover Lover
Friday’s Child
Bringing Benjy Home
Guarding Raine
An Irresistible Man
McLain’s Law
Rancher’s Choice
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Kim Bahnsen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542040198 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1542040191 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781503951761 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1503951766 (paperback)
Cover design by Rex Bonomelli
First edition
For Brecken Hayes, whose sweet smiles lift my heart.
CONTENTS
Eryn: Then
Eryn: Now
Ryder
Cady: Two Days Later
Eryn: Then
Eryn: Now
Ryder
Samuel
Cady
Eryn: Then
Eryn: Now
Ryder
Samuel
Cady
Eryn: Then
Eryn: Now
Ryder
Cady
Eryn: Then
Eryn: Now
Ryder
Samuel
Cady
Eryn: Then
Eryn: Now
Ryder
Samuel
Cady
Eryn: Then
Eryn: Now, the Next Evening
Ryder
Samuel
Cady
Eryn: Then
Eryn: Now
Ryder
Cady
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Eryn: Then
Eryn was very quiet. Mama hated to be woke up at night. She was always at her crossest then, her voice sharp, with edges that scraped and burned. And sometimes even when it was morning Mama couldn’t wake up. She was so sleepy Eryn couldn’t shake her hard enough or say her name loud enough to make her open her eyes. Mary Jane always shooed her away then and said Mama needed her sleep. Then she shut the door, and Eryn couldn’t talk to Mama until after lunch.
But lunch was a long time away now. The sky through Mama’s windows was still dark, except for a fat moon and sprinkles of stars. Clutching her sketchpad, Eryn crawled on her hands and knees to the side of the bed, quiet as a mouse. Mama said a big nine-year-old girl didn’t need to be climbing into bed with her. But Eryn could sit here, close. Mama didn’t have to know. The bedcovers were bunched and hanging from the mattress because she always kicked them off. In the mornings, Eryn liked to come and hide in the mound where they curtained to the side. Mama didn’t mind her there then, as long as she didn’t get disturbed until a “decent hour.”
Eryn hadn’t been able to fall asleep tonight. There was a racket in her head, the noises ping-ponging until she had to move, had to shake them loose. When she’d first slipped from bed, she’d whirled and spun and skipped around her room until the twitchiness in her arms and legs had gone away. Then she could concentrate. She’d already finished two drawings tonight. But this one would be better. It’d be the greatest thing she’d ever done. Mama framed Eryn’s best works and hung them on the wall. But only if they were perfect.
Eryn burrowed into the draping sheet and comforter. Soft pleats of fabric tented around her, but she could still peek out. She laid her sketchpad on the rug in the slant of moonlight. When a wet gurgle disturbed her, she tucked her head down to focus. Then there was only the cool sheet brushing her bare shoulder and the ticking of the clock as she wielded the pencil in her hand on paper. Shapes took form beneath it, transferring from her mind to the sketchpad with barely a hint of thought between the action and the result. The hours always danced by when she sketched. At night Eryn drew what she pleased, but she’d learned not to draw the dark images that sometimes filled her head. Those sketches made grown-ups whisper in hushed voices. Mama would get little lines between her eyes and look at Eryn in a way that made her ashamed and afraid. So now Eryn drew castles and dragons and beautiful princesses trapped in a tower. Adults didn’t get upset over pictures of castles.
Eryn didn’t go to school anymore because Mama said they didn’t spend enough time on the arts. But Eryn knew it had more to do with the phone calls from school and the long meetings with her teachers and principal. Uncle Bill said Mama always left those meetings in “high dudgeon.” After first grade, Eryn was homeschooled, which meant she was often alone doing lessons on the computer. Mama taught art class, though. Eryn liked those times most of all, when she had Mama to herself, even when she insisted Eryn stretch her artistic wings and learn more difficult drawing and painting techniques.
The wind moaned quietly outside the windows, and a floorboard creaked from the weight of the ghosts living here. Eryn had once asked Mama if Pullman Estate was haunted. She’d given an ugly laugh and said only by misfortune and broken dreams. Eryn wasn’t sure what the words had meant but decided maybe it wasn’t just people who could be ghosts.
&nb
sp; She set her pencil down and tilted the pad up to study it. The drawing was good. More than good. Maybe the best she’d ever done. Sometimes the image would be so vivid in her mind, but what flowed from her fingers lacked the life and detail of the picture in her head. Not this time. The curve of the turrets was shadowed just right, and she could almost feel the cool, damp stones of the castle’s facade. Maybe she’d show this one to Mama, even if she didn’t like Eryn drawing the same thing all the time.
“Eryn!”
She jumped a little at the harsh whisper. Had she woken Mama? She pulled aside the draping bedcovers to look out. There was a shadowy figure standing at the end of the bed. It took a second to recognize Uncle Bill in the shadows there. He was talking, but his words sailed by her as they often did when she was caught up in her own world. He looked so funny! She pressed her hand against her mouth to stifle a giggle. With his hair all a muss and horror on his face, he resembled a silly cartoon character who’d stuck his finger in a light socket. His face was so white it stood out in the shadows like the glow from her night-light. Maybe he’d seen one of the ghosts living here.
Then he moved away, and she picked up her pencil again to do some more shading. If she was going to show this to Mama, she had to get every bit right. Just exactly right.
“Oh my God, oh my God! What have you done now, you fucking little freak?”
Eryn frowned. Grown-ups weren’t supposed to swear, but sometimes Uncle Bill did when he was mad, like he got when Mama sang the funny little rhyme to him. Silly Billy had a thrilly ’cuz he couldn’t control his willy. The tune drifted across her mind, and she hummed it under her breath. It always made Uncle Bill much madder when Mama sang it, and she’d do it over and over again until he stomped from the room.
She hummed as she sketched rapidly. Almost perfect now. Just a little more . . .
“I said, get up, Eryn. For God sakes, come away from there.”
She frowned as she tried to tug away from the hard hand on her arm, but he yanked her to her feet and pulled her toward him. Then he let her go so suddenly she dropped back down on the floor hard enough to make her butt smart. “Put it down. Eryn! Put down that knife!”
Such a silly Billy. She scrabbled over to the sketchpad he’d made her drop so she could finish her picture. But when she raised her hand, there was no pencil in it. Only a knife dripping slow, fat drops onto the sketch, melting together to form a soggy puddle. They were ruining her drawing! She reached back to pull the sheet from the bed to wipe at the sketch. But the drips were coming faster now, a river of blood, like someone had turned on a faucet. The picture was ruined. It was wrecked forever, and Eryn began to sob in frustration.
She knew when things were ruined they could never be put right again. Not ever.
Eryn: Now
The brilliant sheen of the hallway tiles reflected a wavering image of Eryn as she stared down at them. She’d once thought if she stared closely enough she could see what Uncle Bill said the doctors were paid to discover: the inner workings of her mind. Sometimes when the receptionist would come to lead her into Dr. Glassman’s office, she’d find Eryn lying still on the tiles, peering closely at her reflection, fiercely summoning the insight that would explain the hollow echoes and dark tangles in her head. It’d been months before the doctor had convinced her the self-awareness she craved would only result from their sessions. She’d been here for most of eleven years, seven months, and sixteen days. And on the date of her twenty-first birthday, she feared enlightenment continued to elude her.
Click click click. Slowly she raised her gaze. Saw the PR woman guiding a couple down the hallway toward her, the sound of high heels tapping against the tiles like a frantic Morse code signal. It was another moment before the woman’s muted tones finally made their way into Eryn’s consciousness. One thing she’d perfected during her time here was blocking out voices.
“And this is the professional wing of our adult ward. Rolling Acres Resort employs only the most highly qualified board-certified caregivers. We’re quite proud of our long-term . . .” The woman caught Eryn’s eye then and halted her spiel for a moment. In the next instant, she recovered and smoothly pivoted, motioning toward the nearest of the picture windows lining the area. “As I’m sure you saw on your drive here, Rolling Acres Resort is a jewel nestled in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains. Our property is truly spectacular, the scenery a healing element. If you come with me, I’ll show you brochures of the grounds and gardens in full bloom, and I’m sure you’ll agree . . .”
Eryn watched them go, amused. Allowing prospective clients to come face-to-face with the crazies on their first visit to the place could leave a very bad impression. Not at all suitable for a high-end mental health facility priding itself on its discretion and security.
The door to the doctor’s outer office opened. “Eryn.” A smile wreathed Mrs. Becker’s face. “You may join the others now.”
The others. Her amusement vanished as a boulder lodged in her throat. Another settled on her chest. For a moment, she considered running shrieking down the halls, demanding to be taken back to her room. Maybe even letting loose the panicked screams scrabbling and surging inside her, until personnel came running with the leathers and chemical restraints. She’d only experienced them twice since she’d been here, but for a moment the yearning for the blissful chemical calm was so strong she trembled with the need for it.
“You don’t want to keep them waiting.” Mrs. Becker’s voice was still pleasant, but the hint of firmness in it had Eryn rising from her seat against the wall, walking obediently through the open doorway to Dr. Glassman’s office.
But it didn’t belong to Dr. Glassman anymore. She was still slightly shocked each time she saw the door with his name removed from the glass and replaced with Dr. Steigel’s. To see a young bearded doctor rise to greet her instead of the grandfatherly man who’d treated her for over a decade.
“Eryn.” He sent her a grave smile as she entered and waved her to a chair next to the couch where Uncle Bill and his wife, Rosalyn, sat. “It’s your big day. How do you feel?”
“Ready.” The word was meant to allay the worry in Uncle Bill’s expression and lurking behind Rosalyn’s overly bright smile. Any doubt expressed would do nothing to alter the outcome, and the couple appeared to have more than enough doubts of their own.
“You and I already went over all the particulars yesterday, and I just filled in your uncle and aunt. As we discussed, I’ll give you a couple days to get settled in. You have an appointment Wednesday with Dr. Ashland, who will be taking over your care.” To the couple he said, “Eryn and I met with her new therapist last week.”
All eyes seemed to turn in her direction. For a moment, Eryn’s mind blanked, the way it did when she had to sort through which societal expectation was appropriate. Dr. Glassman’s frequent reminder drifted into her mind. When in doubt, smile. She did so now, coupling it with a grave tone. “Yes. She seems very nice.” The inanity seemed to reassure the other three, and Dr. Steigel nodded slightly, as if she’d passed a test of some sort.
“Your uncle has taken your suitcases to the car,” the man went on, “and the rest of your personal belongings are being packed up. They should be delivered this evening.”
Her heart clutched. “My paintings and sketchpads.”
Dr. Steigel nodded soberly. “I’ll leave word they’re to be handled with extra care.”
Eryn’s palms went damp at the thought of strangers touching her work. Perhaps idly flipping through them. “I’ll take them with me now.”
“The vehicle will be packed full already, Eryn.” Uncle Bill’s tone bordered on impatient. He seemed to realize it and tempered his next words with humor. “Your clothing and personal items will take up most of the space. We’ve left room for you, though, don’t worry.”
“Maybe I can stay and ride with the driver bringing my artwork.” Eryn directed the suggestion to the doctor without much hope. He’d only been on staff a few mon
ths, and they really didn’t have a rapport. Because she refused to let him in, he’d admonished her from time to time. There’s room for more than one relationship in your life, Eryn. Establishing trust with me is not a violation of your friendship with Dr. Glassman.
“Oh, surely there’s a teensy bit of space.” Rosalyn’s voice suited her exactly. Bright and perky, with a gloss of cheer that often failed to hide the hint of concern in her eyes when she looked at Eryn. “Maybe you could pick out your favorite to bring with you.”
She bit back a retort. Pick out her favorite. As if she were being allowed to bring a cherished stuffed animal on a family trip. Anxiety began to clutch and squeeze in her chest.
“Well, Eryn,” Dr. Steigel prodded. “We seem to have reached an acceptable compromise, haven’t we?”
Compromise. The inflection he gave the word was a veiled reference to their sessions for the last several weeks. They’d focused on strategies necessary for her successful transition home. Ways to defuse any family conflicts as they arose. Plans for quelling the paranoia and depression stress could summon. She needed no reminders that her previous attempts at transitioning from the facility had resulted in miserable failure.
“It’s fine.” She shoved the burgeoning anxiety aside. “Tonight will be soon enough.” The room seemed to exhale with a collective sigh of relief. Crisis averted. The crazy wouldn’t be having a meltdown. Not yet, anyway.
“Are you sure, honey?” Rosalyn leaned over to pat her knee. “’Cuz we can surely fit in one or two. This is your special day, after all.”
This time the smile was a bit harder to summon. A stretch of the lips, parted just a bit to avoid the look of a grimace. To look genuine, it was important to crinkle the eyes slightly too. It was just one of the social norms that didn’t come naturally, and one she’d spent years practicing. Although she still didn’t understand why she was expected to smile when she wasn’t feeling particularly happy. She and Dr. Glassman had spent quite a bit of time on acceptable standards of behavior.
“Well, as long as you’re certain.” Rosalyn gave her a final pat before withdrawing her hand. “It’s fine, then.”