by Nolon King
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The Bright Lights, Dark Secrets Collection
Nolon King
Contents
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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
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
The Bright Lights, Dark Secrets Collection continues…
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Author’s Note
About the Author
Copyright © 2019 by Sterling & Stone
All rights reserved.
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Chapter One
“I believe in knowing who you are, without ever limiting yourself to an idea of who you have to be.”
Adam felt the corners of his mouth twitch. She had that power, the ability to speak to a part of him that he had no control over. Selena called, and it answered, every time.
Same for the reporter, Isla Porter. Her mouth twitched, too. Then she leaned forward, barely an inch, and said, “You use the word believe. Do you think that critics of your work have a point when they say your theories have no weight because you haven’t been willing to make your research public?”
Another smile, wider this time. “You’re fast. We’re not even four questions in.”
Selena laughed — we’re all friends here — then let the laughter settle before she continued.
“Most people never discover who they were meant to be.”
“Why is that?”
“You’ve heard the story about the man who loses his keys but only looks for them under the streetlight, because that’s where it’s easiest to look?”
“Are you saying we’re all looking in the wrong place?”
“It isn’t your fault. You’re trying so hard to mold yourself into an impossible image that someone else gave you. One that has nothing to do with you, and never will. We have to be brave enough to cast that false image aside and peek into the darkest part of ourselves. Believe that we have the grit to face the demons we fear might be lurking down there.”
Selena leaned back in her seat, satisfied.
But Isla Porter wouldn’t be. She gave Selena another smile, this one patient and ever so slightly patronizing. “You didn’t answer the question.”
She’d swallowed the hook that Selena had baited. Exactly like her agent Sam had coached her to do. The two of them spent weeks in practice interviews, honing sideways answers to every hard question Isla might ask.
Charm the masses and sell your books. The charts sell your show.
And if Selena’s new show took off, she could do whatever she wanted, both with her career and her life.
The pilot was in post-production, and even without seeing a final edit, everyone from producers to executives agreed that the show was going to be huge. Selena had been successful as a clinical psychologist with a full roster of patients, then even more so as a first-time author, where she’d explored some original ideas about the nature of murder and the type of mind capable of ice-cold execution. But her fourth book, How to Murder the Killer Inside You, was the worldwide phenomenon that made Selena a pseudo-celebrity. Less than an hour or so after Killer cracked the NY Times Top 100, she’d been on the phone with Sam, discussing the offers pouring in. CBS won the bidding war on their pitch for a pop psychology show, The Heartbeat of Murder, two days before the book hit number one.
Selena was standing on the bow of her life’s ship, eyes fixed on a well-earned horizon. Even Isla Porter couldn’t hope to throw her.
Adam couldn’t have been prouder.
“It’s key to start with the common denominators. The serial killer cycle has six distinct phases: Aura, Trolling, Wooing, Capture, Murder Totem, and Depression. In the Aura Phase, the lines of reality blur for the killer. This leads to his search for a victim. Wooing follows, the killer inviting his victim to come closer. Then Capture, where the victim is ensnared. The Murder Phase is, obviously, where the killer achieves his emotional climax. The Totem phase precedes Depression. As the thrill of the kill dissipates, the murderer will claim a souvenir, to remind himself of the moment when his fantasy felt most real. Then Depression either leads to the killer killing themselves, or it starts the cycle over.”
Selena looked great. Maybe better than ever. Attention made her glow, and her glimmer aroused him. Adam glanced away from the Selena onscreen to the one sitting beside him on their bedroom couch.
Against the room’s starkness — white walls, white furniture, white carpet — her dark pink lips were irresistible. Dirty blonde hair teased the tops of her naked shoulders, her snowy silk robe having slid further down her arms to reveal soft, salon-bronzed skin. The room’s only rival for his attention was the oil painting over the bed — a blood-red rose, fully bloomed with too many petals to count.
Selena’s smile wasn’t as wide in person, but Adam found it even more arresting. On the television, sitting across from Isla, Selena wore a smart blouse, professional but scooped low in front. It was her natural style and Sam encouraged her to play it up, that people would love it.
They did, and Adam could certainly appreciate what they saw. He loved it, too. But he always preferred the version of Selena that was sitting next to him now. Simple and understated, putting on a show for no one. Her smile could still melt him, but there was something so beautifully honest in her righ
t now that wasn’t present in high-definition.
She said nothing, her eyes glued to the screen. Isla had finally arrived at the question that Selena had been waiting for her to ask.
“Will we ever learn the identity of your Patient X?”
Selena’s laugh was born in Texas and could fill the state. It echoed through their room.
“There is no Patient X. Yes, I’ve based much of the last book on an individual, but that doesn’t mean that this person is unique. There are others like him. And even if my patient was comfortable with divulging his identity, my responsibility here is more than the usual doctor-patient privilege. I won’t endanger his progress for the sake of the public’s curiosity.”
“What about the public’s safety?”
“I understand the desire to know more, so that we may stop future atrocities before they happen, but I strongly feel that the greater danger lies in our throttling the truth.”
“Really, Ms. Nash, don’t you think that—”
Selena muted the TV.
Adam said, “That’s the part that I wanted to hear.”
“You already know what I’m going to say.”
He did. But— “I needed to hear it.”
“You can just watch it later.”
“I wanted us to watch it together.”
Selena looked from the TV to Adam, then back to the screen with a thin-lipped smile she would have never dared to flash on a national broadcast.
But the interview was over. The camera was panning across a long line of crazed fans waiting for Bookmarks the Spot to open, then to footage of a recent signing.
“Sorry. I’ll rewind.”
“It’s fine,” Adam said. “I’ll just see it later. Do you wanna watch something else?”
“You know how much work I have to do.”
“I’m not asking you to watch The Godfather.”
Another smile, but this one looked like she meant it. She aimed the remote and turned on The Thick Red Line, a grisly true crime documentary they’d seen a few times before. It explored the case of Lily Templeton, a twenty-three-year-old barista who disappeared in 2009 without a trace, then turned up two years later in the bloodiest scene that anyone in the small South Dakota county that found her had ever seen. Lily’s father is all over the documentary, and a less-than-reliable-narrator. The film actually showed some of the crime photos. It was the bloodiest real-life setting that Adam had ever seen, at least on TV.
The documentary had started in the middle of the worst of the crime scene, probably from where Adam stopped the last time. He didn’t remember.
Selena nodded at the screen. “There’s no way he did it. They just want us to think he did, because the producers know that makes good TV, and he’s obviously an eccentric.”
Now it was Adam’s turn to smile. He’d heard her theories, not just on this true crime documentary, but on every one they’d watched together in nearly twenty years of marriage. But her passionate explanations were always an aphrodisiac.
“So who do you think did it?” Adam asked, even though he knew. Goosebumps of anticipation made every hair on his body rise up. He loved their games, especially this one.
“It was the guy who delivered milk to the Hill of Beans. They were flirty with each other, and when she stopped flirting back, the relationship changed. He’s charming and fun and far from the top of the suspect list, even though he shouldn’t be.”
“But he’s married,” Adam prodded, so that Selena would get to the next part.
She shot him a coy sideways look. “And I think his wife helped.”
“Why? Why would she help him do something like that?”
Like she always did, Selena fixed her husband with a knowing stare.
But then she said nothing.
He wasn't quite sure if he was excited by Selena taking the game in a new direction, or unsettled that his wife wasn’t playing.
Did that mean she was mad at him, or perhaps tired of the game?
Adam met her eyes, then returned his to the screen, settling into the silence between them to study the crime scene.
It was brutal enough to be beautiful, and so far beyond him.
That she could dip in and out of the mind of the monster who created such carnage — maybe even go deep enough to catch them, or save them — amazed him.
Then she ruined the moment.
“I wonder how many episodes of Heartbeat we’ll have to shoot before I can dig into the Templeton case. They’ll probably want to wait for sweeps. Still, can you—”
“Yes, I can imagine.” They’d talked enough about Selena’s new show and the career possibilities it would open up to last Adam for the rest of the year, if not the decade. She used to talk about him with that same enthusiasm. Not anymore. “You mind if we watch something else?”
The request was barely out of his mouth as Selena stood, clicked the TV off, set the remote on her nightstand, and walked toward their bathroom. At the threshold, she turned back and said, “You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re getting pissy every time I talk about the show.”
“Occasionally I want to enjoy our time together without you thinking about how it fits into your version of world domination.”
She laughed and came back over. Picked his hands up and squeezed them in hers.
“I’m sorry and I love you.” A kiss on the cheek. “No one is more important. But please, it isn’t fair to forget why all of this started. It wasn’t my idea.”
One more kiss, then Selena returned to the bathroom.
Adam stood there thinking, the same seed of a thought he’d been keeping buried for a while, finally cracking its shell and reaching through the soil for light.
No, it wasn’t her idea. But she certainly didn’t need to remind him yet again. Things were only going to get worse.
Once the show was live, there’d be more interviews. More appearances. More book signings.
Less time for him.
He never thought he’d see the day when she’d be bored with him. When she’d forget how much of her success was due to him.
He wondered what she’d think if he told her about the woman with the blood-red lipstick.
Chapter Two
Levi passed the ball to Pussabo, but the asshole was using all four of his eyes to stare into space instead of waiting for the pass.
“Look alive, Pussy!”
“Sorry,” Pussabo said.
He ran after the ball and started awkwardly dribbling on his way back to the basket. But even right underneath it, without anyone to block him, Pussabo missed.
“Wow …” Elliot nodded in adoration, as if he genuinely meant it. “If you were trying to float like a butterfly or sting like a bee or whatever, you totally nailed it.”
“Fuck you, Elliot,” Pussabo said.
Levi ran after the ball, grabbed it, and started dribbling toward the basket.
Swish.
The game wasn’t fun with only three people.
Five was perfect. Two-on-two with a ref. Levi and Dane were perfectly matched. Each claimed one of the feebs — Pussabo, who couldn’t sink a basket if he had a century to aim, and Elliot, who preferred standing around with hands in his pockets and mouth flapping — then Levi’s brother Corban reffed the foursome.
But Corban had been in a mood for a month or so, and Dane was apparently buried in homework.
“Float like a butterfly?” Levi looked at Elliot. “That’s boxing, not basketball. Idiot.”
Elliot shrugged. “I figured since Pussy is already dickless, I should keep all sports with balls out of my insults.”
“How about I keep my balls out of your mother?” Pussabo asked.
“Gross, dude.” Elliot scrunched his nose. “You put your balls up in my mother? I mean, good for you, getting those little Armenian raisins up in there and everything. I’m not really sure what that does for you, though. Your mom likes it from behind, but
she doesn’t have a thing for my balls, and they’re too big to get all up there even if she did.”
Levi laughed.
“Fuck you, Elliot!” Pussabo repeated. Then he added, “And I’m not Armenian!”
Behind Pussabo, Dane nodded at Levi as he walked up the drive.
“What took you so long?” Levi asked.
“The usual. But worse, because physics. What did I miss? Did Pussabo make a basket?” Dane turned around and looked at Pussabo, holding the ball. “Yo, Pussy, you know I love you.”
“I made four.”
“Out of like four hundred,” Elliot added.
“Like twenty, asshole.”
“Whatever, mystery meat.”
“Fuck you, Elliot.” Pussabo aimed and the ball and—
Swish.
“Congratulations.” Dane turned back to Levi. “Mr. Spencer assigned us a packet the size of your ego, and my dad said I couldn’t come over until it was finished, even though it was like five nights’ worth of work. But I was all Yes, sir! Anything you say, sir!”
Levi stood at attention and made the sign: Heil Hitler!
