by ML Guida
Betrayal
Angels of Death
ML Guida
Buffalo Mountain Press
Copyright © 2016 by ML Guida
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.
Created with Vellum
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by ML Guida
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1
Heather stared at the wreathe of red roses with the Beloved Sister ribbon that lay draped across her sister’s coffin. Red roses had been Rosemary’s favorite flower.
“We ask you, dear Lord, to deliver Rosemary’s soul into your hands.”
Father David McCarthy’s soft words did nothing to ease the pain squatting in Heather’s breaking heart. Tears stung her eyes, but she didn’t break down. She’d be strong for Rosemary.
Gray clouds grumbled and lightning flashed over Mount Olivet Cemetery. Heavy rain and wind whipped the salt and pepper hair across Father David’s forehead. He sprinkled holy water onto the black shiny coffin. “Our Father who art in heaven...”
Heather recited the Lord’s Prayer, but the words failed to warm the cold fracturing her heart. She closed her eyes tightly and hoped Rosemary was finally at peace. The wind and rain grew stronger. She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, hugging her black wool coat. Her aunt Sherry said that a rainstorm at a funeral meant angels wept. Were angels sad Rosemary died, or did they even care?
It had been a closed coffin. The mortician couldn’t repair the damage the bus had done to her beloved sister’s face. She hoped Rodriquez had been right and Rosemary had died instantly, that she hadn’t withered in agony alone on the dark pavement, gasping until her last breath. Heather should have been there to hold Rosemary’s hand as she passed onto the next life. Emptiness sank into Heather’s stomach and numbness spread to her limbs. Rain splashed onto Heather’s cheeks, mixing with her tears.
Father lowered his stretched out hands. “Amen.” He walked to Heather and clasped her trembling hands. “She’s at peace now.”
She inhaled the smell of amber and citrus—her father’s favorite cologne. Her empty stomach revolted, and she swallowed bile. Luckily, she hadn’t eaten anything, or she would have spewed all over Father McCarthy’s neat black cassock. She forced herself to murmur, “Thank you, Father.”
She loathed that scent. Her father practically drowned himself in it. She’d smelled the cologne before opening her and Rosemary’s door. He’d force seven-year-old Rosemary to pleasure him, while Heather hid under the covers, clutching her teddy bear. She prayed her father wouldn’t come for her. She hated herself for it. She’d been a coward, a traitor.
She cleared her throat. “Father?”
“Yes, my child?”
“Thank you for coming to the morgue and performing the last rites.”
He patted her hands. “Of course.”
Father McCarthy was a tall, broad shouldered man, but unlike her father, he was one of the kindest men she’d ever known. But did he have to wear that ghastly cologne?
He squeezed her shoulders. “If you need anything, please do not hesitate to call.”
“I won’t.”
He moved down the line to console her Aunt Sherry and cousins.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Heather?”
Heather turned. Her best friend, Susan, looked at her with concern. Her usual perfect eyeliner and mascara were smeared and she looked like a masked bandit. “Are you okay?”
“The truth? No.”
Susan rubbed her back. “I’m so sorry.”
Heather faced the coffin. Susan didn’t realize how lucky she was to be so close to her young sister. Both blue-eyed blondes, they practically looked like twins. They’d finish each other’s sentences and had always been close. Not true with Heather and Rosemary. They barely exchanged Christmas cards.
More thunder rumbled. The rat-a-tat-tat of the rain pounded harder as if the angels cried louder. A huge bouquet of roses draped over the casket. Heather ran her shaking hand over the sleek casket, then took a rose and inhaled its fragrant scent. “I promise I’ll find out who did this to you.”
Her voice trembled and tears blurred her vision.
She stood, then motioned to Susan. She didn’t want her aunt or cousin to hear. They had written Rosemary off long ago as a hopeless drug addict.
“Did I tell you I talked to the coroner?”
Susan rubbed her arm. “What did he say?”
“He said he found a hallucinogenic ten times more powerful than meth in Heather’s system.”
She shook her head. “PCP?”
Heather bristled at her judgmental tone. Even Susan thought Rosemary had relapsed. Heather didn’t believe it. “No. He said he’d never seen anything like it. He didn’t know what it was, but he said the drug caused her brain to swell and put pressure on her skull. He said he’d never seen a hallucinogenic or a stimulant so deadly.”
Even as a drug and alcohol counselor, she’d never heard of such a thing, and she’d seen it all.
“That’s really strange.” Susan sighed and wrapped her arm around her shoulder. “Come on, honey, family car is waiting.”
Heather allowed Susan to escort her, but she couldn’t understand what the coroner said. She leaned against Susan and inhaled her favorite scent of apple blossoms. Weariness beat her down, and she could barely keep her eyes open.
Soft rain changed to angry pelts that stung her face. They walked toward the limousine. Her black open toed pumps sank into puddles, freezing her feet, but Heather didn’t care. Numbness gripped her and she was thankful for it. She was tired of the pain, the guilt, the loss.
A distinguished chauffeur held the car door. “Watch your head.”
She slipped into the heated back seat next to her Aunt Sherry. Her mother’s twin sister, Sherry looked just like her with her shoulder length hair, dark eyes, and smooth porcelain skin, but that’s where the resemblance ended. Aunt Sherry never hit or raised her voice. How could identical twins be so different?
Susan scooted next to her. “Hi, Aunt Sherry.”
“Hello, dear.”
Aunt Sherry studied Heather and worry filled her eyes. “Are you all right, my dear?”
Heather shivered. “Yes, I’m fine.” A lie, but she didn’t want to talk right now. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, her lids too heavy to keep open.
Aunt Sherry patted her thigh. “Sleep, dear
. You’re so tired. You should take some time off.”
Heather lifted her head. “No, if I stay home, all I do is think of Rosemary. I need to work.”
Her twenty-seven-year-old cousin, Alice, snorted. Her long blond hair shrouded her face, but Heather could feel her glaring at her beneath those strands. Alice had never liked her, probably because Rosemary had shared her deepest, darkest, secrets with her. Something she’d never done with Heather and now, never would.
Susan grabbed her hand and gave her a reassuring smile. “Are you sure? Poor Rosemary is—”
Heather tightened her grip. “Something is wrong. No matter how high she got, Rosemary was never violent. She’d never hurt someone, no matter how stoned she was. Someone made her do this.”
Susan winced.
“Honey, I loved Rosemary, too, but no one forced her to commit murder. She used an illegal drug, and someone else got hurt.” Her voice choked. “Not that I blame her, after what her father did to her.” She wiped her plump cheeks.
Heather gritted her teeth. “Unlike Mother, you believed Rosemary when she reported Dad had raped her. Why can’t you believe in her innocence now?”
“Honey, I love both you girls like I do my sweet Alice.” She touched Alice’s thigh.
Alice scooted away and folded her arms tightly around her waist. Aunt dabbed her eyes with a tissue and sniffed.
Heather clenched her fists and kept them close to her side to keep from slapping Alice. Didn’t she realize how lucky she was? Her mother told her how much she loved her every day—not like her own mother, who never said she loved her not even the day she died.
Susan cleared her throat and clasped Heather’s arm. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to talk to you about tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?” Aunt Sherry asked.
“The detectives investigating Rosemary’s case want to talk to Heather,” Susan said. “I’ve stalled them as long as I can.”
Heather put her fingers between the bridge of her nose. “Did they say say what time?”
“Tomorrow at eight.”
Heather’s stomach tightened. She dropped her hand and stared out the window. “Fine, I’ll be there.” Did she have a choice?
“Susan, why do the detectives want to talk to Heather? Hasn’t she been through enough?”
Heather tensed, shaking her head slightly. The last thing she wanted her aunt to know was she’d rambled on to the police about a mysterious man.
Susan flashed a knowing smile. “I think they just want more information about Rosemary.” She winked at Heather. “I’m sure it’s just routine.”
Aunt pulled another tissue out of her purse. “At least, Rosemary will be at peace. I just wish my sister would have made amends before she died. Maybe she and Rosemary will heal their relationship on the other side.”
“I don’t want to hear about Mother, especially not today.”
“I’m sorry, honey. I don’t know what to say about my sister. She had this insane obsession to believe in your father’s innocence. Although we were twins, I never understood her.”
Heather clamped her lips tightly and counted down from a hundred. She didn’t want to argue with Aunt today. She loved her aunt dearly, but sometimes Aunt wasn’t good at social timing, today being one of them.
Tomorrow, she’d have a chance to try to convince Detective Hewitt that Rosemary was forced to take the drug, and she was innocent, as long as he didn’t lock her up in an insane asylum.
2
Heather peeled the SUV into the empty parking lot at the mini mall. She slammed the gear shift into park. Tires squealed. The SUV lurched forward. She banged her head on the steering wheel. Pain exploded on her forehead, but she didn’t care.
She kicked open the door to run to the convenience store where Rosemary worked. It’s not too late. Rosemary’s alive. Just because I had that dumb dream again and Rosemary didn’t answer her phone doesn’t mean anything was wrong.
She ran around the building and past an alley. The smell of burnt ash stole her breath.
“Heather.”
The deep male voice sent her skidding to a stop. She knew that voice. It was the same voice in her nightmares. Even if she hadn’t heard him, his distinct smell of a campfire always alerted her of his presence.
The same dark-haired man walked around the trash bin behind the donut shop. He sauntered toward her and brushed his long black braid behind his shoulder. The slight gesture opened up his black leather jacket to reveal a bare chiseled chest. She couldn’t help but stare at the cobra tattooed on his pectoral muscle. It slithered, coral eyes glowed, and tongue flickered.
How could a tattoo be real?
He clasped her chin and squeezed tightly. “You’re too late.”
Her beating heart threatened to burst and her lungs froze. “Oh, shit,” her voice squeaked.
He laughed and disappeared. His laughter chilled her blood.
She shook her head. She could still felt where his long fingers had held her.
Sirens shrieked, breaking her spell.
“No! Rosemary!”
She ran, her feet barely touching the ground and rushed around the alley’s corner toward the convenience store, to run into a Hulk-sized cop.
“Hold it right there.” He grabbed her shoulders. The streetlight shone on his don’t-mess-with-me look.
Red lights swirled behind him. She tried to peer around him, but he refused to move. A black Continental was parked next to the gas pumps and several police officers and plain-clothes men milled around the car. An ambulance and paramedics stood nearby. Doubt sank into her toes.
“Please, what happened? My sister, Rosemary, works here. Is she all right?”
He held up his hand. “Ma’am, you need to stay here.”
“Like hell, I will.” She plowed her shoulder into him, but bounced off his chest like a foam ball. “Get out of my way.” Her voice rose an octave and she pushed him.
He clutched her shoulders and tightened his grip. “I know you’re upset. If you calm down, I’ll find out from the detective in charge. If you don’t, you’ll be sitting in my car. Am I clear?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“I’m going to release you.” He lessened his grip, but didn’t move. “I’m Officer Dunker. What is your name?”
Heather took a deep breath. “Heather. Heather Bowen. Please, I need to know. She’s my sister.”
“Stay here.”
“I promise.”
Heather paced and chewed her nails. Such a bad habit. She had no long nails. Rosemary used to tease her that she’d bite off her fingers she’d get so nervous. Where was she?
Officer Dunker headed to a civilian-clothed man and they quietly murmured. Heather scanned the store. No one was inside the store except more police. The entrance was guarded. This wasn’t good.
She glanced at the midnight sky. A large red line surrounded the moon—blood on the moon. Oh, no. It meant the end. Some people thought it meant the end of the world, but Heather knew it meant the end of someone’s life. Tears stung her eyes, and she shivered. This wasn’t happening. What was taking so long?
She hurried to Officer Dunker, determined to find out what was so special about the damn car.
He turned and blocked her view. “Ma’am, I told you—”
His tone left little doubt he was about to shove her into his police cruiser.
“It’s all right, Officer Dunker. I’ll take it from here.” The man was paunchier and older than Dunker, but he spoke with authority. A blue aura of power emitted around him, but his gold corduroy jacket had seen better days. “I’m Detective Ronald Hewitt.” He stuck out his hand.
Heather shook it, but couldn’t stop her hand from trembling.
“I know this is hard.” He squeezed her hand as if to reassure her. “You’re looking for your sister, Rosemary?”
Heather released his strong grip. “Yes, I’m her younger sister, Heather. I’ve been trying to call her on her cell phone
and she hasn’t answered. She always answers her phone. I know something’s wrong. Can you tell me what happened?” She glared at Dunker. “No one will tell me anything.”
“Before we proceed, I need to see some identification,” Detective Hewitt said.
“Sure.” Heather fumbled through her purse to retrieve her billfold. “Here.”
He pulled out a pad and pencil, then examined her license and looked at her with his perspective green eyes. He handed it back to her. “When did you last call her?”
“About forty-five minutes ago. I’ve been calling every fifteen minutes and she hasn’t answered.” She pointed. “I even tried calling the store and there was no answer.”
She was talking fast, but Hewitt scribbled on his notepad as if his superpower was fast writing.
“Detective, where is she?”
He tapped his notepad. “You called her at three am. Why?”
Heather bit her lip. He wouldn’t believe her.
“Ma’am?”
“I had a premonition.”
“About Rosemary?”
“Yes. I needed to know she was fine.”
Hewitt flashed his steely gaze over her. “Do you often have premonitions?”
“Sometimes.” She looked between Dunker and Hewitt, their faces grim. “She’s not fine, is she?” Her small voice cracked.
“I’m sorry to inform you that there has been an incident.”
“What? No!” The blood drained from Heather’s face.
“Your sister killed a customer—Margaret Carmichael. She was seventy-five years old. After she killed her, Rosemary jumped in front of a moving city bus. She died instantly.”
