Stolen Lives: A Detective Mystery Series SuperBoxset (32 page)

“I’ve been in this room long enough to figure out that it used to be some kind of wine cellar. Do you have any wine? Some way we can commemorate our new beginning?”

Phillip stopped and thought to himself, looking around. It was clear that he was unprepared for such a request.

“You talk about trust,” Miriam continued. “How can we both work on that trust without a cheer and a glass of wine?”

“Not much of a drinker,” Phillip replied, putting the plan to rest.

“You have your demands of me. All I ask is this,” she said.

Angered, he stepped close to her, inches from her worn shoes. She could smell his poisonous aura.

“I completely fulfilled
your
demands of
me
. The way I see it, we’re dead fucking even.” He stopped and then pointed at the cuffs. “Now put those on before I do it for you.”

She reached forward and touched his pant leg near his ankle with a gentle caress. “Don’t you care about me? Don’t you want us to be together? This would mark our first great step.”

He looked down into her eyes and could only read sincerity. Her pleading was nothing short of convincing. He turned away, annoyed, but compliant. “Damn it, Miriam. No.” Despite what he said, he began walking toward the door, muttering he believed there to be a bottle of wine in the kitchen, overlooked and left there by the previous owner. “But if it ain’t there,” he said, turning at the door, “you drop this nonsense and get ready to go.” He slammed the door without another word.

Knowing her time was short, Miriam jumped from the bed and dug the bent and dulled knife behind the plate once again, nearly getting it loose. The long screws were exposed almost to the very ends. Her heart leaped. With one final jerk, she pulled on the chain and the plate came free, so suddenly that the momentum sent her backwards, almost falling, as it came free from the wall and fell onto the mattress in a cloud of dust. Elated, Miriam fell to the bed and grabbed the end of the chain. Now, for the first time in a long while, she had a weapon. But the timing had to be right. She quickly picked up the plate, pushed it back into the wall, and waited.

The door unlocked. Phillip entered, holding two plastic cups, one of which she was sure was laced with a sedative. She knew how his mind worked. He was every bit as paranoid as she was. His face looked brighter, almost happy.

“You find something good?” she asked, sitting on the bed as before.

“Sure did,” he replied, handing her the cup. She smelled it, rising from the bed as he held out his cup for a cheers.

“Why don’t you go ahead?” he asked. “I was never good at toasts.”

She thought to herself and raised the glass. “To new beginnings,” she said.

They clinked cups, and she brought it to her mouth, pausing. He took the first sip, and she knew that the moment had finally arrived. The wine hit his face in a violent splash as she tossed it at him, cup and all. Phillip recoiled and dropped his cup to the floor. His face was a combination of anger and shock, complete disbelief at what had just happened.

But it didn’t take him long to come to his senses, and he reached inside his jacket for his pistol. Miriam grabbed the chain with her free hand and yanked it as hard as she could, ripping the plate out of the wall.

Phillip stood there dumbfounded for a second, pistol in hand, then raised his arm to fire. She swung the chain in a half circle, smacking his face with a loud crack and sending him to the ground. As he fell, she screamed out in impassioned rage and swung the chain at him over and over again like a whip as he covered his head and tried to crawl away.

“You son of a bitch!” she shouted.

The chain struck him, blow after blow, all over his body as she swung it with all her might. He fumbled with his pistol and tried to stand, but as he did, she reeled the chain back and swung it full force across his skull, knocking the pistol out of his hand and sending it flying across the floor.

“I’m sending you to hell where you belong!” she screamed out in a rage.

She thrashed the chain across his burnt body until she couldn’t swing it any more. As he lay there on the ground, beaten to a pulp, she stopped and yanked the chain back over to herself. His hand suddenly shot up and grabbed the links, pulling her toward him.

Miriam panicked and slipped as he pulled with both hands with thunderous force. She flew to the ground and landed on his chest as one of his gloved fists pummeled her in the face. She squirmed and moved away the best she could as white spots fluttered in front of her eyes. She felt dizzy and lightheaded when another blow came, followed by a white flash.

“You first!” he said, spitting blood between his gritted teeth.

She ended up flat on her back, and just as Phillip tried to get up, she grabbed the chain with her free hand, laid it across his neck, and pulled with both arms, squeezing and squeezing as he thrashed in desperate panic. The chain locked around his windpipe, pulled tighter and tighter as he struggled and wheezed.

She wrapped both of her thin, muscular legs around his waist and held him there until she could feel the life leaving his body. For a moment, she just went still and all was silent. Phillip’s arms went limp. His burnt face was a discolored blue and covered in blood.

She released the chain and crawled out from under him, rising to her feet and hyperventilating as she struggled to breathe. One look at his still body and wide-open eyes, and she knew that he was finally dead. She took the gun lying next to his body and fired one shot into his head, just to make sure.

The silencer on the pistol muffled the shot, but its powerful kick split his head open and released a geyser of blood and brain. Without a second look, she turned and walked out of the room, dragging the chain behind her. She was free. The darkened staircase, which had seemed a million miles away from her mattress, was finally at her feet. She turned to look at the room one last time. Phillip’s still body lay there, a pool of blood under his head. It was over. Her legs wobbled up the creaky wooden stairs. She looked up to see a door at the top, approached it and turned its squeaky handle.

She pushed it open and saw a room, a kitchen, with hardwood floors, dusty and vacant. A table sat near the empty counters with three chairs. She limped past the kitchen and entered a living room without a single piece of furniture in it. Beyond the windows was the night sky, filled with tiny specks of light. She approached the front door, dragging her chain along, and opened it while completely bypassing the two bedrooms without a glance inside.

The fresh, desert air hit her face and she felt a rush of relief, gratitude and something close to happiness. She stepped out onto the porch and walked down the steps, which led to a sandy patch of yard. She looked around; a pale moon hid behind the clouds and darkness surrounded her as far as the eye could see. An El Camino was parked not fifty feet ahead of her. She was free. And all she had to do was find her way home.

Dear Reader,

Hi! I hope you enjoyed my latest series. Quality story telling is very important to me. It’s my living, and I can’t thank you enough for your support and for taking the time to read this boxset. But the learning never stops, and your feedback is vital to improving each new series I explore. 

I would love if you could take a second to leave a review here: Leave a Review Here!

If you would be so kind, please leave a review showering the book with endless praise. Of course, I’m joking, but it would be great to hear from you. If there are any issues you had with the story or any pesky errors or concerns, feel free to email me and let me know. I’d love to hear your feedback, regardless. Your support allows me to do what I do, and I’m in your debt. In a way, I work for you, the reader. So let me know if I’m doing the job. Thanks again and, please, feel free to contact me or leave a review for the book at your earliest convenience.

With Gratitude,

Roger Hayden

Death Notes: The Beginning

Chapter 1

A crack of thunder bellowed from the virulent skies. Wind howled, and raindrops pelted homes and cars, orchestrating a wicked timbre made more ominous by the pitch black of night. Flashes of lightning crawled across the sky like spiderwebs. The hot white light revealed a soaked and ravaged earth. Streets transformed into rivers that funneled the rushes of water into overflowing drainage ditches. Gusts of wind snapped the thin cords of powerlines, uprooted trees, and flung debris like missiles that shattered windows.

A road sign struggled to remain upright, stubbornly fighting the wind and rain. It wobbled back and forth, quivering under the crack of thunder. The subsequent flash of lightning exposed the weathered sign that read Baltimore Storage in faded orange-and-yellow lettering. The road sign marked the abandoned facility, which stood alone on the outskirts of town. A failed business venture long forgotten. The building stood still and quiet as the storm deafened the world to anything but its roaring prowess. But between the claps of thunder, deep within the bowels of the facility, silent prayers escaped trembling lips.

The long halls of the storage unit were dark. Dozens of doors concealed the forgotten relics of families, discarded items that had once been treasured now left to rot and decompose until sold at auction. Old padlocks protected the unwanted memories from thieves, except for unit forty-one, where the analog security had been replaced by a digital keypad, which glowed green in the darkness. And unlike the dark cracks underneath the rest of the doorways along the hall, unit forty-one seeped light.

Inside, the source of the light was a small battery-powered lamp that rested against one of the bare walls. Flies circled the rim of a tin bucket, a few of them venturing to the yellow-stained twin mattress. And in the darkest corner of the room, hiding from the faint light of the lamp with her knees tucked tight into her chest, was Irene Marsh. She trembled, her head hung low with her long strands of black hair covering most of her face. She wore a dress with a floral pattern, far too small for her frame, which exposed much of her skin to the cold concrete of her prison.

Between the vicious claps of thunder Irene’s sobs filled the room. She eyed the locked door that was her only prison guard with disdain, fear, hope, and contempt. She buried her head into her thighs, feeling the oily grime that had built up over the past week, or however long she’d been locked inside.

The only measure of time Irene had were the visits from
him
. She shuddered, slowly looking to the wall next to her, the lamp illuminating some of her scribbling. All of her secrets, all of her most sacred memories, displayed for him to examine. The forceful intrusion into her mind caused her to quickly turn away. The sudden motion cracked her joints, and she winced in pain. She couldn’t remember the last time she moved. She couldn’t remember who she was before all of this. Every visit from him removed a small piece of her, and in exchange she was able to live. It was the deal she made with the devil, and the price was her soul.

The echo of footsteps traveled through the hallway beyond her door, and Irene tilted her ear at the familiar sound. She quickly scurried to the farthest corner of the room, putting as much distance between herself and the door as she could. She curled into a tight ball, sobs washing over her body in waves without her consent.

The cadence of steps ended outside her door with the crack of thunder. Five electronic beeps, and the door swung open, the hinges squeaking, the darkness revealing nothing but his silhouette. Tears streamed down her face with the same fury as the storm outside. “No, no, no, no, please. Just let me go. Please.”

But the shadowed figure took a step neither forward nor backward. The light from the lantern only reached far enough to illuminate the dark denim of his jeans from knee to foot. He slipped his hand into his pocket, palming the contents inside and then flung it across the floor, where it rolled until it stopped against her toe.

“I already told you everything!” The vein along Irene’s neck pulsed, and her cheeks flushed red. Even with the wall behind her she continued to drive her heels into the floor, pushing herself harder against the concrete that offered no escape. The man flicked a light switch and Irene shielded her eyes.

Irene’s pale skin shone from the unwashed oils and grime that had collected since her capture. Her hair was tangled and matted. Dark circles rested under her eyes, and matching bruises dotted her arms and legs. The purple paint on her nails and toes had chipped away, exposing the clear cuticles underneath.

Irene pulled the dress further down her legs to cover the nakedness of her body but was unable to conceal the tremors of fear that spasmed unapologetically. Her pulse raced, and her lower lip quivered as she searched for the courage to speak. “I w-won’t.” Her bloodshot eyes teared. “L-Let m-me g-go.”

The kidnapper kept his face down with the hood from his jacket over his head. He kept one arm behind his back as he reached the other for the door and locked them inside. Thunder cracked as he took his first step, and he slowly revealed his hidden arm, which exposed the long black iron of a crowbar.

Irene pushed herself from the floor, her hands still clutching the hem of her dress and pulling it downward. Goose bumps covered her exposed flesh as she watched him lightly pad the end of the crowbar into his palm. “What do you want from me?” She curled her body forward, the trembling only worsening. She screamed, digging her palms into her eyes. “I can’t remember anything else! Just let me go!”

The crack of thunder added an ominous exclamation to her rant, and she clenched her fists at her side. But when the kidnapper tightened the gloved hand around the crowbar and took another step forward, the brief spurt of courage disappeared and she dug her fingers into the drywall, trying to claw her way to freedom. “No, no, no, no, please.” Her voice heightened and mirrored that of a child who knew of the rod to come. “Please, don’t do this.”