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  Copyright © 2015 M.S. Brannon. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission from the author. The exception would be in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews or pages where permission is specifically granted by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction and the events surrounding this book are fictitious. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any similarity to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons live or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Copy Editing: C&D Editing

  Proofreading: Cynthia Andersen, Christie Mitchum, and Georgette Geras

  Cover Design & Formatting: IndieVention Designs

  Prologue

  Josslyn

  May 13, 1994 1:27 a.m.

  Thud. My head cracks against the corner of my nightstand as my body is suddenly dropped onto the hard, carpeted floor, hitting it with a painful thump. My muscles are naturally weak from the flu I’ve been fighting the last couple of days, and my mind is sluggish, trying to comprehend what is happening.

  With a large dose of cold medicine in my system, my eyes are heavy, but it doesn’t take long for my senses to become fully aware of my body being dragged across the floor like a toddler does with her favorite doll—my feet are gripped firmly in a large, rough hand. My panties are exposed as my nightshirt is pulled up my thighs with each step the man takes.

  Is this happening? I scream in my head, my wits strung all over the place. I am trying to move my legs, but it’s useless in his tight grip. Any movement I make, he holds on more tightly.

  My mom, dad, and I have been sick with the same nasty cold for the last two days. We have all been running fevers, living on cold medicine and Tylenol that make me feel weak as I try hard to get out of his grasp.

  I bend my knees and arch my back, but it’s all for nothing. He has a tight hold, and he’s not letting go. In my dizzy state, I make myself grasp that what is happening to me is very real. From the excruciating pain in my backside, I know it has to be.

  With a great attempt, I snap out of my haze, my heart pounding. It’s slamming in my chest, threatening to break through my ribcage. I can’t breathe. I can’t see. Why can’t I see?

  Panic starts to set in. I know my eyes are open, but there is only darkness. I shake my head, yet it’s all still black, and my brain is pounding inside my skull.

  The pungent, spicy smell of men’s aftershave plagues the air. It reminds me of the stuff an old man would wear, cologne that’s purchased for two bucks at the dollar store.

  I try lifting my hands, noticing they are restrained with tight bonds. I raise my arms to my eyes and feel the cloth covering them. It’s tied so tightly it’s pinching my head, and my hair is tangled in the knot, causing my strands to be pulled with every movement. I can’t see a thing.

  I want to yank the blindfold off, but as I try to wrap my fingers around the fabric, a hard crack stings the back of my hand. Not expecting the blow, I screech slightly, terror shivering down my spine.

  I try to calm myself down. My father taught me well when preparing me for this very scenario. Growing up in Brooklyn, New York, as a police detective’s daughter, it was not a choice; it was requirement. While other kids were learning how to ride bikes and play catch, I was learning about serial killers and criminals. I was learning how to protect myself and how to be aware of my surroundings at all times. I was given puzzles and clues to study instead of coloring books. I spent my nights looking at my dad’s old crime scene photos, not playing video games or watching cartoons.

  I am a daughter being groomed for her career as a third generation cop, to be the best cop New York has ever seen. However, until tonight, I didn’t see the use of any of it.

  I wanted to be a typical teenage girl. I wanted to hang out with my friends outside of school, go to the movies, and shopping. I am beginning to regret all the horrible thoughts I had of my father when he wouldn’t let me go to sleepovers because he wasn’t comfortable with it. Now I know why.

  The evil he’s preached about my entire life is dragging me down the hallway. I need to think. I need something that will help me identify these men or at least allow me to get away from them.

  I take a deep breath, and as I inhale one more time, I still smell the spicy aftershave and detect another, familiar scent. It’s the smell of cocoa butter—my mother’s lotion. I must be near her room.

  Using my other senses, I start to focus on the sounds around me. I can hear voices—deep, male voices, two or three of them—and they are speaking a language I’ve never heard before. I immediately know it’s not Spanish or French. German maybe? I just don’t know.

  Then I hear the worst sound in the world, a sound that frightens me to my core. The noise is right by my head, only slightly above. It’s the sound of muffled whimpers from my mother and the deep pleas of my father coming through a gag.

  My heart lurches once again, and soon, it’s beating so hard I can barely hear anything at all. Tears of terror soak the blindfold as the fabric absorbs my drops. My previously calm breathing is now accelerated and causing me to panic. I hate my stupid, adolescent emotions. I need to get my mind focused, but I am so scared.

  As the sounds get louder, I know I’ve crossed the threshold into my parents’ bedroom. The smell of my mother’s lotion is stronger. The carpet is thicker and feels much softer than the hallway’s. Regardless, my skin burns the same as the man finishes dragging me deeper into the room.

  I am more aware of my parents now. The sounds are louder. My father’s gasp connects with my ears as I get slammed into something hard. My back twinges from the sharp smack against my spine.

  I am petrified.

  I turn my head to the torturous, muffled sounds of my mother’s distress and the deep grunting of a man. I can’t see what is happening to her, but I know. She is getting raped right in front of my father, right in front of me. The bed slams into the wall simultaneously with the man’s deep noises of lust.

  My stomach rolls. The sound of my mother’s torture is making me so scared my only reaction is to vomit. My throat burns as I try like hell to gag it down. I swallow hard, choking down the bile. I try with every ounce of energy I have to keep my body from betraying me.

  The smell of aftershave gets stronger as a large, rough hand starts to touch my ankle. I shudder and scurry back on my feet, tucking myself into a ball. I hear the sound of the lamp on my mother’s nightstand clanking against the wall before it crashes to the floor next to me. I know exactly where I am in my parents’ bedroom, even though my sight is still caked in blackness from the blindfold.

  I move as far as I can, getting my body flush with the nightstand, but it’s no use. The man is close to me, his breath hot when he pushes his face against mine. It smells of some kind of alcohol. He is so close to me, and as he presses up against me, I can tell he’s a large man. Not overweight, but thick with muscle.

  His sharp, whiskered cheek scratches mine. It burns. I cringe. I don’t want it there, yet he pushes his face deeper into the corner of my neck and shoulder.

  God, help me, I plea silently in my mind. This can’t be my first time or any time with a man. Please stop this. Stop him from hurting me and my mother and father.

  “Don’t you fucking touch her!” my father screams out through his gag. His voice is furious, and his demand is clear enough to know what he is saying. The sound makes my body tremble.

  I try to scream, but the moment a sound comes out of my mouth, an agonizing pain slams into my ch
eek. I feel like the side of my face is going to explode. Warm blood drips down my cheek and runs off the corner of my chin. I’m dazed, and my ear is ringing from the punch; however, I keep myself as quiet as I can to make sure he doesn’t do it again.

  The deep laugh of the man reverberates against my legs as he presses his body back into mine. His hands slide up my legs from my ankles, passing over my shin bone then landing on my knee caps. I squeeze my legs together as tightly as I can, keeping my thighs pinched so securely it makes my muscles as hard as rocks. My legs start to shake from the force of keeping them closed.

  “You’ve meddled for the last time, detective,” another man says from the other side of the room, his voice thick with a weird accent. “You were warned to back off, to stay out of Little Odessa, yet you continued to pursue us.”

  Time stands still, and everything around me goes silent. The snapping of a finger breaks up the quiet, and then the pressure of this man’s heavy body immediately leaves. I am slightly relieved, hoping this night is over. My mother’s muffled cries are no more, but I think I can still hear her breathing.

  “Me! Take me, not them!” My father’s voice breaks through the still air just as my heart shatters inside my chest.

  All I can hear is the sound of air swooshing then a thumping sound. The groans from my father’s muffled pain immediately follow. My mother screams, but the only sound I can focus on is the sickening thumping noise. It sounds like a man beating a punching bag with his bare fists.

  A new odor begins to take over the smell of anything else. I don’t really know what it is, but it smells like hot metal. The smell is so strong I can practically taste it on my tongue. I know it’s a smell I will never forget.

  My rational instincts know what’s happening, but I don’t want to listen to them right now. I can feel my mind checking out as I picture my friends at school, all of us walking to class, laughing with each other about a boy Janet is drooling over.

  I recede to the deepest parts of my memory to drown out the pulsating sound, the sound of meat being punched over and over. I think about how badly I wanted to go to a movie with Jared, the first boy I’ve ever liked. I see his blue eyes and blond hair and the braces on his teeth. However, my mother’s muffled wails are enough to rip me out of my memories. She cries as each sound gets deeper and more devastating. It’s impossible to block anything out.

  The men start to talk while my mother continues to scream out in agony. I don’t know what they are doing to her, but I know she is already dead. If not physically, emotionally. My heart is fully aware of my father’s condition, and if she’s next, then they are torturing her just as they did him.

  I try to calm myself to make out what they are saying, but I don’t understand it. From the differences in sounds, I’m guessing there are three men, but my mother is still screaming, making it hard to be sure. I need to get my wits about me. Someone needs to tell the police as much as they can, and my mother is in no condition to recall anything… if we even survive this night.

  I have been training for this very scenario. It’s up to me to do something. I have to remember something—anything—to tell them. If I could only see…

  The idea comes to me almost as the last thought drags through my brain. I don’t know if I am being watched, but the men are still talking. Maybe they’re debating if they are going to kill me. I don’t know, but I try, anyway. I ball myself up against the wall and slide over toward the bed.

  With my face planted on the mattress, I start to rub my head against the side. I can feel the fabric loosen a little as my blindfold slips up slightly. The light peeks in at the bottom, and once my eyes adjust, I can see my pink nightshirt wrapped around my torso.

  My mother screams again as black, booted feet walk in front of me. Then she is suddenly silenced, the sound of cracking plaguing the room repeatedly. My body uncontrollably shivers from the sound. I don’t know if my mother is alive or if she’s been knocked out, but my gut is telling me the latter is not an option.

  The feet turn to me. The man has large shoes, and as he crouches down, I see his black shirt is unbuttoned at the top, revealing a clue. I hold my eyes as still as possible, blinking away the tears as the man hovers over me.

  I see a tattoo on his chest. It looks to be a black star of some sort, but it’s hard to tell through the small crack under my blindfold. The moment my nightshirt is yanked up my body and over my head, however, I see nothing. I only feel the weight of a heavy man, and the hot pain between my legs as I smell the spicy aftershave.

  My mind checks out again as I try to remove myself from the situation. I start to go back to my friends and the last time I saw them. We were hanging out in the hallway at school, gossiping as young girls do while our favorite song played “All Apologies” by Nirvana from Janet’s portable CD player.

  As I retreat farther and farther into my memory, I let the voice of Kurt Cobain sound through my head, and the lyrics pour out of my mouth. Over and over, I simply sing, “All alone is all we are … All alone is all we are … All alone is all we are,” as the man continues ripping me apart.

  Chapter One

  Josslyn

  August 4, 2015 3:17 a.m.

  The rain refuses to relent as I drive down Hyde Avenue, the scenery transitioning from middle, to lower-class the deeper I drive into the city. If I keep going, I will end up on the outskirts of town that are known as The Ruins, and that’s the last place any sane person wants to be at this time of night.

  My driver’s window is cracked to let the crisp, clean air float through the opening. The only sounds I hear are the smooth violins of classical music; the sloshing noise of the windshield wipers as they swipe back and forth, making a slight whining noise; and the sound of the tires as they crunch over the pavement of the road. Anything else would be a distraction, a way to cloud my thoughts. I need to hear them. I need to know what my thoughts are telling me.

  I am wide awake, more awake than I should be at three o’clock in the morning. I could say it’s the strong, black coffee in my mug or the jarring phone call which originally led me out into the stormy night; however, that’s not the case. Sleep always evades me. There isn’t much that can get me to sleep more than four hours a night, and even then I don’t feel like I’ve fallen asleep. I am merely giving my eyeballs a break from flipping through page after page, image after image. The reports and scribbled notes all strung across my desk taunt me with clues to the answers I have to find, answers that can be had if I only keep looking for the truth. I am enslaved by my work. It’s my dark, addicting companion, and we both come alive at night.

  It’s the second night this week I have been called to a crime scene. However, the first one was a crime of passion—a husband on the warpath to kill his cheating wife. It was an open and shut case, really, something I really don’t have time for, so I passed it on to my co-workers to handle.

  If I had a choice, I would never be assigned the run-of-the-mill crimes of passion. I am always assigned the cases that will take my particular kind of brain to solve. Those are the ones I like. I’m not a special FBI profiler or a criminal psychologist. No, I’m just a homicide detective for the Blythe Harbor police department. I have the ability to think outside the box and stomach just about anything the sick and twisted are capable of. My cases aren’t easy, and they aren’t as frequent as other violent crimes, but they’re mine. I own them, and one way or another, they own me, too.

  I look past my windshield and find the red and blue lights flashing. Dispatch is aware of how I work. I don’t like to be told the details of a crime scene. I only like to be filled in about where it happened. I want my mind to discover the details as I assess the scene, and the best way for me to do that is when I am given minimal details.

  My gut starts to churn with morbid excitement. From the moment I get the phone call to the moment I arrive on scene, I am fully aware of the building intensity inside my stomach. It awakens all my senses, knowing they will be needed to close
the case, to bring the accused to justice. It’s a cat and mouse game, and it’s my duty to win. I always win.

  One might think it’s for the victim or their families, but only I know differently. I do it for the thrill, the rush of trapping the worst of humanity and watching them as they crumble under me. The killers I pursue are insanely intelligent, cunning, and possess a rare form of ingeniousness. Of course, so do I. We have like minds, but at least I’m smart enough to play on the right team.

  I step from my car and pull the hood from my zip-up sweatshirt over my head. I disconnect my iPod from my car and put it in my pants pocket. In my opinion, it’s as essential as rubber gloves or a notepad.

  I move back to the trunk and pull out the necessary items: latex gloves, my police jacket, and my notebook. I fasten them all to me as I move toward the yellow crime scene tape where I pull my jacket aside, flash my badge clipped to my belt to the officer, and then step just inside the tape to look around.

  The fresh, clean smell of the rain marries with the familiar smell of death. To the untrained, you couldn’t pinpoint the odor, but I would recognize it anywhere. It’s a smell I’ve been in tune with since I was fourteen years old. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t been inside the house where it all took place. The smell of blood is always present when I arrive. Could it be my mind fastening onto the smell, linking it with my past? Maybe.

  I open my eyes wide and take in my surroundings. The cold rain drips down my face, feeling refreshing against my anxious skin. I like to start with the environment surrounding a crime scene and look out toward the spectators to get a good look into their eyes. Killers like to hang around the scene. Not in every case, but the sick, twisted ones, they do, and I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t a messy one.

  In the past few years, Blythe Harbor has become a cesspool for crime, particularly violent crimes. I moved from Brooklyn when I was sixteen. My mother, who barely survived the attack, was trying to give us a fresh start after what happened to my dad. She thought it was best to move as far away as we could. Therefore, we switched coasts, exchanging the snowy, cold Upper East Coast for the constantly rainy Pacific Northwest. We settled here because of the picturesque beauty, but that was eighteen years ago, and a lot has changed. I am now a –thirty-four-year-old woman who works cases that even my dad might have cringed at, yet it doesn’t bother me. Job security, I guess. I like the challenge the crime brings, but I can see how others might feel about it.