MOSTLY MURDER: Till Death: a mystery anthology Read online

  Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.

  “There’s nothing going on between us,” I say. I hold my breath and pray he believes me, but of course he does not.

  “Then why is he here?”

  “I don’t know. He’s got… problems.”

  “Problems?”

  “He’s not… stable.” I grasp for the words, finally latching onto one that seems to fit best. Jack’s harsh laugh shreds me.

  “Unstable? No fucking shit. Leave it to you to hook up with some fucking nut job.”

  I cringe from another verbal blow.

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Oh, so now you’re going to give me some bullshit story about how I’m never home. How I mistreat you? How somehow this is all my fault.”

  His words bubble like acid inside me, and I want to lash out. He knows I’m trapped. He knows the damned prenup he forced me to sign would strip me of everything, should I have the fool sense to leave him.

  “How stupid do you think I am?” he asks then, and fear snakes through me, like mercury in my veins. Fast and toxic, it fills me until I think I will burst. ”It’s one thing for you to embarrass yourself, Mally—and subject yourself to the fallout you’ve earned—but now you’ve pulled me into this sordid situation, and all for some tawdry little affair. I thought you’d at least have better taste than a veteran with nothing more going for him than the ability to lift heavy things. I thought you’d do a better job of hiding your tracks.”

  “You’ve been checking my phone?”

  Of course he has. It’s the only way he could have known. I’ve been careful.

  “Obviously.” Ice forms on the single word and invades my heart.

  There’s not the tiniest part of my life that’s mine; not my friends, my schedule, my bank account, and not even the way I dress. Jack controls it all. Or at least he believes that he does.

  Angry tears leak from my eyes and burn down my cheeks, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

  “It was just once, and I broke it off as soon as it happened. I swear that I did. I never meant for you to find out, Jack. Not like this.”

  “Shut up, Mally.”

  “Please, Jack.”

  “Shut up!”

  He falls stonily silent, and my mind whirls as the whole, terrible situation plays out in my head.

  Kyle.

  He’s upstairs. I can hear him. My gut wrenches tight, and I know it won’t be long until his footsteps thunder down the stairs, and then…

  “He’s obsessed with me,” I blurt out, like beans spilling out of a split bag and hitting a bare tile floor. “He went nuts when I broke it off. Texting me. Following me. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Good call, Mally. Letting him fester.”

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  “You’re goddamned lucky my hands are tied, or I’d…”

  “Or you’d what? Hit me?” I’m suddenly brave in the knowledge that he can’t reach me. “Like the blow to the back of my head? I probably have a concussion.”

  “You goaded me into it. You know you did.”

  All at once, I remember Kyle’s fingers running down the angry bruises on my arms. Soft. Gentle as a whisper of air. I shudder at the memory of his touch.

  Arguing with Jack is pointless, I know, even though it feels good to let go. The words are bursting in my mind. Somehow I stop them from leaking out, afraid of going too far.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Jack says. “Look around for something to use.”

  Like what? A knife? A weapon? I look around at the stuff that is piled halfway to the ceiling—evidence of our lavish lifestyle—and an image fills my mind. A bird trapped in a gilded cage. Flailing to get out. Desperate. Willing to hurt itself in the attempt.

  “There,” Jack hisses.

  I crane my head to see what he’s talking about and come up empty. The pain in my head stabs again, and I close my eyes, waiting for the flare to subside.

  And then I hear it—the thump of Jack’s chair on the floor. It shakes the mountains of crap. He does it again.

  Each jump moves him inches away, and I hold my breath, gaze fixed to the ceiling, straining for a sound—some clue about what’s happening above.

  Jack moves again, and a box topples over, its contents tumbling to the floor in another vibrant crash.

  “Stop,” I cry. “What if he hears you?”

  “What do you think he’ll do?” Jack sneers.

  I bite my tongue, knowing that whatever I say will not matter in the least. He’s not listening. He doesn’t care. My opinion has never mattered much before, and now is no different. Now I matter even less—a skin to be shed as the snake moves on.

  Behind me, Jack jumps. The floor shakes again and again. Finally, I hear a crash and a crunch.

  Jack grunts.

  “What are you doing?”

  I catch sight of his chair as it topples to the ground. Jack falls hard, too. His head crashes into the floor, and for a moment he is still.

  The noise above us stops, and I hold my breath. Waiting.

  Softly, Jack swears. He writhes on the ground and then suddenly is free.

  At least one of his hands is.

  He crawls across the floor, dragging himself along with his free hand; the rest of him is still bound to the chair. The wood scrapes with each agonizing inch. I hear the splintered edges scrape against the concrete. Jack gathers his strength and keeps moving.

  I struggle, trying to thrash myself free, but the restraints hold me fast.

  Jack reaches a toolbox shoved beneath a workbench. He paws at the contents inside. Metal clangs on metal until finally I hear it.

  Footsteps on the stairs. Coming closer.

  Adrenaline burns through me, and I know Jack hears it, too. He cocks his head and listens. The cords stand out on his neck. A grim resolve flattens his lips, and I know he’s got a plan. I can see the wheels turning in his head, but before I can say a word, the door crashes open.

  Kyle’s broad-shouldered frame fills the doorway. Six-feet two-inches tall and powerfully built, he still looks like a marine. Hard. Lean. Cruel.

  Kyle’s ice blue eyes meet mine, and a jolt shivers through me. Primal. Thrilling—like I’ve touched a live wire and can’t let go. Kyle says nothing. His gaze shifts to Jack, still lying on his side, tie wraps binding him to the broken chair.

  He looks old. Worn. More like my father than my husband.

  I can barely breathe. The tension expands in the room as neither man utters a word. Kyle shatters the stillness as he marches toward Jack, his boots ringing out on the floor.

  Jack’s jaw sets, and I see the sharp glint in his eye.

  “You don’t want this,” he says to Kyle in a flaccid attempt to intimidate. His words have the opposite effect.

  Kyle smiles a smile of pure menace.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Jackie boy. This is exactly what I want.”

  He reaches behind his back as if he’s got all the time in the world, and for the first time, I see the gun tucked into the waistband of his fatigues. Just the sight of it sucks the air from my lungs. I can’t speak, move or scream.

  Jack lunges—his hand lightning fast. I see the glint of metal before he drives something deep into Kyle’s thigh. Kyle screams. It’s an animal sound filled with pain and fury, and my heart roars in my ears.

  Kyle whirls away, beyond Jack’s reach.

  I see another flash. A knife, now, in Jack’s hand. He slashes wildly downward at the zip ties binding him to the chair.

  Fear twists in my gut. Blood oozes in a dark stain down Kyle’s leg. His face is full of thunder; he straightens and limps across the floor, gun leveled at my husband’s head. Blood drips down his pant leg onto his shoe.

  Jack looks up, panic blazing bright in his eyes.

  “I’ll give you whatever you want,” he blurts, ever the businessman trying to make a deal. Kyle cocks his head, the gun rock steady in his grip.
/>   “What if this is what I want? You. Groveling. Begging for your life?”

  “What about Mally?” Jack is desperate. Grasping at straws.

  Kyle stops feet away, studying him like a biologist uncovering some new species of vermin.

  “If the two of you want to be together then who am I to stand in your way?” Jack reasons.

  Kyle’s bark of laughter sends chills down my spine.

  “You’re giving her to me? Like she’s a side of beef? How generous.”

  I can see Jack spinning, groping, and searching for the right angle to save himself. He shoots me a pleading look, but what can I do? Kyle holds all the power in his hand, and it’s pointed straight at my husband’s head.

  “You’re right about one thing,” Kyle says in a slow midwestern drawl. “This is all about Mally and the things you’ve done to her.”

  “I’ve done to her? What have I done to her? When I found her she was nothing—just a washed-up beauty queen waiting tables at a run-down bar, attending some podunk community college trying to make something of herself. Everything she is now is what I’ve made her.”

  His words had lost their power to wound me years ago, but I see Kyle flinch. Fury contorts his face, and he stares down at Jack, his eyes brimming with contempt.

  “You hit her. You abused her. And you dare tell me that you’ve never done her harm?”

  “I never laid a hand on her.” Kyle’s shadow falls across Jack, and his terrorized gaze cuts to me. “Tell him, Mally. I’ve never hit you. I’ve never…”

  Liar.

  Kyle’s jaw clenches tight, and I see the muscles jump in his lean face. He pulls back the hammer, and Jack dissolves into tears. Kyle turns back to me. Our eyes lock, and all I can hear is the hammering of my heart. Then Kyle squeezes the trigger.

  My breath leaves me in a rush, and I turn away from the gory sight of my husband’s head exploding. Blood and brains splatter the wall as I fight to catch my breath.

  He did it. Oh my god, he did it.

  I can hardly believe this has happened.

  The smell of gunfire hangs in the air, and my ears ring from the blast.

  Kyle is no longer looking at me. He’s staring down at the bloody lump on the floor as if Jack is a piece of garbage. He taps the body with his foot and shakes his head.

  “It’s done.”

  There’s no triumph in his voice, no jubilation. It’s just a bland statement of fact.

  I see the knife on the floor, just shy from where Jack lays. Kyle bends to retrieve it and then slowly walks my way.

  I see the blade splattered with blood clutched in his hand, still glinting in the silver light.

  He stops right in front of me. I suck in a breath and search his deep blue eyes.

  His sudden smile is like the breaking of dawn after a long stormy night. He hunkers down, until we’re eye to eye, still holding the blade.

  I can hardly breathe with him here so close, as if his presence burns the oxygen from the air.

  His gaze caresses me, as soft as a lover, and for a second I’m lost in his spell. He speaks, and the spell is broken.

  “Well,” he says.

  I’ve been waiting years for this moment.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Untie me.”

  His breath hot on my cheek, the knife cuts through the zip ties like soft butter.

  “You’re wearing my favorite perfume.”

  “It seems fitting.”

  His laugh is a growl in the back of his throat, and he pulls me roughly to him. His mouth brands me. The kiss—deep and fierce, an open flame in the heat of his touch. His fingers tangle in the back of my hair, and I cry out.

  His hand drops away. Blood coats the leather pads of his gloves, and Kyle frowns.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “But Mally…” He trails off.

  I shake out my hands and rise from my chair. My legs feel like rubber, and I sway for a second before regaining my balance. I can tell Kyle is brooding about the things Jack has done.

  “It’s over,” I tell him, and he nods.

  “I made you a promise. He will never touch you again.”

  “And he won’t.” I rub my wrists, the raw flesh burning like fire. “The zip ties were too tight,” I complain.

  Kyle examines the bloody crescents carved into each wrist, regret filling his face.

  “Had to be. I had to make it look real.”

  “Then hit me,” I say. He drops my hands. His expression grows dark.

  “No.”

  “Hit me,” I command in a voice hard as stone.

  “No.”

  “You said it yourself, Kyle. It’s got to look real.”

  “I don’t care. If I hit you, I’m no better than him.”

  I chuckle somewhere deep in my throat and shake my head. My hand cups his cheek, and I pull his mouth down to mine. The tangle of our tongues sends an electric jolt through us both, and I hear Kyle moan.

  “Pretend I’m him,” I whisper.

  Kyle pulls away. “You know I can’t do that. I could never...”

  “Do it,” I yell.

  And he does. Kyle backhands me across the face and sends me reeling. A high-pitched whine drowns out everything as the world spins out of focus. A cut opens up on my cheek. I gasp and stumble back, nearly fall, until his hands reach out to catch me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. His fingers stray to the cut as if somehow he can heal it with his touch. “I’m so sorry.”

  Head still fuzzy from the blow, I blink and force myself to smile, the flesh under my eye already starting to swell.

  “I’m okay.”

  “I never want to be like him. You believe me, Mally, don’t you?”

  “Of course. We’re a team now.”

  Satisfied, he takes a step back, and I survey the scene with a keen eye, wondering what story it will tell. For the first time I’m grateful the basement floor is bare concrete. Carpet would be so much harder to clean.

  “Be careful where you step.”

  I remove my shoes and take the knife, my fingers close on the hilt.

  “It has to look like he untied me.”

  Quickly we adjust the scene and manufacture evidence to match the story I will tell. When we’re done, I stand over Jack, the pool of blood beneath his head starting to congeal.

  I think I should feel something. Anger. Hatred. Regret. But standing staring into his lifeless face I feel nothing except gratitude. As Kyle said, I’m finally free.

  “The upstairs?”

  “I did like you told me. It looks like it was robbed.”

  “And my jewelry?”

  “I dumped it down the storm drain out back. They’ll never find it.”

  “Good.” I step back into my shoes.

  “I was careful,” he says as he breathes in my scent.

  Kyle flattens his hand on my belly and pulls me against him. I arch back. He grinds into me, and I groan.

  Then he spins me around in the steel bands of his arms and kisses me deep. My hands slide around his back. The hard, taut muscles of his shoulders are so very different than Jack’s. My hands close on his waist.

  “What’s the first thing we’re going to do with his money?” he whispers into my ear, sending shivers down the length of my spine.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about that,” I say. And I have.

  Quick and as deadly as lightning, I pull the gun from the band of his pants, point it at his face, and pull the trigger.

  Another shot rings out. Kyle’s eyes bulge, uncomprehending. His body flails backward, and he crashes to the floor. I hold my breath and tick off the seconds, keeping watch to make sure that he’s dead.

  He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. I hover over him watching for some sign of life, but there is nothing, just the shocked look on his ridiculous face.

  I drop the gun to the floor. It lands beside him with a hollow clang.

  “First, I think I�
�ll go to Paris,” I tell him. “I’ve always wanted to see Paris in the spring.”

  A peaceful silence settles over the room, and I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek until the blood flows into my mouth. Tears spring to my eyes, and I let them come. Each one backs up my story.

  “Jack,” I breathe, fishing in my pocket for my cell phone. “Jack is dead.”

  I test the words. Adjust them. Until they sound just right.

  By the time I call 911, my hands are shaking. My breaths come in ragged gasps.

  “My husband,” I cry into the phone. “Someone shot my husband. Oh god, oh god please. Hurry. I think he’s dead.”

  “Calm down, ma’am, we’re on our way. Now I need you to tell me what happened.”

  I cry something unintelligible into the phone. It slides from my hands and shatters on the cold concrete floor.

  Then I crouch down beside my fallen husband and wait for the sirens to come. My forehead falls onto his chest.

  My tears soak through his shirt like spring rain.

  Q&A with Chris Patchell

  Oh boy, was this one full of surprises. Deliciously devious! Do you ever feel bad about writing about people who are... just so bad?

  LOL. I suppose I should. I used to think of myself as a nice girl from a sleepy little town in Canada, but it seems my alter ego writer self is not very nice at all. I think one of the big surprises for me, when I started writing these kinds of stories, was how much I love writing as the antagonist. As Stephen King says, even the bad guy is the hero of his own story.

  What attracts you about writing mysteries and thrillers? What’s tough and what’s easy about this genre?

  I wrote romances in my early twenties—fluffy stories with happy endings tied up in neat little bows. And then life got busy—college, career, family. When I finally got back to writing again, my tastes had changed. I had changed, and so, I started writing something different. The minute I started working on my first thriller I was hooked. I love these fast-paced, high-stakes stories. Unraveling a plot is like creating an elaborate labyrinth, and it happens to be my very favorite thing about writing. Coming from a tech background, I’m analytical in nature. This is probably why plotting and pace come naturally to me. Character development and emotional arcs are much harder, so I spend more time on this aspect of my craft. My heroes tend to come from the “scratch and dent” section of life.