Disturbed Mind (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Series Book 2) Read online

  Disturbed Mind

  A Grace Ellery Thriller Suspense

  Charlotte Raine

  Contents

  Also by Charlotte Raine

  Copyright

  Read More Books

  1. Francis Tate, 2015

  2. Sam, 2015

  3. Grace, 2015

  4. Grace, 2014

  5. Sam, 2015

  6. Grace, 2015

  7. Francis, 2015

  8. Francis, 2003

  9. Sam, 2015

  10. Sam, 2014

  11. Grace, 2015

  12. Grace, 2014

  13. Francis, 2015

  14. Sam, 2015

  15. Grace, 2015

  16. Francis, 2015

  17. Francis, 2015

  18. Sam, 2015

  19. Sam, 2015

  20. Grace, 2015

  21. Sam, 2015

  22. Sam, 2015

  23. Sam, 2015

  24. Grace, 2015

  25. Francis, 2015

  26. Francis, 2013

  27. Lori Schneider, 2015

  28. Sam, 2015

  29. Francis, 2012

  30. Francis, 2012

  31. Sam, 2015

  32. Grace, 2015

  33. Francis, 2015

  34. Sam, 2015

  35. Francis, 2015

  36. Sam, 2015

  37. Francis, 2015

  38. Sam, 2015

  39. Grace, 2015

  40. Francis, 2015

  41. Grace, 2015

  42. Sam, 2015

  43. Grace, 2015

  44. Sam, 2015

  About the Author

  Also by Charlotte Raine

  Join my VIP email list and receive instant access to several best selling books. Also, you will be automatically entered to win an autographed book (1 winner each week.) Click here to sign up www.CharlotteRaineBooks.com

  * * *

  A Trinity of Death (Romantic Suspense)

  Do You Want To Play (Prequel)

  Voice of the Spirit

  Violence of the Father

  Vengeance of the Son

  Titanium Blood Series (Paranormal Romance)

  Blood Family

  Blood Run

  Blood Honor

  Blood Bound

  Blood Oath

  Blood Rite

  Grace Ellery Series

  Teacher Beware - FREE

  Disturbed Mind

  Grant & Daniels Series

  Midnight Sun

  Devil’s Dawn

  Blood Moon

  Complete Series Box Set

  The Gun Runner - Short Story Series

  Major Threat

  Trigger Point

  Safe At Last

  Complete Series Box Set

  Copyright © 2016 by Charlotte Raine

  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.

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  Chapter One

  Francis Tate, 2015

  (March, Saturday, Late Afternoon; Interstate-376, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania)

  THE BOY—AN ADOLESCENT, REALLY—was dressed in jeans with threadbare knees and a leather jacket as he walks along Interstate-376 in Pittsburgh. I pull the Honda Civic onto to the shoulder. He walks up to the right side of my car as I roll down the window.

  “Bad day?” I ask.

  He flashes me a quick smile. “Nah. Bad two weeks. Do you have a cell phone I could use?”

  “No, sorry,” I say. “I’ve never been a fan of technology.”

  “Damn.” He rubs the side of his head, making his dark hair stick up. “You aren’t going to Bethlehem, are you?”

  “Pennsylvania? No, but I’m going to Philadelphia after I pick up a friend in Virginia and it wouldn’t be a big deal for me to stop at Bethlehem for you,” I tell him. “Jump in.”

  The boy opens the car door and bounces into the passenger seat. He sticks out his hand. “I’m Bryce. Bryce Ballentine.”

  “I’m F—” I’m about to say Francis, but I realize for the first time since getting out of prison that I could create a whole new identity. I didn’t have to be Francis, the nerdy teenager with a stuttering problem, or a young man diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder, and claustrophobia. The prison’s psychologists loved me and I loved manipulating them. If I had stayed a little bit longer, I’m sure I could have gotten the redhead to help me escape. “I’m Freddie. Freddie Hayes.”

  “Hey, Freddie.”

  “Hey, Bryce Ballentine,” I say. “So, what are you doing out here?”

  “I was heading for Broadway,” he says. “But since I’ve left home, I’ve been robbed, I’m in a cell phone dead spot, and my car broke down. I think it’s a sign. God is taking His time to tell me, No, Bryce, go back home. Sleep in your nice, warm bed and eat Cheetos on your couch. The only bad part is that I need to apologize to my parents. Can you imagine that conversation? Ugh.”

  “You shouldn’t give up. Genius is ninety-nine percent perspiration,” I tell him, remembering what Grace used to tell the class. WWGD? What would Grace do? That’s how I’ve been functioning in society, though the answer that keeps popping in my head is she would send you straight to prison to rot for a decade. “I’m sure that once you get to Broadway, it will be worth it. You seem like you have a big personality. You’ll fit right in there.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “Yeah,” I lie. “I have a few friends who work in the business. I could get you some connections.”

  He smiles wide, so full of false belief that someone cares about his future endeavors…the same false belief that I had about Grace. “Thanks, Freddie. You seem like you have a big personality, too.”

  “I do.” I smile.

  He’s the one. My first kill after prison.

  * * *

  After we have crossed into Virginia and we’re only one town away from Murray, Bryce and I stop at a liquor store. This gets him to admit that he recently turned eighteen years old, so he stays in the car while I buy cheap vodka. I’ve prodded information out of him throughout the drive, using all of the same techniques Grace used on me—compassion, sympathy, eye contact, a ridiculous amount of time biting my tongue. He has a younger sister—thirteen years old and could possibly be a piano prodigy—his mother is a librarian and his father is a history teacher at Freedom High School. Bryce has two close friends—Emily, who he dated for a few months when he was a sophomore, but they switched back to being friends easily (which means that it wasn’t an easy transition for her) and Zach, who is obsessed with some multiplayer online roleplaying game that involves ogres and damsels in distress.

  He has also never been convicted of a crime. If he had been, I might have let him live. Or maybe not.

  We sit in the car in front of a biking trail, which runs along the Neabsco Creek, taking sips of vodka as dusk begins to settle in a small town called Pearland. I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be Pearl-and or Pear-land, but I suppose it’s irrelevant.

  “You’re not going to drink and drive, are you?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “We can sleep here. The cops don’t mind. Nob
ody even comes around here because the lake has so much algae and the mosquitos are obnoxious, so they won’t come here either.”

  “You’ve been here before?” he asks.

  I frown. “Yeah, when I was a kid. My father used to try to take me fishing.”

  “Try?”

  “I wasn’t good at it.” My tone makes it clear that the topic was over.

  Bryce takes another sip of vodka. I’m guessing that he hasn’t had much experience drinking because his movements are already clumsy.

  “Have you ever smoked weed?” Bryce asks.

  “Yeah. Back in college,” I say. “It’s not as big of a deal as people make it out to be.”

  “Oh,” he says. “What was college like?”

  “Better than high school, but everything is still reliant on people’s perceptions of you,” I tell him. “But you don’t have to worry about that. You’re going to make it big in Broadway.”

  “You really think that?”

  I nod. “I would bet on it. In fact, why don’t you give me your autograph? That way I can make some money when you’re famous.”

  “Aww, I’m not going to be famous,” he says. I open my glove compartment, take out a pen and a scrap of paper, and hand it to him. “You’re embarrassing me now. Should I write To Freddie?”

  “Sure,” I say, as he begins to jot down a note, something long and sentimental. I take out the bowie knife from the glove compartment. I grab him by the hair and in one, quick motion…I slice his throat from the right ear to the left carotid artery. Who knew that dating a paramedic in college would be so useful?

  Bryce makes a choking noise. One of his hands tries to stop the bleeding and the other halfheartedly reaches for me—as if I would help. I watch him struggle, the blood spraying the side window, the glove compartment, the door. It’s not like what you see in the movies—it’s not a shower of blood, but it’s the most real, thrilling thing I’ve ever seen.

  A couple of minutes pass before his body slouches over completely and his eyes stare blankly at the car floor.

  I wait and listen to the absolute silence in the car. After a few minutes, I get out of the car, walk around to the passenger side, open the door, and jerk Bryce’s body out. I get a tire iron out of the trunk.

  I was telling the truth when I said no one comes around here, especially at night, but the thought of someone coming excites me. I want to see the shock on their face and that moment that they realize I am their new god—I could take their life without a second thought. I could be the manifestation of their worst nightmares.

  I take Bryce’s cell phone and wallet. I put them in my pocket. I use the tire iron to shatter Bryce’s jaw and knock out his teeth. I make sure to collect each tooth, so it can’t be used to identify him. I think about his fingerprints. I should have asked if he had been fingerprinted for a Child Find program when he was a kid. I can’t risk it. I use the bowie knife to cut away at his fingertips and cut off all of the birthmarks that could identify him.

  I flay his face clean before I bust in his skull. I put the mutilated body behind the wheel of the car and clip the seat belt around him. I drive the car toward the river, stopping right before it would begin to roll down the hill. I get out and place a rock on the gas pedal. It speeds down the grassy hill before sliding into the river. The back tires are still spinning as it disappears under the surface of the water.

  I roll a few of his teeth in my hand. I’ll bury most of them, but keep a couple. They’re not really trophies. They’re more like mementos. I want to remember the feeling of his skull collapsing.

  I pull off my shirt. I’ll need to burn it.

  Beep, beep

  What the fuck? I look around, searching for a hidden camera or some other technological device someone put in the middle of the woods to catch cold-blooded murderers.

  Beep, beep

  Then, I remember. Bryce’s phone.

  I take it out of my pocket and slide my finger across the screen to unlock it.

  Kayla: Hey. How’s your trip?

  Kayla: Are you annoying that Freddie guy?

  Kayla: When will you be back?

  I smile. Kayla is Bryce’s thirteen-year-old sister. Kids these days with their cell phones and their belief that the only monsters were banished from under their beds. I type back to her.

  Me: Trip is good. I found a bus that will take me to NYC. I’ll be back in a couple months. I want to settle down in the city before I return.

  Kayla: Oh, okay. I thought you would return sooner. Keep in touch.

  Me: I will.

  I open Bryce’s wallet and take out his driver’s license. He’s a bit shorter and less muscular than me, but our hair and eye color are the same.

  I am Bryce Ballentine. A man from Bethlehem, in search for Grace.

  Chapter Two

  Sam, 2015

  (April, Thursday Afternoon; Outside Connor's House, Murray, Virginia)

  RAINDROPS TAP DOWN on my windshield as I wait for Rayna to show up with the buyers, or for Grace to call me to let me know when she will be home from her weekend class. It’s Saturday and there’s a million things I would rather be doing than staring at Connor’s/Schneiders’/Grace’s house.

  At Christmas, Grace learned that the Schneiders had yet again convinced Connor to let them stay. This time, it was because Brianna, their daughter who had been in college, was pregnant and had moved into the house along with her fiancé, Jason. Grace wasn't particularly mad since she’d been living with me for a couple of months. She’d been beginning to settle into a routine. I would leave for work first but leave enough coffee in the pot for her, and she would cook dinner. We did chores together, we slept next to each other with ease—though, she seemed uncomfortable with the fact she’d moved into my house for convenience and not because we were at that point in our relationship. I reassured her it was fine and she pretended to believe me.

  In early February, Connor told Grace a defense contractor had hired him—though the job would be in Tampa, Florida, and not in Northern Virginia. Since he would be starting his job literally as soon as he got back to the States, he wouldn’t be able to spend the time getting his house ready for sale and selling it like he wants to do. After some argument, Grace agreed that she'd take care of it for him, provided he gave her power of attorney in writing, and dealt with the Schneiders.

  Grace ended up regretting telling Connor that she needed the power of attorney in writing, because her insisting was what inspired Connor to get terms settled with the Schneiders in writing. Benjamin convinced him to provide a written guarantee that the Schneiders would not be forced to move out of the house until there was a buyer under contract, and then only after thirty days' notice. Again, Connor forgot to tell Grace about this agreement before it bit her in the butt, so to speak. The first time Rayna Tran, the agent Grace hired, took buyers to the house, Lori screamed at them for being solicitors and slammed the door in their faces.

  I jump as my phone rings. I shouldn’t have changed it to a car horn. I pick up my phone.

  Alicia Morris

  Reply or Ignore

  Isn’t that the million-dollar question? Do I ignore the ex-girlfriend who threw a stiletto at my head—and lose her expertise of selling houses from her time as an interior director—or do I answer and risk the guilt of Grace finding out?

  Eh. Guilt is nothing new to me.

  “Hey, Alicia,” I answer.

  “Sam!” she exclaims as if she’s surprised that I’m the one who answered my own cell phone. “How’s it going?”

  Time for an admission: I’ve talked to Alicia a few times since late February. By that point, it was obvious that Rayna was in over her head trying to sell the house. I began talking to Alicia about the house sale after running into her at the grocery store and asked for her advice. Alicia asked if there had been a seller's inspection of the house. I told her that there hadn’t been, feeling stupid for not thinking of that. I had gone from an apartment to living in a house—t
he process of selling a house was foreign to me. Alicia had made an unhappy sound and said she would suggest to Rayna that the house be inspected. I asked her, for the first time, if she'd consider taking over selling the house, though I knew Alicia and I mixing wasn’t my brightest idea. Alicia declined, saying that she knew Rayna and had faith in her as a real estate agent. Alicia said she wouldn't want Grace to get the wrong idea if the two of us began working together. It’s the most rational I’ve ever seen Alicia. Since then, she’s been my house-selling guru.

  “Not good. Rayna doesn’t seem to be progressing with this house sale.”

  “Really?” Alicia asks. “She’s usually quite good at her job. Maybe something is going on in her life…”

  “You know…you could probably do a better job,” I say.

  “Yeah, not to be arrogant, but I’m certain that I could…but I can’t get in between you and Grace.”

  “I…I can just tell Grace she needs to get rid of Rayna. Then…you can kind of just slip in. She doesn’t even know who you are, so you could just be the brand new real estate agent.”

  “That sounds brilliant,” she says. I can’t tell if she is being sarcastic or not—her passive-aggressiveness had always been a problem during our relationship. As I’m about to ask her, I hear the Jaws theme song. It means I have a text from the county police department.

  “Hey, sorry, Alicia, but I just got a text from the county and it probably means that they found somebody deceased.”

  “Ah, yes, your new job as the local medical examiner,” she says. “You never told me how a cardiologist becomes an ME.”

  “I’m still a cardiologist. I just help the police when there’s a death around here. I’m someone who had an MD and I had already studied anatomic pathology,” I tell her. “So, I just needed my certification.”