Disturbed Mind (A Grace Ellery Romantic Suspense Series Book 2) Page 4

  “I have something here,” Dr. Carter says. Her hand has lifted up the body’s arm and she pulls something out from behind his back. “It’s smudged all to hell, but maybe it was something left behind by the killer.”

  I take the piece of paper that she’s holding out. It’s actually a pamphlet drenched from the water and the ink is seeping down the paper. It takes me a couple of minutes to make out the title of the pamphlet:

  Dealing with Addiction: Therapy, Medication, and a Good Support System

  As my eyes trail down the page, a logo at the bottom catches my attention. It has the state of Ohio with the letters DRC inside it. Beside the logo, it states, Southeastern Correctional Institute.

  My heart skips a beat. It can’t be. Francis Tate was supposed to be in Southeastern Correctional Institute for another eight years. There’s no way he would be out by now.

  “Hey!” I call out to one of Dr. Carter’s forensic team members. “Can you put this in an evidence bag?”

  I hand him the pamphlet and take off my gloves. I walk away from the group as I pull out my phone. I get onto the Internet and search Southeastern Correctional Institute.

  I scan through the news section of the search engine. There’s nothing about a prisoner breaking out. Still, what are the odds that someone who was killed by a knife that has connections to Southeastern Correctional Institute comes so close to Murray?

  Well, there has to be a fair number of murderers from the prison, so maybe it’s not impossible and Francis Tate didn’t seem this capable of calculated destruction when I heard about him from Grace and old news reports.

  I get a new pair of gloves and walk back to Dr. Carter.

  “Dr. Carter, once you get a DNA sample, can you check it against the records for a particular state?” I ask.

  "Yeah, I can do a search filtered by agency identifier,” she replies without looking up.

  “Could you check Ohio?”

  "Why Ohio?"

  "The car is from Ohio. The pamphlet says Southeastern Correctional Institute, which is in Ohio…”

  “Maybe the owner has a relative in prison,” she says. “Of course, I will look, but it seems like the killer was going through different states unless this victim is the car thief. The killer could have come from anywhere.”

  “Just please check it and do it as quickly as possible,” I say. “I…I just have a hunch…”

  "You okay, Dr. Meadows?" she asks, glancing back at me. Blood is all over her plastic gloves from where she has touched the victim.

  "No." I swallow.

  "It's all right. I'd like to say that seeing these murder victims gets easier, but they don't. But not many of them are this bad. You should head home. I’ll call you when I know something."

  I nod. I need to see Grace. I need some reassurance that she’s safe and that this whole idea of mine is crazy. He couldn’t have escaped. He couldn’t be free and stalking Grace. I can’t risk almost losing her again.

  Chapter Ten

  Sam, 2014

  (Thanksgiving; Sam’s House, Murray, Virginia)

  GRACE’S MOTHER, LOUISE, and my parents come over to my house for Thanksgiving. Louise insisted on cooking the turkey because she has a special recipe that includes Dijon mustard and soy sauce, which was fortunate because neither Grace nor I knew how to cook turkey. Grace always had Thanksgiving with her mother’s side of the family, and I was always so busy on Thanksgiving that I just ate Chinese takeout or bought a ready-made turkey. This is something new and, honestly, I like it.

  “The turkey is ready!” Louise yells out from the kitchen. Mom peeks out from the kitchen with a glass of wine dangling from her hand.

  “Can you carve it, Rupert?” she asks. “I always end up hitting the bone and Louise says that she always has trouble doing it as well.”

  Dad sighs, lifting himself off his chair. I offer him my hand, but he only smirks at me.

  “I’m fine, Sam,” he says. “I think my heart is stronger than it has been in years.”

  “Maybe,” I say. It’s medically impossible, but he seems happier and more energetic than he was back when I was a teenager. As Dad walks into the kitchen, Grace scurries out. Her cheeks turn red when she sees me raising my eyebrow.

  “I’m not quite ready to be in the same room as a carving knife,” she says. “Don’t judge me too harshly; that thing looks like a hatchet.”

  “I wouldn’t ever judge you,” I tell her. She walks over to me and slides onto my lap. We kiss. “Except maybe for the fact that you like spinach dip. That’s a bit weird. And chicken on your pizza. Chicken was never meant to be on pizza.”

  “Both of those are delicious. Don’t hate buffalo chicken pizza until you’ve had it,” she says, as I run my finger along her clavicle. “I’m glad everyone could be here.”

  “Me, too,” I say. “I hope it’s not too weird without your dad here. I wish I could have met him.”

  “He would have loved you,” she says. “He was always interested in the medical field. You two would have had a lot to talk about.”

  I nod. I hear her mother’s infectious laugh from the kitchen. “How did you tell your mom that we had moved in already?”

  “Are you kidding? I didn’t have to explain anything. I’m pretty sure she’s expecting a wedding and a child any minute now,” she says. She flushes, avoiding my gaze. “That’s a joke. Nobody is expecting anything.”

  “I got it,” I say, kissing her cheek. “You don’t need to explain to me. I know how mothers are…or at least I’ve heard how they can be.”

  She leans against me and presses her lips against the side of my neck.

  “I love you,” she says, her warm breath billowing against my skin.

  “I love you, too.”

  Mom and Louise walk in with stuffing and mashed potatoes. Grace gets off my lap as they set the dishes on the table, but the two mothers are already grinning and exchanging looks as if they caught us making out.

  “Do you need help?” Grace asks. “I’m sorry that I left the kitchen—”

  “Grace, we understand,” Mom says. “After what you’ve been through, we’re all proud that you’re still a good woman with her head on her shoulders.”

  “Thank you,” Grace murmurs. The two women disappear back into the kitchen. Grace turns to me.

  “I thought you said your Mom was callous?” she whispers.

  “She was,” I say. “I think the holiday spirit, my Dad’s successive heart attacks, and the fact that my brother is expecting twins helped her realize that life was passing her by. It is truly a holiday miracle.”

  Our mothers return with green bean casserole and dinner rolls. They set them on the table.

  “Are we supposed to be able to sit anywhere at the table, Mom?” I ask. She pretends to glare at me.

  “There is enough room to eat, Samuel Jacob Meadows,” she says. “Why don’t you help your father in the kitchen, so the three women here can talk about you pesky men?”

  “Fine,” I say with mock exasperation. I give Grace another quick kiss on the cheek. “Don’t say anything too bad about me.”

  “I’ll try not to make you sound too bad,” she teases. I step into the kitchen. Dad is the polar opposite of Mom. He’s overweight, she’s slim. His hair is sparse and gray, whereas Mom has dyed dirty-blond hair that seems thicker than ever. Their biggest difference is their eyes. Dad has the same dark-brown eyes that I do—I’ve been told that the color almost has a soft texture to it—but Mom has blue eyes that appear as cold and hard as ice. They used to match her temperament, but lately it’s simply off-putting when contrasted to her personality.

  My father has already expertly cut up half the turkey. Layers of white meat are piled up on a plate. “Do you need some help? Mom says that you do.”

  “I’m handling this bird just fine,” he says. “But why don’t you pull up a stool, so we can talk?”

  This whole talking thing is new for my family. It makes me wonder if my parents suddenly to
ok a seminar on personal relationships or if all of their time at the hospital and physical therapy taught them how to react in more intimate social settings.

  I pull up my beechwood barstool to the left of Dad and sit down.

  “What’s up?” I ask. “Have you been taking your medication? Have you had any difficulties breathing while doing anything strenuous?”

  He waves away my words with the carver knife still in his hand. It probably is best that Grace isn’t in the room.

  “I don’t want to talk to you as my doctor, I want to talk to you as my son,” he says. “How’s your relationship with Grace?”

  “It’s great,” I say. “I’m happy. I’m pretty sure she’s happy. It’s…I don’t know, it’s good. It feels right…like this where I was meant to end up.”

  “That’s my boy,” he says, smiling. “So, are you going to ask her the big question?”

  “Big question?”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “The do-you-know-where-the-TV-remote-is question,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Come on, Sam. The will-you-spend-the-rest-of-your-life-with-me question. Are you going to ask her to marry you?”

  “We’ve only known each other for a few months,” I tell him.

  “Well, maybe you’re not going to ask her right now, but do you see it heading that way? At this point in your life, you shouldn’t be dating someone you don’t see yourself marrying. Remember when we were talking in the hospital and you mentioned that girl who threw her shoe at you?”

  “Alicia. Yes, I remember. It was a stiletto heel, which is a lot more dangerous than your average shoe.”

  “Yes, well, she wasn’t long-term material. But this one? I think this one seems to be good for you.”

  “I think she’s good for me, too.”

  “So…would you ask her to marry you?” he asks. I smile, leaning against the counter.

  “I know it’s really soon…but I have thought about it.”

  Dad sets the knife down and claps me against the back. “I’m proud of you, son. I can see the two of you being happy together for a long time.”

  He picks up the plate of turkey and I follow him out to the dining room. Mom, Louise, and Grace are huddled around the end of the table, whispering about something. When they all turn to look at Dad setting down the plate of turkey, Grace catches my eyes. There’s a sparkle in her celadon eyes and, at that moment, all I want to do is put something that sparkles on her ring finger as well.

  Chapter Eleven

  Grace, 2015

  (Thursday Night; Kevin Deats’s House, Murray, Virginia)

  KEVIN RETURNS TO HIS HOUSE with a brown paper bag that has grease soaking through the bottom of it.

  “I thought you were on a diet,” I tease.

  “Even Dr. Oz would allow Frankie’s Philly cheesesteaks on the strictest diet.” He pulls out a wrapped-up sub that also has grease saturated through it. “It tastes like strips of heaven with a layer of magic, dipped into healthy, but still addictive, cocaine.”

  “Wow,” I say, as he hands me the sub. I unwrap it. “That is quite the critique. You should write up that review in the newspaper.”

  “Nah,” he says. “If I did that, the next PTA would be about how I’m encouraging students to use cocaine and practice witchcraft.”

  “Probably,” I say. “And if you mentioned me, Lori Schneider would tell everyone I needed to be burned at the stake.”

  He laughs, shaking his head. “That woman is a piece of work. Are you still having problems with her?”

  “No, I try to avoid her as much as possible. It’s difficult when they’re still living in the house that I’m trying to sell. But once I have a buyer, they have thirty days to move out and I will never have to talk to her again.”

  “Amen,” he says, unwrapping his own sub. His phone rings. “I swear, someone always calls the minute I pick-up my dinner. Excuse me for one moment.”

  He walks to the living room to answer his phone, and I take a bite out of the sub. The mixture of steak, provolone, grilled Amoroso bread that’s lightly salted, and the slightest hint of garlic makes it beyond perfection. I take another bite before I finish chewing my first one. It might be unladylike, but when you taste something as good as this, manners are the last thing on your mind.

  I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I think about ignoring it since I’m enjoying this sub and my hands are greasy, but I figure it’s probably Sam and with the murder he was talking about, he might need moral support. I set down the sub, wipe my hands on my jeans, and then I take out my phone. It’s not Sam. It’s my mother. Well, that’s barely worth interrupting my meal.

  Then again, she did save my life when she came home and caused Francis Tate to flee after he stabbed me six times.

  I click answer and hold it up to my ear.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, picking up the sub with my other hand. “I’m kind of busy with some, uh, paperwork for selling the house. Can I call you back?”

  “Grace…” she says. There’s a heavy note in her voice that makes me put the sub back down.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m…I’m fine,” she says. “It’s…it’s Francis Tate.”

  I feel acid swirling in my stomach and threatening to push the steak and cheese back up my throat.

  “What…about him?” I ask.

  “I don’t know how to tell you this…I only found out because of the nice policewoman we worked with—you remember Officer Spencer, don’t you? She was the policewoman we worked with while trying to catch him…but—” She stops. “I can’t even believe that the judge would allow this—”

  “Allow what, Mom?” I want to say, spit it out, but I can barely articulate myself and I’m fairly certain that whatever she is about to tell me, I don’t want to hear.

  “Francis Tate…he struck a deal with a prosecutor. The prosecutor was working on a case where this man killed his wife and child. Francis Tate told the jury that the man confessed to killing them. His sentence was shortened and…he’s free now.”

  Kevin walks back into the room as I stare at my sub, my phone still held up to my ear. I must look stricken because he takes a step toward me, his face filled with concern.

  “Grace, are you okay?” he asks.

  I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t comprehend how the justice system could fail so spectacularly.

  “Grace, I’m sure you’ll be fine. He doesn’t know that you moved. I have some neighbors and Officer Spencer watching out for me. You’re with Sam and I know that he will take care of you. You’re safe. I’m safe. Everything will be okay. I’m sure that after two years he’s a little less insane…” I can hear the doubt in her voice with every word she speaks. She doesn’t believe anything she’s saying.

  “I gotta go,” I tell her then hang up. Kevin continues to look at me as if I might have a complete breakdown. I can’t breakdown right now. I can’t show any sign of weakness or I will never be able to move past this. He was bound to get out at one point or another. This is just too soon for me.

  “Excuse me,” I tell Kevin. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  I walk past him and down the hall. Once I’m in the bathroom, I lock the door. I take my phone back out and get onto the Internet. I search Francis Tate’s name. There are articles about his attack on me and he’s briefly mentioned for testifying against a guy named Lyle Douglas, who killed his wife and four-year-old daughter. It never mentions that he was given a Get-out-of-Jail-Free card for his testimony.

  I stare at his mug shot that pops up in the Images section of the search engine. His eyes stare straight back at me and his smile taunts me. It clearly says, welcome back to the hunt.

  * * *

  I try to sleep.

  Kevin offered me his bed, but I elected to sleep on the couch. His puppy, who he let me name Rhett Butler after one of my favorite characters in film, keeps nudging his cold, wet nose against my arm. When I pat the couch cushion,
he jumps up on top of me, circles around my stomach, and lies down on my chest. It makes it hard to breathe, but breathing is overrated.

  His warm, puppy breath causes condensation along my clavicle. I stroke his back and he stretches for a second before quickly falling back asleep. I wish it were that easy. I wish I could fall asleep on top of somebody, learning the rhythm of his heartbeat as my cheek rests against his chest, and all of my concerns would fall away as my body lets sleep take over. Sam and I slept like that a few times, but since December, it’s been a frosty relationship.

  My phone vibrates. I take it off the armrest and glance at the screen.

  Sam: I’m heading home to crash. Stay with Kevin. I’ll see you in the morning.

  Me: Did you figure out anything new about the victim or murder?

  A couple of minutes pass without an answer. I feel Rhett Butler’s paws twitch as he dreams. As I close my eyes, my phone vibrates again.

  Sam: Nothing helpful.

  Me: Okay. I’m sorry :(

  Sam: It’s fine. Can I pick you up tomorrow? I still don’t want you to be alone.

  I should tell him about Francis, but typing out the words seems absurd. How do I explain that he’s out of prison already? How would Sam, who has difficulty dealing with any strong emotions, be able to deal with the idea that the man who tried to kill me could return and try to kill me again?

  Me: Sure.

  Sam: Love you. Good night.

  Me: Love you. Night.

  I set the phone back down on the armrest. I close my eyes. Rhett Butler whines and his whole body jerks as his nightmare becomes so real that it seeps into reality.

  Chapter Twelve

  Grace, 2014

  (December; Main Street, Murray, Virginia)

  THE SNOW DRIFTS DOWN onto Sam and I as we walk out of Treasures and Treats, a gift shop filled with classic children’s toys and ornaments. I expected Sam to be bored and reluctant to be in the store, but instead he seemed nervous. As we walk, with my arm looped around his, I can feel his muscles move as his hands fidget inside his coat pocket.