Screaming To Be Solved Read online

  SCREAMING to be SOLVED

  LAUREN HOPE

  Screaming To Be Solved

  Copyright © 2013

  Lauren Hope

  Author photo by Emma Montandon.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  To Heather:

  My editor, my sister, my friend.

  and

  To my baby girl. You may bring a life change, but what a change it’ll be!

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE FOR THE SHADOW SERIES

  ONE

  Warm sweat trickled down his back, sliding swift and sinuous as raindrops down a window pane. It pooled in the dip on the small of his back, clinging his shirt to his skin. His breath came in quick short puffs. It too was warm and sticky as it moved through his mouth, over his chapped and bloody lips. His throat felt strange, tight and scratchy, almost like the time he had strep and she cared for him so tenderly.

  Strange to think of strep at a time like this.

  Not so strange to think of her. He would be dead soon after all.

  He would miss her. Her soft hair. The sweet smell of flowers and freshness she always brought with her into a room.

  It was far better than the putrid air expelling from the man in front of him. The man with the gun.

  Evan had seen guns a million times over the course of his career, usually had one holstered by his side, but right now he was unarmed, and the black metal pressed to his chest had alarmed him into a state of near paralysis.

  He was also outnumbered. By far.

  There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. No move or training or cunning idea that could get him out of this.

  He had done his best. Had tried. And that would count for something. But would she know? Would she ever know?

  Noise exploded, it came from every direction. The pain was next, instantaneous and blinding. Then the darkness.

  As it closed around him, he couldn’t help but smile as the scent of

  fresh flowers and a vision of smooth red hair and stunning blue eyes carried him into the black.

  “The funeral was nice,” Marxie heard herself say.

  “Mmm. Very.” Liz nodded in agreement.

  What did that even mean anyway, a “nice” funeral? It seemed such a simple, almost sweet word to describe the hardest and bitterest day of her life.

  Maybe nice was the most one could hope for on a day like today. Maybe it was what she’d just seen, what she’d just been a part of. Cherishing words, shed tears, moving memories for the newly deceased … yes, that must define nice.

  If all that made for an appropriate funeral, her Evan had just had a grand affair.

  Simultaneous shots fired by his fellow officers, bowed heads and saluted hands at his passing coffin, women dabbing their eyes, men brushing at theirs, concealing the tears pooling there, and sober hugs and handshakes to the grieving widow were part of the grandness, pieces of the send off for the man at the center of today’s nice funeral.

  Evan Vaughn was the man. And Evan was dead at twenty-six.

  That made her a widow at twenty-five.

  How this had happened she still couldn’t fully comprehend. She’d delayed the burial for a time, on the advice of friends and family, and because somewhere in the recesses of the mind that can’t grasp tragedy when it strikes suddenly, she thought if she didn’t go through with it, Evan might actually come back. He might just walk through the robin’s egg blue door of their sunny little home and sit right down on the couch they’d picked out together, flashing her one of those heart melting smiles she’d loved for so long.

  But after many nights of sitting numbly, grieving fiercely on that couch, she knew he was never coming home.

  She had to bury him.

  Even that was harder than it should have been. He wasn’t even in the coffin she’d watched the gangly men lower into the earth, he wasn’t truly resting there. The heavy navy entombment was only a courtesy purchased by the department so she could do what everyone did and bury their dead.

  Yet Evan couldn’t even be granted that civility. He’d been ravaged at the scene of the crime. Burned until there wasn’t enough left of him to bury. The pursuit took him on the back roads of Georgia, through woods and fields and dangerous curves at high rates of speed. Because her Evan was a good man, a just man, he’d kept going. He’d driven through all the hell to bring the criminal in. Then hell had turned on him; the curve too sharp, the speed too high. And it was all over.

  Evan’s life. Her life. Her future.

  She’d never been a self-pitying sort, was always a fighter—which is one reason why she and Evan had worked so well, they pushed their way through things together—and even surrounded by the grief, immersed in the sorrow, she knew she must live and keep going.

  Her greatest fear in recent days wasn’t if she could live though, but dread that she had already experienced the greatest moments of her life, had already gobbled up all the love and happiness life offered. At twenty-five years old, were the best years behind her?

  Her aching heart said yes. Her broken soul screamed that life was forever changed. Selfish or not, her whole body bellowed the pain.

  Before her lay the ground in which her beautiful, wonderful husband was immortalized, his life stolen from him. Who cared about the honor of sacrifice? He was gone, she was alone. Their life together snuffed out.

  “Marxie, it’s getting chilly.” Liz spoke again, but her voice came from a distance, seeming far away, in a different world than she. Everyone else’s life was going on and hers was buried below her feet. “Wanna hop in the car for a minute?” Her best friend and one of the small threads of life left to hang on to placed an arm around her waist. “You can come back later, Marx. Or stay and wait the storm out.”

  Marxie looked up to the gray, rumbling sky. She hadn’t even realized it was raining. She and Evan loved storms.

  He was missing it now while she bathed in it. She glanced down at her loose-fitting black dress, presently molded to her body, tugged at it to pull it down over her knees.

  A chill raced down her back, the fine hairs on her arm standing on end. Even with the rain, today’s temperature hovered around ninety-five in the humid heat of a Georgia summer, but she was deathly cold. Her teeth chattered nosily and she couldn’t quite close her mouth firm enough to still them.

  Elizabeth wrapped her arm further around Marxie, squeezed softly. “C’mon, we’ll at least walk to the car. You can just sit in it. Don’t even have to close the door if you want.
But let’s get you dry—you’re cold as ice.”

  “I’m okay, Liz.” Marxie brought her eyes to her friend. She could barely see Liz’s face. She wasn’t sure if it was the rain or her swollen, tear-filled eyes, but her friend’s face was blurry, like her world. “I’m ready to go.”

  “You sure?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Liz smiled and nodded, bent to press a few fingers on the temporary headstone.

  “Give me just one more minute,” Marxie whispered.

  “Sure.” Liz placed a soft kiss to Marxie’s cheek and scurried off to the car.

  She had brought a special memento today, intending to leave it with him. Leave a piece of herself where he was. But right then she decided against it and slipped the gold band back down her finger.

  Instead, she would take him with her wherever she went. Instead of leaving herself here at the foot of this grave, she was taking the love and the spirit of the man who’d given her everything she cherished and walking away with it clutched deep in her heart.

  She bent and pressed her lips to the mound of fresh, muddy dirt, ran her fingers over the four small letters inscribed on the miniature metal plate. Then she rose, pushed her matted hair from her face and walked through the rain intending to do what Evan had always done in the face of adversity: Move on.

  Two years later

  TWO

  Marxie sat, legs tucked under her on the couch, while she debated over paint chips. The rich olive green or deep golden rose to wash the conference room walls in the law firm? Olive green, she decided, putting down the rose square so she couldn’t change her mind. The green was richer, deeper, and more businesslike. More manly for sure. As most of the lawyers in this particular office were men, they’d appreciate the muted walls when she accentuated them with oversized caramel leather chairs and big, yet simple pieces throughout the meeting area. It would lend itself to comfort and a clutter-free ambiance with its clean lines and subdued colors and décor. Perfect, she smiled.

  Now on to flooring, then the daunting task of lighting … the hardest part of every project. You wouldn’t think people would be so disagreeable about what was hanging from or secured in the ceiling, but in her time, she’d almost seen clients come to blows over the fact. The two named partners in Monroe & Williams didn’t seem too concerned with this particular facet of their remodel, but she knew if she made the wrong choice, they’d begin to notice and care quick enough.

  And she didn’t want to make these guys mad. They were rich, influential, and lawyers, which meant they could talk heartedly and splendidly about whomever or whatever they wanted with great zeal. If they mentioned E.M. Vaughn Design, she wanted it to be heartedly positive and full of praise.

  She was after all, still establishing herself in this area. Though growing by leaps and bounds, which she was thrilled about, her business still relied primarily on word-of-mouth. She had to make sure the words were well spoken.

  On the whole, Savannah had been good to her so far. While the Monroe & Williams account was the newest (and most profitable) stamp of approval, every new client solidified her belief that she’d made the right decision in coming here and starting anew.

  Marxie had lived with her parents for a time after Evan’s death, but she’d desperately needed her independence, a new purpose and a fresh start. It came with Liz’s offer to move and share a townhouse she had found in foreclosure in the celebrated southeast town.

  Marxie jumped at the chance. Always living on the outskirts of such a beautiful, historic area was bound to make one want to be a part of the charm, and she had.

  Now she was. She’d become active in a local church, her business was booming by her standards, which she’d set particularly high, her parents were still close enough where they could exchange visits often enough, and her best friend was just a yell away up the staircase. Life was good. Not full, not what she’d expected, but good.

  When a knock at the door sounded, she called, “Just a minute,” and dumped the heavy blocks of floor samples off her lap and onto a pile of books settled near the end of the couch.

  Probably one of Liz’s guys. That girl sure could bring in the men. It was a good thing Marxie lived on the first floor. She was better able to monitor that way. And from her station as first-floor dweller and best friend, she’d turned away a man or two and voiced her concern about several more.

  Let’s see who the wind blows in today, she thought as she straightened her top, smoothed her pants, and opened the door with a pleasant but wary smile.

  She looked a bit different than he’d expected, but he knew the moment she swung open the door it was Marxie Vaughn.

  Her face was fuller, her body sporting more meat than the bony frame he’d studied in the paper’s colored photo from two years ago. Her hair was the same unique reddish-blonde, only it was shorter now. In the picture, it had been long, reaching past her shoulders, now it rounded and waved around her face, touching her chin as she tilted her head to look up and meet his eyes.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Are you Marxie Vaughn?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m Detective Carter. Grant Carter.”

  “Detective?”

  “Yes.” He held out a badge for her to inspect.

  She looked at the badge, looked at him, looked back to the badge. Confusion and concern covered her face. Finally, the big blue eyes rested on him. “Ah, yes, Detective. What can I do for you?”

  He always hated this part. Even after nine years on the job, the majority of which included delivering some sort of bad news, he hated the reaction it unfailingly brought. And he always felt like the bad guy. Even though he knew over the next hours and days, weeks and months, he’d be pouring his heart into finding the real enemy.

  “Ms. Vaughn, there’s no easy way to say this: It seems we’ve recovered your husband’s body.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your husband.”

  “Yes. I mean, no.” She lowered her prudent eyes, fumbled with her aggressive stance. Her hand slid off the doorknob where it had rested since she’d opened the door. “What I mean is, I don’t have a husband. I’m a widow.”

  “I know, ma’am. I realize this is shocking, but lab reports confirm. We’re certain the remains of a white male pulled from the canal three days ago are those of Officer Evan James Vaughn.”

  “My Evan?” Her breath hitched and she laid a hand over her heart.

  “Yes ma’am, I’m afraid so.”

  She shook her head slowly. “That’s . . . impossible. Evan—Evan was killed . . . years ago, Detective. He was . . . burned. There—there was no body.”

  He nodded, wishing the sun wasn’t so hot on his back, wishing more that some color would come back into her once rosy cheeks. “Yes ma’am. I’m very sorry, but I’d like a minute of your time if you could spare it.”

  “Uh . . . Uh-huh. Yes.” She gestured for him to come through the door, shakily moved back to clear a path for him.

  And he caught her as she fell.

  THREE

  She awoke as if from a dream, all hazy and dizzy and a bit disoriented. A strong face with narrowed, concerned eyes came into focus, and the grim mouth was moving but she couldn’t hear any words.

  Faintly, sound began to play in her ears, like soft music down a long, echoing hall. “Ms. Vaughn? Can you hear me? Ms. Vaughn?”

  She widened her eyes, shook her head to clear away the fuzziness. “Yes. Yes, I hear you.”

  A thundering sound came from overhead, telling her that her ears did indeed work fine, and Liz appeared promptly at the base of the stairs. She moved quickly. “What happened? Who are you?” Her friend rushed forward, turned on the man with an accusing look.

  “I’m Detective Grant Carter.”

  “Okay, I’m Elizabeth Marksman. I’ll ask again, what happened?”

  Liz took her accusatory stare away from the detective long enough to kneel on the other side of Marxie, but her glare ref
ocused as he spoke.

  “Ms. Vaughn just had a little spell I suspect. I got to her before she hit the floor.” As if just realizing he was still cradling her, Detective Carter stiffened, then gently but efficiently shifted her onto the nearby sofa.

  “You okay to sit up?” he eyed Marxie and held an arm up to steady her as she settled back on the cushion.

  Liz helped Marxie lean back further as she nodded. “I think so … Thank you.”

  “No problem. Maybe I should go, let you get some rest.” He jerked a thumb to the door. “When you’re ready, you call me. I can come back anytime.”

  “Yes,” Liz hissed, “maybe you should go.” Marxie rested her still spinning head on the back of the sofa, as Liz leaned in, whispered loudly, “Who is this guy anyway?”

  “He’s a Detective, Liz. And he can stay.” Marxie raised her head slowly, looked at Detective Carter and tried to smile. “You can stay, Mr. Carter.”

  “You sure?” Liz stared at Marxie as if the detective weren’t a few feet away.

  “Yes. There’s just been a mix-up, a mistake,” Marxie said with what she hoped was conviction as she replayed in her mind the detective’s unbelievable claims from moments ago. She moved her gaze to the quiet, watchful eyes. “Right Detective?”

  “No ma’am. No mistakes. It is Officer Vaughn.”

  At Liz’s wide-eyed, bewildered stare, Marxie turned to her once more, swallowed hard. “I think I’d like some water, Liz. And if you could, I’d like you to stay, too.”

  After Liz brought the water and brewed a good strong pot of coffee, the three gathered in the compact, cozy living area with their mugs in hand.

  Liz sat beside Marxie on the sofa, stirring the liquid that always ended up mostly white due to the heaping servings of Amaretto creamer she poured in. Marxie preferred French Vanilla, and the combination of their tastes kept the house smelling of a warm, fragrant bake shop. Today though, Marxie had opted for black. She didn’t think she could stomach anything else.