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

C
opyright
© 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.

I
f you enjoy reading books
, be sure to sign up for daily ebook deals @
www.BookZio.com

Choose your favorite genres and BookZio delivers free and bargain books to your email daily.

(
M
arch
, 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.

A
fter 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. Nobody 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.