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

(
A
pril
, 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—the 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.”

“Of course. Sam, the white knight, saving Murray from heart attacks and incorrectly diagnosed deaths,” she teases.

“I’m not a white knight,” I mumble, trying not to think about how Grace had to face Deke Cochrane alone.

“Do you ever get used to seeing dead bodies?” Alicia asks.

“No. It’s crazy to look at someone’s body and know that there isn’t anything happening inside it. No thoughts, no heartbeat, no emotions. Look, I gotta go. I don’t want to leave the police waiting.”

“Talk to you later, white knight,” she says.

“Talk to you later,” I echo before hanging up. Talking to Alicia reminds me of why I liked her so much to begin with. She’s fun when she’s not being melodramatic. I glance at the text on my phone.

N 36° 51' 14.8758", W 75° 58' 35.3954"

ASAP

They’re GPS coordinates, but the fact that “ASAP” is below it means it must be a gruesome or strange death.

I start my Dodge Charger up. As I drive away from the house, the guilt over talking to Alicia behind Grace’s back slithers in and settles in the pit of my stomach. At least while I’m heading toward a body, I know one person had a worse day than me.

(
T
hursday Afternoon
; Escher Hall at George Mason University, Fairfax, Virginia)

“YOUR MAIN FOCUS
shouldn’t be to dig into a student’s past or solve all of his or her life problems,” Professor Kingston lectures. “Your main focus should be to help the students figure out the source of their problems and help them find a way to cope.

“Why is that?” the blonde in front of me asks.

In the Escher Hall at George Mason, where I began to take classes in February, most of the students are in their late teens or early twenties. It’s a bit disconcerting, but after I had been called in to substitute at Waycroft less and less, and there appeared to be no midterm positions opening up, I decided it was time for a change. I was pursuing a Master of Education in Counseling and Development with a concentration in School Counseling PK-12. I managed to get a job at Stoddard High School as an English teacher through Kevin Deats, my old neighbor and the superintendent of the Murray, Virginia schools—Waycroft High, Chaplain Crawford Middle School, Briar Run Elementary and Murray Farm Elementary.

“I mean, what if you had a student that repressed childhood abuse? Wouldn’t it help them if you figured out about the abuse?”

“Ashley, right?” Professor Kingston asks. She nods. “Let’s pretend that you have a student with anger problems. You suspect that they were abused, but they don’t remember it. First off, it’s dangerous for anyone involved in counseling to try to get someone to recover memories—that’s why people talk about false memories. Second, how does that help the student? They still have anger problems. The cause is not important—the student could have been abused, he could have been bullied, he could just have the personality of an angry person. The effect is what’s important and those can be resolved through different therapies…which we will talk about on Monday. Good class, everybody. Read chapter eight of the textbook and answer the prep questions at the end. I want them typed in size twelve front and double-spaced. Two of your forgot to put your names on the top last time. Don’t do that again.”

As I gather up my books and shove them in my bag, I think about Francis Tate and Deke Cochrane, two young men I taught and was unable to help before they committed violence. Was I focused too much on finding the source of their pain rather than trying to treat it? Could their pain have been treated at all?

I walk out of the classroom and take out my cell phone, which had been set to silent during the class.

1 missed text

Sam
: Hey. I got paged by the county police department. I had to bail on the meet-up with Rayna and the buyers.

SORRY!

I jump into my new truck—a red Toyota Tacoma and try to bite back the stream of curses I want to shout. I begin to drive, trying to figure out my next move. It will take me about forty-five minutes to get back to my old house, but Rayna’s meeting with the buyers is in thirty minutes. I could speed all of the way there, risking my life and others on the rain-splattered road or I could get ahold of someone else for help.

The only solution is Kevin Deats.

As I stop at a red light, I dial his number and put him on speakerphone. The ringing fills the truck.

“Hello?” Kevin answers.

“Hey, Kevin, it’s Grace.”

“Hey, lady, how are you? Are you just getting out of class?”

“Yep,” I say. “Are you at home?”

“I am.”

“Could I ask for a favor?”

“Sure,” he says. I love that about him—he’s always willing to help even when he’s not sure what he’s helping with.

“Could you watch for Rayna, my real estate agent, for the next half hour or so until she gets to my old house?”

“No problem. That’s easy. Are you running late?”

“No…I had my boyfriend, Sam, waiting for her, but he had to leave for his job. This is just turning into such a hassle. I almost wish I could give the house away.”

“Well, just take a deep breath,” he says. “You have a lot on your plate right now. You should drop by after you’re done with your agent. I have a new dog I’d like you to meet and it sounds like you could use some doggy-love right now.”

“That sounds perfect. Thanks a lot, Kevin.”

“No problem. Drive safe.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you soon.”

“You better.”

I click
end call
. I put my foot on the brake as the cars in front of me slow down for a stop sign. The endless line of red taillights blurred by the rain makes me think of blood droplets. I remember the feeling of Francis Tate stabbing me and the heat of my blood as it seeped up onto my skin. I glance down at my shirt, expecting to see blood, but it’s completely clean. By the time I look up, the cars have begun to move again.

The trail of blood droplets vanished as if they were washed away by the rain.

(
N
ovember
; Sam’s House, Murray, Virginia)

I WASN’T SURE
how much space you would need,” Sam says, opening the top drawer of his oak dresser. “So, I cleared out this one and half the closet.”

Sam’s house is an American Craftsman bungalow painted pale yellow with white window frames. A large window allows pedestrians to see what looks like a window display for a distinguished furniture store. They might think,
what a nice place to live
and they would be right. But they can’t feel the detached feeling the house has—there’s no personality, no photographs, nothing to signify it’s more than a presentation.

The house is beautiful—everything was made with great attention to detail and everything follows the same earthy color pattern. It’s like a five-star hotel, relaxing and luxurious, but it doesn’t feel like home.

Or maybe I’m just homesick for my family’s farm.

“It’s perfect,” I tell him. “I probably won’t need that much space…I’ve donated a lot of my clothes when I moved from Ohio, and then I donated more before I packed up my stuff to come here. Where did you put your clothes that used to be in this dresser and the closet?”

“Oh, I just boxed up my winter clothes…and some of my summer clothes.”

I nod. “I really hate to inconvenience you—”

“Grace, it’s not an inconvenience,” he says. “We both know that you couldn’t have stayed with the Schneiders much longer. Either you would have killed them or they would have killed you. This is the best option.”

“I know…it’s just…unconventional. We’ve only known each other for a couple of months…”

“Well, we’re unconventional people, so it works.”

“True.”

“You can take my bed,” he says. “I’m fine sleeping on the couch.”

“What? No,” I say. “I’m the guest here. I should sleep on the couch. I’m not going to take your bed.”

“I’ve spent a good portion of my life in college—thirteen years, in fact—I am used to sleeping in random places. I’ve fallen asleep on gurneys more times than I’d like to admit.”

“Which is why you should sleep on a bed for the rest of your life.”

“I’m fine, Grace,” he says. “Please, take the bed. It’s not a big deal.”

I set down my suitcase and sit down on his bed. I pat the space beside me. “Or maybe we could share it.”

He raises an eyebrow, but sits down beside me. “So, you’re apprehensive about moving into my house, but you’re okay with sharing a bed?”

“Well, I don’t take up that much space on a bed.” lean toward him and kiss his lips. I feel his lips part and his warm breath ripples across my lips. His arm wraps around my waist and pulls me closer. His hands slip under my blouse and trace along the scars on my abdomen. The scars are from when Francis stabbed me. I used to hate them, but Sam loves them in the same way he loves every other part of me—completely, reverently, passionately, so I’ve learned to accept them.

His body presses against mine until my back is against the bed and he is leaning over me. He kisses the tip of my nose as his thumb caresses along my jaw. “Do you know what my life was like before you?”

“Diagnosing and healing hearts?” I tease.

He kisses the side of my mouth. “It was patients and schedules and appointments…and meetings. Nothing really mattered. There wasn’t any purpose. When I met you—I mean, after the shooting and we began to get to know each other—there was this feeling that I had found something that I never knew was missing. And it has felt that way every day that I’ve known you. I meant it when I said I loved you at the hospital. That wasn’t just relief or stress talking. I love you and, it may be a little too soon, but if I can offer you a place in my home when you’re struggling to live with the Schneiders, I am more than willing to offer a bed and a drawer.”

“And maybe some of your bathroom, too?” I ask, smiling.

He grins. “Just a little bit of that, too.”

I wrap my arms around his neck and pull myself up to kiss him. Everything is perfect and my life is finally repairing itself since Francis’s attack. For the first time, when I close my eyes, I see my future instead of my past.