“I know. We’ve just not figured out who yet.” He tucked a stray strand behind her ear. “I don’t want to think about them right now. Just us. ”
He hugged her and she held him tight. “Just us.”
Dear Reader,
No matter how hard we try, no matter how much we worry, no matter how much we fear, dark secrets never stay hidden….
If you enjoyed Senseless and find you still have a taste for secrets, then look for next month’s Merciless, which features Eva’s sister Angie, who with homicide detective Malcolm Kier must dig even deeper into the past to stop another violent killer.
Two sisters. Two deadly killers. Two detectives. Senseless and Merciless are sure to keep you guessing until each chilling ending!
Best,
Mary Burton
The foul odor of decaying flesh roused the woman from her drugged haze, burning her nostrils and lungs like a freshly snapped ammonia capsule.
She blinked, clawed toward consciousness, searching the pitch-blackness for a landmark to anchor time or place. However, there was nothing except the stench that grew more potent with each hitching breath. She coughed and gagged. The contents of her stomach churned and rose up her throat.
She lifted a trembling hand to her mouth but discovered the slight movement drove a cutting pain through her muscles and ribs. She froze, didn’t want to move fearing more agony, but nausea overruled everything and had her rolling to her side. Tears burned her eyes as she gripped the edge of the metal table and vomited until her throat burned.
When the worst of the wrenching stopped, she collapsed on her back, allowing only small shallow breaths as she stared into the darkness. She closed her watery eyes and gently swiped her fingertips across her lips. The odors still hovered but the worst of the nausea had passed.
With the sickness satisfied, there was only the pain. Only. Every square inch of flesh pulsated. Throbbed. Burned.
Fear rose up, but she quickly wrestled it down. Now was not the time to crumble.
She blinked. Once. Twice. But the fetid darkness didn’t diminish. It could have been the middle of the day or night, winter or summer. She couldn’t tell.
She tried to rise again but her insides screamed. Again, she collapsed.
Where was she? What had happened? She had to get free.
Think back.
In the last few weeks, she’d sensed that she was being watched. At first she’d chocked up the feelings to an overactive imagination. But as much as she denied the feelings, they grew stronger whenever she’d stepped out of her apartment, whenever she arrived at work or whenever she took a Pilates class. Soon she’d started to think twice before she went anywhere. She’d stopped going to the gym and her favorite nightclubs. Her world shrank to the small path between home and work.
And then the notes had arrived. I LOVE YOU. TOGETHER ALWAYS. YOU ARE NEVER OUT OF MY MIND.
The notes had been a relief. In fact, she’d laughed when she’d received the first. Of course! Her ex had been her stalker. It had been three weeks since they’d shared a bed or seen each other, but she knew he was the one watching. He enjoyed dark, erotic games. He liked scaring her. Keeping her off balance.
Knowing he was watching, she’d wore tighter skirts and sweaters, proudly strutting and hoping she tortured him with jealousy. She met a younger man and took pleasure kissing him, knowing he was lurking in the shadows.
When she’d found the red velvet box and she’d discovered the ivory pendant nestled inside, she’d known she’d won. She’d been energized by her power over him, knowing soon he’d beg for forgiveness. Men were so easy. So weak.
“Oh, God,” she whispered.
Someone had been stalking her. Watching. Planning. But it had not been her lover.
Pushing through pain and sickness, she sat up. “I’m alive. And that counts for something.” She repeated the words like a mantra.
She blinked again and again, willing the blackness to fade and the stench and pain to vanish. But no lights magically flicked on. It hurt to breathe and her thoughts moved like thick muddy waters.
Where had she been last? The theater? Her apartment? The club?
And then she remembered. She’d been at the Duke Street Cafe. There’d been an impromptu party. Someone had decided to celebrate another large donation to her theater. The donation ensured that the theater would be able to make its payroll and mount a grander, more expensive production in the spring.
The party had been a glittering, exciting affair and she’d been happy. There’d been lots of champagne; so much so, that she’d lost count of how many times the waiter had refilled her glass. Of course her ex had not come. He never met up with her at public events. But another old boyfriend had hit on her and because she’d felt so good she’d flirted back. It had been fun. Intoxicating.
How had she gone from such magical moments to this cave of horrors?
She ticked through the evening’s events. Wine. Music. Singing. A bite or two of food. Some guy, one of her ex-boyfriend’s buddies, had offered her coke, but she’d turned him down, knowing the drug would keep her wired most of the night and make her look too puffy for tomorrow’s photo call.
Had the actor and his friend slipped her something anyway?
Thoughts blurred in her mind. She couldn’t cut through the misty mosaic to access the right memories. All she had was the party and then this dark, dank hole that smelled of death. The middle had vanished.
It didn’t matter how she got here. What was important was escaping. And if she was good at anything, it was cutting her losses.
As much as she strained to see, she couldn’t make out the room’s details. The place was as still as a grave until suddenly she heard a tap turn on and water trickle.
She cocked her head. “Is someone there?”
Water gurgled and bubbled, but no one answered.
Struggling with a choking fear, she swung her legs over the side of the metal table. Her head spun, pain slammed her and her stomach threatened another revolt. She hesitated and waited for her body to calm.
Gingerly, she set bare feet on a floor made of cold, wet stone. Her toes curled. She hated the slimy surface so much like a lake bottom.
Wobbly limbs screamed under the protest of her weight as she stood. Every muscle ached. Her dress felt damp but she had no idea of the cause.
The soothing drip, drip of water remained her only reference. It sounded as if it were off to her right. At least now she had a direction.
Get to the water and she’d figure out her next move.
She took a tentative step away from the table. Sweat dampened her body. Her dress clung to her breasts, hugging her nipples in an intimate way that left her feeling exposed. But as tempting as it was to cover up with her arms, her outstretched hands were all that kept her balanced.
With each step, the stench grew worse and the urge to turn away increased. Still, she kept shuffling toward the water. Without warning, her knee bumped painfully into the side of what must have been a giant metal tub. Bolts of pain shot out and reverberated up and down her leg. She gasped and the smells nearly overpowered her.
Instinct had her turning from the tub. “Shit.”
She didn’t have the strength to retrace her steps to the table now swallowed up in shadowy obscurity.
Tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. It would be so easy to surrender. But she’d never been a quitter. Ever.
Summoning her most imperious tone she said, “I demand to know if anyone is there.”
The shadows hovered around her, mutinously silent, still and unmoved by her practiced sternness. Her only answer was the steady, quiet trickle of water dripping into the tub.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she said. “This is a terrible mistake. People are expecting me to show up at work. They’ll call the cops if I don’t show.”
She shoved a shaky hand through feathered curls and righted her hunched shoulders. Body and bones creaked as if she’d just passed he
r ninetieth birthday and not her twenty-sixth. What had happened to her? “I demand to know where I am.”
This time a shadow in a corner shifted. “You demand? If I were you, I wouldn’t demand. I’d beg.”
The rough, clipped voice had her head jerking around. “Why should I beg?” Even as she asked the question, she saw the absurdity. She’d beg or do whatever was asked of her to get out of here. “What do I need to beg for?”
“Your life would be a good start.” His voice was so silky and gentle. And for a moment, it sounded very familiar. Had he been at the party? Where had she heard his voice before?
She leaned against the tub fearing her legs would give way and she’d fall to her knees. “I am not afraid.”
A soft chuckle snaked through the gloom, unsettling her more than if the shadow-man had hurled threats. “You should be afraid.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks but she raised her chin. “What is that smell?”
“Rotting flesh.”
This time her knees did crumble. She dropped to the ground, digging long fingers into the stone. “Why?”
“Why? Why are you here? Why is there rotting flesh in the room? Why what?”
His voice sent fear knifing into her. “Why me?”
She heard the clip of his shoes on the stone floor as he moved away. For a panicked second she thought he’d leave her alone in this room of horrors. Instead, he flipped on a light.
In a blink, overhead fluorescents clicked on, flooding the room with light and forcing her to wince and shield her eyes from the burning glare. Carefully, she cracked her lids, letting the light leak into her pupils.
When her gaze finally focused on her jailer, she saw he stood directly in front of her. He wore crisp jeans, a dark sweater and rubber gloves. He looked so normal. Handsome even.