Ryn Davis Mystery 03-No Little Lies Read online

  No Little Lies

  Ryn Davis Mystery Series ~ Book 3

  AB Plum

  Contents

  About the Book

  Other Books by AB Plum

  Get Your Free Books

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Burying memories sharp enough to raise a welt on the heart can work.

  Or not.

  Ask Ryn Davis. The adult daughter of a former high-class prostitute, she knows chronic, long-term insomnia reduces repression as a preferred coping technique. Still, she relies on denial.

  A phone call from a stranger claiming her mother was murdered twenty years ago turns her life inside out. The reappearance of a forgotten childhood friend exposes buried and forgotten memories. Lies and half-truths torpedo her shaky world.

  In this fast-paced psychological thriller, the suspense ratchets up. A psychopath’s ever-present memories drive him to exact revenge for Ryn’s lies about the past. His terrifying game of cat and mouse pits him against her where she is most vulnerable. His ties to organized crime make him even more dangerous.

  Who is in control? What really happened to her mother? Why can’t Ryn remember?

  Is facing her past the path to survival or death?

  Other Books by AB Plum

  The Ryn Davis Mystery Series

  Once You Cry, Prequel

  All Things Considered, Book 1

  Through Rose-Colored Glasses, Book 2

  No Little Lies, Book 3

  Ready or Not

  A Psychological Thriller

  The MisFit Series

  The Boy Nobody Loved, Prequel

  The Early Years, Book 1

  The Lost Days, Book 2

  The In-Between Years, Book 3

  The Reckless Year, Book 4

  The Dispensable Wife, Book 5

  The Broken-Hearted Many, Book 6

  The Whole Truth, Book 7

  Other Books By The Author

  Writing as Barbara Plum

  Paranormal Romance

  BIg MAgIC (Book 1)

  HARd MAgIC (Book 2)

  TRUe MAgIC (Book 3)

  Romantic Comedy

  Prince of Frogs

  Queen of the Universe

  Writing as Allie Hawkins

  Romantic Suspense

  Presumed Guilty

  Unraveled

  Get Your Free Books

  Join my newsletter for sneak previews, special content, answers to fan questions, requests for input, and even promotional offers.

  Receive two free ebooks as a thank-you.

  Once You Cry (The Ryn Davis Mystery Series prequel) which reveals a childhood trauma that pushed Ryn to the edge.

  The Boy Nobody Loved (The MisFit Series prequel) which is the start of one man’s journey to becoming a serial killer.

  Sign up for my newsletter at abplum.com

  As always, to my husband David, who spends time in the kitchen so I can spend time on the keyboard.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing is the easy part. Proofing, beta reading, formatting, editing, designing covers—these are just a few of the tasks that go into bringing a book to market. For all of you who have so generously given me your time and feedback, thank you.

  Prologue

  Local student dies unexpectedly

  The entire student body of Independence Academy attended the funeral on November 17, 1986, at First Methodist Church of Independence, for their eleven-year-old classmate, Hannah Gleeson. Hannah, survived by her father and mother, Edward and Melanie, died unexpectedly on November 15 at home after a brief hospitalization. No further details were available at the time of this publication.

  —Independence (MO) Register (November 18, 1986)

  A cold wind snaked up under her coat, and her teeth clacked. Her head pounded. She wobbled on stilt-legs down the two narrow steps of the empty house. Walking a straight line demanded her full attention and blocked thinking. She bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood. She passed her house and reached the stoplight before turning to retrace her steps.

  The corner of a lavender envelope extended from under the doormat. She dropped her books and bent to lift the mat.

  Blood rushed to her head. Black dots danced in front of her burning eyes. She grabbed the doorknob, straightened, and exhaled. When had she eaten last? She didn’t feel hungry. She felt as if some part of her had come loose, and she was floating over her right shoulder.

  Narrowing her eyes, she lifted the doormat with the tip of her shoe. After counting to ten, she slowly bent, p
icked up the envelope, and inched up to standing—her empty backpack a boulder pitching her forward. She slipped the backpack off one shoulder, turned the envelope face-up, and slid a fingernail under the flap to read the single sheet.

  Don’t let anyone pin this rap on you, Ryn, you hear me? Don’t let anyone make you cry. I didn’t go after Hannah for you. I went after her for me. Purely selfish. You’ve always known I’m selfish. I hope Hannah cries until her eyes fall out. You and I will meet up again someday, ma bonne ami.

  Until then … Don’t forget ME!

  Her bladder contracted. She slammed open the door and rushed to the hall bath. The fragrance of ground beef, oregano, and tomatoes hit her stomach with the force of a sledgehammer. She gagged. Not a second too soon, she shoved her pants down to her knees. As hot urine gushed out of her, she re-read the letter. Again. A third time.

  “Ryn?” Mama tapped the bathroom door so lightly Ryn barely heard. “Supper’s ready. I made meatloaf. Your favorite.”

  Rarely served on a weeknight since Mama had a regular every night except Wednesdays.

  “Give me a minute.” Holding the letter between her teeth, Ryn stood and pulled up her underwear.

  Her hands shook as if she’d lost control of all the nerves in her fingers. She jerked the letter out of her mouth, ripped the paper into strips, and then tore the strips into microscopic pieces.

  They floated like tiny lavender snowflakes into the toilet.

  Don’t let ’em make you cry.

  Dry-eyed, she flushed and turned to open the door.

  Chapter 1

  Alta Vista, California—January—Midnight

  Steven White

  1-816-555-5555

  “Owww.” Ryn Davis resisted the impulse to touch the bandage on the inside corner of her nose. Squinting hurt, dammit. One day after surgery … how long before she remembered to maintain a poker face?

  She stared at the area code. Okay, she couldn’t remember not to irritate the post-surgical site, but she did remember a Steven White she’d long ago buried in her things-to-forget vault.

  Probably triggered by poker face. She swallowed the involuntary snort.

  The muted phone flashed caller id again. Can’t be Detective Steven White. He’d died the year after interviewing her in fifth grade, hadn’t he? During the interview, he suggested that—with her poker face—she’d make a good poker player.

  Don’t go there.

  Her chest tightened. So many lies—and none little. Without warning, her nose stung. Hands on her desk, she swore, pushed away, and stared into space.

  Some freak misdialed—probably after too much to drink. She stood and stretched. The stinging stopped. Forget the damn phone. Go to bed. Get some sleep. Nurture her immune system.

  Nurture raised echoes of the dermatologist’s sermonette. Chronic insomnia compromises the immune system. Squamous cell carcinoma loves weakened immune systems.

  “Leave a message,” she said to the flashing phone and tiptoed out of her office.

  Maj, royal resident feline, could hear an eyelash drop. In which case, she would start yowling as if she required food that instant. In which case, Beau would lumber out of bed. Chaos would escalate as Beau fussed over Maj and clucked over Ryn.

  Why wasn’t she in bed? What had the doctor said about sleep? When would she ever listen? Yada, yada, yada …

  Holding her breath, Ryn crept down the hallway to her bedroom. Two months since Marta Fuentes confessed to her thirteen-year-old daughter’s murder and killed herself, but Beau hovered over Ryn every waking hour. She’d about convinced him to go to Sacramento for a long visit with Angela, his jigsaw puzzle bud. Their mutual friend showed the patience of a saint.

  But then the day before Beau’s departure, Ryn visited her shrink for a post-traumatic-stress session. She’d witnessed the ritualistic maiming Marta meted out and her subsequent suicide. During the past sixty days, Ryn slept three, four hours a night at most.

  While she’d dredged up detail after gory detail, Dr. Tim noticed her repeatedly scratching the inside corner of her nose.

  Nerves, she’d protested.

  Who’s the doctor? He examined the spot and forgot shrinking her. Finished with his exam, he ticked off a list of the obvious: Red hair. Fair, freckled skin. Years of exposure to the sun. An iffy immune system—stressed by the fire at Esperanza House, the murder, and an unlikely bad guy. Her heart missed a beat as she opened her bedroom door and flashed on Kirk Wetherill’s ruggedly handsome face. As Alta Vista’s fire chief, it had fallen to him to call her about the blaze that destroyed part of Esperanza House, the haven she’d established for former prostitutes.

  Her mind veered from the inferno back to Dr. Tim. He had ordered an immediate consultation with a top doc specializing in Mohs diagnosis and surgery. When she scheduled a procedure the next day, she had no choice but to tell Beau. Too many secrets lay buried to add one more lie to the list.

  Back and neck muscles bunching, Ryn kicked off her house slippers and padded into her dressing room. She ignored the bed. It might as well be a medieval rack. She dropped her clothes on the floor and pulled on her favorite fuzzy robe. She studied the gun safe on the top shelf. A sudden image of her and Kirk Wetherill stowing their weapons pulled her into the past.

  In her mind’s eye, she heard herself give Wetherill the safe’s combination. She then led him to the family room. They ate crackers and cheese and chips while watching televangelist Reverend AB Jacobs preach to unseen audiences. They’d analyzed his style as if commenting on a Sunday-afternoon football game.

  When Wetherill stood hours later, declaring he’d had enough fire and brimstone, they returned to the bedroom for his revolver. She’d fantasized his kiss and a long night of hot sex.

  His perfunctory good night shattered her fantasy.

  The ping of her cell phone broke the memory. God, what if she had gone to bed with him? Another ping saved her from answering that question but stoked her irritation—normal, Dr. Tim said, for insomniacs.

  Not so normal if you limit who has your cell number. She grabbed the phone on its third ring.

  Steven White? She jabbed the on button. “Why the hell do you keep calling this number, asshole?”

  “Ouch. For all you know, I may be your fairy godfather.”

  “For all you know, I may be your worst nightmare. Now, crawl back under your rock—”

  “Miz Davis! Wait, please. Hear me out. I’m not a crazy. Or a perv. Hear me out, please.”

  Hang up. Now.

  For once, she ignored all the sarcastic comebacks scalding the back of her throat. Head pounding, she listened to common sense. She disconnected and tossed the phone on the bed.

  It started ringing before it landed. The led flashed Steven White.

  Slamming the damn phone against her right ear, she yelped and dropped the instrument of torture. Her nose throbbed with a thousand invisible red-hot needles.

  “Shit! Shit. Shiiiit.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, pooling toward the bandage.

  Keep the dressing dry. The nurse’s final warning clanged in her ears. Images of a huge, foul-smelling abscess exploded in her head. Instant frames of her nose falling off the bone unrolled. She grabbed the hem of her robe, patted the tears, and counted out loud without taking a breath.

  Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnine … By ten, she’d fought back the urge to smash the phone against the nearest wall. What the hell was going on? Was she sleepwalking? Hallucinating? Losing her mind? Maybe she should’ve filled the surgeon’s prescription for Percocet.

  On the bed, the ringing stopped.

  She wanted to laugh but caught herself. Laughing hurt almost as much as squinting. Or clenching her jaw. “Thank you, universe.”

  The universe replied with a low vibration.

  A text.