Ryn Davis Mystery 03-No Little Lies
No Little Lies
Ryn Davis Mystery Series ~ Book 3
AB Plum
Contents
About the Book
Other Books by AB Plum
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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
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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.