Illusions of Death

by Alexa Aston

Genres: Romantic Suspense; Romantic Suspense; contemporary romance; small town romance; serial killer; Alexa Aston; small town murder; small town crime

Synopsis

A popular crime fiction novelist ready for the next chapter in her life.

A lonely lawman who leaves the violence of the big city for a small town.

A crafty serial killer who continues to toy with law enforcement and elude capture . . .

Best-selling author Karlyn Campbell is ready for a new start after her recent divorce from a temperamental artist. When she receives word that her father had a stroke, she heads for Walton Springs with mixed feelings. Broderick Campbell wrote Pulitzer Prize-winning literary novels and denounced his daughter’s work as pedestrian and commercial, causing a rift that finally heals on his deathbed. Karlyn chooses to stay in the small Georgia town to write her popular Matt Collins series and decides to try her hand at true crime when Atlanta’s Rainbow Killer, Roy G. Biv, captures her interest.

Detective Logan Warner’s marriage didn’t survive after he lost his twins to a crazed killer who was never caught. He returns to his hometown’s police force and runs for police chief, happy he’s escaped big city crime and corruption. Emotionally dead, his interest in life is renewed when he falls in love with Karlyn and begins to build a new life with her.

But the Rainbow Killer moves beyond Atlanta, leaving a trail of dead bodies painted in bright hues in several towns north of the city. Leaving no trace evidence or DNA and choosing random victims with no apparent rhyme or reason, Roy proves unstoppable. Then he arrives in Walton Springs, threatening the peaceful town with his murder spree. With a serial killer in their back yard, Logan and Karlyn unite with the FBI to find the killer—before he finds them.

Release date: April 26, 2022

Publisher: Oliver Heber Books

Sample

PROLOGUE

 

He placed the last of the wet dirt on top of the second grave. Smoothed it with the back of the shovel. Reached for the collection of branches and rocks and leaves that he’d gathered before he began digging. He tossed them haphazardly over his handiwork and stepped back to survey the ground. Perfect. Anyone venturing off the Appalachian Trail this far would have no idea what rested beneath the soil.

If only people knew how much he’d accomplished in his killing time.

He took pride in his handiwork. Years of honing his skill had made him a master of death. He’d started years ago in his teens, picking up hitchhikers. Perfecting the art of torture. Perfecting his knife skills. Dismembering the specimens. Learning how to dispose of body parts.

Other hunts followed. Sometimes, a single specimen. Sometimes, a group. He’d especially enjoyed seeing Atlanta frantic during his series of child abductions and murders. He thought it pure genius to focus on the little ones of public servants. He’d taken the kids of a fireman. A city council member. The school superintendent’s daughter. A cop’s twins. And the pièce de résistance? The mayor’s grandson.

His latest specimen gathering consisted of high-end prostitutes. The Chattahoochee National Forest had provided cover for this most recent hunt. Its miles of wilderness proved the ideal disposal area. He’d witnessed the arrival of spring as the area greened up. Watched it blossom into its summer loveliness. Seen the explosion of fall colors come vividly to life as he buried his precious specimens.

But he was at the end of this cycle of murders. He refused to tramp through isolated areas during winter snow. Last night’s kill would be the final in this series.

He chuckled to himself. Plus, the unexpected bonus.

The lone hiker appeared just before dusk settled. He’d already made camp. Set up his tent. The specimen, bound and gagged, waited for him inside. The Rohypnol’s effects had faded. She would know everything that happened from this point on.

Then the kid arrived, sporting a backpack almost bigger than he was. Made himself at home. Admitted he was lost.

They chatted over bottled water and protein bars. The teen spilled that he was traipsing around during Thanksgiving break in hopes of having some majestic, eye-opening experience that would be good enough to write about in his upcoming college admission essay. Everyone these days had come from another country and had to learn English, only to land at the top of their graduating class. Or they’d come from divorced parents and had to live out of a car when the custodial parent was laid off and couldn’t find work. Or they volunteered from everything to food banks to homeless shelters and were homecoming queen and Most Likely to Succeed.

All his classmates had a story to write about. Except for him. He came from a middle-class family that had never struggled. The boy had decent grades. Had made National Honor Society. Was vice president of the chess club. That was his undistinguished resume. He was looking for something life-changing that he could write about.

He’d certainly experienced it. Of course, the kid changed from the living into the dead. Over many hours. As had the whore.

At least the kid wouldn’t be put through the agony of writing that essay. Or being rejected by his top choices and settling for community college and a mundane life. If you thought about it, he’d actually done the teen a favor.

He returned to the campsite as the rain slacked off to a drizzle. Packed up. He pulled his keys from his pocket. Noticed the rain had stopped. The sky lightened.

And then he saw it. A rainbow in the sky.

Of course. That was it.

Just as God placed the rainbow in the sky as a promise to Noah that He would never flood the earth again, He’d generously gifted him with a new idea.

His next mission would be served as The Rainbow Killer.

Thoughts raced in his head as he planned a new series of murders to commit. The specimens would share nothing in common, making him impossible to catch. But every murder would end in spectacular colors. In hues of the rainbow.

Confidence pulsated through him. This could be his claim to fame. A lasting legacy.

He couldn’t wait to begin.

 

 

CHAPTER 1

 

Karlyn Campbell entered her publisher’s New York office building in high spirits. She’d finished her sixth Matt Collins book and considered it the best of the series. She couldn’t wait to hand the flash drive to her agent.

On top of that, she’d come up with a terrific idea for another stand-alone suspense novel while jogging this morning in Central Park. She raced home and captured as much as she could before showering in time to make her appointment with Alicia.

All while wondering when Mario would turn up.

He hadn’t come home last night—or the past two nights. She’d forgiven one slip-up six months after their honeymoon. Then brushed aside another. And another. But she refused to turn a blind eye anymore. If Mario couldn’t keep it zipped up, the marriage was over. She already carried them financially and couldn’t keep doing it alone emotionally. At least she could always find escape in her writing. Killing people on the page released real-life demons.

Karlyn pressed the button for twelve and The Lindon Agency. She remembered her first ride up over ten years ago, thrilled that she’d connected with an agent who believed she had talent. Over time, Alicia Lindon had grown into a close friend as well as her representative in the publishing world. She’d pushed Karlyn after three years from romance into romantic suspense, wanting her client to stretch her creative muscle.

The move paid off. Her novels regularly debuted in top ten lists. The increase in sales gave Karlyn the boost she needed to try her hand at straight suspense—thus the birth of Matt Collins and his sidekicks. Part Bond, part Bourne—and all charm—Matt was bright, hot as hell, and walked on the wild side more often than not. He bent the law at times, but he was loyal, funny, and oozed charisma.

And he always got the bad guy.

The elevator chimed. Karlyn stepped out and headed through the frosted double doors.

“Hi, Karlyn.” Her agent’s long-time assistant, Candi, greeted her with a bright smile. “Can I get you anything before you head in?”

She held up her Starbucks cup. “I made a vanilla latté run on my way over.”

Candi came around the desk. “Please tell me you’ve finished up the next Matt.”

Karlyn grinned and slipped the flash drive from her purse, handing it to Candi. “Waiting for your approval.”

She had actually given Candi the very first Matt manuscript before she let Alicia read it. She was unsure trying something that new and Candi had been a fan from the beginning of Karlyn’s career. Twenty pages into it, the assistant called and declared Matt a winner.

“I’ll start printing out a copy for Alicia.”

“And maybe read a few pages as they come off the printer?” Karlyn teased.

Candi shrugged. “What can I say? Matt’s fast with a gun and even faster with a smooth line. He’s my fantasy man—and I’m all about the fantasy.”

“Hope you enjoy this latest effort. I’m off to Alicia’s office.”

She walked down the corridor, waving at agents as she passed their offices. Karlyn had seen The Lindon Agency grow in the decade she’d been a client and was happy to be a part of its success.

She tapped lightly on Alicia’s open door. Her friend was on the phone but motioned her in.

“Thanks, Frank. I’ll Fed Ex the contracts to you. Let’s do lunch Thursday. Ciao.”

Alicia hung up and crossed to wrap Karlyn in a bear hug. Though Karlyn clocked in at five feet and seven inches, she still felt dwarfed by her agent’s height of six feet. Of course, a good four inches of that came from her Jimmy Choo heels.

“How are you, darling? Your text said that Matt’s finished. That’s terrific.”

Alicia led them to her sofa and plopped, slipping off her stilettos. She cocked her head, studying Karlyn.

“Your smile tells me that you have another idea already.”

Karlyn nodded and briefly outlined what she’d knocked out this morning after her run.

“Sounds fantastic. I’m glad it’s not Matt again. I love that sexy man and what he’s done for both our bank accounts. But it’s better to dole him out in small portions. We have to make the public crave more and not oversaturate them.”

“Candi’s printing out the manuscript now.”

“I can’t wait to curl up in bed tonight with Matt and a stiff vodka tonic. Random House has been on my ass, wanting you to produce more quickly. As if you could. Shall I tie this new novel in to your upcoming deal with them? Publish the next three Matt Collins, along with another three standalone novels?”

Karlyn shook her head. “That’s the business end, Alicia. I won’t say I don’t care but that’s why I have you to make those decisions. I want to write and have fun while I’m doing it.”

Alicia crossed her long legs and Karlyn watched the corners of her mouth turn up in a Cheshire cat grin.

“You have news.”

“Do I?” The agent stretched like a feline. “I suppose I had you come in today for a tiny bit of news. I’m ecstatic you brought the finished manuscript along ahead of schedule. And even happier you’re ready to go to work again so quickly on something new.”

“But?”

“I do have something to spring on you.”

“Foreign rights in China finally?”

“No.”

“Step-backs in the paperback versions of my Matt hard covers?”

Alicia shook her head. “Not even close.”

Karlyn sat back, arms crossed, her wheels turning as she studied her agent. Suddenly, it came to her.

“A movie deal for Matt.”

Alicia sighed. “You are no fun, Karlyn. That logical little brain of yours can solve any kind of puzzle.”

She jumped to her feet. “Are you kidding me? I guessed it? Matt is going to the movies?”

Alicia nodded. Karlyn pulled her friend to her feet and locked her in a tight hug.

A knock sounded on the door. Candi poked her head in.

“Guess you told her, boss.” The assistant entered with a bucket of champagne on ice and two crystal flutes.

Candi placed the items on the coffee table and smiled. “It took everything in my power not to scream the news when you came in.”

Karlyn hugged Candi. “You were great. I didn’t have any indication.”

Candi nodded sagely. “I did some acting back in the day. Off-off-off Broadway. But I was pretty good.”

“Hmm.” Karlyn thought a moment. “Executive assistant and former actress. Knows a big secret about her boss but has the acting skills to keep it under wraps. He doesn’t even know she knows. And then he’s killed.”

She paused, her thoughts racing. “What if—”

“Not now, darling,” Alicia chided. “You’ve already got a fabulous new plot to work on. Plus, a movie contract to celebrate.”

Candi poured the champagne and discreetly left. Karlyn sat back on the sofa as it hit her.

“So, my sexy, wonderful, amazing Matt will be a movie star. He’ll actually come to life. I wonder which actor will be cast in the role.”

Alicia sipped from the crystal flute and almost purred her satisfaction. “We can’t control that. The deal is for all the rights to the character, the titles, the plots for the first book in the series—and the possibility of you writing the screenplay.”

She sat up. “Me? I’ve never tried one before. I don’t know if I could do it. I’m so green, all I know is that one page of script equals one minute of film.”

“I said possibility, my dear. If we sign as it reads, you will have first crack at the screenplay. You may work alone, or the studio will assign a seasoned writer to work with you. But if the studio execs don’t like your draft, they can pass and move on to another screenwriter of their choosing.”

Karlyn chewed on that a moment. “Wait. You said rights to the character. Does that mean they would own Matt Collins? They could write any old storyline for him? Beyond my novels?”

“That’s correct.”

She frowned. “I don’t like that, Alicia. Not at all. I can see selling the title and first book. Possibly, the two following books. And having a shot at the screenplay would be an interesting challenge. But I don’t want them to put Matt in some piece of shit twenty years down the road.” She shook her head. “No, I want to retain rights to the character. Period.”

Alicia finished her champagne and poured herself another glass, topping off Karlyn’s at the same time.

“I figured as much without having to ask. I countered their offer. We’re discussing the possibilities now.” Her eyes twinkled. “But it looks good, Karlyn. I think we’ll be able to keep the rights to the character. If we come down in price on the rest.”

“Do it. I won’t give away the story rights, but I’d rather have creative control over the character. If they could put Matt in any story, it could even hurt my future book sales.”

“We could make more in the long run if they bought titles one at a time, as well.” Alicia thought a moment. “I may pitch them the first book and allow them an option on the next two. Do you want the chance at tackling the screenplay to remain part of the deal?”

“Why not?” Karlyn clinked her glass with Alicia’s and drank the bubbly in one gulp.

Alicia patted her hand. “Then let me work a little more of my magic. I’ll get back to you soon.”

Karlyn laughed. “Your magic? I’ve seen you at the negotiating table. You’re like a pit bull locked onto the butcher’s best bone. If you ever went to law school, you could make a killing as a divorce attorney.”

Alicia grinned.

Karlyn stood. “I don’t want to keep you. You have other clients’ needs to deal with. Besides, I won’t make it to the elevator before you’re manipulating this movie deal to your liking.”

Her agent shrugged. “All in a good day’s work.” She kissed Karlyn’s cheek. “Take care, darling. Go home. Write the afternoon away.”

She said goodbye and returned to the reception area. Candi was on the phone, so Karlyn waved at her and left the office.

Now all she had to do was share the good news with Mario.

Dread flooded Karlyn.

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

Logan Warner reached to silence his phone’s alarm before it went off. He couldn’t remember the last time it had buzzed to awaken him.

He didn’t sleep much. Not since Carson Miller turned his life upside down. Whether he was bored, sad, lonely, or depressed, he simply put in more hours at work.

Cops usually did.

He tossed back the covers and headed to the shower, letting the hot water clear the headache pounding behind his right eye. At least they’d closed the string of B&E’s late yesterday. Two teenagers with too much time on their hands and plenty of creativity.

He shaved and scrounged around for clean underwear, finding he was down to his last pair. His mom had pestered him for more than a week to come for dinner. Maybe he would tonight and take his laundry. How pathetic. In his mid-thirties and still bringing home dirty clothes for his mama to wash.

Logan decided he’d buy a new package of Hanes before he would play frat boy and cart home smelly laundry. Dinner, however, he could get up for. His mom would be glad to see him. She’d pile up tons of leftovers for him to take home—even though home was a three-room flat above the local diner.

He picked up his cell and dialed his parents’ number.

“Good morning, son. Off to work?”

Mitchell Warner’s warm voice reached out to him. Always calm and mellow, the doctor who soothed everyone around him.

“Hey, Dad. I wondered if you and Mom will be home tonight.”

“On a Thursday? Let me see.”

Logan waited while his father checked the calendar. The sun wouldn’t dare shine unless Resa Warner marked it on her calendar.

“You’re in luck. No bridge. No choir practice.”

“Can I stop by for dinner?”

“Don’t see why not. That means I’ll actually get a home-cooked meal. About time.”

“What, Mom’s starving you?”

“With her sewing circle and Bible study and bunko nights, I’m lucky she feeds me at all. With you expected for dinner, we’ll get something decent, like lasagna or beef stew. You coming after your shift?”

“I’ll be there no later than six. Unless someone gets himself killed.”

“Hah! Last time that happened in the Springs was three years ago. Jim Marshall got drunk after his wife left him and ran smack into that old oak.”

Logan thought about the violent deaths he’d seen in Atlanta every day, especially once he joined the homicide department. “Let Mom know I’m coming.”

“I’ll have her dust off her apron and cook up a feast. I’ve got to get going. Bridget Marley thinks her kid has the chicken pox. I’m heading over there now.”

“Bye, Dad.”

Logan hung up, feeling better hearing his down-to-earth father’s voice.

He grabbed his gun and holstered it, tucked wallet and keys into his pockets, and headed down to the diner. He plopped on his favorite stool and coffee instantly appeared before him.

“Thanks, Mandy.”

“What can I get you, Logan?” The brunette server leaned on the counter to give him a better shot of her ample cleavage.

“Two eggs and strips, hash browns, toast, and a tall OJ. That’ll do it.”

“You got it.”

Mandy sashayed away as Logan doctored his coffee.

“Morning, Logan.” Mayor Joe Vick perched his heavy frame on the stool next to him.

“Good morning, Mayor. You’re out and about early this morning.”

“Coffee to go, Mandy,” Vick barked at the server.

She grabbed a Styrofoam cup and filled it to the brim, placing it and a top in front of him.

“Thanks, hon.” Vick waited for her to leave before he turned to Logan.

“You hear anything about Bobby retiring?”

Logan shrugged. He and Chief Risedale had actually discussed it two days ago, but Logan didn’t know if that conversation had gone beyond them.

“He’s mentioned it a few times. I don’t know if he’s serious. Louise probably wouldn’t put up with him being underfoot day in and day out.”

Vick leaned in. “Bobby wants you to run as chief in the next general election.”

So Risedale had let the cat out of the bag, after all. He’d approached Logan with the idea. Logan told his boss he would think about it. Now that Joe Vick knew, everyone else in town would by noon. Sooner if he’d already been down to the gas station and talked to Casey Attaway, the best gossip in the county. All news in the Springs filtered through the mayor or Casey. Twitter had nothing on the pair’s social network.

“I’ll have to think about it, Mr. Mayor.”

Vick held up a hand. “Think fast, boy. May’s around the corner. You’re a hometown football hero. Won the athletic scholarship to University of Georgia. You have big city experience on the mean streets of Atlanta. Now, you’re home. You’ve put in time on the force. People trust you. All in all, you would make an excellent candidate for the position.”

He stood and slapped Logan on the back. “Keep me posted on your decision.” Vick slipped the top onto his to go cup, threw a dollar on the countertop, and waltzed out.

Mandy set Logan’s breakfast in front of him. He sensed her assessing him as he buttered his toast. He bit into the toast and looked up innocently.

“If you hadn’t thought about it before, you should,” Mandy said. “Seth Berger will run if you don’t. No one wants that pissy little weasel as police chief in the Springs.”

“Seth?”

That bit of information surprised him. Berger was in his late forties, thin as a rail, and didn’t seem the ambitious or political type. Logan worked his way through breakfast and thought about how little he’d like to answer to Seth Berger if he became police chief in Walton Springs.

“Hey, buddy. Hey, Mandy. Can I get a coffee to go, sweetie? Little cream and a whole lotta sugar.”

Logan’s partner, Brad Patterson, sat next to him. “Stool’s still warm. Who’re you keeping company with? I saw Mayor Vick leaving as I came in.”

Brad rocked back and forth. “Yep, the whole surface is warm. Had to be Joe Vick’s ass here. You know, Vick’s about the size William Howard Taft was. Taft weighed over three hundred pounds. They installed a new bathtub in the White House just so he’d fit.” He sighed. “Definitely Joe Vick’s ass. Probably bigger than Taft’s.”

“Brilliant deduction, Patterson,” Logan said between bites. “Maybe they should make you a detective.”

His partner flashed Mandy a smile as she returned with his coffee. “I believe they already did, Warner. Thanks, babe.” Brad slipped her a five and slid off the stool.

Logan stood and placed a couple of bills on the counter. His room rent included any meal he wanted from the diner, but he always made sure he left a tip. Felicity waited tables when they were in college, and he remembered how important each gratuity had been to a newly-married couple living on a shoestring.

He nodded to Mandy and stopped at the register. Nelda Vanderley smiled at him and laid down her pen.

“Heard you and Brad cleared those B&E’s yesterday.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I knew that Jones boy was up to no good. Glad you busted him before it got any worse. Say, I’m planning the menus for the next couple of nights. Anything special you want?”

“I’m eating with the folks tonight so fix anything but meatloaf. You know that’s my favorite. And don’t ever tell Mom—but you make it better than she does.”

Nelda laughed. “Considering I’ve told your mother everything I know since first grade, secret or not, she’s probably figured that out. But I’ll be sure meatloaf won’t appear until tomorrow night at the earliest.” She made a note of it.

Logan kissed her cheek. “You’re one in a million, Nelda.”

“If only a man twenty years older than you would tell me that, I’d be sold on him. I’d take him bald, potbellied, bow-legged—you name it.”

Brad appeared at his elbow. “You know I’d take you, Mrs. Vanderley.”

“Oh, pish-posh, Brad Patterson. You might be good-looking for a man approaching forty but you’re lazy as the day is long. I don’t know how Logan puts up with you and all that charm you ooze.”

“I’m the brains of the team, ma’am. Logan’s just the brawn. He scares most of the bad guys away, while I outthink them.”

Nelda’s eyebrows arched a good two inches. “Is that so?”

Logan nudged Brad. “We better get going. I’ll tell Mom you said hi, Nelda.”

He walked outside, following his partner to the police-issued sedan parked on the square. Brad tossed him the keys and Logan climbed into the driver’s seat.

“You’re up early this morning.”

Brad sipped his coffee. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d catch up with you at the diner. Thought we could ride in together.”

Logan turned west on Elm. He waved to a woman pushing a stroller with twins. She’d been a few years behind him in school. A lump formed in his throat. He missed his own twins with a fierce longing that actually brought a physical pain. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath, pushing away the memory of Ashley and Alex.

And what Carson Miller had done to them.

Up ahead, he spotted Broderick Campbell crossing the street. Something seemed off about the old man’s gait. Logan slowed the car and pulled over to the curb.

“Something’s up with Mr. Campbell,” he told Brad.

He got out of the car and hurried to Campbell’s side. The man weaved in a crooked line. It was if he knew where he wanted to go but his body wouldn’t take him there.

Campbell turned to look at him. Logan saw panic in the man’s green eyes.

“Hurts,” Campbell croaked before he collapsed in the street.

“Get a bus. Fast,” he hollered. Brad picked up the radio and called it in.

Taking off his jacket, he folded it and slipped it under Campbell’s head. The older man twitched and spasmed suddenly, then went totally limp.

Logan took his hand. “You’re fine, Mr. Campbell. The ambulance is on its way. It’ll be here any minute.”

The most famous author in America looked up at him with sad eyes and a crooked mouth.

“Stroke,” he moaned.

Logan saw the downward turn in Campbell’s face on the right side. His grandfather had been a stroke victim during Logan’s teens. He recognized the same slack expression appearing on Broderick Campbell’s face.

“Call . . . Karlyn.”

Logan nodded. He knew Campbell’s wife was named Martha. It hit him that Campbell must mean Karlyn Campbell, the best-selling suspense author. He had no idea the two writers were even related.

“We will call Karlyn, sir,” he assured him. “And your wife.”

Logan continued talking in soothing tones until he heard the wail of the ambulance in the distance. Campbell must have, too. The man closed his eyes and sighed.

The attendants quickly loaded their patient into the emergency vehicle, with Logan describing what he’d seen and what Campbell had said. He figured maybe the writer had had a previous stroke when he self-diagnosed himself.

Logan promised to contact the wife as the paramedics pulled away. He got back in the car and told Brad, who radioed in their next destination since they were now officially on the clock.

The Campbell house sat three blocks away on Magnolia Lane. It was by far the nicest house on the street, a red-brick Colonial with a large, wide porch and tall, elegant, white columns.

The two detectives walked up the front sidewalk and rang the doorbell. Moments later, a petite blonde answered. She was probably in her mid-fifties but could pass for a decade or so younger, thanks to artfully applied make-up.

“Mrs. Campbell?”

“Yes? How may I help you?”

“I’m Detective Logan Warner. This is my partner, Detective Brad Patterson.” He flashed his credentials and saw the concern cross her face.

“We spotted your husband having trouble walking and got out to assist him as he collapsed.”

“Oh, dear. Is Broderick all right?” She glanced around them to see if might be sitting in their car.

“The ambulance came. He’s been taken to Our Lady of Mercy in Lexington. It looks like it might have been a stroke. May we take you to the hospital?”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Yes, of course. Let me get my purse.”

She returned after a minute and seemed to go limp all at once. Logan supported her as they walked to the car.

As they pulled away from the curb, he leaned over and said, “Your husband wanted us to call Karlyn. Is that your daughter, ma’am?”

Her eyes misted over. “Yes. Karlyn is our only child. Strange that Broderick said that.”

“Why is that, Mrs. Campbell?”

Martha Campbell shook her head. “Because they haven’t spoken to each other in almost four years.”

 

 

 

CHAPTER 3

 

Karlyn climbed out of the cab. The brisk March wind almost knocked her over. She headed for the revolving glass doors. Once inside, she proceeded straight for the ladies’ room.

As she glanced in the mirror, smoothing her wind-blown hair, her stomach twisted violently. She ran into a stall and leaned over, knowing she had nothing to lose. She’d never been a breakfast eater and hadn’t been able to get lunch down, either. Especially not on a day like this.

The day she would officially be known as a failure. A statistic. A party to the “one in two marriages fail” rule.

She fell on the failed side.

A few dry heaves later, Karlyn forced herself to stand. She exited the stall and rinsed her mouth with water before popping a breath mint. She touched up her lip-gloss. But the inevitable couldn’t be delayed any longer.

Arriving upstairs at Benton, Lawler, she found herself being led down a lengthy corridor of hardwood floors and dark paneling to a windowless conference room.

She wasn’t the first to arrive.

Seated with his whippet-thin attorney was her soon-to-be ex, Mario Taylor. Both looked up as she entered. The lawyer offered a brief nod. Mario did not. He sat with a sullen expression, his hooded eyes like slits, studying her silently.

What had she seen in this man?

Other than physical beauty, that is. Mario was a dark angel, with thick black hair, brooding brown eyes, and a body that rocked her world in the beginning.

What he’d hidden—or what she’d refused to see during their whirlwind courtship—was his artist’s temperament, coupled with alcohol abuse. Karlyn had suffered long nights of her husband’s anger, quick to erupt. The shouting. The insults. His immense jealousy of her success grew swiftly as his own star dimmed in the art world.

Finally, the constant betrayal of their marriage vows, the last time with a woman she had considered a good friend. It ripped her life apart like a jagged lightning bolt in its speed and damage.

That affair had been the final straw that led her to file for divorce.

“Good afternoon, Karlyn.”

Her patrician attorney, Archibald Benton, swept into the room and led her to a seat at the conference table. He greeted the pair across from them and busied himself pulling out various papers from his briefcase, setting them in separate stacks before him.

“I believe we’re ready to reach a settlement in this matter, Barbara.”

Barbara McCarthy, cool and ash-blonde, gave him her best Go to hell look. Karlyn had decided that Barbara would be a character in her next book. She hadn’t decided how to kill her yet. She would never write Mario into anything. Murdering his lawyer would be the next best literary revenge.

The attorney raised her pencil-thin brows. “I don’t see how we can agree to any of this rubbish.”

Benton raised his own shaggy white brows and glared back. Karlyn noted her lawyer’s look trumped McCarthy’s by a mile.

“I don’t see what the problem is, Barbara. Mr. Taylor may keep any profits from his paintings since the marriage began, as well as any future earnings on paintings already in progress. My client will adhere to the same, retaining her income from her novels. The condo and all furniture within will be sold, with the money divided equally between the two. There are no children and no pets to consider. What objection could Mr. Taylor have?”

Barbara splayed her hands flat on the table. “It’s grossly unfair. It will leave my client destitute until the sale of the property goes through. He is accustomed to living in a manner suited to—”

“Don’t go there,” Benton warned. “Your client has sponged off Miss Campbell for years. He earns a decent living from his art and can support himself. He will neither be homeless, nor will he starve.”

“But he—”

“He can have the condo. And everything in it. I want this to be over.”

Karlyn’s interruption brought the argument to a halt.

“Karlyn, I would advise you—”

“I know, Archibald. We’ve had this discussion. Several times. And more than anything, I want to be free of this monster and his trail of tramps.”

Mario leapt to his feet. “You would call me a monster, you little whore? Writing crap that the public gobbles up like candy?”

“Sit down,” Barbara cautioned her client through gritted teeth.

Mario spread his arms wide. “Why should I? This little slut spread lies about me to her friends. Our relationship and its problems have been fodder for every tabloid and TV entertainment program. The gossip has ruined my career. I’ll be lucky if I ever have a showing again in New York.”

Mario sat, his eyes smoldering hate as he eyed Karlyn.

Benton flipped through a few papers and withdrew one. He turned it around and pushed it across the table.

“This is the private investigator’s report that details multiple incidents of extramarital conduct on Mr. Taylor’s part.” He reached for an envelope and dumped out dozens of pictures on the table. “And here are the photos to back up the report.”

Barbara placed a warning hand on Mario’s forearm to ensure his silence.

“Yes, the tabloids have speculated about the marriage and my client’s filing for divorce. The paparazzi have sold numerous pictures of Mr. Taylor with other women, both during the marriage and the separation. But my client has never made any of this public. In fact, she doesn’t comment about anything in her private life—and that includes her soon-to-be ex-husband.”

Benton shook his head. “None of this is news to you, Counselor. And now my client has generously offered all proceeds from the sale of an approximately three-million-dollar condo and its contents to go to Mr. Taylor. Or he may choose to continue to be a resident thereof. The choice is his but the free ride on my client’s coattails is over.”

Mario said through gritted teeth, “You give me no choice. I cannot afford to live there.”

Benton sat back, folding his hands in his lap. “Then sell the property, Mr. Taylor. It should net a healthy profit. You will have a tidy sum in your pocket and be free to pursue your art—and love of women—to your heart’s desire.”

Mario pushed back his chair and stood, his anger obvious. “I will sign,” he spat out. “Anything to be rid of . . . her.” He began pacing the room.

Benton reached for a different stack, and she knew the legalese would include Mario receiving the condo and its contents.

“Here are the papers drawn up as you requested, Karlyn. Let me get my notary.” The attorney reached for the phone and pressed a few numbers. “Yes, now, please.”

Moments later, a young redhead entered with her registry and stamp. Karlyn noticed Mario’s eyes light up with interest as he assessed the woman. In less than five minutes, all the paperwork had been completed and would be filed with the court. Karlyn watched her ex-husband walk out of the room and her life. For good.

Benton turned to her. “That was expensive, Karlyn. You were rash to give him so much. Especially when he didn’t deserve a dime.”

She shrugged. “He’ll squander it and then find some rich, older matron to keep him in Prada and Armani. He’s a fair artist with gigolo looks and a flamboyant personality. I don’t think any rumors about what went wrong in our marriage have hurt his career. It steamrolled downhill long before that.”

“Enough about Mario Taylor. What will you be doing now? I know writing is your salvation.”

She laughed. “After months of negotiation, I’m starting work on my first screenplay and trying to finish writing a new novel at the same time.” She paused. “I’ll need to find somewhere to live. I’ve been staying at Alicia’s apartment.”

Karlyn patted Archibald’s hand. “I know you think me foolish, but I needed to quickly cut the old ties and usher in my new life.”

“Well, let me know where to send my bill.” Benton chuckled. “And you promised me a signed copy of your next Matt Collins book.” The lawyer’s face lit up in pleasure thinking about it. “I think every man wants to be Matt Collins.”

“And every woman wants to sleep with him,” she quipped. She kissed his cheek. “Thank you for everything, Archibald.”

Karlyn left, her step lighter with the burden of her marriage over. She turned the corner and spotted a Starbucks and decided to grab a coffee.

She walked in and ordered a grande mocha with a light whip and moved to the side to await her drink.

Suddenly, someone invaded her personal space.

Mario.

She forced herself to stay calm as she looked into his eyes.

“You are a bitch, Karlyn Campbell,” he ground out. “You write commercial shit. You are not an artist as I am. You crank out worthless drivel. I think so. Your father thinks so. You know we are right. You have no talent.”

She remained silent. She wouldn’t give in to tears. She wouldn’t let Mario get to her. Ever again.

Nor her father.

“Grande mocha, light whip,” called out the barista.

Karlyn stepped around Mario and picked up her drink. Without a backward glance she left the coffeehouse, gripping the cup tightly.

She flagged a cab and climbed in. “Drive. Anywhere. I need to think.”

Fortunately, the cabby remained silent as the buildings went by. Tears gathered in her eyes. She kept them at bay as she sipped the hot brew, hoping it would dispel the chill running through her.

What if her novels were popular with the public? What was wrong with that? Both Broderick Campbell and Mario Taylor seemed to think it was a crime to make money through her writing. Both denigrated her with cutting words and looks.

She didn’t care. She loved getting lost in her world of characters. Stories poured from her, and she published two to three novels a year. She didn’t care that she hadn’t won a Pulitzer Prize or National Book Review Award, as her father had on multiple occasions. She didn’t strive to compete with his career. She was a respected author in her own right. She took pride in the work she’d done and the stories and characters she’d created.

Her cell rang. She pulled it out reluctantly and stared at the Caller ID as it continued to ring.

Why would her mother be calling her?

“Hello?” she said cautiously.

“Oh, Karlyn. I’m so glad I reached you.”

“Mother? You sound odd.”

“Oh, honey. I don’t know where to begin. But your father wanted me to call you.”

Karlyn froze in disbelief. “Is he there? Are you all right? What’s going on?”

“He’s asked for you, dear. He’s had a stroke. You need to get here as soon as you can.”

 

 

CHAPTER 4

 

He looked at the bald, strapping man lying helplessly on the dirty linoleum floor. His wrists and ankles duct taped to restrain him. More duct tape over his mouth. His eyes wide now in panic realizing that his new drinking buddy wasn’t much of a buddy to him at all.

He flipped through the wallet. A couple of gas cards. A VISA and MasterCard. A Costco card. Eleven bucks in cash. He pulled out the driver’s license and held it close to the man’s face, comparing the picture with his specimen on the floor.

“Randolph? Hmm. Your mama and daddy stuck you with a pretty pretentious name for such a happy-go-lucky guy. No wonder you introduced yourself to me as Randy.”

Randy whimpered behind the tape.

He returned the license to its slot and tossed the wallet aside. He wasn’t a thief. He didn’t need the money.

What he needed was the kill.

He looked back at his specimen and smiled. “Well, Randy. I’m happy to share with you that you’re Number Eight. I’ve worked my way through all seven colors of the rainbow.”

Randy’s began blubbering behind the duct tape, his eyes wild.

“Oh, I see you’re familiar with my work. I’m sorry I didn’t clue you in from the beginning. They’re calling me Roy. Roy G. Biv—for the colors of the rainbow.”

Randy started this funny-as-all-get-out scoot. Wiggling his fat ass and trying to push his heels in. Trying to get away. From what lay ahead.

“Oh, come on, big boy. You’re going to be famous.” He smiled at the truck driver. “I have become quite the news story in Atlanta.” He raised both arms and air-quoted, “Rainbow Killer Strikes Again.” And laughed.

Randy kept scooting.

“I’ve had the time of my life on this spree, my new friend. An Asian hooker. A gay white architect. A retired teacher.” He thought a moment. “She was a black widow.” Laughed at his own little pun. Thought a moment. “Who was next? Hmm. I know. The Hispanic plumber with five kids and one on the way. Oh, then another gay. Atlanta’s full of ‘em these days. He was a Black bookstore owner. Then it was the white accountant. Divorced. Cried for his kids in the end.

“And I finished up with the white immigration lawyer last week. No, she was married to an immigration lawyer. I think she did tax law. Anyway, she was a handful, let me tell you. Talked dirty—and fought dirty when the time came. She was an awesome specimen.”

Randy had run out of crawling room. He’d hit a line of cabinets that formed an L. Backed into nowhere.

He took a step forward and watched the fright dance in Randy’s eyes. God, he loved his job!

That’s what he thought about killing. It was his job. His calling. His raison d’être. He couldn’t imagine anything more enjoyable or more satisfying.

“I thought that would be the end. That I’d move on to something else. I’d gone through the entire cycle of colors. But I’m really enjoying this, Randy. This time, I’ve gotten more press than ever before.” He chuckled. “I suppose I’ve become addicted to the fame.”

He took out his knife. And the piano wire.

“But you know what comes next. If you’ve been listening to the news. Or reading the papers. Or trolling the Internet.”

Randy moaned behind the tape, tears leaking from his bloodshot drinker’s eyes.

He crouched next to his specimen. Ran the knife’s blade against his temple. Watched the thin red line of blood appear.

“I’m just sorry that brown isn’t one of the colors of the rainbow. You know—painting you brown. How appropriate that would’ve been for a UPS guy.”

He drank in the terror. Let it wash over him like a balm.

And then got to the business at hand.