The answers in this mystery might just be worth living for. . .
After the devastating death of her child at the hands of her estranged husband, Raine Dawson decides to end her suffering. In the Northern California town of Storm, she solicits the aid of a physician who performs euthanasia. He agrees to help her on two conditions: She must wait twenty-four hours, and she has to spend the night in StormClyffe House. Catch is, she has to pretend to be a journalist investigating the fifty-year-old disappearance of 1960's rock star Jerry Marks, and his family.
Out of options, Raine agrees. During her fake investigation she encounters two gorgeous men. One is a taciturn property manager and the other is the charming grandson of the missing man. Raine finds herself falling, as always, for the man with a troubled past and a painful secret. Good thing she's not long for this world, because that man is not only sex on a stick but trouble to boot.
The closer Raine she gets to the solution of the mystery, the less interested she is in dying. Unfortunately, the person behind the fifty-year-old murders has no intention of letting her live.
20,096 Words
Release date:
August 5, 2013
Publisher:
Lyrical Press
Print pages:
74
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Raine Dawson squinted to bring the letters on the small green sign into focus. She saw but didn’t appreciate the scenic beauty of the sea swept bluffs, the cozy cottages tucked deep in the shadows of the tall pine trees, or the shafts of sunlight spearing through the large gray storm clouds. She could only think of finding a street named Stormy Glenn Drive and dying. In that order.
The car she’d rented had a GPS system, but she’d been too paranoid to program it for her destination. It was important no one find her or stop her. The directions to the place had seemed straightforward enough. Drive many hundreds of miles straight up the coast on California Highway 1 and take a right on Stormy Glenn Drive. She’d driven to within one hundred miles of the Oregon border, give or take a few tenths, and still had yet to spot the sign she sought. Had she passed it?
A dirt road veered off to her right. No sign, but a sixth sense had her slowing. A mailbox sat crookedly at the entrance. She slowed, catching sight of a small wooden hand-lettered sign. Storm something. This had to be it. She cranked the steering wheel to the right and made the turn, barely.
A small house, actually a double-wide trailer, surrounded by dandelion infested grass, sat in a small glen shadowed by enormous pine trees. A cold wind buffeted her as she got out of the car and made her way up the porch to the door. She still had no indication this was her destination, only it felt right somehow. Like she’d been here before. Which was nonsense. She’d grown up in San Diego, and had only ventured as far north as Disneyland until she’d gotten behind the wheel of the rental car yesterday.
No one came to the door when she knocked. Raine cupped her hands and peered through the glass window covered by sheer lacy white drapes similar to the ones that had once hung in her childhood home. A sense of loss and longing filled her. Although her mother had been dead almost ten years, Raine might see her very soon. Assuming there was an afterlife and that someone answered the door.
She knocked again, more forcefully.
“Howdy,” hailed a man from behind her.
Raine whirled. For a moment, her mind was filled with visions of danger. She’d been so trusting when she’d contacted this man through a social networking site. He might not be a doctor after all; instead, he could be a deranged serial killer–she laughed at herself. What difference did it make if he was? She’d come here to die. Why should she care if the method was an overdose or an axe?
The answer should have been obvious. An overdose of sleeping medication and oxygen deprivation would be far less painful than being hacked to pieces. Yet she didn’t fear pain. How could she, when she’d lived with it twenty-four seven for the past three months? Granted, her pain was emotional, not physical, but it was pain nonetheless.
“Are you Miz Dawson?” The man had a strong Southern accent. His gray hair was neatly combed and he wore dark wool pants, a crisp white shirt, red suspenders, and a jaunty matching red bow tie. There was something in his expression she couldn’t read. Surprise. Yet, why would he be surprised? He’d been expecting her.
Dr. Griffin closely resembled his profile picture, and she remembered his information listed his birthplace as Georgia, which accounted for the accent. He had revealed nothing more to her, other than his address, when she contacted him to help her.
“Sorry. I was out gathering eggs.” He tilted his basket so she could see the four white orbs tucked amongst the straw lining the bottom.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” It had taken her much longer to find his house than she’d anticipated.
“Not a problem. I’m ready for you.” The man stepped onto the porch beside her, swung open the unlocked door, and ushered her inside.
A thrill of anticipation danced along Raine’s nerves. She hesitated, then mentally chided herself. Be brave. This was what she wanted, what she’d been thinking about for three long months.
The end of the road, the end of all the grief, pain, and sadness.
She took a deep breath and followed the man inside.
“If you’ll just wait while I put these eggs away,” the man requested.
Raine waited as instructed, taking in the details of the man’s house as she did. The living room was furnished with a large comfortable-looking couch, a well-worn recliner, and a small old-fashioned television set. A large black cat lay atop a crumpled afghan on the couch. The feline cracked open an emerald green eye as she walked past.
Raine paused beside a small occasional table where a collection of photographs cluttered the surface. In one, the man–Dr. Griffin was his name if she believed his social networking profile–stood beside a gray-haired woman. She was slender, too thin, and her skin had a sallow appearance.
The man spoke as he re-entered the room. “My wife. She’s the reason I got into this business. She’s been gone three years now.”
Raine didn’t know how to answer. For the past three months, she’d heard far too many platitudes to even consider offering one herself. Was she sorry for his loss? Yes. Would saying so make anything better? Nope.
“Was it cancer?” she asked.
“Uh-huh. Esophageal. Never smoked a day in her life.” Dr. Griffin shook his head. “She suffered horribly at the end.”
“So you–” Raine began, then paused. Dr. Griffin performed physician-assisted suicides, but she didn’t know the politically correct way to state his activity.
As if he’d read her mind, he answered her unspoken. . .
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