Daddy Darkest Read online

  Daddy Darkest

  Ellery Kane

  Contents

  Title Page

  Quote

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  September 9, 1996

  September 16, 1996

  September 24, 1996

  September 30, 1996

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  October 10, 1996

  October 15, 1996

  October 21, 1996

  October 22, 1996

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  October 28, 1996

  October 29, 1996

  November 6, 1996

  November 7, 1996

  November 8, 1996

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  November 12, 1996

  November 15, 1996

  November 18, 1996

  November 24, 1996

  November 25, 1996

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  November 27, 1996

  November 28, 1996

  November 29, 1996

  December 6, 1996

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  December 9, 1996

  December 10, 1996

  December 11, 1996

  December 13, 1996

  December 16, 1996

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  December 17, 1996

  December 18, 1996

  December 19, 1996

  December 20, 1996

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  December 21, 1996

  December 22, 1996

  December 23, 1996

  Chapter 26

  December 24, 1996

  Chapter 27

  December 25, 1996

  December 26, 1996

  Chapter 28

  December 27, 1996

  December 28, 1996

  Chapter 29

  January 17, 1996

  September 9, 1997

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  August 24, 2016

  Review Request

  Coming Soon

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright ©2016 Ellery A. Kane

  * * *

  All Rights Reserved.

  * * *

  Cover Design by Giovanni Auriemma

  * * *

  Book Developmental Editing/Manuscript Evaluation & Line Editing/Copyediting/Proofing by AnnCastro Studio with Ann Castro and Emily Dings

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this book are purely fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Daddy Darkest contains adult themes, including descriptions of sexual abuse, and is recommended for a mature audience.

  For Gar

  My partner in crime

  “Murder is not about lust and it’s not about violence. It’s about possession.”

  Ted Bundy

  1

  BLACK SOCK, BLUE SOCK

  I wish my first plane ride had ended in a crash. An unforeseen plunge to Earth. A few minutes of white-hot terror, followed by a rising ball of fire. And no survivors. Sure, I’d be gone at eighteen. She was so young, they’d say, but at least I would die believing my life was my own. Not a lie somebody else concocted. Then, it was simple. I was still small-town girl, Samantha Bronwyn.

  “Sam, easy with the death grip.” Ginny freed her arm from under mine and jiggled it. I watched the color return to the white fingertip marks I’d left behind.

  I shrugged. “Sorry. But that noise . . . ”

  “So you can sink a free throw to win state, no problem, but the safest form of travel inspires a full-on meltdown?” Ginny—and Google—had assured me I had one-in-eleven-million odds of death up here. At the time, two feet planted on the ground, it seemed reasonable.

  “As far as I know, that sound means we’re plummeting to our deaths right now.”

  “Uh, it’s the landing gear, dork.” Ginny exaggerated an eye roll—not for my benefit—then leaned in and whispered. “And you’re blowing the cool college girl thing we’ve got going.”

  I offered a polite smile to 4A. Thanks to Ginny and her relentless flirting, I knew his name—Levi Beckett. “We’re not in college,” I reminded her.

  “Yet. A minor technicality.” She shook her head at me, then returned to the task at hand. Being cool, obviously. “So, Levi, do you have any recommendations for our first night in the big city? We wanna hit all the hot spots.”

  I swallowed a sigh as Ginny tossed her hair from her shoulder. Why did I let her talk me into this trip?

  “Hot spots?” He’d told Ginny he was twenty-one, but his tone was my mother’s—a thought that came with a wave of guilt, which I promptly ignored. “You’re eighteen, right?”

  Oblivious, Ginny nodded.

  “You girls should be careful.”

  Ginny leaned around me, pursing her pink-glossed lips at him. “Oooh, sounds dangerous.”

  I felt my cheeks warm, but I kept my eyes fixed on the seat back in front of me, watching sidelong as Levi tapped his fingers against his blue jeans, a black backpack he hadn’t opened stanchioned between his leather boots. Since Levi had claimed his spot, I’d avoided his face. Except that once when I bumped his arm from the miniscule rest in between us, my excuse me met with a flash of his green eyes. It seemed strange to sit so close to a total stranger. And the way Ginny acted, I could tell he was freakishly handsome, and therefore hers.

  “Seriously,” he said. That word implied he was talking to me. “San Francisco has its share of unsavory characters.” He unfolded the newspaper tucked next to him, turned it toward me, and tapped the familiar headline and picture below it. Notorious San Quentin inmate pulls off unprecedented second escape, manhunt enters 10th day.

  The smirk beneath the slate-gray eyes of Clive Evan Cullen leveled me like a double-edged blade. Part menace, part seduction.

  Ginny giggled. “Is it wrong to find a murderer attractive?” I elbowed her, and she winced. “Because if it is, I don’t wanna be right.”

  “See what I mean?” Levi said. “She’s practically begging to be Cutthroat Cullen’s next girlfriend—I mean, victim.” He pointed to a smaller headline: Female body found floating in the Bay believed to be prison employee who aided Cullen.

  “Ha. Ha. Ha.” Ginny narrowed her eyes at him. “As if I would ever work in a prison.”

  “Your sister is nuts,” he teased.

  “Friend.” It was the typical assumption, with our matching blonde hair and cornflower-blue eyes. But beyond that, Ginny was my complete flipside. “We’re best friends.”

  “Well, then, you should watch out for your friend. She’s going to get herself in trouble one day.” My nod felt like a betrayal, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “Hmph.” Ginny pulled my letterman jacket closer around her shoulders and turned away from us toward the aisle. She’d warned me the cabin might get cold, but she wore a tank top anyway, pilfering my royal blue Bellwether Bulldogs memento halfway through the flight.

  “Gin, c’mon.” I touched her shoulder, but she squirmed away, and I bristled. Annoyed. By him. Levi Beckett. Condescending jerk. Unsavory characters—who talks like that anyway? If his hand wasn’t close enough to hold, his knee a mere fingertip from mine, I would’ve glared at him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve started our descent into San Francisco. In preparation
for landing, please make sure your seat backs and . . .” I plucked my ticket out of the pocket in front of me, staring at it, committing the details of my first plane ride to memory. Flight: Virgin America 221. Destination: AUS to SFO. Passenger: Bronwyn, Samantha.

  “Look. It’s the San Francisco Bay.” Levi lifted the shade, revealing an expanse of blue water. I caught my breath. Almost two thousand miles from Bellwether and my mother, it looked like freedom.

  Ginny sulked as we lugged our carry-ons up the jet bridge. “How long are you planning to be mad at me?” I teased, holding my watch up to my face. “Ballpark figure, so I can set my stopwatch.”

  “Shouldn’t you be getting your boyfriend’s digits anyway? Don’t let me keep you, Mrs. Beckett.”

  I groaned. “You were the one who started chatting him up in the first place. He wasn’t even that cute.” It was a blatant lie. When I’d finally freed myself from the seat belt, I snuck a well-deserved glance at Levi as he secured his backpack. Curly chestnut hair, wiry muscles, a shadow of a beard. And those green eyes.

  “Ahem.”

  Oh God. “Is that . . . ?” I hissed at Ginny through clenched teeth. She only smiled.

  Levi split the middle, fast walking between us. “You were saying?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but I could hear him laughing, even after I lost him in the sea of passengers mingling by the gate.

  “Smooth, Sam. Really smooth.”

  “Whatever.” I parked my suitcase at the edge of the crowd and turned on my cell phone. The guilt I’d managed to shove down for the duration of a three-and-a-half-hour flight came back with a vengeance. Ten text messages. Three missed calls. All from my mom. “I told you she’d freak out.” When Ginny didn’t answer me, I looked up from the screen and called her name.

  “Going to get beautified,” she announced, playfully skirting around a yellow WET FLOOR sign that blocked the bathroom doorway, bag in tow. I watched her ponytail swing the way it always did, brushing across my letterman jacket. My ponytail never did that. Sometimes I wondered if she practiced. Her back—BRONWYN, STATE CHAMPIONSHIP BASKETBALL 2016—disappeared inside.

  I dropped my phone into the cavern of my purse. Don’t look, I told myself. You can call her later. Explain everything. I leaned back against the row of seats and took in the crowd rushing past me. I’d never seen so many people—practically the entire population of Bellwether, Texas—packed into one cramped space. Small-town girl meets big city. That’s what Ginny proclaimed this trip when she’d surprised me with the ticket weeks ago, just after we watched our graduation caps land side by side on the football field.

  Small-town girl—me, of course—watched the bathroom exit, already aggravated. Big-city was probably blotting, brushing, and lip glossing her way to perfection. A little girl toddled by, dragging a stuffed bear alongside her. Her white booties picked up speed, her tiny arms barely keeping pace. She let out a high-pitched shriek just before she tumbled to the ground, wailing. Her red-faced panic was contagious.

  With urgency, I headed for the bathroom door—the wheels of my suitcase clicking behind me—and navigated around the same yellow sign Ginny ignored, hoping no one saw me.

  It was the fanciest public restroom I’d ever seen: marble counters, soft lighting, electric hand dryers. But it smelled exactly like our high school bathroom, post-janitorial visit—its floors slick with a chemical sheen. I measured my steps just in case Ginny hid nearby, messing with me.

  A quick glance to my left and right turned up nothing. The stalls stood empty, most of their doors partway open, inviting me inside. The first stall is the cleanest. That’s what Ginny always said, so I pushed my way in, half-expecting to find her there laughing at me. But there was no one. The only sign of life, a curse word etched into the metal. On the freshly scrubbed counter was a tube of uncapped lip gloss. I picked it up gingerly, like it might explode in my hand, and examined it. Cotton Candy. Ginny’s color.

  “Hello? Ginny? Are you in here?” My words sank like stones in the silence.

  “Excuse me, young lady.” I jumped. Then stumbled backward, steadying myself against the wall. My heart fluttered like an insect in a jar. I let out a long, rattled breath. Something—a roach?—scuttled beneath my foot and across the tile, and I shuddered. A man’s pockmarked face appeared in the mirror.

  “You . . . scared me.” He raised his gloved hands in surrender. They were large, paw-like.

  “I’m just finishing up in here,” he said. “But I think ya dropped . . . ” My eyes followed his. It was the black cap from Ginny’s gloss. Not a roach after all. I picked it up.

  “I’m looking for my friend. She came in here maybe ten minutes ago. This is hers.” I showed him the cap, holding it with care as if it was as precious as a rare jewel. He shrugged, barely looking, while he strangled the end of a brimming garbage bag. I screwed the cap back on and slipped the tube into my pocket, feeling silly.

  “Haven’t seen anybody. Usually, the sign keeps ’em out. I can radio my partner for ya, if you’d like.” The man gestured over his shoulder. “He just left with a load of trash.”

  “That’s okay. I must’ve missed her or something.” Even though I knew missing Ginny was as impossible as overlooking the sun. He folded up the yellow sign and waved to me.

  “Why don’t ya give your friend a call? She probably wandered into the bookstore.”

  I waited for him to leave me inside the cool, white tomb of the bathroom. Then I fished my phone from the bottom of my purse and pressed Gin Rummy, the name Ginny typed in herself when we met playing basketball our freshman year. That was before Bellwether’s point guard, Kelly, took an elbow that fractured her jaw, and Ginny deemed herself too pretty for sports. I waited for the ring, Ginny’s typical—Hey Sam, I found a Starbucks. Hot guy behind the counter.

  I thought I might be dreaming when I heard it. I’m still on the plane. I’ve fallen asleep. My head is inching toward 4A’s shoulder. I better open my eyes now. There was that unsettled feeling, the one when disconnected things, mismatched things—a black sock, a blue sock—come together somehow. But after a kind stranger exhumed Ginny’s phone from its resting place, the little sanitary disposal box in the stall furthest from the door, I knew I was wide awake.

  The surface of Ginny’s screen saver, a shirtless Channing Tatum, looked at me with expectation. I clicked a button, and the phone came to life. The notes application was open. With a shot of game-time adrenaline swooshing through my veins, I read the words that seemed meant for me. It was my mother’s name after all.

  Clare, come find me.

  2

  ROULETTE WHEEL

  Teeth. Bone. Blood. I jogged through the airport, hightailing it to baggage claim, where I suspected Ginny waited for me—just a misunderstanding after all. But I couldn’t shake that fractured jaw from four years ago. When I’d caught a glimpse of a tooth hatching from beneath our point guard’s eggshell-white skin, I headed straight for the bench, vomit burning my throat. But not Ginny. She’d sprinted across the court to comfort her, their hands clasped together in a sticky mixture of blood and sweat. That was absolutely disgusting, she’d told me later as we sat together on the bus ride home. That’s when I knew Ginny was braver than me and tougher than she looked. Somehow, the message on her phone reminded me of that tooth. Horrifying in its strangeness. Impossible to unsee.

  Clare, come find me.

  I slowed my pace as I stepped onto the escalator—hopeful—and watched the bag carousels spinning round and round and round beneath me. “She’s fine.” I didn’t sound convincing, so I gave it a second try. “She’s fine.” Baggage claim was swarming with blondes. Surely, Ginny was one of them. She was punishing me for taking 4A’s side. You win, Ginny. You win.

  I fixed my eyes on the board at the edge of the crowd until I found it. Flight 221. Carousel 3. Ginny would be there retrieving the extra bag I’d teased her for packing. Tugging my own suitcase behind me, I made a straight line through the other passengers. They were busy�
��heads down—calling, texting, reuniting, lugging bags like bodies. It was so normal, too normal, and the seed of my unease started to grow.

  Though I was too young to remember him, my mom always said the hardest part of losing my father was the way life trudged on without him. Like he was a misplaced key or a broken pair of glasses. Nonessential. Easily replaced. Not a shrink whose plane took a terminal nosedive into the side of a mountain. Now I could see what she meant. But Ginny wasn’t dead. She wasn’t even lost. She was here. Somewhere. I knew it.

  “Did she ditch you already?”

  I turned around, nearly colliding with a grinning Levi. “What is that supposed to mean?” The fierceness in my words registered as his eyes widened and his smiled deflated. “Why did you say all that stuff on the plane?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “About Ginny being careful? Remember?” I knew I sounded a little unhinged, and after a few heads turned to look at me, I realized I was practically yelling.

  Levi started walking past me, pretending he didn’t know me. “You agreed with me,” he mumbled. “And I thought she was the crazy one.” Backpack slung over one shoulder, he kept moving until he was on the opposite end of the carousel—as far away as he could manage. The red light flashed, the horn blaring like it was announcing the end of the world. The sheets of metal came to life, and the bags dropped like marbles on a spinning roulette wheel.

  When I saw Ginny’s bag—the bright pink ribbon she’d tied around the handle giving her away—I waited. It fell in line with the others and began its slow procession. It passed Levi and all the other expectant eyes until it was right back where it began. With each revolution, the suitcases dwindled, plucked off and wheeled out to their awaiting adventures, and the tightening in my stomach became impossible to ignore. I sat down on the edge of the cold metal and watched the pink ribbon go by. Again. It was the last bag. The only bag. I buried my head in my hands.