Sins of the Father

By Krystal Milton

Sins of the Father a riveting story of struggle, courage and self discovery as Annalynn McKae desperately seeks the truth about her father as he stands accused of being a ruthless and sadistic serial killer that has been on the loose for twenty-six years.
Annalynn McKae has never experienced much tragedy in life except the illness of her mother who has been plagued with Rheumatoid Arthritis since she was eleven. The disease has left her mother’s body stone like, leaving the care of both mother and daughter on Alexander Mckae her adoring father. It was because of his unwavering dedication to their family that she couldn’t believe, wouldn’t believe the horrible reality of what her father really is when he is accused of being the notorious Potomac Creek serial killer.
Sins of the Father is a fiction novel about a young woman discovering life and its faculties, but also the suspense filled journey of powering through struggles no matter what they may be and gaining a vast perspective of how ones ties to family can be their ultimate demise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Krystal Milton
• Release date: Jun 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301622412

Krystal Milton

Krystal Milton is a single mother living in New York with her two children. She has been an avid reader and writer since her teenage years, but recently self published her debut novel Deception in June of 2012. Since then she has published in four other titles including; Charge that to the Game, Field Advantage, Blitz, and Say a little Prayer. When she isn’t reading or spending time with her children, she writes on her blog DWED- Defining Women’s Evolution in Discovery and works on creating new Characters, situations and circumstances for her readers to enjoy.

Book preview

Sins of the Father

The Story of Annalynn

Krystal Milton

Book 1 in The Annalynn series

Published by: Krystal Milton at Smashwords

Copy right © 2013 Krystal Milton

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Authors Note

For my mother Francine; you’ve shown me strength, love & perseverance. I would not be a cultured woman without you.

One of my favorite television shows is Criminal Minds. While I love the cast and tune in for every episode religiously, I have found they depict so much of what’s happening and life through the killers or victims eyes. It’s rare they capture the victim’s family’s point of view or even that of the killer’s family members.

There is so much emotion involved when life is taken; whether it is an act of God, a peaceful passing, or even having someone ripped away at the prime of their lives. There is so much grief involved, so many questions and little answers.

This story is about a girl who had everything. She had a father who adored her, a close knit family who were always there and a sick mother who despite her condition loved her. Then one day its all ripped away and she has to face not only finding herself, losing everything she held dear, and confronting a father who days before had been perfect in her eyes.

This type of existence, seeing a loved one in a disgraceful place is something I have dealt with personally. The trials and tribulations of accepting, losing and confronting the sin of another person is such a complex idea, there is never a determined outcome of what might happen and if it will ever be resolved.

Annalynn McKae embodies a lot of the turmoil we experience in our teen years, but continues into our adult life as we experience loss, deprivation and earth shattering occurrences. I love the conflict of how she feels when everything turns for the worst because she doesn’t know herself, hasn’t lived as richly as she thought. She is an innocent thrown to the lions with nothing but a stick and a flashlight to brave the elements.

I hope that as readers, you can come to understand this fight and the risk we all take in loving others. Living with people is never easy and you don’t really know anyone. Not even the people who share your blood or genetics. Loving someone is also a task in itself because accepting their true nature is not something we as people are born with or taught. It’s a learning lesson and it’s a struggle.

I hope I have portrayed this as realistic as possible in this novel and I hope I have been successful in portraying Annalynn and her predicament as it was in my minds eye.

In this novel I have used places and names that are completely fictional. If I have changed or altered any events, it was to give the novel a more life-like feel, for the enjoyment of written word only, not to cause harm in any way. This novel is a complete work of fiction.

There may be language and scenes that may be repulsive to some. While I don’t particularly use the language myself, it is how I have observed people talking regularly, and I would not be true to my characters, life, or myself if I edited every nuance. On the upside, it makes for an amusing, simplistically entertaining story.

Thank you and I hope that you get as much enjoyment out of reading it, as I have out of writing it.

K. M.

P.S Included with this story is the Preview of Hail Mary Pass, the fourth and last installment in the Charge that to the Game Series. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1

The Beginning -April 13th 2010

It was a Tuesday afternoon. The rain was coming down hard on the roof; the pitter patter of the stray droplets off the gutter was hypnotizing.

I was home today with an excessive migraine that always plagued me during my time of the month. The drapes were pulled tightly closed shutting out any light, gray or otherwise.

My eyes remained closed, despite the pounding of my brain making the lids shiver. I wanted to just fall into a coma, the swelling of my membranes making it impossible to sleep.

I had taken an Aleve a few hours ago, believing by now the pain would be gone, but it persisted, the medicine unable to conquer the pulse of it. It’s like this pain had a mind of its own, pulsating with life inside my skull. It moved to different locations of my head; first at my temple, ending at the back of my neck in a steady beat like the rain outside.

I had missed my classes this morning, too afraid to drive, too panicked to step outside the shell of my room. I felt like a turtle afraid to leave the hard surface encased around me, the warmth of my cocoon beckoning me to stay.

Father was outside digging in his garden. Rain or shine he rose at the crack of dawn every spring; planting lilies, hydrangeas, honey suckle and ferns. He always re-laid the stone walkway, polishing the surfaces with gloss. The mulch was replenished, the weeds cut down to nothing. Freshly rich brown soil was laid between stone and grass, making a picturesque walk filled with the smell and look of earth.

Our garden was always the talk of the neighborhood. My father’s expertise summoned every spring.

Patty Selbin could be heard pitter pattering in her five inch heels and tight denim pants up our cobblestone driveway the first of April to sequester my father’s services. Mother didn’t like Patty; she knew Patty had other motives as well as services she wanted of my father.

Mrs. Everdine, a nice old southern lady on the right of us always baked apple, pecan and cherry pie for my fathers work. We never griped about her, she was so nice and pleasant and couldn’t do the work like she used to.

Mr. Caldoon down the street to the left of Patty only asked questions, never wanted any help. Father tried so much to be a friend to Mr. Caldoon, but nothing blossomed between them but tips on Miracle grow, watering and root care.

You would think my father was a Gardner with all the work he did for the neighborhood, but sadly he was just the branch manager for PNC Bank on Wisconsin Avenue and M Street, in Georgetown Washington DC.

It’s not that father didn’t love his job, but gardening was his absolute passion. It was a therapeutic outlet for father. He took up the hobby twenty six years ago, when my oldest brother died of asphyxiation in his crib at six months.

Father never cried, or talked about my oldest brother, ever. Instead he planted his garden throughout the backyard and around an old Weeping Willow the very next day, and has been gardening ever since.

When I was little, father used to take me by that big old willow and perch me on the swing he hung just for me, and sing me a song.

Come with me and dance with me

Underneath the willow tree

Let us live as free as we

Can only dream to be

Come with me and play with me

Around that lovely willow tree

Let us run and sing and be as free

As we dream to be

Come with me and hide with me

Underneath the willow tree

Reality won’t be as mean

As it seems to be

Come with me and mourn with me

Underneath the willow tree

I lost my love so dear to me

As only life will let it be

Come with me and lay with me

In the earth of the willow tree

Its time to lie and be at peace

As our spirits lie beneath the tree

As it was meant to be

I recited the song to myself as if it was on my Ipod on replay; the melody tantalizingly soothing. As I drifted with the notes I felt my brain ease a little, the melody hypnotizing. I drifted throughout the day, the Aleve finally kicking in, the migraine subsiding to a minimal throb.

At six I got up to see about dinner. Mother would be tired, her Rheumatoid Arthritis taking a vigorous toll on her body. She may even be as comatose as I had been earlier.

Diagnosed at the age of thirty-two, her days seemed to be filled with endless medications and constant pain.

There hasn’t been a time I can remember where she wasn’t sick or in pain. As she grew older, her body seemed to take on the shape of a penguin, her back arched, knees bent, and her hands flopped over at the wrists angled towards the floor. Father had to be my rock, since mother couldn’t tend to me the way she used to; her body no longer allowing her to hold or caress me.

I remember the days when she used to cry, her eyes begging me to understand how much she longed to touch me, to place her hand on my face to feel its texture, to smooth her fingers through my hair to braid it.

She couldn’t help me with prom, couldn’t even hold a camera to take a picture. Mother couldn’t even dress herself, the task daunting as her fingers barely moved anymore.

Her arms were frail but littered with little lumps from the nodules underneath her skin. She barely talked or went out into the sun due to the inflammation of her glands in eyes and mouth.

Most often she ate through a straw and even when that became too much, was given an IV drip to keep her fluids up. Father or I applied her eye drops thrice a day to ease the dryness in her eyes.

As I opened the fridge taking out a pack of chicken cutlets, I thought of how important my father has been for both of us. He has attended every ballet recital, spelling bee, soccer event, tennis tournament, acceptance speech, graduation…any monumental element in my life, since mother could not.

And on top of all the excruciating childhood memorials, he still made time to work sixty hours a week, and attend every wellness care, chiropractic and therapeutic doctors visit with mother.

He still made time to help with her daily routine. When the part time nurse we hired needed to leave early or take an extra day off, father would be there to take over. He never let me miss a class, seeing my friends, or school event to care for mother.

It was the guilt that kept me home instead of going to UCLA in California like I wanted. It was the thought of not giving back to the people who cared for me so deeply that kept me home, attending the local Georgetown University so that I could help.

I got a part time job at Stella’s boutique between Wisconsin Ave and M Street, father’s position in the bank being influential in getting the job.

I was able to have lunch with him sometimes since our jobs were so close, attend my classes, complete the household chores, hang out, work, and be there for my parents. It’s the least I could do, since father gave his life basically, for my mother and me.

It was because of this dedication to our life and family, that when the pounding on the door interrupted my meal preparation, when the police stormed in with big bold letters SWAT on their back, helmets on their heads, guns in their arms pointing here, there, everywhere, that the reality of who and what my father really was didn’t seem plausible.

I denied everything they said. All the accusations were wrong. My father was a sweet, humble, hard working, brilliant, loving husband and father. My father was not a rapist, neither was he a narcissist. He definitely wasn’t a killer, their killer…The Potomac Creek Killer.

Chapter 2

My ears were ringing. The malicious migraine was back, my temples felt swollen and they pulsed with desperation. The lead detective…Harsen I think his name was…was talking to me through a haze of pain, disbelief and terror.

I was standing in the foyer, knife in hand frozen at my side, as my father was led past me through the front door in handcuffs. It didn’t register to me, when an officer covered in black took the knife from my hand and led me into the living room shoving me down into our overstuffed armchair.

As the reality hit me in a torrent of waves like a rip tide, I began to filter in some of the words Detective Harsen was saying.

Mrs. McKae…Mrs. McKae can you hear me? Are you following me Mrs. McKae? He was repeating the mantra over and over again. Distantly I felt annoyed, my eyes falling on his face as the pain behind them scorched my insides.

Ms… I am Ms. McKae, I’m the daughter. I said weakly. Could you stop shouting please? My head hurts. As if on cue a sharp stab of pain splintered behind my eyes and I keened a little resting my face in my hands.

The Detective was there leaning into me his big hands resting on my forearms.

Are you ok? He asked quietly, his whisper barely audible over my screaming membranes.

No! I replied as a sob escaped. I get migraines…I had one all day…and now this…I don’t know…what is…what is going on…what’s happening? What did my father do?

Closing my eyes helped a fraction, so I dared not look at the Detective as he spoke.

Your father is a prime suspect in the Potomac Creek killings dating back to 1983. We have evidence of his involvement with over thirty victims and…

Wait…Wait... I interrupted stealing a peek at him through slit eyes.

Yes?

Potomac Creek…?

You are not aware of the murders? It’s nationwide knowledge…no matter. The Potomac Creek Killer was given the name by the media over twenty years ago because the killer took his victims from and left their bodies at either the Potomac River or Rock Creek Park. At first they didn’t connect the two places, until the similarities in… lets say how they killed and buried were examined and determined to be a match. DNA was taken from all victims found…and until recently we didn’t have a match.

And you think my father is this supposed killer?

You can say think…I say we know. But we still have to try him as that is the law.

How?

He raped, stabbed then strangled his victi…

No I mean, how could that be true? My father barely has time to eat or sleep. He works all day, raised me practically by his self, and takes care of my sick mother…where can you tell me did he have time to rape, strangle or stab…or whatever to anyone when he was home or at work?

I can’t give you the answer to that. I wish I could, but I can’t. All I can tell you Ms. McKae is that your father is the Potomac Creek Killer and it took us twenty six years to find him…twenty six years.

I was standing in my parent’s room watching mother sleep. Her chest rose and fell in time with the oxygen machine at her bedside; the slow rhythmic sound was a direct contrast to what I was feeling. As she lay in peace, oblivious to the goings on in and outside our house, my skull and mind were in turmoil.

How do I explain to the woman who gave me life, cared for me as much as she could, loved my father with her whole heart, that her husband was a murderer?

How do I wake her up from a peaceful painless sleep to find her house filled with officers picking apart our humble home for clues or insight into a man they deemed a killer?

How do I explain to her