Relative Evil

By Debra Erfert

Inspired by her father's pretty, very unexpected new wife, romance novelist Claire Abney allows her over-active imagination to run wild and pens her first mystery thriller about a nearly unheard-of mental illness: Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. An insidious sickness Claire modeled after her stepmother. However, as her father suffers multiple freak accidents, she wonders exactly where the prose ends, and reality begins.

 

Claire keeps her family from discovering she wrote the unflattering story by using a masculine pen name and her handsome editor, her shill for photo ops and book signings. But her father's unexpected death, and bungled attempts on her own life, force her to admit the strategy may have backfired. Now, with the help of her brother and Max, her dreamy front man, she must separate truth from fiction before life imitating art becomes deadly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Debra Erfert
• Release date: Dec 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999046036

Book preview

Chapter

One

Late February

Phoenix, Arizona

It stood motionless, less than ten feet away from Ryan. The sallow, blotchy skin barely hung on its bones. The not-quite-human’s lips were gone, eaten away by the fleas that had given it the virus. Now, only broken teeth, dripping with blood, glistened in the hot sunlight, and forced an aberrant smile onto its face, like a gruesome Halloween Jack-o-lantern. The tiny bugs still feasted on what was left of its healthy membrane.

It stared at him through clouded blue eyes, the whites jaundiced with disease. Ryan wanted to run away from it. He knew he had time, but watching it kept him riveted to where he thought was his hiding place behind a forgotten industrial garbage bin. He shivered as gooseflesh coursed over his sweaty skin. This one appeared cognitive, unlike some of the other altered creatures. When it lifted its boney left hand, something shiny caught the sun, refracting the light into minuscule rainbows onto the broken window by its fetid arm. A diamond. Her wedding ring—their wedding ring.

"No, no, no! This is so stupid," I said out loud, and I began tapping the delete key with more force than necessary to get rid of the ridiculously idiotic paragraphs I’d written. I didn’t bother highlighting and deleting it. I needed to hit something, and my keyboard was obligingly convenient. I glanced at Paddles, my three-year-old polydactyl cat, who trilled at the noise my excessive pounding produced. We’d been together since I graduated college.

Who am I trying to kid? I don’t know anything about writing a gritty crime novel. Why can’t I just be happy writing romance? Or living my own romance? I asked him. Maybe then I would stop trying to write in a genre I know nothing about.

He didn’t answer me in words, of course. But I interpreted his pointy ears rotating backwards and the way he half-closed his eyes as his way of saying, "You should be happy, Claire Abney, my pet."

Switching hands, I continued hitting the delete button, maybe not with as much enthusiasm. My publisher liked my first two books, but this? She probably won’t take a second look at this drivel. I looked back at Paddles. Would she? I sighed. What was I thinking? Moonwriting Publishing doesn’t even accept horror.

My cell phone rang, and it gave me a temporary excuse to stop beating up the keyboard. My fingers were starting to hurt, anyway. When I saw Dad’s picture on the screen, I glanced at my watch. Two in the afternoon was a strange time for him to call. Being a CPA, he should be totally submerged in someone’s taxes. I opened my phone, connecting our call. Hi, Dad. What’s up?

Hey, baby girl. You busy tonight?

I stared at the cluttered breakfast bar, and then took in the rest of the messy kitchen, including the dinner dishes stacked on the counter from last night. After one last tap of the delete key, I shook my head at Paddles and said, No, I’m free. Did you want me to come over and whip up my special clam chowder? I closed the computer’s lid, putting it to sleep. I could stop by the store on my way and pick up fresh rolls.

No, I’d like to take you out to dinner tonight—you and your brothers. Let’s say—Postino Central at seven?

I could’ve been wrong, but he sounded excited. So very little excited him since Mom died ten months ago. But I’d need to see his face before I knew for sure. I’ll be there.

After I hung up, I lost track of time reading and arrived late. I expected to see Dad, of course, but what I didn’t anticipate was my oldest brother Neil bringing a date. The new woman was a pretty blonde, and looked to be close to Neil’s age—twenty-nine, maybe. She squinted up at me with hazel eyes as I came around the table like she had a dirty, dark secret. A sudden shiver coursed its way through my body. Jarrod, my younger brother by two years, stood up, reaching for me. The tremor quickly passed before he touched me, though.

Are you okay, Clarrie? he whispered as I sat down in the chair next to him.

I nodded, feeling embarrassed. Everyone stared, like they were waiting for another seizure-like episode; even my older brother, Grant, watched with that ever-present scowl on his face. Emma, his sweet wife, who was sitting between him and Jarrod, was busy lifting a glass of water to me. Drinking got rid of the dry mouth that developed after the odd look Neil’s new girlfriend had given me. That was when I noticed that she was holding my dad’s hand, and not Neil’s.

The next swallow of water didn’t exactly go down the right way, and I choked. My coughing elicited a smirk from the blonde. Dad didn’t notice the strange look she’d given me. It seemed nobody else had either. I continued to cough, as Jarrod patted my back until my gasping became only rasping.

Claire? I looked up at my dad through watery vision, but I managed to tack on a smile, although I didn’t dare try to speak. You haven’t met Addie yet. A sickening, burning sensation churned inside my stomach at the way he gazed at his new friend with startlingly hungry eyes.

Crazy is a relative term in my family. That quote was taped up on the wall next to my breakfast bar. Other quotes were up on the wall as well—mostly inspirational ones about writing—but after today I’d concentrate on finding new ones about dysfunctional families. Dad’s new girlfriend was much too young for him to be dating.

My heart thumped erratically when Dad looked at me before letting his his gaze fall on each of my brothers. He spoke each of their names tenderly before he said, I called you together to let you meet Adelaide Walker Harris. . . Abney.

I gasped in a ragged breath, and asked. You’re married?

His smile widened. We eloped to Las Vegas yesterday.

Anger swelled in my chest when I saw the ring on her left hand. Dad wasn’t a rich man, yet the diamond in the center of the thick gold band had to be two karats. He’d spent a fortune on her. I was pretty sure he continued to talk after announcing their elopement, but all I could do was clench my teeth and breathe.

How dare he? Mom died less than a year ago. How could he forget her that quickly and run away with a woman young enough to be my sister? She was only a child. No matter how cliché it sounded, he was a— a cradle robber.

Hello, Claire. It’s good to finally meet you, Adelaide said. Your father has told me so much about you. She had her head tilted down slightly so she looked up at me as though she were bashful. The smirk she had worn was now the demure smile of a shy new girlfriend meeting her beau’s family for the first time. The subtle change in her countenance was barely noticeable. Had I imagined her attitude toward me in that first instance? I looked at my dad, but he kept his attentive eyes on Adelaide.

It was crazy. How could he have kept his wedding a secret? Why wasn’t I invited? Why weren’t we told he had a girlfriend, or even a single date? Things didn’t make sense. Why would Adelaide want our dad? While she was a very pretty, blue-eyed blonde, he looked like a graying bloodhound without the long ears—adorable but hardly head-turningly attractive. Although he had a good business, he wasn’t a rich man, even by the government’s definition. By all exterior evidence, she wasn’t looking for a wealthy husband.

Could it really be. . . love?

Adelaide kept glancing down at her ring, as if she couldn’t believe she was married. She couldn’t believe it? I was astonished. I wanted to shake Adelaide’s hand and accidentally-on-purpose rub the ring against a crystal glass to see if the stone left a scratch on it. If the diamond was really a fake, then my dad hadn’t completely lost his mind.

Adelaide never stopped smiling, not even when she caught Jarrod staring at her with a distinct frown on his lips. He might’ve been even angrier than me. Or maybe his emotions leaned more toward distrust.

Grant looked confused, while Emma only sweetly smiled. I looked at Neil. His grinning face hadn’t faltered since the announcement. He looked genuinely happy when all I wanted to do was scream at everyone what a stupid idea they had had, and that it wasn’t too late for an annulment.

Congratulations, I said weakly. That was a step in the right direction, even if I didn’t feel it in my heart. What more could I do?

Three months later

Early May

Phoenix, Arizona

The emergency room’s hallway was crowded. I looked around at all the sad people waiting for someone they loved being treated, until I saw Neil leaning his shoulder against a wall. He’d sent me a text that Dad had taken a fall at home and to meet at the hospital. I had saved the client’s manuscript I was editing on my laptop and hurried out the door. Taking the time to change out of my pajama bottoms and holey t-shirt, or even run a brush over my teeth, didn’t seem that important.

What happened? I asked, after stopping next to my brother.

Neil gazed at my feet. It was then I realized I still had on slippers. Were you in bed, Claire?

A nurse walked by. Her work scrubs looked very similar to my pajamas. With my being a freelance editor, working at home didn’t require business clothes—neither did being a struggling author. I practically never wore a dress, and I didn’t own a suit. Jeans and t-shirts were my standard wear. If I wanted to feel dressy, I’d ditch the t-shirt for a silky button-down. Instant glamour. Just tell me about Dad.

Neil scratched something dried off the front of my t-shirt. I swatted his hand away.

He slipped in the kitchen and broke his right arm.

You’re kidding? He barely got the cast off his leg.

Yeah, what rotten timing. He poked his finger through a hole in my sleeve.

Stop that! I slapped at his arm and stepped back away from him, ripping my sleeve. Neil!

He chuckled.

What did he slip on this time? I was having a hard time envisioning Dad’s condition.

Addie was washing the floor, and she didn’t see him come in.

He slipped on a wet floor? I blinked several times, trying to erase that improbable image from my mind. Why would he slip on a wet floor, cast or no cast? Dad skis better than me.

Neil grinned. Could be because Addie was on her hands and knees scrubbing and he was paying more attention to her shapely derrière than where he was walking. Don’t worry. She’ll take care of him, just like the last time.

Yeah. . . I stared at the closed door, remembering how my stepmother fussed over Dad’s every need and want. She had even taped his get-well cards up on the wall, and had all his visitors sign a whiteboard near the front door before they left. She practically glowed at their compliments about the wonderful job she did taking care of him.

I just realized what my brother had said. Since when are you on a nickname basis with Adelaide?

Since when are you against getting along with family?

I’d wanted to yell ‘I don’t get along with her’ three months ago when we were surprised about our unexpected new member. But I stayed quiet, even now. Neil seemed to be the only one able to accept Adelaide at face value. My suspicions grew at her motives for marrying someone so much older. Jarrod refused to talk about their marriage—period. If she didn’t marry our dad for money, then why?

A disturbing notion kept coming back into my thoughts about how much Adelaide seemed to like taking care of our dad. She enjoyed getting him his dinner and waiting on his every need. It could be seen as love; after all, they were newlyweds. And I’d understand that kind of attention if Dad looked like the hunky firefighters gracing the calendar Neil had given me as a joke Christmas present last year. I loved my dad, but I just couldn’t understand why someone as pretty and young as Adelaide would be initially attracted to him without his having a bag of glittering diamonds hanging around his neck.

The ER exam cubicle door opened, and a nurse came out. Neil caught the door before it could close. I peeked around his arm.

Come in, Adelaide said, motioning toward us with a flick of her hand. Her highly polished fingernails shone off the overhead lights.

Neil stepped back and let me go in first. Our dad lay on a narrow bed and was almost as white as the sheets underneath his body. My heart picked up pace. He’d lost weight.

Dad— I rushed to his side when he raised his hand, the one that wasn’t in a cast and strapped down to his ribs. I grasped his cool hand tightly to my chest. Oh, Dad, are you alright? What can I do for you?

I’m fine, sweet Claire, Dad said.

His voice sounded weak. It scared me more than seeing him after he’d broken his leg six weeks ago.

Glen will be fine, Adelaide said, pushing in between us and taking his hand away from me. I’ll take good care of him.

It took every ounce of self-control not to push Adelaide right back. How dare she? I moved away, watching her tenderly stroke Dad’s forehead like she was in love and he was the center of her universe.

Was he? Did she love him? A shiver crossed between my shoulder blades. Why couldn’t I just accept their situation? As much as I wanted to see him happy, there was just something wrong with picturing him being in so much pain and knowing both times it had something to do with Adelaide being careless.

Could that be the reason? Adelaide enjoyed taking care of my dad? Even though I didn’t necessarily believe it to be true after Dad broke his leg, this latest accident gave me the idea for a new book, one where the stepmother had a unique sickness that caused an insatiable desire to be needed and praised for her self-sacrifice.

I saw a movie once that touched on a curious mental illness like that, and that tiny germ of an idea began to grow. An excitement tickled its way up into my chest. I needed to go home and write down my ideas before they faded.

Dad, if you need anything, just call me. I smiled at Adelaide. Anytime. I’ll be at home—writing.

After stopping by the Circle K to buy a Thirstbuster and a big bag of Animal Crackers, I headed for my apartment. First thing I did was an internet search on an obscure mental illness I wasn’t even sure how to spell—until the spell check program helped find it for me: Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy.

The controversial term described a behavior pattern in which a caregiver deliberately exaggerated, fabricated, and even induced physical, psychological, behavioral, and/or mental health problems to those in their care. It made the caregiver look like a selfless hero.

I smiled at the computer screen as my mind started filling in the characters to my new story. The first face that popped into my mind was the pretty, young Adelaide Walker Abney. Every story needed a good villain.

Chapter

Two

3½ months later

End of August

Salt Lake City, Utah

Maximilian Chase took the photograph out from the carved glass frame. It’d had a prominent place on his desk at Moonwriting Publishing since it was taken. The picture was the one from the ski trip to Flagstaff six months ago—his and Meredith’s planned vacation.

He’d reserved two suites next to each other, and had rented skies and snowmobiles. He’d thoroughly enjoyed those five days in the mountains with her. They’d known each other for nearly a year.

Then, last night, on their usual dinner out, Meredith had told him she wanted to break up. Just like that. No preamble, no stuttering or having a hard time finding the right words. She didn’t even look emotionally wrought over telling him something that caught him completely by surprise.

What cracked the foundation of his male ego more than her dumping him in the middle of his favorite restaurant was the reason for her sudden, if not dramatic, break-up. She thought he was boring. Boring.

Truth be told, Max might’ve taken his relationship with Meredith a little for granted. He never had to work for a date—she was always available. Maybe he should’ve given her flowers.

He sent the photograph through the shredder, grinding that once favorite memory into confetti. He turned his back on the growling machine as it chewed. He might not be the most romantic man in Utah, but he was not boring. His job as assistant editor of a mid-sized publishing house kept him very busy.

Max touched the calendar icon on his computer and pulled up his planner. Five to six-thirty, Monday through Friday, he had blocked out for running and getting ready for work. By seven, he was in his office chair, reading exciting manuscripts. Lunch was from noon to one.

His schedule said he got off at five, but Max usually stayed well past that when he got lost reading an adventure. Then he’d get home just in time to get ready for a date with Meredith, usually dinner. Every day was filled with something . . . predictable.

Groaning, he leaned back in his chair. His girlfriend—correction, his ex-girlfriend—just might’ve been right. Since being hired at the publisher, he’d structured his life around his job. He had needed that structure to get out of the copy editor’s office to where he was now, sitting in his own private office. But at thirty years old, Max shouldn’t be dug so deeply into a rut that he couldn’t just step out of it. He could make that change—if he could only figure out how.

Two soft taps came at his closed door. It opened before he could say anything. Only one person did that.

Are you busy?

Elaina Pinkston, his boss, grinned at him. She owned Moonwriting Publishing and still acted as submissions editor when she didn’t go to writers’ conferences, give keynote speeches, and meet with aspiring authors.

Not busy enough, Max said as he stood up. Please come in.

All five-foot-nothing of the petite Elaina Pinkston, fashionably dressed in a matching charcoal gray skirt with fitted jacket and color-coordinated sky-high heels, came into his office. Her red-coated lips carried a distinct smile on them as she walked over to the coffee maker sitting on the sideboard.

Max didn’t drink coffee, but he knew his boss did, and he kept it ready for her. A slight pang of guilt hit him. She had enough coffee in her own office to hyper-stimulate a small western town; she certainly didn’t need him to feed her habit.

Elaina poured some hot coffee into an artisan-crafted mug. You remember Claire Abney?

That name made Max’s pulse skip a beat. He remembered her. He’d done both of her edits, and was struck at the lack of necessary editing he needed to do. She was a perfectionist, and she was beautiful, with her long, dark red hair curling around her shoulders, her pale blue eyes, and freckled skin set on a perfectly heart-shaped face. Her stories were witty and well crafted. While they might not be bestsellers, they most certainly were entertaining.

Max cleared his throat, sitting down again. I think I do, yes. Have you received another submission from her you don’t need me to edit?

Elaina laughed, turning toward him with her mug in hand and nodding. I just sent her a contract for a new book she submitted yesterday. Check your email. I forwarded it to you.

Max clicked on his email possibly a touch too quickly—he heard Elaina laughing again. The subject line had Claire Abney’s name. He clicked it open.

Hmmm, interesting working title, he murmured.

Relative Evil, Elaina said, sitting in the chair across from Max’s desk. It fits the story very well, so I don’t want it changed.

He bobbed