The In-Between Years: The MisFit, #3

By AB Plum

Expect a twist at the end of this chilling psychological thriller. You won't see the ones coming in the beginning and the middle.

In exchange for saving you from kidnappers and probably death, what if your father grooms you to become a murderer?

What if he promises to make the risks you'll take worth a small fortune?

How long would you hesitate?

Already a killer, thirteen-year-old Michael Romanov jumps at the opportunity to please his father. Attaining financial independence while indulging in deliberate depravity is an unexpected bonus.

This dark story paints a corrupt man's twisted demands from a son obsessed with gaining a father's love and respect.

***

Read all of the books in The MisFit series:

The Early Years
The Lost Days
The In-Between Years
The Reckless Year
The Dispensable Wife
The Broken-Hearted Many
The Whole Truth

• Language: English
• Publisher: AB Plum
• Release date: Sep 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386218623

Book preview

The In-Between Years

The MisFit Series, Book 3

By AB Plum

Table of Contents

Title Page

About the Book

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Acknowledgements

A Word from AB

Exclusive Content for The MisFit Series

The MisFit Series

About the Author

About the Book

Unexpected consequences following the perfect murder …

A dangerous, potentially lethal plan offers eleven-year-old Michael a way to repay the ransom extorted by his kidnappers. One misstep will cancel the debt permanently.

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 PlumBooks

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, redistributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, print, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Author.

No one is sympathetic to the mother of a psychopath.

~John Edens, clinical psychologist, Texas A & M University

Chapter 1

Paying Attention to Marching Orders

Copenhagen—August 1, 1976—Three Days After Kidnapping to Finland

You are not to leave the house, my father ordered in a voice that warned against argument. Backlit by summer sunshine, he stood in the dining room doorway dressed in a stark black suit.

His presence dominated the room where Dimitri and I sat at the table I thought three days earlier we might never see again. I squinted against the morning brightness. Several snapshots popped of Dimitri and me trekking through the Finnish backwoods.

Eyes bloodshot, face haggard, my father turned to Emma, our housekeeper. If they are stupid enough to leave, lock the door. Do not allow them back inside. Am I clear?

Yessir. Emma nodded and hovered over serving Dimitri and me oatmeal laced with dried apricots and thick cream. Sweetened with brown sugar, this treat was my favorite food. A fact Emma knew well after nearly a year of cleaning and cooking for us. Had she missed us the three days we went missing?

Our flight to Buenos Aires leaves at one o’clock. The limo arrives here at ten. I’ll return at nine. Be ready. My father’s words erupted hard and fast.

The growly staccato rhythm hurt my ears, but I fought the urge to cover my ears.

Do I need to remind you of Tivoli?

No. My fingers tightened around my spoon. What was his message? That the Finns who had snatched us from Tivoli still posed a danger? What about the fortune he’d paid for our return? Did the money explain why he bristled with such anger?

Across from me, Dimitri swallowed and made a production of patting the white linen napkin against his lips. The bruises inflicted by our three kidnappers purpled the right side of his face. Swollen skin stretched across his Slavic cheeks. His right eye remained half-closed. My father glared at him, compressed his lips, and then pivoted into the hallway.

Emma, Dimitri, and I held our breath until the front door slammed. We exhaled in unison. She sniffled and dabbed her eyes with the corner of her starched white apron. Dimitri, shall I get you more ice?

"Tak, Emma. He took the ice pack from his lap and held it against his cheek. I’m fine."

I’m going to miss you boys so much. Emma’s fingers brushed my shoulder, jerking back as if burned from the contact. Are you ready for the kringle I made this morning? It will be your last Danish food for months. Your father says you won’t return until December or January.

Tears softened her voice. Would she miss Dimitri and me? Or would she miss the expensive sweets we lavished on her to ensure her loyalty? Did she have no suspicions we sneaked out every night while she watched TV?

Of course, I knew the answer. Manipulating her, though, cost me nothing. I smiled. I’d like a glass of milk with my kringle. I added please. That single word encouraged her view I was a sweet, polite, normal, twelve-year-old boy.

While Emma worked in the kitchen, I whispered to Dimitri what we had to do before we left for the airport. A letter to Simon Lund, day-to-day manager of our small porn enterprise would ensure its continued well-oiled operation during our absence.

Dimitri snorted. A letter? Reading’s not Simon’s strong suit. And … anything in writing can come back on us.

Thank you for pointing out the obvious. I slammed back into my chair. Acid burned my gut. Bitter recollections spewed into my veins. Arguments. Facedowns. Veiled threats. Insults hurled at each other during our kidnapping.

Dimitri smirked. Glad to be of help.

Tell me your superior idea. My clipped tone reminded him I was the brains. He was the brawn.

You’re counting on Emma’s help? he countered. Emma the twit?

We’ll make helping us worth her risk.

The Finns nicked my money.

I thought you kept a stash here at home.

Some unexpected expenses came up.

What kind of expenses? The question flickered in my mind, but I let it go. We wanted Emma’s help. We didn’t have time to spar.

Fine. I’ll pay Emma. You’ll pay me back in Argentina.

Deal. Let’s forget a letter. Spell out for Emma exactly what to tell Simon. Something cryptic she won’t understand, but something he will.

My fingers buzzed with annoyance. I wanted to throw my empty oatmeal bowl in his face. His suggestion was perfect. Why had I overlooked the obvious? I snapped, What does that cryptic message sound like?

You’ll come up with something.

My chest swelled. So he hasn’t forgotten all his limitations.

Emma returned with the buttery kringle, but refused my invitation to sit at the table. What if my father returned? He’d be furious. Perhaps fire her. Refuse to give her references. Taking the chance at her age … She nattered on. And on. And on.

Repressing a sigh, I got up and pulled out the chair where she sat when my father went away on business.

We’ll hear if he returns early. If he fires you, I’ll refuse to go to Argentina. I’ll stay here with you. He’ll have to pay you to take care of me along with the house.

I didn’t tell her he’d threatened to turn me out on the street if I remained in Denmark. My porn earnings were more than pocket money, but they wouldn’t pay for tuition at Krebs’ Skole or for the biology tutor prepping me for medical school. What a father.

Looking over her shoulder, she clasped her hands between her breasts and perched on the edge of the chair. A muscle spasmed around her mouth. She gnawed her bottom lip, laid her hands on the table and stared at them as if expecting them to spout words of wisdom.

Of course, she didn’t meet my gaze. She’d made that mistake once. Had Dimitri and I not plied her with candy and gifts and had her housekeeping duties proved difficult, I think she would have left long ago. Instead, she stayed and peered always to the right of my left shoulder whenever she spoke to me. Likewise, she avoided all physical contact—flinching if either of us accidentally brushed against the other. Emma never forgot her lower-class Danish upbringing.

I took my seat again and patted her folded hands. Quivers jumped under her skin like fleas. From extensive reading about the brain, I suspected an involuntary tremor.

Another pat increased the tremor’s intensity. A smile pulled at the corners of my mouth. Careful. Careful. She’s not a complete fool. I tightened my facial muscles. My bland face, practiced every day in front of a mirror, should reduce the chances of raising her suspicions.

Time to test her loyalty.

Now, Emma. I spoke in a sweet, warm, voice, letting it glide over the three syllables like hot chocolate over ice cream. I need your help.

Chapter 2

Turning the Screw

Beneath my cool palms, sweat slicked the tops of Emma’s hands. Her bottom lip trembled. The boiled-onion stink of her fear hung in the thick, hot air.

My mouth twitched. Outwardly, Emma could pass for a robot. But. I’d learned long ago from paying attention that her emotions often teetered toward full-blown melodrama.

Weak. Weak. Weak. God, people were so predictable.

What do you think I’m going to ask you to do, Emma?

Something … Her swallow—audible and distinct—morphed into a fluttery whisper. Something bad.

Have I ever asked you to do anything bad? I leaned back, frowning at Dimitri—his spoon halfway to his open mouth.

Head lowered, she nodded.

When?

Every night. She pressed her bloodless lips together. When you and Dimitri sneak out of the house, you ask me—implicitly—to pretend you’re in your rooms.

Implicitly? My eyebrows shot up. Damn, she possessed a vocabulary beyond monosyllables.

Dimitri spoke over my silence. That’s an interesting comment, Emma.

No. An interesting observation. She shook her head hard, but not a hair in her faded gray topknot moved. I lie in bed—always terrified— your father will come home unexpectedly. Every night chocolate refluxes in my throat.

So why haven’t you told him? Tattled? Given us up?

She sighed and wrung her hands.

I’d pushed her over the abyss, straight into melodrama. I gentled my voice. Emma?

Her tongue flicked around her lips. She took a breath and blurted, The jewelry. I love pretty, shiny things. Tasteful things. They help me keep your secret.

Jesus. I’d never heard her speak more than two or three words strung together.

I believe we’ve underestimated you, Emma, Dimitri said with something that sounded close to admiration.

Have we, Emma? My tone sharpened.

She raised her head but averted her eyes. Perhaps.

Do you think you can blackmail us for more jewelry?

Her mouth dropped open. She withdrew her hands from mine and clasped them until the knuckles turned white. Blackmail you? Why would I do that?

Well, now that we’re leaving the country, we won’t be here to buy you more gifts.

But you’ll come back …

Dimitri laughed.

Poor Emma. I tapped my finger on my bottom lip. How fortunate she didn’t realize she held a bit of power at that moment. I drummed the table-top. Until we return, we have an offer worth more than all the jewelry we’ve given you.

A muscle jumped under her left eye. Her silence trailed for a fraction of a second. I’m listening.

You’ll have to do more than lie in bed.

Do I have to hurt someone—physically hurt someone?

Dimitri laughed. We don’t know any dwarfs.

She ignored his mild insult to her short stature and again flicked