The Broken-Hearted Many: The MisFit, #6

By AB Plum

The Broken-Hearted Many: A psychological thriller that will keep you turning pages all night with every light in the house blazing. WARNING: You won't guess the twisted conclusion.

A dead man's evil lives on …

After a nasty mother-teenage daughter argument, AnnaSophia Romanov discovers her defiant daughter in bed with a stranger.

Fodder for the sleazeratti. Hell for Alexandra's younger brother and sister. They're still coping with the aftermath of their psychopathic father's brutal, unsolved murder.

Desperate, AnnaSophia calls the last person she should ask for help. The tabloids claim ex-cop Satish Patel abetted her in her husband's murder. He reluctantly agrees to deal with the deviant in Alexandra's bed. But then, AnnaSophia makes a disastrous decision that leads to six murders.

That decision reveals a lifetime of lies, deceits, and secrets which threaten to destroy her entire family.

***

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: Feb 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386370031

Book preview

Table of Contents

The Broken-Hearted Many

About the Book

Note to Readers

Prologue

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

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Exclusive Content for The MisFit Series

The MisFit Series

About the Author

The Broken-Hearted Many

The MisFit Series, Book 6

By AB Plum

About the Book

The teenage daughter of a Silicon Valley legend trolling for older guys?

Perfect fodder for the sleazeratti. Hell for Alexandra Romanov’s younger brother and sister. They’re still trying to cope with their father’s brutal, unsolved murder. AnnaSophia Romanov has managed to keep a lid on the mounting evidence of her psycho husband’s atrocities, but now can no longer deny her daughter’s self-destructive path. Discovering her in bed with an obvious predator leaves AnnaSophia with one choice.

Given the stakes, she calls the last person she should ask for help. The tabloids claim ex-cop Satish Patel abetted her in her husband’s murder. He reluctantly agrees to come to her home and deal with the deviant in Alexandra’s bed.

Cursing his stupidity, Satish arrives, determined to defuse the situation and leave before her charisma sucks out all his brains. Another gin and tonic should drown his certainty AnnaSophia is hiding crucial facts about her husband’s death. Wielding a Glock, she informs him immediately she has everything under control. He refuses to leave.

Then, without consulting him, AnnaSophia makes a disastrous decision that leads to six murders. Further, that decision will force her to reveal the one secret she knows for certain can destroy her and her family.

Note to Readers

FREE Book: From time to time, I offer special content to my newsletter readers. Subscribe here for that content and a FREE copy of The MisFit Series prequel The Boy Nobody Loved. It’s available exclusively on my website.

Dedication

David, your steadfastness is a beacon to me when I go to the dark side.

Acknowledgements

Writing the words on the page gives me the most pleasure about being an author. But. I’d never improve the story or the writing if it weren’t for others in my life.

As always, thanks to my long-time writing pals, EZ Writers. Karen and Dorothea, you inspire me.

Thanks, also, to Marjorie Brody and Linda Madl, two writers who keep me honest, challenge me, and always suggest ways to look at each word from a different perspective.

This book would not exist without the promotional know-how, publishing experience, and endless patience of my VA, Maria Connor. A huge thank-you to her husband for this awesome cover.

Prologue

Monday—9 a.m.—Cielo Vista, California

Jesus Chri— Twenty-eight-year-old Noah Penn stared up at the cloudless blue sky, took a deep breath, looked back down at his palm, and tasted nausea clawing up his throat. He tore off his face mask. Shit, oh shit, oh shiiit. Tom, get over here! I need help, Goddammit.

What? What’s wrong? Slowed by his hazmat suit, Tom was hauling ass as he rounded the other side of the incinerator. You hurt? You’re white as these ashes.

Noah shook his head. The ground tilted under his heavy work boots. A robot, he extended his fisted hand, opened it, and shoved his palm at Tom.

Teeth. His voice rasped. He swiped the sweat dripping off his eyebrows. Human.

Jesus. Tom took a step backwards. How can you tell? One’s only half there.

I don’t give a shit, Noah yelled, his heart pounding. They’re human.

Tom averted his head and gazed out at the unbroken view of the Golden Gate Bridge thirty miles away. Who’s gonna shell out fifty mil for a house with an on-site crematorium?

Chapter 1

ANNASOPHIA

One Month Later—Sunday—Midnight—Los Altos, California

The chimes from the grandfather clock I’ve heard since childhood vibrate in my sleep-deprived brain. Noooo, Alexandra. Not again. You promised.

Refusing to open eyes that feel like fried eggs, I groan and curl cheek and shoulder deeper into the overstuffed chair. The velvet fabric caresses my ear. I sigh. The chimes fade.

My jaw relaxes. Neck muscles let go. My unconscious surfs out on the next killer wave toward sleep. The wave carries me further and further and further away from my bedroom.

A muted tick, tick, tick seeps into the fog. Can’t … My eyelids flutter. No sleep … not ... until …

The five-hundred page, metal-bound, three-ring notebook slips off my lap and slaloms over my silk robe. Fire bites my right foot. My drowsy brain convulses. Wide-awake, I jerk upright, swearing words forbidden to my son and two daughters. I fight tears and bend over my foot.

A scarlet bloom tints the skin around the cuneiform—an anatomical factoid that explodes involuntarily in my physician’s mind. I lurch out of the chair and hop in place for a fraction of a second. Damn. Damn. God—

As treatments for a possible fracture go, hopping sucks.

A bruise, I murmur and limp toward the kitchen for an ice pack—every ER doc’s best friend.

Living at Belle Haven, you had a fridge ten steps away.

A shiver scuds across the back of my neck. My mental video camera clicks on. A phosphorescent imprint of a hilltop villa wavers on my parietal lobe. Between silvery bursts of my dead husband’s architectural folly, a Technicolor close-up of the master bedroom explodes.

Sweat drips off my eyebrows. I swipe my forehead and lock my jaw. Call me crazy, but the small matter of an incinerator in the backyard cancels a fridge in the master bedroom every time. The clamminess on my scalp creeps into my hair as I shuffle down the hall. The damn image glows brighter. I stop and close my eyes. The vision swells. Gross. Hideous. Straight off the set of a horror movie.

Even if the lawyers break the will, how in the name of God will I ever sell the damn monstrosity?

Off-balance, I sway. Needles stab my foot. My eyes snap open. The clock ticks and tocks louder. A collage of another memory—more recent—fast-forwards through the pain.

Midnight. Alexandra’s curfew.

Missed again.

Dammit. I rest against the wall and rip my cell phone from the pocket of my robe. The Cynical Mother inside my head chants what my eyes reinforce.

No message—text or voice.

My first impulse is to kick the nearest wall, but muted voices from Alexandra’s bedroom paralyze me. Heat scalds my ears. God, she came home. Found me snoring like a goat. Went to bed without waking me. Fell asleep watching TV.

And your fairy godmother waved her wand and granted your every fantasy.

Lips pressed together, I grasp the door handle. Breathe. Something toxic slithers silently through my veins. So many arguments lately. Grades. Clothes. Curfews.

The poison implodes inside the craters of my brain and suffocates my lungs and heart. So many acts of defiance. Disrespect. Disgust.

Cynicism pinches the artery that should feed me with love. So little trust. Gentleness. Understanding.

The knot in my stomach coils tighter and squeezes the harness holding back my guilt. Guilt for lying. For hiding so many secrets. For missing Alexandra’s slide toward self-destruction.

I stare at the wall.

Who is the adult? Who the adolescent? Who the manipulator? Who the manipulated?

Does Alexandra ever remember our heads together as we planted roses in her toddler days? We laid dirt-stained fingers on the other’s nose and laughed. Like normal people.

My sweaty fingers slip off the door handle. I slide my hands down my silk robe. The TV volume drops. Tempted to press my ear against the door, I step back and swallow a yelp.

Let it go. Let it go. Don’t wake her. Talk to her tomorrow. The adrenaline slows.

Reason gains traction. Make time just for her. Go horseback riding. Or hiking. Or whatever she wants to do. The two of you. Alone.

Part of me recognizes I’m stalling. Anything to avoid another incendiary situation. Maybe daylight will defuse the still-live hand grenades we lobbed on other nights past curfew.

The dull thud in my foot kicks up a notch. I bite my bottom lip. I won’t die without ice, but my foot will hurt less. My mind will become clearer. I can strive for—

Owww. That hurts. Alexandra’s voice vibrates with pain.

Thought you liked rough.

The male voice bangs my skull. Nicholas?

Instinct kicks in. I slam open the door. It boomerangs off the wall and smacks my hip and throws me back a step. Disbelief splinters my heart.

Seeing is not believing.

In the middle of Alexandra’s bed, a naked, buff, blond male, mid-twenties, kneels behind my oldest daughter in doggy position.

Get off, you bastard. Hands raised to crush his brain, I leap forward. Something sharp and unexpected tears loose in my foot, knocking me sideways.

Alexandra lifts her head and looks over her shoulder. Oops. Fun’s over.

The guy withdraws his penis, grins at me as if we’re stars in a porn film, and opens his arms wide. Hey, Mom. Lexi didn’t tell me we’d have a threesome.

Chapter 2

SATISH

Sunday—12:35 a.m.—Mountain View, California

A blurry phone number flashed on the muted TV in Satish Patel’s bedroom. Muscles around his waist jumped with his cell phone’s rhythmic vibration. His pulse galloped. Two years and the memory of dead-in-the-night calls was fading. Fading, but his body still remembered the adrenaline surges prepping him for another homicide.

He mashed the PAUSE button and glanced at his watch. Sonuva—half past midnight.

A wrong number? He’d given his number to so few people when he resigned from the MVPD ... He knocked back the last drop of his third gin and tonic since dinner. He rolled the slick glass back and forth between his palms. The vibration hummed. Unsteady as an old man—one drink away from being sloshed—he leaned over his knees, lurched to his feet, and glanced at the LED.

Shiiiiit. Gin-flavored acid refluxed into his throat. Remnants of buried memories fragmented in his brain. Don’t answer.

Shaking his head failed to trigger any of the little gray cells he’d anesthetized with booze. Do. Not. Ans—

Jesus, now he was talking to himself. But even in his mildly pickled state, he knew with one hundred percent certainty, he’d never given AnnaSophia Romanov his phone number.

His brain spewed out a dozen questions. He didn’t have answers for a single one. The only way to get answers was to speak into the mouthpiece to the woman some people swore he’d abetted in her husband’s unsolved murder.

In his skull, the spin-cycle whirred. A million splinters of light jittered. He fought to stay rational. Calm. He’d shave his head and enter a monastery in the Himalayas before he answered the damn phone.

A metallic taste in the back of his throat overpowered the gin fumes. He straightened his spine. AnnaSophia would stop calling when monasteries started serving gin at breakfast. He choked the phone.

Slam it against the nearest wall.

Or, inform her she had the wrong number and hang up.

He got as far as saying, Wrong num—

I have a loaded gun pointed right at your balls, she said in the soft, breathy voice he’d never forgotten.

Chapter 3

ANNASOPHIA

Alexandra stands naked on her knees in the middle of the bed, her hands in the air. She screams, Mother, are you crazy?

Crazy. Or caught in a nightmare. Thank God, I snatched the Magnum from my bedroom before the bastard I’ve never seen found his pants.

My hands and knees tremble, but my aim between his legs is steady. Hands higher.

Careful. Her attacker raises his hands higher, meeting my eyes as if he’s a good guy.

Satisfaction stokes my fury into a diamond-hard brightness. I speak into the phone. There’s an intruder in my house. He accosted my teenage daughter. Can I legally shoot him?

Christ, no, Patel yells. Have you called the police?

I called you. The last person on earth I should’ve called—knowing my second biggest secret.

I’ll call them—

No. You come. Hurry. The clinical ER-doc in me muzzles the scared, enabler-mom in me. I speak as coldly as a small-time dictator.

Chapter 4

SATISH

Dammit, AnnaSophia, listen to me. Mind stuttering, Satish braced the phone between his shoulder and ear and slipped his bare feet into the Guccis next to his chair. What the hell’s going on?

Do you know my address?

Give it to me. He clamped his mouth shut. No longer a cop with a reason to know her address, the truth made him look like a damn stalker. He yanked a jacket from his closet, holstered his Glock, repeated, I’m calling the po—

Do. Not. Move. She said something else inaudible. A beat later, she gave him the address he already knew, adding, Don’t waste time calling the police. Just get here.

Are you in danger? He stuffed car keys and wallet into his rear pocket and jogged for the bedroom door.

Her high-pierced laugh rabbit punched his solar plexus. Nothing I can’t handle.

Don’t do anything stupid. Stay on the phone. Talk. He sprinted down the short hall. His stride faltered as he passed the bedroom where his mother slept.

She won’t even know you’re gone.

His rationalization propelled him into the garage, but a part of his mind plunged into quicksand. He and Mère were on a collision course. Sooner or later, the smoldering ashes of their mother-son—Hindi mother-Hindi son—relationship would ignite into flames.

The whine of the garage door refocused him. I’m in the car, AnnaSophia.

There shouldn’t be any traffic. Her voice steadied on this fragile thread of the mundane.

I agree. He backed into the cul-de-sac where the six other houses sat dark and silent. Silent for the next four hours. His next-door neighbor would rise before the sun to beat rush-hour traffic to Intel—less than fifteen miles away in Santa Clara. The other five hotshots would zoom off as the sun rose over Google or LinkedIn or Facebook or the newest tech start-up.

Another part of his mind—the part that didn’t sound like a DMV waiting room—sifted, sorted, selected words and sentences he could use with AnnaSophia in the let’s-not-do-anything-we’ll-regret tone hostage negotiators used under siege.

I’m on my way.

Hurry. Sit down, Alexandra. A new quaver in her voice raised the hairs on his neck, but she spoke in a strong, no-nonsense tone. Come in through the garage.

All right. Is the door up?

I’ll give you the security code. You need a second one for the door into the kitchen. Can you remember them?

His ears burned. Pissed at her implication—stupid since she had no idea how much of his brain he’d pickled the past year—he slid through the stop sign at El Monte and Rose. Give me the codes.

She rattled off a series of numbers just as he made the Mountain View cruiser parked in the shadows.

Sonuva— His breath reeked of gin. Legally drunk, he’d just run a stop sign. And … he was carrying a concealed weapon.

What’s wrong? AnnaSophia demanded.

Nothing. Hold on. I’m laying the phone down for a minute.

What’s wrong? An undercurrent of panic rode the question.

Hold on. He rolled down his window. Idiot. Moron. Fool. A young female cop he didn’t recognize approached. She directed a Maglite an inch over his head so the beam didn’t blind him but let her assess if he was carrying passengers.

Jaw locked, he kept both hands on the steering wheel. How the hell do I play this?

Morning, Mr. Patel. Dark circles under her narrowed blue eyes testified to sleep deprivation—a chronic condition cops shared without exception.

Morning. I have no excuse for running that sign. Except I’ve drunk too much and slept too little and lost my mind.

There’s a refreshing remark. She made no move to take out her ticket book. Ex-cops should know better than to go with the BS.

I’m an ex-cop. Not sure if I know better. But he should’ve known she’d run his plates in the black-and-white and discover his ex status.

Where’s the fire?

Whenever possible, go with the truth. Words from his favorite expert on how to lie to a suspect during interrogation. A friend’s in trouble.

Trouble that requires a cop?

A friend. He met and held her gaze. She was too old to be a rookie so she’d know about Michael Romanov.

Does the friend have a name? Like the Alibi Bar and Lounge?

For what it’s worth, I’m not headed for the Alibi. Several of his former brothers and sisters in blue thought his promotion for handling the Romanov case smelled. Rumors swirled. He’d gotten too close to Mrs. Romanov. Everyone knew she’d killed her super-wealthy husband. Satish had looked the other way.

He didn’t blame his fellow cops. None of them knew Michael Romanov, the psychopath.

And none of them had grieved Satish’s resignation four months after he closed the case without an arrest. Or more important—

The cop at his car window lasered him with the cop-stare—unnerving even though ten years on the Mountain View force had made him immune. I let you go, you’re not gonna make me sorry, are you, Mr. Patel?

Chapter 5

ANNASOPHIA

Waiting for Patel to come back on the phone, I watch Stud Guy and Alexandra exchange smirks and roll their eyes. Their goofy smiles ignite the nerve-endings in my jittery fingers and my cuneiform. They don’t have a clue the gun is empty. I cock my head infinitesimally toward the closed door. What the hell was Patel doing?

Come on, Mom, Stud Guy whines. My arms feel like tree limbs. Tie my hands to the headboard if you want—

What I want is for you to shut up. Please do not let Magnus or Jennifer or Molly hear us talking and come investigate.

Aww, Mom. He flexes his grapefruit-sized pecs, confident I’ll swoon, I assume.

Stop calling me Mom, I yell, locking my jaw a second later. God, what if Magnus appears and bursts into terrified tears? What if Molly flies across the room, teeth bared, and takes a hunk out of Stud Guy’s ass? Would the stones glittering in Alexandra’s right nipple blind the dog first?

That pierced nipple—with no signs of redness from recent mutilation—makes me want to turn away. I wave the gun’s barrel at the ceiling. Pay attention.

Oh, lighten up, Mother. Alexandra lowers her arms half an inch and winks at me with eyelashes so caked with mascara, I’m in awe her eyelids don’t fall off. Maverick’s teasing.

Maverick? I bite my lip. With a name like Maverick, no wonder the guy’s a sexual predator. I move the Magnum’s barrel up and down a couple more times, train the gun again on his horse-sized balls, and look away from Alexandra’s breasts. FYI, Mav, I dislike teasing.

His Adam’s apple convulses. His wide smile wavers and slips off his suntanned face. He makes an O with his thumb and index finger. Got it.

I doubt that, but there’s always hope—even for idiots.

A shadow passes across his gray eyes, and his jaw tightens.

Not the first time he’s been called an idiot. Under other circumstances, I might feel guilty for the insult. Under present circumstances, I congratulate myself on my remarkable restraint. When did my daughter get her body defaced? Where’d she meet this loser?

"FYI, O Brilliant Mother, I invited Maverick into my boudoir." She purses her lips on the first syllable in a show of sophistication that falls so far short I want to cry. Her lipstick is the color of fresh blood.

In the dim bedroom, devoid of the feminine frills and dolls and stuffed animals she once adored, black scarves drape lamps and pillows. Everything goes so still I can hear atoms bump into each other. My heart, a solid boulder, crushes my lungs and cuts off my breath as she turns her head over one shoulder, lifts her chin, and bats her eyelashes at the ceiling. Her long, chestnut hair cascades in waves down her back. Her small, firm breasts and thick pubic hair detract from her made-up eyes and over-painted lips.

Maybe—no, for certain—because I am her mother and love her even in this frozen moment when my mind refuses to accept what my eyes take in—I think this familiar stranger looks young and innocent. So why don’t her pristine, snow-white sheets carry a single drop of blood?

Chapter 6

SATISH

The cop followed Satish for four blocks. Motivation enough he drove like a model citizen. When her cruiser turned onto a side street, he raised his phone’s volume. I’m back.

From where? God, I thought you’d gone back to India. AnnaSophia’s voice rose high and brittle—accusatory, as if he’d reneged on his word or hung up.

He choked the steering wheel and the impulse to remind her he was doing her a favor. Poor timing for snide remarks. Say zip about getting pulled over. The encounter with one of Mountain View’s finest was his own damn fault. Her words stung anyway. About a hundred feet from her driveway, a new, red Audi Spyder convertible gleamed in his headlights.

No driver visible.

Satish cursed. Someone tell him why the three homeowners on this godforsaken lane opted to forgo streetlights. He slowed, tempted to stop. Why did the Audi sit equidistant between AnnaSophia’s sprawling rancher and the one to her right? Why didn’t a car belonging to a neighborhood guest or visitor park directly in front of one of the houses?

Driver’s inside drunk?

Miniature solar lights lined the driveways and threw off a soft glow, but the softness would offer zero discouragement to teenage neckers.

Or to a teenage party animal staying late.

Or to AnnaSophia’s dumb-ass intruder.

What’s taking so long?

Her demand rammed the Audi to the back of his mind. I need the garage code.

She gave it to him in a pissy tone too similar to his mother in one of her moods.

Forget it. He stretched and punched in the numbers.

The garage door slid up with a whoosh and soft thud. A battered white Bronco sat in the middle bay next to a Honda CRV LX. Satish drove the Porsche into the first bay, exhaled gin fumes, but still couldn’t visualize the woman he knew in the pickup. AnnaSophia Romanov belonged in a Benz like a fairy-tale princess belonged in a gold carriage.

The garage door thumped down and jiggled loose a few thinking cells. Fairy-tale princess? How drunk was he? He swore under his breath, opened his door, planted his feet on the cement, and stepped toward the pickup. He laid his hand on the hood. Warm …

I’m inside. Driven as much by old habits as by curiosity, he snapped a quick photo with his phone of the pickup’s front plate. Where do I go once I enter the house?

Stay right. Through the kitchen. Third door on your right. My son and housekeeper are asleep. Anastaysa’s at a sleepover.

The kitchen, bigger than his living room and master bedroom combined, glowed from mini-lights above the gleaming wood cabinets. Nice. Very nice—cozier than the restaurant-sized space at Belle Haven. Rumors her late husband’s assets were tied up in legal wrangling must be crap.

He unholstered the Glock. I’m coming down the hall.

When you’re at the door, knock twice.

Sure. Whatever her reasoning, he wasn’t about to argue. How many people are in the room with you?

Two. My daughter, Alexandra. Her … Maverick. Both are on the bed. Hands up. No need for force or macho reaction.

Whatever macho reaction means. He reached the third door on his right. Knocking twice seemed silly, but he complied with the tip of his Glock and whispered into the phone, Knock, knock.

Come in.

No who’s there? He shook off the brain-blip and shoved the phone in his back pocket. Glock ready, he pushed open the door with his toe. His sense of hearing and seeing and smelling heightened. Neck and leg muscles tensed. He stared. What rabbit hole had he fallen down?

In the middle of a huge bed with tangled sheets and covers, was a young male on his knees, early twenties, and a younger female—sweet, teenage Alexandra—both butt-naked, hands in the air. The salty odor of sweat and other body fluids carried an undernote of fear.

AnnaSophia stood to one side, a Magnum .357 pointed at the male’s impressive chest. Echoes of fast beating hearts and ragged breath intensified the excitement Satish could taste on the tip of his tongue.

AnnaSophia never shifted her gaze from the guy. Maverick, meet Detective Satish Patel.

Chapter 7

ANNASOPHIA

Whatever Patel