Conquering Fear

By Amy Kidd

Anxiety counselor, Nola McGill's becomes a prime suspect when her 23-year-old homebound client dies from a heart attack during an apparent struggle. Enter Detective Luciano Medina who believes in Nola's innocence.

However, bodies keep piling up scared to death by the phobias they work with Nola to overcome. Her connection to the victims and inability to stop meddling lands her dead center in the investigation. Luc's attraction to the nervous counselor drives a desire to keep her safe from arrest, the killer, and herself.

Against Luc's requests to lay low, Nola investigates on her own hoping to find the connection the detectives overlooked. Nola's guilt due to failing her clients is exacerbated by the desirable detective's quiet charm, impulsive flirting, and the inappropriate thoughts that his constant presence brings.

Luc races Nola to find the man who kills with fear before the killer learns of Nola's own dangerous phobia and she becomes yet another victim.

This e-book download includes the first chapter of Luc and Nola's next case.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Kidd
• Release date: Apr 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463725184

Amy Kidd

Amy Kidd is a teacher living in Lake of the Ozarks, Missouri with her four children and spectacular husband.Her life-long desire is to collect every Agatha Christie novel solely from garage sales and used book shops. She needs a few more.Any terrible viewpoints expressed in these stories come from the characters and not the author. Mrs. Kidd wishes for humankind to focus on the ‘kind’ part of our species and acknowledge the ‘human’ part as meaning equal.

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Conquering Fear

By: Amy Kidd

Published by Amy Kidd at Smashwords

Copyright ©2018 All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. 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, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Table of Contents

Conquering Fear

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Conquering Fear

Nola McGill fidgeted in the blue tartan armchair trying to relax, but her skin tingled from the nervous energy in the room. Monica sat on the middle cushion of a large, fluffy couch of matching blue tartan. Her feet, clad in white running shoes, prepared for movement, toes aimed at the staircase. Her shoulders hunched, crowded in to protect her crouching head. 

How was your week, Monica?

The usual wide-eyed surprise flashed onto Monica’s face. She scanned the room for differences which might have happened between this Monday and last.

While giving Monica the requisite three minutes to answer, Nola focused on the dents in the carpet between them. The coffee table sat in a corner between the wall and the mahogany bookshelf. Like everything in this house, Monica moved it to appease her unchecked need to run.

A muted tapping drew Nola’s attention back to her client. Monica’s feet danced in place while her eyes grew wider, which cued the counselor to take over.

Ok, did you open the curtains as I asked?

Monica chanced a glance at the front window. Thick, brown satin curtains flowed from ceiling to floor and emitted no sunlight into the room. She nodded but looked away.

Did you stand in front of the window?

No. She looked at Nola and her eyes filled with tears.

There was someone out there, Monica whined. Her gaze darted toward the window and back to Nola. He wore a blue hoodie. His hands were in his pockets.

The mailman? Nola said but Monica answered with a throaty whine, one step away from a meltdown.

Nola lowered her head to her notebook, hiding her disappointment behind the wall of red hair she kept long for moments like this. After a few seconds, she lifted her head and smiled at her client. Ok, I’m sure he was just passing by. But that’s huge progress, Monica. Huge. I’m so proud of you.

Monica’s smile, tight and short-lived, warmed Nola for a minute before the next words edged the frustration back in.

Think he will break in, Monica whispered, creeping closer to the edge of the couch, the toes of her running shoes ready to carry her to safety. He was looking right at me.

With a flicker of pain contorting her brow, Monica pleaded for reassurance. Her eyes grew into enormous puddles of gray sadness, and the corners of her mouth pulled down the heart-shaped lips into a desperate frown. A look Nola worked hard to condition out of her, but the girl’s strength wasn’t yet there.

Afraid of allowing the fantasy to develop, Nola clicked her pen instead of speaking. The notes she wrote into the black legal pad titled ‘Monica St. James,’ gave her enough time to think of something helpful to say. Manifestation of assailant outside. Focus destroyed. Must find a new way.

How about social media? She blinked away the crease between her eyebrows before lifting her head toward her client again. If she could muster up the strength to push out another smile, maybe Monica will draw in some of her positivity. Have you signed up?

I have. Monica’s spine grew tall. Her head popped out from between her shoulders. Even talked to people. I’m in a chat room with lots of people but  use a few words at a time, so having a real conversation is challenging.

A proud wave of her hand directed Nola toward the laptop centered on the fold out TV tray huddled against the wall connecting the kitchen to the living room.

The blonde wood of the tray screamed for notice among the darker furnishings. Monica blended in with mahogany hair hanging around her neck and black pants and blue plaid long sleeve shirt. Only Nola in her sky-blue cardigan over a colorful dress and the TV tray existed outside of the camouflage.

But you had conversations? Nola asked, feeling awkward glowing so bright in the darkness. She wrote a reminder to ask Monica to sit in the much happier yellow and white kitchen next week. If she brought fancy tea, she was sure she could get Monica to oblige.

Yes, we talked about our fears.

By the time the session ended, one of Monica’s feet nestled under the opposite thigh. Nola wrote it up as progress.

The assignment for the week contains more movement of curtains, Nola said as she put her notebook and pen away, but this time in the kitchen.

Monica tried an unconvincing attempt at a smile.

I am confident there will be no stranger sightings in the backyard, ok? Nola nodded exuding that warranted confidence, Which will lessen the anxious thoughts connected with the curtains.

I will try my best, Nola. Promise.

Progress. Not enough but progress all the same.

Monica remained on the couch as Nola let herself out, but the bolted lock on the metal door clicked before she stepped off the porch. That lock, clicked seven times, was as much a ritual every Monday as the search for something new to start the session. Neither registered for Nola any longer.

In her thin cardigan and sadly optimistic dress, Nola stood between the pillars of the porch. A single golden leaf fluttered around the yard, caught in a vortex of the early fall wind and bounced between the house and the garages of the neighbors on each side. A chill from the wind brushed up her naked legs.

The lack of movement on the street, not a curtain shifting nor a random animal returning home, sent an equal chill up Nola’s spine. The sun moved behind a patch of trees, darkening the street. A siren howled somewhere far off.

The icy fingertips of wind lured goosebumps out on her legs and arms. Nola shook her head and pulled her cardigan tighter around her chest. As she jogged to her little red Grand Am across the street, Nola tossed her head left and right, an unconscious search for the man in the blue hoodie Monica described. Although she knew the hooded man was not real, she worried about Monica. If Monica’s fear of this made-up man progressed, she could have a panic attack, end up back in the hospital, and Nola incapable of bringing her back.

***

Ok, back door unlocked. Looked out back curtains. Nothing there and I’m not shaking. Nola will be happy tmr. Monica typed the room’s slogan, #conqueringfear, into the entry form. With a gush of pride, she hit enter.

@PenelopeTuz: Well done. Uve come along way since WED

@Homebound: I’ve been practicing. I need to get better.

@ChosenOne: We’ll get U there

@Nomorefear: Now, let’s move on. Unlock the front door.

Monica glanced at her metal door. Though pushy, this person talked her through opening the back curtains. She only opened them two inches and then drew them closed again two minutes later. She set her fingers on the keyboard.

@Homebound: What if I get stuck

@Nomorefear: Power is in the practice

@ChosenOne: Don't scare her away again Fear. Slow down.

Though the group terrified her and demanded much from her, more than Nola did, they only had her best interest in mind. They said so after her meltdown on Wednesday.

She tiptoed across the living room, reaching out absently to touch the newel post of the staircase and stood in the center of her front door floor mat. After peeking through the spyglass, she confirmed no one waited outside.

The sun was dipping behind the house across the street, giving the street a purple hue which lit everything with a majestic intensity. She twisted the knob on the top bolt lock until the bar scraped inside. Monica smiled at her shaking hand as she placed it on the switch of the next lock. She peeked through the hole again.

The darkening purple stillness outside contrasted with the lights gleaming white through the neighbors’ windows. She moved to unbolt the next lock, but the cold deadbolt knob did not move. The smile faded as the sun dropped behind the house across the street. The lights from their windows and Monica’s high-powered porch light could not fight against the growing shadows.

She removed her hand.

I can’t, she whispered and engaged the top lock seven times. At the computer, her online friends encouraged her to perform another brave act, but she closed the monitor.

I can’t, she said louder.

In the kitchen, the motion sensor lights illuminated. A high-pitched sound escaped Monica. She covered her mouth with both hands to prevent it from happening again.

Her past suggested she leaned more toward the flight rather than fight response. However, her feet, so often poised for running, did not move.

She strained to hear over the thud-thud-thud of blood rushing through the veins in her temples. A rational person would walk into their kitchen and check. Monica, conquering a two-year history of extreme avoidance, checked probabilities.

She did not own a cat. The realtor assured her no mice existed in the neighborhood. A short in the light or wires in the kitchen may cause a malfunction. The man who installed the lights warned it was possible if there were mice, which is why mouse traps, always empty, littered her cabinets and closets.

After she looked out the back window earlier, unlocked the back door and announced her actions to the chat room, she re-locked the back door. Therefore, Nola’s voice bounced into her head: no one was in the kitchen.

The living room and the front door are secure. However much logic tried to win, her panicked brain screamed suspicions of intruders in the kitchen who cares where they came from.

While she contemplated the possibilities and ignored the frantic howling of the panicked voice, as Nola taught her, the light in the kitchen switched off. She jumped as high as when it flicked on, but she did not make a sound.

Monica pulled her father’s letter opener off the edge of the kitchen counter. The brilliant silver blade twitched in her unstable hand.

I’ve got a knife, she yelled into the terrorizing darkness. I will stab you.

Before moving in, she filled her lungs and counted backward from ten. Nola taught her other coping techniques which slipped from memory.

The tumultuous beat of her heart slowed allowing her to hear the stillness of the dark, but her feet still did not move. The fact her heart was gaining control was proof therapy worked.

Her online friends’ words flooded her mind. Go forward. Look for the explanation. There is nothing to fear but fear itself. Positive he stole that one from somewhere, she found it was the most helpful. In the two years since the assault at the college, with the help of Nola’s weekly visits, she learned the fear of another attack kept her inside. Not the people out there, but her ever-growing belief she cannot protect herself.

Now, staring into the engulfing darkness, strength was building in her heart. She took an uneasy step toward the white wooden arch separating the living room and kitchen. Before she realized her movement, the toe of one shoe touched the smooth white tiles.

Monica’s body froze as she peered into the kitchen. The light from the living room lamps helped Monica see no one lurked in the open of her kitchen. On the white marble tiles of her island, the bowl of apples sat untouched. The matching marble of her countertop remained empty except for the coffeepot. Across the room, the lemon and a lime-shaped salt and pepper shakers stood upright on the square wooden table jammed into the breakfast nook. The windows over the table and their yellow polka-dotted curtains hung undisturbed.

On the left wall of the kitchen, the back door looked locked though she didn’t remember locking it. The basement door in the left corner was closed, though, from this angle, she couldn’t see if she locked it.

Her yellow slickers sat on their rubber mat by the door, also untouched. The yellow and white checked and never worn raincoat hung from the first peg of her wall-mounted coat rack shaped like an upside-down umbrella.

A blue hoodie hung next to the raincoat.

A small screech escaped Monica’s lips. She dropped the letter opener on the tile, cracking one with its solid silver hilt. As she dropped to her knees to retrieve it, her eyes remained seized on the hoodie.

She crawled backward into the living room, running her thigh into the antique chair Nola occupied a week ago. Monica let loose another frightened yelp and slashed the arm of the chair. Fogged by shock, she looked around searching for the intruder.

Her mind screamed inconsistent and overlapping orders telling her to run away, go upstairs, call the police, and lock the basement door. Those last words echoed in her mind as she swore she heard a door close in the kitchen with a soft thud.

Logically, the man had nowhere but the basement to hide. With her eyes locked on the basement door, she scrambled into the kitchen on her hands and knees, triggering the light, and locked the basement door. Monica turned the lock seven times in quick succession and did not notice the bolt which should have scraped into its hole was no longer there. To double-check her safety, she flicked on the cellar light, crouched like a cat waiting out a mouse, and peered under the door.

The blonde wooden stairs appeared empty. For five minutes, Monica huffed in the air in gasping breaths. She realized she couldn’t hear movement over her panting.

With her hand clasped over her gaping mouth, she controlled her breathing. With deliberate inhales through her nose and exhales through clenched teeth her breathing settled, her heart followed, then her mind cleared.

The house was more still than she noticed before.. If the man moved, either downstairs or behind her, she’d know.

After fifteen minutes, when the light clicked off, she sat up, illuminating the room again.

Hiding. She whispered. Exhausted, she pulled herself up using the back-door handle. She turned to the right, to look closer at the hoodie, but it was not there.

A black cat mask hung in its place. It was the type that covered a person’s eyes and nose and tied around the head with long, black ribbons. The same mask she saw on her rapist two years ago.

She clamped her hands over her face. She threw her body against the back door. No, he couldn’t be here, unless they paroled him without her receiving a letter.

Monica told herself to breathe. In and out. In and out. Until her mind focused, sucking in the darkness of her palms in sharp swallows kept her from fainting. 

When she mastered her emotions, she pulled one hand from her face and jiggled the back doorknob.

Unlocked.

Tears welled and her cheeks flushed as another panic attack surfaced but Monica tapped the back of her head on the door and whispered her count to ten until her jaw unlocked and her heart once again settled.

Don’t panic, she whispered.

Even with the door unlocked she spent the last fifteen minutes laying before it. Whoever triggered the light could not have left this way.

He’s in this kitchen, Monica scanned the room, or he’s in the basement. The windows remained undisturbed. She blocked the back door. Against fire department advice, the second story had no means of escape or entry. The deadbolts on the front door make a loud click, meaning he didn’t leave that way, either.

As she stood contemplating the intruder’s hiding spot, the lights turned off again.

Wielding the letter opener, Monica jumped into view of the far side of the kitchen island; the only place he could be. The lights turned on, but the kitchen was empty. She looked at the basement door. It was possible the man grabbed the hoodie and replaced it with the mask before she finished murdering her furniture.

Trapped in the basement. She whispered and turned the basement lock seven times. Satisfied, she went to the living room and called the police.

After an alleged thorough search, the police stood empty-handed. Monica stayed in the living room, seated in her typical spot on the edge of the center cushion, feet at the ready. She tried to make the female officer named Kingston to believe her.

Accidental call, the report read.

Anger replaced her fear.

Where’d the mask go? Monica demanded.

There was no mask in your kitchen, Kingston said as she sat in the torn armchair and nodded at her partner to search the upstairs.

The male officer muttered something about asking daddy to check under the bed for the boogeyman as he skulked upstairs.

Without the physical evidence, Kingston said, not doing well to hide the smirk her partner’s last comment brought. We can’t post an officer in the home.

After reading it twice, Monica hesitated but signed the report.

He had to get in here somehow. She tapped the pristine running shoe on her right foot, counting each tap. Did they check the windows in the basement?

The female cop sighed. Without asking her partner, she nodded and smiled at Monica.

Yeah, he did. Nothing was down there. Why don’t you go to bed? Take a sleeping pill. Someone will drive by later to watch for the hooded man. She stood, then an idea seemed to pass through her mind as her eyes lit and a knowing smile spread across her face. It is possible noise in the backyard brought up repressed fears.

A noise? Probably because he was in here. Monica growled as she handed back the paper and pen.

Then where did he go? How did the mask and hoodie get there if you were in the kitchen the whole time? Kingston tore a sheet from the report and handed it to Monica.

When I die tonight, I have this paper to prove you did nothing to save me.

You’ll be fine, Kingston muttered as she followed her partner out the front door.

Nola’s warning that her homework could cause stress and trauma replayed in Monica’s mind as she placed her copy of the report on the fridge. She centered an apple magnet on the paper and lined up the six other fruit behind it. After locking the bathroom door seven times and checking the seal around the fastened window, she climbed into the shower. The warm water washing over her body helped calm her twitching muscles but did nothing for her angry fear.

She knew a man was in her house, but she did not know how. How the man replaced the hoodie with the mask, that mask, while she peered under the basement door, listening to every sound, she had no explanation. Was the mask there before she stared at the emptiness on the stairs or was the hoodie still there? She hadn’t checked on the hoodie as she rushed to the basement door. Was the hoodie a figment of her imagination because she saw a man wearing one last week, which caused, what did the cop say, repressed fears?

Repressed hell, they’re pressed, polished and out in the open. Her voice came out in a growl. She scrubbed her arms with the apricot exfoliator until her skin looked raw rather than buffed.

Nola would explain it in the morning. She always explained away the dark. No matter how long it took or how many times she repeated the same reassuring lines, the tenacious counselor worked until the black band of fear melted from Monica’s heart.

Monica trusted Nola’s faith and compassion but, Nola also hinted she imagined the hoodie wearer.

As she smoothed the towel over her body, Monica debated whether she should tell Nola of this tomorrow during their session. Would calling the police and grabbing the letter opener count toward her fear mastering? She faced what frightened her the most - an attack. However, if she hallucinated the hoodie and mask, did she hallucinate the man in front of her house?

She chose pride and ignored the possibility of hallucination. Monica did not want to wait until the morning. She descended the stairs, headed for the phone downstairs.

Monica tied her fluffy plaid robe around her pajama shorts and top as she stepped off the last carpeted stair. Between the chair and couch stood a man wearing a black cat mask.

One

Nola stared at the house across the street and braced herself for the emotional chaos inside. A glimmer of light peeked through the heavy curtains in the living room window. Even a small crack between the curtains was progress after the panic attack Monica suffered the week before.

Well done, Nola yelled as she stepped away from her Grand Am and hurried up the walkway. Pride provided a warmth against the fall breeze that blew in from the arm of the lake behind Monica's house.

When Nola stepped onto the cement porch, the warmth faded into cold confusion. During typical meetings, Monica opened the door an inch; enough to acknowledge Nola's presence. Today, the door did not move.

She waited but the door did not open. Nola frowned. Monica might be stuck at the window, unable to remove her hand from the curtain. Nola witnessed her freeze in the act during their first sessions.

Patience never being one of her virtues, Nola knocked after a compulsory pause. Her knuckles turned red from tapping on the solid metal door. She tapped the doorknob with a fingernail, trying to calm the worry.

Monica? Nola knocked again. Let me in. We’re losing time. When no answer came, Nola closed her eyes. After a few breaths meant to ease the dread, she moved to the opening between the curtains.

Did you have an attack? Can you open the door? Do you need me to? Nola tapped on the window, aware it may further frighten Monica if she was having a panic attack. There was no way Nola could break in to help if her patient was suffering a self-destructive mania.

The light Nola saw came from the far table lamp. The other lamp and the end table by the couch no longer sat where she remembered from her weekly visits. Monica’s curtains obscured the rest of the room.

Nola returned to the door. Rather than hurt her knuckles again, she placed her hand on the brass knob and jiggled it.

The door moved a fraction. A wave of panic clenched Nola’s chest.

I’m coming in. Nola opened the door with caution, not wanting a panicked Monica to smash her with the baseball bat she kept in the foyer. Nola tucked her head as far into her shoulders as she could and placed one foot inside the door.

I’m coming in, Monica, don’t hit me. Nola inched her head inside the door and looked for Monica at the front window, but she wasn’t there. She stepped inside and closed the door.

The living room was in alarming disarray.

The blue tartan armchair lay on its side, stuffing fell from slashes ripped into the side. A lamp lay smashed on the carpet next