Die Twice for Me a Death and Donuts Thriller Book 3

By Martha Henley

One boyfriend dead is an accident . . . but five is a Black Widow Killer.

Cate Jacoby is single, but has had a string of bad luck with men. Five of her previous lovers have died from various accidents. She’s not looking for true love, or a happily ever after, just a man to survive three months.
Archie, a side guy she’s been with for years is convinced Cate is a black widow serial killer, he’s wrong. Cate is innocent. The real killer poses as Cate, knows her routine, has access to her phone, her house, her car, and her ear. The killer fills Cate’s mind with doubts and confuses her with untruths. It’s as if the killer has been in her shoes and knows exactly what Cate’s thinking.
At Mayday Donut shop, the murder enthusiast group, the crew gets involved when a member, Nan is contacted by Cate. Nan has had an unhealthy obsession with the black widow killer since linking her first four victims together. The evidence Nan’s compiled convinces Cate to face off against the real killer. Learning the truth, shocks the crew to the core and the FBI is called in to investigate.
The fight to survive lives in us all. Most of us will never face the dark side of our minds. Cate’s memories are unreliable, but her struggle is real. Archie is alive. Is he killing Cate’s lovers to possess her for himself? Or is real black widow closer to Cate than she could ever imagine?
Die Twice For Me is the third standalone book in The Death And Donuts Domestic Thriller series. Follow a serial killer from victim to victim until the final climax, buy Martha Henley’s heart-pounding novel today.
This twisting tale delves into the mind of a DID Dissociative Identity Disorder System for the main character. As an author, it’s difficult to put ourselves in the shoes of lives we haven’t lived. I tried hard to make the Jacoby system believable without any malice to any real system.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pace Bend Press
• Release date: Jun 28, 2020

Martha Henley

I believe serial killers exist. Do you?Join Martha Henley’s newsletter to read stories by an author who enjoys writing about not-so-happily ever afters.www.marthahenley.comWhen not writing, I stand around having unfinished conversations with random strangers. (I work retail.) These exchanges are the best for protagonists and antagonists inspiration. Keep walking by everyone!

Book preview

Die Twice For Me

A Death and Donuts Thriller

Martha Henley

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Pace Bend Press

Copyright © 2020 by Martha Henley

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact info@pacebendpress.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Second edition 2023

Contents

1. Chapter One

2. Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

3. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

4. Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

5. Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

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Chapter One

Ilay there in that poor sucker’s bed, his goatee-covered lips nuzzling on my neck, hinting at falling in love. I shivered, praying he didn’t whisper, what are you thinking, babe? Cause if he did, I’d have to answer that I was pondering how he was going to die.

Joe, Stevee with two e’s, Keith or Jeff. Whatever that guy’s name was he didn’t stand a chance. I was a black widow killer. Everyone man I dated eventually ended up dead. Not in the extended future, but within months of the first kiss.

I have to go. I threw off the navy comforter and rushed to get dressed. My clothes were in a pile on the side of the bed. A habit I’d gotten into to make the exit process smoother.

He protested my quick actions, saying, Let’s get to know each other better. I like pancakes and you?

Breakfast food? Really? I hooked my bra and pulled my blouse on over my head. My leaving quickly was the only way Mr. Pancakes would survive. Waffles. Happy? You can stop this exchange of trivial information. I’m doing you a favor, I said, lifting up the corner of the comforter to look for my shoes. Why do they always slip under the bed?

Roxanne, you can’t tease me and run away. You’re amazing and hot as hell. He grabbed my wrist and tugged to pull me back down on the bed.

It’s Cate. You don’t even know my name, I scoffed, jerking away. This is a one night stand. Don’t fall in love. Don’t text me either. I left him with those words and rushed out the front door of his place.

There was a moment of regret when I saw the three flights of stairs I had to walk down. Don’t do this again, Cate. I closed my eyes, took off my high heels and exhaled the fear I’d bottled up inside. By the time I was at the bottom, the temptress was gone and normal every day Cate was full front in charge.

Why did you have to go and pick him up? I argued with myself, as I looked for my car in the parking lot of his complex. When I bought the bright blue car, I thought the vibrant color would stop my forgetting where I parked episodes. It hadn’t.

You didn’t want anyone new in your life. Why do you do this to yourself? Finding my vehicle, I unlocked it by pushing the access code on the driver’s panel and then fell into the seat.

Taking a deep breath in the silence of the driver’s seat, I listened to my thoughts. They were ringing true. It’s not right to start dating again. Al was just buried last week. We loved him. He meant the world to us. He was our future. Our way to normalcy.

Before starting the engine, I took a moment to input the address of the apartment into a memo note on my phone. I typed the date, then cursed. Dammit, what was his name? Mr. Pancakes will have to do. I’m sure I’ll fill the rest in later.

It wasn’t the first note to have missing details. They were quite common. It seemed I was always forgetting things. Never did have a good memory. Couldn’t even recall the name of my second grade teacher, but who used those trivial facts in life.

Al loved trivia, I reminisced. I know more of his teachers’ names than my own. Maybe I should contact that professor he talked about all the time. Al would’ve been upset that he didn’t show for the funeral. I opened a new note and typed in a reminder. I seriously doubted I would search for Al’s professor, but it made me feel good to consider the act of kindness.

Driving on autopilot, I took the back streets through town. Avoiding the main roads and busy intersections at night meant any swerving while crying wouldn’t catch the attention of quota-hungry police officers.

Al was still on my mind as I drove. I internally questioned. Why did we love him so much more than the others? He was decent in bed, but not the best. He did tell better jokes, but did he have more money, or was he better looking than the others? No. What Al had was, however, exclusively ours to love. He had no one else on the planet that loved him. No neighbors knew his name. He hadn’t married. Had no siblings. He’d lost his parents years before. He was retired. Al waited his whole life for me. He found me and captured my heart. Then I lost him.

Stop, blubbering. Focus. The man you just left. Do we know anything about him? My self-loathing over poor judgement started back up. Where did we meet that guy? A dating app or was he from the bar? Searching my mind for clues was like looking at a blank wall. His average face hadn’t triggered familiarity. I recalled only snippets of meeting Mr. Pancakes, but they could have been jumbled with other evenings.

The last thing I saw at his place was his dog. It had to be the answer. A hyper Jack Russell named Lucky. Did I tell him I had the same kind of dog, but named, Lucy? That line was the one I used on Al to get him to ask me out to dinner. I didn’t have dog. We were cat people.

Besides there was no time for pets. For the most part I drifted between my place, hotels, men’s apartments, wherever I woke up. Poor choices turned into toiletries in the center console of my car and a trunkful of extra shoes and clothes. They were the oddest choices of clothes, too. I had everything from cut-off shorts to a typical little black dress back there.

What was that famous saying? Clothes make the man. If it was true, the varied wardrobe in the trunk suggested multiple personalities.

Chapter Two

Before crawling into bed myself, I checked the open door of the second bedroom of the house. My roommate, Stephanie, was in there asleep, so I went back and locked the front door. She never carried keys with her. My best friend since childhood, Stephanie Wells was an alcoholic. Her routine differed wildly from mine. I took notes to keep track of everything I might forget. Her days were simply wake up, drink, pass out, repeat. I envied her.

Stephanie was not without trauma in her life. As a teen she’d watched her boyfriend, Ryan, get murdered right in front her. She hated talking about it, so I never brought up the subject. She mourned along with me as we buried lovers. It was therapeutic, but I think with each one she added a little more vodka to her daily dose.

When I got up and around the next morning, it was earlier than Stephanie, so I put the coffee on. We’d both need a cup. I surveyed my semi-clean clothes from a pile and picked out a suitable outfit for the mood of the day. I saw no bottoms that would count as lounge around the house pants. I tossed on the flannel shirt and called it good.

Stephanie loved nature, so most of our good furniture was on a back, open air patio. After grabbing a cup of the fresh brewed coffee, I went out to the crisp morning air. It was nice, but not clean enough to console my troubled thoughts.

We need to stop. I continued my self depreciation from the night before. Dating multiple men as a coping mechanism isn’t working. Al is still dead. He’s not coming back no matter how many men we sleep with. We can’t replace him. Nope. I pushed a thought out of my head. Don’t go there, Cate. I took a long sip of the warm coffee, willing the thought to pass, but couldn’t let it go.

No! I loved Al. You can’t say I didn’t. He wasn’t a replacement for the others. He was our destiny and he understood us.

Who did? Stephanie asked from the doorway. I looked back at her. She mirrored my puppy dog eyes. Are you thinking of Al again? It was heart failure. An accident. She sat cross-legged in a lounger and sipped the cup of coffee she held with both hands. She always sat that way. You had nothing to do with his death. It was his time.

What about Orlando? James, Doug, Buck. Did it have to be all their times while I dated them? I’m cursed. I stretched out on the lounger and covered my face with my arms. Why is it so hard to find a man to stick around? Why so many accidents? So many fuzzy details on the nights they died? I just wish I had more answers.

You can’t help that you’re a sound sleeper. That’s all it is, Stephanie gently said. I waited up. Where were you last night?

With Pancakes. I woke up on the third floor of an apartment complex, in the bed of a man too young for me. What am I doing Stephanie? I know we need rent money, but that guy had nothing. I give up some days.

What about that game developer friend? He has more than enough cash. Stephanie suggested, taking a drink of her morning concoction. Or you could go back to selling pharmaceuticals. She gave me one of those looks only a true friend could give honestly.

I don’t know, James got me on there and after he died it felt different at the company. Don’t think they wanted me around. I got up for a refill. Want another cup? I asked, sliding the door open. I left it open for convenience and to let the breeze blow into the house. How about we split a bagel?

Do you still feel guilty? Stephanie asked.

I—um—what was the question? I asked, handing Stephanie her half of breakfast. I got a little dizzy just standing there. I blinked my eyes a few times as a wave of confusion attacked my thoughts. Were we talking about moving on after Al again? I miss him, too, but we have to survive. I sat carefully and continued my thought, Dating is our best option. In a different world, we’d live happily ever after with Archie. I spread peanut butter on the plain bagel and daydreamed about being married to one man and feeling whole every day. I sat back and took in the smells of peanut butter, coffee and fresh air, allowing it to trigger a change. My rattled nerves relaxed.

Cate? You still with me? Stephanie shook my knee. You just called Al, Archie. Which one is it?

Did I? I didn’t mean to. I know they’re different. I sat cross-legged on the lounger. It’s just us, Stephy. Can we talk about something else? Remember when we ate peanut butter off forks cause the spoons were all dirty. I made swirls in the spread and licked it off my finger. Or that Al always knew when it was me. He knew when I wanted to be called Michelle. He was special that way. Like his brain matched ours and it told him when we switched.

Morning, Michelle. That coffee might be strong. She took it from my hand. Cate got in late last night. Since it’s just us, Stephanie said. I’ve been listening to her talk and I think Cate might be close to finding out the truth about you and the other alters.

She can’t. She’s our normal. If she breaks, she runs the risk of bringing the trauma to the front. I hopped over and sat next to my oldest and dearest friend. It hurt to smell alcohol on her breath so early in the morning. Each time I did, it reminded me that I was at the root of her drinking. You are so special. We all love you very much. Please stay by our side and don’t worry, Jeanette will take care of it. I can feel it.

Jeanette, ugh, Stephanie groaned. You know she’s the worst. She hates me. She looks at me funny and I won’t take a shower when she’s out front.

She protects us. Each alter in our brain served a different purpose. Jeanette served as the protector. She kept trauma from destroying our daily lives. Without her we ran the risk of crumbling and not being able to function in society.

Is that what you call it? Stephanie got up and opened the sliding door. Before she went in the house, she added one last jab. Most people call your idea of protection, murder.

We don’t know for sure it’s her, I said to her back. She marched off, then slammed her bedroom door. It hurt especially bad when Stephanie was upset with us. Out of all the outsiders we let into our system, we needed Stephanie most of all. Her joint experiences with the littles helped us understand the past they shared, both the happy good memories and the bad, traumatic moments.

Meeeshell and Stefanny, two pickles in a jar, hiding under the tables at Old Mary’s flea market. Those were the days I wished I had more memories of. I was an original gatekeeper, brought in right after the trauma.

As Michelle I aged, but slowly. The core of my memories centered around ages twelve to fifteen. Anything before then was shared by co-consciousness with younger selves. Anything after, I pieced together through notes left by Cate, Jeanette, Roxanne, and the others. I wished there weren’t others. I hated being pushed to the back so often. I