Mad Love: 3 Crimes of Passion: (a short story bundle)

By J.T. Ellison

Some people will do anything for love. These short stories from New York Times bestselling author J.T. Ellison show just how far some are willing to go.

THE NUMBER OF MAN
"Eerie to the max. Hitchcock would have loved the creepy, delusional, manipulative character of Michael." - New York Times bestselling author Sandra Brown

Unrequited love. Sounds romantic, doesn't it? But what happens when a stalker falls in love?

X
Do you know what lurks in the woods behind your house? 

KILLING CAROL ANN
We've all had that friend who liked to do bad things. What happens when a young girl is pushed too far?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Two Tales Press
• Release date: Oct 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519943316

J.T. Ellison

New York Times bestselling author J.T. Ellison writes dark psychological thrillers and pens the Brit in the FBI series with #1 New York Times bestselling author Catherine Coulter. With millions of books in print, her work has won critical acclaim, prestigious awards, and has been published in twenty-seven countries. She is also the Emmy Award–winning cohost of the premier literary television show A Word on Words. Ellison lives in Nashville with her husband and twin kittens. Visit JTEllison.com for more information, and follow her on Twitter and Instagram @ThrillerChick or Facebook.com/JTEllison14.

Book preview

Mad Love

Mad Love

3 Crimes of Passion

J.T. Ellison

Two Tales Press

Contents

The Number of Man

Dedication

The Number of Man

Copyright

X

X

About the Story

Copyright

Killing Carol Ann

Killing Carol Ann

About the Story

Copyright

Author’s Note

Also by J.T. Ellison

About the Author

J.T. Ellison speaks!

An Interview with J.T. Ellison

An Essay by J.T. Ellison

Sneak Peeks

NO ONE KNOWS Exclusive Excerpt

Part I

Chapter 1

CHARLOTTE’S STORY by Laura Benedict

1957: The End of Time

The Number of Man

For Randy, and the Pixies, and all the lonely hearts.

The Number of Man

In the endless moonlight , the road was a ribbon of black, cut by a band of light two feet wide that disappeared into an unfathomably dark puddle of water. The rain drifted in and out on dark clouds, briefly inking out the moon. After twenty minutes of playing hide and seek, the showers began in earnest, drumming the ground, rhythmic, eternal. 

His footsteps splashed across the pavement. A soda vapor bulb snapped on as he passed, its humming as familiar as his own breath. Newly formed puddles shimmered in the glow, but shadows still tore at the meager light. Away from the building, the luminescence bled away like a tail from a comet, trickling into nothingness.

He needed to hurry. He was running late. He couldn’t miss her. It wouldn’t do.

The familiar mix of shame and desire pulsed through him, a ragged tattoo in time with his steps, and he smiled.

---

It began in a single moment, the briefest of connections. She, in pigtails, a miniature towheaded autocrat, ruling the playground as if it were her kingdom. He, sitting desultory and resigned on the swings, the new boy, watching her cross the playground toward him, shoulders squared, prepared for battle. He was an outsider, an unknown, and therefore dangerous, and she needed to determine his loyalties. Though only eight years old, he had been at the receiving end of this conversation several times; his mother wasn’t the most moral woman, had a tendency to fall immediately for a new man when her previous love discarded her, and followed her boyfriends from town to town. As such, he’d been the new boy too many times to count.

Imperious Caitlyn hadn’t stopped walking when she reached him, just drove her shoulder into his and laughed as he lost his grip on the swing and toppled over backward. Her touch cut him to the bone, setting his arm on fire. She’d stood over him, fisted hands on narrow hips, her first words to him a demand that rang through him like a bell.

What’s your name?

He’d thought about telling her the truth. Something about Caitlyn made him want to spill his heart onto the gravel. But he answered with the name he’d been given last night, when his mother deigned to give him a bath in the gritty, grimy motel tub, and explained how his life was now.

Michael.

A penetrating look, one hard to fathom from an eight-year-old. As if Caitlyn saw through him, into him, and knew he was wicked.

He squirmed. He knew he was dirty. Unclean. Wrong. It was inside him, and no amount of scrubbing would loosen its hold on his soul. But he stood his ground and stared back, unmoving.

Her blue eyes pierced him. There was some ineffable movement behind the lashes as she decided his fate. He already knew she would find him wanting; the question was only how severe the punishment would be.

At long last, she nodded, curt as a judge.

"Fine. You can stay on the swings. We’re going to play kickball. She turned, and her minions followed. As she sauntered away, giggling, he swore he heard Caitlyn whisper, Stay away from me, Michael."

He tried so very hard to listen.

---

Twenty years later, Michael stood in another lot, waiting for Caitlyn to notice him. He’d been waiting for a month, ever since he’d bumped into her unexpectedly. He, on his way to work. She, leaving hers after a hard day. Their footsteps tapped in time, echoing through the still night, sneakers and stilettos crossing the asphalt. Distracted by his ear buds, he’d nearly missed her. A flicker of shadow caught his attention, he raised his head . . . and there she was. Their eyes met across the darkened parking lot. They existed for a moment in the same plane, a man and a woman in this constant, perfect expanse. His breath came short. Panic, fear, and love all mingled together in his thoughts. She was still perfect. He was lost again.

He’d not been ready to see her again, not in person. She created such feelings in him, feelings he’d long ago abandoned as unworthy, incomprehensible for him. He should have spoken, said something charming, but instead, he ran, panic gripping his throat and permeating his bones.

But he came back.

He waited for her every night after that, from the shadows, not wanting to frighten her. He was shy, so afraid to approach her. He didn’t know how she might react. Joy at seeing an old friend? Derision toward a lesser being? She was incandescent, and he was . . . Michael.

If she could only see him like she did when they were eight: just a scared young boy hoping to make a friend. She was too famous now, too important. She was always on her guard, would never let another being see inside her soul.

The Pixies screamed in his ears, words of numbers, of man and beast and heavens, and the death of all things, and he sang the chorus in his mind, knowing exactly what the song was telling him. The iPod was set to shuffle, and it was beyond fitting that this song, his anthem, had come on when he hit the Power button.

Traffic had been a nightmare tonight, aggravated by the teasing rains. He never thought he’d make it, but he did. Breath catching in his chest, heart pounding from the sudden exercise, he waited in the usual spot. Rain trickled down his forehead, running into his mouth, pooling in the collar of his shirt. He removed the ear buds, listened to the staccato snapping grow closer.

Caitlyn wasn’t unaffected by the rain. She had matured into a full-fledged goddess, and with that designation came an understanding that what happened to mere mortals should not