A Time To Kill

By Justina Luther

Dear Sir or Madam,

Thrills, mystery, and adventure await, at an event exclusively curated for seven brave souls. You are cordially invited to the historic Everdon Mountain Resort and Ski lodge, in beautiful Sage, Colorado, to lose yourself in a story like none other. Events of the past are brought to life before your very eyes, while the secrets of the lodge unfold for you to decipher. Should your entire party choose to accept this invitation, you will spend a week in the lap of luxury, and history, enjoying every amenity the lodge has to offer from a state-of-the-art spa to skiing slopes to suit both novices and enthusiasts alike. Will you and your party be able to learn the fates of the poor souls who vanished in Everdon's beautiful snowy passes, or will their history be doomed to remain a mystery?

When I received this letter, I thought I'd won a free vacation from some sweepstakes. A week away from the frantic pace of life sounded like a dream. How wrong I was…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crazy Ink
• Release date: Jun 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201797553

Book preview

A close up of a skull Description automatically generated with low confidence

I dedicate this book to God who gave me the words and to those who find a place to get away between these pages.

Chapter One

6:00 p.m. December 6, Phoenix, Arizona

Ascream rips from Jessica Weaver’s throat, and she claws at the rough fabric beneath her hands. Let go of me! The world spins end over end until Jessica’s head collides with something hard. The taste of a dirty penny coats her tongue and dark rumbled laughter surrounds her. Please! I— Jessica’s eyes spring open and the dream dies away while her heart hammers against her ribs, the cold terracotta tiles of her apartment floor against her cheek. The local news drones in the background.

Swallowing, Jessica presses a palm to her chest and rakes her bangs off her forehead. You’re home. You’re safe, she repeats the words until her breathing steadies. Shutting her eyes, Jessica puffs out her cheeks and pushes herself off the ground and onto the couch. Leaning, she scoops the pillows she’d knocked off in her fall.

Twenty-two-year-old Adam Calvert—

Sweat slicks Jessica’s palms, and she clutches the pillow while her attention glues to the screen. His glassy-eyed smirk stares back.

—is currently awaiting sentencing after being found guilty of kidnapping and holding prisoner the then twenty-nine-year-old Jessica Weaver in the basement of his elderly grandparent’s Gilbert home. The public remains baffled as to how her presence in the home remained secret for over a month.

Jessica’s mouth goes dry when her picture flashes across the screen, her baby blue eyes are sunken and wild, rimmed by dark circles, her cheeks are pale and hollow while her dark brown hair hangs in matted strings to her waist. The shirt she had worn from the day he’d taken her to the day the image was captured hangs loose where it once hugged her curves.

Burying her face in the pillow, Jessica screams until her throat aches, and her voice is hoarse. When she rises, her vision clouds while someone bangs on her front door.

Jessica’s eyes widen, and she leans over the end of the couch to wrap her fingers around the cold metal grip of her baseball bat.

Jessica! Open the door!

Her lips form a thin line, and her pulse settles a fraction at the sound of Mr. Gunther’s rough voice. She drops the bat on the couch, swiping at the tears that trickle to drip from her chin. Pulling herself to her full height, she hugs her waist and shuffles to the door. What do you want?

To talk to you! Open the door. I’m not asking.

I can hear you from here. She jolts when he pounds the metal again.

Open up!

She keeps the chain lock in place and cracks her door open. The burly man glares down at her with his fists clenched at his sides.

"This is the fifth time this week I’ve had to come here. Do you have any idea what it does to my daughter when you holler like a banshee? Her bed is on the other side of the wall to your living room, and she’s been in bed puking her guts up all day. I finally got her to sleep, and what happens three minutes later? She comes into my kitchen screaming about the witches in the walls. Please. I know you’ve been through stuff. It’s messed up, but I have to protect my daughter. If you continue, I’m going to have to report you to the super."

She digs her nails into her sides. I used a pillow.

He blinks at her. What?

I screamed into a pillow this time. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

He rolls his eyes. These walls are paper-thin, but they’re the best I can afford. He pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes for a moment. Please, I’m doing the best I can, but my three-year-old has gotta sleep. If she’s not over this by morning, I can’t take her to the sitters. Then I’m forced to skip my shift. We’re making it paycheck to paycheck. I’m begging you, whatever it is you’re going through, keep it to yourself.

Without another word, he spins on his heels, and she swallows past the lump in her throat. When she shuts her eyes, it’s as if she can feel Adam’s fingers in her hair, grasping and yanking to the point of pain, forcing her to look him in the eyes, to see him when all she wanted was to be anywhere else.

She slams her door, and her feet pound against the tiles. When she rounds the corner, her socks slide, and she braces herself on the wall. Grabbing the doorframe, she pulls herself into the bathroom, flipping on the lights and catching herself on the cold porcelain of the sink. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, and she watches her reflection. Her gaze once again wild. Her knuckles whiten and pop when she squeezes the edge of the sink until her bones ache. Lifting her fist above her head, she smashes it into the mirror, and her reflection splinters.

Her hand drops to the counter and lightning shoots through her arm. She winces and shifts her palm to find a sliver of glass poking from her skin. Her lip trembles, and she drags a slow, deep, breath into her aching lungs as she plucks it out to drop it into the trash beside her. Pulling herself to her full height, she reaches behind her and drags her hair over her shoulder, clutching it. With her other hand, she gropes along the counter, never taking her attention off her gaze while tears gather on her lashes. When her fingertips strike the familiar steel of her scissors, she curls around them, shifting the tool in her grasp and raising it to her hair.

No one can grab it if it isn’t there... Her attention shifts to her throat. A crack runs across her reflection beneath her chin from one side to the other. No one can take your life if your heart stops beating. With trembling fingers, she shifts her grasp once again to open the sharp shears to their full extent, lifting them to her throat. The blade’s edge presses into her skin while her pulse thrums against it, just beneath the surface. It would be easy. Adam’s words echo in her mind. You can end all of this. Her eyes widen. It would end everything. The scissors clatter into the sink as she stumbles backward until her back presses against the wall. She shuts her eyes. I can’t let him win.

She staggers into the living room again and switches off the television, scanning the coffee table and the couch. Where is it? She gropes between the couch cushions and winces at the grit of crumbs she finds. Biting her lip, she traces the edge of the cushion from one side to the other until she finds her prize. Pulling out her phone, she hits the home button and groans when the screen stays black. Not now! Her thoughts flash to the scissors once more and how deliciously easy it would be to sleep forever. A tremor rolls through her body from her toes to the top of her head, and she squeezes her eyes shut, gritting her teeth. "I will not give in!" She clutches her phone and bolts down the hall to her bedroom, perching on the edge of her mattress and grabbing her charger from her nightstand’s drawer.

Bouncing her leg, she waits for the screen to light. For as long as you’re alive, you’ll be connected to him. Her palm rests on her flat belly while sparks flitter beneath her skin. She swallows past the lump in her throat. When people look at you, they see him now. No one looks at you without pity. You’re the pathetic girl who was too stupid to realize her drink had been dosed.

The screen flashes white, and she snatches it, her fingers shaking while she scrolls to the bottom of her contact list. Her thumb hovers above the screen, and a tiny voice at the back of her mind whispers, Reach Out. A tear slips to drip from her chin, and she punches in the number.

It rings once, twice, three times.

Please, pick up.

You matter, the automated voice drones, please stay on the line. All volunteers are currently—

Hey! This is Rachel, what’s your name?

She opens her mouth, and her throat constricts. She takes a shaking breath and bounces her leg, digging her nails into the quilt.

Hello?

Jessica, her voice cracks.

Hi, Jessica. Thank you for reaching out.

I’m...scared. I want to hurt myself, but I don’t want to. Shutting her eyes, she holds onto the voice at the other end of the line, not completely listening. Someone cares. You’re not alone.

8:00 p.m. December 6, Chicago, Illinois

JACOB BAILEY RAKES stiff fingers through his hair and crouches lower in the shadows behind the dumpster, peering past the edge of it with his camera at the ready. Jacob breathes through his mouth while a fly buzzes around his head. Cars honk and jostle for a parking spot on the street out front of La Illusion while a few flakes drift from the sky. Come out, come out, wherever you are, Jacob says beneath his breath and focuses his camera on a metal doorway a few feet away. The pounding beat of the dance music thrums on the other side of it. His thighs ache, and Jacob shifts his weight and checks his watch. Come on, jack wagon. I don’t want to be here all night just to catch your—

The door swings open, the music makes his ears ring, and Jacob double checks his camera’s settings, while a man with broad shoulders in his early twenties stumbles out with his arm slung around the waist of a leggy blonde.

Got you. Jacob presses the button and holds it while the camera captures frame after frame of the man laughing between sloppy kisses. He winces. Lady, whatever he’s got, you can do better than mob scum.

Why didn’t we go out the front? the woman says, stumbling through a pothole in her six-inch heels.

Babe, you’re out with me. What more do you need? The man slings an arm around her shoulders, and Jacob ducks deeper into the shadows, holding his breath when they near.

When they pass, Jacob photographs their retreating backs until they disappear around the back of the brick building.

The clouds part, and his breath fogs in the moonlight. So much for hiding. He rises on cramped legs to jog toward the street. He pops his collar and slips his camera into the inner pocket of his down coat. He keeps his head low, shifting his face away from the bouncer when he makes his way past the club’s waiting line and to his car at the end of the street.

He digs the key out of his pocket and jams it into the lock.

Whose car doesn’t have an automatic unlock?

He rolls his eyes, peering over his shoulder to find a woman in fishnets leaning against the streetlight. She winks at him, and he opens the door. Someone who can’t afford to talk to you.

She hums. Oh, I don’t know. Those muscles and baby greens might be worth an exception on my part.

He leans on the top of his car. I doubt your boss would like it.

She tilts her head. The coat hides it, but I bet you’re built. You can handle yourself.

When she winks once more, he slips behind the wheel and shuts the door, locking it before sticking the key into the ignition. When he twists it, the sedan clicks. He groans. Come on, beautiful. Don’t do this to me. He turns it again and the engine gives a sluggish groan. He rubs the steering wheel. I know it’s cold, girl, but we have to get out of here. If you start, I’ll get you home and under your covers for the night. Shutting his eyes, he whispers a prayer and twists the key, this time, the engine sputters and turns over, rumbling to life.

See you, Jacob, she says.

The hair raises on the back of his neck, but he doesn’t pull his eyes away from the road. Turning the wheel, he merges into traffic. Sweat slicks his palms until the road opens ahead of him.

He glances in the rearview every few moments, keeping track of the cars behind him as they shift from lane to lane. When no one car stays with him, he sucks in a slow breath and pats the pocket where the camera rests.

He takes the off-ramp to his house and goes the long way, circling the block twice before pulling into his driveway. Jogging to his front door, he unlocks it and dips inside, grabbing the cloth car cover by the front door. Returning to the sedan, he unfurls it and tucks each corner beneath a bumper edge before patting the roof. Goodnight, girl. You did good tonight.

Inside, he shuts the door and cups his palms in front of his mouth, blowing into them. What did I do, leave a window open? Pausing, he chews on his cheek, doing a visual sweep of the front room, the faded oriental rug, peeling olive-green paint, and the layer of dust are the same as he’d left them. He strains his ears but doesn’t catch anything above the thrum of the silence. He wags his head. I’m way too paranoid. Puffing out his cheeks, he shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the rack on the wall before fishing his keys and camera from the pockets. He drops the keys into the bowl on the table in the corner and sets the camera on the worn tweed armrest of the couch.

Going to the potbellied stove against the far wall, he opens it and stuffs a couple more logs in before pulling the lighter from his back pocket and grabbing a crumpled newspaper from the woven wicker basket beside it. He lights it, tosses it in with the logs, and shuts the iron grate, patting the side. Grandad wasn’t wrong when he said this thing wouldn’t quit if you took care of it. His temples throb, and his vision blurs. He throws out a palm to brace himself against the wall. At least one thing holds up around here. Shutting his eyes, he pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes deeply until the pain subsides.

He straightens and shuffles to the couch, dropping onto the cushions and wincing when a spring stabs his backside. And I forgot to pick up duct tape...again. Leaning, he grabs his laptop from where it’s leaned against the side of the couch, and plugs it in, popping the cover off the back of his camera. He slips the memory card out and sticks it in the side of his laptop. When he hits the power button, he rests his head against the back of the couch while another wave of dizziness crashes into him. From the bottom of his vision, he catches sight of the cherry red 1967 Mustang wallpaper on his screen and takes a slow breath. Here’s hoping I caught some decent stills.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before opening them wide and swirling his finger on the mouse pad, looking for the cursor. The screen blurs, and he blinks once more while his phone buzzes on the cushion beside him. Timmy’s face lights the screen, and he rolls his eyes and accepts the call, setting it on speaker mode.

Your ability to bother me the second I put my feet up should be the stuff of legends.

The man’s chuckle rumbles from the speaker. Don’t blame me for checking on my boneheaded baby brother. You’re the one who stepped into mob territory tonight. Tell me you at least got what you were after.

You mean pics of the boss’s son drunk as a skunk and kissing all over the boss’s latest wife? He clicks on the memory card’s flashing icon and pictures of the drunken man and woman fill the screen. He pulls up a near straight-on pic of the pair and grins when the image enlarges. Clear as day.

Who even wants these? You know you could end up a dead man, right?

He scoffs. I’m being paid for the pictures. I’m not the one playing with the boss’s things.

You didn’t answer me.

He clicks through the pictures one at a time. What was it, again? How much am I getting paid? He chuckles.

Jake, this isn’t a joke! Whoever wants those pictures is a threat to the boss and his son. You think they aren’t going to consider you a loose end?

Look at you, talking like you know something about it. You’re a cop. Wrong side of the law to get into their heads.

Funny, I thought that’s what I did each day.

You’re a beat cop, not a detective. You write people speeding tickets, not solve murders.

Timmy growls. "Idiot! What you fail to grasp is if you get yourself killed, I’m the one who has to tell Mom. I’m the one who picks up the pieces. So, I’ll ask you one more time. What kind of payday could be this important?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose. You wouldn’t get it, even if I wanted to explain.

Try—

Reaching, he ends the call and taps the edge of his laptop. You’d do what you had to, too, if you thought it could save your life.

10:00 p.m. December 6, Birmingham, Alabama

A YAWN CRACKS ALISON Gilbert’s jaw, and she scans the barcode stuck to the bottom of the plastic cup in her grasp.

Didn’t your mama teach you to cover your mouth?

Alison rolls her eyes and peers down at the silver-haired woman gazing at her with her palms on her hips, her blue vest embroidered with the letters DGIS much