Only When I Scream

By E.V. Lind

She's a survivor being stalked by a crazed serial killer.

He's a reclusive billionaire with a tragic family secret.

 

Ivy Anderson is tested to the limits of her training during an art conservation that is anything but typical. Assigned to work for reclusive businessman, Drake Colton, she finds his isolated gothic mansion full of priceless art both inspiring and terrifying.

 

Twelve years ago, her innocence was shattered when she was abducted, raped and tortured. But Ivy's a survivor: she's spent years training her mind and her body to be a fighter. And she refuses to let the ghostly atmosphere drive her out as she works to uncover the art and its owner's deadly secrets.

 

But danger lurks outside the mansion, as well as within. The psychopath who attacked her has escaped and is hell bent on finding her and inflicting deadly revenge on the one who got away.

 

The clock is ticking. Who should Ivy fear most? The serial killer who hunts her or the ghost of a long dead woman who wants to destroy everything Ivy's worked for?
 

Another gripping, twisty mystery thriller from USA Today Bestseller Yvonne Lindsay, writing as E.V. Lind. If you love riveting romantic suspense with a touch of supernatural menace, prepare to be hooked!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dolce Vita Trust
• Release date: Dec 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781991193216

E.V. Lind

E.V. Lind is the pen-name of Yvonne Lindsay, an award winning, multi-USA Today bestselling author of more than 50 titles with more than 5 million copies sold worldwide. She has always been captivated by the supernatural and enjoyed chilling suspense movies and has always been drawn to visit old homes and even older graveyards for all the untold stories that lie within. Add to this a fascination with what makes criminals tick, a love of crime and suspense novels and you can understand why E.V. now writes suspense with a supernatural twist.  From Lisa Gardner to Barbara Erskine, E.V. is inspired by stories that hook the reader from the first page and take them on a thrilling journey of mystery, crime solving and things that go bump in the night.

Book preview

ONE

Twelve years ago...

Ivy fought the urge to tug down the hem of her short skirt, or adjust the two sizes too small t-shirt, emblazoned with the bar’s logo across her breasts. She’d been working here six weeks and the urge to cover up still hadn’t left her. According to California state law, she shouldn’t be serving here at all. At eighteen she was too young, but the bar skirted the definition of restaurant with its short order menu and local authorities hereabouts tended to turn a blind eye. The only one who wouldn’t turn a blind eye was her daddy, the local pastor. He would have a fit if he knew this was what she was doing instead of the babysitting jobs she’d told him she’d started.

Peanut shells crunched under the soles of the requisite cowboy boots that the waitresses wore here and she pulled her order pad from her tiny apron as she walked toward the booth in the back corner. You might have to dress like a tart, but it meant tips were generous, especially as the night rolled into the early hours of the morning as it did now. Yes, her feet ached and her back hurt, but she knew that in ten minutes her shift would be over and her savings would be that much closer to being used to book the gap year her parents had finally agreed to allow her before she started college.

She couldn’t wait. London, Paris, Amsterdam, Rome. All the great galleries of Europe. She wanted to see as many as she could before she settled into her fine arts degree. What was the point of doing the degree if you hadn’t seen the Grand Masters? Experienced the joy of soaking up the brilliance of past artists and their creations?

What can I get you? she asked, reaching the booth.

The two men looked up at her, one leering appreciatively at her exposed legs, the other at her breasts. She’d learned not to make direct eye contact with the patrons, it didn’t do anything but encourage them and these guys sure as hell didn’t need any encouragement.

Two beers, Princess, the one staring at her breasts said.

Ivy felt her skin crawl. He’d spoken no more than three words but she sensed the lascivious menace in his tone.

Coming right up. Did you want anything else from the menu? she asked, dreading the reply.

Not unless you’re on it, the guy staring at her legs said with a laugh.

He reached out to pat her on the butt and she neatly sidestepped his outreached hand the way one of the older girls had taught her to.

Aw, c’mon now, play nice.

I’ll be right back with your beers, Ivy answered briskly.

With every step she took back to the bar she could feel their eyes burning on her body. Every night it had been the same. Always a creeper or two, but none of them had made her feel as uncomfortable as these guys.

Her boss looked up from behind the bar as she approached.

Trouble?

Nothing I can’t handle, she assured him. She needed the tip so she wasn’t going to complain about them even if they did get her radar going, but it was good to know that Ash had his eye on her. Just two beers.

Big spenders, huh? Ash ripped the tops off two bottles and plonked them on a tray in front of her. Let me know if they bother you.

She smiled back. Thanks, but I’m off soon. It’ll be okay.

He nodded and she picked up the tray and headed back to the table. Thankfully, the two men had their heads together and barely acknowledged her. When she looked back at the table five minutes later they were gone, their money on the table with their empties. She counted the bills. Bastards. No tip.

It felt good to step outside the bar and into the parking lot. A shower of rain had swept the night air clean. She got in her car, locked the door as her mom had cautioned her to always do, and quickly counted her tips for the night. She was so close to her goal now she could almost smell the jet fumes of the plane she’d be leaving on. Ivy shoved her bag under the seat beside her, again a caution of her mom’s who thought the whole world was out to get you, and started her car. A steady drizzle drifted down and she switched on her wipers.

She was only a couple of miles down the deserted road when something flew through the air and plastered on her windscreen before tangling in her wiper blades and obstructing her vision. She jammed on her brakes, barely managing to keep the car on the road as it fishtailed on the slick tarmac and her heart hammered in her chest as she eventually came to a complete halt. Ivy drew in a deep breath and stared at the item on her windscreen. It looked like someone’s sweatshirt.

Her wiper blades were barely moving with the weight of the fabric tangled in them, in fact, they looked like they’d break any minute and wouldn’t that piss her daddy off. Damn, she’d have to get out and untangle it. She checked her rearview mirror and looked around the sides of the car. No one. Logic told her she shouldn’t get out on this dark, lonely stretch of highway, but how on earth was she going to keep driving if she couldn’t see? Drive on. Her inner voice told her, but it was impossible.

The rain was coming down heavier now and she needed to be able to use her wipers. Ivy kept her car running as she unclipped her belt and unlocked the door.

Stay in the car.

This’ll only take a minute, she told herself.

Call for help. And what? Face the consequences of her daddy’s rage when he learned she’d been lying to him, waiting tables dressed like this?

Ivy ignored the voice inside and got out the car, closing the door so her seat wouldn’t get wet in the ever-worsening downpour. She was cursing under her breath as she dragged the soaking sweatshirt away from her wipers. Just as she pulled the last of it free, a vehicle pulled up behind hers. Blinded by the rain and the headlights, all she could make out was the silhouette of a man as he got out of the car.

Need a hand, there, Princess?

No, I’m okay.

There was something familiar about him, and just then it clicked. The sweatshirt was familiar too. One of the guys back at the bar had been wearing it—the one who couldn’t stop leering at her legs. A sick feeling rose from the pit of her stomach. She pivoted on her feet and reached for her car door. Too late.

Pain exploded at the back of her head as a blunt object made contact. She struggled to remain upright, to remain conscious as her vision blurred. Laughter filled her ears.

Too good for us, huh? We’ll see about that.

The second voice belonged to the guy who’d been wearing the sweatshirt. She struggled as he wrapped his arms around hers from behind and held her tight, stopping her from reaching up and scratching him or landing a lucky blow. She wriggled as much as she could, the movement making her head throb painfully, and scraped her boot heels down the fronts of his shins but nothing deterred him. He pressed his face to the side of hers and she smelled his fetid breath as he licked her cheek.

Mmm, you taste sweet, little lady.

She went wild, throwing back her head until it contacted with the bridge of his nose. The movement sent stars shooting through her eyes and pain as sharp as a freshly honed blade burst through her skull. For a moment she thought she’d throw up, but then she realized his hold on her had loosened. She started to tug loose but then his grip tightened mercilessly again, just about squeezing the air from her lungs.

Bitch! he rasped.

What’s the matter, can’t you handle a little girl? the other man jeered. He was standing in front of them now.

Ivy forced her eyes open, looked him square in the eyes. Let me go and I won’t say anything, she pleaded.

Oh, I don’t think you’re gonna say anything, he said as he looked straight back at her. But you sure as hell are gonna scream.

Pain. Everywhere pain.

Her head, her neck, everywhere.

Ivy tried to move. Couldn't. Tried to open her eyes but they were bruised, swollen, and barely allowed her to see anything. Nothing, at least, but the dank darkness around her and a faint glow of red near her face. Even her nose was blocked. Broken? Even so, a disgusting stench around her seared her olfactory senses, making her gag.

Where was she?

Again she tried to move and failed. Her ankles and wrists were bound. She was trapped.

A scream rose in her throat but the sound that came out was no more than a rasp.

She shouldn't have stopped. Shouldn't have gotten out her car. Should have just driven on when the sweatshirt had blown onto her windshield, just like her mom would have told her to.

Momma, please forgive me, she whispered and felt tears leak from her eyes as she thought about how frightened her parents must be right now. Wondering where she was. What had happened to their baby girl.

She was in a car trunk. She knew that now. Knew she was naked. Knew she'd been tortured. Raped. Sodomized. Knew that what was yet to come would be worse. That she wouldn't survive.

The side of her breast hurt. She could feel the slow ooze of blood. Why? What had they done to her?

She remembered. Biting, tearing. Spitting her skin back in her face. And the laughter.

If she survived this, nothing would ever be the same.

How long had she been gone? Hours? Days? She'd lost track. Had her mom and daddy called the police? Her friends? Her workmates? Would anyone remember the two lowlifes who'd been at the bar and connect them to her?

Anger grew where desolation had filled her only moments ago. She couldn't let them win. Couldn't give up. She had a life—deserved a future, dammit.

She struggled to feel the bindings on her wrists, gave a sigh of relief when she identified twine rather than zip ties or nylon cord. She strained against the twine again and again.

The car slowed and fear swelled through her mind like a raging beast, making her strive harder. The twine tore at her skin, opening old wounds and burning in new ones. Ignoring the pain of what were undoubtedly several broken fingers and the slick, warm wetness of her own blood, she worked one hand free then the other. The car turned and accelerated again, sending her flying against the back of the trunk.

The road was bumpy now—rutted and filled with potholes that made her strike her head on the lid. She groaned out loud as she pulled her knees up to her chin and reached for the bindings at her ankles. Her broken fingernails tore further as she plucked at the knots, blood from her wrists making her fingers slippery and clumsy. And then, finally, her legs were free.

She felt inside for a latch, praying the model of the car was new enough to have one and uttered a prayer of thanks when her fingers found it. She eased the trunk open, her eyes searching for any markers on the side of the road. The car hit another rut and sent the trunk lid flying from her grasp.

She heard a shout from inside the car. Terror—sudden and visceral—threatened to paralyze her. You want to live don’t you? It’s now or never—jump! Muscles cramping, pain screaming through her body, she launched herself over the tailgate until she was falling, bouncing—gravel tearing at her exposed skin and sharp pain radiating from where she’d landed on her lower back.

Ivy staggered to her feet, ignoring the searing pain of the cigarette burns they'd inflicted on her soles, and lurched down the road, forcing her legs to move. Behind her she heard the car skid to a halt. Heard the slam of car doors. Heard the pounding of booted feet on the road after her. She staggered, recovered, kept going. She had to get away.

Voices from behind. Fuck! Someone's coming!

Give her up. We gotta get outta here.

And then she was swept by headlights. Ivy threw her hands up in front of her eyes and stumbled toward the ditch. The truck stopped. A man alighted. She shrank into the shadows. Afraid. Unsure. Knowing her escape had taken the last of her energy from her and that now she was too weak to fight.

Miss? Are you okay?

A different voice this time. Older, concerned. Kind. She lifted her head, shaded her eyes.

Help...I need help, she whispered before collapsing to the dusty road.

Well, look at her, Earl, she's as naked as the day she was born. A woman's silhouette joined the man's.

That she is, Mother. And she's hurting. Pass me that blanket from the back, will ya?

She felt the coarse wool against her skin but couldn't even protest as it abraded her wounds. And then she was being lifted in strong, wiry arms and being carried to the cab of the truck. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her muscles simply too weak now to hold it up.

You're gonna have to hold her, Mother. We need to get her to a doctor and call the police.

Oh, my. Do you think she's the girl that was reported missing on the news?

Could be.

She doesn't look anything like her picture. She's in a bad way, isn't she?

That she is. But she's strong. She made it this far.

Ivy let the words wash over her. Strong. Was she strong? She didn't know any more. But she was alive. She was safe. She opened her swollen eyes to no more than slits. Ahead of the truck she saw the flash of taillights disappear into the distance.

TWO

March 2019

Holy shit!

Ivy whistled under her breath as she drove up the winding private road that led to the Gothic mansion looming on the cliff’s edge.

Jasper, her boss, hadn't been kidding when he'd said the place was interesting, although Ivy could think of a few more descriptive terms, starting with the word, creepy. Even with the late afternoon sun gilding the edges of the old, dark red brickwork the place had a sinister air of foreboding about it. But she wasn't here to pass judgment. She was here to do a job and that meant staying professional and focused on her task—the conservation of an heirloom painting from the late 1800s.

In itself, the work shouldn't be too difficult—in her business, a century or so was nothing. What was going to be a challenge was correcting poorly executed repairs from an earlier conservation that had been evident on the photos they'd been sent. She'd studied the pictures as carefully as their quality allowed, noting the irregularities of the surface of the painting.

But all this conjecture was worth nothing until she actually saw the painting herself and completed her assessment. The owner had been adamant that it wasn't to leave his property, which in itself was unusual when the equipment and facilities they used at the studio Ivy worked through were world class. Still, when a man was paying what Drake Colton was, it seemed the studio was more than happy to accommodate him. And, perhaps after she'd made her appraisal of the work and presented her conservation plan together with Boyle Studio’s costs, he'd decide it would be best done in the studio after all. Or not at all.

The idea of staying at the mansion hadn’t appealed to her at the beginning. She was used to the security, both emotional and physical, of the building where she’d lived the past six years, but the tall stone walls that appeared to border the entire estate here, high on the bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and the modern security visible at the main gate set back from the road, had given her some relief. It wasn’t easy for anyone to get in. Or out, the voice at the back of her mind reminded her skeptically.

Ivy pulled her car to a stop in the turning circle outside the front of the house and got out. As she surveyed the building more closely, she suppressed the tremor that threatened to ripple down her spine. Since her attack she’d become more cautious. Some said over-cautious, but after enduring what she had, Ivy knew there was no such thing as over-cautious. There was well-informed, however, and she always made it her business to be as cognizant as possible.

She’d researched her client as deeply as she could. The man was virtually a recluse, from all accounts, with no online or social media presence. The only thing she’d been able to glean, aside from references to the success of the family fortunes and the equally outstanding collection of artworks in his possession, was that he’d suffered an unspeakable tragedy ten years ago, when his wife and infant son had fallen from the cliff upon which the house was perched. There’d been an investigation, and he’d been cleared of any involvement in the heartbreaking misfortune.

Ivy shook her head, wondering at the type of person who’d stay in a place that was the seat of so much misery. Maybe it was self-punishment for not being able to save them? She pushed the thought from her mind. Conjecture didn’t do anyone any favors. All she knew was he needed a conservator and that’s what she was. She brought things back to life. Hell, she’d managed with herself; it only made sense that she make a career out of it, right?

Unconsciously, she rubbed at her covered forearms, at the scars that would be a lifelong reminder of what she’d endured. Realizing what she was doing, Ivy let her hands drop then grabbed her satchel from the back of the car and ascended the ornately framed concrete stairs that led to the imposing wooden front doors of the mansion. She was two steps from the top when those doors swung open. She half expected some kind of ominous creak, but they opened smoothly, revealing the silhouette of a man.

Her first impression was one of darkness—from the top of his head through to the tips of his booted feet. Dressed in severe black, and with an intimidatingly strong build, he was an imposing figure. If she'd been the same person she’d been a few years ago his appearance, together with the forbidding expression on his face, would have likely seen her turn tail and head straight back to her car. Instead, she swallowed against the instinctive reaction that threatened to send another of those ripples through her and pasted a smile on her face. She'd come a long way in the past twelve years. She was not about to regress now. The recipient of her smile did not return the favor.

Hi, I’m Ivy Anderson, from Boyle’s Studio, she said by way of introduction as she came up the last two steps.

I was expecting a man.

Rather than rise to what she suspected was his deliberate bait she kept her smile firmly in place and, once she drew level with him, offered her hand and looked up directly into his eyes. Framed by thick, dark brows and edged with short, black lashes, they were the turbulent green of an unfriendly, stormy sea.

Jasper is heavily committed on other projects, so he sent me. Please, call me Ivy.

Drake Colton, he grunted.

She noted he didn't invite her to call him by his first name. This jaunt was going to be a laugh a minute—not. He took her hand in a firm grip.

I assume you are qualified to do this? he said in a way that grated across her nerves.

Eminently, she replied tightly and let go of his hand, fighting the urge to wipe her palm down her trouser leg as if she could as easily wipe away the sense of disquiet that radiated from him.

Despite the ravages of her past she knew she still looked younger than her age of thirty and people often questioned her qualifications. Usually, she had no difficulty brushing it off, but for some reason this guy's manner rankled more than usual. She mentally brushed off the irritation. She wasn’t going to let him upset her. She was here to do a specific job, period.

I'm ready to begin my assessment of the painting straight away. Where will I be working? she asked sharply.

A muscle in his jaw tightened. You think I've insulted you.

I'm not here to think, Mr. Colton. I'm here to see to the conservation of one of your paintings.

If she wasn't mistaken, his strange green eyes took on a hint of humor.

Don’t you have more bags? He gestured to the satchel she’d brought up the stairs.

I do, my cases are in the back of the car, but first I need to conduct a detailed examination of the painting and give you an estimate of how long it will take to do the work it requires and how much it will cost. You may well decide, after I’ve presented my findings, that you don’t want me to continue.

Bring your things in with you. Time and money matter little to me. Boyle’s Studio came highly recommended. I won’t be using anyone else.

I would appreciate help bringing my equipment in. Do you have someone who could assist me?

That would be me, he answered bluntly.

You live alone?

Is that a problem, Ms. Anderson?

Great, she thought. Here she was hoping he'd have some poor lackey to help her out and show her where she'd be working. She didn’t feel quite so confident knowing that Colton was the large house’s sole occupant. Not trusting herself to speak, she returned to her SUV.

A chill tickled at the back of her neck. Ivy quickly looked up at the house to see what had generated it. Nothing. Well, nothing but her new client sauntering down the stairs behind her. While it was clear he was looking at her, Ivy couldn’t quite shake the sensation that there was another pair of eyes observing her as well. She looked around again, her gaze skimming across the windows along the front of the house, but there was no movement there, no shape revealing anyone watching her. She turned her attention back to the car.

Ivy went to pull her first case out but Colton stepped in front of her and brushed her hand away as she reached for the handle.

I'll get them.

There was something in the tone of his voice that made her step back and allow him to do exactly as he so clearly wanted. He slid both large cases out the trunk and, lifting one in each hand, strode toward the stairs as though they weighed nothing. Ivy closed and locked the SUV and trotted along behind him. No harm in letting him be the strong, almost-silent type, she told herself as he effortlessly climbed the stairs and entered the house. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, that awkward frisson of...something...tracing the back of her neck again.

Well? Are you coming? Colton asked—his patience with her clearly non-existent.

Yes, sir, she muttered under her breath before following him through the door.

He closed the large wooden slab behind her, its echoing bang making her flinch. Damn it, she wasn't usually this skittish. At least she hadn’t been for the last eight years or so. Recovering from her abduction had taken too many hours of counseling to count, but she'd gotten there. The self-defense courses had helped, too, as had moving across the country to college—far, far away from where she’d been attacked. Coming back to California had been a conscious step toward her recovery, too, an admission that while she’d been through hell, she was more than ready to reclaim her life again.

Damn, but this place was incredible, she thought, looking around her as she followed her host. She recognized a Constable on the wall there in the entrance and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a Turner as well. Lost in her observations and not realizing Colton had stopped in his tracks, she almost walked straight into him.

I hope you pay more attention to your work, he said scathingly.

You can be assured my work is of the highest quality. I wouldn't have been sent to you if it wasn't.

I wanted your boss.

He's busy.

Hmph.

It wasn't even really a sound but she got the full measure of his disapproval. Ivy took in a deep breath.

Look, it seems we've gotten off on the wrong foot. I'm fully qualified and have been undertaking conservation, without supervision, for five years now. I can guarantee you'll find nothing wanting in my work.

There are no guarantees in life, didn't anyone ever tell you that?

She looked at him square in the face. This time his eyes revealed a whole lot more than they had at first glance. Unshuttered, they reflected debilitating pain and grief before being swiftly masked behind an expression of indifference.

She was wrong, all wrong. Drake stared at his unwelcome house guest and fought the urge to tell her this had all been a mistake and she needed to leave—now. No matter how qualified she thought she was, she wasn't right for this job. He'd been specific in his request. Something her company had ignored. Well, so be it, he thought with a cold fist clenching his gut.

Follow me, he grunted and started up the stairs.

She didn't say a word but he could feel her behind him as he trudged up the sweeping staircase to the next floor. He turned right on the landing and headed toward the front of the house. She was to have Amelia's room. It made sense as the connecting bedroom had been cleared to be a studio for Boyle, now Ms. Anderson, to work in, but he had to force himself to suppress the shudder that threatened to run through him as he paused at the door.

Ever since childhood he'd had a morbid fascination with the old bedroom which both attracted and repelled him in equal proportions. There was something about it. Something not right. It was part and parcel of Colton Mansion, that sense of something off beat, out of sync with the rest of the world despite multiple redecorations and modernization through the generations.

He put down one of the cases to open the door. It swung easily on brass hinges as it had done for more than a hundred and thirty years.

Beautiful room, Ivy commented, moving past him and going straight to the window.

It was Amelia Colton’s bedroom. She was the original mistress of Colton mansion. It’s been updated, of course, but most of the furniture hasn't been changed since her time.

She didn't sleep with her husband?

He grimaced. Not if she could help it, from all accounts.

I understand he was very influential in the district.

He didn't want to get into all that now, not his forebear or the cursed lives that had followed him. He shouldn't have said anything. Now he'd probably gone and piqued her curiosity.

I'll leave you to get unpacked. The old dressing room has been converted to a bathroom and the room through there, he gestured to the connecting door, is where the painting is. Most of the furniture has been removed so there’s plenty of room for you to set up your equipment and there’s an armoire for storage, if you need it. Dinner is at eight. You will join me in the library at a quarter to. Bottom of the stairs, turn to your right, down the hall and then right again.

He made to leave but she put a hand out to stop him. Her touch was brief, almost accidental, but he continued to feel the imprint of her fingers through his sleeve even after she'd let him go.

Before you go, I was wondering if you could tell me one thing. Why here?

What do you mean?

Why wouldn't you ship the painting to us? Our studio offers a far better and, dare I say it, cleaner environment for the conservation.

My reasons are personal, he said bluntly. If you don't think you can complete the work here, you are welcome to go. You'll make it back to San Francisco in under an hour if you leave now.

Are you trying to get rid of me?

She faced him directly, a challenge