Rhyme or Reason: A Small Town Mystery

By Kelly Mathewson

"Welcome to the small town of Millville, where a string of brutal murders has left residents on edge. The only clue in the case is a series of cryptic rhyming messages left at the crime scenes, scrawled in spray paint. As the body count rises, detective Eric Holden races to solve the case before the killer strikes again. But with no leads and a town full of potential suspects, Holden will have to use all his skills to track down the murderer before it's too late. Will he be able to catch the culprit and bring justice to Millville, or will the killer continue to elude capture? Find out in this edge-of-your-seat murder mystery that will have you guessing until the very end."

• Language: English
• Publisher: CDH Publishing House
• Release date: Jan 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215064436

Kelly Mathewson

A hard-nosed Sagittarius, Kelly Mathewson experiences our vast universe as a being with many lives. A successful Attorney, Mediator, and Podcast producer, she writes books, novels and short stories based somewhat on her many experiences. Jack of all Trades… Master of Nothing Deal Maker, Deal Breaker, Negotiator and always a citizen of the Imagination.

Book preview

Chapter 1

W h-What do you want dude? the man yelled frantically, crawling desperately to get away.

The dude in question had come out of absolutely fucking nowhere and started beating the living shit out of him. He bet he had some fractured ribs. And his nose. Yeah. Definitely broken. Blood was flowing freely from it and every once and a while he would get a taste of the revolting metallic liquid as it seeped its way into his mouth.

The guy laughed. He laughed. And it wasn't one of those sardonic chuckles that people were so fond of using when they found absolutely no humor in their situation. It was an honest to goodness laugh. Sounded like the guy was enjoying himself. Like there was nothing he enjoyed more than beating somebody to a bloody pulp. And as he looked into those eyes that sparkled with absolute mirth he knew he was a fucking dead man.

The guy lunged.

Shit, he cried scrambling across the mulch. Pieces of the chipped wood stuck in his hands as he fumbled to get distance between himself and his attacker. He remembered how he would make a fuss whenever he got a splinter playing here as a kid. But the little slivers of wood seemed trivial when put against his other injuries.

It hurt so fucking much.

Breathing had never been so painful.

He had thought the evening perfect to spend time in the park. He loved to walk along the path that wove around the perimeter of the recreational area watching as friends and families took advantage of the play area and grills.

When they left as the sun started setting he stayed, content to rest in the semi-wet grass and watch the stars. It was a beautiful night for stargazing new moon and clear as he had ever seen. And there was hardly any light pollution. Every once in a while he saw a satellite whizzing by. It was during the stargazing that his world was eclipsed by the figure of the man who was making him regret his decision to watch the stars.

Really regret it.

The man kicked him in the side. Hard.

He dimly wondered if this is what it felt like to be hit by a train. Probably not. Those people were lucky enough to die when they were struck. A quick pain and then oblivion. This guy had been playing with him slowly for the last hour.

He was tired of it. So very tired. He took a shallow breath that ended with a hiss as his ribs protested the effort and decided he would beg. Beg the guy to leave him alone.

I'll give you all of my money. Please! Please! Anything to make it stop, his voice broke at the end and was overtaken by hiccupping sobs.

The desperate attempt sparked nothing but annoyance on the hooded countenance of his attacker.

Tyson, Tyson,' the man drawled almost lazily, I don't want your money," he said this as if it were common knowledge he had to explain carefully to an unusually slow-witted individual. An individual that should have known exactly why he was there.

The guy reached into his leather coat and Tyson feared the worst. He was obviously going for some kind of weapon. Tyson's heart hammered in his chest. This was it. The guy was really going to kill him. Finding what he was looking for the man pulled out his weapon.

Tyson almost cried in relief. It was a water bottle. Nothing bad ever came from a water bottle. He briefly wondered if he was on some kind of fucked up new reality show that was a cross between Scare Tactics and Dog Eat Dog.

He watched as the man unscrewed the lid of the bottle and half expected the guy to take a drink. But no. The bottle was lobbed right at the kid.

Direct hit.

Completely Soaked.

Tyson sputtered. The bottle had smacked him right in the head. He spit some of the foul tasting liquid out of his mouth.

Water didn't taste like that.

He had never had anything that tasted like that. He sniffed, taking as big a breath as he could muster with his damaged ribs. And identified the liquid.

Gasoline.

Shit.

Tyson looked up with fear in his eyes. There was no way this was a reality show. It was too fucked up even for them. His breath was coming in sharp gasps. He was panicking somewhere between hyperventilating, crying and wanting to faint. His ribs hurt, his head was pounding and all he smelled was the putrid aroma of gasoline.

Why had he come here alone? His girlfriend had offered halfheartedly to come to the park with him. But being the nice boyfriend he was, he said she could stay back, like he knew she wanted to, and watch the latest episode of American Idol. He told her he'd be fine. She should enjoy her show. Now he was frantically trying to find anyone around him at this ridiculous hour to help him. Why had he told Abby he'd be fine.

He was so not fine it wasn't even funny.

Wait...

The guy knew his name.

He wished, not for the first time, that he could just make out the guy's face, but the hood on his sweatshirt was over his head, successfully blocking his features in the abundant shadows of a night with no moon. Every once in a while he would catch a glimpse of those eyes, but nothing more. Do I know you? he asked slowly, really dreading the answer he might get. The voice hadn't sounded familiar, but he had never been good at recognizing voices.

There was that disturbingly gleeful laugh again, No, but I know you.

Why would this psycho know him? Tyson whimpered. He didn't want to be one of those stories parents told their children to scare them. Didn't want to be the reason people wouldn't let their kids out after dark saying, Remember that Fitzgerald boy?

There was something in the guy's left hand. A flickering. Glowing.

He was still advancing on Tyson. And it felt like for every move Tyson made away from the guy he made two strides toward Tyson. In short he was gaining in him.

As he got closer Tyson realized the glowing light was one of those automatic lighters.

Fire.

Fuck was he in trouble.

Fire + gasoline= a very bad end to Tyson's day.

There was something in the guy's other hand. A can.

Tyson had been so transfixed on the flame that he missed the man pull it out of his jacket. The guy was shaking it. Tyson heard the clanking of the small metal ball as it bounced around inside the can.

A spray paint can.

The guy held the torch at arm's length and positioned the aerosol can directly behind it. As he realized what was about to happen, Tyson's bladder failed and he made a frantic attempt to distance himself from the guy.

But the man's index finger was quicker. All he did was push down on the little white nozzle of the can. A jet of fire burst from the homemade flamethrower.

Tyson screamed as the fire engulfed him. The attacker smiled listening to the screams of his first victim as the flames licked his flesh. Music to his ears.

The finest aria he had ever heard. Screams accompanied by the crackling of flames. Perfect. He moaned in satisfaction and pleasure. But all too soon the cries subsided leaving nothing but a smoldering corpse behind. But, God did he love that smell.

He remembered fondly the first time he smelled burning flesh. His mom had annoyed him, letting that miserable excuse for a feline companion pee on his favorite pair of boots. The cat was always ruining his stuff. Well, he made sure that animal would never be able to do anything like that to his belongings ever again. He found it in the house and took it into the bathroom. There he wrestled it into the tub holding it there with one hand while he reached for the pocket knife that his dad had bought him for his tenth birthday. His dad always insisted he carried it, never knew it would actually come in handy.

The cat knew something was up and struggled, clawing at the surface of the tub, but he was stronger. He held it there, hand tightly around its neck, and skinned it alive. He let out a joyful laugh. He should have done this ages ago. It was fun. About halfway through the bloody process he began applying more pressure to the feline's neck until eventually he crushed its windpipe. He