A Light in the Darkness: Polaris Mysteries, #1

By Crystal D. Budy

Forced to return home, he must face his family, his past, and the one man he could never win over.

 

Growing up the gay son of a wealthy, conservative mayor in a small town, Max Talbot learned early on that charm and manipulation were his best tools for survival. Now he uses those skills to con rich people out of their money. Sure, some may call that unethical but he sees it as helping them spend their money on something other than themselves for once.

 

Between running a bar and managing a ranch, Mike Carter barely has the energy to breathe, let alone deal with Max's games. But when Carter finds the body of his high school bully and Max's onetime best friend on his property, he no longer has a choice.

 

After the police rule the death an accident, Max decides to investigate, dragging Carter along with him. What they uncover goes deeper than they could have imagined and pulls them headfirst into a conspiracy that could tear the whole town apart—if it doesn't kill them first.

 

A Light in the Darkness is the first book in the Polaris Mysteries series, a mystery with glimmers of romance. It features a small town murder mystery, a snarky con man, a cinnamon roll bartender, an overly protective big brother, and bucket loads of sexual tension.
Note: While there is a HFN ending and the main mystery plot is resolved within the book, there is an overarching mystery that will encompass the series, and the relationship between the two main characters will develop throughout.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wicked Dreamer Press
• Release date: Nov 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798989379101

Crystal D. Budy

Crystal D. Budy has a Master's degree in psychology and utilizes her knowledge to develop flawed, layered characters.  She lives just outside Cleveland, Ohio with her husband of nearly twenty years and their clingy black cat, Monkey. An avid reader since childhood and writer since she was old enough to pick up a pen, she enjoys writing (and reading) about romance and mystery, particularly when they're combined.

Book preview

1

Max ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it out as he took a big chug of coffee. He’d driven nearly an hour to this godforsaken town to finish this job. It had better pan out. He checked the bags under his eyes in the rearview mirror of the borrowed Lexus.

Borrowed had a nice ring to it. The car would make it back to its owner, so as far as Max was concerned, that made it borrowed.

The heat slapped him in the face as he stepped onto the curb. He buttoned up his suit jacket and snagged his briefcase.

North Carolina humidity was unforgiving in late July, sticking in his throat as he took a breath. He slipped a finger inside his tie to loosen it.

The house came into sight as he rounded the corner. It was a massive rectangle with white siding and green shutters, surrounded by masterfully trimmed trees and bushes. Its fancy-ass columns held up what seemed like an absolutely unnecessary balcony that spanned the entire front of the house. Maybe that was where the wives of Confederate soldiers had gone to question their life choices.

As he walked up the steps, the front door swung open. Face pinched like she’d had thumbtacks for breakfast, with a body like a thick melted candle stuffed inside a neon green dress, Deidre Hollinger was the type of rich who had never known anything else. Born wanting for nothing, married into more money, and spent the next fifty years never bothering to figure out not everything revolved around her. In short, the exact type of person Max hated.

Because they were the people he’d spent over half his life around.

Her muddy eyes lit up, that pinched face breaking into a smile. Mr. Stocker. I’ve been waiting for you.

Mrs. Hollinger. Max took her hand, kissing the back of it.

She tittered, brushing a wisp of hair from her reddening face. Oh, Mr. Stocker. Stop.

He flashed a smile that practically made her melt, then motioned toward the door. Shall we?

It was a nice house; he’d give it that. The walls were cream with white trim. His mom probably would have squealed about the crown molding or something similarly ridiculous. Marble tile, refinished hardwood, large rugs that probably cost more than his car. A sweeping wood staircase led up to the second floor and showcased the impressively high ceiling, where a crystal chandelier dangled as a reminder to all: this home was expensive, and the people in it were, too. If that weren’t enough of a statement, the grand piano in the sitting room just inside the foyer was. He’d spent enough time around rich people to know they liked to show off, and this house screamed Look at me, look at me!

Deidre led him through the foyer into the living room. A grandfather clock and a china cabinet had been positioned on either side of a large marble fireplace that had likely first seen use in the 1800s. Ugh, god. The atrocities that had occurred within these walls. Whole damn place was probably haunted.

They settled onto the couch. Max placed his briefcase on the coffee table and popped it open. My client and I discussed what you were looking for, and he felt these were the best matches. He pulled a folder from the briefcase. I mentioned to him that you said your son was on the fence about you spending a lot of money—

She tsked, waving a hand. My son is crude and doesn’t understand art. He has no taste. Takes after his father, you know.

Max laughed when she laughed. Men. That made her laugh harder, so he did as well. Ugh. He needed a shower. We, of course, understand if you want to see the art in person before you pull the trigger, but that will cost extra. It’s a safeguard, you understand, because it’s so expensive to ship from overseas.

Of course.

Ah, the rich and gullible. He almost felt bad.

Almost.

Max opened the folder. Deidre scooted closer and gasped at the printouts. Max honestly didn’t understand art, but even he could tell the paintings were special—the strokes of color flowing through them like electric splashes.

She ran her fingers over the pages. Oh, they’re divine.

Max splayed the four prints out. He stubbed a finger on the most vibrant. The Kelmeche, he won’t go under fifteen, but for the other three he’s willing to do five apiece.

She gasped. Really? Such a steal.

You have no idea, lady.

I have the money, she said, as if her overpriced homestead weren’t proof enough. After Harold passed, I mean… She held her hands to her chest. Art comforts me. My son just doesn’t understand. Chewing on the edge of her nail, she stared at the prints. She turned to him and grinned. Let me get my checkbook.

Perfect.

That night, Max settled down onto a barstool, thirty grand richer. He scrolled through the contacts on his phone. Thirty grand. The old lady hadn’t even tried to haggle. It was a life-changing amount. He just donated to Ronald McDonald House last month. Maybe this time he’d go with the Trevor Project or American Foundation for Suicide Prevention…

Someone whooped, and a chorus of voices joined him. Max cast a glance at the group of good old boys, then up at a TV screen where the ball game was clearly going their way. They jumped around, clapping each other on the back, peanuts flying.

A bartender sidled up to Max. He had tan skin made even darker by the sun and long dark hair braided down his back. Those high cheekbones and dark eyes suggested Native American heritage, and his face lit up as he cracked a big smile. What can I get you?

Jack and Coke.

Coming right up.

The bartender swished his ass as he sauntered away.

Jesus, Max muttered, tilting his head to the side as he popped a peanut into his mouth.

As if on cue, his phone vibrated. Where the hell are you? A lead ball settled into the pit of his stomach. He tucked the phone away, focusing on the news on the other TV screen. He’d worry about that after a drink.

The anchor talked about the number of missing people in North Carolina and how the rates continued to rise, especially in western parts of the state near the Appalachian Mountains. Three young men—

A pair of big hands clamped down on his shoulders. He tensed. You Remington Stocker? a voice growled.

Oh, shit. Uh, no, I’m afraid not. You must have me— He yelped as the man hauled him off his seat. Max stumbled, barely keeping his footing as the larger man marched him unceremoniously toward the door.

The man shoved Max to the pavement. His palms stung as they scraped across the gritty surface. Look, man, you’ve got me confused with—

Max cut off as the man’s boot connected with his stomach. All the breath exploded from his lungs. He rolled into a ball, protecting his face and abdomen as the man landed a second kick that nearly made him vomit.

The man dragged him back to his feet. You fucked over my mom.

I think there’s been a—

When the punch came, it was telegraphed so hard Max ducked to the side, and the man only grazed him. Even so, white-hot fire burned from his ear through his whole body.

Max took hold of the man’s shirt and jammed a knee up into his crotch. The man doubled over.

Max grabbed his knife from its sheath on his hip. Brandishing it, he insisted, I’m not who you think I am.

Coming out of his crouch more quickly than Max would have hoped, the man pulled a gun from the small of his back and leveled it at Max. Max’s heart kicked up. No? You didn’t screw a sweet old lady out of thirty thousand dollars this afternoon?

Thirty thousand dollars was candy money to a woman like Deidre Hollinger, Max wanted to scream. But he didn’t want to eat a bullet. So he said, The check is in my wallet. Front left pocket.

I’m not putting my hand anywhere near your junk. The man’s jowls hung down like a bulldog’s, his eyes the color of granite. He motioned with the gun. Take it out. Slow!

With a sigh, Max handed over his wallet. The man pulled the check out of it and stuffed it into his pocket. He studied Max’s ID. Max Talbot, huh? He looked Max in the eye. Stay the fuck away from my mom, you piece of shit. He threw the wallet at Max’s feet and stalked off.

Max winced as he picked it up. He checked the ripped spot under the cards. The two hundred dollars he kept tucked away was still there. Max stuffed the knife back in its sheath. Then he limped back into the bar and drank his Jack and Coke, plus five more.

2

Max was pretty sure someone was trying to drill a hole into his skull through his eardrum, the incessant buzzing like a swarm of bees had taken up residence in his head.

It stopped. Then started again immediately. He whined, huddling under his blanket.

Ding. Ding. More buzzing. After a thunk, the buzzing grew louder.

He ripped the blanket off. Blinking away sleep, he peered over the edge of his bed. His phone lay on the dark wood, Violet’s picture staring back at him from the screen.

Crap. He grabbed the phone and pressed it to his ear. Yeah.

Nice to know you’re alive.

Hi to you, too, sis. What do you want?

Dad had a heart attack.

Max rolled onto his back and stared at the smooth white ceiling. His stomach folded in on itself. Grief, relief, or Jack Daniel’s? Maybe all three. When’s the funeral?

Jesus, Max. He isn’t dead.

You should probably lead with that next time. He sat up, then swallowed hard as nausea rolled over him like a bulldozer. Ugh.

Sorry to disappoint you, she said dryly.

No, it’s— He waved a hand. Which no made sense, because she couldn’t see him. Drank too much.

Her little hum spoke volumes. A mix of big shock, disappointment, and disgust. Mom wants you to come home.

Mom can call me herself. Or post about it. Bet it’s already on TikTok, huh? Did she use eye drops or conjure up some real tears this time?

Violet huffed out a laugh. You’re a real cynic, bro.

Yeah, well. You grew up in the same household I did. He dragged himself out of bed, onto the floor. On the spectrum of parental disappointment, I’m not sure new age pothead hippie beats deadbeat runaway queer, though. Sorry.

She actually cried, Max. For real. His heart stopped beating. They put him in a medically induced coma, and he has to have surgery. You might hate him, but she doesn’t. Her voice cracked a little as she added, I don’t.

He crawled into the bathroom. Dad wouldn’t give a shit if I were there. He’d prefer if I wasn’t.

Maybe. But Mom wants you to come. And so do I. Can you pull your head out of your ass long enough to give a shit about us for once?

Max muted the call and emptied his stomach. After wiping his mouth, he picked up the phone again. Fine. I’ll be there in a few hours. He hung up and pitched the phone into the corner. Fuck.

He showered and then stumbled toward the bedroom, stopping in the doorway. Water dripped from his hair onto his shoulders as he took in the mess before him: The shattered remnants of a vase in one corner, the hardwood stained from the water, the flowers dying. Ripped curtains. A long crack in the mirror, the culprit—a book—splayed open on top of the dresser.

The fight with Shawn worked its way out of the whiskey haze, and he nearly doubled back into the bathroom. Sabotaging yourself and our relationship, Shawn had said. Just like you always do. Just like you always will.

The ache in his chest was stronger than the ache in his head. Shawn wasn’t wrong. But yesterday hadn’t been about sabotaging. It was never about sabotaging. He just wanted to do something good in the world. Was that such a bad thing?

He stuffed some clothes into a bag and made his way down to his beat-up yellow Toyota. Would this thing even make it out of Charlotte, let alone to the other side of the state? It was old enough to drive itself and had enough miles on it to have gone around the earth ten times.

Max tossed the bag into the back, then winced as he flopped down in the driver’s seat, his kicked side twinging.

He pulled out his phone. Three texts from Shawn. That ache in his chest grew stronger. He clicked Call and waited.

Yeah.

Hey. Max cleared his throat. It’s me. Is it cool if I leave town for a while—

Why?

My sister called—

You don’t have a sister.

Max pinched the bridge of his nose. Yes, I do. I told you about her ages ago. Then he softened his tone and added, Remember? Violet? She has blue hair, kind of a hippie, runs like a yoga or Reiki joint or something?

Oh. Yeah. Sure. Shawn clearly didn’t remember. What about her?

My dad had a heart attack, and they need me back home for a few days, until we find out what’s going to happen. If he dies, it might be a bit longer, because I’d be expected at the funeral.

I should come with you.

Like some kind of nightmare loop, the memory of that vase exploding just inches from his head—he had cuts from the shards to prove it—repeated. Swish-boom-splash. Over and over until sweat broke out under his arms and claws sank into his gut. Nah, you’d hate it. Boring little town where nothing happens. We’d be the only gay guys there, surrounded by a bunch of rednecks.

He needed some time alone. He needed to breathe. He needed to figure out why the vase had been the last straw.

Also, aren’t you in the middle of that big case? Max added. Shawn loved knowing Max listened to him when he talked about work. The Brice one.

With a heavy sigh, Shawn said, Yeah. I can’t get out of that. Jasper would freak. After a long pause and another sigh, he said, Fine. Yeah. Go ahead. Call me every night, though.

Of course.

The silence had its own life force. Then Shawn said, Sorry about last night. Shouldn’t have lost my temper like that.

Swish-boom-splash. Yeah, same.

Do you need money for gas or a hotel?

Using the card would be a beacon straight to Willow Haven. Max had always kept that part of his life a secret. But he couldn’t live on the hundred-and-seventy-five bucks he had left. That would be great. Thank you. He cleared his throat. Love you.

Love you, too. Shawn disconnected.

Max tapped the phone against his hand. That had gone better than he’d expected.

So why did he feel like shit?

Maybe because he’d gotten the crap kicked out of him last night.

Or maybe because he was going back to hell’s anus.

When he turned the key, the car hiccuped, groaned, then finally squealed to life. He shifted it into gear, grumbling, Should have kept the Lexus.

Fourteen years ago, making the three-hour drive east to Charlotte had been the highlight of Max’s entire life. Freedom, for the first time in years. No more fancy dinners, no more parental expectations and disappointed looks. He’d had hopes, dreams, aspirations…

Had they all gone to shit within months? Yes.

Had everything been kind of messy the past decade and a half? Maybe.

But at least he hadn’t been in Willow Haven. Or around his father.

Although, to be fair, he’d kind of traded a shitty father for shitty partners.

Call me every night.

His chest tightened. Was it fair to lump Shawn in with his dad? With every other horrible man who’d used him? Maybe not. But that didn’t stop him from going twenty minutes off route to get gas and pull the rest of the money out at the register.

Downtown Willow Haven hadn’t changed much in fourteen years. Same old brick buildings in rows, same bookstore, same hardware store, same big library at the end of the block.

The bridge over the river had seen improvement since he was a teen. The foundation used to be crumbling so badly you could pull off bits of concrete with your hands. Once, in elementary school, he and Scott Carter had talked Scott’s brother Mike into ripping off a handful and chucking it into the river just as Ranger Wallace had wandered down the walking path. Wallace had blistered their asses and sent them packing. Something about defacing government property.

Scott had thought the whole thing was hilarious. His brother, not so much.

The Talbot mansion—it could be called little else—was set at the northwest end of Willow Haven, nearly as far out as you could get without crossing the town line. His great-grandfather had built it at the end of a cul-de-sac the better part of a century ago, and it had been passed between generations ever since. With its garish marble lions at the gate, its expertly maintained topiaries, and its dozens of gleaming windows, it gave a whole new meaning to the term over-the-top. It was a relic of the past, and Max hated the goddamn place.

Max parked near the garage. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly let it out. Couple hours over the mountains and he could be in Tennessee. Then Kentucky. Just drive and drive until he ran out of gas.

The garage rolled open.

Was it too late to fake his death?

Violet stood in the garage, her short cobalt hair loose around her face. Her blue eyes were bloodshot and hazy. Barely noon and she was already higher than Willie Nelson.

With a sigh, Max pulled his Toyota into the garage.

As soon as he opened his door, she threw her arms around him. It’s so good to see you!

He returned the hug, ignoring the pang in his chest and how good it felt to have someone hold him without consequence. You, too, kid.

She subtly wiped her eyes as she pulled back. Mom’s inside. She’s… in a mood.

What else is new?

Frowning, she peered into the car, then raised her eyebrows at him. Where’s your other half?

Shawn has a big case. Can’t make it. He grabbed his bag. Maybe don’t mention him to Mom? She’ll make a thing of it.

You mean she’ll make a video about it?

That, too.

The interior of the house hadn’t changed. Same dark wood floors that shone like ice, same overly sparkling white walls, same boring pieces of artwork the maid never allowed a speck of dust on. It was like he’d never left.

God, what a scary thought.

Mom! Violet called. Max is here.

Cursing broke out from the living room. Then frantic footsteps. As they entered the room, Max was greeted with a phone camera in his face.

My baby boy has finally come home, his mom cooed, as if she were mother of the goddamn year. Oh, I’ve missed him so much. Look at how good he looks, everyone. She patted his cheek, then gave him a kiss on the opposite one, somehow holding the phone the entire time.

When she turned off the recording, she stepped back to fiddle with something on the screen.

Hi, Mom, Max said. So glad to see you drop the act now that your followers can rejoice that I’m home.

She jerked her head up, her mouth forming an O. Don’t take that tone with me, Maxwell. You don’t call; you don’t text; you don’t even follow me on TikTok!

I don’t have TikTok.

The O got bigger. Then her face melted into something close to affection. She tucked her phone away—the world was ending—and stepped close to wrap him in her arms. I am happy to see you.

Not as happy as your followers, I’m sure.

She gave him a soft cuff on the back of the head. Just shush up and hug your mother, Maxwell.

With a sigh, he returned the hug. When was the last time his mother had hugged him like this? Tenth grade? Seventh? He tightened his arms around her.

Audrey pulled back, looking him over, brushing a few strands from his face. You’ve let your hair get long.

He touched where it barely fell past his ears. Not really.

You look very nice, baby. Have you seen your dad yet?

Max ignored the roil in his gut. No. I came straight here.

Oh! She patted his shoulder. Let me finish this video, and we can go visit him.

Panic rose in his chest. I—

I’ll take him, Violet said. I have to get back to the studio, anyway, so I’m heading into town. She gave her mom a kiss on the cheek. Just relax.

Face buried in her phone, Audrey smiled. Of course, dear. Then she wandered away, eyes still on the screen.

Max dropped his bag off in his old room—the only room in the whole house that had changed. As a teen, he’d papered the walls with posters. Mostly boy bands. When he’d escaped, he’d left a lot behind. Things he didn’t need or didn’t care about. Baseball trophies, books, video games. He’d shoved as much stuff into his bags as would fit and said goodbye to the rest.

The room now looked like any other guest room in the house: a plain bed with plain sheets and dull, lifeless white walls. Had the pavement even cooled from his car’s tires before his dad had the place gutted to remove all evidence that he’d ever lived there?

His phone beeped. Shawn. You make it there yet?

With a small sigh, Max texted back. Yeah, going to the hospital to see my dad. I’ll call later.

Why did you pull out cash?

Good question, he thought. But he texted back, The stupid hotels around here don’t even have credit card machines. How fucked is that? I’ll save the receipts.

Good.

Then, as if it were an afterthought, Shawn had added, Love you.

Max bit his tongue so hard it hurt, responding the same, and then shoved his phone in his pocket and his feelings as far down as he possibly could before he left the bedroom.

As he and Violet reached the garage, she said, You owe me.

Is he awake?

Not yet, she said. I guess it was cardiac arrest? I don’t know. They just said his heart stopped. They did a heart catheterization, which they described like an X-ray of the blood vessels, and his arteries were blocked. It was pretty bad, so they’ve been talking about bypass surgery.

Max hadn’t known Perry Talbot had a heart, let alone one that could try to kill him. Thinking about going into town and hiding for a while. Can you tell Mom I visited him? Please? I’ll owe you times ten.

Times infinity.

Bullshit. He playfully shoved her.

She gaped at his car as he got in and shut the door. What’s with the junker?

It has character. It made an awful whine as he backed it out of the garage. He pointedly ignored her cackle as he sped off.

The rest of Talbot Lane—yes, it was named after his family, and it was terribly embarrassing—showcased overpriced, unnecessarily large homes with expensively landscaped yards. All it lacked was life. No dogs in the front yard, no