Dying to Tell

By Juan Mendez Scott

Get ready to dive into the gripping mystery that follows Kriss, a 19-year-old author, on his relentless quest to uncover the truth behind his mother's tragic murder. In "Dying to Tell," you'll be transported into a world of intrigue, suspense, and emotional depth as Kriss navigates a web of secrets, lies, and unexpected connections.

 

As Kriss delves deeper into his investigation, he unravels layers of deceit and uncovers shocking truths about those closest to him. The suspense builds with every page, keeping you on the edge of your seat as you join him in his relentless pursuit of justice.

 

"Dying to Tell" is not just a mystery; it's a story of redemption, growth, and the strength that comes from facing one's past. Kriss's journey serves as a reminder that sometimes the road to closure is paved with unexpected revelations.

 

Are you ready to embark on a journey of suspense, emotion, and self-discovery? Pick up "Dying to Tell" today and lose yourself in a world where the search for truth could change everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Juan Mendez Scott Publishing
• Release date: Dec 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223482048

Juan Mendez Scott

Juan Mendez Scott is an accomplished author with over 20 fiction books to his credit, specializing in the mystery and psychological suspense genres. With a keen eye for detail and an innate ability to create complex characters and gripping plotlines, Juan's novels have captivated readers around the world. Born and raised in Southern Maryland, Juan draws inspiration from the natural beauty and rich history of the region, infusing his stories with a sense of place and authenticity. When he's not writing, Juan enjoys hiking, fishing, and spending time with his family.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Emerging from the dense, solid fog, my mother materialized like a ghostly spirit, her form horrifically splashed with a fresh crimson tide. The sight assaulted my senses, sending an icy knife of terror that set my heart pounding like crazy against my ribs. She reached out in desperation, her voice a haunting plea for help. But I was rooted to the spot, my feet heavy anchors in the cool, dewy grass, my mind a whirlwind of shock and disbelief.

Her eyes, once clear and radiant, now squinted through a scarlet veil, seared by the relentless stream of blood that wrecked her vision. She strained to distinguish my silhouette against the dizzying backdrop of the fog, the mist swallowing the details of my horrified expression. A mere breath away from her, I was lost in the choking haze and her blood-blinded gaze.

She was so weak from the blood loss, her knees buckled. Blood spilling out of her mouth, she said, Kriss... help me—

Emerging from the murky depths of the unseen, her killer materialized like a vengeful phantom. With a swift and chilling motion, the butcher’s knife was raised high, glinting ominously in the moonlit night. It was a weapon of a bloodbath, poised to carve another bloody chapter into her fragile existence.

The air became dense with a metallic tang, as if the very essence of life bled into the atmosphere. Time seemed to slow down, each heartbeat echoing like a distant thunderclap in the chamber of my chest. Shadows danced and contorted, growing like the outstretched claws of a vicious predator, announcing the impending strike.

In that moment, her fragile form became a painting of devastation, a testament to the savagery of her assailant’s intentions. Blood spilled forth, an unholy cascade, transforming her into a macabre canvas of crimson hues.

The scene unfolded like a twisted ballet, an unholy choreography of despair and brutality. It drew itself into the recesses of my mind, a vivid scar that would forever remind me of the depths of human darkness.

And just like that...it was over.

My eyelids flung open, a desperate act to interrupt the horrific picture before he could plunge his weapon into her once more. Each dreadful dream about my mother’s violent end played out with the relentless precision of a tapping devise, yet the identity of her assassin remained a maddening enigma.

In these nocturnal torments, the killer was an embodiment of shadow, a living silhouette clad in an obsidian shroud. Despite the vibrant panorama of my dreamscape, his face remained an inscrutable void, as if deliberately concealing itself from the light of recognition. Each nightmare played out like a chilling dance of anonymity, with the murderer remaining an elusive phantom, forever cloaked in ominous black.

I awoke with a start, as though an electric current had surged through my body, instantly propelling me from the haunting specters of my sleep. This was the bitter routine when my mother’s demise invaded my dreams, wrenching me violently back into reality as I crawled from beneath the suffocating comfort of my covers.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I struggled to regain my composure, feeling as though I had been plunged into the heart of a tornado. My skin was slick with sweat, the remnants of a battle fought in the arena of my subconscious. My lean frame, barely cresting 5’7 and tipping the scale just shy of a hundred and fifty pounds, felt like it had been pummeled in a championship bout that could have ended in my defeat.

Yet, this phantom opponent was no ordinary adversary — it was the monstrous killer that had claimed my mother’s life. In the face of such a foe, I felt a surge of Herculean strength. I would have hoisted a bus overhead and brought it crashing down on this killer, if it meant I could rewrite that cursed night.

Every day, I indulged in these fantasies of heroic intervention, of plucking my mother from the jaws of fate. They had been my constant companions since that tragic day when I was just nine years old. They were my refuge, my penance, and my constant torment.

I started to thank God it was only a dream. But I couldn’t say that. Because it really happened. Ten years ago. Some maniac stabbed my mother to death on Cedar Avenue in Fort Washington, Maryland. In the middle-upper-class neighborhood of Piscataway Hills.

My turbulent awakening disrupted Alysia’s slumber, the chaotic thrashing in our shared bed impossible to ignore. A pang of guilt crept over me as her sleepy eyes fluttered open; I detested the thought of my nightmares becoming her midnight disturbances.

She rallied against the the sleep she needed and propped herself up, offering solace in the form of gentle circles traced along the landscape of my tense back. The room was draped in darkness, the world outside lulled into tranquility under the balmy veil of a spring night.

Clothed in the casual armor of a t-shirt and boxers, I could feel the warm night air softly caress my exposed skin. Alysia, equally under dressed for the warm evening, donned a similar t-shirt and a pair of lace-kissed panties. Her unruly curls, usually a wild cascade, were now tamed into an up do, an island of order in the chaotic sea of our midnight conscious.

You okay? she asked me.

I had to take a moment to gather my thoughts, to understand what was going on, to straight up get myself together. I keep dreaming about my mother, I said, shaking my head.

My girl studied me. I could tell—out of concern—that she was going to dig deeper. She said, You think you might need help for that?

I lifted my head, giving it some thought. Getting help meant that I needed help. And I’m sure I did. But I didn’t want to worry Alysia and my aunt Vivian, my mother’s younger sister, who raised me. I want to get help, I said. But at the same time, the only way I can deal with this is finding out who murdered my mother.

I reached over to the trusty companion on my bedside table, a chilled bottle of water acting as my anchor in these turbulent moments. The cool liquid slipped down my throat, a refreshing balm to my rattled nerves.

My sanctuary, the room where I sought solace, was comfortably spacious, a testament to my indulgence in personal space. Its centerpiece was a sprawling king-sized bed, while my writing desk held court beneath the window that framed my preferred view of the world outside.

An earthy touch of sophistication graced the room, thanks to the rich, chocolate-toned wooden panels that lined the walls, transforming my personal space into a novelist’s sanctuary. Dotting this backdrop, posters of book covers created wall hangings of my literary heroes. Walter Mosley, my favorite, held prime position, followed by the enigmatic allure of Gillian Flynn’s ‘Gone Girl.’

The suspenseful narratives of Elmore Leonard, the magical universes of J.K. Rowling, and the chilling worlds of Stephen King all found representation on my walls, like constellations in my personal literary sky. And in these prominent figures, a beacon shone brighter than the rest - a larger-than-life poster of my mother, her brilliant writing career cruelly extinguished by an unnamed villain. Her smile, forever captured in print, served as a constant reminder of a light lost too soon.

The tribute to my mother was a solid canvas, the contrast effect lending an air of timeless beauty. Captured mid-repose, she lay sprawled across a bed, her form a gentle arc, belly-down with her legs playfully folded at the knees and crisscrossed in the air.

Her gaze was a silent poem, aimed directly at the lens — a soft symphony of melancholy and wisdom. It was the same iconic portrait that graced the back of her bestselling book, a snapshot of the enigma she was.

Upon entering my bedroom, that poster was the undisputed showstopper, a stark contrast in the colorful riot of book cover art. Its commanding presence, under my deliberate orchestration, ensured it seized your attention, much like a lighthouse in the turbulent sea of my literary inspirations.

Alysia scooted her tiny body up behind me, wrapping her arms and legs around my waist. She said, Kriss, you haven’t been getting any sleep because of these dreams. And that’s dangerous. You can’t keep driving around like this. And on top of that...I’m starting to worry about you. Having her in my life was similar to winning a billion dollar lottery hit. Her features were sketched in my heart: the fathomless depth of her sorrow-tinged hazel eyes, the untamed wildness of her eyebrows, the endearing warmth of her smile, and her skin - as velvety and rich as cinnamon bark.

I had always scoffed at the notion of love at first sight, relegating it to the realm of trite clichés. Yet, destiny had a knack for proving me wrong. The first glimpse I caught of Alysia struck me like a lightning bolt, sketching her image onto the canvas of my heart. It was our maiden year at Saint Mary’s College, nestled in the serene landscape of southern Maryland. I watched her emerge from her sleek Benz truck, the weariness of a long journey clouding her features. A tide of uncertainty swept over me, making me hesitate to approach her.

Our relationship transcended the conventional bounds of romance; we weren’t merely a couple but best friends who shared an unspeakable bond. We resonated on so many frequencies, our common passion for writing serving as a robust foundation. I had always aspired to follow in my mother’s literary footsteps, and Alysia embraced my dream with open arms. She devoured my creations, offering insights with a discerning eye and an editor’s flair. And so, our romance was kindled - an intricate dance of words, dreams, and shared aspirations.

I got up and walked over to my desk, looking out the window up at the full moon. My aunt Vivian... she doesn’t enjoy talking about it, and I don’t blame her. But I’m going to talk some more with her about it.

Don’t you think if she knew anything about your mother’s murder... wouldn’t she tell you?

I gave it some thought, glancing back at Alysia. I always had a feeling my aunt Vivian knew more about my mother’s murder than she was telling me. She just didn’t enjoy talking about it, always bottling up her pain. I think she’s always had a feeling who she thinks murdered my moms. And I need to talk to her about these people. Whoever these people are.

Alysia looked at me, concerned, placing her feet on the floor. Maybe you need to talk to the police about that.

I thought about talking to the police about it? I don’t know. Seems like if they knew something, they would have told me and my aunt something by now.

It sounds like dangerous territory you’re getting into. Because I’m sure the people who had something to do with your mother’s murder don’t want to be caught. And they will not want to talk to you either.

I know they will not want to talk to me, but I’m going to talk to them, anyway. Whether they want to talk to me, or not.

Alysia nodded her head, giving it some thought. I would rather for you to let the police handle it. This is something that could be too dangerous to mess with, Kriss.

Yeah, but the police had their chance to solve this case. And I’ve decided. I will not grow old waiting for them to solve my mother’s murder.

Alysia gave me a slight nod. I understand.

My mother’s book pissed a lot of people off. I guess I’ll start there.

Alysia curled back into bed, staring up at me. Okay, so, how are you going to go about this?

I turned away from the window to face Alysia, thinking about it. Wondering what I was going to do next.

Chapter 2

Alysia drove down Route 5 towards Saint Mary’s County that Monday morning. That’s the way we always took to get to school from Fort Washington. Straight shot. I always let her drive whenever I wanted to get some sleep, which was most of the time.

Awakening from my slumber, my gaze instinctively rambled around, calculating the remaining stretch of road before reaching the familiar embrace of our campus. It was late May, the sun hanging in the sky like a radiant jewel, its luminescent optimism making it impossible not to bask in the joy of existence.

At the precipice of self-publishing my debut novel, and on the cusp of inaugurating my publishing venture alongside Alysia, my soon-to-be spouse, I had ample reasons to be swept away by the exhilarating tide of life. The tapestry of my existence was being woven with vibrant threads of achievement and anticipation.

Yet, inside this vivid spectrum, one dark chasm persisted, an unfinished chapter that haunted me. The gnawing void, a relentless quest for justice that clung to me like a shadow, was to unmask the faceless demon who had stolen my mother from me and the world. Until that puzzle piece found its place, my life’s picture would remain incomplete.

So after waking up, I raised my seat. I see you’re up, Alysia said.

I nodded, trying to get myself together. That little nap felt good.

I know it did. You’re not getting enough sleep.

Yeah, I know. Alysia looked at me, curious. I want to ask you something. Do you think if your mother’s killer—If they ever catch this person—will it give you some peace of mind? Because you need it.

I nodded my head. And after thinking about it, I said Oh, of course.

And of course, you could move on with your life.

I gave it some thought. Then I looked over at Alysia, concerned about our relationship. My concern was I didn’t want me trying to find my mother’s killer getting between my marriage to Alysia. Well, I’m planning to move on with my life anyway... you know... getting married... having kids. We’re still going to do that.

Alysia nodded her head, glad to hear it. Because right now... your life is at a standstill. It’s like it’s on pause right now or something.

After thinking about it, I grinned to myself. Well... You know... It’s just something I can’t get off my mind right now. I don’t know... Maybe it’s a phase I’m going through... I don’t know what it is.

I don’t think it’s a phase, baby, it’s... grieving... you know, you’re still grieving.

Yeah. Maybe that’s what it is.

It’s like your life can’t go on until you find out what happened to your mother.

Alysia looked over at my reaction and sort of nodded, if I had any arguments against that fact. And I said, No. You get no argument from me here.

She said, Did you want me to set you up with a doctor’s appointment?

I shook my head. I wanted no doctor toying around inside my head, trying to convince me not to look for my mother’s killer. No, I don’t need a doctor. I need a detective and... that detective is going to be me.

Alysia gave me a look. That’s not a good idea. She said, Kriss... when your mother’s killer finds out you’re trying to solve her murder... he’s going to come after you. You know that—right?

She said, Did you want me to set you up with a doctor’s appointment?

I shook my head. I wanted no doctor toying around inside my head, trying to convince me not to look for my mother’s killer. No, I don’t need a doctor. I need a detective and... that detective is going to be me. Alysia gave me a look. That’s not a good idea. She said,

Kriss... when your mother’s killer finds out you’re trying to solve her murder... he’s going to come after you. You know that—right?

She reached over and held my hand. Tight. I turned my body to face her, and I stared at her, so much in love. She blushed. You know I will not let you go through this by yourself, she said, still holding my hand, driving with the other, not taking her eyes off the road.

And you know I will let nothing happen to you, I said. I would die first.

Well. Alysia said, the last thing we need is anyone of us getting killed.

No. We definitely don’t need that. Do we?

Chapter 3

It was the climactic finals week at Saint Mary’s College, Maryland, the academic battlefield where knowledge would be put to the ultimate test. As we arrived that morning, the campus was already buzzing with a symphony of activity.

Clusters of students meandered their way to their decisive battlegrounds — the classrooms, their faces a mix of anticipation and apprehension. Others lounged around in animated groups, their conversations a colorful cacophony that punctuated the academic air.

But, most were huddled in focused solitude, textbooks flung open like ancient scrolls. They were cramming in final snippets of knowledge, their eyes darting over pages with the frantic intensity of hummingbirds. These last-minute study sessions were the intellectual equivalent of a sprinter’s final lunge at the finish line.

There was an unmistakable charm about our school, its geographical placement, and the enveloping ambiance that I adored. Saint Mary’s College, founded in the middle of the 19th century, stood as a proud testament to the liberal arts tradition, nestled in the historical folds of Saint Mary’s City, Maryland.

Our campus was a fascinating blend of the contemporary and the historical, sharing its space with Historic Saint Mary’s City, the cradle of Maryland’s inaugural colony and original capital. The college was an oasis in the wild, its boundaries caressed by the lapping waters of the Saint Mary’s River and the majestic Potomac River, and encased in an amphitheater of endless expanses of lush lands and whispering trees.

An honors college, home to a close-knit community of about 1,800 scholars, it was a lighthouse of knowledge offering bachelor’s degrees and a master’s program. We prided ourselves on emulating the reputation of elite liberal arts colleges, a unique fusion of academic rigor and experiential learning. Our campus was revered as one of the foremost archaeological treasures in the United States.

Hand in hand, Alysia and I meandered towards the Montgomery Hall Fine Arts Center, our shadows stretching out on the flagstone path. As we reached the crossroads, we parted ways, venturing off to our respective classes like two tributaries branching off from a river.

Alysia said, Hey, you.

I said, What’s up?

She said, On the way home, I want to stop by Mom’s organic, pick up some sugarless candy.

Cool.

She smiled. Think you can stay out of trouble till then?

I chuckled. I’m sure gonna try, I said, staring into her eyes. I kissed my baby on the lips and said, See you later.

See you, she said, heading off to class. And good luck.

Grinning, I said, You know we got this. And we did. We aced our finals. Alysia and I didn’t play around when it came to getting good grades and graduating from college. We couldn’t wait to be done with school so we could run our publishing empire.

As the day dwindled, I found myself wrestling with the final stretch of my examinations. Yet, my thoughts were persistently haunted by the terrifying phantom of my mother’s murder, a chilling dream that had snared me the previous night.

This disturbing ghost gnawed at my peace, urging me into aimless wanderings across the hallowed grounds of our campus after the dismissal of my last class. I was pulled, as if by a magnetic force, towards the Freedom of Conscience statue, a comforting sentinel that was one of my favorite haunts.

There, on the faithful bench that had borne witness to countless musings, I sat. My gaze was lost in the serpentine dance of the Saint Mary’s River, the rhythmic lapping of its waters serving as a soothing soundtrack to my internal turmoil. Each ripple seemed to echo my silent contemplation about my mother, as if the river was trying to assuage my torment with its serene tales.

In this solitary communion with nature, I lingered, letting the passage of time blur into insignificance as I awaited Alysia’s emergence from her final class.

When she came out of class, Alysia and I—as we did a lot on our way back to Fort Washington—stopped at Mom’s Organic in Waldorf, Maryland.

I said, "Hey, look, I wanna run across the street to the Books-A-Million bookstore real quick. I wanna see something."

Alysia said, Okay.

I won’t be long. I just wanna holler at Mr. Hank real quick.

Okay. See you in a minute. Don’t forget to tell Mr. Hank you got a book coming out soon.

I will.  

Steering my way across the bustling artery of Crain highway, I found myself pulled towards Books-A-Million, a literary sanctuary conveniently positioned across from the humming hive of Best Buy.

Upon entering, I was immediately greeted by a familiar sight, a bittersweet pang tugging at my heartstrings. My mother’s book—‘Time to Tell’—graced the shelves of the memoirs section, its spine lined up like a silent sentinel amongst tales of other lives.

The store was a vibrant tableau of bibliophiles lost in the labyrinth of literature, their fingers lightly tracing the spines of potential adventures. In the café corner, individuals huddled over cups of frothy Lattes and creamy Cappuccinos, their minds journeying through the pages before them.

An air of anticipation swirled around a middle-aged woman diligently setting up a book signing station, her desk dwarfed by an ambitious box of books awaiting the caress of the author’s pen.

And, reigning over this kingdom of words was Mr. Hank, ensconced behind the counter, his attention enraptured by the resonant words of James Baldwin’s ‘New Country’, his eyes tracing each line like a pilgrim on a sacred journey.

Walking up to him I said, Hey, how’s it going Mr. Hank?

Mr. Hank looked up from the book and smiled, glad to see me. He said, Kriss, is that you?

I said, Yeah, it’s me. How ya been?

Mr. Hank, leaning over the counter with the agility of a cat, extended his hand for a firm shake. He was a compelling figure, his skin a rich canvas of ebony, and he was in the twilight years of his thirties. A pair of dark gray eyes, mysterious as a foggy morning, were nestled beneath bushy eyebrows, a stark contrast to his polished, bald head.

His hand, a powerful appendage similar to a blacksmith’s hammer, had the potential to shatter bones with its grasp. But enveloped in the camaraderie of our shared passion for writing, the grip he laid on mine was a salute rather than a battle, an acknowledgment of our kindred spirits rather than a test of strength.

Doing alright, he said, sitting the book down on the counter. Hanging in there.

That’s good, that’s good. Mr. Hank looked over at my mother’s books sitting on the bookshelves, impressed. He said, Man, you know your mother’s book is still selling big?

I smiled, nodding. You know I know. It stays in and out of the top ten. Yeah, it goes away and... next thing you know, it’s... right back in the top ten.

Yeah. That’s what’s up.

So, how is your book coming?

I’m almost finished with my book. Just a few more chapters to go. It’s coming.

Good, good.

Alysia is about to finish up the editing on it. She’s a brilliant editor, she’s the editor of our school’s newspaper at Saint Mary’s College.

Oh, is she? How is she doing?

She’s doing all right, I said, smiling, proud. You know... that’s my better half. Mr. Hank chuckled. You know how that is. Every good man got a good woman standing right behind him.

And she’s definitely doing that.

Mr. Hank looked at me, and it was a mix of sadness and concern. I knew what was coming next, as always. He said, Hey, did they ever find out what happened to your mother? Well, not find out, but... you know I’m saying.

I said, You mean did they ever find her killer? I masked my sadness with a grin. No. No, they.... I shook my head. Nothing yet.

Mr. Hank looked as disappointed as I was. Oh, okay.

Unfortunately, no, not yet. We will soon, Mr. Hank. We will soon. And it felt as though as if I just said that. But a part of me was serious. What if I actually looked into my mother’s murder?

The tall, athletically built woman setting up the book signing walked over to us, her high heels killing the floor, echoing around the store. She said, I’m just about done, Hank. She was in her early fifties, with deep set light brown eyes and long braided hair.

Kriss, I want you to meet someone, Mr. Hank said, flirting with her, smiling. This beautiful young lady here is publisher Dina Bledsoe. Mrs. Bledsoe turned and faced me. And this young man here... this is Crystal Layke’s son... Kriss.

Mrs. Bledsoe’s mouth dropped to her high heels. I smiled, holding out my hand. She said, You’re Crystal Layke’s son?

Yes, ma’am, I said. Nice to meet you.

Mrs. Bledsoe held my hand a long time, looking at me like a proud mom. I could see the love she had for my mother in her eyes. It is a pleasure to meet you, she said. "Your mother’s book is still one of our best-selling books.

Yes ma’am, I said, smiling, I know. I check up on it now and then.

Kriss has a book coming out soon himself, Mr. Hanks said.

Mrs. Bledsoe looked at me, more proud. She said, What’s your genre? I write psychological suspense, I said. The crime, mystery and suspense, genre. For a second she looked at me, like it surprised her to hear this. Then she nodded, interested. She said, Wonderful, wonderful. I said, I have an editor and a cover artist and everything. Mrs. Bledsoe went through her purse to get something. Do you have a publisher yet? No, not yet, I said. Here is my card, she said, handing me her business card. Call me. I grabbed her card from her and looked at it, so excited I wanted to smile. But I kept it business, stayed on the professional level. I surely will, Mrs. Bledsoe. Thank you.

I have an author coming in tonight for a book signing, she said. So I’m going to finish up setting up for that. But call me.

I sure will, I said.

We hugged this time. And Mrs. Bledsoe stepped off and grabbed more books from the box and stacked them on the signing table.

Told you, Kriss, Mr. Hank said, grinning like a million dollars. You on ya way.

Still looking at Mrs. Bledsoe’s card in amazement, I said, Looks like hard work is about to pay off, Mr. Hank.

I talked to Mr. Hank more about my novel. Then Alysia texted me. She was ready for me to pick her up.

As I left the bookstore, a short, skinny young woman with short blond hair and ocean blue eyes — whom I saw browsing through my mother’s book — caught up with me. She said, Hey, excuse me. I stopped, turned, and faced her. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear. I looked at her, wondering what she was talking about. Your Crystal Layke’s son? I smiled and nodded, so proud to be my