Broken Life (An Ivy Pane Suspense Thriller—Book 1)

By Laura Rise

When FBI Agent Ivy Pane is injured in the line of duty and loses the functioning of her right arm, she returns to her hometown defeated, expecting her career to be over, and haunted by memories of her missing sister. But when a local killer surfaces, Ivy soon finds herself needed by the local police force—and soon realizes she may just be the only one with a chance to stop him before he strikes again.

As victims turn up in a long-abandoned tunnel system, the only clue is the scent of burning candles. Former FBI agent Ivy Pane must re-learn the skills she needs to function again—and to stop this macabre murderer before it’s too late.

BROKEN LIFE (An Ivy Pane Suspense Thriller—Book 1) is the debut novel in a new series by mystery and suspense author Laura Rise.

A captivating and harrowing crime thriller series featuring a complex and tormented female protagonist, the Ivy Pane series will keep you on the edge of your seat with constant action, suspense, surprise twists, and a relentless pace that will have you staying up all night to find out what happens next. Fans of Karin Slaughter, Robert Dugoni, and Rachel Caine are sure to fall in love.

Future books in the series are also available!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Rise
• Release date: Apr 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9781094384269

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B R O K E N   L I F E

(An Ivy Pane Suspense Thriller —Book 1)

L a u r a   R i s e

Laura Rise

Laura Rise is author of the IVY PANE mystery series, comprising five books (and counting); of the BREE NOBLE mystery series, comprising five books (and counting); and of the TORI SPARK mystery series, comprising five books (and counting).

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Laura loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit http://www.laurariseauthor.comto learn more and stay in touch

Copyright © 2024  by Laura Rise. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

BOOKS BY LAURA RISE

IVY PANE SUSPENSE THRILLER SERIES

BROKEN LIFE (Book #1)

BROKEN HEART (Book #2)

BROKEN TRUST (Book #3)

BROKEN PATH (Book #4)

BROKEN PROMISE (Book #5)

BREE NOBLE SUSPENSE THRILLER SERIES

EMPTY SOUL (Book #1)

EMPTY HOUSE (Book #2)

EMPTY HEART (Book #3)

EMPTY ROAD (Book #4)

EMPTY EYES (Book #5)

TORI SPARK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER SERIES

AMIDST THE DARKNESS (Book #1)

AMIDST THE RUINS (Book #2)

AMIDST THE ASHES (Book #3)

AMIDST THE SHADOWS (Book #4)

AMIDST THE LIES (Book #5)

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

PROLOGUE

Sarah Greenfield's breath came out in ragged gasps, her lungs burning with the effort of drawing air through the damp, musty atmosphere of the underground. Her sneakers scuffed against the uneven ground, the sound ricocheting off the closeness of tunnel walls and returning to her as if chased by shadows themselves. The darkness was a tangible force, an oppressive entity that seemed eager to swallow her whole.

With each panicked step, Sarah could feel the pulse of her heart hammering against her chest, a frantic drumbeat in the silence of the tunnels. The cold seeped through the thin fabric of her jacket, the chill of the subterranean world clawing at her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep the warmth in, or perhaps it was to reassure herself that she was still here, still alive in this nightmarish labyrinth.

The blackness was so complete that it made her eyes ache, straining for any scrap of light. But there was nothing—only the suffocating dark and the echo of her own movements. Each echo seemed to mock her, a reminder of her solitude in this grim maze beneath the town where daylight felt like a distant memory.

Her mind raced, thoughts disjointed and skittering like the rats she imagined were lurking just out of sight. Was this how it would end? Lost and forgotten in the cold embrace of the earth, leaving her child motherless? No, she couldn't—wouldn't—let that happen. She had to find a way out for her daughter's sake.

The tunnels seemed to stretch on endlessly, their paths winding and splitting without reason or pattern. Each choice she made felt like a gamble, a roll of the dice with stakes too high to contemplate. She tried to remember the turns she'd taken, desperate to not tread the same futile circles, but panic clouded her memory, and all sense of direction abandoned her.

Suddenly, her foot caught on something unseen, sending her sprawling forward onto the rough stone floor. Pain shot through her palms as they scraped against the unforgiving surface, her knees taking the brunt of the impact. For a moment, she lay there, the will to rise battling the crushing weight of despair.

Get up, she whispered to herself, the words barely audible over the pounding in her ears. You have to get up. And with a strength she didn't know she possessed, Sarah pushed herself to her feet once more, driven by a mother's relentless determination to return to the light, to life, to her child waiting above.

Sarah’s breath hitched as a faint glimmer pierced the cloak of darkness. It was distant and uncertain, like the last star clinging to the predawn sky, but it was there – a promise in the oppressive blackness that had become her world. The light beckoned, an ethereal guide, and she found her feet moving of their own accord, drawn to it as if by some primal instinct.

Stumbling over unseen debris, Sarah pressed on. Each step was a silent plea, a whispered prayer that this luminescence would be her salvation. The tunnels had been a suffocating labyrinth, each turn an echo of her growing despair. But now, the light swelled, growing brighter with every desperate pace she quickened. She rounded a corner and stopped short, her breath catching in her throat.

Before her lay an alcove, carved into the wall of the tunnel. Candles, dozens of them, flickered eerily within, their flames dancing to a rhythm only they could hear. The shadows they cast upon the walls were a macabre ballet of light and dark, twirling and leaping in the draft that whispered through the tunnel. The warm glow bathed the alcove in a ghostly aura, transforming the stark stone into a theater of flickering apparitions.

Sarah stepped closer, her eyes wide as she took in the sight. Each candle seemed to hold a story, its flame a testament to a vigil held in the silence of the underground. They stood in quiet sentry, their waxen bodies melting slowly, giving themselves over to the passage of time and the steadfast duty of remembrance.

This was a memorial of some kind. It reminded Sarah of the candles she'd seen people hold at funerals or prayer circles.

Despair lodged in her chest. She'd allowed herself to think she might have found a means of escape, but she was still enshrouded in this subterranean world, with only the company of shadows and the whispers of the past.

And then, once the despair had washed over her -- fear. Her stomach churned with a dread that felt like ice water in her veins. Whoever had lit these candles must be nearby. She wasn't alone in these tunnels.

Every small noise—the drip of water from the tunnel's ceiling, the scuttle of a rat across the ancient brickwork—seemed amplified in the heavy silence that pressed around her. She could feel it then, the sensation of unseen eyes studying her every move, hidden within the cloak of darkness that stretched beyond the alcove's feeble glow.

Sarah shivered, wrapping her arms around herself as if the gesture could shield her. Her breath came in short gasps, fogging in the frigid air, as she fought to keep the encroaching panic at bay.

A strange compulsion seized her, a pull towards the heart of the makeshift shrine that defied reason. Sarah’s steps were tentative at first, then more assured as if something unseen tugged her closer to the candles' warm light. The delicate scent of burning wax filled her nostrils, a stark contrast to the musty dampness of the tunnels.

She stood before the memorial, drawn toward the flames like a moth. Sarah's fingers trembled as they hovered over a candle, its base nearly drowned in a pool of hardened wax.

Who are you trying to remember? she whispered, her voice barely audible above the hush. The question was pointless, the answer known only to the shadows and the silence, but it clawed its way out of her, a plea for understanding in a place that defied comprehension.

A cold gust swept through the tunnel. The candles flickered wildly in response, as if protesting against an invisible intruder. Sarah wrapped her arms around herself, shivering, not just from the drop in temperature, but from the realization that was beginning to take hold in her mind.

Each candle represented a life extinguished within this labyrinth—a silent witness to tragedy. The waxen tributes stood in stark contrast to the suffocating darkness of the tunnels, their flames struggling to maintain dominion over the encroaching shadows. They were beacons for souls lost in perpetual night, each flickering light a story cut short, a destiny unfulfilled.

An overwhelming sense of impending doom crashed over Sarah. Her skin prickled with awareness; it was more than the chill of the underground air — it was the sensation of being watched. Despite the silence that pressed in on her ears, she could feel the presence of something — or someone — in the dark, just beyond the reach of the candlelight.

Fear knotted in her stomach. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, to find her way back to the surface and the safety of the known world. Yet, when she tried to move, her legs refused to obey. They were leaden, rooted to the spot as if the very ground had claimed her as its own.

The darkness seemed to pulse with anticipation, waiting for her to make a move, to show weakness. Her breath stalled in her throat as movement in her periphery caught her attention -- a subtle shift in the shadows, the quiet scrape of leather against stone.

The darkness seemed to congeal as a figure took shape; she'd been right. She wasn't alone.

Every synapse fired a desperate signal to flee, but her limbs were traitors to her survival, refusing to unravel from their statue-like imprisonment. The memorial candles flickered as if agitated by the proximity of the encroaching darkness, casting aberrant shadows that danced over the walls — spectators to her unfolding nightmare. Sarah drew her arms toward her body defensively, stifling the terrified sob that rose in her throat. She couldn't run. It was far too late to run.

All she could do was pray.

There was a quiet rustle of clothing, the faint scrape of a boot against stone that suggested the closing distance between them. Each echo sent shards of frozen terror down her spine, rooting her further onto the cold ground beneath her feet.

And then it was there — a presence barely a hair's breadth away. Her eyes flew open out of pure fear, the light from the candles searing her vision.

Abruptly, the world tilted precariously. The candles seemed to blend into a blur of indistinct colors, their once comforting glow now a swirling vortex of disorientation. Sarah's legs buckled beneath her as pain spiked through her head.

One by one, the candle flames went dark.

CHAPTER ONE

Ivy Pane's battered Ford truck rumbled down the familiar streets of her quaint hometown, the worn tires crunching over fallen leaves that had begun to turn shades of gold and crimson. She gripped the steering wheel with her left hand, her right arm encased in a cast, an unwelcome reminder of the injury that had forced her early retirement from the FBI. The deep wound on her right arm throbbed dully as she unconsciously flexed her fingers.

Damn it, Ivy muttered under her breath, fighting back tears of frustration. Pain wasn't just physical; it was emotional too, and returning to this place – the house where she had grown up – stirred up memories of a childhood scarred by her mother's alcoholism and her sister's disappearance.

As the truck pulled into the driveway, Ivy took a steadying breath, steeling herself for the days ahead. Living with her estranged father again wouldn't be easy, but she had little choice. She needed time to recover, to find some semblance of peace, and maybe even a new purpose.

Hey, kiddo, her father called out from the front steps, his voice rough and weathered like his hands. His eyes were kind, but there was a sadness lurking behind them, a shared understanding of the pain they had both endured.

Hi, Dad, Ivy replied, forcing a smile as she stepped out of the truck. Her legs felt weak beneath her, and she leaned against the door for support. It's… good to be home.

Let me help you with your bags, he insisted, reaching for the duffel bag in the truck bed.

No, I've got it, Ivy snapped, her fierce independence overriding her need for help. She grabbed the duffel bag, swinging it over her good shoulder, wincing as the weight pulled on her injured arm.

I'm sorry, her father said quietly, his eyes downcast. I just thought—

Thanks, but I can manage, Ivy responded tersely, though a part of her knew he meant well. She couldn't help the resentment that still simmered beneath the surface, a product of years of emotional neglect and unspoken tensions.

As they entered the house, Ivy's gaze fell on the faded wallpaper, the peeling paint, and the worn floorboards that creaked underfoot. It was like stepping back in time, and for a moment, she could almost hear her mother's slurred words and the desperate sobs of her missing sister.

Welcome home, Ivy, her father said quietly.

Thanks, she replied, swallowing hard as she fought back tears. This would be her life now – at least for a while – and she would have to find a way to make peace with it, despite the ghosts of her past haunting every corner.

Ivy's first few days back in her childhood home were a blur of unpacking and restless nights. The familiar creaks and groans of the house stirred memories she'd spent years trying to bury. Despite the rocky relationship with her father, he tried his best to make her feel welcome, even cooking her favorite meal one evening. Ivy was torn between her lingering anger and the tentative hope that they could mend their fractured bond.

On the third afternoon, as Ivy sat on the front porch and picked restlessly at her cast, a familiar voice jolted her out of her thoughts.

Hey, stranger. Long time no see!

On the sidewalk in front of the house, Sean O'Rourke, a childhood friend of Ivy's, stood with his hands on his hips and a warm smile spread across his face. The years had been kind to Sean, hardening the boyish features of his youth and leaving behind a formidable man. His hair, once a tangled mess of curls, was now closely cropped to his head, revealing a broad forehead marked with the first signs of worry lines. His eyes were still the same striking blue, though, as bright and clear as they had been when they were kids.

I see that being in the FBI hasn't changed you any, he said, crossing his arms over his chest as he approached the house. Ivy caught sight of the badge pinned to his lapel – deputy chief, Brookside PD. He'd always wanted to become a cop. Ivy couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy; Sean was still living his dream. He wasn't washed up too young, sidelined by the fragility of his own body.

Sean! Ivy exclaimed, pushing aside the momentary envy. I didn't expect to see you here.

Word travels fast in a small town, he replied, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps. Your father told the chief you were coming home. When I heard you were back, I figured I'd come by and say hello.

Hello, then, Ivy said, returning his smile.