PROLOGUE

Move, my brain screams—my arms and
legs lag behind.

Blood pools behind her
head, oozing out over the tile floor. Her eyes roll back into a blank stare. If
I want to get out of here, this is my only chance. I don’t have much time
before someone misses her.

I grab the key card
out of her coat pocket and gingerly pull off her lab coat, being careful not to
stain it with the growing river of blood.

As I slip on her white
coat, my head darts around for something I can use as a weapon–but this isn’t a
surgical center. No scalpels. No razors. Nothing sharp.

Syringes.

Scads of them.

Yes, this can work.

I fumble through the
medicine cabinet, and it’s like a candy store for drug addicts.

Ketamine.

Midazolam.

Haldol.

Potassium chloride,
instantly deadly.

But only if I can hit a vein.

Nope. Too risky.

I rip a syringe open
with my teeth, push in the plunger, tear open the vial tabs, and stab the
needle into the first vial, then the second. I fill the syringe with a lethal
dose of ketamine and midazolam, hoping that it will work fast enough, if it
comes to that.

Two or three minutes or so for onset, injected
into a muscle.

I’ve never envisioned
myself as a murderer. But what choice do I have?

Footsteps outside the
door stop me in my tracks.

Someone’s hovering,
and I can only hope they don’t call out her name.

She moans.

She’s alive?

What if she cries out for help?

Sweat moistens my
palms as I wait. I wipe away the dampness, willing myself to calm down. I can’t
afford to have slippery fingers with what I’m attempting.

Now it’s quiet. Too
quiet. I didn’t hear footsteps or anyone leaving.

Are they just standing there?

Maybe they heard our scuffle?

If she makes a sound,
I’m as good as dead.

I rip open another
syringe, grab a vial of potassium chloride out of the cabinet, and fill it. On
reflex, I tap it to get out the air bubbles, and a nervous chuckle slips out.

What’s the point of
that?

I find a vein on the
top of her hand, which is creepily warm. She seems to have passed out again, or
else she’s dead. But I’m pretty sure she’s still alive, although I can always
tell myself she wasn’t. But I’m not positive.

Can I actually do this?

For a split second, I
hesitate.

Before this moment, it
was self-defense.

It’s her or me,
though, so I prepare to jab the needle into her vein.

Instead, I check again
for a pulse.

She’s dead … I’m pretty sure.

The door handle turns.

I rush behind the door
and ready my other syringe. My heart’s pounding so hard, I’m afraid someone
will hear it. My pulse thrums in my ears as I await what’s next.

Then the handle
catches, the lock saving me–or whoever’s on the other side.

I wait in stillness as
the sound of a woman’s heels click, click, clicking on the tile floor fades to
silence, willing my racing pulse to slow.

At least it’s not
Cameron.

Then I make my move.

PART ONE

One month earlier

ONE

Nora

The pain is
unbearable, deep in the pit of my stomach, the scars of a lifetime suddenly
ripped open. I haven’t slept for days. I don’t even know my own mind.

Dipping in and out of
consciousness, I’m kept barely functional by little microsleeps. My head aches
behind my eyes. I’d give anything to fall into the black abyss, where all my
problems dissolve into the quiet darkness.

Soft meditation music
plays in the background.

“It’s not your fault,”
a voice calls out to me. “Life is hard,” it continues, the ding … ding … ding of the bells hypnotic, comforting. “We can take
away your pain. Come to Switzerland. Find your inner peace.”

Tears pool in my eyes.

“It’s all going to be
okay,” I tell myself.

I click on the link.

It looks so peaceful
there.

For the first time in
months, I have hope.

Tears stream down my
face as I absorb it all.

Taking away my pain.

It sounds so tempting.

I want to believe.

I need to believe.

So, I do.

And that is my first
mistake.

Bonnie Traymore is the Amazon bestselling author of fourteen
domestic/psychological thrillers. Her thrillers feature strong but relatable
female protagonists who peel back the layers of suburban American life and give
readers a peek inside. The plots explore difficult topics such as jealousy,
infidelity, murder, and the impact of psychological disorders, but she also
includes bits of romance and humor to lighten the mood from time to
time.  

Bonnie loves Hitchcock movies, psychological thriller
novels, coffee, and dark chocolate, not necessarily in that order and sometimes
simultaneously. She has a doctorate in United States history and resides in
Honolulu with her family. She’s an active member of International Thriller
Writers and Mystery Writers of America.

 

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A former BBC broadcaster and journalist, Gill Mills brings
over 20 years of experience in entertainment to her narration. Known for her
warm, resonant voice, she began her voice career while DJing on BBC Radio 1 and
has since voiced numerous TV and audio productions. She now runs a content
company specialising in podcast and film production from her studio in East
London.

 

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Chapter 1

Murphy

It looked as if the yoga class was about to end. Thank you,
Jesus. And not a moment too soon. Murphy Clarke hadn’t intended to spend the
third anniversary of her un-wedding in a yoga class some six hundred fifty
miles away from home. But somehow her annoyingly perky sister, TC, had worn her
down.

As a life coach, she couldn’t just take a month off, like
her sister, the teacher, could. Her responsibilities didn’t end at the
beginning of summer. She had developed a set of rules, and here she was,
breaking the first.

That’s how she found herself in Summer’s Beach, North
Carolina, staring at the boyishly handsome instructor who had a penchant for
torturing his students with contortionist poses.

She sat up and was nearly standing when—

“It’s time for our ending meditation. Take the stillness and
peace of this session as well as the silence into the world with you today.”

Murphy sighed as she sat back down. Apparently, rather
loudly. Not only did her sister and their friend, Eli, scowl at her, the
instructor fixed a spine-chilling stare at her with his steel-gray eyes. Again.
She had walked in ten minutes late—through no fault of her own. Well, her
client, Amelia, had a crisis and she couldn’t leave her hanging. She had to
take the call. He had flashed her one of those if-looks-could-kill stares  .

Grimacing as she assumed the half-lotus pose, she placed her
index fingers to her thumbs and slowly breathed out an om. She checked
on her sister. Full lotus. Show off.

“Ommmm.” The instructor breathed out. The students
followed with their own om, strung out so it felt as if the entire room
was vibrating.

Brrnng! Brnng! Murphy’s cellphone broke the silence.
Damn it. She reached into her tote bag and fumbled for it.

Brnng! Brnng! Her cheeks burning, she rooted around
the large vacation bag and grabbed it.

“Murphy here. How may I help you…Josh…wait a second.”

She rose, gave the instructor a shrug, and walked to the
back of the room.

“No, I don’t think so. I think at this point in your life
you’re exactly where you need to be. Don’t you feel it?”

Josh Millcreek was one of Murphy’s first life coach clients.
His level of self-confidence fluctuated over the three years of their
relationship. This most recent crisis would end soon. She just needed to be
there for him. And vacation or not, that’s what she intended to do.

She held the phone in front of her, nearly parallel to the
floor as she talked. “You’re not your old—”

A shadow hovered over her phone. She blinked. Frowning, she
looked up to see the yoga instructor. His eyes bore into her. He snatched the
phone from her hand. She shivered as a spark of electricity skittered up her
arm. She swallowed hard.

“What the…?”

The yoga instructor grabbed her phone? The tall, handsome
instructor? The one with broad shoulders? And loosely curled caramel-colored
hair? She imagined if he’d ever smile, he’d probably have adorable laugh lines.
For a split second, she was lost in his penetrating eyes and those
shoulders—far too broad to belong to a yoga instructor.

Earth to Murphy. That, however, didn’t excuse him
from stealing her phone. She glowered at him.

“What the hell are you doing?” The nerve of this man.

“Ma’am” —Ma’am? He called me ma’am?— “we’re in
meditation. Silent meditation. Who are you talking to?” He nodded toward her
phone.

“My client, as if it’s any of your business.” She held one
hand out, the other on her hip as she waited for him to return her phone.
Instead, he raised it to his ear. What?

“Ms. Murphy is in meditation at the moment. I’m sure she’ll
return your call later.” He clicked the phone off and tossed it to her. It
bobbled in her hands before she clutched it in her palm.

“Let’s continue our closing routine.” He pivoted and walked
to the front of the room, leaving her to stare at his nicely formed butt. “Now
that I’ve put Ms. Murphy’s phone on airplane mode.”

“How dare you.”

Murphy grumbled to herself but returned to her spot and sat
down next to her sister. She placed her left ankle over her right thigh and
huffed.

“What is your problem?” TC kept her gaze on the instructor.

“I told you I didn’t want to go on vacation, but—”

“Ladies, are we ready? Ms. Murphy, you can talk about your
fear of vacations after the session.”

“I’m not afraid of—”

“Everyone take a deep breath. Think peace and stillness.
This is the attitude you’re taking with you as you leave the class.”

Terry
Newman is an award-winning author who writes romantic comedy with a splash of
fantasy.

Fueled by
coffee, peanut butter, and popcorn, she writes stories set in fictional towns
in northeast Ohio. Terry loves to place her characters in improbably
situations, then allows them to take over…uhm…guide the story.

She lives
in a small apartment with overflowing bookshelves, her muse, Moose, and all her
characters, in North Lima, a real town in northeast Ohio. And, yes, it does get
crowded at times.

 

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