Red Sox: (Double Deception Series: Book 5), page 1
DOUBLE DECEPTION
RED SOX
BY
CHARLES ELLIOT
© Copyright 2022 - All rights reserved.
The content contained within this book may not be reproduced, duplicated or transmitted without direct written permission from the author or the publisher.
Under no circumstances will any blame or legal responsibility be held against the publisher, or author, for any damages, reparation, or monetary loss due to the information contained within this book, either directly or indirectly.
Legal Notice:
This book is copyright protected. It is only for personal use. You cannot amend, distribute, sell, use, quote or paraphrase any part, or the content within this book, without the consent of the author or publisher.
Disclaimer Notice:
Please note the information contained within this document is for educational and entertainment purposes only. All effort has been executed to present accurate, up to date, reliable, complete information. No warranties of any kind are declared or implied. Readers acknowledge that the author is not engaged in the rendering of legal, financial, medical or professional advice. The content within this book has been derived from various sources. Please consult a licensed professional before attempting any techniques outlined in this book.
By reading this document, the reader agrees that under no circumstances is the author responsible for any losses, direct or indirect, that are incurred as a result of the use of the information contained within this document, including, but not limited to, errors, omissions, or inaccuracies.
STAY UPDATED WITH ME
Thank you so much for purchasing or downloading my book! I am grateful to all my amazing readers.
To stay updated on all my latest books, newsletters, and freebies, why not join my VIP group?
Click here to join me!
You will be asked for your email.
CLICK ON MY PICTURE ABOVE FOR NEWSLETTER & FREE BOOK
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
The Series Continues
Before the Series
About the Author
Review this Book
Chapter 1
“D
issociative personality disorder?” Cory asked. Even though he believed he hadn’t heard the technical term before, he knew where Dr. Ashwell was going.
“Yes, Cory,” she replied.
The brightness of the day continued to fade outside, and only faint bars of light came in through the single window. Although he couldn’t see Rohana Ashwell, he could picture her with her tightly-bound peroxide hair, spindly legs, and sharp features.
“You mean,” Cory said, “split personality?”
“A form of it, yes,” Ashwell confirmed.
“Sounds ridiculous,” Cory scoffed.
“Maybe so, but it’s a very real condition, I can assure you.”
“And why would something like that happen to me?” Cory asked. “I’m a healthy guy, I work hard, and I’ve got no relationship problems. I thought this sort of thing was reserved for loners and psychopaths?”
“You’ve seen too many movies,” Ashwell replied, her throaty voice showing no emotion. “Yes, it has been associated with such people in the past, but only for dramatic effect. The truth of the matter is that DPD usually manifests in the type of people who seem quite put together on the outside.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” Ashwell said. Cory heard her pen scratching on her pad. “It is these workaholics, Wall Street hotshots, and obsessive personalities who are most susceptible.”
“Why?”
“For those exact reasons, Cory,” Ashwell declared. “They are so caught up in one or two aspects of their lives that their subconscious creates a whole other person to give them some relief. Often this second identity will be the polar opposite of the conscious one. If the person in question is a workaholic, their second personality might like to go out on the town and let loose on occasion. If they have problems talking to girls, the other them might become an unscrupulous womanizer.”
“Seems fantastical to me!” Cory spat. “Or just an excuse for selfish people to act like jerks.”
“As always, Cory, your view on things intrigues me,” Ashwell said. Then amazingly, she giggled. It sounded so odd that Cory scooched around on the couch and looked up at her over the armrest. When she saw him, she covered her mouth with a bony hand and said, “I’m sorry, that was unprofessional of me.”
“It’s fine,” Cory replied, lying on his back again. “It was nice to hear. Made you a little less shrinky.”
“Still, it was unprofessional,” Ashwell declared. Then she cleared her throat. “Now, as I was saying. I think you may have created this other you to escape the pressures you put on yourself at work and, of course, what happened with your brother.”
“Shit, Doc,” Cory said, shaking his head. “Why do you always have to go back to that?”
It felt surreal having a conversation that wasn’t about the passing of Bradley Swanson. His old partner was still fresh in the ground, but Cory supposed he had done nothing but think about him for the previous seventy-two hours. It actually felt nice to change the subject, even if the topic was his growing insanity and his long-dead twin.
“I do have to keep coming back to it, Cory,” Ashwell told him. “Because I don’t think you ever dealt with it in a healthy way. In fact, I’m not sure you ever processed it at all.”
“Your opinion.”
“Sure, just my opinion. But an opinion nonetheless.”
“So, if what you’re saying is true,” Cory said. The blobs on the ceiling spun and danced. “And that’s a big goddamn ‘if’. Then I’m basically losing my mind, right?”
Cory felt relieved. It was the strangest thing, but admitting that he was definitely going crazy brought contentment. From that point on, he could melt into it. Whatever happened afterward didn’t matter because he would be in a padded cell with a straightjacket on. That or drugged up to the gills on Prozac, which also seemed like a very legitimate road to take.
“No, not at all, Cory,” Ashwell replied. “It just means that the pressures of life have gotten to you, and your subconscious has stepped in and tried to give you the relief your conscious mind couldn’t.”
“So I’m weak?”
“Again, no,” Ashwell said. “In fact, it is your strong-mindedness and determination that have blocked all thought of, say, taking a vacation or grieving for Joshua.”
Non-stop with Joshua, Cory thought. Fucking Hell.
“Now, we have to talk about the murders, Cory,” Ashwell suddenly said.
“What? Why?”
“I think you know why.”
“If I did, I wouldn’t have asked, Ashwell,” Cory growled. Where the fuck was she going with this shit?
“You think you were involved, right?”
“Jesus,” Cory said, sitting up. He angled himself to be able to look into her eyes. It was hard, as the last of the light was nothing but a weak glimmer, and what was left was reflecting off her horn rimmed glasses. “Where are you getting this from?”
“You said as much when you were under, Cory,” she said flatly.
“And how am I supposed to know I said that?” Cory barked. “If you tell me that I claimed to have fucked Ronald McDonald up the ass, am I meant to believe that too?”
“Calm down, Cory,” Ashwell almost whispered. Her condescending tone was infuriating.
“No, I won’t calm down,” Cory sneered. “You seem determined to create problems where there aren’t a—”
“I’d like to try hypnosis again, Cory,” she interrupted.
“What? No chance, Doc. Sorry.”
“Okay, that’s your choice,” Ashwell cooed. Although there was something in her voice, wasn’t there? Disappointment? Frustration? Or had it been anger?
“Yeah, it is,” Cory said. Some of his initial anger was leaving him, and he didn’t want it to go.
“Does the cuckoo fly toward the sun?” Ashwell said.
“What? What the Hell are you on about?” Cory asked. He felt like he was in a dream. In fact, not only had the anger left him, but he suddenly felt like he could sleep for weeks. Through a long yawn, he said, “Seriously. What are you talking about?”
Ashwell remained silent and continued to stare at him. Cory could feel the last few days weighing him down. What if she was right? Had he been creating a whole other person to escape the life he’d made for himself? Was this other Cory running around at night causing shit? It would explain why he was so damn exhausted all the time.
Cory slapped himself in the face, hard. He heard Ashwell gasp, but the sting of it brought him back around a little. He tried to focus his eyes on her. She was still sitting in her armchair with her thin legs folded and the pad on her lap.
For a moment, a wave of dizziness tried to take him, but Cory managed to fight it back. Sweat broke out all over his body, and he suddenly knew he was going to have a panic attack. His breath was hard to catch, and when he brought a shaking hand up to his chest, he could feel his heart beating through it.
Why was Ashwell just sitting there? Did she want him to have an episode? Was it some fucked up form of emergency therapy?
Thankfully, Cory’s next exhale was followed by an almost passable inhale. In a
Cory took a sip of water from the glass on the coffee table, then held it on his knee as he spoke.
“Sorry, Doc,” he said. A nervous chuckle escaped him. “I thought I was going to faint there for a second.”
“That’s okay,” she said, nodding. There was definitely something unpleasant in her voice; he was sure of it. “You’ve had a rough few weeks.”
“Right,” Cory said. “So, what was that stuff about cuckoos?” He narrowed his eyes. “Or did I just create that too?”
“It’s just a saying we have where I’m from,” Ashwell replied, shrugging. “It just means that everything is how we look at it.”
“I’m confused.”
“I know. It’s silly.” Ashwell shrugged her thin shoulders again and smiled. “I’m not sure I ever understood it myself. I think it has something to do with perspective. Like if the cuckoo was flying directly toward the sun, how would you know because it would be impossible to tell with glare and shadows and the like?”
“You’re right,” Cory said.
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, it is silly.”
Cory drained the glass and placed it back on the table. He felt his time with Dr. Rohana Ashwell was at an end. She seemed determined to dig into crap that had already been dead and gone a long, long time. He came there because Bradley had been murdered, yet all she wanted to do was talk about Joshua, dependency, and fucking cuckoos. No, he’d always known the psychiatry racket wasn’t for him, and he should have gone with his gut.
“Well, it’s just an old saying, Cory,” Ashwell began, and Cory cut her off with the wave of a hand.
“Leave it out, Doc,” he said, standing up. He thought he might feel another wave of dizziness, but nothing happened. In fact, he felt quite reinvigorated, having quelled the initial sensation that had threatened to overwhelm him a moment earlier. “I know you mean well, but we’re running around in circles.”
“Cory, I really think you should sit back down and talk,” Ashwell pleaded. Looking down at her, she seemed almost frail.
“About what?” Cory barked. “Stuff that happened years ago? I came here because I miss my friend, and what do you do? You ask me about my dead brother and then try to pin the fucking murders on me!”
“I didn’t mean to imply that you had anything to do with Bradley’s passing,” Ashwell croaked. “I was only going by what you told me during our first session.”
“Well, frankly, Doc,” Cory exclaimed. “I’m starting to doubt I said anything at all. You’re clearly just another schemer.”
“You’re getting worked up again, Cory,” she said. That sickeningly over-the-top compassion was in her voice.
“Don’t start all that,” Cory snarled. “You goddamn shrinks know how angry that term makes people, so you use it to get them to react.”
“Do you think I’m trying to get a reaction, Cory?”
“Oh, fuck you, Ashwell!” Cory almost shouted. It was getting harder to keep his cool.
She wants you to flip out, Cory, my boy, his subconscious told him. Then she can stamp INSANE on your hand and tie you down for five sessions per week until the day you finally kick the bucket.
Cory remained standing over her. His fists were clenched, and he could feel the tendons standing out on his neck. Why did everyone in his life have to tell him what a piece of shit he was all the time? What the fuck had he ever done to deserve such constant scrutiny? Why did Medea Bishop insist on him seeing Ashwell when the woman was so obviously a charlatan?
“Cory, you’re starting to make me feel uncomfortable,” Ashwell said, but she remained sitting. “And I believe that right now, you are a threat to yourself and others.”
“What does that mean?” Cory snapped, knowing very well what it meant.
“I’m going to have to call your superiors and inform them of what is transpiring here.”
Cory shook his head in disgust. “You shrinks. You’re all the goddamn same.”
“I’m only trying to help you,” she proclaimed, holding her palms up like she was Jesus fucking Christ.
“Well, you can cram your help!” Cory barked.
When he started out of the office, Ashwell repeated something about calling his bosses, but Cory only caught the gist of it. Blood was pumping through his ears, and it took all of the strength he had not to tear the room apart. By the time he had reached the hall, he was actually seeing red. Everything he looked at was tinted in it.
Instead of recoiling from the seething rage inside himself, Cory embraced it. He felt alive in a way he didn’t believe he ever would again.
Cory took the steps from the porch down to the small garden in twos. For a moment, he couldn’t find his car in the descending darkness. Then he thought of the key fob, fumbled in his pocket until his fingers landed on it, and pressed the alarm. Several vehicles down, two orange headlights flashed, and there was a single, sharp beep.
Seeing the shrink had been a bad idea, and he’d confront Medea Bishop about it when he saw her next. His best and only friend was dead, and Dr. Ashwell seemed like she was trying to implicate him in the murders. Well, that’s what it had felt like anyhow.
Cory needed to go back to work. His only purpose was to find the real killer and bring him to justice. After that, then maybe he could start looking at his own shit.
There is always the other way out once we’re done, Cory, that voice reaffirmed.
“Sure is,” Cory grunted to himself as he started up the Dodge. The headlights came on full beam and filled the picturesque rows of houses with their bright orange glow. Before pulling out, he slipped a Marlboro from its pack, clenched it between his teeth, and lit it with his silver Zippo. Blowing two jets of smoke out his nose and edging the car into the street, he added, “There sure as Hell is.”
Chapter 2
T
he previous night had been awful. The anger Cory felt leaving Ashwell’s home office had begun to fade quite quickly, and all he’d been left with was that crazy, overwhelming tiredness. Of course, by the time he’d driven home, sleep had been harder to come by than Jimmy Hoffa, and he’d spent the whole night tossing and turning in bed. When his alarm had gone off early the next morning, he’d been shattered and frustrated beyond belief.
Walking into an office full of peers who clearly suspected something was up with him had been even worse. Cory hadn’t needed Warick to tell him that Ashwell had been on the phone to know she had filled the chief in on the previous day’s events. He’d been able to see it in the eyes and dropped gazes of the other detectives.
Cory was sitting at his desk as he watched the room from his desk. He’d been at work for half an hour by then, and as was the natural way of things in any precinct the world over, usual service had resumed following the initial buzz upon his arrival. The phones rang, emails were being answered, and case files were getting looked over. A once meticulous and sharply-dressed detective looking like he spent the night in a dumpster was only interesting for a certain period. The other detectives had bigger fish to fry.
His whole body felt sore, and Cory could feel twinges in all the places he’d hurt over the past few weeks. His eye, head, arm, and side were all acting up, even though their bruises had long healed. They felt like a beacon, pulsing a warning signal as a reminder of how much he’d let himself slide. Cory knew he was in trouble—had done so even before Eric Briar clocked him on the temple—but every time he tried to grab onto the reeds surrounding the pit of quicksand that was swallowing him, they came loose, and he sank further into it.
When his eyes flicked down to the red memory stick in his hand, he twirled it a few times between his fingers. It had been sitting in the drawer of his desk ever since his visit to Sugar Rush, yet he hadn’t looked at the footage since. He didn’t need to, as he’d recognized himself clear as day in it the first time. Sure, there were no shots of him physically confronting Eric Briar, but the look he threw across the club had been enough.
