Divided (Elena Ronen, Private Investigator), page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
EPILOGUE
About the Author
Thank You
DIVIDED
Jennifer Sights
Copyright © 2013 by Jennifer Sights
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-0-9890838-1-2
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Author Info:
Website: http://www.JenniferSights.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/jennifersightswrites
Email: [email protected]
Twitter: http://twitter.com/JenniferSights
I want to thank everyone who helped make this book possible. Jeremiah Koczan and James Holder for beta reading, Ellen Moeller for editing, and everyone in the Asymmetrical Community for the advice and support throughout the editing and publishing process. I have to give a huge thanks to the folks who run National Novel Writing Month, without which this book probably wouldn’t have been written. Thanks to my parents for supporting me in everything I do. And of course thanks to my wonderful husband John for being unendingly supportive and patient while I spent hours on end holed up in my office working on the manuscript and figuring out all the details for publishing it.
Thanks to Denise Wy for the gorgeous cover design. www.denisewy.com
Thanks to Casey Carrington of Chalk & Soot for author photograph. chalkandsoot.com/index.html
Cover photo by chaoss / shutterstock.com
CHAPTER ONE
“Ms. Ronen, I need you to help me find my daughter, and I’ve heard you’re the best.” Alexis Carmen pushed a photograph toward me across my office desk. A pretty young girl with strawberry hair that matched her mother’s smiled out of the photo.
“Please, call me Elena.” I wanted to put Ms. Carmen at ease. Her brow furrowed, dark circles shadowed her honey brown eyes, making her porcelain skin look ever paler. A strand of hair strayed from her neat ponytail, which she absently tucked behind her ear.
“Elena. Courtney ran away two weeks ago.”
“Have you contacted the police?” I asked.
“Yes, but because she is of legal age, they won’t do anything.”
I reflected on the few years I had spent on the force, and could imagine how frustrated Ms. Carmen must be. Eighteen is such an arbitrary age to be considered an adult. Some eighteen-year-olds are completely incapable of taking care of themselves. Others - like me, when I was younger - are more mature than many in their thirties. “How old is your daughter?”
“Nineteen.” Her voice cracked, but not a single tear fell from her shining eyes. “The police referred me to you, actually. They said very good things about your ability to solve a case. Do you work with them often?”
“No, but I used to be a police officer.”
“Why did you quit?”
“I didn’t like all the red tape. I’d rather get something done than fill out stacks of paperwork.” I stood. “Would you like some coffee, Mrs. Carmen?”
“Ms. And yes, thank you. Black.”
The lack of sugar or cream matched the fit body beneath her slightly rumpled yet expensive looking business suit. I poured two cups of black coffee and handed her one. “Is there no Mr. Carmen?” I asked.
“No. But why does that matter?” She narrowed her eyes.
“Anything that can provide insight as to why your daughter might have run away could help. I’m sorry if it’s a painful topic.”
“I understand. I was always very focused on my education, but made one mistake that almost cost me my MBA. Do you have any idea how hard it is to complete graduate school while raising an infant?”
“I can imagine. Do you resent that hardship your daughter caused you by her birth?” I sipped my coffee and studied her reaction.
“Of course not!” Ms. Carmen straightened her shoulders and shook her head from side to side.
I raised an eyebrow.
“I admit it wasn’t easy, but I wouldn’t give up my daughter. I love her.”
“Do you have a good relationship with your daughter?”
“I did, for the most part. But then she started attending St. Louis Community College. That’s when the fighting began.”
“What do you mean, ‘for the most part?' "
“I was very strict with Courtney, and she often resented me for that, but she used to confide in me.”
“What did you fight over?” I made note of the name of the college.
“Her degree. I wanted her to do something that would pay well, but she’s always loved art. I know firsthand how important it is for a young woman to not have to rely on a man, and I don’t want my daughter to struggle. I was an art major, and ended up working fast food when I graduated. After a year, I went back to school for a business degree so I could make something of myself. I tried to tell her what I endured, tried to convince her to do better for herself, but she insisted on enrolling in the art program. And then she made new friends.”
“What kind of friends?” I expected her to mention alcohol or drugs.
“Freaks.”
I sat back in my chair, inadvertently putting more distance between myself and her.
She quickly glanced at my metal filled ears and the tattoo peeking from the sleeve of my scarlet blouse. “Forgive me. I mean Goths. I - I’m not used to - “ she stammered, looking down into her lap and biting her lower lip.
I sighed, having mostly gotten used to remarks about my style long ago. “Forget it. So you didn’t like her friends.”
“No, and she changed. She dyed her hair black, started wearing tons of dark makeup, dressed like a vampire.”
“So you fought about that as well?” I guessed.
“Yes. She started skipping classes. Her artwork became darker, more sinister. Then she ran away.”
“How do you know she ran away? Could she have been kidnapped?”
“No, her clothes were gone, as well as her art supplies.” She finally took a sip of her coffee, holding the mug in both hands.
“Have you contacted the college?”
“I have. Thankfully, I made her sign a waiver to let them release her information to me since she’s over eighteen. They said she hasn’t shown up to any classes in several weeks. I’m worried she’s getting into drugs or something worse.”
“Something worse?”
“Yes, I overheard her mention something about a coven while she was on the phone with one of her new friends. I’m afraid she’s getting into some kind of Satanic cult or something. I don’t understand what she meant by that.” She gripped the mug so tightly I feared she would break it.
“Did you hear her mention anything else that might help? Do you know any of her friends’ names, where they live, or where she hung out?”
“She was very secretive once we began fighting. I know one girl was named Miriam. Courtney’s car had broken down - I made her work to pay for her own car and insurance - so this Miriam picked her up every day. I have no idea where they went, though.”
“Can you describe Miriam?”
“I only saw her from a distance in the car, so, other than Goth, not really. I’m sorry, I realize that’s no help. She drove a Chevy Malibu that looked several years old. Black, of course.” Ms. Carmen paused, eyes closed.
“What else?”
“I heard her talk about someone named Elizabeth.
I paused while writing this down. “Is there anything else?”
“I can’t think of anything. As much as we’ve fought recently, I love my daughter. I want her back.” Her face brightened just a tiny bit with hope. “I’ve heard that you’ve never given up or failed on a case. Can you find her?”
" 'Never’ is a bit of an exaggeration, but I’m sure I can find your daughter, Ms. Carmen. Try to relax.” I stood, walked around the desk, then handed Ms. Carmen a business card. “If you think of anything else that might help, please call me, anytime. I’ll call you as soon as I find anything out.”
“I’ll warn you, the picture might not be much help. She looks completely different now, especially with all the makeup she wears.”
I nodded. “I can’t guarantee she’ll come back home. As you discovered from the police, she is legally able to do what she wants, but I’ll at least be able to tell you where she is so you’ll know she’s safe.”
She nodded, grasped my hand tightly, then left.
Ms. Carmen’s comment about “freaks” almost made me refuse the case, but it was an easy one, and she had already written me a check twice the size a case like this usually cost. However, something nagged at my gut. Something told me this wouldn’t be as easy as it sounded.
CHAPTER TWO
Pounding music vibrated through the bar stool on which I sat at The Chapel - an old church converted into an eighteen-an-up Goth club. The bar was separated from the dance floor by a wrought iron fence that could have belonged in a millionaire’s yard rather than a club. Two distinct groups of people filled the club.
The first was obviously out to live life to the fullest; some dancing alone, sweating, moving in their own world, others dancing with a member of the opposite - or same - sex, groping and grinding. How many had come with their dance partner, and how many were just there for the thrill of the night?
The other group lounged on red velvet chairs and couches, drinking from goblets, perfectly posed, determined to give off just the exact vibe and image of beauty and aloof dignity.
I was a loner and didn’t go out much, so doubted anyone there would know me.
The bartender handed me another cranberry juice with a splash of tonic. I didn’t drink. For one thing, alcohol and Zoloft don’t mix. My past was less than enviable, and weekly therapy sessions hadn’t done much good yet. Secondly, I’d done enough drinking and drugs in my teenage years - and enough stupid things because of that drinking - to make Satan weep. That is, if I believed in Satan. Which I didn’t.
“I didn’t order this,” I said, still sipping my first drink.
“Compliments of Vittorio. He said to get you another of whatever you were already drinking,” she said, looking toward the balcony which had acted as the choir loft in its previous life of - you guessed it - a church.
“Vittorio? Is that his real name?” I shouted to be heard over the music.
“Believe it or not, it is. Full blooded Italian. Vittorio Santini.”
A tall man with long black hair watched me from the balcony. “Is that him?”
The bartender nodded. After thanking her, I headed toward the balcony to introduce myself, and hopefully find something more about Courtney, Miriam, or Elizabeth. I wished for a more recent photo of Courtney, and any of the other two girls. “Goth” as a description would not help me find them. At the local Starbuck’s, maybe, but not here. I had to start somewhere though, and I had learned to look at facial structures rather than makeup over the years.
The Chapel’s website clearly stated the balcony was off limits to general club-goers. Some sort of VIP thing, I supposed, and the bouncer at the base of the stairs showed they were serious.
“Vittorio sent me a drink and I -”
He cut me off with a wave of his arm, indicating for me to go upstairs. Easier than I’d expected.
At the top of the stairs, confidence firmly in place, I saw the black hair was his natural color. It had highlights you just can’t get out of a bottle. Sitting on a red velvet couch, he was the center of attention. He faced away from me, so I surveyed the area.
The crowd in the balcony belonged to the second group of club-goers, looking like extras straight out of a vampire movie. They weren’t vampires, obviously - no such thing existed - but they’d sure pass. Some even had fake fangs.
The area was the size of a large living room. In back and to the right was a door with a sign that read “Restroom” and the image signifying it was for men and women. To the left was an unmarked door. A broom closet, maybe?
Vittorio turned and smiled at me. He was masculine in every way, yet his face managed to be beautiful. He was a god come to life; the most gorgeous, perfect creature to ever walk the face of the planet. Even that didn’t do his beauty justice. This god actually smiled at me!
I shook my head. This groupie behavior would do no good. Taking a deep breath, I walked over to him. His height sitting almost matched my 5’7” standing.
I extended my hand, thankful the music wasn’t as loud in the balcony so I didn’t have to shout. “I’m Elena. Thank you for the drink, but it really was unnecessary.”
He stood. “Elena. Such a beautiful name for a beautiful woman. And such confidence.”
At least I succeeded there. My insides turned to rubber as he enfolded my tiny hand in the strong warmth of his. He motioned to the woman sitting next to him, who got up and walked away, glaring at me.
“Please, sit, Elena. Tell me about yourself. How does such a beauty find herself in our humble club? I would surely remember if you had been here before.” He sounded anything but humble.
My legs nearly collapsed, forcing me to accept the offer to sit. My steel boned corset prevented me from slumping into the plush couch. I had never experienced true magic, but he certainly seemed to have an otherworldly power contained in all that beauty. I tried to calm myself with deep breaths. I never reacted to men this way. I needed to get a grip on myself, fast. I had a job to do. “Well,” I cleared my throat because my voice came out barely audible. “I don’t go out very often. But I’m,” I didn’t want to tell him I was a PI, so quickly thought up an easy lie,” kind of between jobs at the moment and needed to get out of the house.”
“You have chosen a wonderful night to come out. It is my fortieth birthday.”
“Well, happy birthday, Vittorio. Where’s your wife?” Someone as gorgeous as he was either had to be married, or too much of a playboy to ever settle down.
“Hmm,” Vittorio murmured, seemingly amused. “I am not married. I have not found a woman to hold my interest enough for a lifelong commitment. But perhaps that has changed tonight.” He eyed me curiously, head slightly tilted to the side.
Oh my word, this god was interested in me. My heart raced. He stared intently into my eyes, and I thought I would faint.
A waitress dropping off a bottle of champagne momentarily distracted Vittorio. Again I reminded myself of my job, wishing I could escape to the bathroom to pull myself together.
Vittorio turned his attention back to me, glass of champagne in hand.
“Thank you, but I don’t drink.” I longed to accept the glass, to let the soothing affects of the alcohol overtake me. Stressful situations proved most challenging to my sobriety.
“And why is that, mia bellezza?”
“I’ve done plenty of drinking to last several lifetimes. I’m done with it.”
“That much drinking at your tender age?”
“Tender age? How young do you think I am?”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty-five.”
“You do not look a day over twenty-one.”
“Well thanks, Any anyway, I’m much happier when I have full control of my senses.
“But losing control can be such a magical experience.” He lightly ran his fingertips from the back of my hand, up my arm, finishing the touch at my neck.
I shivered and my throat went dry.
He smiled, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “What can I offer you to drink?”
I cleared my throat, but my voice was still hoarse as I replied. “Just water. Please.” I hadn’t even noticed my glass was empty.
“As you wish.” He nodded to the waitress, who was waiting for his command. That’s the only way I can describe it.
She scurried off, abandoning me to Vittorio.
