Who Will Be Her Lover (Crimes of Passion Book 3), page 1
WHO WILL BE HER LOVER
SHANNON JUMP
Copyright © 2022 by Shannon Jump
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
Copy Editing by Librum Artis Editorial Services
First edition published November 2022
ISBN: 979-8-218-09367-9 (Paperback)
ASIN: B0B8JXLNC8 (Kindle Edition)
The following is book three in the Crimes of Passion psychological thriller series and is not meant to be read as a stand-alone novel.
Content Disclaimer: This book is intended for readers over the age of eighteen and contains mature content unsuitable for younger audiences. For a full list of content warnings, please visit the author’s website at
www.shannonjumpwritesbooks.com.
CONTENTS
Also By Shannon Jump
Cloud Of Doom
I. Lovers’ Quarrel
The Murder Part
Beyond Repair
Humdinger
His Next Victim
Venom
Fresh Meat
Alibi-Ready
Street Cred
Click
Don’t Play Dumb
Somebody Else’s War
Strikes A Nerve
Her Horns Are Showing
Like Her
Rent-Free
Fishing 101
Viewing Party
Leader Of The Pack
Good Mourning
You Shouldn’t Have
Stuck
Blowout
Jealous Lover
The Quiet Ones
Bodies Dropping
II. Ugly People
Scrappy
Growing Limbs
Almost
Like A Drunk College Girl
Take Out The Trash
Your Move, Thompson
Punch Him In His Ugly Face
Keep Up
Shoo Fly
Smarter Than That
Not Her Sexiest Plan
Just Like That
Buying Friends
Shit-Eating Grin
Because Of You
Awfully Spotty
On The Line
Monsters
Bed And Baggage
Squeeze
Reasonable Doubt
Hello, Caramie
Ugly: An Extended Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
ALSO BY SHANNON JUMP
Contemporary Fiction
My Only Sunshine
Psychological Suspense Thriller
Even Though it’s Breaking
Crimes of Passion Psychological Thriller Series
Wouldn’t You Love to Love Her
Like a Bird in Flight
Who Will Be Her Lover
Crimes of Passion: The Complete Series
For my mother-in-law, Debbi.
Thank you for reading everything I write and
never asking questions about the sex scenes.
Revenge is the raging
fire that consumes
the arsonist.
—Max Lucado
CLOUD OF DOOM
Alisha
The darkness hangs over me like a cloud of doom.
It taunts me; forces me to hear things I know aren’t really there.
Pounding.
Creaking.
Screaming.
There are voices littered in the background like specks of dirt—particles of white noise so loud I have to cover my ears just to drown them out. It never works, but I do it anyway because at least it means I’m trying.
That I haven’t given up.
I cry, but only when the lights go out—when it’s dark and they can’t see what this is doing to me. That’s when the voices grow the loudest. This psychological warfare exists solely in my head—I know this—but that knowledge does nothing to ease the anxiety that ping-pongs in my chest every time my world goes dark.
I am so very alone down here.
A prickle of fear crawls up my spine and raises the hairs on my arms; a reminder that although I’m still alive, my body and mind reside in hell. The concrete floor I’m lying on is caked in filth—dust, dirt, scraps of food, and dried urine. I, too, am coated in the muck, the putrid odor infiltrating my senses, burning my nose and watering my eyes.
There’s no telling how long I’ve been down here, or how much longer I’ll be forced to withstand this mind-numbing torture. They could leave me in here forever, and I wouldn’t blame them. They did what they had to do—what they were trained to do—in the event an inmate were to murder a fellow officer.
The fact that he deserved to die does not matter.
It’s not my fault they don’t realize that, that I couldn’t show them. But they don’t have all the facts and they won’t listen to me when I try to tell them. I’ve long since given up trying to explain myself.
There’s no use.
I don’t recall when I last had a sip of clean water, or when I last ate. What they serve me in this place is not food, anyway. There’s no clock on the wall, no busy work to pass the time. I have nothing to write on or with, no books or letters to read.
No will to masturbate.
I am prepared to die in here.
So, this is probably it; the end of my story. And if it isn’t? I don’t want to think about what happens if they let me out of here. Because if they do, then this is just the beginning.
And in their attempts to punish me, they’ll only have created a monster.
PART I
LOVERS’ QUARREL
THE MURDER PART
Caramie
Everything you know about me is a lie.
I suppose I can’t say that for sure, not with absolute certainty. I don’t actually know what you know. But I do know where you got your information from, which is why I’m so confident that it’s wrong.
Does that make you mad, the fact that you’ve been deceived once again?
This may sound like an excuse, but it’s really not my fault: it’s hers. Well, theirs, really. Alisha and Ivy are the culprits here, not that I’m unashamed of my involvement in all this, of what I’ve done.
I am.
And more than a little.
I’m a lot ashamed.
I definitely should not have done the things I’ve done. That said, I’m not entirely convinced I had much of a choice. Ugh, that’s a lie, too. Sorry, force of habit these days. Obviously I had a choice. We all have choices in this life. But sometimes we make the wrong ones, and that’s what I seem to have done here: made a series of bad choices.
And now I’m paying the consequences; like I’m living with these demonic roommates that can’t be bothered to pick up their dirty socks.
I killed a man.
Sometimes in those final moments before I fall asleep at night, when I’m all alone in the darkness, I say that out loud just so I don’t forget. Not because I want to remember, but because I have to.
I killed a man.
And then I helped put his wife in prison.
It’s messed up. I know this, and that reminder does nothing but play on a continuous loop in my mind.
Over.
And over.
And over.
Where would I be now if I’d have done things differently? If I hadn’t listened to her?
I’d like to pretend I didn’t know what’s in store for Ivy Rogers. That when the time is right, she won’t be forced to meet the same fate as the man I seduced and killed—her husband. But that would be another lie, and I’m trying to turn over a new leaf here, so I’m not going to say it.
The truth is I have a pretty good idea what will happen to her, as I’m sure you do. Which is why I’m doing my best not to think about my part in all this—the role I played in the downfall of Sawyer and Ivy Rogers.
The guilt tends to linger like a bad smell.
And this one’s particularly rotten.
Alisha said it had to be this way; that Sawyer’s death was the only way all of this would work. I listened to her—because I’m impressionable like that—and like a good follower, I did everything she asked of me and then some.
I’m not so sure I like the person I’ve become.
Or why all this was so important to begin with.
What I do know is that I can’t live like this—in this perpetual state of regret—much longer. It’ll drive me insane, and before you know it, I’ll be occupying a cell right next to those crazy bitches.
Sorry, I don’t mean to name call; I’m just frustrated.
There doesn’t seem to be anywhere to go from here.
I know I need to press on, to figure out my next move before it’s too late. Especially now that I have another life to think about, a child to look after. I can’t let this little boy down.
I watch him now, Ivy’s son, Dylan. His little lip trembles as he sleeps, and I’d give anything to know what he’s dreaming of, what he sees when he closes his eyes. Does he long for his mother? To hear her voice? Crave the warmth of her skin against his own?
It’s doubtful, considering the woman was never around for more than a few minutes at a time; he barely knew her. Hell, the little guy probably thinks I’m his mother. Which, may be for the best, all things considered.
So I cannot fail.
Not now.
Not ever.
But it’s hard, you know? Having to do it all myself, with no support system, while I sit here marinating in fear. It’s the unknown that kills me, that unwavering doubt that resides in the back of my mind. What will Ivy do once she figures out what I’ve done? Will she come for me?
She didn’t scare me before. I mean, I certainly knew enough about her that I should have been scared. I knew what she’d done to get herself into this mess, and I know why Alisha chose to keep her on a tight leash, why she wanted eyes on her. But circumstances have changed, and I’m told I don’t need to worry about her anymore, that she’s being handled. Whatever that means.
I do worry, though.
Because Ivy knows about Sawyer and me—about our affair. He told her about us that day when he went to see her in county.
He wasn’t supposed to do that.
And maybe he was just showboating a little. Maybe he wanted to prove to his estranged wife that he still had what it takes to bag a younger model. That he didn’t need her. I think the news may have upset her more than he let on, that she couldn’t possibly have taken it well, but I hate to make assumptions.
But it was that visit, that admission, that led Ivy to change her plea. As if she had nothing left to lose.
Guilty.
Of murdering her own sister.
After that, she was sentenced and hauled off to prison where she (arguably) belongs. And a woman like that is awfully dangerous once her whole world has been taken from her.
I should be safe now, with her behind bars. But I don’t feel safe, and you never really know, do you? It’s stupid, but sometimes I still can’t believe she did it—that Ivy killed her sister. Call it denial, but how could she have done such a thing? Kill her teenage sister in cold blood like that? Over what? A little sibling rivalry? Forgivable acts is what they were, anybody can see that.
But not her; not someone with that many loose screws in their head. I think it takes a special kind of person to kill their own flesh and blood over something as petty as a sex tape. But what do I know? I’ve never walked in the woman’s shoes.
And I don’t intend to.
Still, I thought I knew her, this woman with whom I’d shared an intimate kiss—how unexpected that was! This woman whose home I lived in for months, sleeping just down the hall from her at night, looking after her kid every day… None of it adds up; she seemed so normal.
Her poor parents.
But Ivy wanted to re-write her own story, to start her life over and forget everything that happened up until that moment.
And she did.
The past had been buried.
Hidden away and tucked quietly into the darkest corners of her psyche.
I wonder if she knew it would come back to haunt her like this.
That she’d find a reason to kill again.
And I remind myself of this when the guilt gets to me, when it’s too much to bear (kind of like now) and no matter how hard I try, I can’t see the light on the other side of the tunnel. I knew Ivy was bad news, had been warned that she was a manipulator and not let her in too deep.
But that’s how I knew I’d find that dark secret in her past if I searched hard enough. That was my job: to find the secret—something we could use against her when the time came to put her away for Dylan’s murder—and expose it. I didn’t expect to find what I did; those diaries, her dead sister’s photograph. But Ivy is one of those monsters whose fangs can only be seen from up close. That’s why she’s so good at what she does, at making you feel sorry for her.
That’s why I’m anxious.
Why I dread the day I have to face her again.
I haven’t spoken with her; I have a new phone number these days for that very reason. I’m not supposed to have contact with her, and I’m damn sure not supposed to visit her at Smithson. Those were Alisha’s instructions, her terms.
For your safety, and Dylan’s, she had said.
Personally, I think avoiding Ivy only makes me look more suspicious, but like I said, she scares me now, so it’s not like I want to see her anyway.
No, distance is good.
Distance keeps me and this child safe.
But she’s a smart woman; I’m sure she’ll figure out why she can’t reach me sooner or later, if she hasn’t already. I really don’t want to think about what happens when she does.
I imagine she knows a lot of scary people.
So, no, I don’t know exactly what will happen to her from here, but I don’t think it’s anything good. Whatever Alisha has planned for that woman will likely be brutal, perhaps even life-ending. Lesser people have been known to orchestrate some pretty fucked-up things from the inside of a prison cell.
There is no such thing as sunshine in a place like that.
But does she know about Sawyer yet?
That he’s dead?
That I’m the one who killed him?
They assured me the poison would work fast, that just a little bit in his coffee would do the trick, and I’ll be damned—it did. But I wasn’t sure, so that’s why I put the extra in his cereal, and some in the milk jug. And we don’t need to talk about how I got my hands on such a toxic poison, but know this: it wasn’t easy. I’ve met some very questionable characters in the months since my first sit-down with Alisha. Let’s just say I hope I never see any of them again.
And maybe I’m an idiot.
Because Alisha told me to run. To grab baby Dylan and drive off into the sunset as soon as the job was done, to never look back. Make a fresh start somewhere far away, where I wouldn’t be recognized by a single soul. The money had hit my account before I even left his condo—five million dollars, to be exact—and there was more coming: a deposit every year until Dylan’s eighteenth birthday, as long as I did what I was told.
And I should’ve run, I know that.
I just wasn’t sure I wanted to.
I’m still not sure.
That’s why I’ve been hunkered down in Alisha’s house in Buffalo for the past week. Why I can’t seem to work up the guts to pack up and go is beyond me. I just need some time to figure things out, that’s all. Get my bearings. But I kinda want to stick around long enough to watch it all fall down, too. To see Alisha come out on top.
