He Wrote in Red Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Upstairs Basement Publishing House

  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 except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  First Printing, 2019

  ISBN 978-1-7336682-1-7

  Book 1 in the Deadly Diagnostics series

  Cover design by Chris Kudi

  https://www.kudi-design.com/

  For all the freaks and for those who feel alone. Keep swimming and you’ll find your people.

  Prologue

  She had to get out. She was going to die.

  She tried to scream, but the fire in her throat strangled the air into a hoarse, painful whisper. Hot tears fell down her cheeks while panic numbed the dull ache in her face and body. She felt along the floor, her hands struggling to see in the dark as she crawled, desperately looking for something to help. Or a way out. Anything

  People kept tools, washers, and dryers in their basements, but as she felt along the walls she realized he had nothing. The cast on her right wrist scraped against the grit of the dirt floor, against the stone wall, across a cement slab by the wooden staircase, and then into more dirt.

  Then something soft. Fabric. Her hands moved along it and she could make out the outline of someone laying on the floor. She jostled them and quickly realized that something was off. There was no reaction. Just stiffness. Her hands moved along the shoulders and the neck, the coldness of the skin building a heavy realization in her chest. Her fingers found a crater on the head that was cold and wet. She jerked back, another scream dying in the agony of her throat.

  The basement was as empty as him, save for the body. Whoever had lived in that body had left long enough ago for it to be cold and dead. Evicted by a violent psychopath. A crumpled pile of someone at the bottom of the stairs.

  She wondered if it was Elle and moved forward again, slowly, fighting the fear that it would jump up and be him. She reached out blindly, feeling for clues. Cold, dead, feminine hips. Scraggly long hair. She told herself that she didn’t know who it was. She wanted Elle to be alive but knew that Elle was underneath her hands, long gone.

  Leocadia’s shoulders heaved as she exhaled deeply, fighting the hopelessness that was building.

  She lay back against the floor, the cold dirt pressing into her. Sorrow rushed over her and images flashed through her mind. Blood dripping down the wrought iron of a pretty white bed. A grey business suit pocked by holes that were rimmed by red. The guilt threatened to drown her. She breathed deeply.

  She had to do something. Had to think. For all the times she told her clients to do their stupid breathing exercises, she had rarely used them. Focus on the senses. Come back to the moment. She saw darkness. She felt pain. She smelled dirt and mildew. She heard footsteps above. She tasted blood and tears. Goddammit, this was stupid. She wasn’t a cop. Why did she come here? A savior complex? Guilt? Mommy issues? What the fuck was wrong with her? She sighed, shelving the reflexive analysis for later. She had to get out first.

  Cell phone. The thought came to her in a flash. She felt in her clothes, already knowing that it was gone. That it had fallen out when he’d attacked her. And choked her, but not to death. Why not to death? Clinical psychology didn't prepare her for mindfulness while being strangled. Why hadn't he killed her? Did he not have enough time? Was he going to torture her?

  The last thought forced the breath from her lungs like a punch to the gut.

  No, no. Think. Think. There was no way her cell phone was down here. But Elle. Maybe she was already dead when he threw her down here so he didn't look for a cell phone. She crawled to Elle's body. Her shoulders tensed as she felt the coldness of the skin, the stiffness of the limbs. She closed her eyes and forced her hands to move. Whatever end he had planned for her was going to be worse.

  No cell phone. Either Elle didn't have it or he took it. Probably the latter. He was clever and meticulous, every bit the psychopath she didn't suspect until it was too late.

  She moved backward, putting distance between her and Elle. The nearness to a corpse made her break into a cold sweat, but distance didn’t help. Her mind replayed her fingers sinking into the sickening wetness. She rested her head against the wooden railing. Breathe. Breathe. In. Out. Shit, shit, shit.

  Suddenly she remembered the sound of Avery’s voice screaming on speakerphone as she was attacked. She had told him to call the cops if something happened. Avery knew where she was. But she was in the basement, and it shouldn’t have taken them that long to respond. Something wasn’t right.

  A tiny amount of light crept in from underneath the basement door. She peered up the wooden stairs, listening to the sound of feet on the floor above her. There wasn’t anywhere else to go, anything else to do.

  She crept up the stairs carefully, ignoring her body’s protests. If he wanted her dead he would have made sure. Maybe he thought she was still unconscious. Maybe not. She moved slowly. In spite of that, the wooden steps groaned under her shifting weight. Maybe the door was thick enough to muffle it. Maybe he was far enough away to not hear it.

  A lot of maybes, not a lot of options.

  She reached the top and sat, her weight against the angle of the door and the frame. She held her arms close, coldness settling on her. Her head rested against the wood and her eyes closed as she focused on listening. Footsteps back and forth, only one or two at a time to the right and left. Rhythmic tapping, but she couldn’t place it. The basement door was off the hallway. The tapping didn’t make sense. She combed her memories. Before he attacked her she had searched the house, and she pictured the layout. Entrance, hallway, basement.

  Her eyes went wide as she realized this his wasn’t his house. His basement had a shelf with tools on it. The image replayed in her head. The stairs and a metal shelf in the corner. Red-handled tools, yellow screwdrivers. This basement didn’t have shelves. Or tools. This wasn’t his basement. She had no idea where she was. Which meant Avery didn’t. And the cops didn’t.

  No one was coming to save her.

  Fuck. Her eyes squeezed shut while she quelled her helplessness. She had to do something. Plan. What was her plan? Not waiting. The door was probably locked. Should she try it? Should she wait until he came downstairs and ambush him? If he came down again —when he came down again— he would be on his guard. She couldn't overpower him. There were no windows in this shitty basement. Fucking Michigan basements.

  The door was her only way out. It was too late for Elle but not too late for her. She had to.

  After a minute of waiting and listening, the footsteps receded to another part of the house. She stood up carefully, feeling a dull agony in her knees. Her entire body hurt, some parts more than others. She was not made for this. Her hand gripped the cold metal of doorknob and she closed her eyes. Find the front door. Run. Don't stop. Adrenaline coursed through her as her hand tightened. She twisted.

  It didn't move. Locked. Of course.

  “Do you think I’m that stupid?”

  The shock of his voice sent convulsions racing through her body. She put her shaking head against the door. She wanted to ask why he killed Elle. If he was going to kill her. Torture her. A million thoughts pushed into her throat, coming out as a painful mouthed cry that set her throat on fire. Hot tears pushed out of her clenched eyes. Fear and guilt overwhelmed her. She brought her fist against the door one, two, three times, the cast pounding loudly.

  The noises on the other side of the door stopped. She opened her eyes and listened. Ten seconds passed in silence. A minute. An eternity of wondering if he was coming in to kill her now. The tapping began again, joined by a new sound of… boiling? Definitely cooking.

  She had to change the game. Fuck up his plan. Fuck up his control. She pounded again, but harder. The tapping stopped. It had caught his attention. Irritated him maybe.

  “Stop. I won’t keep you alive if you make this difficult.”

  His words echoed in her head as her pupils raced back and forth in the dark.

  No. He was lying. There was no way she was getting out of this alive. She began pounding against the door, his irritation a shadow of hope that overrode the fiery pain radiating from her hands. Maybe someone would hear. Maybe he would get mad and make a mistake. Her fists railed against the door in desperation, the loud thudding consuming her world.

  The door swung open wildly, hitting her like an explosion and throwing her down the steps. Her side hit a hard edge as she rolled backward, her feet tumbling over her head as the steps meted out a painful punishment.

  Her head hit the stone wall hard, the thud rattling her teeth and flashing blinding light behind her eyes.

  Get up.

  She moved her broken body, trying to meet him and fight him but she was weak and dizzy. Her wrist gave way in searing pain. She couldn't get her feet underneath her. Up. She had to get up. Angry stomping barreling towards her.

  Had to get up!

  Chapter 1

  Leocadia Calloway forced a smile as she stood holding the door open for the quiet teenager walking past. She maintained her painted expression and nodded a goodbye at the mother, who put a nervous hand on the shoulder of her son. The teenager shook it off. Defeated and angry, they walked past Michelle, the receptionist, who rose to shut the door behind them. The lock clicked, signaling an end to the daily parade of emotional chaos.

  Leocadia quickly dropped her smile with a sigh of relief.

  “Rou
gh appointment?” Michelle asked.

  Leo glanced at her with raised eyebrows but didn’t reply. Ethically, they both knew she couldn’t. Realistically, they both knew what the answer would have been.

  “You’re more patient than me, boss.”

  Leo smiled. She liked Michelle. Michelle was a part-time college student at the local university, but despite her age had a sense of calm that worked well in the office. As a clinical psychologist in private practice, Leo needed a relaxed workspace. She had put some effort into creating that environment herself but had found limited success. With the inspiration of a few home living magazines, she had painted the white walls a soft blue, added a few earthy pottery pieces and placed strategically bushy plants. They lent a cozy professionalism to the space, but not warmth. Michelle brought that into the office space, and she was a great receptionist as well. Her young humor was a bonus. Leo liked that humor most about her.

  “Any messages?” Leo asked.

  “Mrs. Ryan canceled her girls’ one and two o'clocks tomorrow.”

  “Again?”

  “Mm-hmm. Want me to call her to reschedule?”

  “No, I'll take care of it.”

  “Can I head out in a few minutes? I have a test today in my biology class.”

  “If everything's done, that's fine. I have to make a few case notes so just lock the door behind you.”

  “Thanks! See you tomorrow!”

  Leo nodded a goodbye as Michelle grabbed her patch covered messenger bag and slipped out the door. Leo slumped down into the modestly overstuffed chair that sat across from the couch and thought over what to do.

  She had talked to Mrs. Ryan last week about the importance of these appointments. The frustratingly quixotic mother was in a legal custody battle with her husband over their twin girls, and his lawyers had tasked Leo with assessing the well being of the children. As a clinical psychologist with a specialty in children and adolescents, Leo was sometimes contacted to corroborate claims of abuse or parental alienation. The mom had canceled three times, despite Leo's best efforts. Leo idly scratched at her thumbnail, thinking over what to do.

  She got up and walked back to Michelle's desk, sitting down and scooping up the black professional phone. She flicked through the address book that Michelle insisted was outdated, finding the lawyer's number. The phone rang four times. As she reached to put it back on its holder, her ear caught a voice.

  “Horridge and Horak,” it said.

  “Mr. Miller,” Leo replied, bringing the phone back to her ear. “This is Doctor Calloway. I'm surprised you're still in the office.”

  “Doctor Calloway, nice to hear from you. How are you?”

  “I'm well, thank you,” she said, trying to keep her voice pleasant. It had been a long day and the emptiness of that greeting irritated her. She preferred to not waste time with questions that no one actually wanted genuine answers to, but some people, like Miller, needed more playing along. “How are you?”

  “Oh, I suppose I can’t complain. To what do I owe your call?”

  “I'm calling about your client's ex.”

  “I was wondering what was happening on your end. What's the prognosis?”

  “I don’t have one. She's canceled her girls' appointments three times.”

  He sighed. “Naturally.”

  “I'm sorry, but I can't testify or give a deposition about the well being of the kids, as much as I wish I could.”

  “Well, we can look at getting a court order for it at the next hearing, I suppose. Or maybe just argue it as her not doing her part. That never looks good.”

  “Do you need me to write up details of the cancellations?”

  “That would be wonderful,” he said, emphasizing the first word. Leo had noticed that at the end of the day when he was feeling worn out, he tended to emphasize things unnecessarily and sound sarcastic as a result, despite not actually being sarcastic. She found it endearing.

  “Ok. I’ll write it up. Talk to you later?”

  “Hey,” he said quickly, trying to stop her from hanging up the phone. “I'm sincerely glad you called. There’s another case I was hoping you'd lend your expertise to.”

  “Custody?”

  “As always.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “An assessment on junior. Mom’s abusing him, or so dad says.”

  “So dad’s the client?”

  “Oh, not mine. A new coworker's, I'll have him call you tomorrow. What's a good time?”

  “Two works fine.”

  “Two it is. Pleasure doing business with you, Doctor.”

  “Have a good one, Miller.”

  “Back at ya.”

  She put the receiver back and returned to her office. The computer glowed as she opened it and started her case notes for the day.

  ◆◆◆

  The city of Grand Rapids where Leocadia lived was an up-and-coming metropolis in the heart of Michigan’s lower peninsula. Grand Valley State University had been anchored there for some time, but with some help from college age hipsters it had recently found traction in the craft beer scene. At one point Leo was impressed to find a local beer, Founder’s, on tap at a bar in California, where she went for a conference for the American Psychological Association. Founder’s had been the start of the Grand Rapids craft beer revolution, which had earned the city multiple ‘Beer City, USA’ titles in obscure magazines and blogs and provided an oddly specific point of pride for locals.

  Then came ArtPrize, an art contest that dominated the city for two weeks out of the summer season. The prizes were huge. Every year $500,000 was rewarded to the top ten pieces, which were determined by public voting. Massive sculptures topped the bridges, floated in the river or dominated the skyline and the city would come to life with people strolling the crowded streets while texting their votes.

  Leo’s favorite features of the city were less obvious. The hipster college scene invited a burgeoning foodie industry that was criminally overlooked. Madcap Coffee and the Bitter End had some of the best cappuccinos Leo had ever tasted, and the restaurants were always coming up with new ways to incorporate with the agricultural diversity of the area. Aside from the food, Grand Rapids was surrounded by parks, well-kept hiking trails, and lush vineyards. For less besotted weekends or evenings, Lake Michigan was less than an hour away and had impressive sand dunes for relaxing or jogging. The art and beer were great but to Leo the food, wine, hiking, and lake were the best features of Grand Rapids by and far.

  Yellow leaves floated in a gentle shower while Leo biked home under the fall sky. She had a car, but parking was a nightmare downtown and she liked to enjoy the city without being barricaded in by auto glass. The massive, historic homes of Heritage Hill blurred past, followed by the hipster cafés she frequented on the weekends. Autumn in Michigan brought her joy.

  While living in Texas for her postdoctoral fellowship, the lack of seasons depressed her. The year had blended together in an endless loop, with nothing to look forward to. She remembered the way the Texas sun burnt her face and then tilted her head up towards the gentle Michigan version in gratitude. The golden light filtered through the trees, warming her soul despite the crisp breeze around her.

  Her home in Eastown came into view as she turned left onto Paddock Street. Its pink paint, which was not her color choice, covered the home’s age but didn’t dull its charm. Thankfully she had purchased it before the city saw its humble resurgence, enabling her to have her own home in an otherwise pricey neighborhood. The wooden slats on the outside could have done with a fresh coat of paint, which would not be pink in hue, but it wasn’t a problem for that day. Sporting a sweaty sheen from the uphill pedaling, she brought her bike around the rear garage add on and went through the back door.

  Built in the 1920s but remodeled last year, the house felt comfortable to her. It was a small wannabe Queen Anne style home that retained its old-world feel with carved wooden doorways and sequestered rooms but had a solid connection to the current with its modest furniture and granite countertops. The décor was clean and solid, with all of her minimal belongings having their own place. It made her feel in control, particularly when she came home and announced her presence by altering the patterns slightly. Sometimes it was her shoes strewn onto the floor mat next to the other parallel pairs. Sometimes it was leaving her laptop on the desk noticeably crooked. Today it was tossing her keys on the hall table instead of hanging them up on the hooks. She placed her bag in its front office chair and turned on the hot water in the shower.