Dead End Road Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

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  Dead End Road

  Vengeful Things:

  Book One

  Lori Whitwam

  Dead End Road

  Copyright © 2017 by Lori Whitwam.

  All rights reserved.

  Second Print Edition: June 2017

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-132-6

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-132-3

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To Tom, who has been with me every step of the way, whether those steps were on dirt roads, black ice, or sandy beaches. There’s nobody else I’d rather have by my side.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

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  Chapter One

  Abby

  The blue Jeep Compass barreled down the forest-lined county highway, traveling considerably above the limits of both the law and common sense. Abby Delaney became aware of this fact when the right-side wheels edged onto the gravel shoulder, narrowly missing an Adopt a Highway sign designating this stretch of road as the responsibility of the Emporia Elks Lodge. She realized becoming acquainted with the Jaws of Life simply because she was annoyed would do nothing to improve her day, and eased up on the gas pedal.

  What the hell was Molly thinking, calling her this morning to back out of attending the concert with her tonight? Abby swallowed a grumble of annoyance. She understood when your friend’s boyfriend surprised her with a weekend trip you weren’t supposed to heap on the guilt, but Dead End Road was special. Since they rarely played this far north, she was lucky to see them once a year, and Molly’s last minute change of plans left her with no time to find anyone else to go.

  Abby’s phone rang, and she pulled it from the console. She wasn’t worried about the wisdom of talking and driving; she knew this road like the back of her hand. A glance at the display told her who was calling. “Hey, Monique. What’s up?” She noticed she was drifting toward the shoulder again, and corrected the vehicle’s course back into position in the eastbound lane.

  “Are you on your way? The delivery guy just left.” Abby heard the familiar jingle of the bells on the front door of Monique’s vintage clothing shop, ReVamped, and imagined the delivery driver hadn’t even made it back to his truck yet.

  “I should be there in about ten minutes. Have you opened the box?”

  “I’m about to. I bought it as a blind lot, but this vendor always has really good merchandise. I’m sure I’ll find something in there you’ll love.”

  Abby’s toes curled a little at the thought of getting her pick of a shipment from one of Monique’s best sources. “I have the tickets, but are you sure you want to do this? I know how expensive Rosalie’s stuff is.”

  Monique chuckled. “Oh, sweetie, I’m getting the best end of this deal. My baby sister’s going to owe me big when I give her those tickets. I’m wringing my hands like a silent movie villain thinking how many hours of babysitting I’m going to get out of her.”

  Abby wasn’t sure it would be worth it, even to see Dead End Road. Monique’s two preschoolers were utter terrors. “Maybe you should give Molly the goodies. After all, she’s the reason I have two tickets for you to use to bribe Sophie into taking on the twins.” Damn dumb-ass best friends with deplorable taste in men.

  She cringed when Monique sighed. She probably shouldn’t have opened this particular can of worms.

  “I know you don’t like Craig, Abby, but at least Molly is out there living her life instead of letting it pass her by.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Abby saw an approaching pickup truck, realized she might be a whisker or two over the center line, and Sammy Paulsen could be lurking with his radar gun in a break in the trees. True, he seldom gave her a speeding ticket, probably due to his longtime crush on her, but he’d be hard pressed to ignore a head-on collision. “Look, Mo, I didn’t call to discuss my love life, or lack thereof. I’ll see you in a few, okay?”

  “Sure, honey. Now slow down and I’ll see you soon.”

  “I’m not speeding. Much.”

  She could almost hear Monique rolling her eyes. “Yes, you are. Watch out for Sammy, and I’ll go see what Rosalie sent.”

  Abby tossed the phone back into the console and concentrated on not breaking any more traffic laws.

  Entering town, she was so distracted she barely took note of the 1920s-era brick storefronts or the concrete planters overflowing with pansies courtesy of the Pioneer Garden Club. She decided before she went to see Monique, she would drive by Dash’s, the venue for the concert. Maybe she could get a glimpse of the band, and, if she were lucky, even Seth Caldwell, their lead singer and guitarist. But she had to hurry because Monique was expecting her.

  On Buchanan Street, she spotted the tour bus parked on the left side in front of the club. She thought she could see figures moving around through the windshield and squinted, trying to determine who they might be.

  Her attention focused on the bus, she suddenly caught something entering her frame of vision on the right. She only had an instant to register a man with familiar long, golden-brown hair stepping from in front of the equipment trailer she had failed to notice. An unformed expletive on her lips, she slammed on her brakes as he leaped back, narrowly escaping impact with her Jeep.

  The guitar case he was carrying, however, was not so fortunate. Abby’s fender caught it, ripping it from its owner’s hand, and it disappeared under her right front wheel with a nauseating crunch. Stunned, Abby tried to pull to the curb behind the trailer, but after throwing the Jeep into reverse she realized the flaw in her logic. Nope, definitely not one of her smoother
moves. The guitar case, once again victim to her right front tire, reappeared after another small bump and oddly lyrical grinding sound.

  Holy shit. I just ran over Seth Caldwell’s guitar. Twice.

  Abby maneuvered the Jeep into the general vicinity of the curb and hopped out, too shocked to know whether to throw herself to the pavement in remorse or run for her life. On unsteady legs, she made her way to the scene of the crime. Seth crouched at the edge of the street, picking through the shattered remains of what had recently been an acoustic guitar.

  She dropped to her knees beside him. His hair fell forward, blocking her view of his face, but he pushed it back and turned to look at her. His blue eyes might as well have been laser beams, the way they bored into her. Was it possible to be simultaneously thrilled and terrified? Apparently so.

  “You killed it,” Seth rasped. “You fucking killed my guitar.”

  There was no way she could argue. She’d never seen a deader guitar. “I’m so sorry! I was looking at the bus and didn’t see you. I was irritated, and sort of distracted…”

  “You were irritated? So you flew down the closest thing to a main street this town has, and ran over my 1997 Taylor Cujo, which I’ve had for not even three weeks?” Seth began scooping the remains of the instrument back into the mangled case, his gray t-shirt stretching across his shoulders with the effort. He somehow managed to maintain the full force of his glare the entire time.

  Abby stretched out a hand to help, but Seth shifted his body to block her. “Don’t. You’ve done enough,” he snapped.

  This did not strike Abby as a gracious acceptance of her apology. In fact, he was being kind of an ass. Her Irish temper began to kick in, which was something like the Hulk’s, but without the green skin and purple pants. “Look, it was an accident, okay? And what the hell are you doing stepping out into traffic anyway?” She stood and scowled back at the angry musician.

  “Traffic? What traffic? About three cars drove by in the last twenty minutes.” Seth tried to close the lid on the case, failed, and shoved the whole thing toward the curb.

  “Stop yelling at me.”

  “I’m not yelling.”

  “You are definitely yelling.” She caught a glimpse of something at his neck and did a double take. “Are those ear buds? You were listening to music? That’s why you didn’t hear me!” Her voice rose about three octaves.

  “I could hear fine. And it doesn’t have anything to do with your shitty driving.” He ripped off the buds and stuffed them in his pocket. The angry lowering of his brows lessened the impact of his glare, but not by much.

  Abby shook her head, walked to the open door of her Jeep and grabbed a business card from her purse. “Here. Get your guitar fixed…”

  “Fixed? It’s fucking mulch!”

  “…or replaced, and send me the bill. And for the last time, stop yelling!”

  “There are only a hundred and twenty-four of these guitars on the planet, and it took me six months to find this one. You think I can just replace it?” His voice, she noted, had a certain amount of anguish somewhere beneath the fury. Seth stood, and Abby tried not to flinch as he snatched the card from her hand.

  “I said I was sorry. It was an accident. I’ll pay for it—or not. It’s up to you. And now, I have to go.”

  “That’s the first smart thing you’ve said so far. Out of my sight is a real good place to be right now,” he spat.

  Suppressing a shriek of frustration, Abby turned toward her Jeep and tossed back over her shoulder, “I can’t believe I finally meet you, and we end up squatting in the gutter yelling at each other.” She slammed the door and pulled away from the curb. Her last glimpse of Seth as she headed down the block showed him standing by the equipment trailer, eyes wide, and a puzzled expression on his face.

  Out of the Jeep again, the bell over the shop door announced her arrival as she stepped into the potpourri-scented jumble of ReVamped. The heels of her sandals echoed as she stomped across the worn plank floors. Monique appeared from the back of the shop, running her hands through her oak-brown curls. Her yellow blouse was partially untucked from her tie-dyed gauze skirt, and she was barefoot. Some people might have jumped to the conclusion her disheveled state indicated back room shenanigans, but Abby recognized it for what it was. Delivery day.

  Monique’s smile warmed her round face. “You got here fast. But I don’t even need to unpack the rest of the shipment, because I picked out the perfect thing for you.”

  “I can’t wait to see, but I need to get a grip first,” Abby said, running a trembling hand over her mouth. Despite being only two years beyond Abby’s own thirty-four, Monique had a mature, calm demeanor, which sometimes came in handy.

  “You do look frazzled. Are you still mad at Molly?” Monique sorted through a basket of beaded handbags while Abby hauled herself up on a stool beside the counter.

  “Well, yeah, but I just met Seth Caldwell.”

  “Seth Caldwell? From the concert tonight?”

  Abby nodded.

  “The one who makes you all drooly?”

  “I do not get all drooly. But yes.”

  “Fantastic!”

  “Not fantastic. Pretty much the opposite. I ran over his guitar.” Abby shuddered at the recollection.

  “Oh, no.”

  “Twice.”

  “You ran over his guitar twice?” Monique’s eyebrows disappeared under the curly fringe of her bangs.

  “Uh-huh. Forward. Backward. Crunch.” Would she ever stop hearing the sound?

  “You need tea.” Monique turned from the basket to an electric kettle on a stand by the wall. She considered tea a cure for any sort of physical or emotional trauma.

  “Only if you put a couple of shots of whiskey in it.”

  “No whiskey, but I can add some Rescue Remedy,” offered Monique.

  Abby doubted a holistic flower essence remedy would do much for her agitation, but she did remember one significant fact about it. “Comes in an alcohol base, right? Dump in the whole bottle. And the whiskey.”

  “Oh, hush. He obviously didn’t beat you to death with the remains, so what’s the problem?”

  “He was kind of a jerk.” And dammit, he wasn’t supposed to be. But why did it even matter? She didn’t know him, and would probably never see him again. She related the incident and subsequent snark-fest, even though talking about it made a vein throb beside her right eye.

  “Could’ve been worse, honey,” Monique said as she attached a tiny cardboard price tag to a handbag with a bit of string. “Accidents happen, but nobody was hurt.”

  “I guess, but only because looks can’t actually kill.” Abby sighed. How could she explain that in one split second, every fantasy she’d had in the last five years had died a death as gruesome as the guitar’s? Sure, it was only daydreaming, but knowing Seth’s own fondest wish now probably involved her disappearing under the wheels of a very large truck took the spark right out of her imagination.

  “Let it go, and stop being upset with Molly while you’re at it,” Monique advised. She poured hot water into a large blue mug, added a tea bag and a spoon, and slid it across the counter to Abby.

  “Molly yelled at me too. I’m not having a good day.”

  “What did you do?” Monique’s skeptical squint and tone of voice reminded Abby of the time her friend’s husband had shown up holding a dozen roses and a twisted steering wheel.

  Abby thumped her spoon down on the counter. “Why do you assume I did something?”

  “Did you?”

  “Maybe,” Abby admitted. “When she said she was backing out so she could go to Trail Point Lodge with Craig for the weekend, I might or might not have said something like ‘I can’t believe you’re bailing on me to spend the weekend with that asshole.’”

  Rolling her eyes, Monique placed the basket of handbags on a nearby table. “You see what the problem is, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. Craig’s an asshole.” Obviously.

  “Besi
de the point. You know the filter, where you think things in your head, but you take out the inappropriate parts before they come out of your mouth?”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, honey, no you don’t.” The shop owner’s brown curls swayed with the slow shake of her head.

  “I don’t? What are you talking about?” Abby sipped her tea, burned her lip, and set the mug on the counter, glaring at it.

  “Yours is broken.”

  “Broken? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” She pushed the mug back toward Monique. Tea was obviously not the answer. Monique pulled up another stool and sat. Oh, great. It looked like this was going to become a Lifetime-movie conversation, and Abby wasn’t sure she was up to it.

  “I know you’ve had a rough time, but it’s been almost six years,” began Monique, and Abby’s stomach fluttered. “I know losing your dad was awful. And David was a total rat bastard. But you’re still here, even if those two are both gone, one way or another.” A note of pity crept into her friend’s voice, and it made Abby want to bolt out the door, tickets and snazzy vintage clothing be damned.

  She thought about the agony of watching pancreatic cancer steal her father a little at a time. And how David accused her of not loving him enough when she wouldn’t move to Charlotte with him for his new job. The truth was she probably didn’t love him enough, not then, because she no longer trusted him. If she hadn’t been such a coward, she would have confronted him about his infidelity and the proof she knew was there.

  Her suspicions were right. The divorce wasn’t even final and her father not yet in the ground when Joyce D’Amico moved her slutty ass to Charlotte, straight into David’s arms. It dawned on Abby then he’d been using the “follow me if you love me” ploy—knowing full well she couldn’t leave—as a way to get out of a marriage that had become inconvenient.

  But it was even worse than Monique knew. There were only a handful of people who knew the full scope of what she’d lost. And, for now, she planned to keep it that way.