Inheriting Fear Read online

  Inheriting Fear

  Sandy Vaile

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2015 by Sandy Vaile.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-8992-5

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8992-8

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-8993-3

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8993-5

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art ©moji1980/123RF;© iStockphoto.com/Ljupco

  In memory of Fay, an exceptional Aussie battler, whose imprint remains on kindred hearts.

  Miss me, but let me go.

  Acknowledgments

  The art of creating a fantastical story and turning it into a saleable manuscript is a process that not only involves the creator but a collection of support people. It is these people who generously impart life wisdom, inspire me, provide moral support, participate in brainstorming sessions over cups of tea, and encourage me to never give up, whom I wish to thank here.

  First and foremost I have to thank my family for their unwavering belief in me. My beautiful sons keep me on my toes by sharing their spirit of inquiry and discovery, but have yet to fathom why anyone would want to read a book without pictures.

  My husband is my sounding board for new ideas and does his best to play it cool when I’m researching the best way to poison someone, or testing fight scenes on him—naturally, I wait until we’re walking the dog, so I have a captive audience. Most of all I appreciate his acceptance of the peculiarities that come with living with an author. His firm confidence in my success sustains me when I reach the inevitable point of self-doubt.

  My key technical guide was the esteemed Senior Sergeant Steve Hammond of the South Australia Police. He generously explained police procedures in layman’s terms and helped bring into focus the indistinct line between realism and artistic license. You can be sure that Mya’s story is fictional and, where I have strayed from the path of accuracy, the culpability lies with me alone.

  A special mention to Lynn Wallace, who reads my very rough drafts, and Jamie Crannage. The remaining members of my support network are so numerous that I must mention them in general terms. They include literary colleagues from the Novelist’s Circle (past and present), Seaside Writers and Romance Writers of Australia, and my friends who listen to me ramble about my characters or plot twists.

  All of these people have kept me motivated and, whether they know it or not, are experts on something I’m not, be it their job, hobby, or life experience.

  And of course, I must thank Crimson Romance for providing the opportunity for me to realize a lifelong dream.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  About the Author

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  Also Available

  Chapter 1

  Her brown combat boots pounded the bike track as her eyes searched the shadows on either side. Mya had made the same short journey five days a week for eleven years, but at night it still made the back of her neck prickle. She could buy a car and live in fear. Not a chance. Fear could go to hell.

  Intermittent puddles of lamplight dripped onto the tarmac. Laughter and evening TV programs carried through the open windows of weatherboard houses along the railway track, and she inhaled a waft of grilled chops with the rail grease. She pushed her chef’s skull-cap into the back pocket of her jeans and wrapped an elastic band around her long hair. On the other side of the tracks, the Croydon Hotel emitted a bass beat that vibrated in the viscous humidity.

  She glanced at her watch and picked up the pace. It was supposed to be her night off work, but the sous-chef wanted to leave early for a party, and it was Mya’s responsibility to make sure the kitchen ran smoothly. It wasn’t like she had a social life anyway.

  An androgynous shadow ambled from the bushes ahead, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a hooded jacket. She moved to the opposite side of the track. As the shadow solidified it looked taller, broader, with a hairy chin protruding from the obscurity of the hood. A flickering fluorescent streetlight alternated the image of a man and an ominous silhouette.

  They passed one another and he looked up. Red, glassy eyes devoured her from head to toe. A shiver ran up the back of Mya’s legs to her scalp. One side of his mouth lifted in a half-smile, so she nodded a greeting but kept walking.

  With her eyes ahead and ears trained on his retreating footsteps, she breathed easier as each second passed. Walking the bike track at night certainly had its hazards, but it just wasn’t worth getting the motorbike out of the shed and donning all the gear to go a few hundred metres. Besides, she had as much right as anyone to be there, and she’d made herself a promise a long time ago to never let anything or anyone stop her from doing what she wanted. Fear was just an emotion and she could overcome those with steely resolve.

  The footsteps behind her ceased and her heart flip-flopped into her throat.

  Mya turned around slowly. The hood guy had turned around too, and his left hand held a beer stubby, but not at the base like he was about to take a swig. His long fingers were wrapped around the neck of the bottle, making it look more like a weapon.

  A lump of panic stuck in her throat. Best to get the hell out of there, but it went against her training to leave her back unprotected. Her kick-boxing mentor, Ned, would clip her around the ear if she let anyone get the upper hand on her. When the thug finally took a long draught from the stubby, she hurried in the direction of the Croydon Hotel again.

  “Whocha doin’ out ’ere in the dark, Mya?” he slurred.

  She spun around and narrowed her eyes at the blackness beneath his hood. “Do I know you?”

  He swayed closer. “Nah, but I know you.”

  “Look, I’m going to work. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Oh, you’re in a lotta trouble, love.”

  Something glinted in the faltering light; his other hand strangled the hilt of a long bl
ade. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the crickets in the grass. The hood slid back as they sized each other up. He looked a bit older than her, maybe mid-thirties, half a foot taller and beefy—although height and weight didn’t always mean much in a fight.

  After a deep, calming breath, she drew on the long hours spent in the gym facing her demons. She wasn’t the angry teenager Ned had taken under his wing all those years ago. Learning how to kickbox had given her courage. No longer a victim, but in control. Another deep breath. Her pulse slowed fractionally. She was in control.

  The thug leered with a mouthful of mangled teeth. She’d seen that look before, and it meant trouble. Whether it was trouble for him or her remained to be seen.

  “I’ve gotta deliver a message.” He tapped the corner of a white envelope that protruded from his pocket, sloshing beer down the side of his jeans. “She says it doesn’t matter if I mess you up a bit, s’long as you’re alive enough to read it.”

  “What? Who says?” Maybe he was hallucinating from drugs. Unpredictable, but she’d been taught to deal with that. A long time ago she decided no man was going to beat her the way she’d watched her mother get beaten. She summoned an inner calm, relaxed her stance, and held his gaze. “You know, alcohol slows your reflexes. Be careful with that knife.”

  A crease formed between his brows, but any doubts he had appeared to pass because he clenched the knife tighter and took a step toward her. She took a step backward and waited with feet shoulder-width apart, knees soft. The rumble of a train built in the distance.

  Hood-man lunged, but his depth perception must have been distorted, because the blade was half a metre shy. He looked at it with a confused expression.

  It was probably a waste of breath, but… “You could just give me the letter.”

  “And leave a fine piece of tail like you alone?” He lunged again.

  This time she lifted onto her toes, raised a knee, and snapped the ball of her foot into his gut. He grunted and dropped the stubby in preference of clutching his stomach. Brown glass shattered and latte-looking foam pooled on the tarmac, circulating a yeasty smell. She was relieved to see the knife had slumped downward with his shoulders.

  “I told you it was hard to concentrate when you’re under the influence.” With one finger she hooked her undie elastic out of her arse. Jeans weren’t ideal for kickboxing, but her boots were solid. Old faithfuls, with years of stains slopped over them and frayed stitching.

  “You’re gonna be sorry for that, bitch.”

  “I doubt it,” she muttered.

  She’d spent too many years living in fear as a child. Now she was in charge of her own destiny, and no man was going to dictate to her. His eyes were wider now, and the whites were yellow with red capillaries tangled like a mess of string around the irises. Definitely drugs. Dark hair flopped across his face, and he pushed it back with a twitch. His weight shifted left and he feinted right.

  Mya stood her ground.

  “Why don’t you give me the letter and we can call it a night?”

  The sounds of crickets and a baby crying were swallowed by the rumble of the passing train. As he thrust the knife again, she pinned his wrist in her armpit, and elbowed him in the gut. He hunched over, and she snapped her arm back. Knuckles connected with his nose. Crunch.

  He yowled and stumbled back, dropped the blade to better clutch his bleeding nose. Quickly, she snatched up the knife—cheap army disposals crap—and tucked it through a belt loop.

  “Message delivered,” she told him as she grabbed the envelope from his pocket.

  He remained bent over, nursing his nose, as she jogged along a strip of moonlit track to the footpath. The envelope felt like a hot coal in her hand. She glanced over her shoulder. No hood-man, so she slid the blade up her sleeve, cupping the hilt in her palm, and crossed the railway track.

  It looked like local band Shamrock had pulled a big Saturday-night crowd. Windows vibrated in time with the thud of the bass. Party-goers leaned against the faded blue pub front, and she held her breath to pass through the haze of smoke drifting in the warm air. She stepped through the back door of the pub and … breathed. It felt safe here, almost like home. She’d worked her way from apprentice to head chef at the Croydon and was practically part of the furniture.

  At the back of the store room, she stashed the knife behind a sack of rice, then wiggled a finger into the back of the envelope and split it open. Inside there was a lined page with a jagged edge, like it had been torn from a spiral-bound pad. The handwriting had a backward slant, but the note wasn’t signed.

  She could just throw the letter in the bin and pretend she’d never seen it, but whoever this woman was, she had gone to the trouble of paying off a druggie to deliver it, maybe hoping Mya would get roughed up some. The guy had said “she,” and he didn’t look in any position to improvise, so the author must be a woman.

  More worrying, the woman knew her by name. That took motivation, and Mya needed to know what kind of person would go to those lengths. Sure, she’d pissed off a few people over the years—especially in the boxing ring—but an enemy? She couldn’t think of anyone who hated her enough to bother.

  After a fortifying breath, she read the letter.

  You’re good at running and hiding, aren’t you, Mya? But I know who you are. I bet you thought I’d forgotten about you and your retarded mother. Thought you could hide from me, but I’m coming for you, bitch.

  I’ll be watching … sleep well.

  Something slimy slid down her throat and into her gut: familiarity. There was no way it could be who she thought it was, but the note gave her a sense of panic from a long time ago. It felt like when she was eighteen, standing in front of her government-appointed housing with a thirty-something redhead yelling at her.

  The conversation had started civilly. The woman wanted to know about Jack Roach, but Mya’s father had been dead a year by then, and good riddance to him. But carrot-top wouldn’t leave her alone, insisting Jack had another family, and wanting to know things about Mya. Things she wasn’t ready to share.

  Bloody Jack had been the one who tore apart everything she knew and devastated the only person she cared about, her mum. There were only tatters of her life left, but they were hers and no sham relative was going to turn up for a hand-out and stop her from taking care of her mum.

  It couldn’t be possible for Rhonda to have tracked her down. Mya had changed her name and moved. It wasn’t feasible. She forced short breaths out of her tight lungs. A shudder started at the crown of her head and made its way down her spine. She glanced at the darkness beyond the hotel’s back door and then hurried to the bright kitchen. Service was in full swing and the din of the exhaust fan, crockery, and sizzling food soothed her raw nerves.

  She’d left Jack behind, but the prick was still tormenting her a decade after he died.

  “Hey, Mya, you look like you saw a ghost.” Jilly tucked a pen behind her ear and dropped an order pad into the pocket on the front of her apron.

  “You okay?” Marion, the sous-chef, stepped away from the grill.

  Even the dish pig had stopped feeding greasy plates into the commercial dishwasher to stare.

  “I-I’m fine. Just had a run in with a punk on the bike track, that’s all.”

  Marion nodded knowingly. “Why you insist on walking along there in the dark is beyond me. It’s not safe for a woman.”

  “I’m not scared of any man,” Mya snapped a little too forcefully to be convincing.

  Marion shrugged. “Well, thanks for covering for me tonight. I just put a medium-well rump on the grill and a salmon in the oven.”

  “Sure. You’re still okay to work tomorrow?”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t get smashed at the party. I’ll be here at ten a.m. Enjoy your day off.” Marion tossed her tea towel at Mya and circled her hand at the kitchen. “Have fun, peeps.”

  “Enjoy the party,” everyone called.

  With a shake to clear her head,
Mya tucked the tea towel into the front pocket of her jeans, slid the white skull-cap onto her head, and familiarised herself with the dockets clipped beside the grill.

  Worrying about the letter would have to wait until after service. God knew she’d lived through enough bad news to last a life time, but she wasn’t the same girl now. Whoever sent the threat would have to wait their turn and, when the time came, she’d face them head on.

  Chapter 2

  Mya sat on an upside-down milk crate by the back door of the pub. Jilly sat beside her, waving a hand in front of her face to fend off the cloud of flying bugs. She used both hands to readjust her bosoms in the tight white shirt whose buttons strained dangerously in the middle.

  “Damn, there’s something swimming in my drink,” she complained, using a long pink nail to retrieve the winged intruder.

  Mya swigged orange juice and shifted on the milk crate so it wouldn’t leave a pattern on her butt.

  “I don’t suppose there’s vodka in that?” Jilly motioned toward the juice.

  “You know there isn’t.”

  Jilly made a distasteful face. “Need a good, stiff drink after a Saturday night shift.” Ice swirled around the tumbler of dark amber liquid in her hand. “Got any plans?”

  “Nah, it’s late.”

  Jilly glanced at her watch. “Five past midnight is not late on a Saturday.”

  They turned to the sound of footsteps, and Flynn Murphy’s sun-beaten face appeared in the doorway, lips grinning around a mouthful of yellowed teeth. Flynn was the hotel’s publican and one of only three men Mya had ever trusted.

  “Mya, love, I heard you had some trouble on the way here.” He smoothed the gray hair at his temples and scanned the car park. His Gaelic accent was so slight most people wouldn’t pick it. “Would you like a lift home?”

  It was nice of him to offer, and it would be nice to avoid a repeat performance on the bike track. Then again, she’d set the creep straight. Face my fears. It was a mantra that had got her this far. “Nah, it’s nothing I can’t handle. Thanks, Flynn.”