• Rod Kackley

Cult Killers: Dark Crime Fiction Chapter Three


Chapter Three

Anne rolled over as she heard Adam’s front door slam, his car door open and close and then his beast of four-wheeled internal combustion squeal out of the driveway and down their shared street.

She was naked and alone again, naturally, to paraphrase one of the circa-1970 songs she had done the horizontal bop to years ago with a fellow patient at a psychiatric hospital. Anne sighed and rolled over, sorry that the car across the street — what is that guy’s name? — had pushed her out of the safety of sleep and back into reality before the sun had risen.

It was the time of day when there was nothing to do but think, so it was a very lonely time of day for Anne.

Whenever she woke up a few hours before the sun came up, Anne worried. She fretted about the laundry detergent she had invented, the new suntan cream the chemist was still trying to work out, and whether she was going to be able to pay her four-person crew.

Of course the laundry soap was fine, her chemist would be able to meet the FDA regulations for the suntan cream and there would be plenty of money for payroll. It was set aside in the bank.

But still Anne worried.

That was her way.

But this morning she had something else on her mind. After she drew her mental checkmarks beside each item and put each to rest, she worried about Tim.

It’s not like she was in love with Tim. Anne had promised herself and Tim, the former vow being more important to keep than the latter, that she would not fall in love. And while it wasn’t love, Anne had at the very least fallen into comfort and routine and damn didn’t it feel good to have a man beside her and inside her.

She had so missed that feeling. As distant as Tim could be when he was within inches of her, Anne felt better with him than any man she had been with.

Okay. That was an exaggeration right out of the romance books she used for as a substitute for real life some nights. Better put — at least Tim was a man, a life support system for a penis. Could be worse, and it had been, plenty worse.

On the occasions before the sun came up, when she was honest with herself, Anne was afraid it was going to get worse. Tim scared her.

There was something going on inside Tim. She could tell that. But middle-aged crazy is middle-aged normal as far as Anne could tell. .

Who’s to say what’s normal?

And if she didn’t have secrets to protect, who did?

But this morning was the anniversary of Anne and Tim not being together for three weeks. He had not called her, but he never did.

However, he always returned her calls when Anne left a message on his phone. But for the past three days, Tim hadn't return her calls.

Three times three.

Three calls over three days. None of them returned. Nine messages ignored.

Anne sighed. She knew the truth, the truth that only a dark, lonely morning can reveal.

Tim was history.

It’s not like he was the first to say adios.

But he was the first one to never left a note. That’s what bothered her. Anne didn’t mind failure. Each defeat was just a learning lesson for a business woman like Anne.

It wasn’t fun, and she didn’t buy the “what doesn’t kill you…” line or even worse “fail fast.”

However, Anne had always been able to turn defeat into a learning lesson, challenge into opportunity, and spin one victory to another.

But Tim had not even left a note.

Anne couldn’t live with that.

She would find out what happened.

She had to figure it out.

Anne rolled over and went back to sleep.

She was naked.

And, she was alone.

Again.

A serial killer falls for a teenage girl.

She's the woman of his dreams.

She doesn't want money, diamonds, or even roses.

This young lady wants murder.

He’s a serial killer.

He can handle that, right?

A Wicked Plan: Book 1 From the St. Isidore Collection

will instantly grab you for a wild ride through

the most dysfunctional town on the planet.

You'll be up all night reading, that's for sure.

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