Killman Creek by Rachel Caine EPUB & PDF – eBook Details
- Available For Free Download
- Author: Rachel Caine
- Genre: Serial Killers, Women’s Crime Fiction, Women’s Psychological Fiction
- Publish Date: 12 December 2019
- Size: 2 MB
- Format: PDF / EPUP
- Status: Avail for Download
- Price: Free
GWEN
On the twelfth night since my ex-husband escaped prison, I am
in bed. Not sleeping. Watching the play of light and shadow on
the curtains. I’m lying on a narrow foldout cot and feeling
every twinge of spring poking through the thin mattress. My
kids, Lanny and Connor, occupy the two full-size beds in this
midpriced motel room. Midpriced is the best I can afford right
now.
The phone is a new one. Another disposable, with a
brand-new number. Only five people have the number, and
two of them are asleep in the room with me.
I can’t trust anyone outside that vanishingly small circle.
All I can think of is the shadow of a man walking through the
night—walking, not running, because I don’t believe Melvin
Royal is on the run, though half the police in the country are
hunting him—and the fact that he is coming for me. For us.
My ex-husband is a monster, and I thought he was safely
contained and caged, awaiting execution . . . but even from
behind bars he ran a campaign of terror against me and our
kids. Oh, he had help, some of it from inside the prison, some
outside; how wide and deep it went is still in question, but he
also had a plan. He maneuvered me, through targeted fear and
threats, into the place he’d wanted me: a trap we’d survived,
but only just.
Melvin Royal stalks me in the brief darkness when I close
my eyes. Blink, and he’s on the street. Blink, and he’s walking
up the stairs of the motel to the second floor’s open walkway.
Blink, and he’s outside the door. Listening.
The buzz of a text arriving on my phone makes me flinch
so hard it hurts. I grab for the device as the room’s heater
rattles on; it’s loud, but it’s efficient, and warmth glides
through the room in a slow, welcome wave. I’m grateful. The
blankets on this cot aren’t up to much.
I blink my tired eyes and bring the phone’s screen into
focus. The message says Number Blocked. I turn it off, and
put it under my pillow, and try to convince myself that it’s safe
to sleep.
But I know it isn’t. I know who’s texting me. And the
double locks on the motel room door don’t seem nearly
enough.
I am twelve days out from rescuing my children from a
murderer. I am exhausted, sore, and plagued with headaches. I
am heartsick and tired and anxious and most of all—most of
all—I am angry. I need to be angry. Being angry will keep us
all alive.
How dare you, I think at the phone beneath my pillow.
How fucking dare you.
When I’ve stoked my anger to a boiling, almost painful,
temperature, I reach beneath my pillow and pull out the phone
again. My anger is a shield. My anger is a weapon.
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