The Devil Made Me Read online

  © Copyright 2020 by Lorene May- All rights reserved.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

  Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

  The Devil Made Me . . .

  Darby Greer Mysteries Complete Box Set

  She’s Gone

  You Will Pay

  Seeking Scarlett

  Murder at the Ritz

  By Lorena May

  Table of Contents, all four books:

  She’s Gone!

  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

  Epilogue

  You Will Pay

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 2 ~ Darby

  Chapter 3 ~ Jen

  Chapter 4 ~ Darby

  Chapter 5 ~Jen

  Chapter 6 ~Jen

  Chapter 7 ~ Jen

  Chapter 8 ~ Darby

  Chapter 9 ~ Jen

  Chapter 10 ~ Darby

  Chapter 11 ~ Jen

  Chapter 12 ~Jen

  Chapter 13 ~ Jen

  Chapter 14 ~ Darby

  Chapter 15 ~ Jen

  Chapter 16 ~ Darby

  Chapter 17 ~ Jen

  Chapter 18 ~ Jen

  Chapter 19 ~ Darby

  Chapter 20 ~ Jen

  Chapter 21 ~ Darby

  Chapter 22 ~ Jen

  Chapter 23 ~ Darby

  Chapter 24 ~ Jen

  Chapter 25 ~ Darby

  Chapter 26 ~ Jen

  Chapter 27 ~ Darby

  Chapter 28 ~ Jen

  Chapter 29 ~ Darby

  Chapter 30 ~ Jen

  Chapter 31 ~ Darby

  Chapter 32 ~ Darby

  Chapter 33 ~ Jen

  Seeking Scarlett

  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

  Murder at the Ritz

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  She’s Gone!

  She’s Gone!

  Darby Greer Mysteries Prequel

  By Lorena May

  She’s Gone! Table of Contents:

  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

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Shea, September 13, 2018

  The screaming! That incessant screaming. Searing. Tearing at my brain. A jackhammer pummeling and drilling through my body. I hunch into a ball, clenching my fists around my calves. “Pleaeaeaeaease!”

  I don’t know how long I sit there, fingers tearing at my hair now. My insides jangling. Her screeching pierces and crashes in my head. “I have to do this.” I take deep breaths; slow, deliberate. Shutting the world out, I concentrate on my heaving chest. Slow down! Breathe in. Out. In. Out. Gritting my teeth, I lower my legs to the floor, my feet sinking into the soft carpeting. Head bowed, eyes closed, I remain a moment longer, fingers splayed across my forehead. I can do this. I MUST do this.

  I shuffle across the living-room and down the hall to the baby’s room, breathing shakily, my body limp. Stopping for a moment, I close my eyes and suck in shallow breaths. The hallway is dark. I feel suffocated. The world is closing in on me. When I touch the door handle, turn it . . . I’m assaulted by loud shrieks. My eyes scrunch shut for a moment. When I open them I see her there in her crib. Red-faced, stiff-bodied.

  Grabbing the half-full bottle of milk from the change table I move to the crib and slip it into her mouth. She squirms away from it, squealing. An ear-splitting sound. I place my hands under her arm-pits and pick her up, holding her against me. Her body is stiff. Her crying relentless. I hold her away from me. I want to shake her. “Shut up!” I roar, vibrating her little body. She gapes at me. A look of horror. And I pitch her into the crib and run. I run from the crib, through the door-way, across the narrow hallway into my bedroom where I throw open the closet door and fall to the floor, huddled there, my head on my knees, gasping for breath. My head is spinning. I feel myself shaking, and the tears come in little gasps.

  I picture Ben, an image of his anxious face looming in my head. Hear his voice, cracking, concerned. “Shea, be happy.
We have a beautiful baby girl.”

  Has it only been seven weeks? The birth was hard and long. Two epidurals did little to relieve the pain. When she finally came the relief was cathartic; like lying in a soothing stream on a hot summer day. I remember how we laughed giddily over her funny little face twitching. Counted her perfect tiny fingers and toes. One – two – three . . . Cassandra, we called her. Our beautiful girl child. Her eyes were a deep blue, and her nose a little button on a tiny heart-shaped face. Already she had a mass of softly curling, dark hair. Her soft, pink skin felt, talcum-like, and her little seven-pound body with its creases and tiny rolls fit into me like a part of my own.

  What has happened? Her screaming is muffled a little by the clothes hanging around me, the doors slammed behind me. But they continue in the distance; piercing me with guilt and anguish. I reach into the pocket of my robe, my fingers grasping the smooth capsule. Gathering saliva in my mouth I pop it in and swallow. It feels massive in my throat. I swallow again and again. In my mind I see the pharmacist’s eyes boring into me. Suspicious. Superior. “Take only the prescribed amount,” she’d said. But I need this.

  I’m drowning in angst. Ben’s face swims before me, his eyes alert. Anxious. “It’ll be all right”. NO! It’s not! I shove another pill into my mouth. Another. . . And, finally, oblivion.

  *

  I awake fuzzy-headed. Silence surrounds me. I’m lying on the closet floor now, surrounded by shoes that dig into my ribs, hips and legs. Sniffing, I catch a faint scent of fabric softener. The carpet below me is scratchy and nubby. Have I slept here? For how long? Slowly I bring myself to my knees and stand, moving away from the clothing that has cushioned me from the world. Dream-like, I walk through the bedroom into the hallway. There is no sound. My baby has fallen asleep. I breathe deeply, relieved. Sunlight filters through the hallway from the kitchen and I hear the soft tap-tap of rain falling. I tip-toe to Cassandra’s door, and slowly open it. I’ll just check on her. There is no sound. Silently I creep toward her crib. I see a hump of sheets and blankets. I look down. She’s gone.

  Chapter 2

  Shea, June 13, 2005

  “She’s gone! Our mother is gone. Because of you!” My sister pointed an accusing finger at me, and burst into tears.

  “Alyssa! I’m sorry!” I was crying too. I knew it wasn’t fair.

  Earlier that day she’d waited for me at school. Junior Highs dismissed earlier than us fifth-graders. I knew she’d much rather have been hanging out with her few friends like a normal kid. Like she wasn’t the person mainly responsible for me. Walking home, she’d been silent and brooding. I merrily told her about the science project we’d done that day; building towers of different shapes. Rectangular, triangular, cylindrical.

  “And then we put weights on them to see which held the most.” I chattered on, just happy to have an audience, no matter how unresponsive she was. But when we arrived at our embarrassingly run-down home we both knew something was wrong.

  Mom’s car was gone, but otherwise the difference was so subtle I couldn’t say what it was. Blankets hung across the windows. As usual. The wooden steps were crooked and sagging, as usual. Our rented house sadly lacked paint. Weeds and tall grasses grew thick in the yard, the dandelions out in full yellow. I guess it was the lack of any action inside that clued us in. Not that it normally was sparkling with life.

  “Mom?” we called as we entered. Only floppy bean-bag chairs, a sagging, stained couch, overflowing ash-trays, dirty dishes, towels and discarded clothes greeted us in the dank little living room. I stood, dreading what we might find beyond. Alyssa marched into the kitchen. “Mom?”

  I followed. Alyssa stood there reading a note held in her lean, brown hands. Her lips moved slightly as she read. Then her face filled with anguish and she raised her eyes to glare at me. She was right. It was my fault.

  That morning we’d had another fight. Mom was still in bed as we raced around gathering our things for school.

  “Where are my gym shorts?” Alyssa yelled.

  “I put them in the laundry after I used them three days ago,” I called to her as I searched through the rubble for my shoes.

  “You wore them? They’re mine!” She tore through the laundry basket, yanking them out and holding them up. They were covered with dirt and grass stains. “What did you do to them?”

  “Well, if I had some shorts that fit me I wouldn’t have to wear yours!” I stuck my head in Mom’s room as I spoke – loudly. I saw her stir amongst the blankets hiding her soft body.

  Fury overtook me. I stormed into the darkened little room and looked down on our mother. “Can’t you do anything?” I yelled. “Why can’t you be like normal mothers? Why are you even here?!” I kicked the bed and marched out of the room, slamming the door.

  And now she was gone. Alyssa’s green eyes hardened, her angular face a mask of wrath, as she shoved the note into my face.

  Alyssa and Shea,

  You’re right. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.

  Mom

  Chapter 3

  September 13, 2018

  It is 12:45 pm when Detective Darby Greer receives the call. A distraught father. “Fuck!” Her dark eyes flash and she slams the pen she’d been holding down onto her desk. “A baby!” Shrugging herself into the faded jean jacket hanging on her chair, she turns to Mel, her grizzled long-time partner. “A baby’s been kidnapped! CSI is already at the house. Let’s go!” She is out the door by the time he rises and walks deliberately behind her.

  *

  The parents sit on the sofa in the living room. She is wrapped in a fleece blanket. He’s wrapped her up to protect her. Darby can tell. The husband, Ben Anderson, sits hovering solicitously over his wife. Mrs. Anderson trembles violently, but appears alert and anxious to cooperate. What a beauty she is! Tiny – fragile appearing – she sits with her legs curled up against her chest. Most notable, at first, is her spiky black hair tipped with red. Her face is perfectly heart-shaped, her features fine. In her nose loops a small silver hoop. Huge violet-colored eyes framed by long dark lashes, now luminous with tears, look entreatingly at the detectives. This girl sincerely wants answers. She wears black leggings and an oversized sweat-shirt. Darby can see just the edge of a tattoo on her collarbone. They’ll question her first. She was the one home, it appeared, when the baby was taken.

  Darby looks at her, willing her usual brash manner to soften. This girl is delicate, she can see. And she genuinely pities her. “Mrs. Anderson, tell us about when you discovered Cassandra was missing.”

  Shea Anderson draws in a deep breath, and her eyes widen. “I – she’d been crying and I – I was in the closet.” Her face flushes a deep red. Her husband clears his throat and gazes down at her for a moment. He turns slightly to look Darby in the eye. “My wife – Shea - suffers from post-partum depression,” he says, his voice so quiet it can barely be heard.

  Darby nods, keeping her eyes fixed on Shea, the wife. “And when you came out of the closet . . .?”

  Shea lowers her eyes, her shoulders curling over her chest. “I thought she’d fallen asleep. The crying had stopped, so I went to her room just to check on her.” She wraps her arms around her legs, visible tremors coursing through her body. “I thought maybe someone had heard her crying. Maybe my neighbour, Diane, or our boarder, Kyle. I thought maybe they’d picked her up.”

  Darby glances at Mel who sits stolidly, non-committedly staring at the woman. “Then what did you do?” she asks.

  Tears stream down Shea’s porcelain cheeks. “I walked around the house calling their names, but there was no answer.”

  “And then . . .” Mel speaks gruffly.

  “I ran downstairs to Kyle’s suite and knocked but he wasn’t there. Then I went next door to Diane’s house but she wasn’t home either. I thought maybe she’d heard Cassandra crying and took her home. I called both their cell phones and neither answered. Then I called Ben and he called you.”

  “Kyle and Diane are?” Darby ask
s.

  Ben answers for his distraught wife. “Kyle rents the suite in our basement, and Diane is our next-door neighbour; a good friend to my wife.”

  Darby’s attention turns to him. The husband is a fresh-faced, compact, athletic-looking man, clean-cut, well dressed. Good looking in a professional, conservative way. Not at all like his wife.

  “Your wife called you, then, at what time?”

  Sadness clouds his features. He glances at his watch. “It was just after noon,” he says. “My partner and I were interviewing a client.”

  From the corner of her eye Darby watches the CSI team combing the hallway, the bedrooms, the kitchen . . . plucking tiny clues into bags, their voices murmuring; muted. What will they find?

  “How did your wife sound?” Mel asks him.

  Ben balls his fists. Tears spring to his eyes as he looks directly at the older detective. “She was crying – could barely speak. She sounded devastated.”

  Mel turns to face Shea. “For how long were you in the closet?” he asks, his eyes boring into her.

  She inhales deeply, visibly upset. “I don’t know.” Her head falls to her chest.

  Darby moves to lean toward her, every fibre of her body exuding empathy. “Shea, I know post-partum depression can be overwhelming. Just try to think back. What happened before you found yourself in the closet?”

  Shea’s face closes up. She stares into space. Her speech becomes mechanical. “I fed Cassandra, but she kept crying. Colic, the doctor says. I tried to feed her again, but she wouldn’t take the bottle. I couldn’t bear the crying any longer and I shut myself in the closet.”

  Darby’s eyes narrow as she looks at the shaken woman. What isn’t she telling me? “How long were you in the closet?” she asks.

  Shea pulls at her spiky hair, avoiding Darby’s quizzical look. She glances at Mel glowering at her and quickly looks away. “I don’t know,” she mutters, her eyes downcast. “I must have fallen asleep.”

  A door clatters. Strong foot-steps interrupt the interview, and a tall, muscular man enters the room, a curious expression filling his handsome, rugged face. “What’s going on?” he asks. His voice is deep; pleasant. He looks frankly at Mel, then Darby, to Ben and finally his warm, brown eyes rest on Shea. “Are you okay?” he asks, bending down to look into her eyes.

  It’s as if a dam breaks loose within her. “Cassandra’s gone!” she cries, her body shaking. He kneels to wrap his arms around her, murmuring comforting sounds, rubbing her back. Ben stiffens, watching.