Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1)
Read Killing Katie (An Affair With Murder) (Volume 1) Online
Authors: B.A. Spangler
Book One
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2015
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To my friends and family for their love, support, and patience.
While working on this new series, I was aided by several individuals to whom I wish to offer my immense gratitude and appreciation. Thank you for reading early drafts of book one, and for offering critiques and encouragement. As always, your feedback has helped to shape the story.
To Chris Cornely Razzi, Don Shope, Monica Spangler, Linda Eighmy and so many others for providing invaluable feedback, and for helping me recognize the potential of this book.
Crime Thriller
An Affair with Murder
—Having an affair with murder is easy. It’s what happens afterward that’s deadly.
Supernatural Suspense
Superman’s Cape
—A grim tale of a boy lost in a forest that holds all of his fears.
A Contemporary Fiction
An Order of Coffee and Tears
—Friendships, romance, secrets, and forgiveness come together in this cozy mystery.
Short Stories
Naked Moon
—For one young traveler, a naked moon may mean the difference between life and death.
Some Sci-Fi, Dystopian Thrillers and Anthologies
From the Gray Series—a four-book apocalyptic and dystopian series
Going Gray
—Book One
Gray Skies
—Book Two
Blinded By Sight
—Book Three
Union
—Book Four
Gray
—Omnibus Edition
From the Indie Side
From the Indie Side
—An amazing collection of short stories by a dozen of the top indie authors!
From Hugh Howey’s World of
Wool
Silo Saga: Lottery
—What happens when you have one too many mouths to feed?
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ONE
M
URDER
. I’
M OBSESSED
. I can’t stop thinking about it. Even as the sound of sizzling bacon fills our small kitchen, I imagine that it’s something more tempting, something more sinister, something more lethal. And the dreamy thought of killing is more delicious than any food I’ve ever had.
I wish my obsession were simpler—maybe an attraction to someone else. I’d even welcome a housewife cliché, like filling my days with frivolous hobbies or getting lost in afternoon talk shows. But that isn’t me. That isn’t my passion. My obsession is dark and deep and seeded in every fiber of my being.
“I’m a murderer.”
There, I said it. That is the first time I’ve ever confessed it aloud. I have a problem and there’s no twelve-step program that can help me. I know. I’ve checked. I used to have hope that my problem could be solved by some random act that would shake it out of my system. If I’m being truthful, the real obsession, the greatest lie, is that I’ve been trying to be like everybody else most of my life. I’ll never be like everybody else. I know I am different. I’ve known for nearly three dozen years. But one day, I’ll finally become me—the real me. I just don’t know when that will be.
But I’m afraid that I’ll be like an alcoholic and won’t be able to stop after that first drink.
There might never be enough.
I worry I’d need a busload—if you get my meaning—the kind of murderous campaign that would spawn a storm of newly published books and even a movie or two.
My name is Amy Sholes, doting mother of two, impossibly in love with the most handsome man that I’ve ever met, and living a life that makes some downright jealous. Sure, we have our moments—ups and downs, just like anyone else. From the busy mornings to the impossibly endless patter of tiny bare feet, there isn’t much to complain about.
But, like anything that is great, there is a catch—and that catch happens to be me and my preoccupation with murder.
The smell of the bacon rose from the stove. I took in a deep breath and let it out. The familiar wish for something that could never be tugged at my heart while the scent tickled my palate. Sinful. Both of them. A rumble from our bedroom took my mind off this morning’s fantasy. I looked up, waited. I heard another stir. Today was my husband’s birthday. Steve’s favorite way to start his new year? Breakfast. And then a little something else too. The thought of what was coming brought a flush to my neck and face. It had been a while.
I listened. One foot, then the other. I saw him in my mind, stretching and rubbing the sleep from his eyes and then pushing uncombed, salty grays against his head. But then I heard the sound of him falling onto our king-size bed. Disappointment. I’d lost him to that place where you could still remember your dreams.
I shifted, feeling suddenly disenchanted. Steve had been working so hard the last month; I knew I should concede that he needed sleep more than he needed me. Breakfast could wait. Bacon always tasted great—hot or not. And so did I.
Cunning and powerful, murder crept back into my thoughts like a dark shadow. What would my friends and family think if they peeked inside my head and saw one of my fantasies? I’m sure they would lock me away, appalled, shuddering in disgust. But to me, my imagination seems normal. When I’m thinking about murder, daydreaming and playing out all the gory details, my heart jumps and my blood gets hot, rushing through my arms to my fingertips like an electrical charge. And, deep inside, a flutter of anticipation consumes and takes over, pulsing through my entire body. I know that’s how it must feel to ready a weapon in anticipation of pouncing on an unsuspecting victim.
If my family knew
who
I wanted to kill, though, they might look more mercifully on me. My prey? My fantasy? Killing the seediest of criminals that, frankly, we’d probably be better off without. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. This month, I’ve been “targeting” the outcasts. You know the kind I’m talking about; you’ve seen their faces flash across the television screen during the evening news. You might have even covered your mouth in shock and awe, spit a few breathy words in disgust over what they’ve done. At one level, I know that targeting the seediest of criminals is easy—it could even be considered a cop-out since the world won’t lose anything when they die.
But that hasn’t always been my fantasy. One murder fantasy has haunted me for years.
Katie Dawson is my best friend. As my mother tells it, Katie and I were thrown together in a tub at the ripe young age of two and we’ve been together ever since. Growing up, we did everything together. We went to the same schools. Made fun of the same teachers. Failed the same classes. And then there was college, where we pledged the same sorority and met our future husbands.
An unexplainable, enchanted closeness kept us together from our first apartments to house hunting and then to having our children around the same time. Katie is my dearest and closest friend. So why do I want to kill her? Crazy, right? Don’t get me wrong. For all the daydreams in the world, I’d never, ever harm Katie, let alone kill her. It’s just my quirky fantasy—a role-playing game—like playing dress-up. Katie is helping me prepare for the real thing, she just doesn’t
know
she’s helping me. I guess I use Katie because she is the closest person to me, and I don’t have anyone else. Not yet, anyway.
My first memories of killing Katie—the fantasies, rather—had to be while we were in high school. Duran Duran and Prince and Boy George were on every radio station. They were playful and simple ideas at first, like spilling water on the floor at the grocery store where we worked part time so she would slip on it or fiddling with the brakes on her car. Truth is, I don’t know the first thing about fiddling with brakes. Back then, before the Internet had Google or YouTube, we couldn’t look up easy step-by-step instructions.
I daydreamed a lot during high school. But I didn’t have the usual schoolgirl crushes. Instead of drawing little hearts on the covers of my notebook, I drew some rather sophisticated and elaborate designs for how to kill Katie. I felt like Wile E. Coyote planning a trap for the Road Runner—I loved that cartoon. And the more gruesome the plot, and the more intricate the design, the more turned on I’d get. But it was a different kind of spark, and not at all like the fluttery kind you get while staring at a cute boy. I’ll admit though, the two went together great, like peanut butter and chocolate. And who doesn’t like a little peanut butter with their chocolate?