Seeds of Deception: A Kate Burkholder Short Story by Linda Castillo Page A
Authors: Linda Castillo
Tags: Fiction, Literature & Fiction, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Two Hours or More (65-100 Pages), Police Procedurals
Ads: Link
AFTER THE STORM, on sale May 3, 2016
And the mass market edition of HER LAST BREATH, available December 6, 2016.
Get the latest Linda Castillo news at http://www.LindaCastillo.com/
PROLOGUE
She waited until three A.M . She’d tried to sleep, but it was a fruitless endeavor. Instead, she spent five hours twisting in sheets damp with fear sweat, heart pounding, her mind running the gauntlet of the myriad things that could go wrong. Finally, too wired to lie still a moment longer, she tossed the covers aside, rose, and stripped off her nightgown.
Kneeling, she pulled the neatly folded clothes from beneath the bed where she’d hidden them: Long underwear. Blue jeans. Sweater. Two pairs of socks. Insulated gloves. Wool hat. It had taken her weeks to amass those few simple necessities; she’d been forced to delay her escape twice. She’d stolen for the first time in her life. Lied to people she loved. But she’d finally collected enough cold weather gear to get her through. The rest was up to God.
Shivering in the darkness, she pulled on her clothes and tucked the gloves into her pocket. She listened for signs that someone else was awake, but the only sounds were the hiss of cotton against her bare skin and the quick in and out of her breaths. She’d wanted insulated boots, preferably with some tread, but she hadn’t been able to afford them, and they were too unwieldy to steal. Her muck boots were going to have to do.
Fully dressed, she slid the cell phone from beneath the mattress. She never risked leaving it on; cell phones were strictly forbidden by the Ordnung. The punishment for such a transgression would be brutal and swift. Hopefully, she had enough battery left for the only call she needed to make.
Shoving the phone into the rear pocket of her jeans, she padded in stocking feet to the bedroom door. A smile came to her face when it glided open without so much as a squeak. Amazing what a little lard did to an old hinge. And she reminded herself it was the inattention to details that got you caught. That, she thought, and trusting the wrong people.
Not her. She didn’t trust anyone. Hadn’t for a long time. Sometimes she didn’t even trust herself.
She’d planned this excursion for weeks. She’d run through every detail a thousand times. Envisioned the hundreds of things that could go wrong, and adjusted her plan accordingly. She’d visualized success, too. And she’d never lost sight of what it would mean to her life. It was the one thing that kept her moving forward when everything else was lost.
Freedom.
Silently, she crept into the hall, where scant feet away, the doors to three other bedrooms held the threat of discovery. There were no windows in the hall, no light of any kind, but she’d anticipated the darkness. She’d memorized every step and knew her route as intimately as she knew her own face. Three strides and she reached the stairs. Hand on the banister, the wood hard and slick beneath her palm. She knew not to touch the wall, or risk knocking the picture off its hook. Senses heightened to a fever pitch, she crept down the steps, skirting the fourth one to avoid the squeak of the nail against wood.
At the base of the stairs she paused again to listen, but all she heard was the buzz of the kerosene refrigerator in the kitchen and the tick of the clock above the stove. The sounds were nearly eclipsed by the roar of fear in her head. She could feel her knees shaking; her hands were unsteady, her palms wet with sweat. She couldn’t afford to be afraid; fear was a distraction that led to mistakes, and dear God, she would not screw this up. She tried to calm herself—a deep breath slowly and silently released—but it was no use. Terror was a dark presence, its breath hot on the back of her neck.
The faint rectangle of the kitchen doorway beckoned. No flicker of the lantern. No one awake at this hour. To her right, the muddy light from the front window seeped into the living room.
And the mass market edition of HER LAST BREATH, available December 6, 2016.
Get the latest Linda Castillo news at http://www.LindaCastillo.com/
PROLOGUE
She waited until three A.M . She’d tried to sleep, but it was a fruitless endeavor. Instead, she spent five hours twisting in sheets damp with fear sweat, heart pounding, her mind running the gauntlet of the myriad things that could go wrong. Finally, too wired to lie still a moment longer, she tossed the covers aside, rose, and stripped off her nightgown.
Kneeling, she pulled the neatly folded clothes from beneath the bed where she’d hidden them: Long underwear. Blue jeans. Sweater. Two pairs of socks. Insulated gloves. Wool hat. It had taken her weeks to amass those few simple necessities; she’d been forced to delay her escape twice. She’d stolen for the first time in her life. Lied to people she loved. But she’d finally collected enough cold weather gear to get her through. The rest was up to God.
Shivering in the darkness, she pulled on her clothes and tucked the gloves into her pocket. She listened for signs that someone else was awake, but the only sounds were the hiss of cotton against her bare skin and the quick in and out of her breaths. She’d wanted insulated boots, preferably with some tread, but she hadn’t been able to afford them, and they were too unwieldy to steal. Her muck boots were going to have to do.
Fully dressed, she slid the cell phone from beneath the mattress. She never risked leaving it on; cell phones were strictly forbidden by the Ordnung. The punishment for such a transgression would be brutal and swift. Hopefully, she had enough battery left for the only call she needed to make.
Shoving the phone into the rear pocket of her jeans, she padded in stocking feet to the bedroom door. A smile came to her face when it glided open without so much as a squeak. Amazing what a little lard did to an old hinge. And she reminded herself it was the inattention to details that got you caught. That, she thought, and trusting the wrong people.
Not her. She didn’t trust anyone. Hadn’t for a long time. Sometimes she didn’t even trust herself.
She’d planned this excursion for weeks. She’d run through every detail a thousand times. Envisioned the hundreds of things that could go wrong, and adjusted her plan accordingly. She’d visualized success, too. And she’d never lost sight of what it would mean to her life. It was the one thing that kept her moving forward when everything else was lost.
Freedom.
Silently, she crept into the hall, where scant feet away, the doors to three other bedrooms held the threat of discovery. There were no windows in the hall, no light of any kind, but she’d anticipated the darkness. She’d memorized every step and knew her route as intimately as she knew her own face. Three strides and she reached the stairs. Hand on the banister, the wood hard and slick beneath her palm. She knew not to touch the wall, or risk knocking the picture off its hook. Senses heightened to a fever pitch, she crept down the steps, skirting the fourth one to avoid the squeak of the nail against wood.
At the base of the stairs she paused again to listen, but all she heard was the buzz of the kerosene refrigerator in the kitchen and the tick of the clock above the stove. The sounds were nearly eclipsed by the roar of fear in her head. She could feel her knees shaking; her hands were unsteady, her palms wet with sweat. She couldn’t afford to be afraid; fear was a distraction that led to mistakes, and dear God, she would not screw this up. She tried to calm herself—a deep breath slowly and silently released—but it was no use. Terror was a dark presence, its breath hot on the back of her neck.
The faint rectangle of the kitchen doorway beckoned. No flicker of the lantern. No one awake at this hour. To her right, the muddy light from the front window seeped into the living room.
Similar Books
