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  Copyright

  Tainted

  Copyright© 2018 by Dani Matthews

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not meant to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any format without the permission of the author. The author acknowledges the trademarked status of products referred to in this book. Trademarks have been used without permission.

  The author has asserted his/her rights under the Copyright Act of 1976 to be identified as the author of this book.

  Photo credit: Shutterstock.com

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Epilogue

  One

  Ren

  He’s watching me again.

  As I pour a shot and slide it across the bar to the awaiting patron—accepting cash in return, I feel his eyes on me.

  I turn away and slip the money into the register, furrowing my brow now that my face is hidden from view. He’s not watching me because he wants to get laid. If he were, I’d try him out and then send him on his way.

  No, he’s here to keep tabs on me.

  I’d noticed him yesterday evening, and at first, I’d thought perhaps he was admiring me, but he hadn’t made a move to snag my attention. Every time my gaze had managed to slide his way though, he’d proceeded to act as if I held no special appeal to him—like he hadn’t been watching me.

  Now he’s back, and I know for certain he’s here because of me.

  The old saying goes, ‘The sins of the father are laid upon the children.’ I’ve learned from personal experience how very true that can be. My father’s sins have become my own, and no matter how much distance I try to put between myself and those sins, they still follow me. They haunt me every moment of the day like an infection seeping into my veins. There is no escape for me. His deeds are with me wherever I go, but I’m still running, and will continue to do so. As long as he’s alive, I’m not safe.

  I thought I was secure here, but evidently, I was wrong. If this man had found me, my father could do so as well. I’m reluctant to leave the smidgen of a life I’d developed here in San Diego during the past few months. So instead of panicking and hightailing it out of the city with my few belongings, I’d decided to see what today would bring.

  So far, I haven’t been able to figure out his agenda. Is he here because he has a fascination with the serial killer that had caught national attention five years ago? Does he feel a kinship to the man that had murdered dozens of women? Maybe he is a reporter, hoping to get an exclusive from the one that got away—me.

  Sadly, I’ve met all those types. The ones that wish they had the balls to do what my father had done, and the types that thrive on blood and gore and all the publicity that goes along with the crimes. Before I’d fled my childhood home in Chicago, I’d had female reporters approaching me in public bathrooms. No place was too private—everyone wanted a piece of me. The public, the police, my father.

  I had no choice but to run or go insane from the pressure of having so many eyes focused on me—eager for me to pay for his deeds, or wanting to peel back the layers of my mind in hopes of understanding what made my father become a sociopath.

  Yeah, having his genes is no picnic. I’m as tainted as one comes, but at least I’m still breathing…for now.

  Which brings me back to the handsome stranger that seems to be stalking me. Today has been the same as yesterday. His eyes watch me, but he makes no move to approach.

  As the evening wears on and last call is announced, he slips off into the night. Though he’s no longer present, he doesn’t stray far from my thoughts as the bar closes, and I exit out the back.

  There are plenty of lights in the parking lot behind the building, but that doesn’t prevent me from gripping the pepper spray attached to my keychain. I’m always on edge, and it wouldn’t surprise me if my handsome stalker was awaiting me. Thankfully, my overactive imagination is proven to be just that. There appears to be no one near my little gray Honda, and as I scan the vicinity of the area, I deem it to be safe.

  I quickly unlock the car and slide into the driver’s seat, closing the door and locking it. Now that I am safely enclosed, I draw in a deep breath and exhale as I try to calm my nerves. This is my way of life now. Five years ago, I was an innocent teenager with hopes and dreams, and all that’s left now is this jaded shell that I’ve become. My father stripped me of everything that I once was, and now I barely recognize myself. Witnessing the depravity of his crimes will do that to a person.

  Tim, one of the other bartenders exits the building and waves to me as he saunters across the lot. I give him a quick wave and start the car to deter him from attempting to approach me. He’s cute, I’ll give him that, but I don’t sleep with coworkers.

  My headlights sweep across the building before I exit the parking lot and merge onto the busy street. It’s late, but this is San Diego. The young twenty-something-year-olds never sleep, and life appears to be one big party.

  Lucky bastards.

  As I drive, I think of my own private party awaiting me back at my apartment. Jack, Jim, Johnnie, Jose, and a few other bad boys help me relax and keep the nightmares at bay.

  I probably shouldn’t indulge tonight, and instead, I should concentrate on packing. However, I have tomorrow off and can begin packing in the morning when I wake from my intoxicated stupor.

  A heavy sensation settles in my chest. I really liked San Diego, and now the strange man has ruined it for me. Maybe I should have approached him and called him out on his stalking, but that’s not my style. Confrontations can cost me my anonymity when I’m trying so desperately to stay low-key. No, I’ll just leave him behind and hope that I can slip out of the area unnoticed.

  Logic warns me that I should just grab my things and leave now, but I hate traveling at night. The dark…it bothers me. I feel safer in daylight, and even though someone has found me, I can’t bring myself to leave while the city is cast in darkness and shadows. Besides, I’m just lucky my father hasn’t found me. If he had, I’d be dead. There’s no doubt in my mind that my stalker has no official ties to my father, because my father doesn’t play well with others. This man, he’s here for his own reasons—whatever those may be. I have no intention of finding them out.

  When I reach the rundown apartment building that I’ve been calling home, I park my car in my designated spot and scan the area for anyone lurking about. Yes, this is a part of my nightly routine. There is nothing normal about my existence. Not anymore, that is.

  A few minutes later, I’ve made it inside my apartment and quickly switch on the light as I close the door, turning the deadbolt into place
. My eyes snag on where I’d used a screwdriver to remove the chain lock. Goosebumps break out across my skin, and I try to focus on adjusting my eyes to the new light instead of remembering why the removal of the chain had been necessary.

  I quickly hurry to the small bathroom located across the open room and turn on the light, leaving the door wide open so I can see inside the tiny room.

  Now that the lights are on, I feel safer, but not completely. I drag the old, chipped chair I’d bought at a yard sale for twenty-five cents and secure it beneath the doorknob of the apartment’s front door. One can never be too careful.

  I back away from the door and scan the room, taking in my surroundings. The apartment is incredibly small with its one room and bathroom, but it’s enough for me, and the price is in my range. The water-stained ceiling and frayed carpet is the least of my worries. As long as I have a door with a lock, and plenty of light, I don’t care what my surroundings look like.

  Now that I am secure for the night, the weight lifts from my shoulders as I walk to the counter where my boys are waiting for me. I grab a bottle of Jack and swallow a mouthful of the liquid, enjoying the familiar burn as it slides down my throat.

  A pleasant sensation soon begins to make itself known, and when I’ve had enough, I set the bottle down and strip out of my clothes that reek of cigarette smoke. I should probably shower, but I don’t see the point. I’ll just be taking a shower in the morning to wipe away the cobwebs of a hangover and bring myself back to reality. No point in taking a shower twice in a matter of a few hours.

  I quickly slip on an old pair of sweatpants, socks, and a tank before grabbing Jack and settling on the air mattress—the only furniture I own—if you can even call it that. Sweat has already beaded across my brow, but I welcome it as I pull a blanket over me. The apartment isn’t air-conditioned, and it’s already sweltering from the day’s earlier heat. I’ll be drenched in sweat soon, but it’s something I crave. It’s the opposite of cold, and I can’t be cold. Never again.

  After I drain enough of the liquor to know that I’ll sleep without nightmares, I set it on the floor. Next, I turn on the alarm clock radio plugged into the nearest outlet. Low rock music fills the silence, and at last, I allow my head to touch the pillow. The ceiling light blinds me, but it gives me the illusion of safety.

  This is me.

  I’m all sorts of fucked up.

  Two

  Holden

  It’s late, and it’s going to be another sleepless night. I’ve been tailing Serenity Donahue for a few days now, and I think she’s onto me. Not that I’d been trying to make it obvious, but with as observant as she is of her surroundings, it’s no surprise she’d been watching me tonight with suspicion lurking in her eyes. I’ve been biding my time until she might be receptive to my approach, but tonight, I’d gotten the distinct impression that she’s a flight risk.

  I’m out of time, and tomorrow, I’m going to have to approach her.

  As I study her brightly lit apartment windows, I rub my face and wonder if the woman ever sleeps. If it weren’t for the fact that I’d noted she prefers the lights on all night, I’d worry she’s currently packing her belongings. I wonder if it has to do with the ordeal she’d gone through at the hands of her father.

  There’s every possibility that she’ll try to run, and I wouldn’t blame her. From everything I’d researched on the Donahue case, she’d be stepping right back into a living nightmare. I’d be asking her to face everything she’d been running from for the past five years.

  I stifle a yawn and reach for her file, using my penlight to focus on a photo, one that was taken when she was unaware of being watched. Her hair is long and wavy, a pretty brown that flashes with a hint of dark gold when the sunlight hits it just right. Slightly arched eyebrows hover over vibrant blue eyes that seem to miss no detail, no matter how small. Her nose is small and fits her face perfectly, bringing attention to her full, pink lips. In the photo, she’s not wearing a hint of cosmetics as she exits the apartment building. The woman is a looker, and when she has makeup applied for her shift at the bar, she’s smoking hot.

  I flashback to the sight of her at the bar earlier. The smoky eyeliner had given her a mysterious look while those red lips had curved into a ‘come fuck me’ pout. Her tank had fit her full breasts just right, and the jeans had molded to her curves like a well-fitting glove.

  Her movements had been confident, and I’d noted she’s quite proficient behind the bar. She’s in her element there, but outside of that, she keeps to herself—barely leaving her apartment except for necessities.

  Tomorrow, I’m going to shatter her false sense of security.

  Three

  Ren

  I’m in the middle of rolling up the deflated mattress when a knock sounds outside the apartment door, and I freeze.

  Curse words begin to overload my mind.

  I’d put off packing last night to go on a bender with Jack, and now it’s late afternoon. I hadn’t dared split town until I’m good and sober. I already have enough figurative blood on my hands, I don’t need to spill more.

  The firm knock comes again.

  I’m still bent over the mattress, and I tense. It’s him. I know it. I’m prepared to wait him out, so I make no move to answer the door. Nor do I continue rolling the mattress. Maybe he’ll think I’m gone? Though if he’s been watching me outside of the bar, he probably knows what my car looks like.

  A minute slowly creeps by.

  “I know you’re in there, Serenity Donahue,” a masculine voice calls out.

  The sound of my given name has me recoiling as if someone had physically slapped me. I can’t stand the name—Serenity is dead.

  There’s also an unfurling sense of dread in the pit of my stomach, warning me that he has no intention of going away. He sounds authoritative, which can only mean one thing.

  I struggle to my feet, still suffering the effects of the alcohol from last night, or earlier this morning, whichever way you want to look at it.

  “Serenity Donahue,” the voice repeats loudly.

  The sound of the dreaded name being said a second time has me stumbling for the door. I yank the chair out from beneath the knob, and it falls to the floor with a thud, nearly landing on my bare toes.

  A second later, I jerk open the door, glaring. Even through my scratchy, glazed eyes, I note that he’s even better looking up close. Damn traitorous hormones.

  He’s tall, and I have to tilt my head to gaze up at him. His short, dark blond hair is styled to look messy—as if he’d recently run his hands through it. Straight eyebrows hover over gray eyes that resemble the color of storm clouds brewing. The slight crookedness of his nose captures my gaze, preventing him from looking too perfect. If anything, that small flaw makes him even more attractive and masculine. His features are arresting, and his chiseled cheekbones slant into a strong jaw. The bottom of his chin has a small indentation, and I can feel my female bits perking up. This man is dangerous to anything female with functioning hormones. Have I mentioned that he’s wearing a dark tee that fits broad shoulders and what looks to be an impressive chest and abdomen. His jeans fit him to perfection, and he’s wearing black boots—the kind that look scuffed and mean business.

  Now that I’ve finished my perusal, I note his eyes are scanning me from head to toe, his eyebrows lifting slightly.

  Belatedly, I recall that I’m wearing a white tank with no bra, and just tiny pink panties. I’d awoken all sweaty, so I’d stripped and put on my usual attire when it’s daytime and hot as Hades in the apartment.

  The man pulls a badge from his back pocket, taking care to show it to me. “I’m Detective Brooks,” he introduces.

  Shit.

  A creep fixated on death is more preferable than dealing with any type of cop. Creeps I can ditch, but cops are much more determined. I pull myself up to my full five-foot-seven height and stare at him with steady eyes. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “You’re go
ing to want to hear what I have to say.”

  Again, I level him with a look. “No, I’m pretty certain I don’t.”

  His eyes sharpen around the edges. “It’s about your father,” he states with determination.

  Goosebumps break out across my skin, and my stomach twists into tight knots while anxiety builds within my chest. I somehow draw in a deep breath, loosening the knots ever so slightly as I try to portray a confidence that I am no longer feeling. “If you’re not here to tell me that he’s behind bars, leave me alone.”

  Gray eyes hone in on mine. “He’s back, Serenity.”

  Those three words cause me to flinch. “Don’t call me that!” I practically snarl, desperately trying to ignore the rest of what he’d said.

  He studies me. “What would you like me to call you?”

  “Nothing,” I say flatly, making a move to shut the door in his face.

  Quick as lightening, his hand prevents me from closing it, and even as I press harder, he just looks at me with those penetrating eyes. “He’s killing again,” he says deliberately with a hint of emphasis on ‘again.’

  I falter, and my heart skips a beat. Tasting my own fear inside my mouth, my breathing begins to rasp as I break into a cold sweat. I can’t do this.

  “Do you want to talk about it here or in private?”

  I draw on my last reserve of sanity and push against the door, applying pressure where his fingers are braced on the edge—mere inches from the doorframe. “Try not at all,” I retort.

  Much to my chagrin, he uses his strength to push open the door, proving just how weak I am compared to a man of his physique.

  I stumble back with shock. “You can’t do that!”

  He steps into the room and firmly closes the door. “I just did,” he says simply, his jaw flexing.

  “I can report you,” I threaten.

  He flashes his badge once more, his eyes challenging me. “Do it.”