[Bellamy and the Brute 01.0] Bellamy and the Brute Read online

  By: Alicia Michaels

  THIS book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  NO part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Bellamy & the Brute

  Copyright ©2017 Alicia Michaels

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-63422-232-7

  Cover Design by: Marya Heiman

  Typography by: Courtney Knight

  Editing by: Cynthia Shepp

  For all the girls that society labels as ‘other’. You make the world beautiful.

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Loose gravel crunched beneath her boots as Special Agent Camila Vasquez navigated the almost-empty parking lot to her car. Darting a glance around, she took in her surroundings, careful to listen for any approaching vehicles or footsteps. Settling her gaze back on her car, she found it undisturbed—no broken windows or picked locks. She took another glance over her shoulder to ensure she hadn’t been followed as she pressed a button on the fob attached to her keychain.

  Wellhollow Springs was a small town with a tight-knit community, but she couldn’t afford to let her guard down. After she slid into the front seat, she glanced in the rearview mirror and spied the stack of files laid on her backseat. The information she’d been gathering for the past month would be enough to put a murderer away for the rest of his life. The fact that he was powerful hadn’t intimidated her in the least, but until she’d placed the evidence into the right hands, she couldn’t be too careful.

  She placed her takeout box from the Japanese steakhouse on the passenger seat, dropped her purse onto the floor, and retrieved her phone. It vibrated in her hand. Her pulse began to race when she saw who was calling.

  Answering quickly, she pressed the phone to her ear. “This is Vasquez.”

  A familiar voice reached out to her from the other end of the line. “Vasquez, it’s Jones.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said with a smirk, jamming her key into the ignition and cranking the engine. “Your ugly mug pops up on my screen every time you call me.”

  Special Agent Jones laughed, but it came out dry and forced. “That’s real cute. You want the results of this DNA test or what?”

  Taking a deep breath, she gazed back through the driver’s side window at the tall pine trees lining the highway beyond her. She’d been feeling as if she were being watched for about a week now, yet when she turned around, no one was ever there. Finding comfort in resting a hand on the sidearm holstered at her hip, she reminded herself that she had protection.

  “Let’s have it,” she replied.

  “The DNA from skin cells found under Isabella’s fingernails matched the sample of saliva you sent me,” Jones said. “The findings are consistent with the medical examiner’s report—Isabella fought for her life while she was strangled, scratching and clawing. He’s the one, Vasquez. He killed her.”

  Her grip tightened on the phone, and her eyes began to sting. Choking down a sob, she fell back against the seat. She’d had her suspicions and a lot of circumstantial evidence. Aside from that, Camila had felt, deep down in her gut, that the man whose DNA she’d painstakingly retrieved from a coffee cup had been responsible for her sister’s murder two years ago. Now, she had proof.

  “Are you still there?”

  Jones’ voice snapped her back to reality, and she sat up, wiping away a stray tear that had escaped one eye.

  “I’m here. I need those results sent to my email as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, I am going to present everything I have here to the Young County D.A.’s office. That son of a bitch is going to pay for what he did to my sister.”

  “Just watch your step,” Jones warned. “I’m not even supposed to be giving you this information, and you’re still on administrative leave pending a psych evaluation.”

  Camila rolled her eyes. “A woman insists on investigating the death of a family member, and, suddenly, she’s crazy?”

  “I don’t make the rules,” he retorted. “And breaking them could cost me my job.”

  “Keep your panties on,” she muttered. “No one’s going to lose their job. Once I bring this guy down, they’ll be apologizing for not taking me more seriously.”

  “I hope you’re right, for both yours and Isabella’s sakes. She deserves justice, and you deserve closure. Good luck, Vasquez.”

  “I don’t need luck; I have evidence,” she said before ending the call.

  The wallpaper of her home screen showed an old picture of her and Isabella. They’d taken the selfie together years ago while sitting on a park bench. Camila held the phone up while her little sister leaned into her, smiling and squinting a bit with the sun in her eyes. Isabella looked radiant and healthy—a far cry from the drug-addicted, waif-thin thing she’d been forced to identify in the morgue.

  Giving the photo a sad smile, she sniffed and blinked back a fresh wave of tears.

  “Don’t worry, Izzy,” she whispered. “I won’t let him get away with this.”

  She placed her phone into the console beneath the radio, threw the car into reverse, and peeled out of the restaurant parking lot. Being one of the few customers leaving at closing time, she found the highway leading back into Wellhollow Springs all but empty. The red taillights of the car in front of her eventually disappeared around one of the many bends in the road, leaving her alone with two walls of pine trees whizzing by on either side.

  Glancing at the panel behind the steering wheel, she frowned. The brake light had come on yesterday, and she’d forgotten all about it. She’d been so consumed with her case that she had neglected to have it serviced.

  Tomorrow, she told herself.

  The moment she’d finished up at the district attorney’s office, she would have her car fixed. Since her administrative leave was indefinite until her superiors decided she was fit to resume duty, she might even stick around Wellhollow Springs for a while. The extended-stay hotel she’d been living in the past month was clean and affordable. Besides, she didn’t want to miss any new developments in the case.

  Rounding another bend in the road, she spotted a large, dark shape thrusting up toward the sky from the top of the hill. Baldwin House—the home of millionaire real estate development mogul Douglas Baldwin and his family. His grandfather had made a fortune by building half of Wellhollow Springs, so it seemed appropriate for the family home to overlook it all like the castle of some king looming over the peasants.

  Turning her attention back to the road, she found yet another sharp curve and pressed the brake to slow down. She frowned when her
foot was met with little resistance, the car neglecting to respond. With a gasp, she jerked the wheel left and just barely made it around the bend. Her heart began to pound, throat constricting as she came upon another turn. She pumped the brake, turning the wheel right. The car went entirely too fast, veering into the metal guardrail and causing sparks to fly. Giving the wheel another jerk, she attempted to decelerate again, her breath coming in short pants as the downward slope of the road became steeper.

  The vehicle was out of control now, speeding up into the sixties. It hit the seventies as she bit back screams and sobs of terror, fighting to bring it to a stop. The brakes weren’t responding at all, and another turn loomed ahead, a steep drop-off yawning beyond the guardrail.

  “No,” she whispered, clenching the wheel with damp palms. “No, no, no!”

  In a last-ditch effort to stop the car, she jerked the wheel to the right, and then yanked up on the emergency brake while speeding around the curve. Her tires screeched, the scent of rubber being burned by asphalt filling her nostrils. The world outside her windows tilted and spun until she couldn’t distinguish the sky from the trees or dark hills. A scream burned in her chest when the sound of metal crunching metal indicated she’d slammed into the guardrail. Her stomach shot up into her throat as the car tipped over, hurtling over the steep incline leading to the valley below her.

  The car made impact—once, twice, three times, rolling and bouncing over and over, jostling her mercilessly. Her head bashed against the driver’s side window, causing her teeth to rattle. She must have bit her tongue, because blood filled her mouth at the same time it began to trickle down her face from a wound on her temple.

  She didn’t know how long the car fell, careening to the ground below, nor could she remember closing her eyes. Yet, one moment, everything had gone dark. The next, she opened her eyes to find she’d come to a stop.

  Somehow, she’d been thrown from the car, even though her seat belt had been fastened. Lifting her head, she spied the wreckage of her car a few feet away and grimaced. All the windows had shattered, leaving broken glass littering the ground around it. Two of the doors had been crunched inward, another torn off completely. No amount of work could ever hammer out the dents or the roof that had caved inward.

  The most important thing was the evidence she’d stored in the backseat. If she could salvage it, the totaled car wouldn’t seem like such a loss. Rising up on her hands and knees, she began crawling toward the wreckage, surprised that felt she no pain. Maybe shock or adrenaline enabled her to function after such a horrific accident.

  He had to be responsible for this—the man who’d murdered Isabella. Which made it all the more important that she get to her car and retrieve the evidence. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of not only murdering her sister, but also killing one of the only people who was in a position to seek justice.

  Coming closer to the car, she spied something in the front seat. Frowning, she struggled to her feet, trudging forward with heavy steps. Bracing one hand against the battered hood, she lowered her head and peered inside.

  She gasped when she came face to face with a woman bearing an uncanny resemblance to her—olive skin, athletic build. Blood soaked one side of her face from the gash in her temple, as well as several shards of glass embedded in her jaw and cheek. A larger fragment jutted from her neck, causing more blood to cascade down her neck and chest. Dark brown hair hung bedraggled around her shoulders—one of which sat at an odd angle, as if it had been torn from the socket. Three of the fingers on her hand had been mangled, twisted and bent as if they’d been snapped from within.

  Frowning, she leaned closer, reaching up to touch her own face, and then the woman’s.

  This could not be real. Clearly, she’d passed out when the car made impact and she was dreaming. At some point, she would wake up in the hospital, and everything would be all right. She slumped against the car and sank to the ground, tears filling her eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice told her that she was deluding herself. Lowering her head, Camila began to sob, feeling more helpless than she had on the day the news of Isabella’s death had been delivered.

  Swiping at her eyes, she glanced up and screamed as the apparition of a person appeared in front of her. Once panic and shock had melted away, she realized she knew this person. She rose to her feet and stared into a pair of familiar eyes.

  “It can’t be,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself to still the tremors wracking her body.

  The woman stood just a few inches shorter than she did, with long, dark hair hanging down her back. She beamed with a white glow, all the color having been drained from her face. An ugly black ring circled her throat, dark veins reaching out from the stain. Her blue-tainted lips parted, moving as if she tried to tell Camila something.

  She reached out toward the phantom, her lower lip trembling as she forced herself to speak.

  “Izzy?” she croaked, her voice coming out hoarse and strained.

  The specter could hear. Nodding, it extended a hand to her.

  Glancing back at the wreckage of her car, and then back to Isabella, Camila understood. There was nothing left for her to do.

  Without hesitation, she reached out to take the offered hand.

  “Who can tell me which event in United States history was referred to by President Franklin D. Roosevelt as ‘a date that will live in infamy’?”

  You could have heard a pin drop. Apparently, no one in my history class knew the answer to Ms. Neal’s question.

  Well, that wasn’t completely true. I knew the answer, but had been actively not raising my hand all day, despite recalling the answer to just about every question. Twining one of my spiraled curls around one finger, I went on sketching in the margins of my notes with my other hand. In red ink, a small, cartoon version of Iron Man fought against Captain America.

  “Anyone?” Mrs. Neal urged.

  I could hear the click of her low heels against the floor as she paced back and forth in front of the blackboard, and I felt her eyes scanning the room before landing on me.

  Crap.

  “Bellamy, you’ve been unusually quiet today. Would you care to take a stab at it?”

  Sighing, I set my pen aside and glanced up at the teacher over the frames of my glasses. She stared back at me with a look that clearly said, ‘I’m not letting you off the hook here.’ I cleared my throat, deciding to get it over with.

  “He was referring to Pearl Harbor,” I replied.

  Ms. Neal nodded. “Very good. While we’re on the subject, why don’t you tell us what date it was, exactly?”

  “December 7, 1941,” I rattled off without hesitating.

  “Did one of your dad’s little friends tell you that?” someone muttered from behind me.

  I didn’t recognize the voice, but it didn’t matter because their little joke sent those who had heard it into a fit of snickers. A few whispers spread the joke around, causing more laughs. Rolling my eyes, I kept my gaze focused straight ahead, used to this by now.

  Ms. Neal’s gaze swept the room with icy censure. “Is something funny about only one of you knowing the answer to these questions, with only days left before the final exam? Because I don’t find that particularly amusing.”

  “I’m just saying, Ms. Neal,” said a guy’s voice from the back of the class. “It’s not really fair. I mean, isn’t it considered cheating when you can just ask a ghost for the answers?”

  “Nah, man,” another guy answered. “It’s her dad who has all the answers… he’s in good with Washington, Jefferson, Franklin…”

  “Hey, maybe someone should ask him if he’s seen Pac and Biggie,” someone else added.

  More laughter.

  I turned my attention back to doodling, resisting the urge to roll my eyes again. The jokes had gotten old a while ago, but, apparently, the troglodytes in my class still found them hilarious. I’d already prepared myself to have them follow me to graduation, and with only one y
ear left, I’d grown numb to it.

  Thankfully, the bell rang, ending both class and the school day. Without waiting to be dismissed, people began to stand, grabbing their books and dashing for the exit. Since the school year was ending next week, students at Wellhollow Springs High were rowdier than usual and chomping at the bit to be free.

  “You three, stay,” Ms. Neal said, her voice holding a steely edge as she eyed the boys who had attempted to embarrass me during class.

  I didn’t even bother looking back to see who they were, shoving my notebook into my bag and slinging it over one shoulder. Stepping out into the hall, I made a beeline for the nearest exit, skipping my locker in favor of leaving this place behind. I had everything I needed to study for finals over the weekend, anyway.

  Squinting against the high afternoon sun, I rounded the building for the rows of bike racks situated near the front of campus. All around me, the sounds of cranking cars, laughter and conversation, and the sputter of school buses filled the air. I dodged a few people walking toward me on the sidewalk, beads of sweat already starting to well up on my forehead. You could tell summer was coming to Georgia by the heat turning the outdoors into an oven, and the humidity causing the air to feel sticky and moist. Pausing near my bike, I reached into my bag and retrieved a rubber band, taking a moment to pile my thick, kinky dark curls into a topknot. Sighing with relief, I began climbing onto the bike when the sound of my name being called caused me to hesitate.

  “Bellamy, wait up,” a boy called, breaking into a trot to catch up to me.

  Lincoln Burns—football star, arrogant man’s man, and all around meathead. His black hair, dark eyes, suntanned skin, and large, muscled build should have made him attractive. Unfortunately, a sense of self-importance translated into a mouth that was a bit too pouty, while acne undoubtedly caused by steroid use stole focus away from everything else.

  Huffing, I blew a few stray curls away from my forehead and braced myself for the inevitable.

  “Lincoln,” I said once he’d come to a stop, conveniently blocking my path.