Toxic, p.1
Toxic, page 1
A NineStar Press Publication
www.ninestarpress.com
Toxic
ISBN: 978-1-64890-464-6
© 2022 Rick R. Reed
Cover Art © 2022 Natasha Snow
Published in March, 2022 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.
Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-64890-465-3
CONTENT WARNING:
This book contains sexual content, which may only be suitable for mature readers. Depictions of past child abuse, suicidal ideation, murder of a secondary character, attempted murder, infidelity, kidnapping, and stalking.
Toxic
Inspired by a true story
Rick R. Reed
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
About the Author
For all the readers who work with me to bring these characters, these places, and these stories to life.
“Your love is lethal for my soul.
“It makes my heart break a little each time.
“I know you are not good for me.
“Then, why can’t I erase you from my mind?”
― Sabina Yesmin, “The Toxic Love”
“Handling toxic people is not an art, they will be the victim of their own toxicity.”
― PS Jagadeesh Kumar
“Was looking for honey, found poison instead.”
― Shivangi Dhawan
Prologue
After
HE STANDS BY her bed, holding her hand. Deep in his heart, he clings to the belief that despite her being unconscious she’s aware of his presence, his healing love, his gratitude at the sacrifice she’s made for him.
She’s hooked up to machines with beeping monitors displaying ever-changing data about her heart, her respiration, pulse—but none that can broadcast her soul, which is, and has always been, kind. Kind is the word he’s always thought of when his daughter, with her red hair and sunny smile, appeared in his mind. She’s always put others first, even when it harmed her.
This last thought causes the ball in his throat to expand, constricting. Tears rise in his eyes, spill over.
“You knew. You always knew. I should have listened.”
He squeezes her hand, trying to impart warmth, life force. “I didn’t hear you—that’s on me. After all, I’m supposed to be the parent and you the child. Those roles should never be reversed.”
He lets go to sit in the blue vinyl-covered chair next to the bed. Sunlight filters in through the half-drawn drapes on the other side of them. In the rays, he watches, distracted, dust motes dancing in the air. He listens as a cart rolls down the hall outside, one wheel squeaky. Voices, a man and a woman, laughing and chattering.
Despite his heart’s ache and his daughter’s silence, he envies these people and even these dust motes. They exist in an ordinary world, where it’s simply business as usual.
He wonders if business as usual will ever apply again.
His head lolls back and, for only a moment or two, blessed sleep—oblivion—comes to him. In just those few seconds, he dreams of Miranda as a child, running along the beach at Discovery Park, toward the red-and-white lighthouse poised at the edge of the rocky and driftwood-strewn beach. Once in a while, they’d find a seal lounging at the edge of the water. It must be summer because the sun beats down, the sky nearly cloudless. The air is warm, lifting her red curls as she races ahead of him, dodging the white-tipped waves that move restlessly back and forth at her bare feet. She wears a pair of denim cut-offs and a cropped polka-dot top, red and white. “Honey, wait up!” he calls.
But it’s as though she can’t hear.
And then she’s too far ahead, beyond the reach of his voice.
The sky darkens in an instant. The waves go from peaceful rhythm to turmoil, to danger, to chaos. They rise up, crashing against the shore, restless, hungry to erode, destroy.
He loses complete sight of Miranda as she disappears behind the lighthouse.
The sky darkens even more, like deepest night.
In the lighthouse tower, a bright white beam, rotating, comes on to battle the dark and cloud-choked sky. Its illumination blinds him, and he calls out helplessly, “Miranda!” He extends hands into air now chilled with freezing wind. The drops are stinging needles, icy.
He jolts and wakes to someone staring at him.
“Will she be okay?”
“Oh my god,” he whispers, gazing up.
It’s Steve, his ex, the man he once loved. Almost twenty years together and too progressive, they thought, for marriage. “A piece of paper doesn’t define us,” they’d once sworn when marriage became legal in Washington State. “What defines us is family, commitment, love.”
Happy words that all went to shit when Steve left him just before the horror that landed them here, in this hospital in Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood. Happy words that morphed into ugly lies when Steve found that a piece of paper did matter, rapidly getting engaged to his new love right before Christmas last year.
Now, as he peers at Steve hovering alone in the doorway, a paper-wrapped bouquet of daisies in one hand, he’s filled with a winsome love. Despite the affection, all he sees right now is a man desperate to stay young—the dyed too-black hair, the gym rat physique, the smooth face, too unlined for a man nearing fifty. The Abercrombie & Fitch hoodie and distressed jeans. Mutton dressed as lamb comes to mind and, for the first time since the attacks happened, Connor smiles. He wants to laugh, but fears laughter will quickly ratchet up to hysteria.
Steve interprets the smile as one of welcome and reassurance. Or maybe he can now read the mind behind the opinion and knows that, beneath Connor’s unspoken criticism, real love remains.
Ah, go ahead. Enjoy your illusions. You never were able to recognize what was real. Even as he has the cruel thought, he recognizes another just behind it. But none of that matters now, does it?
“Will she?” he prompts.
“Will she what?” Connor rubs his eyes and sits up straighter. He glances over at Miranda and takes her hand again, squeezes. He remembers what Steve asked and nods.
“She’ll be okay,” he tells Steve, not because he knows it’s true, but because if he doesn’t believe it himself, he isn’t sure how he’ll carry on. Not only is his daughter’s life on the line, his own sense of duty and care are in jeopardy as well.
If only I had heeded her warnings, right from the very first moment the man calling himself Trey Goodall stepped into our lives…
Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He takes a couple tentative steps into the room, almost as though he’s waiting for an invitation.
Don’t hold your breath, dear. But it’s a free country.
All at once, without seeming to move, Steve is beside Miranda’s bed. He briefly touches her cheek. The concern on his face causes Connor’s heart to soften. Begrudgingly, he admits to himself that Steve was once her daddy too. And he reminds himself that wherever he and Steve are today, however betrayed Connor felt, his ex was once a component of their lives, integral—family.
Steve and Miranda will always love each other. Their bond is family, unbreakable.
Connor stands and gives Steve an awkward hug, dropping his hands before Steve has much of a chance to return it. He feels cold, different somehow, his body lighter as though made up of bird bones and tissue.
“She’s gotta be okay. This was all my fault.”
Steve shakes his head and, in Steve’s eyes, Connor sees something he thought had left their relationship completely—compassion. “That’s not true and you know it.”
“No. It is. I should have listened to her. She told me the first time she met Trey that she didn’t like him, that there was something off about him.”
“Ah, if we all only had the gift of 20/20 hindsight. But we don’t. Quit beating yourself up.”
Connor tries to smile, to show some gratitude and kno ws he fails.
With Steve, Connor falls into a prolonged silence, staring down at Miranda. Her head is swathed in bandages, a gauze turban. Her forehead, so recently smooth and unlined, now bears a jagged gash, stitched up. Yet she looks peaceful, serene.
Connor knows that right now peace is the one thing that’s impossible.
Suddenly, Steve’s presence feels like an irritant, annoying. Connor fears if he doesn’t get him away he’ll say something he might regret. He doesn’t know if Miranda can hear them or not, but if there’s the slightest chance she can, he doesn’t want her to witness family discord. Not now. Her life depends on it.
“I need to be alone with her, okay?” Connor reaches down and takes the flowers from Steve’s hand. “I’ll find a vase and put these in water.” He glances down at them again and sees not daisies, but a piece of jagged driftwood and seaweed.
He blinks and the bouquet morphs into a dozen pink sweetheart roses.
He tries again for a smile, but he’s lost the capacity. He’s sure what he wants to be a smile is more of a grimace. “When she wakes up—and she will—I know these will cheer her up. Roses are her favorite.”
Steve grins. “I remembered.”
Sure you did. Irises are Miranda’s favorite. And weren’t these a bunch of daisies?
Connor closes his eyes. And then opens them as he jolts awake.
He’s alone with Miranda once more. There’s no trace of Steve. At first, he surmises Steve must have slipped soundlessly from the room. And then he remembers…
The horror.
Steve wasn’t here.
In spite of the knowledge, he gropes for the bouquet on the bedside table. But there’s nothing there but a plastic cup with a straw and a decanter of water. He bends down to hold his daughter. He strokes her hair, her cheek, as he did when she was a little girl.
There’s no one else in the world he’d rather hold.
When she does awaken, he knows she’ll ask, “Where is he? What happened to him?” and he’s not sure how he’ll tell her.
The time may come sooner than he hoped. Miranda stirs a bit and her eyelids flutter.
Part One
Chapter One
“I KNOW WHO you are and I saw what you did.”
The voice on the phone was tinged with acid, yet came out a little shaky and short of breath.
Despite the fear and acrimony in the voice, Trey Goodall hoped that the caller, a man named Jimmy Dale, was making a feeble joke, a lame reference to an old black-and-white thriller from the ’60s. Trey wasn’t ready for his game to be over.
“That’s funny, Jim. Did you watch that movie when you were a kid too? Back in the days of black-and-white TVs and Chiller Theater?”
“I’m not trying to be funny, Trey.” Jimmy halted, obviously frustrated. A slow grin creased Trey’s features. Jimmy sucked in air, obviously holding a sob in check.
There’s something delicious about when they cry.
Despite the delight in Jimmy’s pain, Trey feared it might come to this. This one, he knew, was too smart to stay in the dark for long. Sooner or later, Trey always got found out. He had a trail of broken hearts—and shattered bank accounts—behind him to prove it. Still, later was better because he could usually walk away with a little something in his pocket.
“Then what are you trying to be, dollface?”
“Oh, please save the terms of endearment—”
Trey interrupted. “Another movie reference! Bravo. When do I get a chance to play?”
His question, predictably, was answered with silence on the other end. Trey pressed the phone closer to his ear, listening for further telltale signs of tears, of trauma, of despair. Not that his aim was to instigate any of those emotions, but Trey was like a dog—any attention was good.
Finally, Jimmy spoke. “I don’t want to see or hear from you ever again.”
“Aw, you’re breaking my heart here.” Trey threw open the door to his motel room on Aurora Avenue. Outside, in the waning purple-gray light of dusk, a couple fought, seemingly to the death, in the litter-strewn parking lot. The woman had bleached blonde hair, a handful of which her companion had clutched in one hand. She wore an old flannel shirt, the sleeves cut off. It had come open and her dirty bra showed. The guy was a brute, big and hairy, and obviously had never learned how to treat a lady.
A kid of about eighteen, at most, sat on the curb in front of a parked rusted-out SUV. He was wearing a hoodie, ripped jeans, and a pair of work boots. His head was shaved and this, combined with his whitish pallor and skin-and-bones physique, made him look like a concentration camp survivor. A rheumy, bloodshot gaze moved dully over to Trey. The kid made a lame attempt to hide the meth pipe in his hand.
Trey slammed the door. He deserved better than this sordid dump. He should have been living in a luxury condo downtown overlooking Puget Sound, or maybe a house on Bainbridge Island with expansive mountain and water views.
Instead, here he was on Seattle’s Aurora Avenue, in one of a cluster of rundown motels where the clientele consisted of addicts, prostitutes, and those seeking to party with a capital T in one of the rooms.
He didn’t deserve enduring the chance of bedbugs or crabs. He didn’t like living amid cigarette-burned carpets and mold and hair decorating the bathroom fixtures.
“Stop.” Jimmy sucked in some more air. The guy’s gonna need an asthma inhaler soon. But Trey supposed he was trying to gain a measure of control. Jimmy was wounded, and of course he wanted to hide it, but he couldn’t. “Your heart can’t be breaking because you haven’t got one to break.”
“Ouch.” Trey chuckled, as though to demonstrate the insult was simply water off a duck’s back.
But it wasn’t.
Trey would never let on, but the reference cut like a knife to his very real heart, which was a broken thing.
In his mind, a vision arose. Trey chased it away as quickly as it appeared—but there it was: a vision of his mom, back in Trey’s old hometown of Wellsville, Ohio, burning him with her cigarette and laughing as Trey tried to be brave, tried desperately not to scream or wince because he knew if he showed his pain, his fear, it would only make things worse. Now it was his turn to try to buck up, be brave. “Things not working out the way you expected?”
There was no mirth in Jimmy’s laugh. Trey wanted to ask which was better—bitter laughter or abject tears. But he kept quiet and waited. He’d been through this before. Caught. Discarded.
There was always another sucker in the wings.
“What I expected…” Jimmy trailed off and started again. “What I expected was maybe a relationship. I’m forty-seven years old, Trey. I’ve spent my whole life pushing love away so I could build my career. Now I have a thriving law practice and make more money than I really know what to do with. But you know all that. You knew all that, I figure, before we even met, when you were researching me. I know you don’t have it in you to feel compassion or empathy, but all the money and success in the world doesn’t change the fact that I come home every night to a professionally decorated condominium in the clouds. Alone. Wishing I’d spent more time seeking love instead of that almighty dollar.” He drew in a breath that sounded like a shudder. “Ah, what do you care? You wanted my money. You’re not alone, but you were greedier and sneakier than most.”
Jimmy stopped and Trey listened again for some sign. Would it be worth it to try to save things? Maybe woo Jimmy with the old lines—this was all a misunderstanding. I really love you, man. I started off with bad intentions, but then you caught me. Can we start over? Sometimes crap like that worked. Trey was smart enough, and experienced enough, to know it wouldn’t here.
It’s too late, baby.
“Was any of it true?” Jimmy wondered.
Trey was getting bored. He had no use for this man with whom he’d shared so many recent days and nights. He was worthless now that he’d exposed Trey for who he really was. What Jimmy didn’t know, and didn’t need to know, was that what he’d discovered about Trey was only the tip of the iceberg.
It’s time to move on.
Trey glanced in the mirror over the bathroom sink and nodded approvingly. He still had it. Pushing fifty, but looking at least a decade younger, he was gorgeous. Black wavy hair, ice-blue eyes, full lips, a body taut and packed with muscle. He could always dazzle, and all the magic hadn’t escaped.
