Until the Day You Die Read online

  What others are saying about

  UNTIL THE DAY YOU DIE

  by

  Tina Wainscott

  This dark, extremely suspenseful story has an exceptionally twisted, yet intelligent villain. The minor thread of the heroine’s romance with a younger man is nicely portrayed. –RT Bookreviews

  It’s scarily believable, fast-paced and has well-drawn characters. It may play a lot like your typical made-for-TV movie, but that has never been a sin in my opinion. Check it out. –Valley of the Devil Dolls

  For anyone who likes suspense, Tina Wainscott delivers. The suspense builds and the mysteries come together well in this cat and mouse game that really begs the question – what wouldn’t you do for your family? –Once Upon a Romance

  Reviews for Tina Wainscott’s books:

  “Wainscott is a gift to the suspense genre.”

  —RT BOOKreviews

  “Tina Wainscott always delivers…I love to curl up with anything she writes.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

  “One of the best writers today at keeping the tension high.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Tina has unforgettable female protagonists and action-packed, almost haunting plotlines.” – Janet Evanovich New York Times bestselling author

  UNTIL THE DAY YOU DIE

  by

  Tina Wainscott

  Copyright © 2007 Tina Wainscott

  Cover photo credit: Judson Matthews

  Smashwords Edition

  Discover other titles by Tina Wainscott and her pseudonym, Jaime Rush, at www.tinawainscott.com and www.jaimerush.com.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-tailor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  What I wanted most was to close my eyes and make it all disappear.

  But I couldn’t look away from all the blood. – Maggie Fletcher

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  May 16

  He stood inside a nearby shop window, waiting for her. Just as he did every day when she left work. As he did every morning when she arrived. Quaint buildings with shops and boutiques lined Market Street in the seacoast town of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. They offered plenty of places from which to watch her. He ostensibly perused a rack of bibliographies in the bookstore while looking out the window. Mostly he saw tourists, bored teenagers, and women loaded with shopping bags.

  All the while he watched for her.

  Six months ago he had begun his possession of Dana Mary O’Reilly when he’d dropped into the Mystic Café, the new age coffee shop where she worked. Her weak smile and lack of real eye contact had aroused his instincts. He smelled insecurity, loneliness, weakness. So he’d investigated, scoring her on the pertinent points on his checklist: no boyfriend or husband; no friends; no kids. A steady schedule. A house surrounded by foliage. All the things that made her an ideal pet. The only negative was the sister, but he could handle her.

  He’d begun the saturation phase, following her, taking pictures and taping them to his dresser mirror, the bathroom wall, his car dashboard. Wherever he looked, she was there, frozen in a moment—crossing the street, chewing on her fingernail—his for as long as he wanted her.

  Then he’d moved into the infiltration phase, playing the guileless suitor in front of her co-workers, bringing puerile gifts like stuffed animals bearing hearts. She’d spurned him, awkward and stuttering, before darting back to the counter. Like any respectable guy, he’d backed off. But they had a secret, he and Dana. He was much more than a naïve schlub with a crush.

  Movement caught his eye. His prey. She hovered just inside the café door, searching for him. It had become a game. Their private game. Where, oh where could he be?

  A couple walked into the café, and the man held the door open for Dana, forcing her out into the open. Apprehension and frustration filled her brown eyes. He liked the fear. He liked it a lot.

  Today her usual gothic ensemble included long, tapered sleeves; long, black skirt; and black Converse sneakers. Her thick, dark hair needed brushing. She pulled a cigarette from her pack and lit it with shaky hands. She walked with shoulders hunched and chin tucked in, her body static but for her legs. He wished he’d made her walk in that insecure manner, but she’d come that way. She reminded him of a mouse now, taking several steps and stopping, searching, everything but sniffing the air and twitching her whiskers. That was his doing at least.

  He’d violated her safe little world, all the way down to the panties she wore. It gave him a powerful thrill to know he’d touched the fabric that now shielded her most private parts. While she was at work, he sprawled on her rumpled bed sheets, rubbed her panties over his body, used her deodorant. Then he left subtle clues to let her know he’d been there, that she had no privacy now. Letting her know by degrees that she was never alone.

  As she was everywhere in his world, he was everywhere in hers. And most importantly, he was inside her mind. Even in her dreams, if her thrashing and crying out were any indication. He smiled. She couldn’t escape him, even in sleep.

  With her free arm tucked around her waist, she walked toward the High-Hanover parking garage. He moved so that when her gaze flashed past the bookstore she would see him. She stiffened, sucked hard on her cigarette, and then walked faster. Acknowledging their exchange wasn’t necessary. Being there, watching her, was enough. She tripped on a raised brick and caught her balance seconds before slamming into a parking meter. Her cigarette went flying, rolling under a car. An old man looked at her with both concern and puzzlement. She glanced back toward the bookstore window. He wasn’t there.

  She had already been unbalanced, as evidenced by the array of prescription drugs in her medicine cabinet. He had pushed her to the edge. Soon, very soon, she would break. The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ song, “Breaking the Girl,” played in his mind. He liked watching the pieces of his pets’ souls splinter away in his hands.

  She walked into the garage and aimed the remote key fob at her car as soon as she approached it. The chirp echoed off the concrete. Her fingers wrapped around the car handle but paused. The folded piece of green paper awaited her on the driver’s seat.

  She snatched open the door, crinkled the paper, and dropped down into the seat as though her bones had liquefied. The car’s engine roared to life, and tires squealed as she sped out of the garage. A few minutes later, he pulled up next to her at a red light. His dark windows prevented her from seeing him. She chewed her fingernail while she waited. Glanced at the seat beside her. Forward. Then back to the seat. Then reached over.

  Yeah, open it, baby.

  A grin split his face as she wrestled the ball of paper open. He shoved aside a fast food bag, a dog-eared paperback thriller, and packs of soy sauce to find his camera on the seat beside him. With his other hand, he lowered his window and recited the words as she read:

  I live in her mind,

  Her thoughts,

  Her soul,

  Under her skin.

  Though she denies me,

  I am already a part of her.

  She dreams of me,

  When she sleeps,

  So fitful through the night,

  As though sensing I am there,

  Her guardian angel,

  Watching over her.

  Always.

  She balled up the note and threw it with an angry scream. Then she looked his
way. He snapped one last picture, capturing her shock and indignation. Beautiful. Joy tingled through his body. The light turned green, and she burned rubber through the intersection.

  No hurry. He knew where she lived.

  He had gone much further with Dana than the others, not only slipping into her home but sometimes being there when she arrived. His nostrils flared. He could smell her, as he watched from his place in the closet or the pantry. The prospect of getting caught tantalized him.

  Maybe she would catch him tonight. Maybe he would make sure she did.

  CHAPTER 2

  May 16

  “Ms. Fletcher, you’re one busy woman,” my client said when my cell phone rang for the umpteenth time.

  I smiled another apology as I glanced at the incoming number. I’d told the two men I was showing million-dollar homes to that I had to make sure it wasn’t my nine-year-old son, Luke, who was at his best friend Bobby’s house. In fact, the number on the screen represented my bigger concern: Dana.

  “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”

  I ran to the foyer to get as far out of hearing range as possible. My fingers went right to my worry curl. “What’s wrong?” I answered, the way I’d started answering my sister’s calls lately. Forget hello, or how are you?

  “He’s been here,” came her strained voice.

  My heart dropped. Earlier, Dana had called from her car to tell me about the latest poem, terrified that it meant he was watching her sleep. The thought totally creeped me out.

  She didn’t wait for me to respond. “I went shopping. Then I got stuck in traffic for an hour, an accident. I felt safe, ‘cause he wasn’t around. Then he called my cell phone, playing that song that sounds like Enigma, about a heart going boom, boom, boom whenever he thinks of her. Nothing threatening. Probably a nice love song he’s made ugly.

  “It was dark when I came home.” She had an edge in her voice at that; she hated being out in the dark. “The closet door was open. I know I closed it when I left, Mags. These are the games he plays with me. Little things to let me know he’s been here. And the bed was made. And he left a pair of my panties out again, too. He’s touching my panties. I know that’s what his ‘Silk’ poem was about: ‘The silk and cotton slide against my fingers. I have touched what now touches her—”

  “Stop! Please stop memorizing those icky poems.”

  “I can’t help it! They keep bouncing around in my brain, like a jingle you can’t push out. But I’ll show him. I bought new panties today. They’re big and ugly, like the kind Mom wears.”

  Dana had only just bothered to tell me, the person closest to her, that someone was stalking her—stalking, for God’s sake! He’d appeared five months earlier. At first she’d been embarrassed about her discomfort over her suitor. Her co-workers thought Colin Masters was sweet, if a bit overeager. Dana had finally told him she wasn’t interested. On the surface he had taken it well. He didn’t come in as often and no longer brought gifts.

  But, according to Dana, his actions had actually become more sinister. He watched her when she arrived at work, was waiting when she left, and now the poems. At first he left them on her car window, and then inside her locked car. That’s when she’d finally told me, three weeks ago.

  The poems weren’t threatening, but they were creepy in a warped-love way. The gifts he’d given her reminded me of the kind gawky teenage boys give their girlfriends, except this guy was in his mid-twenties. Was he warped or was Dana, in fact, being paranoid? Besides, stalkers usually chose celebrities or ex-lovers. Didn’t they? Not someone quiet and barely noticeable like Dana.

  I got especially concerned when Dana started talking about the “evidence” of Colin’s presence in her home, despite her house being secured. The more hysterical she got about that, the more my stomach twisted. Paranoia will destroy you. Wasn’t that an old Kinks’ song? I remembered one called Acute Schizophrenia Paranoia Blues. I hated thinking it, on multiple levels. My doubts felt like a betrayal. And if she were imagining things, her mental state had deteriorated to a whole new level. That scared the hell out of me.

  I shoved those thoughts aside. “What we need is proof that he’s breaking in. We changed the locks, added another deadbolt. Was there any sign of forced entry this time? How about the windows?” I had installed double locks on those, too. Every time I’d run over to Dana’s house, we’d found nothing tangible. I’d so wanted to. And then I didn’t.

  “Just like always. He’s like a damned ghost!”

  I had never seen him, even when I purposely arrived at the café when Dana did or left when she left. I wanted to talk to him, get a feel for what this was really about. Was he deranged or was Dana misinterpreting? She had once pointed out his beige sedan with dark tinted windows as it slowly cruised by. I had held up my hand in a “wait” gesture while running up to the car, but the driver had continued on.

  I felt conflicted, not sure whether I wanted to believe Dana or not. Which was worse, insidious stalker or mental disease?

  I’d done research, and yes, stalkers did target ordinary strangers. Sometimes all it took was a polite smile to engage one. I convinced Dana to go to the police and file an incident report. In all one chunk, I had to admit it sounded even more paranoid, but Detective Thurmond took her information and ran it through his software program.

  The problem was, the subtle behaviors Dana had described—deodorant in the sink, for goodness sake— didn’t match the stalker typologies, particularly the naïve pursuer Colin seemed to be. Her impassioned observations didn’t help: His eyes touch me. When he looks at me, I can feel them on my body.

  When Thurmond warned us that the person filing a restraining order must face her stalker in court, No, no, and absolutely not! was Dana’s immediate response. I hadn’t pressed. I’d read that restraining orders sometimes incited a stalker into violence. When we left, Dana was sure the detective was, at that moment, laughing at her. More signs of paranoia.

  After a pause she said, “You saw his car that one time, but you haven’t actually seen him. You don’t think I’m making this all up, do you, Mags?”

  I took a breath, needing to get this right. “I believe you’re afraid of this man.” But I wasn’t sure he was stealing into her home to move things around. If he were some sicko, he’d leave creepy gifts like chicken hearts and jars of semen. “And I’ll do everything I can to help you. But I wish you’d see Dr. Reese, and no, not because I think you’re crazy. I think he could help you to cope with—”

  “No. He put me on those drugs, and I felt muzzy. I have to be on alert.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut in fear and anger. How long could this go on before she cracked? How long could I? “First thing tomorrow I’m calling a security company to have cameras and an alarm installed.”

  “Okay,” she said on a breath.

  “Do you want me to come over?”

  “Are you with clients?”

  “Yeah. I can’t run over right this minute. Serena’s had a couple of complaints from clients annoyed because I abandoned them.” To look at an open cabinet or a made up bed.

  “Serena’s your best friend. She understands, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes, but as the broker of her own real estate company, she’s got to make sure the clients are happy. And it’s the beginning of busy season. We’ve been straight out at the office for the past few weeks.”

  “I’m sorry, Mags. I know how much being a good real estate agent means to you. I’ll be fine. If he was here, he would have come out and slashed my throat already.”

  Jeez. She’d always been a morbid drama queen. “I’ll call you in a bit. If you feel in danger, promise you’ll call the police. And you’re welcome to stay with us.” Though I knew she wouldn’t. She treasured her sanctuary and privacy too much.

  “Mags, you’re the only person in the world I can depend on. I know I put a lot on you. I always have. Mom wrote me off as being born under a black cloud. But you never did. I want you to know how much I
love you for that.”

  My throat thickened. “I love you, too.”

  Dana hung up, leaving me with a knot in my stomach. I’d known her for twenty-seven years and still didn’t really know her. We were nothing alike. I took after our Irish dad, with his sprinkling of freckles, curly light brown hair, and quick laugh. Dana took after our mother, with her sturdier body, striking features, and serious demeanor. I had somehow taken responsibility for trying to draw her out of the shadows. Even as far back as when I was four and she was two, I could remember working to make her smile. Oh, the joy of seeing that rare, brief smile.

  The more I saw my mother distancing herself from Dana, the more I moved into her vacated role. Mom did the necessary things, like buying her clothes and helping with her homework. I put her hair into ponytails every morning; I heard what was between the lines and coaxed her feelings and fears from her. I gave her hugs just because she looked like she needed them.

  I felt I needed to make up to her that I was capable of happiness and she wasn’t. I would never forget a night when I was a teenager, laughing in the living room with my friends. I caught sight of Dana lurking in the hallway. I tried to put her out of my mind. My friends didn’t like her, and Dana didn’t like them either. When they’d gone home, I went to her room and found her on the floor. She’d tried to overdose on vitamins. While I had been laughing. Even now, when I was having a good time, I sometimes thought of Dana, alone and in shadow, and found my laughter fading.