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    From Darkest Shadow
    From Darkest Shadow
    From Darkest Shadow
    Ebook98 pages1 hour

    From Darkest Shadow

    By Lisa Gaines

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    A visitor from a dark past . . .
    An addict’s redemption gone horribly wrong . . .
    A monster in sheep’s clothing . . .
    A father’s misguided love . . .
    A young girl’s reckoning . . .

    Five tales that dig deep into the human psyche, uncovering skeletons that might be better left buried.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherEye of the Eagle
    Release dateNov 11, 2012
    ISBN9781301654468
    From Darkest Shadow

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      Book preview

      From Darkest Shadow - Lisa Gaines

      From

      Darkest

      Shadow

      A short story collection

      By

      Lisa Gaines

      A visitor from a dark past . . .

      A gambling addict’s redemption gone horribly wrong . . .

      A monster in sheep’s clothing . . .

      A father’s misguided love . . .

      A young girl’s reckoning . . .

      Five tales that dig deep into the human psyche, uncovering skeletons that might be better left buried.

      < * >

      From Darkest Shadow: A Short Story Collection

      Copyright 2012 by Lisa Gaines

      Published by Eye of the Eagle Press at Smashwords

      Smashwords License Statement

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

      < * >

      Contents

      Broken Dreams

      The Girl in the Velvet Black Gown

      I, Monster

      Spirit Lake

      Hunting for Worms

      About the Author

      < * >

      There’s a reason people put a gun to their temple and pull the trigger. Has nothing to do with depression or one too many knockdowns. They don't all want to die. Not really.

      All they want to do is shut the damn voices up.

      < * >

      Broken Dreams

      Lincoln City Noir

      < * >

      She was plump when I first met her, little girl fat clinging to curves too stubborn to fill out. Eleven going on twenty. Eyes full of shit no one should have to see, especially little kids. Didn't remember where she came from or wasn't saying. Just sat there in that old motel room, covered in blood, head held high, like she'd been to some charm school, only charm school was old school and nobody took charm anymore.

      Nobody.

      When they came and took her away, she didn't say a word. Just looked at me with those blue seen-too-much-of-the-world eyes.

      Then she turned away.

      And never looked back.

      < * >

      That was fifteen years ago. Another time, another life. Back then I was a cop in San Diego, California, dealing with humanity's ugly side every hour, every minute, every second of the day.

      Now, I'm just a Lincoln City P.I. Hung a sign so small most folks squint to read it on my door stating only my name: Robert Quigley.

      Things are pretty low key up here in Oregon. Folks call me Bo, instead of Robert or Bob and I like it that way. Not to say bad things don't happen; L. C. has its share of the nasties. But I soured on nasties working SDPD. These days I leave trouble where it belongs: in the capable hands of the authorities.

      Like Grandpappy always said, Trouble's like a pack of fleas. Once you got it, it never goes away.

      I'd left those fleas behind the day I left San Diego. Kept my nose out of trouble ever since. So when I got back from a cut-and-shave one rainy Tuesday in late May and found a woman curled up in the overstuffed recliner parked outside my office door, I was blindsided. Not because I didn't recognize her.

      Because I didn't smell the trouble.

      Smelled cinnamon and spice and something I couldn't quite identify trying to take over the stale office air, but I didn't smell trouble.

      Guess I was out of practice.

      I stood in the waiting room doorway and studied the storm-darkened room. The woman snorted – a soft, feminine sort of snore – murmured something I couldn't make out, then quieted back down.

      Should've left her snoring. Headed down to the beach. Let the rain clear the cobwebs from my brain.

      But I waited, staring at the sailboat pictures on the walls. Listening to the rain slash eager against the windows. Wondering for the thousandth time how long before a tsunami – a real, soul-sucking, hotel-crushing monster wave – took out my little slice of the Lincoln City business world.

      Not that I'd miss the expense. I pay too much cash for a waiting room and office on the bottom floor of a renovated bed and breakfast. The waiting room wraps around a recliner that pretends to be leather and a secretary's desk made for a midget, a too-tight glove dying to be removed. The office is what makes the deal, though. Six inches wider than the waiting room and almost as long. Everything nicely decked out with ocean memorabilia in true Lincoln City style.

      The attorneys upstairs claim they got the best view. Maybe so, but I got a sliding glass door that dumps right onto the beach.

      That and three pennies . . .

      The slumbering babe cracked open an eye. A blue, seen-too-much-of-the-world, eye. That's when I knew. She was all grown up, baby fat turned to womanly curves, plump in all the right places, but it was definitely Sheila Lange.

      Time changed the girl into a woman, but time couldn't change those eyes.

      You broke my heart, she said, voice low and throaty as a cat’s purr. She opened the other eye. Cradled her head in her hand. Stared.

      Why did I suddenly feel like a mouse caught halfway between the fridge and his safe hole?

      I shook the rain off my hat and tossed it at the stand guarding the door to my inner sanctum, keeping my movements slow and nonchalant. Kids don’t have hearts. They have dreams that never come true.

      The hat – a hand-brushed Belfry Classic Murino done up safari style – snagged a peg, twirled once, then settled. I turned and parked a hip against the secretary’s desk. Waited some more. I could wait all day if I had to.

      The storm outside intensified, sucking out more light and replacing it with a damp chill that went straight to the bones as Sheila uncurled like a cat just waking up from a nap. I wondered if she practiced the move along with the voice.

      And why.

      Too many years since that day in the city. The day little Sheila sharpened her claws and dug them in, refusing to be abused anymore. The day I decided to stop pretending to be a cop.

      I'm married. Again the purr.

      I crossed my arms

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