Author: Dale Wiley
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/dale-wiley/page,15,457982-southern_gothic.html
Scott was not a publicity hound, and he encouraged her to keep as low a profile as possible. He kept in daily contact, which she enjoyed, but his messages were getting dire. He was negotiating bond terms for her in case the district attorney did file, which would allow her to stay out of jail while awaiting the trial. She knew she would face the charges eventually. Then everything would be restricted, especially her travel, which she found the toughest thing to handle. She felt sure her house would sell immediately, given its placement and all the notoriety, but just like her book sales, the opposite held true. Scott told her that might not be the worst thing, as she could put it up in lieu of cash for a bond. She had been staying at the DeSoto, but he encouraged her to move back to her place, not knowing what that meant. He gave her strict instructions to only answer questions he asked. He sent out some investigators to uncover any possible angle, but her secret still hung around her ankle like a millstone.
Scott told her if they called before Christmas, it would be good news, as even the justice system liked to deliver the rare messages of hope before the holidays. No call came. When Scott called on December 28, Meredith braced herself for the words she expected to hear. Still, she couldn’t breathe when, in a clear, kind voice, he said, “First-degree murder.”
Chapter 51
The first few days after being charged with murder were like being wrapped in gauze. Her doctor prescribed her some Xanax, which became her good friend. It gave her the ability to think when she needed to and not think the rest of the time. On the rare occasions her friends visited, she couldn’t ignore their obvious discomfort. On the one hand, this made sense. She had been charged with murder, after all. On the other hand, she expected more from her lifelong “friends,” including sticking by her in good times and bad.
Her return to the house made her doubly uneasy. Every room held a memory of her and Michael—his raving over her cooking at the dinner table; long, wine-driven conversations under the steady drone of the porch fan; nights of unspeakable passion in her bedroom, where the ghosts still blushed. And now she understood, what should have been an easily-seen manipulation, Michael pulled the strings of the ultimate wannabe—her—so sick to be a writer she gave up all reason and control over her life.
There were times when she could almost live with the idea of the lie if it just hadn’t ended and she could have been left in the dark, continuing on with the lovemaking and the heady promises. She missed the physical side of their relationship. No one had ever touched her like he had. She thought about abandoning Savannah and finding a new man, a new life. She had no idea who would be her target, but it sounded like such a release to wind up in someone’s arms. Someone who would stroke her hair and tell her it would be okay. She thought about it more than she cared to admit, as a distraction, as a comfort, and to reignite those insane and powerful nights. To have the passion wrenched from her hands felt like yet another injustice, another side of life Michael had supplied that no one else could.
She laughed as she realized she sounded like the narrator at the end of their novel. No place gave her more solace than the streets of downtown Savannah, which equally weighed heavy with sadness and promise. Legally, the pre-trial agreement meant she couldn’t leave town until the trial, and truthfully, she didn’t want to.
Although Scott was frustrated—he knew she wasn’t telling him something—he always ended their meetings with a pat on the shoulder and a positive keep at ‘em speech. It killed her not to tell. She knew it made no sense. But she couldn’t.
Part of her defense was simple: other than her one trip, she had never been to The Shoals. Even during the one trip, she hadn’t even come close to approaching the spot where the body was buried.
Trial or not, she was determined to prove she was an author—even without Michael Black. During her year in Michael’s shadow, she had studied the form of the novel and demystified the writing process. Whether or not she wanted to admit it, he made her better. His emails stung more than she wanted to admit. He opened her up to listening to people differently, to realizing the sacrifices one made to a manuscript.
Dammit, she could do this. Without him. To all the doubters, including Michael—especially Michael—she would prove them all wrong.
Chapter 52
The cameras didn’t stay all the time; the neighborhood watch committee made sure of it. Her neighbors may have glared at her every time she went outside or, worse yet, completely ignored her, but they did serve their purpose. But the journalists wouldn’t give up. They hid behind trashcans and disguised themselves as cable repairmen or delivery drivers. Meredith thought about giving them something to talk about, but Scott’s voice would always appear in the back of her mind, warning her to keep a low profile. Unfortunately for the camera crews, her life was rather boring—other than the whole being charged with murder part.
She tried again to write. There were plenty of examples of great works of literature coming out of bad situations. Everything from Don Quixote to the inspiration for some of Dostoevsky's best writing. She developed a routine. Every afternoon at two o’clock, she opened her laptop and stared at the screen. It stared back. She once had an idea for a novel; it became a bestseller. Now, all bets were off. She tried to start again without having any idea in what direction she should move. She tried character sketches and old plots she had worked with before. She did this for weeks before realizing she was making things worse. She decided to return to the idea she had abandoned and make 2 p.m. her nap time instead.
Meredith learned even more to compartmentalize. She broke her life into breadcrumbs and celebrated completing each one. Brewing coffee. Making lunch. Going to the market. Taking a bath.
She still hadn’t heard anything from Michael.
She met regularly with Scott. He had scheduled the trial for early August, which seemed like an eternity away, but he assured her it was almost too soon. Every conversation started with some variation of, “Is there anything else you need to tell me?” and Meredith making what she hoped was a sufficient amount of eye contact before changing the subject.
Her mind dwelled on prison. The bars, the cells, the loss of freedom. Meredith wanted to win the trial on her own merits. She wondered whether Michael would intervene, but she knew she couldn’t count on it. She wasn’t even sure he was still alive. She needed to distance herself from the physical evidence, which is what she kept directing Scott towards. She wanted to stand on her own feet with this defense.
She thought back to her quiet, serene life before Michael Black and her “dreams” came calling. She could tell the farfetched story of a man living in her garage, hope to be believed, and then go slip away. But then she would be known as a liar, too. She had a plan and would stick to it: state she was innocent of murder.
She couldn’t tell her attorney what he needed to know, what would take his defense in a completely different direction. She tried to tell herself all of this was normal. She knew it was not.
Chapter 53
Scott Pettit was a good lawyer. It didn’t take him long to know Meredith hid something from him. Usually, his clients couldn’t bear to say the bad things they’d done out loud. But this felt different.
Meredith had things going for her, and fame could help, but in her case, not much. She hadn’t been famous long enough. He worried most about her attractiveness. Juries, especially female jurors, tended to dislike successful, beautiful women. He needed something concrete to put this case over the top and away from conviction altogether. His bets were on Michael Black. The prosecution floated the theory she and Michael had an affair and she envied and resented his new flame. This seemed like a plausible assumption. But why have the map in the book? Nothing about Meredith indicated she was diabolical enough to even conceive of such a thing. Everything Scott knew pointed to Michael Black. He just had no way to prove it.
He had his hands full with the prosecutor, Amanda Meadows. A great trial lawyer, she was considered a serious player in future Georgia elec
tions. Sometimes, those two things were mutually exclusive. Not so with Amanda. Scott liked working with her, and while she seemed to return the favor, he also knew she had a few battle scars. Recently, he had won two high-profile abuse cases against Amanda; the press had scolded her for taking on too high of a caseload, something Scott told her in so many words before the cases even began. Savannah was a big enough city that it mattered, certainly in Georgia and, to a lesser extent, nationally, and she needed the next showdown to be a win. Scott refused to speak with deputy prosecutors about anything but the most ministerial things—instead, he wanted to hammer this out with Amanda, and she gladly obliged, sure she had a winner.
After court, they walked to Savannah Coffee Roasters near the Chatham County Courthouse. Anyone who saw them, knew what they discussed. Like Scott, Amanda only had this case on her plate. And every time she saw him, she wore the same cocky smile.
“She doesn’t have a motive, Amanda,” Scott said for the umpteenth time.
“Last time I checked, I don’t have to prove motive,” Amanda said, although they both knew she wanted to be able to do so. “I’ll take a map to the murder scene in the book written by the defendant over any motive in the world.”
Scott had to stare her down. This was obviously the case’s weakest point and too glaring for him to evade. He needed Michael Black to go down to keep his client up. And considering the man’s creepy reputation, it wouldn’t be difficult to peg it on him—if he could find him.
“Look, Scott,” Amanda said, “we know it’s not your gal. I mean, a few people have a hard on for her, but most of us know. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out why you aren’t coming to me and using the obvious knowledge to help us send the real murderer up the river.”
She read his mind. But Meredith hadn’t caved and, apparently, never would. Scott hoped early on Amanda would see the holes in her side of the case and agree not to file until more evidence came in. He couldn’t blame her for moving full-speed ahead; it’s what he would have done if he were in her shoes. If he couldn’t prove Michael Black’s involvement, he knew Meredith’s days of freedom were likely coming to an end. She would have to write her sequel from jail.
Chapter 54
He hadn’t intended this. That’s what he told himself. But of course, he had intended it to be exactly like this. Even a sympathetic woman like Meredith couldn’t stand to have his stench around for too long. She figured it out; he knew she would. And she cut him loose like anyone with half a brain would have done.
It was his third night sleeping under the floorboards of a stewardess’s house in Gadsden, Alabama. She smiled at him in the airport lounge, and it was on—skip traces, Google searches, and finally a residence that could only be reached by going into the basement and up and through the subfloor.
Michael loved the feeling of near-suffocation. It was the sexiest hiding place yet. Lurking below her bathroom, he got to watch the woman put on a show. He could smell her and watch her shower, pluck her eyebrows, and pee and wipe. He wasn’t supposed to be doing this. She hadn’t given him permission—and it made it much better than rutting around inside of her.
Unfortunately, this target didn’t move him in the way Meredith did. This gal had big titties, and that was about it. She also shaved her pubic hair down to a Hitler mustache, which he didn’t like. He likely wouldn’t have picked up on her at all, but he needed to take his mind off Meredith.
Meredith left him. She feared him less than he thought she would be. She even seemed ambivalent about losing her fame, which he didn’t expect. He had devised his plot so she would understand she was completely at his mercy. A velvet prison, the very best kind. She didn’t understand she wasn’t her own anymore. Not since she let him work and slave for hours, days, and months, polishing her manuscript to a shine.
She couldn’t write, so to speak, to save her life. He had to give her some kudos on her storytelling skills, but damn, part of what attracted him to the manuscript was the sheer challenge of it. She thanked him, but it wasn’t enough. She didn’t understand all he had done for her. He would make her see it.
One day, Miss Meredith would be chained to a radiator, naked, having to give him the type of thanks he deserved. He would give her bread and water and wait until she got it right. Ungrateful bitch.
He didn’t know if she realized he was BlackPlague. He figured she did, but it never came up in conversation. He had waited. He wanted someone else to find the clue, one so simple she should have never left The Shoals without deciphering it. He waited longer than he wanted. Nobody noticed. So finally, BlackPlague, who never had a nice thing to say about Michael Black, had to. It was a little obvious, he knew, but such was life.
He thought about pulling more stunts like the lipstick on the mirror but decided being hidden and silent terrified her just as much as his tricks—hence, his residency in Gadsden.
When Meredith first learned of his hiding place, he actually stayed around Savannah for a while, giving her a chance to repent and beg him to return. Then she sent the secret-keeping email, and Michael realized it would take longer to achieve his plan than he had originally anticipated. He found these stunning arched entry cotton warehouses right by River Street. They were clearly as old as Savannah itself, and they were perfect. The road ran above them, making them sturdy and loud, and they were much bigger than the carriage house—the perfect hideout. Michael found, although they were supposed to patrol the area, the officers didn’t like going in the rooms because someone like him could be hiding there. He only stayed there for a few nights, and he loved the feeling of being out in the open, waiting for someone to challenge him and living among the Savannah ghosts.
Michael was a patient man. He would wait for her. Gadsden suited him for now, but he would soon be heading back to Meredith. He was working on the manuscript he knew she would need.
Chapter 55
Law Office of Scott R. Pettit
Savannah, GA
July 7, 2016
Ms. Meredith Harper
Via Courier
Dear Meredith:
I am sorry if I was short with you during our conference last Friday. I am frustrated, and I think it’s time I lay it all out.
As you well know, we now stand just over four weeks from trial. I have a team of legal professionals working on your case from every angle. They are doing their best to find out what they can about the corpse—if it had been moved, how those old documents discovered in the kitchen are involved, the few other anomalies, and anything that could possibly exonerate you.
There are indications someone moved the body, which would help your case, but they are far from conclusive. Considering your book contains a map to the body, it’s hard to ignore your involvement.
I understand your contention Mr. Black read the manuscript years ago. I have put most everything in place to show University Press did receive and process the work. However, since they did not publish it, they did not keep a copy of the manuscript, and everyone who actually worked there has retired or moved on. Those at the Press mentioned Black’s recommendation extensively, but they never received it. I have to say this still leaves quite a conspiracy to put in front of a jury. There’s no promise they will follow you and pin the crime on a man who hasn’t been seen for a number of years.
I have to document that I continue to ask you for whatever piece of information you haven’t yet given me, and you continue to change the subject every time I ask. I believe you are innocent; unfortunately, I also believe you are hiding something significant.
The entire legal community and I believe Michael Black is the killer. His relationship with Quinn gives him the motive you lack. I cannot imagine why you would hold something back that could keep you out of prison.
Please realize I am bound by strict rules of confidentiality, and I am proud to say I have never violated my oath. I would be happy to keep whatever information you have between us; however, even just knowing it would help me open up additional l
eads and possibilities.
Obviously, I haven’t written a famous book and don’t begin to understand what’s going on in your head. However, having been in the innards of many Georgia prisons, I can tell you whatever you are hiding is not worth a prison sentence.
Let me help you.
Yours truly,
Scott
SRP/tp
Chapter 56
Silence. The silence most unnerved her. He had begun to pop up more and more in her thoughts, and there were times she swore she could smell him. Especially in her bedroom.
The silence greeted her when she turned the lock on the back door. It accentuated the loss of her lover and reminded her of the dread she felt every night when she suspected he had returned. Most of all, it reminded her she had chosen to live without him.
Why can’t I let the lie go?
But the deafening silence made it hard to think of any answers.
If someone didn’t intervene before the trial started, she would get up on the stand and tell the truth—the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Surely, coming clean would be better than going to jail. But a part of her didn’t believe she would go through with it. She asked God for forgiveness. Silence greeted her there, too.
She tried to cover up the hole he left in her life with things reminiscent of happier times. She played music loudly and combed through boxes of pictures, looking at herself with Terrie, Jennifer, and Lisa in odd hairstyles and Benetton Colors.
Where was that girl who walked beside them? The one with the gleam in her eye. Oh, to regain her old life. She was accused of murdering an innocent young girl whose only crime was loving the same deranged man. Somehow, she preferred being labelled a murderer to being seen for what she really was—a liar and a fake.