Madness of Two (Madness of Two #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

HER

S tarting over never gets easier, not even when it becomes a routine.

I drive down the lonely road, my only companions the worn cardboard box of albums on the passenger seat. Type O Negative’s melancholic rendition of Summer Breeze plays from the speakers, a strangely fitting soundtrack to this journey. I roll down the window, letting in a humid gust that carries the faint scent of pine. The Pennsylvania mid-August heat clings to me, a familiar sensation from my childhood, but one I’ll need to reacclimate to.

Aside from checking out my new apartment a couple of weeks ago, I haven’t returned to this state since I was seventeen, back when I legally emancipated myself from my mother and her new husband. Patricia and Ronald made it clear they wanted nothing to do with me, not even offering to help pay for my college tuition despite his wealth. My mother had almost always shown me thinly veiled disdain.

I remind her too much of my father.

I glance at my watch. It’s only 11 AM, so I have plenty of time to fuel up at a gas station and make it to my apartment before the moving truck arrives. As I stop at a red light, I double-check the map balanced on my lap to make sure I’m on the right track. I’d hate to make a wrong turn and end up being chopped up and eaten by a family of cannibals or something.

I wait for the light to turn green, feeling exhaustion creeping in. The lack of restful sleep has been taking its toll ever since the multiple interrogations about the violent murders of my ex-boyfriend and closest friend. Even though the police cleared me, I’m lucky they let me leave Vermont. Detective Bryant told me to keep his number and reach out if I remember anything that could help with the investigation.

Murders happen all the time. It may sound callous, but it feels much more ominous when it hits so close to home.

I don’t want to think about the past right now; I’m afraid I’ll lose myself in it. As the light turns green, I force my eyes open and grip the steering wheel, continuing down the road. Farmhouses and weathered buildings dot the landscape, surrounded by never-ending pastures. A billboard with peeling paint looms into view: Welcome to Fallbank, where all your dreams come true! I roll my eyes; we’ll see about that .

Eventually, I reach civilization. Fallbank is a town torn between its past and the future, like someone cut a random slice of a bigger city and plopped it down in the middle of nowhere-Pennsylvania. Main Street has modernized with updated buildings and outdoor dining options. There’s a movie theater—which is what passes as exciting entertainment in this town since the nearest mall is about ten miles away.

The park on the outskirts of town, next to a river, is my favorite place in Fallbank. It’s a small piece of nature in the middle of suburbia, where I can escape the noise pollution of humanity and find some peace. After signing my lease, I visited the park, exploring the trees and meandering paths, and noting the covered pavilions with picnic tables. I’m looking forward to going for my morning jogs there.

I spot the Readimart sign and pull into the parking lot, finding an empty pump. After turning off my old black Honda, I remove the gas cap and grab the nozzle, grimacing at its grimy texture. As I fill my tank, I scan my surroundings. A gas attendant is washing a windshield covered in bug splatters. Wasps flit around overflowing garbage cans. Music drifts out of parked vehicles.

My mind wanders, but the metallic sound of the pump turning off snaps me back to reality. I reach into my wallet to pay, but the machine beeps in error when I swipe my card. Letting out a huff, I lock my car and head into the store, passing by a pair of loud, chattering teens loitering near the locked ice machines .

As the automated doors slide open, the first thing that hits me is the smell of coffee. The second is the song playing from the overhead speakers. Blue ?yster Cult’s (Don’t Fear) The Reaper was one of my father’s favorites. When I was a kid, I thought he just liked cool psychedelic rock bands. I was too young to understand the song’s meaning: the inevitability of death and eternal love. Nor was I aware of the double meaning of the title, and why he loved it so much.

I really, really had no fucking clue.

I maintain a neutral expression and navigate around a couple arguing over which movie to rent, making my way to one of the snack aisles. Needing to recharge, I grab a protein bar and a small bag of trail mix. As I head to the checkout counter, I pick up a copy of today’s newspaper.

I stand in line, listening to the slushy machines whir. The person ahead pays for their scratch tickets with crumpled bills, holding up the queue. That’s when I feel it—the unsettling sensation that I’m being watched. The hairs on my arms stand on end and I frown, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I scan the area, seeing if I could catch anyone’s lingering gaze. But I see no one.

I’m just jumpy , I think. The interrogations have put me on edge. I have a nagging, unfounded suspicion that whoever got Briar and Grace—and the other victims in Ashburn—will come for me next. I approach the checkout and greet the cashier with a smile.

Unimpressed by my attempt at politeness, he raises an eyebrow. “What can I do for you, miss? ”

“I’d like to buy these,” I say, placing my items on the counter before nodding toward the parking lot. “And the pump’s card machine isn’t working right, so I’m here to pay. It’s 2A.”

Chewing his gum noisily, he scans my snacks. I glance at the wall of tobacco products behind him, and the urge to smoke returns full force. But I fight it off; I didn’t endure the pain of quitting just to start again because of a little paranoia, even if said paranoia is persistent. Instead, I gesture toward the coffee machine as he enters some information into the register. “Could I get some of that?”

“Want some creamer? Sugar?” he asks, preparing my drink. “I recommend getting it iced. It’s hotter than balls today.”

I chuckle softly. “Yeah, all of that sounds great. And iced, please.”

After he finishes ringing me up, I grab my bag and leave. The feeling of being watched lingers, and I suddenly regret not buying those cigarettes. I cross the sunbaked pavement, making it halfway to my car—when I let out a shriek, almost dropping my coffee as someone revs a motorcycle. My heart hammering in my chest, I rush to my car and slide inside, embarrassed.

Even though I locked the door, I still feel the need to check the backseat. Swallowing, I lean between the seats and look around, relieved to find no serial killer lurking. I curse myself for not stabbing the bastard at Grace’s house, but there’s no use dwelling on the past now. I put my coffee in the drink holder, toss the bag onto the passenger seat, and start the engine.

I merge into traffic, turn up the stereo, and drive. Not even a third of the way to the apartment, time slows. I see a house cordoned off by yellow police tape with several cruisers parked outside. Groups of people have gathered in the yard, and the officers stand at attention, their gazes trained on the opportunistic reporters desperate for a scoop. My mind catches up with my body as I whizz past, dread settling in my stomach.

Could there be another murder?

I shake my head in disbelief. It would be just my luck to escape one murder-filled town, only to end up in another in a misguided attempt to outrun my past.

Eventually, I make it to the Historic District. It may not be the most upscale area of Fallbank, but it has a certain rustic charm to it. Rent here, despite its name, is much more affordable compared to downtown. I saved what I could while living with Aunt Maeve. But without a college degree, it’s difficult to afford a high-end apartment in today’s economy. I pull over and park in front of a russet-colored brick building.

Taking a moment to settle my mind and quiet my growling stomach, I turn off the car but leave the radio on. I reach for a protein bar from the bag and sip my coffee. The scent of freshly mowed grass drifts in through the window. I watch as kids ride by on their bikes, their carefree laughter making me wish I could go back to a time when my parents were still together. Before being trapped with Patricia’s shitty boyfriend .

I’m about to tear open the bag of trail mix when a familiar woman taps on the passenger side window. My muscles tense instinctively as I pause the music before rolling down the window. “Hey, Mrs. Evans. How are you?” I say, trying to sound more relaxed than I feel.

“Please, no need for formalities. Just call me Nancy, dear.” She waves a dismissive hand and smiles. “And I’m doing fine. I’m just glad to see that my new tenant has made it here safe and sound.”

I can’t help but return her smile. Nancy Evans is my new landlord. She’s a bit of a flaky oddball, but she’s a kind soul. She reminds me of one of the older ladies I used to eat lunch with at the mall food court. “It’s been a long drive, that’s for sure.”

She leans into the car and hands me a manila envelope. “This has your keys to your apartment and the building itself. There’s also a copy of your lease and other important documents. Welcome to Grand Pointe Apartments, Ms. Underwood!”

“Thank you.” I chuckle. “Please, call me Mia, Nancy.”

“Alright, Mia,” she says, turning to walk away. “Happy to have you here.”

I slump against my seat as she leaves down the sidewalk. After taking another sip of coffee, I open the envelope and peek inside. Snatching the keys, I read the tag attached to the ring: #5, 2nd floor .

I hope I can settle here for more than seven months this time.

Finishing the trail mix, I drink the rest of my coffee, knowing I’ll need the energy to help haul my things inside. As if on cue, the moving truck appears down the road, right on time. I wipe my hands on my shorts, pocket my keys, and flag the movers down.

Between forking over the security deposit and travel expenses, I could only afford to pay the company enough to stick around for an hour. I frequently downsize my possessions when moving, so I’m prepared for situations like this. “I live on the second floor, apartment five. You guys can take care of the furniture,” I say to one of the movers. “I’ve got pretty much everything else.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, his eyes crinkling with concern.

I shrug and grab a box from the truck. “Don’t worry, I can handle it. I’ve done this before.”

I lead the way, carrying the box up two flights of stairs. Because of the building’s age, there is no elevator. And a key is required to get in. I’ve never been wealthy enough to afford a place with a door entry code, unfortunately. I unlock my apartment and motion for the movers to drop things off.

After lugging up two more boxes, I feel sweat trickling down my neck. I let out a huff of annoyance and use the scrunchie around my wrist to tie my hair into a ponytail. It only serves as a reminder that I should give myself a haircut soon. And another dye job , I think, twirling a faded red strand around my finger. Leaving that problem for future me, I steel myself for another trip downstairs and start descending the steps—when I practically collide with a broad chest .

“Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” comes an unexpectedly gentle voice.

“No, no. It’s my fault. I was … distracted,” I say, quickly regaining my composure. Whoever this man is, he’s cute. Tall, dark hair, strong jaw. He’s wearing a muted cardigan and dark khakis. He doesn’t seem much older than me.

My type, but also—not my type?

“Are you new here?” he asks, pushing the rim of his glasses up his nose, ignoring my gaze. “I mean, you’re the new tenant, right?”

God, I hope I don’t make this awkward. “Yep, that’s me.” I gesture toward my apartment. “Just getting my stuff moved in right now.”

He smiles warmly, revealing two deep dimples on his cheeks. “Looks like we’re gonna be neighbors then,” he says, sticking out his hand. “I’m Blake Sullivan. I live up on the third floor.”

Oh no, those dimples are adorable. I accept his offer. “I’m Mia Underwood,” I say, the lie easily rolling off my tongue.

No one can ever know who I really am.

He leans against the railing. “Lovely to meet you, Mia.” He cranes his neck, glimpsing the movers exiting my apartment. “Need any help, by the way? I’m on my lunch break, so …”

“Yes, please. I would appreciate the help.”

Blake accompanies me to the moving truck, where we carry the remaining boxes up the stairs. By the time we complete our task, an hour has passed. I profusely thank the movers before they depart and I turn, again nearly running straight into Blake.

I take a moment to compose myself and paste on a friendly smile. “Thank you so much for your help,” I say, genuinely grateful.

He chuckles. “You’re welcome,” he says, glancing at his wristwatch. “Unfortunately, my lunch break is over. Have to get back to work.”

I can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment that my interaction with the cute neighbor guy is ending. Just as he’s about to leave, I call out to him. “Hey, Blake, wait!”

He quirks a brow. “Something wrong?”

“No, nothing, really.” I rub the nape of my neck sheepishly. “Could we ...” I phrase my question carefully, wary of being too forward. “I don’t know. Hang out or something?”

He chuckles, his voice warm and inviting. “Or something ?” I’m not sure if he’s intentionally trying to get a rise out of me, but I can’t stop the flush that creeps along my cheeks. “Hanging out sounds fun. We can watch movies, eat popcorn, or … something .”

Okay, now I know he’s fucking with me.

“We can figure out a time, then. Whenever you’re free,” I say. “But I don’t have my new number handy. It’s back up in my apartment, in the folder Nancy gave me.”

“That’s not a problem.” He searches his pockets, pulling out a small notepad and pen. He scribbles something down and hands me the top paper. “Here’s mine. If you need anything, call me. ”

I’m curious about the profession that requires him to always carry a pen and paper, but I don’t ask. “Thank you again, Blake,” I say, nodding in appreciation.

He waves and turns to leave. “No problem, Mia.”

I stare after him as he walks away, resisting the silly smile that threatens to tug at my face.

Maybe moving here wasn’t such a bad idea after all.