Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Disclaimer
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
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Author's Note
Acknowledgements
A Memory of Murder
By
Nichelle Seely
Copyright © 2021 Nichelle Seely
All rights reserved.
For Aaron, the love of my life.
Just so you know
Many of the places described in this novel are real. None of the people are. And just to be clear, the officers and staff of the Astoria Police Department have always been courteous and professional when I’ve encountered them; not at all like the detectives in this story. In addition, the allegations made against officers in the Denver Police Department are entirely fictional, as is the Baxter Building.
With all that said, enjoy the story.
CHAPTER ONE
MY GUN IS in my right hand, the butt gripped securely and the safety off as I turn the key in the lock to my inheritance. It’s been a forty-eight hour, thousand-mile journey on featureless highways, the Glock and the meds sharing the passenger seat, and I’ve finally reached my destination — Astoria, Oregon; the place where I can begin a new life.
The house on Rhododendron Street smells stale. All the furniture has been taken away, the pictures removed from the walls, and the carpet pulled off the floor. My boot heels clack against the bare painted wood. Windows along the south wall admit a spill of late afternoon light. The single-hung sashes have been left open a smidge, and I intend to shut them, but instead I push the sash as high as it will go, admitting a gust of fresh cold air and a faint fishy odor I associate with the exposed mudflats along the shore. The ebb tide has sucked the water from the shallows of the Columbia River to the depths of the Pacific Ocean. The view is stunning. So much water.
The damp breeze caresses my cheeks and hair with invisible clammy hands. I shiver. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in Oregon. The last time, my aunt’s house was filled to bursting with books and pictures and rugs and seashells. It’s mine now, an unexpected legacy — the house, but not the contents. Clean and clear of memories and the relics of someone else’s life.
A great blue heron soars over the roof with coiled grace, scooping wingfuls of wind from the thickening air. I’ve seen the same birds in Colorado, hunting for prey in lakes and park ponds and roadside swales, when I could take a few precious hours away from the murder and mayhem that characterized my career as a detective with the Denver Police Department.
A wave of anxiety descends. My heart rate spikes and muscles clench. I shouldn’t have opened that door to memory. I look over my shoulder, check that I’ve locked the door, and do a sweep of each floor, clearing the rooms with weapon drawn. The upper story with its slanted ceiling and two tiny bedrooms is secure; ditto the concrete cave of the basement with its naked wall studs and single finished room in the corner. There’s no one here; it’s safe.
Breathe in, breathe out. Calm.
I make sure my gun is secure in the shoulder holster before returning to my car to unload a suitcase, a fold-up camp cot and chair, card table, and two grocery bags of food. The table and chair I leave in the empty room next to the kitchen. The cot and suitcase I manhandle upstairs. Food goes to the kitchen and into the refrigerator and open shelves; soap and toothpaste into the bathroom, along with my medication.
I look into the mirror of the medicine cabinet for a long time, charting the new lines across my forehead and the padding beneath my chin and cheekbones; the shadows under my eyes that echo the shadows in my mind. My body aches with a fatigue that scrapes against my skeleton. I never seem to get enough sleep. It’s the pills, of course. Their fault also that I’ve gained upwards of twenty pounds in the last six months. I’m so done with all this — the worrying, the lying, the general feeling of malaise and fuzziness.
With savage abruptness, I open the medicine cabinet and glare at the single orange plastic bottle with its white child-proof lid and cleanly lettered label.
Rx: 25428040
Patient Name: LAKE, AUDREY
ZYPREXA/Olanzapine
1 tablet per day or as needed to suppress hallucinations
I’m supposed to take these until my psychiatrist tells me to stop. Or until the symptoms cease of their own accord. But I don’t know when that will be. How can I, with the pills pulling a blanket between me and the rest of the world? Meanwhile, I’m always sleepy and soft, and getting softer, and I’ve left my doctor back in Denver.
Rubbing my eyes, I try to dislodge the shadows. I’m used to walking the razor’s edge of danger, riding the rocket of focused adrenalin. I hate feeling muddled and cottoned away from the world. It’s been months — surely the visions are gone. I only had a couple, under extremely stressful circumstances. I’m better now, I’m sure of it. The bad place is just a memory. It’s over. And I’m far away from anyone who will be keeping tabs on my medical condition, or laying down rules as to how I should live my life. Better to make a clean break to match the new beginning.
I take down the bottle. The contents rattle. With grave deliberation, knowing that it’s probably wrong, I twist off the top and spill the small white pills into the toilet. They
