Relentless, p.1
Relentless, page 1
RELENTLESS
SYDNEY RYE MYSTERIES, BOOK 16
EMILY KIMELMAN
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Sneak Peek
Author’s Note
About the Author
Emily’s Bookshelf
Relentless
Sydney Rye Mysteries, Book 16
Copyright © 2023 by Emily Kimelman
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Heading illustration: Autumn Whitehurst
Cover Design: Christian Bentulan
Formatting: Jamie Davis
For my son, Desmond, who made me a mother of two. I love you fiercely and always will.
There is no Space or Time Only intensity, And tame things Have no immensity. — Mina Loy
CHAPTER ONE
To her neighbors, Jennifer Johnson seemed odd, just a little off. How could she not? Her entire existence was a lie.
While the child at her breast was really hers, the husband by her side…not so much. They shared the same innocuous last name—second most common in these United States—but he was not the father of her child, or the love of her life.
Those honors were held by a dead man.
The Johnsons didn’t bother with baby gates because of their dog, whom they called Buddy, the second most popular dog name in the country. Tall as a Great Dane with the snout of a collie, the markings of a Siberian husky, and the thick coat of a wolf with one blue eye and one brown, that dog monitored the baby as if he were part of some kind of military operation. It was adorable.
Buddy wasn’t fixed, though, something noted by the Homeowners Association. A discussion ensued as to whether he was even allowed to be in the neighborhood, such a large, menacing-looking dog with such big balls. Is that what Hidden Bush was all about?
Of course, Mrs. Katagan’s sin-red tulips came up. Unfortunately, there was no stipulation as to the color of plants in the bylaws, so while it irked her neighbors to see such glossy, colorful petals, the tastefully muted tones of their homes and their own plantings reassured them that all was well and good in the neighborhood. Mrs. Katagan was a widow, though; it did seem uncommonly brash to grow such flowers.
Once the neighbors got to know the dog and saw how devoted and sweet-natured he was, they quickly forgot about his balls.
And the husband, John Johnson, everyone liked him. Tall, fit, and handsome, he had beers with the men and helped women with their groceries—didn’t even have to be asked. He’d just start grabbing bags, talking about the weather, or something pleasant from the news.
He worked from home, some kind of remote job. He said they’d chosen this community because they liked it, which made people feel good about them. The world was changing, after all. Working remotely wasn’t that odd. They’d let Mrs. Katagan’s flowers pass; they could let Mr. Johnson’s unconventional work life go. The Johnsons could live anywhere, and they’d chosen Hidden Bush…that said something good about the neighborhood for sure. For absolute sure.
The wife was a bit odd, though, everyone had to admit. And they did, as often as possible in hushed whispers. She ran more than was probably healthy. Nursed that baby still…and it was ten months now; the boy, James, was walking.
Mr. and Mrs. Johnson shared the housework as far as anyone could tell, but Mrs. Johnson never mentioned a job…shouldn’t she do all the housework if he was the one working? Why did he so often do the shopping? And he’d been seen folding laundry under the flickering light of their TV at night…by a neighbor on a dog walk. She wasn’t spying. Not at all. It was a mere coincidental glimpse.
The Johnsons never went on dates. Seemed like Mrs. Johnson didn’t ever leave that baby. Many women suspected that Mr. Johnson needed to be saved from his wife…but to be truthful, they needed to be saved from their own marriages and were really just projecting.
After all, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson weren’t real, remember?
CHAPTER TWO
Gray bleeds into the horizon as I slip out the front door. The air is thick with moisture and the grass heavy with dew. My SUV, the same Ford model that cops use, waits in the driveway—the garage too full for both our cars.
How do we have so much stuff? We don’t, actually. But we pretend like we do because most people’s garages are too full for both their cars. And we are pretending, earnestly, to be like most people.
And while most people don’t have tunnels in their garages that lead to the woods for escape purposes, they do have gray plastic bins lining metal shelves. We have bins and a tunnel.
Peter, whose alias is John Johnson—a name picked because it is ridiculously common, which really makes me wonder about the imaginations of most people—bought a four-wheeler so we had something to keep in the second garage bay. He’s taken it out a few times with some other guys in the neighborhood and definitely enjoys the thing. It reminds me of Costa Rica, of a time I don’t think about.
I’m alone as I climb into the driver’s seat of my SUV—an unusual situation.
My dog, Blue, raised his head when I got out of bed, but I held up my hand. Stay with James. Blue, who we’ve called Buddy for the last ten months, cocked his head in question.
This is the third morning this week I’ve gone running without him. We usually go together after James wakes up and has some breakfast. He nurses and then we head over to the local park with its paved paths and go for our daily run. James naps in his stroller as Blue and I jog. But I can’t take Blue or James with me now because I’m not running…I’m hunting.
I’m not in the habit of taking my baby hunting with me. And Blue can’t come because he’s too big a deterrent—literally. The dog is huge and intimidating. No one would think of him as bait.
But me, alone, sure, I could be taken down. I’m slim enough that I could be mistaken for weak and not particularly tall. I have a ponytail that bobs with each step. What more does a victim need?
I start the SUV, the rumble of the engine disturbing the quiet neighborhood. Mrs. Katagan’s lights are already on across the street, though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her house totally dark. Does it give her comfort to have the lights on? Make her feel safe living alone?
Her dog, a chihuahua named Bruno, is a fierce little creature. He plays with Blue fearlessly. I think Blue is actually more afraid of hurting him than Bruno is of being crushed—which seems like a real possibility to me. And from the looks Blue gives me, I’m pretty sure he thinks the same. One paw swipe and Bruno could be buried.
Speaking of buried. I turn in my seat, to make sure the shovel is still in the back. Its handle is propped against the back seats. I bought it at the beginning of the week when I started this hunt.
Peter noticed it yesterday while helping me unload the groceries, but he didn’t say anything. He just gave me a look. The same one he gave me when he saw the news clippings I’d been gathering in the kitchen drawer. Not so much judging me, or even questioning me, just watching…making sure to keep track of where this crazy train is headed.
It takes about ten minutes to get to the large public park—this isn’t our normal running spot. It’s more forested, less tamed. The parking area is empty. When three women over the course of three months have been raped in area parks, no one is going jogging in one at dawn…no one but me.
I’m not carrying a gun. The rapist uses a knife, and I’ve got one of those…two, actually. One in an ankle holster and one in the thigh pocket of my black leggings. I’ve also got years of training and a thirst for justice. What more could a good little victim need to turn the tables on the serial rapist terrorizing her neighborhood?
The sky is fully gray now but on the forested path darkness still lingers. Lightning crackles at the corners of my vision—hallucinations haunting my ravaged brain. But my mind stays sharp and true through the imagined storm.
My jog is easy and measured. I used to sprint until my heart hammered to be released from my chest—desperate to escape the madwoman forcing it into such intensity. I’m older now, though. Wiser. More dangerous than ever.
The dawn breaks into day and the path lightens. I slow to a walk as I approach a wooden bridge over a thin stream. Mosquitoes must swarm here in the spring and summer, but as fall edges toward winter, the leaves are giving us a final, brilliant salute, and the air is clear. I s top on the bridge and lean against the railing, staring down at the shallow body of water. It tinkles over smooth stones in sand and gold. Moss hugs the shoreline, its vibrant green a gorgeous contrast with the fall colors.
I miss Blue and James. Without a dog by my side, I feel like I’m missing a limb. Blue’s constant, steady presence warming my left hip, the rhythmic taps of his nose reminding me he is there while we run…without Blue I’m lonely.
The ache of missing him reminds me of my other dogs—Blue’s puppies. I had to leave them behind when I disappeared. They weren’t with me and there was no going back. But a day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about Nila and Frank. Her fierceness, his goofiness…their absence hangs over me like a shadow.
Footsteps in the distance turn my head in the direction of the path I just ran down. Another jogger. Adrenaline tingles through my system. I wait, my breath even. The path is narrow, strung through with roots and littered with rocks. The trees tower, leaving not even a thin stripe of morning sky above. Nothing but diamonds of blue among the yellow, gold, and burnt sienna foliage.
A wind rustles the branches, carrying the autumnal scent of leaves. The soft-falling steps grow closer, more defined. Not a figment of my tortured imagination. Not a ghost lingering in the shadows of my mind. A predator on the cusp of becoming prey.
Time stretches, the tinkling of the stream and brushing of leaves mingle with the thunder in my broken brain. I take in a clearing breath, refocus on the path, and the figure appears. A tall and athletic man. He’s wearing shorts over calf-length leggings and a black hoodie pulled up, so that his face is just a shadow. His pace is measured. A practiced jog.
He startles when he spots me and stops. His hand comes up and he pulls the hood back, revealing a clean-shaven head and whiskey-brown eyes. “Hey,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I repress a laugh. “No worries.”
“You probably shouldn’t be out here,” he says, turning to look around, scanning for predators hiding in the brush.
“No?” I ask, all innocence, as if I haven’t been tracking this rapist across the state—following his progression as he moved closer to my home. To my territory.
I used to think of the world as mine to protect. A whole planet teaming with injustice carried around on my shoulders. But when I fled from my life I had to let go of that notion. I had to settle for living as a normal person who doesn’t devote their existence to weeding out the worst humanity has to offer.
But that doesn’t mean I can let men who hunger for control and violence just have it. Not in my neighborhood. Not where I can stop it. I’m just not wired that way.
“Yeah,” the stranger says. “I heard some women—” He cuts himself off, looks down at his feet, clears his throat. “It’s not safe here. I heard,” he tells his sneakers.
“It’s not safe anywhere,” I say, meaning for it to come out light and jokey, but I can tell from how fast his gaze comes back to mine that it came out scary. Like, maybe it’s not safe because I’m here.
He cocks his head, his eyes reassessing. I let my gaze slide over him, too. My mouth tightens. He doesn’t fit the description of the rapist. Too tall, his head too bald, skin too dark.
The women described a man so pale he seemed almost like a ghost with dirty blond hair and black eyes. They described a monster who held a knife to their neck while he…I cut the thought off. I don’t need to know the details to know it’s got to stop.
Trauma messes with our memories. But no amount of trauma could turn this man into what those women described. I need him to fuck off so I can look like an easy target.
“Do you want me to walk you back to your car?” he offers. “I’m John, by the way.” Of course you are…
“No thanks,” I say. “I’m good, John.” I don’t give him my name.
He looks around the woods again. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’ll be okay.”
His brow pinches as though he can’t just leave me out here. As if he is some kind of knight in shining fucking armor who wouldn’t be able to ever forgive himself if something happened to me. Shit. He’s about to say please…
“Please.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’d feel better if—”
I cut him off. “You’d feel better, John? We just met and you want me to start adjusting my life so you can feel better? Get a grip.” I turn away from him and jog over the bridge, my feet landing on the earth, my attention falling to the path. When I glance over my shoulder a few strides later he’s gone. Hopefully he turned back…it’s not safe out here, after all.
CHAPTER THREE
Sweat runs down my spine as the morning ages. I stop to pull off my long-sleeved running top, tying it around my waist. I tug the band out of my loosened ponytail and start to gather my shoulder-length hair again. It’s dyed a dark brown, with some “natural” highlights. I’m supposed to look like a normal woman with average hair who spends time in the sun.
Which I am…except for the whole rapist-hunting hobby I’ve recently acquired.
I also wear brown contacts to cover the unique gray color of my eyes. They are probably my most distinguishing feature—gifted from my mother’s side of the family and handed down to my son.
A twig cracks behind me. I keep fixing my hair. My heartbeat stays steady. My mind is smooth and empty—that’s what running does for me. Clears the crazy, leaving a spacious emptiness…perfect for hunting.
I tie off my hair into a bun and then raise my hands into the air, stretching. Bending to one side and then the other. Come on. With my arms up I’m easy to take, just attack!
Nothing. I huff my disappointment and drop my arms. Maybe it was just a squirrel or something. But then I hear a breath, something a fuck ton bigger than a bushy-tailed rodent is in the brush.
The victims said he’d attacked them from behind, burst out of the bushes and tackled them while they ran by. So I start to jog again, letting my left leg drag a little, as though my ankle is hurting. What kind of predator can resist injured prey?
He comes at me fast, but not that fast. His body barrels out of the brush—he’s got twigs and branches on his coat and fashioned to his hat. A real master of disguise, this one. No one would suspect a bush of being dangerous…it’s almost as good a disguise as “female jogger with bouncy ponytail”. Almost.
I let out a yelp, not too loud. I don’t want to draw the knight in shining armor Jogger John over here. He’d want to call the police. Want to let the wheels of justice grind. I’m not into that. I like swift action. Blood on my hands, sweat on my brow, and a body buried in the ground.
My attacker tackles me around the waist, using his bulk to knock me down. I hit the ground, my palms flat and elbows bent. A smile twists my lips at the sudden jolt of pain. He rolls me over and straddles my hips. His blade flashes, then presses to the flesh of my neck. I hide the smile and meet his gaze—bringing false terror into my own.
His eyes glint with feral victory, the pupils almost as dark as the iris. Perspiration sheens his pale, round face, framed by greasy strands of hair. When he smiles a puff of breath hits my face. It reeks of tuna fish and cigarettes.
Did he plan to be even more disgusting for his victim—or is this his natural state? The rapist’s eyes narrow, as if he sees the question on my face. There should be no curiosity in my gaze, only abject terror. Right. I forgot.
“Please,” I whimper. “Don’t hurt me.”
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