The darkness within shad.., p.1
The Darkness Within (Shadows and Strings Book 1), page 1
THE DARKNESS WITHIN
SHADOWS AND STRINGS
BOOK 1
KB WINTERS
Copyright © 2024 by KB Winters and Bookboyfriends Publishing Inc
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.
Cover Design - Amanda Walker PA and Design Services
CONTENTS
Author’s Note
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
Thank You So Much!
About the Author
Also by KB Winters
ABOUT THE DARKNESS WITHIN
In the game of deception, who pulls the strings?
By day, I’m the tech visionary the world adores. By night, I’m the darkness that’s haunting Detective Francesca DeMarco’s dreams. She’s hunting a killer. I'm chasing my prey.
For months, I’ve watched Francesca’s relentless pursuit of justice, my obsession growing with each case. The bodies I’ve left behind aren’t just crimes for her to solve.
They’re a trail leading her straight to me.
When I step out of the shadows and into Francesca’s life, her world will change forever. She has no idea what’s coming, but one thing is certain—once I have her, I’m never letting her go.
Love a romance that walks on the edge of danger? Let The Darkness Within lure you into its web of obsession and intrigue.
One-click this super steamy psychological thriller romance today!
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Reader,
You know me for stories of bikers and bad boys. Now, I’m introducing something different. The Darkness Within kicks off a brand new series, the Shadows and Strings trilogy.
This psychological thriller has it all—a billionaire serial killer stalker obsessed with our heroine. Talk about the ultimate bad boy. Expect murder, twists you won’t see coming, and super steamy romance. Fair warning: no happily-ever-after until the trilogy’s end.
Ready to meet Damien and Frankie? Let’s go!
KB xoxo
CHAPTER ONE
Frankie
It’s pouring buckets out here, an absolute downpour, and what am I doing? Not curled up cozy under my comforter like any sane person in L.A. would be at this ungodly hour. Oh, hell no, yours truly is standing in this rainstorm, already soaked to the bone, at yet another gruesome crime scene.
With a bitch of a hangover.
I should’ve just called it a night after clocking out last night, but how could I miss sending off Smitty in homicide as he transfers to take on organized crime? So instead of heading home, I spent the evening getting absolutely wasted, reliving the glory days of past investigations.
Fast forward to now, and I’m running on fumes, battling a wicked hangover with one measly cup of joe in my system. As I tug on some black nitrile gloves, I finally look at what dragged me out here in this miserable weather.
The poor sap looks maybe late 20s, early 30s tops. He probably considered himself quite the looker before someone worked him over really nasty. This was no clean job—guy got the drawn-out, agonizing end.
“This man was tortured,” I say to no one in particular, my eyes roaming over the vicious wounds that mar his body. Squatting down to get a better look, I examine the wounds closely, I spot a few slash marks on his organs, which further confirm my suspicion that this man was tortured.
This isn’t the first ritualistic killing and even though the methods aren’t exactly the same, I have a feeling it’s the same murderous asshole and if so, this victim makes him a serial killer. “Bastard.”
“Talking to yourself again, DeMarco?” My partner Jay’s gravelly voice cuts through the rain.
I straighten up, my knees popping. Jay’s blue eyes sparkle despite the ungodly hour. “I don’t talk to myself. It’s called taking notes. Maybe try it sometime,” I say.
Jay chuckles, his salt-and-pepper hair plastered to his forehead. He’s been my partner since my dad, his former partner, died when I was a kid. The department shrink would have a field day with that tidbit if I were dumb enough to wind up in a therapist’s office.
Jay taps his temple with his forefinger. “Who needs notes when I have a steel trap memory?”
“Oh yeah? What did you have for breakfast yesterday?”
His brows, still a deep brown, dip into a frown. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I rest my case,” I say in a self-satisfied tone. “Now, can we get back to the dead guy, please?”
I crouch next to the body and scan the DB’s stomach, intestines, liver and colon laying out on top of him. “Multiple lacerations on the abdomen and chest. Possible torture,” I mutter, more to myself than to Jay.
Jay leans in, his face inches from mine as he examines the wounds. “Yeah, and check out this puncture wound on his neck. Peri-mortem, I’d say.”
I nod, standing up and wincing as my knees protest. “Could be the cause of death.” I survey the area, noting the lack of blood. “No spatter or pooling. Body was definitely moved.”
“Yeah, this isn’t the primary crime scene.” Jay’s brow furrows as he scans the surroundings. “Damn rain might’ve washed away any trace evidence.”
I sigh, frustration bubbling up inside me. “We’ll have to rely on the autopsy. Hope the killer slipped up somewhere.”
As Jay steps away to talk to the uniforms, I take another look at the body. The cuts are too precise, too calculated. This guy knew what he was doing. A shiver runs down my spine, and it’s not from the rain. We’ve got a real sicko on our hands, and he’s got a head start. I just hope the rain hasn’t washed away our only chance to catch him.
“It’s him, Jay.” I know he doesn’t want to hear it, not yet. It’s too soon, that’s what he’s thinking, but I know that this is the same guy.
His lips pinch in that way they do when he’s preparing for a lecture. “You can’t possibly know that, Frankie.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t know it yet, as in I wouldn’t swear to it in a court of law, but it’s him.” I can tell Jay’s not convinced. He’s old school and always reluctant to use the ‘s’ word because of what it means, which is usually federal investigators, tasks forces and a lot of fucking press. But I don’t care about any of that shit. I just want to catch this asshole.
“Jay,” I begin, digging in like the stubborn ass I’m known in the department to be. “The kill methods aren’t exactly the same, but his modus operandi is already showing itself.”
Jay stands and removes his gloves, swiping his overgrown wavy hair from his face. “Explain.”
“This time he exposed the organs, sure, but the cuts are similar in type. Very sharp and precise cuts, which I’m sure Dr. Montgomery will confirm.” Chris Montgomery is the medical examiner, and he knows this killer almost as well as I do.
“Lots of crazy assholes with a fetish for knives, Frankie. You find a connection between the victims yet?”
I sigh, my frustration mounting. Is Jay going to pull rank on me and take the case in a different direction? Victimology isn’t my strong suit. “Not yet, but I’m still digging.”
I’m not sure how far back I’ll have to go to find out what connects these—now three—guys, but I know I’ll find it. I’m going to be the one to find this fucker and bring him to justice or put a bullet in his head to stop this mess.
“You’re jumping to conclusions, Frankie.” Here it comes. Jay pulling rank on me. I'm anything but a rookie, but the lead detective has the right to make the important decisions. “You want it to be the same guy, but we don’t have enough proof it’s a serial.”
I’m hungry, grumpy, and in desperate need of another cup of hot coffee. I’m also determined to prove to Jay that I’m right.
“Look,” he says. “You want another notch in your belt. I get it. I’ve been there. But we need the evidence.”
“You’re right,” I say reluctantly, “but I’ll get there.” Now I have even more motivation. I’m going to prove to Jay that I’m right and this creep is a fucking serial killer. He forgets I have my father’s DNA in my blood.
“Finally,” I growl when I spot the two blue vans that mark the arrival of the CSIs. “Where the hell have you guys been?” I ask when they approach the scene.
“Traffic.” Nate, my ex, answers with a casual shrug and a smirk that only pisses me off even more.
“Bullshit. This is the one time of day there is no traffic in this fucking city. It’s raining in case you haven’t noticed, and we need to get this shit collected and logged.”
“We don’t work for you, Frankie,” he growls in a familiar refrain that’s funnily enough, exactly how we ended up fucking and then in a relationship for a year longer than we
“No, you work for the people of Los Angeles, same as I do, and the rest of us managed to make it out here in a timely manner.”
He shrugs again as if this is no big deal. “I’m here now.”
Asshole. We had the same stupid arguments over the two years we were together, and he’s still the same irresponsible jerk I kicked to the curb six months ago.
“Good. Do your damn job,” I snap, annoyed that he’s late and so nonchalant about it. And to top it off, Nate’s panty-melting smile, which used to turn me on, now makes me want to throat-punch him.
“I’d love to. And maybe after this, we can grab breakfast at that diner you like. Talk?”
Did I hear a purr in that invitation?
I scoff. “There’s nothing to talk about, Nate.”
Undeterred, he presses on. “I think there is. You know I do.”
“I know you think there is, but there isn’t. You can take your wandering dick elsewhere.” I turn away, my stomach growling for more than just food.
“Forget him,” Jay says in a low voice. “He’s not worth it.”
“I know, but I’m cold, tired, and hungry. And this fucking serial murderer is pissing me off.”
“We don’t know it’s the same guy,” Jay reminds me.
He’s right, we don’t know for sure. “It is but the only way to prove it is to find evidence that points to one killer for all three victims.” My gaze scans the area that surrounds the St. Jude Fountain. The park is in the middle of downtown Los Angeles, but there are only two direct paths to the fountain. “The killer would need direct access if he’s carrying a body,” I say half to Jay but mostly to myself. “The north entrance leads to a bank, and he’s shown himself too smart for such a rookie mistake.” The guy is good at avoiding cameras, leaving evidence or any other ways we could potentially identify him.
“But the south entrance leads to a bunch of trendy shops,” Jay grumbles. “Probably fit right in with those avocado-toast-eating hipsters.”
“Damn, you are a grumpy old man.” I laugh, even in this shitshow. “But think about it, hipsters love technology. Cameras, sensors, and especially social media. We’ll have a field day with their digital breadcrumbs.”
Jay groans, but I clap him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your while. Remember that prosciutto and egg puff pastry thing you loved? The shop is on this block.”
Jay looks at his watch. “Fine. What time do they open? For a chance to see this bastard in action, I’ll brave the hipsters. But it better be a damn good pastry.”
“And the prosciutto,” I remind him.
“Goes without saying, DeMarco.”
In this job, you gotta find joy wherever you can. Unfortunately, it’s usually hiding somewhere between dead bodies.
CHAPTER TWO
Frankie
I enter the morgue, a smile plastered on my face despite the unpleasant surroundings. If we let the constant stream of death and brutality get to us, we’d be too emotionally wrecked to function. It’s a delicate balance, one I’ve learned to maintain over the years.
Christopher Montgomery, the medical examiner, looks up from his desk, his piercing blue eyes sparkling with delight as his lips curve into a welcoming grin. “Detective DeMarco, is that really you?”
I raise an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Who else would it be, Doc? You expecting someone else?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Nah, it’s just that smile. It’s a rare sight these days. Got a new love interest or something? The overnight guys mentioned you were in quite the mood earlier.”
I roll my eyes, knowing full well that by overnight guys, he means Nate. That lazy ass always gets under my skin. “You mean the same guys who showed up at the crime scene an hour after I was there while it was pouring rain, letting crucial evidence wash away with every freakin’ raindrop?” I can feel my anger bubbling over, and I pause, inhale the coffee and let it go. “I’ve slept and showered and now I’m better. Coffee?”
“You’re a lifesaver, Frankie,” he says, gratefully accepting the steaming cup. He takes a generous sip before setting it down on his desk and picking up his ever-present tablet. “I had a hunch you’d want to fast-track this latest case, so I’ve been here since the crack of dawn. We got an ID on the latest victim. Ryder Beaumont.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “It took us days to identify the first two vics, so this is great. He has a record?”
“Yeah, but nothing major. Just a drunk and disorderly charge from a few years back.”
“Still, it’s a solid lead. Good work, Dr. Montgomery.” I jot down the name in my notebook, underlining it twice and scribbling background check, next to it. “Anything else I should know?”
Dr. Montgomery flashes me a grin that I recognize as his I’m about to geek out face. “Oh, I’m glad you asked, Detective. You’re gonna love this.”
I lean against his desk, bracing myself for the onslaught of medical jargon and all the gory details that are sure to follow. But that’s why I enjoy working with Dr. Montgomery. His enthusiasm for the science behind the madness is oddly comforting in a world filled with so much darkness.
“What do you got, Dr. Montgomery?”
“Frankie, call me Chris, please. Or I’ll start calling you Francesca.”
“Don’t you dare,” I say with a playful growl.
Dr. Montgomery’s teasing grin fades as he gets down to business. “Okay, so the perpetrator used a very sharp blade, likely a hunting or boning knife, to sever the penis in one clean slice. Could have even been a straight razor. It’s cleaner than I’ve ever seen, but a knife was definitely used to disembowel the poor guy. A very sharp knife.”
I jot that down, my pen scratching against the paper.
“There’s more,” Montgomery continues, his gloved finger gesturing to the man’s face on the screen. “The killer used an industrial-strength adhesive, likely epoxy or something similar, to seal the victim’s mouth shut. But the eyes were left untouched, though, which differs from the Donovan case last week.”
I tap my pen against my chin, my mind going a mile a minute with the information. “So, the glue is the same, but the kill method is different.”
“The glue is similar, but forensics is breaking it down, so nothing concrete yet.”
“Okay. Anything else I need to know?”
Dr. Montgomery shakes his head. “Not right now. I’ve put a rush on toxicology and DNA analysis. With any luck, we’ll find something to help identify this bastard.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Doc—err, Chris.” The name feels strange on my tongue, too informal. But if there’s anyone who deserves a bit of familiarity, it’s the man who spends his days elbow-deep in death and decay.
“I’ll have my full report on your desk by tomorrow morning,” he promises. “In the meantime, try to get some rest, Detective. You look like you could use it.”
I snort, shoving my notebook back into my jacket pocket. Sleep is a luxury I can’t afford, not with a twisted psychopath leaving a trail of bodies across my city. But I appreciate the sentiment.
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Doc. Or when this freak is behind bars. Whichever comes first.”
The doors swing open with a resounding thud and Jay saunters in, looking more haggard than he did in the middle of the night. The shit-eating grin plastered on his face tells me he deliberately arrived late to dodge the gory details of the autopsy. Typical.
“Did you decide to sleep in on your first day in homicide, old man?” I jab, arching an eyebrow at him.
Jay’s eyes narrow into slits. “Watch it, kid. I’ll show you old man.” He raises a fist like a cartoon character itching for a fight. “So, what did I miss while you were playing teacher’s pet with the doc?”
I give him the Cliffs Notes version of my chat with the doctor as we exit the morgue. “You still not convinced it’s the same psycho behind all this?”
“I never said I didn’t think it was the same guy,” Jay says. “I’m just not ready to bet the farm on it being a solo act like you are. But the glue? That’s another check in the Frankie’s right again column.” He strokes his stubbled chin, pondering over my theory.
