Dead butterflies, p.1
Dead Butterflies, page 1
Dead Butterflies
A journey of the forsaken: Book 1 - a serial killer dark romance
Lacee Hightower
DEAD BUTTERFLIES
Copyright ©2022 by Lacee Hightower
All Rights Reserved.
Editor: Karen Sanders Editing
Cover Artist: Devlin Wylde/Wylde Designs
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales of persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review or article, without written permission from the author.
Visit my website at www.laceehightower.com
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Warning: This book contains explicit sexual content and scenes of violence that some readers may find disturbing.
Playlist
Seether … Forsaken
Five Finger Death Punch … The Bleeding
Breaking Benjamin … The Dark of You
Saul … King of Misery
A Day to Remember … Resentment
Killswitch Engage … Always
Starset … Monster
Papa Roach … The Ending
Breaking Benjamin … Dear Agony
Korn … Right Now
Bad Wolves … Heaven So Heartless
Breaking Benjamin … Hollow
10 Years … Waking Up
Godsmack … The Enemy
My Darkest Days … Come Undone
Five Finger Death Punch … Jekyll and Hyde
3 Doors Down … Let Me Go
Seether … Driven Under
Staind … Just Go
I Prevail … I Don’t Belong Here
Asking Alexandria … Alone Again
Seether … Wasteland
From Ashes to New … Wait for Me
Pop Evil … Survivor
Static-X … Bled for Days
Architects … Dead Butterflies
Five Finger Death Punch … Question Everything
Bullet For My Valentine … Tears Don’t Fall
Red … Pieces
Pop Evil … Breathe Again
Korn … Start the Healing
Contents
Untitled
Prologue
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
About the Author
“This is true: the world is better off with some people gone. Our lives are not interconnected. That theory is a crock. Some people truly do not need to be here.”
-Patrick Bateman, American Psycho
Prologue
Wisps of fragrant smoke spiraled toward the sky, surrounding us with its earthy, herbal aroma. Dalton released a deep, lung-filled drag and handed me the brass key roach clip holding the butt of a prime Acapulco Gold doobie. Two monarch butterflies hovered above his right shoulder as his glazed, bloodshot eyes stared into mine.
“You ever wonder about death and dying, and if Mom’s so-called heaven is real? Or if this is really all there is? Live a few years, then just cease to breathe?”
My God-fearing mother’s words came to mind as I drew smoke into my chest and then exhaled. Believe in thy Father. Give your life to His Son. Trust and love Him. Pattern your life after Him and abide by His rules or suffer the consequences. For without doubt, as we sow, so shall we reap.
“You’re blazed out of your mind, bro,” I responded through a burst of stoned laughter.
Somebody behind us cranked up the volume to Stevie Ray Vaughan’s rendition of Voodoo Child. Two hot chicks started dancing, a muscled-up wrestler from the high school team threatened to kick his buddy’s ass if he looked at his girl’s tits again, and an old Ford truck burning oil pulled in behind Dalton’s Chevy Silverado.
A rail-thin guy with odd, dual-colored eyes accompanied by a bottle-blonde with a nice rack stepped out, the skinny dude taking a glance around the place before looking in our direction. Dalton gave him a quick nod of acknowledgment, then pushed out of the folding armchair.
“Who the fuck’s that?” Bitterness lifted in my gut as I suspected it was one of my brother’s dealers dropping off coke, something I didn’t condone.
“It’s just a guy I know. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
I took a second glance at the butt-ugly dope peddler while my dick twitched at the blonde beside him. She was fucking sublime. He was a filthy damn bastard.
“Lay off the blow, Dalton,” I commanded harshly. “That shit is nothing but trouble.”
The skinny bastard said something to Dalton, then whispered into the blonde’s ear. She acknowledged whatever he said with a nod, then headed in my direction. Darts of heat dipped down my belly and into my balls at the sight of her tanned, long, lean legs.
Fuck.
“Wow! I’ve seen my share of twins before, but you two are hard to tell apart. Guess you get that a lot, though, don’t you?” Blondie’s smile widened, but I didn’t return the gesture.
“And I suppose your pal over there brings you along to keep the attention off him while he deals his shit. Very impressive,” I said in my most sarcastic tone. “Pouring bleach on your hair part of the plan? I’d bet my left nut you’re not a natural blonde.”
Her smile faded into a scowl as her emerald-green eyes glared at me like she was staring at Lucifer himself. “Dealing?”
“Did I stutter, blondie? Yeah. Dealing.”
“Jesus! Sounds like somebody needs a king-sized chill pill and a few lessons in charm. Good freaking riddance.”
With that, Blondie spun around and took two steps before turning back with her hate-filled eyes piercing mine and her bottom lip quivering with anger. “One last thing, pretty boy. Go fuck yourself.”
Blood surged to my groin and my cock damn near tore through my jeans. “Don’t have to,” I taunted, my voice flippant. “Got a dozen women just raring to wet my dick.”
“Well, good for you, jerkweed.” Eyes sparking with anger, she peered down at my crotch. “Looks pretty sparse to me. I wish them luck in finding it.”
Brows arching, I stood from the lawn chair and groped myself. “Someone like you could never handle what I’ve got behind these jeans, sweet thing. Now run on back to your buddy before he ends up in a fucking body bag.”
“Gladly! I’d rather let angry cockroaches crawl over my face than talk to you for another minute.” While power walking away with those hips purposely swinging in my direction, she raised her right hand and shot me the bird. “Hell will freeze over before I’m your sweet thing,” she yelled loudly enough to get some of my friends’ attention. “And pigs will fly before you get the chance to see if I’m a natural blonde.”
A grin split my face at the cute chick’s temperamental words, and I reached into my pocket for a dime bag of weed and motioned to a curvy brunette who’d had her eyes on me.
As an adolescent boy, I was like most others. Easy-going. Enjoying my teenage years. Partaking in all the pussy thrown my way and living without a worry in the world. If only I’d known what our so-called loving God had planned for me in little over a year.
But, fuck. Does anyone ever really know what lies ahead?
And would that knowledge change the outcome?
Would foreseeing the future prevent an eighteen-year-old boy’s passion from becoming polluted? Or convince him to make different decisions? Could it block feelings of loathing, torment, and agony inflicted vengeance? And could it keep a young teen with the world at his feet from shoving all religion aside, finding praying almost humorous, laughing at the absurdity of the scriptures, and adopting a whole new faith… of a ruthless killer?
1
Derek
Present Day
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We’re ten, maybe eleven, and Damian five years younger. Dalton sits across the kitchen table from me, Damian to my left, while we wait for Mom to wash her hands. We aren’t allowed to eat until she’s seated and fixed her plate. Dad is strict about things like that. Ladies first, always. Pain runs up my leg when Dalton’s foot connects with my shin.
“Oh, sorry,” he says with humor flickering in his eyes. “I had a cramp.”
I immediately return the gesture and kick him back. The three of us burst into laughter.
“Cut it out. All of you. Or you’ll go to your rooms with empty bellies.” Dad’s not kidding. Bad manners aren’t acceptable at the Kinnard kitchen table.
Next, we’re older. Nearly grown. It’s late, the house quiet. I’m in Dalton’s room. He’s on the ground, his gaze dull, lifeless, and humorless. His skin i
Suddenly, Dalton’s eyes widen. They’re black, angry, and glaring into mine with a cold, dark evil. “All I asked for was a couple of hours of your time. But like always, you were a selfish bastard with more important priorities. This is your fault, Derek. Yours… Yours… Yours.”
“Dalton!”
Heart pounding, my eyes flicker open, and I look at the clock beside me and the hellacious hour of four-thirty a.m. Heavy sweat covers my brows. Sickness eats at my stomach, and pain shoots through my skull while my thoughts try drifting into a place I don’t wish to go. I climb out of bed to clear my head while wondering if these dreams of nightmarish purgatory will ever let up.
Fuck this life. Fuck absolutely everything. Nothing matters anymore… not really.
Time has passed. So much time. Years of searching. Years of bloodshed. Still, there’s nothing but pain, remorse, and dead fucking ends. Even on the dark web, this drug supplier only known as CD is nowhere to be found, as if he never existed. But I’ll find the sick bastard. And when I do, I’ll do just as I’ve done with the others—I’ll destroy his world. I’ll bind him. Gag him. Position him so close to the flames that the fucker will feel his flesh boiling as I explain the wick effect and how the body turns into liquid as it seeps through the clothing and ultimately transforms into a gruesome human candle.
“Fuck.” Exhausted both physically and mentally, I take a long swallow of tepid water from an Ozarka bottle, then tug on a pair of gym shorts and make my way to the kitchen for strong coffee. With every cell of my body longing for rest, despite it being a weekend, today will be like most others—full and long. Having just completed the sale on another dealership means there’s a mountain of work to tie up to make this a smooth transition.
Make an offer to the general sales manager. Meet with existing employees individually to familiarize myself with each one on a personal level. Hold a staff meeting to review the Kinnard expectations. Then head to Plano for a mid-morning breakfast with my banker before scheduled phone calls with my father and a disgruntled automotive service advisor.
But foremost, I plan on stopping by Restland to pay my respects.
I’ll be lucky if I find an extra minute in the day to take a piss.
2
Derek
“Death isn’t final. I’m not afraid,” my mother says in a frail voice from her deathbed. “It’s just a step into our next adventure.”
Death. Dying. Those final slowing breaths. The last heart-shattering seconds.
Had my brother struggled? Had he been afraid? Had he seen the same angels that our mother claimed to see? Just saying his name makes my throat tighten. I miss him every day, every minute. Fuck, I miss them both.
Will I ever move on? Will I ever forgive myself? Will I ever again live in a world with some sense of normalcy or peace?
Probably not.
A veil of early morning mist rolls over the air as I walk down the winding, flower-enclosed stone path toward my destination while drawing in a breath and inhaling the mild seventy-something degree air. With the sky glistening like a river of blue, a light breeze shuffles a handful of leaves beside me. A chorus of birds flies overhead, while hunks of marble, piers of concrete, and a countless myriad of granite gravestones surround me like a sleeping carousel of bones and death.
Stones of death… for the living.
While soothingly serene at the family burial plot, my hand nonetheless trembles as I trace the intricate writing sketched into the side-by-side headstones. Today makes eight years since her passing, and close to two decades since his.
It feels like ten fucking lifetimes.
With my thoughts drifting to former times, I watch a flutter of butterflies hover over a cluster of white flowers with my mother’s soft smile and my brother’s laughter vivid in my head.
Let’s get inked. Something tribal. Something fucking badass.
Love not only your brothers and sisters but also those who are evil and need our prayer.
With my siblings and I raised under a strict Lutheran religion, Sundays in the Kinnard family were a day of faith; one to focus on God and family. We listened to sermons, prayed for forgiveness of our sins, and studied the Bible. Mom was a firm believer that good things in life stemmed from faith and prayer. A day without prayer is a day without gratitude.
Had she still felt that way in the last years of her life?
I fell from grace the night of my eighteenth birthday. I no longer attend church. I read no Bible. I’ve broken at least five of the Ten Commandments, and God help me, if there truly is some kind of divine being, then I detest him. And my choice of tithing is and will always be donating to Shatterproof, an organization focusing on reducing drug-related deaths, and not to some entity that took both my mother and brother way before their time.
To hell with this so-called God and all his rules and demands. Fuck the lawyers, judges, and joke of a judicial system. I don’t need any of them.
I kill small-scale drug dealers—brutally, painfully, barbarically. I’ve done everything from breaking bones, severing vital arteries, snipping off fingers, toes, and tongues, to pulling teeth, injecting poison, and removing the skin from delicate body parts. After a kill, my confidants do a deep cleaning to remove any trace of evidence, and what’s left of the body is set to flame and charred until it’s reduced to nothing but a scattering of hot white ash.
And I haven’t a shred of remorse.
As we sow, so shall we reap.
Two months before my twenty-first birthday, I bought my first home. It had taken less than a week to find just what I was looking for. Peace and quiet. Seclusion and solitude. Built in 1976, the ranch-style house was one-story with three bedrooms and two baths on the west end, a large master with full bath and a pergola-style patio on the east, and a good-sized apartment out back. Despite needing substantial updating, the place was perfect with its 6.84 acres of land, no close neighbors, no sounds of city traffic, and just 3,300 square feet of fresh air nestled among dozens of mature live oak trees. After six months of remodeling and furnishing the main house, I started renovations on the detached, one-bedroom apartment. The bulk of the kitchen cabinetry was rotted, the wood floors buckled from years of moisture from the old concrete subfloor, and the bathroom was equally outdated and rusted. I’d practically gutted the place to make it livable, sans the antique wood-burning stove with its brick-lined firebox, air wash system, and front-loading solid cast iron door. No idea what the previous homeowner had used the stove or the apartment for—maybe mother-in-law quarters—but it had been quickly converted into my private sanctuary. Ultimately, my burn shed.
By day, I’m Derek Kinnard, President of Kinnard Auto Corporation. I’m professional, outgoing, friendly, strong-willed, and a damn good businessperson who’s worked hard to earn respect from his employees and the country’s automobile industry.
By night, I become someone entirely different. Someone unbeknownst to anyone except a minuscule handful of close confidants. I’m strong and endless, cold and heartless, and far from the devoted, God-fearing person my parents raised me to be. Dope pushers have made me this way. They’ve left a wildfire boiling in my chest and a need creeping through my insides like infested rodents gnawing at my soul.
