Restless Things

  Folkestone Sins Book Three

  Samantha Lovelock

  Copyright © 2021 by Samantha Lovelock, Folkestone Publishing

  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.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by LJDesigns

  Editing by Brandi Zelenka

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-7772534-6-2

  Print ISBN 978-1-7772534-9-3

  For my girl gang :

  Brandi, Gina, Amanda, Sophie,

  and The Heirs

  This would have never happened without you.

  xo

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Five Years Ago

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Playlists

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Samantha Lovelock

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  This book is the third in the Folkestone Sins series and should not be read as a standalone.

  This book ends in a cliffhanger. Please make sure you have a helmet, a stuffed animal, or wine nearby.

  This book is the first part of Sunday and Payne’s story.

  Prologue

  The sound of my father’s rich baritone, weighted even lower with the strain of keeping his emotions in check.

  The conversation with Chief Day in the rainy dark, his cruiser lights turning the puddles in our driveway to kaleidoscopes of blues and reds.

  I know these are things I’ll never forget.

  Warm rain plasters my long hair to my cheeks and back, and as it runs in rivulets down my arms, it feels like my life is draining away with it. My mother stands beneath a large blush-colored umbrella, looking for all the world like she’s waiting for a train instead of listening to an uncomfortable man tell the story of how her only son died. The chief’s eyes keep sliding toward me, probably wondering if I should be standing here, barefoot in the rain, clad only in plaid pajama bottoms and a thin hoodie with a cartoon dog on the front. I want to tell him it doesn’t matter what I do, that nothing I do will ever matter again, but I can’t make my words work. It’s like my tongue isn’t mine anymore and flat out refuses to obey me.

  My father agrees to meet the chief at the coroner’s office to make the official identification, and as the cruiser pulls slowly down the drive, my stomach twists and heaves. It feels like everything I’ve ever felt or loved or even been was ripped from me at the same time and my knees buckle. I retch, vomit splattering the pavement in front of me as I fall to the ground, unable to stand on my own.

  My father’s big hand wraps around my arm and tugs me back to my feet. The disgusted muttering of my mother stabs another barb into my nearly deflated heart as she turns and marches back into the house. Unsteady and terrified, the silent screams rip through me unheard and unnoticed, and I pray with everything I’ve got for this to be a dream. My father picks me up and carries me inside and upstairs, my mother nowhere to be seen. Setting me gently on the edge of my bed, he scrubs his hands over his face, eyes red-rimmed and glassy.

  “Sunday, I need you to go to bed, okay? I’m going to get Brighid to come and help you change out of those wet things. Can you do that, honey? I have to go into town, and your mother, well—” his voice trails off, leaving his sentence hanging. I nod, unable to do anything else, and he gently touches my cheek before leaving the room. I sit and wait for the woman who started with us as a nanny when I was born, and has become more of a mother to me than anybody else in this house. My trembling hands fold together and squeeze tightly between my thighs as the chill and damp start to worm their way into my bones. By the time Brighid knocks and opens my door a few minutes later, I’m shivering violently enough to clack my teeth together, and the muscles on either side of my throat are rigid with tension and cold.

  “Oh, my poor girl,” the Irishwoman exclaims. Moving to the dresser, she pulls out clean pajamas and panties and carries them back, setting them beside me on the bed. Murmuring in soft Gaelic, her lilting tones bring me a small bit of comfort as she helps me stand and strip off my soaking wet and puke-splashed clothes, wadding them into a ball on the floor. After pulling the soft cotton nightie and dry underwear on, I stay standing and let her towel some of the water from my hair. Finally satisfied that I won’t catch my death from being soaked, she pulls back the covers on my bed and coaxes me into lying down. She tucks the duvet snuggly around me and leans to kiss my forehead. “Sleep now, Sunday girl. You’re going to need your strength,” she whispers, and I see the tears start to stream down her plump, pink cheeks before she pulls away and busies herself with picking up my wet clothes. “I’ll get these washed and put away for you.”

  “Brighid?” My voice is hollow and devoid of emotion. “Charlie’s really dead, isn’t he? This isn’t a dream?”

  “No, child, it isn’t a dream, and God help whoever’s responsible for the hit-and-run. If these hands ever find him, they’ll put him in the ground.” When I don’t say anything else, she walks to the door, my dirty clothes under her arm. I stop her before she can leave.

  “Burn them, throw them out, I don’t care—I’ll never wear them again. My days of being a little girl are over. Not only is Charlie gone, but I just became the only option for the Easton Heir.” Rolling over, I turn my back to her and force my lids closed over eyes that feel like sandpaper as the bedroom door clicks softly shut behind her.

  Chapter One

  My left eye slowly opens, while the right one remains squeezed shut against the morning sunshine flooding my room. Squinching the left one closed again, I slowly open the right, allowing it to get used to the brightness. This goes on back and forth for a minute or so until my retinas no longer feel like they’re burning, and both eyes are open comfortably.

  Flat on my stomach in the center of the bed, I stretch my arms and legs out as far as I can—a giant starfish in a sea of plaid sheets. The visual makes me smile.

  The cell phone on my nightstand bleeps with Stella’s custom text notification, so I roll over to see what she has to say this morning. I traded a few texts with her right after she left the party, but that was it. My best friend didn’t deserve the treatment she got from Poe last night, and part of me hopes she stopped on the way home and found some super-hot guy to distract her for a while.

  It would serve Poe right, her finding another guy.

  The thing is, though, I know she won’t. Those two are meant to be together. It would just be nice if they could figure that out before they kill each other.

  Opening the lock screen on my iPhone with my thumb, I read the text she sent. ‘Meet me at my place.’ Followed by about twenty eggplant emojis. Since I was the one who explained the significance of that particular item to her, she knows I know what it represents.

  Holy balls! Maybe she did find a random hottie on the way home!

  I text her back with a string of winky faces and grin at the thought of her actually having some fun last night. Opening my playlist, I flip through it until I find 50 Cent’s ‘Candy Shop’ and drop my phone in the docking station connected to my bedroom speakers. Not bothering with a shower, I knot my blonde hair into a messy bun and throw on skinny jeans and a slim-fitting pale pink knit sweater. I scrub my face clean, smooth on some moisturizer, brush my teeth, and call it good enough.

  Phone and keys in one hand, I grab my purse with the other, slinging it over my shoulder and slipping down the front stairs and out to the Rover with my parents none the wiser. Not that they’d really care a whole lot. As long as I don’t embarrass them or sully the Easton name, they tend to leave me alone. Still, sometimes it’s just easier not to have to file a flight plan every time they see me leave.

  Donning my favorite pink leopard print Maui Jim sunglasses, I enjoy the company of Dr. Dre and Missy Elliott on the drive to Tweedvale, singing along loudly and off-key. Once I get there, Miss B is outside watering the large flower pots on the porch and tells me Stella’s in her room, so I should go on up.

  I opt for the element of surprise, throwing open the bedroom door unannounced. Taking a running jump, I land on the bed where her entire person, head and all, is buried under the duvet.

  “Dude! You can’t send me that many eggplant emojis and then still be in bed when I get here. There’s some kind of rule against getting me all excited for nothing.” I lie down when she doesn’t move and attempt to steamroll over her. She starts laughing before I get more than halfway, and shoving me off, pushes the covers away as she sits up. “I knew it!” I shriek happily. Stella’s face is full of light, her cheesy grin stretches from ear to ear, and her eyes are bright for the first time in weeks. “You got laid, you dirty girl,” I state like a proud mama and lean over to hug her tightly.

  “To put it bluntly, yeah, I did, and it was amazing,” she says, getting out of bed and doing a little twirl before dashing into her ensuite bathroom.

  “Hey! Not fair! Don’t leave a girl hanging! Who was it? Is he dreamy? Are you going to see him again? Is he hung like a horse?”

  Stella pokes her head around the bathroom door frame and gives me a satisfied smile.

  “It was Poe.” My mouth falls open. “And yes to all of your previous questions. Including the horse one, in case you were wondering,” she winks, disappearing back into the bathroom, while my mouth snaps shut at that last bit of oversharing.

  “You know I love you, and I want to hear all about how you guys ended up shagging, but you can keep the explicit deets about Poe’s giant dick to yourself, please.” I make a gagging noise and get up to join her in the bathroom. I perch on the edge of the tub while she gets ready and tells me Poe found her at the beach last night and how they finally managed to work it out.

  “So, basically, you both realized you were being ridiculous and decided to put us all out of our collective misery,” I state, and she chuckles.

  “Yeah, pretty much. He wants to take me out for a belated birthday dinner tonight. He says it will be our first real date,” she says with a happy glow.

  “Well, thank God. I was getting worried the two of you were too stubborn for either of you to give an inch. Or nine inches in Poe’s case.” I raise my eyebrows suggestively.

  “Hey, now! I thought we weren’t discussing that,” she laughs, arching an eyebrow in my direction.

  “Yeah, yeah. That one was too good to pass up, though. I couldn’t just leave it hanging there.” The double entendre sets both of us off in peals of laughter. Stella goes to her closet to get dressed, and I pick up her jacket from the arm of the wingback chair, slipping it on over my sweater.

  “Stell, I love this jacket,” I say, admiring the way the deep sapphire blue leather hugs my torso.

  “You should,” she says from the depths of her enormous walk-in closet, “you picked it out for me.”

  “Ha! You’re right. Damn, I have good taste.” Slipping my hands into the pockets, I turn from side to side, checking how the jacket looks from different angles in the mirror. I pull my hands out just as Stella emerges from the closet and asks if she looks okay. I’m unable to answer, though, as I’m rendered utterly silent, staring in horror at the small baggie of white powder resting in the palm of my hand.

  “Sun?” she asks. “Sunday, what’s wrong?” I look up at her slowly, holding my hand out toward her.

  “What the hell is this?” My voice is devoid of emotion, flat and hard. Stella looks like I slapped her in the face.

  “It’s nothing. When I was leaving the party last night, a guy outside slipped it to me. I swear, Sunday, that’s all. I honestly forgot it was even in my jacket pocket.” She strides over to me and grabs the baggie from my hand, hurrying into the bathroom with it. I hear the crinkling of plastic, followed by the sound of the toilet flushing twice. When she comes back to stand in front of me, her eyes are wide, her face is pale, and the baggie is gone. “Talk to me, Sunday,” she begs. “Are you mad at me? I’m sorry.”

  Looking my best friend straight in the eyes, I’m silent for a few seconds longer, knowing that my story could change everything between us.

  “We have to talk,” I say. “But not here.”

  We’re seated at a small table in a quiet corner of The Romney, a kitschy brunch place on the historic main drag of Folkestone. The ride here was awkward, with Stella shooting me uncomfortable and worried glances the whole way. Now that we’re here, I don’t exactly know how to start.

  A young waitress introduces herself as Anastasia and asks if we would like some coffee. We both say yes, and when she comes back with our cups and the carafe, I realize she looks familiar.

  “Do you go to Woodington?” I ask with genuine curiosity, and she flushes slightly.

  “I do.”

  “I thought I recognized you. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Sunday, and that’s my pain in the ass best friend, Stella,” I offer, gesturing across the table as Stella kicks me in the shin under it, making me smirk.

  “Uh, it’s nice to meet you guys too,” she says with a small, shy smile. “Do you want a few minutes before you order?”

  “That would be great. Thanks, Anastasia.” I answer.

  “Stassi. My friends call me Stassi.”

  “Thanks, Stassi.” I give her a grin, and she takes the coffee carafe around to the other customers.

  “So, are you going to tell me what’s going on, Sunday?” Stella asks, worry in her voice. I play with my coffee cup a little, psyching myself up for the conversation about to happen, before answering.

  “Remember when I mentioned Sandringham? When we were packing up in New York?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Old sitcoms because they thought they kept you docile.”

  Damn, she’s got a good memory.

  “That’s the place.” I swallow hard. “Well, see, Sandringham is—” I’m interrupted by both my phone and Stella’s pinging with multiple texts at the same time. “What the hell?” Neither one of us has even managed to pull our phones from our purses when mine starts to play Alexisonfire’s ‘Season of the Flood’—Payne’s ringtone. I answer and hold the phone to my ear. “Miss me already, Emerson?” I joke, trying a little too hard and laughing a little too loud.

  “Sunday. Where are you?” His voice is rushed and forceful and a little scary.

  “At The Romney with Stella. Why? What’s wrong?” I stare across the table at my best friend, identical looks of concern creeping across our faces. Reaching out, I grab her hand.

  “Don’t move. We’re just down the road. We’ll be right there.” With that, he disconnects the call, leaving Stella and me to sit and wait for them. Luckily, they must really have been just down the road because Payne and Poe stride into the restaurant and beeline for our table three minutes later.

  Hastily pulling chairs from an empty neighboring table, they squish around the small table with us. Poe leans over and kisses Stella softly on the forehead before taking her hand in his.

  “What’s going on?” she asks him, almost too quietly to hear. Payne scoots closer to me, and I welcome his hand taking mine without complaint.

  “Callum is dead, Star. The police say it happened sometime between three and five this morning.” Poe watches his girlfriend’s face carefully for signs of distress. The way he’s looking at her makes my heart sing. She so deserves to be happy.

  “Oh. Okay,” Stella pauses. “Well, I guess everybody was sort of waiting for that to happen, right? It’s not like it was entirely unexpected—he’s been in a coma for weeks now.” Except for a bit of a pink flush staining her cheeks, she doesn’t look too concerned about the news. She is right, after all, it’s not entirely unexpected. And to be honest, Callum Torsten deserved a hell of a lot worse than dying oblivious in a hospital bed after what he did. “Wait. Did you say police?” she asks, confused. “Why are there police?”

  Both Payne and Poe shift their focus to me, and suddenly I’m really uncomfortable.

  “What? Spit it out already. The suspense is killing me.” I may be trying to make jokes on the outside, but my insides are a vibrating bundle of nerves. Payne squeezes my hand tighter as Poe continues.

  “There are police because they say there was foul play involved, that he didn’t die of natural causes.”

  “He was murdered? Again?” I crack.

 

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