Spark of obsession, p.1
Spark of Obsession, page 1
part #1 of Entice Series Book One Series
Spark of Obsession
Entice Series Book One
Victoria Dawson
Paper Heart Publishing LLC
Copyright © 2022 by Victoria Dawson
Spark of Obsession
All rights reserved.
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
All characters and storylines are the property of the author. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events or people living or dead is purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used for reference only.
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Publisher: Paper Heart Publishing LLC
Cover Designer: Sarah Kil Creative Studio
Editing: Happily Editing Anns
ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-959364-01-6
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-959364-00-9
Contents
Author Note
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
Coming Soon
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Author Note
Spark of Obsession is the first book in the Entice Trilogy that follows the same two main characters throughout the entire series. It is advised to read the books in order. This series is intended for mature audiences. Sensitive topics discussed could be triggering and not meant for anyone under the age of eighteen.
This book is dedicated to my husband and children.
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Thank you for believing in me, when I convinced myself my dreams were impossible.
I hope I make you proud.
Prologue
Some people describe the moments before being pronounced dead as a bright tunnel, flashes of light, or floating through space. I suppose the lack of oxygen will do that to one’s mental state. But who am I to judge?
Here’s the thing about death, though. Comforting words suck.
One hundred ninety-six people told me they are sorry. One hundred ninety-six people. I counted. And fake sympathy always oozes from the people who have somehow finally managed to bring themselves out of the woodwork. I mean, seriously, what the hell are you actually sorry for? And who the hell posts stuff like, “James, you will be missed, man. RIP!” on ConnectMe when you probably can’t even remember whether he was in your class or not?
I have no idea why some people choose to finally make conversation after the time of death. It’s the guilt talking. Or just a lame cliché.
Either way, I hate it.
The ground crunches as I am wheeled through the herd of people to the little building adjacent to the cemetery. Annoyingly gentle hands pat my shoulders like I’m an invalid. Hushed voices echo in the cold cement room, filled with old-person smelling flowers arranged in a horseshoe shape around the wooden casket. Even my nose wants to throw up from the strong perfume scent.
Thank God the director closed the casket for this portion of the ceremony. I am not sure I can look at James and not wish with every ounce of my being that it was me inside there instead. There is no part of me that doesn’t wish that he was spared and I was the one who died.
Three people pass me a tissue, touching me on the back. One person with thick fingernails fixes my hair behind my ear. Another person adjusts my arm strap, where my sprained appendage lies limp inside. I couldn’t tell you their names if my life depended on it. I want to throw up.
My eyes glass over as my dad weeps beside me, kneeling down on the dirty green twilled mat, burying his head in his hands. I feel like I should do something. Anything. But I can’t bring myself to move.
The preacher stands near the decrepit podium, holding on to it as it wobbles back and forth. My glassy stare only makes his pitiful beady eyes droop more.
Two men—neither of them related to me—help Dad sit up into the chair beside me. We haven’t touched since the hospital visit when James was declared dead.
“Dearly beloved, we gather here together to lay to rest your child, James Andrew McFee. Please take him into your arms and reunite him with his mother and grandparents, as he enters your kingdom.”
I bow my head to avoid the stares. “The Lord is my Shepherd” passage from the Bible is recited like poetry, and the vibrating regurgitation from the crowd is oddly comforting.
“We pray that James’s father and twin sister find comfort in your embrace”—four hands pat my shoulders, two rubbing circles into my coat fabric—“knowing that while death and decay is the physical aspect of a human body, the spiritual body will live in your ever-powerful grace.”
A clean tissue appears in my hands. I can’t even turn to look or care to see where it came from. I just can’t seem to care about anything other than the fact that at the age of eighteen, I have no will inside me desiring to continue living.
1
I wipe the dribble of melted ice cream from the corner of my lip, savoring the sweet taste of sugar. It is day three post-Russell, and I find vilifying him to be great therapy. Wearing my homemade Feminist AF T-shirt and drinking mojitos before the time even gets close to happy hour also has its momentary perks. I roll myself off the bed when I hear the sound of his stupid car—with his stupid spoiler and his stupid custom rims—pull up.
What an ass.
I kneel on the bench seat and spread the curtains to see Russell standing below. His preppy style now disgusts me; a couple of months ago it made him look wholesome. He rings the doorbell, takes a step back, and places his right hand in the pocket of his perfectly pressed khakis. I unlock the window and open it. The August air hits my senses for the first time in days. Russell’s smug face tilts up toward the sound. His crooked smile now just looks creepy.
“I’m here for my stuff,” he shouts up at me, while cupping a hand around his mouth to help the sound travel. He tries the doorknob but it is locked. “Let me in.”
Piles of his crap have been infiltrating my room for most of the summer, and for the past three days, I’ve been waiting for him to show his arrogant face so I can deliver my message back to him—loud and clear. I should have known from the lack of genuine communication that he wasn’t that into me. Sure, I can blame it on my general inexperience, or I can accept the fact that I’m a poor judge of character.
Picking up a laundry basket full of personal items, I launch it from the second story. I feel alive again.
“Hell, Angie!”
I unload the contents of a cardboard moving box over the windowsill. I manage to hit him right in the head with the controllers for his Xbox. A few cables and gadgets decorate the shrubs that border the townhouse.
“Ouch! Stop!”
A smile cracks through my bitterness. “I’m done being your summer storage facility, you jackhole!”
Russell raises his palms up in peace. “Let me in and we can talk about it.”
“Heck, no.”
“C’mon, Angie! Be reasonable!”
I toss his favorite cologne bottle down at his head. He dodges just in time. The glass hits the sidewalk and smashes into tiny shards. I’m sure there’s a really profound metaphor about how hurt people hurt people somewhere in all of this. I just don’t care enough to overthink it.
For two months, I allowed this jerk to string me along with his bipolar dating habits. The last month was a complete waste with him visiting family in Europe. What started out as a week’s trip ended up being a flipping month. Pretty sure that was the plan all along. False hope and sweet texts were enough for me to think there was a chance. I should have just sold his stuff on eBay and used the money to throw a bash.
“You mad over the breakup?”
“Mad you had to do it in the airport! In front of your entire family!”
A few people walk by the scene we are creating and snicker. One guy wearing his Gamma Delta Theta frat T-shirt snaps a picture with his cell. Russell flips him off. A skinny redheaded girl mumbles an exaggerated “dude” under her breath. I give them a wave and a big grin.
Next, I hurl out a plastic bin of his shoes—purposely leaving off the lid. I watch from above as he tries to pick them back up. Pretty sure the only flower we have is now smashed.
“Hell, Angie! What’s your problem?”
My giggle is demented. “Just cleaning house.”
Russell is my July-’til-August mistake. I have no room for distractions like Russell this semester though. Second chances are
Next goes his entire tennis racket collection. I throw each one down separately. All eight of them.
“You crazy bitch!”
I feel childish but oddly refreshed. Empowered. Invigorated.
I slam the window shut and sit back on my heels, watching him scurry to retrieve his briefs from the shrubbery and dig out his watch from the dead flowerbed. Serves him right. Bastard.
I drive past the dorms on my way to Harrison Hall to meet with Dr. Williams. The first-year new arrivals of River Valley University are busy unloading vehicles and hugging loved ones goodbye. Welcome to a life of ramen, Easy Mac, and the deprivation of Vitamin D.
It feels weirdly nostalgic watching the new herd start their journey, when I’m on the last leg of mine. Sure, it is taking me longer than anticipated, but I remind myself that life is too short, and worrying over it will only make it shorter. Some things are just out of my control.
I slow down as a group passes in front of me. I can’t believe this is it. My last semester—the sequel. I park in the permit-only lot and clip my tag to my rearview mirror. For a Saturday, the lot is nearly full. With classes officially starting on Monday, the campus is buzzing with life.
I jog into the main entrance of the building and travel to the end of the hall where Dr. Williams’s office is located. I dread going in but know that backing down now will be the death of my dream—before it even has a chance to take flight.
I give two light knocks on the door and am quickly greeted by a young bright-eyed girl in her upper teens. Her arms are full of file folders. A possible work-study student? This is a first.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m here to meet with my advisor.” Even though it’s a weekend, many of the senior professors are in their offices. It is a tradition, and I imagine an excuse for many of them to get together for a celebration later.
Her smile is contagious. “Dr. Williams is free. Go on back.”
“Thanks.”
I walk past the shelves of books and find the door half open to his study. I give a knock.
“Who is it?” Dr. Williams’s voice breaks. He gives a cough, and through the crack of the door, I see him take a sip from his mug.
“Me.” I open the door and peek my head inside. “Is now a good time?”
“Miss McFee.” He places his mug back on the ceramic coaster and straightens his posture. His leather chair creaks with the movement. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
Dr. Williams’s mahogany desk is polished and clean of clutter. In the few years I have been a student here, his organizational skills—or ability to hire help—have improved tenfold.
“I decided to give it another shot,” I volunteer with a shrug. “I want to try for an internship again.”
He motions to the chair in front of his desk, and I take a seat.
“As you are well aware, Miss McFee,” he says, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, “not every student who applies gets an internship.” He pauses to emphasize the fact. “Just the cream of the crop. You can always have an English degree without any journalism attached, you know?”
I nod my head in agreement. I know this. It is the reason why I am repeating a semester after the disaster of my failed final project in the spring.
“And some are more prestigious than others,” he explains, tapping his pen. “Some are looking to hire after six to twelve months of stellar performance. And I think that your piece last semester on the water treatment facility and their faulty testing would have put you ahead of your peers if—”
“I hadn’t been naive enough to believe that my story couldn’t be hijacked,” I finish. I focus my eyes on the little tray of sand on the wooden desk in front of me. The sun is shining through the tiny stained-glass window, casting colorful shadows on the grains. Plaques and diplomas and photos of awards ceremonies line the wall. Dr. Williams did an amazing job aging with grace. The legacy he will leave here at River Valley when he eventually retires will be marked with his reputation of expecting excellence among his students and enforcing it by never allowing anyone to coast through their college career by being mediocre. Or in my case, overly trusting.
“It would have been a game changer for you, and I’m sorry that you were duped.”
I clear my throat and swallow. “Thank you, Dr. Williams. Lesson learned.”
“Channel 10 has been known to use shady antics to masquerade as concerned civilians just to hijack already developing stories. You were not the first, and you will not be the last. The industry can be very nasty and competitive. Always note your surroundings and never let anyone know that you are really doing an investigation. Appearing friendly and welcoming allows others to trust you enough to provide potentially valuable information.”
I nod, soaking in everything he has to say.
The fabrication of water testing data by a facility forcing workers to “retest until results are within normal range” was discovered last year after I witnessed an influx in unexplained bacterial infections at a daycare. Finding a worker willing to confess was the type of story that would have launched my career and most likely earned me a paying internship at a prestigious news outlet.
Unfortunately, me sniffing around the facility to take pictures was the same day some reporters were out doing a segment on working-class rights. I must have sent some red flags that there might be a better story to be told. I do not blame them for further investigating and talking to parents like I did. They had the resources to do so, but I just cannot have my work swallowed up by the big players again. I need to keep my cards close to my chest and not make the same mistakes next time.
I focus my attention back on Dr. Williams, as he clears his throat. “Think about why you chose this particular career avenue in the first place.”
James. This has always been about the lack of justice for James. When the driver who hit us fled the scene, only leaving a few broken parts behind, I immersed myself into my own investigation. It helped my mind cope with the tragedy of losing my twin by channeling my obsession into research. While I was unsuccessful in providing the police with any additional information, my love for investigative journalism was sparked, helping me switch from my previous major of general education.
“Use that desire as your motivation,” Dr. Williams encourages, “to keep you in your lane at all times.”
I nod my head in agreement. He is right. I need to stay focused.
He stares thoughtfully at me, studying me. “Your writing is very well done, Miss McFee. But you are toeing the line too much. Playing it safe. My advice to you is that if you want to have a breakthrough article, you need to absorb yourself. Investigative journalism isn’t about following a story per se. It is about how you view your world. Your surroundings. You need to train your brain to see in color versus black and white. Sometimes it is the gray area between right and wrong where you find the best details. And there you might find a case.”
He fixes his glasses on his nose and relaxes back in his chair. His hand makes a sweeping motion cutting through the air. “The world is your canvas.”
