Buried Secrets Read online

  Buried Secrets

  Alexandria Clarke

  Contents

  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

  20. Two Weeks Later

  About the Author

  Copyright 2020 All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means without prior written permission, except for brief excerpts in reviews or analysis.

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  Prologue

  2:10AM

  Downtown Chicago

  Megan Hollows’s shrill giggle echoed off the damp brick walls of a dark street corner as she left the bar and scurried toward her hotel. The date had gone well, almost too well for a guy she’d swiped right on, but the bartender’s heavy pours and chiseled jaw had captured more of her attention. While her date went to the bathroom, she craftily jotted her number on the receipt. The bartender grinned and winked when he spotted it. He probably wouldn’t call, but the brief moment warmed her cheeks regardless.

  Megan’s tan visage glowed red beneath a stoplight as she darted over the crosswalk. Her breath came out in silver puffs, lingering in the air before disappearing. She’d been sweating in the bar, and the damp collar of her coat rested coldly against her neck. Hopefully, neither the bartender nor her date had noticed the deodorant stains beneath the arms of her dress. What an embarrassment that would have been.

  Chicago was unusually quiet that night. No one partied much on a Sunday evening, all too busy dreading the beginning of the work week. A chilly wind swept between the buildings. If you stood in its way, you might sense the city’s ghosts as they plucked at your sleeves and nipped at your heels. Most people had the chance to leave, but the souls who rode on the wind would never escape the blaze they died in.

  Megan shivered and quickened her pace. A hair tickled her ear and sent a thrill down her spine. She swatted it away, drew up her hood, and zipped the coat to her chin. Her excitement waned as she sank into a puddle of melted snow. The frigid liquid ricocheted off her boots and splashed against her calves. She clenched her teeth.

  The darkness seemed more complete in between streetlights and bar signs. The shadows deepened and grew longer. An ambulance screamed by, breaking the spell of silence. Megan savored the flashing lights and roaring siren as safety radiated from the presence of living people. A moment later, the ambulance and its comfort turned a corner and vanished, leaving her alone again.

  Her phone chimed. She fumbled pulling it out of her pocket. It slipped between her fingers and landed in the gutter. With a short swear, she swooped to pick it up and wiped the wet gravel from the screen. An unknown number blinked at her.

  “Hello?” she answered.

  Silence greeted her.

  “Hello?” she said again. “Is anyone there?”

  Nothing.

  Megan hung up and rolled her eyes. Up ahead, the hotel shone like a beacon. She set her gaze on the top floor, where the pointed roof struck the sky like a fist of lightning. Not far, she thought to herself. Another block or so.

  A ragged cough made her glance over her shoulder. A homeless man sat slumped against an alley wall, easily mistaken for a pile of rags. On his knee rested a shivering shaggy dog. Megan pulled off her scarf.

  “May I?” she asked the man.

  He nodded, and she draped the thick scarf around the dog’s thin bones, tucking the fabric beneath its paws to keep the animal warm from the concrete. The dog wagged its tail.

  “Thank you,” the man grunted. “She likes it.”

  Megan waved goodbye and ambled on, still slightly tipsy. After what seemed like forever, she arrived at the front door of the hotel. The doorman beckoned her inside, and she sighed as she stepped into the heated lobby.

  The nighttime concierge glanced up from his computer. “Good evening, Miss Hollows. You’re getting in quite late.”

  “Drinks,” she said with a shrug, as if this were a satisfactory answer in all regards. “You know how it is.”

  “I certainly do. Can I help you with anything?”

  “Room service?”

  “I’m afraid the kitchen is closed already.”

  She pouted. “You’re no fun, Jeffrey.”

  “It’s Jordan, ma’am.”

  Megan waved her purse by way of goodnight and headed for the elevators. Inside, she pressed her finger to the button for the twelfth floor and her nose against the glass. As she zoomed upward, she watched the lobby drop away.

  She stumbled to her door and swiped her key card—once, twice, three times—before the light turned green and the lock clicked open. Megan lurched inside, shed her coat, and dropped it on the floor. She made to fall into bed, but there was one problem:

  Somebody was already sitting on it.

  “What are you doing here?” Megan demanded. “How did you even get in?”

  She never received an answer, no longer conscious to do so.

  1

  Gwyneth Paltrow came to me in a dream and told me I wasn’t taking enough vitamins. As if to prove her right, my skin shriveled and my bones sagged. If I dared to move, my entire body threatened to fall apart. Gwyneth offered an angelic smile and opened her palm to reveal a single golden pill. Light emanated from the little gel capsule, as if the sun lived inside it.

  “Take it,” Gwyneth urged, nodding encouragingly.

  I reached forward. My gray flesh disintegrated and fell off, revealing the muscle beneath. I groped for the capsule, desperate for relief.

  “Take it,” Gwyneth said again, more insistently this time.

  “I’m trying!”

  The golden pill expanded and outgrew Gwyneth’s palm. I covered my eyes as the sunlight grew brighter. Gwyneth’s voice deepened, but she was no more, absorbed by the astronomical vitamin.

  “Take the pill, Jack.”

  I woke with a start, my heart pounding, but it wasn’t the dream that had pulled me out of sleep. My phone buzzed angrily on the nightstand. My eyes watered as I squinted at the screen and recognized the number. I slid across the front to answer.

  “Evelyn?” I croaked.

  “I need you.”

  Agitation and nerves tinged my best friend’s voice. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but have a bit of fun.

  “It’s about time you finally admitted it,” I said. “You could have told me earlier. I’m not judging you—”

  “Shut up, Jack. You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  I sat up and turned on a lamp. The soft golden glow, a little too reminiscent of Gwyneth’s eternal sunshine, caressed the black furniture and red brick wall that acted as my headboard. On a normal night, Evelyn would be sleeping in the next room over, her sheer presence radiating through the walls to envelop me in warmth and safety. But when she was halfway across the world, in the United States instead of here in London, our shared flat seemed cold and lonely.

  “Ev, you’re preparing for a wedding, not a war,” I reminded her, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The alarm clock flashed six a.m. “What time is it there?”

  “Midnight. I can’t sleep.”

  “Jet lag?”

  “Bridezilla,” she whispered.

  “What did you just call me?”

  I winced at the sound of Marie’s voice. Evelyn’s older sister
exuded formidableness on the daily, but with her wedding less than two weeks away, she’d turned the harsher aspects of her personality up a notch. I didn’t envy Evelyn’s duties as the maid of honor. The only person I’d ever consider completing such ridiculous tasks for was Evelyn herself, but from my understanding, she wasn’t the type to entertain traditions like marriage.

  “Nothing, Marie,” Evelyn said quickly.

  “I am acting as every other woman in my position acts this close to her wedding,” Marie declared.

  “Insane?” Evelyn quipped. A sharp smack echoed through the phone, and Evelyn said, “Ow! Christ, woman, you’ve officially lost it!”

  “You haven’t seen insane yet.”

  More smacking sounds emanated from the speaker. A sliding door squeaked open and shut again. Evelyn groaned and sighed.

  “Did you escape?” I asked when the spat settled.

  “I’m on the balcony. Shall I jump?”

  “How high are you?”

  “Not as high as I’d like to be.”

  “I meant from the ground,” I teased.

  Something creaked like a metal bridge in a high wind, and Evelyn swore creatively. My shoulders tensed up to my ears.

  “You didn’t actually jump, did you?” I asked.

  “No, but this railing is loose,” she replied. “I’m so tall that I almost tumbled right over it.”

  Evelyn’s six feet stature was only one impressive aspect of her outstanding physique. The living embodiment of Gwyneth’s magical vitamin, she was gold, goddess-like, and glowing. With biceps like small melons, thighs like redwood tree trunks, and flowing tresses of smooth flaxen hair, she turned eyes wherever she went. If I hadn’t grown up with her and later spotted her on the street as a stranger, I would have knelt down and sworn fealty to her.

  “Go inside,” I suggested.

  “I can’t,” she moaned. “Marie’s watching a marathon of The Bachelor. Why does that inane show exist?”

  “To entertain women like Marie,” I replied. “Did you have a reason for waking me up or did you simply miss the melodious tones of my radiant voice?”

  “Right. I need you to come to Chicago early.”

  I hadn’t realized how much I missed Evelyn until my heart leapt at her request. The first week at home without her had passed in slow motion. Without my best friend, I had nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs and watch reruns of my favorite crime documentaries.

  “You don’t have a case, right?” Evelyn asked when I didn’t answer right away. “I didn’t think your business had picked up yet.”

  “I put advertisements out,” I said. “A few dead ends came in, but nothing good yet. It can wait until after the wedding anyway.”

  My business, if it could be called that, was private investigation. Up until a few months ago, I’d had a bad habit of poking around in things—mostly unsolved homicide cases—that didn’t concern me. More than once, I’d been arrested for interfering with investigations. Last year, when I uncovered the true identity of a Jack the Ripper copycat wreaking havoc in London, Evelyn suggested that I make my position official. With her encouragement, I studied to become a P.I. and was now officially licensed. Ironically, business slowed to a halt after my professionalism solidified itself. I hadn’t set foot near a homicide case in months.

  “So you’ll come?” Evelyn prompted eagerly. “I know it’s a few days early, but I’m afraid I’ll murder the bride if I don’t have you to remind me that all the tastings, fittings, and planning will be over shortly.”

  I navigated to the travel app on my phone and searched for earlier flights. “I can be there by tomorrow night. Would that work?”

  “You’re a godsend.”

  “I know.”

  Evelyn’s phone buzzed. “Ah, shite,” she said. “It’s my boss.”

  “I thought you took vacation time.”

  “No one ever really takes vacation from the Wagner Company. See you tomorrow, Jack. Travel safely.”

  “Bye—”

  The line disconnected. I set my phone aside and pulled the blankets over my head to block out the emptiness around me. I hated being alone. I wondered how I’d done it for so many years after my mom passed away. These days, I couldn’t go a few hours without needing to talk to someone. Earlier, I’d called to order a pizza and changed my toppings three times just to keep the guy on the phone a little longer.

  Tomorrow, things would be different. Evelyn needed me in Chicago, a place I’d never been but had always wanted to explore. It was a city with rich history and dark secrets, a few of which might have been better off unearthed.

  All I had to do was get through tonight.

  The stale smell of recycled air, old coffee, and body odor lingered in my nostrils long after I’d stepped off the plane in Chicago. As always, the first thing I wanted to do after a long trip was shower, but in order to do that, I had to navigate a strange city alone to locate the famed Saint Angel Hotel.

  People pushed past me, jostling my shoulders, as I made my way to the luggage pick-up area. Unlike my best friend, I lacked height and mass. My compact size, along with my darker complexion, made me invisible to others most of the time. This came in handy while sneaking around to gather information for a case, but in public spaces, I tended to get kicked around like a crumpled coffee cup dropped into a gutter.

  Travelers lined up around the conveyor belt, forming a wall between me and my luggage. When I spotted my suitcase rounding the bend, I subtly shoved my bony elbows into a few rib cages.

  “Oh, gosh, sorry!” I said, feigning sympathy as my victims winced and backed out of my way. “Didn’t see you there.”

  I stepped into the free space, grasped my suitcase by the handle, and hauled it off the belt. My cheeks puffed with effort. All the winter coats and extra layers I’d packed to withstand the Windy City’s infamous breeze weighed a ton. If Evelyn were here, she’d make this part look easy.

  Outside, I called a car and rode into the downtown area. As the skyline came into view, familiarity warmed my cold fingers and toes. Chicago, like London, was split in half by a river. Despite the chill in the air, the many windows reflected a blue sky. The sun gleamed off gemstone green water and glass skyscrapers.

  Boats chugged along beneath the bridges. Most of them were filled with tourists and a guide at the helm, pointing out the various changes in architecture along the riverside. The buildings’ represented a variety of styles—Gothic, Greek, Modern, and so on—but the towering blocky aesthetics of Art Deco influences especially caught my eye.

  The Saint Angel Hotel was one such example. As the car approached the colossal skyscraper, I craned my neck to take in the entire picture. The facade was built of polished black granite and green terra cotta. Gold leaf accents bloomed at the top corners of the building, making the whole thing look like a bizarrely-shaped flower stretching up to the sun. The entrance was gilded in gold, as was the hotel’s name, set across a black background on the terrace above.

  “Here you are, ma’am,” the driver said, putting the car in park. “Saint Angel Hotel. Wish I could afford to stay here.”

  “I’m not paying for it.”

  I handed him a hefty tip, retrieved my luggage from the trunk, and headed toward the entrance. A man in a green and gold suit, complete with a matching round bellhop hat, appeared beside me before I could step into the revolving door chamber.

  “Checking in?” he asked, swiftly relieving me of my heavy suitcase.

  “Yes, please.”

  He disappeared into the lobby. I darted in after him, taking short steps to make sure the speeding door didn’t nip at my heels. Once inside, my jaw dropped. Huge slabs of silvery marbled stone made up the lobby walls and supported the soaring ceiling. Decorative iron work twirled around the windows and doorways, and the elevators seemed to be made of solid gold. As my gaze turned upward, I spotted a familiar figure standing on the mezzanine above.

  From far away, Evelyn resembled an angel looking down on
her subjects. Her hair fell in waves around her shoulders as she rested her forearms on the golden banister and casually leaned over the open air. She wore a men’s white dress shirt with the first few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. As I watched, a long golden chain fell away from her chest, and an unfamiliar pendant dangled freely before she tucked it into her shirt again.

  She didn’t catch sight of me right away, which gave me a second longer to study the firm set of her eyebrows and the slight downward turn of her lips. Usually, she was a master of keeping her emotions in check, but I easily read the frustration and irritation on her face today. As she kicked her boot against the banister, her gaze roved the lobby. When her blue-gray eyes landed on me, she brightened immediately.

  “Ma’am, would you like—?” the bellhop began, but his question was cut off by Evelyn’s pounding footsteps as she took the stairs two at a time and flung herself into my arms.

  I squealed with joy and spun her around. This was no easy feat, though she made it easier on me by shuffling her weight along the tips of her toes. I held her at arm’s length and nearly broke my neck to look up at her.

  “You look tired,” I said.

  “Astute observation, Investigator Frye.” When she smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkled. “How was your flight?”

  “The wine was warm.”

  “Blasphemy.”

  “Absolute sacrilege,” I agreed. “Do you have—ooph!” Evelyn knocked the wind out of me with another hug, squeezing so tightly around my rib cage, I thought I might burst. I patted her back. “Everything okay?”

  She set me down and wiped her brow. “It’s been an absolute nightmare. I don’t know why I agreed to be maid of honor. She should have chosen one of her crazy friends.”