Eye For Her: A gripping must-read thriller Read online

  Eye for Her

  Copyright © 2020 by A.B. Alexander

  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.

  To my wife Keila

  and my boys Liam & Nathan,

  you are the greatest story

  ever written.

  CONTENTS

  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

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  CHAPTER 1

  Abbie gasped, fighting for every breath, the cold, moist oxygen ravaging her lungs. She tried to clasp her chest, her slim body contorting with pain. But it was futile. The unmistakable metallic hollow clank of chains rang loud and clear in her ears like a warning shot. She raised her hand a few inches from the foam mattress, the cold, ominous steel slicing into her fragile wrist. Panic flooded her mind, rushing to her extremities. She thrashed with her legs and arms screaming in pain, the steel inflicting more bloody gashes on her wrists and ankles. She tried to sit upright but snapped back onto the mattress, heaving for air, choked by a leather constraint squeezing the life out of her. The more she struggled, the tighter it got. As she steadied her breathing, fingernails scratching against the rough, worn-out bed sheet, the constraint eased. She coughed hard but kept her body steady. Another choking episode like that, and she would never see the light again. Oh, the light. She hadn’t opened her eyes yet, afraid to meet the reality of her situation.

  This can’t be happening.

  She gathered her wits about her and opened her eyelids. Darkness. She screamed until her throat gave up on her, all the fear and anger bouncing off the walls. This was real, no nightmare, no delusion. She lay still, panting for breath, every gust of air reminding her she was in deep trouble. Had she gone blind?

  Once her breathing steadied, she opened her eyes again. Nothing but utter darkness. Her eyelashes brushed up against something. Yes, something was there. She didn’t dare lift her head again, that would be masochistic. Her eyes bulged forward, eyelashes like an insect’s feelers, searching for something, anything.

  Oh, God, I’m not blind.

  Her eyelashes fluttered against the plastic-like cover, calming her for a moment. She screamed again, but it was only a meek whimper. She was alive and alone, in a black abyss, with nowhere to go. So she went to the only place she could, her last memory. She closed her eyes and eased her muscles, exhausted. Her mind was cloudy, cluttered, an incoherent stream of memories.

  Think, damn it!

  There it was, as sudden as a flash in the pan. She was holding baby Jonah in her arms, on the old rustic rocking chair on the front porch of their vacation cabin, overlooking the Lake of the Woods in Southern Oregon. The sunlight filtering through the tall red pine trees and streaming across the water of the lake. Reflections of green and deep blue shimmering along the surface of the water. Nature had its way of creating the most breathtaking scenery, just like a beautiful painting, at precisely the right moments, she mused.

  Robert would be back soon, and they would enjoy a romantic dinner by the water’s edge. She titled her head back, relishing the moment. Jonah felt so warm and cuddly in her arms. His large cyan eyes were always wide open, shining with an ardent curiosity. The stillness of the water paralleled the inner peace that she felt during the reclusive moments by the lake with her family.

  The IVF treatment to deliver Jonah had taken an emotional toll. It was four years of heartbreak and disappointment, every failed cycle making her question whether she would ever be a mother. Through the shattered hopes, the tantrums, Robert stood by her like a rock.

  “It’ll happen. It’s just a matter of time,” he would reassure her. She would nod, fighting back the tears. Only when you’re short of time, you appreciate its worth. She was nearing her fortieth birthday, and she knew the odds. Everyone knew, but no one would say it out loud. Jonah was her miracle, her everything. For the first time in her life, she was whole.

  “Hey, baby, I’m sorry I’m late, the traffic on the way from Portland was terrible. I also had a weird session with one of my patients. I’ll tell you about it at dinner.” Robert kissed her on the lips and lifted Jonah into his arms. “Have you been keeping your mama busy?” He chuckled.

  Robert was one of Portland’s leading psychiatrists. Even on their rare weekends by the lake, it would often require him to attend to his patients. He dealt with a specific profile type. He never spoke about it at home, so his comment piqued her interest and she made a mental note to discuss it at dinner. She watched him play with Jonah. Robert’s lustrous grayish hair swayed in the wind but always fell into place to the right side of his broad forehead. His strong shaven jaw stressed his smile, and a pair of narrow rimless glasses completed his sophisticated appearance. He wore the standard shrink uniform of a black suit, a collared shirt, a neutral-colored tie, and a pair of Oxfords.

  I have to spice up his wardrobe, at least on the weekends.

  She didn’t disapprove. It was his obligation to maintain the professional attire, but it was far removed from her mood by the lake. She glanced at Jonah, who giggled like his tummy was being tickled, his long blonde curls bouncing against his shoulders.

  The HAIR?!

  In that instant, he was no longer her baby, replaced by a preschooler. She twisted toward Robert, who now wore a pair of thick full-rimmed glasses, his hair shorter.

  “Robert, what’s happening, where’s Jonah?” Everything blurred. Her vision spun like a high-speed Ferris wheel. The natural, joyous sounds of her child washed away by echoes. Then it ended as suddenly as it started. She was back in the black abyss.

  “Robert, what’s happening to me? Help me. Please?” She yelled. There was a creaking sound followed by a pair of sturdy hands on her shoulders.

  “Abbie . . . Abbie . . . can you hear me? It’s Dr. Falk. You’re okay now. Please try to relax this time. I have upped your levels of medication.”

  “Help me, please. I can’t see or move. I’m chained to the bed. Where am I?”

  The hands lifted off Abbie’s shoulders. No response. She whimpered, tears streaming down her cheeks and penetrating the cracks in her barren lips. Besides her labored breathing, the room was silent. She could sense his presence looming somewhere in the black abyss—an ominous cloud of unmeasurable tension, with no silver lining.

  “Doctor, please answer me. What’s going on?”

  She heard quick footsteps to her right, followed by the rustle of a small stack of paper. She ga
ve him time, not out of consideration, but from the fear of what he was about to say. Time stopped, her heart beating against her chest like the punches of a boxer thudding into the punching bag, a sure sign that she was alive and not in some hellish afterlife. The clang of a metallic clipboard somewhere beyond her feet finally broke the perpetual silence.

  “What’s your full name?”

  “Just tell me what’s happening to me! I can’t remember anything. I was by the lake with my family for the weekend and then . . .

  “Abigail, I’ll explain everything. Just answer the questions.”

  The tone was emotionless, void of even a glimmer of empathy. It sent shivers down her spine. “For God’s sake, please just tell me what’s wrong,” she said, choking on the tears that now flowed as if her tear duct had burst.

  “We’ve been through this routine a few times already. If you don’t calm down and answer the questions, I’ll have no choice but to sedate you once more. Take a deep breath. What’s your full name?”

  She hesitated for a moment, overcome by the sheer terror of her predicament. Within the black abyss, the only other voice besides her own was hostile. Either way, that other voice was all she had. “My name’s Abigail Blake.”

  “That’s great, Mrs. Blake. What’re the names of your husband and son?”

  She focused on her last memory, digging deep to keep a lid on her emotions. “My son is Jonah, and he’s eleven months old. My husband is Robert Blake, the renowned psychiatrist from Portland. Please call him to come as soon as possible.”

  “My apologies, I can’t do that, Abigail. That’ll be all for today.”

  She heard squeaky footsteps, a pair of new sneakers gripping against a smooth surface, moving away from the edge of the bed and toward the door.

  “No, please don’t leave me like this. Please . . . just tell me something, anything. Why can’t you contact my husband? Why am I constrained to the bed? Answer me, for God’s sake.”

  The squeaking stopped by the door. Metallic constraints clanked in rhythm as panic coursed through her veins, her limbs trembling. The squeaking resumed, back in her direction. She focused on diaphragmatic breathing to manage to the panic, slowing the short, rapid bursts of air, precisely how Robert had taught her. She took longer to inhale and exhale, her stomach expanding instead of the chest. Again, the squeaking stopped. Silence. Her breathing was the only audible sound. He stood over her; she could smell him, the wooden cologne wafting into her nostrils, igniting her sinuses like spice thrown in her eyes. She wheezed, her mind responding to the stimulation. Her thoughts cleared. He was close, intimately close. Warm, moist air caressed her parched lips.

  “Okay, Abigail. Seems like your senses are returning.”

  Every word he said was as if force-fed down her throat, his mouth millimeters from hers.

  “Mrs. Abigail Blake, you’re in Oregon State Hospital, in a new treatment facility for the criminally insane.”

  She choked, her dry mouth unable to suck in air. She needed to understand why, how, but the words evaded her.

  A latex-gloved hand stroked her hair. “You poor thing. You still don’t know why, do you? It’s been two years, and we’ve made no progress.”

  She swayed her head from side to side, rasping as if disconnected from a respirator. Whatever her fragmented memories had conjured up, it had no connection with her predicament.

  “You’ve been in denial. Hell, until today, you couldn’t even mention their names.”

  Latex fingers ran along her bicep, and then a sharp prick.

  “This is just something to relax so you can breathe easy. We can’t have you choking on your vomit again.”

  Almost immediately, her muscles loosened, the suffocating boulder lifting off her chest. She was a bird in a dark cave, seeking a way toward the light.

  “We might start the process all over again tomorrow. Your brain can’t handle the grim reality.”

  The light . . . the light. Yes, she could sense freedom, no more constraints. It all evaporated like an awful dream.

  “I can see you’re feeling much better now, Mrs. Blake. This medication does wonders, doesn’t it?”

  The warmth of the light washed over her, drawing her toward it like a moth to a candle flame. She puckered her lips in a valiant attempt to speak before the light would comfort her mind.

  “Please.”

  The wind of the word escaped her lips, not even audible to her.

  “I’m sorry. There’s no easy way for me to tell you this. The reason you’re here, Mrs. Blake, is because you murdered your husband and son in cold blood.”

  In an instant, the light vanished.

  CHAPTER 2

  “This year’s American Institute of Architecture gold medal award goes to . . . ”

  Robert held her hand, while the host opened the sealed royal-blue envelope. They sat three rows from the center stage, a strategic placement for the ceremony. This was her year. She had sacrificed so much for this award. It almost came at the cost of motherhood and their relationship. She bit her lower lip in anticipation, knowing it had to be hers. It would be a personal validation that it was all worth it. She would no longer be just another talented architect, as they were about to acknowledge her lasting influence on architecture. Yes, she would go home with the most prestigious award in the architectural world. They would know her, and not just as Dr. Robert Blake’s wife. Her name would be synonymous with the world’s best architects. She needed to feel the spotlight, for her sake and the sake of her marriage. It was about self-fulfillment, not dominance. Robert never made her feel inferior or inadequate, and on the contrary, he approached every aspect of their relationship with respect. But enough was enough. Their relationship was no private shrink session. It was her moment, her time to hold her own. She used her free hand to adjust her figure-hugging black evening gown.

  The host removed the cream-colored card, treating it like a bingo draw, adding to the tension.

  “And the winner is Jennifer Morgan!”

  The hall’s spotlight waved past Abbie’s head like a passing semi-truck’s headlights on a dark freeway. She pulled her hand away from Robert’s and scrambled for the exit. She couldn’t look at their smug faces, the glaring sea of tuxedos and gowns. The applause was suffocating, and she drowned in self-loathing. Tears burst from her eyes. She knew she deserved the award more than anyone inside that hall. Her elbow slammed against the entrance doors and she burst into the quiet, grandiose lobby. She moved fast, her high-heels clicking against the smooth marble surface—Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack., Clickety-clack. The echoing sound bounced off the domed roof. She ground her teeth in anger and continued to charge across the lobby. Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack., Clickety-clack.

  “Abigail! Abigail, can you hear me?”

  The clicking stopped. Robert stood at the hallway’s entrance, spreading his arms wide in anguish. It surprised her. Not that he had followed her, as she expected that. He called her Abigail, and he never called her that.

  “Abigail, move your hand if you can hear me?”

  Robert’s voice was a higher pitch, less masculine.

  “Baby, help me please, what’s happening to me?” she called out to him.

  Darkness.

  There was nothing, no lobby, no hallway, and no Robert. She was back in the black abyss.

  “Move your fingers, please—anything to show that you can hear me. Come on, Abigail. You can do this. Don’t slip away.”

  The voice was feminine but deep. It had a lower-sounding timbre, resembling a masculine undertone.

  This must be the nurse.

  She envisaged a thickset nurse barking commands. She remained still, feigning a catatonic state, eyes closed. And there was Robert again, his face ashen.

  “Baby, they’re saying I did things. Unimaginable things to you and Jonah. It can’t be true, can
it? I’m not a monster.” She felt a sharp pinch in her forearm.

  “Ouch!”

  “I thought we lost you there for a moment. Welcome back, Abigail. My name’s Fiona, and I’m the senior nurse in this ward. I’ll be assisting Dr. Falk in your treatment.”

  “Please, Fiona, I didn’t do what Dr. Falk is saying. It’s impossible. There must be some misunderstanding. Please call Robert. He’s a well-known psychiatrist, and he’ll sort this out.”

  Fiona sighed and circled the bed, Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.

  Abbie focused on the unmistakable clicking sound of Fiona’s high heels. She realized that the clicking of heels she heard earlier was actual events transpiring around her. She was hallucinating and delusional. The struggle to stay with it frightened her the most. Was this real? How did she end up like this? The number of unanswered questions mounted exponentially. The clicking sound stopped. Hair brushed up against her left forearm, and she shuddered at the eerie featherlike tickle. Fiona now stood on the other side, breathing heavy. A cotton sheet slid off Abbie’s waist, slivering against her thighs like a fleeing viper. Frosty air ravaged her exposed body. Her limbs shook to restore warmth and expel the fear.

  “Relax, my child. I’m just going to bathe you.”

  Running water splashed into a bucket. The humidity in the room calmed her shakes, somewhat. A hot moist sponge pressed against her thighs and groin area, releasing warm water with every scrub. It relaxed her muscles and uncurled her extremities. It was a humiliating process, but rejuvenating nonetheless. When the sponge reached her forehead, it absorbed the cloud masking her thought process. For the first time within the black abyss, she was alert. Latex fingers ran through her smooth black hair. Until now she had paid little attention to Fiona, who proceeded with her work in relative silence. But she was making some kind of noise, wasn’t she? She was humming something—a familiar tune. Every time Fiona would squeeze the sponge, trickling water over Abbie’s body, the tune would end.

  Da da da dada da da da da . . .

  The warm water would soothe her skin. Then again, the process would start. Tune. Rinse. Repeat.