Severed: An Emma Blake Mystery, page 1
SEVERED
AN EMMA BLAKE MYSTERY
EMMA BLAKE
BOOK 2
R.G. THORNE
CONTENTS
Also by R. G. Thorne
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
Epilogue
Also by R.G. Thorne
ALSO BY R. G. THORNE
Next in the EMMA BLAKE Series
Snared: An Emma Blake Thriller
CHAPTER ONE
Dawn's light pierced through a blanket of clouds, casting an ethereal glow on the pandemonium that besieged the police station. Flashbulbs popped and reporters jostled for position as Emma Blake emerged from the back of a cruiser, handcuffs glinting cruelly on her wrists. A cacophony of questions assaulted her ears.
"Did you know Layla Donovan before killing her?" barked a voice from the sea of microphones thrust in her direction.
"Are you going to blame this on the ripper?" another reporter called out, his tone laced with skepticism.
Emma’s green eyes, once the windows to a soul brimming with narratives, now reflected the indignity of her plight. Shame besieged her; anger simmered beneath the surface. Yet, her determination remained, a steadfast ally amidst the chaos. With each camera flash, memories flickered—a life once lived, a reputation tarnished in a relentless media storm.
"Ms. Blake, is there anything you'd like to say?" an officer asked, guiding her past the voracious crowd.
"Nothing they'd want to hear," Emma replied, her voice low but edged with steel.
"Come on, Em, let's get you inside," another officer said, offering a semblance of empathy amid the frenzy.
Inside her head, a monologue raged, a tirade against the voyeuristic circus. Predators, she thought, contemptuous of their hunger for her downfall. *Feasting on misfortune, spinning tales from despair*. They didn’t see her—the writer who crafted stories from shadows, the woman who delved into the darkest corners of humanity. To them, she was just another headline, another scandal.
"Keep your head down," one of the officers advised as they navigated the gauntlet. "Don't give them anything more to pick at."
"Too late for that," Emma muttered, her gaze fixed ahead. Her fall from grace had been swift, from celebrated author to accused murderer in less time than it took to pen a chapter.
"Watch your step," the officer warned as they ascended the steps to the precinct, his grip firm on her arm.
"Wouldn't want to stumble now, would I?" The irony wasn't lost on her— a real-life tragedy that rivaled her own twisted plots.
"Chin up, Emma. This isn't over," the officer offered, but Emma merely nodded, her mind awash with the harrowing reality of her situation.
As the doors closed behind her, shutting out the clamor, Emma felt the weight of silence settle upon her. She was alone, save for the specter of accusation that hovered close, whispering doubts and fears into her ear. But within her chest beat the heart of a survivor—a woman who had faced demons both on the page and off. And though the world sought to brand her a killer, to paint her story with broad strokes of suspicion and scorn, she knew the truth lay hidden, waiting to be unearthed.
"Let's find you a room where we can talk," the officer said, breaking through her reverie.
"Can't wait," Emma responded, though her thoughts were already turning to the chapters yet unwritten, the narrative of her own life that teetered precariously between redemption and ruin.
Metal clanged against metal, the echo slicing through the oppressive silence of the holding cell. Emma Blake sat rigid on a cold bench, her eyes scanning the room, each detail etched into her memory with razor precision—the flickering fluorescent light that cast long shadows across the grimy walls, the stench of disinfectant failing to mask the underlying aroma of sweat and fear.
This was no setting from her novels, no fiction conjured up for thrills. It was cold, hard reality, its bite sharper than any plot twist she had ever devised.
"Hey, watch it," a voice snarled as a body brushed past her, jarring Emma from her thoughts. The occupants of the cell were an assortment of hardened faces and wary eyes, lives intersecting in the most unfortunate of circumstances.
A crude laugh erupted from the corner where two women exchanged stories like trading cards—each tale more sordid than the last. Emma couldn’t help but overhear the fragments of their lives, each word accentuating the stark divergence between her world of crafted narratives and the true stories unfolding around her.
Hunched over, a severe-looking woman with matted hair and tattoos crawling up her arms caught Emma's gaze. With a smirk that revealed gaps where teeth once stood, the woman locked eyes with Emma. There was a challenge there, a silent assertion of dominance in this caged hierarchy.
And then, with a deliberate slowness, the woman pulled down her pants and used the toilet in the center of the room. No privacy, no pretense of dignity; just the raw exposure of human vulgarity. Emma’s stomach churned, not just at the sight, but at how the woman continued to hold her gaze, unflinching and unabashed.
Emma looked away, a surge of disgust mingling with an odd pang of empathy. These were the untold stories she never explored in her books—the ones without a neat conclusion or a clever twist, grounded in a reality too harsh for her pages.
"Never thought I’d see a piece like you in here,” someone whispered, a note of macabre delight threading through the words.
The irony wasn't lost on her—a crime writer accused of the very crimes she penned. Yet, the terror that clawed at her insides wasn't born of the accusation itself, but the dread of seeing her own future unfurl like one of her tragic characters’.
"Blake, your lawyer's on the way!” an officer called out, his voice cutting through the murk of Emma’s thoughts.
She rose, brushing off the invisible grime that seemed to cling to her soul, a mix of shame and defiance lighting a fire within her. The weight of the world may have been bearing down upon her, but Emma Blake was not yet broken. She would write her own ending, even if the rest of the world had already started to pen her downfall.
A harsh buzz announced the opening of the door, and Pascal Ellis stepped into the sterile meeting room. He extended a hand to the detective in passing, his grip firm, measured—a stark contrast to Emma’s disheveled state, her wrists chafing against the steel cuffs that bound them. A heavy silence settled in the room as the detective exited, leaving them alone.
Pascal moved with calculated ease, taking the seat opposite her. The buzzing fluorescent light above flickered, casting erratic shadows over his tailored suit, giving him an ethereal yet formidable presence. Emma’s piercing green eyes, usually so adept at reading others, now squinted in suspicion.
"Emma,you look like you’ve had a hell of a night.” Pascal looked her up and down. “I’m here to help you navigate this," he said in a smooth baritone that belied the tension in the room.
"Navigate?" Emma's tone was sharp, biting. "Or manipulate? You're Harold's man. His investment needs protecting, doesn't it?"
Their back-and-forth was a precarious dance—words probing, testing defenses. Trust was a currency Emma was bankrupt in, and though Pascal’s demeanor was calm, she sensed the urgency beneath.
"Harold's interests don't eclipse your freedom," Pascal countered, adjusting his glasses with a precision that spoke of control. "Yes, you can write from a cell, but that would mean I lost. And I don't lose."
She weighed his words, skepticism etched into the fine lines of her face. Her life's work had been understanding the darkest corners of the human psyche, and now she found herself dissecting the motives of the very person who might save her from the gallows.
"Prove it," she challenged, the fire of defiance rekindling within despite the cold dread that gripped her heart.
"Let's talk strategy." Pascal opened a folder, laying out documents on the table like a gambler revealing his hand. His brown eyes were intent, focused, as he outlined the legal framework. The approach was meticulous, every detail considered—an antidote to the chaos that had become Emma's reality.
"Your alibi, the timeline, the lack of concrete evidence... We dismantle their case piece by piece," he explained, tapping a finger on the table for emphasis. "We'll need your full cooperation."
Emma listened, her mind racing through scenarios as if crafting plots for her novels. With each point Pascal made, the outlines of a defense emerged from the fog that had clouded her thoughts since her arrest. It was a semblance of order in the disorder that her life had spiraled into.
"Okay," she finally said, a cautious note creeping into her voice. "So what's our first mo
"Discredit the primary witness," Pascal replied without hesitation. “Your memory is still unreliable, is that right?” he looked at her, eyebrow arched and waiting.
Emma nodded, “Still hazy, I don’t have whole memories yet.”
“We introduce doubt—that's how we win."
Doubt, the familiar companion of her writing process, now became the cornerstone of her defense. Emma leaned forward, her mind sharpening, latching onto the strategy like a lifeline tossed into turbulent waters. For the first time since the cell door had clanged shut behind her, a sliver of hope pierced the darkness.
"Let's get to work then," she said, the grit in her voice belying the fear that lingered. Pascal nodded, his expression one of unyielding determination.
As they delved deeper into the intricacies of the case, the ominous mood of the interrogation room transformed subtly into a battleground where intellect and willpower converged. Emma, for all her inner turmoil, was not just a pawn in this twisted game. She was a player—and she intended to win.
The fluorescent light hummed like a trapped wasp above them. Emma's hands, cuffed in front of her, lay still on the cold metal table. Pascal Ellis sat across from her, dossier open, eyes sharp and assessing. The room was void of warmth, every surface hard and unwelcoming—a reflection of her new reality.
"Discredit the witness," she repeated, her voice steadier than she felt. The words tasted like the first drop of rain after a drought—tentative, but life-giving.
"Exactly," Pascal affirmed. His voice was crisp, cutting through the tension. “I can’t conceive of a witness more unreliable than Michael Donovan.”
“He’s dead, from what I understand.”
Emma waited for Pascal to continue.
“I saw on the report Ramirez took him out, no body however. And, as of now he is their main suspect in the ripper case—” He said it like a question, then trailed off.
Emma studied him, the meticulous cut of his suit, the way his glasses caught the sterile light. He was an enigma—part corporate shark, part unexpected savior. Her skepticism, once a thick barrier, began to thin, watered down by the possibility that he might just be as formidable as he seemed.
"Alright," she said, her mind churning. "Let's say I buy into this plan. What’s next?"
"Next, we build your alibi." Pascal leaned back, the chair protesting under his controlled weight. "We find the cracks in the timeline they've set for you."
Emma nodded, the cogs in her brain already turning. She'd spent years crafting perfect crimes on paper; now she needed to unravel one wrapped around her own neck. The irony wasn't lost on her.
Pascal closed the folder, a calculated move. "There's only one more thing," he said, his gaze locking onto hers with laser precision.
Emma raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Will there be a fourth book?" His question hung in the air, dense with unspoken implications.
“Yes,” she said she lied, knowing Harold would be less willing to bank roll her defense unless she had another book under.
CHAPTER TWO
The corridor, a narrow throat of concrete and steel that led Emma Blake to the belly of the precinct. The chill didn't just seep into her bones; it heralded the grim hospitality of holding cells. Her green eyes, sharp as shards of bottle glass, scanned the dimness. Every step echoed, a drumbeat to her pulse.
Emma's fingers twitched at the strap of her toiletry kit, a silent metronome to her mounting dread. She passed doors with peeling numbers, each a tombstone marking tales of downfall. Her auburn hair, once a crown, now hung like willow fronds, heavy with the mist of her predicament. Shadows clung to crevices, whispering secrets of the ones who came before, the ones who left pieces of themselves behind.
A leak somewhere offered an irregular drip, the sound a taunt. Emma knew the game — every creak, every groan of the aging infrastructure was an accomplice to the dangerous atmosphere It fed on her unease, her memories pulling at the edges of her focus like insistent claws.
Her resolve was a flickering flame in the oppressive dark. Guilt gnawed at her, but Emma's determination steeled her spine. This cell, this cold embrace of justice or travesty, it wouldn't claim her. Not without a fight.
There was a betrayal here, a sense of abandoned trust between these walls and those who sought refuge in the law. Alex Mitchell's shadow loomed in her peripheral vision, a reminder of the blurred line between protector and captor. His presence was a solid thing, a force she both craved and resented.
She reached the end of the hall, the final door standing sentinel. Beyond lay her temporary fate, a shared plot in this concrete graveyard. With a breath that felt like her last, Emma prepared to enter the cell, to face whatever new devil awaited in the shadows.
The guard's boots thudded against the linoleum, a steady drumbeat escorting Emma Blake deeper into the station's bowels. Each step echoed, a grim reminder of her encroaching fate. "This way, Blake. You'll be sharing a cell," he grunted out.
"Sharing? Why am I not surprised?" Her voice was a soft rasp, betraying little of her churning thoughts.
Emma's gaze flickered over the walls, painted an institutional green that seemed to leech the life from everything it touched. She could almost feel the color draining her strength, leaving behind a cold resignation. The squeak of her own shoes on the floor punctuated the silence like the whispers of secrets she wished remained buried.
She swallowed hard, the reality of her predicament settling in her stomach like lead. With every corner turned, every door they passed, the weight of her situation pressed down harder, squeezing the air from her lungs, constricting around her chest.
"Nearly there," the guard said, his tone devoid of any warmth.
"Can't wait," Emma replied, her words laced with half enthused sarcasm.
They stopped short of a heavy metal door. It loomed before them, an unyielding barrier to the world she knew. The guard produced a key, the metallic sound scraping against the quiet, and twisted it in the lock with a finality that resonated in Emma's bones.
"Step inside," he ordered, pushing the door open with a groan of protest from its hinges.
Emma stepped through the threshold, her senses heightened. The cold from the concrete seeped through the soles of her shoes, a chilling embrace that promised little comfort. She stood still for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimness within, her ears attuned to the sound of ragged breathing that wasn’t her own.
"Meet your new roommate," the guard announced, gesturing vaguely into the shadows.
Emma held her breath as a figure detached itself from the darkness, the silhouette of a woman with a presence that felt like an omen. She could sense the cellmate's eyes on her, appraising, calculating. A shiver ran down Emma's spine, but she kept her stance firm, unwilling to show weakness.
"Delighted," Emma managed to say, though her dry throat made it sound more like a challenge than a greeting.
"Good luck," the guard muttered, and with that, he stepped out, the door closing with a resounding clang that sealed Emma's temporary fate.
In the quiet that followed, Emma's heart pounded a fierce rhythm, a counterpoint to the slow drip of water somewhere in the cell. The truth of her confinement settled over her like a shroud, the gravity of betrayal and consequences wrapping around her like chains. Here, in this stark reality, the lines between hunter and hunted blurred, and trust was as elusive as shadows at midnight.
The key turned with a grating sound, and the cell's heavy metal door groaned open. A stale gust hit Emma full on, as if the room exhaled its foul breath upon her arrival. The guard stepped aside, his hand resting on the baton at his belt, a silent warning of the rules that governed this place.
“You girls get along now,” he said, his voice echoing slightly off the concrete walls with a tone that told how much he’d like to see them getting along.
Emma's gaze fixed on the figure before her. The woman perched on the lower bunk, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp—a predator assessing fresh prey.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" The words slithered out from between thin lips, curling into a smile that didn't reach the cold glint in her stare.
