Netted- Inside Out Read online

  Netted

  Inside Out

  K.T. Rose

  Copyright

  Netted- Inside Out

  Copyright © 2019 by K.T. Rose

  All rights reserved.

  The stories characters and incidents mentioned in this publication are entirely fictional.

  The transmission, duplication, or reproduction of any of the following work including specific information will be considered an illegal act irrespective of if it is done electronically or in print. This extends to creating a secondary or tertiary copy of the work or a recorded copy and is only allowed with express written consent from the Publisher. All additional right reserved.

  Written by: K.T. Rose

  Edited by: C. J. Borntrager and Paul Ryan

  Cover by: Oliviaprodesign

  Table of contents

  Copyright

  Table of contents

  About Netted- Inside out

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  More from K. T. Rose

  About Netted- Inside out

  No one leaves the cult alive.

  They seem to be ordinary people.

  They have paying jobs.

  They have a tight-knit community full of love and appreciation.

  They learn, play, and celebrate special occasions such as birthdays and monumental accomplishments.

  They kill.

  When Jessica is pulled into The Silent Red Room’s twisted clan, she learns that failure to comply with Father Paul’s word could end deadly.

  See why no one ever leaves the cult, even if they wanted to.

  About the Author

  K.T. Rose is a horror, thriller, and dark fiction writer from Detroit, Michigan. She posts suspense and horror flash fiction on her blog at kyrobooks.com and is the author of a gruesome, suspenseful short story series titled A Trinity of Wicked Tales, an erotic thriller novel titled When We Swing, and The Silent Red Room horror/ technothriller trilogy.

  Dedication

  To Markeith.

  Prologue

  Low eyes and breathy, caffeinated sighs pushed past Officer Boris as he went through the station’s glass double doors. No one was eager to start their day before the sun showed its face over the horizon, no matter if they were an officer, detective, or a big wig. Boris yawned. Sleep didn’t take him as it had most weekends. He’d sat up, rocking Sammy in one hand and staring down the better half of Dale Tilson’s file in the other. The case had kept him up for a month, more than the newborn had. From the teary-eyed hospital visits during Dale Tilson’s initial assault by some online date gone wrong, to the time they found him nearly twisted and unresponsive three weeks ago in the woods outside a Rothbury home, the case was enough to make Boris consider retiring at the age of thirty-three.

  He reached into the pocket of his sweatshirt and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights and a yellow lighter. With the cigarette between his lips, he lit up, allowing the nicotine to release a calming bloom into his frazzled mind. Manny, his wife, had talked him out of leaving the force right before she went on about his running regiment and how smoking was counteractive. “You owe it to Mr. Tilson to find these people before they hurt anyone else,” she told him as she burped Sammy. The newborn was almost half her size and his small feet kicked, allowing him to climb up her short torso. He bobbed his bald head as he tugged at her dark locks.

  These people. He wanted to say fuck these people and that she and Sammy were his only concern. But for some reason, Manny wanted him to help Morgan with Tilson’s case. It could be because of the possible promotion. She’d slipped up and called him detective whenever she gloated to her college buddies about him. He’d told her about speaking things into existence a lot like she talked Sammy and their marriage into being. But he loved the woman no less. If anything, her positive outlook on life kept him going where he wanted—needed—to give up.

  Boris sighed. Racked his mind. It wasn’t until recently that Tilson had risen from his short-term coma and learned to use his feet again. According to Ms. Sasha Hall, Tilson’s ex, he was aware of his busted skull and he remembered verbatim how it happened. He was snatched from his home by a mysterious man who was muscular, tall, and lean, and a strange woman who was sultry, curvy, and terrifying.

  Boris dragged on the cigarette again as he watched the cars pass by the police station. Traffic whisked by, careful to slow down in front of the station, then pick up speed about a block north and south.

  Boris blew smoke from his mouth. He shook his head. Perhaps one of the most interesting parts of Tilson’s second assault, according to Ms. Hall, was how he was busted in the head by a young girl named Jessica. Ms. Hall expressed how he tried and failed to get her out alive. Instead, the girl slammed a hammer onto Tilson’s head, almost killing him.

  A knot clogged Boris’s throat as he threw the lit butt onto the ground and stomped it out with his shoe.

  That bit of information made his heart beat hard against his chest, harder than it had after he’d muscled through a 5K marathon or a nice long jog through the park. But the words that made him lose sleep last night had to be the shaken warning Ms. Hall uttered through the phone as they spoke the night before. After Boris put Sammy down for bed and laid his jogging suit out for work, he took a call from Ms. Hall which had come in around eleven pm. She spoke in a soft whisper and had an urgent cry as if a killer were lurking about in her home. “Dale told me something else this morning and I wasn’t sure if I should repeat it because it’s so hard to imagine him being afraid of anyone or anything at all,” she said. “He said Marla is dead.”

  Boris raced over to his Sammy’s dry erase board that clung to the headboard of his oak baby bed. He jotted, ‘Marla is dead’ on the pasty white surface. “Is he sure?” he asked the distressed Ms. Hall.

  “Yes. He was forced to attend her funeral while bound at the wrist and on his knees. They made him watch. Oh God. They made him watch Marla attack him and they made him watch him kill her down in that basement...it had all been recorded on video. He said it was like a eulogy. A sick eulogy!”

  Boris’s jaw dropped. She went on. “Then he teared up and told me about their eyes. Dark and full of sorrow and anger.” She paused and sniffed. “He said there was mostly anger and he still sees their faces when he goes to sleep; they haunted his coma. The people were young as small children and as old as my parents. There were teenagers who looked like they were on the tail end of puberty and adults who looked old enough to drink in public. Their eyes. Damn their eyes.” She began crying. “They wanted him dead. They cheered that monster they call Father Paul on as he ranted about Dale and they begged that girl, Jessica, to kill him for Marla’s sake and her memory. And she tried…and he almost died…and those sick assholes would’ve been the last people he would’ve seen on this earth. He’s sure his getting away was a fluke of some kind and that they’re not done with him. They are going to get him. Paul is going to get him.”

  Boris could only stand there with the phone against his face and the dry erase board in is palm. What was there to say to a woman not begging answers, not telling him to go out and find a perpetrator, but a woman with sheer concern and fear in her broken voice? Paul is going to get him. Boris gave up on sleeping and called Morgan and told him to swing by the station to pick him up on the way to the
hospital. Boris slid on his jogging suit, kissed his family good night, and jogged to the station where he sat at his desk and looked over the file for the fiftieth time. Who the hell was he really looking for?

  How do you protect and serve from a ghost?

  A dark Lincoln pulled onto the curb and let out a short honk. Boris pulled the door open and slid into the passenger seat. “Good morning, Detective,” he greeted.

  Detective Morgan grunted as he pulled from the curb, merging them into traffic. He kept his unmoved eyes ahead of them and on the road. Boris wasn’t sure if Morgan ever slept because the bloated bags under his eyes remained unchanged since they’d met a month ago. Boris had been on traffic duty and was ready to call it night until Captain Tatum called for him to come into his office. Strange because Captain Tatum left the station by six pm sharp. No earlier. No later. No matter the day. But it was well after eight, and Boris found himself on the elevator. Slightly shaken, Boris thought of anything the old man could want. It’s been so long since Boris had seen him that he could barely recollect Captain’s balding pale crown, his towering height, bushy gray mustache, and hearty laugh that was as thunderous as Santa’s himself; that’s if Santa wore a navy-blue uniform with a badge to the left of his deep golden tie clip.

  Inside Captain Tatum’s office, Morgan sat in the leather chair across from him. His naked face and deep wrinkles around his frowning lips reminded Boris of a seasoned veteran agent from those FBI TV shows Manny insisted on watching, hours at a time. Morgan’s tie was the color of night, as dark as his skin, and he hadn’t bothered removing his tan fedora or long peacoat. This isn’t going to be short. Boris remembered thinking.

  “I got the news about the new addition to your family. Baby boy, is it?” Captain asked, a faint smile crossing his lips.

  “Yes, sir,” Boris said, still standing closest to the door with both hands behind his back. He secretly wished he kept his uniform on as his white t-shirt was wrinkled and his gray jogging pants had a beige coffee stain on them.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “This here is Detective Morgan from South Philly…” Captain Tatum looked over at Morgan as if to secretly ask, “Did I say that right?” But Morgan’s emotionless eyes had a new target: Boris’s face.

  “You are going to help him with an investigation. Help him catch his guy, and you will get that detective’s shield. You and your growing family deserve it.”

  Boris smiled hard and nearly leaped off his feet. “I’ll do my best, sir!”

  Morgan crossed his arms over his broad chest, raised a brow and in a deep voice, he said, “I need you to go the St. John’s hospital and talk to the victim, Dale Tilson. He’s been attacked by a woman that he met online: Marla. Report back to me as soon as possible.” With that, Morgan stood, tilted his fedora to the captain and went around Boris, who stood there with a confused glare which felt awkward on his face.

  Before Morgan exited, he turned to Boris and said, “Throughout the duration of this investigation, you will wear street clothes, comfortable if you can, to remain inconspicuous. We don’t need to scare anyone off with that buzz cut and clean face.”

  Since then, Boris had grown his college dusty chin and gelled his stubborn bangs back. Although the guys in the precinct joked about him looking like a drug dealer on holiday, he appreciated the time it saved him in the mirror every morning and his jogging suits allowed for more movement than the uniform had. But the tradeoff had been watching Tilson like a hawk and taking calls at all times of day from Ms. Hall, who, for the lack of knowing, moved this phase along. Even all these weeks later, Morgan refused to drop the superiority act, never acknowledging Boris for his work nor time.

  “Not a morning person, huh?” Boris asked.

  “No. I haven’t gotten much sleep.” Detective Morgan turned the corner and stopped at the traffic light behind an empty school bus. “Thanks for calling me.”

  “No problem.”

  “Fill me in.” Information. The only use Boris felt he had in this fuckery of an investigation. Morgan never asked for Boris’s deductions since this whole thing started, he only wanted information. Boris had no idea what Morgan did with it. The man showed up at the start of the investigation like a phantom that blew through the station, hungry for evidence on the Tilson case and that was it. Boris frowned. The excitement he had for starting up the assignment had sunk faster than a cinder block in the lake; he was only a lackey for the mystery detective.

  “Well, at first, Dale didn’t seem to remember much of what happened. He just mumbled ‘Paul’ and ‘Jessica’ on occasion. But now, he’s able to form full sentences and walk around according to Ms. Hall.”

  “Jessica?” Detective Morgan asked. A look of confusion cloaked his face.

  “Yeah. He claims that’s who broke his skull. At least that’s what he remembered anyway. The doctor noted he was still in the late stages of deliria, a symptom from emergency brain surgery. Slight amnesia could discredit every bit of information he spat out. But Ms. Hall believed there was nothing wrong with him and that he seemed totally aware. She didn’t share too much information before she started to weep.”

  “And Ms. Hall is?”

  Boris cocked his head. He’d only mentioned her before, but Morgan was one of those guys that picked and chose what he wanted to hear: something else about the man that puzzled Boris. “Sasha Hall. An old flame of his. She’s been helping me out by delivering information on a daily basis because she feels she owes it to him. She claims that if she hadn’t broken up with him, then this wouldn’t have happened.” Boris grunted. Part of him felt Tilson’s ordeal over her. Ms. Hall was—is—a beautiful girl. He’d even stammered over his words when he ran into her at the hospital. Her light peanut butter skin and voluptuous body were enough to turn heads. But there was nothing like her thick lips and round brown eyes. It broke his heart to see her in so many tears. “But I told her that this investigation was bigger than a lovers’ quarrel or a breakup. Nonetheless, I do appreciate her cooperation. It’s been almost impossible for me to get near him.”

  “And why are we trusting a civilian with handing us some fragile information?” Morgan’s wide nostrils flared, but his eyes stayed ahead.

  “Err, it’s his sister, Diane Fulton, and her husband, Jim Fulton. They spend as much time at the hospital as Ms. Hall does. Goodness, I damn near had to drop to my knees before Mrs. Fulton let me see Tilson after his surgery, which was useless as I told you before. He only laid there, asleep, not uttering a word. Since then, she wouldn’t let me step into the wing. Mrs. Fulton’s a small, thin little thing, but boy does she have a set of lungs on her. She yelled and screamed and threw ‘fuck’ around until I left. I swear; she followed me to my car, making me aware of how useless I am and how hot Hell’s going to be for you, Morgan. Even Mr. Fulton, who’s a hairy, burly bear of man that’s all of six-five, couldn’t keep her calm because she’d snap at him. He sat there running his finger through his messy, thick hair or rubbing his temples like he was pushing a headache away. However, Ms. Hall has been a sport about reporting to me daily on his condition.”

  Detective Morgan merged onto the highway, tightening his dark hands on the steering wheel and letting out a fluttered huff. “Is Mrs. Fulton a threat to this investigation?”

  Boris nearly forgot about Detective Morgan’s feelings about the scorned sibling, but Boris understood whole-heartedly how she felt: untrusting of the police who were supposed to be watching Mr. Tilson the night he went missing. “I’m not saying that. I’m saying that Ms. Hall has been cooperative, keeping me posted on Mr. Tilson’s recovery from the time he dipped in and out of his short-term coma, up until and through his two weeks of bedrest.”

  Morgan smiled and it filled Boris’s belly with sickening nausea. “Oh, one more thing. There was mention of a group who witnessed his assault this time around. It wasn’t just the girl and Paul; apparently, there were several people looking and wishing Dale�
��s death at Marla’s funeral.”

  Morgan turned up his chiseled chin with a sneer. “Marla’s dead?”

  “Yeah, and there’s more people involved than we thought. Detective, what does this mean for the case? Who are we looking for other than a missing body, Jessica, and Paul?” Boris asked.

  Morgan smiled. “That son of a bitch Paul is here. I can smell his sadistic stink right now and he’s scrambling like a fish out of water! Oh, I can feel it in my bones and it’s as real as the air I’m sucking in now!” He slapped the steering wheel as if he were giving himself a high five.

  Boris shook his head. “What do you mean? Who exactly are we after?”

  “Don’t you see? We finally have a man who made it out. A star witness! Mr. Tilson!” Giddy, he pulled his fedora off and tossed it in the back seat. He ran a hand over his shiny head and nodded. “There’s someone who can testify against Paul and shut him down forever.”

  They pulled onto an icy bridge and coasted through a green light.

  “I wonder why or how he got out? The kids that found him said he was dumped onto the property from a moving truck. It was as if they wanted him eaten by the wildlife or something. But it doesn’t make sense.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Wouldn’t we have a body count with a similar MO?”

  Morgan shrugged, then said, “I’m coming for you, you son of a bitch.”

  Boris winced at him. Who brushes a hunch off, a rather important one, like that? He shook the annoying spell and finally asked, “What happened that night, Morgan? How’d he get taken from his apartment? Weren’t you there?”

  Morgan’s smile faded. “Personal matters happened. They knew I was there and they waited. I don’t know where and how, but they tracked me and snatched Tilson up when I pulled off—took Tilson like a damn slithering thief in the night.”