Deadly Lies Read online

  Deadly Lies

  By Ofelia Gränd

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2021 Ofelia Gränd

  ISBN 9781646568802

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  A huge thank you to Al Stewart and Amy Spector. I never would have written this story if it hadn’t been for you.

  * * * *

  Deadly Lies

  By Ofelia Gränd

  Chapter 1: A Million Dead Wasps

  Chapter 2: Bricks and Stones

  Chapter 3: Skeletal Fingers

  Chapter 4: Blood and Dirt

  Chapter 5: Every Rose has its Thorn

  Chapter 6: Good Morning, Officer

  Chapter 7: Stay for a Cuppa

  Chapter 8: Dungeons and Dragons

  Chapter 9: A Manic Laughter

  Chapter 10: Are You Sure?

  Chapter 11: The Smell of Bleach

  Epilogue

  Bonus chapter: Deadly Dates

  Chapter 1: A Million Dead Wasps

  Josh groaned as he tried to move. He didn’t know how much time had passed. It could have been a few minutes or days. His arse hurt from the cold, hard ground; his arms throbbed from being cuffed to the bunk in an awkward position. The chill made his bones ache, but it was nothing compared to the screaming pain in his heart.

  The pain wasn’t all bad, though. It reminded him that he was alive, and being alive meant there were still things he had to do.

  His son was somewhere outside the thick stone walls and the welded-shut door, wondering why Josh hadn’t gone inside to have some cake. Icicles pierced his chest; he couldn’t leave Sam.

  What if Jett has taken him and left?

  Struggling against the cuffs, his rattling set off an echoing in the never-ending darkness. Metal cut into his skin as he tried to lift the bunk. His swollen fingers wouldn’t cooperate when he strained to get a good grip on the bed leg. No matter how he pushed or tried to lift, it didn’t move. Feeling around, he grazed a nut on top of a metal plate. Whoever had done this knew what they were doing.

  The dried blood on his wrist cracked, and a fresh wave broke through. It wasn’t as bad as the first time around. He didn’t move in panic now, didn’t thrash and pull like a trapped animal, but desperation still made him careless.

  His thumb pulsated and burned where it hung immobile next to his other digits. From the feel of it, he guessed it was about twice its normal size. Josh had no way to check, of course. The thick air pressed in on him, and the taste of death was heavy on his tongue.

  At the moment, he preferred the darkness; had there been light, he would’ve seen the others.

  Bile rose at the back of his mouth, and his heart sped up yet again. He didn’t want to think about who they were or how they’d ended up in the root cellar. Somewhere, someone was missing a husband or wife, a son or a daughter. Were any of them the scared young man with the green eyes he’d seen in the picture all those years ago? Josh’s stomach clenched as he recalled it. Could Jett have done it?

  In the midst of all the horror captured in the picture, it also held something else, a tangible…maybe not love. Josh refused to put the word together with what the image represented. Admiration? Maybe even affection—not from the young man, but from the photographer. Could Jett even have taken a picture like that?

  He shuddered. He didn’t want to think Jett capable of doing such things, but given where he was sitting…

  Out. He needed to find a way out.

  He had to protect Sam, had to get him out of Jett’s grasps. He didn’t think Jett would do anything to hurt their son, but how could he ever know? How could he let himself waste away in here, become another body trapped in this tomb, when Sam needed him?

  Sliding until his back was against the bed leg, the cold of the metal seeped through his blood-soaked slacks. It didn’t help much—he still couldn’t reach anywhere—but it was easier to twist his hands around when his arms weren’t straining as much.

  With small, soft sweeping movements, he managed to push away the dead wasps littering the ground underneath his hands. His fingertips connected with the uneven stone floor that rasped against his skin as he moved. If he could only find something.

  He touched more dead wasps, dried-up bodies and paper-thin wings. Something pricked the pad of his finger, and he instinctively pulled away. He didn’t know if dead wasps could sting, if they had any venom left in them, but it didn’t stop it from being unpleasant. Steeling himself, he continued to feel around on the ground. Something. He needed something small.

  Josh froze as a rustle came from the bunk above. The following silence had his hair stand on end.

  “Hello?” He held his breath. He was alone; he knew he was. None of the bodies in there with him could move.

  Josh yelped as something hit the back of his head. His trapped arms yanked him back when he tried to get away. Close to his ear, something moved only to come to rest against his scalp. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to convince himself those weren’t skeletal toes caught in his hair.

  He shouldn’t have shaken the bed. Swallowing, he tried to ignore the limb that had slid out over the edge of the bunk, and shifted his weight to the side.

  Mid-motion, he stopped. In his right back pocket there was a paper clip. At least, he thought there was. He’d picked it up from the kitchen floor earlier, when he’d prepared lunch. It wouldn’t help if the cuffs were new, but if they were of an older model, it might work. He squirmed around, no longer giving a damn about either wasps or skeletal toes. The dense darkness helped him keep any memories of decomposed bodies at bay. Nothing disturbed the deafening silence as he worked his bruised fingers into the pocket. His shoulders screamed in protest at the strain the angle put on them, but Josh didn’t care. He had to get the clip.

  The warm steel kept slipping away as he tried to grip it between his index and middle finger. The cuffs caught in the fabric of his pocket making it hard to reach. He grunted in frustration. How hard could it be to get hold of a fucking clip?

  Sweat pearled on his forehead making the air seem even chillier than before. He had to take a break, had to sit up properly and let some blood run back into his arms.

  Hopelessness wanted to grab hold of him, but he fought it off best he could. Getting the clip out of his pocket should’ve been the easy part.

  A few minutes passed. Josh spent them listening to the silence and trying not to scare himself. He would get out of here; there was no other option. He had to, for Sam. A calmness settled over him. There was only one alternative. Get out, get Sam, and run. There was nothing e
lse to be done.

  With renewed determination, he shifted to his side again. The bunk creaked, and something fell to the floor. Josh ignored it. He lay on his side as much as he could, moved his arse as close to his hands as possible, and gripped the hem of his pocket with his fingers. The air in his lungs puffed out at the twist and turn. The hard ground made his hip ache, but he didn’t give up. This time, he would get it.

  He felt the tiny little thing between his fingers, squeezed them together, and started pulling out of the pocket. It went according to plan until he got caught on the hem, and the clip fell out of his grip.

  His heart did a double beat. Had he lost it?

  Clumsily, he patted around the little area he could reach. There it was! He caught it between his fingers.

  Thank God. His lips almost touched the ground as he fell over on his stomach, legs in under the bunk. His right shoulder was almost pulled out of its socket as he moved. Crawling as close to the bed leg as he could, he managed to ease off some of the stress on it. The change in position also made it possible to bend his elbows and rest his hands on his back. He was stiff, aching, and powerless, but it made it a bit easier to relax. Each heartbeat drummed against the stone ground.

  Blowing away the wasps lying closest to him, he rested his head against the floor. The rough surface scraped against his cheek, and a drop of sweat trickled down his forehead.

  He began prising the clip open. He’d seen a video on YouTube once, where a guy got out of a pair of handcuffs in seconds. It had circulated at work. Now he wished he’d paid more attention.

  Using the thumb he hadn’t injured to feel where the flutings went inside the other end of the shackle, he tried to visualise where the little locking mechanism was. The straightened clip needed to go into the tiny little hole, lift the sprint, and hold while he slid out the uneven part without it catching again.

  Josh exhaled and rested his forehead against the ground as he followed the spine with the point of the clip, each little tooth bringing him closer to the small opening. The clip connected with the metal where the single strand went in. Josh bent it slightly, afraid he would lose his grip. The tip slid a millimetre or two against the cuff before slipping in.

  He drew in a shuddering breath. There was nothing to cheer about yet, but it didn’t stop his mouth from stretching into a smile. Focusing yet again, he changed his grip on the pin. His wrist prevented him from pressing down, but it was okay. He bit his lip so as not to make any sudden movements.

  Slowly, he began turning his left hand. There wasn’t much room in the cuffs to begin with, and the swelling from his thumb had spread up his wrist, making it even harder. What had he been thinking, trying to pull his hand out of a locked cuff? If he hadn’t acted in panic and had used his energy to think instead, he might already have been free—of the shackles, at least.

  Josh wasn’t the most patient man in the world, and he was starting to feel the growing frustration tingle in every limb. It crawled around inside of him, made him want to kick and grunt. With a calming breath, he managed to turn his hand enough to press down the clip. He wouldn’t need much room to do it.

  Lying there in the inky black, aching all over while trying not to think too much of either Sam or Jett made it a lot harder than it should’ve been. He was shaking as he pushed the tip of the clip as far in as it could go, at the same time trying to unhook the sprint in locking the single strand in place. The tip caught on something inside. Josh carefully pressed a little more until something started to give. Scared to screw up, he tried to get a hold of the rivet.

  It was impossible to move his finger the way he needed to get a grip. With a frustrated groan, he flicked his wrist; the metal slid against the clip, but it didn’t catch. Panting against the dirty ground, he twisted his wrist again. A burning, agonising pain followed each little turn, but he didn’t care.

  The metal slipped off, and his arm hit the floor.

  Josh cried out, in relief and frustration. He might be free of the shackles, but he was still on the wrong side of a welded-shut iron door, surrounded by five dead bodies and a million dead wasps.

  Chapter 2: Bricks and Stones

  It was silly, but he didn’t want to press the light switch. He didn’t want to see them again. Their dried-up faces would forever be etched in his memory however hard he tried to forget. Brown leathery skin in some places, bones in the open in others.

  He shuddered, but no matter how long he put it off, they would still be there. The dark didn’t make them go away, and neither did his pretending.

  Cradling his injured hand to his chest, he ran his working thumb over the round button on the light switch. It was black—he remembered that from before. Gently caressing the button, he steeled himself and pushed.

  The humming came first as if the wires were vibrating in the arched ceiling. Josh pressed his lips together, his gaze fixed on the wall in front of him. One after another, the light bulbs came on. The light that had flickered before settled on being on.

  He allowed himself to stand there for a few seconds, not moving, hardly even breathing. His hand pulsated, the throb becoming more intense with each passing moment. He couldn’t stand and stare at the brick wall forever, and yet he couldn’t force himself to turn around.

  His chest contracted as he fastened his gaze on the ground. The wasps were there, maybe not as many as his brain wanted him to think, but they littered the open area. Not looking at the bunks, he turned his attention to the far side of the room. There was a scale, the kind found in hospitals. The red locker Jett had been all too familiar with. A small filing cabinet in the corner.

  Josh’s stomach clenched. He didn’t want to know what was in there. All he could think of was that picture of the young man he’d found—he did not want to see more of those.

  Screwed to the wall was a clothes hook with several hangers. On every hook was a set of clothes and beneath each a pair of shoes in a perfect line. Everything tidily placed and organised. He frowned as he looked at them. His Jett didn’t do neat.

  In the house, Jett’s things were in disarray—everything apart from his baking things. The straight line of shoes sent a shiver down Josh’s spine. Had he misjudged Jett so gravely?

  The clothes were in different sizes and colours, but they all seemed to have belonged to men. A pair of purple trousers shone brightly among the blue jeans and dull-coloured shirts. Which of the decomposed bodies had walked around, alive and happy, in brightly coloured clothes before he’d met Jett?

  Josh wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He could try to make things right once he’d got out, when Sam was safe, but it would never bring them back. Nothing would ever be right again, but these men’s families deserved to know where their loved ones had gone.

  Tearing his eyes from the clothes, but continuing to ignore the bunks, he went back to the heavy iron door. He couldn’t get out through it, though it didn’t stop him from trying the handle. It was stupid, but a small, small part of him hoped Jett would let him out. He didn’t want to think Jett capable of locking anyone up, much less welding in another human being underground.

  The door remained unmoving. A strangled cry ripped through his throat as he slumped against the chilly iron. What was he to do?

  Wave after wave of unidentified emotions washed over him. He had to get out. He kicked at the door, not caring if Jett was outside and knew he’d freed himself of the cuffs. He kicked again, stumbled towards the wall, and almost fell when his foot caught on the crowbar he’d dropped on the ground when he’d walked in. Had it only been earlier in the day?

  Silence overtook the room again. Did Jett know he had left the crowbar? Was it a test? Was he outside waiting for Josh to try to escape?

  Somehow Josh didn’t think so. It might be naïve of him, but Jett hadn’t been thinking rationally, and it had been a ‘goodbye’ before he left—not a ‘see you later’.

  Josh bent down to pick it up, the metal heavy in his hand. The walls were in good condition, the
brick-like stones uneven but not cracked anywhere, and the plaster held up well, too.

  Holding his breath, Josh lifted the crowbar and swung it against the wall with all his might. A jarring pain radiated from his injured thumb and up his arm. Refusing to give in to the shout ricocheting inside of him, he clamped his jaws shut. The hiss couldn’t be helped, though.

  A small dent on the wall, that was what he’d accomplished. Nothing more. Bracing himself, he raised the crowbar and repeated the action, over and over again. Cracks appeared, plaster and stone shards bounced on the ground. The pain left him nauseated, but he kept going. A few more hits and he would be able to prise away some of the stones.

  Sweat coated his skin, but the air around him remained chilly. It might even be below freezing outside. The day had been beautiful: a clear sky and plenty of fresh autumn air. It wouldn’t surprise him if the temperature had dropped by now.

  He jammed the hook of the crowbar between two stones and put his weight on the lever. The satisfaction of seeing a brick fall to the ground had him grinning. He was getting out of here.

  Behind the stone, there was an old wooden plank—in good condition, unfortunately. It would’ve been easier to break if it had been rotten, but it didn’t matter. He was getting out.

  Stones, wood, and sand fell to the ground, and a little while later, Josh reached out and touched the dank soil.

  He’d managed to get through the wall.

  He prised and hit, used the crowbar as much as he could to dig through the dirt. His hand was protesting, and he spared it as much as he could, did as much as he could one-handed. Mould fell into his hair and eyes. When he bit his jaws together, there was grit crunching between his teeth.

  The hole grew wider as he worked. He’d almost given up on ever reaching the surface when he finally spotted roots. At first, they were rather big ones coming down from Jett’s precious roses, but then there came smaller, thinner ones, too. He was too short to reach. Even when he stood on tiptoes, it was hard to stab through the layer of grass.