Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Playlist
“Lotta True Crime” - Penelope Ward
“Little Girl Gone” - Chinchilla
“Not All Men” - Morgan St Jean
“Women Don’t Owe You Shit” - Aston
“Boys Will Be Boys” - Dua Lipa
“Nightmare” - Halsey
“Knife Under My Pillow” - Maggie Lindmann
CHAPTER ONE
Mari
True crime girlies weren’t supposed to become victims.
That was the rule, wasn’t it?
That was why we devoured every documentary, podcast, and YouTube video.
We consumed that content, poring over the details, committing all the various ways men could torment women to memory in the bone-deep belief that with that knowledge, no one could ever take advantage of us.
We locked our doors and windows. We never sat idling in our cars. We had pepper spray, eye-gougers, strobe-like flashlights, and apps on our phones that would engage with a click and call the cops while recording what was going on.
We never ran with our earbuds in. We parked against the cart return. We never ever went near a van with a sliding door. We walked with confidence and purpose. We faked phone calls. We got loud when men were being inappropriate.
We are aware of our surroundings and we see everyone as a potential threat.
Oh, that nice old man with the walker? Yeah, he could be pulling a Ted Bundy, looking for sympathy, only to toss us into his van, take us to the second location, then rape and murder us.
That sweet guy at the bar with those gooey eyes and charming smile? Yeah, he could easily drop something in our drinks when we turned our heads.
Rapists and murderers didn’t have a look.
It could be the shady dude in a hoodie, or it could be Tommy next door who shoveled our driveway, so we wouldn’t have to do it. It could be our own goddamn boyfriends who we thought we could trust.
It seemed over the top to people who grew up in safer times, or to men who didn’t have to live in fear.
But it all came back to that old adage.
Not all snakes are venomous, but some of them are.
In fact, it was something we understood so acutely as a concept that we had many variations.
Not all dogs bite, but some of them do.
Not all guns are loaded, but some of them are.
Not all 14th-century rats carried the Black Death, but some of them did.
It was only when we were discussing rape that people got all up in arms about women assuming anyone could hurt them.
Not all men.
But enough of them.
So many of them, in fact, that even a dedicated true crime girlie who did everything right, damnit, could still be made a victim.
“Miss Yates?” a voice called, their tone calm and soothing, not wanting to startle the poor, traumatized woman.
I would be resentful if I wasn’t relatively sure that I’d been disassociating long enough to draw concern.
“Yes?” I asked, looking up at the uniformed policeman.
He was attractive.
Tall, fit, with cool blue eyes, and a strong jaw.
But his attractiveness was just a fact, not a personal observation.
Because true crime girls knew another thing.
Police officers were the most likely profession to abuse their spouses. Followed in short order by corrections officers and military men.
Interestingly enough, the fourth position went to nurses. The only position that was mostly dominated by women.
Further down the list, you had wrestlers—especially of the MMA variety—hockey players, and football players. No surprise there. Aggressive professions attracted aggressive men.
Statistics don’t lie.
“Miss Yates?” the officer asked again, making me shake off my swirling thoughts.
Why was I thinking about this crap right now?
“Yes?” I asked, just barely resisting the urge to apologize.
“Detective Vaughn is here to speak to you.”
Right.
Detective Vaughn.
I’d been vaguely aware of someone talking about him. Because this was one of his cases. I had no idea what that meant. And I hadn’t exactly given it much thought as I hugged my blanket tighter around my shoulders.
Someone had brought it to me.
But I couldn’t remember who or when.
Probably the pretty female officer they’d brought in to make me feel less intimidated by the swarms of men around.
Even with its familiar warmth wrapped around me, I felt little shivers coursing through me as the moments stretched on.
I felt oddly in and out of my body at the same time.
I should have been overwhelmed with sensations. Fear, adrenaline, shock, upset, and, yes, pain. There should have been pain.
I couldn’t seem to find those feelings, though. They seemed like they were there, just buried too deep for me to reach.
Maybe I should have been glad for that.
But it was unsettling to feel so… calm.
“Miss Yates?” another voice called.
This was a more pleasant voice. All deep, yet gentle. Masculine in that commanding way, but not aggressive.
From my position on the couch, I was eye level with his gray slacks.
Gray slacks.
Black belt.
Black shoes.
White shirt.
The white shirt didn’t look as pressed as you’d expect from a detective. But it was late. Maybe he wasn’t on duty. They may have called and woken him up to come down here.