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Lost Man And Laine is a gritty psychological thriller about secrets, betrayal, survival, and a town that buries the truth. Laine, a tough but scarred woman, finds a bloodied, disoriented man near the railway tracks in a storm. He has no memory—only cryptic whispers of blood, a woman, and a knife. She takes him in, but the town soon reveals his name: Daniel Cross, a fugitive accused of murder. Laine doesn’t believe he’s a killer. But someone wants him to take the fall. Her manipulative stepmother, Evelyn, holds the answers— and a deadly ultimatum. "Marry me, and your past disappears." Daniel refuses, and the nightmare begins. People vanish. Figures lurk in the dark. Buried crimes come to light. Then Laine’s best friend is found dead, her throat slashed. The sheriff investigates, and the truth finally surfaces—Evelyn has killed before. But before she can be stopped, she pulls a gun on Laine. Daniel takes the bullet. As he bleeds out, his memory returns. "She set me up from the start." Evelyn flees but falls into the icy river, disappearing like her past victims. No body is found. Daniel dies in Laine’s arms. Trying to move on, she opens a small shop, but the ghosts never leave. One night, as she locks up, she feels eyes on her. A shadow shifts at the end of the street. Then a voice in the wind whispers, "You really think she was the only one?" Because some ghosts never rest. Some monsters never stay buried. And neither does the truth.
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Seitenzahl: 87
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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J. A. Grayson
LOST MAN AND LAINE
A Fugitive Without a Past, A Woman With Nothing to Lose—And a Town That Hides Too Many Secrets
Copyright © 2025 by J. A. Grayson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
J. A. Grayson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
J. A. Grayson has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
First edition
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy Find out more at reedsy.com
Dedication
To those who have ever felt lost in the dark, searching for answers in the silence.
To the forgotten, the unheard, the ones whose stories were buried before they could be told.
This is for the voices that still whisper in the night, for the truths hidden beneath the rain.
And to the ones who dare to listen—this story is yours.
Epigraph
“The night has secrets only the wind dares to carry, whispers only the dark can hold.
Some vanish without a trace, but echoes of their footsteps remain, lingering in the spaces where silence meets shadow.
Every disappearance leaves a question, and every question begs an answer.
But be warned—some truths are buried for a reason, and those who dig too deep may find themselves lost in the very darkness they seek to unravel.”
Contents
Prologue
1. The Drifter In The Storm
2. Shadows Of A Fugitive
3. The Woman In The Mirror
4. The Trap Begins
5. Fragments Of A Nightmare
6. The Deal With The Devil
7. The Proposal That Was Never Meant To Be
8. The Last Night Anyone Saw Claire
9. The Dead Always Return
10. The Sheriff’s Mistake
11. A Killer’s Playground
12. Breaking Out Of Hell
13. The Night Of Reckoning
14. A Life For A Life
15. Some Ghosts Never Rest, Do They?
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by J. A. Grayson
Prologue
chapter-seperatorThe storm had rolled in fast that night, swallowing the sky in thick black clouds, the wind howling through the empty streets of Ashwick like a warning no one wanted to hear.
Laine had always liked storms. They drowned out the noise in her head, gave her an excuse to disappear into the night without anyone questioning where she was going.
But this storm was different.
There was something wrong in the air, something heavy, something that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up as she walked the familiar path along the old railway tracks.
And then she saw him.
At first, he was just a shadow, a crumpled shape barely visible in the flickering glow of a streetlamp.
She almost kept walking.
But then the wind shifted, and she caught the faint, metallic scent of blood.
Her heart kicked up.
She took a step closer, her boots crunching against wet gravel.
The man wasn’t moving.
His clothes were torn, soaked through, dark stains spreading across the fabric. His breathing was ragged, uneven. And when she got close enough to see his face, something inside her twisted.
Because his eyes—wild, desperate, lost—locked onto hers like she was the only thing keeping him from slipping away completely.
Then, a whisper.
“The blood… the woman… the knife… I didn’t do it.”
His voice was rough, cracked from the cold or from something deeper, something worse.
Laine’s stomach coiled.
She had two choices.
Leave him there. Pretend she never saw him. Walk away and let someone else—maybe someone worse—find him first.
Or take him home.
Give him a chance.
Risk everything.
She sighed, rubbing a hand down her face. She already knew what she was going to do.
She always made the stupid choice.
Laine crouched beside him, looping an arm around his waist. “Come on,” she muttered. “You’re not dying on my watch.”
He flinched at her touch, but he didn’t fight. He was too weak.
As she helped him to his feet, she noticed something.
His hands.
They were trembling.
His nails were dark, caked with something thick, something that wasn’t just mud.
Her pulse skipped.
She ignored it.
A good Samaritan, she is?
She would ask questions later.
For now, she just needed to get him out of the storm.
Because something told her this man wasn’t just lost.
He was running from something.
And now, whatever he was running from… was coming for them both.
One
The Drifter In The Storm
chapter-seperatorThe storm had been raging for hours, the wind howling through the narrow streets of Ashwick like some kind of wild, desperate animal. Rain came down in thick sheets, soaking everything, turning the dirt roads into a slick, muddy mess. The kind of night that kept people locked indoors, huddled under blankets, listening to the storm batter against their windows.
But Laine wasn’t like most people.
She had always felt more at home in the storm than she did inside, where the walls felt too close, the air too thick with memories she wanted to forget. So, while the rest of Ashwick stayed dry, she pulled up the hood of her jacket and walked.
She had no real destination, just the need to move. It was something she did often when her thoughts got too loud, when the past clawed its way back into her mind and refused to let go. The storm made it easier to drown everything out—the wind roaring in her ears, the rain slapping against her face.
She was about to turn back when she saw it.
A figure, barely visible in the darkness, collapsed near the old railway tracks.
At first, she thought it was just another trick of the storm—shadows shifting in the rain, her eyes playing games with her. But then a gust of wind cleared her vision, and there he was.
A man.
Lying on his side, barely moving. His clothes were soaked through, torn in places, and even in the dim light, she could see the blood. It ran down the side of his face, mixed with rain, turning the ground beneath him a deep, ugly red.
Laine hesitated for only a second before rushing forward.
“Hey!” she called over the wind, but there was no response. She crouched beside him, her hands already reaching for his shoulder. “Hey, can you hear me?”
The man flinched at her touch. His eyes—wild and unfocused—fluttered open.
For a moment, he just stared at her. There was something deeply unsettling about the way he looked at her, like he was trying to place her, trying to decide if she was real or not.
Then, finally, a whisper.
“Help…”
His voice was hoarse, barely audible over the storm. His lips were cracked, his skin cold to the touch. He was in bad shape.
Laine didn’t waste any more time. She slid an arm under his and pulled, but he was dead weight.
“You need to help me here,” she said, gritting her teeth. “I can’t carry you.”
The man groaned, his head lolling forward, but after a few seconds, he forced himself up. It was slow, unsteady, but enough for her to get him onto his feet.
“Come on,” she urged, guiding him away from the tracks.
His body swayed against hers as they moved, and she could feel how weak he was—every step a struggle, every breath labored.
The walk back to her house wasn’t far, but in the storm, with him barely able to stand, it felt like miles. By the time they reached her front porch, her own legs were shaking from the effort.
She pushed the door open and pulled him inside.
He collapsed onto the floor the moment they crossed the threshold.
Laine kicked the door shut and turned on the lights. Finally, she got a good look at him.
The man was young, maybe in his early thirties. Dark hair, sharp features, but there was something off about him. Something broken. His clothes were expensive once, but now they were shredded, his shirt stained with blood and dirt. There was a nasty gash on his forehead, the skin split open just above his eyebrow.
But what caught her attention the most were his hands.
His knuckles were raw, his fingers trembling, his nails caked with something dark. Something that looked too thick to be just mud.
“Jesus,” she muttered under her breath.
She grabbed a towel and crouched beside him. “Hey, you still with me?”
His eyes opened, just barely. They were a deep, stormy blue, but they weren’t focused.
“You’re hurt,” she said, pressing the towel to his forehead. “Do you remember what happened?”
Silence.
Then, a whisper.
“The blood…”
Laine froze.
He wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was staring past her, his breathing uneven, his fingers twitching.
“The woman…” His voice was low, hollow, like he wasn’t really there anymore. “The knife…”
Laine felt a cold shiver run down her spine.
“I didn’t do it.”
His voice cracked on the last word, his entire body shuddering like the memory of whatever happened was too much for him to bear.
Laine swallowed hard.
She had no idea who this man was, where he had come from, or what had happened before she found him.
But one thing was clear.
Someone had bled tonight.
