The Truth About Amber E-Book

Mia Kingsley

• Herausgeber: Black Umbrella Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 99

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Do you trust your memories?   Six years ago, someone bashed in my skull and left me for dead. But I'm not dead. I also don't remember who attacked me or why. My therapists say that's why I feel compelled to work on cold cases and solve long-forgotten mysteries. Working on one of these cases, I meet a tall, dark and handsome stranger. You know the kind your mother warns you about. He says that he knows who I am and that he's willing to share that information with me—for a price that I might not be willing to pay.   This is a dark romance.

Leseprobe

THE TRUTH ABOUT AMBER

MIA KINGSLEY

A DARK ROMANCE

CONTENTS

The Truth About Amber

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

About the Author

THE TRUTH ABOUT AMBER

Do you trust your memories?

Six years ago, someone bashed in my skull and left me for dead. But I'm not dead. I also don't remember who attacked me or why.

My therapists say that's why I feel compelled to work on cold cases and solve long-forgotten mysteries.

Working on one of these cases, I meet a tall, dark and handsome stranger. You know the kind your mother warns you about.

He says that he knows who I am and that he's willing to share that information with me—for a price that I might not be willing to pay.

This is a dark romance.

1

"That's it for today. Tune in next week when we'll talk about the Cedar Falls killings. I'm your host Ramsey Jacoby."

My partner nods at me, and without missing a beat, I add, "And I'm Amber Alderwood. Thanks for listening and goodbye."

Smiling, Ramsey takes off his headphones. "Another one down. I'm already wondering if it'll perform as well as the episode about that serial killer. What was his name again?"

"Stephen C. Hintz."

"Yeah, that's right. What a creepy motherfucker." Ramsey shakes his head and starts gathering his things. Although we share a table during the recording of our weekly podcast, it's mostly littered with his things. Ramsey has a very organized brain that likes to be surrounded by chaos. He has not two, but three mugs on the table, among other knickknacks that we surely don't need to record. I don't mind his mess, though. It's a nice contrast to my need to keep things tidy. I have my tablet and a stylus to take digital notes, and that's basically it. Yeah, there's a lip balm in my bag along with my wallet, phone, and car keys but other than that I don't bring a lot of stuff.

That's probably because I—or should I say–Amber Alderwood doesn't own a lot. It's hard to accumulate "stuff" if you've only been in existence for roughly six years.

Before I can dwell further on my mysterious past, Ramsey puts his hand on mine and squeezes. I have to fight the impulse to pull my hand back as he looks at me like a puppy. "I still don't like the idea of you driving all that way alone."

"It's not that far."

"But the snow." He huffs. "No one in their right minds drives to Minnesota in the middle of winter."

"Come on, buddy. It's already March. It won't be that bad." During the last couple of weeks, I've started to call him "buddy" rather than "Ramsey." It's my way of friend-zoning him. Only I'm afraid he doesn't take the hint too well, or maybe he simply doesn't want to take it.

"The forecast says otherwise. Why won't you let me accompany you?"

"Because it would be boring as hell for you, and I would feel bad about it. You know the drill. I go there, listen to the story, try to get as much information as possible, and as soon as I'm home, I'll write the first draft of the book. It's a lonely profession, to be honest."

"I wouldn't mind waiting for you, Amber." He squeezes my hand a bit tighter and gives me even bigger puppy dog eyes.

I should be frank with him and tell him that I will never get romantically involved with him, but ever since "then" I've avoided confrontation. Not that I even know if I ever was the confrontational type, but I sure as hell am not now.

"No, you stay here and prep everything for next week. Someone needs to be the brains behind our hit show." I get up and pocket my tablet, happy to have an excuse to take my hand away. My skin feels slightly sweaty where he touched me. Not because Ramsey has sweaty hands but because I don't like being touched. At all. It makes me shudder, fills my stomach with dread, and repulses me. I look down to where the nail of my left ring finger had been missing when they found me and wonder how many more therapists I will need to get over this.

Ramsey can't help himself and accompanies me to the door of the little office where we record our episodes. He'll stay a little longer to take care of our emails and to deal with our sponsors and patrons. I used to feel bad about him working these long hours, but writing my books also takes a lot of time, and they've really helped make our show even more popular. We've talked about this, and Ramsey sees managing the stuff behind the scenes as his job. But maybe that's the crush he has on me talking.

He holds the door open for me, and as I turn to him for one last smile, I see him leaning in. I take a step back before he actually kisses me. Staring at his lips, my heart racing, knees weak, I inch back further. I don't like this. Not one bit.

"Bye," I choke, and it's all I manage before I practically flee from the building. Besides the fact that I don't want to be touched–let alone kissed–Ramsey also isn't my type.

Not that I know what type Amber Alderwood actually has. Although I suspect her taste in men might be quite shitty considering that the police consider my attacker to be male—judging by the blunt force he used to bash in my skull before he left me to die.

Unfortunately for him, said skull is way thicker than it appears. Luckily for him though, I don't remember one second of my life before I woke up in a hospital bed in Canada after being in a coma for three weeks.

That was six years ago, and now I make a living by solving cold cases and long-forgotten mysteries. One of my therapists claims that I do this because I can't figure out my own past. No shit, Sherlock. Anyone with half a brain could have figured that one out.

Putting my bag on the passenger seat, I get behind the wheel and start the ignition. It will be a long drive, but I like the solitude.

While leaving the parking garage, I contemplate switching the radio on. Before I can do so, my phone rings. As I answer it, Donna's voice fills my car.

"Are you en route already?" She asks.

"Yes, boss." I smile as I turn on the windshield wipers. Rain is pouring down like the world is about to end.

"Good. This book will really tug on your reader's heartstrings." Donna sounds satisfied, although I haven't even written a single word yet.

"Let me check the story out first, okay?"

She clicks her tongue. "All your stories are great, and this time we're going to make this a national bestseller with all the attention it deserves."

I immediately feel uncomfortable. "Donna, we've talked about this. I don't want to go on TV."

"Why not? Think about all the money, darling."

"I'm also thinking about the fact that someone tried to kill me six years ago, and it isn't exactly the smartest thing to alert that person to how very much alive I am."

I know how this conversation will go down. She will ask why I do the podcast next, and I will explain how the podcast doesn't involve my fucking face, and she will say that six years is a long time.

With a sigh, I grip the steering wheel harder. "I'm sorry, but I have to focus on the road with this weather. Why don't we talk about this when I get back? I'll call you." I hang up. Only a small part of me feels that I've been rude, but Donna really needs to accept my boundaries. The books are already raking in enough money without my face being exposed. I don't intend to change that.

It's not like I'm lying. Someone tried to kill me. And that someone is still out there and thanks to my fucked up brain, I have no idea who or where he/she/they might be.

I take a deep breath, switch on the radio, and focus on the long drive ahead of me. Worrying about ghosts is useless. Almost all of my therapists share the notion that my memory will be triggered one day, and it will all come back to me.

I'm not so sure I want that to happen because I imagine that it most likely will happen should I meet my attacker.

No. If I could choose, I would rather be Amber Alderwood forever. I'm busy enough figuring out other people's secrets, so I don't need to deal with my own.

2

Pine Falls is even smaller than I expected it to be. My last stop before driving to Emmie Cassidy's house is a homely diner serving the most perfect apple pie I have ever eaten. Although, given that my memory includes only six years, that surely isn't saying much.

As I sip the coffee after absolutely demolishing the slice of pie, I read Mrs. Cassidy's letter one last time. It's really tugging at my heartstrings. I've already considered including it in my book about the case of her missing daughter—as long as I determine that her daughter is actually missing.

During my time doing this, I've encountered a lot of people hoping to get donations and time on TV or even a book deal of their own by pretending a loved one is missing. One husband even went as far as killing his wife to make sure she was actually "missing." That's when my career really gained traction because I figured it out while speaking to him. After I said my goodbye, I went straight to the police, and they found her body buried in the woods behind his house.

But this is not the vibe I get from Mrs. Cassidy's letter. She writes very hesitantly about the fact that she never had the best relationship with her daughter, and yet she can't imagine her daughter simply disappearing like she did, leaving her dog Topher behind. The poor animal was nearly starving to death when Mrs. Cassidy went to her daughter's house to check in on her after she didn't respond to calls and text messages.

Mrs. Cassidy is right. I get around a hundred letters per week from all over the country. People of all ages and backgrounds looking for loved ones. But the dog—damn, the dog really got me.

As I get up to leave, I overhear a bunch of locals talking about the bad weather. To be honest, it scares me a little as I thought Minnesotans would shrug this kind of weather off as if it was nothing.

It's currently only two degrees, and the snow seems to be falling faster with every passing minute. The roads have been cleared, but it still slowed me down to the point that I'm currently two hours late. The sun has long set.

I try calling Mrs. Cassidy, but she doesn't answer.

Pulling the beanie further down, I hurry to the car and start the ignition. I use my smartphone to guide me for the rest of the way. The houses get few and far between, and soon only the snow and the long road are visible in the rearview mirror.

It takes me another forty minutes before I reach Mrs. Cassidy's house. There's a huge gate surrounding her property, which seems extensive. It's hard to tell in the dark and with the massive amounts of snow covering everything.