Guilty Photographs Read online

  Guilty Photographs

  A Thriller

  S.I. Taylor

  For my family and friends

  Thank you for believing in my writing and my vision.

  Love S.I. Taylor

  Contents

  Guilty Photographs

  Disclaimer:

  Also by S.I. Taylor

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Guilty Photographs

  When you finally see their faces, death follows.

  S.I. Taylor

  Guilty Photographs

  © Copyright 2019

  All rights reserved. Except for the use of a book review, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, videotaping, cell phone transmission, physical, handwritten, or otherwise) without the written permission of the book’s author. For permission please contact: [email protected].

  sitaylorwrites.com

  This book is a work of fictional events, story, and characters. All names, characters, story, businesses, places, incidents, and events are the products of the author’s imagination or the resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, fictional characters, lives, story, situation, or events, is coincidental and used in a fictitious manner.

  Published by: S.I. Taylor Publishing

  Edited by: RJ Lockley & Christine LePorte

  Cover Art by: Lance Buckley

  Disclaimer:

  Serious topics are discussed and graphic scenes are described. Adult content and language. This book is not intended to offend or ridicule anyone or intended for readers who are easily offended or are sensitive toward profanity, drug abuse, rape, socioeconomic disparity, or hard subjects. This book contains triggers of rape and abuse.

  Also by S.I. Taylor

  The Scarlet Romance: A Greek Paranormal Series

  Vol I

  Chapter 1

  The white room was cold, but the darkness in her mind swallowed her. In the far distance the pounding of a sledgehammer smashed repeatedly and the more she focused the harder the pounding seemed.

  But there wasn’t any noise. It was her head; a headache was emerging like a thousand sledgehammers were pounding inside. She was more confused than dazed and when her body shivered, her arms instinctively moved in a frantic way to warm her body.

  That’s when she realized that her blouse was torn, exposing her left breast, and her black lace panties were wrapped around her ankle. She was lying on something hard, cold, and wet. She couldn’t comprehend why she wasn’t at home. She propped herself on her elbows on the sticky wet floor and that’s when it hit. The pain, the agonizing pain that was throbbing from her left side. It was a gash; no, it was more of a stab when she looked at it. The room echoed from her scream, but no one cared, no one was coming for her.

  Blood was everywhere. It was her blood. She rubbed her eyes and blinked several times and she felt her muscles tight and constricted. She tried to relax her joints and slowly they became pliable, her hearing was clearer, and her memory crept into her mind, except for the visions of what happened the previous night. Smears of dried blood and purple and blue-green bruises stained her once pristine and healthy skin. Her almost anorexic body ached, and her vagina felt like a train had just run through it.

  Why am I in this situation? Where’s my money? Where’s my keys? Barbara had lost her dignity when she was a young girl, when at least someone had tried to care, but she’d pushed them away. This was what her life had become. This was what she had to deal with. Somehow, she knew that her job had gotten her into this mess. She was sure she needed another job.

  She got on her hands and knees when she couldn’t get up. She scanned around for her sneakers and jeans but all she found were a pair of red discarded heels, her pocketknife, and a purse that lay within grabbing distance. Her brows furrowed in confusion as she tried to decipher why was she wearing heels and her jeans were nowhere in sight.

  She slowly stood and leaned against the wall, leaving a trail of crimson liquid when she reached for the doorknob. Her hazel eyes adjusted to the bright morning sun and her body welcomed the kiss of warmth the sun provided. Wearing only her torn blouse, her heels, and her panties, her purse draped across her body hiding it in shame, she held her side from the wound as she walked. She looked around, orienting herself to her surroundings, and it clicked as if a lightbulb had suddenly lit up shedding some light on her memory. She figured out where she was. She was still in the city of Huntersville but in a worse neighborhood than her own.

  Huntersville, located in the western part of the United States, had been her hometown since she was born twenty-three years ago. She used to live in a good part of town—until drug gangs started to sprout at every corner, bad drug deals turned to shootings, and people kept to themselves, afraid of talking, afraid of pissing the wrong person off, afraid of being the next John or Jane Doe dead in the streets. Those all lured prostitution, drug addicts, and violence to Huntersville. It had all crept in when she was in her early teens and then it had been a normal part of her life shortly after she started high school.

  The few people who were around pretended not to notice her but their eyes peeked at her demise, and that was nothing new to her and her condition was normal to those eyes. No one dared ask questions or offer to help. Instead, they ran back indoors and peered through the blinds or curtains of their small two-bedroom homes. Barbara lived alone, and although it had its perks, it was times like this that she would’ve enjoyed Lori’s help.

  Lori Harrison was, or maybe had been, her best friend. They’d met four years ago in nursing school. Lori was three years older than Barbara, but that hadn’t stopped them from connecting once they met. Lori had a slim body which had become much fuller and voluptuous after she’d had her daughter, Reagan, four years ago. Norland Erickson—that creep—had given her an ultimatum. She either had an abortion or he would leave. She’d denied the abortion and that was when he revealed to her about his five-year marriage. He left without any communication ever since. As if Lori never existed. Sometimes Barbara thought about disappearing but then she’d be in the same mess somewhere else having these very same thoughts. No, she thought, I need to get out of this job and out of Huntersville
.

  But that was not the reason their friendship had become distant. It was the situation Barbara had gotten herself into that had forced her into solitude.

  Barbara still considered Lori a friend. However, Lori would want answers to questions she didn’t want to respond to, which made her appreciate her living situation, as hateful as it sounded.

  She tried to think but the pain overwhelmed her logic. She could hail for a cab but she didn’t have her phone. She could catch the bus but with no money and in her condition, they would take one look at her and drive off. The sun was welcome at first but now the heat was causing the sledgehammer in her head to throb louder and the salty sweat dripping on her wound to sizzle. She was in pain and barely clothed, but she made the long, excruciating journey toward her small efficiency room in Mr. Riley’s basement. She kept her eyes on the cemented sidewalk, avoiding the cracks on the large piece of slab like she used to do when she was younger walking with her dad from school. It was an odd thought at the time but she wanted to think of something to distract her from the pain. The street was still, rather empty, but she walked through the alley to elude anyone who might recognize her. Barbara’s hand glided inside her purse; remembering that her pocketknife was in there gave her a sense of comfort. She would defend herself if whoever had assaulted her followed her to end her life.

  She looked back, relieved to see that no one was around except for the screeching cries of several hungry cats. The cats seemed to be taking turns tormenting her ears. She walked through litter of piled trash. The reek of rotting food and feces crowded her nostrils. She placed a hand over her nose and mouth but the stench was fighting with the little bit of clean air that she tried to filter through her fingers.

  Most of the homes were abandoned and boarded up; a few of those homes became a shelter for homeless people. Others became a safe haven for drug addicts where cheap prostitutes would exchange their bodies for drugs as their payment.

  Barbara finally turned onto Dalesman Street. Just a few houses away from what she thought of as the place she slept, because she didn’t consider it a home. She held on to the gate outside, her vision a haze from the combination of the humidity, pain, and exhaustion.

  She opened the door to the kitchen and tiptoed inside. Barbara realized that school was still in session and Mr. Riley was teaching. That left her three hours to suture her wound, clean the blood trail she’d left through the house, and shower to feel somewhat decent. This living arrangement is beneficial to one party and it is unquestionably not me this month, she thought, reflecting on her life and how she’d ended up here. Being double-crossed for the second time in one month was ridiculous.

  Mr. Riley taught math at Huntersville Senior High, her old high school, which she was glad she’d left once she graduated five years ago. Being a teenager was rough, which she hated, and the things that happened to her at that high school she hated too. And even if she could go back to those days, she would pick her current situation over her terrible teenage years. She had been living in Mr. Riley’s decrepit basement for two years now. He was renting this space and she’d been in desperate need of a place to sleep after she’d been kicked out because she couldn’t afford the home her mother had left in her will.

  She never asked him anything so that he wouldn’t ask her anything. But she noticed things. Like how he was very punctual coming home, he only drank bourbon in the dark, he worked out for an hour at the gym every day, he was extremely clean and organized—borderline obsessive-compulsive—and he was socially awkward. Barbara steered away from him until it was time to pay her rent.

  She grabbed her old tin box with the medical supplies Lori had given her from her clinic years ago. It was the only thing that came close to caring for her, where she was not being manipulated. She slowly peeled off the bloodstained blouse from her body, wrapped it, placed it in a small grocery bag, tied it twice, and threw it in the trash bin to toss out later. She turned the faucet on in the bathroom and watched as the water poured on her hands turned to red and back to clear. She took a small mirror and propped it on the bathroom sink to observe the wound. She must have been in a horrible fight, but she couldn’t remember anything about the previous night. Barbara hadn’t had those episodes since high school and although she should be alarmed, quite frankly, she couldn’t care less. She would rather not relive whatever her mind wanted to keep tucked away.

  The scent of rubbing alcohol brought some comfort. She winced from the sting and noticed the deep gash barely missed her ribcage. She diluted Betadine with water and poured it on her wound, further cleaning it to prevent infection. I’ll get my revenge on that motherfucker somehow, she thought.

  Having Novocain within her medical supplies was a bonus. She took the small clear vial and filled a one-milliliter syringe with the clear liquid. She tested it, making sure there was enough inside to numb the area. She was in an uncomfortable position due to the wound location, so she contorted her body toward her wound to see better.

  She inserted the needle, releasing the numbing agent until it was spread around the wound. While she waited the five minutes it took for the Novocain to take effect, she grabbed the sewing needle and cleaned it with alcohol, looped the nylon thread through the needle, and with one hand pinched the wound together.

  She watched as the once opened flesh meshed together and quickly punctured the needle through her skin, watching it go from one side to the next until it was sealed. Although the procedure did not hurt, the mere fact that the needle was going through her made her skin crawl.

  Barbara’s stitching technique was subpar, and the wound would scar horribly, but that was okay. It would match the other scars scattered around her body from the numerous times she’d had to suture her own wounds.

  She looked like shit in the small bathroom mirror. Her caramel skin was smeared with dried blood, her lips swollen and busted from an apparent punch. She tried hard to remember the last time she’d seen her fucked-up reflection and it wasn’t that long ago. Matthew, her ex-employer, had punched her and he had the pleasure of meeting her knee between his legs and then her foot against his side when he fell. He threatened her but Barbara knew that encounter would be the first and last time she worked for him.

  Not being able to remember the events of the previous night was either a curse or a blessing, but right now she was in pain. She pulled the red wig from her scalp, almost bruising her skin, wondering what kind of job she got herself into that required her to wear a wig. She removed the stocking cap that kept her natural curly hair flat underneath the wig.

  “I need a shower,” she said to herself.

  The water pressure was pathetic at best. It drizzled from the rusted shower head like a leaking faucet. The lather sat on her skin, barely rinsing while leaving scum residue behind.

  “I give up,” Barbara said as she angrily swiped the shower curtain open, got out, and walked to the small white pedestal sink. She filled a small cup with warm water and splashed it on her body until all the soap was removed, making a puddle where she stood. She would’ve enjoyed a bath, but the shower lacked the comfort of a tub. And anyway, she needed to keep the wound dry so a bath wouldn’t be ideal.

  “Fuck, more shit for me to clean,” she mumbled, looking at the puddle on the floor around her feet.

  She winced a little as the thirty-minute numbing window had dissipated, and she placed a clean gauze on her wound. She got dressed in a dark pair of cotton shorts and a white tank top.

  Mount Everest would have seemed like an easier climb than those stairs. But she needed to clean the mess she made to avoid the abusive interrogation later. No matter how calm and patient Mr. Riley appeared to be, a blood trail would open doors to questions and the need for answers.

  Barbara grabbed the bleach from the cleaning supply closet, got on her hands and knees, and commenced the excruciating cleaning. By the end, the bleach fumes permeated the house, suffocating her. Opening the windows should air out the strong scent, she thought. Sh
e walked to each of the four windows in the house, grunting as she used her last bit of strength to slide up the old windows. By the third one, she felt blood seep through the gauze and bright crimson liquid coated her fingertips when she touched her side. She couldn’t stop to tend to her bleeding as her nostrils fought with the strong bleach scent.

  “I need to finish,” she said. And with one forceful push, she lifted the last window and slid to the floor, cradling her bleeding side in pain.

  She dragged herself across the kitchen floor and reached for the counter. She hoisted herself up, looked around, cursed her luck, and made sure that fresh air circulated through the house before she left the kitchen.

  She slowly walked the few steps down to her basement space and changed the gauze on her wound. Then she crawled onto her old mattress and wrapped herself underneath her stained sheets. Her eyelids grew heavy and the horns that blew, the people who walked by, the sirens that blared, and the dog that barked soothed her to sleep. The aches of the previous night screamed for rest that Barbara no longer wanted to ignore.