Go For Broke

NO MIDDLE GROUND

Cady Blackwell is a victim of her own bad judgment: dating the biggest losers, attracting a stalker, and unknowingly accepting a job that’s gotta be illegal.

She can’t quit until she finds a way to protect herself from being framed for her bosses’ crimes, plus she wants to stay alive and out of prison.

But nothing’s easy when she’s distracted by a charming financier and a f-boy detective. She’s in way over her head, and she’s fighting for her life.

Her only chance for survival is to put her faith in the instincts she stopped trusting long ago.

It’s time to go for broke, which will either save her or cost her everything.

GO FOR BROKE

Daisy Knox

www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

GO FOR BROKE

Copyright © 2021 Daisy Knox

All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

ISBN: 978-1-953810-78-6

E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

To my awesome husband who has supported me every step of the way and has helped make my dreams come true

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’m so grateful to everyone who helped me put Cady and Zack’s story out into the world. Thank you to my editor, Susan Stones, for her wisdom, insight and infinite patience with all of my rookie mistakes. To Boroughs Publishing Group for giving me this opportunity, for the formatting, cover design, marketing, and all the hard work that goes into production.

This would not have been possible without the support of my family, especially Mr. Knox. He’s read this story more times than I can count and been my biggest cheerleader. I’m so thankful for my besties, Charlene Juratovic and Donna Lynch for being the greatest beta readers ever and giving me constant encouragement. Thank you to all of my friends and family for your excitement and support, especially Baby Knox with his constant pep talks even though he’s too young to read this book any time soon.

CONTENTS

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

Playlist

About the Author

GO FOR BROKE

Chapter 1

Cady

The phone rings and I tense. The prospect of answering fills me with dread, but not knowing who’s on the other end is worse. When I pick up, the initial silence gives way to raspy panting.

You’ll pay, barks the now familiar voice. You’ll be sorry when—

Leave me the fuck alone, I choke out before disconnecting.

I’m more angry than frightened. The caller must be one of the countless people cheated by my current employer, Allen Brothers Construction. The calls started a few weeks ago, becoming increasingly menacing. They began with breathing and mumbling, and evolved into insults and threats.

Months ago, I was on top of the world with a promising new job and about to buy a home. Everything was new and exciting as spring melted into summer. But by the time the leaves began changing, something felt off. The owners were always reducing payments to subcontractors and vendors, even while billing owners for extra work. At first, I suspected good old-fashioned incompetence and vowed to find a new job after the holidays. The tapestry of my life began unraveling without warning on a bitter gray winter day when I started to suspect the owners were intentionally committing fraud.

Days later, I began receiving angry calls on my personal phone and emails in the office from angry vendors and subs. I figure they managed to get access to our internal phone list and that’s how they reach me on my cell. I’ve complained to Admin they were too lax in leaving them lying aroundall over the office and even on job sites.

What a way to start the new year—terrified and stressed.

No rational person blames the powerless office drone, but desperate people aren’t rational. I’m the face of the company to the people Allen Brothers cheated. I’m the one making excuses for short payments, late payments, and illegal contract modifications. It’s more infuriating than alarming, but my anxiety’s worse than ever.

These calls are symbolic of my entire life. I was the kid who got bullied for following the rules and being too nice to stand up for myself. Basically, I was the quintessential doormat. Everyone expects to leave all those problems behind as an adult, but no such luck. Now I have to put up with crazy people invading my privacy. A terrifying thought struck me.

Have I got an actual stalker? Maybe this isn’t about the company.

I’m watching the news on TV and hear five people were murdered a block away from my house. Holy crap. Those things don’t happen to the people in my quiet suburb. Home invasions are rare and usually involve drug dealers, not strangers creeping into homes in the night to slaughter children in their beds.

Pittsburgh’s more like a small town than a city, with little violent crime. This is big news. The crime buff in me is captivated by the story when a reporter asks if it’s related to a string of unsolved rapes in the city. The detective says they haven’t confirmed or ruled out a connection.

That’s a hell of an escalation to go from attacking lone women on deserted streets to breaking into a house and murdering a family as they sleep.

My inner sleuth is already on the case, but the next question for the detective stops me cold. The victims complained of missing packages and harassing phone calls in the weeks leading up to the murders.

Reporter: Were they being harassed or were they targeted?

We’re looking at everything right now. Nothing is off the table, another detective says.

The edges of my vision darken, the room starts spinning as fear spikes in my chest. A tight band of panic squeezes my heart as the implications hit me. Women walking dogs are being raped, and a murdered family received harassing calls before getting butchered in their home a block from mine.

I spend lots of time walking my dog near the murder scene and get creepy calls. Nobody’s targeting me. Don’t be ridiculous. My mind is racing and I struggle to slow my breathing. You’re a paranoid crime junkie. Don’t be crazy. It’s a love triangle or something like it. Nobody will murder you. Now open the door and go to work.

I’ve always assumed my death will be hilariously humiliating, like driving into a tunnel painted on the side of a mountain, but now I’m scared.

No, scared is too mild.

I’m terrified.

***

Walking into the office feels like a long march along death row to Old Sparky.

Cady. Thank God you’re alive. Abby, our bubbly, blonde receptionist, and one of my best friends, crushes my ribs in a tackle-hug that rivals one by an NFL lineman. She’s shorter than me, but feisty. She nearly knocks me off my feet. I was afraid the murderer made other stops in the neighborhood. Lana, the third in our BFF triad, trudges through the door with a scowl and I understand why moments later when Pete Allen, one of the owners, comes bounding in with all the joy and energy of a puppy.

Good morning, ladies. Lana, you must’ve been in a real hurry this morning, almost running me over in the parking lot. Glad you’re so eager to be here, but we need more lighting out there.

Lana responds with a sullen yeah, and I turn away to hide a giggle knowing Lana saw Pete. There are no lighting issues.

The office pool has four-to-one odds she’ll run him over before leaving, and Friday’s her last day. Things are getting interesting. We chat briefly with Pete, but I can’t rush to my desk quick enough to check the news.

Every story has the same recycled facts, but I’m rewarded with a few additional details after an hour of near-constant clicking. The police are looking at all angles and although they’re careful not to say it’s a stranger crime, the facts seem to insinuate it is.

The aficionado in me knows random crimes are tougher to solve, which makes them even more chilling. Even Mom gets in on the act, calling to suggest I break my lease and come home, but I calm her. She isn’t thrilled, but accepts my decision. Before she rings off, she asks, as always, whether I have a boyfriend yet. I mumble something non-committal and put down the phone.

In truth? My love life’s no better than my career. About six months ago, I imposed a moratorium on dating and it’s been a relief. Except now I’m starting to worry I’ll never have a real connection with anyone, friend or lover. The no-dating break helped me realize the circus of my love life was incredibly tedious. I miss sex, though. Which led me into the arms of a sexy stranger last fall—my only one-night-stand ever.

I expected to look back on it like meh, but it was phenomenal. He gave me more orgasms in one night than I’ve had in entire relationships. Zack was sex incarnate. Gorgeous and funny, with deep brown eyes that seemed to peer into my soul. He ravished me and made love to me, and everything in between. I had no idea sex could be that good.

There was something familiar about him that put me at ease. He said repeatedly we should see each other again so I was sure I’d hear from him, but he never called and the dick gave me a fake number.

Sometimes it’s like he was a figment of my imagination. The only proof he was real is the shirt I took from him.

Sue me. I wanted some memory of the man who’d rocked my world.

***

At work there’s non-stop chatter about the murders, and while everyone engages in morbid fascination, I’m panicking, telling myself there’s no connection while obsessing over the parallels.

I’m over-reacting, but I email the police for peace of mind. A detective calls to ask questions: Do I frequent a particular yoga studio? Do I have children at a specific school? Have I ever used this plumbing company, and so on, checking for connections between me and the victims. Finding none, he dismisses my problem as work-related. He tells me to change numbers, and if the calls continue, it’s someone close and may be a stalking case. If not: problem solved.

He’s probably right, yet I can’t let it go. I, mean, why would a murderer be after me? I can’t think of one reason.

The facts about the murders are slim despite the police press conferences. The most informative reporting comes from The Pittsburgh Press, and most of the articles are written by a guy called Daniel Abbott. A quick search shows he’s the crime reporter and has a fascinating crime blog. I’m a captive audience, and my morning is consumed. The writing’s fantastic and the blog is addictive. I consider calling, but worry he’ll think I’m a nut.

Maybe I am.

***

After immersing myself in the blog for a couple of days, it’s easy to see how he became a reporter. He’s from Spokane and started the blog in college. The area is rife with serial killers, but the bio says he was inspired by a particularly grisly case. He covered countless cases, all with lengthy, detailed posts, then quit five years later. Despite lots of interaction with readers, and teasers about a big story, the blog ends, which is disappointing, but understandable since it’s a college blog.

I have to contact him. Who cares if some stranger thinks I’m insane? There’s no other way to get more information, and I need to find out what’s going on. I don’t believe in coincidence, and there are too many similarities between the murders and my life. I compose a short email to Abbott. Maybe his police contacts will take an interest or share details, which might relieve my fears. That’s if he responds.

I press Send.

An hour later the phone rings. Daniel Abbott wastes no time introducing himself and suggests we meet. I recommend a popular bar where I’ll feel safe.

Things at the office are scary since I’m positive my job’s not exactly legal, but at least there are distractions. When quitting time rolls around, we’re forced to run a gauntlet past Pete’s office and the various managers to reach the front door.

Leaving already? This is Pete’s usual goodbye.

Not to be outdone, his pet is always there to call out, "Done so soon? But it’s only five o’clock." I’d like to use Dave’s big shiny bald head as a paintball target.

Thanks, Dave. I was checking the time to make sure I’m not late, I call out as I leave.

No matter I’d started early and worked through lunch, my status as a team player is always in question.

I often wonder how Pete Allen and his brother Bob sleep at night. But they’ve got money falling out of their asses when they sneeze and they always seem well-rested. Clearly, they don’t struggle with ethics or morals.

The bar’s only two blocks away, but the winter night is brutal. There’s no other foot traffic, but rush hour’s going strong. Headlights bouncing off the wet, frosty pavement are a slight comfort as I climb the hill, moving quickly past each dark alley.

A handsome mid-twenties lad holds open the bar door, flashing a friendly smile as I thank him. The warmth of the dark little pub is salvation. The jukebox is blasting Johnny Cash, and the place feels like home despite the years that’ve passed. Small booths line the wall to my right and the bar to my left runs the length of the narrow room, stopping short of the entrance to create a small alcove crammed with two small booths and two tiny tables.

Daniel’s recognizable from his byline image. He’s seated in the alcove far enough from the bar to afford privacy. He’s around thirty, but seems older. The guy looks haunted, as though some great trouble robs him of all peace. His most notable feature is dire exhaustion, but he’s probably handsome when he smiles. The rumpled shirt and choppy locks of sandy blond hair underscore the tension in his mannerisms and he gives off a nervous buzz. I introduce myself then greet Jeff, a bartender I’ve known for years. With a Molson Canadian to steel my nerves, I sit and Daniel gets right to the point.

Why did you contact me?

You reported the victims received weird calls and you know more than the cops are releasing. I want details. I pause. Should I ignore the calls or go into hiding?

"I understand your concerns and the police weren’t helpful, but out of all the reporters, why me?" The accusatory tone makes me bristle. My biggest reservation coming here was he could be dangerous, but he’s insinuating I’m the nut. Which I half expected.

Your stories were detailed, and a search led me to your blog. Surprise flickers across his face, but he quickly hides it by staring down into his scotch or whiskey. You care about more than reporting a story and seem to have insight into what the victims’ experience.

I doubt I can help. He sounded and acted different on the phone. Although he wasn’t eager or warm, he seemed willing to help and there was no impatience or hostility.

Well, it’s worth a try. I need to decide if the calls I’m receiving are a genuine threat or are from harmless crackpots.

It’s a valid question, but I don’t know if there’s a connection. My sources aren’t talking about the calls, so they may be important.

The police were dismissive. I hope to change their minds to put mine at ease.

What do you know about the Tacoma housewife murders? His voice is sharp and I’m at a loss. That must’ve been one of the boring cases on the blog because it doesn’t sound familiar.

Never heard of them.

Don’t bullshit me. Who put you up to this?

Stunned by his ferocity, I’m offended. "Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t appreciate your tone. I need information on this crime, or for you to share my details with investigators if you think I’m in danger. That’s it. Sorry to have bothered you." He doesn’t meet my gaze as I grab my coat. Jeff seems to’ve noticed my agitation, and he’s watching us closely. I wave like everything’s fine, although I don’t think it is.

Wait. Please. I’m sorry. Daniel drums his fingers, taking a deep breath before saying, Don’t go. This is getting weird. He has two minutes to make sense or I’m gone. There were three similar murders in Tacoma in three years. In those cases, the adult female was home alone. His tone is grim.

A serial killer crossed the country to murder an entire family? Unease trickles down my spine. That’s a long-distance and a drastically different crime.

Those cases are closed. A man was sentenced to death, but capital punishment’s been outlawed there so it was commuted to three life sentences with no chance of parole.

I’m still confused. It’s a copycat?

No, it’s the same killer. Tacoma has the wrong guy.

He was convicted. Why do you think—

I know he’s innocent because he’s my brother.

The silence stretches between us as I absorb his shocking words.

He continues, his jaw tense. He didn’t kill anyone, especially not Grace. My sister-in-law was the third victim. He speaks with quiet finality, signaling these facts aren’t up for debate.

Obsession masquerading as love is often the motive in crimes of passion. Now I know how Daniel got into being a crime reporter.

He sighs, and drains his drink in one fast gulp. Trust me, I’m not crazy. I sound crazy, but I’m not. I’m not drunk either. This is my first drink in eighteen months. The declaration doesn’t inspire confidence. "There’s a serial killer, I’m sure of it. When I was thirteen, our parents died. My brother Brandon and his wife Grace raised me. Sloppy investigative work and bad luck put him away. I’ve spent years trying to free him. There were similar murders in other states they can’t blame him for. People say I’m obsessed. I lost my job and started drinking. Everyone thinks I’m too loyal to see the truth. But I know Brandon’s innocent."

I’m not sure what I expected when I arranged to meet Daniel, but it wasn’t this. My head’s spinning with questions and he’s not finished.

I recognize this killer and when I read your email, I wanted to help because you may be in danger. Look. He shoves a sheet of paper across the table.

Enjoy your meeting at the bar tonight. Are you sure you know who you can trust?

Chapter 2

Cady

Holy crap.

This email came via Proton mail through TOR, so it’s anonymous. After spending an hour with my laptop, the paper’s IT guy discovered whoever sent this also hacked me.

Someone’s spying on you and referenced this meeting, and now you’re suspicious of me. A frightening thought strikes. Does he know who I am now? I’m beginning to get panicked.

Daniel looks grim. They said he hacked my cloud and could only see the calendar, but it’s only your first name on there, nothing else.

But he knows we’re meeting. He could be here right now. Or waiting outside—

No. Daniel shakes his head. No way.

It could be anyone. I fling a hand out at the crowd.

He’s adamant the killer leaves town after the murders since he can taunt Daniel from anywhere, but I’m not convinced. Were there other suspects? Someone has lots to lose if your brother’s exonerated.

Yeah, the killer. The bastard’s been gaslighting me since I started defending Brandon, undermining me at every turn. So many things make sense. Like emails I sent when I was blackout drunk. He shakes his head. When I moved to Sioux City, murders fitting the profile occurred in Cedar Rapids, the suburbs of Wichita, and Sioux Falls. I reported on every case. It was him.

He seems like a raving madman, but what if he’s right and nobody’s listening? People will die. Why target you?

Nobody else believes he exists, and I have evidence. He’s an apex predator and I’m the only threat in his world. He gives a defeated shrug.

If you have evidence, why don’t the police care?

The cases are in various jurisdictions. Most departments investigating one case don’t know the others exist. When I ‘share’ it doesn’t go over well. Ever try telling the police they’re wrong? They’re not receptive.

Isn’t there a task force or federal agency willing to consider the evidence? Can’t one of your contacts put you in touch with someone? If they give the evidence a chance, they’ll come to the same conclusion, right?

Daniel sighs. Three months ago, I had a chance meeting with a retired Pittsburgh homicide captain and he agreed I’m on to something. Not necessarily a multi-state serial killer with a body count in the thirties, but he agreed it begs for closer inspection and got me a meeting with the FBI. None of this counts as evidence coming from me since they deem me compromised."

I nod, seeing the quandary. Evidence has to be objective. Daniel showing the facts of similar murders doesn’t mean anything. It’s compelling, but circumstantial, and not actionable. That makes this more believable. The