Everything She Has: A Gripping Unputdownable Psychological Thriller

Everything She Has Alesha Dykema Copyright Copyright © 2023 by Alesha Dykema All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Contents Dedication Fullpage Image 1. Chapter One 2. Chapter Two 3. Chapter Three 4. Chapter Four 5. Chapter Five 6. Chapter Six 7. Chapter Seven 8. Chapter Eight 9. Chapter Nine 10. Chapter Ten 11. Chapter Eleven 12. Chapter Twelve 13. Chapter Thirteen 14. Chapter Fourteen 15. Chapter Fifteen 16. Chapter Sixteen 17. Chapter Seventeen 18. Chapter Eighteen 19. Chapter Nineteen 20. Chapter Twenty 21. Chapter Twenty-One 22. Chapter Twenty-Two 23. Chapter Twenty-Three 24. Chapter Twenty-Four 25. Chapter Twenty-Five 26. Chapter Twenty-Six 27. Chapter Twenty-Seven 28. Chapter Twenty-Eight 29. Chapter Twenty-Nine 30. Chapter Thirty 31. Chapter Thirty-One 32. Chapter Thirty-Two 33. Chapter Thirty-Three 34. Chapter Thirty-Four 35. Chapter Thirty-Five 36. Chapter Thirty-Six Looking for your next thriller? Acknowledgments About the Author Let's Connect! Dedication For Brooks and Ryan <3 Everything I do is for you. Chapter One “When I saw you, I fell in love. And you smiled because you knew.” - Arrigo Boito There isn’t a soul I wouldn’t sell, a person I wouldn’t kill, or a dick I wouldn’t suck to trade places with one of these women. With their perfectly aligned teeth and hair as smooth as the silk pillowcases they sleep on. I slide two plastic cups of coffee, dairy-free milk, and processed sugar across the countertop that is meant to be used as a surface but acts more as a barrier, separating the fortunate from the un. Part of the reason I started working here was to be close to them. As though some of their status and good luck might transfer from their hand to mine in the exchange of their oat milk lattes. “Thank you so much,” says the brunette wearing a dress that likely cost more than my car. I smile, keeping my teeth tucked behind my lips, and nod. “Have a great day.” The woman spins, moving toward the door, and sends a breeze of her shampoo over me. The lemony scent doesn’t mix well with the smells of the café. Coffee, baked goods, and rosemary. I watch her leave and wonder where she will go next. Maybe to work at the university a few miles away? Or the theater? Café Rêvasser is an upscale coffee house with professional bakers, overly trained baristas, and a reputation for being the place to hang out if you’re any kind of artist worth knowing and in downtown Indianapolis. It is the hub of the creatives in the Midwest that have been able to turn their passions into a lucrative career. I only ever intended to work here until my own creative ventures got me to the other side of this counter. I foolishly believed that this place held a kind of magic that could be breathed in, absorbed like two-hundred-dollar moisturizer. But it’s been three years. The only thing this place has ever given me is a subpar paycheck and an expanding waistline, thanks to a never-ending supply of world-class pastries. Not to mention, a crushing realization that not everyone gets what they want. My shift started two hours ago. I miss my night shifts. I must’ve pissed the manager off because he switched me to mornings a couple months ago and never switched me back. I take a sip of espresso while there is a lull in customers, trying to wake up. It’s just about 7 AM and there are already people occupying most of the tables in the café. I watch two women in the far corner gathering up their things to leave. One woman wears a mid-length black dress with heels, her hair perfectly wavy. I wonder what time she has to wake up to look like that this early. I imagine she’s a literary agent meeting with a new author. She’ll rush from here to another meeting on the other side of the city before going home to her doting husband in their two-story home in Meridian Hills. Of course, she could never afford the home on her own salary, but her husband will be an executive at a publishing house, making top dollar so she can pursue her passion. I’m drawn out of my daydreaming by the feeling of eyes on me. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that I’m right. Donna has caught me staring again, and she wears the same irritating expression she always does when I stare off. She follows my line of sight to the women packing up at the table in the corner. I turn away, busying myself with restocking cups because I don’t want to hear it. She tsks and sucks her teeth, the sound of which warms my blood with irritation. “Those folks aren’t nothin’ to worship, Laura.” Attempting to ignore her, I pull another stack of plastic cups from a plastic sleeve, cursing the idiotic do-gooders that think their war on plastic straws makes any kind of difference. Donna doesn’t take the hint and continues lecturing me. “They ain’t perfect. Everyone’s got their shit. Trust me.” I don’t know what makes her think I would trust her with anything other than making a coffee, but I stand and face her with a tight-lipped smile. “I know, Donna. I was just spacing off.” She gives me a look like she knows I’m lying, but she doesn’t know shit. She mistakes my interest in these people for worship. I don’t worship them. I envy them. Donna turns to the back counter, fetching her purse from a cabinet. “I’m gonna grab a smoke while there’s no line. Holler if you need me.” I nod