Fatal Silence

FATAL SILENCE CAROLYN RIDDER ASPENSON FATAL SILENCE Copyright © 2023 Carolyn Ridder Aspenson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Severn River Publishing www.SevernRiverBooks.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. ISBN: 978-1-64875-321-3 (Paperback) ISBN: 978-1-64875-322-0 (Hardback) CONTENTS Also By Carolyn Ridder Aspenson Special Audible Deal Prologue 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 Chapter 55 Epilogue Also by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson Acknowledgments About Carolyn Ridder Aspenson ALSO BY CAROLYN RIDDER ASPENSON The Rachel Ryder Thriller Series Damaging Secrets Hunted Girl Overkill Countdown Body Count Fatal Silence Deadly Means To find out more about Carolyn Ridder Aspenson and her books, visit severnriverbooks.com/authors/carolyn-ridder-aspenson Click HERE to add Audible Narration of Fatal Silence! For Jack For always believing in me PROLOGUE JULY 4TH Sweat trickled from his temples. His shirt clung to his body. He took no pleasure in fixing other people’s mistakes, but there was no other option. If not found immediately, the atrocious heat and stifling humidity would leave his victim bloated, an invitation for bugs to feast on her remains. That was unacceptable. He needed her perfect, or, given the unfortunate, uncontrollable circumstances, as perfect as possible. They needed to discover her as she was when her heart stopped, glorious in the justice she so deserved. He must be vigilant not to disturb the scene. Transporting her from such a distance had not gone as easily as he’d planned. The unintended struggle wasn’t visible on her remains, but it was on him. He did not like deviations from the plan, but the job was finished. He would address the deviation later. A bee buzzed past. He breathed in and held it. He was allergic and had left his EpiPen in his vehicle for fear he would lose it and leave himself vulnerable. Keeping it on his person was too great a risk. He stilled, holding the girl sitting up steadily on the ground. Her weight grew heavier in his hands as the bee circled around him. He understood the bee well. It could take their lives. Choosing something that was necessary, yet could lead to tragedy, was a risk, but he knew his choice was worthy. He required her to suffer. She was not worthy of life. The pain and suffering she had inflicted upon others were her crimes, and she must pay 1 I waved my hands near my face and grimaced at the oven. It wasn’t, was it? I bit my bottom lip. No, it couldn’t be that. Not with everyone I cared for close by. But it was, and I’d never hear the end of it. The scent seeped into my nostrils. I worried it would permeate into the kitchen walls. Chicken feces stink, the kind ripened in the sun for days, wasn’t the impact I’d wanted to make my first time at Michels’s house. The scalding sun beat down on us. Michels’s had central air, but my sweat slicked anyway. If the heat was the whipped cream on a sundae, the humidity was the cherry on top. The two combined teetered at an unbearable level as sweat built up behind my knees. The environment was already ripe for stench, and the funk penetrating from the oven only made it worse. I cringed. The burned ammonia scent brought back memories of the time Tommy and I had volunteered at a chicken farm. I’d suffered from chicken feces PTSD ever since. And there I was again, in the thick of it. Smoke swirled from the oven. I must have been in shock because I stood there, my feet glued to the ground, watching it billow out and fill the small kitchen with a cloudy odor. The inside of the oven glowed in soft ambers and yellows. Flames. The inside of the oven was on fire. “Crap! Crap! Crap! Michels’s oven. My beans!” I stared at the oven like a mother who’d discovered her child had scribbled across