The Stepfather

THE STEPFATHER THEO BAXTER Published by Inkubator Books www.inkubatorbooks.com Copyright © 2023 by Theo Baxter Theo Baxter has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work. ISBN (eBook): 978-1-83756-140-7 ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-83756-141-4 ISBN (Hardback): 978-1-83756-142-1 THE STEPFATHER is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. CONTENTS Inkubator Books 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 Inkubator Newsletter Thank You For Reading About the Author THE WIDOW’S SECRET Also by Theo Baxter JOIN THE INKUBATOR MAILING LIST You will be the first to learn about new releases plus the many FREE and discounted Kindle books we offer! bit.ly/3dOTSW2 1 DAMON The sun was shining too brightly, entering the car through the windshield at an almost blinding angle. Damon tried to reach for his glove compartment with his right hand while maintaining the course with his left. As he turned onto Oak Street, he managed to fish out his sunglasses. He felt much better with his shades on. It was a bit strange, but he hated the sun. The brightness, the heat, it was all too overwhelming for him, especially after his last tour in Afghanistan. It didn’t matter that Chicago looked nothing like the places he had been stationed while overseas. The scorching gold ball of gas was the same, taking him back to that hell in an instant. Every time he felt it on his skin, Damon started to feel odd. You got out; you’re not a soldier anymore, he tried to reason with himself while sweating and squeezing the wheel as though his life depended on it. The pep talks sometimes helped, sometimes not. It was a constant gamble. As his heart raced as though he were in the middle of a fight, pumping his system with adrenaline, he glanced toward the dashboard where he’d taped a photo of his daughter, Connie. She was the sole reason for his existence. You came back for her. That did the trick, and he managed to reach his destination without completely freaking out. He hated this shit. Although he wasn’t the first or the last soldier to have to deal with this, it still didn’t make him feel any better. Parking in front of his doctor’s office, he tried to banish all thoughts of war from his head. He knew Dr. Weldon would find some other painful, traumatic event from his life to talk about. Therapy was fun in that way. Dr. Nathaniel Weldon, a brilliant man in his sixties, was the therapist Damon had started seeing in secret after the divorce from his wife, Madelyne. The divorce wasn’t his idea, and it deeply affected him. While being overseas, fighting and surviving for a living, the only thing that had kept him going was the thought of home and his family. Once he lost that, Damon completely fell apart. A part of him couldn’t fully believe that he’d actually done something like this—sought help. It was so not him. He was the one who helped, not the other way around. At the same time, he was more than aware of what the alternative would look like. He’d lost a lot of friends, good people, to this disease. A bullet through his head wasn’t an option. He needed to stay alive. For Connie. Reluctantly, he left the comfort of his car and crossed a small street to reach the residential building where his therapist had his private practice. Thankfully, he was all alone in the waiting room. There was nothing worse than meeting someone at your therapist’s office and wondering what his brand of madness was, as he did the same to you. The waiting room, much like his office, was decorated in neutral colors. Damon was certain that was done on purpose, to project calm emotions and tranquility to its visitors. It didn’t help. He was anything but calm. On top of that, Damon felt slightly nauseous. That happened every time. He would much rather be on some sandy road, trying to defuse a mine, than be here. That was a lie, of course. Since he was the first patient of the day, Damon walked right in and greeted the doctor. Dr. Weldon looked pristine, like always, clean-shaven, with perfectly trimmed, cottony hair. He was small and chubby with age. He was always dressed in pressed pants with matching shirts that were topped with vests. That always made Damon feel slightly underdressed, coming in his faded jeans and black T-shirts. At the same time, it wasn’t like he owned anything else. He had one suit that he’d worn on the day of his wedding, and that was all. “Have you spoken with Madelyne recently?” the therapist asked almost right away, as though sensing that was something he struggled with the most. Dr. Weldon was good like that. Also, he didn’t believe in small talk, so they always dove right in as soon as Damon settled on the couch. Damon shook his head. “No. I saw her last weekend when I went to pick Connie up. I waved, but she returned to the house without acknowledging my presence in any way.” Being no idiot, Damon knew it was due to the fact that they’d had a loud screaming match over the phone the day before. It still felt wrong, hard,