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  All That Sparkles

  All that Sparkles is the story of twenty-four-year-old Ellie Carter, a smart, funny, blue-collar plant worker whose innocent night of fun with friends turns deadly when she witnesses a gruesome murder. Unfortunately, the body disappears, along with the killer, before police arrive.

  As Ellie cooperates with police and detectives to try and solve the mystery, she learns that the only person she can truly trust is the man she believes was sent to kill her. A love triangle between Ellie, Detective Danny Logan, and attorney Cal Stone not only reveals Ellie’s deepest, darkest sexual fantasies, but also a cold-blooded killer.

  Ellie Carter is an appealing heroine with whom most people can easily identify. She is the girl next door or, perhaps, the one we see in the mirror every day. And if she can find true love, then there’s hope for all of us.

  Genre: Contemporary, Romantic Suspense

  Length: 62,577 words

  ALL THAT SPARKLES

  D. Morrissey

  

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  ALL THAT SPARKLES

  Copyright © 2017 by D. Morrissey

  ISBN: 978-1-64010-349-8

  First Publication: May 2017

  Cover design by Harris Channing

  All art and logo copyright © 2017 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

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  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Wife, mother, and avid animal lover D. Morrissey is an English major from Arkansas, which many people believe is an oxymoron. Her beta readers include a German shepherd and two cats, and her biggest fan is a turtle named Squirt. When she’s not reading, she writes books herself.

  For all titles by D. Morrissey, please visit

  www.bookstrand.com/d-morrissey

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Landmarks

  Cover

  ALL THAT SPARKLES

  D. MORRISSEY

  Copyright © 2017

  Chapter One

  Slowly, I turn my gaze to the curvy, slightly intoxicated, melodramatic trollop standing next to me, my eyes narrowing to a bare squint, and I level such a stare at her that Chuck Norris might even wilt beneath it. “Let me be very clear.” I stand up straighter for effect, wagging my index finger to drive home my point. “I do not flit. I have never flitted. And, I have no intention of flitting in the future.”

  “Girl, spare me. You flit all the time. Your name should be Ellie Flitter instead of Ellie Carter.” She laughs.

  What? I so do not flit!

  I move my shocked, possibly somewhat inebriated glance toward my ‘real’ friend, Rachael, who is listening passively while she scours the crowded, noisy club for any sign of a table opening up.

  “Rachael!” I shout over the terrible techno-funky music that plays whenever the band takes a break.

  “I hear you,” she replies irritably before abandoning her fruitless search and turning her attention back to us. “I’m sorry,” she says without conviction. “But I have to agree with Misty on this one. You do flit.”

  Misty puckers her voluptuous lips and nods victoriously as she raises her apple martini in a mock toast. “Told ya!”

  Hmph. I take another sip of the nameless, and tasteless, house merlot that the bartender shoved at me, and I ponder this unwelcomed revelation. I’ve never thought of myself as a flitter-er before. I’m generally not very tightly wound, like I would imagine a flitter-er to be. I’m more relaxed by nature, more laid back. But the jury has spoken. So, I guess it must be so. I shrug and then slam down the rest of my mystery wine with a final gulp.

  “Well, if you guys will excuse me, I’m going to flit to the ladies room now.” I giggle because I think I’m really funny when I’m drunk. I only manage a couple of steps, though, before I have to pause and steady myself against Misty’s chair.

  “Whoa, there, Sugar Plum! I don’t think you’re fit to flit anywhere right now. Do you need some help?”

  “I told you to eat something!” Rachael chimes in. I get funny, but she always gets bitchy when we drink. “You’re wasted already. And, it’s only ten thirty.”

  “I am not wasted!” I argue, though I’m pretty sure she’s right. “And, if you must know, I was waiting on a table so we could all order something together,” I add, a bit pouty.

  “There’s one!” Rachael shouts with such enthusiasm and excitement it makes me jump. I watch as she bounds toward a small table in the back pointing and calling out, “Mine! Oh! That’s mine!” Other patrons look at her like she’s crazy, but I laugh because she reminds of the seagulls in Finding Nemo.

  “Well, I guess we’re moving to a table now.” Misty rolls her head toward the restrooms. “Go ahead and I’ll take our stuff on over.”

  “Thank you.” I smile back, sincerely this time, and somewhat amazed that she hasn’t already ditched us for a man, which is her usual modus of operandi. I know it’s not from their lack of trying, as we’ve had a parade of horny guys following us around all night. Still, all things considered, and despite being a shameless ho, Misty really is a great friend. I get the overwhelming urge to hug her, because I think I’m really deep and introspective when I’m drunk.

  I shake my head and the urge passes, so I wander off toward the restrooms, trying really hard to walk in a straight line. Unfortunately, halfway there, I accept the fact that Rachael was right. I’m about three sheets to the wind, crocked, bashed, whatever you want to call it. I take a quick time-out, leaning my butt against a pool table to gather my wits.

  “Hey! Do you mind?” A huge, hairy ass of a man glares at me as if I just stepped in between him and an NFL playoff game.

  “Oh! Sorry.” I stand up quickly and back away, my hands in front of me to ward off his evil voodoo. He shakes his head and grabs the chalk from the side of the table. Ass munch!

  I decide to get the hell out of there while I still can, but not before I snag one of the other pool
sticks leaning idly against the wall. No one seems to notice, so I continue on to the ladies room using the stolen stick to steady myself.

  I feel a bit like Gandalf as I wind through the masses with my powerful staff, but it’s not long before the room begins to spin and I get the distinct feeling I’m going to be sick, upchuck, hurl, whatever you want to call it, very un-Gandalf-like. Abandoning any thoughts of appearing wise or wizardly, or clear or sober for that matter, I quicken my pace to the loo.

  Unfortunately, my heart sinks when I round the final corner and see an endless line of women waiting for the restroom, some chatting conspiratorially, others ogling their cell phones, and still more just standing around looking generally irritated. This is bad. I can’t wait.

  I turn around, my eyes searching desperately for the nearest exit before settling on a door in the very back marked ‘Emergency Exit’. I hesitate, considering. Yes. I would call this an emergency.

  Zig-zagging through throngs of happy, chatty people, several tables, and a couple who look like they need to get a room, which I would have stayed to watch had it not been for my gastric distress, I finally reach the exit. I hesitate with my hand on the bar, expecting to set off a quartet of alarms. Oh well, it can’t be helped. I screw my eyes shut, mentally preparing for the blast of sirens or the onset of National Guard soldiers as I push against the door. To my surprise, it opens easily and I stumble outside, dragging Gandalf’s staff behind me. No alarms. No soldiers. No problems!

  But then the door clangs firmly closed behind me, confirming that I have effectively locked myself out. Standing alone now in the dark, deserted alley, I look around and find that I’m surrounded by a long row of trash bins and a few empty cars parked alongside the building. Not a soul in sight, which either makes me feel better or more nervous—I can’t decide which.

  Still, the crisp October air is sobering and the nausea seems to have passed. That’s at least one thing in my favor, although I’m wishing I had worn a shirt with sleeves and worse yet, I still need to pee.

  After a few deep breaths, I head grudgingly back toward the front of the building, debating whether I should duck between a couple of trash bins and relieve myself before I get there. As tempting as it is, I decide it would definitely be in bad taste, not to mention cold on my private parts. So, with only a quarter moon and a few far-off night lights to guide my way, I keep trudging.

  As I half-walk, half-stumble down the narrow lane, something sparkly catches my eye and I almost get whiplash turning to see. Nothing there but an empty car. I sigh as I consider the odds of being raped and murdered, or vice versa. And, as if the universe feels compelled to screw with me, I hear voices.

  “No.” She pleads. “Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.” The desperation in her voice is heart-wrenching.

  “You’re wrong,” a man says. “I do have to. What did you think was going to happen? That you’d just skip off into the sunset and leave me standing here with my dick in my hand?”

  “I’m sorry. Please don’t.” She sobs, and then all hell breaks loose.

  What the fuck? I’m stone cold sober now, my fight-or-flight instincts flopping around like a crappie on a hook, but providing me with no clear recourse. I am riveted to the pavement, frozen, as a multitude of possible options run through my head. I can’t go back for help, door closed and locked behind me. I can’t call for help, my phone and purse are inside with Misty and Rachael. I don’t have a gun or any wicked judo skills that I can deploy. Thoughts of Lucy Liu dance briefly through my head.

  A blood-curdling scream snaps me out of my funk and my body finally takes control since my jumbled thoughts can’t seem to come to a clear consensus. And, without any further consideration, I charge blindly toward the sound of the struggling couple.

  I see the woman first, her body slowly sinking, slumped unnaturally against one of the larger bins. Then, the man steps out from the shadows, hulking over her as he grunts, plunging a knife in and out of her chest, her shoulders, her neck, and her face until finally, she collapses into a lifeless heap on the ground. Oh God. I’m too late.

  It’s undoubtedly the most horrific sight I’ve ever witnessed and it seems to be unfolding in slow-motion right in front of me. All I can do is hold my breath and stare until, suddenly, he turns toward me, and our eyes lock.

  Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

  At first, he appears to be as stunned as I am. But he recovers quickly, lunging toward me, his scowling face twisted into a hateful, murderous grimace as he growls, “Come ‘ere.”

  My fight-or-flight reflexes finally begin to function properly. I hike the pool cue high above my head and swing it around with all my might. There’s a resounding thunk as the stick makes contact with the man’s head, reverberating up my arms and throughout my body like an electric charge. But it does the trick and he goes down without any further fight.

  I stand there for a moment just staring at him, once again unsure of my next move. I kick him in the leg while I try to decide. Bastard. Briefly, I contemplate beating him some more with the pool stick, but my arm is already starting to ache from the first time. So, I consider possibly stabbing him with his own knife, but then I’m not sure I could actually do that to anyone, not even an unconscious murderer. Now, if he’d had a gun, I could probably shoot him. Good grief! Get the knife! I give myself a mental slap and then I snatch the knife. Tossing the pool cue across the alley, I dash over to the woman, praying she’s still alive, but knowing there’s no way she can be.

  “Hey.” I grab her shoulder and turn her slowly toward me. “It’s okay. He’s…” I stop as soon as I see her, my eyes transfixed, sad in my soul. She has to be around my age, young, and strikingly beautiful. Or, at least, she was. Now her soft, powdered face is covered with deep cuts and gashes, her jaw sliced nearly to her neck, and her dull green eyes frozen wide with terror.

  I stand, shaking, as I take a step back, my mouth gaping in horror. Her dark, thick blood chases me and begins to pool around my feet.

  “Help!” I shout weakly. “Someone! Anyone! Help!” But it’s no use. I scan the alley, still nothing there but a few empty cars, and they can’t hear me inside the noisy club. I decide there’s nothing I can do to help her, and he obviously can’t hurt her any worse. So, still clutching the knife, I tear off down the alley, running as fast as I can toward the entrance.

  Breathless, I reach the front of the club and it’s starting to get busy. A number of people are lined up to get in, assorted couples standing around laughing with one another, a few friends poking and joking, and a host of young girls giggling and adjusting their makeup. All are clueless as to what has happened just a few hundred yards away.

  I look around, panicked, trying to find someone, anyone, who might be able to help. “Hey!” I shout and a few people turn, mainly looking confused and inconvenienced. “Hey! I need help over here!” I yell again waving my hand toward the dark alley behind me.

  Suddenly, one of the giggly girls looks at me and screams, “Knife! She’s got a knife!”

  Panic sets in throughout the crowd and soon everyone is running around and shouting nonsense.

  “No.” I try to explain as the scene turns into chaos. I look down at my hands, still covered in blood, and still holding the damned knife. Oh fuck.

  Seconds later, a couple of large, rather mean-looking men come charging out of the club’s double doors straight toward me. And, before I can speak, I find myself face-down on the ground, my hands shoved painfully behind my back.

  “I got it!” one of them shouts as he wrests the knife from my death grip.

  “No, please. You don’t understand,” I protest.

  “Shut up,” he says gruffly, digging his knee into my back. “I got her. Go call the police!” he shouts over his shoulder to another man I can’t see.

  “Okay. Keep her there, Chuck!”

  “Get off me, Jackass!” I struggle uselessly, and am now officially pissed. “There’s a dead woman over there who need
s help.” I shout it before I have time to consider my words. Immediately, I realize that this statement doesn’t make any sense and is actually not helping my situation in the least. “I mean, there’s a man over there who just killed a woman. I think I knocked him out, but we need the police.”

  “Don’t you worry,” Chuck says smugly. “The police are on their way.” He digs his knee further into my back.

  And, there we stay for what is probably minutes, but feels like hours, until the distant sounds of a police siren grow louder and louder and then finally, come to rest beside us.

  “Here she is!” Chuck shouts proudly before leveraging the knee in my back to push himself to his feet. He must weigh at least two hundred and fifty pounds to my whopping one hundred and ten. I’m sure I have a bruise.

  “Ooph!” I grunt as he finally releases me, and I roll over and sit up painfully on my aching haunches. It hurts to breathe, and I am so angry now that I strike out in a blind fury. Lifting my leg, I deliver Chuck a hard, swift kick to his ass that sends him sprawling to the pavement, right at the feet of a large, rather unamused policeman.

  Chapter Two

  “What the hell is going on here?” Officer Sourpuss scowls.

  Embarrassed, Chuck gathers the remains of his shattered dignity and stands. “Well,” he begins as he points at me. “She came running up to the club all covered in blood and waving this knife at all our customers. I managed to subdue her…” Subdue me? “And, then I held her until you got here. You can see she’s crazy,” he adds, swiping dirt from the front of his shirt and trousers. “Here.” He thrusts the blood-covered knife at the officer. “Here’s the knife.”