She's Kill Crazy

By Tina Laningham

The urge is rising.
The urge to kill.

Meet Vanessa, a serial killer who's gone straight, until something makes her snap. Now Detective Candice Blake is obsessed with solving the Napa Valley murders, but it makes her question everything she believes.

More story, fewer pages. A novel you can feast upon in a day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tina Laningham
• Release date: Oct 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370998821

Tina Laningham

After a few eye-opening years as a political journalist, followed by an outrageously fun time as a political speech writer, Tina Laningham fell in love with the art of writing fiction. Her debut novel, A Glass of Crazy, placed in the top five percent of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award and received a favorable review from Publishers Weekly. She has studied suspense writing with James Patterson and currently teaches writing in Texas.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

VANESSA

I LOVE HUNTER. But not right now. I’m standing backstage behind this blue curtain watching him deliver his latest theory on Roman mythology. Not feeling the love.

It’s not him. He’s every woman’s dream. Tall chiseled body and deeply intellectual. No, he’s not the problem. It’s this damn blue curtain.

The urge is rising.

The urge to kill.

It’s a reasonable urge, it’s just not practical. After my fourth kill, I nearly got caught. And since four is my lucky number, it’s time to stop.

Now that urge is rising inside me. It begins in my stomach. If it reaches my heart, I’ll kill. Focus on Hunter. Not the blue curtain.

Finally, the applause comes. Without touching the curtain, I peek around. The noise pushes the urge down to the place where it belongs, back into a mere subconscious memory.

Christ, Hunter’s moving toward me. I tilt my head and muster a smile.

Will you marry me? he asks.

I feign a giggle. I already did.

He presses his body against mine. Public speaking excites him. The swine. I comb my fingers through his curly dark hair.

Let’s drive home in the morning, he says. Hunter slips his hand in mine and pulls me toward an exit door.

Dr. Flynn, wait. A heavyset woman rushes over. You’re staying for the reception, aren’t you?

Hunter politely apologizes and lies that we have another engagement to attend this evening. The woman appears as stunned as the gray-haired professors in the audience after being told by an overpaid thirty-six-year-old speaker that Romulus and Remus were real.

Hunter pushes the heavy exit door and I shiver. It’s chilly outside and the smell of wet dirt after fresh rain lingers in the air. Hunter opens the passenger door of his little black Fiat, and after a short drive through Sacramento, he zips to the front of the Capital Hotel.

While Hunter checks in, I wait by the elevator. It’s show time. I pull out a little mirror and put on more lipstick. Blood red.

On the ride up to our room, one of those California senators recognizes Hunter and asks for an autographed copy of his new book. I don’t want Hunter getting a big head over this. I’ll get one to you, Hunter promises her.

The hotel room is stately, but too old fashioned for my taste. Hunter yanks off his tie with a snap and unbuttons his white starched shirt. I bury my nose in his armpit and inhale, then let out a slow moan. His body odor turns me on, just not in the way he thinks. And all that sweating he did on stage tonight certainly helps.

I pull off the little black dress I bought for the reception we’re not attending. Asshole. I was looking forward to flaunting our newly elevated social status.

Hunter grabs the comforter and rips it off the bed. He scoops me up and lays me on the ivory sheets. His eyes survey my body and he says, My Venus. I hate that. My name is Vanessa.

He thinks I’m a mirror image of Venus in Botticelli’s painting. I need a normal life, so I just go with it. I haven’t cut my long red hair since our wedding day a little over a year ago and now it’s down below my butt, exactly like Botticelli’s Venus.

I want every inch of you, Hunter says and kisses my perfectly sculpted red brows.

He doesn’t want me. He wants Venus, goddess of beauty, desire, sex, love, and blah, blah, blah. I freeze while he kisses his way down my neck. I think about the time he made me stand naked in front of a mirror and he held a large framed print of The Birth of Venus next to the mirror so I could see the similarities. I do resemble that woman in the painting. My narrow shoulders and small breasts. My wide hips and full thighs. I’m no model, but Hunter’s obsession with Venus benefits me and that’s all I care about.

God, not that. His body is hovering now, his stiff arms holding him up. I bundle my long red hair and pull it around to cover the area he wants most. The only reason it turns him on more is because that’s what Venus is doing in the painting. He knows I’m serious. Do not enter.

Hunter moves down to my thighs. He makes his way to my toes, lingers there a while, and kisses each one. It’s disgusting. The second toe, the one that protrudes farthest, that’s his favorite.

I stifle a gag.

Now he’s working his way back up and the urge is rising. The urge to kill. My heart races. I flip him over and seize control. Hunter always lies back willingly.

After I give him a workover, he smooths my long red hair and whispers, My Venus.

This is our routine.

A knock at the door startles me. Hunter grins and pulls on his pants. He tips the guy and comes back to bed with a bottle of Pinot Noir and two wine glasses.

A love of red wine is the only thing we have in common. If Hunter wasn’t such a greedy pig, we could have enjoyed the wine before sex and maybe I could have endured it. But men are weak. No self control.

The next morning, we’re driving home to Napa and I’m feeling pleased with how normal my life has become. I rub the red leather seat and say, I want to stop working. I don’t want to be a pediatric nurse anymore.

Hunter’s eyes widen. I’m shocked.

You don’t mind, do you? I struggle to raise my brows in concern, but they slam down and bristle. How dare he not let me. With his skyrocketing book royalties and those outrageous speaker fees. My voice escalates. You have a problem with me quitting my job?

Hunter takes my hand and squeezes it gently. Of course not.

Good answer, I say sternly. I calm my voice and raise it a pitch, You’re traveling all over the world now, meeting new people. I want to go. I make my voice quiver. I don’t want to lose you.

Hunter grins.

And I’m tired of taking care of everyone else’s babies. I want my own. I want a baby. Which means I’ll have to let you in, but that’s what red wine is for.

I move my hand up his thigh until Hunter rests his head back. And then I slide my hand down to his knee. I snuggle up to him and walk two fingers up his tensed thigh, but stop before reaching the top and I rest my hand there.

Hunter moans achingly.

And for the rest of the ride home, I make sure Hunter feels like a captured animal.

Caught. Trapped. Helpless.

CHAPTER 2

DETECTIVE CANDICE BLAKE calls the dispatch center of the Napa County Sheriff’s Department one last time. The dispatcher answers again.

Are you sure? Candice asks.

No dead bodies this week. And no one’s missing.

Candice pulls off her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose.

The dispatcher sighs into the phone. That’s a good thing, ya know.

Yeah, thanks. She hangs up and lassos her long dark hair into a pony tail.

May ninth has come and gone. It’s over. The Napa Valley murders have stopped.

For the past four years, on May ninth, a male body has been found. But the date isn’t the only coincidence. No, there are enough coincidences to reveal that Candice is dealing with a predictable, but clever sociopath.

The four unsolved files are spread across her desk. Candice has combed through them a million times, but she’s still missing something. And that feeling gnaws at her. It gnaws during the day. It gnaws at night when she can’t sleep. And every morning, her eyes pop open with the terrifying thought that the next kill is on her.