Truth or Consequences: States of Panic, #1

By Faith Justice

What does archaeology student Danielle Herring discover in the shadows of her family tree? Corruption, murder, sex, and a serial killer ring.

 

She's the only biological heir to an estate, things should be simple, right? She's accompanied by the family attorney, Stephen Briggs, on what she thinks is a quick will-reading in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico.

She doesn't count on one of the conditions of the will including a hot-blooded—make that a HOT!—Veterinarian she has to share a home with in order to claim her inheritance. Things couldn't get worse, could they? This pulse-racing, emotionally charged novel proves some deep-seated secrets and desires are buried so deep in the soil that bringing them to the surface requires Truth or Consequences.

 

For readers 18+. Contains profanity, violence, and mature sexual content.

 

**States of Panic books are written as standalone bodies, so readers may read them in any order.**

• Language: English
• Publisher: DLG Publishing Partners
• Release date: Sep 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201477844

Book preview

1

Introductions

For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been'. –John Greenleaf Whittier

---

My grandmother, Mae Herring, said, 'Never be afraid of change because as one door closes, another opens in its place.'

Who the hell says that when they're dying? I mean. I understand someone saying, I love you or live your life to the fullest because one expects that. But why tell someone not to be afraid of change? Isn't all change inevitable?

Well, I never understood her when she was alive, so I guess it makes sense that things wouldn't be any different, even in death. But I can't believe she's gone. She was my bedrock, the strength I drew from. The one true pillar I could depend upon for perseverance and sustainability. Now that she's gone, she's left me with an emptiness of vast proportion.

I tuck a rogue strand of hair behind my ear. Drawing in a deep breath with my nose, I exhale through my mouth, trying to ignore the tight knot contracting in the pit of my stomach. All I wanted to do was parade around in my green pajamas and fuzzy blue socks this morning. Instead, I stand outside of Gerald Levin's office, my late grandmother's attorney.

Yawning, I walk in with Boyd and Ruthie Rice, then sit in the empty waiting room. I thumb through some magazines.

The pages are a blended blur of colors because I can't focus my thoughts.

Who schedules an appointment on a Sunday morning? More importantly, why did I agree to show up?

The side door opens with a squeak, and a man enters the room wearing a plum-purple dress shirt. He's young, perhaps in his mid-to-late twenties. Crisply tailored clothes drape his slender frame. The button-down shirt tucked neatly into dark pleated slacks hugs his body. The cuffs of his pants hang just at the base of a pair of black wingtip oxfords.

Hmm. Wonder how often he has to polish those shoes to make them shine.

Tipping my head back, I find he's appraising me.

Geez, how long was he observing me watch him?

I didn't hear you folks come in. The man continues to stare. I hope you haven't been waiting long.

Boyd rises from the chair. No. Not at all. We just got here. I'm Boyd Rice. We have an appointment this morning with Gerald.

My name is Stephen Briggs, and actually, the appointment is with me, Mr. Rice. Stephen extends an arm, shaking Boyd's hand. Mr. Levin sends his apologies and regards. He had to leave on urgent business yesterday. However, he fully briefed me on the current case.

Boyd's brows shoot up in surprise. Oh.

Stephen offers his hand. You must be Danielle Herring. His eyes light up. His expression pulls the ball of tension tighter in the pit of my belly.

I stand, extending a hand. Call me Danny.

His warm hand engulfs mine in a firm but gentle grip that he's slow to relinquish. My mouth goes dry. His brow quirks upward, and I take a step back.

My office is around the corner. Please. Come with me.

I follow him down a short, narrow hallway with Boyd and Ruthie on my heels. His office is plush with cherry-wood furniture. An array of law books of various sizes lines the built-in bookshelves that spread across two walls. I sit in the first leather-backed chair in front of Stephen's neatly organized desk. Ruthie takes the middle seat while Boyd pulls up a third next to his wife.

Stephen Briggs rises. He stands beside his desk with a hand in his front pocket. "Miss Herring, you didn't know your grandmother?" The coins in his pocket clang together, producing an audible warble.

What do you mean, I didn't know my grandmother? The anger in the pit of my stomach rises. Who the hell do you think you are?

Danny. Ruthie sucks in air, and her nostrils flare. Please. Try to understand. We were only trying to shield you.

Shield me from what?

I know you're upset. Stephen Briggs' posture stiffens. But please. Try to be reasonable.

Be reasonable, really? Where do you get off telling me something like that about my grandmother? Clenching my fists, I jump out of my chair. My nails bite into the palms of my hands, and every muscle in my body tenses. I need some air. I make it as far as the door.

Stephen Briggs places a light hand on my shoulder, and I shrug it off.

Miss Herring, I'm sorry if what I said before upset you. Please come and sit down.

I open my mouth, but I'm unable to utter a single word. For a split second, his expression flickers with an unbridled fury before taking on a more passive appearance. I rub my eyes and try to clear my thoughts.

Stress lines form between Boyd's brows. I know you're upset.

Upset is an understatement.

You need to know. You need to understand everything. Anguish washes across Boyd's tanned face. Come, take a seat.

Stephen guides me back to the leather chair in front of his desk.

We all know you loved Mae Herring and that your grandmother loved you. That's not the issue here. You need to consider the possibility you didn't know her as well as you thought. The stress lines in Stephen's face soften.

"What? What're you talking about? I know who my grandmother was. Who're you to tell me that? You didn't even know her. A mental numbness washes over my body. Boy, I really don't need this today."

There was a side to your grandmother you knew nothing about. Stephen sits up straight, leveling his chin. Now, please, hear me out.

I press my back into the folds of the chair. Why should I?

Let me finish. And don't interrupt me again. Stephen conveys his annoyance in a clipped tone. He presses his lips together into a fine white line.

Wait. Did he just tell me not to interrupt him? Oh, my God, I can't believe I'm having this conversation. But what if he's right? Could there be something in my grandmother's past I know nothing about?

Ruthie slumps forward in her chair. She pats my hand. Danny, please.

I recoil from her touch. Stop it. Don't do that.

Stephen clears his throat. At least hear me out. Then you can pass judgment. Can you manage that?

Yeah, I can.

This all started with John James Herrington, who moved to New Mexico in his early twenties. The man had nothing but the shirt on his back. But through hard work and dedication, he built the Rocking H Horse Ranch with his bare hands.

What's that got to do with my grandmother?

Stephen closes his eyes. He pauses as if silently counting. Several seconds pass before he reopens them. People said the day John James Herrington met your Grandma Mae; it was love at first sight. They said she inspired him to achieve greater things than before. Spring of 1963, they married. John and Mae tried to have children for years. May 1976, they had fraternal twins: a son and a daughter.

I open my mouth to speak. Stephen raises a hand in front of my face, silencing me again.

Oh, my God, this guy's an ass.

2

The Heir

It's not what happens to you but how you react to it that matters. –Epictetus

---

I move about in the chair, fidgeting with my dress. The sooner he finishes, the quicker I can leave.

John wanted a male heir to carry on the Herrington bloodline. Stephen shifts his weight on the side of the desk. The birth of John James Herrington II brought them joy. But tragedy struck five days later. Little John died. The death of their newborn son brought such sorry to John James and Mae, but their daughter, Jennifer Ann, lived.

My grandmother never lived in New Mexico.

Boyd teeters on the edge of his chair. He cocks his head to the side. Let him finish.

Stephen hands me a grainy, out-of-focus picture. The back of the photo has a name written on it, Jennifer Ann. I examine the black-and-white image, but I'm unable to determine what she really looked like. Clipped behind the picture, I find two news articles and a small envelope.

Skimming over the documents, I learn Jennifer Ann went missing for seven days before ranch hands found her. Beaten savagely, most thought she'd perish. Eight months later, they found her dead in a stream by the main house. Her body burned beyond recognition.

I open a small envelope and pull out a handwritten note dated a few months ago—February—signed by John James Herrington. The letter states Jennifer Ann, pregnant, gave birth the day she died, the ninth of July 1990. One of the ranch hands found the newborn wrapped in a blanket in the barn. Fearful that harm would come to the baby, John James and Mae told no one about the child. Soon after, Mae left the Rocking H Horse Ranch with the infant. She moved to San Antonio, Texas, where she raised her granddaughter alone until her recent death.

Ruthie pats my shoulder.

I turn around, and my gaze locks with hers. Stop it!

Stephen leans into my personal space, forcing me to withdraw deeper into the folds of the leather seat. Miss Herring—or rather, Miss Herrington—you're that child.

You're wrong. I might have been born on the ninth of July, but it has nothing to do with me. My mother died in Houston, Texas, not New Mexico. My heart hammers in my chest. Is this what my grandmother meant? Is this the inevitable change or proverbial door she was talking about?

No, your mother perished in the small town of Truth or Consequences in New Mexico. It was a horrible ordeal. The words roll off Ruthie's tongue like a whisper in the night. Boyd and I helped your Grandma Mae move down here—to San Antonio—when you were just a baby.

Boyd casts his eyes downward, unable to hold my gaze. We wanted to tell you, but Mae made us promise. She said it wasn't safe for you to know until the time was right.

And what, now is the best time? The muscles in my abdomen contract, making me sick to my stomach. Could this be true? If it is, then everything I've grown up believing about myself and everything around me has been a well-orchestrated lie. My world is whirling down around my head like an F5 tornado. This conversation is sucking the air right out of my lungs.

Stephen says something, but I don't hear him. Danny, did you hear me?

I lean back in the chair. What? I rub my throbbing temples.

You must go to New Mexico.

Excuse me. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I can't help but wonder what the hell I missed when I spaced out.

Your grandparent's death leaves you the only biological heir to their combined estate.

I still don't understand. Why do I have to go to New Mexico? We can handle this here, right?

No. Stephen's tone is even and controlled. You must attend the reading of your grandfather's will.

Mr. Briggs, will someone from your office accompany Danny? My wife and I are up in years, and a trip like this would be difficult for us.

No need to worry. Stephen gathers some files, stacking them into two neat piles. It's already taken care of. Miss Herrington and I fly out today at noon.

Anger burns deep inside the pit of my belly. Don't call me that. My last name is Herring, not Herrington.

Boyd's face grows chalky and haggard with anxiety. Why so quickly? We thought it would be several days or, at least, a week before she'd have to travel.

It doesn't matter. I'm not going.

Miss Herrington, make no mistake. You will go. One way or another.

You're wrong. I'm not going. And I've already told you, my name is Herring, not Herrington. My chest tightens, and my heart pounds in my ears.

Geez, is he deaf or what? I don't think he's heard a word I've said.

Stephen's voice softens. No, your legal birth name is Herrington. And, Miss Herrington, they have summoned you to appear for deposition tomorrow. They scheduled this sometime back. So, to avoid being held in contempt, you'll go unless you prefer incarceration. And as your attorney, I don't advise you to take that path.

Arrested. My mouth gapes open. Wait. This is the first I've heard about a deposition.

The summons notification went out almost a month ago. He hands me a photocopy of the signed release. This is your name? Is it not?

Yes, I reply with a huff. My roommate, Quinn Salinas, works in the campus mailroom and picks up my mail. She must have signed for it and said nothing.

Unless you're planning on having a police escort, I'd pack enough clothing for a week, possibly two.

Twenty-one years of my life unravels like a sweater with a loose thread while sitting in Stephen Briggs' office. The stories of my childhood become transoceanic, much like a delectable web of lies skillfully fabricated in one of Shakespeare's plays or a Greek tragedy.

Stephen hands me a file and a plane ticket. I pull the summons out of the paperwork.

My eyes remain fixed on the page. Rounding my shoulders, I cradle my head in my hands.

I can't believe this. Damn. I must go because if I don't, they'll arrest me for contempt. I cringe because it's nine in the morning, and I only have three hours to pack and catch the flight.

3

Not My Type

Fear not for the future. Weep, not for the past. –Percy Bysshe Shelley

---

The flight to Truth or Consequences is short, but the stress and the emotional strain of the last few hours are taking a toll on my body. Air turbulence shakes the plane. I clench the armrest of the chair, and my knuckles turn white. The plane makes a final fly-by before lining up to land. We taxi down the runway, and my stomach lurches.

I'm thankful I didn't eat breakfast. The pills I took for motion sickness aren't helping, and they only made me moderately sleepy. My emotions are running high. I've no idea what's waiting for me here in New Mexico. Not a single clue. The thought only adds to the growing nausea and anxiety swirling in the pit of my belly.

Once the plane lands, I dig my phone out of my purse. The battery is dead, which is odd because I charged it before the flight. Stephen lets me use his iPad to make a call to the Boyds. We drive up to a little hotel named La Casa Bonita.

Leafy potted plants line the front of the stucco building. Wrought iron fencing lines the eight-foot retaining wall that's candlelight yellow with burnt orange trim. The inside of the lobby provides a splash of color. Each of the four walls is a different shade of paint: blue, orange, green, and yellow.

A red leather couch and four matching chairs form a horseshoe in the middle of the room. Stephen approaches the check-in desk. He provides our names and retrieves two sets of keys from the short, thin woman behind the desk. She climbs the blue stairs to the second level, motioning for us to follow. Limping down the tiled hallway, she shows us to our rooms.

Stephen invites me to dinner, but the thought of eating doesn't settle well. After declining his invitation, I run a bath and soak for a while, contemplating what tomorrow's deposition may hold. What will I find out if anything? Wrapping my pruned fingers around a bath towel, I lift it off the rack, dry it off, and dress for bed.

Silence fills the room. It's a welcomed change. I've not had a single moment to myself since Grandma Mae passed. If the Boyds were not up in my face, then my roommate was. Yep. An early night filled with solitude and a delightful book sounds good. Curling up on the bed, I turn on my Kindle and read an old favorite, Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.

The next day, I rise a little more at ease than I was the day before. Curiosity has taken over. I can't help but wonder what I'm strolling into. Perhaps I'll find out what my family was like and why the courts required me to travel to New Mexico for a deposition and the reading of my grandfather's will. It makes no sense.

Who was my mother, really, and why did she die at such a young age? These two burning questions linger in my thoughts.

Running a soft-bristled brush through my unruly locks, I try to tame my strawberry-blonde hair.

Sighing, I set the brush on the counter, then feel around in my makeup bag. My fingers wrap around a tube of brown mascara. I wear little makeup, but the foundation and mascara help to add color to my naturally pale face.

Slipping on a sundress, I struggle with the underarm zipper. A knock at the door makes me jump. The zipper finally gives, and the garment closes. Unlocking the bathroom door, I step into the primary room.

Danielle. Stephen's voice echoes from the hallway. Danny. Are you okay?

Yeah, I'm fine. I poke my head around the doorframe. Come on in.

He enters the room. How long has this been unlocked? Crossing his legs, he leans his five-foot, eleven-inch frame against the door.

For a little while, I wasn't sure what time you were coming. I stifle a laugh, imagining him going door-to-door checking locks. Geez, who is he, the door police?

Eyeing the unmade full-size bed in the room, he lifts a brow. My clothes from last night, still in a twisted pile, remain at the foot of the bed next to my open suitcase. And then, to make matters worse, my nightgown lies on the floor where I peeled it off this morning before my shower.

His intense gaze follows me. He says nothing, but his eyes silently judge me.

I pick up the hot pink garments, tucking them into a corner of my luggage.

Wow. Can this get any more awkward? I say under my breath.

The sweltering heat of his consuming gaze rakes over my body. He cracks a crooked grin.

A surge of heat travels from the pit of my stomach to my chest. I know I'm redder than a ruby-red beet that's cooking over a hot grill. The thought makes me even more embarrassed.

Are you always this neat? He bends over, picking up a sock I failed to retrieve.

Uhm, I-I didn't k-know you were . . .

I take the sock from his hand. Our fingers touch and I jump back. My face heats again.

Get a grip, Danny.

He cracks that crooked grin again. Are you going to wear shoes today? Or going barefoot?

I uhm, I have sandals. I scan the room and frown. Racking my brain, I try to recall where I put them last night.

Clearing his throat, he points toward the bathroom. Check-in there?

Turning, I burn a path to where I left them. Squatting, I retrieve them from the floor.

Shuffling back to the bed, I sit and drop my shoes on the rumpled comforter.

This isn't how I pictured starting my day.

Stephen fishes his ringing phone from his pocket. How much more time do you need?

He examines the display screen. His body stiffens. Silencing the device, he slips it back into his black slacks.

Stephen's eyes are lighter than the royal blue dress shirt he's wearing. They're piercing; they're as blue as a clear sky on a warm summer's day, and his short-cropped hair is a medium shade of brown that blends nicely with his olive skin tone.

He's attractive, but his intense gaze makes me uneasy because I can't tell what he's thinking. I glance downward and fidget with a buckle on one of my shoes.

Ahh, I'll be ready in about five to ten minutes.

If you don't mind, I'll meet you in the café. It's just across the street. You can't miss it. He steps into the hallway. And Danny, you need to keep your door shut and locked at all times.

Yes, Sir. I raise my hand to my forehead for a mini-salute.

This isn't something to joke about. You're not on campus or at home.

Sorry, I didn't think about that. My lips turn down into a frown. I guess it might be a good idea.

Call me before you walk over. Now, come and lock the door. Gripping the knob, he pulls the door closed.

I won't be long.

Stephen jiggles the handle from the other side.

I locked it already.

Oh, my God, is he serious?

I lean against the door and roll my eyes. This guy needs to chill out.

I know. I was just checking. The soft tap-tap of his shoes recedes.

The Spanish tile on the floor is cool under my bare feet.

I meander back into the heart of the room. Chips and grooves in the flooring are smooth from old age. It imparts a comfy feel.

Plopping back down on the bed, I work on the twisted strap. Finally, I'm able to unlatch it. I slip my shoes on and fasten the buckles. I plod back into the bathroom for one last check.

I mull over my shoulder-length hair.

It has a mind of its own.

One side turns under, whereas the other flips up. My headband and a single brown hair tie sit on the vanity. Picking up the band, I place it on my head and wrinkle my nose. I turn the light off and exit the bathroom. Strolling past the bed, I grab my purse and head out the door to join Stephen for breakfast.

4

Way to go, Klutz

This and no other is the root from which a tyrant springs; when he first appears, he is a protector. –Plato

---

Stephen's devouring a plate of over-easy eggs.

The runny yokes merge with a clump of hash browns and crispy bacon. He sops up the eggs with a slice of toast and shoves the mixture into his mouth.

There are a few documents laid out on the small square table. I glance through the paperwork while waiting for the waitstaff to come and take my order.

The waitress moseys up. She's gawking at Stephen, which makes me want to laugh. Actually, that would be too mild a word. Stalking is more like it. Her eyes consume him like a hungry lioness watches a gazelle.

What do you want, Danny?

Just a bowl of dry Cheerios and blueberry yogurt.

What about a drink?

I scan the menu. Do they have English Breakfast or Chai tea? I drink it with cream.

The waitress seems oblivious to my order and my question about tea selections. Stephen relays what I want. She hangs on his every word.

The woman appears to be about his age. They'd make a cute couple. She returns quickly with my food and tops off his coffee.

I open my yogurt cup and mix it into the bowl of Cheerios.

Stephen drums his fingers on the table. Do you always do that?

What?

Eat your Cheerios that way. He points at my food with his fork.

Yeah, it's a Grandma Mae thing. She got me started on this concoction as a little kid.

Interesting.

Picking up a few of the documents and scanning them, the name Drake Del Bosque jumps off a few of the pages. Who's this?

From what I can tell, he lives on your grandfather's ranch.

Wait. Does this mean what I think it does? He's suing me? I hand him a document.

Yes, but it's complicated. He's filed an injunction to keep you off the property.

Why on earth would someone do this? I mean, can he actually do that?

I don't see he has any basis for the suit. All I know about him is that he lived with your grandfather. We'll find out more about this today.

Lived with him, I don't understand. Is he staking a claim to being an heir? Because it sure looks like . . .

More than likely, he's a ranch hand seeking a handout. Larry Crawford is his attorney. We're meeting him this morning. Now, eat your food; we must leave shortly, and you didn't eat yesterday.

I brush off his comment about the food. Is there cause for alarm over this ranch hand? First, the door comment, and now he's telling me to eat my food. Geez! Is he keeping a running list?

He probably worked for your grandfather, or maybe he's a relative. Either way . . .

You mean like a cousin?

That's possible. Stephen takes a sip of his coffee. Or a sibling.

Come on, that's stupid. I balance a spoonful of yogurt-covered cereal inches from my mouth. In your office yesterday, you said my grandparents didn't have any other children. Well, besides my mother.

From what I can tell, that's true. But your grandmother was away for almost twenty years.

What exactly are you implying?

It's more than likely nothing. All I'm saying is you should keep an open mind. A lot can happen in a few months, let alone twenty years.

His comment reinforces how little I know about my grandmother's life or mine. This woman raised me, cared for me, and she took care of all of my needs, but even then, I guess I really didn't know her. I thought we were family. And family shouldn't lie to each other or withhold information. I feel lost, not to mention alone.

How could she leave me like this?

My head pounds.

I reach into my purse. My hand comes to rest on a cylinder container. I extract a pill and wash it down with a sip of tea.

What was that?

Medication, Zomig. It helps.

Why do you take it? Do you have a medical condition?

It's for headaches, well migraines. Do you need one?

No, I'm good in that department. Besides, I use homeopathic remedies for pain.

Really, I've tried a few, but they never work. What do you use for head pain?

Sex. He flashes a white toothy grin. Let me know if you want to give it a whirl.

No, thanks.

Well, let me know if you change your mind. I'm at your service.

A fluttering sensation of butterflies stirs in my stomach. I'm not sure I'm prepared for the meeting in Crawford's office, much less the sexual direction the conversation with Stephen has taken this morning. I don't want him to get the wrong impression. He's cute but not my type.

Hell, with my recent breakup, I don't even know what my type is, but I know it's not him. He's too much like my last boyfriend, and I damn sure don't need a repeat.

Glancing up, I lock eyes with him. I brush hair out of my face and tuck it behind my ear. Reaching over, I take a file out of the leaning stack, causing a mini-avalanche. The corner of a folder knocks his coffee cup over.

He springs to his feet. Shit, he mutters under his breath.

Bolting out of my chair, I say, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I gather as much of the paperwork I can before the coffee seeps into the stacks.

Jaws clenched, he dabs his pants with a linen napkin, but it's no use. He's drenched from the waist down.

I didn't mean to . . .

I stifle a laugh.

He glares, then smiles, but his eyes still look dark.

I'm going to have to change. Can you put those files in my briefcase?

Yeah, I really am sorry.

Don't worry about it. His eyes trail to my mouth. Wait for me here. I won't be long.

He grabs his keys off the table. Taking long strides, he leaves the restaurant.

Well, I guess it's one way to deter a guy's sexual advances. I shake my head and drop the files I'm holding into the case.

Stepping around the table, I retrieve the papers he dropped on the seat next to his coffee-covered chair.

Way to go, klutz.

5

Butterflies Erupt

After all is said and done, more is said than done. –Aesop

---

Deep and robust voices boom. They bounce off the walls.

Cocking my head to the side, I stare across the room.

Two men argue. One, a blond businessman wearing a suit, is standing with a pinched scowl. The other, dark-headed in jeans and a maroon button-down shirt, is sitting at the table with his back to me. I can't hear what they're discussing, but at least they've lowered their voices.

Grabbing more files, I shove them into Stephen's briefcase. It's