Innocence of the Dead

By Shiela Stewart

Samantha Dowling sees ghosts. As much as she hates her gift, she can’t ignore the spirit of a murdered young girl who haunts her dreams. As she digs into the death, she learns she’s not the only missing child in the city. And no one seems to be doing anything about it. Running into the very sexy Ethan Montgomery at his bookstore where she’d doing her research adds a whole new element to the mix.

From the first moment Ethan Montgomery sees Sam, he knows she’s meant to be his. Unfortunately, his soon-to-be ex-wife Gwen is determined to bring Ethan down any way she can, and his attraction to Sam is an opening she won’t pass up.

Despite her interference, Sam and Ethan’s romance blossoms. In secret. But sneaking around isn’t as easy as they thought when others discover their relationship.

And when Sam learns the identity of the murderer, it puts her in their crosshairs. Unless Ethan can get to her in time, their romance will have a deadly end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Decadent Publishing
• Release date: Dec 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781683616115

Book preview

Chapter One

She struggled in the darkness surrounding her. The cold, damp dirt smothered her and clogged her nails as she fought to escape. Her eyes and nose stung from the strong smell of defecation and rotting flesh. The taste of blood in her mouth made her want to gag.

She’d been buried. Alive!

Desperate for air, for escape, she clawed at the dirt, pushing it aside in her desperate need to escape. It covered her eyes, filled her nostrils and ears. Unable to breathe, she grappled to find air. When her hand broke through the surface, she felt giddy, then gasped when a hand grabbed onto her arm. Yanked up, free of her grave, she scrambled to her knees, spitting dirt from her mouth, shaking it from her ears, gasping for breath. In the distance, a tiny voice spoke.

Save us.

Who are you? She rubbed the dirt from her eyes, blinking away the blurriness. What she saw before her made her stomach roll and her heart clench.

Propped against a wall sat a small child, who couldn’t have been more than seven. Her eyes, a foggy white, stared at her, and she felt them penetrate her soul. Across her neck, from ear to ear, was a gaping wound.

Horrified, she scrambled back and screamed when an arm came around her waist. Before she could comprehend what happened, something cold and hard touched her neck.

In one quick motion, it sliced across her throat.

Sam woke with a scream, her hands clutching her neck. It took her a moment to orient herself as she stared across the room.

She was safe, in her bed, in her home.

As the picture of the little girl flashed through her mind, Sam began to cry.

She hated this, hated it with a deep passion.

Why did she have to live with the dead?

The tears slid down her face, dampening her cotton nightshirt. It never got any easier to see the dead in her dreams, despite having dealt with it her entire life.

Sniffling back her tears, Sam mopped her face dry. Climbing out of bed, she grabbed her sketchbook and pencil then sat back down in bed to draw. It always helped to sketch her dreams.

Though her hand shook, Sam managed to sketch the face of the child who had come to her in her dream.

The flesh was decaying, her bones protruding, and Sam even drew the maggots crawling over the child’s dead body. She had blue eyes, beneath the fog of death, and Sam drew them as she saw them behind their milky white stare. Dirt and blood coated her blonde hair. She wore a red fuzzy shirt and blue jeans with silver gems along the seams and pockets. She had one running shoe in white and blue, the laces untied and caked in mud and blood. Her once-white socks were filthy.

One of her upper teeth was missing.

Sam paused before sketching the gaping wound in her neck. The flesh had been torn open from ear to ear, almost decapitating the frail child. Sam could taste the blood in her mouth, and as she reached up to her throat, remembered the feel of her own torn flesh.

It was only a dream. Not real.

Finished with the drawing, Sam put it on the bed and drew in a deep breath.

Another nightmare?

Without turning, Sam acknowledged Trent, her ghostly roommate. Yes. Climbing out of bed, Sam left to wash her face.

Wanna talk about it?

No. She knew Trent meant well and she did need him around right now. He’d been with her since she’d purchased the house eight months earlier and he had no intentions of leaving, as he’d emphasized on more than one occasion. So Sam put up with him.

Is it the same dream? he pursued, filling the doorway with his wide frame while she washed her face.

I said I didn’t want to talk about it. She glared at Trent as he blocked the doorway then decided to walk through him when he refused to move. She hated moving through apparitions when they were set in their place. It left a cold, slimy feeling all over her body. Returning to her room, she glanced at the picture on her bed. The innocent child had come to her three times now, and Sam wished she knew how to help her. She didn’t even know the child’s name.

When did she lose the tooth? Had the tooth fairy brought her money? How old was she? What was her favorite food?

Sam wanted to know everything about the little girl’s life to help ease the ache she felt for the child’s death.

You shouldn’t keep it bottled up. You need to talk about it.

Yeah, she knew that, and the only other person who knew what she went through, who could help her and understand it all, happened to be her father. It was a family trait, one many wouldn’t consider a conversation piece. Understandably so. It wasn’t like sharing a head full of red hair or curls handed down to you by your parents, nor the color of your eyes. This was a different matter altogether. Samantha Jean Dowling had the ability to see and speak to the dead. And so did her father.

C.J. Dowling had been born with the ability to communicate with the dead. He had no idea where he got it from.. His ancestry was a bizarre one, at best. It made for a fascinating late-night movie, which had been made into one stemming from the novel her father had written. Aside from an author, he was a famous journalist, and co-producer of the miniseries that told of the tribulations of his heritage. Secrets of the Dead had been a huge success.

She was the only child who had inherited his ability. And she often wished she’d been born second, in place of her sister, Colleen, or the baby, the spot Andrew took up. But she’d been born first, and no amount of wishing made her ability vanish.

Seeing the dead most of her life took its toll on a person, and it sure had on Sam. To escape from it, she put the images on paper, in wood, or on anything else she could get her hands on. Her escape was her art.

As it did now.

She’d learnt from the best when she’d attended a prestigious art school in Paris. But she couldn’t tell anyone where her inspiration came from. Who would believe her if she told them the dead came to her for help?

Then the call had come, and it had shaken her up enough to have her running back home. Her father had suffered a heart attack. So she’d rushed home, putting her career on hold.

Thankfully, her father hadn’t suffered any serious repercussions but enough to shake everyone up. His doctor told him to take better care of himself and to avoid stress. Her father, take better care of himself? Aside from his pack-a-day smoking habit, her father was the epitome of good health. He worked out daily, jogged, lifted weights, ate healthful foods. At fifty-six, that was damn good. But the heart attack had been a warning and he had quit smoking. So everyone walked on eggshells around him to avoid another attack.

Glancing at the image on the paper, Sam knew she needed her father’s help. You’re right, she admitted to Trent. And I know who to talk to.

She showered and dressed, ignoring Trent as he bombarded her with more questions. Grabbing her keys, she left. With her fingers crossed, hoping she didn’t cause more harm than good, she went to see her father.

And found him in an surly mood.

I haven’t seen or heard from you in damn near a week, and now you stroll in here asking for my help. The way his eyes narrowed could level the hardest of criminals. Even in his late fifties, he was a striking man. He had curly blond hair without a single strand of gray. There were some wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but overall, the man didn’t show his age. He had a gentle face with cheekbones sculpted to perfection. The snarl he held now did little to scare her off.

Are you done bitching at me?

Don’t take that tone with me, young lady, he warned, his eyes narrowed, one long finger pointing with accuracy at her.

Sam closed her eyes and drew in three long deep breaths to calm herself. Sorry. She opened her eyes and watched him prowl the room. Maybe she shouldn’t have come over. You should go on the quit-smoking program the doctor wanted to set you up with.

I don’t need some damn drug helping me quit when I can do it just fine on my own.

Yeah, right, Sam snorted. I know it’s hard for you to quit something you’ve done most of your life, but sometimes we can’t do things alone. It’s not a crime to ask for help.

That won’t work, Samantha.

What won’t work, Daddy? She batted long lashes.

He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. The innocent act won’t work, either, Sammy. I’m not helping you out. This time, you’re on your own.

Sam also had her father’s temper, but unlike her father, she wasn’t as adept at keeping it tethered. I don’t want your damn help! I only want some friggin’ advice.

Great, advice I can do. Walking to her, gripping her by her shoulders, he met her eyes. Here’s some vital advice, Sammy girl. Don’t ask Daddy for advice when he hasn’t had a cigarette in weeks and is likely to bite your head off without a thought.

She pushed his hands away, frowning. How is it a man who exercises, eats nothing but health food—food he crammed down his children’s throats for years—and treats his body as if it were a prized possession, could be so stupid as to pollute his arteries with chemicals for sheer pleasure?

How is it a woman with brains that could equal Einstein’s could be so stupid as to piss off her father in his delicate state?

If you hadn’t smoked a pack a day for the better part of your life, you wouldn’t be in this said ‘delicate state.’ She hadn’t come here to pick a fight or stress him out, yet here she was, doing exactly that.

When her father crossed his arms and gripped them to his chest, narrowing his eyes at her, she knew she needed to defuse the situation. We’re all worried about you, Daddy.

His chest rose and fell as he drew in a deep breath. So worried you don’t call or visit.

Guilt was a bitch who didn’t mind taking hold once it grabbed on, and right now, her guilt engulfed her. Fine, I didn’t call or come by because I knew this would happen. I don’t want to fight with you. The last thing I want is to stress you out.

I’m not stressed out, he stated.

Good. What about going on the pill?

Men don’t need birth control, sweetie. Did we fail to tell you that in our little sex talk?

She narrowed her eyes. Daddy, you know damn well what I mean. The quit-smoking pill.

Oh, that pill. He smirked, rubbing his chin. No.

Dad, she growled, kicking the coffee table at her side. Why do you have to be such an a—

Watch it, little girl, he warned her with a lifted index finger.

Well, if it walks like a donkey and talks like a donkey—

You’re not winning me over, Samantha.

Fine, the patch, then.

I hear they’re itchy.

Dad, Sam snarled, kicking the coffee table one more time.

Her father’s brow came up. Fine, I’ll give the damn patch a try, but if you kick my table one more time, I won’t hesitate to haul you over my lap and smack your butt good and solid despite being twenty-five years old.

Sam knew it was a poor threat. Neither of her parents had ever raised a hand to any of their children. Don’t blame me for my temper. I inherited it from you.

His smile was as sweet as pie. Me, have a temper? Oh no, sweetness, you have me mistaken with your mother. I’m the calm one, remember.

The laugh bubbled up before she could control it. He had a way with her. Yes, Daddy. She kissed his cheek. You keep believing that. Listen, I knew I shouldn’t have come by and ask for help—

I thought you came by for advice? he reminded her.

She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes. Well, this was entertaining.

It always is. The smile filled his face as he took her in a strong embrace. I’m not in a social mood today, Sammy. Sorry.

If you’d get help for your addiction—

Samantha Jean, he warned.

Love you, Daddy.

Love you, too, brat.

Shaking her head, smiling, Sam left her parents’ home. She was no better off now than she’d been when she’d showed up asking for help.

Now what?

Chapter Two

If anyone knew how to do research, it was her sister Colleen. The woman thrived off of questions and answers and read everything she could get her hands on.

So it was fitting Sam went to her sister for help. A year and a half younger than Sam, Colleen often acted the elder of the two.

Stepping through the doors to the grand, elegant Book Nook bookstore, Sam thought, as she always did, how suited for this place her sister was. Though Sam still didn’t understand why Colleen had chosen to work at this particular bookstore when she could have worked for their grandfather at one of his many bookstores like their brother Andrew did.

Her choice, Sam thought.

As always, when Sam entered the place, she felt battered by the spirits of the dead. Today was no different. Each time she stepped through the doors, she was taking a risk.

They won’t let me in the adult section.

Letting out a huge breath, Sam turned to the apparition to her left. She hadn’t seen him before. Really, she replied and kept walking.

It’s not fair.

Tell someone who cares. She didn’t gasp when he jumped in front of her but instead snarled at him. Walking here!

Make them let me in, he persisted.

In where? Oh great, Sam, encourage the entity.

The adult section.

Scanning the short, dark-haired pudgy boy, maybe in his early teens, Sam laughed. His aura was screaming, pervert. Honey, you haven’t even reached puberty yet.

The image before her shimmered with rage. I will have you know, miss smart-ass, I am twenty-five years old. Just because I am vertically impaired does not mean I am a child.

Vertically impaired? She burst into laughter then bit it off when the ghost glared at her. Who won’t let you in?

The other spirits. They said I was making them all look bad.

Go figure, Sam thought as she began to walk away. I’ll see what I can do.

You had better.

She stopped now and stood in front of him. What does a ghost need in the adult section anyway? Sam noticed her sister moving her way, and she didn’t look pleased.

We have urges, too, you know. He smoothed out his hair.

For real? Tell me… She leaned in a little closer. Can you, like, do another dead person? She had no idea how these things worked, had never asked anyone before now.

Oh, honey… His eyes turned dreamy and his voice dropped into a soft, seductive tone. "Now why would I waste my time on flighty apparitions when there are so many luscious humans for the taking? Ever see The Entity?"

Her stomach rolled. Oh, Jesus, that’s sick.

People think you’re talking to yourself. Her face red, Colleen took hold of her sister’s arm and rushed her off to a less crowded area.

You will not believe who I talked to, Colleen. You have a pervert roaming these fair halls. Sam chuckled. And he’s a friggin’ midget to boot.

Vertically impaired, he corrected, startling Sam. She hadn’t realized he’d followed her.

Sorry, vertically impaired. Sam laughed again, catching the sneer on her sister’s delicate face.

Jeepers, Sam, people are staring. Grabbing her sister’s arm, Colleen dragged her into one of the main floor offices. Why do you have to come here and embarrass me like this?

Because it’s fun. Her sister’s screwed-up face made Sam snicker. . Oh, Colleen, relax. You can tell people your sister has mental problems.

I do.

Sam narrowed her eyes. She wasn’t sure if Colleen was joking or not. I need your help.

Oh, how long have I waited for you to say that. I know this great shrink—

"Why aren’t I surprised? Let me guess, he’s just your doctor and nothing more?"

Colleen snarled. "He is a she and yes, I do see her from time to time. Who wouldn’t, given the fact my sister drives me nuts? If it isn’t mental help you need, then what?"

Sam had no idea Colleen was seeing a therapist. For what? Her life wasn’t so bad. I need help researching a missing little girl.

Colleen’s face lit up. Research I can do. Grabbing a pen and paper, Colleen paused. Shoot.

You need a life, sis. Okay, I don’t have much to go on, I’m afraid. She’s maybe six, seven, at best. Her hair is long, maybe mid waist, blonde, and a little wavy. Her face is round, a little chubby, and her eyes are blue. Sam thought it best to leave out the gory details. Her sister wasn’t good with blood and gore. Don’t go back too far. Maybe a year. I don’t think it’s been long. She had a feeling it was a recent case.

Okay. Describe what she’s wearing.

Sam didn’t have to think hard; it was planted in her memory like steel. She’s wearing a cute red fuzzy shirt, short cap sleeves, and there’s a fuzzy white cat on the front. Blue jeans with pockets on the side and gems along the seams. She’s wearing running shoes; her laces are untied. She has a clip in her hair, the shape of a butterfly, on the left side. Sam touched the side of her hair, thinking of the little girl and what her life might have been like if she’d been given a chance to live.

Colleen glanced up, her face full of sorrow. She got to you, huh? Anything else?

Sam shook her head, trying to disguise her emotions. Dealing with children after death has always been tough. Especially when the death was