Murder Feels Awful Read online

  Books by Bill Alive

  The Empath Detective Mystery Series:

  NOVELS

  Murder Feels Awful

  Murder Feels Bad

  Murder Feels Crazy (coming January 2018)

  NOVELLA

  Origin Story: Mark Falcon, Akina, and the Condo Killer

  (This prequel novella is best read after Murder Feels Awful. You can get it free here.)

  MURDER FEELS AWFUL

  A REAL-LIFE MURDER MYSTERY

  Investigated by a Broke Web Developer

  Who Can FEEL PEOPLE’S EMOTIONS,

  Including Murderers,

  Who Feel SUPER Bad

  An Empath Detective Mystery, Book 1

  Starring MARK FALCON

  by BILL ALIVE

  Villette Press

  Back Mosby, VA

  Murder Feels Awful Copyright 2017 Bill Alive. (v1.0)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author. Reviewers may quote brief passages in reviews. Please do.

  Super-official disclaimer in the back.

  For more information, visit:

  https://billalive.com

  But not now. Read the book first.

  For Ceci

  The best friend and proofreader ever. :)

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  So I’m just going to start typing, because I can’t decide where to start. The dead woman flying the glider? Or when Mark first read my mind? Or maybe that crazy creeptastic first funeral?

  This writing thing is hard.

  But this story needs to be told. For the victims. For justice.

  Plus, we both missed a lot of work time with this murder stuff. It’s not like our finances are dire, officially, but Mark said I could try this ebook thing if we used the money on the mortgage first.

  Not that the mortgage is the worst of our problems.

  Thing is, people really did die. Somehow, in made-up mysteries, that doesn’t seem to hit the characters much. Trust me, it’s a big deal.

  In fact, spoiler alert, this all does get kind of dark. Like, not even just murder. Some things are worse than murder.

  But … on the positive side … working with an empath is freaking amazing.

  And you know what, that’s exactly where to start this. On that Saturday hike with Ceci, just before my mind exploded.

  Not literally. That would be gross. Although that did kind of technically happen later … ugh … anyway …

  It was one of those rare Virginia mornings in late August that are magically coolish instead of the usual broil. The point of our hike was to bask in the splendor of our gorgeous Shenandoah Valley, with the gentle, ancient hills rolling around beneath us in green late summer glory.

  But Ceci had picked some new trail that turned out to have no views at all, just a scrabbly single-file path through skinny oaks and poison ivy. In the deepest shade, beside huge boulders, the air was cold and damp and tombish. Our voices echoed a little too loud, like kids squabbling in a graveyard.

  “Not going to happen, Pete,” Ceci said, in her southern Virginia drawl that higher education and a nursing career have only partly tamed. She flicked me back a firm glance over her buff shoulder. “You are not moving in.”

  This hurt.

  My current lease was up in a couple days, and I needed new digs fast.

  Dad was serious this time — “Son, it’s been a year since graduation, time to pay your own way, blah blah blah…” But how was I supposed to make the rent in the stupid four-room palace Mom had settled me in? And why was Ceci being like this? With our history…

  “Don’t you want help with your mortgage?” I gasped. The gasp was only partly emotional — I had to sprint to keep up as Ceci jumped easily from rock to rock up yet another steep incline. My calves and thighs were starting to ache.

  No, I’m not out of shape. In fact, I’m lean and wiry, sometimes misinterpreted as “skinny”. But these days, Ceci treats every minor excursion like some kind of Tough Mudder Triathlon.

  By the way, “Ceci” sounds like ”sessy”, and it’s short for “Cecily”. Which has always struck me as super fancy and feminine for a woman who’s built like a linebacker (if the linebacker were five foot six and had a cute lopsided smile).

  “Besides,” I pursued, “you’ve already got other housemates.”

  She groaned, that special Ceci I-love-you-but-sometimes-I-wonder-how-you-even-know-how-to-talk groan. “My housemates are all women.”

  “And?” I said, confused. It took me a second to process what she meant. “Wait, you mean, because I’m a dude? Really? Is this some Baptist thing?”

  “I’m not Baptist!”

  I flinched with remorse. I’m pretty good with details, but for some reason I can never remember the precise flavor of her denomination. Not Baptist, apparently.

  “Sorry,” I said. “But we’re friends, Ceci. We have this magical complete lack of sexual attraction! We always have.”

  Ceci stepped wrong on a pebble and lurched sideways. But she righted herself instantly. “It’s not that,” she said.

  I don’t know why it wasn’t. She’s one of my best friends. We met our first week of college, back when she was a chubby freshman fifteener instead of this transmogrified Miss Muscle. Since then, we’ve been talking pretty much nonstop. We were probably brother and sister in another life. I’m serious. (I used to not believe in past lives, but in the last couple years I’ve really gotten a lot more spiritual.)

  “I mean, sure, Hermosa is moderately hot,” I granted. “But I’m not going to try anything with a housemate!”

  “Pete—”

  “And she’s totally into that cop dude. Ramiro Romero. That guy has enough self-confidence to launch a major world religion.”

  “Pete—”

  Side note: Ceci knows a lot of cops and cop affiliates, because her older sister Gwen happens to be one of the Force’s finest. Sergeant Gwen Jensen, head of our local Investigations Division. (It’s a small town, so the division only has like three cops, but still.)

  Gwen is also basically a Viking goddess, in both her Attractiveness Quotient and her overall temperament and approach to life. I’m not going to say she’s intimidating, because she might actually read this.

  “Trust me,” I said. “Cop girlfriends are officially off limits.”

  “PETE!” she exasperated. “You are not moving in!”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but just then, there came a dude.

  Trail etiquette is sketchy, but I always feel you should make at least fleeting eye contact as you try to avoid shoving each other into the poison ivy.

  It’s like when you’re driving on back road gravel and there’s some three-ton pickup barreling your way. You both have to give this little half-wave of acknowledgment, even if you don’t actually lift your hand off the wheel and even though there is no way you actually know each other or will ever see each other again, ever. It’s just the code.

  This guy did not make eye contact.

  I tried three times.

  On my first two quick glances, he was apparently way more interested in either watching his step or observing the fascinating local flora.

  The third time, he was staring up, craning back his head to see the sky.

  This seemed so obviously avoidant that I didn’t think to look up too. Besides, he was more interesting.

  Even with his head back, his eyes burned a brilliant blue. They were luminous, the kind of eyes that shine so bright you might fall in. Almost unsettling.

  He was also rocking a red-blond mustache, solo with no beard. That was unsettling. Because it actually kind of looked okay. I can’t explain it.

  Maybe h
e was good-looking enough to burn some points on eccentric facial hair? He had a powerful, athletic kind of face. But who knows? I have no clue what kind of look girls actually go for.

  I pegged him at mid-thirties, although it was hard to be sure because his reddish-blondish-grayish hair was thinning big time. A large expanse of scalp openly gleamed, and the hair he had left was all fringy and shaggy in the breeze, like the last few months had seen other priorities besides hair care. He wore a ratty T-shirt and thrift store jeans, but he did wear them well.

  He tramped around us in awkward silence. Ceci and I put the courteous kibosh on our conversation to make space for obligatory pleasantries, but somehow even Ceci couldn’t muster a “good morning”. And this is a woman who can dump bedpans for sixteen hours straight while sporting the aforementioned cute smile. Somehow, this guy exuded silence like a force field.

  Without a word, we went our separate ways.

  Then, behind us, he gasped.

  Hard. Like he’d been hit in the stomach by a freight train.

  Ceci and I shared a glance of mutual what-the-hellitude, then whipped around to see.

  The dude was slumped against an old oak, shuddering like he was freezing and fighting to breathe. He looked shocked, even horrified.

  Ceci sprang into Nurse Mode, peppering him with medical questions as she leaped down toward him.

  But he winced and rasped, “She’s dying.”

  I went cold all over. I felt like I’d walked into a car crash. “Who’s dying?” I called, as I stumbled after Ceci.

  Still wincing, he nodded … up. Toward the sky.

  The sky was blue, cloudless, and totally empty of dying people. A lone white glider sailed serene.

  Was this guy hallucinating? Not good. We were alone in the woods, and he looked fairly ripped, like he worked out. A gazillion Blair Witch type scenarios flashed through my head and twisted my gut. If things went sideways, I wasn’t even sure Ceci could take him, let alone me. At least she had a sporting chance, and I could grab his feet or something.

  He groaned and writhed in pain. The rough bark was chafing his bare arms, and his triceps were trickling red.

  “Where does it hurt?” Ceci said.

  But he roared, his blue eyes wide and blazing with panic. I’d never heard a human make that noise, it ripped into you like the death wail of a tortured bear. He arced against the tree in a final spasm of agony. Then he collapsed.

  “Sweet Lord,” Ceci muttered. She crouched and felt for his pulse. The swift moves made her an instant nurse, as if this were now a sickbed and she was in scrubs instead of shorts and a sweaty Piano Guys shirt.

  He didn’t seem to be breathing.

  Then he coughed, sat up, and leaned against the tree. “Sorry,” he said, in a deep growly voice that sounded, for the first time so far, sort of like a normal human being.

  With that tone, the crisis dissolved instantly. My butt cheeks began to unclench.

  He flashed us each an appraising glance with those searchlight eyes. “It’s fine, I’m fine,” he said. “Sorry. But I’m pretty sure she’s dead.”

  “Who?” I snapped, reclenching.

  “No idea,” he said. “Up there, I think.”

  The sky still spread clear and corpseless above the trees. The glider plane was soaring. It must have been flying solo for awhile, because the tow plane that would have launched it was nowhere in sight. Everything looked perfectly normal.

  Then the glider nosedived.

  Chapter 2

  We stared for an eternity, watching the glider plummet. Willing it to pull up.

  It sank out of sight behind the trees.

  There was a distant, sickening crash.

  I froze, but Ceci sprang to her feet and whipped out her phone.

  “Where you going?” I said.

  She was hustling off toward the crash with the phone to her ear. “I’m a nurse, remember? Stay with him and get his name. Gwen’ll want a statement.”

  I protested, but she was already a hundred feet up the hill.

  Leaving me alone. With this guy.

  He was sitting on the rocky ground and resting against the tree. Eyes closed. Chilling, it seemed, like any tired hiker. Except that bloody scrapes lined the arm against the bark.

  “It’s all good, man,” he said. “Just let me catch my breath and I’ll be on my way.”

  “What just happened?” I said.

  Eyes still closed, he shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Not a big deal?”

  “I mean yes, if someone actually just died, that’s a big deal, but I’m sorry I ran into you right when …” He growled in frustration and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “How the hell was I supposed to know?” He was grumbling more to himself than me. “I can’t even take a hike in the fricking forest …”

  All at once, the magnitude of what I had just witnessed exploded in my brain like a fireworks finale.

  “Oh my gosh,” I said. “You’re an empath.”

  Wait, hold up.

  You know what an empath is, right?

  I guess you might not. I didn’t know myself until I started hanging out with the crystal-and-incense crowd.

  But I snuck in the definition right there in the book’s subtitle. ;) An empath can feel other people’s emotions.

  I’d never thought I’d actually meet one.

  He flashed me a sharp, angry glance, then heaved to his feet. “Don’t know what you mean,” he said. “Gotta go, kid. Go help your girlfriend.”

  He strode off down the mountain trail at warp speed.

  I rushed after him. “She’s not my girlfriend and you’re an empath! Wow! This is amazing! I’ve read all about empaths! I wasn’t even sure you guys were for real! My boss, Vivian, she’s on the spectrum, she’s a Highly Sensitive Person, but the most she’s ever vibed is like, super general emotions! You know, if you’re depressed or mad or bored or whatever, she can totally tell, even if you’re trying to hide it. But she’s got to be right there looking at the person. You just vibed someone from a plane! Holy crap! It’s like your midiclorian count is off the charts!!”

  Okay, I guess I gushed a little. I can get enthusiastic.

  Looking back, maybe I could have kept a bit more due solemnitude, considering I’d just witnessed my first plane crash. I think I was partly coping, I didn’t want to believe it yet. But I did want to believe in empathy, full-on Fox-Mulder-style, craving that invasion of the spiritual for real. I love my fellow birthstone believers and they’re super sincere, but you can only see so much yoga before you wish someone would levitate already.

  He was speed walking now, practically jogging. Pebbles were scattering. Without turning around, he said, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Like Star Wars!” I said. “You’re super strong with the Force!”

  “I don’t believe in that crap.”

  “What do you mean you don’t believe it? You just did it! You had this total aura connection with some lady who was dying in a plane!”

  “She wasn’t just dying, she was killed!” he snapped.

  I gasped. I mean I literally sucked air.

  Ahead, still hustling away, he glanced my way and muttered, “Crap.”

  “SHE WAS MURDERED??” I yelled, and yes, it was all caps. “How do you know? Do you know who did it? Are you going to help the police? Ceci’s sister is a cop—”

  “Look, kid, I’m not some kind of crime-fighting Jedi empath!” he barked over his shoulder. “I’m a broke web developer!”

  “You’re broke? Really!” I said. “Perfect!”

  At this, he finally stopped. Me, I had a lot of momentum going, and the pebbles complicated my braking system. I would have crashed on my face, but he grabbed my arm with a grip like stone.

  He scrutinized my face, then sighed and rolled his eyes. “No way,” he said. “The last thing I need is a housemate.”

  I hate to admit it, but I pretty much squealed.

>   “OH MY GOSH YOU JUST READ MY MIND.”

  He looked startled, surprised even. Like even he hadn’t expected to get quite so clear a vibe.

  Then he frowned and walked away again. “I didn’t read anything!” he called. “I inferred. You were talking about it all before, you’re trying to move in with that girl!”

  “You totally read my mind! And I didn’t even feel it!”

  “I don’t read minds,” he snapped, without looking back. “That happens like once a year!”

  Hehehe. Oops.

  He froze. And I knew, just from his taut back, that he knew, that I knew, that he knew, that he’d just crossed the Rube Goldberg. I mean, Ruby Canyon. Whatever, the river thing with Caesar.

  Slowly he turned back.

  I was so excited I was bouncing on my toes, in a totally subtle and imperceptible way. But I know a thing or two about persuasion, and I had to be careful here to seal the deal. If I played my Tarots right, I would not only score a sweet new pad at econo rates, I’d be rooming with a freaking empath.

  Okay, yes, he was a complete stranger. But aside from the howling spasm thing, he seemed perfectly normal.

  Plus, if he was the real deal, then who knew, just being around him might activate my spiritual powers. Which, honestly, had been taking awhile to bloom. It was an amazing one-time offer from the Universe, I might never get another chance.

  I assumed an air of nonchalance. “Look, why don’t I get you brunch? We can chill out, shoot the breeze—”

  His eyes went tight with suspicion. “I thought you couldn’t make rent.”

  “Whoa, you’re doing it again!”

  “I am not, you were bellowing your plight through the whole forest.”

  “Oh,” I said, nonplussed.

  “So are you broke or not?” he demanded.

  “Dude, I can spring for brunch. The place I’m in is like a McMansion. My mom went way overboard. It’s like, Mom, I appreciate your input, but I’ll survive without hardwood floors. With you, I’m sure your place will be way more reasonable.”