Beyond Bedrock: A Psychological Thriller | Book 3 | The Bedrock Series (Ebook)

Prologue

It was rocky right from the start. Right from the get-go, I guess you could say. From the day I saw him on the street. But you have to hang in there. Really, it gets better. It was quite by accident, our chance encounter that day. I mean, sure, of course I’d been watching him. But I hadn’t intended for us to come face to face, not like that. He was walking with his stepson, with her son in the city. They’d come from his office and I wasn’t sure where they were headed, to lunch I assumed, but then that was partly why I kept following. I had to know. 

I was several steps behind them, I knew to keep my distance. Even then. Especially then. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be close to him. I did. But more than that, I wanted to see without being seen. That’s when it happened. The kid had been holding something in his hand and he dropped it. I watched it fall. William was looking off, somewhere down the street. Who knows. That’s why he didn’t see the boy stop or notice the car making a right on red, not the way I did. The car rounded the corner, quickly, too quickly. The driver clearly wasn’t paying attention. He didn’t see the boy crouched down. Not the way I did. I hadn’t wanted to be seen, of course, I hadn’t. Instinct took over.  I threw myself into the front end of the vehicle, palms out. My mouth formed the word STOP but I don’t think anything came out. It was too late. The kid was on his feet, safe, out of the way and I was on my back with the love of my life standing over me. That much in and of itself made everything else all right.

“Are you ok?” he asked. I could see that he was visibly shaken. I remember that he’d checked the kid to make sure he was in one piece before he turned his attention to me. I told him I was fine and then he paced a little. I could see that he was thinking of what might have been, although not too much about it. For the most part, he was calm, in control, careful not to let the mask slip. I think he was thinking about me, about what to do with the woman laying on the pavement, grateful that she ended up with nothing more than a few minor scratches and some bruising. I wondered if it had been worse, whether he’d have felt remorseful for not being more precautious. Looking back, I can’t say for sure. Even now, I don’t know if he remembers. Does he know it was me? Or was it all very random to him?

“You should have been watching,” I managed to say and he nodded. 

“Thank you,” he said and then he was gone, his security guys stepping in between, ushering him on.

It’s too bad they hadn’t been watching properly or certainly they would have seen. What good is it if they’re only there to clean up the mess? That’s the way most people are, I’ve found. They see what they want to see. They’re looking for the bad guys, the big threats. The real danger. Not women who save little boys from getting crunched into a million pieces. They should be thankful they have me around, I recall thinking. What they don’t know won’t kill them. At least not today. 

The therapist looked up from the paper, having read what Lydia had written. “This is a good start,” she said. 

Lydia nodded.

“So, this was your first memory of William Hartman?” she asked waving the paper in the air slightly. “Saving his child?” It’s difficult to make out what she’s saying given the pen shoved between her teeth but her exact words matter little. Lydia already knows where this is going.

“No,” Lydia said. 

“No?” she asked, cocking her head, narrowing her eyes. “But you said—”

“It wasn’t his child,” Lydia corrected. “It was hers.”

“I see.” 

Lydia pressed her lips together, her expression hopeful. “So, you’ll give me my things back, then?”

The woman shakes her head. “Some of the items you requested your mother bring are against the rules Ms. Hammons. I’m afraid—”

“The pen and paper, specifically.” 

The paper she wants, the pen, well, she’ll have to figure something else out considering said pen is currently wedged between the woman’s teeth. It’s vile and it’s disgusting how a person with a higher ED degree can be so ignorant about germs, about other people’s possessions. Although, possession is nine-tenths of the law. Typical. Unclinical. This one should be a breeze. 

The woman considered her question for a moment before offering a response. “If you think it’ll help, writing things down…”

Lydia shrugged. “Don’t you?” she asked nodding toward the paper in the woman’s lap. 

“You make a fair point Ms. Hammons,” she said. She followed up with a fake smile. “We’re going to get you a different pen. This one is against our safety regulations,” she added, raising her brow. She removed the pen from her mouth and studied it closely. “Also, I quite like it.” 

“Consider it a gift,” Lydia said. The woman smiled, this time it wasn’t as fake and that’s how Lydia knew they were getting somewhere. 

* * *

9:03 AM

Dearest William,

Schizoid personality disorder. This is the official diagnosis. It’s amazing, really. Amazing that they think they can label a person using three words and BAM… that’s who they are. Well, let me tell you. THEY are wrong. They think some scribble scrabble on a piece of paper gives them the right to tell me who and what I am.  Ha. THEY ARE THE CRAZY ONES!

I am not those three words. Nope. I am a whole lot more than that. For one, I am a human being. And two, (trust me, this is where it gets good) I am in love with you. Deeply, madly, in love with you. What can I say? Love makes people do crazy things. Everyone knows that. 

Just this morning, I picked out a light blue top and jeans to wear. For you. For this occasion. To match your eyes, but also because blue signifies loyalty and honesty, and this is why I write. Because I will show them, and I will show you. I am more than a label.

It wasn’t easy at first. When I began writing to you in here, I mean.  Honestly, I had no idea where this whole thing would take me. I simply picked up my pen, set it down, and thought of you—I thought about what I wanted to say and the best way to say it. 

It’s been several weeks now, and I can feel things winding down. I believe this chapter is coming to an end. And by the end, specifically, my time in this place. 

This will likely be my final chapter to you and every writer knows it’s important to go out with a bang. As for what comes after, I do not know. 

Because that’s the thing, my love. Something always comes after. Bangs don’t just occur, people just don’t go down, and that’s the end of it, you know. Someone has to pay. That is a true ending. Revenge. Retribution. Complete and utter destruction. That’s what love does, you see. 

Alas, as I ponder how this part of our story will end, I realize endings are never truly endings and this brings me great comfort. That’s why it’s important to get this right. I know this deep down in my bones and so I carry on. I do the work. I balance the tray on my lap, consider my plan for a moment, and then place the notebook on top of it. I pause and consider how much to tell you, here and now, before we are finally together again, and so I simply stare out the window and think of your eyes. 

As I watch the trees swaying in the wind, I think about the breeze and what it would feel like across my skin. If I had to guess, I’d say a lot like your lips.  I feel like I’m forgetting the simple things. Things like the sound of leaves rustling, the warmth of the sun on my face, the smell of real food, not the slop they serve in here. Through the double-plated glass windows, I swear I can almost hear the birds chirping, and I think of you and the sound of your voice calling my name. It is then I realize I want my work and my time in here to have meant something. It has to. 

It is also then that I truly understand the significance of her visits. This isn’t just about her. It isn’t about her getting the facts—her side of the story. 

It is about our story. It’s about the story of our love. And then it hit me…. 

Who better to tell that story than me? That’s what this all means.

This was never about her at all. 

It was about us. 

You and me. 

This is our story and it has been my love letter to you. 

In the spirit of the colors I’m wearing, and since we’re being honest here, I want you to know I have written this for you. I have told our story in hopes you might come to understand the depth and the expansiveness of my love for you. So, that by the time we are together again, in just a matter of hours now, you will see things differently. 

I don’t know how or why things got so mucked up, William. I don’t. I only know that I am in here and you are out there. I know you have been confused about our feelings for one another. And I also realize this, our story, my work in progress, will fix it all. 

Today, as I write this, I am unlike the birds I can so faintly make out chirping just beyond these bars. These walls. I am locked away on a 5150 involuntary psych hold, which was extended from seventy-two hours to fourteen days. Tomorrow there is to be a hearing. 

But for the past thirteen days now, I’ve been trapped, in a cage, living as an animal, essentially—and likely, I understand, at your doing. Not because I’ve done anything wrong—but because you have friends in high places.

How could such a thing as sweet and pure as love be wrong, anyway, William? 

Riddle me that. 

But the good news is… it won’t be long now. 

They can’t keep me locked in here forever. 

Plus, I have a plan. I’m sure you of all people understand that. And William, my dear William, if there is anything you should know, know that I am not angry with you. There’s not one ounce of bitterness in me toward you—only love. Always, only love. I want to be angry. Sure I do. But how could I be angry with someone whose love for me is so vast and so true that he has to keep me locked up just so he has me all to himself? It’s like a fairy tale, really. 

It was brilliant, honestly. And so very you, William. Just like the blue shirt I wear, you’re loyal. 

Not just to me, to your wife as well. I understand that now. Even if I don’t necessarily like it… I understand.

You’re sending me a message. 

Because underneath all of that loyalty, like the shirt I wear, you’re blue. The message you send is loud and clear—you want me as badly as I want you. I’m good at sensing these things. I always have been. But this doesn’t mean it’s easy, William. Being in here, your antics. Her. True love never is though, is it? 

I do get upset from time to time and I do things. Bad things. Necessary things. Things I will tell you about someday soon— when we are together. It’s just a matter of time as I help you to understand. In the meantime, before we can be together, skin on skin, flesh on flesh, I accomplish what I need to share in my writing. It’s the only way now. I will trade her. My story—our story—will be my letters to you, and they will set the record straight. It will be like sending messages in a bottle and we will get it right. 

Soon enough, though, I will be like the birds I hear in the distance, free from this cage. Free to express my love for you in all the ways that count. 

Until then, it should bring us both great comfort to know, that in my mind, I am like the birds now—here, in this moment. I am free. Free from labels. Free to love who I want to love and to know he loves me in return. They can hold me here, physically, but they can never control my mind. 

This story, the story of us, is proof. It is my song to you. 

Kisses,

L

P.S. I wrote you a poem: 

One can only deny the truth 

for so long.

Forever, maybe.

But forever has nothing on

the way I feel about you.

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