Page 1 of Twisted

Prologue

She wore the rose-tinted glasses of her upbringing well. Maisie Jane Walkup, a true Southern Belle if there ever was one. She’d always been a feisty girl from little means, bright and brilliant but too doused to show it. A touch of darkness tainted her pearly soul. It always had. So when Carter Hale, thirteen years her senior and with more money than he could spend in a lifetime proposed, her mother all but saidyesfor her.

Maisie didn’t mind. She loved her mama and daddy. She’d do anything for them.

But the years of girlish dreams were slowly stripped away piece by agonizing piece. The dinners, the Sundays at church, the friends she was bade to keep to uphold her reputation—it all swirled around her like a tornado of lies. She wore pink and pearls and conservative heels. She bobbed her head and batted her eyes and played the pretty fool like the puppet she’d become. She didn’t always hate her life. At one point, she’d idolized her husband, worshipped the ground he walked on. But money and a handsome man did not equate to a relationship that would withstand the test of time.

Carter’d hounded her for years to dye her hair—blonde, he said. To match her icy blue eyes. But she wouldn’t; her dark hair was the last tendril of who she was on the inside. It was her last stance against the dictatorship that had become their marriage.

She’d known about the affair her husband was having with their close friend and business partner’s wife. She’d discovered it all, unearthed the gruesome truth like a storm washing away the dirt of a shallow grave. And she smirked now while her fingers almost lovingly caressed the scar that ran from cheek to lip on her otherwise perfect face, watching the blood pool around her husband’s head.

She took a long drag on her Newport Menthol cigarette. Carter refused to let her smoke, or drink dark colored liquor, or wear anything toosexy. She was his perfect doll no more. As soon as she’d pulled the trigger, the ties that had held her snapped, and she was finally free.

Dousing the ashes in the sink with a sizzle, she gave herself only one more moment—just thirty more seconds to revel in the power that flowed like hot lava through her veins. She couldn’t waste much time; her plan must be executed with precision. She stared for a moment longer down at the man who she’d once seen as her knight in shining armor; he was still handsome, but that outward beauty didn’t reflect the monster within.

His thin golden hairs, gelled casually to one side, graying around his temples. His tanned face, the wrinkles around his soft blue eyes and thin lips proving he frowned more than he smiled. His fit physique—something Maisie now knew his mistress helped him keep up. All those late night runs and weight lifting sessions were for a much more sinister reason.

Taking a deep breath, she allowed tears to spill forth, eyes burning as mascara pooled in her lower lids. The tears were, surprisingly enough, real. She wept for a love she’d always dreamed of finding in him. She wept for what her life had become, for that younger version of herself she’d let so far down. She wept for all the horrible, twisted events that led her to this moment in time. He deserved it.

And she wasn’t even close to done yet.

1

Detective Cooper

Present Day

The Charlotte, North Carolina Homicide Division was swamped. They always were this time of year. Summer brought with it humid heat and the stuff of nightmares, though the demographics tended to sway heavily to one side. Drug dealings gone bad, prostitutes found slaughtered in alleys, the occasional domestic violence gone too far.

So when Detective Shawn Cooper pulled up to the sprawling home of the Hale’s, he was more invested in this case from the get-go. Very rare, for a wealthy, prominent, white business man to turn up shot in the head in his kitchen. He flipped open his pad, patting his breast pocket for his pen. He was young—only a spritely thirty-five, and only inducted into the homicide division three years ago. Because of his youth, he was more tenacious than his partner, James Haley. Hays, the department called him.

Shawn Cooper could smell his partner’s cheap aftershave and the last tendrils of a fried chicken dinner the second his old Ford Taurus pulled up along the sidewalk in front of the traditional, charming southern home. Shawn scribbled down his initial observations before Hays drew any closer and interrupted his thoughts. Already, his mind was jumping to the logical conclusion; the wife had done it. No signs of forced entry, shot right between the eyes in his own kitchen while preparing himself a cocktail.

Hays clapped him on the shoulder, and without a word they strode toward the open front door as the coroner greeted them. Hays went straight for the body, but Shawn’s target was Mr. Hale’s wife, Maisie. He led himself to the sitting room where he could hear the constant police chatter of deputies’ radios.

There Maisie sat in a crisp white armchair covered in splotches of crimson, surrounded by grocery bags, sobbing into her bloodied hands. Pausing at the threshold, he let the scene speak to him. If she was acting, she was doing well. Her eyes were puffy and red, her hair disheveled, and then she clapped a hand to her pretty mouth. A female officer lurched forward, passing Maisie a bucket just in time for her to vomit.

A sign of guilt? Remorse? Shock?

But then Shawn noticed the long, pinkish scar that ran from Maisie’s right cheek bone to her upper lip. It was covered well enough in makeup, but still new, as far as scars went. It looked jagged, rough, but it had clearly been stitched and worked on by a professional—a plastic surgeon. Whatever the cause, it did not deter from her beauty one bit. If anything, it made her even more endearing, even more unique. What had caused such a ghastly scar? He made note of it, intending to unearth the reason for its presence on her porcelain face.

The female officer bent to eye level, smoothing her palm over Maisie’s shoulder, handing her a tissue. Maisie gracefully accepted and thanked her. Shawn narrowed his eyes. Mrs. Hale was a young, gorgeous woman—the kind that would win beauty pageants with ease and grace. With her long dark locks and those striking blue eyes, it was easy to see why Mr. Hale and her had married; they were a handsome pair.

“How far along?” Officer Layla gently asked the weeping woman. Maisie Hale sniffled, eyes fluttering, lips twitching, before a new wave of tears coated her pink, round cheeks.

“We…just found out two weeks ago,” she whispered, eyes dazed and glossed. Shawn jotted down that interesting tidbit. Pregnant, then. Motive? Had Maisie snapped? Was she having an affair?

“Mrs. Hale?” he asked, taking the lapse in concentration to stride into the sitting room. Layla stood, hand still grasping at Maisie’s delicate shoulder, and those round, vivid blue eyes settled on him, knocking the breath from his lungs in an instant. He was a married man, but damn it to hell, she wasstunning. Even the sight of her scar faded from his view when those eyes of hers captured his own.

Clearing his throat, he pulled around a chair and seated himself in front of her, giving his best practiced sympathetic smile he could.

“Yes, sir?” she breathed, her voice an angel’s whisper and deeply southern.

“I am Detective Shawn Cooper. I am so sorry for your loss,” he said. He watched her reaction closely at his words; did she blink, seem happy, relieved, sad? She dropped her eyes, though, as heavy tears brimmed her lids and spilled over.

“I just have a few questions, miss.”

Maisie nodded, dabbing at her eyes, her hand splayed protectively over her lower stomach.

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