Beyond My Darkness Read online

  BEYOND MY DARKNESS

  RC BOLDT

  CONTENTS

  About The Book

  1. Georgia Danvers

  2. Georgia

  3. Georgia

  4. Georgia

  Untitled

  5. Bronson Cortez

  6. Georgia

  7. Georgia

  8. Georgia

  9. Bronson

  10. Georgia

  11. Bronson

  12. Georgia

  Untitled

  13. Georgia

  14. Bronson

  15. Georgia

  16. Bronson

  17. Georgia

  18. Georgia

  19. Bronson

  20. Georgia

  21. Bronson

  22. Georgia

  23. Bronson

  24. Georgia

  25. Georgia

  26. Bronson

  27. Georgia

  28. Bronson

  29. Georgia

  30. Bronson

  31. Georgia

  32. Bronson

  33. Georgia

  34. Bronson

  Untitled

  35. Georgia

  36. Georgia

  37. Bronson

  38. Georgia

  39. Georgia

  40. Georgia

  41. Bronson

  42. Georgia

  43. Georgia

  44. Georgia

  45. Bronson

  46. Georgia

  47. Bronson

  48. Bronson

  49. Georgia

  50. Bronson

  51. Georgia

  52. Bronson

  53. Georgia

  54. Bronson

  55. Georgia

  56. Bronson

  57. Georgia

  58. Bronson

  59. Georgia

  60. Bronson

  61. Georgia

  62. Bronson

  63. Georgia

  64. Bronson

  65. Bronson

  66. Georgia

  67. Bronson

  68. Georgia

  69. Georgia

  70. Georgia

  71. Bronson

  72. Georgia

  73. Bronson

  74. Georgia

  75. Bronson

  76. Bronson

  77. Georgia

  78. Georgia

  79. Georgia

  80. Georgia

  81. Bronson

  82. Georgia

  83. Bronson

  84. Georgia

  85. Bronson

  86. Georgia

  87. Georgia

  88. Georgia

  Untitled

  89. Bronson

  90. Georgia

  91. Georgia

  Untitled

  92. Bronson

  93. Georgia

  94. Georgia

  95. Georgia

  96. Bronson

  97. Georgia

  98. Georgia

  99. Georgia

  100. Bronson

  101. Bronson

  102. Georgia

  Coming this Fall

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2022 by RC Boldt

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by trademark owners. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features in any media form are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if one of these terms are used in this work of fiction.

  Cover design: By Hang Le

  Visit my website at www.rcboldtbooks.com.

  Sign up for my mailing list: https://bit.ly/3raidhQ

  To Matty,

  Soaking up each day of this adventure with you is a gift in itself. If I had to go back, I’d choose you all over again. Te amo. Siempre.

  * * *

  To A,

  You are incredible and adventurous and have the purest heart. Never change, mi amor. Never change.

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Twelve years ago, I fled, vowing to never again use my power. But everything changes when I break that vow and bring two bodies back to life in the morgue.

  It sends me spinning directly into his orbit.

  Arrogant. Menacing. Enigmatic. That’s Bronson Cortez, the notoriously violent gang leader who remains elusive to authorities.

  He breaks the law at every turn and answers to no one. But when he offers me a glimpse of what lies beneath that iron-clad exterior, I realize there’s more to him than meets the eye.

  The man who fiercely guards his heart somehow manages to claim mine.

  But he doesn’t know the truth about me.

  I wonder if he could be the first to accept me for who I am—what I am.

  I wonder if he’ll be the first to see beyond my darkness.

  GEORGIA DANVERS

  Friday

  I clutch the cold metal table and the skin over my knuckles draws tight like a rubber band beneath my gloves. As I lean the brunt of my weight against the table, exhaustion pummels me in punishing waves.

  I knew better than to do it. I fucking knew better.

  But their bodies called to me. There was just something about them that made the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  What have I done?

  Once the thought strikes, I mentally swat it away. Because I know exactly what I’ve done.

  And now, I have to pay the price.

  The center of my chest burns as if the ink from my tattoo singes through each layer of my skin. But it serves as a distinct and painful reminder of my past.

  In my periphery, I catch sight of movement outside the glass walls of the autopsy suite, and it helps disentangle me from my thoughts before the door draws open.

  I straighten abruptly—at least as much as I possibly can—before Paul steps forward, lingering in the doorway.

  He works upstairs in the records department, specifically dealing with case files. The powers that be at our precinct refuse to convert entirely to digital files. That means I get the glorious joy of dealing with hard copies and digital ones.

  Paul’s smile is etched with nervousness. “Sorry to bother you, Georgia, but I, uh, told Theresa I’d bring this down to you.” He holds up a few of the files in his hands. “And I thought, maybe, if you wanted to catch dinner later after you’re done, we could try out that new Irish pub that opened up.”

  I force a polite smile, attempting to dissuade him from interpreting it as welcoming. I’ve been trying not to encourage him, but this guy never relents.

  “Thanks, Paul. If you can set those inside the office on my desk, that’d be great. And I appreciate the invite, but I really need finish this up and it looks like it’s going to take me a while.”

  I’d have to be blind not to see the disappointment lining his face. His gaze flickers to the bodies lying supine, and he visibly shudders before averting his eyes.

  If I had the energy, I’d smile because as sweet as Paul is, he seem
s to get quite queasy around the bodies.

  “Oh, sure. I understand.” He lets the door fall closed and disappears briefly to place the files in my office. A moment later, he tugs open the autopsy suite door and leans against it. Shoving a hand in his back pocket, he hovers. “I guess I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Have a good night.” My legs still feel like Jell-O, and I hope he doesn’t notice how much I’m relying on this damn table to hold me upright.

  “Don’t work too late. You know what they say. All work and no play makes Georgia a dull girl.” He winces. “That was weird. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. See you on Monday, Paul.”

  He gives an awkward wave before turning around for the door. Though his mumbled words are muted, they still reach my ears a millisecond before the door falls closed behind him. “Why am I such an idiot?!”

  But I don’t pay him any attention. I can’t bear to.

  My eyes remain locked on the two dead bodies.

  The ones that only a moment ago came briefly to life to tell me they’d been murdered.

  GEORGIA

  Moments earlier…

  Chills dance along my spine, and they have nothing to do with the normally brisk temperature of the morgue.

  Something doesn’t feel right about this. The thought has plagued me the instant I received the two bodies who’d died in a house fire.

  The extent of burns on their bodies contradicts the lack of damage in their lungs from smoke inhalation. In addition, it’s indicated in their files that they were discovered sitting upright in chairs. Yet their toxicology reports came back free of any drugs or alcohol. So why—how—did they not rouse during the fire and attempt to escape?

  The tiny hairs rise on the back of my neck, beneath where my long hair is gathered in a simple ponytail under my hairnet. I’d ignored the strange sensations when I performed her boyfriend’s autopsy, but they’ve since amplified now that I’ve nearly finished with hers.

  I sink my teeth into my bottom lip as I waver. I’ve never felt compelled to break my vow. Never.

  Until now.

  Hell, I don’t even know if it’s possible.

  My palms sweat inside my latex gloves, and my every move is cloaked with trepidation. Chest heaving with panted breaths, I reach out my hand and hold it over the open chest cavity of Naomi Talbot’s body. Even though my words are barely above a whisper, they seem to echo within the vast space of the morgue.

  “How did you die?”

  What feels like an eternity passes in silence, and when nothing stirs or shifts beneath my hands, my shoulders slump in relief. I’m no longer cursed. That’s good news—great news, in fact. So why can’t I dislodge the sense that I’m being buffeted by some sort of ominous premonition?

  Dropping my hands to the edge of the stainless steel autopsy table, I release a long exhale, but it morphs into a choked sound when the woman’s body jerks violently.

  My legs are rooted in place as Naomi Talbot opens her eyes and blinks rapidly.

  “Mms…shnwim.” The first thing out of her mouth is indecipherable and my heart gallops.

  Her eyes dart from side to side erratically. “Mur…dered.”

  My blood feels as though it thickens to sludge in my veins as I pose my question in a wooden tone. “Who murdered you?”

  She answers with gibberish again before murmuring, “Scorpions.”

  My eyes go wide because everyone around here is aware of the violent gang named The Scorpions.

  More gibberish spills from her lips before she whispers, “Tell…Bronson.”

  My muscles grow weak, legs quivering as they struggle to hold my body upright. I clench and unclench my gloved fingers and watch as her eyes go blank and her body stills once again.

  I stare down at her for an indeterminate amount of time, wondering if I imagined it all. Half wishing I had but knowing the truth.

  I had briefly brought her back to life. Not only that, but she also told me she’d been murdered.

  Naomi Talbot lies still, her unnaturally pale face placid, and I gently sweep her eyelids closed.

  Surprise still resonates through me at her appearance. Her and her boyfriend’s home had been in the territory of The Scorpions, yet neither looked like I would’ve expected. Instead of appearing dangerous and rough around the edges, they were…normal looking.

  “Tell…Bronson.” She’d said the name I’ve only heard in news reports connected to The Scorpions. As the gang leader, he’s been mentioned alongside phrases like “inconclusive evidence connecting him to the murder” and “airtight alibi cleared him.” That she expressed the need to tell the man is both odd and intriguing.

  I fight against the exhaustion pulling at my muscles like quicksand and will my body to cooperate. Trudging over to the cooler, I enter the refrigerated room where the bodies are stored pre- and post-autopsy.

  Naomi’s boyfriend, Leo Norambuena, remains in the body bag on a gurney. I disengage the wheel locks and push him out of the cooler. By the time I get him nearby his deceased girlfriend, I’m out of breath, this damn curse draining me of energy.

  While I know this will push me past the edge of exhaustion, I unzip the bag to reveal Leo’s body. Swallowing hard, I brace myself as I raise a hand over his chest cavity and ask the same question. Because I need to know if he’ll reveal that he suffered the same fate as his girlfriend.

  “How did you die, Leo?”

  This time, there’s no hesitation. His body jolts as though it’s received an electrical shock, and his eyes open wide, lips parting.

  Leo Norambuena’s response nearly mirrors his girlfriend’s, except his breathing is labored and harsh, and he wheezes each time he speaks. There’s no incoherent mumbling, yet his words emerge as though it’s a great struggle to produce each syllable.

  “Murdered.” In ragged breaths, his chest heaves violently as he rasps out his answer. “Scorpions. Tell Bronson.”

  Naomi Talbot and Leo Norambuena have both said they were murdered.

  They’ve both mentioned The Scorpions and to tell Bronson.

  GEORGIA

  Saturday morning

  I’ve officially lost my mind. Proof of this is my current location.

  I’m seated at the counter of a small, locally owned diner that I had no clue existed. Of course, it is located in what’s considered to be The Scorpions’ territory.

  As I drove here, I expected to witness drive-by shootings or non-discreet drug deals. Instead, I passed well-manicured parks with people walking or jogging and lots of small businesses’ storefronts that weren’t the least bit run-down. They didn’t even have bars on the windows or evidence of bullet holes anywhere.

  It was a lot more…normal than I anticipated. But if anyone can attest to the fact that normal exteriors can be greatly misleading, it’s me.

  A Hispanic woman who I’d estimate to be in her early sixties greets me by setting napkin-wrapped silverware in front of me. Her accented words immediately endear me to her. “Bienvenido. Welcome to our diner. What can I get for you?”

  A beautiful multicolored scarf is wrapped around her head, much like the old poster of Rosie the Riveter I recall learning about when studying World War II history. Only a tiny bit of dark hair, threaded with a bit of silver, peeks out the top of her hairline where the scarf is knotted.

  Her dark-brown eyes are kind, but her smile holds a healthy dose of wariness. And I get it—I really do. I’m the outsider here. A simple glance around tells me as much.

  Everyone is relaxed and chatting—some in Spanish—with the other two waitresses. Two men at a far table holler something at the cook that has him grinning and shaking his head before he moves out of view from the large window separating the diner and kitchen area.

  “She did such a great job in the play! What a cutie!” One waitress says this to a booth of two men in uniforms with the name of some car repair shop embroidered on the front pocket.

  “We’re almost done with the cleanup, thanks to t
he guys.” This comes from a married couple. “Couldn’t have done it without them.”

  “I’ll see you after the wake on Saturday,” another woman says somberly.

  Everyone seems to know everyone else—and well.

  Which means I stick out like a sore thumb. But I’ve always been the outsider. The odd person who never fits in. It’s become the norm for me.

  It doesn’t mean that I don’t envy and wish I could be like these people once—just once.