18++ In a small town, in a popular bar, beautiful women disappear. This could just be a coincidence, but private investigators, Carson, Matt and Nathalie don’t believe in them. So they go undercover.
Published: February 12th, 2020
In a small town, in a popular bar, beautiful women disappear. This could just be a coincidence, but private investigators, Carson, Matt and Nathalie don’t believe in them. So they go undercover.
However, when one of the missing women turns up dead, the trio is disturbed to learn the woman bore a striking resemblance to Nathalie; they increase their efforts. When Nathalie disappears from the same bar, Carson and Matt will do anything to find her.
*Contains explicit descriptions of sex, strong language, and descriptions of violence.*
Weeping, the kind which does its best to go unnoticed, filled the ominous silence. The constant whimper invaded the consciousness of the woman sprawled half on half off the bed. With effort the woman forced her heavy lids open and blinked in the frail darkness. She shifted, then toppled to the hard-packed earth with a grunt.
Gripping her pounding head, she sat cross legged on the floor and rested her back against the wall. She rolled spit around her mouth in an effort to loosen her swollen tongue from the roof of her mouth. What the heck happened?
“Sean?” she croaked. Her voice was low and rusty from disuse. Had she passed out? They, she and her fiancé Sean, hadn’t even had that much to drink.
“No Sean here,” came a shaky singsong voice.
Had she passed out somewhere else? She shifted, moaning when her stomach shifted and slid like old grease on water. “This isn’t funny, Sean.” Finally, she looked upward.
Not home. Nowhere near home.
Weak sunlight filtered through the dingy mullioned glass block windows. From somewhere, a woman wept as if trying to do it in secret. The dirt floor was hard, and sported a colorful rug, a camped with a stingy mattress and rolled sleeping bag sat in one corner. While a toilet and shower, well more like a hose with a nozzle occupied the other corner. At least that section of the room had an actual floor. The faint stench of sewage gave her an idea of what was supposed to go on there.
Definitely not at home.
Rough gray cinder blocks formed the walls and thick wood and bars made up the front of the cell. A soft, soothing alto sang an old Cyndi Lauper song, something about girls having fun.
She was not having fun. She wanted to go home. She didn’t want to be in this dirty, filthy, hovel waiting for God knew what or even worse for whoever had grabbed her to come back and do what? Her heart pounded at the question.
About the author:
Lynn Chantale resides in Southwest Florida and she is determined to enjoy all that life has to offer. She has a mad affinity for milk chocolate, preferably Dove chocolate truffles or the caramel-filled squares (Godiva is acceptable), and plays the bass guitar when the Muse begs for a bit of distraction.
She’s a multi-published author in ebooks and has recently stepped into the self-publishing world. So far both experiences have been rewarding.