The Last Door Read online

  For my husband...

  You are my one, my only, my favorite,

  my forever.

  Copyright © M.M. Boulder 2020

  The moral right of the author has been asserted (vigorously).

  All rights reserved. Published by Lone Ghost Publishing LLC,

  associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Lone Ghost Publishing LLC.

  No part or parts of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval systems, or transmitted in any form or by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (including via carrier pigeon),

  without written permission of the author and publisher.

  Author: Boulder , M.M.

  Title: THE LAST DOOR.

  ISBN: 9798625148825

  Target Audience: Adult

  Subjects:

  Psychological Thriller, Domestic Thriller, Serial Killer Thriller

  This is a work of fiction, which means it’s made up. Names, characters, peoples, locales, and incidents (stuff that happens in the story) are either gifts of the ether, products of the author’s resplendent imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or dying, businesses or companies in operation or defunct, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Read more by M.M. Boulder

  Psychological Thrillers

  THE LAST DOOR

  MY BETTER HALF

  THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT

  MY ONE AND ONLY

  WE ALL FALL DOWN

  Writing as M.M. Crumley

  THE LEGEND OF

  ANDREW RUFUS

  BOOK 1: DARK AWAKENING

  BOOK 2: BONE DEEP

  BOOK 3: BLOOD STAINED

  BOOK 4: BURIAL GROUND

  BOOK 5: DEATH SONG

  BOOK 6: FUNERAL MARCH

  BOOK 7: WARPATH

  Follow M.M. Boulder on FB

  https://www.mmboulder.com/

  M.M. Boulder

  THE

  LAST DOOR

  Chapter One

  Blood. Bright red and running down the walls. It looked like ketchup or thick Kool-Aid, but somehow she knew it was blood.

  A crumpled form lay sprawled at the base of the stairs, head haloed by a perfect circle of red, face twisted in terror. He looked like the image of Satan, falling from heaven, falling to earth.

  Someone was screaming. High, keening screams of terror.

  A voice. "Damn it! I told you to stay in the car!"

  "Morning, sweetie."

  Amy Harrison startled, blinking wildly for a second, trying to remember where she was. She'd been standing by stairs; it had been night; the man was dead.

  But she wasn't there. She was in her kitchen. Her sparkling, clean kitchen. There was no blood. There was no dead man.

  She managed a smile for her fiancée and welcomed his morning kiss. He's beautiful, she thought absently, watching the sun play off his golden hair, watching his lips crinkle into the smile he only had for her. She still couldn't believe she'd found him. Mitchell Tate. Tate. Her perfect man.

  "What's on the agenda for today?" he asked cheerfully.

  She glanced back at the counter just to make sure there was no blood. There wasn't. She frowned, trying to decide what she'd seen, but it was already losing its sharpness, its clarity. All she could really remember was the annoyed voice. It had been laced with something else, but she didn't know what.

  She shook her head, trying to forget the blood, and finished pouring orange juice into tiny glass cups. "First up, breakfast!"

  This was her life. Her perfect life. She had a perfect family and a perfect fiancée and a perfect home. Her job was almost perfect; it would be totally perfect if her boss would stop leering at her over the copy machine.

  She carefully placed a perfectly browned piece of toast on each of their plates and added a dollop of scrambled eggs .

  "It's beautiful out," Tate said as he sat down in their cozy breakfast nook. "We should go for a picnic tonight."

  "I'd love that," she replied, imagining a cozy blanket spread over soft, green grass in a very secluded glen. "But I have my appointment tonight."

  His perfect forehead creased, and he looked at her with concern. "I wish you'd stop."

  "I need to know!"

  "I don't care."

  "But I do!"

  He sighed, pouring half a cup of cream into his coffee.

  "You can't even taste the coffee when you do it that way," Amy laughed.

  "That's the point," he replied with a grimace.

  "I need to know," she repeated.

  "It won't change anything."

  "But still. We're getting married. We want a family. I need to know where I came from."

  It was an argument they'd had several times in the last six months. He didn't know what it was like to be missing a third of his life. He knew who his parents were. He knew what his first word was. He remembered turning four and twelve and every age in-between. She didn't.

  She didn't remember a single thing before the age of twelve and six months and ten days. That was the day she'd been adopted by Pamela and Roger Harrison.

  It was love at first sight. At least that's what they said. Amy didn't remember meeting them. She just remembered the day she went home with them, to stay, forever. The day they walked her into her room and said, "Amy, honey, you're home now."

  It had been painted green with brown accents and had white, lacy curtains. They'd hung photos of horses on the walls. White horses all of them. Horses Amy could imagine carrying a knight in shining armor, sword drawn, bearing down on a fierce dragon, shield in hand.

  She knew her old name, because she'd asked when she was eighteen. It was strange having two names. Like she was two people. One person she didn't remember or know; who she surely wouldn't recognize on the street. And another she felt comfortable with, relaxed, like an old shoe.

  "I have to know," she insisted.

  "I know, sweetie," Tate said softly, holding her hand. "I just don't want you to get hurt. I don't care where you came from or who you were. I love you. I always will."

  Tears rushed to her eyes. Damn her life was perfect! If only she could remember those handful of years. If only she wasn't worried something terrible had happened, something so terrible she'd forgotten everything. If only she could let it go.

  "Anyway," she said quickly, trying to change the subject. "Your mom wants to get together this week. She insists I still have more decisions to make. Something about cake and flowers." She shrugged. She would love planning the wedding if she wasn't planning it with Mrs. Tate.

  "Just don't let her railroad you, okay?" Tate said. "It's your wedding, not hers."

  She laughed, wondering how it was possible such a sweet, wonderful man had been born to such a managing, opinionated woman. They were like night and day.

  When Amy had graduated, the principal had asked her what her future plans were. She'd simply said, "I want to help children find their perfect home." And that's what she did.

  Of all her friends, she was the only one who actually did what she'd set out to do. One friend was a lawyer, but she'd wanted to be an interior designer; another ran a prestigious galley downtown, but she'd wanted to be a politician. But Amy helped kids. Every day.

  It gave her life meaning. She couldn't imagine if Roger and Pamela hadn't loved her, hadn't wanted her. Who would she be? Where would she be? But they had. And Amy helped kids just like she had been find that perfect place too.

  "Court?" Cindy asked as soon as Amy opened their shared office door.

  "Yep," Amy replied with a huge grin. "Robbie's adoption goes through today. His family is so excited. Of course, they always are."

  "You a
lways know which couples and kids are gonna hit it off," Cindy said, tone a little exasperated. "I don't know how you do it."

  Amy shrugged. Her success rate was ninety-nine point nine percent. It should be a hundred. It really should, but she wasn't going to dwell on it.

  "What's your secret?"

  Cindy probably asked her that once a month; Amy always replied the same. "No secret. I just have a sixth sense about these things I guess."

  Cindy snorted. "A sixth sense! I bet you have a magic eight ball hidden in your purse! "

  Amy burst out laughing. "I haven't seen one of those in years!" she exclaimed.

  Something tickled the back of her mind, but she couldn't quite grasp it. She was quite certain she'd never had a magic eight ball as a child, but she could clearly remember the hazy triangle telling her "Not Advisable".

  "You want some coffee?" Cindy asked, breaking through Amy's thought.

  "Huh?"

  "Coffee... you know... Want some?"

  "Oh, yeah, sorry. Thanks!"

  Cindy left, and Amy sat at her desk trying to make sense of what she'd seen. But she couldn't. She knew she'd never had an eight ball, but she could feel it in her hands.

  She finally shrugged, pushing all other thoughts aside; today was about Robbie, not her.

  Eight hours later Amy walked to her car wrapped in a cocoon of happiness. There was nothing more satisfying than the day of adoption, the day a child was officially part of a family, officially wanted .

  Robbie had hugged her when it was over. "Thank you, Miss Amy," he'd whispered through tears. "I love Beth and... I mean Mom and Dad."

  "I know you do," she'd whispered back, like it was a secret and not everybody knew. "You're perfect for each other."

  "Bye," he said and ran to grab his new parents' hands, small hands engulfed by large, gentle ones.

  Amy wished she could remember her own adoption. She wished she could remember the tears and the smiles. The look on the judge's face when he slammed down the gavel. Or she slammed down the gavel. Amy didn't know. She just didn't know. Couldn't even remember a bit of it.

  Her doctor's appointment wasn't until six, so she had an hour to kill. She drove slowly down street after street, meandering until she found the street she was looking for.

  It was older area but clean. In the 1960's it had probably been the nicest neighborhood around. The lawns were still green and finely trimmed. The houses were well taken care of, trim painted, windows full of life .

  Laughter of children playing hide-and-seek or keep-away rang over a tall picket fence. The fresh smell of laundry hung in the air.

  Amy parked and stared across the street. An older couple lived in the one-story, blue house that supposedly used to be hers.

  She didn't remember it, felt sure it wasn't really her house. She didn't feel any connection to it at all. She didn't remember playing in the lawn or opening the door. How could she have forgotten her home? Had this been where she had lost her memory? Had something bad happened here? Something she couldn't handle?

  She'd asked to see her file as soon as she'd been hired at the Department of Human Services. She probably could have gotten it sooner, but she hadn't really wanted to. She'd been scared of what she'd find, but she hadn't found anything, just his name and an address.

  The name of her biological father, last name matching her other name, the name she didn't like. At least she assumed he was her father. Could have been an uncle, a much older brother, a grandpa. She didn't really know, just felt it was her father. And this address. Nothing else. For some unknown reason, shoddy case work, misfiling, paper-eating rats, nothing else was there. Nothing except her adoption paperwork.

  She didn't understand it. No one did. The only people with less paperwork than her were homeless.

  Amy stared at the house and tried to force a memory, just one, one glimpse of her past, one toy, one day, one breakfast, anything.

  The door opened, and the old lady who lived there shuffled down the sidewalk toward her car. She stopped to smell a rose, and her face lit up with joy. Her trembling hand opened her car door, and she drove off to somewhere. Bingo, shopping, water yoga. Amy didn't know. All she knew was that the lady loved her house. The house that used to be Amy's before she was Amy.

  Amy drove to her appointment and greeted Dr. Winters with a smile.

  "Sit, Amy," Dr. Winters said. "How's your week been?"

  "I had a memory this morning," Amy said hesitantly. "I think. I don't know."

  "That's wonderful!" Dr. Winters said as she leaned forward excitedly. "Tell me about it."

  "I don't remember all of it. It kind of faded afterwards. "

  "That's alright. Tell me what you remember."

  "Blood," Amy whispered. "Blood and a voice. Not an angry voice, not a mean voice. A man's voice, a little rough and annoyed saying 'Damn it, I told you to stay in the car'." There had been something else too, but Amy couldn't remember it, couldn't quite call it up.

  "Whose blood?" Dr. Winters asked.

  "I don't know."

  "What else?"

  "I can't remember."

  "Are you sure?"

  Amy tried. She stepped back into her kitchen, held the orange juice in her hand, and tried to remember what she'd seen. "I don't know. Blood. That's all."

  "It's something," Dr. Winters said, disappointment clear in her voice. "Let's increase your dose. Why don't you take three pills a day? It's clear the medicine is taking effect. We'll just give it a boost."

  Amy nodded. This was part of Tate's problem. The medicine was experimental. It had been used on a bunch of mice, and the researchers had had good results, but Amy was one of a handful of humans to take it. Dr. Winters had told her there weren't a lot of other options yet.

  "The problem with hypnosis," Dr. Winters had explained when Amy brought it up, "is that you might have memories that aren't real, and you won't be able to tell the difference between them."

  Amy shuddered at the thought. She felt like she was missing a section of herself, a piece of her mind, a bit of her soul. The idea that she would replace it with lies made her feel sick.

  So she took the medicine. Even though it was experimental. Even though no one knew yet what the side effects might be. Even though she'd had to sign a waiver releasing Dr. Winters and the pharmaceutical company of all responsibility.

  That's how much she wanted to know. That's how much she needed to know. She had to know. Who had she been? What had she done? What had been done to her? She needed to remember, and then she would know what to do.

  Chapter Two

  Tate had texted. He was meeting up with the guys after work. Amy stared at her phone with a frown. She didn't want to go home. She didn't really like to be alone. She wasn't scared really, it just gave her a sort of strange, queasy feeling.

  "Are you busy?" she texted Malika, her best friend since high school.

  "No."

  "I'm coming over."

  "Bring your own beer."

  "I always do."

  Amy chuckled to herself as she pulled into a nearby liquor store. She loved Malika. Besides her parents and Tate, Malika was her favorite person in the world. She was laid-back. She was smart. She always had something really clever to say.

  But she didn't drink. Not ever. Her family had emigrated from Morocco when Malika was five. They were Muslim, but not the same way Amy's family was Christian .

  Amy's parents subscribed to Christianity, but they never went to church, and Amy wasn't even sure they owned a Bible. They didn't worry too much about rules and regulations, at least not the Bible kind, although they did pretty much hold to the big ten. Except for occasionally coveting their neighbor's vacation home.

  Malika's family was religious in their religion. That was one of the reasons Amy liked her so much. She had a set of rules she lived by, and she never wavered, never lost faith, never slipped up.

  Technically, Malika wasn't supposed to be around alcohol at all, and Amy respected that. So w
hen they got together, Amy always bought non-alcoholic beer. It tasted disgusting, but it was worth the yuckiness. Anything for Malika.

  She walked across the parking lot towards the liquor store. It was one of those new, classy liquor stores. One that didn't make you feel weird for going in. There was a gym next door, and all the people coming and going were wearing gym clothes and had determined looks on their faces.

  She looked the other way. Gym goers made her feel guilty. Like she should drink less and work out more. That was probably their plan. That she would buy the beer and a gym membership just so she'd feel better.

  The liquor store doors slid open, and Amy headed down a well-lit aisle towards the beer. A man passed her, and she caught a whiff of whiskey from his clothes.

  She was standing on a balcony looking up at the most beautiful sunset she'd ever seen. The sun was setting on a tall mountain dusted with snow and everything was pink, her favorite color.

  "Isn't it beautiful, Sweet Pea?" a voice said from behind her. "I told you it'd be beautiful."

  "It's pink, Daddy," she replied.

  "I know." He chuckled, and his whiskey breath brushed across her face. His arms wrapped around her, and she felt safe. Safe and warm.

  A burst of cold air from the fridge doors jolted her back to reality. Had that been real? Had that been a real memory? It was so beautiful, so happy, surely it hadn't been real. Why would she block a happy memory? Why?

  She could still feel how safe she'd felt, wrapped in "Daddy's" arms. She could still feel the warm glow of love. But now she knew, deep down she knew. The name in her file wasn't an uncle or a grandpa. It was her Daddy. And she had loved him.

  She walked slowly towards the beer, grabbed a six-pack, paid, and left. By the time she reached Malika's the memory had lost its vibrancy, its warmth. She couldn't quite see the hue of pink; she couldn't quite smell the whiskey or feel the warmth.

  "I'm remembering," she blurted when Malika opened the door.

  "You are?" Malika gasped. "That's wonderful!" She looked Amy over. "Isn't it?" she asked.

  "I don't know."