Autumn of Fear: A Gripping Psychological Thriller with a Stunning Twist: Fearless Series

CHAPTER 1

AFTER

Pain explodes throughout my body like Fourth of July fireworks.

I groan, but no one comes to help me. Blinding, savage agony rips through me when I move my arms. Then I try opening my eyes. My lids won’t budge.

Where am I? Why am I in such hideous pain?

A woman’s voice, soft and sympathetic, whispers, Poor thing. She’ll never be the same. What that monster did to her is unspeakable. How does anyone come back from that?

Wait. What happened? Why won’t I be the same?

I move my legs slowly. They work fine. I should try speaking. Maybe they didn’t hear my groans before.

Hello? My voice cracks. I’m tired. So tired.

Footsteps approach. Abbie, can you hear me? Are you awake?

It’s the woman’s voice again. The one who said I will never be the same.

Then a familiar voice says, Cooper, can you open your eyes?

Hot tears drizzle down my cheeks. It’s Ty. He’s here. Everything will be fine.

Ty, what’s going on? Where am I? With each word, I expend massive amounts of energy. I stop to catch my breath.

You’re in the hospital.

Why? I croak.

A brief silence passes.

Abbie, I’m Nurse Russo. We’re going to take good care of you. Don’t try to get up, hon. Can you open your eyes for me?

My eyelids are heavy. All I want is to go back to sleep, but I won’t give in to the temptation. I blink twice, and when I’m able to focus, Ty comes into view. He sits next to the bed in a chair. His shirt is a rumpled mess. The sparkle in his usually mischievous hazel eyes has vanished. He cracks a nervous smile. Am I dying?

How do you feel? he asks.

Like an oil tanker ran me over a hundred times.

My surroundings also come into focus. A typical hospital room with machines beeping, an IV bag, and heart rate monitor. A flat-screen TV hangs on the wall. I glance at my right hand. Clipped to my index finger is a finger pulse oximeter. An IV needle held down by white tape partially covers the back of my hand. My left arm throbs—a mounting pressure that demands my attention. It’s fully bandaged, a cast to be exact.

Nurse Russo is right, Cooper. We’ll take good care of you. I don’t want you to worry about anything.

Listen to your friend, she chimes in. To my left, she fumbles with a blood-pressure cuff. Nurse Russo in her early thirties with auburn hair pulled back in a high ponytail and blue scrubs.

She’s about to take my blood pressure on the uninjured arm and moves to the right side of the bed.

Ty, was I in an accident? Did you bring me to the hospital?

He looks away from me.

We’ll get everything sorted out, sweetie, Nurse Russo says as she wraps the blood-pressure cuff around my arm and squeezes the bulb. After she notes the results, she takes my temperature and then announces she’ll get the doctor.

After she leaves, I touch my face. It’s swollen and throbs, like the rest of me.

Why won’t you tell me what happened, Ty? Was it a car crash? I don’t remember it at all.

Ty’s hands grip the sides of his chair, as if he’s afraid he’ll fall off. Before he responds, the door opens and a tall, slim man with dark, thinning hair and a moustache enters the room. Nurse Russo follows closely behind.

Abbie, I’m Dr. Gray. You gave us quite a scare, young lady."

Ty stands up. Do you want me to leave, Cooper?

No, please don’t go. I need you to stay with me.

Ty has a special gift for consoling me whenever things go wrong in my life. I will need his calming presence in the next few moments. Dr. Gray pulls a penlight from his pocket and conducts a pupil test. Afterward, he grabs an empty medical stool with rolling wheels and sidles up next to the bed, across from Ty.

How bad was the accident? I ask. Was anyone hurt?

I blink back tears and then focus on Dr. Gray, who has on a poker face. Dr. Linwood made the same face when he told us Dad had stage two colon cancer.

Abbie, Nurse Russo tells me you don’t remember how you ended up here or where you were before you arrived in the emergency room. Your injuries are extensive. We’re trying to piece things together.

So it was an accident then?

Dr. Gray noisily clears his throat. Not quite.

I don’t understand.

Ty takes my hand and gently squeezes.

Tell me, I insist.

Dr. Gray removes his glasses, blows on them, and returns them to his face. You were badly beaten and thrown out of a moving car.

A vicious chill hits me at the core of my being, a paralyzing shock that knocks the wind out of me. I can’t breathe. Why is the room spinning? Iciness settles into my stomach, heavy and merciless, as though it wants to crush the life out of me.

Sucking in air in short bursts, my emotions run wild, screaming a million questions. I’m a good person, nice to everyone. Who would do something so horrible to me, and why?

CHAPTER 2

AFTER

There’s something they’re not telling me, something even worse than my wounds. Dr. Gray describes my injuries.

You sustained severe blows to the head and face and a broken arm. The arm injury could be from the impact of being thrown out of the car, when you hit the asphalt. You were unconscious when our staff found you, a few hundred yards from the ER entrance.

I shut my eyes tight. For a moment, everyone in the room disappears behind a dreamlike fog, leaving me to wrestle with this seemingly impossible puzzle. Was I in the wrong place at the wrong time, a random crime victim? Why can’t I recall what happened?

With much effort and determination, I will my mind to conjure up a memory, name, place, face, smell, or sound. Nothing. Not even a shadow, real or imagined. An empty space exists in the part of my brain where those details should be stored.

Abbie, there’s more, Dr. Gray says. Something in his tone and expression tell me I should brace myself for what comes next. Ty won’t meet my eyes. Not a good sign.

What do you mean there’s more? How much more?

When we admitted you unconscious, naturally we ran bloodwork and conducted a thorough examination to determine the cause. Dr. Gray looks down at his notes, but not because he needs a reminder of what to say next. He’s gearing up to tell me that other horrible thing.

Your attacker also drugged and sexually assaulted you. The toxicology results will reveal exactly which drugs were in your system. It’s the reason you may not remember the assault.

The silence in the room is potent and deafening. My brain seizes. I can’t comprehend any of it. I lie here, not moving, not thinking, and not feeling. After a minute or two, a loud, gut-wrenching, wounded shriek cuts through the silence. Some poor, unfortunate creature needs to be put out of its misery. That creature is me. Ty wraps his arms around me, wipes my tears and whispers comforting words. I bury my head in his chest, and hot, bitter tears soak through his shirt.

When I pull away and scan the room, Ty and I are alone. Nurse Russo and Dr. Gray wanted to give us some privacy. They should be back soon. As Ty fluffs my pillow and helps me get comfortable, a slew of unpleasant questions bounces around in my head.

How do I break the news to my parents? Do I even want to? Will the police catch the monster who did this? Will I ever feel safe again, or am I condemned to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life?

How did you find out I was here? I ask.

"The last incoming call on your log was from me. Your attacker powered the phone off. It cracked in multiple places, but it still worked. Thank God the hospital called, Cooper. I’ve never been so scared in my life. When I couldn’t find you at the party, I almost lost my mind.

By the time it was over around one in the morning, I still hadn’t heard from you. I went into a panic. A few hours later, the hospital called.

I turn over the information in my mind. There was a party at a house in Bethany, but the details are vague. I squeeze my eyes, wanting my memory to cooperate, to understand the missing hours between when Ty last saw me and when he arrived at the hospital. Total blank.

You don’t remember, do you?

No. I only recall being at a house party to celebrate our win in The Game. Squeezing my eyes shut again, I pray that my memory will throw me a crumb or two.

I talked to a bunch of people. You were there with Kristina. I hung out with Spencer. I remember nothing after that.

At least you remember the party. Spencer helped me with the search, but we couldn’t find you anywhere. I should let him know I found you.

Please don’t give him any details. Make up a story or something. He’s a nice guy, but you’re the only person I trust to see me like this.

You don’t have to explain. I get it. Ty looks away, pinches the bridge of his nose, and then scoots off the bed, heading toward the sink. After he splashes water on his face and dries off with a paper towel, he returns to the chair next to the bed.

I will take good care of you, Cooper, and we’ll find the monster who did this.

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I take short, deep breaths to pull myself back from the brink—the brink of an abyss that wants to suck me into its black hole of perpetual hurt and torment.

It’s hard to explain where the physical wounds end and the emotional ones begin.

Let me get the doctor and nurse back in here, Ty says and then takes off.

Agonizing pain returns tenfold, and I’m desperate for relief. I ask Nurse Russo, who just walked in for painkillers.

How bad is the pain, she asks. On a scale of one to ten.

A hundred, I say between pants.

Ty retakes his seat and holds my hand. He says nothing.

Nurse Russo appears at my left side. We’ll adjust the medication in the IV so you can be comfortable. And Dr. Gray will be back to see you shortly.

After a ton of questions about my medical history and a battery of additional tests, Ty and I are once again alone.

You’re going to be okay, Cooper. I promise. You already have a room at my place. We’ll get through this together. You’re not alone.

His eyes glisten with moisture as he delivers the little pep talk. Ty always knows the right things to say and do, ever since we met as young teenagers. But nothing in our relationship prepared us for this.

What about you, Ty? You have responsibilities of your own. You’re in the middle of your remaining medical school applications. You have a couple of interviews left. Plus, your regular class and lab schedule.

Don’t worry about me. I’ll make it work. I just want you to be all right.

The medication is kicking in. My eyes open and shut as exhaustion sweeps over me, and the promise of rest beckons. I would give anything to go back to being a carefree college student, to before I ended up in a hospital with gaps in my memory.

I want to go back to the time my body was whole instead of violated, a time where brokenness didn’t circle my consciousness like a vulture. Does my attacker recall the moment I fell unconscious or the moment he threw me out of a moving car? I’d give anything to find out the truth, to learn who did this and why.

CHAPTER 3

BEFORE

It’s the third note in as many weeks, accompanied by a rare, exotic rose. Like the previous messages, this one is anonymous and typewritten, each word carefully chosen and arranged in a symphony of charm and sensuality. I place the note next to me on the bed and bite my bottom lip. I pick up the lush, deep-yellow Caraluna rose he called the gold standard. The heavy fragrance permeates the air. I sniff the flower again, inhaling its intoxicating scent.

Creeped out or flattered? I’m not sure how I should react, I say to my friend Zahra. She perches at the edge of the bed in my dorm room, polishing her toenails a hideous shade of orange that makes my eyes hurt.

Zahra looks up from her task. Stop thinking the worst and go with it. It’s sweet that he sends you these amazing and obviously expensive roses. I bet they’re imported. What was the previous one he sent?

The Kaiserin Viktoria Auguste tea rose, white with a yellow center.

He has excellent taste, that’s for sure. I’m so jealous.

But why did he target me?

Zahra sighs loudly, places the cap back on the nail polish, and tosses it into her purse. "There you go again, using words like target, making it sound like some big conspiracy. Why don’t you read the note aloud this time? See if you find the conspiracy. Maybe you missed it last time." Her tone drips with sarcasm.

I give her a dirty look, and she sticks her tongue out at me. I pick up the note and read:

My Sweetest Abbie,

I hope you approve of my latest choice. It reminds me of you, the gold standard, beyond compare and unrivaled in beauty, grace, and spirit. I saw you across campus the other day. As always, you walked with purpose.

I desperately wanted to say hello, ask if I could walk you to your destination, but I didn’t have the guts. So, I watched from a distance, dreaming of the day I will find the courage to introduce myself. I’ve been near you a few times, but you were too busy to notice me.

I don’t blame you. I fade into the background, anyway. For now, seeing your gorgeous face makes my day. By the way, I like the new hairdo. The chic, chin-length bob brings out your eyes; big, bright, and magnetic. Next time I see you, I hope I will be a little braver, and one step closer to revealing my identity. Until then, I will dream of you.

Your Humble Admirer

I feel sorry for him, Abbie, Zahra says. He’s shy and afraid you’ll reject him. That’s why he sends the roses and the notes anonymously.

Shy, my behind, I mock. He was sneaky enough to find out where I live, and nobody knows how he gets the roses to my door, unseen. My suspicion grows by the minute. My roommate says she’s seen nothing out of the ordinary, and no one on this floor saw anything either.

People do crazy things for love, Zahra says. I bet he pays someone to slip the notes under the door.

I scoff. Who sends anonymous letters these days, anyway? Do you get anonymous love notes?

No, but that’s because no one pays attention to me, and the guys that I like don’t feel the same way. I haven’t had a date since I got here.

You haven’t had a date because you give off this vibe like there’s something wrong with you, I scold. Guys notice these things.

Zahra has a flawless, creamy cocoa complexion, a perfect complement to her head of wild brown curls and lips that look like Michelangelo sculpted them. Her confidence has taken a beaten because she’s been struggling to go from a size fourteen to a ten for the past two years. I tell her how smart and fabulous she is and her dress size is a non-issue, but it all falls on deaf ears.

What’s your excuse? Zahra sits up straight and folds her arms. You turn down every guy who asks you out under the pretext of your course load and working for your mother. You even turned down that hot prince who chased you like a lovesick puppy.

It’s a recurring subject of discussion between us, why neither one of us is dating anyone, Zahra’s issues notwithstanding. I have my reasons. A couple of guys caught my eye, but they’re not him.

"Did you forget I’m on an academic merit scholarship? It would embarrass me to no end if I lost it because I let my grades tank. Secondly, my guest appearances on Shelby’s Kitchen require a lot of advance preparation and work.

And that prince you mentioned actually pulled the ‘do you know who I am?’ line on me. He’s an insufferable pig every day of the week. Hot or not, I wouldn’t date him if he were the last guy on the planet.

I finish my rant with a self-satisfied smirk.

So sad. Zahra shakes her head as if I’m the one with the issues. I still think these letters are harmless. It’s just a guy crushing on you. Maybe he saw you tell that prince to take a flying leap and that scared him. She cracks up like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.

I glare at her until she stops laughing and then clears her throat.

Is Zahra right, though? Is this a harmless crush, or is serious trouble heading my way?

CHAPTER 4

BEFORE

I’ve been keeping tabs on her for the past two weeks since the fall semester started. Hanging several rows back from her usual spot in the noisy dining hall provides some distance but keeps me close enough to catch a glimpse the minute she walks in.

Her routine is carved into my brain: fresh fruit and yogurt for breakfast most days. When she wants to mix it up, she slathers maple syrup all over her pancakes, dips a finger in the syrup, and licks it when she thinks nobody is looking.

There’s a confident bounce to her steps, and she writes on her palm instead of a notebook or laptop when she’s with her study group and something has her stumped. I’m not some creepy weirdo stalker or anything like that. Abbie Cooper is important to me, although she doesn’t know it yet. It’s my job to learn everything there is to learn without her finding out. Not yet, anyway. Timing is everything.

My hoodie fully covers my face. I place my black backpack on the floor and wait. I’ve memorized her schedule. She’s a biology major—molecular, cellular, and developmental.

Abbie spends a lot of time at the Sterling Library with her study groups—she has three—and hangs out with that fat friend of hers. What’s her name? Zahara? Zahra? Something exotic sounding, but that’s not important right now.

Yes, Abbie Cooper is a fascinating puzzle. One minute she’s glamorous, sophisticated, and untouchable. The next, she’s a regular, down-to-earth chick. I also find her understated sensuality beguiling. Most hot women I’ve come across know they’re hot and want everybody to know it. Not Abbie. She keeps it modest and humble, and you must pay close attention to see the fire blazing underneath.

I watched footage of her on her mother’s show for the Cooking Network, Shelby’s Kitchen. Episode after episode, for hours, to learn her body language, voice, and gestures. She’s taller than the average girl, around five foot eight I’m guessing.

Her skin sparkles like chocolate diamonds under the studio lights. For the summer episodes, she wears her hair in tiny single braids. I hate those episodes. The braids make her look like she’s in middle school.

Abbie’s Facebook and Instagram posts are private, but I still gathered profile information. She’s often photographed with one of her closest friends, Callie Furi, daughter of the movie director Nicholas Furi, and with her mother during press appearances for Shelby’s Kitchen.

The packed dining hall is noisy, exactly the way I like it. Long lines form at the waffle and omelet stands. I take a sip of my orange juice and then dig into the bowl of cornflakes and hard-boiled egg. Abbie should walk in by the time I’m halfway through eating.

And right on schedule, she does, with her fat friend in tow. She’s dressed in an oversized top, infinity scarf, and skinny jeans. I put my head down as she passes near my table, giggling about something her friend said. It’s always like this. So close, and yet she’s oblivious.

CHAPTER 5

BEFORE

Half-drunk students shout and hold up beer bottles and red plastic cups as they sway to the thumping hip-hop beat. It’s Thursday night, and another epic frat party is in full swing.

As I leave to grab a drink from the kitchen, someone tugs at my arm. I turn around quickly, a few choice words on the tip of my tongue for the unfortunate person who grabbed me, but the words never leave my lips.

He sports a navy gingham sport shirt with rolled sleeves and dark jeans—a combination that highlights his fit, slender frame. Ty winks at me in that friendly yet flirty way of his, the flecks of green in his hazel eyes gleaming under the dim lights.

Finally. I’ve been looking all over for you.

Well, you found me. I take a few steps back so he can see me clearly. Besides, I thought you were here with Kristina.

I’ve failed miserably in my attempts to hate Kristina Haywood. She never has a mean word to say about anyone, spent last summer building wells in a remote village in Bangladesh, and wants to save the world when she graduates. She’s a double major in global affairs and economics. The fact that she’s drop-dead gorgeous and enamored with Ty doesn’t bother me at all.

Ty ignores my comment. I promised your dad I would look out for you.

I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.

He blinks and then rests a hand on my shoulder. Are you okay, Cooper? Is something bothering you? He yells over the thumping music.

I say nothing. He inches closer and lifts my chin, so we’re eye to eye. Something is definitely wrong. There’s tension coming off you.

Why don’t you go back to Kristina? I’ll grab some fruit punch and mingle a little.

I’ll get that drink myself. I want to make sure it’s not spiked. Be right back.

Ty disappears through the crowd of people. Checking on a drink to make sure there’s nothing wrong with it is exactly the kind of thing he would do. He never forgets my birthday or Christmas and always picks out the perfect gift. My parents love him. He’s the only Y chromosome my father trusts around me.

Dad is paranoid about me living away from home. New Haven, Connecticut, is only a couple of hours away from my hometown of Castleview, Massachusetts, but it wouldn’t surprise me if my dad asks Ty for a weekly report.

For a moment, I close my eyes and sway to the beat of the music, a slower tempo than the thumping hip-hop and techno beats from earlier.

You know if you want to dance, just ask. I’m happy to oblige the most gorgeous girl at this party.

My eyes flutter open. I’m used to guys using tired pickup lines, especially at parties. But there’s something different about this one. It’s not that at five feet eight inches tall, I still need to tilt my head backward to see him clearly. Nor the athletic physique, classically handsome features, or the cornflower blue eyes with a dash of arrogance sprinkled in.

It’s not even the boy-next-door charm. I don’t have any deep psychological insight or great powers of deduction. It’s just a feeling, deep down, that I can’t explain. He’s a wounded soul.

I don’t dance with strange men, I say. But you get cool points for politeness. That pickup line is a tired cliché.

It’s the truth. He serves up a wide, expressive grin, revealing the cutest dimples. Mario Lopez-deep dimples.

I’m Spencer. He extends a hand. Spencer Rossdale.

His grip is firm and confident, large hands with long fingers and neatly trimmed fingernails.

Abbie Cooper.

His mouth opens in surprise. "So, you’re the Abbie Cooper. Saw you chatting with Ty Rambally earlier. He’s a former teammate. The crew team. He’s mentioned you often."

Ty and I have been friends since freshman year of high school, I explain.

Friends?

"Yes. Friends."

Why do I feel the need to emphasize that Ty and I are just friends?

Ty returns with a red plastic cup in hand, halting further conversation. Handing me the cup, he says, Spencer, you’ve already met Cooper. Saves me from doing the introductions.

You call her by her last name? Spencer cackles.

Everyone else calls her Abbie. She’ll always be Cooper to me.

I take a sip of the punch and then chug down the whole thing.

Spencer slaps Ty on the shoulder. I don’t blame you for your protectiveness. Abbie seems like a special girl.

She is, Ty agrees.

Kristina Haywood pushes through the crowd of party-goers, heading toward us. When she catches up, she places a possessive arm around Ty’s waist. She strikes a stunning portrait, with her smooth olive skin, waist-length raven hair, and model-like cheekbones.

"I thought you ditched