The note violet carter b.., p.1
The Note: Violet Carter Book 2, page 1
The Note
Violet Carter Series book#2
BY: B.P Stevens
Copyright © [2023] [B.P Stevens] – All rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Description
Mason Carter is back and can't seem to stay out of trouble.
Driven by his need to get justice for his sister—and a mysterious ally— Mason makes the choice to go back to the root of everything. In the process, he rehashes old wounds caused by his family and makes a few new ones.
Even after learning the depth of danger he could be walking into, Mason has to willingly throw himself into the mystery of his hometown's past in order to get his answers.
As luck would have it, he finds himself face-to-face with a member of the most notorious family in town.
What damage will come from this encounter? Will Mason finally get justice or will the secrets of the town consume him?
Join our trouble magnet in this small-town thriller, where everyone has a story and no one can be trusted.
Table Of Contents
Taking it home
Am I slowly becoming like my parents? Keeping secrets from everyone and telling myself it's for their own good? My parents probably say that to make themselves feel better, at least I actually believe it.
I shuffle slowly, my overnight bag filled with clothes silently swooshing against my pants. I can hear the heavy snores escaping through the cracked door of Rodger's room. I'm hoping he won't wake up before I leave. I haven't given much thought to an excuse to offer him since I plan to leave at night. The plan isn't super complex but it's smart enough to avoid being caught. I slowly walk out of the house, my heart racing. I can feel a tingle of excitement go through my body at the prospect of having a lead in Violet's case.
For once, my plan goes off without a hitch. When I make it outside, I throw my bag into the backseat of my car before driving off. I can't help but anticipate the answers I'll find when I arrive. The police—or my parents—won't be able to throw me to the side if I find hard evidence about who the killer is.
I make it about halfway through the four-hour drive before I send Rodger a text telling him I'd be out of town visiting another friend for a few days. I don't want him to be worried, but I also can't tell him the real reason for my trip. He'd just try to talk me out of it.
I make a few stops for gas, snacks, and coffee to help me stay awake through the remainder of the drive. By seven a.m. the next morning, I arrive at a large sign that reads “Welcome to Rose Hills." It's only faintly visible in the overcast morning sun. As I drive past it, I slow down, my stomach suddenly turning. The houses don't even spark a vaguely familiar childhood memory like I thought they would, and I feel like a lost tourist. I ride around, not exactly sure where to begin my search until I see a large tree in the distance. A few people are standing under it in jackets. I watch as they talk and laugh amongst each other, and I decide it's probably a good place to start. I pull up and the group instantly stops talking. They all look at me with questioning eyes, wondering who I am and what I'm here for.
"Hello, I'm looking for …" I start but cut myself off. I'm not even sure who I need to find. All I know is that it's someone in the Beauford family. I revise my question before saying it out loud. "Do you guys know anyone in the Beauford family?"
Upon saying the name, I watch as the faces of the group change. Brows are furrowed, glances are exchanged, and a collective "No" resounds. After a moment of silence, I speak again.
"Maybe you know someone that knows them."
"We don't." A man steps forward as a spokesperson for his friends. His voice is raspy as it mixes in with the chilly air. After realizing how snappy his answer is, he speaks again. "If you want to find someone that knows them, check the bar around the corner. The Devil's Den." He gives the name of the bar before I can ask. It gives the impression that he really isn't interested in speaking to me. I take the hint and move on.
"Thanks," I mutter.
"You're not from around here, are you?" His words are questioning, while his tone says he is making a statement. I shake my head no and he replies with "Ah." It seems as though a look of pity flashes across his face before I leave. I know he probably thinks I'm a clueless person who doesn't know what he's getting himself into. That couldn't be further from the truth. I'm going into this aware that this family is hazardous. I simply don't care, and that makes me dangerous in my own right.
I drive down the empty street until I reach a corner. I take a guess and turn left. I drive a few blocks until there is a large bar with a glowing sign in front of it. The parking lot is practically filled with cars, and I wonder how bad a town has to be for so many people to be drinking this early in the morning. I glance in the car's mirror before exiting. My eyes are strained from the long drive and have visible bags under them. I probably need a nap, but I'm too determined to start my search. Mentally, I’ve decided that if I don't find anything here, I'll get a room and sleep off the exhaustion. Until then, I will be running on determination and coffee.
I push the car door open and walk towards the bar. On the door, there is a sign that says “Open 24 Hours a Day”, making me grateful that I didn't grow up in this place, especially with my struggle. A chill runs down my spine, and I quickly divert my thoughts before they wander too far. With more effort than I had anticipated, I manage to push the doors open. It makes me wonder if the door was that heavy or if the consequences of staying up all night are finally catching up to me. Either way when I enter the bar, the scent of cheap beer and cigarettes hit me like a wave, nearly making me gag. I always felt at home in places like this, but now I feel like a stranger. Maybe it's the fact that I'm sober now, or that I'm actually a stranger here.
I look around the place before I decide to approach the old bartender who is wiping down the bar. He looks up as I approach and gives me a skeptical look.
"What ya having?" His eyes never leave me, as he looks me up and down, not even attempting to hide his appraisal. I pause for a moment, unsure of what to do—I don't want a drink but it would be strange to just show up asking questions. I'm not sure who knows who here, so I'm just going to go with the flow.
"A beer for now."
He nods and goes into a cooler, pulling out a cold bottle and popping the top. He plops it down in front of me and I take it, now feeling a bit uncomfortable. I clear my throat and look around the room again. I can feel his eyes boring into the back of my skull, and I lift my bottle to my mouth. I pretend to take a sip before turning around to make a "casual conversation." Before I can open my mouth, I hear a name that practically causes my ears to perk up. It comes from a conversation taking place at the other end of the bar. I pull my phone out of my pocket, pretending to send a message as I strain to hear the details.
"The Beaufords won't like that."
"So what do you suppose we do about it?" The next few sentences are drowned out by chatter, and I kiss my teeth silently. After a while, I allow myself to lean in closer to the men talking while keeping my gaze away. Unfortunately, the conversation stops and one of the men walks away, leaving me to grasp at straws to figure out what they were talking about. I linger around a bit longer, hoping someone else will bring up the family. When it's clear that I won't get anything else by luck, I hop off of my chair and walk over to a random man watching the large tv mounted on the wall. From his build, he looks to be in his late thirties. Most importantly, he is the least frightening of all the people in the bar. As if sensing my presence, he shifts his attention to me in a swift motion.
"You look like you have something on your mind. You got a question?" He asks, his voice gruff but his demeanor friendly. I half smile and pull out the bar stool a few inches away from him. "Yes, actually."
"What do you want to know?"
I adjust my tone before speaking to make it come out as indifferent as possible. "The Beaufords. Do any of them hang out here?" I shrug.
He scrunched his eyebrows slightly. "They used to come here all the time, but not anymore. Why?"
"Just curious. I keep hearing about them. I'm not really from around here."
"Where are you from?"
I try to keep my answer vague. "Few hours out. Pretty isolated place."
"Then you must have come here for very specific business. I'm guessing the Beaufords are involved." His eyes are now hawk-like. They move up and down, accessing me carefully. The small lump forming in my throat goes down in a hard swallow when he stands up suddenly from the barstool. "We don't care for that family too much around here."
"Got it." My words come out faster than usual. As soon as I start to retreat, I feel a strong grip on my shoulder. My body tenses in response to the sudden presence. Before long, a tall, bulky man appears. "What do you think you're doing?" His words are directed at me. "You come here asking all these questions and think you can just leave?" He shoves me forward and I stumble. "Who sent you?"
His voice is low and threatening. I take it as a sign to sta
The burly man's hold on me tightens and my pulse skyrockets. "Not only a spy, but a smart mouth too." He swings unexpectedly and nearly knocks my jaw out of place. The coppery taste of blood soon swishes in my mouth as I feel my vision fogging up from the tears that start to well up in my eyes. The man I was talking to before mutters something inaudible to the large man holding me before he turns away.
Seconds later, I'm being shoved toward a backroom. I want to make a run for it, but the door is blocked off by a group of men, giving me no choice but to comply. I enter the room without a sound, like a lamb entering the slaughterhouse. It slowly fills up with strangers, all wearing the same expression of animosity. It takes me a while to notice most of them are sporting the same tattoo on their arms. I take a deep breath and struggle to look composed, even though I feel like my heart is going to explode out of my chest.
"Who are you?" the same man from earlier says. This time he pulls out a knife from his hoodie pocket and rests it against my throat. My eyes close as I answer.
"Mason."
"Last name?" He presses a little harder.
"Carter."
After the words leave my mouth, I feel the blade of the knife ease. I open my eyes to see him standing back a bit. "Are you a relative to Don Carter?" he asks.
"That's … my father," I say hesitantly. A crooked smile creeps onto his face at my words.
"Why didn't you say that from the start? Any boy of Don’s is welcome here. How is your father?" He looks genuinely interested in the answer. For a moment, I forget the situation I am in and the blade of the knife that was pressed against my throat just seconds ago.
"He's doing well," I all but squeal. For once, my father can get me out of trouble and not into it. It almost feels like I'm in a scene from a movie.
"How do you know about the Beaufords? I thought your father was big on keeping business unrelated to family?"
"He is. He won't tell me much, but it seems this family is at the root of all my problems."
"And everyone else's." He pauses. "Those people are burning a lot of bridges around here. People are just too afraid to say anything about it."
"They're that bad?"
"Worse." He plops down onto a flimsy chair while dragging his fingers through his greasy beard. "Somehow, I think your father still got the worst of Arthur."
"Who's that?"
"The man that runs that family. The boss. He and your father used to be closer than brothers … until he betrayed him a while back. No one really knows what happened, but it was bad. Lots of lives were lost in the fallout."
"Oh." I'm not sure what to say. "Guess that was when my father moved us out into the middle of nowhere."
"He was trying to protect you."
"If he hadn't been mixing with people like Arthur, we wouldn't have needed it," I scoff. The man gives a thin-lipped smile.
"He made mistakes. We all do. Cut him some slack."
"Right. If that's all you know." I begin to walk out of the room but he steps in my direction.
"Be careful. Your father made a lot of enemies. The people in this town … they don't forget, and they definitely don't forgive. They are holding grudges from years ago and won't think twice about taking it out on you."
"I can't blame them." I hold my jaw as it throbs slightly. "But I will be careful."
Small-town Hate
I plant my feet outside the bar and feel the remaining tension inside me melt away. A new feeling comes over me—exhaustion. I have a lot on my plate. I know progress will be made and many more discussions will lay ahead. But first, a power nap is in order. I take a few deep breaths, allow my senses to relax, and push away the thoughts of what lies ahead. I promise myself that, for just a few moments, I will rest and let the world around me pass by. My mind would be cloudy if I continued ignoring my body's cry for rest. Luckily, I am able to find a motel that has a decent price. When I walk in, I scan the room. It's basic but clean, which is more than enough for my tired body. I don't do anything except drop my bags before crashing onto the bed.
When my eyes open again, I'm recharged and refreshed. The time on my phone reads eight a.m. I nearly double take in surprise at how long I've slept. I swing my feet around the side of the bed, grab some clothes and take a quick shower. This time when I set out again, I have a better idea of where I'm going. The bar I visited yesterday is just a pit stop on a much longer journey. Shockingly, had it not been for my father's reputation, I could've found myself in some serious problems. For now, I would be staying away from bars. My search would begin in the neighborhood. I hope that no one recognizes me, which will be almost impossible since I am a clone of my father, minus the infamous reputation.
As I began to wander the area, I noticed more people were out and about than yesterday. Unsure of where to begin my search, I take a gamble and drive up to the first house that catches my attention. It looked like one of those typical suburban homes in the nineties. It wasn't much, just an old red brick house, but it seems to have a certain charm about it. The exterior appearance made the house look small and cozy. As I approached, I took note of how all the windows and doors are closed. It's strange for this time of year.
I step out of my car and onto the driveway, where an old pickup truck sits, rusting in the sun. I can only assume it belongs to someone elderly, or perhaps someone who inherited it from a relative. Regardless, I'm here to see if anyone inside can help me with my search.
I knock on the door and wait. A few moments later, an older man with a thick white beard and a kind face appears in the window. He does a glance over before opening the front door that had one too many locks. After a very brief and vague introduction, he gestures for me to follow him into the kitchen. I do as he asks, and as I walk past the living room I notice that he has lots of wooden sculptures laying around. The old man introduces himself to me as Evan. I don't know why, but the name feels slightly familiar. I don't have a chance to dwell on it too long, because soon he goes into the cupboard and returns with a small saucer and a teacup. "It's been a while since I've had a visitor," he tells me as he pours me a glass of chai spice tea. The smell is sweet and earthy.
I drink it while we chat casually about all the crafts on his walls before I get to the meat of my reason for visiting. I bring up the Beaufords and, for the second time this week, I watch as the atmosphere spins into the polar opposite of its original nature. Evan scowls as he puts down his teacup with a clatter.
" It's been a while since anyone's asked me about them ." I can tell by his tone he is not a fan. He stands up immediately and goes into a rant about how that family has ruined this town. His anger is never directed toward me, but he faces me straight on as he speaks. "Their greed has ruined Rose Hills," he says, his face becoming clammy and red from the effort he is using to argue. I listen intently, hoping something useful will come from his outpour. As he continues to yell, it becomes increasingly obvious that he has a personal quarrel with them. I'm struggling to think what business someone like Evan could have with their family. I'm almost to a conclusion when Evan speaks up with words that resonate in my head.
