Scarlet Stone Read online

  SCARLET STONE

  JEWEL E. ANN

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Jewel E. Ann

  ISBN: 978-0-9972588-7-5

  Kindle Edition

  Cover Designer: © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  Formatting: BB eBooks

  Dedication

  To everyone who believes in miracles

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Jewel E. Ann

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  This book has many Britishisms and therefore may not read “right” to American readers. My goal was to make my British characters as authentic as possible. However, since I am an American author the spellings in this book are American English and therefore may not read “right” to British readers. I hope everyone can meet in the middle.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Don’t wee your knickers.

  The kids stare at me with their owl eyes as my knees wobble with each step.

  Don’t wee your knickers.

  The first day of school shouldn’t be this scary. The other kids have rucksacks with animated characters and glitter. I have a brown leather case with a four-digit lock code keeping my spiral notepad, three #2 pencils, a twelve pack of crayons, scissors, and my packed lunch safe. Oscar promised I would fit in fantastically on my first day of primary school.

  I’ve already been asked nine times, “Why did you bring a suitcase to school?”

  “It’s an attaché case that used to belong to a German diplomat. Oscar gave it to me,” I reply—nine times.

  Once all eighteen children find a seat and the room is silent, we’re invited one at a time to share a bit about ourselves. I am the fourth to go and after bingeing on too many Jammie Dodgers and a liter of milk for breakfast, I feel ready to chunder.

  I don’t. Instead, I answer the same basic questions that were shared before me. “Oscar is a locksmith, but he carries a gun because not everyone respects a good locksmith.” I pick at the dry skin on my lips while slowly twisting my body side to side, as everyone else stares at me. Their mouths hang open. Why do they look so surprised? His job is boring, not cool. The boy who spoke before me has a dad who drives a train. That’s cool.

  I continue, “He’s my dad, but he told me to call him Oscar because I’m not a baby.” I ignore the whispers and continue. “My mum died from doctors poisoning her.”

  The whispers stop, leaving seventeen pairs of wide eyes on me. Even my teacher looks like she ate something that’s ready to come back up her throat.

  “Oh …” I continue, having forgotten the most important piece of information. “My dad calls me Ruby, but my name is Scarlet Stone.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  My name is Scarlet Stone, and I am a third-generation thief.

  26 Years Later – High Security Prison – South East London

  It’s possible hundreds of other men have worn my dad’s underwear. I’m here to say a final goodbye.

  Make peace.

  Close the door.

  Yet the thought at the forefront of my mind is communal underwear. I overheard an inmate’s wife complaining about it at my last visit. She said her husband contracted a flesh-eating infection from the shared underwear.

  It could have been me in communal underwear. It was my crime. For the rest of my days, that realization will always give me pause.

  “I’m leaving London.” There. After practicing that line for forty-five minutes on the drive here, my brain and mouth cooperate. A miracle.

  His chin juts forward, eyes unblinking.

  My hand moves toward my mouth. At the last second I ball it into a fist then slip both of my hands under my legs. I stopped chewing my fingernails six years ago. No amount of nerves can convince me to start that nasty habit again, especially not within the confines of these four walls contaminated with flesh-eating bacteria.

  “Why, Ruby? I don’t understand.” On the opposite side of the metal table, my dad clenches his intertwined fingers like it’s taking everything he has to keep his composure.

  “I need out.” My teeth grind as I deny my need to break down and tell him the crux of my intentions. The dull pain in my chest bears down with each passing breath.

  “What about Daniel?”

  I shake my head. “We’re over.” Tears sting my eyes as I avert them to the black scuff marks on the concrete floor, blinking away the weakness.

  My thoughts shift to the woman beside me, talking about Joey taking his first steps. Her flowery perfume overpowers the stale, musty stench. The door behind me buzzes as another visitor enters the room. I don’t know how my dad lives here. After a week, I would drown in thoughts of despair and suicide—and communal underwear.

  “Ten more years. Seven with good behavior. Wait for me. You’re young. Don’t be rash.”

  Drawing in a shaky breath, my gaze meets his. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  It’s impossible to miss the flinch. Oscar Stone is as steely as his name implies, and like any good Brit, he’s perfected his stiff upper lip. But I am his weakness. I am the reason he is here.

  “I’ll find you.”

  My quivering lips deliver a less-than-believable smile. He won’t find me. No one will find me. The weight on my chest intensifies further. Oscar isn’t the best dad in the traditional sense, but he’s the best dad for me. There hasn’t been one day in my entire life that I haven’t felt like his whole world.

  It’s time to say goodbye and the nod from the prison officer behind him confirms it.

  “I love you, Oscar.”

  He rubs a rough hand over his shaven head, blue eyes squinted, deepening the lines and wrinkles on his face. A lifetime etched into his flesh. I look nothing like Oscar. The only physical attribute I have to my Caucasian dad is my skin is brown not black like my mum’s. He used to tell me we were white chocolate, milk chocolate, and dark chocolate. His word is all I have. I don’t remember my mum, but she was perfect. If I have to make up imaginary memories of my mum, they’re sure as hell going to be spectacular. In my mind, she was a goddess, a superhero—perfection.

  My eyes drift back to reality and the ma
n before me. Prison has aged him, but if I’m honest, running from the law stole years from him long before his stint of incarceration.

  “Ruby…” his voice cracks “…I’ll come for you.”

  I nod as we both stand. Those are four powerful words coming from the great Oscar Stone. He wasn’t captured; he surrendered ten years ago. There is a purpose for everything Oscar does. Twenty years is a bargain compared to what would be a guaranteed life sentence for any other person who had committed the same crime.

  My crime. Not his.

  Tampering with an organ-donor list and bribing everyone who might notice is not exactly legal. Not all necessary things in life reside on the right side of the law. I did it, but he pled guilty.

  The prison officer announces our time is over. Oscar clutches the sides of the table. We share a lasting look that doesn’t falter as he unfolds his tall body from the chair, its legs screeching along the floor. When did the middle of life fade into this blur with ‘firsts’ and ‘lasts’ suffocating the really incredible stuff in the middle?

  I’m so afraid this final goodbye will forever be my lasting memory of my dad.

  Here it is: would have, could have, should have. How many people get this opportunity to say all they’ve ever wanted to say? No regrets.

  “I love you.” Why are those my only words? My heart swells with so much pain I can’t squeeze one more word past it. It’s not enough. A million sentiments scream in my head: I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I never felt normal, but I always … always felt loved. Thank you for being both a dad and a mum. Don’t hate me when you find out the truth.

  “Why are you crying? My girl never cries.” He cradles my face and brushes his thumbs across my cheeks.

  “Life’s just …” I whisper past the lump in my throat, “… not fair.”

  “No one ever said it would be, Ruby. But it’s the only one you have, so go fucking live it.” He kisses my forehead.

  I throw my arms around his neck. If I don’t let go, then this will go away. Oscar is a fixer. He makes the impossible possible again.

  “Stop!” I sob as the prison officer pulls Oscar from my hold.

  “I’ll come for you …” His head twists back as his feet shuffle toward the door. He’s waiting for me to turn and leave, but I won’t. Not this time. I watch him fade into the distance, each listless step a word in the final sentence of a book.

  Goodbye, Oscar Stone.

  I love you.

  *

  The probability of returning to London is zero. My name is Scarlet Stone, and I’m a third-generation thief with a one-way ticket to Savannah, an ex-fiancé on his way to Africa, and a copy of Eckhart Tolle’s Stillness Speaks in my messenger bag. My goal is to figure out the meaning of life or die trying.

  “If you have a computer in there, you’ll need to take it out.”

  My lips curl as I wink at the airport security guard. “No computer.” I zip through the scanner with a simple pair of leggings, T-shirt, ballet flats, and my ruby pendant necklace dangling in my right hand so security can see it.

  An hour and a neck pillow impulse-buy later, we’re wheels up. My gaze finds the white knuckles on the armrest between the first-class seats. Before I destroyed my computer and mobile phone, I hacked into the airline’s system and upgraded my seat to first-class at no extra charge. It was my last illegal indiscretion.

  I hope.

  “You fly often?” the sandy blond asks in a shaky voice as he eases his grip, wide eyes darting to mine while trepidation continues to bead along his suntanned brow.

  An American. Lovely. They can be so bloody chatty. Oscar always said I was as chatty as a Yank, but I’m not even close.

  “No. I prefer rail, but if it helps, then you should know I’ve never been on a plane that’s crashed.”

  His gray-blue eyes bulge with fright.

  The plane dips. My neighbor clutches the armrest again. “We’re gonna die.”

  I bite back my grin. “Just a bump in the road—a wave on the surface of the sky. If you want something to really blow your mind, I can tell you about a recent article I read about North Korea launching an EMT weapon over the U.S. If it were to detonate, then all electronics would be knocked out—including those on planes.”

  Death-grip bloke gasps.

  “I know. I was gobsmacked too.” On a sigh, I shrug. “But hey … it sure would be one helluva ride.” Okay, I may be chattier than the average Brit.

  “You have a mordant sense of humor.” White teeth peek from his parted lips, still taut in a grimace. Color seeps back into his fingers and face.

  “You have a prodigious vocabulary.” I offer my hand. “I’m Scarlet Stone.”

  His eyes flit between mine and my hand a few times before he releases the armrest. “Nolan Moore.” He squeezes my hand like I’m holding his dangling body off the side of a bridge.

  I squeeze his in return just as tight. Oscar said a handshake says a lot—do it with confidence or not at all.

  “American?” I choose not to be outwardly presumptuous.

  He nods.

  I rest my head back and close my eyes, giving myself a nice pat on the back for being friendly.

  “W-wedding.”

  Aannd … here we go. More small talk. “Sorry?”

  Nolan’s hands fist on his legs as we bounce through the clouds. “Wedding. I was here for a wedding. A friend of mine from college got married in Farnham.”

  “Oh. Wonderful. Very well then.” I resume my napping position.

  “I’m from Savannah, Georgia.” Nolan’s shaky hands accept the small bottle of Jack, a Coke, and a glass of ice from the air hostess. He smiles, nerves still shaking his lips a bit.

  Perhaps he’s only this chatty when he’s nervous.

  “Really? That’s where I’m going. I was born in Savannah.”

  On a sideways glance, he narrows one eye. “You clearly sound like you’re from Savannah, Georgia.”

  “Cheeky.” I wink at him.

  “Yes, cheeky, because we say that a lot in Savannah.” He sips his drink. “Are your parents originally from London or Savannah?”

  I surrender. Nolan is friendly or needy, or a mix of both.

  “My dad is originally from London and my mum came to London from the Caribbean.” I point to my hair, tight curls celebrating a holiday from hours of being straightened into submission. “Thank you, Mum, for the hair.” I grin.

  “Against doctors’ orders, she traveled with my dad to Atlanta for his business trip when she was thirty-five weeks pregnant with me. They drove down to Savannah on the last day of the trip to have some beach time, and my mum went into labor. The ten-day trip turned into a month before they took me home to London. I haven’t been back to Savannah since.”

  A flirty smile teases his lips, shedding the tension from his rigid posture. “How many years has it been since you were last in Savannah?”

  My eyelashes sweep up, and I blink at him a few times before chuckling. “That’s a very smooth approach to asking my age.”

  He shrugs, taking another sip of his drink.

  “Thirty-one years.”

  “What’s taking you back to Savannah?” This bloke fires endless questions.

  Staring at my fingers drumming on my leg, I twist my lips. “Hmm … good question. I suppose the easiest answer is that one day I realized my life was not going in the direction I thought it was. Not to sound cliché, but it was a crossroad and I had to make a decision. West. I chose west.”

  “Intriguing. Is this trip temporary or permanent?”

  After contemplating the meaning of each word, I reply, “Both.” At some point, the fact that I sold most of my belongings and decided to leave home forever may very well hit me; if I were leaving a large family, friends, even so much as a gold fish, I think I’d feel the impact of this life-altering moment. Daniel is gone, living the life he was meant to live, and Oscar could die of some flesh-eating disease from his communal underwear before his time is served. br />
  Nolan chuckles. “Fair enough. I’m a stranger on a plane. We don’t have to get personal. Eleven hours of small talk works for me.”

  Of course it does. “Fabulous.” My lips pull into a tight grin.

  His expectant gaze makes me shift in my seat.

  I let out a controlled breath that doesn’t sound too exasperated, then I smile. “Tell me what you do in Savannah, Mr. Moore.”

  “Well, Miss Stone, I flip homes and of recent, I’ve started dabbling in commercial real estate development. My father has had his hand in real estate for years, but he’s getting bored with it so I’ve inherited his ‘hobby.’”

  “Do you have any houses to rent?”

  “No … well, one. Why?”

  “I haven’t secured a place to stay, yet.”

  “I could give you some names, other property owners. The one I have is on Tybee Island, a beachfront house with a single room and shared kitchen. The other room is already rented. Probably not what you’re looking for.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t need more than a room.”

  His nose wrinkles. “Yeah, but it’s only available for six months. That’s when the other renter is moving out and then the place will go on the market. It will likely sell within a day of listing it.”

  Six months. I can’t believe he said six months.

  “I’m interested. Six months is perfect.”

  “Really?”

  I nod.

  Nolan bites his lips together. “I forgot to mention … the other renter is a guy, an old friend of mine.”

  “Rapist? Murderer? Weird fetishes? Smelly? Loud snorer?”

  He laughs. “I can’t say for sure on the snoring. We haven’t slept in the same room since we were in our late teens. It’s possible he has a weird fetish that I don’t know about, but I’m going out on a limb and saying ‘no’ to the rapist or murderer. However, he does most of the construction and remodeling for me with the homes I flip, so occasionally he might smell like sweat and sawdust, but I imagine the smell washes off when he showers.”