My Sister's Keeper

My Sister's Keeper

last updateLast Updated : 2021-10-21
By:  Bill BennersCompleted
Language: English
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After his sister is brutally attacked and crippled investigating the rape of a thirteen-year-old, Richard Baimbridge rushes back to his hometown of Wilmington, NC, to assist in her recovery only to come face to face with his tormented past and a dark family secret. Serving as his sister's legs, he fights to stay above the flood of childhood trauma as he is drawn into the dark underside of this quiet coastal community where he becomes the primary suspect in the murders of Wilmington's young girls in this riveting suspense thriller that explores the special bond between a brother and sister. More than 500,000 copies sold worldwide. "Bill Benners is a fresh and welcomed new voice in crime fiction. My Sister's Keeper is a compelling and original psychological thriller. Awesome, powder-keg suspense!" --Andrew McAleer, Crimestalker Casebook/crimestalkers.com

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Chapter 1

Chapter One

THOMAS WOLFE WAS RIGHT. You can’t go home again. And I wouldn’t have had it not been for my sister’s accident. I flew back to Wilmington, North Carolina, and sat vigil over her for weeks listening to the beeps and clicks of the machinery that kept her alive, pleading with her not to die. Martha was the one person in this world who had always been there for me, believed in me, looked up to me, and never failed me. And I, Richard Charles Baimbridge, could not survive without her.

She kept me sane.

Even in the darkness of her hospital room, I could see beyond the bruises on her face to the whimsical little girl with auburn hair and bright eyes that had grown up alongside me. The curious perfectionist turned investigative reporter who would not let go of a thing until she’d figured it out. Like the time a girlfriend of hers showed up with a Rubik’s Cube. Martha was only eight at the time, but she’d spun and twisted that thing relentlessly—practically that entire summer—until finally she woke me early one Sunday morning holding it out in the palm of her hand. All the colored squares were in perfect alignment and there was a look in her eyes I’ve never forgotten to this day. I was twelve and had given it a serious shot several times myself to no avail. That was the first time she’d beaten me at something, but it wouldn’t be the last.

That moment established a pattern for her life. In some backward way, I became her motivation—her inspiration. If she saw me give up on anything, regardless of how insignificant—remembering a phone number, finding the right nut to fit a bolt, or fixing a broken toy—she’d go after it with fanaticism and would not give up until she’d figured it out.

Being better than me challenged her and when she succeeded, it fulfilled her. I was proud of her, but not like Dad. Dad loved it. It seemed the more she outdid me, the more he liked it. And when she did beat me, he always cast that malevolent glare from the corner of his eye that cut deep and made me feel as though I’d stepped in something foul and tracked it into the house. By the time I left home at eighteen, there was a gap between my father and me that an ocean couldn’t fill.

The connection between Martha and me, however, only grew stronger. I envied that spark she had, that do-it-or-die attitude, and the way my father thought she could do no wrong. But his praise never seemed to mean much to her, and maybe that’s why she got so much of it from him. It mattered to me, though, and he knew it, and he manipulated it to cut out my heart. Ironically, she craved my praise instead of his and I gave it to her in heavy doses. It felt fantastic to be needed by somebody for something and I used it against him. Maybe that’s why he hated me so much.

God! If only I’d turned on her, belittled her, or ignored her, maybe she wouldn’t have ended up in her current state.

Though we’d talked on the phone weekly, it had been more than a year since I’d seen her. Her hair was shorter now, and she’d lost that baby fat that had lingered long past high school. Her eyelashes were long and thick, the envy of the whole family. Her cheeks were high and her lips were wide and thin like mine—typical of Dad’s side of the family.

I pulled a chair up next to her bed, took her hand, and studied her fingernails where tiny bits of pink polish lingered—reminders of a time when her life had been full of hope, ambition, and romantic dreams. Dreams that were going to die hard.

Until the accident, things had always gone incredibly well for Martha. When she decided she wanted to go to college, Mom—somehow—had scraped together the money. “An anonymous scholarship,” she’d said. Martha graduated summa cum laude, took a job with the local paper, then landed the one she truly wanted; investigative reporter for the Raleigh News and Observer.

I’ll never forget that day. We talked on the phone for hours. She was ecstatic! Twenty-four years old, armed with a Master’s in communication, and craving that one big story with which to prove herself.

A few weeks later, Martha received a tip that a thirteen-year-old girl had been dragged to the top floor of an abandoned warehouse in Wilmington, raped by two men while being videotaped by a third, then bound, gagged, and thrown in the Cape Fear River to drown, and knew she’d found her story. It was a story I would come to hear Martha tell over and over

“A FRIEND FROM WILMINGTON CALLED and told me about the rape. She said the little girl had survived and that Sam Jones—a detective I’d gotten to know well while working for the Wilmington Star-News—had been assigned to the case. After a two-hour drive, I planted myself in Sam’s office and badgered him relentlessly until he finally agreed to let me have a look at the place where the rape had supposedly taken place. He told me to meet him there when he got off at 5:00 p.m.

“It was Halloween and a cold front was moving in. The temperature had dropped fifteen degrees since noon. I arrived a few minutes early, pulling my Toyota into the dirt lot next to the abandoned plant and parked facing a sagging eight-foot steel-mesh fence surrounding the property. Railroad tracks crisscrossing the grounds all led into a huge four-story corrugated metal building set back along the river’s edge. Among the tall weeds near the fence lay stacks of discarded railroad ties, rusting steel wheels, and bent rails. To the left of the building, a rickety dock jutted out into the Cape Fear River. Across the river, the trees were showing a hint of fall color.

“Knowing what had happened to that girl, I was afraid to turn off the engine. And when I finally did—after looking in all directions—the silence was nerve-wracking. I could actually hear my own heart thumping in my chest. As I waited, I envisioned that helpless thirteen-year-old being snared off the street, fighting against the strengths of three men—her cries smothered, her breathing obstructed by a powerful hand clamped over her face. I felt her terror as they whisked her across that abandoned yard to be held down, stripped, tortured, and raped in a night of horror from which she was not supposed to survive.

“A black crow suddenly dropped onto the hood of my car rattling me back to reality, leering at me with its yellow eyes. I honked the horn to frighten it away, then wished I hadn’t, looking around to see if anyone had noticed.

“The street was deserted except for a group of trick-or-treaters crossing at the next intersection with their parents protectively tailing them fully aware of the dangers that lurked in the shadows of their young lives.

“I checked the clock on the car radio. It was 5:47. Sam was late. I dialed his cell number, but only got his voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message and began making a detailed description of the property and a list of questions I needed to answer for the story. Finally, as the sun set on the far side of the river, I wondered if Sam had forgotten about our meeting. I called him again and this time left a message trying to sound relaxed and professional. ‘This is Martha Baimbridge,’ I said. ‘Just calling to confirm that we’re still meeting at the warehouse. I’m here now and...waiting.’ I hung up wishing I hadn’t sounded so unprofessional.

“To fill the time, I jotted down notes on how I might package the story and a few angles to explore in the articles that would follow. I closed my eyes and imagined the panic that must have been going through that thirteen-year-old’s mind and what could have been going through the sick minds of those bastards that raped her. What is this need some men have to have sex with little girls? Don’t these monsters realize that they are children? That they will be scarred psychologically for life? Do they care? And why would they videotape it?

“A child’s shrill scream abruptly pierced the darkness peeling the skin off my nerves leaving me feeling raw and exposed. I extinguished the interior dome light and searched the darkness around me sensing a thousand eyes out there watching me. Looking back at the railway yard, I noticed a flicker of light in the highest window in the building, but could not tell for sure if it was a light or a reflection.

“I tried Sam’s phone again, and again I got his voicemail. ‘Mr. Jones, I just heard a horrible scream and I think I can see light coming from a window in that warehouse. Please hurry.’ After hanging up, I just sat there staring at that window terrified that another young girl could be in there at that very moment having her youth savagely ripped away—perhaps even fighting for her life—and realized, Sam or no Sam, I had to do something.

“I took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out. There was a chilly breeze blowing in off the river and an oily, tar-like stench mixed with the fishy smell of the Cape Fear. As I pulled on a navy blue windbreaker, I made a mental note to keep a flashlight, running shoes, jeans, and an old sweatshirt in the car for future times like this. I switched my phone to vibrate only, crept along the fence toward the river, and found a break in the wire. Pausing one last time to check for Sam, I squeezed through the gap and crouched in the grass gathering enough nerve to go farther.

“Then, zigzagging around piles of scrap iron, I ducked into the shadow of the giant warehouse and laid an ear to the cold metal exterior. Hearing nothing, I crept along the edge of the building testing every door and window, but it wasn’t until I pressed against a wooden hatch near the ground that I found a way to get in. Dropping to my knees, I shoved it inward breaking loose its rusty hinges and crawled into the opening to get a look inside. I listened for a full minute, but heard nothing. Figuring my imagination had gotten the best of me, I chuckled at myself and started to back out when I heard a whimper inside and cold terror seized me.

“Panicked, I retreated to the outside, ran to the corner of the building checking for Sam, then dialed his number again and left one last message. ‘There’s something going on inside that warehouse, Sam. For God’s sake, hurry! I’m going in.’”

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Maria Paz Ave-Mendoza
Page turning book.
2023-08-12 10:15:19
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sun sun
this book is very good
2022-07-22 11:14:08
1
60 Chapters
Chapter One
THOMAS WOLFE WAS RIGHT. You can’t go home again. And I wouldn’t have had it not been for my sister’s accident. I flew back to Wilmington, North Carolina, and sat vigil over her for weeks listening to the beeps and clicks of the machinery that kept her alive, pleading with her not to die. Martha was the one person in this world who had always been there for me, believed in me, looked up to me, and never failed me. And I, Richard Charles Baimbridge, could not survive without her.She kept me sane.Even in the darkness of her hospital room, I could see beyond the bruises on her face to the whimsical little girl with auburn hair and bright eyes that had grown up alongside me. The curious perfectionist turned investigative reporter who would not let go of a thing until she’d figured it out. Like the time a girlfriend of hers showed up with a Rubik’s Cube. Martha was only eight at the time, but she’d spun and twisted that
last updateLast Updated : 2021-10-20
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Chapter Two
IN THE SOLITUDE OF MARTHA’S HOSPITAL ROOM, my mind drifted back to that summer day when a sixteen-year-old neighborhood bully named Jimmy Lassiter pulled a switchblade and tried to rob us. I was fourteen at the time and Martha was ten. Without hesitation, she snatched up a broken chunk of brick and hurled it, permanently blinding him in his right eye, and scarring me internally for the rest of my life. Coward!Why couldn’t I be more like my sister?As I watched over her and prayed for her life, I promised God that night that if he’d let Martha live, no matter how badly she was injured, I’d take care of her for the rest of her life if needed. I hadn’t kept many promises I’d made to God, but that was one promise I did intend to keep.When Martha finally did emerge from her coma and I realized how much rehabilitation she was going to need, I went back to New York City, packed up my Tribeca photography s
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Chapter Three
THE LAST THING I EXPECTED was to be accosted by a couple of women. One was blond with dark eyebrows, the other had dark hair piled high in a bee-hive with a tattoo on her neck—some kind of Chinese symbol. They wore jeans, t-shirts with the sleeves and midriff area ripped off, and metal studs in both their navels and lips—like many of the women you’d run into at Walmart. I saw Martha’s hand moving slowly toward her cell phone.I cleared my throat. “We’re working undercover here. You’d better run along if you don’t want to get in trouble.”The blond smacked a wad of gum and pointed a finger at Martha. “Just keep your hands where we can see them, Sweetie. And you—” She looked at me. "What did Sam Jones tell you, Baimbridge?"Sam Jones? “He—told us to stay away.”“Right. And he don’t like it when you don’t listen.”“We…just&mda
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Chapter Four
"MISTER BAIMBRIDGE?”The woman at the back door held a black umbrella against her shoulder and struggled to keep her balance as she braced herself against a mighty gust of wind. She looked to be in her early twenties.“Yes?”“My name is Ashleigh Matthews. I live in Dr. Hardesty’s pool house next door. May I come inside for a minute?”There was a pained look on her face that reminded me of the loneliness I often felt. The kind of loneliness that gnaws a hole in your chest, steals your youth, and makes you vulnerable.“Sure. Of course. Please come in.” I parted the door just enough to allow her to get past me without letting in the whole storm.“Thanks,” she exhaled dashing past me. As I closed the door, I caught sight of Mrs. Winslow gazing at me from a window. I gave her a two-finger salute and flipped on the kitchen lights.“I’m sorry to impose on you on
last updateLast Updated : 2021-10-20
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Chapter Five
"STOP!” I shouted.Ashleigh looked up, her hands frozen on the last button.“I’m sorry, Ashleigh. Call me drunk. Call me stupid. Call me whatever you want. I’m as red-blooded as any male and you’re the best-looking woman I’ve had in this house ever! But you just don’t need to be doing that. Please, just call the studio in the morning and make an appointment.”Her gaze remained locked on me even as another heavy branch fell on the deck. Her shirt lay open exposing her bra. It was tempting. God, was it tempting!I turned away. “Please, Ashleigh.” The telephone rang and broke the impasse. I reached for it immediately. “Hello?”It was Mom. “Richie, can you run over and help your dad move Martha’s bed?”I closed my eyes and drew a slow breath. “Move it where, Mom?”“Is something wrong?”“No, nothi
last updateLast Updated : 2021-10-20
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Chapter Six
I GRIPPED THE DOORKNOB, turned it slowly, and pushed the door open. Except for a pair of white stockings from mid-thigh down, Ashleigh was stark naked. She lay amid a mountain of pillows with her arms thrown back over her head and her legs cocked outward at the knees. Half a dozen lighted candles scented the room and provided the only light. The sight of her took my breath away. She looked like a movie star—Julia Roberts in person, naked.My internal control system changed gears and my movements slowed.She raised a Polaroid camera high and giggled. “Take my picture, Mr. Photographer.”I snickered. “You’re not going to get much of a picture with that thing.”“I don’t care. I just want to see what it looks like.”I sipped my drink, set it on the dresser, took the camera, and stepped back. My heart thumped hard in my chest as I framed her in the viewer. She puckered her lips and cut her eyes at me
last updateLast Updated : 2021-10-20
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Chapter Seven
BUMBLING TO MY FEET, I stumbled into the house, groped the medicine cabinet for ibuprofen, swallowed three capsules, and downed a full glass of water. Weaving my way to the den, I flopped onto the couch and passed out again. My sleep interfused with images of Ashleigh. Ashleigh straddling me laughing and flirting, her beads pressing against my neck. Ashleigh in white thigh-high stockings with snakes crawling all over her naked body. Ashleigh’s lips against mine. Ashleigh biting a hole in my cheek.At 6:30 a.m., I awoke trembling. My clothes were still wet and every inch of my body ached. The last thing I could remember was passing out on Ashleigh’s bed. God, what must she think of me?I tripped up the stairs, toppled into the shower, and stripped away my clothes. There were scratches on the back of my right hand. I wondered how I’d gotten them, how I’d gotten home, and if I’d made a fool of myself doing it. I turned the water on a
last updateLast Updated : 2021-10-20
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Chapter Eight
I LED SAM AND THE POLICEMEN into the kitchen as Sam introduced the two with him—a skinny white man named Melrose with the wide lip-less mouth of a lizard, and Crabby Staten, an older black man with gray sideburns and a thick scar across his nose. The heavy-set one, Staten, stood next to me with his arms folded like a nightclub bouncer. Lizard Lips set a black satchel on the breakfast table and stepped closer. Jones fished a small writing pad and mechanical pencil from his shirt pocket. “What’s going on, Sam?” I asked. “Something happen to Ashleigh?” “When did you see her last?” he asked, flipping through the pages of the notepad. I felt as if all three of them were watching me a little too intensely. The muscles in my neck knotted as I considered the reaction I’d get from my answer. “Last night.” That struck a chord and all three of them shifted in unison—like dancers in a Broadway production. Jones widened his stance as he made a note on his pad. Staten adju
last updateLast Updated : 2021-10-20
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Chapter Nine
THE NEXT MORNING I was dressed and downtown by 7:30. Like my mood, the weather had turned cold and blustery—not the best for Azalea Festival Week. I pulled my collar up against my neck for the short walk to Tripp’s Ham and Eggs still stunned by the events of the night before. Inside, I tracked to the same table with the same five other guys I join for breakfast most every morning.Sappy Talton was doing his customarily splendid job of getting our waitress Sheila flustered and confused. Sappy and I had been best friends since eighth grade when we stole a pack of Lucky Strikes and a can of Miller’s Beer from Smith’s IGA, which started a summer of wildness that cemented our friendship forever.A burst of laughter spread through the group as I took a seat. That’s what I like about these guys. They’re relaxed and fun to be around. No heavy burdens allowed.Besides Sappy, there was Fred Gorman, a salt and pepper-haired fish
last updateLast Updated : 2021-10-20
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Chapter Ten
ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT for the rest of the morning was Joe’s admonitions and how he’d acted. My creativity was gone and I couldn’t concentrate. I made it through my first appointment on pure instinct. My eleven o’clock was an on-site conference with the younger sister of a girl I dated back in high school. Pulling into the parking lot of the Deagan Dance Center a few minutes early, I parked next to a black Mazda van lettered with the school’s logo. I’d driven by this place thousands of times, but had never paid much attention to it. The grounds were well-kept and framed with gigantic oak trees budding with new life and dripping with long strands of Spanish moss.I entered a spacious lobby plastered with dance-related posters, informational signs, photographs, and three large TV monitors high on one wall each showing a different empty classroom. Long wooden benches lined three sides of the lobby, and there was a receptionist center
last updateLast Updated : 2021-10-20
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