Danna Wilberg [Wilberg - The Grey Door

The GREY DOOR

a DNNA WILBERG novel

Copyright 2019 Dnna Wilberg

Second Edition

The GREY DOOR

Book Two in the Grace Simms Trilogy

Cover Art by Karen Phillips (phillipscovers.com)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. The author intends no resemblance to actual persons, living or dead.

Printed in the United States of America

To the women who inspire me, encourage me, and keep me sane.

Table of Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T he GREY DOOR is a novel with much reality. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is real. Many Veterans suffer from this affliction. Thank you to those who have served our beautiful country. I hope readers gain a new understanding and tolerance of those who live with PTSD. Elderly abuse is real, and I thank my late friend, Sharon Smith, who helped me understand the pitfalls of assisted living.

Bone marrow donors save lives.

Thank you to my paranormal community for insight into premonitions and manifestation.

I am grateful to Kirk Colvin, and the El Dorado Writers Guild for their critiques and editing suggestions. I attribute this group with my success as a writer.

Again, I thank my sister Kathy Partipilo for being my sounding board, and I thank my late mother, Sonia Dennis, for being my best critic and biggest fan. Gratitude to my children, Dawn, Elia, Ashleigh, Erika, and Olivia for inspiring me to do my best, and my husband for keeping the lights on while I pursue my dreams.

Id like to thank my professional advisor Mark Yankauer, MA, MFT. I also want to thank Karen Phillips for, once again, creating gorgeous cover art.

I want to acknowledge my readers. Your feedback, encouragement, and longing for more of my stories keep my imagination alive and well nourished.

J ess Bartell pulled forward, his wheels hugging the curb. He cracked the window an inch. Cant fog up the windows . He turned off the motor and waited. His mood matched his reflection in the rearview mirrordark brooding eyes, stones beneath thick lashes, rich brown waves needing a trim flipped above his collar. His dimpled face, flocked in thirty-six hours of stubble, said it all: Youre a fucking mess.

Twenty-two minutes ticked by before Grace Simms emerged from behind the grey door. Her long stem legs descended the wooden staircase, heavy with woe. No work today? Graces usual business attire was replaced with baggy jeans and fleece. Did she feel challenged to aid her clients wage war against worry and despair today? Was she too distraught to coddle the hurt with her soothing words? Make the meek feel strong and mighty? Poor Grace . A piece had been ripped from her heart, leaving her vulnerable.

A wicked smile brightened the image in the mirror. Weeks had gone by. No change .

Wait. Watch.

The time to strike would have to be right, thus prolonging his desire. His needs. For her . Only for Grace.

He ached inside, his mind justifying his evil intent. Ill take her far away, where even shadows wont find us. Life will be glorious. Whole. Eventually, shed come to understand, hold him to her breast. Quiet the beast . In time, shed surrenderbody, mind, and soul. Shell be my bride, my angel, my whore. Like her? His mothers face loomed in his vision.

He shook his head, warding off the memory of being inside the bitch as he burned each soft orb in its socket. Her screams muffled by the blood-soaked rag stuffed between her treacherous lips. His blood . Jess quivered. Good ol Harry .

RABBIT HOLE

G

race Simms, the psychotherapist announced, picking up the phone on the fourth ring. Yes, Miss Knowles, Ive been expecting your call, she said, glancing at the clock. She pressed her ear to the phone and nodded silently. Her hand dropped to her clenching stomach. Im on my way.

As soon as Grace hung up with Miss Knowles from the hospital, she tumbled past the point of self-control. Sobs wracked her body in waves. The womans words echoed, circling vultures inside her head. Its time.

Misery wrestled Grace to the floor, crumbling her into a heap. She searched her brain for a reset button, one that would delete agony and return sensibility. Not fair! she cried hoarsely. Its not fair.

Life changed for Grace Simms the day she was taken hostage. Fear tarried at the edge of her sanity. Despair threatened to drag her into an abyss. Not a day went by that she didnt envision Candy pulling the trigger. The horror of that one final moment etched on her psyche before losing consciousness, that moment when blood, bone, and brain matter soaked Sergeant Garret Westons chest, that instant before her world turned black and she thought, Hes dead . No, not dead.

She later thanked God for the bullet-proof vest that saved Garrets life and then cursed Him one week later when a drug dealers bullet to the head twisted their fate. And yet destiny prevailed.

As she drove west on Highway 50, Sacramento stretched ahead in panoramic splendor. The sun dipped low on the horizon. Golden rays pierced coral rouge, rendering a Michael Angelo masterpiece. Motorists rubbernecked to catch a glimpse, but as carnelian and crimson stained the sky, Graces heart began to pound.

Breathe.

She pressed the gas pedal harder.

Breathe .

She needed to escape before another flashback consumed her: Bloodspray.

Anxiety waned as the burning globe disappeared behind the horizon. Time became indistinguishable. This feeling cant last forever , she ruminated, stuck in a nothing place. No moon. No stars. Just grey .. .

Youre tired , her voice of reason professed as she stifled a yawn. Very tired. Reoccurring dreams plagued her sleep. A violation to the sanity of a trained professional, she concurred, but now is not the time to dwell . The day would be over soon enough, and she had more important things to dread.

A blue sign with white letters pointed the way to Sutter General. Graces patterned performance led her to section B, where she parked at the end of row four. Her long legs stretched until she found her footing on the blacktop. After clicking her key fob to lock her car door, a familiar feeling of foreboding reared its ugly head. Chills crept along her spine. Goosebumps gathered her flesh. Someone is watching me . She turned, slowly. No one there.

Apprehension quickened her pace to the diagonal-striped path leading to sliding, double doors. The security guard on duty provided safety, but relief was short-lived. All firearms are prohibited, the loudspeaker blared, pushing Graces post-traumatic stress to the brink. She cringed, reliving the sound of a single gun blast. Keep going.

A high-pitched ping announced the elevators arrival, yet, she stood frozen in her thoughts. A murderer lurking inside would be a welcome reprieve, a menacing voice whispered from the damaged part of her brain. Lets end it; right here, right now.

Stop it! A voice of reasonable health commanded. No options here.

The door opened.

She stepped inside to face her demons. No one there .

***

Arriving at the fourth floor, her body automatically veered to the right, past the nurses station, and then to the left. Not fair . She stood in the doorway of room 408 and fought for composure. Too soon.

Inside, machines orchestrated a song for the dying. Oxygen hissed. A heart monitor beeped. A compressor added its own rhythmic beat thunk , w hoosh, thunk , w hoosh raising and lowering the chest of the man whistling through a tube. No one volunteered to hum along.