A Deadly Influence (Abby Mullen Thrillers #1)(122)

He still loved Gabrielle. And on an emotional, subconscious level, he couldn’t believe the Gabrielle he loved and this girl could possibly be the same person.

With such a volatile, delusional mindset, an emotion left unspoken was dangerous. He could act on it, not even knowing why. Abby would have to bring those thoughts to the surface.

“It seems as if you can’t understand how Gabrielle and this girl could even be the same person.”



He stayed frozen, listening to Abby’s voice, low and calm.

“You love Gabrielle Fletcher, a beautiful, smart, caring girl,” Abby said. “She talks to you every day, makes you feel special. Maybe you’re wondering, How could this girl even be the same person? This girl, who acts as if she doesn’t understand you—and doesn’t care for you.”

He ground his teeth together. Of course he knew they were the same person. He knew it. She was being ridiculous. It was time to end this. He glanced at the girl’s throat. At Gabrielle’s throat. One cut was all it would take.

“It sounds like you have such a wonderful connection with her. A connection that could return back to the way it was one day. In time. If you let Gabrielle go. This girl you’re holding up there. She’s the same person you talked to. It doesn’t feel like it. But she is.”

His eyes welled up. This was going nowhere. Why was he hesitating? He should have done it already.

He placed the blade on the girl’s skin. On Gabrielle’s skin.



Abby kept talking. “She’s the same person who bought the yellow shirt just for you. Who shared her trip with you. Who promised you her undying gratitude. In time, you might have it.”

Still nothing. Abby couldn’t even hear him breathing—or Gabrielle’s whimpering.

“I saw what you did for Nathan. I saw that room. All the thought you put into it. Gabrielle will see it as well. You can tell her; she’s with you right now. She’s confused and scared, but it’s the same Gabrielle. She just needs time.”



“Remember that day on the road trip? That day you made her famous? How did it make you feel?”

He remembered. Of course he remembered. He shut his eyes, feeling the tears in his throat. How had it gone so wrong?

“You’ve made Gabrielle famous again. She’ll see that. What do you think she’ll tell you about it tomorrow? And the day after that? And the day after that?”

He opened his eyes, looked at the pale, shivering girl. At Gabrielle. What would she tell him tomorrow? He could already imagine tapping the Instagram icon. Watching her thanking everyone for being there every step of the way. Blowing a kiss to the camera. To him.

He let his hand drop, and the knife clattered to the floor. His body slumped.



Abby’s throat was raw from talking loudly, but she kept on going. “It seems—”

A floorboard creaked. Abby squinted up the stairs.

Gabrielle appeared in the doorway, trembling, pale as snow. She walked down the stairs one by one, stumbled, fell.

Abby was there to catch her before she hit the floor.





CHAPTER 82


Abby lay curled in her bed, her thoughts as light as a cloud, Ben’s small body snuggled against her. It was Saturday morning, sunlight filtering through the window, and life was perfect. She planned on taking the kids out, but for now she couldn’t find the willpower to get out of bed. Heavy, warm blanket; cute little boy; and a day full of nothing.

Sam knocked on the door, then opened it, still dressed in her pj’s. “My violin is on its way,” she announced. “It’ll be here next week!”

“Oh good,” Abby said sleepily. Her parents had paid for it, which made it even better. “Get in here. We’re snuggling.”

Sam looked at the bed, her mouth twisting. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“Come on. We want to hear about your violin.”

“Ugh. Fine.” She got in the bed and pulled the blanket over.

Ben squawked as his foot emerged from under the covers. “Hey! Stop hogging the blanket!”

“I’m not hogging it! Let go!”

Abby shut her eyes, grinning. In a few minutes the shouting and arguing would drive her insane. But right now it was the sound of heaven.

“Moooom, tell her to stop pulling!”

“So? What’s the violin like?” Abby said.

“It’s wonderful! It’s made of acrylic, and it’s really light. Do you remember that clip I showed you of Lindsey Stirling two weeks ago?”

“Of course.” Abby had no idea what she was talking about. “So is that the violin she used?”

“No, but it’s really similar. And I heard it play; the sound is just amazing. And once I get it, I’ll solve that feedback problem I’ve been having with the microphone because I’ll plug it in directly, so everything will be so much easier. And I’ll be able to play it super loud . . .”

“The neighbors will be thrilled.”

“Once I save up a bit, I’ll buy a distortion pedal for it, which everyone says is amazing. Distortions in electric violin sound so cool; I’ll play an example for you in a bit . . .”

Abby let her mind float away as her daughter talked. She usually did her best to listen to her children, accumulating a ridiculously detailed knowledge of the mating habits of spiders or the various solos of the modern violinists. But right now, her mind was in a porridgy state, as was good and proper for a Saturday morning.