The Blue Journal
Authors: L.T. Graham
Published 2015 by Seventh Street Books
®
, an imprint of Prometheus Books
The Blue Journal
.
Copyright © 2015 by L. T. Graham. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopyÂing, reÂcordÂing, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, exÂcept in the case of brief quotations emÂbodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover image © Bigstock
Cover design by Grace M. Conti-Zilsberger
This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Inquiries should be addressed to
Seventh Street Books
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Graham, L. T., 1950-
The blue journal : a Detective Anthony Walker novel / L.T. Graham.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-63388-060-3 (paperback) â ISBN 978-1-63388-061-0 (ebook)
1. Psychotherapy patientsâCrimes againstâFiction. 2. DiariesâFiction.
3. WomenâSexual behaviorâFiction. 4. MurderâInvestigationâFiction. I. Title.
PS3619.T47676B58 2015
813'.6âdc23
2014027005
Printed in the United States of America
To Bob Diforio, with thanks
Contents
CHAPTER 1
There was no reason for Elizabeth Knoebel to suspect that this was going to be the last day of her life.
It was a radiant autumn afternoon. The trees and plantings that surrounded her spacious home were awash in sunlight. Inside all was quiet. She was alone in her comfortable den, holding a glass of wine, working on the memoir that had come to consume her over the past several months.
She stopped typing and stared at the screen. Odd, it occurred to her, that she was more at ease contemplating her personal history this way, rather than sharing secrets with a confidant, a friend, or even one of her lovers. Odder still was the perverse satisfaction she felt from knowing that someday she would reveal all of this to her husbandâand that she would revel in the pain it would cause him.
That last idea filled her with a strange mix of amusement and loathing, driving her back to the keyboard. She leaned forward, placed her wine glass on the desk and prepared to add something to the scene she had begun yesterday. She typed:
The next time we met he arranged for a luxurious suite in a downtown hotel. When we arrived, he poured us each a drink from the bar, led me into the bedroom, then took me in his arms and kissed me, our mouths wet and sweet.
As he began to undress me I offered no resistance. He said very little, nor did I. He lifted my dress above my head and draped it over the back of an armchair. Then he turned and took my hands in his. I stood there in my high heels, bra, and panties.
“You are so beautiful,” he said and kissed me on the neck. Then he led me to the bed where we sat on the edge and embraced, engaging in another moist, hot kiss.
He felt the soft shape of my breasts, then took his time removing my bra. When he tossed it to the floor I kicked off my shoes and laid back, stretching across the soft duvet cover. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, then kneeled beside me, reaching down, now taking hold of my breasts with both hands. He massaged me with great tenderness, then leaned forward and began gently sucking my nipples. I moaned appreciatively in response.
I reached out to unbuckle his belt and pull down his fly, urging him to finish undressing, then felt inside for him. He was already hard.
He finished undressing and we lay on our sides, facing each other. I still had on my panties. He was naked. We kissed again, then he took my ass in both hands and pulled me to him. His tongue meandered its way up and down my neck and tickled my ear, then entered my eager mouth as our bodies pressed together. He slid my panties off, then turned so that his head was between my legs. He covered me with his mouth, his tongue flicking at my moist pussy, his hand pressing down on my pubis. I took hold of him, gently stroking his shaft with one hand, exploring beneath it with the other.
I was already wet, and I groaned with pleasure as he licked me, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. His fingers began searching inside me, and from behind as well. He stopped for an instant to tell me that I was delicious and, when his tongue resumed its path up and down my damp opening, my entire body tensed and I cried out. Then I grabbed for him, urging him to climb atop me, and he did.
Even as he had prepared me for the moment, he penetrated me slowly. Even with the lubrication of my own juices, he was careful and attentive. Then, in a final push, he was inside and I forced a gasp of delight. I moved with him, rocked with him as his thrusts grew faster and faster, then uttered a throaty shriek, my back arched, and he exploded inside me and we found ourselves side by side again, still in each other's arms.
In the end, the greatest aphrodisiac for a man is the pleasure he thinks he has given his partner. This is the way to own him, to invade his thoughts and control his desireâsimply convince him that he is your greatest lover. To be sure, there are other factors in every relationship. But in the rites of sex, you must make him believe that you have never, and will never, achieve ecstasy the way you can with him. You must persuade him that you live for the pleasure only he is able to give you.
His ego will be nurtured, his sense of self-importance fulfilled, and his craving for sexual dominance will be tied to you and the way he makes you feel.
And then, ironically, he will be yours.
Elizabeth pushed away from the laptop, rose from her chair, and picked up her glass. A full-length mirror, framed in polished brass, stood in the corner of the room. She turned away from the computer and slowly scanned her reflection. She studied her fine features, intense eyes, dark complexion, rich full lips and thick auburn hair. She looked herself over as if searching for something familiar that had once been there but could no longer be found. Her face was still young, although informed by a bitterness she refused to see. She was approaching forty, and it seemed all that she valued in herself was what remained of her physical beauty.
She placed her wine glass on a side table. Dressed only in a blue satin robe, she held it open, then shrugged slightly, encouraging the sleek fabric to slide from her shoulders and float slowly to the floor. A gust of cool air wafted in through an open window, caressing her skin as she studied her naked figure, admired the fullness of her bosom, the curves of her womanly hips, the dark texture of the narrow line of manicured hair that gave musky focus to the smooth flesh between her legs. She held her breasts in her hands, then ran her palms roughly across her nipples until they hardened. She was pleased as she watched herself in the looking glass, but this wasn't enough.
She suddenly uttered a hollow, mirthless laugh that resonated beyond the confines of the small room, carrying through the open window and piercing the quiet outside.
Her murderer, standing beside a large oak at the near edge of her property, flinched at the familiar sound.
Elizabeth's home was set amidst proud old maples and stately oaks, a large stone Tudor with leaded glass windows and an imposing slate roof. It was not actually
her
home, as Stanley would be quick to remind herâhe had bought and paid for it, just as he had paid for all of the other extravagances she enjoyed as his wife. Elizabeth would never voice a response when he launched into these tirades about possessions and entitlements and rights. After all, Stanley did not give her everything she wanted, but he certainly provided her comfort. And comfort was important to Elizabeth.
Stanley was working at the hospital in New York today, as he was on most weekdays, performing surgery. He told her that he would be staying overnight in their New York City apartment, leaving Elizabeth to amuse herself.
Amusing herself was Elizabeth's favorite pastime.
This afternoon she would indulge in the ultimate humiliation of her cold and disapproving husband. In an act even more degrading to him than merely giving herself to someone else, Elizabeth would have one of her lovers in her home.
Stanley's
home.