BURDEN OF AN ANCIENT OATH by Joshua Brown (early reader books TXT) 📕

BURDEN OF AN ANCIENT OATH

New York Murder Mysteries

(Book 1)

By

Joshua Brown

Copyright © 2020 by Joshua Brown.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

More Books by the Author

About the Author

Chapter 1

Jack

She entered my office in a whirlwind.  Her eyes shone a bright green beneath the pale light of the room. Red strands of a colorful dress hung beneath the muddy brown coat wrapped around her shoulders. She walked with pomp and circumstance, like some royal princess late for an extravagant ball. Her long, brown locks were tightened on her head in a messy bun.

She was scared. I could tell just by looking at her. The way she held her bag in one hand and crumpled papers in the other. Her upturned nose and rosy cheeks accompanying a furrowed brow.

She caught my eye from across the room through a crack in my office door.

“Is this the Mercer Detective Agency?” her delicate voice asked anyone that would listen.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lauren Becket replied, getting up from her chair. She turned to me through the glass pane, the blinds half-drawn, then wiped a few misplaced strands of hair out of her face, attention back on the woman. “How can I be of assistance?”

Lauren had a keen sense for people, the same way I did. She’d see the nerves, the jitters, and would tend to the woman as if top priority. And on a lazy Tuesday afternoon, with no case taking up the Mercer Detective Agency’s time, this woman was the top priority.

“I hate to be a bother, but I’ve heard excellent things about Mr. Mercer,” she replied. I could hear her muffled words through the ajar door. “I believe I’ve found myself in a bit of trouble, but I don’t really understand how. I was wondering if Mr. Mercer would be willing to hear me out?”

“I think he’d much prefer you to call him Jack,” Lauren said. I knew the smile that accompanied her words, especially with potential clients. That charming, beaming grin, so warm and inviting—no one could resist. “But if you’ll give me a moment, I’ll see if Jack’s got the time to speak with you.”

I rose from my desk, walking to the door.

“I’ll take it from here, Lauren,” I said before she made it inside.

Lauren pushed the door open, pointing the way with both hands for the woman to enter. She did, giving a half curtsey to Lauren as she passed. I closed my door, drawing the blinds shut to provide the woman with peace of mind. Even though Lauren would listen in through the intercom, a potential client always needed to feel safe.

She took a seat without me offering one, crossing one leg over the other. Her eyes scanned my office, most notably the pictures I had scattered around on the desk or on shelves. She didn’t speak, waiting for me to return to my seat.

“If you don’t mind?” I pulled a small, metal recorder from my pocket, clicking it on and setting it down on the desk.

“Not in the slightest,” she replied, rifling through her handbag. “And I hope you don’t mind?”

The woman drew a box of thin cigarettes. Having no doubt seen the ashtray with six half-smoked cigarettes on my desk, she might have seen it as an invite.

“Of course not,” I said, leaning back. Accompanying the recorder, I drew a notebook from inside the desk with a ballpoint pen.

My reliance on notes and thoughts on a case came in many forms. More often than not, the recorder was enough. Still, from time to time, handwritten documentation was the only way to go. Having multiple mediums to go through gave my mind enough stimulation to get the job done.

She lit her cigarette, offering me one. I declined the thin stick, grabbing my own box of Lucky Strikes and putting one in my mouth. She leaned over the desk, lighting it.

“What is it that brings you here, Miss…” I invited her to give me her name.

She declined, handing me sheets of paper that grew crumpled in her hands. “These letters.”

I scanned them for a name. Marilyn Crossley.

“And what about them do you find so suspicious, Miss Crossley?”

“That’s the thing, Mr. Mercer, I don’t rightly know…”

“Please, call me Jack. But do go on,” I scribbled her strange response down on my yellow paper.

“You see, I recently moved into my home with my husband and children. There’s nothing special about it, nor do I find it to be situated in a place where any strange events should occur, and yet, they have.”

“Strange events?”

My initial thoughts led me to think supernatural, not that I believed in any of the hocus pocus. Far too many people still believed in ghouls and goblins, so I wouldn’t put it past her to do the same.

The more she spoke, the more I felt intrigued to listen. There was something strange about her. The way she held herself, the lack of