Runaway Train Read online

  Runaway Train

  Ember Blake

  Copyright@2022 Cameron Jace writing as Ember Blake

  Storybook Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. Though inspired by true incidents, this is still a product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  Contents

  Thank You

  Win a Paperback

  For British Readers

  Introduction

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Afterword

  Also by Ember Blake

  About the Author

  Movie Option

  Thank You

  Authors are a product of those who surround them, whether they admit it or not. So the list of thank-yous is long and growing.

  Perpetual thanks to my readers for supporting me and having kept reading while I changed genres and even pen names. I’ll be forever grateful. You bring out the best of me. Also, many thanks to Nicole Elise Bennett for editing this one — and I almost forgot, when I say author, I mean ‘author-in-progress.’ Always in progress, always learning, or writing would lose its magic.

  Win a Paperback

  If you’re interested in winning a dedicated paperback copy of Runaway Train — and also my upcoming books, and behind the scenes stories — please subscribe to my newsletter below:

  * * *

  www.emberblake.com

  For British Readers

  I can't pretend that I'm thoroughly familiar with London or Dorchester. I'm an American, and though I've been to London, I was only interested in Oxford University, Cambridge, and the British Library, for my next novel.

  Runaway Train takes place in locations I’ve not been to physically. It's my judgment — and I could be mistaken — that the specific feel of London and Dorchester didn't add or take from the grand theme and enjoyment of the story.

  However, Runaway Train had to occur in London because of the following reasons:

  1) Passengers disappeared on the train from Dorchester to London in past years, including a boy named Andrew.

  2) The woman who told me about the actual events that inspired this book lives in London.

  3) The family dynamics of the story fits life in London — Europe in general — more than in the United States.

  Ember Blake

  Introduction

  While this book is a purely fictional story, it is inspired by a true-life crime going on for the past two hundred years. However, no character names, places, or dates resemble real people or real life. For this purpose, the country ‘Najimbia’ mentioned in the story does not exist and is used in an effort to avoid offending the people of the real countries where the story found its inspiration.

  Runaway Train is a thriller written for entertainment purposes only. Please bear this in mind dear reader as this book is meant to tell the tale of a mother and her journey to find the truth about what happened to her family.

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  www.emberblake.com

  Prologue

  I think I killed someone…

  * * *

  I watched the blood drip from my forehead and gather into a small pool on the porcelain floor by my feet. My heart thudded against my rib cage, and I struggled to catch my breath. It was hard to imagine how I ended up here, locked up in a stranger's bathroom with a gun in my hand.

  I needed time to process and replay the reel of the past few days in my mind's eye, but the loud banging on the door outside interrupted me. I no longer could afford the luxury of time.

  "Kate Mason, open the door," the police officer said in a demanding voice. "No need to hurt someone else."

  "Where is Andrew?" I cried out in a shrill voice that sounded foreign to me, drops of blood spewing from my lips.

  "We'll talk about it when you open the door!"

  "I want my son back!"

  The officer beckoned again, "Kate, I need you to open the door. Let me help you stop this mess before it gets out of hand."

  Out of hand? I was dripping blood that I knew wasn't my own. I was wielding a gun that I didn't know how to use. I was so close to uncovering the truth prove everyone wrong, even though I hurt those I loved in the process — everything was already out of hand.

  "Kate," the officer said. "I'm going to count to ten, and then I'll have to break in."

  I closed the laptop I had rested on my lap, took a deep breath then closed my eyes.

  What happened, Kate? What happened to the painter, the artist? What happened to the mother you once were?

  My mind swirled with questions as I tried to make sense of who I once was. All I knew for sure was that I had to keep going when I asked myself the most important question of all: was there anyone left that I could trust?

  Deep in my core, I knew I could only trust myself. I opened my eyes and gripped the gun. I had no choice.

  1

  Three months ago…

  My eyes were tired from scanning the travelers around me, yet my hyper-vigilance could not ignore my surroundings. I visually stalked every person in sight — the woman in the business outfit holding her suitcase. The young couple in front of me. The carpenter with his rusty tools. The three rows of middle-class, rich-wannabe students, not uttering a word while studying their phones; liking, commenting, and living with their heads inside a box. If only I could be as naïve and unaware.

  There was also the tense lawyer with the glasses, tapping his foot and looking ahead as if he wanted to advance and sit in first class. The family of four kids with their rebellious son embarrassing his mum by bullying his siblings.

  Then there was the silent woman in her sixties, hand on hand, no apparent purpose, quiet and content, not bothered with her surroundings; maybe this was her hangout, her solace.

  I watched her for quite some time, intrigued by her persona. Sometimes she looked pleased, exuding an aura of inner acceptance and appreciation for her past life. Other times, regret dimmed that aura into thin air and showed the lines on her face. Maybe she was so lonely she needed the proximity of strangers and the feeli
ng of belonging.

  To something. To someone. Even as meaningless as strangers on a train.

  Or, maybe, she was like me, desperately looking for a familiar face on this predictable train.

  I've been riding this train for years. Each day booking the same route my son and husband took eight years ago. Searching, investigating, and speculating what could have happened. Each day I found myself no closer than I was the day before. Yet, I could not ignore the compelling feeling within my being that I would indeed find answers on this train.

  Answers never came, not even a slither of a clue. Just people. Just life. Repetitive and monotonous as I was. Everyone hid behind the little pleasures of someone liking their posts on the phone, drinking something tasteless, or buying themselves something they could not afford.

  Self-absorption and self-indulgence at its finest. All expect the gift of communication.

  Everyone avoided everyone.

  Seat after seat, and even shoulder to shoulder, but each inside their heads, refraining from connecting to those around them. One among the crowd, but never a crowd of one.

  My fellow travelers didn't want to know about each other. They didn't greet each other, let alone a polite smile or gesture. The only way to bind this group of strangers was a tragedy.

  The train conductor greeted me with a nod as he made his way to the front. He knew who I was. The sympathy in his eyes killed me every time, even though he meant well. It was just that I didn't need it. I wasn't looking for a pat on the shoulder. I knew my son and husband were dead.

  It wasn't the tragedy itself that ate at my shrouded carcass of a soul. It was not knowing why or what happened exactly and the fact I never got to say goodbye.

  Part of me felt they were still alive, somewhere in a far corner of the world. I knew this wasn't the case, but I could not allow myself to dispute this fantasy. It kept me going.

  It gave me comfort. My disillusions were better to me than the heartbreak of unanswered questions. But today was different, it had to be. I smoothed out my skirt and exhaled.

  I decided that today was my last day on the train. No more trying to solve this painful mystery. No more sympathetic looks from the conductor. No more being in the mundane. I needed to move on, to let go. I felt it was finally time.

  My best friend, Emma, who was more spiritual, said it was the right thing to do so I could heal and continue my journey in life. She said letting go and living my best life was the only way to honor the departed.

  I didn't blame her for her words and offerings of strength. Friends always thought that talk would help fill the silence of grief with words of hope. Had they just sat next to you in silence, they'd have done a better job.

  I didn't need words to heal my wounds. I needed someone to fill the space next to me. I wished she entertained the long periods of silence I used to experience with my late husband. He knew how to say little and mean a lot. He understood the ebb and flow of my emotional needs.

  Although I began to follow Emma's spiritual advice, I had never been religious. Neither was my husband, but he was spiritual. We were an unlikely pair. It was true what they say, opposites attract.

  The train finally stopped at King's Cross station in London. My heart began to pound as I gathered the strength to leave it this final time. I needed to be strong. My search was over. It was time to move on.

  "I'm sorry to interrupt you," his voice awoke me from my thoughts, and I tilted my head at him.

  It was the voice of a handsome, tall man in a business suit. His strong accent told me he was British, not American like me. My memory of his face and particular choices of fresh, custom-tailored suits put him as someone familiar. I've seen him more than a few times on the train. I remembered him because he always seemed out of place compared to the usual crowd of exhausted travelers. In my examinations of him, I'd always wondered why he took the train when his whole demeanor oozed of money. Why take the train when he seemed to have his life planned out?

  "Pardon me?" I said, half-standing and ready to leave.

  I assumed he wanted my seat. He smiled cautiously, coy and sly, without saying anything further. We locked eyes, and I felt a sudden sense of calm. I froze because I couldn't take mine off his serene, blue steel eyes. This wasn't liking at first sight or even lust, but I felt him somehow.

  His gaze's wholesome comfort and solidarity filled me with a sense of security, and I was at ease. I could sense his intelligence and knew his eyes took everything in, just as mine did. Few people on trains had investigating eyes like his, scanning and interpreting what was happening around them like me. The same hyper-vigilance that I sought comfort in, taking in every detail around me.

  I've always been told I was an attractive woman, but I would hardly be considered it now after losing my family. I didn't put makeup on anymore, barely tried with my hair. The gym, ha, as if. Artists like me had the privilege of staying at home in their pajamas and looking terrible while painting and still making a decent living.

  The eye-locking between us was on the verge of uncomfortable, and I didn't want to miss meeting Emma, so I attempted to shrug him off and leave politely. I broke his gaze and stood firmly, leaving my seat this last time. As I started to turn away from him, that's when he said it, the words that changed my life, for better and worse, "I know how you feel."

  I stopped in my tracks, and my heart skipped a beat. What did he mean by that? It wasn't that I needed his sympathy or questioned why he said it. Because seriously, how dare he? My cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment.

  But something inside me decided to push the anger away. Maybe I needed someone to tell me this. To tell me that life weighed down on me and crushed my past into a thousand pieces of splintered glass I couldn't put back together.

  In my confusion, I stayed frozen, not sure what to say or what was going on.

  "My name is Jason Ross," he stretched out a hand. "I lost my daughter and wife on the same train."

  2

  Eight years ago…

  This was the night before my life went off the rails. If I had only known the series of events that were to unfold, I would have done anything to change course.

  I had made love with my husband and the love of my life, Deji Olanti, — for the last time. I should've sensed that something was off about that night. Our lovemaking was always intense and connected, but this time it felt forced and awkward.

  However, his discrete crying in the shower after intimacy wasn't a good sign. I couldn't help but feel as if it was my fault, my inner voice reprimanding me to do better. Deji occasionally cried after lovemaking, and I always pretended not to know about his trauma. It was, in a sense, easier to do so than to force him to face something he wasn't ready to.

  What happened to you as a child, Deji? Please tell me.

  Like every other time, our lovemaking ended in his tears in the shower.

  I sat on the bed, pulling my knees to my chest and fighting my own. I never understood how a powerfully built man like him dwelled in his tears after being passionate and caring for me. Early on in our relationship, there was a time when I went as far as thinking that it was me. You're bad in bed, Kate. All your previous encounters told you that. Admit it.

  At the beginning of our romance, I'd even consulted an African American female artist I worked with. I asked her whether I needed to please him or take care of him differently as a Caucasian, pale girl from Portland, Oregon. That maybe it was a matter of interracial incompatibility. She assured me that was not the case and suggested several ways we could find pleasure and passion. I took all her knowledge to heart, and to practice, but the trials proved to be in error for Deji, and we went back to square one, no matter how the love making sessions went. I was sure it was all my fault, all my flaws, all my inexperience.

  But it wasn't that. At least that's what Deji's therapist told me. Sex reminded him of his childhood. An entire lifetime of things he told his therapist but never told me. It left me feeling helpless and des
perate to reach into the depths of his being.

  Deji would never tell me about his childhood in Africa. Neither did his therapist. She said it was because of all the doctor's confidentiality thing. Of course, it didn't help that his therapist was also my mother, but I'll get to those complexities soon.

  All I knew was that intimacy triggered memories of his suppressed past. It tore him apart from the inside out. I was left on the outside watching his inner destruction occurring time after time, unable to help. Things got worse, especially after we had our only son, Andrew.

  I wish I could've been in the shower with him, wiping his tears away. Holding him together, being the glue he needed to keep from falling apart. I would often find myself with my hand on the doorknob to our bathroom, longing to be at his side, but not knowing how to do so. Instead, I was left with the pain of listening to his faint whimpering.