The Suicide Gene Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  The Suicide Gene

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part I - The Death

  Chapter 1

  Part II - Six Months before the Death

  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

  Part III - After the Death

  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

  Epilogue

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  She had no idea what her IQ was or on what day of the week she was born. Could Minnie know? Impossible. Yet, hadn’t Mary known the number of years she had counseled? Hadn’t Matt made that ambiguous remark about her falling in love with the wrong man?

  A long time ago, Emma devised a scheme to counsel the McKinney family, to manipulate her way into their lives and determine if they were blood relatives. Now, she wondered if she had truly done the manipulating. This feels like Mastermind.

  Her fingers danced over the keys, and she opened several windows: Melanie, Mathew, twins Minnie and Mary. Playing a game was difficult when you didn’t know who you played against.

  “Is the game Suicide?” she swallowed, glanced out her window into the black night. “Or Murder?”

  Her voice echoed, rippled through the still, dark room. “Just how smart are you McKinneys?”

  She reached for their records with all intention of searching for clues. But the little pink Post-it adhered firmly to the front of their file caught her eye. The paper flaunted their numbers, laughing an answer up at her:

  MAM 149

  MJM 153

  MMM 140

  MCM 138

  Her office land phone—her private extension—rang. Restricted.

  The Suicide Gene

  by

  CJ Zahner

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

  The Suicide Gene

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by CJ Zahner

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kristian Norris

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Mainstream Women’s Fiction Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2126-4

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2127-1

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the many brave souls who continue to say, “Not today.”

  While this novel and the characters in this story are fictional, suicide is a real problem in today’s society. This book contains sensitive issues and should not be read by those having suicidal thoughts or tendencies.

  Should you, or someone you know, have suicidal thoughts, contact The Suicidal Hotline at 1(800) 273 TALK.

  Part I - The Death

  Chapter 1

  Wednesday, May 13, 2015

  The Funeral Parlor.

  The face in the casket was her own. It nearly freaked her out.

  She stood between her brother and sister, knees wobbling. Her high-necked dress clung to her skin, choking her throat, squeezing her long, slender body tighter and tighter until she felt her lungs might explode. Damn panic attacks.

  Her siblings moved closer, tightening their grip on her when they heard her struggling to breathe. Together their tall frames—movie-star handsome—melded into a dark mass at the foot of the casket. It took all the energy the three of them could muster to keep her upright.

  “Are you okay?” Melanie asked her.

  She nodded.

  “Try not to embarrass yourself,” Matt whispered.

  Again, a nod.

  She wasn’t sure she could get through the day without fainting. There were no breaks at a funeral, and she just wanted to get away from the grim whispery-whirrs of the bereaved and the sickeningly-sweet waft of the flowers. But she couldn’t leave. Matt would kill her and, besides, she had no cigarettes. Her sister was her supplier. Now she’s dead.

  The parade of mourners stretched out of the room and down the hall and it was only 2:05. Some faces in line she didn’t recognize, which infuriated her. Her sister had no real friends. Nosy bastards. They just want to know what happened.

  She tried to ignore surrounding conversations and remain composed. But like Medusa’s venomous mane, muffled words of hand-covered comments serpentined toward her from all directions. She couldn’t block them. They echoed in her head like garbled phrases over a worn intercom. “Why did she do it?” “Like her mother.” “Was it suicide?”

  That last question nearly sent her to her knees. Her body sagged. Melanie caught her and Matt pulled her close, so she could lean on him until it passed.

  “Don’t look if looking makes you queasy,” Melanie told her, but her glance drifted back to her sister’s pasty face. That’s what I would look like if I were dead.

  She, herself, had considered suicide for so long it was hard to believe she still feared death. She hated funerals, could barely walk through the front door of a funeral home without hyperventilating. Yet, she had to go to this one. Her own identical twin sister lie in that ugly copper box, her head sunk low in billowing white silk.

  “I’m sorry for the three of you.” Her aunt Carol’s hoarse voice coaxed her attention from the coffin. Notably thinner—grief now topping her midmorning chemotherapy cocktail,— her aunt dabbed a tissue at tear-stained cheeks. She was in the third round with breast cancer and getting her butt kicked. “I can’t believe this is happening to our family again. Did you know she was that bad?”

  “Well.” Melanie paused. “She’s always had those tendencies, but we thought—with the counseling—she was doing better.”

  “Counseling?” Aunt Carol’s cheeks pinked.

  “Yes,” Matt said. “Six months ago we started seeing a psychiatrist—all four of us.”

  “We thought a counselor might help,” sweet Melanie continued. “We decided maybe we did have some baggage abo
ut Mom’s—” She took a deep breath. Her gaze moved to her sister.

  Don’t say it, Mel, don’t say suicide.

  “Death.” Melanie looked away.

  “How horrible.” Aunt Carol straightened. She appeared appalled. “You should sue him—that counselor.”

  “Her.” Matt shook his head, eyes glaring. “She’s a psychiatrist.”

  “We will sue her.” The twin’s voice rose, but she stopped, glanced at Matt, and tightened her jaw. “She didn’t give a damn about us. Now my sister is dead. She’ll pay.”

  It happened then—at 2:10 p.m. She felt Matt’s piercing gaze and watched as he released his grip on her arm. Her aunt Carol became so emotional that Matt had to help her to the back of the room. Family members congregated there amidst her wild sobs while Matt held her, and a rush of people came toward her and Melanie at the casket. One after another. Melanie let go of her, too, and she had to stand on her own.

  For the first time in her life, she was alone. Her eyes rested on the lifeless body of her twin. Her comrade. Her best friend. There was never a time in her life she didn’t have her sister to talk to, fight with, or cry on. They knew each other’s inner being, finished each other’s sentences, felt each other’s pain. What would she do without her?

  Her eyes zigzagged over the casket. Oh no, I’m not feeling well. She couldn’t see her sister’s dimples, her smile, the rose tattoo on her ankle that perfectly matched her own. What shoes did she have on? Was she wearing any? She’d never be jealous of those expensive, black stilettos on her feet again, or the designer purses cascading over her shoulder when they shopped. They’d never pack a picnic lunch and take Mel’s kids to the park, ride bikes at the peninsula, or complain to each other about their ex-husbands. Here comes the blackness. I’m falling now.

  She went down hard on the floor but didn’t feel a thing. Her last thoughts were her beautiful sister really was gone, and oh, sweet Jesus, what had she done? I’ll kill that bitch. Emma Kerr will pay.

  ****

  The funeral director stood with his back against the glass of one front door, and guests sauntered in languidly. Emma stepped past him and slipped into line, scrunching her heather-gray infinity scarf upward so the airy fabric hugged her chin.

  Everyone warned her to stay away—Giff, Ally, Sharon, her insurance attorney. She peeked around the gray hat of the woman in front of her, tugged her own beret down her forehead, adjusted the readers she purchased, and prayed no one recognized her.

  She glanced ahead. Was Father Mike there? She hoped not. Mourners queued up crookedly along the lavish funeral parlor hall that stretched past the two large viewing rooms on its left side. Today, only one person was laid out, and the motorized curtains between the two rooms were open, so family members and guests of the McKinney family had additional space. Several roamed in the first room’s open floor, and a few relaxed on the velvet couches that hugged the walls.

  Emma cowered by the door of that room, waiting in the long snaky, viewing line, her tall but small frame well hid behind two large women she chose to follow in. From where she stood, she could see through the first room and into the viewing room where the McKinneys hovered beside their sister’s casket.

  She watched an elderly woman approach them, knowing the thin, frail woman must be their aunt Carol. She stretched her neck to see Matt, but could only catch a glimpse of his arm around his sister. She waited, watched from behind the gray hat. Suddenly, his broad shoulders came into view when the woman, Carol, sagged to the floor. A muffled moan from the crowd in the viewing room arose and echoed through the parlor. People’s head’s snapped to attention all around her and Emma, along with the others at the end of the line, watched Matt escort his aunt out of sight.

  She tilted her head and attempted to listen for the voices of the sisters, but they were too far from her, and all she could hear were the annoying whispers of the two women in front of her.

  “Carol has been sick for a long time,” the woman with the floppy gray hat said. “Melanie has taken care of her for years.”

  “That Melanie is a saint,” the second woman said, then lowered her voice. “Not like those other two.”

  Emma glanced at her watch and tried to block their voices. The people in front of her weren’t moving. Several more had arrived behind her now, and the line stretched out the funeral parlor’s front doors. There was no way she could give her condolences and be back to counsel Charles Brown by 2:30. But then, did she really believe she would actually make her way through the viewing line? And say what to them? She was sorry?

  “I hear she overdosed and slit her wrists just like her mother,” the second lady leaned under the gray hat of her friend. “They’re both crazy. I bet the other one kills herself, too.”

  “Mary Jane told me they were seeing a counselor.”

  “I heard that, too, and God help the counselor.”

  The muscles in Emma’s neck tightened. She held her breath.

  “No one wants to be in the McKinney’s sour graces.”

  “That’s for sure. Carol has sued just about every doctor in town. That’s how she’s lived all these years. She’s settled with every insurance company in Pennsylvania.” The woman with the hat leaned toward the friend. Emma had a clear view of the sisters but her thoughts had now turned to the women in line, her face exposed to all. “And Mathew’s no better. He scares the daylights out of me.”

  “I hear he’s dating that newscaster. I can’t remember her name.”

  “Yes, that pretty little thing, Heather something. I heard that, too. I don’t know what she sees in him. He’s good looking but scary. I hear he didn’t get along with the twins.”

  “Oh, that’s true. Mary Jane said he hated them, absolutely hated those two.”

  A second muffled sound rose, and Emma’s gaze shot toward the sisters. People scuttled toward the viewing room. She stepped closer to see past the scrambling black suitcoats and dresses. One sister was lying on the floor. Matt McKinney came back into view. He stooped down and put his hand beneath her head.

  “Get some water,” someone yelled.

  “Oh my God, she fainted,” the woman in the gray hat shouted.

  Emma watched as Matt began lifting his sister off the ground and as he did, his eyes stretched through the crowd, landed on Emma’s, drifted away, and then snapped back to her. Their eyes locked and he stopped. Emma felt a paralyzing fear.

  She realized then, she shouldn’t be anywhere near them. What was she thinking? But she couldn’t tear her eyes from him. She stared straight back…and it appeared as if…had he shook his head? At her? Just a small movement that warned her to get out?

  She took a step back, dropped her eyes to the ground, turned, and left the funeral home. When her feet hit the tarmac of the back alley, she began running.

  Part II - Six Months before the Death

  Chapter 2

  Sunday, November 9, 2014

  Suicide attempt. Five.

  Hot water ran from the faucet. Steam rose to the ceiling, swirled and seeped down around her. She stood in the bathtub with the razor blade in her left hand, pointing its edge toward her right wrist. Aiming. Thick mist obscured the thin blue lines.

  Veins ooze and arteries gush, she thought. She shut her eyes to let fate decide. Pushed. It bled but didn’t gush. A slight red stream meandered down the side of her arm. It flowed meagerly, dripping, and disappeared into the scalding water at her feet.

  Not an artery.

  She looked up, away from her wrist, waiting for fate’s next song. Wondering what to do. The steamy reflection in the mirror drew her thoughts out of her head and into the present. She found herself staring at the skewed face of a girl who had teased fate since age thirteen. Who was this woman looking back at her now?

  And what was she doing?

  She stepped out of the tub, reaching for toilet paper to stop the red flow. She applied pressure then opened the medicine cabinet and placed the razor blade back inside.


  Not today.

  Chapter 3

  Wednesday, November 12, 2014

  One hundred eighty-three days.

  She juggled three questions as if they were glass balls at her fingertips. Was there a DNA link between genetics and suicide? Which relationships constituted conflicts of interest? And where the hell had her husband slept last night?

  “Can you see him?” This question slipped through her lips without her knowing she’d asked it.

  “I can’t see a thing. Keep your voice down. The window is open.”

  Doctor Emma Kerr doodled, deep in thought, while the great Doctor Allison Weaver crawled on all fours, peeking over the windowsill. Emma had a slew of unopened cases piled in front of her. Her mind raced in nearly as many directions as her pen. Genes. Ethics. Josh. She was on overload—the result of a massive influx of clients, journal articles past due, a barrage of personal troubles, and too little sleep.

  “I’m not in the mood today, Ally.” She tightened her grip on the pen and stretched her lips into a pout.

  Her concentration was missing in action. What she really wanted to do was sweep an arm across her cluttered desk, pushing every last piece of paper onto the floor, and pull out the McKinney files.

  “Oh c’mon, you’re no fun lately.” Ally reached up and jimmied the window. The glass rattled and shook but didn’t shatter as the frame crashed down. She fell to the floor laughing. “That was close. He was right there.”

  Ally and Emma had been friends since their PJs hid diapers. They shared dolls in neighborhood playgroups until they grew into straight-A social outcasts suffering silently in desks carved with crosses. They found solace in no one but each other until well past their teens. Emma had seen Ally at her best and worst. This was somewhere in between.

  “Don’t you see clients at eight?” Emma’s fingers halted and her eyes blinked upward, briefly. She tossed a scowl then laid her pen down hard on her doodle.

  Ally was habitually late. So was Ally’s mother. An inherited gene mutation passed from generation to generation, Emma was sure.

  “He was walking to his front door when the window fell. I think he saw me. And, no, my first patient comes at seven-thirty,” Ally said.