She Without Sin Read online

  A Psychological Thriller by JP Barry

  When wildly popular psychotherapist, author, and Podcaster, Doctor Nicholas ‘Nick’ Winters, suddenly vanishes late one night, his wife, famous broadcast journalist, Jillian Winters, becomes the main suspect in a heated police and FBI investigation. With no solid leads, evidence, or witnesses, Jillian scrambles to do what the authorities can’t—find Nick, and clear her name in the process.

  Sorted details of the couples fractured marriage make for explosive tabloid headlines, causing Jillian to lean on her producer, Liam Stevens, for help.

  As Jillian’s life and reputation begin a rapid downward spiral, Nick is held captive by serial abductor and psychopath, Warren Lessor. Trapped with no way out, Nick attempts to plot an escape.

  She Without Sin © 2021 by JP Barry

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  MuseItUp Publishing

  https://museituppublishing.com

  Cover Art © 2020 by TWJ Design

  Layout and Book Production by Lea Schizas

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-77392-069-6

  First eBook Edition * January 2021

  For my daughter … Everything is limitless, especially you.

  Remember, it’s all about the exhale.

  I’d like to acknowledge and thank my amazing publisher, caring husband, and loving family and friends for their push and constant support. None of this would be possible without you.

  She Without Sin

  The Fall of Winters Series: Book 1

  JP Barry

  MuseItUp Publishing

  www.museituppublishing.com

  Chapter One

  Nick

  There’s something to be said about the lifespan of a marriage. Of course, everything begins with this moronic idyllic blissful sentiment imbibed with foolish hope—–something one wishes to bottle, uncorking at precisely the right moment when things go south, because they always do. However, that first Hollywood style ‘meet-cute’ clouds with consuming lustful thoughts, obscuring otherwise good judgement. Hormones trick you into thinking Cupid’s arrow struck your heart. From that day forward, you’re screwed—royally. For a select few, the happily-ever-after nonsense we’re conditioned to seek and foster actually occurs, but for most, it doesn’t. And I’ve got news for you—it never will.

  So, there you sit, in a cold, dimly lit conference room of an overpriced legal group fighting over who gets what. Suddenly, a gaudy set of priceless dishes you inherited from a relative you couldn’t stand when they were alive will cost you ten thousand dollars, forty phone calls, dozens of emails, and heartburn that radiates from your kneecaps, because for some reason you both have to have it to spite the other. Each of you are painfully aware the crap will end up in a box at a local Goodwill Store, or tossed to the curb on trash day, but anger is a funny emotion causing even the most level-headed to lose the plot. I, myself, used to be a calm minded man—–that is until I met my soon-to-be ex-wife.

  “My client demands the main family house. We will not bend nor break on this mutual asset. Mr. Winters is more than welcome to sole ownership of their vacation home in Cape Cod. Both properties have assessed at roughly the same value. It’s more-or-less an even exchange. We believe the give-and-take to be fair,” Charles Downey informed. The beanpole with impeccable posture irritated the hell out of me. Whenever he’d open his mouth to speak, that whiney voice incited a rage so dark and deep I couldn’t see clear. Aside from costing a fortune a second for his services, the fact he was on Jillian’s side made him the enemy–a force I’d need to beat into oblivion.

  “First, it’s Doctor Winters, not Mr. Winters. I believe I earned that title, and the respect which goes along with it. Second, I paid for that house, Jill. When we got it, you were doing the farm report at three in the morning for that nobody-ever-watches station,” I shot back, not waiting for my lawyer to speak up. Had fury not been fueling thoughts, the words might’ve been less heated. Most times I could’ve cared less if someone referred to me as Mr. Winters, instead of Doctor. The validation to feel intellectually superior to those around wasn’t required. I knew who and what I was, and was acutely aware of the hard work it took to get there. Others didn’t have to recognize it for a sense of internal justness. Despite what Jillian thought, my ego wasn’t the size of Texas, but rather constantly in check. Hers, well you’d need three universes to fully cage the damn thing. However, at this point, I was simply being an asshole for the hell of it.

  Truth was, way back when Jillian and I began, she held a reputable job at a small, local network. Jillian was paying her dues, as so many of us have. I’d encouraged her to not see the stepping stone as a crap job, but to own it, being the best beat reporter the station ever had, which she did.

  “The farm report, huh.” Jillian smirked, leaning across the table. “Listen to me, you pompous, arrogant jackass. You bought nothing, Doctor Winters. Your parents purchased that home as a wedding present—–a present you didn’t want, so you put the property in my name, therefore it’s mine. Not yours. And, let’s not forget who makes more money now. It belongs to me. Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth, or should I break it down into smaller, more manageable sentences?”

  “Oh? You want to play that game. Awesome. Here we go. Who carried you all those years when you were making less than a teenager working at a fast-food restaurant? Me. That’s who. Who stimulated you to keep going when you wanted to quit? That’s right. Me, again. But, my favorite bit of information—who introduced you to Liam? One more time for the hearing impaired—–me. If it wasn’t for me and my family name, you’d still be nobody. If I want the damn house, I will take it regardless of what you want or think. Do you understand, or should I simplify it for you?” In all my years walking this Earth, I’d never seen much red, unless Jillian was close by. That woman could scare the hell out of the Devil himself. She’d pick at weaknesses, poking and prodding until whomever the target exploded. Maybe that was her endgame—who knew. Perhaps a power trip of sorts. The woman was tremendously skilled at it—–could teach a masters level class on it. Sad part of the entire situation? Jillian had been the farthest thing from a bitch years ago. The change had been slight with each passing day. I didn’t realize until the end.

  Standing abruptly, the chair crashed against the hardwood floor due to the swift, unexpected motion. Fists balled tightly to the point knuckles turned white. Chest heaved.

  Challenge me. Challenge me, Jill, and I swear I’ll tear you apart. I dare you. Come on, wifey.

  Part of me wanted this fight–a battle to the death, but another part, no matter how awful Jillian had grown, still recalled with precise clarity the beautiful, wide-eyed, innocent girl she once was. We met at Princeton, literally running into each other outside the Firestone Library. She was headed out. I was going in. Hurriedly, she collected fallen books, mumbled a few inaudible utterances, and rushed off, not paying any mind to the situation at hand. I, however, was blown away by her ethereal looks. The weeks which proceeded were spent desperately searching for my mystery woman, but she vanished. Finally, one freezing cold winter evening in a bar off campus, I spotted her sitting with some people at a table a few yards away. A buddy of mine knew her from class. After much persuading, he agreed to introduce us.

  Jillian Locke–journalism major. The combination of long, bouncy, curled, shiny auburn hair, sapphire eyes
, toned body, sun kissed smooth skin, and subtle expressions grabbed me by the balls, not letting up until she became mine. Despite her divine physical appearance, Jillian was brilliant, able to speak on any topic for hours. Well-read and traveled, cultured, but above all–kind, warm, and loving, emotions I wasn’t familiar with coming from the over privileged political Winters Family.

  Ah, yes, the Winters Clan. Politicians since the dawn of time. Well, all except me–the proverbial black sheep. I went into psychology, which damn near almost killed dear ‘ol Mom and Dad—Mister Speaker of the House, Tag Winters, and his dutiful wife, Miranda, a retired superintendent of schools, who hadn’t seen the inside of a classroom in over forty years. My grandfather, former Vice President Beau Winters, was probably the most liked politician of all time. Beau boldly crossed party lines, showing the country what true bipartisanship meant–extending a hand across the aisle for the greater good of his country. He stood by what was fair, not by what his party wanted. My grandfather not only listened to his constituents, he heard them, often being the voice of reason during turbulent times. The country loved and adored the way he spoke, and took immediate action. Unfortunately, his run for presidency was cut short after suffering a massive heart attack. Putting family and health first, he stepped back, working behind the scenes, helping my siblings and cousins break into the political rat race. When I told him I wanted to become a psychologist, he and my grandmother were the only two who supported the career choice.

  “You’re doing the right thing, Nicky. Follow your heart, and you’ll be far happier. Politics isn’t the type of life I want for you. Go help people. Heal and unite them in ways I never could. I’m proud of you, my boy,” Grandfather whispered in my ear as I left to return to school after sophomore Spring Break.

  To date, my older sister, Savannah, is a distinguished Congresswoman from Connecticut. My other older sister, Morgan, is a Senator from Connecticut. And, my older brother, Jackson, also a Senator, but from Maryland, and is currently attempting to run for President. The baby of the group, me, Nicholas Winters, wanted nothing to do with any of it. Still don’t. Politicians were all liars, thieves, shady scam artists. They made empty promises to the public, feeling no remorse when they didn’t deliver on the goods. That’s not who I am. Frankly, it’s never been, nor ever will be, no matter how angry. My mother and father may be icebox parents, but freezing people out is a great way to show the world you’re a giant asshole.

  I stumbled across psychology after having been exposed to it myself for many years as an adolescent. A short temper was always my problem, often earning a trip to the Head Master’s Office. My parents, tired of having to run to the school to clean up my mess, embarrassed I was tainting the good Winters name, slammed my ass in therapy, pressuring the psychologist to “fix me” as fast as humanly possible. Armed with firsthand knowledge of the positive benefits of counseling, I knew I’d found where I belonged in this world. Today, I was a wildly popular, number one bestselling self-author, and host the most listened to Podcast in the country. I hadn’t seen patients in years, and missed it tremendously, but with a larger platform, I’d been afforded the ability to help more people on a broader scale.

  “I wonder how your fans would feel about you threatening your wife,” Jillian replied, calmly leaning back in her chair, crossing arms and legs. You didn’t need to have a degree in reading body language to realize the movement clearly showed self-protection against me.

  “If they knew the real you, they’d understand,” I shot back.

  “Pot or kettle, Nick? Let’s not travel down the road of what’s fact and what’s fiction.”

  “Why do you want the house so bad? You can afford to buy yourself a new one.”

  “So can you.” Her face knotted with ire.

  “Your acute case of resting bitch face doesn’t scare me, Jill. I’m immune,” I replied, in response to the harsh expression.

  “It should,” she warned.

  “Mr. Downey, would your client be willing to sell the property?” My attorney, Matthew Miller, asked, with a great, long sigh. Chubby fingertips tapped the white marble tabletop, while he shifted impatiently in his seat. I had no idea why this man appeared rushed, caring about how much time we spent arguing when he was paid by the hour, and handsomely, might I add.

  Downey leaned closer to Jillian, feverishly whispering in her ear. “No,” he replied, returning to a natural seated position.

  “God damn it!” I shouted out of frustration. “It’s like you get off on being difficult. You’ve been like this our entire marriage. Enough already. We’re shelling out hundreds of thousands of dollars to lawyers, and for what? A frigging house neither of us like, or truly want? For Christ’s sake, winning isn’t everything. Fine. Take the fucking house. It’s yours. Everything I own is yours. Happy now?” Hands aggressively ran through my hair. If I could’ve yanked it out, I would’ve. She’d pushed me to my absolute limit.

  “Do you see what I’ve had to deal with?” Jillian said to both attorneys, throwing arms in the air.

  “What you’ve had to deal with? Surely you can’t be serious. What about what I’ve had to endure? What about all the affairs? Didn’t think I knew about your side pieces? I’ve seen the countless trash rag stories, and have witnessed the station’s pathetic attempts at covering the disgusting acts up. Don’t make me laugh. You’re a disgrace and embarrassment.”

  Ha! Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Jill.

  An ‘if looks could kill’ expression drew across Jillian’s face as she glared at me. Our eyes locked in hatred. For a moment, those two bold sapphires captivated. This primal caveman beast from within craved taking hold of her slender waist, shoving all the papers and folders on the table aside, slamming her ass down on it, and doing her like she’d never been done before.

  “This meeting is over,” Jillian replied. A lone tear rolled down her cheek, leaving a trail of smudged rose-pink blush behind. Her head turned away, quickly, to hide the emotional surge.

  “Jill, babe. Come on. Please, don’t cry,” I exhaled, walking to her. I’d pushed too far, and that wasn’t okay.

  “Like you really give a crap,” she sniffed. Her insinuation hurt. Yeah, sure, I was pissed beyond measure, but I never meant to wound her to the point of breaking down. An instant sense of pain consumed my heart. The ego I thought to be in check, wasn’t in the least.

  “Would it be possible to have a moment alone with my wife?” I asked the two lawyers.

  After exchanging a glance, they nodded, exiting the space along with a stenographer and two legal secretaries. Once the door clicked shut, I reached for her arms, pulling her to her feet. Call it a moment of weakness, or momentary insanity, but seeing her weep, something she rarely did, crushed my soul. I had to heal her. Make her feel whole again.

  “I’m sorry. You’re not a disgrace, nor an embarrassment. No matter how angry I may be, it’s never okay to speak to anyone the way I just did, especially when it’s you.”

  “I can’t do this right now, Nick.” Raising her right hand to stop the conversation, head shook before turning away. Classic Jillian Winters defense mechanism. Whenever anything became too real, avoidance became her favorite go-to move.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this, Jill. We don’t have to end our story here, but I can’t do it alone,” I reasoned. The fact she didn’t storm out of the room ranting proved a strong, positive sign. With an abundance of caution, fingers slowly slide up her shoulders. Gently turning her body, soft pressure was applied to her chin in order to gain face-to-face contact.

  Jillian didn’t resist the forced movement; however, words were met with silence, but a warm silence. Not her typical icy kind. The wheels inside her head turned. She hadn’t fully completed the comprehension process, yet. It appeared the severity of reality finally hit her. A floodgate of tears poured down her face, falling on my forearms.

  “We can start over, but drastic changes have to be made. For starters, we should go to marriag
e counseling–work through our issues, because there’s a lot of them. Our communication sucks. Wasn’t always like that, but in recent years we’ve given up on talking, connecting.” Tenderly, fingertips brushed moisture from her face. Her cheek turned into the touch.

  “I own my mistakes, Nick. I admit to not always treating you well, or with fairness, and respect, but I wasn’t the only one who stepped outside our marriage. You started the cycle with Kelly. Focus has never been on you, always me, and my screw-ups. I’m made out to be this awful, horrible creature, while you’re off in left field, out of the direct line of fire, playing the role of the battered husband. We both know that’s not the entire truth, yet my character is the only one getting publicly slammed. I’ve had to work my ass off to get to where I am, and yes, I had to piss a lot of people off to get here, but I don’t regret being forceful,” she whispered.

  The sound of a former lover’s name caused discomfort to shoot through my chest. Kelly was a mistake. An epic error of devastating proportion. Though the happening occurred over half a decade, she’d been it–the only other woman. When it ended, I swore I’d never do it again, and haven’t.

  Kelly Greenly, my personal assistant. A young, pretty, intelligent woman, but more importantly, available. The moment Jillian’s career took off, she threw herself into it, giving a hundred and ten percent of herself. I, too, proved guilty of the same, going full force with promoting my work, traveling ten out of the twelve-month calendar year. As a therapist I should’ve seen the signs–they were there, clear as day, but out of loneliness, the need to feel desired, attractive, powerful, and sheer horniness while on tour, I ended up sleeping with her. I hadn’t been with another woman since marrying Jillian, so the different experience became an addiction–one I couldn’t seem to kick no matter how hard I tried.