The Angel Series Collection - Books 1-3

Excerpt from The Angel Series Collection - Books 1-3

Despite my protest of innocence, somehow, the State had hard evidence against me. If you asked me, they pulled it out of a rabbit’s ass.

According to the State’s officials leading this witch trial, it was an open-and-shut case. I pleaded no contest to the charges by the advice of my crappy attorney, Bernard Valdez. He promised if I didn’t fight the charges, Judge Xavier LaMotte would show me mercy and likely give me a lesser sentence. I took his word for it against my better judgment, and I fell right into the devil’s hands.

As ironic as it sounded, the prosecution claimed that luck was on my side. Under the circumstances, living with an insane parent who murdered my father, the court-appointed psychiatrist, Janet Dubrow, deemed me as someone who snapped…a crime of passion, if you will.

As my fate fell into unrelenting hands of the officials, the State’s prosecution charged me as a juvenile for the murder of my mom’s boyfriend, Charles Dodson.

The judicial system finding a ten-year-old child capable of committing such a heinous crime, slicing a grown man’s throat from ear to ear, was inconceivable to me.

Charles stood a firm six foot four and weighed over two hundred pounds. The crime they charged against me was an impossibility. A child weighing less than a hundred pounds and less than half his height could not have carried out such a forceful assault.

After eight years, the evidence miraculously appeared out of thin air. The state’s argument seemed weak and unrealistic. However, the prosecution claimed they had damaging evidence against me. All their claims were based in fairyland. The national news headline read that the police found a bag of my bloody clothes and the knife with my fingerprints, stuffed away in Sara’s closet. When I unpacked her closet, I didn’t come across any such bag. The bad simply didn’t exist. At that point, I knew that due process I’d read about was not in the cards for me. Justice had left the building and I had to fight the devil alone.

Any imperative clue proving my innocence slipped past their dirty noses. My attorney, Bernard Valdez, the state prosecution, Laurent Marcos, and Judge LaMotte, ignored the fact that at the time of Charles’ death, I was at school sitting in plain sight, first row.

These outstanding pillars of society turned the other cheek and ignored anything that would’ve cleared my name.

Apart from Edward Van Dunn, Aidan’s uncle, I reckoned several members of the Illuminati were aiming for me. The hardest one of all to swallow was my mom, Sara, playing a part in this atrocity. She had no problem keeping a crypt of secrets from me, but the idea that money was the fuel that flamed her motivation sent me reeling.

My stomach churned with bitterness every time I wondered how easy it was for my own mother to throw me to the wolves for a few coins. Unfortunately for Sara, her diabolical plan didn’t save her life. She’d died before she’d gotten the chance to wallow in her wealth.

For the murders of Francis Bonnel and Sara Collins, my mother, I got off with an insanity plea. It could’ve been worse and knowing that little fact seemed to soothe the nightmares somewhat.

Somewhat.

The federal judge sentenced me with no chance of parole to live the remainder of my life at Haven Hospital, located on the outskirts of Bayou L’Ourse, an asylum for the violent and criminally insane.

I was the youngest in history labeled a serial killer, the second woman charged as such. The first woman received the gas chamber. I supposed luck had my back in a very wacko way.

Then unexpectedly, a dark cloud was lifted, and my nightmare ceased, or so it seemed. On my twenty-first birthday, the US Court of Appeals, the Fifth Circuit, overturned my conviction. I was exonerated of all charges.

A release order was set in motion, granting my freedom. All charges were mysteriously dropped. Though I knew better than anyone, it was a crock of shit, but I’d take it to get out of this hellhole.

It was an early spring morning when the doors of the reformatory opened. A cool breeze tousled my tangled hair. The sun peeked just above the horizon.

I haven’t had a whiff of fresh air or a glimpse of the golden sun in three long years. I inhaled the fresh air and savored the sweet taste of honey.

I had no idea where I was going. There was no one to call. I was alone and abandoned, but I didn’t care. I was free. I made my way, one slow step at a time to the exit gate. Movement was difficult and painful. Every joint in my body screamed with agony. I couldn’t say when the last time I’d taken a stroll. I wasn’t allowed outside my cell. Considering my daily dose of drugs, I wasn’t much for socializing, let alone sitting up or even standing without assistance.

I think the medical staff wanted me incapacitated. The staff feared they couldn’t contain me. After all, I was a danger to society and to myself. So, they kept me locked away in the dark, forgotten and away from everyone. It felt as if they were hiding me.

Hallucinations were no surprise. I was practically a breathing pharmacy. Majority of the time, I stayed in a state of confusion. Discerning between reality and illusion became hard for me. Dr. Phil Good made sure of that. It wasn’t hard, void of thought and desire. I was a dead girl inside. I hated myself for not having the guts to stop breathing.

The gentle sun felt soothing against my pale face as freedom caressed my dry, cracked lips. When my eyes focused on a tall, dark, figure by the exit gate, I first thought my mind was playing tricks.

Though I wanted to check out, something in the back of my mind kept knocking me back to life or at least forcing me to breathe.

I was stuck on this demented carousel, a merry-go-round of insanity, and I was never getting off either. I knew who was responsible for my unlucky fate. I didn’t have to have my palms read to know, and it didn’t take a genius to figure it out either.

This was the work of the Illuminati.

Was any of this real? Did Aidan and his treacherous charms trick me into believing a lie… a genetically engineered angel? I scoffed at the absurdity. Could I have imagined him, and like my mother, be insane?

It didn’t matter now.

No. I might be insane like my mother, but even a lunatic couldn’t have conjured up this tale. The cold hard facts was that I was a gullible girl who fell in love with a charmer who played a very cruel joke at my expense. I fell right into his trap. I hated Aidan Bane DuPont, but I loathed myself even more.