The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Alex Troutt Thrillers Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

I could hear a game of some kind echoing throughout the house, most of which had hardwood floors. When Nick dropped me off earlier, I’d just stood in front of our three-level home in awe. It reminded me of a Norman Rockwell picture—why that image came to mind was another great mystery. In fact, the mysteries were stacking up pretty high, especially the mystery of why my brain could remember certain things and not others. I had to throw my heart in there as well. It appeared to have a say in the game.

  “Get out of my room, you little twerp,” Erin yelled from upstairs.

  I could hear Luke’s cute giggle, and then a door slammed.

  And Nick thought I’d be able to ease my stress levels by hanging out at home.

  I padded through the living room, taking in the comfortable décor. A burgundy throw was draped over a tweed, taupe couch. I noticed a couple of dark stains, and the cushions looked overused. A huge recliner hulked to the right, one that included a compartment full of remotes and two cup holders. Mark’s man-cave seat, more than likely. A large flat-screen was hoisted above a fireplace, outlined with gray travertine stone. It complemented the white molding and baseboards, which were designed in the same ornate style as the exterior of the home.

  We were lucky to have this jewel. I assumed Mark really brought home the bacon, since my government job probably didn’t move the financial needle all that much.

  I circled the couch, pausing at each photo or framed painting, hoping to elevate some memories. Taking in a breath, I turned my sights to the kitchen, then suddenly heard a whirring sound at my ear. I ducked while throwing up a protective arm.

  Something clipped at my hand, then crashed to the floor.

  “Ah, Mom, you wrecked my drone.” Luke ran into the living room and snatched his machine off the floor. He jumped to his feet as I held up my hand, where blood dripped off my middle finger.

  “Ouch. Did I do that?” he said while gritting his teeth. I could see a couple of gaps on the sides.

  I nodded.

  He took a step away from me and dipped his head. “Are you going to punish me?”

  I was taken aback. “Punish you? You didn’t mean to hurt me, right?’

  “Of course not, Mom. My B2000 drone lost its pitch just when I was trying to bank right. And then you know what happened from there.”

  “Just learn to say you’re sorry, and we’re good.”

  “Sorry.”

  I gave him a fist bump with my clean hand. “You want to show me where the bandages are?”

  He waved me on. The floors creaked as we made our way upstairs. Walking past Erin’s room, I could hear her voice, animated and speaking as if she were in a verbal sprint. Luke held his drone, making all sorts of engine noises while spraying the floor with a layer of spit. I’d heard that cute sound before, although I couldn’t recall an exact memory.

  Luke led me to the bathroom cabinet, then zoomed out of there while I cleaned the cut and stuck a bandage on it. With the good lighting, I noticed all the lines and blemishes on my hands, the jagged fingernails—not exactly model worthy. Maybe I could unscrew one of the lightbulbs.

  I rubbed my bare ring finger, wondering how it felt to wear my wedding rings. I was mildly curious as to what Mark had bought me, guessing that years ago he probably didn’t have much money. Obviously, given everything I’d seen in the home, his career had provided substantial financial rewards since then.

  Regardless of how much Mark had spent, my lack of recollection about where the rings were irked me. Maybe I’d had this thing about wearing them on the job. The more I thought about it, I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask Mark, thinking it might not come across too well if I said, “Do you know where I’ve put the loving symbol of our relationship? I’ve apparently not been wearing them, so they must not be that important.” Or something along those lines.

  I went to Erin’s room and tried turning the knob. It was locked. I knocked gently, then said, “Dinner in five.” A second later, loud rap music filled the entire upstairs. I considered a response, but I wasn’t up for anything emotional. I headed down the stairs, ensuring I held the rail. My legs felt like the cooked noodles Sydney was making in the kitchen. I rubbed my face as my feet hit the first floor, my eyelids heavy. The dead man’s anguished face loomed in the back of my mind. Hell, who was I kidding? It was front and center. The duct tape, cinderblocks, and wedding rings. It was all so elaborate and detail-oriented. Whoever committed the crime must have had a goal in mind. To communicate a message about this guy, Christopher Barden, or maybe about even himself. I’d already made one assumption—the killer was a man. Subduing this Barden fellow, transferring his body, restraining him in the duct-tape vest, throwing in the cinderblock weights, would take considerable physical strength and endurance. Whoever it was had to be extremely fit and motivated. Which led me back to my original thought. Why? Why go to the trouble?

  The smell of meat sauce made my mouth water. A meal heavy on carbs might spark a possible theory, or even a probing question that I could use with Barden’s wife tomorrow. That reminded me that somehow I needed to get my credentials from Jerry.

  “We about ready for the kids to come downstairs for dinner?” I asked Sydney as I walked into the kitchen and made a beeline for the basket of freshly baked garlic bread. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw she was wearing a Tufts University sweatshirt.

  “Uh, yeah. If you’ll call them down, they can go ahead and knock out their Pumpkin duties.”

  “Right, the cat.”

  I called for the kids, but quickly lowered my voice. The rattle of my own voice sounded like an internal megaphone battering my brain.

  “Where is that darn cat?” I noticed the mixed salad sitting in a glass bowl, like a picture out of a home magazine. I grabbed a piece of cucumber and ate it.

  “You said something?” Sydney said while leaning into the fridge.

  I could see a green vein bulging from her otherwise perfect neck. She seemed stressed.

  “Just wondering where to find Pumpkin.”

  She waved her arm. “Could be buried among the pillows in the master bedroom or hiding under the loveseat in the living room.”

  I didn’t have the energy or desire to hunt down an animal that didn’t want to be found. I snatched another piece of cucumber and noticed it was nearing eight o’clock. “Is Mark usually this late getting home?”

  “It can vary. Mark works his ass off. I try to hold off dinner as late as possible, hoping he’ll make it home, but the kids revolt if it gets past eight.” She scooped some pasta onto a plate. “It would make things easier if he sent a text or called. But he’s not unlike most men.”

  I was in the middle of carrying the bowl of salad to the Lazy Susan on the table, but it almost slipped through my fingers. How many red flags did I just hear from Sydney? Hell, she practically sounded like she was married to the guy, my husband.

  “Sydney, you’re welcome to go on home. I can take over from here.”

  “I’m fine. No worries. I typically stick around at least until nine, ready to warm up a meal for Mark...I mean, Mr. Giordano when he gets home, and help the kids with their homework.”

  I could feel a ball of emotion formulating in the pit of my empty stomach. Wasn’t she basically describing my job as a mother and wife?

  “Don’t you have your own studies to worry about?”

  “I dropped down to six hours this semester. Nothing I can’t handle in between trips to basketball or cheerleading practice.”

  Dammit, she was pissing me off. Or was it just our family setup? What the hell had I allowed to happen? It sounded like I’d been in a coma for years.

  “Why did you drop your hours?”

  She actually connected her eyes with mine for a brief second. “Honestly, you guys pay me so well it’s hard to not get addicted to the money. Plus, I could see I was needed around here.”

  Needed to do what exactly? Blow my husband? My face turned flush just letting that thought roll around in my brain.

  Lu
ke motored into the kitchen. “I’m hungry,” he announced.

  “Do your Pumpkin duties, and you’ll have a full plate of spaghetti waiting for you,” Sydney said before I could throw in my two cents.

  “I’ve got the cat food. You have to scoop shit this week,” Erin said to her brother the moment she arrived in the kitchen. I noticed she’d slipped on a sweatshirt.

  “Erin, please don’t cuss,” I said.

  She gave me the teenage “whatever” look, then shuffled over to the pantry and found a can of cat food.

  “Luke, make sure you don’t spill the cat litter all over the floor,” Sydney said while handing me a plate full of pasta. I felt like the hired help; the college coed appeared quite comfortable taking the role of lady of the house.

  “That’s for Erin,” she said.

  I felt defiant. “I’ll give it to Luke.”

  “But Erin only likes a small amount of meat sauce. Luke wants a ton of it.”

  I was being schooled about my own children by a college kid, one who happened to have a body like a centerfold. I knew my memory loss was to blame, but I was finding it hard to figure out my role in the family. I felt like a distant relative who visited only on special holidays.

  Once everyone was seated, I kicked off the meal with a generic question. “How was school today?”

  “Oh, Mother, do you really want to know?” Erin asked.

  I counted to five, then raised my head with noodles dangling from my mouth. I slurped them up. “I’m genuinely interested. Remember, I don’t have a lot of background.”

  With her eyes plastered to the ceiling, Erin catalogued her day in monotone for about ten seconds.

  “Is everything okay with...you know, what we discussed earlier?”

  She dropped her fork and put a hand to her head. “It changes by the hour. I walk out of history class and everything is good, people are nice to me, and everything seems normal. Next period, I walk out of biology, and I hear catcalls from guys calling me a slut.”

  I quickly eyed Luke, who didn’t have his video games, TV, or drones to distract him.

  He said, “A slut? Isn’t that bad?” His eyes were wide.

  “Very bad, Luke. But it’s not true. Someone is spreading lies about your sister. And by the way, don’t ever repeat that word. Understand?”

  “I’m pretty sure I know who won’t let it go,” Erin said before Luke could respond to me. “Julie. She’s nothing but a little b—”

  “You don’t need to sink to her level, Erin.”

  Another fork clanged against a plate. Sydney, who seemed exasperated while still maintaining perfect skin tone, gestured with both arms. “Give Erin a break. She’s just calling it like she sees it. Girls are mean sometimes, and this Julie bitch needs to be taught a lesson. Straight up.”

  If I could have shot poisonous darts out of my eyes, Sydney would have face-planted into her plate of spaghetti. Out of sight, I grabbed a handful of my sweatpants to keep from shaking. “I think we’re in violent disagreement, Sydney.”

  She twisted her head. Apparently, I’d spoken over her head, or under her boobs. The thought made no sense, but it helped relieve a tiny bit of anger, and my eyeballs finally retreated back into their sockets.

  “I think we both want the best for Erin,” Sydney said.

  I turned to my sassy fourteen-year-old. “After dinner, let’s have a private conversation about this. Given my life experiences, I’m sure we can crack this nut.”

  Three blank faces stared me down.

  I said to Sydney, “Supporting Erin is cool. But throwing gas on the emotional flames of a kid isn’t. So please either be respectful of the tone I’m setting or keep your thoughts to yourself.”

  She gave me the eye while opening her mouth, as if she could really come back with a zinger. Instead, she tossed her napkin on the kitchen table and jumped out of her chair.

  “Any more spaghetti for anyone?”

  “Me, me, me,” Luke said, extending his plate.

  I brought a hand to my head and rubbed it. Then I noticed a bottle of red wine on the counter.

  “You want a glass?” Sydney offered, pulling a goblet out of the glass-covered cabinet.

  I was shocked she offered me anything, other than a drive back to the hospital.

  “Uh, me?” I pointed at my chest.

  “Yes.” She’d already set one glass on the counter, and her hand was paused in the cabinet.

  “Oh, well. Part of me needs it, but the doc wouldn’t want me to mix wine with the pain meds.”

  “But the meds aren’t helping, right?” she asked all too logically.

  Was I going to let this bimbo dictate my health decisions? As much as I really wanted to tell her off, I knew the kids were watching. “No thanks. I’m good.”

  “Your life.” She shrugged her shoulders, then dinged the bottle on her wine glass and filled it to the rim. She tipped her head back and gulped down half the wine. She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her sweatshirt as she said, “Ah.”

  Classy.

  “Wait, Sydney, how old are you?”

  “A sage twenty.”

  I did a double-take on that comment. “Sage, huh?”

  She chuckled, then leaned against the counter and sipped her remaining wine. “It’s good. You sure?”

  “Sydney, I don’t want to sound like I’m a cop.” I paused, realizing I was an FBI agent. That must count for something. “But you shouldn’t be drinking alcohol. Most importantly, you shouldn’t be drinking alcohol in front of my kids.”

  I’d purposely claimed them as mine, even if I couldn’t recall holding them as babies. That had to come sooner than later.

  Sydney had the audacity to down the last bit of wine, then give us another “ah,” her eyes on me the whole time. I was beginning to think this perfect-bodied student had issues.

  “This whole fucking country has problems, I’m telling you.” She flipped her sweatshirt over her head, her cropped shirt edging up to show the bottom of her breasts.

  “Amen, Sydney.” Erin took off her sweatshirt. Fortunately, she didn’t have the goods to give us a peep show, but her defiance screamed just as loud.

  “People get their panties in a wad about a little bit of wine and boobs.” Sydney then grabbed her breasts and shook them.

  I put my hand over Luke’s eyes.

  “It’s all natural. The wine is natural. My body is natural. Sex is natural.” She paced the floor as she tossed pots and pans into the sink.

  “Sydney, this isn’t the time for a protest.”

  “I just need to move to Europe, where sex and alcohol aren’t such taboo subjects. People are free. I need to be free.”

  For the first time in...ever, I guessed, Sydney had a sensible thought—moving to Europe. I wondered if I could help her pack, even pay for a one-way ticket to the French Riviera. She’d have a hell of time fending off hundreds of obese men walking around in banana hammocks.

  “European babes have hairy armpits. Nasty,” Luke said.

  I glanced at Luke, who scrunched his nose then gave a devilish smile.

  With my adrenaline nozzle completely open, I pushed the chair back and got to my feet. “Sydney, it’s time for you to leave.”

  She paused at the sink, and her face went from pissed-off protestor to wounded animal in two seconds. She was a pro at the manipulation game.

  “But I need to help Erin with her homework and make sure Luke has his shower,” she said with a shaky voice.

  Now she wanted to come across as the victim. Screw that shit.

  “I’m fully capable of handling that.”

  “You usually deferred to me in the past. So I just figured...”

  “I can’t speak to the past because I can’t recall it. No one’s fault, but it’s obvious the kids need their mother. A real adult figure who’s not still acting like a hormonal teenager.”

  Her jaw opened again, more words at the edge of those luscious lips. A moment of silence, then finally
, the words came. “Why, I’ve never—”

  “Actually, I think you have. Many times over.” Now that was a verbal jab. I stuck out my chest.

  Sydney stormed out of the kitchen. A minute later, I heard the back door open.

  “You shouldn’t drink and drive,” I called out.

  The door slammed shut.

  “Whew,” Luke said, running a hand across his forehead. “Too much drama. I’m going to let off some steam by playing the second half of my NBA 2K game. It’s the 1969 Celtics with Bill Russell against the 1986 Celtics with Larry Bird. Guess who’s going to win?”

  I pinched the corners of my eyes, already feeling like someone pulled the plug on my tub of energy. “Uh, the ’86 team with Bird?”

  “You kidding me? Red Auerbach would never lose to another team, even against a future Celtics team.”

  He padded out of the kitchen.

  “Luke.”

  “What?” His feet were already clamoring up the steps.

  “Where are you getting images of European ladies and their armpits?”

  “Sydney, duh?”

  I forced out a breath, then glanced at the bottle of wine. Damn, it looked tempting.

  “She’s not that bad, Mom.”

  I shifted my eyes to Erin.

  “Now you’re giving me the evil eye,” she said.

  “I’m giving you the tired-as-hell eye,” I corrected.

  “Didn’t think we were supposed to cuss in this house.” She stuck out what hip she had and put a hand on it.

  I bit my tongue and tried not to say another word about the T-shirt. I pointed my finger at her. “I’m an adult, and last I checked, I can do anything I want. But I’ll make you this promise. I’ll only cuss if I’m so pissed that I’m about to gouge my eyeballs with a fork.”

  Erin nodded slowly as she folded her arms in front of her.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  “What, Mother?”

  I picked up the fork, held it for a second, then set it back down. “I’m beat. But I’m also fucking pissed. You’re not twenty yet. You’re far from it. And if you keep taking advice from the free spirit pretending to be a nanny, things will not go well for you, at school or in this house.”

  Erin puffed out a breath.