Psychological Thriller Boxed Set

by Addison Moore

  “Heather?” I start in slow, her motionless body lies limp. “It’s me, Allison. Your very best friend.” I try to evoke a chipper tone as I come up behind her, but my voice shakes beyond recognition. And then I see it. A scream gets locked in my throat.

  The head of a hatchet lies firmly embedded in her forehead as a pool of crimson waterfalls over the side of the desk. Her hair is matted in clots, but her eyes, they’re looking right at me, lifeless, and yet so very aware of my presence.

  A choking sound comes from my throat as I clap my hand over my mouth. A rumple of voices emit from downstairs, but my feet remain frozen, my joints locked and unwilling to move.

  Her hand lies over her cell phone. Clean hand, no blood.

  God—no, no, no, don’t do it.

  I reach down and swipe it up, bolt out the door and down the stairs before the small crowd amassed around the screaming woman ever maneuvers in Heather’s direction.

  “Dear God,” I hiss as I carefully back the car out. No sudden moves. I roll past the curb and stop abruptly as a tiny bobbing head steps in front of the car. A little girl, a little older than Reagan strides by, ponytail, big dark eyes—yellow pinafore. Her head turns abruptly and she shoots a quiet look my way.

  “Ota.” Her name burps out in the expanse of the car and I sound like a donkey braying. She walks on by adjusting a shiny pink backpack over her shoulders and my body turns into one raging pulse.

  I give a quick glance in the rearview mirror as the crowd behind me swells—as shouting stems from the bloody scene.

  “Ota.” I roll down my window and lean over, but she’s gone, vanished into thin air just like Reagan.

  My foot hits the pedal and I make it home by sheer muscle memory. The sight of a bludgeoned Heather Evans has my body and mind wound tight, fragile as glass and ready to snap at my next breath.

  I park crooked in the driveway and bolt to the door, out of breath and lightheaded, my body clammy, my vision blurred.

  “Is she still here?” I shout as I let myself in, my feet skidding out from beneath me in the foyer. “Is she here?” I run screaming into James who materializes from nowhere. “I thought I saw her. Out there. God, is she here?”

  “Yes.” James pulls me in, smothering my face in his chest, his heart slamming over my cheek like a punishment. “She’s in the dining room. We waited for you.” He gives my shoulders a hard pinch as if to say snap out of it and I come to long enough to see McCafferty glowering my way from over her glasses.

  “Good.” I give Heather’s phone a strangulating squeeze before rushing to the kitchen and shoving it deep into the junk drawer along with the keys. “I’m here.” I take a seat opposite James. “I was afraid I would miss this.” I swallow down the tension and taste blood in the back of my throat. It makes me want to vomit, but I swallow the first bitter spring of that down, too. “I’m sorry. I just stepped out for some air.”

  “So James tells me.” Her lips twist, annoyed. “It’s nice to have you with us.” There’s a slight drawl in her voice I don’t remember hearing before. I’m so exhausted that any moment now I expect her to sprout another head and I’d be fine with it so long as one of them offered up some good news.

  “Is there something new?” I claw at the table, desperate for a morsel. The truth. A lie. It makes no difference. I’ll take it any way she wants to give it to me so long as it gives me hope. Hope is a dangerous word when your world collapses on itself. A four-letter word—I glance to James—just like love.

  “Something new to me.” She folds her hands over the table. “You can imagine the hundreds of tips my team has had to navigate these past few weeks.” Her eyes drag from mine to his. “Remember that little pact we made in the beginning? No secrets between us? Every little detail could help bring home your daughter. Now—which one of you would like to go first?”

  James and I appraise one another, each of us trying mightily to disguise the worried look we long to don like a mask. Secrets. James and I seem to be rife with them these days.

  McCafferty draws in a long slow breath. “I see where this is headed. How about I say a name and one of you tells me what they know?” Her bird-like features harden as she looks to me. “Monica Percale.”

  “That would be his ex.” I point a mock gun at James.

  “I know that,” she sears. “But, tell me, James. What else should I know?”

  He looks to me a moment as if asking permission. “I paid her a visit the other night. I practically ransacked the house looking for Reagan.” He bows his head in his hands before coming up for air. “She wasn’t there, of course.”

  “What made you think she was there?” McCafferty bleeds her wicked smile as if laying the groundwork for a bear trap.

  “Something my father said,” he mumbles the sentence into one long word. Charles. Charles who has been MIA for the last week and a half. Charles, who much like my mother, is out there shaking up the town. I think the two of us could learn a lesson from them. Stop sitting on our sorry asses and get up and do something. Accuse someone of something for God’s sake.

  Heather’s head with its freshly embedded hatchet bounces through my mind and a shiver runs through me. That was the end—her abrupt ending. How terrible. No matter what, she didn’t deserve that. Nobody deserves any of this. If it weren’t for Reagan missing, she wouldn’t have been here. If it weren’t for James…

  “Your father implicated her”—McCafferty doesn’t look amused—“and you thought enough of it to pursue it.”

  “My daughter is missing. If he implied that you had taken her, I would be turning over tables at your home, too.” He gruffs it out a little too hostile. The lack of sleep is brutal. We’ve both morphed into monsters right before our own eyes. “Anyway, I didn’t turn over any tables. I didn’t see anything until I hit the attic. I found some things my father was getting rid of—personal things. She claims to have found them by the side of the road, the curb in front of his house, and was keeping them for me. It was odd. It’s as if she’s been obsessed with me, only I didn’t realize it.”

  I offer a peaceable smile and take up his hand in a show of support. It seems James has another hobby, turning women into obsessive lunatics. Although, Hailey seems to have a rather valid reason for tracking him down.

  “She contacted me yesterday.” McCafferty purses her lips and the hard lines around her mouth look as if someone carved them deep with a razor. “She said she was being stalked. Imagine that.” She slaps her hand over the table, barks out a short-lived laugh and it startles me. “On top of everything else, she claims someone in this town has been lurking in her bushes.”

  “That’s shocking.” I swallow the Heather Evans’ sized lump down my throat—that hatchet makes for a painful ride.

  She scoffs at the idea. “What’s shocking is that she caught the girl.”

  “Who was it?” James barks. He wants blood. He wants to strangle whoever it is that was snapping those photos of him and sending them to me in an effort to make us both suffer. As sorry as James may be for his wayward ways, he’s equally sorry he got caught.

  A vision of Monica driving that hatchet into Heather’s skull makes me unsettled. She’s too self-centered, probably too afraid of icky blood, wouldn’t want to soil her shoes. It was too violent for a woman to have pulled off, wasn’t it?

  McCafferty takes a moment to glare at me. “A woman by the name of Denise Riley.”

  “Who?” Both James and I chant in unison. A part of me was hoping it was Heather, so that when they seek out her murderer—all roads would point to that high-pitched, real live bouncing Betty Boop doll, Monica. I’m so sick of my husband’s girlfriends mucking up the water in my life. For once I’d like to see one sent to visit my sister permanently.

  “Denise Riley is a parolee from Saginaw County. It turns out she’s been summoned to Concordia for work.”

  My mind stagnates on the word parolee. Dear God, Janey has finally come through.

  “What kind of wor
k you ask?” McCafferty initiates all the sarcasm she can muster. Not her strongest suit. “She belongs to an internet of women who run something akin to a gang network that spans in and out of prison. The ones that get out vow to take care of the needs of their new prison family, and very often they do.” Her lids lower a notch. Originally this would strike me as sexual, but in McCafferty’s case it’s clear she’s letting us know she has the upper hand. “Do you know anyone on the inside who might need a few things done for you?”

  “Oh my shit,” I say it out loud, so stunned I can hardly breathe. “Jane would never do that.” It’s a lie, but one I’d best perpetuate. My God. Heather. Jane has some madwoman running around town with an ax to the grind—literally.

  “It’s okay.” James brings my hand to his lips for a kiss like a good husband as a wave of nausea takes over.

  This can’t be happening. Jane said Heather, Monica and Hailey needed to go. And James—she wanted to save him for herself. But knowing my sister, she would be willing to settle for a close knife-wielding second.

  My eyes widen as I look at my husband’s gorgeous face. Those high-cut cheekbones, that straight beautiful nose, they could so easily be rearranged by a hatchet. Dear God, whatever happened to simply telling someone off? Did she need to bury an oversized razor into the poor woman’s skull?

  James leans in, brows hovering over his eyes as if each were its own storm. “How did you figure it out? Did she confess?”

  “Partially.” She eyes me with her disdain. “She doesn’t want to go back to prison. She’s ready to wheel and deal. She said she never intended on hurting anybody.”

  McCafferty’s phone gives off a shrill cry and she answers it abruptly. “What’s this?” She rises and takes a few steps away, holding down her other ear as if to avert the noise. “I’ll be right down.” She dumps her phone into her purse. “That was quick.” She looks to me accusingly. “Heather Evans is dead.”

  My mouth opens, and as much as I want to shriek or gasp in horror, all I can do is stare past McCafferty through the wall and into this mad world that we’ve all fallen into.

  “I’ve got her.” James wraps an arm around me. “Go ahead and do what you need to do. We’ll be here. We’ll continue this another time.”

  “I’ll see you both in the morning.” She takes off, slamming the door behind her. No sooner does James pull me in to comfort me than a miniature face appears just feet away.

  “Is the mean woman gone?”

  A breath gets locked in my throat as I look at the fragile girl with her wide eyes, her hair miraculously combed neatly into a thick glossy ponytail once again.

  She speaks.

  Now we’re getting someplace.

  * * *

  It turns out Ota found a bag of pistachios I keep near my bed and shelled them to her heart’s content. She drank water straight from the bathroom sink and assured us she feels much better now. So much for starving the truth from her.

  “Shall we sit in the living room?” Her light voice ices the room with its sugary tone.

  Shall we? James and I share a brief glance, equally uncertain what to do with this strange child.

  “Anywhere you like.” No sooner do the words bleed from my throat than I regret them.

  “No.” James winces out the window. Of course, we can’t sit in the living room. Not with the megawatt floodlight they have set on us like a spotlight, not with the million-dollar camera equipment ready and willing to record our every move. “How about the kitchen? We can sit at the island like a real family.” He gives her a quick pat to the head and breaks out that killer smile that’s able to slay women of every shape and size, and apparently age.

  “Can I call you Daddy?” A giggle erupts from her as she takes him by the hand and skips in that direction.

  “You sure can. I do love the sound.” I’m glad he didn’t say miss. For as much as I want her to spill everything she knows about Reagan, I don’t want to shake her up just yet.

  The two of them settle at the counter while I pull out the peanut butter, the blood red jelly, and a package of quickly dwindling English muffins.

  “I have something for you.” She holds up a neatly folded piece of paper, the size of the palm of her hand, and I take it from her, still very amazed that she’s spilling words so easily. Why do I feel a threat coming? Why can’t any of this be easy?

  It’s wrapped tight, still warm from her flesh, and it makes me miss Reagan all the more. Reagan loved to slip me notes. I love you Mama Pie! It’s still taped to my mirror. She helped me place it there after I opened it. Reagan was a beautiful child and she gave beautiful gifts.

  I stop midflight. Was? No. I won’t accept that. Is. She is all of those things, and more.

  I unfurl the crisp white page, only to find I can’t make out the drawing. I turn it once again every which way before the image strikes me. A head, X’s for eyes, a stick embedded in its forehead—a pool of blood washed over the bottom.

  “What’s this?” My chest seizes as I try to get the words out.

  “Is that what it looked like?” Her voice hikes with mild curiosity, but I don’t look at her to see if she’s mocking me. Instead, I marvel at how she got the profile right. Heather’s freckles, that raggedy hair.

  James cranes his neck. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know.” I shudder, making it apparent that I do. “Here.” I hand it over to him and do my best to create an assembly line of bread.

  James studies the picture, and his features darken as he slides the picture back to Ota. “Is that her?” His voice breaks. “Is that Reagan?”

  My stomach bottoms out because the thought hadn’t even occurred to me.

  “That’s not my sister.” She smiles up at him, huge puppy dog eyes with a perfect cartoon smile. “This is Mommy’s very best friend.”

  The world freezes. My heart stops beating. The knife slips from my fingertips and lands sharp side down over my foot. That one hard pinch stirs me back to life.

  “That’s who you are.” I bend over to pick the knife back up again and hold it low to my thigh. “James.” I shake my head at him. “This is Heather’s daughter. She must be.” A horrible numbness takes over as I absorb the cruel facts. “Oh my God. You saw her,” I whimper. “You saw your mother lying there in a pool of blood, and that’s why you came here.” I shake my head, incredibly sorry for her. “Your mother was sick,” I plead for her to understand as if it had to be this way.

  She gives a quick tug to James’ shirt. “What’s wrong with Mommy?”

  “Allison?” James cocks his head my way, concerned, frightened.

  “Someone killed Heather.” That image of the girl crossing in front of me this morning comes to mind. “Do you have a twin?”

  Her lips curl up at the tips. She offers an icy gaze my way as if answering the question with every ounce of her haunted being.

  “Shit.” James pulls the picture forward and examines it again. “Ota, tell me right now if my father—Reagan’s grandfather, has anything to do with this.”

  My heart slaps heavy against my chest, and I suddenly feel very sorry for my poor husband. I’ve left him in the dark for so long he doesn’t even know which way is up.

  Ota raises her wicked face to him, sober, not a smile in sight. “Why would Grandpa Charles have anything to do with this?”

  “How do you know Grandpa Charles, Ota?” I practically pant out the words.

  “Reagan talked about him all the time.” Her miniature pink lips purse as if it were no big deal. “I like mine with extra jelly, please.”

  “Have you ever met Grandpa Charles?” I ask nonchalantly as I pile the peanut butter high. I know for a fact Charles had never been over once during any of those demented playdates she had with my daughter.

  “I’ve seen him plenty of times. I know all of his ways, all of his stories.” She looks to James with a marked insistence. “He’s a good storyteller, isn’t he?”

  I shake m
y head at James as if affirming what he has to be thinking. Ota hasn’t met Charles on our watch. Either she’s fabricating the whole thing or she has very much met Charles—and according to her knowledge of his bullshitting ways, I’d bet on the latter.

  “Ota”—James takes up her hand—“we’re going to go on a little trip.” And she pulls her hand right back.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” She flattens her palms over the granite and leans in, bearing her fangs like a lion. “Now give me my food!” An unnerving echo booms from her voice.

  James paws at her as if he’s trying to charm her. “I’m going to hide you in my coat.”

  Her hand glides up and slices a line across the left side of his face. A seam of blood erupts in a jag like a snake.

  “Grab her!” I say as both James and I start in on a cartoon-like maneuver around the island.

  He snaps her up, and as soon as she begins to wail, he clamps a hand over her mouth, muffling her cries.

  “I’ll call your dad and tell him to come right over.” I move toward the phone and he blocks my path.

  “No. It’s going to get ugly, and I don’t want any more drama here than need be. We’re going to drop by and pay him a little visit. I want to see his face once we do a little show-and-tell.” James tosses the girl over his shoulder and disappears into the spare room down the hall. “I’ll find a bag to put her in.”

  Here we were, the kidnappers in reverse. We were becoming the very people we hated.

  My flesh stings with a slap of shock as nightfall threatens to entomb us heavy and final as the lid of a casket. “Should we take the truck?” I pull the junk drawer open and pull out Heather’s phone.

  Sixteen missed calls from an unknown number.

  I fondle the phone in my hand. Same model I had before I switched to an Android. A dull huff thumps through me. Heather always did like to mimic me. My thumb glides over the screen. No password. Heather has always been an open book. The rumbling of hooves has stopped momentarily and I take a moment to look at the missed calls. Sixteen calls, eight new messages. I hit play and gingerly bring it to my ear.