The Single Lady Spy Series Boxset

by Tara Brown

  He died to save me.

  I went directly to my room. I needed a shower. I needed to really cry in the shower like a winner.

  When I opened the bedroom door and then entered the bathroom, I gasped and dropped to my knees.

  In Russian Red lipstick, my bathroom mirror had a message scrawled across it:

  Best week of my life, XOXO

  The lipstick was on the counter next to a pair of Christian Louboutin black patent leather ankle boots.

  Had he done it before or after? Was he dead? I didn’t know.

  I sobbed into my carpet.

  What if he was dead?

  I had nothing, no feeling. I was numb.

  18

  The End of Me

  His death was the end of me.

  The end of sad Evie Evans. The mom who’d made everyone more important. The “hockey, soccer, and every damned sport under the sun” single parent. The yoga-pant-wearing, mortgage-poor, stressed-to-the-hilt, and sex-deprived wife had died.

  She died the week her dad was shot down in Mexico. Her ex-husband and his girlfriend had been there as well. The house was torched and the helicopter pilot was murdered savagely. Everyone assumed it was the Master Key.

  Sad Evie died again the next week when the man she wasn't sure understood her feelings for was murdered. His body had vanished from the ME’s office before they could be sure.

  In sad Evie’s stead, there was a new Evie. She was strong like a girl she once knew.

  She still cried sometimes at night in the shower, when no one was watching, until she received a postcard in the mail from a stranger. All it said was “See you at Christmas.” She stopped crying then.

  She stopped being broken at night when no one could see. She began counting down the days till Christmas. And until the damned house sold, so she could stop seeing the neighbors’ house and wanting to kill the traitorous slut that lived there.

  The End

  Volume Two

  The End of Games

  1

  Renos

  The presents shone as if they had lights beneath them, making the wrapping paper sparkle from under the dimly lit Christmas tree.

  I ran a finger across the shimmering silver gift that lay at the foot of the pile of gifts, one corner sticking out onto the area rug. There was nothing but a huge S on the tag.

  No name, just an S.

  I trailed my fingers across the S, realizing it was wet when I lifted my hand to find the tips of my fingers red. The S turned to blood and ran down the tag, creating a puddle on the wooden floor.

  “Shit!” I panicked, looking around for something to mop it up with before it stained my new area rug.

  That was the problem with being a mom—I couldn't switch off the need to mop up spills, even in a dream where presents bled onto my floor. All I saw was another mess to clean up.

  Which would be why I woke up tired most days. I was even cleaning in my sleep.

  But as the dream faded, I didn’t wake up tired. I woke nauseated with my head spinning.

  My blurry eyes burned when I opened them so I closed them again immediately.

  The crick in my back was worse. Great. My to-do list rifled through my head as I searched for an empty slot to fit a massage, or at least a chiropractor.

  Jules’ seventh birthday had passed, of course, but the party was planned for Saturday. I needed to pick up the cake and the latest trendy doll for each girl attending. Yes, I was going to be the rich mom who was able to buy each girl a toy, instead of a shitty little goodie bag. Let the snooty moms enjoy me upping the ante on that one.

  Ha, bitches!

  I went to fluff my pillow but it wasn’t there. My hand dragged along the bed, but I realized it was the floor.

  I’d fallen out of bed again?

  Another restless night?

  I opened my eyes to see my attic.

  Shit.

  Sleepwalking?

  How much had I drank the night before?

  I glanced about, confused at the abilities I seemed to possess. “How the hell?” The attic was completely closed up.

  Why did I come up here?

  Even better was how had I closed the stairs up?

  There wasn't much in the attic, me, a bit of crappy furniture like Jules’ old rocking chair in the corner and all the crap I still had to sort through from James' planned “escape my wife and kids” death. Some of it was from his real death.

  Knowing him, he’d be like the monsters in the horror movies and keep coming back. Things like him didn't die easily.

  I sat up, my head still spinning.

  “Shit.”

  Desperate to shake it off, I squeezed my eyes shut really hard and opened them, trying to comprehend my being in the attic alone.

  Clearly, I hadn’t crawled up the stairs sleepwalking.

  And if I had, it was reasonable to assume I wouldn’t close myself in, so there were larger issues I wasn’t addressing yet.

  Trying to gain an understanding, I scanned the room, coming to the realization there was only one explanation: I had been put here.

  How had they done it? Not why but how? How could I not—shit! Smacking my lips together I noticed something, a few somethings. There was a funny metallic taste, along with foggy brain, thick tongue, stomachache, and crusty eyes. Not to mention, I couldn’t reach the fear and anger trying to get to me. My sixth sense wanted desperately to make me aware of my situation.

  Becoming a little nervous, I eyed the closed hatch, fully confirming my deep fear that someone had put me up here.

  I scrambled to the hatch and pounded on it. “Mitch! Jules! Mom!” Desperation fought the frog in my throat as I screamed, “MOM!”

  The unimaginable ran through my head.

  What if someone has my children?

  Why has my mom not saved us?

  A light stream of smoke began to filter up through the cracks as if on cue.

  Is the house on fire?

  Fully panicking, I sniffed the smoke, coughing a little.

  It was real. It was all too real.

  “MOM!” The raging scream for my mom left my lips the very moment I recalled them taking a trip. Mom had them at a “company-owned” resort for the weekend, only this time it was her company, MI6. Payment for the suck-ass trip to “Thailand.” There were so many double quotation marks in my life, it was a miracle I could talk without appearing to use sign language.

  My children were probably at something like Camp David, poor kids. Who knew what Mom actually did in her free time? I clearly wasn't on the list of people who might know but I assumed it would be akin to Democratic politicians telling stories and drinking too much while operating the boat and convincing small kids of the real evil in the world—Republicans.

  I winced, spending too much time daydreaming about the horrid vacation they were on, grateful that at least they were safer than I was.

  What did I do last night?

  I’d enjoyed red wine, the new Dreaming Tree. I'd eaten a pad Thai frozen dinner and re-watched four episodes from the second season of Vampire Diaries on Netflix.

  Mmmmm, Damon Salvatore.

  Everything came back into my memory slowly, though the wine and Damon lingered in there.

  My delayed reactions and dulled senses cleared as the small traces of the smoke still filtering into the attic from the upstairs increased.

  Was it a frame-up to make the world believe I was dead or was it a real attempt? I did a quick once-over of the attic. “It’s real, Evie.” CI would’ve told me I was being offed if it wasn't real.

  Frantically searching, I cringed at the tiny vent in the top corner of the front of the house, realizing it was the only way out. The whole attic was a death trap.

  In my peripheral, I caught a glimpse of something polished. My wedding ring, engagement ring, grandmother’s ring, and my locket all sat in a neat little pile near the hatch, awaiting their chance to ID me after the fire.

  “Shit.”

&nb
sp; Who wanted me dead?

  There really was only one man.

  The monster from the horror movies was back?

  Had James done this?

  Had he put me up here and laid out my jewelry as ID for after the fire was put out?

  I was bothered by the fact my ex-husband wanted me dead. Especially since he was the one who was supposed to be dead.

  But more bothered by the fact Servario must have betrayed me and not actually killed him.

  Refusing to even touch on that, I reached for them but my fingers froze. If someone wanted me dead, wasn’t it better if I were dead? It would be better if my “dead” husband thought me to be gone.

  Fuck it.

  I grabbed my locket. I needed that. The rest could burn, but I needed that piece of my father.

  The smoke thickened and I looked around. Ideas came fast, but they mostly involved Coop saving me—or Damon Salvatore. Either would be acceptable.

  “Shit,” I said again as I spun in a circle, assessing every object within the small room. “Nothing but useless shit.”

  The air was starting to thin. Flustered, I sat down on my heels and smacked my forehead. “Evie, come on, wake up. Think, Evie, think.” I needed to come up with a plan. My brain was stuck on Vampire Diaries on auto play and the drug hang-on wasn’t letting me switch channels.

  An idea hit as I saw the rocking chair.

  I got up and dragged it to the side of the room where the vent was. It was still several feet in the air, but if I could get to the beam, I could swing over to the vent. I started piling books and boxes on top of the chair. It rocked and knocked everything off.

  “Oh, Evie. Come on,” I groaned and placed a book under either side of the rocker to stabilize it. My eyes watered and not from my usual self-pity tears. The smoke was quite thick at this point. I coughed and stacked the boxes, books, and bags again. It made an unstable tower, but it was the best I could do.

  Taking in the space, I sighed at my hatred of clutter. If I hadn’t hated it, we would’ve had better old dressers and junk stacked up here. Instead, we had bags of clothes I wasn’t ready to part with, all size twos and possibly containing shoulder pads and acid wash. Then there was James' shit I had tossed up here, not ready to burn just yet. I didn’t want my kids to think I was a soulless whore. Not to mention, the boxes of books I had brought from my parents house a decade ago, like Sweet Valley High and V.C. Andrews. Books I swore I would save for my daughter.

  I shuddered at the Flowers in the Attic book; Jules would never be allowed to read that. Never. I didn't know what I'd been thinking when I decided to keep those but they were not being handed down.

  Seeing them did, however, make me want to have a little conversation with my mom. What had she been thinking, letting me read it? The choice of sexually perverse reading material as a child might have explained a few of my own preferences Servario had discovered, namely having my hair pulled and my ass spanked. I blushed and forced him out of my head. He who might have betrayed me and not killed that jackass I had been married to.

  I held myself steady with one hand on the wall and started to climb the stack of crap with my other hand and my feet. I clung to the wood so hard my fingers bled. My dream started to feel real. At any second I would find an S made of blood as a signature and a farewell.

  What if it was Servario trying to kill me?

  I had no answer that I could trust. My vagina’s answer was a hearty no, but I couldn’t trust that slut.

  My brain screamed that I had only spent a week with him and he’d stuck his finger in my bum. He was not to be trusted.

  Tears streamed my cheeks from the exertion and the smoke as I clung to the edge of the wall where the insulation ended and the beams were exposed. I started to pull myself up, but my feeble arms shook.

  More blood dripped from my fingers as splinters lodged in them causing me to muffle a scream. I had to hold myself in place while I kicked away from the chair and climbed the wall with my toes. I managed to get in a near pull-up and swing my arm up and out to grab a beam in the trusses. I hung there, panting and unsure of what was next. The brilliant plan had been to get to the vent, but I didn’t feel like I was much closer since I still had to get my body up onto the beam.

  The smoke became thicker the higher I went, and my fingers were about to let go as droplets of blood left them and greased the beam I clutched.

  I had the urge to give up, but Jules’ birthday party and Mitch’s soccer game were next Saturday. Not to mention, the start of school in a few weeks. I was too busy to give up.

  Determined to live, I moved across the beam as if it was a monkey bar. I managed to get one leg up over and hung on with that leg as I swung with the other when I got close enough to where the vent was. My core was strong. I might not have had strong arms anymore, but I had killer abs. Thank you, hot yoga, for not being completely useless.

  I swung, catching my toes on the ledge of the vent and paused, breaking into a laugh.

  What the fuck was I thinking?

  I was about to fall and die or get hurt enough that escaping the fire would be impossible.

  Still laughing and coughing, I crawled my hands closer to my feet, wrapped the extending leg over the beam, and hung there again upside down. I was nearly wheezing from exertion, and my hands were leaving bloodstains everywhere they touched.

  “COOP!” I called out desperately, “COOPER!” He might hear me with all his cameras and bugs.

  Little bastard.

  “COOP! COME FIND ME! WAKE UP, COOP!”

  Calling out to him made me feel like giving up again. I liked that he always saved me.

  While wheezing, I pushed the thought away and started my sloth-like progression to sitting up on the beam.

  “Dear God”—I whispered a little prayer—”if I live through this, I swear I’ll sign me and Jules up for mommy-and-me gymnastics. Please let me live.”

  And start lifting weights like Coop told me to.

  I grasped the beam next to me and dragged my poor body up to a sitting position. I coughed as I slid along the beams to the vent, kicking out the plastic duct and leaning my face outside to gulp in the cold, clean night air.

  A black sedan sat across the street a few houses away. The man in the driver’s seat was reading something. His angle wouldn’t be great to see the attic vent, thank God. The car appeared to be a company car.

  Shit.

  Again, I choked on the clean air for a minute, trying to figure out how to get off the roof.

  I leaned back, putting my feet through the vent and sliding my body into the hole. With trembling fingers, I clutched the rim of the vent and stood on the roof, my knees almost buckling.

  As I took a knee and huffed my breath, I stole another look at the car. He was still reading.

  Lazy fucker. Where was the work ethic in the new spies?

  I crept to the edge of the peaked part of the roof and shimmied along to the back. My heart was rapidly attempting to push me off the roof, it was beating so hard against the house.

  Everything hurt but there was no time to think about it. I crept to the rear of the house, to the huge tree by the back deck. The tree that James, the manwhore who was supposed to be dead, and I had argued about. I’d wanted to cut it down because it made weird noises in the storms.

  Now I gazed at it gratefully. “So glad I never won that argument.” Tears streamed down my terrified face. The self-pity tears were back. I dare say, I even heard a “why me” in the back of my mind.

  “Evie!”

  The floodgates opened when I saw Coop standing on my back deck. “Coop!” I sobbed and cried out his name softly, but he just shook his head.

  “Stop crying. You have to jump into the tree. The fire is out of control. I can't get up to you. Hurry up.”

  “What? Jump? No-no-no,” I argued. “I-I can’t.” It was true. Him being there meant I was safe and he would save me, and I didn’t have to do anything else.

  I was despera
te for another plan, but he rolled his eyes and pointed at me. “I am not climbing this fucking tree to come get you. Now jump. Pick a branch and jump.”

  “No!” I sniffled but saw his face, he was not climbing the tree. “All right, fine. I fucking hate you!” Somehow it all had to be his fault.

  I caught my breath and looked down. The ground rushed up at me so fast I almost fell back. “No!” I paused and closed my eyes for a second. “I can't do this, Coop. I can't jump. I’m not twenty and stupid. I know how the hard ground feels from this distance.”

  “Evie!” He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a breath before he looked back up at me. “Jump or die!”

  He really wasn't coming to get me. I took a breath and picked my branch. I contemplate the jump but suspected I was more likely to sit down and cry until I died. Fortunately the roof cracked behind me as the fire spread. My scream came out as a bleat through my trembling lips.

  “Just jump, Evie, for Christ's sake!”

  Shaking, I did a couple of squats and closed my eyes again as I leapt for the branch. When my fingers caught it, I gripped for dear life but the sweat and blood made my palms slippery. My grip was lost and I dropped to the next branch, screaming as my back hit another one and I scrambled for a grip. As I whacked something else again, I caught a branch in my hands and held on for dear life. Only then did I open my eyes to see I was hung up in a branch, floating mid-air, halfway up my house. I caught my breath and searched for Coop. His eyes were huge as he swallowed hard. “Oh shit, Evie. You scared the hell out of me. Did you close your eyes? Who closes their eyes and jumps?”

  “Hate you,” I snarled, though my back getting hit had knocked the wind out of me. The branch cracked and slowly lowered me to the ground before it broke off in a series of pops and tears.