Blood Red Summer: A Thriller

by J. Conrad

  “I had it right here,” I say. I scan the nook beneath the drawer. I look near the bed, under it, and on the floor again.

  Returning to sit on the edge of the bed, I rub my face. “I feel like I’m going crazy. I had it right here. It was a letter on a blank, white piece of paper, folded in half. I found it on the outside of the mailbox, underneath the red flag.” I shake my head. “Damn.”

  Trent raises an eyebrow. “Are you absolutely sure it was a white piece of paper folded in half?”

  “Yeah. I would stake my life on it. Why?”

  “Because I wrote it on nice stationery from the academy and I stuck it in an envelope. Which I sealed.” He continues to give me that look. “What did you say this letter said?”

  I blink at him and cross my arms. “Well, I don’t remember the exact words. The tone was patronizing. It said something about how you thought I was a great girl and cared about me, but you decided to move on. Something like that.”

  “Are you serious?” He stands up, his face blooming magenta. He takes a step forward, hesitates, then comes to sit beside me on the bed with over a foot between us.

  His change in proximity makes me more confused. “Yes, of course, I’m serious. Are you saying that isn’t what you wrote?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. That isn’t what I wrote at all. So, I don’t know what happened. I would say it could be because my handwriting is bad—but it’s not that bad. I just don’t know. But what I said was I realized some things, and if you wanted to come stay with me, it would be all right. I mean, as friends, or whatever you’re comfortable with. Whatever you want. I see how I wasn’t being fair. We both had the worst year of our lives. It only makes sense that we get through it together.”

  For a moment, I don’t move. On the one hand, I feel like I’m having hallucinations. My therapist was clear that people like me sometimes experience those, some kind of post-traumatic stress phenomenon. On the other hand, it’s like I’ve been carrying a heavy pack all this time and finally slipped it off. The relief is comforting, like opening a window on a spring day.

  “Wow,” I say. “So, what does this mean in terms of how you feel about me? I want to make sure I understand.”

  Trent grits his teeth, something I know because his jaw twitches. He’s never been one to talk about feelings often, or at least not deeply. He says, “I care about you a lot. And I like having you around. I don’t even mind the times when you get upset all that much because I understand. But as far as how I feel, because of what happened to Elizabeth, caring for you is about the best I can do right now. I don’t think either one of us is in a position to rush anything.”

  That’s logical. It’s nice and sensible. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it, and the nagging confusion still lingers. “But what about the letter? What does it mean? That I—I saw something written that wasn’t really there?”

  “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m here, aren’t I?” Trent asks.

  I sigh, allowing myself a weak smile. “You are here.”

  We wind up talking until almost ten o’clock. Since neither of us had dinner, we order pizza. In addition to ironing out the recent bumps in our relationship, or non-relationship as the case may be, I fill him in on the bizarre situation with Nick and Rance.

  “Aria, I can’t tell you how much I wish you wouldn’t have got involved in that.” Shoes off, Trent leans against a pillow propped on the headboard. His expression mirrors Kyle’s when he informed me Rance threatened to sue. For once, the two of them had identical reactions.

  “I know. I wish I didn’t have to,” I say. I sit crossed-legged on the bed facing him and turn my phone over and over in my hands. “I already told the police what I know, but I didn’t know how much Detective Spade told Rance. It was keeping me up at night, not saying anything to him. And like I told you, I’ve refused to meet with Nick. He’s an idiot if he thinks a woman is going to meet with him alone.”

  Margarita, Rebecca, and Ann are asleep, so we’re able to leave the house without running into them. Outside, the night greets us with cool air, cobalt darkness, and quiet streets. The leaves of the maple tree shiver as the wind brings us scents of dewy grass. Somewhere the next block over, a dog barks a few times and stops. As I walk with Trent to the curb where his Chevy Colorado pickup is parked, the butterflies start in my stomach again. I wrap my arms around myself as he gets ready to leave.

  “Trent, if I do stay with you, where will I sleep?”

  Trent laughs as he goes around to the driver’s side and opens the door. “Wherever you want.”

  14

  Are you going to stay over at Trent’s?” Margarita floats out of the kitchen and locks her gaze on the rolling suitcase I pull toward the door.

  I guess it’s pretty obvious. “Yeah. I’m probably going to stay a few nights.”

  That’s my story, and I toy with the possibility of sticking to it. Then again, who am I kidding? I’ll probably be completely packed up and moved in within a week. But before going all-in, it just seems rational to try it with a fresh perspective. As I stand here at the threshold with the retractable handle in my hand, my loneliness is less. My fear is less. I’m not shaking as much. My palms aren’t soaking wet like they usually are. It’s nice to get a break.

  Margarita edges closer to me. Though it’s only the two of us, she lowers her voice. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I don’t mean to pry. I just want to make sure you don’t get hurt.”

  I laugh. “It’s not your job to make sure I don’t get hurt. Besides, it’s probably too late for that. Thanks for the thought, though. I’ll be fine. It’ll be nice not to sleep alone every night. I’ve never been a fan.”

  Margarita blinks a few times. “Aria, I know it’s none of my concern, but does he expect you to—I mean, you’re not—”

  “Are we screwing? Of course not. His fiancée was murdered, and I was hospitalized eight months ago for what my ex-boyfriend did to me. Give us a little credit where credit is due.” I smile, but she gets the point.

  She tucks her loose hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help wondering. I don’t want him taking advantage of you.”

  “No worries, you’re not the first to wonder,” I say, but I shouldn’t have to explain it to anyone—or get their approval. “I’ll probably see you in a few days.”

  I turn the knob and open the door. Margarita watches me leave, the frown never altogether leaving her face. I guess I’ll never know why. Just as she’ll never understand the complexity of my life after Ayden’s death and what Korey did to me in the County Road 140 house, I’ll never understand whatever it is my housemates seem to want for me.

  After work, I drop by the shooting range on my way to Trent’s. Besides being a good place to practice, the place also carries a large inventory of firearms. Today is as good a time as any to buy my own. This way, I’ll no longer have to rent one when I go, and if push comes to shove with Nick, I’ll have the ultimate protection.

  I buy a Sig Sauer P238. The same model I’ve been practicing with, the small, pewter gray pistol fits my hand well, especially with the extended magazine. That means it’ll hold seven rounds in the mag and one in the chamber. While I’m here, I also snag a gun cleaning kit and an inside-the-waistband holster. As I emerge from the store, gripping the handle of the pistol’s plastic case, my heart races. Can I really pull the trigger in a life-or-death situation? I hope I never have to find out. I stow my new weapon in my luggage with the rest of my things.

  On the way to Trent’s, I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s following me. A black car weaves in and out of traffic. It’s there. It’s gone again. Then it reappears. The driver’s keeping me in sight. I know Nick drives a black Mercedes, but I can’t tell the make of the sedan from this distance.

  By the time I pull onto the gravel driveway off County Road 152 in Georgetown, I’ve lost the car on the way, or the guy gave up the pursuit. Good. Of course, I can’t forg
et that I might be paranoid from Nick’s threats and Rance’s lawsuit. The car may have simply been a random car. Still, I can’t help but remember thinking the same about what turned out to be Korey’s SUV on my own street.

  It’s warm out, still in the upper eighties, and a brilliant orange and rose sunset lights the western horizon. After shutting off my Camry and locking it, I scan the recently mowed yard. Trent always leaves a few prickly pear cacti at various intervals along the scrubby ground. They do give the place character. The cedar post and steel mesh fence bordering the yard doesn’t detract from the ruralness out here but rather lends a sense of security. It was built earlier this year and still looks brand new. I can’t smell the cedar anymore, but the chocolate daisies in the adjacent mesquite prairie more than make up for it.

  With my key in hand, since I never gave it back, I go up the few porch steps to the small, white house. I try the deadbolt cylinder, and it turns. When I open the door, Trent is on the living room floor, pulling on his sneakers.

  He smiles. “You’re right on time. I was just about to walk over and pick up my last paycheck from Tim at Corbin Ranch. Do you want to go with me?”

  The ranch where Trent used to work is a stone’s throw from here. In fact, Trent’s rental house and much of the nearby fields belong to Tim Corbin, the owner. Over the past several weeks, Trent has been wrapping up his employment with Tim since he’s now full-time at the police academy. The cadets don’t stay overnight in barracks. They end the day at 4:00 p.m. and start each morning at 7:00, so Trent having any kind of day job is no longer feasible.

  “Sure,” I say. “I grabbed a bite after work, so aside from changing shoes, I’m all set.”

  I roll my suitcase inside, slip off my heels, and tug out my sneakers. I don’t bother changing out of my work clothes. I’ll walk in my slacks and short-sleeved blouse and change when I get back. Trent slips his Ruger pistol in the holster inside his jeans. I like that he carries it everywhere, and maybe soon that will be me. For today, I have my little switchblade knife and pepper spray.

  We head out into the warm evening, the gravel crunching under our shoes on the driveway. Beside County Road 152, wiry shrubs and cacti grow plentifully, and a few purple wildflowers nod in the faint breeze. We cross to the other side of the street and walk on the shoulder. A barbed-wire fence runs along each side of us. To our right stretches a section of Tim Corbin’s ranch which comprises the sheep pasture. Up ahead, the sectional feeder and weathered, gray barn appear just as we ascend the slight grade. To our left lies a cattle field with long, dry grasses and weeds by the fence.

  Trent trudges along on my right, closest to the street. He takes my hand and smiles at me. I smile back.

  “Do you mind?” he asks.

  I chuckle. “No, I guess I’m just surprised.”

  “We’ve held hands before,” he says.

  “Yeah. We have,” I say. I grin back and don’t add that yes, I’ve held his hand before, but never after getting a letter saying he wants me out of his life. Unless I really did imagine it. The sad part is, I almost want that to be true. If it were, then maybe I hallucinated Ayden’s ring. Maybe I’m not a monster. I can dream.

  “Besides the nightmare with that Epstein guy, how’s work been going?” Trent asks.

  “It’s been fine. Business as usual,” I say. I veer to step around a glass bottle.

  “Well, good,” he says. His gaze flicks at me sideways a couple of times. He’s trying to read me, or he’s withholding something he wants to say.

  I’m not in a small-talk mood, so I go straight for what weighs on my mind. “Your friend Naomi from the police academy—were you dating her before? I mean, I don’t care if you were. I was just wondering.” There’s another whopper. I wonder if I could put “lying” as a skill on my next résumé.

  Trent stops and drops my hand. His face goes all serious. “No, we’ve never dated. We’re just friends. I’d never ask you to come live with me if I was seeing another woman.”

  I nod. “Well, that makes sense.”

  He stares at me.

  “Are you offended that I asked?” I tilt my head. My hand feels cold without his warm skin against it.

  “No,” he says. “I guess I just thought you knew me better than that.”

  He is offended. I hurt his feelings, but he’ll never admit that. “No, I just thought you might have dated before. Not now, of course. I didn’t think you’d date her if I were living with you.”

  “But you thought maybe we broke up two days ago, and then I asked you to move in? Like you were a rebound or my second choice?” he asks.

  Geez. He’s sure given it more thought than I have. I sigh. “No, not exactly. The thing is, I didn’t think anything, at least not to that extent. I was curious about your relationship with Naomi, so I asked.”

  His jaw muscles flex, and he glances at the road. When he starts walking, he doesn’t take my hand again. “There’s no relationship. Just friendship.”

  “I understand,” I say. “I’m sorry if I upset you.” And I leave off that friendship is a type of relationship, just not a romantic one.

  “It’s fine. You didn’t,” Trent says. Our noisy steps punctuate the silence. “So, have you thought any more about getting a gun?”

  “I have. As a matter of fact, I bought one today. I’m still not as good a shot as I’d like to be, but I’m working on it,” I say.

  Trent’s face brightens. He looks at me now. “Oh, you bought one? What kind did you get?”

  “I got a Sig Sauer P238. You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to use—the slide is like butter,” I say.

  “Wow, that’s great. Those are top-of-the-line guns. You know what we should do next week? Go shooting together. If you’re having trouble with your accuracy, I could probably help. I can’t believe how much better I’ve become since starting at the academy,” Trent says.

  “Sounds like fun. I go to Shoot Point Blank a few times a week—well, within the last week.” I laugh because I speak as though we’ve been apart for months. It feels like it.

  “I’m so glad you’re doing that.” He smiles, a soft admiration in his eyes. Maybe the way to Trent’s heart is through his holster. Will he melt when I show him my Sig?

  As we head into the turn past the small ranch pond, a dark-colored vehicle looms toward us on the narrow, two-lane street. I think about being followed earlier—the feeling of it or the unproven actuality. I can’t discern much yet. But as the vehicle draws closer, it appears to be the same one—a black luxury car.

  My heart starts pounding, and dizziness shakes me. It’s not only that I associate that type of car with Nick, but it’s how oddly out of place it is for rural Georgetown. Sure, some people out here drive nice cars, like anywhere else. But since I’ve been visiting Trent at his little shotgun home, I can’t recall seeing even one. In this pastoral section of Williamson County, it’s mostly pickup trucks, modest sedans, or sport utility vehicles that pass.

  Giving Trent no explanation, I stop short. My pulse rabbits frantically as I take him by the arm and pull. “Come on. I don’t like the look of that car.”

  He complies instantly. I lead him to the barbed-wire fence, where I slide through a gap and wave for him to follow. Since we’ve crossed the street, this puts me on a stranger’s property. It’s not Tim’s, but I don’t know what else to do.

  Trent understands the need to act with urgency when someone knows something you don’t, so he doesn’t ask. He glances at the approaching car. As he slips through the barbed wire, he snags his shirt.

  “Hurry,” I say.

  I look back and recognize the vehicle as a black Mercedes like Nick’s. It slows down. The windows are tinted so dark I can’t see anyone inside. The car continues reducing its speed.

  “Shit, I’m stuck.” Trent fumbles with his shirt. He’s so badly caught he’s almost pulling out of it backward.

  I grab Trent’s sleeve and rip it free. As I break into a jog, the car’s passenger’s
side window starts sliding down, just a hair. I swear something pokes out through the opening. Something small. Something black. Can I honestly say it’s a barrel of a gun? No. There isn’t time to look again or think about it. We have to move and hope it’s not already too late.

  Trent curses. He sees what I see. We break into a run, pushing our legs as hard as they can go. At first, Trent surges ahead of me, but I catch up in a couple of seconds.

  Bang!

  15

  The gunshot echoes harshly through the still countryside. The strange, metallic resonance vibrates inside my skull and chest cavity. My ears ring, and I stumble, but I catch myself before smashing into a prickly pear face-first. I pump my legs and keep running. Of everything I’ve experienced, this is the first time someone’s shot at me.

  Trent glances in my direction. He probably wonders if I’ve been hit. For a second, I do too, and I wonder the same about him. But there’s no pain, so I assume I’m okay. And Trent didn’t cry out, and he’s still racing alongside me. We’re lucky so far.

  I swerve side-to-side erratically as I dart through the field. Tall grass, thorn weeds, cactus, and young mesquite trees stretch over the prairie before us, and the farther back we go, the safer we become. The less likely the shooter can hit us. I try to put the trees between me and the car as much as I can. But sometimes, I’m exposed on the empty field—that’s all there is. I glance at Trent every few seconds. His gaze flicks back at me, but we don’t speak. We run until we can’t see the road anymore. An old barn and a watering hole for livestock spring to view straight ahead.

  A dark thought hits me. “Isn’t this close to where someone shot at you before?”

  “Kind of, but that was on Tim’s property, on the other side,” Trent says. “Come on.”

  We maintain our sprint and head for the rear of the old barn. I don’t hear any more gunshots, and we’re now too far away to see if the car is still there. I pant, my breath getting raspy from the breakneck run, but I don’t slow down until I stop behind the wooden, gray wall of the outbuilding. My lungs ache. Huffing, I crouch down to ease my burning legs. My body shakes so hard it affects my balance, and I teeter. I lean against the barn.