Tell on You

  Pounding the steering wheel in frustration, Jeremy craned to peer around the mini-van. Traffic stalled in all three lanes, but he couldn’t make out the cause. Shit! Move, damn it.

  He pulled out his cellphone and called his mother-in-law. “What’s going on?” he asked when Beth answered.

  “She’s calling, texting, leaving me voicemails. She’s so angry, I—”

  Jeremy cut her off. “Have you talked to her?”

  “You said to stall, so no. But I have to tell her something, Jeremy,” Beth protested. “I can’t leave her hanging. She must be worried sick.”

  “No. Don’t call her until I tell you to.” Cars ahead inched forward. “I have to go. Wait for my call.” He dropped his phone onto the passenger seat and eased the Honda forward a couple of feet. “C’mon, move,” he muttered.

  A siren screamed on Jeremy’s left, growing louder as a police car sped past, roof light flashing red and blue, traveling along the median. Must be an accident ahead. Had he not been stuck in the center lane, Jeremy might have veered over to the median and followed the cop. For the moment, he had to crawl forward with the other cars and wait for an opening.

  Precious minutes ticked by. Trapped behind the van, Jeremy had no view ahead. Finally, on the right, he spotted the exit sign for Route 24. Work his way over, and he’d escape.

  His fellow motorists had the same idea. Cars oozed their way toward the right lane, slowly at first, then faster as drivers used the right shoulder as a makeshift exit ramp.

  Jeremy nosed the Honda over. A horn blared in protest as he accelerated to cut off a Mercedes to his right. Tough shit, buddy. He claimed the lane. No need to look in the mirror at the middle finger pointed at him. Reckless, Jeremy pushed his way onto the shoulder and followed the line of cars to the exit lane.

  7:37.

  As Jeremy’s eyes flitted to the dashboard clock, his cellphone rang. He picked it up and glanced at the screen, in case Beth had called with an update. But, no—Winkelman. Jeremy let the call go to voicemail. Peter would be having a shit fit over his absence. Nothing Jeremy could do about that right now.

  As the traffic edged onto Route 24, the logjam gave way and Jeremy gunned the Honda, making for the exit leading to Springfield Avenue, and the apartment.

  At 7:45 he hit Springfield Avenue. Melissa had waited for her mother half an hour by now. But still waiting? He grabbed his phone, risking a brief glance as he redialed his mother-in-law.

  “Jeremy?” Her voice high with panic.

  “Okay, call her now. Tell her you’re on the way. Say you’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “But—”

  “Tell her to wait, dammit!” He hung up, accelerating way beyond the local limit. He’d make it. If she waited, he’d get there.

  7:51.

  A loud bang from the front right tire, then the smell of burning rubber. The steering wheel in Jeremy’s hands lurched to the side.

  “No!” A fucking pothole.

  Although tempted to keep driving, he knew by the feel that the wheel rim had taken a hit. Spewing curses, Jeremy pulled to the curb. An incoming text chirped from his cell. Beth? He looked.

  Winkelman.

  You’re going to jail, pal.

  Jeremy slipped the phone into his jacket pocket and got out of the car. A glance at the front passenger wheel confirmed his suspicion. His ride had gone lame.

  He clenched his fists. Too late. He’d blown it again.

  No. He wasn’t about to rot in prison with a bellyful of regret. Fuck it. He sprinted toward the apartment, a quarter mile away.

  Jeremy jogged now and then, but the cold of winter had shut him down. Lacking speed and stamina, he used desperation as fuel. The first two blocks left him panting, but he kept his pace. At four blocks, Jeremy’s right calf seized up in a cramp. He stumbled, regained his footing and kept going.

  His cellphone rang and he pulled it out on the run.

  Beth.

  “I spoke to her. She won’t wait. She’s driving there, Jeremy. Hurry! For heaven’s sake, stop her.”

  “On my way,” he rasped. Wait for me. Melissa, please wait.

  A low growl behind him made Jeremy wrench his neck around. A boxer, frothy saliva flicking from its jowls, lunged at him. Jeremy yelped, then saw a slender young woman clutching a leash as the dog strained against it.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Too winded to reply, Jeremy waved her off and gimped onward.

  Finally, the last block. Jeremy labored up the steep hill to the apartment development, wheezing and clutching at a stitch in his side. Lungs burning, he reached the top. He jogged into the complex. Scanning for Melissa’s car, he missed the curb ahead and ran into it. He went down, his left ankle twisting.

  “Melissa!” Jeremy’s eyes watered at the sharp pain. Too winded to talk, he croaked. “Mel!”

  Too late?

  Hands braced against the pavement, he forced himself to his knees. He wobbled to his feet, cramped right leg taking the weight off his injured left ankle. “Melissa!” He stumbled forward, each step sending an electric jolt though his ankle.

  He saw their apartment. Her.

  “Mel!” His last shred of energy in that cry.

  Walking toward her car, she stopped. Turned.

  “Mel, wait!” Gasping, he hobbled toward her.

  EIGHTY THREE

  HIM!

  Through her windshield, Nikki gaped at Mr. B as he shouted his wife’s name and limped toward her. Had she been waiting for him? Why the fuck did he turn up now, with the bitch about to get in her car? And she looked surprised to see him here. Expecting someone else, maybe? Two-timing him? Unable to hear them from her car, Nikki hunkered down in her seat to watch the action.

  “MELISSA!” JEREMY LABORED TO catch his breath. “You’re still here. I’m not too late.”

  She stared. “What are you doing here? I thought you were flying to Louisiana.”

  “I am,” he panted. “But your mother called me—”

  “Called you?” Her eyes narrowed with anger. “What the fuck is this? Where is she?”

  Jeremy had enough breath now for full sentences. “She told me you’re going for an abortion.” He gripped Melissa’s arms, afraid she might flee. “Mel, why? How could you do this without telling me?”

  Instead of struggling against his hold, Melissa went slack, staring at him with eyes full of pain. “How can we have this child? You never wanted it. You think I don’t know that?”

  “That’s not—”

  “No, listen to me.” She pressed a hand against his chest. “I didn’t get pregnant by accident. I stopped my birth control pills.”

  He stared, speechless.

  “I didn’t give you any choice then.” Melissa dropped her gaze. “So I didn’t think it fair to burden you now.”

  Jeremy tightened his grip on her arms. “Listen to me. I want the burden. It’s my choice, too.” His face drew close to hers. “Melissa, I love you and I want our child.”

  Tears dampened her eyes. “How can we? We’ve made a mess of everything. How can we take care of a baby?” Melissa’s voice grew high and tight.

  Jeremy cradled her in his arms, like a frightened child needing comfort. “Because we can. We will.” He stroked her hair. “Don’t you see, Mel? This child is our chance to grow up. Get it right. Have something in our lives that matters. The baby is our second chance.”

  She sighed. “Jeremy, isn’t that a heavy load to place on a kid? Saving its parents?”

  “No.” His voice carried new certainty. “Because we’re the ones who’ll bear the load. Look, I spoke with Rick last night. I’ve got a shot at a sales position with his company.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “In California?”

  “No, South Carolina.”

  “South—”

  “Come with me, Mel.” Jeremy grasped her hands, as if ready to lead her there right now. “Let’s get out of here, make a fresh start.”

  “But—th
e baby! My parents…”

  “People have babies in South Carolina, too. And some distance from your parents wouldn’t hurt either of us at this point, would it?”

  Melissa looked down at their joined hands, then back at his face. “You’re serious?”

  “Meet me in Louisiana in a couple of weeks. They have family sessions at the program. Help us get off on the right foot. And then we’ll go see about the job.” He grinned. “It’ll be like summertime down there.” Releasing her hands, he held her face and looked deep into her dark eyes, finding a glimmer of hope there. “Say you will, Mel. If we blow this chance, we’ll blow everything. Fail ourselves and our child.”

  “But Jeremy, do you really think…?”

  “Melissa, I know.” Never more sure of anything. “Promise you’ll come. You and the baby. Make the flight reservation today.”

  “I—” Her eyes widened in alarm. “Oh my god, Jeremy! When is your flight? If you don’t get on that plane…”

  He smiled gamely. “I’m not going anywhere until you promise me.”

  “Jeremy!” Despite the protest in her voice, she smiled back.

  “Hey.” He sensed victory. “What should we name it?”

  “Please! You’ll miss your flight!”

  He stood firm. “Answer me and I’ll go.” He wanted a name, needed to know how to think of his child during the weeks ahead.

  “All right,” she conceded. “Michael, if it’s a boy?”

  Jeremy nodded. His father’s name. “Definitely. And if it’s a girl?”

  “I don’t know.” Melissa’s eyes softened. “Maybe…Hope?”

  “Hope.” He tried the sound of it in his mouth. “That’s good.” He thought for a moment. “Or maybe Faith.”

  “Faith.” She nodded. “I like that.” She held his gaze a moment, then gave him a push. “Now, get out of here.” Melissa looked around. “Where’s your car, anyway?”

  “I—uh—blew out a tire down the road.”

  “Then, how…?”

  “I ran it.” Jeremy shrugged. No big deal. “I’ll have Peter take care of it. Could I borrow yours?”

  “The Escape? Oh. Here.” She handed him the remote. “Now, go!”

  “Thanks. I’ll make sure Winkelman gets it back to you. He’ll handle everything, once he finishes ripping me a new one and putting what’s left of me on the plane.” Jeremy hugged her tightly, then pulled back and kissed her. “I’ll see the two of you in Louisiana.”

  He turned and headed toward the Escape.

  EIGHTY FOUR

  NIKKI WATCHED THE WRONG Barrett approach the Deathmobile.

  She considered jumping out of her car, running over and stopping Mr. B before he drove off. Before the brakes gave out, the steering failed and the engine accelerated as he hit that steep downhill run outside the complex.

  She’d meant it to be her, not him.

  But, in the end, Nikki didn’t. She stayed in her car, watched him discover the CD and remove it from under the wiper blade. Watched him take it with him into the Escape.

  Too bad.

  But, after that nauseating embrace with wifey, Nikki saw no point in saving him. Pussy-whipped chicken shit. Unfuckingworthy. Best to let him go. At least she’d leave the bitch a widow.

  And besides, Mr. B wasn’t the only good-looking teacher at Forrest. That music teacher, Mr. Cascone? Pretty hot.

  Nikki waited as Mr. B started the engine. Watched him look over the CD and insert it he drove off in the Deathmobile.

  Licking her lips, she started her car and followed.

  JEREMY STARTED THE ENGINE, eyeing the CD he’d removed from the Escape’s windshield.

  Listen To Me?

  What the hell? Some advertising ploy? He frowned. Or a half-assed attempt by his father-in-law to intimidate Melissa. Good thing he’d been the one to find it and spare her. He inserted the disk into the media player. Better give a listen and see what the bastard was up to. Jeremy pulled out and drove through the development, heading for the street.

  Nothing to fear from a stupid CD.

  Jeremy no longer feared his father-in-law, or rehab, or a new job—or anything much, now. Whatever. Bring it on.

  He’d face it, his heart finally at peace.

  EIGHTY FIVE

  HEATHER EXPECTED THE CALL. She found the message on her iPhone after her second period class. Blowing off Bio lab, she slipped out of the building and found a secluded spot to return the call.

  “It’s me, Heather. How’d it go?”

  “It didn’t, that’s how. A total bust.”

  “No kidding? What happened, Nikki?”

  “Nothing! Fucking zilch. I planted the CD on the windshield, like we said.”

  “Uh huh, and…?”

  “He took the disk, he got in the car…”

  “You sure you had the right car?” Heather asked. “The Ford Escape? It makes a difference.”

  “Of course I had the right car,” Nikki snapped. “Think I’m some kind of retard?”

  “Just making sure. So, then what?”

  “So he started the car. I watched him. He looked at the CD and I’m sure I saw him put it in. Then he drove off.”

  “And?”

  “And I followed him all the way to the expressway, but nothing happened. You fucked up, Heather. Your goddamn booby trap didn’t work.”

  Heather smiled. “But it did, Nikki.”

  “Are you deaf? I told you—”

  “The trap worked, Nikki.” Triumph rang in Heather’s voice. “It caught you.”

  Nikki received the news in stunned silence. “What do you mean? What was on that CD?”

  “Us.”

  “What?”

  “I recorded our phone conversation yesterday. Remember? How you’d plant the disk, about the attack code.” Heather paused. “How you wouldn’t mind a few civilian casualties? Ring a bell, Nikki?”

  “You recorded that? How?”

  “On my phone. There’s an app, you know.”

  “I didn’t,” Nikki muttered.

  “So I made the recording and burned a CD of it. That’s what Mr. B heard when he played the disk.”

  “Shit!”

  “Along with a little introduction, warning him that if anything happens to me, he should turn over the CD to the police,” Heather added. “An insurance policy, you might say.”

  “You little bitch!” Nikki snarled. “You tricked me.”

  “True that,” Heather agreed. “But now I’ll be a hundred per cent honest with you, girlfriend. See, I’m recording this conversation, too. Right now. So if anything happens to Mr. B?” She paused. “Or his wife? I’ll play our little talk for the police. Understand, Nikki? I’ll tell. I’ll tell on you.”

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Kevin Garrigan, Meghan Sheena Hyden and Dr. Randy Simon for encouragement and feedback. Randy also provided invaluable subject matter expertise on the NJ child protection system. If the story strikes any false notes in that arena, the fault is mine. My fellow scribes at New Providence Writers helped give shape to the first draft of the novel. Sidney Nesti’s razor-sharp critiques made this a far better book than it otherwise would have been.

  Change first sentence to Kudos to Michael Yuen-Killick for his stunning, insightful cover design, and to Jane McWhorter for the interior book design. Thanks to Sage Adderley for her assistance with my social media and Brian Hartman, for updating and managing my website. Heartfelt thanks to my publisher Deborah Herman, for believing in me and taking me to the next level.

  Finally, appreciation and love to my husband Dan Hansburg. So glad we made our journey to the beautiful South Carolina Lowcountry. The best is yet to come.

  About the Author

  Freda Hansburg is a psychologist and co-author of the self-help books PeopleSmart and Working PeopleSmart. Tell On You is her debut novel. Freda and her husband live in the South Carolina Lowcountry, where she is working on her next novel and her Pickleball game.

  www.fredahan
sburg.com

  www.facebook.com/Freda HansburgAuthor

  www.twitter.com/fredahansburg