Mr. Sugar: A disturbing psychological thriller with a twist of dark romance

by L. D. Fox

  They pulled away, Claire muttering something under her breath about how much she hated slipways and left the truck idling noisily behind them.

  When they pulled up outside Claire’s home office, Angel turned to her.

  “So, when you sell this house, what happens to the money?”

  Claire’s mouth worked for a few seconds before the woman turned off the car and twisted to face her. She folded her hands in her lap and looked away. “Well, there are transfer fees and—”

  “After everyone and the dog takes their cut. What happens to my money?”

  “It will be paid over to your trust.” Claire blinked at her, and then realized she was waiting for more. “And then… well, that’s entirely up to the person managing your trust.”

  Angel rolled her eyes. “Fucking Harry,” she mumbled. “That guy’s such a fucking buzzkill. Can’t you just pay it to me?”

  “Unfortunately, the lakehouse is an asset of the trust. Mr. Sugar made it very clear that all proceeds and profits would be metered out for you and Penelope. Because you’re both so young, you see?”

  Angel sighed, and then slapped her hands on her thighs. “Thanks. Could you make this all happen like really fast?”

  “Fast as I can,” Claire said.

  Then the woman leaned over and laid a cold, clammy hand on her leg. “How are you holding up, child?”

  Angel’s mouth twisted to the side. She grabbed the tip of the woman’s finger and peeled her hand off. “I’m over it, Agony Aunt. You can cut the whole I-give-a-shit bullshit. I’m not Drew. I just want a payout, so I don’t have to ever see or think about that place again. Got it?”

  Claire shrank away from her, glancing down at the handbrake before nodding a few times. “Of course. I—”

  Then she got out of the car, closing the door softly behind her.

  Angel stayed a few seconds longer, willing composure back into her mind. Then she got out of the car, tugging her dress down to mid-thigh and stalking across the street to her car.

  The pale pink BMW gleamed like a wet fish. Surprisingly, Harry had agreed when she’d said she had to buy a car. He’d told her that a girl her age needed to be mobile. Drew had also made provisions in his trust that the beneficiaries — her and Penny — should always have transportation. A reliable, mid-range vehicle no older than two years, with a service plan.

  She had a feeling Harry would personally drive her car to the service shop to make sure it got its next service.

  Smiling ruefully, she paused and hunted through her purse for her keys.

  She’d just touched something that felt very definitely like the remote when she heard footsteps behind her.

  “Just looking for my keys, Claire. You don’t have—”

  But when she turned, it wasn’t Claire behind her.

  Ice flashed over her skin. She lost her grip on her remote, her fingers prickling with pins and needles.

  The trucker she’d seen in Claire’s mirror was on his way across the road to her.

  Jesus, he was even wearing a vest. And it was stained with pit sweat and what might have been ketchup back in the eighties. She cringed away from him, her ass colliding with the beamer’s window.

  “Everything good here, miss?” He stopped a few feet from her, tipping back his cap slightly as the direction of the sunlight changed. His beard and tawny-colored hair met in a tangle over his ears, and his police-specs sat on a slightly crooked nose. Those sunglasses had a perfect reflection of her and the pink car behind her.

  “Yeah.” She stuck her hand back inside, searching furiously for the keys. “My keys… fucking handbag’s a mess.”

  He nodded, taking another slow step toward her. “Hey, weren’t you at that there lakehouse?”

  He had a two-pack a day voice and spoke with a faint accent she couldn’t place.

  “Uh… yeah.”

  “Yours?” he asked, glancing past her at the car.

  “Not for long,” she said brightly. “Selling it.”

  She snagged her keys and then paused. The last thing she wanted to do was turn her back on this weirdo. She stood in the middle of goddamn suburbia — there was even the token guy with a lawn-mower a few houses down — but he could have a knife in her before she had time to scream.

  Damn, weren’t her thoughts of the darkest pitch these days?

  She forced a smile on her mouth and jingled her keys in front of her. “Found ‘em.”

  The man gave her a lopsided smile — that she could see through that messy beard — and then stepped back.

  “Pity,” he said, as she pressed the button to unlock the car door.

  “Yeah, well—”

  “Been keen on that place for a while.” The man turned, glancing up either end of the street for traffic, and jogged back to his truck.

  “Hey—” Angel bit her lip and then strode after the man.

  He was already half-way inside his truck when she stopped outside his door. He seemed surprised that she’d followed him, hesitating to close his door. “Ma’am?”

  “You wanna buy it?” She ran her eye over the truck — it wasn’t in the best shape, and neither was the guy, but how much did lakehouses go for, honestly? Especially one like that, in the middle of fuck-off and nowhere?

  “Would have loved to, but sounds like you’ve already—”

  Angel tipped her chin toward Claire’s house. The realtor had a sign up outside, but the stupid woman had gone and parked in front of most of it.

  “Go speak to her. She’s my realtor. Maybe you can beat the guy’s offer.”

  “He’s already put in an offer?” The trucker gave her a slow shake of his head, laughing. “Yeah, it’s prob’ly outta my price range.”

  “Which is?”

  The man’s face twitched as if he was squinting. “Well… it ain’t much—”

  “How much?” She rested her arm on his door, leaning in.

  “Hundred-fifty kay?” The man shrugged. “Place like that ain’t—”

  “Cash?” She ducked her head, glancing through the man’s window to see if Claire was anywhere in sight.

  “Yeah, cash.” The man draped his arm over the steering wheel. “You mean that’s something you’d consider?”

  “Sure it is.” Angel drew out her cellphone and unlocked it. “But you’ve got the cash? Like, not a money transfer — I mean cash, cash?”

  The man drew back slightly and ran his fingers over the rim of his cap. “I’m not sure if I should—”

  She stabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “Does it look like I need any more money in my bank account, guy?”

  The man gave a single-shouldered shrug. “Guess not. So what, you want me to bring you like a duffel bag of cash?” He laughed while saying it, and then trailed off when she nodded.

  “Sounds good. Tell you what; give me your number, and we’ll sort this out. I could have you in there by the end of the week.”

  “That fast?” The man tipped back his head to scratch his head.

  Jesus, but there was something about the way he moved that was trying to get her attention. If she didn’t have to be on Claire-alert while trying to balance on her heels and keep her skirt from flying up in the determined breeze that kept gusting around her, she might have been able to pay attention.

  Instead, she took down the man’s number, gave him a broad smile, and hurried back to her car before the wind could give him more of a show than he’d already had.

  Inside her car, she took a moment to smooth back the flyaway strands of hair that surrounded her face. Then she watched the man in the truck pulling away from the curb. He stuck his hand out the car, giving her a wave as he drove off.

  She snorted, and saved his number as ‘trucker dude.’ Then she edited it and wrote ‘lakehouse buyer’ instead.

  61

  Call Me

  Angel toyed with a set of keys. The keyring was a small, sleek boat carved from pine. There were quite a few keys on the ring — one had to be the front door, b
ut the rest were a mystery.

  “Fuck it,” she muttered. She used the edge of her gold-painted nail to drag her phone closer and tipped it over. It took her a few seconds to find the guy’s number — she kept thinking it would be under ‘trucker’ something.

  That nail went into her mouth as she waited for him to answer. She didn’t bite it — not when she’d had a manicure yesterday — only ran her tongue against the edge.

  “Yeah?” a rough voice answered.

  “Yeah, hey… it’s me. You wanted to buy my lakehouse?”

  “Oh, yeah. Jus’ hang on.” A burst of noise, movement, and then the man’s voice returned. “You there?”

  “I am.” Angel lifted the keys, dangling them from her finger. “You still keen? A hundred and fifty kay, cash?”

  “Yeah, I’m keen. Sure.” The man gave a small laugh, coughed, and then laughed again. “So when are we meeting?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, that’ll work. Got a thing in the morning, though. Late afternoon fine? I’m not sure about traffic…”

  “Traffic?” She closed her fingers around the keys, abruptly cutting off their jangling.

  “Well… we’re meeting at the house, right?”

  “The lakehouse?”

  “Yeah…” Another laugh. “The one I’m buying?”

  “Uh…”

  “I haven’t seen the inside yet. Yuu really ‘spect me to buy something I haven’t seen?”

  “I… thought you’d—”

  “Nah.” The man laughed again. “I mean, I spoke to the chick—” he cleared his throat “—the lady that came by sometimes. But she was real hung up on the place. Said she’d never sell in a million years.”

  Angel let out a long sigh. Dammit, but she didn’t want to go back there. Not just for that long drive, but… she could still feel those invisible eyes on her. Could still, when she closed her eyes and concentrated real hard, hear that gunshot. The explosion.

  “Look, bring your realtor with and all the docs. Then we can sign and handover the money right then and there. No mess, no fuss.”

  Angel bit her lip. Yeah, and then Claire would go around saying stuff like ‘You can’t do that, Angel,’ and frowning at her and stuff.

  “Tomorrow? Around three?”

  “It’ll have to be closer to five. That fine?”

  “I guess.” It would mean she’d have to drive back in the dark, but it was worth one-fifty… wasn’t it?

  “Yeah, fine. Let’s do it. Bring the money, all right?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Hey, I never got your name.”

  There was a moment’s pause. She glanced down at the phone, but the call was still active. When she put it back to her ear, the man was laughing.

  “Uh…”

  “Sorry.” The man sobered up and cleared his throat. “It’s Bruce.”

  “B-Bruce?” she managed, swallowing a sudden itch.

  “Yeah, that’s it. And you are…?”

  “Angel.” Then, with hardly a pause, she added. “-ica. Angelica.”

  “See you tomorrow then, Angelica.”

  The line went dead. She put the phone on the table, her hands on either side, framing it. Then she went into her contacts and updated the number.

  Was it too late to call Claire?

  She pursed her lips, and her nail went back into her mouth before she dialed the realtor’s number.

  It went to voicemail.

  Her thumb hovered over the end button, and then she put the phone back to her ear.

  “Claire? It’s Angel. I’ve changed my mind; I’m keeping the lakehouse. Call me when you get this.”

  62

  Not Fast Enough

  Gravel crunched under her car’s tires as she pulled up to the lakehouse. It was slightly overcast today — the pine didn’t look as bright and falsely cheery as it had the other day when she’d been here with Claire.

  She’d expected to see a truck parked outside — it was five-thirty, after all. Her sneakers sank into the gravel as she climbed out of her car and paused for a moment with her arm draped over the door.

  Should she call him? Find out where he was? Or would that look too desperate? She was, after all, as unconcerned about this place as she was with the money. He was doing her a favor, taking it off her hands. At least… that’s what she wanted him to think.

  Sliding her handbag’s strap over her shoulder, she crossed her arms over her chest and stared through the gap between the house and the pines, out over the lake. It was gunmetal gray today, what with the silver clouds above and whatever lurked in those waters that made them so dark.

  She’d wondered about that more than once. Even looked it up. Only one random blog post had mentioned anything about the lake’s dark waters — they attributed it to the abundance of the dark pebbles that littered the shore.

  There didn’t seem enough of those to make the waters that black, though.

  Behind her, a car crunched over gravel, slowing. She turned and flipped her ponytail over her shoulder as the driver door opened with a creak.

  The trucker stepped out, this time bereft of a cap. His brown hair was still long, but clean today. Caught in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck. And, when he turned, she stiffened.

  He’d shaved off his beard.

  A vest poked through the opening in his jacket, but all his clothes were clean. Had it not been for those oversized police sunglasses that hid most of his face, she wouldn’t have thought it was the same guy. He was handsome, despite the scar on his lip and the jaunty angle of his nose.

  The duffel bag he brought out with him was all the confirmation she needed. Her eyes darted to it, stuck there like a fly trapped in honey.

  It didn’t look heavy enough.

  “Hey,” she called out.

  “Hey yourself.” Bruce crunched to a halt beside her and gave her a wide grin. “I thought you were bringing your realtor?”

  “Oh… no, she couldn’t make it.” Angel tightened her grip on her handbag. “But she knows I’m here.”

  Bruce chuckled. “’Spose that’s a good thing,” he said, shrugging as he walked past her. “Place like this, anything can happen.”

  She tried desperately to ignore the queasy fluttering in her stomach, instead wrestling the lakehouse’s keys from a tangle of tissues, hand wipes, and discarded shopping receipts.

  “You wanted to see inside?”

  The man nodded and then gave her a double take when she held out the keys to him. “What, you’re not coming with?”

  “Nah. Sick of it. That’s why I’m selling.”

  He frowned but took the keys without another word. Then he trudged down the stairs, duffel bag in one hand and keys in the other. He fumbled with the front door a while until he found the key that worked, turned, and gave her a friendly wave before disappearing inside.

  She slumped against her car door, pulling her hair free and redoing it with a vicious tug that brought tears to her eyes.

  Fuck it, she hated feeling afraid. If there was one thing she would never forgive Drew for, it was that. She’d never once been scared of anything; not riding the bus by herself when she was five, not staying alone with her uncle despite how he used to look at her, not sitting for an exam. Nothing had scared her.

  Until she’d met Drew.

  Until he’d brought her here and she’d looked down into that ink-black water.

  Until she’d heard that gunshot and been reduced to a shivering mess knowing — knowing — that he was on his way back for her.

  Now… now she slept with a night light because the shadows moved too much when her room was dark. She’d even rented out one of her bedrooms to a roommate just so she wouldn’t have to be alone. Except, Ruby was barely ever there, so she was still going around three in the morning checking to make sure that everything was locked.

  Shoving a cigarette between her lips, Angel tried to light it. Making her hand into a quick fist to try and work out the tremor
s, she managed to light it on the third try. Lifting her sneaker behind her, she rested against the side of the car, head on the roof, as she stared into the gray sky.

  Why was he taking so long? There wasn’t that much to look at; a fucking kitchen and four bedrooms and you were done. She shifted, glancing over at the lakehouse.

  And then froze.

  A shadow moved behind one of the windows.

  She pushed away from the car, cigarette dangling absently at her side.

  The shadow lifted a hand, waved. Disappeared.

  It was the trucker guy. It could only be him.

  But, just as surely as she was standing there, she knew it wasn’t him. She dropped her smoke to the gravel and ripped her phone out, already halfway inside the car. She switched the car on and revved the engine.

  On instinct, her eyes flashed to the rearview mirror as she put the car in reverse.

  The phone dropped into her lap.

  The rust-colored truck barred her way. The man had parked it at an angle, completely blocking the drive. And, because the drive was fringed with pines, she’d have to crash into the side of his car to try and get out.

  She reached for her phone with numb fingers.

  It rang before she could answer. She yelled, the sound too loud in the confines of the car, and lifted the phone.

  Bryce.

  She stared at the screen, her mouth tingling and her tongue dry.

  It was just a typo. She’d pressed ‘y’ instead of ‘u.’

  The phone died and then started up again a second later.

  She swiped a hand over her forehead and answered with a hesitant, “Yes?”

  “Yeah… I’m not sure if you know this, but someone’s been staying here, Angel.”

  “What… what did you say?” Her voice was hoarse.

  “I think someone’s been living here. It’s a mess. You’ll prob’ly wanna come see this.” And then he hung up.

  It was just a typo.

  He hadn’t intentionally blocked her in with his car.