“So you can report me to the police? Oh no, Amelia, jail isn’t for me.”
Nhung frowns. “What you saying, Mr. Hawkins?”
“What I’m saying, Nhung, is that Amelia here is a problem and so are you.”
Nhung pivots to look at Rex, but his hands close around her throat and he tightens his grip.
“Stop it!” I cry.
But he’s not listening. His jaw is set, determined, as if he’s breaking concrete with a pneumatic drill. Nhung tries to pry his hands away and swings her head back and forth, but it does no good. I lunge for him and jump on his back and gouge his eyes. He cries out and flings me off and I tumble backward and knock my head on the stove. Glass jars fall from the shelf above and shatter on the ground. Momentarily stunned, I need a few seconds to focus. When I look up, a limp Nhung is sliding from his hands onto the floor. Poor sweet, innocent Nhung.
He takes two steps toward me. I stagger to my feet and press myself against the wall.
“Stay away from me.”
I glance at the door. Outside is his truck. A chance to get away. I bolt. Rex grabs me, hands locking around my throat. I struggle and kick and try to knee him in the groin but the edges are growing closer and grayer, like I’m too far underwater to get back to the surface. I taste blood, feel the gristle of my tongue between my teeth. I try one last time to elbow him in the gut, but it lands softly, and I hear him laugh and whisper in my ear.
“Always the fighter.”
35
I open my eyes. I am in a sitting position, upright against the kitchen wall. Tiny cubes of glass are stabbing my thighs. Something is stuffed in my underwear, a dishcloth.
“You weren’t fooling this time, you really did get your monthly.”
Rex sits on the floor directly opposite, gun resting on his thigh. Just behind him, Nhung is lying prone and still.
“She’s in a better place,” he says, not turning around.
There’s a bloody half-crescent under his eye from where I gouged him that’s beginning to bruise.
“I’m proud of you, Amelia, really proud. You survived out there when most wouldn’t have stood a chance. I underestimated you.”
I squint at him through the gauze of pain. How can any of this be real? How can Nhung be dead? How can Rex be here?
“Please, I can’t take anymore.”
“Don’t be weak,” he says, sharply. “That’s not you.”
“Why don’t you just shoot me?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I want you to stick around for a while.” He leans close. “Maybe I’m beginning to respect you.”
He takes a breath and runs a hand over his face.
“You know I once saved a car full of kids? Their white trash mother pushed the minivan right into the lake. She was standing on the bank watching it sink when I drove past. When I got out of my truck, I saw three kids slapping the windows and hollering for help, and she was just standing there like it was any other day. I dove in, smashed the glass, pulled them out one by one, even gave the smallest boy mouth-to-mouth until the ambulance got there.” He blinks at me. “What kind of mother would do that to her own kin?”
I close my eyes. Everything hurts. Every muscle and joint. Every fiber of my being. The sound of his voice.
“I’m not all bad, Amelia.”
I think of the wolf.
“Open your eyes, Amelia.”
I think of how close I was to making it home.
“Look at me.”
I pry open my lids.
“Tell me about the day he left.”
“Who?”
“Your pop.”
Did his cruelty know no bounds? Did he have to take everything from me?
“Easy guess, Amelia. You have that little girl lost quality. There’s a loneliness in you. I have it, too. I know what it’s like when people let you down. It leaves you with a hole that can’t be filled.”
“I won’t talk about that.”
“It must have hurt to know he didn’t want you. Did you cry yourself to sleep?”
“Please be quiet.”
“Did you see his likeness in every suburban mall? Curl up with his favorite shirt? Miss him at the Christmas table?”
“Stop it.”
“Amelia, tell me about the pain.”
“It nearly destroyed me—is that what you want to hear?”
“Keep going.”
“Go to hell,” I say.
He smiles. “You and me, we’re a lot alike.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“Most women are as dull as dishwater, but not you, Amelia. Your daddy didn’t deserve such a smart and beautiful daughter.” He cocks the gun and points. “Tell me more.”
“I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
“When I was thirteen I caught a glimpse of him in a Target store, but by the time I made it to the aisle he was gone. Then I saw him at the intersection in a gray late-model Nissan. I begged my mom to stop but the car had already driven off.”
Rex looks sad. “Like I say, he didn’t deserve you.”
“It’s in the past.”
He pauses and stares at me. “There’s something else.”
“No.”
“You’re holding back. I know you better than you think, Amelia.”
“I told you, he left. I never saw him again.”
“Did he abuse you?”
“Of course not,” I stammer, but I feel something, the black heart of that long ago time rising up from the depths of my soul.
“You’re crying,” says Rex.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
Oh, and it hurts, this feeling, like I’m right back there again, the day I climbed the stairs to his study.
“And shaking.”
“Please,” I say. “Please stop.”
“Tell me what happened, Amelia.”
And I see me, nine years old, carrying the tray with his lunch, leftover pasta bake, a packet of saltine crackers, tumbler of blackcurrant juice, and the little card I made for him that said “Time for lunch” in pink felt-tipped pen. I’m turning left on the landing, taking the stairs one at a time, hearing the cutlery rattle and being careful not to splash the juice over the side of the glass and onto the white paper napkin, and reaching the closed study door and balancing the tray on my knee with one hand and using the other to turn the knob, and pushing open the door and the tray slipping from my hands when I see my father’s sock-covered feet swinging right in front of me.
“I found him,” I whisper in disbelief. “I thought he must be playing a trick. Then I saw the chair, kicked away, heard the sound of rope rasping against the wooden rafter.”
“Oh, Amelia.”
I’m sobbing now and I bury my face in my hands and it all becomes clear, those hazy images on the edge of my dreams, my loathing for blackcurrant juice, the scar just below my left knee from running out of the room and tumbling down the stairs and landing on a nail on the second to last step.
Rex lays his hand on my shoulder. I look up and he’s frowning.
“You didn’t deserve that,” he says. “Let me take care of you, Amelia. We’ll go away, just the two of us, live a simple life.”
Behind him, Nhung moves. At first I think I’m imagining it—that she’s still alive—but then Nhung opens her eyes and stretches for the shotgun.
“You know how I got rich, Amelia?” says Rex. “It was my uncle’s land. My bitch of a mother sent me to live with him when I was five. A little kid didn’t fit with her objectives in life, which were to sleep with every man who paid her even the slightest bit of attention. Uncle Ron worked me like a slave. He beat me and whooped my ass just for fun. I slept on the barn floor with the pigs until I was fifteen years old, until the day I got in that wheat thrasher and drove right over him and tore that bastard limb from limb, the same day the sludge bubbled up from the well at the back of the property and erupted like a god
damn geyser. That dumb son of a bitch had been sitting on millions and didn’t even know it. By then my mother was dead from God knows what venereal disease so as his only living relative, I got it all.” He looks at me. “But I’m prepared to leave it all behind. The money. Everything. I would do that for you.”
I steady my breath and wipe my tears and try not to let on to what’s happening behind his back.
“You would?” I say.
Nhung picks up the shotgun and nods at me. I look at Rex, pulse racing, thinking this is my and Nhung’s only chance, so I push the image of my father’s swinging body to the back of my mind and take a deep breath.
I roll onto my side and a shot rings out. Rex yells in pain and looks over his shoulder at Nhung. She fires again, but he ducks, and the shotgun blast gets me. A dozen hot pokers slam into the tenderest parts of my flesh.
Rex is moving now, grabbing a log, charging at Nhung, and smashing it down on top of her head. There’s an ungodly crack as she crashes to the floor in a heap. He pivots and we both see his gun on the ground.
I reach it before he does. I lift and point.
“Amelia.”
I fire a shot into his chest. Darkness spreads across his gray shirt. He stumbles backward into the tiny shrine, knocking the candle, where it rolls off the table and onto the stack of papers, which bursts into flames.
“Amelia,” he wheezes.
Rex staggers in a circle and tries to say my name again but nothing comes out. He drops to his knees then falls forward on his face and lies there as still as a rock.
The gun rattles in my hand. I killed him. The monster is dead.
A window explodes. The fire is raging through the tiny cabin. I have to get out. I fight my way through the dirty black smoke over to Nhung and grab her feet and make it as far as the bearskin rug before giving up. I’m too injured and the fire’s too fierce. Above my head a beam is beginning to crack so I leave Nhung’s body and lunge for the door and make it outside before I hear the beam collapse behind me.
I reach Rex’s truck, lift the radio, press the button, shout.
36
It comes in flashes. The whoosh of the copter blade. The spray of cold as they lift me onto the stretcher. Smoke. The smell of burning bodies. Many hands upon me, tugging and cutting my clothes. Someone is screaming, What the hell happened down there? Another voice yells, She’s losing blood, apply pressure before she bleeds out!
Somebody shakes me. “Ma’am, how many people are in the house?”
I can’t breathe.
“Ma’am.”
“Two,” I wheeze.
“Who shot you, ma-am?”
I try and think of his name but can’t remember.
“Truck,” I say.
“She says there’s a truck down there. Get them to check.”
A few seconds later, the pilot shouts over her shoulder, “That’s a negative on a vehicle.”
I shake my head. “Black truck.”
The pilot radios the team on the ground again. “She’s adamant there’s a truck. Look again.”
“Ma’am, who owns the vehicle?” says the paramedic.
“The man who shot me,” I gasp.
The pilot cuts in, “There’s no truck.”
I shake my head. “Not possible.”
“Calm down, ma’am.”
“Not possible. I killed him.”
“Heart rate is elevated.”
“Ma’am, you’ve got to calm down.”
“Truck. Truck. Truck.”
“She’s in distress. Get me some midazolam ASAP.”
I feel a dull prick and lava floods my veins. Suddenly I remember his name. Rex Hawkins. And five of the ten things. Kermit the Frog. Aviator sunglasses. Wood-beaded seat cover. Partial plate O, K, and 4. A son called Noah.
I move my lips but no sound comes out. The paramedic comes closer.
“What was that?”
“He’s not dead.”
Epilogue
I watch Lorna pour water into a tumbler and sit back down in her leather executive chair.
“Will that be in your report?” I ask.
She smiles. “Our sessions are confidential, Amelia. You know that.”
“I want this job.”
“I understand.” She sips the water, sets it down on the glass-topped coffee table between us. “Why do you think my report will be unfavorable? Have you been holding back?”
I think of the eight months of therapy, telling her what she wants to hear. My hand curls around the cane.
“How’s the physio going?” she says.
I shrug. “Doing the rumba is pretty tough with half a foot.”
“How do you feel about that?”
I look at her. “Really?”
She lifts her hand. “Sorry. Patronizing.”
Pivoting, she retrieves a bright blue folder from her desk and opens it.
“It’s bound to be high pressure. Being a state prosecutor is not going to be a walk in the park. Especially if you are fragile.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“You want to help.”
“Yes.”
“There are other, less stressful, ways to help people, Amelia.”
I try to soften my face. “Please, Lorna. I know I can do this. I just need a clean psychological assessment.”
Behind her, out the window, pigeons are nesting in the stone gargoyles.
“And him?” says Lorna.
“What about him?”
“It can’t be a great feeling knowing he’s still out there.”
I don’t tell her about the hang-up phone calls. The three deadbolts on my front door. The guns stashed in every room of my apartment.
“I’m not going to let Rex Hawkins control my life.”
She shoots me a smile. “Good for you, Amelia. But you need to be careful. I’m not just talking about physical safety here, I mean emotional too.”
“I know the signs.”
She nods. “That’s important.”
I look at the tiny Dictaphone on the glass coffee table, barely the size of a pack of gum, at the pinprick of red light and the tiny, hollow slit, recording everything I say.
Finally Lorna speaks. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’ll clear you,” she says. “But you need to come in every second week. There’s still work to do.”
My heart leaps and I feel an unfamiliar boost.
She looks at her watch. “That’s time.”
Lorna rises and I follow her to the door.
“Go do good in the world, Amelia.”
*
I step out onto the pavement, button my parka at my throat, and head left. My cane wobbles beneath the weight of my hand. I’m still not used to this third leg and the fact I will have to live with a limp for the rest of my life. But it’s the cane or a wheelchair.
“Hey, lady, spare a dollar?”
I ignore the shifty guy in the yellow Nikes and carry on, clomping up the street, avoiding missteps in the cracks.
“God bless,” he calls anyhow.
You too, I think, God bless you and your sorry state and the cardboard box you crawl into at night with the bottle of whatever you can get your hands on but I don’t stop for strangers anymore.
Downtown traffic roars by, tourists take selfies, a guy in a Yankees cap sells dolls from the trunk of his battered Honda. I head south, past Central Park and into the diner on East 45th Street. My mother is talking to the waitress about the best way to steam okra. I go over and she folds me into a hug of turpentine and home-baked bread.
“Hey there, sweets. How you doing?”
I spy the crusts of aqua paint in the crescents of her forefinger and thumb.
“Better than average.”
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THE DEVIL’S WIRE
By Deborah Rogers
Jennifer’s new neighbor, Lenise Jameson, is a liar. Lenise claims to have witnessed a disturbing incident involving Jennifer’s husband, Hank, but as far as Jennifer is concerned, the forty-something single mother is a vindictive backstabber just out to make trouble.
But Jennifer soon discovers this is no sick joke. Hank has a dark side she knew nothing about.
As Jennifer’s life spirals out of control, she has no one to turn to, apart from Lenise, who appears only too willing to help. But is Jennifer making a pact with the devil? Just who is Lenise? What does she want from Jennifer? And just how far is she willing to go to get it?
A tale about secrets and obsession, and what can happen when you forget to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
Click Here to Buy from Amazon.com Click Here to Buy from Amazon.co.uk
Read on for the First three Chapters
1
The ironic thing is that tonight Jennifer is thinking about car crashes when she rounds the corner onto Pine Ridge Road. She could've sworn she was the only one on it, and that's why she's chosen the moment to reach down for the mandarin rolling loose in the foot well. The pothole she'd struck back on Tedder Street had sent the mandarins tumbling from the grocery bag and one had found its way here, to the front. She's being safety conscious because the thing might get trapped behind the brake pedal and she'd once seen a car crash and knew what a disaster it could be. That time, the car, a jeep deluxe something, had flipped right in front of her. It had hit the curb and skidded across four lanes worth of highway to land directly in her path, exposing its aging belly to the sunlight, dripping gasoline from its tank.
Worried the jeep might explode, Jennifer had tried to get the woman out, dragging her free through the smashed up windscreen, but the rescue guy later told Jennifer that the whole "car's going to explode because you've crashed thing" was an urban myth because gas tanks didn't blow up just like that, there needed to be fire first. Not that it mattered to the woman. She was dead by the time Jennifer pulled her into the ring of dirt by the side of the road.
Left for Dead: A gripping psychological thriller Page 10