Left for Dead: A gripping psychological thriller
Page 12
It's nearly an hour before they emerge.
"We'll watch him closely overnight, Lenise, and call you in the morning."
The dog is still alive. Jennifer allows herself to breathe.
"Thank you, doctor," says the woman flatly.
The vet pats her shoulder and asks Jennifer to take her home.
*
Lenise does not sit in the front, but in the back, and stares out the window in silence.
"I don't know where you live," says Jennifer, starting the engine.
"34 Pine Ridge Road."
"Really? The Jacksons' old place? That's right across the road from me. I must have missed you moving in. They've been trying to rent it for ages."
The woman says nothing so Jennifer just drives and steals looks in the rearview at the hooked-nose profile and thin-lipped mouth and hand stroking the empty space where the dog had been.
When they pull up at number 34 Jennifer turns around.
"Lenise – is that your name? I'm Jennifer. I just wanted to say how sorry I am about all of this, truly sorry."
Lenise pauses, her fingers coiled round the door handle.
"I know you've been drinking," she says. "I can smell it."
Then she gets out of the car, and walks swiftly, with purpose, up the path and into her house.
3
Lenise Jameson can't sleep. The temperature seems wildly out of control and she flips between blankets on, blankets off, blankets on, blankets off until she finally gives up and tosses them aside and lies there in the center of the bed curled up like a whorl on a fingertip. She can't get the image of him out of her head, hurt, those sweet, soulful eyes pleading for help.
When he was a puppy she'd started out so strict, determined he would not become one of those weak dogs, the ones that suffer separation anxiety the moment they lose sight of their master. Such neediness was pathetic. Any animal she owned would be independent and resilient so on the very first day she brought him home she made him sleep in another part of the house. But she hadn't been prepared for the heart-wrenching peal of his lonesome and bewildered cries, night after night, as if he was lost and afraid of the dark. On the third night Lenise gave in. She let him into her room then onto her bed, where he became a permanent, warm, heart-beating lump curled up in the arch of her back.
And now look at what had happened. All because of that drunken Tresemme-haired bitch from across the road, Baby may never come home.
Downstairs she hears the key clatter in the lock and the front door open and close. She looks at the bedside clock, 3.30am. She gets up and goes to the kitchen. Cody is there, elbows on the bench, finger-scooping out brown goop from a jar of Nutella.
"Don't start," he says, without turning around.
"I wasn't going too."
He looks up.
"What then?"
She begins to cry. He looks shocked because he has never seen her cry before, especially not like this, with the rolling, breath-robbing sobs and complete lack of restraint.
"Baby was in an accident."
"You're joking."
She shakes her head and can't get the words out.
"What happened?" he says.
"Over the road, the neighbor. She hit him with her car, he's at the vet. I don't think he's going to make it."
Cody stands there, arms by his side, looking useless.
"He'll be okay."
"He won't."
She wipes her nose and pauses.
"Cody, there's something else."
"What?"
"I noticed money missing again."
He stares at her, then turns to walk up the stairs and she knows she has lost him.
"I already told you I'm looking for a job," he says.
"I'm just asking because I'm going to need it for the vet."
"Make the neighbor pay. It's her responsibility."
"I wouldn't take a penny from that woman," she spits.
"You're always on my back. It's not easy out there."
"We've all had to adjust. Cody, please, don't walk away when I'm trying to talk to you, it isn't polite."
"I'm not three, Mother," he says.
He shuts his bedroom door, leaving Lenise to stand alone in the hallway. She doesn't go in because once the door is shut, that's it, their unspoken rule is in force – if he's in his room she will not disturb him. After all, he's a young man, 24 years old, and needs his privacy. But tonight Lenise wants to heave the door open and force him speak to her, make him understand their already bad financial situation is made worse by him. She is doing all that is humanely possible to support them but he needs to realize she isn't invincible and, by the way, doesn't he know she's given him the best years, the very best years of her life, so perhaps he could show a little more gratitude. Sometimes he is so much like his father she can't actually bear to look at him but she forces herself to anyway, because he is her son and that's what you do for people you love. All she wants is for him not to take, no, steal from her. That isn't too much to ask after all she has done for him.
But Lenise says none of those things. Instead she pulls her robe tight and goes back to bed.
*
The next day she feels no better and wishes she could stay in her room but someone has to pay the bills. She looks in the mirror and clenches her teeth as she pulls the comb through the rough and unruly hair she has cursed everyday of her life. At a bar once some wanna-be rapper type told her she looked like the serial killer Aileen Wuornos, only with ginger hair. She had laughed and Tupac had looked surprised because he hadn't meant it as a compliment. But Lenise had been called far worse. Her former husband had frequently referred to her as "pig" or "dog" so at least Aileen Wuornos was the right kind of species. And Wuornos was a woman of course, a strong, dangerous woman, who didn't take bullshit from anyone.
"You better watch out then, P Diddly," Lenise had said, inching close to his gold-hooped ear lobe. "Because I may have more in common with Ms. Wuornos than just looks."
Then she had clicked off a round with her finger and thumb, and just for a moment, the guy's eyes opened a touch too wide.
"Crazy bitch," he had said, walking off.
Lenise couldn't care less if she never looked in another mirror again and wouldn't even bother with make-up if it wasn't for the job, but in America it was expected you look "your best" or "professional" and for a woman that meant mascara and lipstick. She leans into her reflection and applies a layer of amber nights and thinks about how her teeth are in dire need of attention but that with her bank balance a trip to the dentist was not going to happen anytime soon.
Once she's done with the make-up, Lenise slips on her Brook River Real Estate blazer and, as always, experiences a tiny burst of pride. Yes, she had to tell a few white lies to get the job, mainly about holding similar roles back in South Africa, but that's what a person had to do in order to get ahead in life. It was called being resourceful. Not that the job had been an out and out success, and truth be told, some days it truly felt like she was getting nowhere – it had already been two years and she was hardly raking it in – nevertheless, it was a vast improvement on handing out fries to slobs at Cheetoes Burritos and she was certain her luck would turn any day now. It was only a matter of time before a prime listing or referral would come her way.
She walks past Cody's bedroom. He isn't up yet and she fights the urge to slam her fist into the door, at the fact she is sure he is at it again, even though he'd promised her a million times he would stop, but the money didn't grow legs and walk out of the house, did it? Lenise will have to deal with that later. Right now, there were more important things to think about, like Baby, alone and frightened in some steel cage.
The vet still hasn't called but the open home is at 10am and she has to leave so she puts her cell in her pocket, shoves the Brook River sign in the back of the station wagon and heads to Fitchburg.
When Lenise arrives at the four bedroom colonial she's annoyed to see no one has cut the gr
ass. The empty house was another mortgagee sale and had been in a general state of disrepair since the bank kicked the owner out nine months ago. She forces the sign into the hard earth, and goes inside to open a few windows to air the place out and prays someone will show. She needs this sale because last week she had to withdraw money from her credit card for groceries.
Lenise is considering a quick cigarette round the back when a blue SUV pulls up. Mike and Missy are from Texas and seem particularly interested.
"Great natural light. Lots of storage," says Lenise.
"Where y'all from?" asks Missy, noting the accent.
"Jo'Burg."
"Come again?"
"South Africa."
"No kidding."
Lenise hears a loud male voice downstairs she recognizes instantly. Bert Radley. A sanctimonious shyster who would sell his own mother if he thought there was a buck in it. The breathtaking audacity of it – to bring a client to view a house during her open home.
"If you'll excuse me for a moment," she says to Mike and Missy.
Lenise finds Bert Radley in the kitchen with a Korean couple.
"May I have a word?" she says.
"Certainly."
They leave the couple to inspect the size of the pantry and go into the hallway.
"This is highly inappropriate, Radley."
"They asked to see it, what could I do?"
"I'm going to lay a complaint."
"This isn't personal, Lenise."
"You owe me."
"I don't owe you anything."
"I could've had your license revoked after your get together in the Clarkson property."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You were in the client's bed," she smiles. "I saw you."
A sheen develops on his forehead. He glances at the kitchen.
"So that's the way you're going to play it?" he says.
Then he pauses and looks past her shoulder.
"Dirty business, this real estate," he says, walking off.
Lenise turns. The Texan couple stares at her from the doorway.
"It's not what you think," she says. "He slept with a prostitute."
But they won't listen and get into their trendy SUV and drive away, along with her commission.
Lenise waits out the rest of the hour but no one else shows. As she's returning the sign to the trunk, her cell phone rings. She looks at the phone, buzzing in her hand like an electric razor, but can't bring herself to answer it. Five more pulses and the hum stops. She gets in her car and stares out the windscreen. On the road, a black-backed gull plucks at the smashed carcass of a hedgehog. Lenise starts the engine and heads to the clinic.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Deborah Rogers is a fan of all good suspense, mystery and true crime books. She has a Graduate Diploma in Scriptwriting and graduated cum laude from the Hagley Writers’ Institute. When she’s not writing American psychological thrillers, she likes to take her chocolate Labrador for walks on the beach and make decadent desserts.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Highwayman
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
Wilderness
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
Return
31
32
33
34
35
36
Epilogue
HELP ME REACH MY GOAL OF 50 AMAZON & GOODREADS REVIEWS
Read on for the First three Chapters
1
2
3
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Copyright Information
Copyright Information
ISBN 978-0-473-36876-0
TITLE: Left for Dead
First worldwide publication 2016
Copyright © 2016 Deborah Rogers
All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The moral right of Deborah Rogers as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is entirely coincidental.
Published by Lawson Publishing (NZ).
Table of Contents
Highwayman
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
Wilderness
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
Return
31
32
33
34
35
36
Epilogue
HELP ME REACH MY GOAL OF 50 AMAZON & GOODREADS REVIEWS
Read on for the First three Chapters
1
2
3
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Copyright Information