Perception: A Bittersweet Romance Suspense Novel

by Kendra Leigh

  “Christ, Savannah, I had no idea you felt like that. I always assumed you were happy with Nick. Like I said, I knew your sex life wasn’t winning prizes, but I thought you were okay with that … we all did. It’s why Meg said what she said—because sex isn’t the be all and end all.”

  “I know. You’re right.” I attempt to recover quickly, the sound of Nick’s voice in my head hissing a warning—remember what we spoke about. “Just ignore me. I’m being ungrateful. It’s just hearing the others talk about their exciting love lives. I guess I’m jealous.”

  Ava smiles, understanding. “I guess Nick’s the only guy you’ve ever slept with?”

  I nod. “I know it’s wrong, but sometimes I feel I missed out on a whole chapter of my life. Remember the nights you were out partying and hooking up with hot strangers at college? I was learning how to make pot roast. That’s why thirty-three feels like fifty-three.”

  “You were going through a tough time back then, Savannah. You did what was right for you in the moment. What you needed was Nick.” She pauses as if reluctant to continue. “That doesn’t mean he’s what you need now. People split up all the time, Savannah. You can start again, have everything you fantasize about—”

  “Leave him?” The thought is like a bucket of cold water in the face. “I can’t leave him. What would I do, where would I go?”

  “It’s your house, Savannah, your business—rightfully yours, not his. He’s having the cake and eating it. Do you really think you’re the only person he’s ever slept with?”

  “What do you know?” I ask accusingly.

  Dipping her head, she moves to the sink and digs in her purse for her lipstick. I follow and wash my hands.

  “I don’t know anything.” She eyes me in the mirror, smacking her lips together before returning the lipstick to her purse. “But from the look on your face, you do?”

  I shrug.

  “So leave him, Savannah!”

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “It really is. You’ve just pretty much said you don’t love him anymore. You know the bastard’s more than likely cheated on you. He doesn’t give you what you need but finds someone else to give it to while you’re home making his fucking pot roast.”

  “I didn’t say I don’t love him, and I don’t actually know of anything either, not for sure. It’s just sometimes—”

  “Sometimes what?”

  “I can sense it.”

  “Do you still love him?”

  Feeling frustrated with the direction the conversation has headed, I grab my purse from the counter and make for the door. “Please just forget I said anything. I’m just having an off day, is all. I’m probably just being paranoid anyway. Nick’s had a lot to cope with over the last few years—losing his mom and difficulties with the business plus having to take care of me.”

  “No more than most men. And what do you mean, take care of you? You’re not a child.”

  “I didn’t say I was. You don’t understand my life, Ava. Look, please forget about this conversation. Nick and I … we’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so. You didn’t answer my question, though, Savannah. About loving him. You might want to think about that.”

  * * *

  By the time I reach my address in Park Slope, Brooklyn, I’m exhausted. I’ve been up since 5:00 am to do my chores, spent hours checking, and then the conversation with Ava has finished me off.

  As soon as I put my key in the door, I can feel Mrs. Draper’s eyes on my back. She’s usually out on Wednesdays, which is why I talked the girls into meeting today instead of their usual Thursday lunch. To be certain I’m not being paranoid, I glance back over my shoulder to the upstairs window of the house across the street. There she is in her usual position. I can picture the notepad and pen in her lap, ready to report every move I make back to Nick. Nosy old witch. I can only hope Nick won’t get a chance to speak to her.

  After disarming the alarm, I go straight upstairs to change, hanging the pink dress at the back of my closet—I will have to launder it another day—and spraying the gray dress with antiperspirant before scrunching it into a ball and placing it in the laundry.

  Shadow raises her head, blinking content sleepy eyes from where she lies snuggled up on the chair by the window. “Hello, baby girl.” I crouch down beside her, stroking her black, velvet fur the length of her back until she begins her gentle thrumming purr. “Did you watch over things while I was gone? Did you?” She rolls onto her back for me to tickle her tummy. “I’ll bet you’ve been right here all day, haven’t you? You’ll never make a decent PI.”

  Smiling, I look out of the window across the garden to the decking where the sun loungers sit under the shade of a tree. Nick said he’d be late tonight, and I know exactly what I want to do. I dress quickly in shorts and a tank and then begin my routine checks. Everything upstairs is how I left it, although it takes several checks of the towels in Nick’s bathroom to be sure.

  All the windows and doors downstairs are still secure, and the blind remains at the angle I left it. Everything is going well … until I open the cupboard with cups. All but one sits with their handles to the right. It’s Nick’s favorite, the fine china one with the words This Belongs to the Best Husband in the World scrawled across the front. Its handle is facing front, only a few degrees different to the others, but it’s as starkly obvious to me as the nose on my face. My heart sinks, the familiar feelings of uncertainty creeping inside my mind, already weighing down on my back in the space between my shoulder blades. I checked four times before I left this morning. I can’t possibly have missed it. Can I? Nick’s condemnation resounds in my head: So fucking incompetent!

  One by one, I begin removing the cups from the cupboard. I grab a clean cloth from the pantry, and using sanitizer I carefully clean the inside of the cupboard before replacing the cups—each handle set at exactly the precise angle to the right.

  Anyone watching would label me OCD in an instant. I’m not. My manifestations of the disorder are referred, if there’s such a thing. Nick is the one with obsessive tendencies, everything having to be in perfect alignment and clinically clean. My anxiety comes from the fear of getting it wrong. The consequences, as Nick calls it.

  I’m about to close the cupboard door, satisfied that I’ve finally got it right, when my phone buzzes with a message: Nick — Where are you? I reply immediately: Me—I’m home xx. His response is instant, and I can picture him standing in his office with his phone in his hand, his watchful eye counting the seconds it takes for me to reply. Nick — Good!

  The time on the clock reads 4:45 pm. I still have an hour before I have to start preparing dinner. Grabbing my notepad and a pencil, I make my way outside to the bottom of the garden and settle into one of the sun loungers. Although the sun still shines high in the sky, the shaded area provides a comfortable place to sit and relax. I open my pad and begin to sketch the picture forming in my mind, a beautiful garden with flowers and a pond. Creatures begin to materialize in the story taking shape in my mind, but in order to see them more clearly, I lie back and close my eyes. Alone in the dark behind my eyelids, the creatures become characters and the story comes alive.

  Chapter Three

  Jackson

  Present day.

  A BEAD OF SWEAT TRICKLES down my back as I shift restlessly in my seat. Even under the shade of a tree, sitting in the car with my windows down, it’s stifling. I don’t want to risk using the air conditioner in case the engine running creates unwanted attention, so I sit here baking instead.

  For something to do, I flick through the file for the hundredth time, taking in the finer details: Savannah Harper, thirty-two, five-two, 119 pounds, blond hair, blue eyes, pretty smile. It doesn’t say pretty smile, but she has one; I can see that from the photograph I hold in my hands—the one which I’ve now committed to memory, even down to the singular freckle that sits about an inch above the left side of her upper lip, the only blemish on her otherwise flawless
porcelain face. In fact, her features seem so perfectly formed and dainty she reminds me, almost, of a doll.

  Deciding the picture must have been taken a decade ago, I close the file and toss it onto the seat beside me, turning my attention back to the front door of the brownstone across the street. It’s a striking building, a three-story townhouse on a tree-lined street just up slope from Prospect Park in Brooklyn. I managed to grab myself the same parking spot as yesterday, one which affords me a reasonable view of the property but is subtle enough not to be obvious to anyone on the inside looking out.

  The purpose of yesterday was a trial run, and although part of me thinks I was being over cautious, it proves to have been useful. It gave me the opportunity to spot some behavior that, if repeated today, will make my life a little easier.

  The subject—Savannah Harper—left the house at 12:30 pm wearing sweats and an oversized hoodie, strange in itself as the weather was crazy hot. I wasn’t even sure it was her at first; her hair was scraped back in a ponytail and her face was barely visible under the brim of a baseball cap. After locking the door, she slung a backpack over her shoulder and began to walk down the street toward Prospect Park West and the park. I was just about to get out of the car to follow on foot when she did an about turn and went back to the house. For the next few minutes, she seemed to repeatedly unlock and lock the door before finally continuing down the street.

  The odd behavior didn’t end there. I followed on foot to the next street, where she halted abruptly beside a vehicle—a beat-up Beetle that looked as if it hadn’t moved in years. After glancing around, she opened the door and got in. I was just about to hightail it back to get my car, cursing myself for leaving it, when she got out and went to the trunk. She seemed to spend a few moments rummaging before climbing back in the passenger side. What the fuck?

  When she finally emerged, around five minutes later, I had to do a double take to check it was her. Somehow, she’d changed out of the none too flattering sweats and replaced them with denim shorts and a top. Her blond hair was loose and falling around her shoulders in waves. She looked, somehow, smaller.

  A few minutes later, she disappeared inside the park, leaving me wondering what the hell I’d just witnessed. I mean, who leaves their house only to go back seconds later to repeatedly lock and unlock the door before walking to the next street to get changed inside a car? Just to go for a walk in the park.

  Whatever the reason, I found myself feeling eager to come back today. I don’t know if it’s just because I’m intrigued by her eccentric behavior or if it’s something else, but while I wait under the shade of the tree for the clock to move around to 12.30 pm, I know one thing for sure. I’m nervous as hell.

  Why the fuck am I nervous? Shit like this is second nature to me. Christ, I used to live and breathe it—like Natalie said, I thrived on it. Ha! I laugh aloud. Who am I trying to kid? If someone had told me I’d be sitting here doing this a week ago, I’d have cracked ribs laughing. Yet here I am. Ten minutes with Natalie Leonard lecturing me on what she says I want and she’s got me eating out of her hand. This is how I’ve been for the last forty-eight hours, up and down like a yo-yo so many times I’m suffering with motion sickness. One minute, the thought of going through with this gives me a hard-on, the next I’m shitting bricks. My conscious is surely trying to tell me something.

  Fuck this shit! I start the engine. Natalie will go ballistic, but if I don’t listen to this voice in my head yelling at me to turn around and get the hell out, I’ll live to regret it. I just know it.

  As I reach for my seat belt, the door to the brownstone opens and there she is. I freeze, my eyes flicking to the time on the dashboard: 12:20 pm. She’s early. For a minute or so, she lingers in the doorway, her chin tilted up as if she’s checking the doorframe for something. Then she steps out, closing the door carefully behind her. Today, she only manages to reach the bottom step before turning back to check the door, pushing on it once, twice, and then a third time, seemingly to verify that it’s definitely locked. Appearing satisfied, she hurries off down the street, backpack in place, baseball cap pulled firmly down to obscure her face.

  Still, I remain frozen in my seat, puzzled by this peculiar fascination she evokes in me and torn between wanting to see this through and the voice in my head warning me off. Her figure, dressed in the oversized sweats from yesterday, grows smaller as she reaches the end of the street and turns the corner. Fuck! Fuck! I thump my fist against the steering wheel. Decide, for Christ’s sake!

  Before I even realize what I’m doing, I pull out and drive in the direction I know she’s headed. As I reach the next street, I spot her closing the trunk of the Beetle and climbing into the passenger seat. My trial run yesterday was useful, after all. As bizarre as her behavior seems, Savannah Harper is a creature of habit.

  As casually as I can, I pull up just past her vehicle and reverse into the space behind her so our trunks are facing. My eyes fix on the rearview mirror, watching, waiting, as the seconds tick by. Mercifully, the street is empty apart from an elderly man walking away from our direction at the other end of the street.

  A movement in my side mirror catches my eye—a pair of bare legs in sneakers unfolding from the car and moving to the trunk. It takes no time at all for me to pop the trunk and steal furtively to the rear of my car where ice blue eyes, wide with shock and fear, gaze for the first time into mine as I close my hand over her mouth. Her body feels light as a feather in my arms as I fold her into the trunk of my car, my heart hammering wildly in my chest, extinguishing all other sounds or thoughts or feelings.

  * * *

  I’m heading north on the interstate before my pulse returns to its regular rhythm. The adrenaline rush has left my blood buzzing through my veins with an electrifying energy. A glimpse of my dilated pupils in the rearview and the discomfort of my semi-hard cock is enough to know that my nerves have upped and left. Excitement fuels me now, drizzling into my senses like a drug.

  The two hour journey to Sullivan County seems to pass unnoticed, only the monotone voice of the satellite navigator breaking the silence. I made sure that the journey would be a comfortable one for my passenger. The trunk is fitted with a light and air-conditioning—a tool usually used to keep groceries cool—and the base is lined with a comforter. There’s a bottle of iced water and even some fruit, not that I think she’ll eat any; it’s more of a gesture really. My way of saying lie back and relax, no need to worry. Against the rules, but meh.

  I know my journey is coming to an end when the route finder leads me off the main trail and down a single track private road into miles and miles of forest. My final destination is a pleasant surprise. At the bottom of the track is a clearing sloping gently down to a small lake with a short jetty in need of some repair. To the right and snuggled discreetly in the midst of this hunter’s paradise is a small but quaint log cabin. Three steps lead up to a deck furnished with two rocking chairs and a small table made from chopped logs. Lanterns hang from either side of the doorway, and for a second my mind flashes back to a TV series when I was a kid: Little House on the Prairie. What the fuck?

  Switching the engine off, I flick the lever and open the door, straining my ears to listen for any noise coming from the trunk. Other than the sound of the wilderness and the breeze rustling through the trees, there’s nothing. The scent of forest ferns and wood heated from the sun is heavy in the air, and just like that, what was a suffocating heat back in Brooklyn is now a perfect summer day. A deep breath soothes the frayed edges of my nerves; they’ve felt jangled since London.

  And then comes the sound of a muffled plea, bringing my thoughts back to the perfectly packaged cargo in the trunk. “Hello? Is anybody there?”

  Here goes. It’s time to meet Savannah Harper.

  Chapter Four

  Savannah

  I’M BEGINNING TO THINK THE journey will never end. At first, the fear renders me frozen and I curl up in a ball, my hands covering my head, knees pulled in tig
ht to protect my gut—an instinctive reaction. But as the curtain of fear lifts, allowing my mind to function and think, I begin to process what has just happened. Having changed, I got out of the car to put my sweats in the trunk, and suddenly I felt a hand close around my mouth. The brown eyes that looked back at me when I turned were not the green ones I’d been expecting. The hand felt different too, like it was gently silencing me rather than cutting off my airways.

  When I finally unfurl my body and open my eyes, I’m surprised that I can see. The light isn’t bright, but it takes away the horror of blind darkness and the unknown. The comforter beneath is … well … comfortable, and the cold air filtering in is enough to alleviate the panic of the enclosed space and the fear of not being able to breathe. There’s even water.

  But why am I here? And who is the owner of the brown eyes? Perhaps I’m a victim of mistaken identity. Maybe I’m even dreaming. Whatever the reason, being stuffed into the trunk of this car has to be better than if those eyes had been green.

  As I gaze at the inner lid of the trunk above me, I realize I should probably be banging my fists against it, screaming to be released, but I know better than to make a fuss. Apart from that the car feels as if it’s moving at speed, and the thought of the lid flying open while racing down the interstate scares the living shit out of me.

  Although my brain is telling me I should be fearful of my situation, I realize it isn’t my biggest concern. Instead, I’m worrying about where the hell I’m being taken, how far from home I’ll be, and will I be back in time to make dinner. How will I explain if I’m not?

  My thoughts are interrupted when the car slows, the final ten or fifteen minutes of the journey becoming uncomfortable as it rides over rough uneven ground. My heartbeat accelerates when the driver kills the engine, and I curse myself for not thinking up a plan. Christ, the son-of-a-bitch might be preparing to rape me or kill me and bury me in a shallow grave.