House of Sand
a dark psychological thriller
Michael J Sanford
Copyright © 2017 Michael J Sanford
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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I
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
II
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
III
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I
“Of a small spark, a great fire.”
~ Chinese Proverb
CHAPTER ONE
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Joy is yelling again, but it’s difficult to focus with the sound of a clock echoing in my head. Could be Joy’s watch. I can never tell.
“And what is this charge at Vanguard’s?” she shouts.
I give my oatmeal a stir, hazard a bite, and keep my gaze from meeting hers. “I needed a new suit. Or suit, period. You’re the one who said I should dress nice.”
A piece of paper slides across the kitchen table toward my bowl. I give it a quick look over and slide it back at her.
“I’m sure you could have found something cheaper.”
I shrug. “You said nice.”
“Don’t you try to turn this on me. Yes, I said you needed something nice to wear to your interview, but I never said you had to buy a three-hundred-dollar suit. We can’t afford that.”
“If it gets me the job, what does it matter?” I retort. It’s too early in the day to cater to her mood. It’s sure to change in a matter of minutes, anyway.
“It better. It wasn’t easy getting Dahlia to consider you. Lucky for us, I happen to know about her extramarital activities. But that doesn’t mean she’s just going to hand you the job. It only gets you in the door. The rest is up to you. And we need this.”
I look up. Joy has me fixed with her usually stony glare, pen tapping on the table, glasses on the top of her head. At bill-paying time, she always reminds me of my grade school librarian when I’d forgotten to return another book on time. I think I still have a couple on the bookshelf. God, the fines they must carry.
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“Oh, nothing. And I know she’s not just going to give me a job. Why would she? I don’t have any experience working in an office. I don’t even know why you want me to try for it. I’m bound to be the least-qualified applicant.”
Joy throws her pen, hitting me square in the chest. It lands in my oatmeal.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says in the darkly sarcastic tone she uses when she’s about to lambaste my manhood and serve it up on a spit. “How much money do you make at your current job? Oh, right, you don’t have a job. And how many bills do you think that covers, huh?” She grabs a fistful of papers and attempts to throw them my way. They flutter in all directions, creating a snowstorm of unmet responsibility.
I take the pen from my breakfast and make a show of licking it clean before tossing it back to her. “Yeah, I get it. You don’t think I’m trying?”
“I don’t know. Are you?” The look in her eyes tells me this is going nowhere fast. But just like Joy can never resist insulting me, I can’t ever back down from a fight.
“For fuck’s sake,” I say. “Of course I am. And let’s not forget who worked the first five years we were married just so you could go to school, chasing some fanciful dream.”
“Nice,” she says. “Real classy, asshole. At least I made something of it. Don’t act like it’s the same, my going to college, and you getting the boot. And I’m the one who’s providing for us now. And forgive me for wanting to create a stable home for Aza. I think it’d be nice if she were afforded the same chance when she graduates high school. I won’t have you limiting her.”
“Christ, Joy, she’s eight years old. I’ll get another job and we’ll be just fine. You make more than enough to cover things for a while, anyway. I don’t know why you always get so worked up about this.”
Aza walks into the kitchen with the impeccable timing only children possess. She looks at me first, then at her mother. “You two are being loud again. I can’t hear my show.”
“Aza, we’re in the middle of something. Just wait in the living room. Dad will take you to school soon.”
Aza shakes her head and climbs atop the stool at my side. “I want oatmeal,” she says astutely.
“Now is not the time,” Joy says. “Living room. Go.”
Aza scowls at her mother, matching her stare with equal ferocity. Our daughter is equal parts Joy and I, and I’ve seen enough face-offs between her and Joy to know there won’t be a favorable outcome. You can’t mix gasoline with a spark and expect daisies.
“Here,” I say, shoving my bowl toward her. “You can have the rest of mine. Now, go wait in the living room.”
Aza scoops up the bowl, hops off the stool, and struts out of the kitchen, eyeing Joy the entire time. The volume of the TV increases enough that I can hear every word the animated animals are saying.
“Seriously?” Joy asks. “I just love how I always get to be the bad guy with her.”
I get up and start rooting through the cupboards for something else to eat now that my breakfast is gone. “What? I’m around more, so she just listens better to me is all.”
“I’m thrilled being unemployed is going so well for you,” she says. “I’d love the chance to spend some time with Aza and not have to work all the time, worrying about our financial future.”
“Then don’t,” I say. “Stop worrying. You do that far too much. It’s not healthy.”
“Easy for you to say.”
I dig out a box of crackers from the back of a corner cabinet and lean against the sink. Joy is reassembling the stack of bills before her, glasses back in place, brow still furrowed.
“I just wish you cared a little bit more,” she says.
I perch on the stool next to her and push the papers away. She resists at first, but I grab her hands and force her to look at me. Worry and stress have lined her face over the past few months more than they have in all the years prior. It gnaws at me for a moment that
I’m the cause.
“Everything will be just fine,” I say.
“That’d be easier to believe if you didn’t have a mouthful of crackers.”
I swallow, smile, and offer her the open box. She takes a handful and pops a cracker into her mouth. “We can’t keep doing this,” she says. “I won’t keep doing this. I’m missing our daughter grow up, all I do is work, and you…”
“I get it,” I say. “I know who and what I am. You don’t have to keep reminding me every day.”
“I know, I know,” Joy says, standing and spinning in place. “I’m sorry, but for God’s sake, three hundred dollars on a suit? In what world is that okay in our situation?”
“Here we go again!” I shout, angrier at myself for thinking I could so easily defuse her volatile mood. “Go on, tell me how this is all my fault.”
“Are you freaking kidding me? It is all your fault! I have a job. I provide for this family. Why don’t you take some responsibility for once?”
I say nothing. I just stare at her as I continually stuff crackers into my mouth. At least half miss the mark and fall down the front of my shirt to litter the kitchen floor. It only takes a few moments before Joy pulls a disgusted face and storms for the door.
“Don’t forget Aza’s parent-teacher conference after school today. And don’t forget to stop by the pharmacy. I won’t have time.”
I continue to hold my tongue, fearing the words I might say. The ones I’ve said in the past that only make things worse. Halfway out the door, Joy stops and looks back in at me. She’s forced the scowl from her face, but it’s easy enough to tell she’s still fuming mad. Her lips curl in a peculiar manner that I doubt she’s aware of.
“Seriously,” she says. “Pharmacy. Conference after school. Don’t forget.”
She stares at me until I nod, force down a mouthful of dry crackers, and say, “Pharmacy, conference, don’t forget. Got it.”
I throw her a mock salute. She gives me a middle finger.
As the door slams, my cell phone rings. It’s Ty.
“Driving range,” he says without introduction. “You in?”
“Shouldn’t you be working today?” I ask.
“Shouldn’t you?”
“Hysterical. Yeah, what time?”
“Pick me up at one.”
I laugh. “Sure thing.”
He hangs up.
“Shit. I’m terrible at golf,” I say to the empty kitchen. But Ty’s the only friend I have left. Besides, what else am I going to do all day?
I give the kitchen a quick cleaning pass before heading to the living room. The TV volume is still at an earsplitting level. Framed photos along the TV stand dance to the vibrations brought on by the musical number on screen. I snatch the remote from Aza’s hand, switch off the TV, and toss the remote onto the far sofa.
“Hey!” she shouts. “It wasn’t over. I want to see how it ends.”
“The cheerful cat gets the grumpy dog to change his ways and they become best friends for life.”
“Spoiler alert!”
I roll my eyes dramatically for her enjoyment. “You’ve seen it at least a hundred times.”
“So? Maybe I forgot how it ended.”
“You? Doubtful.”
Just eight years old, I often think that Aza is the sanest and most intelligent creature in our home. She’s far sharper than any eight-year-old has the right to be.
“Time for school,” I say, picking up her empty oatmeal bowl.
“For fuck’s sake!” she yells.
I nearly lose my footing as I whirl on her. She’s smiling as I try to fumble for an appropriate response when hearing your child curse at you.
“You should see the look on your face,” Aza says.
“You can’t speak like that,” I manage to say.
“You do,” she says. “Relax. It’s just a joke. I know fuck is a bad word. Just like shit, bitch—”
“Hey!”
Aza is grinning like a fiend now. “I was just testing you.”
“Well, it’s not funny.”
Aza shrugs and slings her backpack over a shoulder, whipping her jet-black hair across the other. Combined with her piercing azure eyes, Aza is the spitting image of her mother. I’ve often wondered if she got any traits from me, but then she’ll open her mouth.
“Race ya,” she shouts as she darts out of the room.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Great. Now it’s the sound of Joy’s tapping pen that’s stuck between my ears. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. I snag a few ibuprofens before heading out. Hopefully, it will be enough to numb the sounds for a while.
Our house is the last on a dead-end street, nestled amid towering pines and surrounded by a thicker forest. We’re by no means alone on our country road—the nearest neighbor is a stone’s throw away—but the dense wilderness packed in around each home provides nearly impenetrable privacy.
There’s a hint of autumn in the air, just enough to let you know that summer will end soon enough. I pause before getting in the car, savoring the scenery. I can’t help but wonder if it will all be taken away from me. From us. We could afford it with a fair amount of ease when we’d purchased it, right after Joy landed her dream job for the local city court as a prosecutor. We wanted a quiet place surrounded by nature for Aza. It all seems like a mistake now. The house looms over me as I stare back at it, threatening to swallow me whole.
Aza lays on the car horn, startling me, but also shaking me into action once more. I climb in and begin the drive to Aza’s school, a short trip into town.
“Is Mom going to kick you out?” Aza asks, breaking a silence that had persisted for most of the drive.
“Kick me out? Why would she kick me out?”
“I don’t know. Because you don’t have a job.”
“Did she say that? That she wants to kick me out?”
Aza sighs dramatically. “No, but Pepper said she should. She says you’re a bum.”
This might hurt my feelings if it wasn’t coming from another eight-year-old. “Pepper sounds like a jerk.”
Aza shrugs. “Better than what Daphne said about you. Well, what her mom told her, that she told me. About you.”
“You shouldn’t listen to people who just want to talk bad about others.”
“Don’t worry. I beat her up for you.”
“You what?” I shout, narrowly keeping the car on the road as I turn to look at my defiant daughter.
Aza grabs the steering wheel lightly. “Keep it on the road, please and thank you.”
I push her hand away, but force myself to pay attention to the road. “You got into a fight with another student because they called me names?” I am both appalled and proud.
“I wouldn’t call it a fight. I only threw one punch. Gravity did the rest.”
I groan. Aza already carries herself like a teenager, with the wit and smarts to match. But her admission means something else that troubles me even more than my daughter falling into fisticuffs with her classmates. It means that Joy is talking to her friends about me. I’ve become gossip.
“Is that why your teacher wants to meet with your mom and I tonight?”
“Seems like a dumb question.”
Arriving at Aza’s school, I sidle up to the front curb, but keep the child locks engaged. Aza pulls at her handle, then turns and pouts at me.
“Don’t get smart with me, Aza. While I’m flattered you’d stand up for your old man, violence is never, ever the answer.”
“What if someone attacks me first?” she asks, narrowing her gaze.
“I said don’t get smart with me.”
“Is this one of those times that I’m too smart for my own good?”
“You’re always too smart for your own good. I don’t know where you get it from, either.”
“Mom.”
She had that one loaded and ready to fire, but I don’t let her see it bothers me. “Regardless. Please, promise me you’ll try to avoid any and all fi
ghts, no matter who starts them.”
“Fine. Can I go now?”
Her expression hasn’t changed and I’m getting nowhere with her. I hit the child-lock button and free her. She immediately hops out.
I watch her for a moment, before yelling out, “I love you, Aza!” through the open window.
Aza freezes, surrounded by her peers. I grin to myself, unable to resist the pleasure that only a parent knows.
Aza turns, grins, and bellows, “I fucking love you, too, Dad!
CHAPTER TWO
As unskilled at golf as I am, Tyler Bridges is worse. I watch him snap hook a shot for the eighth time. He shades his eyes and watches the ball veer off the driving range property completely.
“That one was a bit better, yeah?” Ty asks. He tees up another and begins his elaborate pre-shot routine that requires far too much ass wiggling for my taste.
“I think you’re getting worse,” I say as I take a swing from the neighboring square of artificial turf.
My ball shoots off the rubber tee and immediately takes a dive as if God himself slapped it from the air. I groan and tee another ball. We’ve got two large buckets to get through.
“Why do we even come here, Ty? Neither of us is playing on the PGA Tour anytime soon.”
Ty sets down his club and grabs two cans of beer from his golf bag. He tosses me one. “Why not? It’s peaceful out here. Fresh air, quiet, and hardly anyone here this time of day.”
I open my can and take a swig. It’s piss warm, but still beer. He’s right. Aside from an older man on the opposite side of the range, we’re alone. It is peaceful, in an idyllic open valley sort of way, but the silence always makes me uneasy. It’s one of the things I like most about Ty—he rarely shuts up.
“So, how’s Joy? Still bustin’ your balls?”
“Yeah, but not with as much vigor as she used to.” I give Ty a brief rundown of our morning argument.
“So, things are getting better, then? She didn’t threaten to gut you this time, at least.”
House of Sand: A Dark Psychological Thriller Page 1