by Lorena May
He lowers his head, and clears his throat. He’s been crowing with smugness, but now he actually looks a bit sheepish. “No, that was for you. I wanted you to accept that she was gone. I wanted you to get over it.” Then he gives me a lewd grin. “And it didn’t hurt to be there to comfort you.” He winks at me.
I fake-a smile and purr, “That was nice.”
He unties my feet, I wiggle them to get the circulation back. Then he drapes himself alongside me on the bed. He grins, looking deeply into my eyes. It would be charming if it wasn’t so sick. One hand idly pushes my jacket down my shoulders, and he bends to nuzzle and kiss my shoulder, my throat, my chest. With his teeth now, he pulls my halter top away from my breasts and gawps, though, in truth there’s not much to see. I suppress a shudder. I don’t think I can do this! And for how long . . .? I lie there, unmoving as he pulls my top down and focuses on kissing and suckling my breasts.
I flinch and recoil, repulsed. He’s instantly alert. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie. But I’m stiff. I avert my gaze. I can no longer pretend.
His face takes on a twisted, evil look. “Are you playing me?”
I’m mute with fear. I stare up at him, “No!”
He speaks with a whiny tone. He’s feeling hard-done-by; sorry for himself! Tears spring to his eyes. “Do you know how long I’ve loved you? Do you know how hard I’ve tried? I lost track of you, and then when I found you again I went to the trouble of renting a suite from you, watching over you, waiting and waiting. . .
Oh my god! I remember him now. He was a social worker when I was incarcerated! That guy who stared at me – always there lurking. It’s him.
I gawp at him, bug-eyed. “I do remember you. You worked at Juvie. Kyle, I’m sorry . . .” But he cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowed. I’ve shown my hand. He is no longer fooled.
“I know you,” he snarls. “You’re playing me. Do you think I’m fuckin’ stupid? Do you think I don’t know that you’ll dump me, you cunt? That you’ll turn me in?” His face is red; contorted. He kneels over me, glaring down at me. “If I can’t have you nobody can.”
I feel the sick, oppressive crush of dread. For a moment I am frozen there on the bed, my belly roiling. Almost involuntarily my leg kicks into action, and I jab him in the groin with all my might. I’m propelled by adrenalin and as he bellows, doubling over, I twist my body to kick him again. Hard.
The room is spinning around me, and I roll off of the bed, landing crouched on the floor. He raises himself up, his face red, teeth bared, nostrils flaring and he lunges toward me. “You fuckin’ bitch!”
I scramble to my feet, and run. But I feel his nails brush the back of my leg, and I know I won’t get through the door when FLAM! It flings open. Daylight pours in and I barrel head-long into the tall, taut body of Darby Greer.
Epilogue
September 22, 2018
Soft morning light peers through the slats of the blinds they’ve forgotten to close, and they lay entwined in the aftermath of love-making. He trails soft-lipped kisses up her throat to whisper in her ear, his voice husky with satisfaction. “Oh, how I love you.”
She stretches lazily, cat-like, licking his salty skin. “More than Moira?” Something black and deliciously naughty glints in her eyes.
“Much, much more.”
She raises herself to her elbow. “You and she gave each other this look the other day. When the detectives were here. When they gave us the card to appear on television.” She fixes her eyes on him.
Ben blushes. “I know we underestimated you, Shea. We were worried about you. We’d just been talking about . . . wondering if it came to a TV interview how you’d handle the press and all that . . . and then they asked us to go on television . . . Moira and I were worried about what you might do . . .”
She stiffens, leaning her body away from him. “What did you think I might do?”
He hesitates, clears his throat, grimaces and looks at her with a ‘do we really have to do this?’ shrug.
She stared back. Yes, we do.
“We thought you’d completely crumble. I don’t know . . . self-harm? We had no idea how strong you were. Who’d have thought you could fight a man twice your size and win?”
Shea smiles, bending to kiss his nose. “My win would’ve been temporary. Sure I disabled him for a bit. She raised her knee. “Old mighty-knees! But you and the detectives arrived at the right time. If not for you I’d be dead.”
Suddenly loud howling fills the air. Grinning, Ben reaches for the ear-plugs on the bed-side table, placing them gently into his wife’s waiting hands. “Well, she’s still got a healthy cry. My turn!” he says, jumping from the bed and climbing into his shorts. “Go back to sleep.”
You Will Pay
You Will Pay
Book I, Darby Greer Mystery Series
By Lorena May
Table of Contents:
You Will Pay
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1 ~ Jen
Chapter 2 ~ Darby
Chapter 3 ~ Jen
Chapter 4 ~ Darby
Chapter 5 ~Jen
Chapter 6 ~Jen
Chapter 7 ~ Jen
Chapter 8 ~ Darby
Chapter 9 ~ Jen
Chapter 10 ~ Darby
Chapter 11 ~ Jen
Chapter 12 ~Jen
Chapter 13 ~ Jen
Chapter 14 ~ Darby
Chapter 15 ~ Jen
Chapter 16 ~ Darby
Chapter 17 ~ Jen
Chapter 18 ~ Jen
Chapter 19 ~ Darby
Chapter 20 ~ Jen
Chapter 21 ~ Darby
Chapter 22 ~ Jen
Chapter 23 ~ Darby
Chapter 24 ~ Jen
Chapter 25 ~ Darby
Chapter 26 ~ Jen
Chapter 27 ~ Darby
Chapter 28 ~ Jen
Chapter 29 ~ Darby
Chapter 30 ~ Jen
Chapter 31 ~ Darby
Chapter 32 ~ Darby
Chapter 33 ~ Jen
Chapter 1 ~ Jen
Thursday, April 12
It begins with a feeling of breathlessness; as if I’ve been punched in the gut. My mouth falls open. I stand here gawping, the world blurring around me.
“Mom! What’s wrong?” My ten-year-old son shakes my arm, grasping it hard, gaping at me through his dark-rimmed glasses. I can see him from the corner of one eye while I stare, aghast at the TV. A once-familiar face fills the screen.
The newscaster, a young woman looking suitably sorry, is saying. “A thirty-five-year-old woman, identified as Erin Morgan, was found dead in her Riverside townhouse this morning. Police say further news will be forthcoming as an investigation continues.” The camera focuses on a photograph of her face. Perky. Smiling. Alive.
I gasp. Erin! Ohmygod! I’m breathless, almost dizzy. I wander into the family room that adjoins the kitchen and collapse onto a chair. Eyes closed, I let my head fall back.
My son follows me. “Mom, are you okay?” Dazed, I nod at him. Grabbing the remote, I press ‘rewind’, straining to grasp every meagre detail. He stands, small and vulnerable, looking down on me, wide-eyed, as I breathe deeply, trying to digest what I’ve seen.
“Honey, just give me a minute,” I whisper, sitting up to look at him. Hesitantly, Logan walks back to the kitchen table where he’s been doing his homework. He picks up a pencil, and gazes at me. His look says, “Have you lost it?” I’m only vaguely aware of him. I lay my head back against the fullness of the arm-chair and close my eyes, remembering back.
*
It was the first day of third grade. The teacher had arranged our desks in two’s. I had only one close friend in Rockydale, a town of about ten-thousand people nestled within the Rocky Mountains. My friend, Marnie, was away that day. Their family was in B.C on a camping trip until after the long week-end. I was afraid to infringe upon friends who wanted to sit together, so I sat next to an empty desk at the back.
&
nbsp; Erin came in late, interrupting the teacher’s speech. She pranced through the classroom door with a spring to her step, energetic, cheery; totally unaware of Miss Sauder’s subtle glower. Her black curls bounced around a baseball cap that she wore backwards, and her dark, laughing eyes twinkled as she bobbed down the aisle to sling her small, round body into the desk beside me. She plunked her back-pack down on top of it. I looked straight ahead, hoping not to offend the teacher, and studied her through the corner of my eye. She wore a big, tartan flannel shirt over ripped jeans. I felt a flush rise up my neck to my face. (Once again I was all wrong in my stiff-collared blue dress. The dress my mother had insisted I wear on the first day of school to ‘make a good impression.’) A mass of freckles was sprinkled across Erin’s pert little, turned-up nose. Rosy-cheeked, twinkling, her face burst with fun.
And fun she was. An adventurous, free spirit. We soon became best friends. She introduced me to Rockydale from the inside out. We rode our bikes all over town, stopping to peek through the windows of its most interesting inhabitants: Erin’s older sister, Rosie, making out with her boyfriend in his basement. Mr. Giffin, the principal, red-faced and huffing, bending stiffly to sneak a drink from an amber bottle he kept in his desk drawer. Hidden behind trees, we watched a group of teen-agers raucously giggling and staggering around on the banks of the river smoking pot. We dove from a cliff into the cold water, reveling in the icy rush that coursed through our bodies, and we swung from a long branch across a narrow spot, our hands gripping painfully, our hearts racing, as we stared into the deep rapids below us. Erin taught me to shop-lift, stealthily glancing around at busy clerks, slipping treasures into my pocket. I was tickled with the collection of lipstick, cheap sun-glasses and dangly ear-rings that I never wore. Mostly, I was thrilled with the daring, the danger of it.
One night, as we perched in a tree, branches digging into our backs as we munched on pilfered crab-apples, the home-owner’s son appeared beneath us. Standing there with his hands on his hips, he chuckled. Hahaha. The sound sent chills down our backs. Then, he swaggered away from the tree to look up at us through squinty eyes, his chest puffed out. “Those crab-apples have been sprayed with poison.” He hooted harshly as he loped off into the house.
We slithered down the tree, dismayed, and walked solemnly homeward, heads down, feet leaden. As we reached my door Erin wrapped her arms around my shoulders, hugging me. I felt her warm, wet cheeks against mine. Her little body trembled against me. “Well, I guess this is it,” she said, looking into my tear-filled eyes. “I’ve enjoyed being your friend.” I nodded sadly. This was it. Our lives were ending. Why didn’t we tell our parents? Go to the hospital . . . It never occurred to us. We might get in trouble. We were both complicit.
The next morning when the sun poured through my thin, cotton curtains I jumped out of bed, super-aware of my feet thumping onto the cold linoleum floor. I stood there a moment looking into my bureau mirror. I’m still alive! Racing downstairs, I dialed Erin’s number. “Hello?” It was her voice! She’s alive too! I chuckle, thinking back. Then I remember. Erin won’t wake up tomorrow.
*
“Mom?” My fourteen-year-old daughter, Lillia bursts through the door. “When’s dinner?” I give my head a little shake, take a deep breath and stand up.
“Are you okay?” she asks, tilting her head to the side and looking at me through narrowed eyes. My son stops writing; listening.
I nod. “I’m okay,” I tell her. “An old friend died. I haven’t seen her for years.”
“Did she live here in town?” Lillia asks.
“Yes, but we had a falling-out a long time ago. You may have heard of her. Erin Morgan was her name.” I’m muttering now, wishing I’d tried harder.
Lillia and Logan stare for a moment, uncertain as to how they should handle me, I think. I move into action. “Dinner will be ready soon.” Throwing hamburger into a pot, I grab vegetables from the fridge and begin chopping. I look at my phone. No texts from Darren. That means he’ll have arrived back from the conference in Calgary earlier this afternoon, as expected.
“Will Dad be home for dinner tonight?” Logan asks.
“He should be home soon,” I answer. My stomach lurches a little. I haven’t even started cooking. Darren will be upset.
And sure enough, he comes through the door at five-thirty sharp. Our shaggy little terrier, Sadie, runs to greet him. He bends to pat her neck. Logan looks up from his books. “Hi, Dad,” he says absently.
“Hey,” Darren answers his son as he hangs his jacket up in the hallway and walks into the kitchen. He lifts the lid on the pasta simmering on the stove. I detect a ‘Why isn’t dinner ready?’ look as he watches me slicing cucumbers for the salad. But he only says, “How was your day?”
“Good,” I answer. I’ve learned long ago that he doesn’t want to hear about all the ups and downs in my kindergarten class. One little guy got hit with a ball in gym class resulting in a bleeding nose spilling blood on his partner’s shirt and she was terrified . . . “Yours?”
He smiles now, a self-satisfied grin. “Books show we had the best month ever. Three houses sold above asking price!”
My smile is genuine. Then it falls as I recall the news. I tell him. “Erin Morgan died. She was a friend. It was on the news. I don’t know if you remember her . . .”
“Oh, no, Jen. I don’t. I’m so sorry.” And he sits at his place at the table, looking a little awkward, awaiting his meal.
As we eat, everything’s back to normal. “You know I hate mushrooms!” Logan whines.
I blink. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Here, I’ll pick them out for you.” And I take his plate, focusing on removing the hated vegetables.
“Pasta again?” Lillia rolls her eyes, and huffs as she swivels her food onto her fork.
We eat in silence, mostly. Little exchanges like, “Tell Logan to stop slurping!” and “She slurps louder than I do!” and “Stop! Not another word!” punctuate the meal until my family finishes up with ice cream for dessert, and leaves the table. How did we come to this? I wonder, as I sit alone for a moment. I rise slowly and pick up the dirty dishes.
*
I’ve cleaned up the kitchen, and Darren is firmly settled in front of the television, immersed in a hockey game. Lillia is out with friends, and I can hear the beeps of Logan’s video game coming from the basement. I look around and sigh. Finally, some precious me time! Toddling into the computer room I gather what I need to prepare for tomorrow’s kindergarten classes, but first I log into Facebook and search “Erin Morgan”.
There she is. Thirty-five, now. Still the same mischievous, laughing face. There are pictures of her surfing, skiing, diving. Pictures from Hawaii, the Philippines, Egypt, Greece, India . . . travelling the world. There are photos with groups of friends, some with athletic-looking men, prefaced with words like ‘Living the good life!’. Posts advocating mental health issues, support for refugees and the environment indicate a new, altruistic side to her. Things like, “I believe in plant power!” Her intro simply says, “Graduate of National University of Health Sciences, Massage Therapy, Owner of: The Oasis Spa, Rockydale”
I spend a long time, snooping into a life that I haven’t thought much about for years. A life that I’ve deliberately ignored. Our town is large enough that we can avoid people.
Her most recent post sends shivers down my spine. It’s a photograph– not of Erin, but of an evil-looking woman. A woman similar to Erin in features and coloring. Her head is tilted downward, fox-like eyes glaring garishly up, thin lips sneering at the camera with a malevolent smile. “I am not who you think I am. I have fooled all of you,” is written above it.
Chapter 2 ~ Darby
Early morning, Wednesday, April 11
Sergeant Darby Greer hunches forward on her Harley, the crisp spring wind biting her face. Exhilarating. She takes the road that circles town, by the river, and absorbs the smell of fresh morning air with a touch of dew. Cries of birds circling and dipping,
tall marshy grasses, a dull yellow sun poking up on the horizon and the fresh, ever-green-scented air fills her senses. The road ahead is narrow, chock full of pot-holes, affording her mind no chance to wander. Swerving to miss the ruts and the odd gopher popping onto her path takes all Darby’s concentration; a sort of deliberate meditation.
Slowing as she reaches the luxurious Riverside townhouses, she scans addresses looking for number thirty-seven. There it is. A large corner house, finished in white Italian stucco with massive front windows. Brightly colored tulips line the flower-bed, and clay pots stand by the walk, ready for planting. Already the town-house looks to be abuzz with investigators. Yellow crime-scene tape has been strung from fence posts, sealing off the area.
Darby parks her bike between two police cars and strides up the front walk, aware of neighbours peeking through closed blinds. Those that are awake, that is. Glancing at her watch Darby notes the time. Six-thirty am. She speaks to the constable in the door-way, a new hire, she guesses. Someone she’s never seen. Flipping her badge from her pocket, she says, “I’m Sergeant Greer. I got the call a few minutes ago. Apparently someone called 9-1-1?”
The young constable nods, his face sombre. “We got here within minutes, but it was too late. In fact, probably a few hours too late.” Darby steps inside to see the body of a woman lying on a white, plush rug stained with blood. The woman wears only a scanty black robe, her body sprawled on the floor, legs akimbo. What looks like a bullet-hole saturated in blood, punctures her chest. Her face holds a look of horror, but she is attractive, even in death. Tanned skin, freckles, long dark, curly hair that spreads grotesquely around her head on the carpet, she looks to be a small woman, in good shape. Purple-painted finger and toe-nails, cleanly shaved legs . . . She was a woman who looked after herself. Someone clearly hated her. The woman’s hands are carefully folded on her ravaged chest. Between her fingers she holds a single yellow rose. What the fuck?
Darby’s eyes stray from the woman to scan the room. CSI agents are crouched here and there taking samples and pictures, working at the meticulous task of collecting evidence. The living-room is stylishly furnished in beiges and whites, with vividly colored textiles and figurines placed tastefully. Knick-knacks from a variety of countries, it appears. Interesting photographs of people immersed in activities hang on the walls: a sari-clad woman carrying a basket on her head, a small black man perched on a donkey, a child by a pond filled with lotus flowers. Did the victim take these photographs? She had a good eye.