Bad Girl

by T. E. Woods

  Bad Girl is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Alibi Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2018 by T. E. Woods

  Excerpt from Private Lies by T. E. Woods copyright © 2018 by T. E. Woods

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Private Lies by T. E. Woods. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9780399181993

  Cover design: Tatiana Sayig

  Cover images: Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v5.2

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Acknowledgments

  By T. E. Woods

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Private Lies

  Chapter 1

  JANUARY FIRST

  What the hell am I doing here?

  Miranda Greer double-checked the locator app on her smartphone. Sure enough, she was at the address she’d agreed to for the meet-up.

  I should have asked for an earlier time.

  It was just past four o’clock. The sun sat low on the horizon, casting deep purple shadows across the snow-covered fields.

  It’ll be dark soon. And here I am in the middle of a Wisconsin nowhere.

  She looked back at her parked car. The rented Volvo sat isolated at the end of a long, icy lane. It dawned on her she didn’t know what kind of car he drove.

  Doesn’t matter. No one will be coming down this deserted stretch of cow pasture unless they have a reason.

  She didn’t like waiting. Never had. She especially didn’t like waiting for men and had sworn to herself more than twenty years ago that she’d cooled her heels killing time until Clay Hawthorne threw her some attention for the very last time.

  Yet here I am. That guy says jump and I’m still willing to leap as high as pleases him.

  The temperature dropped as the sky darkened. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms.

  I should have worn that damned parka.

  She glanced down at the high-heeled, over-the-knee, suede Manolo Blahnik boots and realized her choice of footwear was as ill-suited for the surroundings as her brocade bolero jacket.

  How was I supposed to know he wanted to play in the snow? I figured cocktails. Maybe an early dinner. We’re both a little old for this.

  Two large silos loomed twenty yards in front of her. Rusted walls and half-decayed roofs suggested it had been decades since they’d stored anything more valuable than bird droppings and coyote shit.

  Still, the snow makes them pretty.

  Memories of the Montana prairie floated to her. Mile after endless mile of wheat rippling in the summer breeze. She and Clay in that old red pickup his daddy let him drive. Off running errands. Buying tack or hay. Scouting fence lines for breaks. She didn’t care what, just as long as she was with him. Windows rolled down. Miranda with her bare feet on the dashboard. Clay with one arm bent out into the sun. Singing at the top of their lungs whatever bit of George Strait or Garth Brooks came across the radio. In the winter it was the same, except that truck flowed through an eternal sea of snow with the windows sealed tight.

  And I kept my damned shoes on.

  They’d had their own silo back then. She’d heard the stories since she was a child about how Old Man Franzlettler had waged his own war against the government. Refused to pay taxes or let inspectors take a look at his crops. The feds had finally stopped him from farming, but the Franzlettler kids coughed up the money for back taxes and let the land go wild. When she and Clay first stumbled into his ramshackle silo it was covered in pumpkin vines and prairie dust. But to a couple of teenagers exploring the magic of fresh-blooming love, it was heaven.

  Franzlettler’s abandoned silos had become their secret place.

  Is that what these Wisconsin silos are now? Are you trying to remind me of what we had all those years ago?

  A smile crossed her face and for a moment she forgot the sub-zero temperature. She looked again at the silos. The snow was disturbed in front of the one to her left. Miranda took another survey of the area. A copse of thick-trunked trees stood a hundred yards north.

  Are you waiting for me, Clay?

  She trudged through four inches of snow to the silo with the trampled mush.

  I loved you once. So very, very much. You loved me, too.

  She thought about the men who had passed through her life in the years since she’d left Montana. They’d served their purpose, but none of them had ever captured the piece of her heart that had always belonged to Clay. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe he’d been celibate all these years. A man like Clay attracted women as easily as breathing in.

  Is it the same for you, Clay? Is there a part of you that was always waiting for us? For our time to come again?

  Her suede boots were soaked by the time she was close enough to the silo to see the fresh footsteps in the snow. Her hand recoiled from the frozen door latch. She pulled the sleeve of her jacket low enough to cover her fingers and tried again. The door rasped across frigid concrete.

  “Clay?” she called out as she stepped into the dark interior. “Are you in here?”

  She heard a click, magnified in the cavernous space. One heart-flutter later the familiar tempo of Chicago blues filled the air. A harmonica wailed and a guitar pounded the beat.

  “If you’ve got power for a boom box, you’ve got power for a lamp.” She stepped toward the music. “Or candles. Better yet, how about a space heater?”

  She felt fingers trace a line on the back of her neck and spun around to see nothing but blackness.

  “It’s like that, is it? Hide and seek? That the game?”

&
nbsp; She heard a scraping across the floor. This time behind her. To her right.

  “No fair, Clay. You’ve got the lay of the land. You know where I am. Give a girl a helping hand, will you?”

  The song played on. Miranda hadn’t heard it before, but it was good. Just the kind of music she’d come to realize was now Clay’s favorite. A minute later there was another chafing against the concrete. The sound came toward her. Something bumped against her left leg. Her hands reached out, feeling its shape.

  “Is this for me? You want me to sit in this chair?”

  There was no response. She sat anyway.

  The tune ended, followed by one of her favorites. Juice Newton singing a sweet love song from Miranda’s teenage years. She let the memories of first love warm her in the dark.

  “You remember,” she said.

  Again, no response. Miranda listened to the tender lyrics, oblivious now to the cold.

  “A light, please,” she requested when the song was finished. “I want to see you. I want to look into those gray eyes.”

  A dull thud sounded overhead. She looked up. The rusted roof let in enough light from the starless sky to permit a murky vision of shadow on shadow. Something was suspended above her. It appeared to sway before it stopped. Another shadow moved, this time behind her, reaching…connecting to the shadow above her.

  Another song pierced the air. Jarring. Loud. Ominous, head-banging roars.

  A gloved hand gripped her right shoulder. Squeezed. Pinched.

  “Stop!” Miranda twisted to her left, but the hand held her to her chair. Something was pulled over her head. It rested around her neck. Scratchy. Heavy. Another memory from her childhood leaped to the surface. She knew that smell.

  Rope.

  She pushed with her legs and scrambled free of the chair. She ran forward three steps, only to be stopped by the pull against her throat. She wrapped her fingers around the rope, desperate to wedge them between it and her skin. The heavy knot dug into the back of her neck, denying her fingers any room. She spun around, kicking and punching. Grabbing at nothing but black space. She felt herself being lifted. Her legs joined her arms now, flailing at the same emptiness. Higher and higher she floated. Tighter and tighter the rope. Weaker and weaker her struggle.

  Long agonizing seconds later, her body relaxed and accepted the inevitable. Her arms and legs hung limp at her sides. Her eyes closed. Her mind gave up one last thought before falling into the eternal abyss.

  When did Clay start liking heavy metal?

  Chapter 2

  SIX WEEKS EARLIER

  “You don’t have to do this, you know.” Nancy Richardson loaded yet another box of chafing dishes and serving platters into the trunk of her daughter’s Mustang. “There’s a couple of perfectly good restaurants decked out to the nines. I’m sure the owner…no, wait, aren’t you the owner? Why in the world are you insisting on serving Thanksgiving dinner at your place when Hush Money and the Ten-Ten are there at your disposal?”

  Sydney Richardson took one last inventory before lowering the trunk door. “Because, Mom, Thanksgiving’s all about hearth and home, right? Besides, we spend every night at those restaurants. Being there on Thanksgiving takes away the holiday feel.” She gave her mother a hug. “People are coming tomorrow around one. I figure dinner at two o’clock.”

  “I’ll be at your place no later than eleven. I’ll bring the pies, rolls, and my stuffing. Roland sending over the turkey and sides?”

  “I told him to be as traditional as he could. He gave me that look.”

  “The patented the Great Roland Delmardo doesn’t do traditional stare?”

  “That’s the one.” Sydney opened the driver’s side door. “I’m off. I told the staff they’re on their own tonight.”

  “They’re up to it. I’m meeting Horst for a burger at the Ten-Ten. I’ll swing through and make sure Hush Money’s running smooth.” Nancy nodded toward the trunk. “You sure you can handle all this on your own?”

  “The doorman will load it onto a trolley for me. See you tomorrow?”

  Nancy nodded. “I love you, baby girl. Remember, just set the serving pieces out. I’ll take care of filling them.”

  Sydney waved as she drove away. She knew better than to challenge her mother’s subtle insult to her culinary abilities. Twenty minutes later she pulled in front of her condo and tooted her horn.

  “So you drew the short straw?” she asked when Randy, the young man with the shy smile, trotted out to her car.

  “Holidays are all about seniority,” the doorman said. “Luckily I’ve got two weeks on Pablo. He’ll be working tomorrow while I’m chin-deep in pumpkin pie and football.” He stepped back when Sydney opened her trunk. “Whoa! All this stuff goes up?”

  “It does. There are some glass pieces in those boxes, so careful is the word.”

  Randy ran back into the building to get a cart. Sydney hopped from one leg to the other while she waited. She glanced up at the sky. Low and gray. The air was damp. It wouldn’t be long before Madison had its first snowfall of the season.

  “I got this, Ms. Richardson,” the doorman told her as he pushed the cart across the sidewalk. “Get back in your car. Warm yourself up. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

  Sydney thanked him, scooted back into the front seat, and dialed up the heater. When Randy closed her trunk, she pulled into the condo’s garage and parked. She took the elevator up eight floors and wasn’t surprised to see Randy already standing by her front door.

  “If you could load all this onto the kitchen counter, I can take it from there.”

  Randy made short work of her request. Sydney thanked him, handing him a ten dollar bill for his trouble. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “You, too, Ms. Richardson. Looks like it’s going to be some kind of fancy feast.”

  “I have a lot to be thankful for this year.”

  * * *

  —

  When she woke up the next morning, the early light cast a comfortable, muted glow on her bedroom walls. Outside, a swirl of snowflakes danced through frosty white air. From this high up she felt like she’d been transported to a snow globe all her own. Sydney snuggled deep under the covers and savored a few extra minutes in the magic of being warm and safe while a storm raged outside. She hopped out of bed at eight forty-five. Her mother said she’d be there by eleven, which in Nancy Richardson time meant ten-thirty. Sydney headed to the bathroom and was showered, dressed, and putting the final spritz of spray onto her jet-black hair by ten. She went into the living room, where floor-to-ceiling windows added to the sanctuary-in-the-storm feeling.

  This is perfect, she thought. Let it snow, let it snow. My favorite people will be here, there’s plenty of food. Nothing to do but relax the day away.

  As expected, there was a knock on her front door at ten-thirty. Sydney opened it to see her mother and a frazzled-looking young man.

  “I’d have been here earlier, but this guy insisted on helping me.” Nancy Richardson stepped inside. “I told him I didn’t mind making a couple of trips, but he was pulling things out of my hands before I could stop him.”

  “You must be Pablo,” Sydney said to the doorman. “Randy told me you’d be working today.”

  The thin young man looked down at his over-laden arms, and, smiling, Sydney pointed to the kitchen. He unburdened himself while Nancy placed the two pies she carried next to what he stacked on the counter. Sydney walked him to the front door and handed him a ten dollar bill.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Pablo. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Pablo thanked her with a smile. Sydney closed the door and went to take her mother’s coat.

  “It’s a blizzard out there,” Nancy said. “Luckily, I followed a salt truck all the way.”

  “Look at you!” Sydney stepped back to take in her mother’s ensemble. Black
velvet trousers, silk blouse the color of aged pewter, and a wide-sleeved shrug bursting with reds, purples, and gold against a black background. “Pretty la-di-da, lady.”

  Nancy twirled for a full inspection. “I think rubbing elbows with all those folks at Hush Money is getting to me. When I had my own joint, dressy meant clean jeans. Now that I’m working with the swells, I figure I might as well amp things up.”

  “You’re glowing today, that’s for sure. You look terrific, Mom.”

  “You, too.” Nancy studied Sydney’s outfit of gold brocade slacks and black cashmere turtleneck. “Of course, with a shape like yours, you could wear a potato sack and still turn heads.” She stepped over to the dining room.

  Sydney had spent the previous afternoon dressing the round table. A muted green circle of burlap formed the foundation for a low-rise centerpiece of a woven reed cornucopia overflowing with apples and pears. Five places were set with off-white china and gleaming flatware.

  “I was going to have candles, but I thought it would be too crowded.” Sydney watched her mother take in the tableau, well aware that at thirty-five she shouldn’t be so invested in her mother’s opinions.

  “It’s perfect, Syd. Classy. Just like you.” A sheen of tears filmed Nancy’s eyes.

  “You’re thinking about Dad, aren’t you?”

  “This is a day for thanks. I miss your dad like crazy. Even after all these years. I’m thankful I had him in my life as long as I did. But I wish with all my heart he was here to carve the turkey.”

  Of course you do, Mom. You send your cop husband off to work, and the next thing you know you’re in an emergency room. Some doctor telling you he never had a chance of recovering from the gunshot wounds.