by Clare Revell
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Praise for Clare Revell
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Thank you
Turned
Clare Revell
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Turned
COPYRIGHT 2014 by Clare Revell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Pelican Ventures, LLC except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Contact Information: [email protected]
All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version(R), NIV(R), Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Cover Art by Nicola Martinez
White Rose Publishing, a division of Pelican Ventures, LLC
www.pelicanbookgroup.com PO Box 1738 *Aztec, NM * 87410
White Rose Publishing Circle and Rosebud logo is a trademark of Pelican Ventures, LLC
Publishing History
First White Rose Edition, 2014
Print Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-368-1
Electronic Edition ISBN 978-1-61116-367-4
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For Andy, the best brother any girl could ask for. Even though he lives thousands of miles away, he's never far from my thoughts.
Praise for Clare Revell
Monday's Child
The blend of romance and suspense is superb, and the depth of emotion is so very touching. I am eagerly looking forward to the rest of the books in this series. Clare Revell is truly a master novelist. What a treat! I highly recommend Monday's Child to anyone looking for a GREAT story. ~ Mary Manners
Tuesday's Child
Ms. Revell has a marvelous touch with heroes. I love it! She also knows how to keep you on the edge of your seat! This is certainly turning out to be a great series! I can't wait for the next one! ~ Donna B. Snow
Tuesday's Child
Clare Revell...puts the EEP in creepy! Tuesday’s Child has it all—deaf heroine, cop hero, orphaned child, and terrifying killer. This book kept me reading late into the night (with the doors locked and the brightest light on!). ~ B. Norris (Amazon review)
“If My people, which are called by My name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek My face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land.” ~ 2 Chronicles 7:14
1
Horns blared in the hot, muggy, late September evening. Amy Childs drummed her fingers on the rim of the leather clad steering wheel. The staccato rhythm was almost at odds with the country music blaring full volume from the stereo. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. She gazed at the line of traffic in front of her. What was the hold up this time? Surely the council wasn’t digging up the roads of Filely again? Didn’t they have anything better to do?
One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four…
Having been delayed at work because the till didn’t add up, she now had less than an hour to get home, shower, change and be across town for Rosalie’s baby shower. She and Rosalie had been best friends since school. Amy’d had a couple of boyfriends, none of whom lasted beyond a month, whilst Rosalie had fallen hard and fast for Ray Malone, the assistant pastor of the church they’d attended while at university in Scotland. Rosalie and Ray had married just after Ray had amazingly accepted the call to become pastor of a small church in Filely, on the coast of North-Eastern England. Rosalie’s baby was due in two weeks.
Not having any ties, Amy had moved down there with them. She found a small house on the sea front and a job working in a hardware store and loved it. Well, loved it most of the time. She did a bit of everything; ordering, stock taking, and the till… And it wasn’t her fault the till was wrong either. The twenty had slipped down the back of the register. It was there all the time. She hated being accused of something she hadn’t done.
One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four…
She dragged her thoughts back to the evening ahead, and glanced in the driving mirror. Her long blonde hair was a mess. Brushing her fingers through it, she found sawdust. Great. There was no way she could avoid washing it before going out tonight. She’d bought the most adorable outfit and made a blanket for the baby. She needed to wrap them and box up the cake she’d made. And write the card. The flowers were in the garage in a bucket of water. Hopefully they hadn’t wilted in the heat.
Her fingers kept drumming. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. She sighed. “Oh, come on. This is ridiculous.”
The car in front of her moved. “Blow this, I don’t have time to sit here and wait.” She checked the lane to her right and pulled out, doing a U-turn. She swung wide, her mind a million miles away. A car horn blared in the queue behind her. “You can just wait a minute, mister.”
She kept going, pulling the wheel hard over, keeping the turning circle tight. Could she do it in one? A pedestrian appeared in front of her. There was a sickening thud, and she slammed on the brakes.
Her heart pounded, and she sat frozen in her seat. I hit him…oh, God, forgive me, I hit him. Her fingers whitened on the steering wheel. Nausea rose and she swallowed hard. Shaking started in her hands and spread throughout her entire body. She’d hit him.
Amy closed her eyes. She could still see his face, stamped indelibly on her memory. His wide, staring eyes, fear and tension in his body. His blue shirt and tie, jacket slung over his arm and briefcase in his hand meant businessman not manual worker. The way he’d been scooped up by her car, tossed onto her bonnet and windscreen, then back onto the road replayed over and over.
The windscreen was cracked. It’d cost a bomb to replace as the insurance wouldn’t cover it. You just hit a man...forget about the windshield.
A crowd gathered in front of her car, but she didn’t move. She just sat, shaking, trying not to cry or throw up.
Sirens echoed and blue lights flickered. She was going to be late. She needed to call Rosalie and let her know. One hand fumbled for her phone. She found Rosalie in the contacts and hit call.
Ray’s calm voice answered. “Pastor Malone.”
“It’s Amy…” she whispered. “Ray…something happened.”
“What’s wrong? Are you OK?”
Someone tapped on the window. Amy gasped, jumped and twisted her head. A uniformed officer stood there. She hit the button on the door, opening the window.
“Would you step out of the car please, miss?”
She didn’t move. This had turned into a nightmare she couldn’t awaken from.
“Put the phone down and step out of the car.” The officer’s tone hardened.
Ray’s voice echoed in her other ear. “Amy, who’s that? What�
��s going on?”
She dropped the phone. Her fingers fumbled first to unbuckle her seatbelt, then the catch, finally opening the door. She got out of the car. Her legs buckled, not wanting to hold her up. She glanced to her right. The guy in the blue shirt lay on the pavement, surrounded by police and paramedics. A huge crowd of onlookers stood everywhere. “Is…is he dead?”
“No. What’s your name?”
“Amy.”
“Amy what?”
“Amy Childs.” She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene.
“Have you had anything to drink in the last hour?”
“No. I don’t drink.”
“Breathe into this until I say stop.”
She frowned. “I told you, I don’t drink.” But she did as the police officer asked. “Can I go now? I have somewhere I have to be.”
“Amy Childs,” the police officer spoke firmly, pulling her hands behind her back. “I’m arresting you on suspicion of dangerous driving.”
“What? It was only a U-turn…”
“You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” Metal cuffs snapped around her wrists and firm hands put her into the back of the police car.
“But it was only a U-turn,” she repeated.
“U-turns are illegal,” the cop said sharply. “And you hit a pedestrian.” The door slammed shut.
Amy looked at it. It had no handle on the inside. She swallowed hard against the rising nausea as the car started to move. What had she done? Tears burned her eyes.
The journey was short. The officers led her inside the custody suite to the desk. The place stank of sweat and sick. She gave her name and address and handed over all her belongings. The officer took her down to a cell and removed the cuffs. She had to take off her shoes and leave them in the corridor. The door slammed shut, leaving her alone.
Amy sank onto the hard bench and buried her face in her hands. One small mistake and she was being treated like a common criminal. She hadn’t meant to hit him. It was an accident. It was only a U-turn.
Detective Sergeant Dane Philips pushed the bowl of now soggy cornflakes back in front of six year old Vicky. “Eat it.”
She shoved it back at him, the milk slopping over the edge of the bowl onto the table, shaking her head violently.
“You eat cornflakes every morning.”
Vicky mimed shoving her fingers down her throat and throwing up.
Dane sucked in a deep breath, trying to contain his frustration and anger. “Eat it. There are starving children in Africa who’d be grateful for that.”
She waved at the cereal and shoved the bowl hard enough to send it flying off the table and smashing onto the floor.
“Now look what you’ve done,” he yelled. “Pick it up.”
Vicky wrapped her arms tightly around her middle and scowled at him, shaking her head. She didn’t even have to say “make me” for Dane to know that’s exactly what she meant.
“I don’t have time for this.” Dane broke off as the doorbell rang. “Don’t you dare move, young lady.” He strode to the front door, flinging it open.
His partner, DS Nate Holmes stood there, shirt sleeves rolled up and his tie loose in his collar. “Ready?”
“No.” Dane snapped. “Vicky is on hunger strike and Jodie won’t get up. In fact, Vicky in her own unique way just told me to send her breakfast to the starving children in Africa because she doesn’t want it.”
“What you need is a nanny,” Nate joked.
“Don’t tempt me. Can you cover?”
“Afraid not. The Guv wants us both to attend the meeting this morning, remember?
Dane sighed. It had totally slipped his mind. “There is no way I’m going to make it. You’ll have to go by yourself.” He paused. “You managed as a single parent for years. You never told me it was this hard.”
“It had only ever been me. Plus, Vianne is my niece, not my daughter. Let me handle Vicky while you get dressed and drag Jodie kicking and screaming out of bed. I’ll send Adeline a text. We’ll drop the girls at mine and she can take Vicky to school.” Nate pulled out his phone, texting quickly.
“Thanks.”
“Welcome.” Nate slid his phone into his jacket pocket and headed into the kitchen.
Jodie appeared at the top of the stairs. She was twelve going on fifteen. “Is that Uncle Nate?”
“Yes. Now get down here and eat before you make me later than I already am.”
“No.”
Nate pushed open the kitchen door. “Jodie Kathlyn Philips, get down here this instant.”
Jodie scrambled past Dane and into the kitchen.
Dane closed his eyes. Why do they act up for me and not for anyone else, Lord? Jasmine had been dead two years and it was still as hard as it had been in the days and weeks after her murder. Maybe Nate was right and a nanny was the answer. He could have someone live in, and solve the problem of late nights and long hours. His parents and in-laws were great, but there were only so many times they could help out.
Silence had fallen in the kitchen. He peeked around the door. Nate stood with hands on hips, staring at both girls who were sitting and eating. Dane shook his head and using sign language told Nate he should give up policing and become a nanny.
Grateful the girls weren’t watching as Nate shot a sarcastic reply back, he nodded and headed out to get ready for work. Sometimes the sign language they used to communicate with Nate’s deaf wife was a blessing in disguise.
Amy sat in the interview room, her head in her hands. She was tired. A night in the cells wasn’t exactly conducive to a good night’s sleep. She wanted a shower, a decent cup of tea, and this whole nightmare over. She’d refused her one phone call. She had no one to call. At least no one she wanted to know about this. As the duty solicitor coughed, she looked up. “Now what will happen?”
“They’ll lay formal charges and take you to court for the hearing. If you plead guilty, they’ll bail you until sentencing. Otherwise you’ll be bailed until a court date is set.”
“Why won’t they do it now?”
“The judge will want records and reports and so on done first. And the crown will need time to prepare its case. That could be several months.”
“Oh.” She swallowed hard, feeling sick again. “How long will it be if I plead guilty?”
“It’ll probably be a couple of weeks or so.”
Amy pushed her hands through her hair. “I don’t understand. People get run over all the time and nothing gets done. Why am I made out to be any different?”
“If the person simply walks out in front of the car and the driver wasn’t doing anything wrong, then they can’t charge him. The fact is, you broke the law by doing a U-turn. You weren’t driving with due care and attention.”
“I didn’t mean to hit him. I just had someplace else I had to be. I was in a hurry.” Her conscience hit her sharply. This mess was her own making. The man she hit was innocent and she hadn’t so much as given him a second thought or asked how he was in all the long hours she’d been here. “How’s the bloke I hit?”
“The hospital released him with just cuts, bruises and a minor concussion. He’s going to be fine.”
“Good.” She looked down. She’d missed the party. How was she going to explain this to Rosalie and Ray? He was her pastor. How did she tell him she’d broken the law? He’d condemn her for it. She’d prayed all night for forgiveness and for this to just go away, but it hadn’t. Did that mean she wasn’t forgiven?
The door opened. “This way.” The officer’s tone was curt, and she stood slowly. He led her back to the desk and stood beside her.
The custody sergeant’s gaze was icy. “Amy Childs, you’re being charged with careless driving. You will be taken to the magistrate’s court for the plea hearing. Then brought back here.”
Amy started trembling as they led her out to the van and shut her inside. She was still trembling when she stood before the magistrate, her voice almost failing her when she had to confirm her name and address. She listened to the charges and when asked how she pleaded, replied “Guilty.”
Because she was. She’d broken the law and hit someone one. She could have killed him. The judge bailed her for two weeks until sentencing on the condition she hand her driving license in to the court officer.
“But I need it for work,” she whispered. How was she meant to do the few deliveries now? Never mind get to work. That’s if she didn’t get the custodial sentence she was warned was a possibility. Then she’d lose her job, too.
The judge called the next case, and she followed the official out. She handed over her driver’s license, and was led to the van. At the police station she signed the paperwork, and was given her bag and phone.
The screen was full of missed calls and texts from Rosalie.
The duty solicitor looked at her. “Can I give you a lift anywhere?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Can I call someone to pick you up?”
Tears burned her eyes. “No.”
“OK. See you back here in two weeks. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.” Amy headed out into the street, walking slowly, not really caring which way she went, so long as she ended up at home. She could still see the man’s face as the car hit him. The way he tossed into the air and landed almost in her lap.
A car horn blared and she jumped back from the edge of the road. Her heart pounded in her ears as a black car sped by. She needed to pay attention or she’d end up run over as well. Somehow she made it home and let herself in. She shut the door, noticing a black car drive by slowly. She locked herself in and headed to the stairs. More than anything else right now, she wanted to shower. Not that she’d ever be clean again.
