Child of Mine: a psychological thriller

by Chambers, V. J.

  “Doubt it,” said Simon. “She likes fast service.”

  “Right, but she’s a girl, and she might like to be fussed over a little bit.”

  Simon gave her a look that said she was clearly mistaken about everything. “I don’t think so. I know what she likes.”

  Lorelei turned back to the oven. Well, maybe it wouldn’t be awful to eat some casserole and watch whatever she wanted for a change. A night completely to herself didn’t sound horrible. She shrugged. “Okay, you two have fun, then.”

  “Thanks,” said Simon. He smiled at her.

  She couldn’t help but smile back. Simon’s smiles were rare but precious. She had an urge to cross the kitchen and give him a big hug. But she knew he wouldn’t appreciate the physical closeness. So, she just said, “I love you. Have a good time tonight.”

  “I will,” said Simon.

  * * *

  After three glasses of wine, and three different movies, all of which she’d paused because she couldn’t get into them, Lorelei gave up on watching movies alone. Instead, she left the living room and went into Simon’s bedroom. The room was cluttered, all the walls lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves so that he could organize all his stuff. That wasn’t so much because Simon had that much stuff and more because the rooms in their apartment were tiny. His closet was crammed full too.

  Simon had a blue bedspread on his bed and a red pillowcase. He didn’t have any pictures on his walls—no room with all the shelves. The shelves were organized and neat, filled with books, old toys, computer games, and comics. He had turned one of the shelves into a makeshift desk by clearing it off, clamping a swing-arm lamp to the shelf above, and pulling up a chair to it.

  He’d done this all on his own, she remembered, not asking for help, just asking if he could have the supplies (the lamp and the chair.) When he’d shown her, she’d been very proud of his ingenuity. She’d asked him where he’d gotten the idea, thinking maybe he’d looked it up on the Internet. But no, he said, it had simply made sense to him. And that he needed a desk.

  Above the shelf-desk was a cork board that she’d helped him affix to his wall, and he kept various important papers pinned to it.

  She was fairly sure that…

  Yes.

  She snatched a list of names and phone numbers off the cork board.

  Then she darted out of Simon’s room, feeling as if she’d trespassed somehow, even though she came in here weekly to vacuum.

  It was because of what she was going to do with the phone numbers, she supposed. But she didn’t have to do it. She could put the list back and go back to her movie.

  She looked back at his bedroom door, now closed, licking her lips.

  No, no. She couldn’t put it back.

  Instead, she sat down at the kitchen table and took out her phone. She ran her finger down the list, reading the names. Almost all boys.

  The chess club wasn’t affiliated with the school system. Chess wasn’t a particularly popular activity around here. So, in order to get enough participants to actually compete in regional games, the club was comprised of high school students from two different counties—roughly six towns in all, not including the various little communities that had post offices and a strip mall but not much else. And even so, it wasn’t a very long list.

  She paused at Brittany Lewis’s name, getting a flash in her head of a blond girl tangled up in white sheets stained red, blindfolded, gagged, and dead.

  Lorelei shook herself. That wasn’t Brittany. That was Mary Warner, one of the victims of James Dale, the Freeway Stalker.

  “It’s over,” she whispered aloud. “I don’t work for the FBI anymore. I don’t have to get inside those monsters’ heads.” But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if she needed to get back inside the heads of killers, not anymore. She’d climbed in a long time ago. And she was never getting out now.

  Lorelei found two other girls’ names on the list. Faith Jenkins and Shelly Bradley. Shelly came first. Lorelei dialed the number.

  It rang, and then a hesitant voice answered. “Um, hello?”

  “Is this Shelly Bradley?”

  “Look, I’m only sixteen, so if you’re trying to sell me something—”

  “It’s nothing like that. I’m Lorelei Taylor. I’m Simon’s mother.”

  Silence on the other end.

  “From chess club?” Lorelei’s voice was a squeak.

  “Okay,” said Shelly, sounding confused and a little weirded out.

  “I’m, um, calling because…” Damn it why was she calling? Shouldn’t she have worked out a script or something first? She took a slug of wine. “Did you talk to the police about Simon?”

  “No,” said Shelly.

  But that was vague, wasn’t it? She should have asked the question better. “Did you talk to the police at all?”

  “Well, they did ask me about Brittany,” she said. “But I didn’t really know anything. I guess the last time anyone saw her was at chess club that night, and I didn’t know where she was going afterward. She got a car for her sixteenth birthday, and she was really excited about driving herself around. I think sometimes, she just drove around for an hour or two, just because she could. So, that’s what I told the police.”

  Lorelei took another drink of wine. “They didn’t ask you about Simon?”

  “Why would they ask me about him?”

  “Because they…” Lorelei paused. If this girl wasn’t aware that Simon was under investigation for murder, then she could do further damage to her son’s reputation by revealing it, because girls liked to talk, and talk led to rumors, and rumors got worse the more they were spread. She drank more wine. “Look, I think someone told the police that Simon was creepy or weird or something, and I thought that maybe one of the girls at the chess club had said it. Simon’s a good kid, though. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Shelly. “Honestly, I don’t know why anyone would think he was creepy or weird.”

  “Really? Because he is… different.”

  “Like how?” Shelly sounded even more confused.

  “He’s got autism. He’s very high functioning, but—”

  “No way. I never would have guessed. That’s crazy,” said Shelly. “Simon’s so outgoing and social.”

  “He is?” Lorelei had never heard her son described that way.

  “Yeah, he’s a really nice guy. Don’t worry, Ms. Taylor, I wouldn’t say anything bad about him, and neither would anyone else. Brittany liked him too. They were good friends.”

  “Friends?” Something here wasn’t computing. Simon had said he barely knew this girl.

  “Yeah, they talked all the time,” said Shelly.

  Oh, God. Oh, God, what the hell was going on here? Lorelei reached for her glass with shaking hands and managed to gulp down a few more swallows. “Okay, thanks, Shelly. I’m sorry to bother you.” She hung up the phone.

  And then she downed the rest of her wine.

  She wasn’t even sure why she’d done that. Even if the girls had said that Simon was weird, what would she have done about it? Convinced them to go back to the police and recant?

  No, she’d only wanted to get to the bottom of it. Figure out how it was that Jeremy could have become so convinced her son had committed a heinous crime.

  But now, she was more confused than ever.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “You are a total slut,” said Darla Robinson, taking a flask out of her jacket and unscrewing the lid.

  Her friend, Calico Walker, giggled. She raised a flask of her own. “I’m not, you bitch! Take that back.”

  The girls clinked flasks, each took a drink, and then giggled some more. They were still in the back room of an abandoned factory out on the outskirts of Woodbury, even though the guys who’d brought them there had left a while ago. Woodbury had once been a booming industry town, full of factories and jobs, but like so many other American towns, the factories had closed and the town had changed. Now, the old buildin
gs stood like hollowed out carcasses on the edge of town, and new strip malls and restaurants clustered up near the interstate.

  Neither of the girls remembered the factories being open. They were both only eighteen, in their first year at the local community college.

  Calico had stopped giggling. “Why would you say I was a slut?”

  “Because of the way you posed for them, that’s why.” Darla waggled her eyebrows at the other girl. “You did all that sultry stuff with your lips. All pouty.” She demonstrated.

  Calico shoved the other girl, but not hard. “I didn’t look like that.”

  Darla shrugged. “I think you did. You were like a pin-up girl.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Darla sat down on the concrete floor of the huge, empty room where they were drinking out of their flasks. Above them, tall windows loomed, some of the panes busted out or boarded up. “Do you think they were really photography students?”

  “I don’t know,” said Calico, “because they looked young.”

  “Yeah,” said Darla.

  “I don’t know if they were really college freshman. I think they were still in high school.”

  “So, why did you let them take pictures of us?”

  “Us? You gave consent yourself, girl.”

  “Because you did.” Darla took another drink out of her flask and then wrinkled up her nose at the taste. “Honestly, I was afraid they were going to ask us to take off our clothes, and I wasn’t going to do that. But I know you would.”

  “What?” Calico shook her head. “I would not.”

  “Really? Because you were all about—”

  “Look, the other one was kind of cute,” said Calico. “And so, yeah, I was flirting a little. But I wasn’t going to let someone take nude photos of me. What if I end up famous and they end up being published in The Enquirer?”

  Darla snorted. “What are you going to be famous for?”

  “My Youtube channel is totally going to take off.”

  Darla rolled her eyes. “If you say so.”

  “I have a feeling about it. It’s going to happen,” said Calico. She started across the room.

  Darla got up. “Wait. Where are you going?”

  “I have to pee,” said Calico.

  Darla started to say that she’d come along, but then stopped, because she knew that her friend had a shy bladder and never wanted anyone around. She wouldn’t even go to the restroom with other girls. Darla folded her arms over her chest. “Okay, well, don’t take too long, okay?”

  “I’ll be right back,” said Calico, and she disappeared through the door on the other side of the room.

  Darla surveyed her flask and waited.

  And waited.

  She turned in a circle, peering up at the windows again. It was dark now, and the light filtering in from outside was just from the streetlights that surrounded the factory. She wondered why the streetlights still worked out here, considering no one came out here at night. The sidewalk hadn’t been repaired in an age, but someone was coming out and replacing the bulbs. Go figure.

  She tapped her foot.

  Honestly, she didn’t much like it in this room. With light coming in through the windows being all gloomy and dim and the shadows and the concrete and the disarray, it was less than optimal. She couldn’t wait until she was twenty-one so that she could drink in a bar like a normal person instead of stealing liquor from her parents’ liquor cabinet to put in this flask and go hide out and drink.

  She liked hanging out with Calico, though. Calico was fun, mostly because she was willing to take risks that Darla wasn’t. Darla wouldn’t have followed two strange guys out to an old factory on the outskirts of town. But Calico made everything seem like an adventure. Her eyebrows would shoot up, her eyes would dance, and she would explain whatever crazy idea she had in a breathless voice. Then she’d squeal and say it was going to be so, so great. Her excitement was infectious.

  But now, Darla wondered where the hell Calico was.

  A thud. Muffled. Far away.

  But it sent thrills through Darla. What the hell was that? “Calico?” she called, her voice quavering. Suddenly, she was terrified, shot full of adrenaline. There was a reason she didn’t do things like follow strange guys out to abandoned factories. It was idiotic, especially lately, considering that girl, that Brittany girl—

  Darla hugged herself. Oh, God. That girl was from Woodbury. She was from this town. And she was dead.

  “Calico!” she called again, and this time, her voice was shrill. She started toward the door where her friend had disappeared. “Calico!” Her voice echoed against the concrete floor and the high ceiling.

  There was no answer.

  Oh, God, why wasn’t Calico saying anything? Her friend had to be hearing Darla’s voice. Anyone within earshot could.

  Darla gulped.

  Hell. What if there was someone else here? What if the person who’d hurt that Brittany girl was hear and the reason that Calico wasn’t answering was—

  Darla rushed through the doorway and into the empty hallway.

  Her breath came in gasps.

  She was in a narrow hallway. Ahead of her, there were two doors on either side of the hall, and then a bend in the hallway. She looked back into the room from where she’d come. Nowhere to hide there and no way out. If there was someone here and that person had heard her, then going back wasn’t an option.

  She tiptoed up the hallway, quiet as she could. She didn’t yell for her friend again.

  She hesitated just before she got to the two doors on either side. She could imagine someone inside one of the rooms, ready to jump out at her. She looked around for a weapon, for something she could use to protect herself. But there was nothing but cracked tile and peeling wallpaper.

  Holding her breath, she inched forward.

  A skittering noise.

  She nearly screamed but swallowed it at the last moment.

  A rat scuttled across the floor, going from one door to the other. It was mangy and furry and it had little beady eyes. She shuddered.

  But the rat seemed to help her get a grip for a moment. She was losing it, and there was no reason for that. Calico was probably playing a little joke on her. She’d round his bend in the hallway, and her friend would jump out at her, and she’d scream, and then they’d both laugh, and it would all be over. Calico was fine. Darla was going to be fine. It was a creepy old building, but that was it.

  Squaring her shoulders, Darla strode past the doors and went around the bend.

  At the end of the hallway, she saw a shoe. A little black ballet flat. It was pointing toe first at the ceiling, because there was a foot in it. Calico’s foot. Calico’s shoe.

  Darla put a hand up over her mouth to try to muffle the noise that was coming out of her mouth. It wasn’t a scream or a cry. It was more like a low moan of dread. She needed to not make noise. She needed—

  The shoe was moving. Slowly, it was inching out of sight, as if someone was tugging away Calico’s body.

  That was what she was seeing. A lifeless body lying on the floor, being dragged away—

  Darla backed up. She backed around the corner and ducked inside one of the doors. Not the one the rat had gone in. She shut the door behind her, firmly. Quietly. She glanced around the room. Her breath was coming in gasps, her heart was pounding. This room had one window, but it had boards crisscrossed over it because the glass was broken.

  Darla dashed across the room and grasped at the wooden beam nailed over the window. She heaved.

  The thing didn’t budge.

  Okay, okay. There had to be a way to get them off. A tool or something. She needed a hammer. She’d seen people do it, use the back of the hammer to pry nails free. If she got the nails out, she could get the beams off and then climb out the window, and—

  Abandon Calico?

  Darla looked away from the window, over her shoulder, back at the closed door. Should she try to go back for Calico?


  No, no, she needed a hammer!

  But there weren’t any hammers in the room. She didn’t see anything like that. Should she leave the room, go look for a tool?

  Or maybe stay here? Hide? There was an old desk over in one corner, a huge metal thing. She could get underneath it, and maybe whoever was out there wouldn’t be able to find her. She could wait, hide until morning, and then, when she was sure it was safe, leave.

  But how could she be sure it would be safe?

  No, she should go across the hall to the other room. Maybe there was a window in there that wasn’t boarded up. Maybe then she could get out that way.

  She hurried over to the door and put her hand on the doorknob.

  But before she could do anything, the door pushed open.

  Startled, she flailed backward.

  Someone was behind the door. Someone was coming for her.

  Darla screamed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lorelei woke up on the couch in the living room, morning sunlight streaming in through the windows. She’d had every intention of grilling Simon on whatever was going on at the chess club when he got back from his date with Jordan. But she must have had too much to drink and fallen asleep. After the phone call with Shelly, Lorelei had gone fast and hard on the bottle of wine, trying to practice exactly what she’d say.

  She got to her feet and her back screamed at her. Ouch. That couch was comfortable to lounge on, but it wasn’t a substitute for her bed. Clutching her back, she waddled over to Simon’s room. She pushed the door open.

  No Simon.

  Lorelei grimaced and then checked the clock on the wall. Oh, that late, huh? Simon must already be off at school.

  Her head was throbbing. She moved her hand from her back to her forehead and shuffled into the kitchen to start some coffee and take some ibuprofen. Clutching the sink, she moaned aloud, “No more wine.”

  Wine was the devil. Especially the sweet kind, which went down so easily.

  Even though she was an alcoholic, Lorelei didn’t much enjoy the taste of alcohol. She liked her beverages to be tasty if possible.