by Britney King
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Savage Row: A Psychological Thriller
Britney King
WWW.BRITNEYKING.COM
Copyright
SAVAGE ROW is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, images, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author's intellectual property. No part of this publication may be used, shared or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact http://britneyking.com/contact/
Thank you for your support of the author's rights.
Hot Banana Press
Cover Design by Britney King LLC
Cover Image by Britney King LLC
Photo by Wynand Van Poortvlieft
Copy Editing by Librum Artis Editorial Service
Proofread by Proofreading by the Page
Copyright © 2020 by Britney King LLC. All Rights Reserved.
First Edition: 2020
ISBN 13: 9781393949114
ISBN 10: 9781393949
britneyking.com
For Amy, a wonderful grandmother, and surely one of the kindest women to have walked the earth.
Contents
Savage Row
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
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
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
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
A note from Britney
Also by Britney King
Sneak Peek: The Social Affair
The Social Affair
Prologue
Savage Row
Britney King
❝ Life is short and Art long; the opportunity fleeting, experience deceitful, and judgment difficult. ❞
— Hippocrates, 460-370 BC, Ancient Greek physician, the “Father of Medicine”
Prologue
TODAY
Thursday, December 10th
11:23 p.m.
He should turn around and go home. But he thinks of the children, and he can’t. He isn’t supposed to think of the children. As he creeps forward, sinking further into darkness, Theo is aware of the consequences.
He doesn’t want to go to jail. He’s been there, done that. He has no intention of doing it again. Still, he puts one foot in front of the other, ambling forward. He cannot turn back now, any more than he could turn away at the start. He’d tried to do the right thing. Some lessons come wrapped in sandpaper, his mother likes to say. This must be what she means.
The alarm sounds loudly, causing that familiar dull ache deep in his skull, the one he’s never quite able to completely silence. Warning bells ring like fireworks on the Fourth of July. It’s all in his head, they say.
People are going to talk about you, his mother tells him. Give them good material. Theo turns the knob and walks over the threshold. What else is he supposed to do? He is a part of this now.
The smell, he was not expecting, and it nearly folds him in two. Theo is not a weak man, despite what everyone says. The girls. Where are they?
If they’d listened to him, he wouldn’t be here putting his own life at risk. He tried to tell them. Little girls are fragile. They ought not be climbing trees, doing cartwheels, playing on monkey bars. They should be safe at home, not out in the world flinging themselves about. Now Theo realizes they weren’t safe, not even there.
A noise on the second floor catches his attention. He starts toward the stairs. At the top, he knows where to go. Only he doesn’t get there. Theo’s foot makes contact with something in the dark.
He lurches forward, breaking his fall, but not before he’s down on all fours. Behind him, faint light filters in from the front door. He thought he’d closed it. Surely he had? He wouldn’t have wanted to let the cold in. Children need warmth. Now he’s glad on account of the wretched smell. Theo slaps his palm against his forehead several times. He should have been smarter. If only he’d thought to bring blankets, the way the paramedics do. If he wasn’t worried about going to jail, he might call them.
Trouble, he mumbles to himself. This is bad. This is trouble. Just like the lady in the hospital had taught him. Theo remembers other things too. He remembers how her breath smelled like stale oatmeal, and her eyes were so close together that it made him dizzy to look at her. And sometimes he wanted to kill her. He was glad he hadn’t, because he recalls what she’d said now. To clear his mind, he had to regulate his emotions. Or was it the other way around? She spoke so fast Theo often had a hard time keeping up. Take deep breaths, she’d repeat. Focus on what is in front of you.
At the end of their sessions, she always asked if he had any questions. Theo knew she didn’t care to hear what he thought, that her asking was just routine—an afterthought. Meaningless words. Theo asked no questions. But there was one that plagued him. One that danced on the tip of his tongue: how would you prefer to die?
He imagines the woman now, splayed out before him, undigested oatmeal still in her stomach. His mind does this sometimes. Plays tricks on him. Theo knows it isn’t her, the lump of flesh and bone contains more mass than her frail old body had.
He tries not to panic. It’s obvious the man is dead. There is a solidness to him, a finality, an absence of anything. His palms sweat, and his breath comes in heavy bursts. He wishes it weren’t so dark. Theo can’t make out the man’s features, and he’d rather see. Then his mind wouldn’t have to fill in the blanks.
He trips over furniture that’s been turned over. There was a struggle. There is still a struggle, he knows. Up the stairs and to the left. An intruder. Or maybe to the right. He’d have to wait and see. First, he had to breathe and calm his emotions.
Theo’s mind flits from image to image like the View-Master camera he had when he was a kid. His mother’s crime shows display on the reels. He hates television, but if he has to watch, Theo much prefers the programs about saving the children, sometimes animals too—although those make him feel particularly desolate. At least children can talk. But now there is a glimmer of something. Not
quite gratitude, but a seed of hopefulness, as though his mother and the television had been preparing him all along. If you want to save anything, it’s helpful to know what you’re up against. The world is a terrible place, she says, like clockwork, at the start of one of her programs. A terrible, terrible place.
A faint cry takes him away from his swirling thoughts, away from the bloodbath. He can feel the man’s vacant eyes stare back at him, leaving an unsettled feeling in his belly. Theo uses the tips of his gloved fingers to close the man’s eyes the way he’s seen on his mother’s shows. Then he pushes himself upright, and though his feet stick to the floor, he pushes onward. Maybe he couldn’t save all those children, on all those nights, on all those programs. But maybe he can save these.
He has to. Theo likes the family that lives in this house. He is especially fond of the youngest daughter. The older girl has her moments, but she can’t help it. She’s already been hardened to the world. She looks at Theo like most everyone does, as something other, a specimen to be handled carefully, something to keep at a distance.
Theo never let that stop him. He tried to be respectful. What he loved most of all were the times she didn’t know he was looking. The times no one noticed he was watching, not even his mother. Out their rear window, which faced the family’s yard, he’d watch the older girl as she played. It was one of the few times she let her guard down. He loved the girls’ giggles, the push and pull of it, the games they played. Sometimes he’d join in, imagining himself with them, showing them how much fun he could be when he let go of the bad thoughts.
He wanted to tell them about the old woman at the hospital with the sour breath and scruffy voice. He wanted to warn them about all the bad things that could happen, and sometimes, even though he wasn’t supposed to, he did.
Now he realizes he should have told them more. He takes each step carefully, pausing halfway up the stairs. The girls are weeping. He can hear it down the hallway. He hears their mother, speaking hurriedly, reasoning, pleading: Whatever you want—whatever—anything — I’ll give it to you. If it’s money you need, I have a little. You can take it all. But please. Please don’t—they’re just children.
Chapter One
THREE WEEKS EARLIER
Thursday, November 19th
10:02 p.m.
God, it feels good. Not vacation sex good, but almost, and if I squeeze my eyes shut, I can picture a beach, and when was the last time we went away on vacation, just the two of us?
Two years ago? Or has it been three? I grip the sheets. Fuck. I shouldn’t be thinking about this now, recounting the details of my life, and it makes me wonder if Greg does this too. I make a note to ask him, a reminder that brings me back to the here and now. Until I realize I did ask him once. The memory of him kissing my nose, the way he told me not to be silly. He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask for further clarification, but I got the sense that he was telling the truth, and also that he didn’t want the conversation to go any further. Some things need to stay safely in the corners of your mind, married or not.
He shifts his weight, then brings my leg up and pins it in place. My God. I’m going to bet my husband’s fantasies are a lot different than mine—that he doesn’t organize his calendar or draft his dinner menu while he fucks. Not even occasionally. He’s too good for that. Studies show that only ten percent of people let their mind wander during sex, and in this moment I am bummed to be the odd one out. “Greg.” I release the sheets and push against his chest. “We should take a vacation.”
He groans, something inaudible, but he doesn’t slow down. “I don’t mean tomorrow or anything…but sometime in the new year.”
He looks down, and his eyes search mine. He clamps his hand over my mouth, a little over my nose, too—the way he knows I like. It’s a playful gesture, but it’s also a question. How far do you want me to go?
I don’t give any particular sign, so he rapid fires, using all the ammo he’s gleaned over the years. He whispers in my ear the things he’s come to know get me where I need to be, and for a moment, it works. That’s the thing about being married. Sex is like the neighborhood playground: you know the best areas to play.
He fists my hair and bears his weight down, pressing me firmly into the mattress so there’s no wiggle room, not for my body and not for my thoughts. It’s what I love most about Greg, how easy it is to lose myself in him.
Unfortunately, I never stay lost for long. I’m afraid that maybe I’m not built that way. My husband is happy-go-lucky most of the time. I just try to keep up. I hear a door open and shut and then footsteps. “Hey,” I whisper, writhing, trying to break free of the hand that covers my mouth. “Did you hear that?”
He didn’t hear it. He never does. “I think someone’s breaking in.”
“I set the alarm.” He says it in a way that makes it sound as though I am crazy, as though the idea is far-fetched, and he’s right. We have an alarm and a dog that would alert us, and my God. His hands and his—nothing bad can happen in a moment like this.
“Hit me,” I say, and that does it. He pulls back.
He looks at me longingly. “Are you sure?”
A flicker in my expression is all it takes before I feel the sting of his hand across my face. He strikes me once, forcing me to the present. It’s the second blow that keeps me there.
“You like it when I hurt you,” he whispers against my ear, and he isn’t wrong. There’s comfort in pain.
“Mommy?”
My eyes spring open to the sight of feet. Little feet. They come into focus as they move closer. Naomi.
“Fuck,” Greg huffs into my shoulder, language I’d normally object to in the presence of our child. But the damage is already done. My mind races forward, flinging itself into the future, before retreating into the past.
How long has she been standing there? How long since the first noise? Two minutes? Three? Did she hear the things her Daddy said? How early is too early for the talk? How much explanation is too much? This is uncharted territory, and although Greg says he’ll handle it, I can’t help but wonder if he’ll fuck it up.
But I know Greg won’t mess up, and so when he tells our daughter to go back to bed, that he’ll be there to tuck her back in, I watch him go.
He returns sooner than I thought he would, looking less weary than I’d imagined. He has a glimmer of fresh mischief in his eye. “She had a bad dream.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
“Just that your back was hurting, and I was rubbing it for you.”
“What?”
“Relax,” he says, reaching for me in a way that tells me he’s hoping to pick up where we left off. “I took care of it.”
“What did she say?”
“That you should try laying on your stomach next time so I can reach it.”
“God. You’re kidding.” I swat at him, but he’s quick. “No. Seriously?”
He smiles and then buries his face in my chest. “I am serious.”
“So you didn’t talk to her?”
“No. I let her go back to sleep.”
My brow furrows, and when I say nothing more, he looks over at me. There’s a question in his eyes, one he knows I won’t answer until he tells me what I need to hear. “She’ll think it was a part of her bad dream, and we’ll let her,” he says, his hand trailing down my thigh.
With a sigh, I allow my eyes to close. “We should start saving for therapy now.”
Chapter Two
Morning is usually a mad scramble to get the girls ready and out the door. Today is sunny and particularly pleasant; I have that to be grateful for. It’s a Saturday, which helps, and so far it seems to be the kind where the stars have aligned. No one is cranky, no one lost their socks, the toast comes out just right, and the dog hasn’t puked on the floor.
Once I’ve rinsed my coffee mug and loaded the girls’ breakfast plates into the dishwasher, I turn
my attention to the kitchen window. Green grass. Tall trees. Fall leaves. Calm mornings.
I take a deep breath in, hold it for a count of four, and exhale. A warm home. Coffee. The dishwasher. Catching my reflection in the glass, I roll my eyes. It’s silly. This new habit. But Dana swears by it, and well, no one can deny it certainly seems to be working for her. I make a list of the things I am grateful for, something I would’ve balked at only a year ago. Maybe even a month ago. As I watched Dana and then the others transform their lives, I thought, what the hell. Mentally listing things to be happy about while performing routine tasks isn’t going to kill me.
As I wipe down the table, I reflect on last night. Greg’s three-day stubble rubbing against my inner thighs, the twinge of soreness that lingers, serving as a reminder of what we did. That we have a lifetime to keep doing it. To be so lucky.
I think about the girls happily chatting about something they saw on YouTube. I wonder, briefly, if we let them watch too much YouTube, and the answer is probably yes, but I catch myself as Dana says to do. I shift my attention back to the window, back to our street. We really are fortunate. I can’t think of a better place to raise a family, so I add our neighborhood to the list. Sure, it’s not our old place, and sure, there’s no beach and no mountains, but the people here make up for it.
