Savage Row : A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  When I face him again, his lips press into a tight smile. “As long as it takes.”

  Chapter Five

  My whole body shakes, and despite that I have turned on the AC in the car to full blast. After repeatedly checking the rearview mirror, I adjust all vents within reach to face me. It doesn’t help. I can’t seem to get rid of the clammy, sweaty feeling. I tell myself it’s possible I’m coming down with something. It is November and flu season, but deep down I know it’s not that. It’s fear, plain and simple.

  I don’t drive to the soccer fields. I drive in circles and I call Greg. When he answers cheerfully, I lose it. I sob into the phone as I tell him about the open house and the man. Cheap mascara streams down my face. He listens without speaking.

  After I’ve gotten it all out, he says calmly, “Surely a house like that has security cameras…”

  I take a couple of deep breaths before responding. “I’m sure.”

  “We’ll get the footage,” he assures me. “Don’t worry. You need to focus on driving…I’m sure he’s just trying to scare you.”

  “Well, it worked.”

  He suggests meeting for lunch. We agree on a restaurant, and I tell him I’ll meet him there, but first I need to stop by the house and let Rocky out. Also, I don’t want the girls to see me this upset.

  More importantly, I need to ensure I’m not being followed, and I need a moment to catch my breath and reset.

  There’s a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that I’ve forgotten something I really should have remembered. For one, the man’s name. The memories are hazy, as though they happened a lifetime ago, and I suppose they did. I only vaguely remember serving on the jury.

  I do recall the sentence. Twenty years. I recall that he was on trial for battery and sexual assault. It wasn’t a pleasant case, not the kind one wants to think back on, which is probably why I blocked out most of the details. Surely, though, it hasn’t been twenty years.

  As my eyes travel from the road to my rearview mirror and back, questions flood my mind. How did he find me? Aren’t jurors anonymous? Why did he show up now? Why today? How could he have known I’d be there? It wasn’t my name on the for sale sign out front. It wasn’t my open house.

  Even if he were following me, I don’t know what to look for. I don’t know what he drives. There wasn’t a vehicle parked outside the Clairmont house. Maybe I can ask the neighbors. Surely, one of them had to have seen something. Surely, their cameras have footage.

  I take several deep breaths and tell myself I have a plan. Although, it’s possible I’m making this a bigger deal than it is. He hadn’t explicitly mentioned doing me any harm. He hadn’t threatened me. And anyway, what kind of person would get released from prison just to get sent back?

  I tell myself these things, and I shake my head. Even I am not that naive. When I am sure there are no vehicles trailing me, I circle back and turn onto our tree-lined street.

  It feels like my world has just shifted on its axis while everything here remains the same. Workers mow lawns, children ride scooters down sidewalks. I wave to Dave and Linda, our neighbors down the street, as I pass. They wave back.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting to see, but I breathe a sigh of relief as I pull into our drive. The house looks as I left it this morning. Normally, I’d leave my car out, but feeling cautious, I pull into the garage, where I sit for a few minutes catching my breath and searching the internet. I recall just enough to bring up an archived article, which offers some details of the case. Jack Mooney.

  After I find what I need, I gloss over the rest, reminding myself that Greg and the girls are waiting.

  Rocky cheerfully greets me at the door, nudging the back of my knees as I kick out of my heels while simultaneously punching in the alarm code. I toss my purse onto the counter as he runs circles around me, convincing me I made the right choice dropping by to let him out.

  He bolts the moment I open the back door. I text Greg that I’m on my way and then make a mad dash for the laundry room, wriggling out of my skirt and tossing my blouse onto the floor. I riffle through the dryer and come out with jeans and Greg’s old college hoodie. They’ll have to do.

  It hits me then. The trial, small details. I’d been in my senior year of college when I’d served on the jury. I had a job I hated, and I’m pretty sure I would have said yes to just about anything that ethically took me away from it.

  Searching the entryway for my tennis shoes, I come up empty-handed. They aren’t by the front door or the back, either. Finally, I give up and slip into boots.

  Rocky scratches at the door, and I let him in, patting his head. “I’ll be back,” I say, grabbing my keys. When he sees me reach for my purse, he paws at me, jumping, circling around me, and finally jumping up on me, knocking me into the wall. “It’s okay,” I say, trying to calm him. “I won’t be long.”

  It doesn’t work. He bites at my ankles, tugging at my pant leg, and I realize he wants to go back outside. I sigh, then watching his spinning body, I cave. It’s gorgeous out, and I am in a hurry. We won’t be long, and I figure it can’t hurt to just leave him out.

  I’m halfway down the drive and I can hear that the barking hasn’t subsided. I pause, foot on the brake, questioning whether it was wise to leave him out, when the smoke catches my eye.

  Dense black clouds are billowing out the back of Mrs. Crumps house. I immediately know that something is off; it’s too thick to be the grill. Her house is on fire.

  Throwing the car in park, I dial 911.

  The operator asks for the address and tries to keep me on the phone. “She’s in there,” I say, shoving the phone in my pocket. I head for her gate. Mrs. Crump often leaves the patio door open. I know because she complains a lot about Rocky barking and about the noise the girls make. It interrupts her programs. She can hardly hear them as it is. “Mrs. Crump?” I call out, the fence slamming behind me. “Mrs. Crump?”

  My face falls when I see that the back door is closed and the curtains drawn. I jiggle the door handle. The door is locked, but her Cadillac is in the driveway. She has a son who lives with her, but he’s rarely home. I can’t recall whether I saw his car parked at the curb. I don’t think so.

  Circling back around front, I continue calling her name. Neighbors drift out of their homes and look on. The front door is also locked. I beat against it with balled fists until I’m breathless. Stretching my fingers, I wipe my brow, and give the door a good kick, flipping the doormat in the process. Lying underneath it is the shiniest, luckiest silver key I’ve ever seen. I know I shouldn’t go in. Sirens wail in the distance. I should wait for the fire department. And yet, I put the key in the lock, and open the door. Smoke plumes out, forcing me to pull my hoodie over my face. It occurs to me then that running into a burning house for an old woman who barely tolerates me is an idiotic thing to do. But then I think about what I know about smoke inhalation, and I’m not sure I could live with myself if I didn’t at least try to help.

  Stepping into the living area, the smoke is so dense that I can’t see anything. I call out to her, but I’m coughing, making it impossible to hear anything, even if there was a response. There’s a sick feeling in my stomach, telling me to turn back. I have a family. People that depend on me. But then, as I start up the stairs, I hear her calling for help. And what am I supposed to do?

  I take them two by two, listening for her voice, and it’s like we’re playing Marco Polo underwater. I find her in the second-floor bathroom. Instead of trying to flee the house, she has placed herself under the spray of the shower.

  I rip off the wet shower curtain, throw it over her and beckon her to follow me. She refuses at first, and I almost leave her. She must sense that I’m going to—at least I can tell the fire department where to find her—so with some coaxing she climbs out of the tub. At the speed of which she takes the stairs, I’m not sure she wants to live. “Come on,” I say. “Don’t you want a story to tell?”

  This seems to be
the pep talk she needs, which is how we find ourselves out on the lawn surrounded by well-meaning neighbors and paramedics.

  Eventually, things settle. They put the fire out. They check us over. I decline treatment. Mrs. Crump refuses transport to the hospital for further evaluation and is given supplemental oxygen. Her son arrives home.

  His face is pale and stoic as he approaches. She tells him to get her checkbook. I’m surprised when he doesn’t look at her like she is crazy; he just asks where it is. I deserve a reward, she tells him, and I hesitate to explain that isn’t how rewards generally work. At any rate, it would be impossible to get a word in edgewise. She drones on and on, and at last she wants to know how much her life is worth, anyway.

  When the fire marshal asks to speak with her alone, it’s just me and her son standing there. She hadn’t mentioned having family when she bought the house, so Greg and I were both surprised when he came to live with her about six months in.

  I know little about him other than he keeps to himself, and the neighbors say he’s strange. I can’t recall him ever saying a word to me, perhaps a curt nod if our eyes happened to meet, but not even a wave. He spoke to Greg once, something about feeding the birds, and Greg told me about it with a hint of trepidation. I don’t want you to worry, he’d said. He didn’t elaborate; there hadn’t been time. We were doing the bath and bedtime shuffle and in the middle of the conversation one of the girls ended up in tears. All he’d said was that we should keep an eye out.

  Now we’re standing on the sidewalk, surveying the damage, when he turns to me and says, “You really shouldn’t have done that.”

  Chapter Six

  Greg arrived home with a sleeping child slung across both arms and a takeout bag precariously teetering on top. After he’d put Blair to bed, he showered while I helped Naomi into a bath.

  Greg wanders in and rests against the doorframe. One look at him, and I fall apart. He takes me in his arms, and then as my tears evolve into full sobs, he takes me by the hand and leads me out of the bathroom. Back against the wall, I can see the concern written across his face. The unspoken question. “What were you thinking?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He pulls me close, rubbing my back in slow circles. “It’s okay,” he says. “No one died.”

  Naomi bursts around the corner, dripping water, half of the contents of the tub pooling at her feet. “I said I need a towel.”

  Greg takes her back into the bathroom. Leaning half out the door, he tells me to put on a movie, and then, “Did you ask for the footage?”

  “Not yet,” I say, thinking the overbearing seller is the last person I want to deal with right now. “I’m going to text Dana. She’ll get it.”

  The three of us settle on the couch, where no one watches the movie and only Naomi talks. She recounts in painful detail the course of her game, pausing only to take a breath before breaking into an animated speech about the fall festival this evening. I shoot Greg a look over her head. It’s apparent it has slipped his mind. Given everything that’s happened, I had almost forgotten too. “I don’t think your mother’s feeling well,” he tells her, and I watch her little face fall.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks. “Because I’m very good at mouth to mouth.”

  Naomi scrunches up her nose. “Gross,” she says, looking from her father to me and back. “Does that mean we can still go?”

  “If your mom feels up to it.”

  “I already missed the game…and lunch…I can’t miss this, too.”

  “Exactly,” Naomi says indignantly.

  My eyes are on Greg. “God, this morning went so terribly downhill.”

  His brow raises. “At least no one set the house on fire.”

  “There is that.”

  Naomi folds her arms across her chest and pouts. “So we’re going?”

  “Of course, we’re going.” I lean over and tickle her belly. Then I turn to Greg. “Could you help me with something in the kitchen?”

  “I just got comfortable.”

  “The trash…” I say, widening my eyes for effect. “You forgot again.”

  He taps his watch before turning his attention back to the TV. “It’ll still be there in half an hour,” he says, making it clear he doesn’t want to talk about it right now.

  Too exhausted to press the issue, I lay my head back and close my eyes. When I open them again, more than an hour has passed. With Naomi invested in the TV, I flick Greg on the forearm and motion toward the kitchen. Reluctantly, he stands and follows me.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “You know I hate it when you say that. Just spit it out.”

  “I have a bad feeling—”

  “Mom!” Naomi shouts as though we haven’t heard Blair erupt with an ear-piercing scream.

  I bolt for her room, nerves raw, only to find that Miss Moo, her stuffed cow, was left behind in the transfer from the car to her bed. It is the end of the world.

  “You’re six years old,” I say, patting her back. “You don’t have to have Miss Moo all the time anymore.”

  Greg stands in the doorway, shaking his head. Sometimes I think I made a mistake not nipping Miss Moo in the bud early on. Her obsession is a bit much, something on a good day I find charming. Today has not been one of those. The crying continues.

  As Blair and I rescue Miss Moo from the backseat of Greg’s car, a private conversation with my husband has never felt more like a pipe dream.

  When we return to the kitchen, Greg is elbow deep in a bag of potato chips. “Did you hear back from Dana?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “So what are their plans…next door—the damage—” He stuffs a handful of chips into his mouth. “Are they moving out?”

  I smile at his hopefulness. Greg wouldn’t wish ill on anyone. He’s as amenable and likable as they come, but if there’s one person able to get under his skin, it’s Mrs. Crump. “It doesn’t appear there’s that much damage. I overheard the firemen saying they got lucky. I think they’re staying at an extended stay place for a little while… but I’m not sure.”

  “Huh.” He takes another fistful of chips and shovels them in. “I still can’t imagine what you were thinking—rushing into a burning house for—”

  He wants an answer that makes sense. But I can’t offer one. It was pure instinct, going into that house. And it was very, very stupid. It feels like a bad omen.

  “Mommy—” Blair whines. “How much longer?”

  “Nothing,” he finishes.

  There’s a tug at my shirt. “How. Much. Longer.”

  When I look down, Blair is staring up at me, her eyes swollen from the crying. “How much longer for what?”

  She shakes the fall festival flyer at me. Naomi walks over and takes it from her. “I had that first!” I expect a fight, but together they drop to their knees and dissect it fervently.

  “Well,” Naomi says. “When are we going?”

  I glance at the time on the oven. “In just a few hours.” Then looking at Greg, I say, “Remember, I have to work the realty booth from eight to nine.”

  He finishes off the bag of chips.

  “How long is a few hours?” Blair squeals.

  Greg looks across the room at me. “Sometimes it’s forever.”

  As I get ready for the fall festival, Naomi sits on the bathroom counter, dangling her feet, watching me touch up my makeup. The hectic morning, the fire, and the strange encounter at the open house have begun to fade. I still haven’t had the chance to talk to Greg about it, but I’m sure he’d say what I’m thinking, that I’m probably making a bigger deal out of it than it was.

  Naomi picks up a makeup brush and dusts it across her face. She peers at her reflection in the mirror. Our eyes meet, and I smile. “What would happen if you died in the fire?”

  “It wasn’t that big of a fire,” I say, blotting my lipstick.

  “But what if?”

  I check my appearance and
then scoop her into my arms, pressing my cheek against her soft curls. As I pull back, I run my fingers through them. “You worry too much, missy.” I kiss the top of her head, recalling the first time they placed her in my arms, all scrunched up, tiny and pink. When I pulled the blanket back and saw little tufts of red, I’d cried. I had been afraid that my children would inherit my hair color. When you’re a kid, sticking out is the worst thing that can happen, so I was grateful that by the time she was six months old, the fiery red had all fallen out. Eventually it was replaced with hair the color of rich molasses, like Greg’s.

  She wiggles free. At eight, she already believes she’s too big for hugs. Although, every once in a while, like amnesia, she forgets, and I get a glimpse of the past. Just twenty-four months ago, she barreled down the hill after kindergarten and flung herself into my arms. I miss those days, as trying as they were. People tell you this will happen, mostly older women. Grandmotherly types. A part of you understands, maybe. But you can’t really know until it happens, even if you know they are right. Eventually the last bedtime story is the last. Hugs in front of friends disappear before they fade out all together, sometimes reserved for special occasions. The nature of things, Greg says.

  “But you can die even in a small fire.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Who would take care of us if you died?”

  “Well,” I say, giving her a slight tickle. “First of all, I am not going to die. And second, if I did—which I won’t—Daddy is very, very handsome, and I’m sure he’d find a nice—”

  “I doubt it,” she says, scrunching up her nose. “He never remembers to take out the trash.”

  Greg peeks his head around the bathroom door. “I never remember what?”

  Naomi looks at me wide-eyed, like she’s been caught and isn’t sure what to do. We both smile. “Nothing,” I say. “Inside joke.”