Savage Row : A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  “What’s an inside joke?” she asks.

  Greg walks into his closet and returns empty-handed. “Did you hear me?”

  Our eyes meet in the mirror.

  “I asked where the dog is.”

  Chapter Seven

  The air is crisp and cool, with the smell of fried things and candy apples wafting through, floating on the breeze like the promise of something wonderful. Tired as I am, I’m glad we came. It was a distraction for the girls, but really for us all, with Rocky missing. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left him out. Greg tries to calm me by telling me the sirens probably spooked him, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

  He searched the neighborhood on foot while I posted on social media and the neighborhood app. I called, texted, and DM’d every neighbor I could think of. So far, nothing. Rocky has run off before. He always turns up. But this time feels different.

  “Greg,” I say, pulling at his sleeve. “Put your phone away.”

  When he doesn’t respond, I pull harder.

  Finally, he looks up. “What? I’m just checking for news.”

  “It’s going to be crowded,” I say, motioning toward the entrance. “You have to watch the girls closely.”

  He leans across the console and pecks my cheek. “You worry too much, missy.”

  I smile and tell myself he is right. I tell myself he won’t stay glued to his phone all night. That it’s not a big deal. Even though it is a big deal. This day has been a real shitshow, and I don’t want it getting any worse.

  “We could just go home,” he suggests with a hopeful tone. “Walk around the neighborhood and put up signs.”

  I glance at the back seat. The girls’ faces register that they, too, are eagerly awaiting my response. This is the third time Greg has suggested turning around and driving home. He claims it’s on account that Rocky might turn up but conveniently leaves out the part about not wanting to miss college football, but I digress. Not coming wasn’t an option. I am partly here for work. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t get my shift at the booth covered. Not to mention it would devastate the girls to miss it.

  “No,” I tell him. “The gates are opening. And this day could use a little fun.” The fall festival is always one of my favorite events of the year. It reminds me why we moved to Sunset Canyon, why we stay, and why everyone else wants to move here too.

  “Fun it is, then,” Greg says sarcastically. He kills the ignition. “How long until your shift?”

  “Not long enough…about an hour and a half.”

  “Come on girls, let’s go get your mother some pictures for social media.”

  “Not for social. For your grandparents.”

  “My mistake.” He flings the door open. “For your grandparents.”

  “Don’t be a poor sport,” I say, helping Blair hop out of the back.

  Jack Mooney flashes across my mind. It wasn’t rape. She was just a poor sport. That was his response to the sexual assault charge. The girl was just fifteen. Only a handful of years older than Naomi.

  Greg takes Blair from my arms and places her on the ground. “I’m sorry.”

  I take Naomi’s hand in mine.

  “Amy? Did you hear me?”

  I look over at him, but my mind is elsewhere…a decade or so in the past.

  “Are you feeling okay?” He hoists Blair onto his shoulders as she giggles wildly. As we walk, his eyes are on me. “You’re as white as a ghost.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, shoving my phone in my back pocket. “Just tired.”

  Naomi yanks on my arm. “We have to hurry!” She pulls me past the gate, toward the carnival rides. “And no pictures.”

  “I have to get tickets. And I don’t want you getting dirty first—so yes, pictures.”

  Greg stands in the enormous line to purchase tickets while I snap photos of the girls in front of the pumpkin patch. Eventually, when it’s clear they’ve had enough, that there won’t be a single pose more, I take them to stand in line for a ride.

  By the time Greg returns with tickets, we’ve nearly reached the front.

  The two of us stand there watching them in little cars, going around and around, waving each time they pass, wearing enormous smiles. Emotion sweeps over me. I want to freeze this moment, to milk it, to make it last just a little bit longer, even though I know it’s impossible.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Greg asks, peering down at me.

  “Actually…no.”

  I can see that he is expecting this response and also that he is preparing his defense. “Anything from Dana yet? It would be helpful to know what the guy looks like.”

  “She said the seller says the cameras were off. I don’t buy it though.”

  “Why would she lie?”

  “Dana said she probably doesn’t want anything getting out that would prevent the house from selling.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Tell me again what happened. What did he say…word for word?”

  As I recant the story, he listens with careful concern. He doesn’t blow me off or say anything that makes me feel any better, which I suppose is what I was hoping for, so the conversation only leaves me feeling worse.

  The girls exit the ride, ask if they can go again, and Greg waves them through. Then he turns to me. “What do you want to do?” he asks logically, in a way that infuriates me. Therefore, I lie.

  “I’m going to talk to Dana about having two agents at open houses from now on. I feel like this is something that should have happened a long time ago.”

  “This is a pretty safe town,” Greg says, playing devil’s advocate.

  “You’re right,” I sigh. “It’s probably not a big deal. It just freaked me out.”

  “But you said he didn’t threaten you?”

  I consider him for a moment and decide to leave out the part about Mooney mentioning him and the girls. I’m not really in the mood to argue semantics. “Not exactly, no.”

  “I wouldn’t worry then. He’s probably all bark and no bite.”

  He’s right, I’m here. I’m safe. Might as well suck it up and be present. I plaster a smile on my face. “Like you said, he’s probably just trying to scare me.”

  Greg nods. “I think it’s working.”

  Dana works the booth with me after Sarah gets sick from carnival food. If only I’d thought of that one. It’s relatively slow, mostly former clients and neighbors stopping by to say hello. I’m deep into conversation with Mr. Crowley about Rocky when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  When I pivot, I see a familiar face staring back at me. “Alex.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he says. He glances at Mr. Crowley with a hopeful smile, as though to say, is it okay if I interrupt this dance? “Good thing though—I’m looking for a new place.”

  Dana comes over. “Alex? Long time—”

  “You two know each other?” I ask, looking from Dana to Alex.

  “She helped me sell my house.”

  “Oh—”

  “It’s okay,” Dana coughs, sensing that I don’t want to step on any toes. She looks down at the phone in her hand. “I’ll let you two catch up. Actually, I have a call to make.”

  Mr. Crowley clears his throat. “Guess I’ll be going then.”

  “I’ll have Naomi stop in tomorrow morning,” I call after him as he hobbles away.

  Then I turn back to Alex, as though I’m shocked to see him standing there, and I am. I haven’t seen him in years. “It’s good seeing you,” he tells me, shoving his hands in his pockets. He teeters on the balls of his feet. “It’s been a long time. You look well.”

  “Yes,” I say. “It has.” I glance over my shoulder at the booth and then back at him. “You look well, too.”

  “I’m not, really,” he half-laughs. “But it’s good to know I can fake it.”

  “What brings you by? You’re thinking of selling?”

  “No.” He presses his lips into a thin line. “Already did that. I’m r
eady to buy something. At least I think—”

  A family walks up to the booth. Both Alex and I look over at them and then to each other. “I’ll be right with you,” I say.

  “Come on!” A little boy squeals. “This is no fun!” His father quiets him, but his little brother starts in, pulling at his mother’s hands.

  “You’d better get to it,” Alex says with a nod. “Tough customers.”

  I fish my card off the stand. “Here, why don’t you give Dana a call—I’m sure she can help you—”

  “I don’t want to work with Dana. I want to work with you.”

  “I see.”

  He smiles politely, but in a way that doesn’t touch his eyes. “I have a feeling she’ll understand.”

  As he walks away, I think about how wrong he is. Dana never loses a sale without a fight.

  Dana returns with popcorn and a chipper attitude. She doesn’t seem pissed, which is not surprising. “I had no idea you knew Alex,” she remarks, stuffing a handful of popcorn into her mouth. She holds the carton out to me.

  I shake my head. “He was my roommate in college.”

  “Really?” Her bottom lip juts out. “Tragic situation. Horrible.”

  I check my phone to see how much time is left on the clock. I can’t wait to get out of here and meet up with my family. I cock my head. “Tragic? What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t kept up with him, then?”

  I shrug. She sets the carton of popcorn on the plastic table and straightens the brochures to her liking. “I sold his house for him after the accident. You should have seen it—it was basically a shrine… he just walked away, never went back— and left it up to me to deal with everything in it.”

  “Accident?”

  “His girlfriend and baby were killed. It was horrific. Driving home from church…they were T-boned. Killed instantly. He was in the hospital for a while. I don’t know how long—”

  I stare at her for several moments, wondering whether we’re talking about the same person. The Alex I knew in college told me he was gay. And he was definitely agnostic. Suddenly, I feel a deep sense of nostalgia and terribly, terribly sad for him.

  “Anyway, it makes sense he’d want to work with another agent. Who wouldn’t want a fresh start?”

  “I—” Dana looks over my shoulder, and my eyes follow hers. Greg is taking deep strides in our direction. He’s dragging Naomi behind him, her eyes wide and her mouth open.

  “Don’t freak out,” he says, holding up his palms. “But I need your phone.”

  I take it from my back pocket. A police officer joins us and I feel my heart rate rocket upward.

  “Where’s Blair?”

  He furiously types in my password. “You took pictures right?”

  “Greg. Where’s Blair?”

  He scans the photos and hands the phone to the officer.

  I feel like I can’t breathe. I feel like I’ve gotten on a carnival ride and it’s spinning. Everything is blurry, and I worry I might puke.

  “Naomi,” I say, bending in two so I am at eye level. “Where is your sister?”

  Tears stain her cheeks. “She wandered off.”

  “Wandered off where?”

  Naomi shrugs. My typical cool, calm daughter appears to be in shock. “Naomi.” I take her by the shoulders. “Where was Blair when you last saw her?”

  “By the Ferris wheel,” Greg motions. “You’re panicking. I told you not to panic.”

  The officer holds the phone up. “Do you know her approximate height and weight?”

  Greg answers him. I take off at a full sprint toward the Ferris wheel.

  My eyes scan the crowds. There are so many people. So many girls wearing corduroy dresses. None of them are my daughter.

  Chapter Eight

  Carnivals are no place for children. Statistics don’t lie, and he knows them well. The number of accidents at carnivals across the country—the number is astronomical. This doesn’t even take into account faulty parenting. Mothers who work too much. Fathers who bury their noses in their phones.

  On one hand, it pleased him to see the children so happy. On the other, it was a disaster waiting to happen. Little girls have fragile bones. They need to be kept warm and away from night air. He tells the girl about William Henry Harrison. If a United States president can die of pneumonia, a little girl hardly has much hope.

  She giggled, and he could see the point was lost on her. But then she looked sad. So he bought her a hotdog, which they shared, even though he knows what’s in hotdogs, and if pneumonia didn’t kill them, that probably would.

  Thank God, he was there. He can’t bear to think of what might have happened if he wasn’t.

  Chapter Nine

  While I toss and turn all night, Greg sleeps soundly. My mind can’t help but replay every event of the last twenty-four hours. Every scenario, everything that could have happened, shuffles on repeat until the sun comes up, and the girls’ wake, and I am forced to face the day.

  Those terrifying moments when Blair was missing will not leave me. Not as I make pancakes, not when I take the girls to the park, not even when I put on makeup or do my hair, not when I change outfits three times.

  It happens to most parents at one point or another, Greg swears, and the important thing is we found her safe.

  Still, I can’t help but feel that something has shifted. A breach has occurred, a weakness pointed out. It’s as though the universe is shaking its finger in my face, telling me it threw me a bone, but I’d better not let my guard down again.

  “You look perfect,” Greg says before letting out a shrill whistle. “I’d better keep my eye on you.”

  I cock my head. He’s always had a way of reading my mind, as though we are two parts of the same whole. What he’s really saying is he’s growing impatient at my trying on clothes and can we just get on the road.

  The Meyers are hosting a backyard cookout, as they do every year, the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Friendsgiving.

  Same as every year before, the event is still child-free. I am hesitant to leave the girls, but at the same time, I could use a breather. I welcome the opportunity for adult conversation, and this is the closest thing Greg and I have had to a date in several months.

  I have spent most of the morning calling local shelters and adding to my social media campaign to find Rocky. I’ve checked Craigslist and posted in every place I can think of. Still nothing.

  The girls seem in good spirits about it. Greg’s optimism that Rocky will return has rubbed off on them, and together they make up stories about where he might be and what he’s up to. Finding him and bringing him home has become an adventure. They draw signs, and Greg prints adult versions, offering reward money we really can’t afford.

  Around one, Lucy, a college-aged girl who lives down the street, arrives to take over. She’s babysat for us plenty, and I’m grateful she knows the routine, because the second she steps over the threshold, Greg is taking my hand and pulling me out the door.

  The Meyers’ home is best described as a visit to a museum. Like it belongs on the cover of Architectural Digest. In fact, I think it was featured. Maybe even twice, once when they bought the place, and again after they did their remodel. Dana changes her mind incessantly. She points the finger at Trevor. Meanwhile, he blames her. One thing is for sure, they’re perfectly suited for one another.

  It’s probably for the best that the event is child-free. Trevor insists on a spotless home, which makes Dana overly nervous anytime she hosts guests. As the saying goes, a place for everything, and everything in its place.

  Greg is not a huge fan of the Meyers, not that he’s ever said as much. My husband lives by the saying: Great people talk about ideas, average people talk about things, and small people talk about other people.

  I like to point out that is precisely what he doesn’t like about them, even if he refuses to speak it outright. As we pulled up to the curb, I asked him if he regretted coming. He smiled and said, “N
ot yet.” Then he placed his hand on my thigh, gave it a squeeze, and told me not to overthink things.

  This is what I love about him. Greg knows how to put me in my place.

  Now I look on as he recants the story about losing our child at the fall festival to a group of guests, as though most of them haven’t already heard some version of it.

  It’s endearing the way he tells it, and every parent can relate. He’s good at faking the self-deprecation thing, and while I surely hadn’t felt this way last night, my heart swells with a sense of pride. Greg had been completely collected. He was terrified, I could tell, but on the outside it never showed. I cannot say the same for myself.

  “And your neighbor found her, right?”

  My husband glances over at me. “Well, Amy practically put out their house fire yesterday with her bare hands, so I guess you could say it was fair play.”

  “That guy is so weird,” Dana says. “You were lucky.”

  Greg offers only a slight nod. He dissipates the conversation, directing the attention away from himself as effortlessly as he’d gained it. It’s strange watching him mingle with the Meyers and their friends, with other people from the real estate world. Plus, many of our neighbors.

  My husband can hold his own. But he’ll always be more software developer than extrovert. He’s quiet and unassuming, which only adds to his mystery. The same mystery is often confused with arrogance, but he gets away with it on account of his looks—he’s a JFK Jr. doppelgänger. I know how enticing that boyish grin can be. It doesn’t hurt that he has the brains to match, or that he’s well-traveled and well-bred. How I got lucky enough to rope him in is anybody’s guess.

  It’s not that I’m unattractive. I always sort of just imagined that a man like Greg would want something more. Someone also well-traveled and well-bred. Someone who didn’t bring him down a notch or two. Dana would say it’s harmful to think that way. But even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t stop others from thinking it. I see it in the way people look at us, trying to work out whether we’re together. Their stolen sideway glances easily reveal the truth.