Savage Row : A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  “That husband of yours,” Dana says, slinging her arm around my shoulder. “He’s such a character.”

  “That he is.”

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Good,” she says. “It’s almost time to eat.”

  Trevor has his famous ribs on the grill, and chicken, and a turkey in the fryer, pretty much every kind of meat a person could want. The rest of the meal is catered. Not that you’d know it. Everything has been meticulously arranged to look as though it were homemade, although Dana doesn’t pretend. She wants people to know she can afford a caterer, but also that she appreciates presentation.

  Dana can only find her way around a kitchen so far as to sell it to you. But it’s this that makes her relatable, knowing that underneath her tough, capable exterior there are flaws she hides, just like the rest of us.

  Although it’s hard to know what to feel about her currently. The Clairmont house did receive an offer, and it was a good one. The extra money will certainly help, and I am one step closer to making gold status. Still, her reaction to my situation last night wasn’t what I expected.

  My falling apart was superseded by her lies about the security cameras and then by my request to have two agents attend future open houses. The suggestion was met with a level of harshness I hadn’t seen coming. She said I was overreacting, and that she hates agents who bring personal drama to their jobs. She said it has the power to infect entire teams. She’s “seen it happen.”

  I didn’t know what to say. When I texted Greg from the booth, he only asked what I had expected. I didn’t have an answer. He wrote back asking if the quarrel would mean we could sit this barbecue out. We couldn’t, I’d said, and really it was just to spite them both.

  Then Blair went missing, and neither of us could deny it was my fault. If I hadn’t been texting over petty bullshit that could easily have waited, Greg wouldn’t have been distracted. That’s why we have rules.

  Nerves or avoidance or the like draws me to the kitchen. It could use a bit of tidying up, and I could use something to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied. Anything to keep me from thinking about Jack Mooney, or my missing dog, or the fact that I lost my child. Once I’ve cleared empty plates from the countertop and wiped them down, I realize the trash is full. I almost leave it. But then, I find myself on autopilot, pulling the bag, walking around the side of the house, and tossing it into the bin. As I close the lid, I am struck by laughter coming from the other side of the fence. Dana’s laughter. We haven’t spoken, other than just the once, which isn’t like her. I am her favorite sounding board. Maybe she’s avoiding me. Maybe I’m avoiding her. Maybe it’s a little of both, and maybe that’s why I’m helping to clean, trying to make myself useful. Dusting my hands off, I turn to go in search of Greg. Then I hear my name.

  “It’s crazy, I know,” Dana sighs. “But then I’ve seen some things you wouldn’t believe in my eighteen years in the field.”

  I can’t see them, not unless I strain and peek through the fence, but I can easily imagine the women she’s standing with. I know who’s leaning in, who’s hoping to glean some of her wisdom, and who’s standing back.

  “I mean… how cliché. A stalker.”

  “Well, you never know,” a voice says. Emma. “I’ve heard of stranger things.”

  No one says anything for several beats.

  “She probably just likes the attention.” Sarah. “I’ve heard a lot of women do that. Lie for the attention of it all.”

  “I wouldn’t say she was lying,” Dana quips. “Just confused.”

  “Yeah, why would a guy from a million years ago show up here?”

  “She’s not even from here, anyway.”

  “Nothing ever happens in Sunset Canyon.”

  “Poor thing—” Sarah laughs. “Imagine being so desperate you’d make up having a stalker.”

  “Oh, Sarah. Stop being such a bitch.” There’s an audible gasp and then a flurry of laughter. “You’ve always had it out for Amy.”

  “That’s just because Sarah has a thing for Greg.”

  “God, who doesn’t have a thing for Greg?”

  More laughter erupts. “How many of these have you had, anyway?”

  “Just enough to be tipsy,” Sarah retorts with just enough slur to tell everyone differently.

  “More like just enough to tell the truth.”

  “Oh, give me a break—Amy Stone is an attention whore, and you all know it.”

  “Don’t mind her,” Dana says. “She’s drunk.”

  There’s a rustling in the grass behind me. I nearly jump out of my skin. Then Greg’s voice.

  “Amy? There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere. The sitter called—”

  My eyes widen. Surprise brings my hand flying toward my gaping mouth. Greg cocks his head and narrows his eyes. “What?”

  After that, there’s just silence on both sides of the fence.

  Chapter Ten

  My phone startles me awake at 3:30 a.m. I don’t recognize the number, so I quickly silence the call, sending it to voicemail. I am not able to immediately fall asleep. I lie awake staring at the ceiling, counting sheep. Or trying to. Instead I hear everything, every little creak our house makes. The slightest movement of the tree outside, brushing against our bedroom window. Then there is a thud. Louder than anything I’ve heard so far. I shake Greg awake. “Did you hear that?”

  He groans inaudibly and rolls to the other side of the bed. There’s more creaking, followed by silence.

  “Greg!”

  “What?” he huffs.

  “I heard something.”

  The phone rings again, forcing us both upright. He rubs at his eyes with the balls of his hand. “Who is it?” he asks groggily, swinging his feet over the side of the bed, suddenly wide awake and ready to pounce. “The alarm company?”

  “Just says spam risk...”

  “Jesus, Amy.” He flings himself backward and places his pillow over his head. “Why didn’t you put it on do not disturb?”

  When I click the phone to search the setting, he complains about the light. It’s then that I see the texts. Three of them, all robotexts from the same five-digit number. When I tap the screen, the images load one after another. Rocky.

  With a striking gasp, my hand flies to my mouth.

  “What?” Greg bolts up. I hand him the phone.

  He squints into the glare of the screen, and eventually he lets out a long, heavy sigh. “Fuck.”

  Tears spring to my eyes. Words refuse to come. A new text comes in. Greg tosses the phone onto the bed and then quickly picks it back up. “I’m blocking the motherfucker.”

  As I strain to see, he leans away. “What is it now?”

  Greg shakes his head. “It just says ‘too bad, so sad.’ ”

  “Who would do something like this?”

  His eyes meet mine before he crosses the room. He glances back over his shoulder. “Someone very sick.”

  “Do you think Jack Mooney did it?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  The images flash before my mind. Rocky with his tongue hanging out. Rocky looking at the camera, ears perked. Rocky in the dirt, a shovel lying next to his head. Rocky dead. “I don’t understand. Why? Why would he do this?”

  He doesn’t offer a response. Not immediately, anyway. “You posted this all over social media, right? And the neighborhood app?”

  I nod and then use the back of my hand to brush the tears off my face.

  “It could be anybody. You posted your phone number.”

  I purse my lips and look away. “I know it wasn’t just anybody.”

  Obviously, this isn’t the way to handle this situation. But that doesn’t mean I can do anything about it. Just because you want to get out of bed and carry on as normal, doesn’t make it magically possible. How could I have been so stupid? Why hadn’t I just left Rocky inside?

  Over the past twelve hours I’ve spent so mu
ch energy, an ungodly amount of energy, being concerned about the harm that people who call themselves friends caused at the barbecue. I’ve sulked over petty gossip and things that don’t matter, when all along I should have been concerned with the things that do. I should have thought about actual monsters. I should have put more effort into finding Rocky and bringing him home. I failed him, and now I have to tell the girls he’s never coming back.

  I’d wanted to respond to the texts, but Greg wouldn’t allow it. He forwarded them to his phone and promised he’d find out their origin. He thinks it’s possible that Rocky is not actually dead. He thinks the sender wants reward money. He thinks this isn’t the end of it.

  I think he’s grasping at straws. If that were the case, then why didn’t whoever sent them just say so?

  I spend most of the morning in bed with my laptop propped up on my knees, Googling stalking terms, the laws against it, and what to do about it. It just makes me feel worse. So far, I can only prove Jack Mooney contacted me just the once. I have no proof that he sent the texts last night, or that he’s responsible for Rocky going missing.

  And now, not only have I wasted half of the day, I have sales goals to meet and an income to earn, an income that my family depends on. What I do not have is time for his rabbit holes. I convince myself that it’s Monday, and no one feels like working on Monday. In reality, I think I actually might be coming down with something. Not that I can afford to ease off now, not when I’m so close to hitting gold status. And yet, it seems hopeless. My concentration is nonexistent, my thoughts flop from here to there, like a fish out of water. I am emotionally and physically drained. The only thing I want to do is sleep.

  Which is exactly what ends up happening.

  I wake dry-mouthed and bleary-eyed to the sound of my ring tone. When I finally locate the phone tangled in my bed sheets, the display shows two missed calls from the school. And one just now from Greg. Shit. I throw the covers off and fly out of bed, stubbing my toe. Not only does it hurt like a mother, the sudden movement makes me light-headed and dizzy, and for a second, I’m certain I’m going to black out.

  Panic sets in as I tap Greg’s name on the screen. I was supposed to pick up the girls a half hour ago. “My God Amy—”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling well—and I dozed off—I’m on my way now—”

  “You scared the shit out of me. I thought something had happened,” he tells me flatly. I can hear that he’s in his car. He sighs as the concern in his voice turns to relief. I can hear in the sigh that his relief is about to quickly turn to anger. “I just walked out in the middle of a proposal—”

  “I’m sorry—but I gotta go. I need to call the school.”

  “I called Dana. She was in a closing, but I think she’s going to see if she can make it there before I do.”

  “You called Dana?” It will take him over an hour with traffic to get to the girls’ school…but Dana?

  “Who was I supposed to call?”

  He has a point. We don’t have family here. “Lucy.”

  “Whatever. Just call me when you get there.”

  “Are you heading back to the office?”

  “No,” he replies. Then another long sigh. “I’m already halfway home. And I’m sure they have gone by now.”

  He had a big pitch today. It slipped my mind. This was an important meeting for him. “I’m sorry, Greg.”

  “I know.”

  I throw a jacket over my pajamas and slip my feet into house shoes. All the while, I berate myself. I should have sucked it up. I should have forced myself out of bed. I should have been a proper adult—a good mother.

  Glimpsing my reflection in the hall mirror, I tear up. Rocky’s leash hangs from the corner. I couldn’t care less what I look like; I’m sure the girls are worried. This has never happened before. They know they can count on me to be there. It’s never been a question in their minds, and I wonder if today will change that, if it will undo everything I have worked so hard to build.

  I’m all too familiar with waiting at the curb, unsure who—if anyone—was going to pick me up after school. I can still see the looks of pity written on the faces of teachers’ and the office staff, even though they tried to keep a cheery facade. Their true feelings seeped through, making it obvious they wanted to go home to their own families. Instead, they were stuck at school with the child who wasn’t important enough to be remembered. I swore I’d never put my children through that the way my mother had. I would blame my father but by that time, he was long gone. If not physically, definitely mentally.

  Though I suppose I can’t blame him. It wasn’t easy playing second fiddle to my mother’s flavor of the month. Believe me, I know.

  It makes me think of Greg. The one steady thing in my life. I’ve let him down too. He works so hard. The least I can do is keep up my end of the deal. He’d been so wonderful after the Meyers’ barbecue, running me a bath. He brought me a glass of wine and told me he’d handle the girls’ bedtime. One glass of wine that inevitably turned into two, and before I knew it, three-fourths of the bottle. I’ve never been much of a drinker, but I suppose that matters little now. A mistake is a mistake, and I’ve made plenty in the past twenty-four hours alone.

  One glance in the rearview mirror reveals glassy eyes with bags under them and a grayish complexion. I look about like I feel. Hungover and feverish.

  At the school, I throw the car in park and rush for the office, only to find the girls seated out front, with Blair’s teacher in between them.

  When our eyes meet, Ms. Leon waves me over. Blair rushes at me while Naomi hangs back. The teacher waits with an expression conveying her deep disappointment.

  She wants to speak with me. A nod and a wave and a quick apology will not do it.

  “This has never happened before,” I say breathlessly and more defensively than I mean to. Her demeanor conveys pity as she gives me the once-over, taking in my wardrobe. “I’m not feeling well.”

  I don’t know what I expect her to say, but the closed smile she offers tells me enough. Being sick doesn’t excuse my neglect. I’m not getting any sympathy from her. She’s been with eighteen kindergartners all day.

  “Actually,” she says. “I’m glad we’ve gotten the chance to speak face to face.”

  Blair clings to my leg. Naomi looks on, refusing to meet my gaze. “I wanted to remind you,” the teacher says, hesitating. “I know it was a nice thing to do and all—sometimes grandparents forget—but we have strict policies about snacks.”

  “I’m sorry.” I remove Blair’s grip from my pants leg. “I don’t understand.”

  “I double-checked because I thought I was right… but I wanted to make sure… it’s so easy to be forgetful these days.” She offers a tight-lipped smile, as though I missed her subtle dig. She talks in circles, but this must be how it is when you work with six-year-olds all day. “Blair’s birthday is in March. We’re only allowed treats on birthdays.”

  “Treats?”

  “Blair’s grandfather…he was so kind. I hated to tell him no. Which is why—”

  “Blair doesn’t have a grandfather.”

  Her eyes blink rapidly, and she cocks her head like maybe she should have believed me when I said I wasn’t well.

  I shift my footing. “I mean, she has a grandfather. But he lives far away.”

  Her face changes. She looks at me with concern. To explain my parents, or rather everything would only add to that concern.

  “Perhaps the office got mixed up. The treats weren’t for Blair.”

  “No.” The teacher shakes her head. “He delivered them while we were on the playground. I saw him myself. He waved at Blair, and she waved back.”

  It feels like I’ve been sucker-punched. “What did he look like?”

  “Um. Tall, blond. Friendly smile. And…quite fit for an older man, actually.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Mrs.—” She glances around and then repositions herself in between herself
and the girls, as though she is shielding the children from the F-word with her mind, body, and soul.

  “The treats,” I hiss. “Where are they?” My cheeks burn and my knees are going to buckle at any moment. I can think of only one person who would show up here pretending to be someone he’s not.

  Ms. Leon looks remorseful. “I’m sorry, but I had to turn them into the office. It’s policy.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. But only a small one. “That’s perfect.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I drive past the post office, past the grocery store, the realty office, and the veterinarian. I don’t think about turning around. I don’t think through what I’m about to do. I only think about one thing: fixing the problem.

  Now, as I recount the story to Greg, he looks worried, but he says nothing. He only shakes his head. “Tell me again,” he says. He wants me to slow down.

  Once again, I explain what happened. The same as the first two times.

  The girls giggle. “Mommy went to school in her house slippers,” Blair snickers.

  At this age, they find humor in the situation. Although I can tell Naomi is on the brink of being mortified. She’s not ready to hurt my feelings quite yet, but that will come in time. Today, I’m thankful she’s in no rush.

  Naomi climbs onto a barstool so that she’s at our level. She may not want to hurt my feelings, but she has no qualms about testing the water. “And she drove us to the police station.”

  I look from my daughter to Greg and back. She had to know how her father would respond. “I called Lucy, but she didn’t pick up.”

  Greg folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his chair. His body language, the little nuances in the way he communicates when he’s displeased, are on full display. It has Naomi’s full attention. She’s curious to see how much power she has. She wants to know how far she can push things. “So you just took them with you?”