Savage Row : A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Thanksgiving.”

  “Right,” I snap. My mind is somewhere else entirely.

  “If Jack Mooney wanted to do us harm, he could have just as easily done it today. I don’t think he’s going to come beating down our door.”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  He leans over and pats my thigh. But he doesn’t look at me when he does it.

  “Greg?”

  “Yeah?”

  “When were you going to tell me about the money?”

  His attention is on the rearview mirror. “The what?”

  “The money you took from our bank account.”

  “I told you. The other night.” He turns into our drive and parks. Then he turns to me. “Remember?”

  His face is riddled with concern. I don’t detect guilt in his expression, not even a hint. “I sat next to you on the bed. You’d dozed off, and I’d asked if you were asleep. You assured me you weren’t.”

  “It was everything, Greg. You took all of it. I think I’d remember that.”

  He shrugs. “I’m expecting a transfer from the investors on Monday. There’s no reason to worry, love. It’ll be back in the account by Tuesday.” Sliding the key from the ignition, he gets out and walks over to the passenger side and opens my door. “I told you I’d ask my parents. You didn’t seem interested in that—not that you ever are.” He shakes his head. “And I don’t get it…they’d be so eager to help.”

  “Of course they would. Nothing is free though, is it?”

  “I wouldn’t know. You never let me ask.”

  “I just wish you’d told me before you withdrew it.”

  There’s a twitch in his jaw. “I did tell you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I’m up early. Well before the sun, in order to make sure this is handled before anybody else in the house’s feet touch the floor. I dressed in my runner’s gear last night to ensure I would be all set to go, and to lessen the chance that I might back out. It would be easy to do on account of the fact that I haven’t slept at all. I tossed and turned in the dark, listening for every noise, every bump in the night. Every car engine that turned onto our street, I felt deep in my bones. To make matters worse, the squirrels are back. Two years ago we found a nest in the attic and had exterminators out. It was not an easy process. The extraction and removal ended up costing us a small fortune. Not to mention the damage they caused. The company was supposed to have sealed everything up, but even in the daytime I often hear groups of them bounding across our roof. I write out a note and place it on the refrigerator, a reminder for Greg to call the exterminator on Monday.

  I chug two cups of coffee and search for my jacket and keys. Greg is still using the spare set, and mine aren’t on the hook, which means he’s taken possession of those too. Eventually, right when I decided I’m destined to either be late or skip the whole thing altogether, I locate them in the downstairs bathroom.

  Bummer. Today will be the first time I’ve seen Dana, or anyone from work, since the barbecue. I am antsy, and a little nervous. I’m not sure what to expect. They’re aware I heard what was said about me behind my back. It’s not going to be the same, no matter which way you swing it. But it’s not like I can avoid the situation forever. I still have to work with them.

  We’re meeting to take part in the annual neighborhood Turkey Trot, same as we have every Thanksgiving morning for the past five years. That part was not the lie. I told Greg we were meeting up before the race for coffee and, for some, mimosas.

  It’s what I did not tell him that is the problem. I am not meeting Dana and the other agents from the office. I am meeting a part of my past that probably should not be dragged into the future. It’s a mistake, I tell myself as I head out the door.

  After I’ve set the alarm and double-checked twice that I’ve locked up behind me, I jog to the entrance of the race, where I realize two things. One, I am terribly out of shape, and two, I really should have stretched. A few hundred yards in, a cramp in my side doubles me over. By the time I’ve hobbled to the park, the sun is nearly up. Not that you’d know it. It’s overcast, with a record-breaking low. As I search the playground, it starts to drizzle. The park is teeming with people, which is both a comfort and a concern. If Mooney were following me, not only would it be difficult for him to get me alone, it would be impossible for him to try anything without dozens of witnesses.

  I scan the crowd, searching faces, noting attire. He told me via text what to look for. He told me what he’d be wearing.

  How will I know how to find you, I’d asked.

  Look for the sad man in all black with the yellow ski cap, he texted back immediately. And then he added, You always know how to find me. With a heart emoji.

  I knew then the gravity of what I was about to do. Toying with people is not my forte. As Greg says, just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.

  Finally, I spot him in the cap, wearing a smile and flashing a wave. By the swings, just as he’d promised.

  “Amy Sellers.”

  “It’s Amy Stone now,” I say, correcting him, knowing that he knows. Not only does he have my business card, he’s aware of Greg’s last name.

  “Pity,” he replies. He gives me the once-over. “Sellers—could’ve really helped your real estate career.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  “How is Greg, by the way?”

  “Greg is really good.” I smile. “He’s—”

  “I haven’t seen him around.” He cuts me off. “Not since college I don’t think. Though, I don’t suppose he’d care that much about seeing me anyhow.”

  “Greg harbors no hard feelings. You know how he is—”

  “I know, all right.” He grips the back of his neck and squeezes. “Speaking of—you must do really well.”

  My head cocks to one side and then the other as I expect him to say more. He doesn’t elaborate. “What do you mean?”

  “Seeing how long it’s taken you to get back with me. You know how many houses I could have bought by now?”

  I wince. He had me waiting for his punchline, but he’s right. As desperate as I am to hit gold status, I was a fool not to return his call. “I’m sorry.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Leaning forward, I clutch my side, slightly panting. “Runner’s cramp.”

  “Here.” He takes my arm, and the feel of his hand gripping my wrist is pure electricity. He pulls it over my head and to the side. “Breathe deep,” he says, stretching me out.

  After several deep inhalations, he releases my wrist and motions toward the swing. He holds it in place as I take the seat. He smiles, but it’s not attached in a proper and typical way. I feel bulldozed.

  I tilt my head back as he pushes me off, and, upside down, I get the chance to see a different side of him. It makes me angry with myself, angry for not reaching out after his accident, angry for not keeping up with things, angry for not knowing. Maybe there’s a part of me that expects him to be angry, too. Unfortunately, that’s not at all what I see staring back at me.

  I know he keeps up with me on Facebook. He likes everything I post, and on occasion, he comments on my photos. That’s Alex for you, though. He’s always been supportive of my endeavors. I rarely, if ever, reciprocate. A few years ago I ran into his brother at a gas station. He peeked his head around the pump and said: “I thought that was you.” After a bit of small talk, he’d told me Alex still talks about me all the time. I told him that was nice, and I threw in that I’m happily married, not wanting the conversation to veer any other way. He’s painfully aware, his brother had said. Then he said I should block him. That way he could move on.

  I guess he had. But now?

  Head thrown back, staring at the upside-down version of him now, I can wholeheartedly see the full picture. “I was sorry to hear about your wife and child.”

  “Girlfriend and child.” He corrects me in a way that says he doesn’t want to talk about it.

>   “I just heard. I’m sorry I haven’t kept up with things very well. If I’d known, I would have reached out.”

  He pushes harder. I fly higher. “It’s probably better you didn’t. I wasn’t myself.”

  I drag my feet, slowing myself down, eventually coming to a full stop. “Who would be?”

  He walks around and leans against the pole. Then he shrugs. “So, I checked out your guy like you asked,” he tells me in his usual nonchalant way. It’s strange, even with all the time that has passed, it’s as though nothing has changed at all. And yet, I have a powerful urge to get up and actually do what I said I was coming to do. Run.

  “Thank you. I really appreciate—”

  “It’s nothing. Not a big deal.”

  Typical Alex. Always leaving things between the lines. Even now he reminds me of bedrooms filled with pot smoke, sunlight, and the belief that the future held magic. He reminds me of dancing in the rain at midnight, freedom, and deals made under the table. “And?”

  “He got out three months ago. Traveled up to Oklahoma where his mother lived.”

  “Lived?”

  “He has a sister there. His mother remarried—and married well—after her kids were grown. His stepfather had gas and oil connections. He passed, and then nine months ago, Mooney’s mother died, leaving him with a bit of coin.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s staying in a rental out by the lake. His reservation is through the end of December.”

  It starts to properly rain as the fine mist turns into big fat drops. I close my eyes and brace myself for what comes next. “He really—”

  “How long has this been going on, Aim?”

  “Not long.”

  “You could have called sooner.”

  “I reached out as soon as I needed to.”

  “Not soon enough.”

  “I need someone who knows the law…” I try to steer the conversation away from the direction I fear he might take it. “Can’t they just lock him up again?”

  “If only crimes of thought were a thing.”

  I sense the double meaning behind his words. “I just want to know if he’s capable of bringing harm to my family.”

  “Oh, he’s capable, all right. The question is whether it’s worth it to him to go back to prison.”

  “Unless he intends on not getting caught.”

  “Men like Mooney enjoy the cat-and-mouse of it. It’s a game to him.”

  “What would you do? If you were me?”

  “I’d kill the son of a bitch.”

  I laugh nervously and glance around, hoping no one overheard him.

  “No, really. Maybe you’d feel better knowing the science behind your situation.”

  “You’re a lawyer.”

  “Nature rules everything, Aim. There are biological imperatives designed to ensure individual and species survival. The drive for food, for sex, for growth, for protection—and the ferocious, inexplicable drive to fight for life.”

  I hop off the swing and take a few steps toward the footpath that leads to the woods. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “We don’t know where or how the will to live is programmed into cells, but it is a fact that no organism will readily give up its life. Try to kill the most primitive of organisms, and that bacterium doesn’t say, ‘Okay, I’ll wait until you kill me.’ Instead, it will make every evasive maneuver in its power to sustain its survival. That’s what you need to be doing, and that’s how you need to be thinking.”

  I gesture toward him. “That’s what I am doing. I reached out to you, knowing you’d have answers. You understand the law, and even better, you know how to dig up dirt.”

  “Language was designed to hide feelings.”

  My brow knits together. I offer a slight shrug. “Okay?”

  “Human and animal predators instinctively understand this. Take a lioness, for example. Unlike human hunters, she isn’t looking for the trophy gazelle with the biggest horns to mount on the wall of her den. She is interested in eating. So, she does a quick scan of the options, and picks the weakest gazelle to tangle with, the one she senses will put up the least fight. She’s looking for the fastest, easiest way to get dinner. Human predators work in the same way. They seek out victims who are broadcasting fearful or distracted energy. It’s not the clothes they’re wearing—it’s what they’re projecting. Jack Mooney is a predator. He’s lived a life full of crime, which makes him good at one thing: sensing your weakness. He knows he can toy with you. That you aren’t willing—or able—to fight back. If you weren’t so ambivalent, believe me, he would have moved on to more promising prey.”

  “And how do you know,” I ask, finishing with air quotes, “that I’m ‘ambivalent’?”

  “Because you called me.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  He can hear their squeals of delight through the open windows. He can smell the bacon frying. He can hear the eggs cracking. He is that close. But not close enough. He imagines himself at the breakfast table, listening to their giggles, saying, “pass the salt, please.” It’s Thanksgiving, and Thanksgiving should be spent with people you care about.

  Their mother left early this morning, before the sun was up. He wondered if that’s what she was doing, so he decided to follow her. He wasn’t happy with what he saw. Not at all. She may not have undressed and made love with her male friend, but sometimes you can accomplish the same thing in a single look, and that is exactly what she did.

  He followed her back home. And now he is torn. She’s all smiles, which makes him conflicted and confused about what to do next. The situation should give him leverage, but it does not make him happy, and he cannot for the life of him figure out why.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I run the race, and fueled by adrenaline and rage, I do surprisingly well. I cross the finish line wet, cold, and shaking all over. Dana finishes with me, if not a little ahead, but the rest of our team is still a ways back. She and I stand there trying to catch our breath. I rub my hands together, trying to warm them, but nothing helps. She asks me to lean in and smile big. She snaps a selfie.

  She posts it to social media and tags me. When the notification lights up my screen, I see the text from Alex. Looking like a gazelle out there.

  Fuck you, I start to type but then think better of it. He’s been through a lot, and I know it’s just a harmless jab. So I let it be. Silence is as good a response as any. He’s trying to draw me into old patterns, and I refuse to take the bait.

  Once the rest of the team meets us at the finish line and we take selfies, we stand around chatting about work and our upcoming plans for the day.

  “I heard you,” I say, turning to Sarah, although my eyes eventually land on everyone in our circle. “And I think it’s bullshit—that after everything, you’d speak about me that way behind my back.”

  I point at her, and somehow the words flow effortlessly out of my mouth. “I babysat for you—every day—for an entire week when Michael was in the hospital.” Favors I’d done, things that happened years ago, come dancing into the forefront of my mind. They spring off the tip of my tongue.

  “And you—” I spit at Joan. “I’ve thrown you so many bones. I’ve spent hours helping you—training you.”

  Then, facing Emma, I shake my head. “I held your hand as you gave birth. When Richard couldn’t fly home in time, I dropped everything so I could be there.”

  “Amy.” Dana clears her throat and steps in. “I know—we’re sorry.” Our eyes meet. I knew she’d be the one to take the lead. “I mean—I’m sorry. You’re right. And I should have put a stop to the gossip sooner. The rest of them—” she says, with the flick of her dainty little wrist, “they were drunk.”

  “That’s no excuse,” I hiss. “You guys were supposed to be my friends. But it turns out—no. It’s me who was wrong. You’re no more than petty high school girls walking around in grown women’s bodies.” I glance at each of them. “And you know what else? I feel sorry f
or you. I’m sorry that your lives are so unhappy that you have to try to shit all over mine.”

  “Ah, come on,” Dana calls after me as I stride off. “No one meant any harm, Aim. Really. It was all in good fun.”

  Her words hit like a knife in my back, causing me to halt. Sucking in a deep breath, I pivot on my heel. Then I take three steps toward her, meeting her face to face, eye to eye. “Not for me it wasn’t.”

  Add to the problems of my life: find a new broker. Find new friends. Preferably real ones. Over breakfast, which Greg and the girls make while I kick back and pretend to supervise, I tell him about the confrontation after the race. As I give Greg the run down, he assures me it will all blow over. He’s right about that. It would, if I let it. But that’s not what I want. I’m ready to move on.

  With Blair’s help, I set the table as Naomi and Greg load up our plates. I do not talk about Alex, or his loss, or what happened at the park, and we do not talk about Jack Mooney or failing businesses. Breakfast is amazing and for the rest of the day, everything feels almost normal.

  The turkey turns out a little dry, and the girls bicker incessantly, but the wine makes up for it.

  After dinner, Greg falls asleep on the couch. The girls and I settle in to watch a movie. Well, they watch, and I respond to emails from my phone.

  In between work, I take breaks to search the internet for puppies. Thanksgiving has not been the same without Rocky. I keep thinking of saving things for him, or making him a plate, and then it hits me that he’s gone. It was the first Turkey Trot I have run without him, and his absence has been heavy on my heart all day. The girls too. With Christmas coming, I am thinking a surprise puppy may just be what we all need. That, or the last thing. Depending. It will be a lot of work. I know what Greg will surely say.

  Interrupting my search, a slew of texts come in. The first is a name and a phone number. From Alex. Ben Dugan. He can help you, he writes. Let me know if you want me to set something up.