Sign up for my newsletter and stay up to date on new releases, free books, and giveaways:
SNEAK PEEK
RELENTLESS, SYDNEY RYE MYSTERIES BOOK 16
To her neighbors, Jennifer Johnson seemed odd, just a little off. How could she not? Her entire existence was a lie.
While the child at her breasts was really hers, the husband by her side…not so much. They shared the same innocuous last name—second most common in the United States—but he was not the father of her child, nor the love of her life.
That honor was held by a dead man.
The Johnsons didn't bother with baby gates because of their dog, who they called Buddy, the second most popular dog name in the country. Tall as a Great Dane with the snout of a Collie, the markings of a Siberian Husky and the thick coat of a wolf with one blue eye and one brown, that dog watched the baby as if he was operating some kind of military operation. It was adorable.
Buddy wasn't fixed though, something noted on by the homeowners association. A discussion ensued as to whether he was even allowed to be in the neighborhood, such a large hairy dog with such big balls. Is that what Hidden Bush was all about?
Of course, Mrs. Katagan's sin red tulips came up. Unfortunately, there was no stipulation as to the color of plants in the bylaws so while it irked her neighbors to see such glossy, colorful petals, the monotone beige of their homes reassured them that all was well and good in the neighborhood. Mrs. Katagan was a widow though, it did seem uncommonly brash to grow such flowers.
Once the neighbors got to know the dog and saw how devoted and adorable he was, they quickly forgot about his balls.
And the husband, John Johnson, everyone liked him. Tall, fit, and handsome, he had beers with the men and helped women with their groceries—didn't even have to be asked. He'd just start grabbing bags, talking about the weather, or something pleasant from the news.
He worked from home, some kind of remote job. He said they'd chosen this community because they liked it, which made people feel good about them. The world was changing, after all. Working remotely wasn't that odd. They'd let Mrs. Katagan’s flowers pass, they could let Mr. Johnsons's unconventional work life go. The Johnson's could live anywhere and they'd chosen Hidden Bush…that said something good about the neighborhood for sure. For absolute sure.
The wife was a bit odd though, everyone had to admit it. And they did, as often as possible in hushed whispers. She ran more than was probably healthy. Nursed that baby still…and it was 10 months now, the boy, James, was walking.
Mr. And Mrs. Johnson shared the housework as far as anyone could tell, but Mrs. Johnson never mentioned a job…shouldn't she do all the housework if he was the one working? Why did he so often do the shopping? And he'd been seen folding laundry under the flickering light of their tv at night…by a neighbor on a dog walk. She wasn't spying. Not at all. It was a mere coincidental glimpse.
The Johnsons never went on dates. Seemed like Mrs. Johnson didn't ever leave that baby. Many women suspected that Mr. Johnson needed to be saved from his wife…but to be truthful, they needed to be saved from their own marriages and were really just projecting.
After all, Mr. And Mrs. Johnson were a lie, remember?
Gray bleeds into the horizon as I slip out the front door. The air is heavy with moisture and the grass thick with dew. My SUV, the same Ford model that cops use, waits in the driveway—the garage too full for both our cars.
How do we have so much stuff? We don't, actually. But we pretend like we do because most people's garages are too full for both their cars. And we are pretending, earnestly, to be like most people.
And while most people don't have tunnels in their garages that lead to the woods for escape purposes, they do have gray plastic bin lined shelves.
Peter, whose alias is John Johnson—a name picked because it is ridiculously common, which really makes me wonder about the imaginations of most people—bought a four wheeler so we had something to keep in the second garage bay. He's taken it out a few times with some other guys in the neighborhood and definitely enjoys the thing. It reminds me of Costa Rica, of a time I don't think about.
I'm alone as I climb into the driver's seat—an unusual situation.
My dog, Blue, raised his head when I got out of my bed but I held up my hand. Stay with James. Blue, who we've called Buddy for the last ten months, cocked his head in question.
This is the third morning this week I've gone running without him. We used to go after James woke up and had some breakfast. He'd nurse, then I'd pack my son up in the stroller and we'd head over to the local park with its paved paths and go for our daily run. James napped as Blue and I jogged. But I can't take Blue or James with me now because I'm not running…I'm hunting.
Blue can't come because he's too big a deterrent—literally. The dog is huge. No one would think of him as bait. But me, alone, sure, I could be taken down. I'm slim enough that I could be mistaken for weak and not particularly tall. I have a ponytail that bobs with each step. What more does a victim need?
I start the car, the rumble of the engine disturbing the quiet neighborhood. Mrs. Katagan's lights are already on across the street. I don't think I've ever seen her house totally dark. Does it give her comfort to have the lights on? Make her feel safe living alone?
Her dog, a chihuahua named Bruno, is a fierce little creature. He plays with Blue fearlessly. I think Blue is actually more afraid of hurting him than Bruno is of being crushed—which seems like a real possibility to me. And from the looks Blue gives me, I'm pretty sure he thinks the same. One paw swipe and Bruno could be buried.
Speaking of buried, I turn in my seat to make sure the shovel is still in the trunk. Its handle is propped against the back seats. I bought it at the beginning of the week when I started this hunt.
Peter noticed it yesterday while helping me unload the groceries, but he didn't say anything. He just gave me a look. The same one he gave me when he saw the cut out clippings I'd been gathering in the kitchen drawer. Not so much judging me, or even questioning me, just watching…making sure to keep track of where this crazy train is headed.
It takes about ten minutes to get to the large public park—this isn't our normal running spot. It's more forested, less tamed. The parking area is empty. When three women over the course of three months have been raped in this park, no one is jogging there at dawn…no one but me.
I'm not carrying a gun. The rapist uses a knife, and I've got one of those…two actually. One in an ankle holster and one in the thigh pocket of my black leggings. I've also got years of training and a thirst for justice. What more could a good little victim need to turn the tables and murder the serial rapist terrorizing her neighborhood?
The sky is fully gray now, but on the forested path darkness still lingers. Lightning crackles at the corners of my vision—hallucinations haunting my ravaged brain. But my mind stays sharp and true through the imagined storm.
My jog is easy and measured. I used to sprint until my heart hammered to be released from my chest—desperate to escape the madwoman forcing it into such intensity. I'm older now, though. Wiser. More dangerous than ever.
The dawn breaks into day and the path lightens. I slow to a walk as I approach a wooden bridge over a thin stream. Mosquitoes must swarm here in the spring and summer but as fall edges toward winter, the leaves giving us a final, brilliant salute, the air is clear. I stop on the bridge and lean against the railing, staring down at the shallow body of water. It tinkles over smooth stones, pebbles in sand and gold. Moss hugs the shoreline, its vibrant green a gorgeous contrast with the fall colors.
I miss Blue and James. Without a dog by my side, I feel like I'm missing a limb. Blue's constant, steady presence warming my left hip, the rhythmic taps of his nose reminding me he is there while we run…without Blue I'm lonely.
The ache of missing him reminds me of my other dogs—Blue's puppies. I had to leave them behind when I disappeared. They weren't with me and there was no going back. But a day doesn't go by that I don't think about Nila and Frank. Her fierceness, his goofiness…their absence hangs over me like a shadow.
Footsteps in the distance turn my head in the direction of the sound. Another jogger. Adrenaline tingles through my system. I wait, my breath even. The path is narrow, strung through with roots and littered with rocks. The trees tower, leaving not even a thin stripe of morning sky above. It's nothing but diamonds of blue between the yellow, gold, and burnt sienna foliage.
A wind rustles the branches, carrying the autumnal scent of leaves. The steps grow closer, more defined. The soft strike barely audible but very much there. Not a figment of my torture imagination. Not a ghost lingering in the shadows of my mind. A predator on the cusp of becoming prey.
