Head Case: A Psychological Thriller, page 20
I can only hope my dad knows how much I loved him, and that I forgive him. I never had the chance to say that to him, and it’s my only regret. So I look up towards the sky and say it to him now.
I forgive you, Dad.
I see him smile. Forget about it, Cass. We’re good, he says.
And we are.
EPILOGUE
Madeline
Three months later
I’ve adjusted as well as I can to prison life. It’s not a minimum-security facility, like the ones where white-collar criminals do their time. We’re not sitting around folding origami. But it could be worse.
They gave me fifteen to twenty as part of my plea deal, and there’s always the chance I can get time off for good behavior. I’m a model prisoner, and I’ve become a celebrity of sorts around here. Well, maybe not a celebrity. More like a valuable resource for the other inmates.
When word got out that I’d been able to secure a relatively light sentence for murder, women started coming to me for advice. Then I took a job in the prison library. Not many people in here have my level of education, so it wasn’t too hard to secure. I started helping some of the other prisoners to research legal strategies for their cases. Most of them claim they’re innocent, and I’m sure the majority are full of shit, but I did help one woman who I know for certain got a raw deal.
She shot her abusive husband after he nearly cracked her head open with a tire iron, and I’d always assumed those cases were slam dunks for an acquittal based on self-defense. But this one wasn’t, and I took a special interest in her case. I can’t stand wife beaters. I went over her defense and found all kinds of issues. Then I hooked her up with the Innocence Project, and she’s currently planning an appeal strategy.
Even if most of these women I counsel will never see the inside of a courtroom again, the fact that I have this skill offers me a measure of protection. I’m worth more to them alive than dead, so I don’t see what any of them would gain by killing me.
Speaking of being killed, although I’m not really worried about a beef with the women in here, I am concerned about what someone outside these walls might pay one of them to do to me. I know a great deal more than my husband about the “questionable” large donations that were made to the school. I have a pipeline of sorts from my younger days, and I thought if Miles brought in big money, we’d be able to leverage that success and improve our social standing.
That obviously didn’t happen, and I wasn’t stupid enough to give any of them up. I gave up Butch MacDonald instead because he’s the one who profited the most from all of this, although he always cut me a small finder’s fee that I tucked away in my private slush fund, for Erin. He appears to have left the country, and nobody’s been able to locate him, so I don’t see why he’d rock the boat. But then you never know.
On the walk from the library to my cell I turn the corner and almost run smack into an inmate I don’t recognize.
She must be new.
I’m about to go around her when I see the focused look in her eye and catch the glint of the knife blade she holds in her hand. I close my eyes and accept my fate, comforted by the knowledge that my daughter will be well taken care of, and not just because of my slush fund. I changed the beneficiary on my life insurance policy. My only regret at the moment is that I won’t be around to see the look on my husband’s face when he finds out he gets nothing.
Cassie
One year later
I landed at a small private day school in Scottsdale, Arizona, where I’m the new assistant principal. It turned out my mom was sick of the cold too, and she wanted to be closer to her relatives in Nevada now that she’s free to interact with them more often. I wasn’t interested in going back to the Vegas area, so we compromised on Arizona. I’ve always loved the desert, but I wanted something a bit more mountainous than where I grew up. Maybe the Catskills grew on me. I still won’t be caught dead on top of a mountain in winter, though.
My mom bought a nice three-bedroom home in a retirement community about twenty minutes from me, and she’s having a blast meeting new people and being social. I purchased a two-bedroom townhome in North Scottsdale, which I’m loving.
As for Dan, he’s living just outside Albuquerque, and we see each other most weekends. I like going there to visit, but Arizona suits me better overall. If things work out between us and we want to take it to the next level, he can always transfer to one of the Phoenix offices. For now, this is working out just fine.
We’ve met each other’s families, and my mother adores him. He’s from a big family who all live near him, so my mother and I spent Christmas with his entire extended family. He’s fluent in Spanish—his mother’s side’s bilingual—and I feel like an idiot when I hear him switch effortlessly from one language to the other. I’m horrible at anything besides English. Now he’s trying to teach me Spanish, and I’m hopeless. He keeps trying, refusing to give up on me.
I heard from Erin a few times after I left but not recently. The last time was mid-October when she was first away at college and likely feeling a bit homesick. She reached out to me and I answered her, but she didn’t reply to my email asking how she was doing, so I assume she’s adjusted to college life. I attended her mother’s funeral, and her father thanked me for the support I provided. I didn’t feel I’d done much of anything, and I’m frankly surprised Erin even mentioned me to him. He’s not in prison, and that’s about all I know.
I wonder still about her head case of a mother and what was going through that mind of hers that night. Did she just snap? Or was she always a psycho waiting to happen? At least she can’t harm anyone now, and I feel good that I’m finally in the clear.
I’m coming back from a trail walk near my place, headed into my local coffee shop, when a man reaches the door before me and holds it open. He looks familiar, but I can’t quite place him. He’s probably in his mid-sixties, and he’s wearing sunglasses and a hat.
“Thanks,” I say and walk through the door ahead of him.
He looks around, like he’s meeting someone.
“Hey, Bill!” a woman calls out from a table near the plate glass window that overlooks the sidewalk. He nods and walks over to her. As he approaches the table, he takes off his hat and glasses, and my heart skips a beat.
It’s Butch MacDonald. Or is it?
I turn away and rush over to the coffee line. I could swear I saw a resemblance, but then I only got a quick look, and I don’t want to call attention to myself by glancing in his direction again. If it is him, I don’t want him to notice me.
We’ve only met once, when I interviewed at Falcon Ridge nearly two years ago, so I doubt he would even have a clue who I am. His portrait still hangs in the halls there, so I have the advantage.
Could it be him?
I decide that I don’t want to know. My mind is probably playing tricks on me. I still have nightmares about Madeline Kensington finding me in that closet, and in them, things don’t turn out so well for me. It’s probably just some kind of PTSD.
I should probably see a therapist.
I tell myself it’s not him. And if by some strange twist of fate, WITSEC relocated him here after he gave up some dirty donors, I don’t want to know about it. So I forgo the coffee, do an about-face, and walk out the door.
But as I walk past the café window, I can’t help but sneak one last glance at their table. Our eyes meet through the glass and his brows rise.
And he winks at me.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to extend my sincere thanks to the many people who helped me craft this novel. Thanks goes out once again to my husband who brainstormed with me endlessly when I hit plot challenges and who also read countless drafts of my manuscript. He has a wealth of knowledge in the genre and a great eye for detail. Although he thinks otherwise, I could not have put out so many well received novels without his assistance.
Thanks to my invaluable alpha readers Robin, Susan, and Donna who offered great suggestions and encouragement. Thanks to my chief beta reader Christina Yother at Your Beta Reader, whose suggestions and attention to detail went way beyond a typical beta read, offering valuable ideas to make the manuscript better. As always, thanks to my fabulous editor Julie MacKenzie for her expert attention to detail and timely delivery of her editorial comments and corrections.
Thanks to all of my stellar educational coworkers, school administrators, and students for a rewarding career that has sustained my interest throughout the decades. I’m fortunate to have worked at three fabulous independent schools over the course of my career which, thankfully, were nothing like Falcon Ridge Academy. Thanks to the ALICE active shooter training program that provided us with some tools to protect ourselves and our students.
Finally, thanks so much to my readers. You are why I keep writing, and I am so grateful for the time you take to read my books as well as rate and review them. I read all of my reviews and it helps me to improve, so please keep them coming. I really appreciate it. I’m presently working on a stand-alone sequel to The Stepfamily which should be out sometime early next year. For more information on new releases and specials, please go to www.bonnietraymore.com.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bonnie Traymore is the author of several recent domestic thriller novels. Originally from the New York City area, she’s lived in Honolulu with her family for the last few decades. When she’s not writing, she enjoys being in the classroom with young minds, keeping her work fresh and current. She’s also an accomplished non-fiction writer, historian, and veteran educator with a doctorate in United States History. She has taught at top independent schools in Honolulu, Silicon Valley, and New York City, and she’s taught history courses at Columbia University and the University of Hawai’i.
Please enjoy a sample of
The Stepfamily: A Psychological Thriller,
Book 1, Silicon Valley Series.
PROLOGUE
Three months ago
She stands in silence, reading the weathered letter she holds in her trembling hands—over and over and over. A rage simmers deep inside her, about to erupt as she grasps the implications. Yet it all makes perfect sense for her now. The pieces of her life that never quite fit together suddenly snap into place as the truth reveals itself to her.
Her entire life, she now realizes, has been a lie. A fraud. A fractured fairy tale. How can anyone be expected to turn a blind eye to that kind of realization? How can anyone forgive that level of deception?
She’s trying to hold it together, she really is, but the feeling bubbling up inside her is too powerful to suppress. It washes over her like a tidal wave, and suddenly she’s willing to risk everything to get what she needs—and eliminate anyone who stands in her way.
ONE
I’ve never felt at home in this family because it’s not really mine. But I try. Why? I don’t really know. I could speak up. I could protest. I could leave. But I don’t.
My husband is tenser than usual this morning. I can see it in his jawline when he walks into the kitchen.
“How’s the approval coming?” I ask.
“Oh, you know, the usual hurdles. Nothing to worry about,” he replies. He tries to hide it, but his discomfort breaks through. His voice is a little singsongy, always a sign that something’s up.
He walks over to the coffee pot, pours himself a cup, and pops a slice of bread in the toaster. A dark blue tie hangs loose around his neck. He never wears one. Hardly anyone in Silicon Valley does, so it must be an important day. But for some reason, I don’t think his unease has anything to do with work.
“Got a big meeting today?” I ask.
“The board wants an update,” Peter replies.
“Aren’t you just waiting for the FDA?”
“Yeah.”
“So, isn’t that the update?”
“Yeah.” He smiles. “But you know how they are.”
Then he shrugs, and I smile back. He butters his toast and pours some more coffee into a travel mug. I can tell that’s all I’m going to get out of him. He’s a calm man—most of the time. But he does have a temper, and even after twelve years, I still can’t tell what might set it off. I can tell he’s stressed, so I leave it alone.
I watch him walk over to the large beveled mirror that hangs in our dining room. He fastens his tie in one fluid motion. It looks sexy. Masculine. Commanding. The way he snaps it up and down at the same time to force it into compliance. He’s older than me, but he still gets my heart racing with his salt-and-pepper hair and chiseled physique. His sleeves are rolled up a bit, exposing his muscular forearms.
He walks back to the kitchen and wolfs down his toast. Standing at the island countertop, I continue to make a veggie sandwich to pack for lunch. He places his dish in the sink behind me. We don’t speak. It’s a comfortable silence, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is up.
I turn around to face him. “Well, I’m sure you’ll dazzle them.” I smile and rest my hand on Peter’s bicep. I run my thumb across its taut surface.
“I don’t know about that.” He places his hand on my shoulder, leans over, and gives me a peck on the lips. “Have a good day.” Then he grabs his coffee and heads out the side door to the garage.
I hear his car start and the garage door rise up. We have a two-car garage, but there’s only space for one car because he’s got all kinds of tools and sports equipment that take up the other half. It was like that when we started dating. Only one car in the garage. Twelve years later, my car still sits in the driveway.
I don’t belong here. I’m still a visitor. Just like my car.
I’m searching through my clothes rack, second-guessing myself once again. I turn to look at myself in the full-length mirror that hangs on the opposite side of my closet. My navy skirt sits just above the knee, and I worry that people might think I’m playing up my sexy legs. But I’m not. It’s just how my legs look. I don’t want to wear pants. My blouse is modest, and I tell myself to stop being so insecure. I pull out a few different pairs of shoes from the cubbies and try them on. I land on strappy sandals with a medium heel. They’re dark, almost the same color as my hair. I look professional but in a confident, sexy way. It’s fine.
I have a big day today too. My career is really taking off. Finally. I was so young when I met Peter. Only twenty-seven. I’d just finished graduate school, a marketing MBA, and at first, there was too much going on in our lives to do much of anything with it. But I’ve made up for lost time. And I recently got a big promotion. Laura Sato Foster, Vice President of Monetization. Is that what’s making him uncomfortable? The fact that I might not need him anymore? He’s always been a big supporter of my career. It can’t be that. But something is bothering him, that’s for sure. He even rejected my advances last night, which he’s never done before. He just turned fifty, and I hope it’s not a sign of what’s to come.
I make my way downstairs and out the front door to the driveway where my car sits. It’s a silver Audi A6, so it’s not an over-the-top choice, especially for this area, but it’s certainly garage-worthy. I plop my satchel in the trunk, and then I notice something. A small stream of fluid is running out from under the car. We live in Los Altos Hills near the top of a long road—a very winding and steep one. Our driveway also slants down a bit; otherwise, I don’t think I would have noticed the fluid. Thank goodness for gravity.
I’m a bit neurotic, the kind of person who runs back into the house to make sure the stove is off. I always pump my brakes before I back out of the driveway. Losing brakes on a hill like the one we live on could be fatal, and while that trickle of liquid could be anything, I have a sinking feeling in my stomach.
I open the car door and get behind the wheel. I press the start button and see the brake indicator light up. Then I step hard on the brake pedal. There’s a slight resistance at first, but then my foot sinks to the floor. I realize then that it must be the brake fluid—one of my biggest fears. I feel a strange tingling in the back of my head.
I try not to catastrophize, but it’s a pretty new car, although it’s due to be serviced. Do brake lines start leaking for no reason? Probably not. Even before I call for help, I know this isn’t good, and my stomach lurches as I consider the implications. It’s quite possible that someone has tampered with my brake line.
Someone who’s out to get me?
Peter’s seated at the mahogany conference table at work, but his mind is a mile away. He’s trying to forget about the email he found in his spam folder the other day, but it gnaws at him like a tick burrowing into his ankle flesh.
“Peter? Are you with us?” the chairman barks.
“Yes!” Peter snaps back into reality. He knows he has to get his head in the game, but he’s missed the question completely, so there’s no way he can fake it. He can get away with something like that once but not a second time, so he forces himself to focus.
“George asked if you have any concerns about what Sahil’s team found when they tried to reproduce the results for the lung cancer experiments.” It was the CEO, repeating the chairman’s question.
“Sorry, I was looking over the FDA’s last response. Yes, of course I have concerns.”
“What do you plan to do about it?”
“We’ve already started on another round of experiments. I’m sure it was their mistake. We’ve performed those experiments numerous times for the study. They’ve only done it once, so I wouldn’t worry just yet.”
“We’ve already released that data in a preprint,” the chairman says. “You better hope it was their mistake.”
“Give me a week, okay?”
