- Sample Chapters -
"Thriller, suspense, oh my. Right from the start, Jeremy pulls you in and keeps you guessing. Once you start, you won’t want to stop."
Blurb from the book cover -
Jessica Meyer hides an abusive history that she thinks about often. Those thoughts fuel a deep insecurity that her husband, Greg, doesn’t quite understand.
With the optimism of a fresh start, the Meyers take a leap of faith and a rented U-Haul truck halfway across the country from San Diego to Frisco, Texas. Inside, the Meyers bring with them all of their belongings along with a burden, the burden of infertility. After settling into their new home, they explore other options to expand their family and decide to take in a foster child. But this boy, nine-year-old Jeremy, possesses dark and unexplainable abilities.
As her idyllic life begins to crumble around her, Jessica’s lifetime of worries and insecurities begin to serve as warnings to her own possible fate.
Jessica Meyer hides an abusive history that she thinks about often. Those thoughts fuel a deep insecurity that her husband, Greg, doesn’t quite understand.
With the optimism of a fresh start, the Meyers take a leap of faith and a rented U-Haul truck halfway across the country from San Diego to Frisco, Texas. Inside, the Meyers bring with them all of their belongings along with a burden, the burden of infertility. After settling into their new home, they explore other options to expand their family and decide to take in a foster child. But this boy, nine-year-old Jeremy, possesses dark and unexplainable abilities.
As her idyllic life begins to crumble around her, Jessica’s lifetime of worries and insecurities begin to serve as warnings to her own possible fate.
Chapter One
“Hey, if I were drowning, would you save me?” she asked. Her face was dead serious when the words came out of her mouth.
They were sitting outside of a Sonic drive-in on the red, rubber-coated benches of a picnic table that was bolted to the concrete slab. Together, Jessica and Greg Meyer were waiting on their order.
“What in the hell kind of question is that?” Greg spit out. “Of course, I would save you.” He reached across the sticky, rubber tabletop and took hold of her hand. He maneuvered it around in his until her ring showed itself. A quarter-carat diamond set into the simple and affordable band that he’d slid onto her finger over five years ago in front of that small group of family and friends.
Jessica smiled, “I don’t know where that came from. It just popped into my head. I’m starving.”
A hot afternoon breeze blew across the highway, carrying along with it the dusty and gritty air of West Texas. The U-Haul and their burgundy-red Subaru hatch wagon were parked behind them, along the grassy edge of the parking lot.
Their new home was only one more gas fill-up away in a city north of Dallas. Frisco it was called. Frisco, Texas was a city of over two hundred thousand that once, in 2017, hailed as the fastest growing city in America. Frisco was where a fixer-upper three bedroom, two and a half bath, cottage style home awaited.
2
Greg had first seen the job opening when it passed across his email. He and Jessica were just coming to grips with the fact that, with each passing year, they were getting more and more priced-out of the San Diego real estate market.
They had taken all of the best advice and applied it. Saving the five percent for downpayment, check. Perfecting their credit scores, check. This all took time, valuable time. Then, once they received the thumbs-up from High Valley Mortgage, it seemed the housing prices had bumped up another level on the line graph of historical home costs. Housing costs continually rise everywhere, but San Diego prices rise along the graph a bit quicker, as residents are often reminded by the local news channels when there are no other notable happenings in the world to report on.
Jessica had already settled in to the truth that they would be forever-renters, like so many others their age. The older generations were the lucky ones. They had bought in while prices were somewhat affordable and simply held their ground. Now, those same houses were worth four-fold of their original purchase price, a retirement in itself.
Greg and Jessica were not so lucky.
Disgust and desperation had reached a peak when the email had come, nearly six months prior to this hot day, sitting outside of the Sonic. Physical Therapist Needed, the subject line stated. Top Pay w/experience. Greg clicked the email.
A new hospital system was forming throughout the faster-growing cities of Central and Northern Texas. The email said that, with each new location, they wanted to hit the ground running. So their plan was to recruit the best and most experienced in their field. Midway down the email was the link for physical therapist. Greg clicked the link. The new tab opened up to the hospital’s employment page. Alongside the job for physical therapist were two cities listed, Abilene and Frisco.
Shaking his head, Greg clicked out of the page, then deleted the email.
It was two days after the email that Greg thought to mention it to Jessica. He said it at dinner over Asian takeout. Meant only to fill the empty space of silence, Greg told her, “I got an interesting email the other day.”
“And?” she asked.
“A hospital system in Texas is hiring.”
“That is interesting,” she said slowly, drawing out the words. “Does it pay good?”
“A little less than here.”
“But…”
“But what?” he asked.
“But I bet we could buy a house in Texas. We’re never going to be able to buy one here.”
“True,” he agreed.
Jessica perked up. “You should apply.”
“And just move. Up and move just like that?”
“Sure, we don’t really have anything tying us down. Your mom and dad took off to Vegas and decided to stay.” Shrugging her shoulders, she added, “… no reason to keep trying to come up from behind in this rat race here.”
3
A gust of Texas wind brought a tumbleweed bouncing haphazardly across the parking lot. Its direction of travel sent it behind Jessica’s bench by only a few feet before finding its way into the field of weeds and dry dirt beyond the U-Haul and Subaru.
They were still watching the tumbleweed as it continued its eastward migration, much like the Meyers themselves, when the carhop fluttered in. It was as if she were carried by the wind as well.
“Thank you. Keep the change,” Greg said, handing her fifteen dollars.
Jessica wrangled her long, dirty-blonde hair into a bundle behind her head. Slipping the scrunchy band off of her wrist, she blindly twisted it around the ponytail and asked, “How much further?” Her head tilted and a beam of light swept across the bridge of her nose, highlighting the half-dozen or so freckles.
“About five hours,” Greg squeezed a ketchup packet onto the opened burger wrapper, “a little over three hundred miles.”
4
414 Sycamore was a foreclosure. The internet listing only had six pictures of it, one exterior view of the front and the other five were of the interior. The interior images showed a home in need of repair, lots of it. There were no appliances, few light fixtures, and yellow Romex cable ends poked out of rectangle cavities where light switches used to be. The wall between what was the living room and kitchen had been stripped to the studs. Small fragments of sheetrock still clung to some of the stud faces by the remaining nails. Much of the carpeting had been ripped up, along with the baseboards. The one exterior photo displayed a red brick facade with a loose-hanging gutter, and a single plump maple tree off to the right side of the yard.
Becky, the listing agent, told Greg on the phone that the house needed some TLC.
Compared to San Diego prices, it was a steal.
Greg completed the entire purchase remotely. Being a bank-owned repossession, it was sold As-is, where-is, and with all faults. No warranties, expressed or implied.
He and Jessica were scared. They’d never bought a house and the concept of putting so much money into something knowing the damage involved was very unsettling. But both the home inspector and the contractor that Greg had hired gave him hope.
A shorthand version of their statements went like, The house looks like shit, but it’s all fixable. Good bones. No water damage. And once brought back into shape, the home’s value should nearly double.
That was the synopsis that Greg gave to Jessica.
5
The U-Haul bumped awkwardly as it pulled out of the Sonic parking lot and turned right onto the highway. The heavy and overloaded box rocked side to side due to the small curb drop and its compressed rear springs. It continued its teeter-tooter during the slow, but steady acceleration.
Jessica had been worried about the truck making the trip without a breakdown. It was packed full with very little extra space left. Some larger possessions had to remain behind. There was a patio table set, a barbeque pit, and a push lawn mower, a good self-propelled one at that. Surely, the new tenants would appreciate the gifts.
The taillights of the truck seemed to be eyes that were staring at her through her windshield as if laughing at her for ever doubting it.
In her world, Jessica tried to never doubt or predict anything. Her whole life had been one disappointing surprise after another … until she and Greg met at the Special Olympics event on a sweltering hot day in July. Most memories don’t rely on the weather. But this one did, only because she could vividly remember seeing the tall, brown-haired Greek god, covered in sweat, running across the field to check on one of his team who had fallen.
She learned, later on, that he had often volunteered at events like the one on that July day, simply because he truly loved helping people. Her attendance was slightly less chivalric, she was dragged into the service by a friend. That event was her first, although Greg thought otherwise and she never did get around to correcting him.
The U-Haul was gaining speed as it passed the city limit sign. In her rearview mirror, the town faded into the orange glow of the setting sun.
Driving the U-Haul in front of her was the only person, aside from her grandfather, who’d ever really cared about her. She could feel it. She could see it in his eyes. Greg made her feel loved and most of all, he made her feel wanted.
Jessica had never felt that way before.
Leaning up in her seat, she pressed the play button on the CD player, letting Tom Petty’s voice replace the hum of the asphalt.
At half-past midnight, her phone rang.
“How you doing back there?” Greg asked as soon as she answered.
“I’m alive and bored.”
“Tired?”
“No, not so much.” Jessica blew out an audible breath into the phone. “Just ready to be there, turn this car off, and relax.”
“Well, we’re looking at about forty-five minutes left. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds like the best thing I’ve heard in the last fourteen hundred miles.”
Chapter Two
Darkness had settled in and Nadia Toussaint stood at her kitchen’s speckled Formica counter with only a single incandescent bulb on above the sink. Holding the spoon, her right hand trembled lightly as she stirred her stained and worn, white ceramic coffee cup, watching the sugar cube slowly dissolve. Nadia’s left hand rested flat on the countertop near the cup. Her dark skin almost mirrored the coffee itself, but what set her apart were her bright blue manicured nails that matched the color of her eyes.
In the strong contrast of shadows and highlights from the bulb overhead, the back of her hand resembled a topographic map. Her raised veins served as the contour lines of higher elevation and the wrinkled and thinned skin represented the flatter terrain.
Her skin was once smooth and beautiful. Once. With the wink of her eye, she could make those Louisiana boys squirm. That was years ago, many of them. Many more than she’d care to count at this point.
With both hands, she carefully grasped the warm cup and made the fifteen cautious steps to the nook between the kitchen and living room. There sat a small round dining table with four Windsor chairs.
Setting the cup down on the table’s surface, Nadia pulled out her chair. Her chair was scuffed at the edge of the seat from everyday use. The bottom brace had been worn clean of paint from the soles of her shoes and the gloss of the original patina had rubbed off some time ago.
The other three chairs had not lost their shine. Underneath the fine layer of dust, they were still as good as new.
She faced the living room window that looked out to Sycamore Drive. With her blinds open, the sidewalk and street beyond were washed in the faint yellow light of the street lamp that stood where her property line met the neighboring line of 414 Sycamore.
To Nadia’s right was the window that looked out to the vacant home next door. She’d watched the house change owners many times since her own arrival on a cool day in March, fifteen years ago. Most homes had had a few turnovers of ownership in that time and 414 was no different. The most recent was a lovely couple, they seemed. They had big plans and had begun to remodel after having lived there for about four years. James and Sharon were their names. He was a delivery driver for UPS and she worked for a pharmacy company. Her work was more specialized in nature and when she lost her job due to downsizing, they just couldn’t keep their heads above water. Nadia watched from her chair at the table the day they left. It was somber, a bit like a funeral. Once the moving truck was loaded, they both stood in the yard, hands interlocked, as they looked at the house for the last time.
Nadia took a sip of coffee. She wished that James and Sharon were doing well again, wherever life sent them.
Through the window, 414 was completely dark. Only a silhouette of the roofline was visible at the current hour.
The house had found a buyer. No one told her. She didn’t see a listing update on a webpage. She saw no realtor add a SOLD rider to the sign. She had no reason to know that information, but she knew.
Things came to her sometimes. She knew. She also knew that tonight was the night. The new owners would arrive sometime before daybreak. It was a feeling.
And those feelings were seldom wrong.
Nadia Toussaint was worried, though, on this night. Her heart tingled with the vibration of happiness. She could tell that whoever the Universe was delivering to 414 Sycamore tonight had an aura of good energy about them. They were happy. This would be a new beginning for them.
She raised the cup to her lips again.
It was another feeling that worried her.
It was a feeling from somewhere else.
Deeper down in her soul, like it was hiding from her on purpose. It was a sense of foreboding. A sense of … dread.
Crossing her arms in front of her on the tabletop, she waited.
Chapter Three
Greg backed the U-Haul into the driveway and shut the engine off at exactly two minutes to midnight. He sat a moment in silence, decompressing after too many hours of just … going. The headlights of Jessica’s Subaru pulled straight in, headlight to headlight, to the U-Haul. So close that they nearly touched. Her rear bumper barely clearing the street.
After she cut the lights, he could see her smiling at him through the windshield. She blew him a kiss before opening her door and climbing out to stretch.
2
Nadia Toussaint was in her chair by the window. Her coffee cup empty. She rose from her chair, pushed it back into place and brought her cup to the sink. Through the window above the sink, Nadia saw the two figures emerge from the vehicles, meet and interlock hands. The new couple stood, holding hands, in precisely the same spot James and Sharon stood before their final exit.
A soft smile swept across her face as she flipped off the light switch and turned to go to bed.
3
Out of the corner of Greg’s eye, he saw the light quickly extinguish in a window of the house next door.
Pulling a key from his the pocket of his jeans, he handed it to Jessica. “Here, you do the honors.”
“Good, ‘cause I gotta pee.” She took the key and led the way to the door.
Stepping inside, they were suddenly reminded that many lights, as well as light switches, were non-existent. Luckily for her, the bathroom light was in operable condition.
Greg went around, turning on the lights that were present and working. He began to assess the home's condition the best he could with the limited light in his very much exhausted state.
“It isn’t so bad,” Jessica said as she met Greg in the kitchen.
Greg frowned with a slight nod.
Hugging him, she said, “Cheer up. It’ll work out. This place’ll be a mansion in no time.”
He kissed her on her cheek. “Ha, a mansion, probably not. A starter home for two bums from California, maybe.”
“Okay, but it’ll be our starter home. Ours. No landlord. No worries about rent going up. I can paint the walls whatever color I want. I can hang the ugliest curtains in the world if I want.”
“Yeah, I don’t know about all that. Come on, let’s get the blankets out of the Subie and crash on the floor.”
4
The morning sun, beaming through the front window blinds, woke Greg first. He slipped out from under the blanket carefully without waking Jessica and went to the window. It looked out to Sycamore Drive with the driveway to the right side of the view and a pretty little maple tree to the left. The street was bare and quiet. No cars flying by. No blaring music. No sirens in the distance. Just … calm and peace. He twisted the plastic, octagon-shaped rod, closing the blinds and cutting out the harsh light.
Jessica grunted in her sleep and rolled over to her side in the makeshift bed they’d put together in the middle of the living room floor. An old sleeping bag with a broken zipper was opened up to serve as the mattress and Jessica’s favorite blanket was their cover. It was a fleece throw emblazoned with a huge image of Natalie Wood from one of those fifties movies that Jessica liked to watch when she was bored.
She was right, the house wasn’t so bad. Greg made his way around through the rooms as softly as possible.
From the front door, the kitchen was directly across the living room. The half-demolished wall of studs stood between. Greg agreed that the wall removal was definitely a good idea, those previous owners had begun a worthwhile venture. It would free up the entire space, the kitchen and living would be open-concept. The door leading out to the backyard was in the kitchen where the cabinets ended on the far left wall.
The master suite took up the entire left side of the home with the bedroom facing the street and the master bath filling in the distant left corner nearest the backyard. Other than paint and some personal touches, the master suite was in acceptable order.
The other two bedrooms were equally split, taking up the right third of the home with a small Jack and Jill bathroom centered between the two.
Aesthetically, the two bedrooms were in need of help. Fresh paint would be a must, but only after a moderate amount of drywall repair. Small holes from screws, medium-sized ones from wall anchors, and a few large cavities littered the walls of both rooms. Greg opened one of the doors all the way open, shaking his head at the perfect fit of the doorknob into the five-inch circular crater in the wall behind it.
Jessica was stirring as Greg left the two rooms. On the distant wall of the kitchen, near the door to the master suite, were a laundry closet and a tiny powder room with only a toilet and pedestal sink.
Overall, he was impressed. He could almost hear his dad, saying, “You done good, boy. You done good.” George Meyer was a fine man and Greg missed him often.
“Hey you,” she said from under her Natalie Wood fleece cover.
“Good morning,” replied Greg, still studying the damage and trying to calculate estimates in his head.
Jessica sat up, cross-legged with Natalie’s face bundled up in her lap. The neck opening of her oversized sleep shirt draped off of her shoulder in a sexy, tomboyish sort of way. Her matted, long hair was swept back behind her, leaving three stray strands hanging in front of her ears. “I know, I know. I look like a mess,” she apologized.
She just didn’t understand. Greg gave her a smile. She didn’t understand that it was in moments such as this, that she looked so damn good to him. So real, so natural, and so enticing. A tingle, the feeling of a small electrical charge, pulsed through him. Maybe emotions, maybe a tiny surge of testosterone, no telling what. A memory flashed in his mind. The memory of that morning in his tiny studio apartment he had in college. The morning after their first night together. He was at the coffee maker, pouring two cups, and she was sitting up in his Murphy bed, sheets bundled in her lap just as she was now.
But on this morning, as usual, his vocabulary let him down and the only reply that he could come up with was, “No, you look good.”
“Thanks,” she said. “So, is it good or bad?”
“Huh?”
“The house, is it really bad or not?”
Kicking at some leftover pieces of carpet padding, Greg answered, “No, it’s not that bad in my opinion. I’ll start by calling an electrician after we get everything unloaded. Then, we’ll go check on appliances.”
“How’s the backyard look?”
“Shoot, I don’t know. I haven’t poked my head out there. I’ve been busy checking out these inside rooms.” Glancing up, he noticed that the blinds were closed over both the sink window and the back door glass.
Jessica tossed the blanket off to her side and hopped up with an energy that Greg wasn’t apparently able to find that morning. “I’m curious. Let’s go see. I hope its pretty with green grass, and a wonderful swing. Maybe there’s a hammock stretched out, just for me.”
“Don’t get your hopes up too high,” Greg snorted.
She beat Greg to the door and opened it. Then, she fell silent.
Greg was trailing a few feet behind her when she froze. She had stopped dead center in the doorway, one hand still clasped around the doorknob and the other placed against the trim molding.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, walking up.
Stepping outside of the doorway, she pointed. “That thing,” was her only answer.
His body now filled the doorway and he saw what had changed her mood so quickly. Taking up much of the small backyard was a nasty and dated concrete swimming pool.
Half-full of algae-laden green water, the pool seemed more of a swamp. There could have been snakes moving through it, their bodies appearing as long ripples just under the water’s surface with heads up and on top of the green slime, guiding them along. There could have been a bullfrog, bigger than a hamburger in size, resting on the scum-covered steps and calling out in its baritone bellow. There could have been a constant buzz from the thousands of mosquitoes taking up every vacant square inch of air space nearby. The stale and rotten liquid, supplying them with a breeding ground and place for the multitudes of eggs to hatch into larvae that would eventually morph into the flying adults.
It wasn’t the case, though.
Greg stepped out onto the cement patio that led to the pool steps. There were no snakes, frogs, or even any bugs, only a grungy, half-full, half-empty pool that needed a major cleaning and shock treatment.
Behind him, Jessica said, “We can’t have this, Greg. This has to be filled in or something. You know how I feel about it.”
He knew exactly how she felt about it. Jessica had never learned to swim. She’d tried to learn when she was younger. Her grandfather had signed her up for swimming lessons one summer, but Jessica possessed a fear of the water that she was never able to overcome.
Greg often forgot, only remembering at odd times like this.
Aside from her own safety, Greg knew that the pool had to go for their future plan. Well, more like their hope and dream. The word plan was somewhat optimistic. Their plan was to have a child someday. They had been trying. They were now nearly four years into fertility treatments and medication. Four long years.
Unspoken among both of them was the thought that this change would help. Even their doctor agreed. She said that if the move to Texas could reduce some of Jessica and Greg’s stress, then it may, very well, be beneficial.
Money issues, landlords, and the hectic lifestyle of San Diego were all stress factors. Some people live for the hustle and bustle. But for Jessica and
Greg, it all felt like a little too much. Like nineteenth-century pioneers, they saw a better life ahead. A better life somewhere else. And that somewhere else was Frisco, Texas.
5
Nadia sat in her Windsor chair with her eyes on the house next door. She’d been up since daylight and her mixed feelings about the new owners did not diminish overnight. She wanted to meet them and introduce herself. Simply shaking hands with someone gave her so much information. The feelings. A person’s energy told Nadia who they truly were, not just the image they put out there to the world or even the image they tried to convince themselves of when looking into a mirror.
Unfortunately, she knew that after her initial introduction, any further communication would only consist of an occasional wave or a short and simple forced conversation due to coincidental meetings near the mailbox. It was just that way. She was the old woman next door and that was all.
Nadia had fallen into the acceptance stage of her lonely life. She had a mister at one time in those years when everything was new and life was still an adventure to be had. After six years and no blessing of a child, her mister moved on. She didn’t blame him.
From her chair, she saw the front door open as the new couple walked out into the yard. The young missus studied the exterior of the home while her mister fumbled with the padlock on the U-Haul.
Hurrying as much as she could, Nadia went to her front door and stepped out. The sound of the door made both Greg and Jessica turn to see the old lady approaching across the grass yard, taking careful and thought-out steps. Waving with her left hand, Nadia said loudly, “Hello, young’uns, I’s jes wanting to introduce myself b’fore you got too busy.”
Greg set the lock down on the bumper and Jessica’s eyes lit up with a warm and pleasant glow.
Jessica met Nadia in the grass, hand outstretched. “I’m so glad to meet you. I was gonna go knock on your door later.”
With her right hand in soft contact with Jessica’s, Nadia wrapped her left hand around also, enclosing Jessica’s young hand into hers. She smiled and let Jessica’s energy flow. Nadia’s feelings had been correct. The woman she touched was pure and honest and happy … mostly. Before releasing her hand, Nadia felt a quick flutter of sadness.
“I’m Jessica Meyer and …,” reaching back and grabbing Greg by the arm as he drifted up, Jessica said, “… and this is my husband, Greg.”
Nadia shook Greg’s hand as well, saying, “Well, my name’s Nadia Toussaint.” She let go of Greg soon after the touch. He was more closed off.
Energy didn’t flow well from those whose mind’s were too busy. “I jes wanted to step out and say hi. If you need anything at’all, you jes come knock.”
Nadia shuffled her feet to turn around and then began her retreat back to her door.
She heard Greg’s low voice say, “Dang, she didn’t hang around long. Here one second and walking away the next.”
Jessica fussed, “Shut up. She was sweet. It didn’t look like it was easy for her to come out here.”
Chapter Four
Keller, Texas was an hour away by car from Frisco. Maybe a little more, maybe a little less, depending upon traffic. It was the neighbor who called. Her name was Loretta and she had watched his temper boil over in the short span of only ten minutes.
Loretta heard the shouts from his house and that was what brought her out onto her tiny back porch.
Recently, things had gotten worse: the raised voices, the sounds of objects hitting the walls, the heavy footsteps, and the shallow cries late at night from his wife, Denise.
The couple, Jay and Denise Morris, had seemed nice enough a year ago when she’d moved into the complex. He, though, began to change after they took in the little boy, a handsome sandy-haired boy of maybe eight or nine. Loretta rarely heard the boy speak. At first, Jay was easily irritated. Loretta could hear him at night talking to his wife. He often sounded agitated with Denise or upset because of something she did or didn’t do. Denise tried to hold her ground with him, but it only escalated the situation each time.
Their townhouses were close together, very close. There was only enough room for a small walking path between the two. As time passed, Jay and Denise’s squabbles transformed into more full-blown clashes. What were rare fights early on, were now becoming regular and consistent.
Loretta felt so sorry for the little boy. She’d see him through her bathroom window. When the shouting would commence, he would go into his room, which was visible from the window over Loretta’s toilet. The boy would shut himself inside and sit on his bed with his arms wrapped around his knees. As the volume increased in the house, Loretta would watch him hold himself even tighter, as if trying to squeeze himself into the tiniest ball possible.
But today.
Today was different.
The little boy was alone with Jay and Jay … Jay went overboard.
The boy ran out onto the back porch first. It was a wooden deck with a railing around three sides and a set of steps going down the far end to the grass. The boy ran to the corner of the deck where two railings formed a ninety-degree angle. It was the corner nearest Loretta’s own deck. He spun around and faced the back door. He was pressed into the corner with his eyes on the door, much like an animal in a cage, frightened for its life.
Jay rushed out onto the porch. In his hand was a broken broom handle. It was about an inch in diameter and two feet in length.
Stepping out to her porch, Loretta was only thirty feet from where the little boy was huddled. There was a primal fear in the boy’s eyes as hers met his.
Her phone was in her grasp.
It was all in slow motion.
Jay reached the boy and with his left hand, took hold of the boy’s shirt at his shoulder and threw him face-first to the wooden deck planks.
Loretta shouted as loud as she could. Her panicked voice landed on deaf ears as Jay’s right arm, the one with the broken broom handle, went into the air. It came down hard with a snap sound that echoed against the vinyl-clad walls of the townhomes.
Thankfully, the 911 dispatcher was able to interpret the terrified frenzy of answers and directions that Loretta blurted into her cell phone as she witnessed the kind of beating that she’d only heard about on the news.
The painful screams and wails of the little boy pierced her ears between the loud snaps and cracks of the broom handle, finding its target with each swing. The boy’s shirt tore in Jay’s hand and the raised, red welts were clearly visible on the boy’s frail little body.
Hit after hit after hit, Loretta wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn’t. She wanted to help, but she was frozen.
Only minutes into the torture, the sound of sirens in the distance filled the air.
Jay still held the boy by the torn shirt when the evil appeared to flush from him in an instant and he dropped the broom handle to the deck. Then, letting loose of the boy’s shirt, he fell back onto his rear and sat there, crying. The boy lay motionless, face-down, on the porch in front of him.
The sirens came to an abrupt halt in the grass front yard of the townhome and moments later, two officers burst through the back door of Jay and Denise’s house, guns drawn.
“Hands behind your back!” one officer yelled to Jay who was sitting on the deck, one leg folded under the other.
The second officer ran to the boy’s shoulder and leaned down into his face. “There’s an ambulance coming, okay. Can you tell me your name?”
Watching the events from her porch, Loretta stood glued to the scene. The marks that were visible through the boy’s torn shirt had swollen up even more. They were raised, bright red lines that almost matched the diameter of the broom handle. The lines pulsed and grew in size in front of Loretta’s eyes as the boy’s body was beginning to rush fresh blood to the damaged skin and underlying muscle tissue.
Jay began to mumble after the handcuffs were tightened. His voice was directed to the officer, now standing in front of him, looking down to the broom handle. Jay said, “I had to do it.”
Meeting eyes with Jay, the officer told him, “Sir, you should probably stop talking until you have a lawyer.”
The officer with the boy repeated, “Can you tell me your name?”
Only a pained grunt came from the boy’s mouth.
“Hey,” the officer asked Jay, “what’s the boy’s name?”
Jay turned to face him and said softly, “Beelzebub, Lucifer, Satan. Take your pick.”
Loretta’s daze was shaken by the officer’s loud request, “Hey, lady, do you know the boy’s name?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Jeremy. Jeremy is his name.”
. . .
“Hey, if I were drowning, would you save me?” she asked. Her face was dead serious when the words came out of her mouth.
They were sitting outside of a Sonic drive-in on the red, rubber-coated benches of a picnic table that was bolted to the concrete slab. Together, Jessica and Greg Meyer were waiting on their order.
“What in the hell kind of question is that?” Greg spit out. “Of course, I would save you.” He reached across the sticky, rubber tabletop and took hold of her hand. He maneuvered it around in his until her ring showed itself. A quarter-carat diamond set into the simple and affordable band that he’d slid onto her finger over five years ago in front of that small group of family and friends.
Jessica smiled, “I don’t know where that came from. It just popped into my head. I’m starving.”
A hot afternoon breeze blew across the highway, carrying along with it the dusty and gritty air of West Texas. The U-Haul and their burgundy-red Subaru hatch wagon were parked behind them, along the grassy edge of the parking lot.
Their new home was only one more gas fill-up away in a city north of Dallas. Frisco it was called. Frisco, Texas was a city of over two hundred thousand that once, in 2017, hailed as the fastest growing city in America. Frisco was where a fixer-upper three bedroom, two and a half bath, cottage style home awaited.
2
Greg had first seen the job opening when it passed across his email. He and Jessica were just coming to grips with the fact that, with each passing year, they were getting more and more priced-out of the San Diego real estate market.
They had taken all of the best advice and applied it. Saving the five percent for downpayment, check. Perfecting their credit scores, check. This all took time, valuable time. Then, once they received the thumbs-up from High Valley Mortgage, it seemed the housing prices had bumped up another level on the line graph of historical home costs. Housing costs continually rise everywhere, but San Diego prices rise along the graph a bit quicker, as residents are often reminded by the local news channels when there are no other notable happenings in the world to report on.
Jessica had already settled in to the truth that they would be forever-renters, like so many others their age. The older generations were the lucky ones. They had bought in while prices were somewhat affordable and simply held their ground. Now, those same houses were worth four-fold of their original purchase price, a retirement in itself.
Greg and Jessica were not so lucky.
Disgust and desperation had reached a peak when the email had come, nearly six months prior to this hot day, sitting outside of the Sonic. Physical Therapist Needed, the subject line stated. Top Pay w/experience. Greg clicked the email.
A new hospital system was forming throughout the faster-growing cities of Central and Northern Texas. The email said that, with each new location, they wanted to hit the ground running. So their plan was to recruit the best and most experienced in their field. Midway down the email was the link for physical therapist. Greg clicked the link. The new tab opened up to the hospital’s employment page. Alongside the job for physical therapist were two cities listed, Abilene and Frisco.
Shaking his head, Greg clicked out of the page, then deleted the email.
It was two days after the email that Greg thought to mention it to Jessica. He said it at dinner over Asian takeout. Meant only to fill the empty space of silence, Greg told her, “I got an interesting email the other day.”
“And?” she asked.
“A hospital system in Texas is hiring.”
“That is interesting,” she said slowly, drawing out the words. “Does it pay good?”
“A little less than here.”
“But…”
“But what?” he asked.
“But I bet we could buy a house in Texas. We’re never going to be able to buy one here.”
“True,” he agreed.
Jessica perked up. “You should apply.”
“And just move. Up and move just like that?”
“Sure, we don’t really have anything tying us down. Your mom and dad took off to Vegas and decided to stay.” Shrugging her shoulders, she added, “… no reason to keep trying to come up from behind in this rat race here.”
3
A gust of Texas wind brought a tumbleweed bouncing haphazardly across the parking lot. Its direction of travel sent it behind Jessica’s bench by only a few feet before finding its way into the field of weeds and dry dirt beyond the U-Haul and Subaru.
They were still watching the tumbleweed as it continued its eastward migration, much like the Meyers themselves, when the carhop fluttered in. It was as if she were carried by the wind as well.
“Thank you. Keep the change,” Greg said, handing her fifteen dollars.
Jessica wrangled her long, dirty-blonde hair into a bundle behind her head. Slipping the scrunchy band off of her wrist, she blindly twisted it around the ponytail and asked, “How much further?” Her head tilted and a beam of light swept across the bridge of her nose, highlighting the half-dozen or so freckles.
“About five hours,” Greg squeezed a ketchup packet onto the opened burger wrapper, “a little over three hundred miles.”
4
414 Sycamore was a foreclosure. The internet listing only had six pictures of it, one exterior view of the front and the other five were of the interior. The interior images showed a home in need of repair, lots of it. There were no appliances, few light fixtures, and yellow Romex cable ends poked out of rectangle cavities where light switches used to be. The wall between what was the living room and kitchen had been stripped to the studs. Small fragments of sheetrock still clung to some of the stud faces by the remaining nails. Much of the carpeting had been ripped up, along with the baseboards. The one exterior photo displayed a red brick facade with a loose-hanging gutter, and a single plump maple tree off to the right side of the yard.
Becky, the listing agent, told Greg on the phone that the house needed some TLC.
Compared to San Diego prices, it was a steal.
Greg completed the entire purchase remotely. Being a bank-owned repossession, it was sold As-is, where-is, and with all faults. No warranties, expressed or implied.
He and Jessica were scared. They’d never bought a house and the concept of putting so much money into something knowing the damage involved was very unsettling. But both the home inspector and the contractor that Greg had hired gave him hope.
A shorthand version of their statements went like, The house looks like shit, but it’s all fixable. Good bones. No water damage. And once brought back into shape, the home’s value should nearly double.
That was the synopsis that Greg gave to Jessica.
5
The U-Haul bumped awkwardly as it pulled out of the Sonic parking lot and turned right onto the highway. The heavy and overloaded box rocked side to side due to the small curb drop and its compressed rear springs. It continued its teeter-tooter during the slow, but steady acceleration.
Jessica had been worried about the truck making the trip without a breakdown. It was packed full with very little extra space left. Some larger possessions had to remain behind. There was a patio table set, a barbeque pit, and a push lawn mower, a good self-propelled one at that. Surely, the new tenants would appreciate the gifts.
The taillights of the truck seemed to be eyes that were staring at her through her windshield as if laughing at her for ever doubting it.
In her world, Jessica tried to never doubt or predict anything. Her whole life had been one disappointing surprise after another … until she and Greg met at the Special Olympics event on a sweltering hot day in July. Most memories don’t rely on the weather. But this one did, only because she could vividly remember seeing the tall, brown-haired Greek god, covered in sweat, running across the field to check on one of his team who had fallen.
She learned, later on, that he had often volunteered at events like the one on that July day, simply because he truly loved helping people. Her attendance was slightly less chivalric, she was dragged into the service by a friend. That event was her first, although Greg thought otherwise and she never did get around to correcting him.
The U-Haul was gaining speed as it passed the city limit sign. In her rearview mirror, the town faded into the orange glow of the setting sun.
Driving the U-Haul in front of her was the only person, aside from her grandfather, who’d ever really cared about her. She could feel it. She could see it in his eyes. Greg made her feel loved and most of all, he made her feel wanted.
Jessica had never felt that way before.
Leaning up in her seat, she pressed the play button on the CD player, letting Tom Petty’s voice replace the hum of the asphalt.
At half-past midnight, her phone rang.
“How you doing back there?” Greg asked as soon as she answered.
“I’m alive and bored.”
“Tired?”
“No, not so much.” Jessica blew out an audible breath into the phone. “Just ready to be there, turn this car off, and relax.”
“Well, we’re looking at about forty-five minutes left. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds like the best thing I’ve heard in the last fourteen hundred miles.”
Chapter Two
Darkness had settled in and Nadia Toussaint stood at her kitchen’s speckled Formica counter with only a single incandescent bulb on above the sink. Holding the spoon, her right hand trembled lightly as she stirred her stained and worn, white ceramic coffee cup, watching the sugar cube slowly dissolve. Nadia’s left hand rested flat on the countertop near the cup. Her dark skin almost mirrored the coffee itself, but what set her apart were her bright blue manicured nails that matched the color of her eyes.
In the strong contrast of shadows and highlights from the bulb overhead, the back of her hand resembled a topographic map. Her raised veins served as the contour lines of higher elevation and the wrinkled and thinned skin represented the flatter terrain.
Her skin was once smooth and beautiful. Once. With the wink of her eye, she could make those Louisiana boys squirm. That was years ago, many of them. Many more than she’d care to count at this point.
With both hands, she carefully grasped the warm cup and made the fifteen cautious steps to the nook between the kitchen and living room. There sat a small round dining table with four Windsor chairs.
Setting the cup down on the table’s surface, Nadia pulled out her chair. Her chair was scuffed at the edge of the seat from everyday use. The bottom brace had been worn clean of paint from the soles of her shoes and the gloss of the original patina had rubbed off some time ago.
The other three chairs had not lost their shine. Underneath the fine layer of dust, they were still as good as new.
She faced the living room window that looked out to Sycamore Drive. With her blinds open, the sidewalk and street beyond were washed in the faint yellow light of the street lamp that stood where her property line met the neighboring line of 414 Sycamore.
To Nadia’s right was the window that looked out to the vacant home next door. She’d watched the house change owners many times since her own arrival on a cool day in March, fifteen years ago. Most homes had had a few turnovers of ownership in that time and 414 was no different. The most recent was a lovely couple, they seemed. They had big plans and had begun to remodel after having lived there for about four years. James and Sharon were their names. He was a delivery driver for UPS and she worked for a pharmacy company. Her work was more specialized in nature and when she lost her job due to downsizing, they just couldn’t keep their heads above water. Nadia watched from her chair at the table the day they left. It was somber, a bit like a funeral. Once the moving truck was loaded, they both stood in the yard, hands interlocked, as they looked at the house for the last time.
Nadia took a sip of coffee. She wished that James and Sharon were doing well again, wherever life sent them.
Through the window, 414 was completely dark. Only a silhouette of the roofline was visible at the current hour.
The house had found a buyer. No one told her. She didn’t see a listing update on a webpage. She saw no realtor add a SOLD rider to the sign. She had no reason to know that information, but she knew.
Things came to her sometimes. She knew. She also knew that tonight was the night. The new owners would arrive sometime before daybreak. It was a feeling.
And those feelings were seldom wrong.
Nadia Toussaint was worried, though, on this night. Her heart tingled with the vibration of happiness. She could tell that whoever the Universe was delivering to 414 Sycamore tonight had an aura of good energy about them. They were happy. This would be a new beginning for them.
She raised the cup to her lips again.
It was another feeling that worried her.
It was a feeling from somewhere else.
Deeper down in her soul, like it was hiding from her on purpose. It was a sense of foreboding. A sense of … dread.
Crossing her arms in front of her on the tabletop, she waited.
Chapter Three
Greg backed the U-Haul into the driveway and shut the engine off at exactly two minutes to midnight. He sat a moment in silence, decompressing after too many hours of just … going. The headlights of Jessica’s Subaru pulled straight in, headlight to headlight, to the U-Haul. So close that they nearly touched. Her rear bumper barely clearing the street.
After she cut the lights, he could see her smiling at him through the windshield. She blew him a kiss before opening her door and climbing out to stretch.
2
Nadia Toussaint was in her chair by the window. Her coffee cup empty. She rose from her chair, pushed it back into place and brought her cup to the sink. Through the window above the sink, Nadia saw the two figures emerge from the vehicles, meet and interlock hands. The new couple stood, holding hands, in precisely the same spot James and Sharon stood before their final exit.
A soft smile swept across her face as she flipped off the light switch and turned to go to bed.
3
Out of the corner of Greg’s eye, he saw the light quickly extinguish in a window of the house next door.
Pulling a key from his the pocket of his jeans, he handed it to Jessica. “Here, you do the honors.”
“Good, ‘cause I gotta pee.” She took the key and led the way to the door.
Stepping inside, they were suddenly reminded that many lights, as well as light switches, were non-existent. Luckily for her, the bathroom light was in operable condition.
Greg went around, turning on the lights that were present and working. He began to assess the home's condition the best he could with the limited light in his very much exhausted state.
“It isn’t so bad,” Jessica said as she met Greg in the kitchen.
Greg frowned with a slight nod.
Hugging him, she said, “Cheer up. It’ll work out. This place’ll be a mansion in no time.”
He kissed her on her cheek. “Ha, a mansion, probably not. A starter home for two bums from California, maybe.”
“Okay, but it’ll be our starter home. Ours. No landlord. No worries about rent going up. I can paint the walls whatever color I want. I can hang the ugliest curtains in the world if I want.”
“Yeah, I don’t know about all that. Come on, let’s get the blankets out of the Subie and crash on the floor.”
4
The morning sun, beaming through the front window blinds, woke Greg first. He slipped out from under the blanket carefully without waking Jessica and went to the window. It looked out to Sycamore Drive with the driveway to the right side of the view and a pretty little maple tree to the left. The street was bare and quiet. No cars flying by. No blaring music. No sirens in the distance. Just … calm and peace. He twisted the plastic, octagon-shaped rod, closing the blinds and cutting out the harsh light.
Jessica grunted in her sleep and rolled over to her side in the makeshift bed they’d put together in the middle of the living room floor. An old sleeping bag with a broken zipper was opened up to serve as the mattress and Jessica’s favorite blanket was their cover. It was a fleece throw emblazoned with a huge image of Natalie Wood from one of those fifties movies that Jessica liked to watch when she was bored.
She was right, the house wasn’t so bad. Greg made his way around through the rooms as softly as possible.
From the front door, the kitchen was directly across the living room. The half-demolished wall of studs stood between. Greg agreed that the wall removal was definitely a good idea, those previous owners had begun a worthwhile venture. It would free up the entire space, the kitchen and living would be open-concept. The door leading out to the backyard was in the kitchen where the cabinets ended on the far left wall.
The master suite took up the entire left side of the home with the bedroom facing the street and the master bath filling in the distant left corner nearest the backyard. Other than paint and some personal touches, the master suite was in acceptable order.
The other two bedrooms were equally split, taking up the right third of the home with a small Jack and Jill bathroom centered between the two.
Aesthetically, the two bedrooms were in need of help. Fresh paint would be a must, but only after a moderate amount of drywall repair. Small holes from screws, medium-sized ones from wall anchors, and a few large cavities littered the walls of both rooms. Greg opened one of the doors all the way open, shaking his head at the perfect fit of the doorknob into the five-inch circular crater in the wall behind it.
Jessica was stirring as Greg left the two rooms. On the distant wall of the kitchen, near the door to the master suite, were a laundry closet and a tiny powder room with only a toilet and pedestal sink.
Overall, he was impressed. He could almost hear his dad, saying, “You done good, boy. You done good.” George Meyer was a fine man and Greg missed him often.
“Hey you,” she said from under her Natalie Wood fleece cover.
“Good morning,” replied Greg, still studying the damage and trying to calculate estimates in his head.
Jessica sat up, cross-legged with Natalie’s face bundled up in her lap. The neck opening of her oversized sleep shirt draped off of her shoulder in a sexy, tomboyish sort of way. Her matted, long hair was swept back behind her, leaving three stray strands hanging in front of her ears. “I know, I know. I look like a mess,” she apologized.
She just didn’t understand. Greg gave her a smile. She didn’t understand that it was in moments such as this, that she looked so damn good to him. So real, so natural, and so enticing. A tingle, the feeling of a small electrical charge, pulsed through him. Maybe emotions, maybe a tiny surge of testosterone, no telling what. A memory flashed in his mind. The memory of that morning in his tiny studio apartment he had in college. The morning after their first night together. He was at the coffee maker, pouring two cups, and she was sitting up in his Murphy bed, sheets bundled in her lap just as she was now.
But on this morning, as usual, his vocabulary let him down and the only reply that he could come up with was, “No, you look good.”
“Thanks,” she said. “So, is it good or bad?”
“Huh?”
“The house, is it really bad or not?”
Kicking at some leftover pieces of carpet padding, Greg answered, “No, it’s not that bad in my opinion. I’ll start by calling an electrician after we get everything unloaded. Then, we’ll go check on appliances.”
“How’s the backyard look?”
“Shoot, I don’t know. I haven’t poked my head out there. I’ve been busy checking out these inside rooms.” Glancing up, he noticed that the blinds were closed over both the sink window and the back door glass.
Jessica tossed the blanket off to her side and hopped up with an energy that Greg wasn’t apparently able to find that morning. “I’m curious. Let’s go see. I hope its pretty with green grass, and a wonderful swing. Maybe there’s a hammock stretched out, just for me.”
“Don’t get your hopes up too high,” Greg snorted.
She beat Greg to the door and opened it. Then, she fell silent.
Greg was trailing a few feet behind her when she froze. She had stopped dead center in the doorway, one hand still clasped around the doorknob and the other placed against the trim molding.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, walking up.
Stepping outside of the doorway, she pointed. “That thing,” was her only answer.
His body now filled the doorway and he saw what had changed her mood so quickly. Taking up much of the small backyard was a nasty and dated concrete swimming pool.
Half-full of algae-laden green water, the pool seemed more of a swamp. There could have been snakes moving through it, their bodies appearing as long ripples just under the water’s surface with heads up and on top of the green slime, guiding them along. There could have been a bullfrog, bigger than a hamburger in size, resting on the scum-covered steps and calling out in its baritone bellow. There could have been a constant buzz from the thousands of mosquitoes taking up every vacant square inch of air space nearby. The stale and rotten liquid, supplying them with a breeding ground and place for the multitudes of eggs to hatch into larvae that would eventually morph into the flying adults.
It wasn’t the case, though.
Greg stepped out onto the cement patio that led to the pool steps. There were no snakes, frogs, or even any bugs, only a grungy, half-full, half-empty pool that needed a major cleaning and shock treatment.
Behind him, Jessica said, “We can’t have this, Greg. This has to be filled in or something. You know how I feel about it.”
He knew exactly how she felt about it. Jessica had never learned to swim. She’d tried to learn when she was younger. Her grandfather had signed her up for swimming lessons one summer, but Jessica possessed a fear of the water that she was never able to overcome.
Greg often forgot, only remembering at odd times like this.
Aside from her own safety, Greg knew that the pool had to go for their future plan. Well, more like their hope and dream. The word plan was somewhat optimistic. Their plan was to have a child someday. They had been trying. They were now nearly four years into fertility treatments and medication. Four long years.
Unspoken among both of them was the thought that this change would help. Even their doctor agreed. She said that if the move to Texas could reduce some of Jessica and Greg’s stress, then it may, very well, be beneficial.
Money issues, landlords, and the hectic lifestyle of San Diego were all stress factors. Some people live for the hustle and bustle. But for Jessica and
Greg, it all felt like a little too much. Like nineteenth-century pioneers, they saw a better life ahead. A better life somewhere else. And that somewhere else was Frisco, Texas.
5
Nadia sat in her Windsor chair with her eyes on the house next door. She’d been up since daylight and her mixed feelings about the new owners did not diminish overnight. She wanted to meet them and introduce herself. Simply shaking hands with someone gave her so much information. The feelings. A person’s energy told Nadia who they truly were, not just the image they put out there to the world or even the image they tried to convince themselves of when looking into a mirror.
Unfortunately, she knew that after her initial introduction, any further communication would only consist of an occasional wave or a short and simple forced conversation due to coincidental meetings near the mailbox. It was just that way. She was the old woman next door and that was all.
Nadia had fallen into the acceptance stage of her lonely life. She had a mister at one time in those years when everything was new and life was still an adventure to be had. After six years and no blessing of a child, her mister moved on. She didn’t blame him.
From her chair, she saw the front door open as the new couple walked out into the yard. The young missus studied the exterior of the home while her mister fumbled with the padlock on the U-Haul.
Hurrying as much as she could, Nadia went to her front door and stepped out. The sound of the door made both Greg and Jessica turn to see the old lady approaching across the grass yard, taking careful and thought-out steps. Waving with her left hand, Nadia said loudly, “Hello, young’uns, I’s jes wanting to introduce myself b’fore you got too busy.”
Greg set the lock down on the bumper and Jessica’s eyes lit up with a warm and pleasant glow.
Jessica met Nadia in the grass, hand outstretched. “I’m so glad to meet you. I was gonna go knock on your door later.”
With her right hand in soft contact with Jessica’s, Nadia wrapped her left hand around also, enclosing Jessica’s young hand into hers. She smiled and let Jessica’s energy flow. Nadia’s feelings had been correct. The woman she touched was pure and honest and happy … mostly. Before releasing her hand, Nadia felt a quick flutter of sadness.
“I’m Jessica Meyer and …,” reaching back and grabbing Greg by the arm as he drifted up, Jessica said, “… and this is my husband, Greg.”
Nadia shook Greg’s hand as well, saying, “Well, my name’s Nadia Toussaint.” She let go of Greg soon after the touch. He was more closed off.
Energy didn’t flow well from those whose mind’s were too busy. “I jes wanted to step out and say hi. If you need anything at’all, you jes come knock.”
Nadia shuffled her feet to turn around and then began her retreat back to her door.
She heard Greg’s low voice say, “Dang, she didn’t hang around long. Here one second and walking away the next.”
Jessica fussed, “Shut up. She was sweet. It didn’t look like it was easy for her to come out here.”
Chapter Four
Keller, Texas was an hour away by car from Frisco. Maybe a little more, maybe a little less, depending upon traffic. It was the neighbor who called. Her name was Loretta and she had watched his temper boil over in the short span of only ten minutes.
Loretta heard the shouts from his house and that was what brought her out onto her tiny back porch.
Recently, things had gotten worse: the raised voices, the sounds of objects hitting the walls, the heavy footsteps, and the shallow cries late at night from his wife, Denise.
The couple, Jay and Denise Morris, had seemed nice enough a year ago when she’d moved into the complex. He, though, began to change after they took in the little boy, a handsome sandy-haired boy of maybe eight or nine. Loretta rarely heard the boy speak. At first, Jay was easily irritated. Loretta could hear him at night talking to his wife. He often sounded agitated with Denise or upset because of something she did or didn’t do. Denise tried to hold her ground with him, but it only escalated the situation each time.
Their townhouses were close together, very close. There was only enough room for a small walking path between the two. As time passed, Jay and Denise’s squabbles transformed into more full-blown clashes. What were rare fights early on, were now becoming regular and consistent.
Loretta felt so sorry for the little boy. She’d see him through her bathroom window. When the shouting would commence, he would go into his room, which was visible from the window over Loretta’s toilet. The boy would shut himself inside and sit on his bed with his arms wrapped around his knees. As the volume increased in the house, Loretta would watch him hold himself even tighter, as if trying to squeeze himself into the tiniest ball possible.
But today.
Today was different.
The little boy was alone with Jay and Jay … Jay went overboard.
The boy ran out onto the back porch first. It was a wooden deck with a railing around three sides and a set of steps going down the far end to the grass. The boy ran to the corner of the deck where two railings formed a ninety-degree angle. It was the corner nearest Loretta’s own deck. He spun around and faced the back door. He was pressed into the corner with his eyes on the door, much like an animal in a cage, frightened for its life.
Jay rushed out onto the porch. In his hand was a broken broom handle. It was about an inch in diameter and two feet in length.
Stepping out to her porch, Loretta was only thirty feet from where the little boy was huddled. There was a primal fear in the boy’s eyes as hers met his.
Her phone was in her grasp.
It was all in slow motion.
Jay reached the boy and with his left hand, took hold of the boy’s shirt at his shoulder and threw him face-first to the wooden deck planks.
Loretta shouted as loud as she could. Her panicked voice landed on deaf ears as Jay’s right arm, the one with the broken broom handle, went into the air. It came down hard with a snap sound that echoed against the vinyl-clad walls of the townhomes.
Thankfully, the 911 dispatcher was able to interpret the terrified frenzy of answers and directions that Loretta blurted into her cell phone as she witnessed the kind of beating that she’d only heard about on the news.
The painful screams and wails of the little boy pierced her ears between the loud snaps and cracks of the broom handle, finding its target with each swing. The boy’s shirt tore in Jay’s hand and the raised, red welts were clearly visible on the boy’s frail little body.
Hit after hit after hit, Loretta wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn’t. She wanted to help, but she was frozen.
Only minutes into the torture, the sound of sirens in the distance filled the air.
Jay still held the boy by the torn shirt when the evil appeared to flush from him in an instant and he dropped the broom handle to the deck. Then, letting loose of the boy’s shirt, he fell back onto his rear and sat there, crying. The boy lay motionless, face-down, on the porch in front of him.
The sirens came to an abrupt halt in the grass front yard of the townhome and moments later, two officers burst through the back door of Jay and Denise’s house, guns drawn.
“Hands behind your back!” one officer yelled to Jay who was sitting on the deck, one leg folded under the other.
The second officer ran to the boy’s shoulder and leaned down into his face. “There’s an ambulance coming, okay. Can you tell me your name?”
Watching the events from her porch, Loretta stood glued to the scene. The marks that were visible through the boy’s torn shirt had swollen up even more. They were raised, bright red lines that almost matched the diameter of the broom handle. The lines pulsed and grew in size in front of Loretta’s eyes as the boy’s body was beginning to rush fresh blood to the damaged skin and underlying muscle tissue.
Jay began to mumble after the handcuffs were tightened. His voice was directed to the officer, now standing in front of him, looking down to the broom handle. Jay said, “I had to do it.”
Meeting eyes with Jay, the officer told him, “Sir, you should probably stop talking until you have a lawyer.”
The officer with the boy repeated, “Can you tell me your name?”
Only a pained grunt came from the boy’s mouth.
“Hey,” the officer asked Jay, “what’s the boy’s name?”
Jay turned to face him and said softly, “Beelzebub, Lucifer, Satan. Take your pick.”
Loretta’s daze was shaken by the officer’s loud request, “Hey, lady, do you know the boy’s name?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Jeremy. Jeremy is his name.”
. . .
