James Grippando
Last to die
The third book in the Jack Swyteck series
Prologue: 1996
At last, the old house was quiet. Sally Fenning sat alone at her kitchen table, three stacks of bills before her- due, overdue, and hopeless.
She didn’t know where to start. Tonight’s tips had been pathetic, hardly worth the aggravation of being a waitress. “Waitress” actually dignified what she did, slogging pitchers of beer and platters of spicy chicken wings to drunk tourists who grabbed an eyeful of T amp;A with every move she made. In her flimsy nylon jogging shorts and skintight tank top with the plunging neckline, she sometimes felt as though she might as well be dancing naked on tables. At least the pay wouldn’t suck.
She pitched the telephone cancellation notice into the trash. They always sent two before actually cutting off service.
Things hadn’t always been this bad. She and her husband once owned a little Italian restaurant in Miami Shores, found success, expanded, and promptly fell on their faces. Don’t mess with a good thing, was her take on expansion. But Mike was hell-bent on growth, dead-certain that they’d be selling franchises in five years. They used personal credit cards to finance the build-out, suckered by those low introductory rates that lasted six months, followed by a rate so high that your calculator overheats when you compute what you’re paying over the life of the loan. The paint on the walls was barely dry when a no-name tropical storm slammed into their shopping strip and sent their red-and-white-checkered tablecloths floating into the parking lot. No flood insurance. The restaurant never reopened. Three years later her husband was working two jobs and she was a Hooters Girl, hardly a dent made in the principal balance on their restaurant debt.
Some people said she had no pride. But she had too much pride-too much to just throw in the towel and file for bankruptcy.
“Mommeeeeee,” came the little voice from the bedroom at the end of the hall. Their four-year-old daughter was not a great sleeper, and calling out for Mommy at midnight was becoming routine.
She looked up from her check ledger but didn’t move from her chair. “Katherine, go to sleep, please.”
“But I want a story.”
She hesitated. It was late, but working till eleven o’clock, five nights a week, didn’t allow her the luxury of putting her child to bed. That was Mike’s job, before he headed out for the eight-to-midnight shift as a security guard, or his mother’s, who was good enough to come over every night and watch television while Katherine slept, filling the gap between the time Mike left for his second job and Sally came home from hers. The thought of reading to her daughter made Sally’s heart melt. She rose from the table and went to the bedroom.
“All right. One story.”
“Yeah!”
“But then you have to go to sleep. Promise?”
“Promise.”
She slid into the bed beside Katherine, her back against the head-board. Her daughter nuzzled close to her. “What story do you want?”
“This one,” the little girl said as she took the book from the nightstand.
“Where the Wild Things Are,” said Sally, reading the title. She knew it well, the story of a little boy whose imagination transforms his bedroom into a scary place where he must confront an island filled with monsters and become their ruler. Sally remembered how her own mother used to read the same story to her when she was going through her nightmare stage as a little girl. Twenty years later, the message was the same: Fear is all in your head.
“Are you still having nightmares, sweetheart?”
“Mmmm hmmm.”
“Why?”
“Scared.”
“What are you scared of?”
“Monster.”
“There are no monsters.”
“Yes, over there,” she said, pointing toward the drapes that covered the sliding glass door.
“No, honey. There are no monsters out there.”
“Uh-huh, for real.”
“Come on. Let’s read the story.”
Sally felt her daughter’s face press against her heart as she read aloud. She gave each monster its own voice, not too scary, so as not to frighten Katherine. She was asleep before the little boy named Max made it back from the faraway island to the safety of his own room. Sally quietly slid out of bed, kissed Katherine on the forehead, and tiptoed out of the room.
Back to the bills. Greenleaf Financing. That was a beauty. Two thousand dollars’ worth of computer equipment and restaurant software that they’d leased over a five-year period for total payments of twenty-eight thousand dollars. What a deal.
“Mommy.” It was another call from the bedroom.
“What is it, honey?”
“Scared. There’s monsters.”
She pushed away from the kitchen table and went to the bedroom, but she stopped short in the doorway, refusing to let herself be manipulated into coming inside. “There’s no such thing as monsters.”
“But, Mommy-”
“It’s time to go to sleep.”
“Can you leave the light on?”
“I’ll leave the hall light on.”
“Thank you, Mommy. You the best.”
It was hard to be firm with someone who told you you’re the best and truly believed it. She smiled and said, “Good night. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
She returned to the kitchen, but she didn’t have the stomach to go back to those stacks of bills. The rent was due, and Lord only knew where that was going to come from. Renting a house instead of an apartment was an extravagance in their financial straits, even if it was a dumpy old two-bedroom/one-bath that any builder would have considered a tear-down. But Sally had grown up in an apartment, no yard, no privacy, no chimney for Santa to climb down on Christmas Eve. Katherine deserved better, even if it meant forcing the landlord to throw them out on the street.
She opened the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of orange juice.
“Mommy, I want something to drink.”
Sally turned, but Katherine wasn’t there. She was still in bed. That girl has ESP. “Go to sleep, baby.”
“But, Mommy, please. I didn’t see you all day.”
That got to her, tapping straight into a working mother’s guilt. One last time, she went to her daughter and sat on the edge of the bed. The light from the hallway was just enough to reveal the fear in her eyes.
“Are you still scared?”
Katherine nodded.
