By Deborah Rogers
Jennifer’s new neighbor, Lenise Jameson, is a liar. Lenise claims to have witnessed a disturbing incident involving Jennifer’s husband, Hank, but as far as Jennifer is concerned, the forty-something single mother is a vindictive backstabber just out to make trouble.
But Jennifer soon discovers this is no sick joke. Hank has a dark side she knew nothing about.
As Jennifer’s life spirals out of control, she has no one to turn to, apart from Lenise, who appears only too willing to help. But is Jennifer making a pact with the devil? Just who is Lenise? What does she want from Jennifer? And just how far is she willing to go to get it?
A tale about secrets and obsession, and what can happen when you forget to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
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Read on for the First three Chapters
1
The ironic thing is that tonight Jennifer is thinking about car crashes when she rounds the corner onto Pine Ridge Road. She could've sworn she was the only one on it, and that's why she's chosen the moment to reach down for the mandarin rolling loose in the foot well. The pothole she'd struck back on Tedder Street had sent the mandarins tumbling from the grocery bag and one had found its way here, to the front. She's being safety conscious because the thing might get trapped behind the brake pedal and she'd once seen a car crash and knew what a disaster it could be. That time, the car, a jeep deluxe something, had flipped right in front of her. It had hit the curb and skidded across four lanes worth of highway to land directly in her path, exposing its aging belly to the sunlight, dripping gasoline from its tank.
Worried the jeep might explode, Jennifer had tried to get the woman out, dragging her free through the smashed up windscreen, but the rescue guy later told Jennifer that the whole "car's going to explode because you've crashed thing" was an urban myth because gas tanks didn't blow up just like that, there needed to be fire first. Not that it mattered to the woman. She was dead by the time Jennifer pulled her into the ring of dirt by the side of the road.
So Jennifer knew what could happen when you were driving alone at night and a stupid mandarin was roaming free amongst the stone chips and twigs and stray pottery barn receipts. And she should really turn the stereo down because it's not helping her concentration. Then she realizes the stereo isn't on and the music is coming from inside her own head, stuck on one of those loops that never seemed to stop, a ring worm or ear worm or worm something, the short point being she can't simply turn it off, that nondescript bassy crap that's good for cardio but not much else, and this uncooperative mandarin is really beginning to tick her off because it keeps slipping from her fingers but she's managing to still drive in a straight line. She tells herself to relax, that it's just one of those annoying but potentially dangerous things in life – a metaphor or simile or irony or whatever, for life's little mishaps – but she can handle it.
Then the mandarin disappears under her seat and now it's out of her reach entirely and it waits there, behind the lever, biding its time, like some sort of threat. An accident waiting to happen. Jennifer thinks about that as she straightens up and returns both hands to the steering wheel – an accident waiting to happen – and the meaning it implied, as if accidents weren't accidents at all but more like a sting, you know, entrapment, like a black toad sitting on a black stepping stone or a dog-eared mat missing one half of its Velcro stick or the unforgiving above-the-sink cupboard left slightly ajar. It was like the universe was setting you up all the time, with all these little accidents waiting to happen, and then Jennifer gets angry, because what was fair about that? And she thinks about her marriage and wonders whether that was an accident waiting to happen too.
And before she knows it, she's back to last night and his snipe about her hair. Oh, he made out like he was pissed because she was late, and she was, but then he said the thing about the hair. Well, screw you, she had wanted to say. You don't own me. I'm not your little doll. I can do what I want.
Maybe she was sick of the cobwebs growing out of her scalp. Maybe she was over being told forty was the new thirty or you-were-quite-a-looker-back-then or feeling like she was a favorite blouse beginning to soil at the cuffs. Maybe she wanted to feel refreshed, even if only for four to six weeks.
And what about him? Had he even looked in the mirror lately, with his whiter than white torso, that once taut college footballer's body now turning to fat? And if he thought he looked good with that beard, he was kidding himself. It was like the deal with McKenzie's food, he just didn't get it.
And last night when she got back from the hair salon, she could've screamed when she saw the state of the kitchen – the two half-stacked plates stippled with chili, the trail of nacho crumbs, the empty tub of ice cream beneath the dripping tap.
She had found him upstairs, getting ready to go out.
"You're late," he said, buttoning his shirt.
Jennifer held up the empty tub. "She's got an eating plan she needs to stick to, you know that."
"You never answered your phone."
"We've got to help McKenzie make better choices. It won't work if we're not on the same page."
He stood up and put on his jacket. "I don't like not being able to reach you. I was worried."
"Honestly, Hank, do you want her to get diabetes?"
He frowned. "Keep your voice down. She's twelve, Jen. Twelve year olds like ice cream. She can get back on her diet tomorrow."
He retrieved his keys and wallet from the side table.
"I have to go. Chip Manderson wants to talk about a potential construction job on the waterfront. We'll pick this up again tomorrow."
"Don't do that," she said.
He faced her. "Do what?"
"Treat me like I'm a child."
He looked at her wrist and paused.
"Where's your bracelet?"
She held his gaze, lifted her chin. "The clasp broke."
"Oh."
"It only just happened. I haven't had a chance to take it to the jewelers."
He looked at her awhile longer, studying her face. "I'm doing everything I can to keep this family afloat, Jen. What about you?"
Then he left but not before he said, "I'll never understand why women cut off their hair."
She should have said something, but she hadn't. She just let it slide. She was getting very good at letting things slide.
Outside her car window, the street lights cast a miserable gloom and Jennifer can barely make out the pines bordering the neighborhood. Why she let him talk her into moving here all those years ago, to this drab suburb of two-storey doer uppers, away from their perfectly good low maintenance apartment in Chicago, she doesn't know.
Hank had shown her the house online not long after the incident. We can grow vegetables in the backyard, he'd told her, go for hikes in the forest on the weekends. McKenzie will be able to play in the street with the local kids, and we can renovate the house exactly how we want. It's even got a fire place, Jen. Just think of those toasty winter nights, he'd said, and there's enough contract work out there to keep me going for years. Best of all, you can finally set up your practice.