A Mother Scorned Read online

  “So … it’s not possible I did it?”

  “Anything’s possible,” said Lisa. “But it’s doubtful. I think it would be a good thing for you to see a therapist, too. Obviously, there are some issues you need to work on. You’ve lived this past year for Maggie and your devotion has helped her recovery tremendously. But it’s time to focus on your needs.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Call me when you’ve decided. I have several excellent peers who’d work with you.”

  “Thanks, Lisa.”

  I knew it wouldn’t be too long before I heard from Mark again. Call it a houseperson’s intuition. I dropped Maggie off at school along with 32 gooey chocolate-chip cookies, indulged in a Starbuck’s Mocha Latte, and stopped by the bank to pay the mortgage. When I got home, there was a message from Mark on the answering machine. His message was short, but his tone held an ominous note. I didn’t want to call him, but I dialed his direct line before I chickened out.

  “I’m coming by to see you, Josie. It’s about Ted.”

  He refused to give more details. I couldn’t think straight and the mocha latte lost its caffeine charm. I threw it away and did the dishes. Then I wiped down the counters in the kitchen. I was just deciding whether I or not I should alphabetize the soup cans when Mark arrived. We sat at the kitchen table, the same table that had held my grief and my sorrow for so long.

  “We found his head in the river.”

  Bile rose in my throat. “H-his head?”

  “Yes. It was bashed and broken, but dental records confirm the identity of the skull.”

  “How did you…”

  “Lucky break when we were dragging the river. Finding a skull should’ve been damned near impossible in the murky water, but a diver came up with it.”

  “It’s him.”

  Mark nodded.

  “He’s dead. He’s really dead.”

  “It looks like the shovel we found was the murder weapon. We found some matching metal fibers in the bones.”

  “Who did it? Who killed him?”

  “We don’t know, Josie. I doubt we’ll ever know. There’s not enough evidence to connect anyone to the crime.”

  “Where’s the rest of his body?”

  Mark’s gaze pierced me. “The head had been severed, Josie. The body might have been dumped somewhere else.”

  Relief and anger welled up at the same time. I cried. I wasn’t sorry he was dead. Not a goddamned bit. But I’d never get the chance to make him pay for molesting our daughter and taking pictures and putting the photos on the Internet for the entire perverted world to see.

  “You know how he got Maggie to be still and quiet?”

  “Yes.”

  “With the bear. Her favorite bear.” And two-piece Teddy was finally buried in the backyard where he could never again be a reminder of her demented father.

  “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”

  “I don’t deserve your compassion,” I said, my hands fluttering against the table like trapped birds. “I don’t deserve her forgiveness.”

  “Yes, you do, Josie.” Mark grabbed my hands and squeezed. “Yes, you do.”

  He sat with me while I cried. He didn’t tell me platitudes or offer false comfort. He just let me grieve, grieve for Maggie, for me, and, yes, even for Ted.

  When I was finished, we talked about mundane subjects like the weather and how to make a peach cobbler, and if I should cremate Ted’s broken skull or bury it in a cemetery. Finally, Mark patted my hands, and rose. “My wife wondered if you’d be willing to give up a tomato or two. She says those ’maters are the best she’s ever eaten.” He looked at me, a question in his eyes. “Must be something in the soil.”

  I led him to the garden and let him pick out as many tomatoes as he wanted. He filled a small bucket then stood and looked around the garden. He toed the earth with cop shoes. “It’s amazing what you can do with the right tools and a little determination.”

  “Yeah,” I said, looking at my sanctuary with satisfaction. “Growing something this beautiful and wholesome and good from such a rotten piece of dirt. It’s a miracle.”

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  About the Author

  Michele Bardsley is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of paranormal romance. When she’s not writing sexy tales of otherworldly love, she watches “Supernatural,” consumes chocolate, crochets hats and headbands, reads books, and spends time with her husband and their fur babies.

  www.MicheleBardsley.com

  Copyright © 2015 by Michele Freeman. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement from the author of this work.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatever to anyone bearing the same name or names. All incidents are pure invention.

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  Michele Bardsley, A Mother Scorned

 

 

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