A PERFECT WIFE
A PERFECT WIFE
Douglas
Wickard
A Sami Saxton Novel
“We make
up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.”
~ Stephen
King
Thu 7/12/2014 5:23 PM
To: Benjie14@aol.com
Where r u? Benjie! I’ve been calling…texting, leaving
messages on your cell phone!!! Wtf!
Thu 7/12/2014 5:23 PM
To: Benjie14@aol.com
I’m freaking out, Benjie! I’m a f*cking lunatic! I can’t
do this anymore! I can’t take this shit! Call me! NOW!
Thu 7/12/2014 5:24 PM
To: Benjie14@aol.com
I’m nauseous. My body’s swollen. I can’t breathe. I feel
like a f*cking blimp! I’ve taken all my meds…
Thu 7/12/2014 5:24 PM
To: Benjie14@aol.com
Amanda needs me. She needs more than I can give right
now. She cries all the time! All the f*cking time! She’s crying right now!
Dammit, Benjie, I need you…Benjie? C’mon, call me! Please.
Please…
Come take the baby before I do something stupid…I’m not
in my right mind…
7/12/2014 5:25 PM
“Shhhh…shhhh…I’m here now…don’t cry. Shhhh.
I’m here, little one. I’m here.”
Jeanette leaned over the crib and began
undressing her baby. Amanda was restless and fidgety, but she stopped fussing the
moment she caught sight of her mother. First off came her white nightshirt, the
one with the tiny pink flowers. Her momma--God Bless her--had bought the outfit
as a first year birthday gift at that cute baby store up in Matamoras. Jeanette
folded it neatly. She felt the softness of the fabric in between her fingers--crushed
cotton, and then placed it to the side. Next came the leggings with the padded
feet and stretchy material the color of Day-Glo sunflowers. Way too bright! The
top and bottom were a matching set, and already Amanda was growing out of it.
At fourteen months, she was into everything, shuffling around on her hands and
knees, taking first steps, standing up and falling backwards, crawling on the
floor and collecting dust like a Swifter. She checked her diaper—dry. Jeanette
removed it as well and threw it into the wastebasket. She stroked Amanda’s hair
from off her forehead, pushing soft brown locks away from her eyes.
Jeanette covered her shoulder with a blanket
from the crib, picked Amanda up and held her close to her chest. She began
rocking her back and forth, slowly, gently.
“Shhh…shhhh. It’s all right, baby, I’m here
now, I’m here with you…”
Amanda’s hands moved inside Jeanette’s robe,
probing, searching for Jeanette’s breast.
“What’cha looking for?” Jeanette had
continued breastfeeding Amanda long after the baby books had suggested her to
stop. She enjoyed their bond, the togetherness it created between the two of
them. Her doctor had warned her not to continue after she started back on her
MS medications, but her breasts were so heavy, so full, that sometimes she needed
Amanda to suckle them just to release the pressure.
“Not now, baby. Not now.” She pushed her hand
away. “Let me tell you the story about your daddy, okay…one last time. Would
you like that?” Amanda’s hands began moving up and down, excitedly. Oh, and
those eyes, colored with a shade of blue so bright and big and clear it literally
took Jeanette’s breath away. They seemed to sparkle from deep within with some
sort of Divine inner light.
“The seed of the devil created you, baby
girl…did you know that? That’s right. The devil lives inside you, honey. Right
there inside your chubby little belly…”
She leaned Amanda forward, bowing her head
down to the floor, kissing her fat stomach. Jeanette made a blowing sound, wind
flapped from between her lips. A smile lit up on Amanda’s face, exposing a few
teeth and wide-open spaces: a Gerber smile. Chubby fingers danced in front of
her mouth.
“Your daddy…was a beautiful monster. Beautiful.
Mommy didn’t know that at the time, when she first married him, he was so, so
handsome, and so, so quiet. Your daddy was one of the most handsome creatures
your mommy had ever seen. Like an angel...” Jeanette talked about Smitty as if
she were reading a children’s story, complete with ooohhs and ahhhhhs, soft
purrs with trills.
She looked at the clock. Time was ticking…tick tock, tick tock…
“That must be why you’re so pretty. You have
his face, honey, his features, his eyes--icy and blue and…full of the devil.
Let’s take a stroll to the bathroom. I have something I want to show you. A
secret, our secret…”
~*~
The apartment was substandard; a dingy,
ramshackle, one-bedroom shit-sty situated on the outskirts of Milford right off
Highway 209. A leaky roof dripped rainwater into a dented-up bucket on the back
porch. The backyard was a muddy mess; the dirt dug up from a German shepherd
Donna and Troy kept tied up to a chain all-day. The dog barked incessantly and
white dirty foam gathered at the sides of his mouth from pulling so hard on his
choker.
Her girlfriend was kind enough to let
Jeanette crash at their apartment for the time being. The entire ordeal was putting
a strain on Donna’s marriage though. She was a good friend--her best friend
actually, from high school, and of course, she wanted to help Jeanette out.
What else was she supposed to do? She couldn’t just put her out on the street,
now could she? Not with a baby girl and all.
Donna’s husband was a longhaired, low-life
who worked as an assistant manager at a Mexican joint over on Hartford Street. Donna
had started working part time again too, a few days a week as a nurse’s
assistant in an old folk’s home in Port Jervis. Changing beds and cleaning bedpans.
Oh, the stories Donna would share about that smelly place…drinking beers and
smoking cigarettes, the two of them sitting on her beat up futon sofa after
Donna got off work, waiting for Troy to stumble home.
The clock ticking…tick, tock, tick, tock…
Donna was pregnant now, too. That’s why she
went back to work. She wanted to save up some extra cash for when the baby was
born, that is, if her train wreck of a husband didn’t steal it all and buy
beer, or loose it on the blackjack tables at the nearby Poconos casino.
Their bathroom was a narrow, cramped, dark
space that smelled of mold and damp rot. A brown colored stain ran a circular
marathon inside the bathtub. The grout surrounding the yellow tile was black
and old. A small window situated above the toilet was dressed in blue, chintzy,
country-style curtains. Jeanette had tried, several times, to clean out that
damn tub, but the ring stayed victorious. Not even Comet with extra strength
scouring beads would help eliminate that funky buildup.
Jeanette’s life had been a f*cking shit show
since running away from Smitty and moving back home with her momma and Benjie.
Benjie was her drunk, deadbeat, couch potato of a brother who watched TV all
day and drank super-sized Coors Light on the sofa. He would fall asleep and
snore so loud he’d wake himself up. And all of it on their momma’s dime!
Jeanette tried getting her life back together,
considering everything she’d been through. And her momma helped out, as best
she could, by babysitting and taking care of the little one. But once word
started circulating around their small town about her ex-husband being Smitty
Fowler--the infamous tri-county serial killer, and responsible for the deaths
of six teenage girls in the area, well, it seemed as if overnight Jeanette
became a piranha and her momma a fugitive for harboring her. Her own family, her own skin and blood
disowned her. Can you believe it?
“What kind of girl marries a serial killer?”
“Were you retarded or something?”
“What was your problem?”
Graffiti, spray-painted across the front
porch of her momma’s house: THE WIFE OF SERIAL KILLER SMITTY FOWLER LIVES HERE!
The words spelled out in large explosive letters in paint the color of blood, just
dripping with hate. It was all too much
for her momma. She couldn’t bear the stress. Her friends at work began to dwindle,
they just disappeared into thin air, and the community that once supported her,
actually looked after her during one of the darkest periods of her life (when
her husband of thirty-four years died of a lingering bout of lung cancer)
became intolerant, insensitive and nonexistent.
It was a difficult day when her own momma had
to ask Jeanette to leave the house.
How?
Where?
On what?
Serial killer’s pension?
Jeanette wasn’t working, not yet anyway, and her
MS was flaring up like a wildfire from all the stress. The last thing Jeanette
thought she would have to worry about was find a job. Maybe she should have
thought about that sooner.
Jeanette took the easy way out. Why not?
Quick money for her sordid story: I MARRIED A SERIAL KILLER! When the tabloid
TV crews came sniffing around the area, offering Jeanette cold hard cash for
her twisted tale, she went for it. The money was good--damn good in fact, but
fleeting. The whole ordeal blew over quickly, like a summer thunderstorm. The
information they filmed was hot one day--front-page fodder, movie-of-the-week
material, and then it was cold as ice, the circus act was over. The carnival
was gone. As if, the bloody thing never happened to begin with!
Bye, bye…
The folks in her hometown didn’t much
appreciate the press nosing around. They didn’t like the story of Smitty Fowler
being brought up, all over again, regurgitated like table leftovers. Their sad
faces paraded on TMZ and other local channels right alongside the nightly news.
The homeroom picture of their sweet, darling Cassidy revisited on national TV; first,
a side view, and then a front shot, those ringlets of strawberry-blonde curls
falling over her soft, innocent shoulders. Their daughter abducted, held
hostage and tortured by Fowler before he brutally killed her and turned their
sweet departed Cassidy into one of Fowler’s teenage brides, adding her to his
morbid collection of wives at Highpoint Natural Park.
The girl’s family reacted by sending hate
mail. Then they started calling, constantly, becoming so bold as to actually
visit, defiantly stomping right up the front steps to her momma’s house,
pounding on the front door and demanding Jeanette’s silence. Hadn’t the town
been through enough? How could Jeanette make money--the devil’s money, on
something so grotesque, so hurtful, and so callous?
Jeanette’s cell phone vibrated on the kitchen
table. She looked down and noticed the caller ID, Roy. She waited for it to
silence.
Roy!
I thought I deleted him!
Her momma had even taken off work to help,
using her vacation time to babysit while Jeanette went out searching for a job.
The only thing she knew how to do was bartend, and that meant long hours
standing on her feet, lifting and stocking heavy cases of beer and liquor, as
well as flirting with all those red neck assholes for shitty quarter tips. What
was she supposed to do? She accepted a position at a dive bar situated on the
outskirts of town, a watering hole for the downtrodden, and met up with a guy
by the name of Roy. At first, he seemed like a decent person. He was recently
divorced and hurting for some female company--a friend with benefits—a bootie
call. It felt good, the way he smiled, the way he warmed her heart by looking
at her admiringly from across the bar, and the seductive way he’d toss out a
compliment right along with his flashy dollar tips. Even the sex was all right.
Not tender or gentle or graceful like Smitty was, but at least he was a body--a
man’s body--something warm and hairy who breathed heavy, who whispered nice
things in her ears, and smelled of cheap cologne and musky armpits.
Her momma was not a happy camper, not in the
least. Here she was giving up her evenings and hard-earned VK time to look
after Amanda, and there goes Jeanette--her own daughter, out-and-about,
gallivanting around town and hooking up with another no good son of a
bitch. Add one more insult to her
momma’s growing list of disappointments. It didn’t really matter. Roy and she
had called it off after only a few weeks of being together. Well, Jeanette had
called it off, or at least she had tried to. She neglected returning his phone
calls, and acted disinterested whenever he’d plop his skinny ass down on one of
the ratty barstools. That greasy string of a ponytail he kept tied in the back
of his head was really starting to annoy her. Roy turned out to be a drunk,
mean-spirited and spiteful, and Jeanette wasn’t up for being his personal punching
bag after he ingested a few shots of Johnny Walker. Some nights, she would go
to bed in such agony, she would have to bury her body in ice packs, trying to
freeze out the bruises, her disease, the sheer intensity of the pain. It
felt--honest to god--as if her body was on fire, just set aflame, the blood
circulating beneath her sensitive skin screaming out for mercy.
There seemed no way out.
And Lord, she tried.
She had even registered for beautician school
in Port Jervis, the next town over. Her momma had cosigned on the loan at the
bank to help make the tuition. Jeanette always wanted to work in a good
profession. Cutting hair and applying smelly permanents to the local “blue hairs”
seemed like a decent, if not acceptable trade. The course stretched out for
six-months and she had already started classes, but even that came to an abrupt
halt. It was difficult organizing proper transportation. She didn’t own a car, and
her momma worked the day shift. Carpooling with the other students back and
forth became a logistics issue, a royal pain in the ass. Plus, the added
expense of paying for morning day care was beginning to add up. And she flat-out
refused to let Benjie babysit her baby girl, so she just stopped going. Another
disappointment added to her own list of personal failures.
Jeanette rarely drank--a glass of white wine
at dinner, a beer with Donna or at a barbeque. Nor was she the type to misuse
illegal drugs. But standing behind that bar for all those hours started taking a
toll on her body. She began increasing the use of her prescription painkillers to
help get her through the evenings. Add to that combination the medication she
took for her MS, plus the tiny blue pill she swallowed first thing in the
morning, every morning, to stop any attempt of a looming anxiety attack—well,
by evening’s end, after a few shots of anejo tequila, the daily dosage of
medications she ingested would flip anybody out into an altered state. Speeding
home after her closing shift, driving her momma’s car, windows open, music
blaring, flying high down the back roads of her hometown, a local cop pulled
her over and issued her a DUI. One long, sobering night spent in a smelly jail
cell, along with a hefty fine, which of course, she couldn’t afford to pay (thank
you, momma! Again!) as well as the extra expense of needing to hire an attorney
to fight her case in court.
Give a girl a f*cking break…
~*~
Jeanette leaned over the bathtub. She grazed
a finger along the top of the water--warm, but not too hot. Earlier, she had
added bath beads mixed with Epsom salts. She had splurged on a large bag of it on
her last trip to ShopRite. The lingering scent of lavender with a just a hint
of mint camouflaged the musky smell of mildew.
In the kitchen, she crushed up a half tablet
of Paxil, mixed it with a spoon of applesauce, and fed it to Amanda. She lapped
it right up, opening and closing her mouth waiting for more. Within minutes,
the drug was taking hold and making her sleepy. She kept yawning, wiping at her
eyes, and dropping her head onto Jeanette’s shoulder like dead weight.
Yes, this was the best solution…
The only solution…
As if…a voice had come to her and answered
all of her prayers. All of them. It was no joke that Amanda did have the seed
of the devil planted inside her. She would grow up to be like her father, a
monster, a liar, a killer. It was better this way. The voices were talking to
Jeanette more frequently now, advising her, telling her exactly what she must
do…
Careful, careful, Jeanette…
A plan needed to be executed, and soon. She
had thought about just offing herself. She knew Donna’s husband had a pistol
hiding somewhere around the house. She had seen Donna venture into the hall closet
off the living room, talking about it in case of an emergency. All she’d have
to do is stick the short barrel into her mouth and pull the trigger…but then
who would take care of Amanda? Who would know the family history? Who would be
able to handle her demon child without Jeanette around to oversee, supervise
and watch over her?
No, this was the only answer. This was their
only choice…
Her robe fell to the floor by her feet. A few
votive candles lined the sink, creating a chorus of flickering lights. Amanda’s
cherub face lay heavy on Jeanette’s bosom; her breathing deep and restful. Earlier,
Jeanette had swallowed more than the required dosage of Paxil herself, allowing
her the grace to forget to remember….anything. The world was becoming a blurry
fog of no feeling.
Weightlessness…
Why couldn’t it all go back to the way it
was? Why did that nosy bitch have to come around and ruin everything? Upset her
love nest, her lovely state of denial, her lazy life of loneliness, where the
only thing tormenting her at the time, was whether or not the women Smitty was
having sex with were pretty. Prettier than her…enough for him to dump her,
leave her for another healthier, vital, and younger girl…
God knows the last thing she ever thought
Smitty was…was a killer, a monster, a menace to society.
She stepped into the tub. A thin slick of
water overflowed over the side and onto the bathroom floor. She didn’t care.
She wouldn’t be around to clean it up. She and Amanda would be in flight
somewhere, circling around overhead by the time Donna got home from work and
discovered them. Amanda and she would be somewhere between here and there, a
chosen purgatory, wherever that place might be.
Benjie…
She lowered her body into the warmth. She
felt the water covering her thighs, her stomach, her breasts…Amanda’s back, the
yellowish-purple bruises on her forearms—reminders of Roy—that asshole!
Amanda flinched from the sudden shock of wet
heat, but didn’t make a fuss, not even a whimper. Her hair was wet now and lay
flat and matted against her tiny back as they sank lower. Jeanette forgot to
put the music on.
Damn!
She wanted music…Jackson Brown, the Pretender!
Oh, well, next time, next lifetime…maybe.
She lifted her feet up out of the water and
positioned them against the tiles above the faucet. It would be swift and
calculated, one big breath taken in through her nose upon going under. She
expected a suspended moment of intense burning, a sharp pain, as if a knife was
piercing through the fabric of her lungs, and then peace…
Peace…
She hoped Amanda and her would join in death
at exactly the same moment, their hearts stopping…together.
“Goodbye little girl, I have done all I can
do. I have tried my very best to take care of you and love you…” She looked
around the room one last time, the darkness settling in, the tiny flames flickering
and hazy from the sink, the water soft and inviting, the scent of lavender
hovering around and above them like sweet angels breath. She kissed the top of
Amanda’s damp head, held her close to her bosom, locked her arms tight around
the baby’s back, and sank below the water level…
~*~
Nobody knows exactly what happens once a body
starts the process of shutting down. However, there is a suspicion that when
one dies, all the senses do not all go out at once, but rather one at a time.
Slowly. Gradually, one loses their sense of touch, their taste, smell, their
vision, and lastly…sound…
~*~
Through a long
liquid tunnel comes thumping and banging, hard and strong and forceful!
Jeanette
preferred to ignore it; to pretend it wasn’t there…
Go away…
Go away…
A window
broke. Glass shattered; a muted explosion.
The house
filled with a lone scream, a muffled cry; shrieks of anguish moving toward her,
in her direction, hysterical, running down the hallway, the clip, clop, of
heavy booted footsteps…
~*~
Her lungs were
already full.
As planned,
she had taken one full intake of water through her nose when she first
submerged. Amanda fought, for a second, her body tensing up, spastic, clamoring
for one last breath, the will to live so strong. Jeanette held on though,
tight, her arms locked securely around her baby, keeping her down. Then Amanda
went still--very still, so still Jeanette finally relaxed and released her,
allowing her to float…away, a piece of wood, weightless, drifting in between
her thighs toward the drain. Strands of hair stuck to Jeanette’s calves, a matted,
sticky spider web.
Commotion!
Again, louder
and frantic, more urgent, and then the rush of thick arms pushing through the
barrier of water, grabbing at her body and pulling her up, up, up, and away
from someplace distant; a white place, a soothing place, a place of blue
warmth, of Universal acceptance and circular love… Somebody stole her,
kidnapped her peace of mind, and dragged her dying, limp body from out of her
liquid coffin, flipped her out of the tub, pulled her over the side, and
flopped her onto the floor. A dead fish, bloated, and naked and slippery lying
beside the grungy bathtub.
Then a force
so heavy crushed down upon her, pushing her chest in, forcing her to roll over
onto her side. Water purged from her mouth and her nose like toxic bile…
“What the f*ck
are you doing? Are you f*cking out of your mind?” A voice cried!
Fingers
intertwined into a solid fist and heaved down again, hard and fast and crazy!
Water escaped from every possible orifice, an open spigot. Somebody pried
Jeanette’s mouth open, and forced her to gag from the sheer size of his
fingers, to choke, to vomit, and heave everything she had ever eaten from out
of her stomach…
And then…
A watery gasp
of clean air entered into her chest cavity.
Her body
lifted up, up toward the sink, up toward a bearded man who reeked of
alcohol—the sour odor of whiskey and stale cigarette smoke--and the blurry
ceiling light centered above her, no longer soothing and white and calm, but
jarring and dirty and confusing. Dead houseflies littered the base of its
tinted covering.
Jeanette took
in her first full breath of oxygen.
Jeanette was
alive…
Chapter 2.
“What will we
do?” Benjie paced back and forth in the living room, glancing at the clock
hanging on the wall. His fingers pulled at his straggly beard, twisting it and
twirling it, his voice was hoarse, desperate.
Jeanette sat
on the floor hunched up against the wall, her body cocooned in a scratchy
blanket. Her bare feet and legs were up close to her chest. She was struggling
to breathe in, to breathe out…
Amanda was
across from her, on the floor, wrapped up as well, her little girl, dead and
dumped and discarded like trash in a large, black plastic Glad bag.
Jeanette’s throat
hurt, the inside of her nose burned. Her chest and ribs were sore, bruised from
the force of Benjie’s fist pressing down upon her. He stopped mid pace, “What
time does Donna get home from work?” He was crying now. His nose was wet with
tears; bubbles popped with mucous from out of his nostrils as he spoke. “Talk
to me! What time does Donna get home from work?”
She looked at
the clock, that silly, stupid clock Donna bought at T.J. Maxx, cheap and tacky
and tasteless. White trash! That’s all they were. White-f*cking-trash! She
tried speaking through her swollen throat. She could barely swallow, let alone
talk, her lungs were crying out with each attempted breath. Better for her to
stay still, try not to breath, try to remain quiet and wait. It was all coming
back to her now…
Even with the
aid of the Paxil, she couldn’t deny what she saw in front of her, what she
remembered--her baby, pulled from the bathtub, dripping with water onto the
floor and rolled up in a towel… “You asshole!” She sobbed. “Why did you save
me? I wanted to die with her, my baby. I didn’t want to live, not without her.”
A howl bellowed from somewhere so deep within her, a savage yell, an animal
keening over her dead. “WHY THE F*CK DID YOU SAVE ME?” Tears fell down her
cheek. “I hate you! I hate you, Benjie!”
He moved over
to her, crouched down, low to the ground and put his face up to her. So close,
she could feel his beard, the stubble tickling her, his putrid breath. “You can bellyache all you want, but right now
little Sister, we have to come up with a plan. Otherwise, your sweet ass will
be in jail tonight!” He grabbed hold of her arms and shook her. She flinched.
“Listen to me and you listen real good…we don’t have all f*cking night! We need
to do something with the baby, and we need to do it now! NOW! Do you hear me?”
He held on to her tighter, his fists surrounded her upper arms. “Not later, not
tomorrow, but tonight! Otherwise, kiss your sweet ass goodbye!”
Jeanette
stared across the room at the lumpy plastic bag.
Tick-tock, tick-tock…the wall clock chimed 7 PM.
“You need to
get out of town, you can’t be here!” Benjie started pacing again, raking his
hair, pulling at his beard. “Who’s that asshole you been hanging out with. You
need to call him. You need to tell him to take you somewhere. I’ll get rid of
the baby. I’ll bury her somewhere, someplace far away. I’ll tell the family you
took her with you. You need to do this, tonight! Otherwise, you’re in deep
shit!”
He walked over
to the bag. He went to pick it up, but couldn’t. He began crying, sobbing.
“Why are you
helping me? I don’t care anymore. My life is shit. I don’t have anybody
anymore. I don’t give a damn if I live or die.”
“Get your ass
up and make a phone call. We ain’t got much time.” He gathered strength, picked
up the bag and marched outside. The screen door banged and rattled as he
exited. The front door to his truck opened and slammed shut. The night
surrounded them. Crickets sawed in angry protest. Heavy footsteps moved across
the wooden front porch and around back to the shed. Jeannette waited, following
the sounds, visualizing where Benjie was, what he was doing. That dog, barking,
continuously, never stopping. Within minutes, tools hit the back bed of his
truck, jarring and scratching, and then the squeak of the screen door opening.
“What the f*ck
are you waiting for? We don’t have all night!”
Jeanette tried
standing. Her legs were weak, like jelly, like after a strenuous workout,
wobbly. Her eyesight was foggy.
“You need to
be gone when Donna gets home! You ain’t got much time, neither! Write her a note!
Let her know I came over and broke the window. Tell her I needed to talk to you
because…because I was upset you was leaving town. Let her know you took Amanda
with you…”
She leaned over
onto her knees and pushed with her palms to get to a standing position. She
felt dizzy. Stumbling into her bedroom, she dressed quickly, a white shirt,
some jeans, a navy P-coat. She slipped her boots on without socks and filled
her backpack with a few pair of clean underwear, a fresh pair of jeans, some
makeup. Her body was waking up, but she was stiff. Aching. She gathered her
hair in a ponytail and moved into the living room. In the hallway closet, she
reached up to the top shelf and searched along the edges with her fingers.
There, in the back, was the pistol Donna had told her about it, warned her
about, actually. She had never touched a firearm before, the feel of cool
metal, the smallness of its size, the compactness of death fitting so easily
inside her desperate hand. For a moment the idea of killing herself, shooting
herself right there in the closet, entered her thoughts, but she heard Benjie’s
voice…
“C’mon, DAMMIT!”
She stashed
the gun in her backpack and rushed into the living room, took a piece of paper
from a desk drawer and scribbled out a note to Donna. She doubted she would
ever see her again, but she was following orders now.”
Dear Donna,
Sorry for the mess…
Benjie came by, drunk, of course…I wouldn’t
let him in, so he broke the window. I have to get out of here, Donna. I need to
leave. I’m going batshit crazy. I’ve taken Amanda with me. Please don’t call
the police. I’m fine. I just need some time to think about all this…my situation.
About what I need to do next. Benjie told me he’s sorry about the window, he’ll
pay for it come payday. He’ll be by tomorrow to talk to you. I don’t want to be
a burden to you any longer.
Thanks for everything…
I love you,
Jeanette.
GIVEAWAY
Three ECOPIES of Douglas
Wickard’s PERFECT WIFE!!! The publication date is Christmas! Winners will
receive their ecopies then!!!
To
win: go to the Official FB Event Page; find the post announcing today’s
giveaway; and comment, “I WANT TO WIN” in that post and you just
might!!!
AUTHOR BIO
Amazon Kindle Bestselling author of the SAMI
SAXTON thriller series A PERFECT HUSBAND and A PERFECT SETUP and the FBI DAN
HAMMER Detective series NOTHING SACRED and ENCOUNTER. Soon to be released:
PERFECT. When Sami and Drew go on a transatlantic cruise bound for Italy, the
results can be sheer murder! Read the PERFECT excerpt at
douglaswickardbooks.com WALKER'S BLOG. ON SALE NOW! New series 2015! ABERRANT!
Let the truth be told!
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