Don't Let Me Die: A gripping psychological thriller Read online

  My eyes double in size as I shake my head. “No, please, I don’t want—”

  Shaw holds up a palm toward me. “Take a deep breath, Emma. I don’t want you just to go back to the event and force out that horrible moment. I want you to go back to the days leading up to that time and tell me what was going on in your life.”

  My heart begins to slow down a little as I accept the tiniest slice of calm washing over me.

  “That could take some time,” I say. “We only have a one-hour session each day.”

  “I understand. But we’ll get there, no matter how many sessions it takes.”

  I sense my head touch the couch as I thrust my body back and hold my skull tight against the surface. The pressure relieves me for a moment. I pull at my hair with closed eyes before opening them back up. I stare right into Shaw’s eyes and say, “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  The doctor nods as calmly as a person could. “Yes, Emma. There’s a horrific story locked away in there that needs to come out into the open. It’s not going to be an easy task by any stretch of the imagination, but I want you to tell me what happened the way you remember.”

  My hands find their way to my face and begin rubbing at my eyes and forehead. The doctor’s request is going to kill me, but for some reason, I feel compelled to comply.

  I’ll never know if it is Shaw’s poised face that is about to make me open up, but every hidden memory wants to come out, whether I want them to or not.

  Three

  Before.

  Our house was only three years old when we first moved in. Now, after nine years of life, it feels like it’s been around for half a century. It wasn’t the physical state of our home that gave it this age, but the constant fighting and drama my family fell victim to of our own accord.

  The four-bedroom, three-bathroom modern colonial was built originally by my husband, Darren, and the construction company he once worked for in our quiet town of Clearwater Hills, Illinois. When news got around that the owners lost the house after failing to make timely repayments on the loan, Darren practically begged for us to buy the dream home he’d built for someone else. Seeing as the house was only across town and up for auction starting at a once-in-a-lifetime price, I had no choice but to agree. What a mistake that would turn out to be.

  “God, this was a steal,” Darren said the day we moved in. He kept muttering about how lucky we were and how proud he was to finally live in a house he put together with his own two hands. The Global Financial Crisis made the house affordable at the time, but the same event caused my husband to lose his job six months later.

  So the cycle of fools buying property they couldn’t afford continued on a steady, yet predictable path. For the next four years, we struggled. Darren went from one job to the next, doing what he could to help make ends meet. I maintained my full-time admin job at the University of Chicago, while also running our household and getting our son, Frank, off to school each day.

  Life remained hectic, to say the least. I managed a strict, weekly routine that the flap from a butterfly’s wing could disrupt. When my father died in a car crash, the system came to a grinding halt.

  My dad lived in Chicago, on his own. My mother had passed away years ago of breast cancer. Once the pain of her loss began to fade, he put all his energy into being a lecturer at the university. His death was a gut blow, not only to me but also to the faculty, especially considering his age, sixty-three years old. He was in those prime years to unload his knowledge onto the world. Instead, he died pointlessly.

  My dad had been at the school for most of his career and secured me the admin job when I failed to show the same effortless talent for academia as he had at the same age. Despite my inabilities, he never once made me feel less important or a failure for not rising to his level.

  With Darren between paying jobs during a time when the country possessed too many houses and not enough employed people to live in them, we were struggling more than usual when my father’s life was cut short. His death, however, came with a silver lining in the form of a large inheritance the size of which would change our lives and keep our dream home afloat during the rough seas ahead.

  The timing was insane given how close we came to losing it all. Every time I looked at our house since that day, I thought of my father and the hard work he had put in over the years. I didn’t want a single cent of his money to go to waste. But, of course, the purest of intentions inevitably fail.

  A few months after we got back on track, Darren came to me with a proposal of sorts. He wanted to take the plunge and start up his own construction business.

  “I know all the talent around town. I know all the best suppliers and can lock down some solid connections. I just need the start-up money to get this going.”

  Everything he said sounded safe on paper. The GFC was in the past, and the construction industry had started to pull itself out of the ashes. People were building houses again. Darren argued to me that it would be the ultimate time to take advantage of the rare situation. How could I say no? He was the man I loved more than anything else in the world short of our son. I not only believed him, I believed in him.

  That was five years ago. Now, after nine years of living in our home, I am thirty-seven. Darren’s business is thriving, and our fourteen-year-old son, Frank, spends his days at Clearwater Hills Middle School. Everything is on track for our perfect life in the quiet American town.

  So why does the well-maintained house my husband had constructed seem so old to me? Because our perfect life was built upon a web of lies.

  Four

  “Have you seen my phone?” Darren asks me as he scurries around the kitchen, tossing and turning old newspapers and dishes to find his smartphone. I hand the device over to him from the pocket of my dressing gown, unsuccessfully hiding a smirk.

  “You left it in the bathroom again, honey,” I say as he grabs it out of my hand.

  “Stupid.” He gives himself a mock slap on the head.

  I can see the wrinkles around his eyes creasing harder than usual. His misplaced phone wasn’t the only reason he was pretending to hit himself.

  “Is everything okay? You seem a bit frazzled.”

  He stares at me for half a second with his mouth partially agape. “Nothing. Just trying to organize everything on this new project.”

  “The big contract? How’s it all going?”

  “Crazy, of course. We’ve got thirty houses to build, and not enough time to do it in. Typical corporate developers never think of how these things are supposed to go. They slap down some concept art with a coming soon sign and expect the rest to fall into place.”

  I can recognize his shoulders tensing up with every word. I inch closer to him and put my hands on his biceps. Even they appear stiff and full of stress. “You’ve got this, okay? If any company can pull this contract off, it’s the team from D Turner Construction. Believe in yourself.”

  His eyes don’t project back the confidence I am trying to beam into him. He scratches at his scruffy hair and lets his hand fall to the two-week-old beard he has been growing.

  “Thanks for the pep talk, honey, but I’ve got to go.” He moves away from my grip and seizes his oversize travel mug filled to the brim with double-strength coffee.

  “Are we still on for tonight?” I ask him as he makes his way to the front door.

  “Of course,” he says without looking back. “I’ll be home by six. Love you.”

  I never get to say the words back to him as the door slams shut. I find myself edging up to the small glass window by the entry and pulling aside the curtain. Darren is already inside his work truck, on the phone, blasting out the next person in the chain that needs a kick in the ass to move the project forward. I don’t envy him.

  The sound of blaring headphones interrupts me as Frank comes into the kitchen with the usual sour seven-in-the-morning face he decides to wear of late. The kid is fourteen going on forty as teenage angst begins to set in. Not that l
ong ago he was still happy playing with toys and enjoying life. Now, every day is a struggle.

  Frank sits down by the kitchen counter and pours himself some cereal, splashing milk half into the bowl a moment later. He slurps down his food without taking his eyes off his smartphone for more than a second.

  “Frank, honey?”

  He glances up at the interruption and waits for me to speak.

  “What was our rule about music and phones during meals?”

  His face twists up. I prepare myself for the usual morning argument.

  “This isn’t a meal,” he says as he removes one earbud. The white cord dangles around his black zip-up hoodie, swaying for a moment, letting out too many decibels of noise that has been destroying his eardrum.

  “Yes, it is. Now turn that music off and put your phone facedown on the counter.”

  “This is bullshit,” he mutters as he slaps the device down and pulls out the second headphone.

  “Language, Frank.”

  “Whatever,” he says before continuing to eat. He doesn’t bother to turn the song off. I can now hear with clarity some heavy metal racket laced in cuss words. I decide not to start on him about his choice in music. One battle at a time.

  “Did you finish your homework last night?” I ask. My simple question is about to commence another thread in our ongoing war. When he doesn’t answer, I move farther into his field of view with both arms crossed. “Well?”

  Frank’s phone buzzes and moves slightly on the kitchen counter. He snatches it up to read the notification. “That’s Ben. I gotta go.” He leaps from the stool, leaving behind his half-finished meal and mess.

  “Frank.” I use what little command my voice carries. “Show me your homework.”

  He spins back to me as he grabs his backpack. “I gotta go, Mom. Ben’s dad is waiting for me.”

  There was a time when he was happy for me to drop him off at school, right to the front door. Now, I can’t take him there without embarrassing him, even if I let him off half a mile away.

  A honk of a car horn confirms Frank’s ride has arrived. I can’t stop him from leaving without pissing off Ben’s dad. Knowing what that man is like gives me my answer.

  “We’ll talk about this when you get home.”

  The door’s slam is the only response I receive. Another victory, if winning involved giving up at the drop of a hat.

  I let out a long-winded sigh and move back to the kitchen with a huff. I’m not due to start work until ten this morning, so I spend the next hour cleaning up the mess my family leaves behind for me on a daily basis.

  Most days it doesn’t bother me too much, but Darren’s focus and Frank’s teenage moods are starting to make the task of supportive wife and mother a cumbersome effort. Of course, it is the perfect moment for our chocolate-brown Labrador to decide to start barking her butt off at the backdoor. I yell out to our dog, shouting her name, Bessie, while a wineglass catches my eye. Resisting the temptation to pour myself a drink while the sun is still rising, I tighten my dressing gown and head for the still-yapping dog.

  “What the hell is your problem today?” I yell, unloading all the crap of the morning toward Bessie. She is the final member of my family deciding to push me over the edge.

  Despite my gruffness, she continues to bark at the backdoor. “Do you want to go out?” I ask with both hands out wide, searching for an answer to the dog’s sudden irrational behavior.

  “Jesus Christ,” I say as I unlock the thick door and let her scurry through the slightest gap. I decide to take a peek outside to see what all the fuss is about. As I predicted, nothing but our oversize backyard meets my view. Bessie runs straight toward the side fence that borders the street of our corner block. She settles her zealous approach at a single location, not letting up with her loud voice. The neighbors will be thrilled.

  “Bessie!” I shout, possibly adding more noise to the world than the dog. She doesn’t respond, forcing me to venture outside. It was another freezing winter morning. Usually, I don’t brave the weather without a decent coat on, but today seems different. I feel every bark out of her mouth, edging me ahead.

  I stomp up to Bessie, seeing her scratching at the fence like a wild beast. “Stop it!” I yell.

  As if noticing me for the first time, she cowers down, tail between her legs. She backs away for a moment, whimpering toward the fence. Something is really getting to her.

  “There’s nothing there, Bessie. Now come inside and stop embarrassing me.” I grab her by the collar and lead her back toward the house. She continues to stare at the fence and whimper.

  “Leave it. It’s just a fence,” I say, completely confident that the animal has lost its mind.

  How truly wrong I was.

  Five

  The rest of my day went by as it always did: I cleaned the house, commuted to the university in easing gridlock, and settled into work with some gossip before getting on with the numerous tasks that needed completing. The job was simple on paper, but in reality, we were pulled in every possible direction the university could manage.

  When I leave for the day, I notice one of my colleagues crying in the parking lot. A young girl who’d only started two weeks ago, also named Emma, is leaning against her car. Seeing the girl reminds me that I have to work with another Emma. I groan at the thought, not needing the extra confusion.

  I think about leaving, not wanting to become involved, but my parenting bones kick in.

  “Emma?” I say quietly as I approach, making sure not to startle her.

  The twenty-something blonde tries to turn away briefly to cover up her tears. She spins back to me with a forced smile. “Yes?”

  “Is everything okay?”

  She sniffs. “Everything is fine, sorry. Don’t worry about me.”

  “But you’re crying. Has something happened?”

  Emma shakes her head at me. “Nothing. It’s fine. I’ll be okay. I just . . . ”

  I take a quick look at my watch as subtly as I can. I need to move on if I am going to make it home in time for dinner with Darren. We have reservations for a five-star Italian restaurant. Frank is going to visit a friend for the evening until we pick him up.

  Emma continues. “It’s nothing. Just boyfriend troubles.”

  I stare past the words coming out of her mouth and can tell she is lying. Having a teenager gives you that uncanny ability, even though I barely know Emma. Still, I don’t have time to delve deeper, so I use her lie as my out.

  “Right, well, you tell him not to mess you around. I’m really sorry, but I need to go.” I thumb behind me toward my car.

  Emma’s eyes go wide. “Oh, of course. Don’t worry about me. Go. Sorry, I’m a pain.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling like an asshole. After the morning with my family, I had run out of care. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I add as I back away without grace.

  Emma’s sniffing continues for a moment as I leave. I put her problems out of my head and walk toward my car before I change my mind. Any other day I would be willing to hear it, but not tonight. I finally managed to lock Darren down for a meal in town. I can’t remember how long it had been since we did such a thing, and honestly, we need it.

  After I reach my car, the usual blurring trip home flashes by as I drive on autopilot, listening to some drive-home station. The general mix of songs I used to enjoy blend seamlessly with depressing news and traffic reports. I almost turn the noise off before making it home. For some reason, I can’t stand it anymore.

  When I arrive home a touch after six, I see the driveway is devoid of Darren’s work truck. I resist the urge to curse out loud, giving him the benefit of the doubt. It is only ten past the hour, so I can’t lose my cool just yet.

  Another twenty minutes disappears as I adjust my makeup and change outfits, desperate for my husband to hurry the hell up and come home. Our seven o’clock reservation looms. The grandfather clock in the hallway outside our bedroom ticks so loudly, reminding me that
soon I will have no choice but to reach for my phone and blast Darren the second he answers my call.

  Seven o’clock comes and goes, and I find myself sitting at the end of our bed with only the light from our bathroom illuminating the room. I am too angry to make the call. The phone sits in my tightening grip, staring back at me with the background of our family. There I am, snuggled in close with Darren, while Frank stands in the middle of our hug. The photo is more than four years old and is the last time I remember such a moment.

  The rumble of Darren’s truck fills the driveway, prompting me from my position at the end of the bed. I put my game face on and ready myself for another argument I don’t want to have. Anger, however, pushes me forward. Instead of eating a beautiful meal made by anyone other than me, I will be wasting my night with shouting and silent fuming.

  As I prepare to leave the bedroom and meet Darren head-on, I shake my head at the lingerie I had foolishly left out in preparation for our return home from the restaurant. I grab the silk, black garment and shove it back into the drawer, slamming the dresser shut a moment later.

  I rush down the stairs and catch Darren the second he walks in through the kitchen. We both maintain our silence as I stroll in with crossed arms. He dumps his bag on the clean counter I had scrubbed that morning and keeps his eyes on the surface, never once glancing up. His beard seems thicker than before, offset only by his bloodshot eyes.

  “I realize that you’re pissed,” he starts, “but I had a good reason for—”

  “I don’t want to hear your excuses.”

  “Emma. Please, I—”

  “No, screw you. You didn’t call or even send me a text. What was so important that you couldn’t spare a single second for your wife, huh?” My arms are crossed firmly over my chest. He keeps his eyes glued to the counter.

  With a raised palm and closed eyes, Darren tries to give me whatever bullshit line his male brain can generate, but his words never come out.