Lunatic Revenge (29 page)

A picture popped into her head and she realized it was another ‘postcard’ from DeeDee. Just as she started to dismiss it, she realized what she was seeing wasn’t what the back yard looked like now. It was different. Decidedly different. The back yard fence wasn’t chain link, it was wood, and roses were climbing up the trellises against it. There was a circle of irises around a birdhouse on a pole, and a vegetable garden in the far north end. And there were morning glory vines all over the side of a shed that was no longer here.

OMG. DeeDee was showing her what the back yard used to look like.

“Okay, DeeDee! I get it. Keep it coming. I see it. Trees. There were big shade trees. And before you showed me a pile of leaves. I remember. I remember.”

Tara leaped off the step and started out across the yard, following the old stone path that wound through the yard. Now the path even made sense. It had led to different parts of the garden.

As she walked, she couldn’t imagine the depths of depravity it would take to kill someone, let alone a member of your family. And even though she didn’t know who had killed DeeDee Broyles, her brother seemed the obvious culprit. He had denied ever having a sister, then broke into Tara’s house and was still stalking her. It wasn’t looking good for Emmit.

She wondered what the prison system did with old men like him. Was there a senior citizens wing in the penitentiary? Did they still draw Social Security and get retirement checks? How weird was that?

Tara was lost in thought as she followed the path, trying to figure out where someone could dig a hole big enough to hide a body and make sure no one found it when she realized she’d been looking at the answer all the time.

The fence. It used to be tall. Wood. All around the yard. No one could see over. No one could see through.

OMG. You could dig holes all over and no one would know it. You’d have all the time in the world to plant bushes or shrubs, or anything you wanted to hide the fact that earth had been overturned.

She stopped, put her hands on her hips and turned around, looking back toward the house. Uncle Pat wanted her to find a place to plant some mums. She wanted to find a body. Both required digging holes. Piece of cake.

Henry suddenly popped up in front of her, waving his hands.

Tara frowned. “What’s up? Don’t tell me Millicent is making bubbles in the bathtub again? No? Uncle Pat? Something happened to Uncle Pat?”

I think he’s trying to tell you someone’s coming down the alley.

Millicent’s explanation wasn’t warning enough. Tara pivoted just in time to see a car coming down the alley between the houses. No one was supposed to drive through there except maybe city employees. Then she realized she’d seen that car before—and the man driving it.

It was Emmit Broyles.

Oh crap! He was doing it again. He was still stalking her.

She started to run toward the house, when she realized it would give away the fact that she was scared of him. So far, Emmit didn’t know she was on to him. She remembered reading once that the best defense was an offense so she lifted her hand and started waving as she moved toward the alley.

“Hi, Mr. Broyles,” she cried, and jogged toward the fence, as if expecting him to stop.

The look on his face was priceless. His bushy white eyebrows shot upward as if someone had tied strings to them and given them a yank. He must have tried to stomp on the accelerator, but he was obviously distracted enough that he missed and stomped the brake instead.

All of a sudden he was flying forward. His chin hit the steering wheel and the hat he’d been wearing shot off his head and landed on the dash.

“Are you all right?” Tara yelled, as she neared the fence.

Even though all the windows were up, she could tell he was cursing at the top of his voice. He grabbed his hat, shoved it back on his head. Ignoring the blood dripping from his chin, he finally found the accelerator and roared off down the alley.

Tara grinned.

I think that went well.

Tara’s smile widened. “Yeah, it did, didn’t it?”

She turned around to go back to the house only to realize DeeDee was standing right beside her.

“Oh. Man. You did it again, didn’t you?” Tara asked.

DeeDee disappeared.

“So, obviously we’re not discussing this.”

How would you feel if your brother was the one who ended your life?

Tara’s smile died. “I never thought about that.”

Because you never had a brother?

“No. Because I didn’t think how DeeDee would take the news. I guess I just assumed they didn’t get along.”

You know what they say about assume. It makes an—

“Yes, yes, I know. An ass out of u and me. Very funny.”

Tara heard the phone ring and sprinted toward the house. She was slightly out of breath when she answered.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Moon girl, I must be getting better by the minute. The mere sound of my voice has left you breathless.”

Tara laughed out loud. “You are too funny,” she said. “I was in the back yard looking for . . . uh . . . I was in the back yard.”

“So, are we still on for tonight?” Flynn asked.

“Absolutely,” Tara said. “We’re going bowling, right?”

“Yeah, unless you’d rather do something else?”

“No. No. I love to bowl. I’m not very good, but it’s fun.”

“Good. How about some Hideaway pizza before we go?”

“Oh, yum! I’ve heard they make the best.”

“Oh, yeah,” Flynn said. “So I’ll pick you up about six, okay?”

“Yes.”

Tara started to hang up, then thought of his mom and her uncle. “Hey, Flynn?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you know your mom and Uncle Pat have a date tonight, too?”

There was a moment of silence. Then a chuckle. “No, but I’m cool with it. Aren’t you?”

“Oh, it’s not that. It’s just . . . kind of weird.”

“You think too much, Moon girl. Let the old folks have their fun.”

Tara laughed. “See you at six.”

Sharon Sala’s stories are often dark, dealing with the realities of this world, and yet she’s able to weave hope and love within the words for the readers who clamor for her latest works.

Her books repeatedly make the big lists, including The New York
Times
,
USA Today
, and
Publisher’s Weekly
, and she’s been nominated for a RITA seven times, which is the romance writer’s equivalent of having an OSCAR or an EMMY nomination. Always an optimist in the face of bad times, many of the stories she writes come to her in dreams, but there’s nothing fanciful about her work. She puts her faith in God, still trusts in love and the belief that, no matter what, everything comes full circle.

Visit her at sharonsalabooks.com and on Facebook.