Almost Dead. Lisa Jackson

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      Close by.

      The scent of a perfume she’d nearly forgotten wafted to her nostrils and made the hairs on the back of her neck lift.

      Her heart nearly stopped as she looked over her shoulder. There was movement in the shadows of the unlit hallway near her bedroom. “Cissy?” she said again, but her voice was the barest of whispers, and fear caused her pulse to pound. “Is that you, dear? This isn’t funny—”

      Her words died in her throat.

      A woman, half-hidden in the shadows, emerged triumphantly.

      Eugenia froze.

      Suspended in time.

      “You!” she cried. Panic crept up her spine, and the woman before her smiled, a grin as cold and evil as Satan’s heart.

      Eugenia tried to run, to flee, but before she could take a step, the younger woman pounced, strong hands clutching and squeezing, athletic arms pulling her off her feet.

      “No!” Eugenia cried. “No!” She lifted her cane, but the damned walking stick fell from her hands and clattered uselessly down the stairs. Now, finally, Coco began to bark wildly.

      “Don’t do this!” Eugenia cried.

      But it was too late.

      In a heartbeat, she was hoisted over the railing, pushed into the open space where the crystal chandelier hung. Screaming, flailing pathetically, hearing her dog snarling, Eugenia hurtled downward.

      The Louis XVI table and tile floor of the foyer rushed up at her.

      Sheer terror caused her heart to seize as she hit the floor with a dull, sickening thud. Crack! Pain exploded in her head. For half a second she stared upward at her assailant. The woman stood victorious on the landing, holding Coco, stroking the dog’s furry coat.

      “Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?” the woman gloated.

      Then there was only darkness….

      “Shhh! Beej, you’re okay, got it? You are okay!” Cissy Cahill leaned over the railing of the playpen and hoisted her eighteen-month-old son onto her hip. His face was red from crying; tears streaked down his chubby cheeks, and his nose was running something fierce. “Oh, baby, look at you.” Cissy’s heart instantly melted, and she kissed the top of his blond head while reaching for a tissue and dabbing at his nose. “It’s gonna be all right. I promise,” she said as she found his little jacket and the hat he hated with a passion. She somehow managed to dress him, grab the diaper bag, and head out the door of the old Victorian home she’d lived in for nearly two years. He’d been cranky all afternoon, probably teething, and when the pizza-delivery kid had showed up, for some reason Beej had ratcheted into full tantrum mode. She had no real idea why he was upset. Teething? Too cold because the friggin’ furnace had gone out? Too hot because his mother had piled on extra clothes? Whatever the reason, Cissy was convinced it wasn’t serious, and the baby would just have to deal with it. She was running late, and her grandmother would be angry.

      “The price we all pay for being Cahills,” she confided to her son as she locked the door behind her and walked to the driveway, where her car, a silver Acura sedan, was parked, the pizza already cooling in a box on the floor of the passenger seat. In no better mood than he’d been in all day, B.J. wailed and clawed at his hat as she strapped him into the child’s seat in the back and climbed behind the steering wheel. It was dark out, a soft rain beginning to fall, the lights of the city a little blurry. She glanced across the street to the spot where the unmarked police car had been parked ever since she’d heard the news that her mother had escaped from prison, but, surprisingly, it was missing.

      Gone too was the news van that had camped out for hours on the street, a reporter coming to her door three times and asking for an interview. As if she would ever talk to the press! Cissy had prayed they’d go away, and tonight she’d gotten her wish.

      Good.

      She was sick of being treated like she was some kind of criminal when she’d done nothing wrong. Nothing! It wasn’t her fault that her mother just happened to be a narcissistic, murderous bitch—which were some of the nicer adjectives Cissy could ascribe to Marla. As far as Cissy was concerned, the farther her egocentric nutcase of a mother stayed away from her and B.J., the better.

      Don’t think that way…get rid of the negative thoughts…count slowly to ten…. Cissy’s shrink’s voice slipped through her brain, but she ignored it. She wasn’t in a forgiving mood tonight, and she was just grateful that the police weren’t following her to the Cahill estate, where her grandmother had resided ever since marrying into the family nearly fifty years earlier. Cissy’s life was in enough turmoil as it was; she didn’t need to deal with the cops. In her opinion, she’d already suffered enough melodrama and pain to last her a lifetime or two—compliments of Marla Amhurst Cahill, sick-o extraordinaire and her mother.

      “Yeah, Beej, that’s your nana,” she said, weaving her way through the neighborhood streets rimming Alamo Square. “Nana Psycho.” She glanced into the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of her son, his wailing having stopped, his big eyes devoid of tears. For the moment, he’d stopped fighting the hat.

      Relieved that the tantrum was over, she winked at him. “See, you just wanted a date out with Mom in a classy car, right?”

      The light ahead turned amber, and she stepped on the brakes. There had been a time when she had run anything remotely yellow, but now, with Beej, she’d suddenly become a model driver and nearly overprotective mother. Who woulda thunk it?

      Her rumbling stomach and the clock on the dash reminded her that she was late. Great. No doubt she was in for another lecture. Like she hadn’t had enough. She was a grown woman, for God’s sake.

      Once again she looked into the rearview mirror. This time she scanned the traffic behind her, searching for signs of a cop car. Not that she could pick one out. But considering that ever since her mother had escaped, the police had planted themselves near her door, it was odd that they weren’t following her now. Though the detectives had been nothing but nice, she knew, behind the concerned words and patient smiles, they were suspicious.

      As if her mother would contact her.

      As if she would harbor a woman she hated.

      “No friggin’ way,” she whispered. Every muscle in her body tensed. As a kid, she’d grown up with Marla’s cool, aloof attitude toward her. She’d accepted it, accepted the fact that her whole family was a set of cold weirdos. To survive, she’d simply rebelled in any and every way she could think of.

      But now, as a mother herself, Cissy couldn’t imagine not feeling close and bonded to a child. From the first time she’d laid eyes on her son, she’d been a new person. Life had changed in that sterling instant. Throughout her pregnancy she’d talked to the baby, rubbed her tummy, even named him Juan because of her cravings for tacos or anything Mexican at all hours of the day or night, but it hadn’t compared to holding him and hearing him cry at the hospital. Yep, they were a team. Inseparable.

      So where was her mother?

      How the hell had she gotten out?

      Weren’t prisons supposed to be escape proof?

      What will you do if she does show СКАЧАТЬ