A Dread So Deep Read online

  A Dread So Deep

  A Psychological Thriller

  ANITA RODGERS

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  A Dread so Deep

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  A Message From the Author

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THANKS FOR READING

  BOOKS BY ANITA RODGERS

  LICENSE NOTES

  THIS EBOOK IS LICENSED for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and didn’t purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it to amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  COPYRIGHT

  A DREAD SO DEEP COPYRIGHT © 2019 Anita Rodgers

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Contact: [email protected]

  First electronic edition published by Anita Rodgers

  ISBN

  Published in U.S. with international distribution.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  COVER DESIGN: ANITA RODGERS

  DEDICATION

  TO DEBBA, THE STRONGEST woman I know.

  Chapter 1

  BEFORE SHE DECIDED to end the cycle of abuse and to break away from a man whose idea of love was pain, Christine Logan, went to the drug store to buy an early pregnancy test.

  There were so many brands that she spent an hour reading the backs of boxes. Not because she believed any of the tests were substantially different but because it enabled her to forestall learning the answer to the question.

  She kept a furtive eye on the door in case a neighbor or acquaintance appeared. She’d have to make up a story to tell them. She hoped that wouldn’t happen because she hated to lie. Though a part of her wished she would run into someone she knew—if only to distract her from the nightmare that was her life.

  But the store remained quiet and she and a couple kids from the high school were the only patrons. She chose the test in the pink box and took it to the register.

  The clerk smiled tightly. “Did you find everything you need?”

  If only you had what I need.

  Christine nodded without looking at the man who took her money and put the pink box in a plastic bag.

  A young woman wheeling a baby in a stroller approached the entrance. While Christine waited for them to pass, the baby cooed and threw its stuffed monkey at her. She retrieved it from the floor. “Here you go, little one.” The baby accepted the toy with one hand and grabbed a fistful of Christine’s hair with the other. Christine giggled and looked up at the mother. “She’s strong.”

  The mother hurried to free Christine’s hair from the baby’s sticky hand. “Sorry, she’s in that grabbing stage.”

  Christine beamed at the little cherub. “She’s beautiful. You’re very lucky.”

  The young mother thanked her and wheeled away—casting an uncertain look at Christine as she went.

  Christine kept her head down as she crossed the parking lot to the shiny black Mercedes SUV. Every man she passed trailed her with their eyes. Each one, like a hook in her back, cast to reel her in.

  Phillip was the only man who’d succeeded with that approach. Ruggedly handsome and charming—his hazel eyes captured her with the first glance. So intense that she’d blushed. He’d claimed it was love at first sight. She’d believed him. Until she learned the truth of him. Phillip hadn’t wanted love or even a wife. Just a china doll that did as she was told—who could cover up the bruises without whining too much.

  Finally safe inside the car, she thought of calling him. She reached for the secret phone inside her bag. Would he want to know? What would he say? Gloom sprouted in her stomach and spread. Why would he be happy about another man’s wife having his baby? She dropped the phone back in her bag and pointed the car toward home.

  Pleasant Hill was a sanctuary from the crime and grime of L.A. Only the best people lived there. It was also one of Phillip’s babies—his team had designed and gentrified the neighborhood. A shining jewel in the crown of his many successes. Victorians and craftsman homes renovated to their previous glory sparkled in the afternoon sun.

  Her street was a picture postcard out of a bygone time. When life was kind and existed in soothing pastel colors. She glanced at the stunning homes as she drove past them and wondered if they hid secrets inside their beautiful selves. If the women behind the custom doors and mullioned windows grew anxious as the time for their husbands to return home neared. As she did.

  She pulled into the drive of her dove gray, two-story Victorian with its manicured lawn and exquisite rose bushes and felt a dread so deep that she couldn’t move. If I don’t go inside, I can’t take the test. If I don’t take the test, I won’t have to know.

  A couple of neighbor boys shot by on skateboards—careening around cracks, trying to outdo each other. She cradled her stomach as she watched them, letting herself imagine a boy of ten and too sure of himself. A boy with her fine blond hair and his father’s deep brown eyes. Who liked to paint and build things with his hands. A boy who would be ready with a quick grin and a kind heart. Or a little girl who loved to paint and dance on the beach.

  She switched off the engine then dragged herself inside the house.

  SHE READ THE INSTRUCTIONS carefully. Then read them again. She took the first test and doubting the results, took the second test. The results were the same. If there’d been a third test, she would’ve taken that too.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks as she gathered everything, stuffed it in the bag and hid it in the bottom of the laundry basket. How would she break the news to Phillip? She’d have to tell him soon. But not today.

  Startled to learn she’d been in the bathroom for an hour she rushed downstairs to start dinner. She wasn’t hungry but Phillip would expect a meal. A home cooked meal that would feed clients if he decided to bring some home with him. Or crew members. Or colleagues. She never knew who would join them for dinner until they arrived.

  She put the roast in the oven and prepped the salad greens, then set the table with the good china and silver candlesticks. She still had a little time to paint, so she went to the studio off the kitchen and threw on her smock. She drew back the tarp that covered the painting of Britney. A sweet tow-headed girl who was one of her students at the Community Center.

  The
smell of the paints reminded her of her eccentric Aunt Violet—a painter and free spirit. For a few moments, she lost herself in the image, the paints, and the feel of the brush in her hand. And it made her feel like her—the real her. The woman she was meant to be. Not the woman she’d become. Closing her eyes she tried to absorb the warmth of the afternoon sun that streamed through the French doors. But the chill of her secret seeped into her bones.

  The timer chimed. She put away her paints and covered the canvas. She rushed upstairs to change. She had to look perfect. She mustn’t upset Phillip. Especially not now.

  Chapter 2

  PHILLIP LOGAN TORE up the access road to the build site and idled in his truck. Though in his late forties, he had a youthful, rugged attractiveness that women were drawn to—and he knew it. And he worked it. He caught his reflection in the side mirror and grinned at himself. Damn, you are a beast, Logan.

  Phillip loved this particular site for its seclusion and the spectacular view of the Valley. When the home was finished, the owners would have wine and canapés while watching the sunset—never considering what it took to build the house there. Clients never truly appreciated his efforts to make things perfect for them. All he ever heard about was what was wrong, how long it took, the cost. Nothing but whining. It was a good thing they paid him a lot of money.

  The house was still in its beginning stages. They’d only started construction a few days ago. But it was framed and sub-floored, and swarmed with workers, machinery, and equipment. Happy noise to Phillip’s ears. If everybody did their jobs and kept their heads out of their asses, they’d finish it ahead of schedule. Which meant a big bonus. He’d already spent that bonus, so they damned well better finish ahead of schedule.

  He scanned the site for Michael Shaw. When he spotted the kid, his hands clenched the steering wheel. Oblivious to Phillip’s surveillance, Shaw drove nails on the second story. His face was serious with focus and he moved with a kind of grace that Phillip envied. As if driving nails was an art form. Phillip’s blood raged hot in his veins. The kid’s brooding looks appealed to the ladies, including Phillip’s wife, Christine. But not for long. He revved the engine and Shaw looked up. They locked eyes long enough for the message to be delivered. Then Logan sped down the hill kicking up gravel and dust. If Shaw had half a brain, he’d heed the warning.

  When Phillip tromped into his office, a few minutes later, he found Martha was still there, hunched over the computer. Through all the years of duking it out in the construction business, she’d been his one constant. He couldn’t have asked for a more loyal friend or employee. She was his office manager but he called her his work wife. She knew what he wanted before he did and always delivered. If only the other women in his life were that reliable. If only his wife was that loyal. Martha looked up from her computer and offered a weary smile. “Hi, boss.”

  He sloped a brow. “You still here?”

  She rolled her neck to work out the cricks. “Monthly billing. Gotta keep the coffers full.” Her smile ebbed. “Where have you been? Didn’t you get my messages?” Her tone teetered on a scold and she was the only woman in his life who could speak to him that way. “The Jensens are on the warpath again and threatening to—”

  Phillip raised his hands to cut her off. “No time for lectures, Martha.”

  “It’s not a lecture, Phillip. But we can’t afford a lawsuit.”

  “I know what the Jensen’s are trying to pull and it ain’t gonna happen. Believe me.” He flapped a hand as though it were nothing. “Call McIntosh.”

  Martha turned off the computer and stood. “I did. Twice. He's been in court all day.” Logan cranked a hand so she’d move onto the next topic. She scooped up a stack of messages from her desk and shuffled through them. “Your mother didn't receive her check. Christine called a couple times. The inspector for the Barron job is set for tomorrow at four.”

  Logan bristled. It was always something. Always somebody with a demand. Pressure behind his eyes promised a headache in his future. “Get McIntosh. I don’t care if they have to yank him out of court. For the money we pay the s.o.b., he can deal with the inconvenience. Transfer a couple thousand into Mother's account. And reschedule the inspector for Friday at three.”

  Martha nodded but wasn’t done with the messages. “Your sister-in-law wants to know if you can help her pick up an armoire.” Phillip grunted. “She says the shop won’t deliver it.”

  Phillip had already stopped listening. It was the same shit that came up every day. He scanned the room. “I was expecting a package.”

  Martha jerked a thumb toward his private office. “On your desk.”

  Phillip snatched the messages and went into his office before she could bring up something else. He closed the door and breathed in the solitude. This was alone time stuff. Some things he just didn’t share—even with Martha.

  The bulky envelope drew him to the desk. He ripped into it and photographs tumbled out. The dirty pictures of Shaw and Christine stared up at him. He knew what he’d find in the envelope but seeing the pictures made the affair real. Now he had the proof. Shaw was a traitor and his wife was a whore.

  Phillip sunk into his chair, as though the air had been sucked out of him. Cold rage twisted his guts. He pulled the Maker’s Mark out of the drawer. He gulped the amber lightning—letting it diffuse into his bloodstream to soothe him. The hammering in his chest slowed and the knotted muscles in his neck loosened. Propping his booted feet on the ridiculously expensive desk, he considered his next move. How painful did he want to make it for them?

  Martha swooped into the room without knocking and scowled at him. “You look like hell.”

  Phillip dropped his feet to the floor and swept the photos into a drawer. He gritted his teeth in a smile. “I'm great.” He poured another drink. “Just great.” He took the prescription bottle he always kept in his pocket and tapped a handful of pills into his palm. The bourbon made the pills go down easy. He fanned his arms. “Don’t I look great?”

  Martha tried to snatch the pill bottle but wasn’t quick enough. He stuck his tongue out at her—giggling like they were playing a game. “That’s not candy.” Concern clouded her eyes. “You're going to kill yourself one of these days. You’re not indestructible.”

  Phillip waved her off. “Stop harping, Mo, it doesn’t suit you.” He winked. “And who says I’m not indestructible?” He showed off a rock-solid bicep. “Hell, I’m a fucking super-hero.”

  Martha balked. “You’re playing with fire.”

  Phillip floated in the fog of the liquor and sniggered. “Lucky for me, I'm fireproof too.”

  Martha held his gaze for a moment, a comment ready to launch. But she let it pass. “Your sister-in-law is on the phone.” That killed his good mood. He gave her a curt shake of the head. She pursed her lips. “She’ll just keep calling until you talk to her.” Phillip narrowed his eyes to reinforce his rejection of the call. Martha glowered then took the call on his phone. “Hi Melanie, I’m sorry, he must have slipped out. I'll tell him you called. Bye now.” She hung up the phone and creased a brow. “I'm not kidding, you worry me.”

  Logan played with the envelope that had held the dirty pictures of Christine and Shaw. “The man who brought the package, did he leave a message?”

  Martha’s gaze drifted to the envelope. “He said he'd be in touch.”

  Phillip’s smile returned and he poured another drink.

  CHRISTINE STEWED AT the table as six became seven and seven became eight. Her perfect dinner ruined. Phillip finally arrived—drunk. He bounded in and kissed her hard on the mouth. He tasted of bourbon. “Yum, you smell like paint thinner.” He rubbed his hands together and glanced at the ruined meal. “What's for dinner?”

  Christine’s voice was as tight as the fists she held under the table. “It's cold. It’s ruined.”

  Phillip plopped into a chair. “Looks good to me.”

  She reached for the serving platter. “I'll warm it up.”

 
He smacked her hand and she yelped. “No.” He grinned like a naughty boy. “Sorry, honey, can't wait. Too hungry.” She backed away, rubbing her hand. He served them both—clanging the serving spoons against the plates. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest. He jutted his bottom lip to mock her. “Oh come on, honey. It was just a little slap.” He pointed his chin at a chair. “Sit down and eat dinner with your loving husband.”

  His eyes dared her to refuse and a chill pirouetted across the back of her neck. She settled at the table and accepted the plate from her husband. The cold meat and vegetables were gray and lifeless. She moved the food around on her plate but never took a bite. “Guess you’ve had a long day,” she murmured.

  Phillip ate with his head bent and face close to the plate. “Well darling, somebody's got to keep you in paints and canvasses.” He raised his eyes to her. “Among other things.”

  His tone was dark but not from the liquor—something else. She gripped her fork to keep her hand from trembling. Does he know? How could he?

  Phillip snapped his fingers in her face. “Earth to wifey. You in there?”

  The clouds of distraction cleared and Phillip’s mocking face emerged. She wanted to claw his eyes out. Make them stop looking at her like that. She exploded out of her chair. “Phillip, it's almost nine o'clock!”

  He squinted at her, his mouth a tight thin line. “I know what time it is.” He tapped the table with his knife. “I know lots of things.”

  Christine’s gaze flitted to the steak knife clutched in his hand, then traveled to her husband’s eyes. “You couldn’t have called? I worry about you. What were you thinking?”

  Phillip gave her a wry smile. “Still working on what I think.” He massaged his temples and groaned then washed down a handful of pills with some wine. She disapproval twisting her expression but couldn’t pull it back. He waggled his knife at her. “Don't give me the look, Christine. You know the pressure I’m under and I need to wind down.” He shook the pill bottle at her. “That’s why I need my little friends.”