Last to Die: A gripping psychological thriller not for the faint hearted by Arlene Hunt Page A
Authors: Arlene Hunt
Ads: Link
beside her.
Hector Diaz. She did not know why his face haunted her dreams, but every night he was there, waiting for her. Every night she saw him raise his arm, watched him fall and saw the bright bubbles of blood and his stained teeth. Every night he smiled at her until the light went from his eyes and she sat up feeling hot tears on her face.
‘Hey.’
Mike stood in the doorway of the living room in his boxer shorts, hair tousled, still puffy-faced from sleep.
‘Hey.’
‘How long you been up?’
‘A while?’
‘You sleep at all?’
‘A little.’
Mike crossed his arms and studied her. She knew he wasn’t buying what she was selling.
‘There’s coffee made.’
‘How’s your head?’
‘Oh,’ she lifted her hand to her temple, ‘better I think.’
Mike looked as though he might say something else, but instead turned and headed for the kitchen.
Jessie attempted small talk until Mike was ready for work, but she was glad when he backed out of his parking space and drove up the lane out of view. She had something in mind and could not bear to have him scrutinise her. After he had gone, she took a shower, got dressed, climbed into her car and drove towards town. She knew where she was going, even if she had no idea what she would do once she got there.
She turned into a small dusty street that backed onto the old railway line. She counted houses, then pulled over and switched off the engine. Jessie looked at the house through her windscreen, drinking in the details. She had never been there in person, but had seen it many times on the television. It was a squat, flat-roofed building with a plastic corrugated porch. There was a racing bike double-chained to the railings that led to the front door. It was rusty and the saddle was torn so badly that much of the yellow foam stuffing was visible. The windows were closed tight, the curtains drawn. The woodwork was in need of fresh paint and the garden, little more than patchwork scrub, was littered with broken glass and dried dog faeces the colour of cedar ash.
Someone had spray painted ‘killer’ across the front of the house. It had been whitewashed over, but the outline of the words remained visible.
Jessie sat immobile with her hands on the steering wheel. She looked across the street to the neighbouring houses, wondering who had targeted this one. Did they blame the family? Did they ask themselves how they had not known what moved amongst them?
What was she doing there?
She wished she had an answer, but she did not.
She got out and closed the car door. It sounded heavy in the still, warm air: a solid clunk of metal on metal. Jessie walked up the garden, knocked on the door of the house and waited. Nobody answered. She stood listening for a moment and released the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. She turned to leave, but as she did, a curtain in the window nearest the door was pulled back and a woman looked out. She was heavyset, with long, thick hair hanging to one side in a plait. Jessie recognised her from the newspapers: Ana Diaz, Hector’s mother.
Jessie nodded and the curtain dropped back into place. She waited. Nothing. She began to feel foolish, then flustered. This had been a mistake. She had taken a half turn from the door when it was yanked open and a rangy young man wearing a bandana stepped out onto the porch.
Jessie cleared her throat, startled. ‘Hi, I’m—’
Without pausing to break his stride, he raised his two hands and shoved Jessie in the chest, hard. Jessie fell off the porch and landed on her back in the scrub yard. Before she could catch her breath he jumped down the steps and began swinging his fists. Jessie threw her hands over her head to protect her face as blows rained down.
‘Fuck you, bitch, you killed my brother.’ He punctuated every word with another blow.
Jessie rolled onto her stomach and tried to crawl towards the street.
‘Oh now you wanna go? You wanna go, bitch?
He grabbed her
Hector Diaz. She did not know why his face haunted her dreams, but every night he was there, waiting for her. Every night she saw him raise his arm, watched him fall and saw the bright bubbles of blood and his stained teeth. Every night he smiled at her until the light went from his eyes and she sat up feeling hot tears on her face.
‘Hey.’
Mike stood in the doorway of the living room in his boxer shorts, hair tousled, still puffy-faced from sleep.
‘Hey.’
‘How long you been up?’
‘A while?’
‘You sleep at all?’
‘A little.’
Mike crossed his arms and studied her. She knew he wasn’t buying what she was selling.
‘There’s coffee made.’
‘How’s your head?’
‘Oh,’ she lifted her hand to her temple, ‘better I think.’
Mike looked as though he might say something else, but instead turned and headed for the kitchen.
Jessie attempted small talk until Mike was ready for work, but she was glad when he backed out of his parking space and drove up the lane out of view. She had something in mind and could not bear to have him scrutinise her. After he had gone, she took a shower, got dressed, climbed into her car and drove towards town. She knew where she was going, even if she had no idea what she would do once she got there.
She turned into a small dusty street that backed onto the old railway line. She counted houses, then pulled over and switched off the engine. Jessie looked at the house through her windscreen, drinking in the details. She had never been there in person, but had seen it many times on the television. It was a squat, flat-roofed building with a plastic corrugated porch. There was a racing bike double-chained to the railings that led to the front door. It was rusty and the saddle was torn so badly that much of the yellow foam stuffing was visible. The windows were closed tight, the curtains drawn. The woodwork was in need of fresh paint and the garden, little more than patchwork scrub, was littered with broken glass and dried dog faeces the colour of cedar ash.
Someone had spray painted ‘killer’ across the front of the house. It had been whitewashed over, but the outline of the words remained visible.
Jessie sat immobile with her hands on the steering wheel. She looked across the street to the neighbouring houses, wondering who had targeted this one. Did they blame the family? Did they ask themselves how they had not known what moved amongst them?
What was she doing there?
She wished she had an answer, but she did not.
She got out and closed the car door. It sounded heavy in the still, warm air: a solid clunk of metal on metal. Jessie walked up the garden, knocked on the door of the house and waited. Nobody answered. She stood listening for a moment and released the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. She turned to leave, but as she did, a curtain in the window nearest the door was pulled back and a woman looked out. She was heavyset, with long, thick hair hanging to one side in a plait. Jessie recognised her from the newspapers: Ana Diaz, Hector’s mother.
Jessie nodded and the curtain dropped back into place. She waited. Nothing. She began to feel foolish, then flustered. This had been a mistake. She had taken a half turn from the door when it was yanked open and a rangy young man wearing a bandana stepped out onto the porch.
Jessie cleared her throat, startled. ‘Hi, I’m—’
Without pausing to break his stride, he raised his two hands and shoved Jessie in the chest, hard. Jessie fell off the porch and landed on her back in the scrub yard. Before she could catch her breath he jumped down the steps and began swinging his fists. Jessie threw her hands over her head to protect her face as blows rained down.
‘Fuck you, bitch, you killed my brother.’ He punctuated every word with another blow.
Jessie rolled onto her stomach and tried to crawl towards the street.
‘Oh now you wanna go? You wanna go, bitch?
He grabbed her
Similar Books
