the promotion because she was perfect for it … because she was the only one there qualified to get it. Take that Mum, as they said here in England.
“Ms. Mandy?” The second she opened the door, the cat shot out of the house. “You forgot to let poor Mr. Buckles out,” she called, stepping in and locking the door. God, what was that smell? Rosie hung her purse on the wall hook and looked around. She screamed at seeing Ms. Mandy on the bathroom floor, just beyond the tiny kitchen.
“Oh shit, oh shit,” she gasped, hurrying over to her. Rosie’s stomach heaved as she looked around. Crap on Ms. Mandy, on the toilet, the floor. Again she fought a heave as she touched a finger to the old woman’s face. She stifled a scream at finding her cold and stiff.
She ran back to the front door and grabbed her phone out of her purse. Her fingers trembled as she pressed 911. “Shit, shit, shit,” she whispered, redialing 999.
Rosie hurried out of the house when the bile burned in her throat. She gave the dispatcher all the answers they needed and then hung up to pace up and down near the front door. Unable to stand being in the house, she raced to her car and locked herself in to wait. She couldn’t go back in there. Oh God … Ms. Mandy. Dead. In her house.
Rosie clenched her eyes tight, putting the heel of her hand to her throbbing right eye. “Not your fault. Not your fault,” she whispered, rocking a little.
She looked around and the dilapidated houses stared back accusingly at her. She eyed the half-standing metal fence that collapsed midway down the driveway. She scanned the dead overgrowth in the joining yards. Everything in her life took on the face of failure and loss. Disappointment.
She fanned her face, resisting the shit storm brewing in her chest. “Keep calm, Rosie. You did everything you could. Old people die. She was sick.” Oh God. Ms. Mandy was the only living person she was close to, outside of Stacey at work. Now she was gone.
Rosie stared at her phone, not wanting to call Stacey and hear the speech. She would give her the grief-speech in that tone that reminded Rosie that nobody really cared. Not really.
She remembered Josh and gasped in hope only to have the brief salvation yanked from her. She’d given him her number. He didn’t give his.
She slowly lowered her forehead to the steering wheel, fighting an onslaught of fears. With everything happening, she chose to focus on the one being he hadn’t given his number because he hadn’t wanted to. That she’d read into his interest a thousand miles too deep, dreamed it right out of thin air as usual. That the English hunk wasn’t the hero she secretly hoped he might be. That she’d opened herself up to wanting something, needing something. Needing someone. She couldn’t do that. She couldn’t survive that kind of let down in a country a million miles from home. She couldn’t survive another death like that.
Chapter Seven
William
The strong tang of cheap perfume made William’s eyes water. The harshness of it caught in his throat—the poisonous aroma of his mother. But it wasn’t just the stench of it, it was the reminder from it. The scent of coming home. The scent of facing her and her diabolical thoughts and words. It was the acrid scent of poison and fear and all the shit that she had done in his life, smacking him in the chest and making him gasp for breath.
The house was silent. More silent than he had ever known it. Even in all the years of coming home to an empty house as a child, he had never felt silence like this. It pressed against him, heavy on his chest. Silence with the missing promise that she would come home tonight. She wouldn’t, though. She wouldn’t ever come home again.
Sunlight filtered in through the large window at the top of the stairs. Her Mother Mary statue sitting there—a bottle, filled with unholy tap water, nothing pure about it. He could still see her, filling it up, swaggering to the side
“Ms. Mandy?” The second she opened the door, the cat shot out of the house. “You forgot to let poor Mr. Buckles out,” she called, stepping in and locking the door. God, what was that smell? Rosie hung her purse on the wall hook and looked around. She screamed at seeing Ms. Mandy on the bathroom floor, just beyond the tiny kitchen.
“Oh shit, oh shit,” she gasped, hurrying over to her. Rosie’s stomach heaved as she looked around. Crap on Ms. Mandy, on the toilet, the floor. Again she fought a heave as she touched a finger to the old woman’s face. She stifled a scream at finding her cold and stiff.
She ran back to the front door and grabbed her phone out of her purse. Her fingers trembled as she pressed 911. “Shit, shit, shit,” she whispered, redialing 999.
Rosie hurried out of the house when the bile burned in her throat. She gave the dispatcher all the answers they needed and then hung up to pace up and down near the front door. Unable to stand being in the house, she raced to her car and locked herself in to wait. She couldn’t go back in there. Oh God … Ms. Mandy. Dead. In her house.
Rosie clenched her eyes tight, putting the heel of her hand to her throbbing right eye. “Not your fault. Not your fault,” she whispered, rocking a little.
She looked around and the dilapidated houses stared back accusingly at her. She eyed the half-standing metal fence that collapsed midway down the driveway. She scanned the dead overgrowth in the joining yards. Everything in her life took on the face of failure and loss. Disappointment.
She fanned her face, resisting the shit storm brewing in her chest. “Keep calm, Rosie. You did everything you could. Old people die. She was sick.” Oh God. Ms. Mandy was the only living person she was close to, outside of Stacey at work. Now she was gone.
Rosie stared at her phone, not wanting to call Stacey and hear the speech. She would give her the grief-speech in that tone that reminded Rosie that nobody really cared. Not really.
She remembered Josh and gasped in hope only to have the brief salvation yanked from her. She’d given him her number. He didn’t give his.
She slowly lowered her forehead to the steering wheel, fighting an onslaught of fears. With everything happening, she chose to focus on the one being he hadn’t given his number because he hadn’t wanted to. That she’d read into his interest a thousand miles too deep, dreamed it right out of thin air as usual. That the English hunk wasn’t the hero she secretly hoped he might be. That she’d opened herself up to wanting something, needing something. Needing someone. She couldn’t do that. She couldn’t survive that kind of let down in a country a million miles from home. She couldn’t survive another death like that.
Chapter Seven
William
The strong tang of cheap perfume made William’s eyes water. The harshness of it caught in his throat—the poisonous aroma of his mother. But it wasn’t just the stench of it, it was the reminder from it. The scent of coming home. The scent of facing her and her diabolical thoughts and words. It was the acrid scent of poison and fear and all the shit that she had done in his life, smacking him in the chest and making him gasp for breath.
The house was silent. More silent than he had ever known it. Even in all the years of coming home to an empty house as a child, he had never felt silence like this. It pressed against him, heavy on his chest. Silence with the missing promise that she would come home tonight. She wouldn’t, though. She wouldn’t ever come home again.
Sunlight filtered in through the large window at the top of the stairs. Her Mother Mary statue sitting there—a bottle, filled with unholy tap water, nothing pure about it. He could still see her, filling it up, swaggering to the side
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