Retribution

by Lisa Jackson

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

From the #1 New York Times bestselling author comes a tale of dark secrets and revenge centered around an exclusive boarding school in historic Salzburg, Austria. Will appeal to readers of suspense and fans of authors including Iris Johansen, Sandra Brown, Nancy Bush, and Lisa Childs.
 
Lucy Champagne was sent to St. Cecilia’s after her movie-star mother was brutally attacked by her sleazy boyfriend, Ray Watkins. Lucy’s damning testimony landed Ray a twenty-five-year sentence . . .
 
But now, Ray is free . . .
 
And he’s going to find Lucy and make her pay, no matter how far and how fast she runs . . .

*Previously published in the collection Afraid
 

Release date: April 23, 2024

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 112

Sample

Hiding in Mama’s bathroom.

Holding Mama’s special scissors, unable to escape.

How many times had she heard, “Don’t touch Mama’s things” from her mother, and now she was going to be caught.

She bit her lip. She wasn’t supposed to be in Mama’s suite, and she especially wasn’t supposed to be stealing the scissors, but she needed them to trim her own hair, which Mama insisted couldn’t be cut.

She was used to sneaking into Mama’s room and going through her things, playing dress-up, pretending to be a big-time movie star like Mama, who had changed her name from Christy Smith to Tina Champagne the day she’d landed in Hollywood—or so Lucy’s older sister, Marilyn, had confided. When no one was looking, Lucy had slipped into Mama’s superhigh heels, donned her sparkly sunglasses, put on her lipstick, and tried on her hats. Lucy was familiar with everything in Mama’s wardrobe and had lots of time alone to explore and touch, especially the items she was forbidden to, warned against. Even when Mama said, “That’s expensive, don’t touch Mama’s Fabergé egg pendant, oh, no, no, no,” or “That bracelet is diamonds, dear, a gift from your father who gave it to me so I wouldn’t divorce him, well, it didn’t work, now did it? But please, Lucille, leave it be,” or “You know you shouldn’t be going through Mama’s drawers, not even this nightstand. That gun is loaded, so hands off, missy. It’s very, very dangerous, but Mama needs it for protection. Dear Lord, Lucy, am I going to have to put a lock on my door?”

But she never had.

And now, if Mama were to come into her bathroom . . . Lucy would be in big, big trouble. Slowly, silently, she backed away from the door that was only open a crack and into the shower room. Heart pounding, she sent up a prayer to God that Mama would go right to sleep.

Then Lucy could sneak down the hallway to her own room.

Mama was rustling in the bedroom, the frame creaking slightly as she settled into her canopied bed with its twinkling fairy lights, the radio playing softly, a tall glass of her clear drink, Mama’s “nightcap” or vodka, as Marilyn had told her. Now the glass was nearly drained, a few ice cubes melting.

Good!

If Mama would just fall asleep, then—

She heard footsteps in the hallway and silently cursed her older brother and sister. It would be just like Clark and Marilyn to come bursting into Mama’s bedroom and ruin everything.

The door banged open.

“What the—?” Mama said, obviously surprised. “What’re you doing here?”

“I live here,” a gruff male voice said, and Lucy’s heart sank. Ray. Mama’s boyfriend, her “boy toy,” as Marilyn called him.

“Not anymore.” Mama’s voice was firm. Harsh. Even now, it made Lucy cringe. “Get out.”

He was big and muscly, his teeth a slash of white in a jaw that always looked like he needed to shave, and he didn’t walk so much as swagger.

Lucy didn’t like him, didn’t like the way he looked at her.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he said, slurring his words. “We need ta talk. We got problems, we both . . . we both know it.”

“Our ‘problems’ are because you can’t keep your hands off other women. Younger women. Much younger women.”

“Thaaas what I wanna talk about—”

“Leave now, Ray. Or I’ll call the police.”

“C’mon, babe, you don’t mean it.”

“Try me.”

Lucy’s throat went dry, and though she knew it was crazy, she inched forward in the darkened bathroom to the doorway where she could peer with one eye into the bedroom, lit only by the fairy lights vining over the crossbeams of the canopy. Mama was lying in her usual spot, her silky sleep mask pushed over her forehead, her red hair poking out at all angles.

Ray stood next to the bed, that knowing smile pinned to his face, a drink in one hand.

But Mama wasn’t buying it. Lucy saw the fury in her mother’s face. Tina Champagne didn’t like to be bothered when she’d gotten ready for bed, her face slathered in some kind of miracle antiaging cream. Mama never allowed anyone to see her less than “camera ready.” Lucy knew it, and her sister and brother knew it, and stupid Ray should know it, too.

But Ray was pushy, and crude, thinking he could sweet talk or bully his way into Mama’s good graces. He couldn’t. Not anymore than Tina’s other three husbands had been able to when Tina had decided to divorce each of them.

Ray swirled his drink, ice cubes clinking. With the other hand, he reached for Mama’s head, snapped off her mask, and tangled his fingers in her thick red curls, drawing her face closer to him, to his waist, where his T-shirt pulled from the waistband of his Levi’s.

“Don’t,” she warned.

Lucy’s fingers tightened over the shears.

“Come on, baby. Relax.” He started rubbing his hand over the back of Mama’s neck, drawing her closer. “You know you want it—”

Mama spat through clenched teeth, “I said, ‘Get out, Ray,’ and I meant it.” She pushed him backward. Hard. Then opened the drawer to her nightstand and riffled through it frantically.

“Wha–?” He stumbled, slipping on the thick, faux fur of the white carpet. His shoulder hit the wall with a loud crash and the house shuddered. Someone down the hallway yelled. Ray tried to stand, got tangled in the cord for the fairy lights. The room was suddenly pitch black.

“Mom?” Marilyn yelled over the sound of running feet.

“Are you okay?” Clark yelled from the corridor.

“Get the hell out! Now!” Mama said into the darkened room.

“You fucking bitch,” Ray growled, and Lucy, her eyes trying to adjust to the darkness, sensed him climbing to his feet, heading toward the bed.

She opened the door and slipped through, her fingers holding the shears, point side down in a death grip.

“Stay away from me!” Mama warned. “Ray, I’ve got a gun and I’ll use it. You know I will!”

“I thought you were going to call the police,” he taunted, his voice a snarl.

Mama ordered, “Don’t!”

Lucy rushed forward.

Mama screamed as the door to the bedroom flew open, allowing in a sliver of weak illumination from the night-light in the hallway.

“Oh, Jesus!” Marilyn gasped, running inside. “Stop. Oh God, stop!”

Clark was a step behind. “What the fuck?”

Lucy saw Mama pinned to the mattress in a tangle of bedclothes, Ray atop her. Mama was struggling. He had his hands on her throat. Lucy cried out and, raising the scissors high, flung herself at the bed. Airborne, she steeled herself, then, as she landed, plunged the scissors deep.

That was a bit of a lie. They still had. . .