Too Old for This

by Samantha Downing

Genres: General Fiction; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

A retired serial killer’s quiet life is upended by an unexpected visitor. To protect her secret, there’s only one option left—what’s another murder? From bestselling author Samantha Downing.

Lottie Jones thought her crimes were behind her.

Decades earlier, she changed her identity and tucked herself away in a small town. Her most exciting nights are the weekly bingo games at the local church and gossiping with her friends. 

When investigative journalist Plum Dixon shows up on her doorstep asking questions about Lottie’s past and specifically her involvement with numerous unsolved cases, well, Lottie just can’t have that.

But getting away with murder is hard enough when you’re young. And when Lottie receives another annoying knock on the door, she realizes this crime might just be the death of her…

Release date: August 12, 2025

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 400

Sample

CHAPTER 1

The remains of my dinner start to congeal. I bring the plate into the kitchen, rinse it off, and return to my recliner. Pull up my compression socks. Unpause the TV.

The knock at the door is a surprise. It's too late for salespeople or pollsters or children raising money for soccer uniforms. Too late for anything good. I mute the TV and wait for them to go away.

Another knock.

Sit still, I tell myself. God knows, it took me long enough to learn that sometimes the best thing you can do is sit still.

"Mrs. Jones?"

A female voice, one I don't recognize. It's young and a bit whiny, and I wonder if she is selling Girl Scout cookies.

I heave myself up and out of the recliner. My joints do not appreciate this, and show their displeasure with creaks and pops.

"Who's there?" I yell.

"Mrs. Jones, my name is Plum Dixon."

Hard to forget a name like that, even for me. "You're the one who left a message earlier."

"Yes, I'm from-"

"I have nothing to say."

Plum Dixon called twice today. I did not answer either call, and now she is at my front door. I see her for the first time through the peephole. Mid-twenties. Tan skin, blond hair, perky ponytail. A big, annoying smile.

"Please, Mrs. Jones. I just want to talk to you."

She's got the persistence. Too much of that and it becomes a disease.

I am hardly ready for company. My loungewear is faded and old, fraying at the cuffs, and my house shoes are shabby and worn. As for my hair and face, there's not much room for improvement at this point.

I unhook the chain, twist the dead bolt, open the door.

Plum's eyes light up.

"I'm sorry for showing up unannounced like this," she says. "I wasn't sure what else to do."

"You could've left me alone."

"I'm sorry. Please, let me explain so you understand what I'm trying to do."

"Come inside already. The cold air is getting in."

She hops in like a little bunny and looks around. Formal sitting room on the left, living room on the right, grand staircase in the middle. The floor has seen better days. So has the paint on the walls. But the bones are good. That's what people always say.

The house is much bigger than I need and requires too much maintenance. It's old and more than I can handle, which is why it looks the way it does. We match, me and this house, though it's important to note that I'm the younger one.

Plum runs her hand along the carved banister. "So beautiful."

"This way."

I lead her down the hall and into the kitchen, which was last updated sometime in the '50s. Black-and-white tile floor, built-in breakfast bar, pull-down ironing board. The chipped and worn cabinets are a faded seafoam green.

Plum takes a seat before I can offer her one.

"Thank you so much for inviting me in."

"Is Plum your given name?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Fascinating." Fill the teapot, put it on the stove, set out two cups with saucers and spoons. My standard guest etiquette. "How did you find me?"

"Public records."

It couldn't have been that easy. If it were, someone else would've found me by now.

"Go ahead, then," I say. "Say what you came here to say."

"I'm making a docuseries-"

"Earl Grey or peppermint?"

"You don't have to . . ." Plum stops, realizing this is not a negotiation. "Earl Grey would be great."

"That's my favorite, too."

"As I was saying, Reboot Productions specializes in telling the story behind the story. Here, let me show you the site." She pulls out her phone and jumps out of her seat, shoving the screen in front of my face.

"Looks nice."

"What I like to do is really dig into a story. I investigate-"

"So you're a reporter."

"No, I'm the producer. I own the company." Plum smiles. She is quite proud of this. I'm sure it is a tremendous accomplishment, but I would be happier if she stopped hounding me.

"Congratulations."

The teapot whistles. I pour boiling water into our cups.

"Thank you. But I'm more interested in talking about you, not me."

Here it is. I may be seventy-five years old, but I know a sales pitch when I hear one. It hasn't been that long since I bought my last car, and Plum reminds me a little of the car salesman. Not a compliment.

I set the tray of tea and sugar and milk and spoons down on the table.

"You really didn't have to go to this much trouble," Plum says.

"I think I have some cookies as well."

"You don't have to-"

"It's no trouble. No trouble at all."

She puts a dollop of cream in her tea, ignores the sugar, and stirs it before removing the tea bag. Now the string is all wound up in the stem of the spoon. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her try to discreetly untangle it.

We all have different skills, I suppose.

"Mrs. Jones, I think-"

"Please. Call me Lottie."

"Lottie, okay. Well, Lottie, you've had one of the most fascinating lives I've come across. Lots of people would love to hear your side of the story."

I sit down and stir my own tea, not adding sugar or milk. Both are bad, according to my doctor.

"Your story is exactly what we do," she says. "We investigate old crimes and compare what we know now to how it was reported then. You lost your job, your family, probably all your friends. And the names they called you were so horrible! The media acted like you were some kind of she-devil."

She-devil. They did call me that, along with "that woman serial killer" and sometimes "the psycho bitch." It all happened before the internet. The era of tabloid journalism was a precursor of things to come.

"How's your tea?" I ask.

"Lottie, I want to tell the story of what happened when you were wrongfully accused of a crime. You were tried and convicted by the public without ever being arrested, and I want to focus on what that was like for you."

"Why would I want you to dredge all that up? The world has forgotten about me. I moved on years ago."

"Did you?" she says. Plum glances around my ancient kitchen, in the house where I live alone. To someone like her, Bluebell Lane probably feels like the end of the world.

This girl has some bite. Good for her.

"Let me be very clear," I say. "I don't want this brought up again, and I don't want a docuseries made about me."

"I'm not going to blame you for the murders or claim that you should've been arrested. I want to exonerate you once and for all. And just so you know, I plan to make the series anyway."

That's a new piece of information.

Plum has aquamarine eyes. Clear, translucent, beautiful. Long, natural lashes and rosy cheeks. The glow of youth radiates out of every pore.

For a moment, I imagine the series she has described. An accused murderer-me-is absolved, cleared, exculpated. An elderly woman who was the victim of a system that got it all wrong.

But I don't believe in fairy tales. If she made this show and put me all over the internet, that isn't how it would end. Not for me.

I stand up. "Silly me, I forgot the napkins. But please continue. I'm listening."

"If you agree to an interview, we can do it right here at your house. I'm flexible about time. We can break it up into a few different interviews or do it all at once. Whatever you prefer."

"You live around here?"

"In Seattle. But I can come down anytime, and I'll bring a cameraman with me."

"Good to know." I reach into the corner, to the stand near the back door, and pick up my old umbrella. "Why don't you show me some clips of what you've done before?"

Plum buries her head in her phone, scrolling to find something to show me. I stand behind her and lift the umbrella above my head.

She looks up.

Unfortunately for Plum, she sees it coming.

CHAPTER 2

I lean against the counter, feeling a little winded.

Plum is on the floor, the blood from her head is a bright red spot on the black-and-white tile. It was disappointing that I had to hit her twice. But in my defense, I wasn't prepared for this tonight.

First, the cleanup. If I'm one minute late, that blood in the grout is going to be a problem.

I rummage around for a plastic grocery bag. They're in short supply these days; everything is reusable. I find one stuffed deep in the back of a drawer and wrap it around Plum's head, tying it at the neck to prevent her blood from spreading farther.

With that done, I push her body aside.

Hydrogen peroxide gets rid of what's left. I've known for decades that neither bleach nor ammonia is good enough. You have to use peroxide. But I suppose all of that is on the internet these days.

Next, Plum's car keys. They're in her pocket. I head outside and find her little silver compact parked on the half-circle driveway, right in front of the house. The inside does not look like an airplane cockpit. The car is an economical model without all the bells and whistles.

Plum has quite a bit of stuff in her car. Empty coffee cup, bottled iced tea, trash left over from lunch, and some clothing. It looks like she changed her shirt right before knocking on my door.

In the trunk, I find a bag with gym clothes, sneakers, a water bottle, and an energy bar. No electronic devices.

I head back into the house. She brought a tote bag inside with her. It's in the kitchen next to her chair, and I nudge her body with my foot to get to it. Files, wallet, lipstick, mints, and a variety of other things that can wait. The problems are her phone and her laptop.

I'm hardly a Luddite. I have a Wi-Fi network, my own cell phone, even a computer, but I am no expert. It's impossible to keep up with advances today. If I take a nap, I miss some new technological advance. And I love my naps.

Regardless of what's new and improved or better, faster, stronger, I make one assumption about modern life: Every device is being tracked. I learned that a few years ago in a free class at the library. Now I've got to decide how to swing this data into my favor.

I pick up a cookie. Shortbread, full of butter and sugar.

Plum's gadgets will track her here, in my home, at this moment. If I destroy the phone and laptop, my house will be her last known location.

That won't do.

Now I have to get dressed and go out, no debate about that. Certain things need to be done, and you can't skip any of them. Nobody wants to end up in the pokey.

I use that word because it sounds better than prison, not because it's from my generation. I'm not that old.

Once I get all bundled up in a coat, boots, hat, and gloves, I wipe down the gadgets. For me, it's rather late at night. My day should be long over. But for some, the world is just getting started. I remember those days when life didn't begin until the sun went down, but that was fifty years ago.

I pull out of the driveway in Plum's car and head down the street. The houses here are large, same as mine, but they've been added to, redone, rebuilt. That makes me, and my outdated house, the bad stepchild of Bluebell Lane. But, as I mentioned, I've been called worse.

There are only a few places left in Baycliff to get a taxicab that accepts cash. My options are limited to the major transportation hubs: the airport, the train and bus stations. Plum is-was-young and impatient. I saw that for myself. Not the type to waste time traveling on a train or bus. The airport it is.

I pull into the parking lot and pick a place in the corner, where it's the darkest. Lot of shadows. That gives me a chance to drop her phone and laptop on the ground. I run over both. Twice.

Plum's digital life ends here.

My last stop is the arrivals pickup, where I dump the electronics in the garbage and search for a cab.


Plum’s body is not big. She was short and petite, and I should be able to drag her right across the floor.

This is difficult to admit, but I'm a little afraid that something will go horribly awry and I will end up with a broken hip or arm or leg. An injury like that would be disastrous.

I take a sip of tea before heading to the backyard. My garden is in the center, vegetables on one side and herbs on the other. The rest of the yard is overgrown. It's tended to a couple times a year when I break down and pay someone to do it.

In the garden shed, I get my wheelbarrow.

Once it's in the kitchen, I tip it sideways next to Plum so I can shove her right into it, then stand it upright. Again, I take a minute to rest.

I hate that this is necessary. My body has been turning against me for a while now, acting like it's no longer happy to be here. The worst part is that my mind is still sharp. I am constantly aware of my body's rebellion.

I swallow a few ibuprofen and get on with it, wheeling Plum into the garage and over to the freezer.

It opens from the top, which means I have to prop up the wheelbarrow and drop her in from above. The process is not pretty and takes an extraordinary amount of effort, but finally Plum is inside. I slam the freezer shut and roll the wheelbarrow back out to the shed.

The last thing I do before going to bed is plug in my rechargeable chain saw.

CHAPTER 3

I wake up with a bit of regret. And I don't use that term lightly, because regret is one of the most insidious things out there. Arthritis is a close second.

You can't live and not have regrets. Some call them life lessons and try to figure out what they've learned from each experience. That's well and good, but you'll always wish you hadn't done it in the first place.