Watch Your Back

by Terri Parlato

Genres: Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

Amid the depths of a bleak Boston winter, a recently married couple find their lives and their relationship unraveling after a series of deadly accidents, in this brilliantly twisting domestic thriller perfect for fans of Stacy Willingham, Greer Hendricks, and Megan Miranda.

Accidents happen, no matter how careful or well-intentioned you are. Psychiatrist Eve Thayer frequently reassures her patients of that fact. There are even times when accidents have good consequences—like when Eve met her now-husband, Nathan, at his collision shop after another car ran her off the road.
 
After a whirlwind courtship, Nathan and Eve have settled into domestic life. They have a lovely home on a quiet street, a beautiful baby girl, and even the perfect babysitter to care for her. And yet, something isn’t quite right.
 
The stress in Eva’s life is mounting, both professionally and personally. Though the clinic where she works has been remodeled since its notorious days as an institution for the criminally insane, she feels increasingly uneasy there. And in her own neighborhood, a break-in at a nearby empty house hasn't helped, either.  
 
Detective Rita Myers hasn’t yet figured out whether Eve is a target or a suspect, but every disturbing discovery in this usually peaceful neighborhood seems to revolve around her. Only as a deadly ice storm crashes through does it become clear just how far from perfect Eve and Nathan’s lives really are. And as the cracks in the surface come to light, so do the sinister secrets that lie beneath . . .
 

Release date: December 24, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Three Weeks earlier

SOMETIMES YOU NEED TO TALK TO A FRIEND. I KNOW MY HUSBAND IS waiting for me at home. He’s probably already fed and bathed and put our sweet little girl to bed by now, so I’ve already missed that. My life is overwhelming me at the moment. Something I thought would never happen. But I never thought I’d be married with a baby either. It wasn’t in my plan. The plan was medical school, work in a specialty, and pursue a professional life with a vengeance, which I’ve done. I didn’t count on a weak moment and meeting Nathan Liddle.

When my workday ended, all I wanted to do was sit in a dark bar and have a drink with someone who’s known me forever, so I called Rachel. She’s my best friend from college, and the only friend I’ve managed to hold on to since I started medical school fifteen years ago. We were randomly paired as roommates freshman year and bonded quickly, learning the college ropes together. Occasionally another girl would try to join our circle, but Rachel and I were joined at the hip in those days, feeling no need to admit another person into our friendship, which sometimes had other people calling us stuck-up. But we weren’t really. At least I didn’t see it that way.

When I walked into our dorm room for the first time, Rachel had already decorated the walls with artsy prints and made up both beds with matching purple comforters and jewel-toned throw pillows. Most girls would’ve been irritated at her presumptuousness, but I was relieved and grateful. Rachel said we could change it if I wanted, but I was fine with her taking the initiative. The room was pretty and organized and I didn’t have to worry about that. I only had to put away my clothes and the boxes of books I’d brought from home.

Rachel and I were so different but complemented one another perfectly. She was the outgoing, sociable one, while I tended to immerse myself in my books and schoolwork.

She sits across from me at a little table by the front window. We are a total mismatch still. She’s an artist who works for a gallery on Graybridge Square. Rachel wears her dark hair nearly to her waist, dresses like some latter-day hippie. She never married, but instead has had a string of relationships, moving on as she became bored.

“So, what’s going on?” she asks, twirling a dark tress around her finger.

I blow out a tired breath and take a sip of my pinot noir. “It’s just been a day.” I don’t want to get into the issues that crop up in my professional life. Rachel isn’t a lot of help there, so I stick to my personal problems instead. “And, well, Nathan and I are barely speaking to each other.”

Rachel shakes her head, her dark eyes looking off over my shoulder. She warned me not to marry Nathan so soon. We’d only dated six months, but I figured it was Rachel’s aversion to legal coupling that had her so concerned. I’d let my emotions rule me, which is out of character. But Nathan and I’d been happy in the beginning, even with a surprise pregnancy. We hadn’t even talked about children.

She doesn’t say, “I told you so.” She’s too good a friend for that, but I feel it.

“So, what are you going to do, Dr. Psychiatrist?”

Rachel has no qualms about throwing my profession in my face as if I should have the answer to every human problem. “I don’t know. Work is crazy right now and I don’t need this.”

“It’s always crazy, isn’t it?” She smirks and nibbles an olive she fished out of her martini.

“Poor choice of words, and yes, it’s always crazy.” Over the sound system, Perry Como sings “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” as people laugh and talk at the bar. It always seems strange to me to hear Christmas music in a place where people come to forget their troubles, and two days after the big day makes it feel even worse. The holidays are a sure-fire depression trigger. We see our numbers rise right before Thanksgiving and multiply until after the new year, then the numbers settle out, like a collective sigh of relief that the holiday season is over.

“But these last few months have been especially tough with the new hospital opening,” I say. “I haven’t been around much.” I was tapped by our corporate owners to lead the medical staff at their newest private psychiatric treatment center here in the suburbs. Our main hospital is in downtown Boston. But since Nathan and I live out in Graybridge, the commute was attractive as well as the promotion. I see patients daily, some outpatient, some residing in our hospital wing. The increased pressure of leading a new facility has me working sixty hours and more most weeks, and Nathan and I have had very little time together, let alone family time with the baby. Why didn’t I think about the extra hours, the workload, before I accepted the position? But in typical fashion, I jumped at the challenge.

“I’m not home enough, Rachel, and when I am, I don’t have anything left for Nathan and the baby.” It takes a lot for me to admit this. I’ve always prided myself on being able to handle everything that comes my way. I sip my wine, run a hand through my hair. How do people do this? Marriage, career, children? I sigh.

Rachel squeezes my arm. “Nathan knew that when he married you, Eve. He should be supporting you.”

“Yes. I know. He does his best. He’s taken on most of the parenting duties, and that makes me feel guilty.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I guess we need to talk. I don’t want to throw in the towel this soon. And then there’s Rosewyn. We owe it to her to sort things out, right?”

“So, talk to him.”

“I will.” That’s what I need to do before I let things fester and get worse.

“You look exhausted.”

“Yeah. At least the baby is sleeping through the night. That’s helped. But I’m drained.”

Rachel shakes her head. “Why do you work so hard, Eve? Really. You know Nathan would rather have you home more, and your mom doesn’t give a shit. Who are you trying to impress?”

I sip my wine and sniff. “I know. It’s just me. You know how I am.” Growing up, I couldn’t figure out what I’d done wrong. Why didn’t my parents seem to realize I existed? I was their only child and had every material possession I could ask for. My dad was a highly respected cardiac surgeon. My mom kept a beautiful home and was involved in the community, but they were always busy, too busy to spend much time with me, so I worked like a dog, even as a little girl, to win every award, place first in every competition trying to get their attention. I think I went into psychiatry to try to understand their disinterest, and at long last, I figured it out. They were both narcissists. All that mattered to my mom was her social standing and her group of fawning friends. My dad was all about his work and the accolades he acquired. I realized once I got into my specialty training, that for people like them, no one else really mattered in the normal, human way. I could’ve won a Nobel Prize at ten and they wouldn’t have cared, except to be able to brag to their friends as if they were responsible. It was a hard lesson to learn, but the epiphany changed my life, allowed me to realign my own thinking. I still work like a dog, but for myself. To prove to myself that I’m worth something, I guess. So, maybe I haven’t figured everything out because, right now, my life is almost more than I can handle.

“Why don’t you take some time off?” Rachel drains her martini and pushes the glass aside. “When was the last time you had a vacation?”

“What about the baby?”

“Take her with you. Load up Nathan’s SUV and drive down to Disney World. Do something normal if that’s what you want.”

I smile at the thought of normal. “We should. We really should.”

“Do it then. Forget about all this shit.” Rachel waves her hand in the air as if the bar were a metaphor for my life.

Our server, a young woman with long blue hair, stops by. “Another round?” she asks, eyeing our empty glasses.

“What do you think, Eve? I’m game if you are,” Rachel says.

Before Nathan, Rachel and I would often stay out late, talking, laughing. I feel guilty about that too. I haven’t had much time for my friend, and we used to spend so much time together. But my mind flips back to my husband and our little girl.

“No. I’m good.” I feel tears in my eyes, not like me, but I feel everything crashing into me at once. “I should get home.”

“We’re done,” Rachel says. “We need our check.” The server hurries away. “Really, Eve, get away for a while. Spend some ‘quality time,’ as they say, with Nathan and do some hard thinking about what’s best for you. What do you really want?”

“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” plays in the background. The red and green lights tacked around the window twinkle. I throw my credit card on the check. “Thanks for the advice,” I say, and I mean it.

Rachel smiles. “Any time, Doc.”

I HEAR EVE’S CAR PULL INTO THE GARAGE. IT’S A LITTLE AFTER 8:30 P.M., but I’m used to her late work nights. My gaze shifts back to Monday Night Football, which just started, still first quarter. She did text me a half hour ago to say she’d be home soon.

I’d left my dirty dishes in the sink. I’d warmed up leftover Chinese for dinner. Neither one of us cooks, so meals are pretty random. But Eve doesn’t like a mess, and I consider jumping up and loading my dishes in the dishwasher before she gets into the house. I really don’t feel like it. After putting the baby down, I planted my ass on the couch and don’t feel like moving, but I do because I don’t feel like having an argument tonight either.

I hear the hall closet door open and close. Then Eve breezes into the kitchen just as I shut the door of the dishwasher. She looks tired, more than usual.

“Sorry I’m so late.” She pushes up the sleeves of her sweater and reaches for a glass, fills it at the fridge with cold water. “I, um, stopped off at Hartshorn’s for a drink with Rachel,” she blurts out like a confession. “She was having a bad day and called me.”

“That’s fine,” I say, but I can’t help but feel resentful.

“We just had one drink. How’s Rosewyn? Did she take her bottle okay?”

“Yeah. She’s asleep. No problem.” I’d picked up the baby from the sitter, as usual. “You look tired.” I clutch Eve’s thin forearm. It’s covered in new bruises. “What happened?”

She draws a deep breath. “Tough day. I had a patient kick me in the stomach and she must’ve left those bruises as well.”

“Jesus, Eve. Are you all right?”

She nods. Leans against the counter, closes her eyes while she drains her water.

“You need combat pay for that job of yours.” I’ve told her that a million times. Why, of all the specialties my wife could’ve chosen, did she decide to go into psychiatry? I’ve never gotten an answer to that that made sense, so I gave up trying to understand Eve’s professional choices. But soon after our marriage, I discovered the steel that hides beneath that delicate exterior. If Eve Thayer wanted to go ten rounds with the champ, I’d put my money on her. It’s not that she’s so physically strong, although she’s not a ninety-pound weakling either, it’s just a strength of will like I’ve never seen in another person. Eve goes through life with that proverbial chip on her shoulder like she’s daring you to try to knock it off.

When we found out we were pregnant two weeks after the wedding, I cried. I can’t lie. We hadn’t even talked about kids and neither of us felt ready. At first, Eve was devastated. Her work came first. She’d made that abundantly clear during our short courtship. But she rallied. We can do this, she said, and I believed her. And so far, we have. When Rosewyn was born, I was smitten, and Eve was thrilled too. We’ve been making it work, at least the parenting part.

“Did you have any dinner?” I ask her.

She shakes her head and moves toward the fridge.

“I left you half the Chinese.”

“Thanks. I think I’ll just have a yogurt.”

We sit in the dark living room and watch football. Eve likes sports. That’s one of the things we have in common. And we do have quite a bit in common actually. I feel guilty as I watch her spoon up her yogurt and delicately slip it into her mouth, her blond hair reflecting like a beacon in the light of the TV.

We met when she showed up at my collision shop two years ago. I saw her from the lobby through the plate glass window. It was near closing time when this white Lexus with front-end damage entered the lot. I watched as one of the guys met her as she pulled to a stop. She exited her vehicle like a Hollywood star arriving at the red carpet. She was tall, slender, with that dazzling hair and a sheepish smile on her red-painted lips. Like she was so sorry to be troubling us. I walked out and introduced myself and told my employee that I would handle this since it was closing time, and I knew he needed to pick up his kids from daycare. An excuse, but real enough.

She was so sweet and deceptively needy, and I reassured her that we would take care of everything, coordinate with her insurance company, get her into a nice loaner. Nothing to worry about. The process went as smoothly as I could make it, and in the encroaching darkness, in the empty office, she placed her hand, her long slim fingers on my sleeve and thanked me.

Then she asked if I wanted to go to the bar across the street for a drink. That was it. We were together after that whenever she was free. In the beginning, I didn’t mind her work schedule. It left me plenty of time for the gym and my friends who were still single, although they were quickly dwindling in number. But Eve and I were happy.

But now, after nearly a year and a half of marriage, I think we made a mistake. We don’t have much time together, and when we do, we don’t seem to have much to say to one another. It’s like during our whirlwind courtship we said everything we could think of. There’s nothing left to tell.

And this new job of hers seems to have sapped all her energy. I don’t think she’s happy there, but she won’t admit it, and she won’t talk about it, like she’s facing some big battle and she’s in it alone.

So, life has become dull and lonely here in this old house that we were at one time so interested in renovating. The fixer-upper had so much potential. It’s like it was a good idea, an exciting idea when we bought it, until reality settled in and we were just too damn tired to do anything about it. And taking care of an infant has taken center stage.

I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. My eyes dart to Eve, but she’s leaning back against the couch cushions, oblivious, empty yogurt container clutched in her hand resting on her lap. I check my screen, jump up, and head down the hall. She doesn’t even notice as I leave the room.

TACKY CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS STILL TWINKLE IN THE SQUAD ROOM as I pass through with my morning coffee. Someone needs to take the initiative and take them down, but it’s not going to be me. Seniority should buy you something.

It’s a bit drafty, and the old building that houses the Graybridge Police Department is chilly. Chief Murphy told me he’d called a repairman to take a look at the HVAC system. But ironically, while the rest of the building is an icebox, it’s hotter than hell in my cubbyhole office. I’m tucked away down the hall from the squad room where gray cubicles house most of the officers and our two young detectives. I force my window open a crack. We really need a new building but have made do with this 1970s retrofitted government structure since I’ve been out here in the burbs after years with the Boston PD.

I really can’t complain. Things have been pretty slow the last few weeks and that suits me after the fall we had. I sip my coffee, heinous, but hot, and power up my laptop. I fish through my satchel, ready to call the lab about an open case. At the Graybridge PD, we’re too small to have detectives assigned to specific areas like homicide, vice, or narcotics. Here, we do it all. Just as I find my phone, there’s a knock at my door.

“What are you doing way out here so early?” I ask the attractive middle-aged man standing in my office.

He smiles; his eyes meet mine. “Thought I’d pay you a visit. I had a relatively free morning.” Joe Thorne is an agent with the FBI. He works out of the Boston office. We’re friends but have been seeing one another off and on for a few years, so I guess we’re more than friends. It’s complicated, at least for me.

“But I’m probably going to be busy out of town in a couple days,” Joe says, “and I won’t be around for a while. That’s why I wanted to stop by.”

I sit up straight and push my dark hair over my shoulder and hope my gray roots aren’t too obvious. I was too tired this morning to put my hair up in its usual messy bun. And my appointment at the salon is still a week away. “New big case?”

“Yeah. I’ll be in Maine for a couple of weeks, maybe more. Helping them out up there.”

“Anything you can talk about?”

“Not now. You have time to grab a cup of coffee?”

I glance down at my sludgy, breakroom brew. “I can make time. Pretty slow this morning.” Besides, I need to head out and talk to a woman who reported a break-in yesterday. I stand and reach for my satchel, throw a file folder inside.

We both drive since I have work to do afterwards. I pull my old van to a stop in the small lot next to the coffee shop. I’m wondering what’s the big deal that Joe had to drive out here from Boston. Why not just give me a call and let me know that he’ll be gone for a couple of weeks? Not like we’re serious or anything.

The windows are steamy inside the shop, and we settle at a small table in the corner. The coffee is good and rich, a big improvement over the station coffee, and Joe and I both grabbed a donut, too, raspberry jelly for me, glazed for him. Junk food is my weakness. Oh well, I’ll pedal ten more miles on my bike tonight.

“So, how’s work?” he asks.

“Slow for a change, which is nice.”

“Especially this time of year. How was your Christmas?”

“Pretty good. Saw Danny and Charlotte.” My brother and his daughter are my closest relatives. “And Collin, of course. He and André had me up for dinner.” My upstairs neighbors own a café and catering business, so a meal at their apartment is always amazing.”

“How’s Danny these days?” Joe asks.

“He’s good. Semester’s over and he’s working on an article about literature in Colonial America. I think that’s what he said.” My brother is the most well-educated of my siblings, a professor at a small private college. He and I are the youngest of the nine McMahon kids. And while Danny is a successful and accomplished professor, he’s also a functioning alcoholic, something that few people realize. Joe and I meet him for dinner occasionally, and Joe has taken a concerned interest in him as he knows how close Danny and I are.

We finish our donuts; my fingers are dusted with powdered sugar. Joe wipes his hand over his mouth, lingering on a scar from a long-ago knife fight, which he still hasn’t told me about. The day is so overcast, the coffee shop is dim. And in the low light, I can’t help but appreciate Joe’s dark eyes, feel a tingle when he looks at me.

He reaches for my hand. “I’ve got tickets for Eric Clapton,” he says.

Joe and I share an affinity for classic rock. “Really? I’ve never seen him.”

“Me neither. I thought you might like to go next month.”

“Sounds great. When exactly?”

“Let me find the tickets.” He pulls reading glasses from his shirt pocket and scrolls through his phone. Virtual tickets. Nothing is like it used to be when you held on to concert ticket stubs like some treasured trophy and pasted them into a scrapbook. Joe finds what he’s looking for and passes his phone to me.

“Oh, right,” I say, assessing the concert details. The venue is in upstate New York. Far enough away to have to be an overnight trip. The implication dawns on me. Despite our dates, Joe and I, for some reason, haven’t slept together yet. Well, except for the one time when we first got together a few years ago. Then we lost touch and only recently reconnected. I don’t know why I’ve avoided taking the next step. Me, I guess, always pulling back.

“You don’t have to go, Rita,” he says. “My son said he and his wife would take the tickets if I changed my mind.”

I swallow. “Yeah. Funny how our music has stood the test of time. Lots of younger people appreciate it.”

“They do.” He waits for my answer.

Get a grip, Rita. Spending the night with Joe doesn’t mean we’re getting married or anything. I’ve just gotten so comfortable being on my own after divorcing my husband, Ed, years ago. I sip my coffee and Joe chuckles, squeezes my hand, and lets it go.

“Think about it while I’m gone.”

I pull into the driveway of a large, two-story. It’s located in one of Graybridge’s strangest neighborhoods. That is, one that’s difficult to figure out. The houses are older, though not historic. It was a beautiful neighborhood thirty years ago but has been in decline the last five or ten years. Some houses are still nicely maintained, but others have seen better days, peeling paint, rotted clapboards.

This house, like some of the others, is being renovated. No one lives here yet, but the angry homeowner greets me at my van door before I can get out of my vehicle.

“You the detective?” a husky, flannel-shirted woman asks.

“Yes. Detective Rita Myers,” I say, slinging my satchel over my shoulder and standing on the cracked driveway.

“Wilma Parnell.” She shakes my hand with a firm, painful grip. “Come on in.”

She turns and strides quickly up the sidewalk, which is bordered by weeds, limp with melting snow. The porch creaks as we make our way to the front door, which stands open.

Inside, the place is chilly. Music echoes down the hall, some country melody full of angst and longing. In the kitchen, Wilma shuts down a paint-spattered boombox. Tools are spread out on a Formica countertop and the cabinet doors have been removed and stacked on the floor against a wall. The smell of sawdust hangs in the air.

From my satchel, I pull a copy of the report our officer filed yesterday. They’d taken a statement, checked the place out, and dusted for prints. Wilma waits as my eyes sweep over the paper. “You noticed the missing items yesterday morning?”

“Yeah. I got here about eight-thirty, and the front door was open. Someone had jimmied the lock. I thought maybe some homeless person, you know? Looking for a place to warm up. But when I looked around, I noticed a small toolbox was missing. And I could tell that someone had been rummaging around in here. That box and the stuff in it were brand new. Over a hundred bucks worth of stuff, Detective.”

“I’m sorry about that, Ms. Parnell. What was in it?”

Wilma counts on her fingers. “A set of Allen wrenches, a couple of screwdrivers.” Her gaze meets mine. “A drill.”

“Anything else gone?”

She swipes her graying, curly hair over her shoulder. “Oh, yeah. A crowbar too. It was sitting next to the front door when I locked up. It wasn’t worth much, but still. I can’t afford to lose equipment. I went into my 401K just to buy this place.”

“You going to flip it?”

“Maybe. Haven. . .