The Perfect House

*

Ninety minutes later, Jessie was punching a heavy bag, sweat pouring off her body. After finishing her sushi, she had felt restless and cooped up and decided to work out her frustrations in a constructive way at the gym.

She’d never been much of a workout fiend. But while at the National Academy she’d come to an unexpected discovery. When she worked out to exhaustion, there was no space left inside her for the anxiety and fear that consumed her so much of the rest of the time. If only she’d known this a decade ago, she could have saved herself thousands of sleepless nights, even the nights filled with endless nightmares.

It might also have saved her a few trips to see her therapist, Dr. Janice Lemmon, a renowned forensic psychologist in her own right. Dr. Lemmon was one of the few people who knew every detail about Jessie’s past. She’d been an invaluable resource in recent years.

But she was currently in recovery from a kidney transplant and wasn’t available for sessions for a few more weeks. Jessie was tempted to think she could dispense with the visits altogether. But while it might be cheaper to go with workout therapy alone, she knew there would surely be times she’d need to see the doctor in the future.

As she went in for a series of jabs, she recalled how, prior to her trip to Quantico, she’d often wake up covered in perspiration, breathing heavily, trying to remind herself that she was safe in Los Angeles and not back in a small cabin in the Missouri Ozarks, tied to a chair, watching blood drip from the slowly freezing body of her dead mother.

If only that had just been a dream too. But it was all real. When she was six years old and her parents’ marriage was on the rocks, her father had taken her and her mother to his remote cabin. While there, he revealed that he’d been abducting, torturing, and killing people for years. And then he did the same to his own wife, Carrie Thurman.

As he manacled her hands to the ceiling beams of the cabin and intermittently stabbed her with a knife, he made Jessie—then Jessica Thurman—watch. He tied her arms to a chair and taped her eyelids open as he finally cut her mother open for good.

Then he used the same knife to slice a large gash across his own daughter’s collarbone from her left shoulder to the base of her neck. After that, he simply left the cabin. It was three days later when, hypothermic and in shock, she was discovered by two hunters who had just happened by.

After she recovered, she told the police and FBI the story. But by then, her dad was long gone and any hope of catching him was gone with it. Jessica was put into Witness Protection in Las Cruces with the Hunts. Jessica Thurman became Jessie Hunt and a new life began.

Jessie shook the memories out of her head, switching from jabs to knee kicks intended for an attacker’s groin. She embraced the ache in her quad as she slammed it upward. With each blow, the image of her mother’s pale, lifeless skin faded.

Then another memory popped into her head, that of her former husband, Kyle, attacking her in their own home, trying to kill her and frame her for the murder of his mistress. She could almost feel the sting of the fireplace poker he jammed into the left side of her abdomen.

The physical pain of that moment was only matched by the humiliation she still felt at having spent a decade involved with a sociopath and never realizing it. She was, after all, supposed to be an expert at identifying these kinds of people.

Jessie switched it up again, hoping to push the shame out of her mind with a series of elbow shots to the bag near where an assailant’s jaw would be. Her shoulders were starting to shout at her in displeasure but she continued pummeling the bag, knowing that her mind would soon be too tired to be distressed.

This was the part of herself she hadn’t expected to discover at the FBI—the physical badass. Despite the standard apprehension she felt when she arrived, she had suspected she’d do well on the academic side of things. She had just spent the previous three years in that environment, immersed in criminal psychology.

And she’d been right. The classes in law, forensic science, and terrorism had come easy. Even the behavior science seminar, where the instructors were heroes of hers and she thought she’d be nervous, came naturally. But it had been the physical fitness classes, and the self-defense training in particular, where she’d surprised herself the most.

Her instructors had shown her that at five-foot-ten and 145 pounds, she had the physical size to contend with most perpetrators if she was properly prepared. She would likely never have the hand-to-hand combat skills of a former Special Forces veteran like Kat Gentry. But she left the program confident that she could defend herself in most situations.

Jessie yanked off the gloves and moved to the treadmill. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was approaching 8 p.m. She decided that a solid five-mile run should wipe her out enough to let her sleep dream-free tonight. That was a priority as she started back at work tomorrow where she knew all her colleagues would give her crap, expecting her to be some kind of FBI superhero now.

She set the time for forty minutes, putting pressure on herself to complete the five miles at an eight-minute-per-mile pace. Then she turned up the volume on her ear buds. As the first few seconds of Seal’s “Killer” started to play, her mind went blank, focusing only on the task in front of her. She was completely oblivious to the song’s title or any personal memories it might conjure up. There was only the beat and her legs pounding in harmony with it. It was as close to peace as Jessie Hunt could get.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Eliza Longworth hurried to Penny’s front door as quickly as she could. It was almost 8 a.m., which was when their yoga instructor usually showed up.

It had been a largely sleepless night. Only in the first light of morning did she feel like she knew the path she had to take. Once the decision was made, Eliza felt a weight lift off her.

She texted Penny to tell her that the long night had given her time to think, and to reconsider if she’d been too hasty in ending their friendship. They should do the yoga lesson. And then afterward, once their instructor, Beth, had gone, they could try to find a way to hash things out.

Penny hadn’t replied but that didn’t stop Eliza from going over anyway. Just as she reached the front door, she saw Beth driving up the winding residential road and waved to her.

“Penny!” she yelled as she knocked on the door. “Beth’s here. Are we still on for yoga?”

There was no answer so she pushed the Ring doorbell and waved her arms in front of the camera.

“Penny, can I come in? We should talk for a sec before Beth arrives.”

There was still no answer and Beth was only about a hundred yards down the road so she decided to go in. She knew where the secret key was kept but tried the door anyway. It was unlocked. She stepped inside, leaving the door open for Beth.

“Penny,” she called out. “You left the door unlocked. Beth’s pulling up. Did you get my text? Can we talk privately for a minute before we start?”

She walked into the foyer and waited. There was still no response. She moved into the living room where they usually had the yoga sessions. It was empty too. She was about to go to the kitchen when Beth walked in.

“Ladies, I’m here!” she called out from the front door.

“Hey, Beth,” Eliza said, turning to greet her. “The door was unlocked but Penny’s not answering. I’m not sure what’s up. Maybe she overslept or is in the bathroom or something. I can check upstairs if you want to get yourself something to drink. I’m sure it’ll just be a minute.”

“No problem,” Beth said. “My nine thirty client cancelled so I’m not in a hurry. Tell her to take her time.”

“Okay,” Eliza said as she started up the stairs. “Just give us a minute.”

She was about halfway up the first flight of stairs when she wondered if perhaps she should have taken the elevator. The master bedroom was on the third floor and she wasn’t enthused about the hike. Before she could seriously reconsider, she heard a scream from down below.

“What is it?” she yelled as she turned and rushed back down.

“Hurry!” Beth shouted. “Dear god, hurry!”

Her voice was coming from the kitchen. Eliza broke into a run once she got to the bottom of the stairs, tearing through the living room and rounding the corner.

On the Spanish tile kitchen floor, lying in a massive pool of blood, was Penny. Her eyes were frozen open in terror, her body contorted into some horrifying death spasm.

Eliza hurried over to her oldest, dearest friend, slipping on the thick liquid as she approached. Her foot slid out from under her and she landed hard on the ground, her whole body splashing in the blood.

Trying not to gag, she crawled over and put her hands on Penny’s chest. Even with clothes on, she was cold. Despite that, Eliza shook her, as if that might wake her up.

“Penny,” she begged, “wake up.”

Her friend didn’t respond. Eliza looked up at Beth.

“Do you know CPR?’ she asked.

“No,” the younger woman said in a quavering voice, shaking her head. “But I think it’s too late.”

Ignoring the comment, Eliza tried to remember the CPR class she’d taken years ago. It was for treating children but the same principles should apply. She opened Penny’s mouth, tilted her head back, pinched her nose, and blew hard down her friend’s throat.

Then she climbed on top of Penny’s waist, put one hand on top of the other with her palms down, and thrust the pad of her hand down into Penny’s sternum. She did it a second time and then a third, trying to get into some kind of rhythm.

“Oh god,” she heard Beth mutter and looked up to see what was going on.

“What is it?” she demanded harshly.

“When you push on her, blood oozes out of her chest.”