Keep Your Doors Locked: A Captivating Psychological Domestic Thriller You Can't Put Down Read online

  KEEP YOUR DOORS LOCKED

  A CAPTIVATING PSYCHOLOGICAL DOMESTIC THRILLER YOU CAN’T PUT DOWN

  By Becki Willis

  Copyright 2023 by Becki Willis

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All places, people and events are created from the author’s imagination. In the event a real-life venue, location, or organization is mentioned, it is with the utmost sense of respect and stems from the author’s attempt at authenticity. Interaction with such a place or person is completely fictional and should not be construed as endorsement or fact.

  Special thanks goes to my ‘inside expert’ for proper usage of terminology and procedures. You know who you are.

  Cover design by Anelia Savova

  Editing by SJS Editorial Services

  KEEP YOUR DOORS LOCKED

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Note from the Author

  Chapter 1

  Sara

  “Breaking news from the Channel Five News Center. This just in, an inmate has escaped from the Roscoe Unit of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice prison system. Details are still forthcoming, but it is believed Thomas Ramon Bernard, 47, sneaked aboard a delivery van to exit the facility. Once beyond the gates, Bernard overcame the driver and hijacked the van, abandoning it some forty miles away. He was last seen on foot near the rural community of Maypole in Apple County.

  “Residents in the area are instructed to stay in their homes with their doors locked and to alert authorities if they see anyone or anything suspicious. Bernard is described as a five-foot, seven-inch male with a slender build and dark hair, wearing prison-issued white pants and shirt. Do not approach him. Presume he is armed and dangerous. Again, do not approach. Bernard is currently serving life in prison on multiple convictions, including capital murder, attempting to carry out a plot to commit murder, and kidnapping. Stay tuned to this channel for further details as they become available.”

  Pausing as she diced vegetables for her dinner, Sara Jennings watched the broadcast with a frown. She remembered hearing of a similar breakout in one of the Midwestern states about a month ago. Didn’t they use locks in prison anymore? How were these people breaking out so easily?

  She scooped up a handful of chopped carrots and potatoes and eased them into the bubbling broth. There was nothing like a pot of beef stew on the first chilly evening of the season. Fifty-eight wasn’t cold enough to break out her winter jacket but considering that last night had been twenty degrees warmer, it almost felt like it. She would settle, instead, for a small pot of stew and a pan of cornbread. There would be enough leftovers to have for days, something she would appreciate while she worked overtime on her big project.

  Sara had planned to eat outside by the fire pit, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the orange hues of the sunset while wrapped in a lightweight blanket, but in light of the special bulletin on the news, perhaps she should eat indoors. Technically, her address was Maypole, even though the town itself was several miles to the east.

  With a sigh, Sara reached into her spice cabinet and started pulling out containers. She added a few shakes of this, a dash of that, and a healthy portion of black pepper. She blew on a spoonful of the hot broth before sampling.

  “Needs something,” she decided aloud.

  She opened the refrigerator to forage inside its depths. She was always amazed that the vintage appliance still worked. It had come with the house when she bought it. Sara tolerated the white monstrosity, thinking it couldn’t possibly last much longer, but a year later, it was still running strong.

  And loud. Sara gave the appliance a gentle shove, knowing the floor was just uneven enough to cause an irritating vibration. The foundation of the house was solid—she had it checked before purchasing her first home, of course—but the wood floor sagged a bit beneath the hunk of steel. She had once attempted moving the appliance to clean behind it but quickly decided a little dust wouldn’t cause permanent harm. Breaking her back might.

  Satisfied when she found leftover brussel sprouts and a stray stalk of celery, Sara prepped the celery and dropped both vegetables into the stew. That was one of the good things about stew, she thought with a smile. It helped clean out the fridge.

  Another dash of salt, and all it needed was time to simmer.

  Reducing the heat on the stove, Sara gathered ingredients for her cornbread. She was always a sucker for comfort food, and with this project for work looming large in her mind, she needed all the comfort she could get.

  At thirty-four, Sara was self-employed by her own software development company. She normally preferred small jobs, creating very specific programs for mom-and-pop businesses and small offices, but this upcoming project was more ambitious. She was designing a multi-faceted program for a large company’s flagship store in Dallas. If the software worked as planned, they would implement the same system in six other locations. The project could make or break SJ Innovations.

  Sara’s mind wandered as she stirred baking powder, salt, and a small portion of sugar into the cornmeal and flour mixture. Imagining how the software would perform, she turned the oven on to preheat before returning to the refrigerator for milk, butter, and an egg. As she absently slathered the baking dish with melted butter—the same way her program would grease the cogs of data—she heard a knock on the door.

  She glanced nervously toward the television. The channel had returned to its normal schedule and was currently taunting game show contestants to press their luck. Sara wasn’t big on game shows, but it was one of the few such programs that held her interest. She often watched re-runs while preparing dinner. And even though the screen now showed a half-dozen briefcases beneath the mega-watt smiles of beautiful women in sequined gowns, her mind’s eye still saw footage of an abandoned van in a wooded area.

  It looked much like the view outside her kitchen window.

  “Stop it, Sara,” she told herself sternly. “Maypole is nearly ten miles away. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  Despite the warning to herself, Sara made certain the back door was latched before padding into the living room. A woman living alone could never be too careful, even in this sleepy little rural community.

  “Hello!” a man’s voice called from the other side of the door. “Is anyone home?”

  Sara was hesitant to answer. What if the prisoner had somehow made it this far and stood on her front porch? It was foolhardy to open the door to a stranger, especially
with an escaped convict on the loose.

  “Is anyone there? This is Special Detective Mason Burleson with the Joint East Texas Fugitive Task Force,” the man said. His voice had a deep rumble that inspired trust, but Sara wouldn’t stake her life on something as fickle as a tone.

  “We’re going door to door, doing welfare checks,” the man with the pleasant voice continued. “I see a car in the driveway. Is anyone home?”

  Sara had lived alone in the city long enough to know that single women were vulnerable. For that reason, she had developed a piece of software known as SJ’s Big Dog. With the flick of a button, she could activate the sound of two large dogs inside the home. It sounded as if they came running from a distant room, barking ferociously as they approached the potential intruder. She kept several devices around the house, just for this purpose. Next to most of them was a pistol.

  “Hold on!” she called above the sounds of her protective ‘guard dogs.’ Angling her voice away from the door, she said, “Hush, Bruno. Down, Hondo. Heel.” With the door still closed, she asked the man on the other side, “May I help you?”

  “Just making certain you’re okay, ma’am. Can you open the door just enough that I can show you my badge?”

  Sensing a trap, Sara shook her head, even though he couldn’t see. “Are you alone?” she asked. She wasn’t about to open the door and be overpowered by a deceptive criminal.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

  “Come back with your partner. In uniform.”

  She was infuriated when he sounded amused. “A body for each dog to chew on?” he asked.

  “Something like that,” she snapped.

  “I’ll be back shortly, ma’am. Don’t open the door to anyone you don’t know.”

  A pregnant pause spoke more than her prim and proper, “Precisely.”

  Letting the dogs bark until the sound of his vehicle retreated, Sara replaced the device to its proper place. She shook her head all the way back to the kitchen but with less confidence than she pretended. If the detective was for real, did that mean the convict was closer than the newscaster suggested? Was she in danger?

  Her hands took on a slight tremble as she stirred her simmering pot of stew. She sampled the broth again, but suddenly, it tasted unappetizing.

  Sara abruptly sat at the kitchen table, only to rise a few moments later. This was ridiculous! She had lived by herself in cities ripe with crime and evil deeds. Why should one escapee cause her such strife?

  “Because you uprooted your life and moved here to the country to get away from all that,” she reminded herself. “The last time your car was broken into, you said enough was enough. This isn’t supposed to happen here. You came to the country for some peace and quiet. Who does this Thomas Bernard think he is, invading your sense of security?”

  Convinced by her own argument, Sara returned to the oven and slid her pan of cornbread inside. “I can’t let him win. No matter what the detective said, the convict is miles away from here. He just dropped by as a precaution. I shouldn’t have been so rude. Of course, he was legit. He was simply doing his job.”

  Sara set a timer on her smartwatch for the cornbread and wandered into her office, where she already had an array of computers and monitors lined up on a long folding table that wrapped around to her desk. She would officially start checking the software tomorrow, running tests and trial runs to work out all the bugs. She planned to get an early start in the morning, so she had done all the prep work today.

  She double checked plugs and outlets, as well as cable connections from the computers to the monitors. She arranged her folders, pens, and notebooks and adjusted the floor lamp so that its spindly arms were angled just right. Satisfied that everything was in place for tomorrow, she was about to leave the room. Just before turning out the light, she decided to check the window lock. Despite the pep talk earlier, she couldn’t take any chances. She made the rounds through the rambling old farmhouse, finding all of them secure.

  Sara had fallen in love with the house the first time she saw it. Even before the realtor showed her inside, she knew this was the house she would buy. The house was old but solid, with a coat of fresh white paint and a newly shingled roof. Huge rose bushes, one on either side of the steps, were neatly pruned and abloom with their autumn offerings. It was nothing like any place Sara had ever lived, but it was everything she wanted.

  The inside was every bit as enchanting as the exterior. The rooms were large and airy, most of them flowing into one another, as was customary for the period. Foregoing a formal entry, a long front porch with gingerbread trim and a quaint screen door opened directly into the living room, which opened into the dining room, and then into the kitchen. On either side of the central rooms were two bedrooms, separated by a bath; Sara used one of the front bedrooms as her office. Another small bath opened off the laundry room and exited to the carport at the side of the house.

  She loved that the floors were bare wood, the walls original plank, and the ceilings tall. Built before central air was invented, the windows were aligned for optimum air flow, aided in part by transoms above the interior doors. Sara also loved the fact that when the HVAC system was eventually installed, it was done so unobtrusively, keeping the authenticity of the house intact.

  Having grown up in a military family, Sara remembered few of the houses she had lived in. Once she was grown and out on her own—and even during her ill-fated marriage—she had lived in duplexes and apartments. All of her previous homes had been generic spaces with little personality. Even the one posh condo where she and her ex lived had been cold and impersonal, meant to impress more than it was to comfort.

  When she made the decision to move from the city, she knew she wanted to go somewhere with a story. A simple farmhouse on twelve acres of land with a pecan orchard and mature pear trees obviously had a history. And history came with a story.

  Sara didn’t know the full story behind the farmhouse, but she wasn’t worried. She had plenty of time to learn. For now, it was enough to know that locals referred to it as the Old Miller place, and Cora Miller, the last of the bloodline, had died a natural death here. Real estate laws required that the agent reveal the fact to her, as if the locals wouldn’t fill her in the first time they met. Most of the comments had been along the lines of, “Poor Cora. Lived her entire life in that house. Born and died, right there within those walls.” Some had been more dramatic. “You do know that Cora died there, right? Took her last breath of life, right there in that house.”

  News of a death didn’t bother Sara. Not if the person had lived a long, happy life, which apparently Cora had done. In an odd way, it made the house that much more appealing. For Cora—and perhaps others before her—the farmhouse was a forever home. With any luck, it would be a forever home for Sara, too. She was totally in love with it.

  Until now, Sara had adored all the windows and the open, flowing design. But as evening approached, she suddenly felt exposed. After checking the windows, she closed all the blinds, shut off unused rooms, and returned to the kitchen.

  The delicious aromas of hot from the oven cornbread and hearty beef stew rallied her spirits and restored her appetite. Just as she sat to eat, she heard someone knock at the door.

  Hurrying to the door, Sara reached for her SJ’s Big Dog. Before she could engage the button, she heard someone call her name.

  “Ms. Jennings? This is Special Detective Mason Burleson again. I’m here with DPS Trooper J’Marcus Gray. If you’ll look out the window on your left, you can see our badges.”

  Slightly less skeptical than before, Sara’s voice was still sharp. “How do you know my name?”

  “I’m a detective, ma’am.” Again, he sounded amused.

  Cautiously, Sara parted the blinds to peer through the glass. The silver badges on the other side looked official enough. To be certain, she memorized the numbers before making a request.

  “Turn them face down and tell me your badge numbers. Please.” She added the last
as an afterthought.

  The two men dutifully obliged, quoting the numbers without pause.

  The black and white patrol car in the driveway gave her confidence to open the door. She pulled it toward her as far as the deadbolt’s chain would allow. Formality lingered in her words. “May I help you?”

  The detective with the pleasant voice replied first. “As I said earlier, we’re doing welfare checks in the area, ma’am. In case you haven’t heard, a prisoner escaped this afternoon and was last seen near Maypole. We aren’t sure which way he went after that, so we’re going house to house, alerting residents and urging everyone to be vigilant.”

  “I saw the news alert but thank you for the warning.”

  The second officer spoke, holding a photocopied paper up to the slit between them. “This is the man we’re looking for. Have you seen him?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t even look.” Detective Burleson’s voice no longer sounded amused. It sounded accusing.

  Sara’s shrug was pragmatic. “No need. I live well off the road, on private property. I’ve been in the house all afternoon. No one has been here since the UPS driver, about ten o’clock this morning.”

  “Is there anyone else in the house?” Trooper Gray asked. “Maybe they’ve seen him.”

  “I can assure you; he hasn’t been here.”

  The humor was back in the detective’s tone. “So, your dogs haven’t been gnawing on any stray bones, I take it?” He shifted just enough that Sara got a glimpse of his tall, solid form.

  Too bad I couldn’t see him earlier, she thought with irritation. I would have known he wasn’t the escaped inmate and saved him a second trip. This man is tall and broad chested, and too young to be the convict.

  And too relaxed. She could see the side of his mouth, which quirked upward in a smile.

  “They do seem to be awfully quiet,” she agreed. “Maybe they’re sleeping off a feast.”

  The DPS trooper shot a confused look between his co-worker and the woman hidden behind the door.

  “She asked me to bring backup with me,” Detective Burleson explained. “She thought her two dogs might need a snack.”