Last to Die: A gripping psychological thriller not for the faint hearted by Arlene Hunt Page A

Saunders’ gardener, he was a shy kid by all accounts – everyone said so – but in thrall to Kyle Saunders. He was a follower; a follower who had followed the wrong person to his death. A death at Jessie’s hands.
    Mike leaned one foot on the wall behind him. A blacked-out Escalade pulled partially across the main entrance to the scrapyard opposite the garage. A slender blonde woman he immediately recognised alighted from the passenger side and, after fixing her skirt, made her way across the road towards him. She smiled as she stepped onto his porch. Barracuda, Mike thought, a barracuda wearing frosted-pink lipstick.
    ‘You got some nerve.’ Mike pitched his cigarette out into the dirt and straightened up.
    Darla Levine wore a tight black skirt, high heels with a red sole, and a pristine white wrap-around shirt. Though the day was muggy, her makeup was flawless, and if the woman had sweat glands Mike couldn’t tell.
    ‘I left you a message yesterday.’
    ‘I got it. The one at my house too.’
    ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
    ‘We got nothing to talk about.’
    The smile never wavered, not even for a second. ‘I am glad to hear Jessie is doing better.’
    ‘I’ll send your regards.’
    ‘I sent flowers.’
    ‘She got them.’
    ‘I was rather hoping if she was feeling up to it she might like to give me a statement of—’
    ‘She’s not feeling up to anything at the moment except healing.’
    Darla Levine nodded in a sympathetic manner. ‘How about you, Mike – I can call you Mike? How are you holding up? It must be difficult for you at the moment.’
    When Mike did not reply Darla did the smile again.
    ‘You must be so proud of Jessie. She’s an amazing woman, a real inspiration to the town.’
    Mike shook his head and released a breath that was part exasperation and part disbelief. Darla Levine reminded him of a coonhound his father had once owned. Once it got the whiff of a scent wild horses couldn’t drag it away. He wondered how long she would keep dogging them.
    Across the street, Harry Carling, the owner of the scrapyard appeared. Mike watched as Harry approached the driver, a skinny-looking man with black hair and a thin beard grown only around his jawline. Mike knew Harry did not take kindly to non-paying folk parking on his property.
    ‘You should probably move your vehicle.’
    ‘It will be fine,’ she said, without turning. ‘Look Mike, I want you to know I understand the concerns you might have about talking to the press, I surely do. But Mike, people are interested in Jessie’s side of the story. I was right there when this tragedy unfolded. I heard those children scream. I’ve read Sheriff Clay’s report and I’ve read some of the files. What Jessie did was beyond heroic. I think people really want to know the woman  behind  this amazing act. They would like to hear her tell her story in her own words. And, as a local, I think I am in the unique position to get to the heart of this, to treat your wife’s story with the sympathy and empathy it deserves.’
    ‘Like the empathy you treated her with at the hospital?’
    ‘I understand why you’re angry and I apologise. I promise we would only take a few moments of her time. Truthfully Mike, with the way the town is suffering, her courage is more than just inspirational. Really Mike, if I can be honest here, the town needs to begin the process of healing. It needs to look to someone. Jessie could be an integral part of that process. Her story would go a long way towards giving people hope and closure.’
    ‘Closure?’ Mike snapped his eyes in her direction. ‘What kind of closure do you think people are going to have? Don’t you get it, Miss Levine? People are torn up. They’re in shock, grieving. You can’t paper over that with a fluff piece.’
    ‘I can  assure  you I would not stand over a fluff piece.’ Darla Levine’s eyes narrowed. Mike saw he had needled her. ‘I would treat Jessie’s story with the