Foxy

By Bliss Addison

Journalist Josie Fox lives a solitary but enjoyable life. Her only companions, squirrels Shamus and Shawn. Her only living relative, a half-sister. When Amy crashes her beloved car and suffers severe head trauma, later lapsing into a coma, Josie rushes to her side. Amy's neurosurgeon is not optimistic in his prognosis. Josie is then faced with the more than likely possibility that Amy will never regain consciousness. Josie investigates the car crash and learns, much to her dismay, that the accident was intentional and comes to the only conclusion possible-Amy had tried to take her own life. Josie employs her investigative skills and uncovers the reason for Amy choosing to commit suicide-a man who promised her marriage after his divorce, then reneged on that promise. While Josie sits at Amy's bedside, praying for her full recovery, she also comes up with a plan to pay back Amy's boyfriend for his callous disposal of her sister.

ISBN 978-1-59431-797-2 young adult/suspense/mystery

Also available in RTF and HTML

Chapter 1

In Devil's Creek, folks knew me as Josie Fox. In Freedom, a mid-size city thirty miles northwest of the Creek, I was Joe Fox. After all, who'd read a sports column written by a girl. I didn't venture into the city often, twice a month at the most. For the remaining days, I holed up in my little cottage, writing my column.

As either Joe or Josie, I stood five-two, weighed one hundred and ten pounds, and the color of my eyes--brown--matched my hair. My editor quipped that my tongue could cut through granite. I preferred to say I called 'em as I saw 'em. The opposite sex didn't interest me, but neither did women. Since I couldn't call that shot, you might say I sat on the fence on that one. That's fine. I figured there's time enough for love, if destiny had that in store for me. I doubt it did because, truthfully, my social skills were not only atrocious, but I was an unremarkable woman.

Currently, I was in Freedom, but not for the reason you might expect. Two nights ago, at around ten-fifteen, I received a call from traffic cop Curtis Dempsey of the Freedom Police Department. He sadly informed me that my half-sister, Amy Lenihan, was in a single vehicle mishap and was presently being prepped for neurosurgery.

After throwing a few things in a carry-all, I called my boss to explain my intended absence and to arrange a pinch writer for my column. I left for Freedom then, making the forty-five minute drive in thirty.

Amy survived the surgery, but sank into a coma. Her prognosis was not good. The next two days, I spent at Amy's side, waiting and praying.

In one of the frequent intervals where I was requested to leave while health care professionals examined her, I'd made two telephone calls--the first to arrange a bed sitter for Amy and the other, to Officer Dempsey to obtain more details on the accident.

Amy was an excellent driver. I couldn't believe someone didn't cause the accident and declared as much to the detective.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Are you familiar with Blind Man's Curve?" he asked.

"Of course, I am," doofuss ,"I'm familiar with all the hazards of Freedom," I said, having spent two-thirds of my life in that city. "After twenty-six years, Amy would be too."

"That's strange," he said.

"What's that?"

"There were no brake marks. It's as though she came into the turn unaware of the danger."

"The road was dry at the time of the accident?"

"Uh-huh."

"So, if she had tried to stop, there would be evidence on the asphalt that she did," I said more to myself than him. No, not really. The thought was a statement and an intentional gibe at his investigative skills. "I assume you checked the brakes on her car?" I still couldn't believe something or someone else hadn't caused the accident.

"Yeah."

I sighed, purposely heaving the breath. I hoped he'd understand it as I intended. Dempsey's sociability was lax too, but then it wasn't a requirement of his job. Obviously, a forthright manner wasn't in his makeup either, otherwise he would have told me his thoughts on the matter instead of making me say it. "You're suggesting my sister attempted suicide." I shook my head. The movement jarred loose another question. "Was the car a rental?" I could hear paper shuffling on his end of the phone.

"No. The car's registered to her. A 1969 robin egg blue Mach 1. It's a write-off, by the way."

I came to the conclusion then I'd desperately tried to avoid making. Amy had tried to kill herself. She loved that Mustang and gave it more care and love than some mothers did their children, which went to show her state of mind that night.

After bidding the officer an abrupt farewell, my thoughts turned to Amy. The sister I knew would not take her life. Maybe I didn't know her quite as well as I thought.

Now here I was, snooping around her apartment, looking for the reason that made my sister want to commit suicide. I looked under the sofa--like dust balls would tell me why an upbeat and chronically happy person like Amy would choose to end her life. They didn't, so I ran down the short list of possible reasons for suicide: job; health; depression; addiction--alcohol, gambling, drugs; a man. Since Amy was an exemplary and healthy employee who didn't suffer from depression or any addiction, the most likely culprit was a love gone wrong. I still couldn't see Amy becoming so distraught over a failed relationship that she wanted to kill herself. I could be wrong. It happened.

Maybe it was road rage. That was popular these days.

I looked around for her address book, but couldn't find one. That wasn't extraordinary. She'd probably had it in her handbag, which was now in her personal effects at the hospital.

Her apartment was neat and tidy, everything in its place.