The Uninvited Caller

The Uninvited CallerThe Domestic Thriller Collection Ramona Light The Uninvited Caller© 2023 by Ramona Light All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including information storage and retrieval systems, without express written permission by the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and places are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. None of the characters in the book are based on actual persons. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely and unintentionally coincidental. Contents Part 1: Lilith 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 Part 2: Virginia Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Part 3: Lilith & Virginia Chapter 49: Lilith Chapter 50: Virginia Chapter 51: Lilith Chapter 52: Virginia Chapter 53: Lilith Chapter 54: Virginia Chapter 55: Lilith Chapter 56: Virginia Chapter 57: Lilith Chapter 58: Virginia Chapter 59: Lilith Chapter 60: Virginia Chapter 61: Lilith Chapter 62: Virginia Chapter 63: Lilith Chapter 64: Virginia Chapter 65: Lilith Chapter 66: Virginia Chapter 67: Lilith Chapter 68: Virginia Chapter 69: Lilith Chapter 70: Virginia Chapter 71: Lilith Chapter 72: Virginia Epilogue: Virginia Also By Ramona Light Part 1: Lilith Chapter 1In the twelve years since my husband died, everything in my life has become easier. I know that might seem cruel to some, but living with Fletcher DuBose was hell. Of course, there were pleasant moments also, but they were far fewer than the nasty ones. Still, I sometimes feel like I’m simply going through the motions, but I suppose that’s just what a quiet life entails, really. Our house on Beacon Hill is too big for my daughter and me. Even though Mom is always here, it is still too spacious. The four bedrooms, living room, dining room, kitchen, large den, and office have always felt wasteful. We have a view of the Boston Common and its sprawling trees and lake. It has been our house for five years, but it will probably never feel like a home. “Eat your food,” Mom says through a mouthful of meat and vegetables. She nods at my plate and creases her brow, making me feel nine years old instead of thirty-nine. “I went to a lot of trouble to make that.” I fork an extra-large pile into my mouth and smile dramatically through it. She laughs, then instantly covers her mouth when she catches herself. Astrid chuckles, too, shaking her head as she looks at her grandmother. Mom rolls her eyes, but she is still smiling. “You see what I have to put up with?” she says to Astrid. “Your mother has always been a cheeky one.” There is no meanness in her voice, only playfulness. Virginia Townsend does have a playful side. It can be shy in coming out and the seriousness that is her default personality can be a little overwhelming to those who don’t know her. I know a lot of adults wouldn’t want their mothers practically living with them for so long, but most of them haven’t gone through the things we have. “It’s lovely, Mom,” I tell her, and I mean it. My mother has always been a good cook. Well, she has become one. Growing up, not so much. “Yeah, it’s great,” Astrid confirms. My little girl is not so little anymore. In fact, she’ll be off to college next year. It looks like she’ll follow her heart and study biology. When she was small, I’d hoped I’d influence her to opt for English literature, but that was never my choice to make. Astrid DuBose is a strong, independent young woman who will always decide for herself what path she is going to take. Her long black hair—the same color and length as mine—is tied up expertly in a cool ponytail. Although I think she is wearing makeup, she has it so scantily applied that it is hard to tell. Her big green eyes—so like her father’s—show an alertness that never seems to leave them. At five-two, she has an inch on me, but Astrid holds herself much taller. She is a proud young woman, and I’m an even prouder mother because of it.Like everything else in this house, the large table we are sitting at in the spacious dining room feels like it is too much. It probably is, but when Fletcher’s life insurance came through five years ago, I thought we deserved a little grandeur after the seven years of struggle that preceded it. Mom had been insistent that I use the money for some good. As she put it at the time, “no amount of money could make up for the bruises and scars he gave you.” That’s the thing with my mother—she only saw the damage Fletcher left behind. Yes, sometimes he scared me, but he was still my husband. And it hadn’t always been that bad, at least in the early years. Yet when he died, I felt a twinge of such relief that I cried with guilt more so than pain for the first few days. Should I have experienced that initial emotion upon hearing of his accident? Probably, as Fletcher had made my life a living hell for a long time. Still, he was a good father when he wasn’t in that dark place, and he probably deserved a better fate than being swallowed