4 The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide by Josie Brown

Author:Josie Brown [Brown, Josie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thrillers mysteries, mommy lit, romantic suspense, Josie Brown, mom lit, romance, espionage books, chick lit, women sleuths, Janet Evanovich, hardboiled, action and adventure, contemporary romance, womens contemporary
Publisher: Signal Press
Published: 2013-04-04T04:00:00+00:00

The real hint that life is not a dream is when, at two in the morning, three FBI helicopters ready their spotlights on your house while some SWAT team leader yells your name through a bullhorn, followed by the words, “Donna Stone! We’ve got your house surrounded! Open the door, slowly, and come out with both hands over your head!”

Jeff and Trisha are standing at my bedroom door. When Jack jumps out of bed, they run into his arms. “Daddy, what’s happening?” Trisha cries. “Why do they want Mommy?”

“It’s all a big mistake. While she takes a second to get dressed, let’s go outside and find out what this is all about.” He hustles them out of the room with one hand, grabbing his cell phone off his bureau with the other.

Jack is calling Ryan to see why we’ve awakened in the third circle of Hell.

The loudmouth on the bullhorn warns me that all exits are covered, and that I’ve got less than thirty seconds to appear at the front door before they storm in, guns blazing, with orders to shoot to kill. I scramble for slippers and my official Acme ID card before flying down the stairs, counting down the seconds.

But the minute I hit the front stoop, I am cuffed, and my Miranda rights are shouted to me by the SWAT team’s bootjacked flack-jacketed squad leader.

My perp walk is met by the slack-jawed stares of Jeff, Trisha, Mary and her sleepover friends, not to mention those of my now wide awake neighbors.

Penelope and her posse are among them.

This is how all of Hilldale learns that the woman married to the neighborhood DILF does not beckon him to bed in some lace teddy or a sheer baby doll peignoir, let alone a satin bustier and garter, but in his flannel pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved moth-eaten tee shirt touting the 1986 Metallica tour for Master of the Puppets.

Jack is talking to the SWAT team leader, but by the look on his face, I can tell he’s not getting through to whatever lies within the stormtrooper helmet.

Just as my head is shoved down into the squad car, some brave soul yells out, “Right on! Thrash metal rocks!”

The agent driving the car looks back at me and frowns. I guess he thinks I’m some sort of political agitator.

I could explain to him I dig great guitar solos, but I don’t think he’d believe me. In his eyes, I’m not normal. I’m not even human.

I’m a traitor to my country, just like Carl.

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