Ms. Terwilliger Goes Rogue

By Maggie Shayne

The Victim...
High school English teacher Melinda Terwilliger is sick and tired of being afraid. Her once-perfect neighborhood has been overrun by criminals and its residents are terrified. When she's mugged on her way home one night, enough is enough. She's desperate to find her inner strength, even if she has to resort to drastic measures, like hypnosis.

The Turning Point...
Something goes wrong while she's under, and Melinda emerges believing herself to be a professionally trained bad ass.

The Cop...
Matthew McGuire is undercover, posing as a teacher in Melinda's district. He's after the very thugs terrorizing the quiet, beautiful Ms. Terwilliger's neighborhood. But he needs their boss, too, a man who rarely shows his face. Matt never expected the shy beautiful teacher to turn into a fearless, reckless vigilante. Her antics might cost the police the kingpin they've been after for months. But worse, they could easily get Melinda killed.

The Plan...
He has to get close to her to keep her out of trouble. He doesn't plan to fall into the bad guys' hands, or into Melinda's heart, but does both

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oliver-Heber Books
• Release date: Jul 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9798201751371

Maggie Shayne

RITA Award winning, New York Times bestselling author Maggie Shayne has published over 50 novels, including mini-series Wings in the Night (vampires), Secrets of Shadow Falls (suspense) and The Portal (witchcraft). A Wiccan High Priestess, tarot reader, advice columnist and former soap opera writer, Maggie lives in Cortland County, NY, with soulmate Lance and their furry family.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

"M y walk home from the train after work at night always takes me past groups of those slathering dogs, she said. But this was the first time one broke away from the pack to follow me."

Rodney Foster, Melinda Terwilliger's best friend and part-time therapist, nodded. He was always nodding during their sessions. He was only a grad student, but his father was one of the most brilliant minds in psychotherapy, and Rodney was planning to follow in his father's footsteps, while infusing the best of New Age philosophy into his practice.

Melinda didn't mind being his lab rat, really. Their sessions were informal, helpful and free. And, most important, she trusted him.

When did you first become aware the thug was following you? he asked.

Melinda's muscles tensed as she felt transported back to the events of a few days earlier. I felt his eyes on me. I know he turned his head to watch me as I walked quickly past, and there was some kind of warning bell going off in my head, telling me something was up. I didn't know what to do, or whether to trust it. She felt like an idiot now for having ignored what, in hindsight, seemed so obvious.

Not surprising, Rodney said. You know, the instinctive awareness of danger is something animals have, particularly in the wild. There's no reason to assume we humans don't have similar senses. I happen to believe we do, but we bury them in things like reason and logic and even good manners. Often, to our own detriment.

That's exactly what I did. She nodded slowly as she recalled the incident. "I didn't turn around, didn't look back, but I heard his footsteps behind me, and I knew he was following me. A cold shiver rushed up my spine, just like people always say it does. I felt it so palpably that I wanted to slap it away. No, no, that's not what I wanted to do. I wanted to break into a dead run. Everything in me told me to run. I had to fight not to."

At least you know your instincts were working. You just weren't listening to them.

I will next time, that's for sure.

There you go. Something positive came from this.

You and your positive thinking, she muttered.

Rodney shrugged his skinny shoulders. It works for me. But back to you. Why do you think you didn't want to let yourself run, Melinda?

She shrugged. I guess I thought I'd look like an idiot.

To whom? The thug? Why did you care?

I don't know.

And yet, you didn't run. You put your chronic worry about what other people think of you, your constant need to please others, to be liked and approved of by them, ahead of your own well-being.

She pursed her lips as he touched on her most sensitive issue. I—I quickened my pace, though.

He sighed, but didn't press her on what he called her Doormat Tendencies. And then what happened?

She drew in a nasal breath and caught a whiff of her own perfume, tender-scented sweet pea. It gave her little comfort. She even smelled like a 'fraidy cat, she thought miserably. Why couldn't she be strong and tough and self-assured the way some women were?

He quickened his pace, too, she said. And there was a dark alley up ahead, the last one before my duplex. The one that always gives me the worst case of goose bumps when I walk past it after dark. I just knew he was going to yank me into that alley when I got close enough. So I started to cross the street. That's when he grabbed me.

Stop right there, Rodney interrupted. "Answer quickly, without thinking first. What did you feel when he grabbed you?"

Panic, of course.

Surprise? Now try to answer honestly.

She frowned. No. No, I was expecting it by then.

He nodded. I think you've been expecting it for months. Ever since those thugs moved into that house on the corner.

They were kids once, you know? Kids who didn't have any adults in their lives who cared enough to stop them from spiraling into bad. Where were their families, their teachers for God's sake?

I don't know.

They're not kids anymore, though. They're thugs and they're ruining the neighborhood. It used to be so nice, but now...you just see those four who live there, lurking around all the time. Looking like gang members or something. The fat one, the skinny one and the heroin twins.

He smiled a little. That's a great nickname for the two females. It fits them.

I just know they're dealing drugs out of that house, what with the lowlife scumbags that are in and out of there at all hours of the night. More and more of them are hanging around longer. They don't seem to have jobs or lives or, God forbid, bathtubs. They just stand around, taking up space in the streets and making the neighbors nervous. You know Mr. Peabody's coffee shop was robbed last week?

I know.

Broad daylight, guy in a stocking mask, waving a gun around. Got away with eighty-seven bucks. Probably went straight to that drug den and spent it, too.

Did your guy have a gun? Your mugger?

She shook her head, refocusing. He had a knife. I felt it pressing into my side. He said not to make a sound, and I didn't. I just stood there and let him take my purse. I already had my keys in my hand, but he got everything else. And I let him take it.

Given the circumstances, that was probably the smartest thing to do, Melinda.

She shook her head. After it was all over–after I unfroze enough to look around me and he was gone and I was alone–I realized there was a tear in my coat. From that knife. He'd pressed it hard enough to tear my coat, and he could have torn my flesh just as easily. Realizing that snapped me out of it. I broke into a run and didn't stop again until I was behind my own door.

That's the fight-or-flight response.

Well, why was it so slow in coming?

Rodney frowned.

"Why does my fight-or-flight response only kick in after my 'deer caught in headlights' response gets finished? Why couldn't I have broken into a run before I passively handed over my credit cards?"

Because that's what you expected yourself to do. Look, hon, we've been having these sessions for almost a year now, and all your problems are new versions of the same basic story. You're a doormat. You're a victim. This is just the blown-up version of the same tale.

Oh, come on, getting mugged isn't the same as–

As what? Doing your colleagues' work for them without pay? Letting your sister drive your car while you take the train and make the payments? Loaning money to every ex-boyfriend who asks even though you know you'll never get it back? How is this different? Tell me? This guy didn't know it, but he didn't even need that knife. All he had to do was tell you he needed your purse and you'd have handed it over.

I would not! she denied.

You're a sucker, Melinda. You are taken advantage of constantly because you expect to be. And, I believe, because you think people won't like you if you say no to them.

I don't– She drew a breath, sighed. I do. You're right, I do that. Maybe not to the degree you say, but yeah. Why, though? Why am I so weak?

Because you believe you are.

She rolled her eyes and sat up. She'd been lying on her own sofa, as if she were in some cliché shrink's office, telling Rodney about her latest drama. And instead of helping her, or telling her how to get stronger or at least how to feel better about being the victim of a violent crime, he'd gone off on his usual tangent about her creating her own experiences. If you really wanted to change, you would do it. You must be getting some kind of gratification from being used, or you'd put a stop to it. If she let him keep going, he'd get onto the flimsiness of reality as we believe it to be and quantum physics and dead cats in boxes.

That was where he usually lost her. I'm going to make some more herbal tea, she said, to distract him. "You want