Free Mother Knows Best (Novella): A Psychological Thriller Novella by Netta Newbound Page A

when I tried to wake her up, her speech had become slurred. She sounded drunk. Obviously I panicked and rang Jonathan, insisting he come home immediately. I wanted to take her straight to the hospital, but he said we should keep the appointment.”
    “Do you want to pop Emily onto the table and let me have a quick look at her?” He indicated the examination table in a curtained-off area at the side of the room.
    Jonathan carried Emily to the table and tried to lie her down, but she held her body stiff and refused to cooperate.
    “Filly, I want Filly,” she cried.
    “Shit,” I said, looking around. “Where’s Filly, Jon?”
    “At home?” He shrugged.
    “No, she had her in the truck.”
    “She must still be in the truck, then.”
    “I’ll check,” I said. “Emily, let the nice doctor have a look at you and I’ll go and get Filly for you. Okay?”
    She nodded, her eyes closing again as Jonathan managed to lie her down.
    I suddenly noticed Jon’s face had lost all colour and his normally vibrant grey eyes were dark with black smudges beneath them.
    As I stepped through the double doors, a loud crash rang out from the back of the surgery, immediately followed by a car alarm.
    I raced down the steps and along the side of the old brick building.
    The door to Jonathan's truck stood open, and a man was leaning inside.
    I stopped mid-stride. My insides dropped as my hand flew to my mouth. The outrage of this person stealing our belongings propelled me forward.
    I grabbed the collar of his red and black checked lumberjack shirt and yanked him backwards.
    "Hey!" he yelled, as he found himself flat on his back on the concrete.
    I recognized him immediately.
    "Well, well. Why am I not surprised? Shane Logan," I said.
    He and his family were well known in the area. None of them had had any education, and probably had never done an honest day's work in their lives.
    "Fuck off, bitch," he said. His lip lifted in a sneer, and hatred filled his eyes.
    "You cheeky little—" Adrenalin coursed through me, exacerbated by all the pent-up anxiety of the past few weeks. A guttural roar escaped me as I smacked him around the head with the flat of my hand.
    "Victoria. Stop!" Jonathan yelled as he appeared around the corner. Emily was wrapped around his neck, her pathetic little arms holding on for dear life as Jon ran across the car park towards us.
    "Yes, Victoria. Stop," the scumbag mimicked like a child. He was still on the ground, one arm raised above his head as he cowered beneath it, trying to scuttle away from me.
    Emily began to cry.
    "Call the police, Jon. This piece of shit smashed your window and dismantled your stereo," I said, trying to control the urge to punch the cocky waste of space on his scruffy, ginger goatee. I dug my nails into my palms.
    Emily sobbed. “Filly, I want Filly.”
    I reached into the back seat and plucked out the scruffy rag doll Emily carried everywhere. I threw it to Jonathan, and Emily snatched it from him and held it to her chest. Jonathan continued to bounce her on his hip and stroke her hair, trying to calm her down.
    I turned back to the nasty creature at my feet. "Stand up!"
    "Fuck off," he said with a sneer—or maybe it was his pathetic attempt at a smile.
    "Watch your mouth, boy," Jonathan said, pulling Emily’s head into his chest and covering her exposed ear.
    "You fuck off too, dick'ead." Shane stood up and spun away from us.
    "Come back here, Shane," I said.
    "Up yours, MILF. You know—Mum I'd like to …" He thrust his disgusting pelvis in my direction, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth and his eyes rolling in mock ecstasy.
    "Enough!” Jonathan stepped towards him. “Shift yourself now, Shane, before I kick your arse myself."
    "OOO-ooh." Shane’s eyebrows rose as he sneered at Jonathan. He sniffed noisily, then hoicked a large glob of spit on the ground at Jonathan's feet before sauntering off.
    My stomach churned. "You dirty little … Jonathan, call the