by Avery Aster
A Psychological Thriller
By Avery Aster
For fans of The Girl on the Train, Before I Go to Sleep, and The Silent Wife, the new psychological thriller from New York Times bestselling author Avery Aster warns readers: the first year of marriage is killer.
Barclay is Manhattan's premiere cooperative—the kind of place everyone who's anyone desires to reside in. That's what psychotherapist Piper Adler believes as she moves into the garden apartment with her new husband, but then she wakes up in a hospital accused of trying to take her own life. Her dreams of being a wife and mother destroyed along with her career as a mental health professional, she sets off on a mind-bending course to discover the truth.
Unraveling a web of deceit forces Piper to second-guess her family, her friends, and even herself. With each terrifying revelation, she must come to terms with the fact that those she thought she knew aren't who they seem, and someone trusted very close to her wants her gone. Will she beat them at their own game or die trying?
Fusing nail-biting suspense with potent storytelling, THE PAPER YEAR will keep you on the edge of your seat with an unforgettable cast of characters who are compelled to do the unthinkable to survive.
To Michele with one L. We met in Sienna, lived life with no apologies in New York, sunbathed in Mykonos, and ate the yummiest meals in Buenos Aires. Our lives often read much like fiction, but it’s a reality that always puts a smile on my face. Thank you for encouraging me to start this new series.
Love, Avery
The Paper Year
Avery Aster
Copyright 2017 Avery Aster
Cover Design by Cover It! Designs
Formatted by Mark's Ebook Formatting
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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First edition: March 2017
www.AveryAster.com
Author's Note
Cast of Characters
Part One
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Two
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Part Three
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
The Lost Year
About Avery Aster
Connect With Avery
Dear Reader,
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Welcome to a NEW psychological suspense series featuring mental health expert, Piper Adler. You’ll find that the cast continues from book to book, and the series is designed to read in sequential order.
If you enjoy books like Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins, Before I Go to Sleep by S.J. Watson and The Silent Wife by S. A. Harrison, or such films as Black Swan with Natalie Portman and The Hand that Rocks the Cradle with Rebecca De Mornay, than you’ll love the Piper Adler series.
Growing up with a father whose spent his career as a psychotherapist gave me an early understanding of why good people do bad things—usually for love, often for money, sometimes for fame. When folks are put in bad situations, there’s really no telling what the outcome will be. Much is the case with the residents who live at the Barclay.
Yours,
Avery Aster
Piper Adler: psychotherapist, wife, aspiring mother, and main protagonist
Boden Adler: investment banker, husband, aspiring father
Reid Tremont: gay, next-door neighbor, cartoon illustrator
Maxine Valentine: hugely successful realtor, president of the co-op board, lives in the penthouse.
Jana De Vries: wife from Netherlands, Afro-Dutch from Sint Maarten, supermodel
Hollis De Vries: husband to Jana, from Amsterdam, stay-at-home dad
Orlane: soft-coated wheaten terrier
Carmine Mancuso: doorman, lifelong employee of the Barclay
Keely Brock: Piper’s patient, struggling with compulsive overeating
“My wife isn’t the woman I once married. When we first got together, Piper used to be vibrant and funny. There was an effervescent sparkle about her that captivated my attention. Now, her eyes hallowed into darkness, I didn’t recognize her when I came to hospital. Right then I knew our marriage was over. Her selfish acts had destroyed our chances for happiness. I couldn’t forgive her for this. Not now. Not ever.”—Boden Adler, husband, investment banker, recovering sex addict
A Few Weeks Ago
I shout for help, hoping someone, anyone, hears me.
Everyone is gone. They heeded the warning and left hours ago.
Glancing down at the watch my husband gave me when we first married, I notice the time: ten minutes to eight. I’m fucked.
Any minute now the demolition crew will blow this basement into a gazillion pieces. I imagine my body combusting like an overcooked dinner that had been left in the microwave for far too long on the highest power. My arms would be found somewhere on FDR Drive. My legs would smack the roof of a nearby cab. I thought about my dentist, Dr. Sabbagh, having to identify my skull using dental records. And my mother in Westchester; I can already hear her saying, “I told Piper she should’ve never gotten married to someone as good-looking as Boden Adler.”
My hands, cut and bloody from fighting while trying to defend myself, start to shake uncontrollably. Reaching for the edge of the cage that I’m locked into, I throw myself onto the mesh metal with every ounce of energy left inside me, praying the door comes loose.
Locked from the other side, it doesn’t budge.
Fear pounds in my heart, blood thumps through my ears. The florescent lights that have given me hope like a warm blanket for the last hour fade to darkness.
Exhausted, I surrender, collapsing onto the cold cement floor.
“You got your chance. You should’ve left when I told you,” the voice yells from the top of the stairs. “G
oodbye.”
Never in a million years did I think I’d die like this.
Kips Bay, Manhattan
Suddenly awake, in shock, my eyes flash open to a blurry surrounding.
A plastic tube wedges in my mouth.
What the fuck?
Arching my back like a feral cat, I attempt to push it away but my hands are restrained. Starved for oxygen, my nostrils flare. Breathe. I need to breathe. I can’t.
Liquid, cold and thick, surges down my throat.
“Don’t fight us. We must get it out of your system,” says a masculine voice.
My stomach flips. Bitterness rises and I start to puke. Oh God. What’s happening to me? Wine. Pinot noir. The seafood we had for dinner comes up too. Then something unfamiliar and chemical tasting, like a household cleaning agent, spouts to the surface off my tongue. It burns my throat as if fire passing through me.
“Good, Piper,” a female voice reassures me. “You’re almost done.”
Body convulsing, what feels like my entire insides vomits through the tube.
Falling back on the bed, shaking the hot tears away, I glance out at the white room. “Where am—”
“Bellevue.”
The mental hospital? I know it well. Over the years, I’ve sent many of my patients here for panic attacks, nervous breakdowns, hearing voices in their heads, and so on. Let’s face it: Manhattan is a magnet for the mentally disturbed. Hence why my career thrives in this town.
“What? Why?” This isn’t happening. Not to me. I have to be dreaming. Yes, I’m having a nightmare. That’s what this is.
Working as the city’s top psychotherapist, I think perhaps my subconscious is triggering memories of what my patients have shared with me over the years, and now they’re all coming back to haunt me. Like some type of taped mental history of horrific experiences playing back on rewind. Shit. It must’ve been all that wine I had at dinner. The unbidden fermentation, sulfur dioxide, yeast, oak extracts, and let’s not forget the extra tannin—it all can play tricks with the mind. It has to be that.
Dressed in pastel-colored scrubs, the man leans over me, pushing a damp lock of my reddish-blonde hair out of my tired eyes. I catch the pity washing over his pudgy features as he loosens the straps, freeing my hands.
The dark-haired woman, wearing the same uniform, removes the tube with such precision and ease it’s as if she’s done this a million times before. She discards the waste in a nearby trash can before leaving me alone with him in the room.
Studying his light eyes, which are cold and glassy as marbles, I search for some type of answer. He remains expressionless.
“Do I have alcohol poisoning? Is that it?” Before he can even reply, a nauseating wave of shame comes over me. I shouldn’t have drank so much. He says no, so I ask, “Was it the oysters?” Maybe I’m allergic. I’ve heard of this happening to people in their adult lives. One day they wake up and are suddenly deathly sensitive to shellfish, forced to carry an EpiPen with them everywhere they go. Can you imagine? Doctors can’t explain what triggers the allergy. Hormonal changes? Aging?
Crap, this’ll suck. No more lobster or shrimp. I’ll be reduced to eating chicken and beef. I love food far too much to be allergic.
“Do you remember your name? How old you are? Where you live?”
Feeling patronized, I roll my eyes before replying, “Piper Adler. I’m thirty-two and live at 72nd Street and Second Avenue in the Barclay co-op. I’m married to Boden, who works on Wall Street.” This conversation makes my head thump with a sharp pain. I know the drill. I’ve learned enough psychology over the years to understand what he’s getting at, so I add, “I don’t have amnesia. Just an upset stomach.”
I think back to my workload of patients. I’ve never personally treated anyone who’s forgotten who they are. Once when I was in graduate school at NYU, we studied a patient who suffered from losing her memory, but she was never my patient. Statistically speaking, it’s a very rare brain disorder that only occurs after injury to the head.
“Tell me, what do you remember about tonight?” he asks in a suspicious tone.
“Hmmm.” I hesitate before replying, “I hosted a get-together.” He pours me a glass of water and I reach for it, taking a shallow sip, allowing the tepid liquid to soothe my raw throat before continuing. “My neighbors Reid, Jana, and Maxine came over. Everyone but my husband, as he’s out of town, and Jana’s husband, who was watching their toddler. He’s three, soon to be four.”
He nods along until I start to gulp the water, then tells me to slow down.
“Is Boden here? May I see him?” Impatient, I try to sit up, but the man urges me to rest. My muscles and bones feel as if I’ve been in car accident, so I do as he says.
“Your doorman, Carmine—the one who found you—gave us your husband’s number. We’ve called his cell but we haven’t been able to reach him. We’ll try again in the morning.”
“He’s in Palm Beach meeting clients. He works in investments. Did you try his hotel? The Breakers.” Most of Boden’s clients were in Manhattan, but seeing how it was almost Easter, his wealthiest portfolio holders resided in PB this time of year. I envisioned him playing golf, riding horses, and sunning by the pool. I should’ve gone with him. Then I wouldn’t be here in this dreadful place.
“We have, and we’ll will keep trying, Mrs. Adler.” The medic’s face etched in confusion. “You really don’t remember what happened tonight, do you?”
I shook my head, begging him to tell me.
“The doctor will be in to see you soon. Try and get some rest.” He stepped toward the door, looking over his shoulder at me once, probably to make sure I stayed put. With a clink, the door closed behind him.
I’m locked in the room all by myself, facing my biggest fear.
I hate being alone.
In bed, I lie on the thin mattress, my sore eyes fixed on the tea-stained popcorn ceiling above as I trace the recent steps in my mind as to what exactly happened. I’d devoured a nice meal. Drank several glasses of malbec, which Reid, my adorable gay neighbor, had picked up while on his latest excursion to Buenos Aires. Maybe I drank a little too much. Jana, my other beautiful neighbor and new friend, was the last to leave. I remember this because she’d offered to do the dishes. Gracious and kind, she always offered to help. We’d cleaned the kitchen together, I’d fed Orlane, my dog, and then I went to bed. That’s all.
I think.
Now I’m asleep. I must be as I’m dreaming that I have a baby. A son. With rich brown eyes, and a dimple on his chin, he resembles my handsome husband. This is a fantasy, I remind myself. Many years ago, doctors told me due to the excessive cysts on my ovaries, I’m unable conceive.
I’ve had this dream before, mind you. Many times. Usually I wake up with a smile covering my lips while holding my empty stomach. No baby.
“Piper,” a familiar voice whispers in my year. “It’s me, babe.”
Opening my eyes, morning sunlight casts shades of soft pink and bright white from the window, creating an angelic glow over my husband’s head, my sweet love.
“Bo,” I reply, reaching for him. My arms going wide, he leans in, nearly scooping me into him. He presses his muscular body against mine, kissing my forehead, the left cheek, the right, then finally on the lips before telling me how much he loves me.
“I love you too.” I find comfort in his familiar musky, woodsy smell. An aftershave he’s worn since college.
“The second Carmine called, I was on the next flight back to LaGuardia. I’m worried about you. I feel like I’m losing you.”
“I ate something that didn’t agree with me is all. I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”
Squeezing my hand, he replies, “In hopes they’ll release you today, I went by the apartment before coming here and picked up a few things. That is… if you want to come home with me?” His sleepy eyes went toward a chair by the door. Mine followed, noticing some clothes, a pair of jeans and a blue sweater. Bo loves me in blue, s
ays it brings out the green in my eyes.
I don’t quite understand why he thinks I wouldn’t go home with him. That’s where I belong. “Tell me something.”
“Anything, babe,” he replies, glancing down at my lips. They tremble.
“Why am I here? I drank too much?” My face prickles with embarrassment. I’ve never seen my husband intoxicated. Not even at our wedding. Always in control, he never gets trashed.
I, on the other hand, have been known to throw back a few, but not always. Just on my birthday; after a rough day at work, especially when my patients dump all their life’s pain on me; Friday and Saturday nights; Sunday afternoons; summer vacations, Christmas; New Year’s Eve. You get the idea.
His striking face, the one I fell in love with two years ago, the one I’ve been married to for the last sixty-two days, frowns.
“What is it?” Anxiety surges through me.
“Apparently Orlane had been barking, scratching at the door. Reid heard him from down the hall. You wouldn’t answer your door, so he phoned Carmine who let himself in and found you on the floor of our bedroom. There was a note on the nightstand. I read it before coming here.” He pauses, his hazel eyes, usually warm and loving, redden with tears.
“What did it say?” Panic fills my voice. I’ve never seen my husband as concerned as he is right this minute. Sure he’s a worrywart. Always buttoned up. Does the right thing. But right now? Right this second? I see terror all over his face.
“You wrote a letter, addressed to me, saying you’d made a mistake in getting married. You couldn’t go on with life anymore and wanted to end the pain. So… you downed an entire bottle of… sleeping pills.”
“Mistake? Pain? Pills? What are you talking about?” He’s kidding. Right?
“Babe, you tried to kill yourself.”
Before I could ask Bo to repeat himself, a tall man with peppered hair, salted at the temples, enters. Apologizing for not seeing me sooner, he introduces himself as Dr. Michel Tiesto.