by N L Hinkens
The Class Reunion
A psychological suspense thriller
N. L. Hinkens
Contents
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
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Biography
Also by N. L. Hinkens
Books by Norma Hinkens
1
Heather Nelson never slept the night before the anniversary of what she’d done. She had concluded years ago that it was far better to work a night shift than wrestle with the haunting memories through the long, lonely hours until the sun came up again.
Sinking down into the seat of her unobtrusive Buick, she reached for her stainless-steel coffee mug, resigned to an extended evening of surveillance. The wealthy client who had hired her for this particular job suspected her infamous producer husband was cheating on her with his leggy, nineteen-year-old assistant. Gut instincts were usually right, but they didn’t hold up in divorce court.
That’s where Heather and her trusty telephoto lens came in, furtively cataloguing the necessary incriminating evidence to swing a custody case or invoke a prenup stripping an adulterous party of any share of the marital assets. Heather had considered branching out from the whole sleazy cheating spouse underworld and moving into a more intriguing field, but the money was simply too good to let it go. Like it or not, she excelled at making a living on the failed relationships of others. Her reputation as a tenacious private investigator had grown steadily over the years, and many of LA’s wealthiest celebrities had become her clients—a lucrative customer base that guaranteed a steady income stream, and even repeat customers.
Falling into this line of work had been a lucky break of sorts. Growing up on a farm in Iowa, she couldn’t wait to leave the monotonous pace of rural life behind. But after what happened to her younger sister, Violet, Heather had abandoned her plans for college. She had felt obligated to stick around and protect her sister—the way she should have done that awful night when both their lives had changed forever.
She ended up taking a job bartending in nearby Davenport and struck up a friendship with one of her regular patrons, a grouchy man in his sixties with a long, gray ponytail who turned out to be a veteran PI with an arsenal of stories. They got into some interesting conversations about cases he’d worked on, and, before long, he convinced her she had a knack for the trade and offered her a job. She had hung up her bar towels and washed out her jiggers and blender for the last time that night. From the outset, it felt like a good fit, a way to right societal wrongs—something she was passionate about.
Heather blew out a heavy breath and adjusted her position in the seat, her gaze planted on the shadowy building opposite, watching for any sign of the cheating spouse in question. It was his twin three-year-old daughters she felt sorry for. They were too young to understand that their parents would be spending the best part of the next few years wrestling in court over assets—using them as pawns in every play that was made. A nauseating prospect that only cemented her commitment to singleness. At thirty-eight, she had never come close to being engaged, let alone married. But if Heather was being honest with herself, the dysfunction she had witnessed over the years at her job wasn't the real reason she was unwilling to commit to a relationship. It was because of what had happened to Violet in high school. And what Heather had done about it afterward.
Her phone buzzed and she glanced at the unknown number on the screen. Possibly a new client. She straightened up in her seat and cleared her throat, preparing to slip into the professional spiel that rolled effortlessly from her tongue after two decades in the trade. “Heather Nelson speaking."
After a lengthy pause, a man’s voice asked, “Is this Integrity Investigations?”
“It is.”
“I … wasn’t sure—” the man stammered.
“Discretion is key,” Heather hastened to explain. “Surveillance targets sometimes find my number in a client’s phone and call to see who answers. The last thing I want to do is tip them off to the fact that they’re being investigated.”
“Ah, of course. That makes perfect sense.” The man hesitated as if prompting Heather to take the reins.
“How can I help?” she went on, curbing her impatience at the faltering conversation. It was a mistake to press new clients. Trust was a process.
“I need the services of a private investigator—my associate recommended you. I have reason to believe my wife is cheating on me. Well, it’s only a suspicion really. You see …”
Heather let him ramble on, her gaze still fixed on the high-rent apartment building on the other side of the street. She knew better than to interrupt. Her reputation was partly built on her PI skills, but equal parts on tact and discretion. Infidelity cases were notoriously sensitive. No matter how mentally prepared a client was for the news, the emotional shock still sometimes hit like a bomb blast. She had seen grown men crumble and cry after providing them with proof of what they already suspected. Once, she’d witnessed a tiny slip of a woman reduce a three-hundred-thousand-dollar sports car to scrap metal with a hammer.
As soon as the man hung up, she Googled his name and discovered that Karan Patel was an introverted tech company CEO who rarely gave interviews. His much younger wife was an ex-model turned socialite—which Heather understood as a blanket term in LA for anyone whose life revolved around buffing, styling, primping, and networking their way on to exclusive party lists. She scrolled through some Google images. The perfectly coiffed Mrs. Patel seemed to prefer being photographed on the arms of celebrity actors than at her nondescript bespectacled husband’s side. Karan was likely right about her roving ways. His years of computer coding in the background was now bankrolling her time in the limelight. Heather had never embraced the LA lifestyle, preferring her homegrown Iowan roots, where you didn’t know who had money and who didn’t, and no one cared either way. Truth be told, she missed the wide-open spaces, the days when a traffic jam consisted of being stuck behind a tractor or a cattle trailer.
A movement in the doorway of the building she was surveilling caught her attention. She tossed her phone on the passenger seat and reached for her camera. She’d invested in the best equipment available, and it had paid for itself many times over. She could outgun the paparazzi when it came to surveillance, and she was fairly certain she could go toe-to-toe with the CIA in a pinch.
A tall, bearded man with an expensive suit jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder emerged from the doorway, his other arm around the waist of the blonde woman at his side. He threw back his head and laughed at something she said as the two made their way to the adjacent parking lot. Heather expertly snapped a series of photos in quick succession before losing sight of the pair. She waited until their car emerge
d from the parking lot and then followed at a discreet distance until they pulled up outside a small but exclusive Italian restaurant.
The two-timing producer tossed his keys to the parking valet before ushering the woman up the steps. Heather snapped several more shots as the two entered the restaurant. Once they were out of sight, she laid her camera on the seat next to her. She had more than enough evidence to confirm her client’s suspicions, but a photo of the pair locking lips would be a bonus. She debated hanging out for an hour or two and waiting for the couple to leave. With a few drinks in them, they were likely to be a lot more amorous.
Her phone beeped with an incoming email and she reached for it as she adjusted the baseball cap on her head. She frowned at the sender’s name. Reagan Evans. She hadn’t seen Reagan since she’d moved to LA—she’d been Reagan Butler back then. Heather had gotten an invitation to her wedding last year but declined it, just like she’d turned down all the other invitations necessitating a return trip to Iowa.
Curious, she opened the email.
Hey Heather,
I got your contact info from your website. I know you haven’t been in touch with the group for a while, so I wasn’t sure if you had heard about Lindsay. Such a horrific thing to happen! Here’s a link to the local news article so you can read it for yourself. I’m so sorry, I know you guys were close. By the way, I’m sure you got the invitation to the reunion. We’d love to see you again—especially now, after what happened to Lindsay. We’re including a special tribute to her in the program. Please think about it. My number is (563) 271-3349.
Regards,
Reagan
A dull thud like a distant explosion sounded deep inside Heather’s chest. Lindsay Robinson was the only member of their once tight-knit student council group that she had kept up with in the twelve years she’d been living in LA, and even that had deteriorated into a quick call at Christmas, or a perfunctory email exchange—an obligation tied to a dark secret. Lindsay was the one person Heather had told what she’d done that awful night and, thankfully, Lindsay had kept her mouth shut. Not even Violet knew the truth, and Heather had no intention of telling her. For better or for worse, what was done, was done.
2
With a growing sense of apprehension, Heather clicked the link in Reagan’s email and stared impatiently at the screen until the Quad City Herald’s website loaded. As she scanned the headline, the breath seeped from her lungs.
Davenport Woman Dies From Rattlesnake Bite.
A biker on an evening ride on a remote, muddy section of the Great River Trail suffered a fatal rattlesnake bite after her bike spun out and she was thrown into the brush. Police believe she was knocked unconscious when she hit her head on a rock near to where a snake was nesting. Tragically, the woman’s body was not discovered until the following morning when a jogger spotted her abandoned bicycle lying at the side of the trail.
Fist pressed to her mouth, Heather reread the article several times until the words were engraved on her mind. It was too shocking to comprehend. A freak accident with an unimaginably grisly ending. How could Lindsay be gone just like that? Of all of them, she should have lived the longest—she’d always been such a health nut with her matcha green tea smoothies and fermented salads. Not to mention the fact that she was an incredible athlete, competing across the country in professional bike races. She had taken a few spills before, but never suffered anything more than cuts and bruises. It didn’t make sense. Lindsay was an expert at navigating technical trails. It was hard to imagine how a little mud could have thrown her off her bike.
Heather felt sick to her stomach picturing Lindsay’s last moments. The thought of her lying in the brush, unconscious and helpless, while a rattlesnake slithered over her was particularly horrifying. Her thoughts spiraled quickly downward. Had Lindsay suffered as the venom took hold? Or perhaps, mercifully, she’d been oblivious to what was happening. Heather couldn’t imagine anything worse than dying alone as the cold and darkness moved in to take you. She rubbed her shaking hands on her thighs. In all likelihood, Lindsay hadn’t regained consciousness. She would have called 911 if she’d been able. And if she couldn’t get a signal, she would have crawled out of there if she’d had to. That was the type of person she was.
Yanking off her baseball cap, Heather tossed it on the passenger seat. She had lost all interest in hanging around outside the restaurant until her client’s errant spouse and his blonde date reemerged. All she wanted to do was get home and absorb the shock ricocheting through her body. Her head pounded as she put the car in gear. The article Reagan had sent her was dated a week ago which meant the funeral had most likely already taken place. She should have been there, for Lindsay’s mother’s sake. Pam must be devastated at the loss of her only child. Heather peeled out of her parking spot and accelerated down the street, her pulse thundering in her ears. She hadn’t set foot in Iowa since leaving for LA twelve years earlier. Some part of her had hoped that by staying away, her secret would fade into a nothingness—almost as if it had all been a bad dream. The thought of going back to where it had happened sent her into a cold sweat.
Her breath came in short, sharp stabs as the memory of that night resurfaced with a vengeance—the pleading look in his eyes, his fingers smearing blood across the glass in a last-ditch cry for help. All these years later, and it still felt like yesterday. She shuddered and took a hasty swig of coffee from her travel mug, her throat as dry as sandpaper. She dreaded to think what would have happened if anyone had found out what she’d done. But that was no longer a concern. Her secret was now rotting in the grave along with Lindsay.
Wiping a trembling hand over her brow, Heather pulled into the underground parking structure of the luxury condominium complex where she lived. She switched off the engine and reached for her camera bag. Maybe she should reconsider and go back for her twentieth class reunion after all. In light of what had happened, it seemed like the appropriate thing to do—Lindsay had wanted her to go. If nothing else, Reagan and the others would appreciate the gesture. And that way she could express her condolences to Lindsay’s mother in person. The reunion was still six weeks away. That gave her plenty of time between now and then to wrap up her current cases, including the sleazy producer and the reclusive Karan Patel.
Inside her condominium, Heather’s five-year-old Shih tzu, Phoebe, raced to greet her, then tore around the white-tiled floor chasing her tail in circles until Heather fetched her a treat. “Sit pretty,” she said, waiting until Phoebe sat back on her haunches and held up her front paws. “Good girl!” Heather cooed, tossing her a miniature doggie biscuit. She walked over to her refrigerator and surveyed the bleak array of options for dinner. In her panic to get home, she’d forgotten to pick up anything. Mostly, she lived on takeout or whatever the deli at the corner market had left over that didn’t look like it had been sitting under a heat lamp for half its allotted lifespan.
After pulling out a carton of leftover chow mein, Heather plonked herself down at the kitchen table to eat. As she chewed on her food, her mind drifted back to the home in Iowa where she’d grown up. She and Violet had enjoyed a relatively happy childhood—idyllic some might call it. Two loving, if overly strict, parents, doting grandparents, a farm full of animals and adventure, and enough money for a yearly road trip to one of the national parks. What had happened to Violet had changed everything. It was almost as if life had a strange filter on it from that point on that sucked the color from things, casting unsavory shadows on everyone she met, disintegrating her trust in people.
Heather deeply regretted lying to her parents that night. Violet had begged her not to tell them what happened—insisting she couldn’t bear the thought of everyone at school finding out and talking about her behind her back. Years later, when she was getting married, she broke down and told them the truth. Naturally, they were devastated, and wracked with guilt to think their daughter had gone for years without any justice. Six months later, their father suffered a fatal heart att
ack, and their mother developed early onset Alzheimer’s and died at only fifty-nine years of age. Heather hadn’t been able to stop any of their lives unraveling.
Stomach roiling, she shoved the carton of food aside and pulled out her phone. After reading through Reagan’s email again, she set her lips in a resolute line and dialed the number.
“Hello?” a sleepy voice said.
Her heart jolted at the sound of Reagan’s voice—a distant echo from the past.
“Hi, Reagan. It’s Heather—Heather Nelson.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line and then Reagan said, “Just a minute while I go downstairs. Dave’s asleep.”
Heather groaned inwardly. She’d forgotten to check the time before she called. It was already 11:15 p.m. in Iowa.
“Are you still there?” Reagan asked.
“Yes. Listen, I’m sorry to call this late. I completely spaced out on the time. I just got off work and saw your email.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Reagan responded, sounding as if she was stifling a yawn. “It’s good to hear from you. We’re all in shock. It was such a horrific thing to happen—and to Lindsay of all people. I can’t bear to think about it.”
Heather bit her lip, unexpected tears pricking her eyes. “Did I miss the funeral?”