by Lisa Jackson
OUTSTANDING PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF
LISA JACKSON
You Will Pay
“This suspenseful thriller is packed with jaw-dropping twists.”
—In Touch Weekly
After She’s Gone
“Jackson generates near-constant suspense, weaving together disparate plot turns, directing a large cast of characters, and playing up movie-star egos and show-biz gossip to give the novel a vintage Hollywood feel.”
—Booklist
Never Die Alone
“Jackson definitely knows how to keep readers riveted.”
—Mystery Scene
Close to Home
“Jackson definitely knows how to jangle readers’ nerves … Close to Home is perfect for readers of Joy Fielding or fans of Mary Higgins Clark.”
—Booklist
Tell Me
“Absolutely tension filled … Jackson is on top of her game.”
—Suspense Magazine
You Don’t Want to Know
“Lisa Jackson shows yet again why she is one of the best at romantic suspense. A pure nail-biter.”
—Harlan Coben, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Shiveringly good suspense!”
—Lisa Gardner, New York Times bestselling author
Books by Lisa Jackson
Stand-Alones
SEE HOW SHE DIES
FINAL SCREAM
RUNNING SCARED
WHISPERS
TWICE KISSED
UNSPOKEN
DEEP FREEZE
FATAL BURN
MOST LIKELY TO DIE
WICKED GAME
WICKED LIES
SOMETHING WICKED
WICKED WAYS
SINISTER
WITHOUT MERCY
YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW
CLOSE TO HOME
AFTER SHE’S GONE
REVENGE
YOU WILL PAY
OMINOUS
RUTHLESS
Anthony Paterno/
Cahill Family Novels
IF SHE ONLY KNEW
ALMOST DEAD
Rick Bentz/
Reuben Montoya Novels
HOT BLOODED
COLD BLOODED
SHIVER
ABSOLUTE FEAR
LOST SOULS
MALICE
DEVIOUS
NEVER DIE ALONE
Pierce Reed/
Nikki Gillette Novels
THE NIGHT BEFORE
THE MORNING AFTER
TELL ME
Selena Alvarez/
Regan Pescoli Novels
LEFT TO DIE
CHOSEN TO DIE
BORN TO DIE
AFRAID TO DIE
READY TO DIE
DESERVES TO DIE
EXPECTING TO DIE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2010 by Lisa Jackson, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.
Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First Zebra Mass Market Printing: March 2011
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1049-9
eISBN-10: 1-4967-1049-5
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1048-2
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1048-7
First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: April 2018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
For Hannah Always in my heart
Contents
Praise
Books by Lisa Jackson
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is a team project and I would like to thank some of the members of my team who worked hard on this book. Rosalind Noonan and John Scognamiglio both gave hours of their expertise on the novel. Everyone at Kensington Publishing has been incredible and of course, I would like to thank Nancy Bush, Ken Bush, Alex Craft, Matthew Crose, Niki Crose, Michael Crose, Kelly Foster, Darren Foster, Ken Melum, and my agent, Robin Rue. There are others, of course, but these people come to mind.
Author’s Note
There is no Blue Rock Academy, nor a sheriff’s department whose jurisdiction included the academy. But there is an incredibly beautiful stretch of country in the mountains of southern Oregon, so while the institution isn’t real, the landscape is and let me tell you, it’s phenomenal!
CHAPTER 1
“Help me … Oh, God, please someone help me….” The voice was a desperate plea, barely audible over the sounds of a familiar song and the steady drip of liquid splashing, like a single drop of rainwater hitting the ground. Over and over again.
Her heartbeat pounding in her eardrums, Jules Farentino, barefoot and wearing only a nightgown, made her way toward the den where a fluttering blue light was barely visible through the sheers on the French doors.
“Hurry … there isn’t much time….”
She wanted to call out but held her tongue. The feeling that something was wrong here—something dark and evil—caused her to creep silently along the icy floors.
Slowly, she pushed open the door to the den and peered inside. The L-shaped couch and a recliner were illuminated by the weird, flickering light of the muted television.
Michael Jackson’s voice sang about Billie Jean through the speakers.
Above the melody:
Drip. Drip. Drip.
So loud.
Like rolling thunder in her aching head.
Liquid warmth splashed on the tops of her bare feet, and she looked down quickl
y. Her eyes rounded as she saw the blood dripping from the long blade of the knife in her hand, the red stain spreading into a pool.
What?
No!
She tried to scream but couldn’t, and as she looked toward the open French doors, she saw her father lying on the floor near the coffee table.
“Help me, Jules,” he said, lips barely moving. He stared up at her, eyes unblinking, a jagged gash on his forehead, a stain spreading on the front of his rumpled white shirt.
Blood gurgled from the corner of Rip Delaney’s mouth as he stared up at her, whispering in a wet rasp, “Why?”
Transfixed, her hand now sticky with blood, she started to scream—
“Seven forty-five in the morning. It’s a chilly thirty-seven now. That’s only five degrees above freezing, you know, but temperatures will climb until midafternoon, topping out near fifty. It’s going to be a cold, wet one today, a major storm expected to roll in later this morning. Now for the traffic report …”
Jules awoke with a jerk.
Her heart was pounding, her head splitting, the radio announcer’s voice an irritant. She slapped off the alarm and shivered. Her bedroom was freezing, her window open a crack, wind rushing inside, rain beating a steady tattoo against the roof.
“Damn,” she whispered, wiping her face, the vestiges of her ever-recurring dream slipping back to the dark corners of her mind. She glanced at the clock and groaned, realizing with a sinking feeling that she’d forgotten to reset her alarm.
Rolling off the bed, she disturbed her cat that had been sleeping in a ball on the second pillow. He lifted his gray head and stretched, yawning to show off his needle-sharp teeth as she snagged her bathrobe from the foot of the bed and threw it on. She didn’t have time for a shower, much less a jog.
Instead, she threw water over her face, tossed a couple of extra-strength Excedrin into her mouth, and washed them down by tilting her head under the faucet. After yanking on jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, she found an old Trail Blazers cap. Then she searched for her keys, scrounging in her purse and in the pockets of the jacket she’d worn the day before.
Her cell phone rang, and she found it plugged in to the charger on the floor near her bed.
Flipping it open, she saw Shay’s face on the small LED screen.
“Where are you?” her sister demanded.
“I’m on my way.”
“It’s too late. We’re almost there!”
“Already?” Jules tugged on one sneaker as she glanced back at the clock. “I thought you were leaving at nine.”
“The pilot called. There’s a storm or something. I don’t know. He has to fly out earlier.”
“Oh, no! Make him wait.”
“I can’t! Don’t you get it? She’s really doing it, Jules,” Shay said, and some of the toughness in her voice disappeared. “Edie’s getting rid of me.”
That was a little overly dramatic, but so was Shay, through and through.
Jules finished lacing her running shoes. “Then tell her to wait.”
“You tell her,” Shay said, and a second later Jules heard her mother’s voice say, “Look, Julia, there’s no reason to argue with me; this is beyond my control. I told Shaylee that she has to go whenever the pilot can fly her safely to the school, and he says they need to go earlier because of the storm.”
“No, Mom, wait. You can’t just send her to—”
“I damned well can. She’s underage. I’m her guardian. And she’s got a court order. We’ve had this conversation before. Let’s not rehash it.”
“But—”
“It’s either this or juvenile detention again. This is her last chance, Julia! The judge ordered her to make a choice, and she, smart as she is, took the school. It was also her choice to hang out with that criminal and take part in a crime. Her boyfriend wasn’t so fortunate; he didn’t have a rich father to get him a lawyer. Dawg will be going to prison for a long time, so your sister should count herself lucky!”
“Just wait!”
The connection was severed, leaving Jules to worry from the middle of her messy bedroom. She couldn’t believe her mother was actually shipping Shaylee off to a distant school for troubled teens, one that was in the middle of no-damned-where. She flew out of her condo and waved to Mrs. Dixon, her neighbor, as the woman carried her wet newspaper into her unit.
Once inside her old Volvo, she drove toward Lake Washington and the address she’d gotten from Edie earlier, the spot from which Shaylee was to be picked up by seaplane for her ride to Blue Rock Academy in southern Oregon. Edie had given Jules the address the day before.
Jules floored it.
However, the freeway was a parking lot, and the latest traffic report blaring from Jules’s radio didn’t make her feel any better. Apparently everyone who owned a car in the state of Washington was sitting on the I-5 freeway in the drizzling rain, as evidenced by the line of blazing taillights stretching ahead of her Volvo. Jules peered wearily past the slapping windshield wiper as the traffic crawled north. Still fighting a headache, she drummed her fingers on her steering wheel and wished she knew a faster way to get to Lake Washington.
She’d battled rush hour down in Portland, Oregon, when she’d worked at Bateman High, but since losing her teaching job last June, she’d been spared the annoyance of rush hour. In her current position as a waitress at 101, a highend restaurant on the waterfront, she covered the night shift and usually avoided traffic. One of the few perks of the job.
The radio did little to calm her nerves, and the windshield wipers slapping away the rain only added to her case of jitters. Jules was too late. Shay was going to fly off without a good-bye, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Not even Edie could fix this. A judge had ruled that Shay was to be sent away for rehabilitation.
She tuned the radio to a station where songs from the eighties were peppered with rapid-fire traffic updates from Brenda, the serious reporter who rattled off trouble spots on the freeway system so fast it was hard to keep up.
Not that it helped.
Basically, it seemed, every freeway was a snarled mess this miserable February morning.
“Come on, come on,” Jules muttered, glancing at the clock on the dash of her twenty-year-old sedan. Eight-seventeen. The height of rush hour. And she was supposed to be on the dock by eight-thirty, or it would be too late. She flipped on her blinker and bullied her way into the lane that was curving toward the Evergreen Point Bridge that spanned Lake Washington.
A semi driver reluctantly allowed her to squeeze in, and she offered him a smile and a wave as she wedged her way into the far right lane and nosed her car east. She was nearly clipped by a guy in a black Toyota who was talking on his cell phone.
“Idiot!” She slammed on her brakes and slid into the spot just as the first notes of “Billie Jean” by Michael Jackson filled the interior of her Volvo. “Oh, God.” She pushed the radio’s button to another preset station, but the strains of the song reverberated through her head.
In her mind’s eye, again she saw her father, lying in a pool of his own blood, his dying eyes staring upward as the song played over and over.
Jules nearly smashed into the pickup in front of her.
“Oh, Jesus.” Calm down. Don’t kill yourself getting there! Adrenaline from the near wreck sang through her veins. Jittery, she took three breaths, then, with one hand, fished inside her purse for a bottle of painkillers. The stuff she’d taken earlier hadn’t worked.
She found the bottle and popped off the cap with her thumb. Pills sprayed over her, but she didn’t care, washing two tablets down quickly with the remains of yesterday’s Diet Coke that she’d left in the car’s cup holder.
The bad mix of caffeine-laden syrup and headache medicine made her wince as the refrain of “Billie Jean” kept pounding through her brain. “You’re a head case,” she told her reflection in the rearview mirror. “No wonder you’re out of work.” Well, technically she had a job waiting tables, but her tea
ching career was over. Her recurring nightmare and blinding headaches had taken care of that.
In the mirror, beneath the bill of her cap, she caught a quick glimpse of gray eyes that held a hint of rebellion—that same disguised mutiny that was so evident in her younger sister.
At least Shaylee wasn’t a hypocrite.
Jules could hardly say the same of herself.
A siren wailed in the distance; then she spied an ambulance threading through the clogged lanes of freeway traffic, going in the opposite direction.
God, her head throbbed.
Even though it was a cloudy day, the glare got to her.
She found her pair of driving shades tucked in the visor and slipped them on.
“Come on, come on,” she muttered at the truck belching exhaust in front of her.
It took another twenty minutes and one more near collision before she reached her exit and eased along a winding road that hugged the shoreline of the lake.
She rounded a sharp curve and pulled through the open wrought-iron gates of a private residence. With a long, brick driveway, the building that appeared through the spruce and fir trees was more castle than house, a huge stone and brick edifice that rose three full stories on the shores of the lake.
She parked near the front door, next to her mother’s Lexus SUV. Then, without locking her car, she dashed through the spitting rain to the porch. Under the cover of the porch, she rang the bell and waited near the thick double doors.
Within a few seconds, a fussy-looking, wasp-thin woman answered. “Can I help you?” The woman was dressed in black slacks and a sleek sweater tied at her tiny waist. Ashblond hair, salon cut and teased, increased the size of her head and masked her age. Perfectly applied makeup accentuated her sharp features. Her smooth skin screamed facelift, and she glared at Jules as if she’d been interrupted from doing something very important.
Jules realized that in her decade-old jeans topped by her favorite UW sweatshirt, sunglasses, and faded baseball cap, she probably looked more like a bank robber than a worried family member. But, really, who cared? “I’m looking for Edie Stillman. She’s with her daughter, and they were going on a seaplane to—”
“I believe they’re at the dock,” the woman said with a smooth, practiced smile that didn’t hide her disapproval. Nor did she ask for any kind of ID or what Jules’s part in Shaylee’s departure was. She waved a disinterested hand toward a stone path leading around the house. “But I think you may be too late. The plane’s about to take off.”