And Then She Was GONE: A riveting new suspense novel that keeps you guessing until the end

by Christopher Greyson

  “Soon. My obstetrician says everything looks good, but please don’t say anything. Michael wants us to wait until after the first trimester just in case something goes wrong. You’re the only one that knows.”

  “I won’t say a word. But no complications?”

  “None. My own little miracle.”

  “With everything that happened before that’s wonderful news.”

  An older blue BMW came flying down the road and pulled up to the curb in front of them. Betty strolled over to it. “Do you need a lift?”

  “No. My car’s out in the company lot.”

  “Bruce and I would love to have you two over for dinner again,” Betty said as she opened the passenger door. “Wouldn’t we, Bruce?”

  Her husband leaned across the front seat and smiled. He was a tall man with a friendly grin that softened his square face. “We’d love to. We can get something delivered and I’ll get a decent meal. How about tomorrow?”

  “It’ll have to be next week. Michael is coming home tomorrow,” Stacy said.

  “Michael’s out of town?” Betty asked.

  “For work.”

  “Oh, is he…” Bruce said.

  Bruce and Betty exchanged a quick glance.

  “If you’re free,” Bruce kept his eyes on his wife until she nodded, “then why not just come tonight?” He reached a long arm over the seat back and pushed open the back door. “It’ll be a low-key, intimate dinner for three. How does Chateau de Mama Mia’s Pizza sound?”

  “If you want the company,” Betty added.

  Stacy was appreciative of the offer, but said, “Not tonight. Actually, I’m trying to take advantage of the time to myself. I’m looking forward to doing some tidying up before Michael comes home.”

  “The job has made you crazy,” Betty quipped as she got into the car. “Or you’re nesting. Don’t overdo it.”

  “I won’t.”

  Stacy waved as they pulled away from the curb. She walked around the corner of the building to the company parking lot. There were only a couple of cars in the lot, and she walked straight to her Civic.

  The driver’s door squeaked as she opened it. She mentally added lube the car door to her honey-do list. Michael had suggested they get her another car, but Stacy knew they couldn’t afford it. Right now, every penny they had was going into the savings they would need in a few months.

  She sat down in the driver’s seat, cranked the window down, and turned the key.

  Absolutely nothing happened. Not even a click.

  She turned the key again. Nothing.

  “Oh, no. Not now.” She pushed the gas down and turned the key again. The engine didn’t so much as sputter.

  She fought back tears and laid her head on top of the steering wheel. Her phone rang, and she jumped. When she saw the caller ID, her smile returned. “Are you psychic?”

  “Yes, I am. You’re about to tell me that you love me,” Michael joked.

  “I do love you. I’m so glad to hear your voice.”

  “Why? Is everything all right?”

  Stacy hesitated. No, she wanted to say, but she knew that would only worry him, and he was already a bundle of nerves because of the pregnancy. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Oh, okay. You sounded a little upset. Rough day?”

  She chuckled. “Nothing that I can’t handle. Really, I’m fine. You’re the one with a big day tomorrow. Is everything ready for your presentation?”

  “Yup. I just spent an hour at the copy store making handouts,” Michael said. “I’m hoping between those and a few boxes of donuts and coffee, they’ll stay for the whole presentation.”

  “I’m sure you’ll knock their socks off.” Stacy took the keys out of the ignition. “You sound tired.”

  “Actually, I am. The long drive was brutal,” Michael admitted. “It’s been an exhausting day. Tomorrow looks like a beast too.”

  “Then go get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow night. I love you.” Stacy blew a soft kiss into the phone.

  “Love you too. ’Night.” Michael hung up.

  Stacy slumped back into the seat. She crossed her hands over the steering wheel and stared across the road to the park. A warm breeze blew through the open window; it was a beautiful night. She took a deep breath, enjoying the balmy summer air.

  She knew if she cut through the park, it would be only a short twenty-minute walk from here to home. And she had gone to the park a few times with Michael during her lunch break, and thought it was a lovely place. She could leave the car overnight, then Michael could fix it when he got home and they’d save the money for a tow.

  Satisfied with her plan, Stacy grabbed her handbag, closed the window, locked the car door, and crossed the street.

  The entrance to Hamilton Park was marked by a beautiful stone archway. Modeled after Roman architecture, its twin stone columns towered fifteen feet high on each side, suspending a rounded arch between them, and thick, pitted iron gates were welded eternally open.

  Inside the park, old-fashioned streetlamps lit the paved main paths. A web of smaller unlit paths crisscrossed the park, but Stacy elected to stick to the lighted areas. As she walked, she made plans in her head of all the things she would need to buy over the next few months: nursery furniture, baby clothes, and one of those instant baby thermometers. Her shopping list grew longer with each step. While she hurried along, she spoke aloud to herself. She didn’t care; no one was around, and she had no one else to talk to.

  “Perhaps in a little while, we can buy an affordable car. Reliable. Maybe a mini-van. If we get used, then I might be able to stay home—for a little while at least.”

  She looked up, and suddenly realized that beyond the sporadically lit path, the park was dark. Completely dark. Her happiness dissipated like the breeze as Mr. Chambers’ words from earlier suddenly struck her: “It’s a beautiful park—during the day.”

  During the day…

  Stacy was passing by a monument—a neoclassical column of marble that stood twelve feet high. The top of the column was decorated with four stone faces of older men, one facing in each of the four compass directions. Stacy felt as if those faces were scowling down at her in silent judgment as she passed. She shuddered and turned away.

  The park now felt different. The rolling hills and groomed grounds no longer reminded her of families walking and children playing. Now, unnervingly, they reminded her of a cemetery.

  She sped up.

  The faster she walked, the louder her heels rang on the tar. The tap-tap-tap of her shoes matched the rapid pace of her heart. A bench ahead drew her focus. At first it looked like her couch on laundry day, covered in a mound of clothes. But as she drew closer, the mound moved.

  A homeless man sat up and glared directly at her. He had apparently laid two filled trash bags over himself, and as he rose, the contents of one of the bags spilled onto the walkway.

  Instinctively, Stacy moved to the far side of the path. The man crouched low over his bags, looking like a rabid raccoon protecting his spilled trash. He glared at her, his eyes barely visible behind bushy eyebrows, his yellow teeth poking out from his unkempt beard. He cursed under his breath as he watched her pass.

  Stacy took a deep breath and upped her pace. Her mother’s words of warning now filled her with dread. She clenched her bag to her chest and hustled on.

  The lovely park’s tall oaks and flowering shrubs had turned ominous. A dead tree’s branches clawed at the sky like skeletal fingers. Just a few yards off the path, everything was shrouded in the murk, and dark shadows played tricks on her mind. Every sound now took on a foreboding tone: branches groaned and creaked; leaves rustled; an unseen creature scurried along the undergrowth. Goose bumps crawled across Stacy’s skin. Her shoulders hunched inward as she marched forward like a hiker in the winter woods, her body leaning forward against an invisible storm.

  She was almost jogging now. The heel of one of her leather shoes had dug a deep blister into the back of her foot.


  As she crested a hill, she stopped suddenly. Up ahead, the path dipped down again—into darkness. Peering, she could just make out another of the old-fashioned streetlights, but it was unlit, as lifeless as a dead tree. And without it…

  Stacy looked around like a startled bird. The heat of the night now felt thick and oppressive. She took a deep breath and tried to marshal her resolve.

  She started forward, her skin prickling as the night air wrapped around her. Like a child, she found herself holding her breath as she hurried through the darkness. With every step, a shiver crawled down her spine. But when she heard the rush of water from a fountain up ahead, she knew she was almost out of the darkened area. And when she saw the next streetlight through the trees, shining like a welcome beacon, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I can make it,” she reassured herself.

  A muffled sound made her turn to the side. Not far away, along the tree line atop the hill, a darker shadow stood apart from the others—a hulking silhouette emerging from the woods.

  The figure rushed toward her.

  Stacy shrieked incoherently and bolted.

  Her pursuer’s footsteps rang loudly off the tar behind her. They were heavy and fast. Tears blurred Stacy’s vision, but she cast one fleeting glance over her shoulder. Like a bear crashing down from a mountain, her pursuer was gaining on her fast.

  The figure was still shrouded in darkness, and the only detail Stacy could make out clearly was that they wore a ski mask.

  As she ran, Stacy rifled through her handbag, searching desperately for her phone. Tight bands circled her chest as she gasped for air. Her heart thumped and thrashed like an unbalanced washing machine.

  Her fingers found the phone. She began to dial. But just then her heel caught on a broken edge in the paving stones, and she stumbled and pitched forward.

  She would have fallen if her assailant hadn’t caught her. Long fingers seized her belt around her waist. The leather dug into her stomach as she was yanked back.

  “Let me go,” she pleaded.

  Hoping they were just after her money, she flung her handbag as far into the woods as she could. “Take it. Just take it!” she screamed.

  Her scream turned into a guttural wail when the attacker ignored the bag and kept hold of her.

  Her hands clutched at the air. She felt like she was swimming through a riptide, desperate to make it to shore.

  She darted a glance at her attacker. The front of the ski mask was painted with a skull—a skull with a twisted, evil grin. She recoiled and tried to pull away.

  If they don’t want money…

  She fought back as hard as she could. She raised her leg and drove her heel down onto her attacker’s foot. A growl of pain emerged from beneath the mask, and the fingers grasping her belt let go.

  Stacy took off.

  “Help!” she cried out into the stillness of the night. But no one answered.

  The light was still too far away, and there was no reason to believe mere light would protect her now. Her only chance was to lose her attacker in the darkness. So she kicked off her heels and ran off the path, the wet grass slick beneath her bare feet.

  She still had her phone in her hand, and once again she tried to dial. But her attacker had recovered quickly, and now closed the distance, fast. She felt herself pushed from behind, and she pitched forward and landed hard on her chest. The phone flew from her hand and landed softly in the grass in front of her, the numbers 911 illuminated on the screen. She just needed to press the call button.

  But it was too late. A hand grabbed the back of her neck. Long fingers wrapped around her belt and yanked her up.

  She screamed and grabbed at the hands, but the thick fingers only tightened their grip. A muscular arm circled her waist from behind and dragged her toward the woods. Her arms thrashed, but she could only beat helplessly at the air. She kicked backward, and her foot struck flesh, but her attacker didn’t slow.

  Fear turned into abject terror. “No,” she wept.

  She dug her feet into the ground as she was yanked backward, trying to slow their progress. A rock sliced deep into her heel and blood flowed, but still she struggled.

  Finally her attacker must have decided they were far enough from the path, as Stacy was flung roughly to the ground, face up.

  “Please, no—”

  The attacker’s full weight dropped down on top of her.

  Something brushed against her thigh. Stacy shoved her palms into the ground and pushed up as hard as she could. “No!”

  With one last burst of strength, she clawed at her attacker’s face. Grasping the ski mask, she wrenched it off.

  Her eyes went wide. “You?”

  A fist struck her violently. The blow cut her lip. She tried to think, but her mind fogged. “No…” she mumbled.

  Then the fist struck again, and everything went black.

  3

  Can’t You See the Resemblance?

  About ready to go out of his mind, Jack waited in the long line at the passport office. He’d been there for almost an hour, and as the line crawled forward, his patience inched downward until it was running on fumes. And now the man in front of him was chatting with the woman behind the counter as though they were old friends.

  The government office looked as if someone had mashed together a bank and a deli. Speckled gray and black linoleum tiles covered the open floor. A counter divided the room in half. There were five sections where clerks could assist people, but only one window was open. Jack stood with a half dozen other people in a roped-off section that made him feel like a rat in a maze. For the hundredth time, he willed the line to move forward.

  “You enjoy the rest of the afternoon.” The woman smiled at the man she’d just helped.

  What’s left of it, Jack muttered to himself. He stepped forward and handed her his passport form.

  The woman set his papers down on the counter. She adjusted her glasses with one hand while she patted her short, dyed, coffee-colored hair with the other. Using her finger as a guide, she checked that each box of the form was correct. When she lazily reached for her coffee cup, Jack wanted to scream. He read her name tag.

  “Mrs. Smythe, that form’s ten pages long. There’s no reason to double-check every item again. I’m getting a passport before I enlist in the Army. I checked the form, my recruiter checked it, my father checked it, and my mom went over it with a magnifying glass. Let’s say we speed-read this, and then you can have an early lunch?” He turned his hands palms out and gave her one of his roguish grins.

  Mrs. Smythe’s wrinkles deepened. “If there’s a problem, they’ll kick it back and you’ll have to do everything all over again.”

  “I’m not leaving for three months. Besides,” Jack leaned closer, “I’m sure you know these forms so well that you can give it a quick scan and we’ll both be out of here.”

  Mrs. Smythe tipped her chin down and leveled her gaze at him over the rim of her glasses. “If you’re going in the Army, get used to dotting your i’s and crossing your t’s. Name?”

  Jack exhaled. “Jack Stratton.”

  “Middle name?”

  “Alton.”

  “Hair?”

  “Brown.”

  “Eyes?”

  “Two.”

  She frowned.

  Jack flashed a handsome grin. “Brown.”

  She looked down but the corners of her mouth ticked up. “Six foot one and one hundred eighty pounds?”

  “Sure am.”

  “Age?”

  “Seventeen. For the next couple of days, anyway.”

  “You do have a birthday coming up.” Mrs. Smythe’s finger stopped at the box for birthplace. “What town is that?”

  Jack’s back stiffened. He hated filling out paperwork; it reminded him of all the basic things he didn’t know about himself. What was his real name? Where was he born? Who was his birth father? Facts most people took for granted, Jack ached to know.

  He lowered hi
s voice. “It’s not a town. It says unknown.”

  She used her pen to point to the line behind him. “Enough with the comedy routine. Birthplace?”

  “I’m not kidding. I don’t know. My mom thought we should write something instead of leaving it blank.”

  “Your mom? She doesn’t know where she gave birth to you? Not even the state?”

  Jack bit into his cheek. “I was abandoned.” Jack hated the word abandoned. It made him feel as if he was less than nothing.

  Her cheeks blushed a pale pink. “Oh… I’m sorry.”

  Jack stood up straight. “It’s all right. The truth is, I don’t know the answer to half the questions on that form.”

  “I am truly sorry.” Mrs. Smythe cleared her throat. When she spoke again, her tone had softened. “And this is your present address?” She clearly felt bad, and that was the last thing Jack wanted. He’d had his fill of pity.

  Jack pointed at the address. “That’s the happy ending to my story.” He worked up a smile. “After a few years in the foster care system, I got adopted. Which was a bit of a miracle, considering I was eleven.”

  “Miracle?”

  “For foster kids, I was past the expiration date. Most people want to adopt a baby.”

  She nodded.

  “But I ended up with the best parents a kid could have.”

  She smiled.

  Jack had called the Strattons Mom and Dad from the moment they took him in. They were tender and caring. His parents loved him, and he loved them back. But that never completely healed the scars of his past.

  Mrs. Smythe quickly skimmed the remaining pages. “Your mother did a great job filling out this form. Okay,” she pointed to a spot on the floor in front of the camera, “stand there.”

  Jack hurried over. “Do you have a mirror?”

  She looked at him quizzically. “What for?”

  Jack fussed with his thick, dark brown hair. “To try to make me look semi-decent.”

  Mrs. Smythe chuckled. “Darling, you’re as handsome as a movie star. You definitely don’t need a mirror.”