The Other Daughter
Page 37
She melted against him. The knot left her chest completely. The haze of the last month cleared from her eyes. Now she could see it all clearly. Herself, him, probably two point two children. Maybe a golden retriever.
Family. At last, a family of her own.
Funny, but in her mind she saw Jamie O'Donnell beaming and four-year-old Meagan Stokes finally happy.
Melanie Stokes whispered, “Yes.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LISA GARDNER is the New York Times bestselling author of The Perfect Husband, The Other Daughter, The Third Victim, The Next Accident, and The Survivors Club. She lives in New England with her husband and daughter, and two highly spoiled dogs and one incredibly pampered cat.
BANTAM BOOKS BY LISA GARDNER
The Perfect Husband
The Other Daughter
The Third Victim
The Next Accident
The Survivors Club
The Killing Hour
AND COMING SOON
IN HARDCOVER
Alone
PRAISE FOR THE BESTSELLING
NOVELS OF LISA GARDNER
THE OTHER DAUGHTER
“Once again, Gardner serves up suspense at a furious pace.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[A] suspenseful, engrossing page-turner . . . Totally absorbing, it's one of those books that keeps you up late, enslaved by the ‘just one more chapter' syndrome.”
—Mystery News
“Sheer terror . . . a great read.”
—Iris Johansen
THE KILLING HOUR
Main selection of Doubleday Book Club
Main Selection of The Literary Guild
“[A] high-octane page-turner. . . With tight plotting, an ear for forensic detail and a dash of romance, this is a truly satisfying sizzler in the tradition of Tess Gerritsen and Tami Hoag.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Gardner keeps us guessing to the finale. She also keeps us on edge.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Gardner ratchets up the tension by flashing back and forth between an abandoned victim struggling to stay alive and the feuding investigative agencies that would rather ponder a clue than launch a search. This, however, does leave room for Mac and Kimberly to shine—and shine they do.”
—Orlando Sentinel
“Gardner's latest has all the staples of a great suspense novel—plus love. The perfect book to read on a July night when it's too hot to sleep.”
—Salt Lake City Deseret News
“Tightly controlled emotions spill into a furious search for a serial killer . . . The forensic detail is great, and Gardner works in some genuinely creepy moments, especially when she zeroes in on the victim struggling against horrific odds.”
—Booklist
“This is the best book that Lisa Gardner has written. Considering her stellar writing this is no mean feat. The breathtaking, heart-pounding suspense never lets up. Her characters are complex. Her narrative is extraordinary.”
—Rendezvous
“The return of characters from earlier books makes this creepy and terrifying story all the more compelling. Gardner has firmly established herself as one of the hottest suspense talents around. Awesome!”
—Romantic Times
“A wickedly riveting novel.”
—St. Petersburg Times
“Fast-paced suspense.”
—Greensboro News & Record
“This intense book features a riveting plot, dynamic characters, and plenty of action. . . . Outstanding . . . Definitely an edge-of-your seat page turner. Don't miss this one!”
—Mystery News
“If this doesn't throw a chill into your summer, check your pulse.”
—Ottawa Citizen
“Gardner hits a new height of suspense . . . virtually impossible to put down. A fabulous, satisfying read.”
—Charleston Post and Courier
“Lisa Gardner gets better with every outing. . . . This book is perfect. . . . You'll want to read it with the lights on.”
—Winnipeg Free Press
THE SURVIVORS CLUB
“Showing a flair for lip-biting suspense, bestselling novelist Gardner combs out a tangled plot to an engrossing effect . . . Riveting action . . . This club is worth the dues.”
—People (Beach Book of the Week)
“Lisa Gardner's SURVIVORS CLUB is a high-octane, nerve-jangling tale of suspense.”
—Harlan Coben, author of Tell No One
“Hot dang, a new Lisa Gardner book! I love her hot, fast thrill rides. I'm always first in line to grab my copy of her newest release the day it arrives in stores. For my money, when it comes to suspense, nobody does it better.”
—Jayne Ann Krentz
“A book seething with suspense and violence, one that will snatch your attention and attach your emotions to the characters.”
—Columbia (SC) State
“One cannot read this excellent new novel by bestselling author Gardner without wondering what actors might play these characters. . . . Rocks and rolls right up to a nail-biter ending.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Her best effort yet in this dynamite tale . . . Readers are forewarned that they may be up all night finishing this masterfully crafted thriller.”
—Booklist
“The Survivors Club has it all—provocative plotting, an astute eye for detail, engaging characters, and a razor-sharp emotional edge.”
—Stephen White
“Will go in many a beach book bag this summer.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Another surprise-filled, suspenseful yarn from the gifted Ms. Gardner.”
—Denton (TX) Chronicle
“Lisa Gardner knows how to produce a hair-raising mystery thriller, and this offering is no exception. . . . Gardner keeps the reader guessing with twist after ingenious twist.”
—Charleston Post and Courier
“There's a whiff of The Silence of the Lambs in this gripping new crime novel. . . . A suspenseful page-turner.”
—Toronto Sun
“Cunning, terrifying . . . a suspenseful page turner.”
—Windsor (Ontario) Star
“Here's a winner to keep you on the edge of your beach chair.”
—River Falls Journal
“Another sure-fire winner . . . you'll be flipping pages all night.”
—Winnipeg Free Press
THE NEXT ACCIDENT
“A cool and accomplished psycho-killer tale.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Harrowing. A fiendishly well-choreographed dance of death.”
—Booklist
“A suspense-laden, twist-filled tale.”
—Providence Journal-Bulletin
“The suspense is constant. . . . A satisfying novel.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Suspense-filled and well-plotted . . . Gardner has another winner.”
—Arlington News
THE THIRD VICTIM
“Riveting, hold-your-breath suspense!”
—Iris Johansen
“Gardner deftly probes the psychology of school shootings while developing a cast of complex, compelling characters. . . . A suspenseful, curl-up winter read, this thriller teems with crisp, realistic dialogue and engaging characters.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“An extraordinary book . . . Gardner's writing skills are beautifully showcased in this novel. Deftly, she has crafted multi-dimensional characters. . . . Their emotions are well expressed in crisp, pertinent dialogue and the tensions are sustained at many different levels with seemingly effortless ease. Scenes shift, points of view shift, the pace varies;
all to perfection.”
—Romance Reader
“[A] heart-stopping novel, a story to get under your skin and haunt you. The action and the tension never let up from first page to last. As timely as today's headlines, this
is a one-of-a-kind book.”
—Romantic Times
THE PERFECT HUSBAND
“A page-turner.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“A streamlined bang-up addition to the oeuvre of Tami Hoag, Karen Robards, Elizabeth Powell and, these days, even Nora Roberts.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Readers get loads of angst, great procedural stuff, some hair-raising action scenes, and a villain to keep you awake at night. What more can any thriller reader want?”
—Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
“Scary, gritty, terrifying. Lock the door, leave on a light.”
—Oakland Press
“A chilling story of revenge and betrayal, with one of the creepiest villains I've ever read.”
—Iris Johansen
“An unforgettably evil villain and a throat-gripping climax make The Perfect Husband a real page-turner!”
—Tess Gerritsen
“I loved this book! I was up till 2 A.M. finishing it!”
—Karen Robards
“Nail-biting suspense . . . a taut roller coaster of a story that kept me up very, very late.”
—Kay Hooper
Dear Reader,
I hope you loved THE OTHER DAUGHTER, and now I’d like to share with you a sneak peek at my next novel, ALONE. I’m very excited to be working on such a dark, twisted tale, this one featuring a homicidal cop, a manipulative widow, a vengeful father, and a happy-go-lucky psychopath. I like to think that it’s psychological suspense at its finest, where the person you love the most should be the person you trust the least. . . .
Read on for a thrilling preview of Lisa Gardner’s
latest novel of suspense, ALONE,
coming in hardcover from
Bantam Books in January 2005!
ALONE
ON SALE JANUARY 2005
CHAPTER ONE
HE’D PUT IN a fifteen-hour shift the night the call came in. Too many impatient drivers on 93, leading to too much crash, bang, boom. City was like that this time of year. The trees were bare, night coming on quick and the holidays looming. It felt raw outside. After the easy camaraderie of summer barbecues, now you walked alone through city streets hearing nothing but the skeletal rattle of dry leaves skittering across cold pavement.
Lots of cops complained about the short, gray days of February, but personally, Bobby Dodge had never cared for November. Today did nothing to change his mind.
His shift started with a minor fender bender, followed by two more rear-enders from northbound gawkers. Four hours of paperwork later, he thought he’d gotten through the worst of it. Then, in early afternoon, when traffic should’ve been a breeze even on the notoriously jam-packed 93, came a five-car pileup as a speeding taxi driver tried to change four lanes at once, and a stressed-out ad exec in a Hummer forcefully cut him off. The Hummer took the hit like a heavyweight champ; the rusted-out cab went down for the count and took out three other cars with it. Bobby got to call four wreckers, then diagram the accident, and then arrest the ad exec when it became apparent the man had mixed in a few martinis with his power lunch.
Pinching a man for driving under the influence meant more paperwork, a trip to the South Boston barracks (now in the middle of rush hour traffic, when no one respected anyone’s right-of-way, let alone a trooper’s), and another altercation with the rich ad exec when he balked at entering the holding cell.
The ad exec had a good fifty pounds on Bobby. Like a lot of guys confronted by a smaller opponent, he confused superior weight with superior strength and ignored the warning signs telling him otherwise. The man grabbed the doorjamb with his right hand. He swung his lumbering body backward, expecting to bowl over his smaller escort and what? Make a run for it through a police barracks filled with armed troopers? Bobby ducked left, stuck out his foot, and watched the overweight executive slam to the floor. The man landed with an impressive crash and a few troopers paused long enough to clap their hands at the free show.
“I’m going to fucking sue!” the drunken ad exec screamed. “I’m going to sue you, your commanding officer, and the whole fucking state of Massachusetts. I’ll own this joint. You hear me? I’ll fucking own your ass!”
Bobby jerked the big guy to his feet. Rich exec screamed a fresh round of obscenities, possibly because of the way Bobby was pinching the man’s thumb. Bobby shoved the man into the holding cell and slammed the door.
“If you’re gonna puke, please use the toilet,” Bobby informed him, because by now the man had turned a little green. The rich executive flipped him off. Then he doubled-over and vomited on the floor.
Bobby shook his head. “Rich prick,” he muttered.
Some days were like that, particularly in November.
Now it was shortly after ten p.m. The rich ad exec had been bailed out by his overpriced lawyer, the holding cell was washed down, and Bobby’s shift, which had started at seven a.m., was finally done. He should go home. Give Susan a buzz. Catch some sleep before his alarm went off at five, and the whole joyous process started once more.
Instead he was jittery in a way that surprised himself. Too much adrenaline buzzing in his veins, when he was a man best known for being cool, calm, and collected.
Bobby didn’t go home. Instead he traded in his blues for jeans and a flannel shirt, then headed for the local bar.
At the Boston Beer Garden, fourteen other guys were sitting around the U-shaped bar, smoking cigarettes and nursing draft beer while zoning out in front of flat-screen TVs. Bobby nodded to a few familiar faces, waved his hand at the sixty-year-old bartender, Carl, then took an empty seat a bit down from the rest. Sally brought him his usual order of nachos. Carl hand-delivered his Coke.
“Long day, Bobby?”
“Same old, same old.”
“Susan coming in?”
“Practice night.”
“Aye, the concert. Two weeks, right?” Carl shook his head. “Beautiful and talented. I’ll tell you again, Bobby—she’s a keeper.”
“Don’t let Martha hear you,” Bobby told him. “After watching your wife haul a keg, I don’t want to think of what she could do with a rolling pin.”
“My Martha’s also a keeper,” Carl assured him. “Mostly ’cause I fear for my life.”
Carl left Bobby alone with his Coke and nachos. Overhead, a live news bulletin was reporting on some kind of situation in Revere. A heavily-armed suspect had barricaded himself in his home after taking potshots at his neighbors. Now, Boston PD had deployed their SWAT team, and “nobody was taking any chances.”
Yeah, November was a funny kind of month. Wired people up, left them with no defenses against the oncoming gloom of winter. Left even guys like Bobby doing all they could do just to hold the course.
He finished his nachos. He drank his Coke. He settled his bill, and just as he had convinced himself it really was a good idea to go home, the beeper suddenly activated on his belt. He read the screen in one instant and was bolting out the door the next.
It had been that kind of day. Now it would be that kind of night.
Catherine Rose Gagnon didn’t like November much either, though for her, the real problem had started in October. October 22, 1980, to be exact. The air had been warm, the sun a hot kiss on her face as she walked home from elementary school. She’d been carrying her books in her arm and wearing her favorite back-to-school outfit: knee-high brown socks, a dark brown corduroy skirt, and a long-sleeved gold top.
A car came up behind her. At first she didn’t notice; but dimly she became aware of the blue Chevy slowing to a crawl beside her. A man’s voice. “Hey, honey. Can you help me for a second? I’m looking for a lost dog.”
Later there was pain and blood and muffled cries of protest. Her tears streaking down her cheeks. Her teeth biting her lower lip.
Then there was darkness and her tiny, hollow cry: “Is anyone out there?”
And then, for the longest time, there was nothing.
They told
her it lasted twenty-eight days. She’d had no way of knowing. There was no time in the dark, just a loneliness that went on without end. There was cold and there was silence, and there were the times when he returned. But at least that was something. It was the sheer nothingness, endless streams of nothingness, that could drive a person insane.
Hunters found her. November 18. They noticed the fresh dirt, poked around with their rifles, and were startled to hear her faint voice. They dug her up triumphantly, unearthing her four-by-six earthen prison and releasing her into the crisp fall air. Later she saw newspaper photos. Her dark eyes oversized, her head thin and bony, her body curled up on itself, like a small brown bat that had been yanked harshly into the light.
The papers dubbed her the Thanksgiving Miracle. Her parents took her home. Neighbors and family paraded through the front door with exclamations of “Oh, thank goodness!” and “Just in time for the holidays,” and “Oh, can you really believe . . . ?”
She sat and let people talk around her. She slipped food from the overflowing trays and stored it in her pockets. Her head was down, her shoulders hunched around her ears. She was still the little bat and for reasons she couldn’t explain, she was terrified of the light.
More police came. She told them of the man, of the car. They showed her pictures. She pointed at one. Later, days, weeks—did it really matter?—she came to the police station, stared at a lineup, and solemnly pointed her finger.