by Dete Meserve
Praise for Good Sam
“Meserve’s narrative has a . . . dry wit and well-conceived dialogue throughout. Kate’s relatable qualities of self-reliance tinged with vulnerability drive this gratifying mystery-romance about finding the good guys—and knowing when to recognize them.”
—Publishers Weekly
“In her debut novel, Meserve writes a . . . solid feel-good romance sparked with mystery.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“If you are a Nicholas Sparks or Richard Paul Evans fan, I’m betting you will like author Meserve’s book Good Sam. Uplifting, heart wrenching, and a two-hankie read, this story is a winner.”
—Cheryl Stout, Amazon Top 1000 reviewer and Vine Voice
“This story has everything from suspense to drama. And the heartfelt ending had us smiling for days.”
—First for Women magazine
Praise for Perfectly Good Crime
“A first-rate and undaunted protagonist easily carries this brisk tale. Kate is intuitive and professional, but it’s her steadfast compassion that makes her truly remarkable.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Dete Meserve delivers a novel that is simultaneously mysterious, fascinating, and inspiring.”
—Buzzfeed.com
“A feel-good mystery . . . an enjoyable escape.”
—BookLife Prize in Fiction
“In a novel saturated with unexpected twists and shocking motives, Kate Bradley follows clues—and her heart—to discover that some crimes have powerfully good intentions.”
—Sunset magazine
Praise for The Space Between
“Chiseled prose gleefully weaves the protagonist through bombshells . . . a labyrinth of plot and character motivations makes for a thoroughly enjoyable novel.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The Space Between is a fast-paced novel that combines the best elements of suspense and romance. In this story of a broken marriage, Dete Meserve uses the mysteries of the universe to keep you on the edge of your seat as she weaves a tale that winds its way through the past and present to bring about a truly satisfying conclusion. Highly recommended.”
—USA Today bestselling author Bette Lee Crosby
“From tragedy to triumph, Dete Meserve’s new novel took me on a roller-coaster ride I’ll not soon forget. Coupling the mysteries of the night sky with an unthinkable domestic situation, this tale is stunning and unlike any I’ve read. The Space Between is a must must must read!”
—Heather Burch, bestselling author of In the Light of the Garden
“As captivating and complex as the night skies that feature in The Space Between, this is a thrilling read. A precipitous shift in perceived reality causes everything past and present to be suspect. Meserve skillfully crafts all the elements of a superbly suspenseful page-turner.”
—Patricia Sands, bestselling author of the Love in Provence series
“Dete Meserve’s The Space Between has it all. It is a story written with a knowledge of space, realistic characters you want to root for, romance, and a mystery with a satisfying ending. I predict that after you read the book, you’ll gaze at the stars and think of them in a new way.”
—Judith Keim, bestselling author of the Fat Fridays series
“Woven with the stars, this is an incredible story of love, betrayal, and the infinite power of hope. Suspenseful to almost the last page; I couldn’t put it down.”
—Andrea Hurst, author of Always with You
“Dete Meserve’s The Space Between hits all of the sweet spots: a smart and engaging female lead, an intriguing mystery, and elements of danger and suspense sure to keep readers turning pages long past bedtime. If you’re a fan of Nicholas Sparks or Kerry Lonsdale, grab this book!”
—Kes Trester, author of A Dangerous Year
“With the starry heavens as a backdrop, Meserve spins a fast-paced story about astronomer Sarah Mayfield as she questions everything she believes to be true in the space between the heartache of her rocky marriage and the mystery surrounding her husband’s disappearance. This is Meserve’s best work yet, a romance wrapped in suspense that will keep readers guessing until the very end.”
—Christine Nolfi, bestselling author of Sweet Lake and The Comfort of Secrets
ALSO BY DETE MESERVE
Good Sam
Perfectly Good Crime
The Space Between
Random Acts of Kindness (with Rachel Greco)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2020 by Dete Meserve
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542004701
ISBN-10: 1542004705
Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson
For my father
CONTENTS
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
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
The high-pitched alarm pierced my sleep, jolting me awake. Five more alarms screeched, squeezed on me from all sides, scrambling my thoughts.
I grabbed my phone. Groped in the blackness for my shoes and shoved my feet into them.
A baby was crying.
Voices shouted in the hall, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Someone banged on my door, insistent.
My body suddenly felt heavy, weighed down by a wave of foreboding.
I raced into the hallway, where the alarms wailed, louder now, slamming into my eardrums.
Empty.
My heart jackhammered. I yanked open the heavy front door and hurried outside into a downpour. Sharp needles of rain pelted my skin, drenching my flimsy pajamas in seconds. Water swirled around my feet, soaking through my shoes.
A pudgy man in a black T-shirt shouted at me from the bottom of the stairs, “You waiting on an invitation? Get out of there!”
I scurried down the steps and sprinted past a heap of black garbage bags on the sidewalk, then ran across the street to join a group huddled under a skinny tree.
“Did anyone see Artie?” a woman in faded plaid pajamas was saying, eyes darting. “I didn’t see him come out.”
“My cat is still inside,” the blonde woman next to me whispered, her face wet with tears.
My pulse pounded. “Has anyone called 911?”
A large guy in a shabby gray bathrobe raced out of the building. “It’s a false alarm!” he shouted. “I checked every floor. No smoke. No fire.”
The pajama woman crossed her arms. “I’m not going back in until the fire department says it’s okay.”
“Suit yourself,” the bathrobe guy said. Up close, he looked older than I had originally thought, forty maybe, with dark-olive skin and a week’s worth of black stubble. He glanced at me. “You the new neighbor?”
“Kate Bradley,” I answered, sweeping damp hair from my face.
“Raymond Cruz.” He grasped my hand in a death grip. “Heard you’re from LA and—”
His words were drowned out by the loud blast of a horn and the scream of sirens as an FDNY fire engine barreled up the narrow street.
He popped a stick of gum in his mouth. “Welcome to Manhattan, Kate.”
I was ready for battle.
My leather tote was loaded with electronics: a laptop, a digital voice recorder—even though I had a recording app on my phone—and noise-canceling headphones. Gear: running shoes, an umbrella, a small makeup case. And a journalist’s armor: pens, notebooks, a cell phone. A cup of coffee buzzed through my veins, and I clutched another one in my hand. I’d already scrolled through the morning’s headlines, checked Twitter, and texted my boss, the EVP of news at American News Channel, about a story I hoped to cover on my first day as a national news correspondent.
Squeezed on a Fifth Avenue sidewalk packed with a sea of people and with my earbuds at full volume, I was immersed in a rapid rundown of the day’s lead stories.
That’s when I saw them.
The little girl with a blonde ponytail giggled as she bounced up and down on her dad’s shoulders, high above the throng. Clutching a balloon in her chubby hand, she pointed at the glittering window displays.
My eyes met hers, and I flashed her a smile.
This was how I’d always imagined the idyllic wonderland known as Manhattan. Glorious blue skies and puffy white clouds on a summer morning. Smartly dressed people heading to do important work after grabbing breakfast on an outdoor patio bustling with waiters bringing trays of inspired dishes.
Then a sudden whoosh of movement and the scrape of tumbling metal. The next thing I knew I was flat on my stomach, hit by a force so hard it knocked the wind out of me. My bag followed me, spilling its contents across the sidewalk. My coffee cup tumbled a second later, hitting the pavement, then bouncing into the gutter.
I watched a guy on a green bike whiz ahead and snake his way through the crowd, but it took me two full seconds to register that he was the one who had knocked me over.
“Hey!” I tried shouting, but it sounded thin. Weak.
A canvas bag brushed the back of my head. A still-smoldering cigarette landed beside me. The crush of commuters and tourists journeying the avenue that morning kept going, stepping around me as though I were simply an obstacle on the busy sidewalk, not a person who might need help.
I tried gathering the lipstick, pens, and keys that had spilled from my bag, dodging the feet of passersby—and two massive dogs—to grab at them. But as I knelt on the sidewalk stuffing everything back into my bag, I was engulfed by the foul smell of the sewer just a few feet away. Putrid, the odor was so potent I felt a wave of nausea.
I should have . . .
I should have what? Had eyes in the back of my head? I should have focused on the people and cart-pushing vendors around me, not the girl with the balloon?
I should have worn something with more padding.
“Hey, are you all right?” a man asked.
I looked up, but he was backlit by sunlight, so I couldn’t see his face. He extended a hand and helped lift me to my feet.
He eyed something on the ground and then disappeared from my view before returning seconds later clutching a set of keys.
“These yours?”
It took me a moment to recognize them. The simple key ring, graced with an enamel palm tree and surfboard charms, was a gift from my friend Teri so that I would always remember Southern California, where I had lived up until two days ago. And although the keys dangling from the chain were tired brass, they were new to me: one for the new apartment and a smaller one for the mailbox.
“Thank you.” I took the key from him, my hands still stinging from where they’d slammed against the pavement.
He shifted his position on the sidewalk to make way for a guy in a suit yelling into his phone, and I got a good look at him. Yankees ball cap. Blue eyes beneath dark eyebrows. Muscular arms under a black T-shirt. Serious running shoes. For a moment, I thought his face looked familiar, but I blamed that effect on the fall.
“Can I get you a cab?”
“I’m good.” I pointed up the street. “Just a few more blocks to go . . .”
A woman pushing a double stroller barreled toward us, so I moved aside to let her pass.
He handed me an unopened bottle of water. “Want me to walk with you?”
“I’m fine. Really. But thank you.”
“Okay then.” His eyes took me in. For the brief moment he studied my face, I thought he might have recognized me. That happened a lot in Los Angeles, where I’d been on TV as a Channel Eleven reporter for seven years. But I hadn’t even filed my first report on ANC.
“Glad I could help,” he said, then watched me go.
ANC’s newsroom was filled with a steady hum, a murmur of electronics coming from row upon row of computers on every desk and an array of TV monitors that lined the walls throughout the cavern of a room. Mixed in with the thrum were hurried discussions and the soft scuff of producers and reporters rushing across the vast carpeted landscape.
I drew in a deep breath, trying to steady my jittery nerves. After years covering breaking local news—violence, disasters, and tragedy—in Los Angeles, I’d dreamed of working at a national news network. And here I was, recruited by ANC’s executive vice president, Andrew Wright.
“Only the elite survive there,” my former boss, David Dyal, had warned me. “You’re fearless, but you’re not ready for the kind of politics and competition a place like that serves up every day.”
I was planning to prove him wrong.
Still rattled by the fall on Fifth Avenue, I felt nervous energy churn in the pit of my stomach as I wound my way through the aisles in search of my assignment editor, Mark Galvin. At least fifty reporters were seated in the open area, but unlike in the Channel Eleven newsroom in LA, no one turned to greet me. And the few who even glanced in my direction went on with their work without even a nod, as though I were just another cog in the vast ANC machine.
An intern had told me I’d find Mark at the “Hornet’s Nest,” also known as the assignment desk, and it didn’t take me long to spot it. The iconic blue letters—ANC HEADQUARTERS—loomed large at the front of the room. Positioned below the sign, beneath banks of monitors and fortressed behind a low wall of signature royal blue, was a line of stressed-looking assignment editors. Even from a distance, I could feel the tension and frustration as they tried to direct and appease the news directors, producers, reporters, and cameramen gathered around them.
“You’re Kate Bradley, aren’t you?”
I whirled around.
“Jeremy Whitfield.” Dressed in a midnight-blue suit and matching tie, Jeremy had thick black hair combed tightly to his head and a carefully groomed beard. “White House reporter—I’ve interviewed your father a few times. With all the battles about the budget and possible shutdown, he’s on everyone’s interview list these days.”
“I have a hard time getting on his call list too,” I said with a laugh.
“What brings you to ANC?”
“I work here. Today’s my first day.”
He shot me a look of surprise. “Our lucky day then. Let me take you to lunch while I’m i
n town. Let’s team up together on a few stories. You probably have some good insight and connections on the Homeland Security bill that’s stuck in Congress. And it’d be fascinating to hear what it’s like to be a senator’s daughter.”
I drew a deep breath. “I’m not here covering politics.”
“You’re not?” He raised his voice. “Then what are you covering?”
“Crime and justice.”
He looked at me as if I’d grown two heads. “You’re not covering politics?”
“It was nice meeting you, Jeremy.”
As I started to walk away, he called out to me, “So, is that yes to lunch?”
I glanced at him over my shoulder. “It’s a no. But thanks for the invite.”
I found Mark Galvin in the Hornet’s Nest a few minutes later, but unlike Jeremy, he didn’t seem happy to meet me. In fact, he looked a bit unhinged, his bristly gray hair tufted oddly on one side as though he’d just gotten out of bed.
“You’re late,” he said without looking up from his iPad.
“Andrew Wright said I should come in at nine instead of—”
“Andrew may be the head of this division, but he doesn’t set the hours for my reporters.”
“Got it. But Andrew did say I should—”
“Name-dropping may get you something with other folks here, but not with me.”
“I was just trying to say that—”
“I know,” he said, his tone sharpening. “You and my boss are old pals. Your father’s a US senator. But when you’re working here, you’re going to be treated like every other reporter on my team.”
He looked up then, fixing a pair of steely-gray eyes on me. Their downward slope made him look like he was perpetually disappointed.
“Got it.”
“Your desk is by Stephanie over there.” He pointed off to a wide swath of desks to the right, but I decided against asking for more specifics. “I need you to work up a story on the Homeland Security bill that’s at an impasse in Congress.”
“Homeland Security.”
“Yeah, you are up on that, aren’t you?”
For a minute, I thought he might be joking, but his thin lips were fixed in a tight, flat line.