The Burial Society

by Nina Sadowsky

  The Burial Society is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Nina Sadowsky

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Sadowsky, Nina, author.

  Title: The burial society : a novel / Nina Sadowsky.

  Description: New York : Ballantine Books, [2018]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017053842 | ISBN 9780425284377 (hardback) | ISBN 9780425284384 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Secrets--Fiction. | Psychological fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Psychological. | FICTION / Romance / Suspense. | FICTION / Suspense. | GSAFD: Romantic suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3619.A353 B87 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2017053842

  Ebook ISBN 9780425284384

  randomhousebooks.com

  Title-page image: © iStockphoto.com

  Book design by Dana Leigh Blanchette, adapted for ebook

  Cover Design: Caroline Teagle Johnson

  Cover images: © Ilina Simeonova/Trevillion Images (woman), © David Schlemer/EyeEm/Getty Images (Paris)

  v5.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Part One: Convergence

  Catherine: Focus

  Natalie: Bruise

  Catherine: Marseille

  Natalie: Howl

  Catherine: Salvation

  Jake: Orphans

  Catherine: Handoff

  Frank: Another Man’s Children

  Catherine: Let’s Go

  Frank: On a Dime

  Catherine: Ransom

  Natalie: Reunion

  Catherine: Ghosts

  Part Two: Origins

  Natalie: Missing

  Jake: 24 Hours

  Frank: 3 Days Missing

  Jake: 19 Days Missing

  Natalie: 22 Days Missing

  Part Three: Convergence

  Catherine: Spice

  Frank: Cops and Robbers

  Catherine: Muscle

  Natalie: Doubt

  Catherine: Snap

  Jake: Bargain

  Catherine: Ruin

  Natalie: Happy Fools

  Catherine: Monogram

  Frank: Denial

  Catherine: Needs Must

  Natalie: Pariah

  Catherine: Trust

  Part Four: Origins

  Frank: 23 Days Missing

  Natalie: 35 Days Missing

  Jake: 91 Days Missing

  Frank: 96 Days Missing

  Natalie: 101 Days Missing

  Part Five: Convergence

  Catherine: Mud

  Jake: Crane

  Catherine: Curry

  Natalie: Treatment

  Catherine: Malware

  Frank: The Girls

  Catherine: The Damage Done

  Jake: Search

  Catherine: Crass

  Natalie: Cake

  Catherine: Les Puces

  Jake: Steak Frites

  Catherine: Stairwell

  Jake: Suspect

  Catherine: Watch

  Jake: Ring

  Catherine: Simple

  Natalie: Knuckles

  Catherine: Spiral

  Jake: Stomp

  Catherine: Hush

  Frank: Dead of Morning

  Catherine: Rouse

  Natalie: Look

  Catherine: Lies

  Natalie: Spike

  Catherine: Artist

  Jake: Mandarin

  Catherine: Unreliable

  Frank: Grave

  Catherine: Hideout

  Natalie: Certain

  Catherine: Talisman

  Natalie: Mermaid

  Catherine: Grab

  Jake: Rust

  Catherine: Wake

  Natalie: Flyer

  Catherine: Stew

  Natalie: Creep

  Catherine: Fly

  Natalie: Ready

  Catherine: Rescue

  Jake: Without a Trace

  Catherine: Past Tense

  Natalie: Sounds and Signs

  Catherine: Vanity

  Jake: Revelation

  Part Six: Origins

  Mallory: Missed Chances

  Part Seven: Convergence

  Catherine: Exclamation

  Natalie: Mystery

  Catherine: Shelter

  Jake: Bodies

  Catherine: The Husband

  Jake: Cusp

  Catherine: BFFs

  Natalie: Never Home

  Catherine: Fresh

  Natalie: Funeral

  Catherine: Storage

  Jake: Privacy

  Catherine: Hook

  Natalie: Providence

  Catherine: Float

  Jake: Heights

  Catherine: Better Left Behind

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Nina Sadowsky

  About the Author

  Burial societies exist across cultures.

  Their members are committed to ensuring that death and burial rites within a community are conducted with dignity and compassion.

  The society’s duties are considered the ultimate acts of benevolence, and may include being present at a death, watching over the corpse, cleansing and shrouding it, accompanying it during the funeral procession, conducting the burial service without charge and with appropriate religious ceremonies, and providing support to the deceased’s family.

  If I could tell the story differently…

  It would be a tale of courage. Honor and loyalty. Sacrifice and righteous vengeance.

  And love. Of course love.

  But what really went down is this.

  I can do this. I will do this.

  I’ve done this many times before. And under trickier circumstances, I reassure myself. I’ve calculated timing and approach, extraction and escape. It will be hazardous, perhaps fatal—if not for the benevolent graces of luck and perfect timing.

  But it’s what the client ordered, and the customer is always right. Plus, the payoff? Huge. I don’t care about the money, but there will be other rewards for me in this.

  Why am I so nervous?

  I hate the waiting. Gives me too much time to think. My heart thuds in my chest.

  Focus.

  I scan the street.

  Two skinny Americans, weighted with backpacks, fingers entwined, eyes soaking in every last precious crumb of Parisian detail. A little boy, maybe three, still unsteady on his chubby legs, wobbling behind his sleekly dressed and fiercely bickering parents. A fine-boned shopgirl, just relieved of her shift, her face hardened by the disdain she holds for the countless Chinese tourists she has serviced today. Indeed, a crowd of them is now jostling back on board their gaudy tour bus, juggling their haul from Ralph Lauren, Hugo Boss, Façonnable, Gerard Darel. An expensively punked-out rocker dude with a fluffy Pomeranian on an embellished leash sidesteps the throng, cursing at his dog (or maybe the Chinese) in angry bursts.

  There’s a hunger about this part of Paris, despite the broad Haussmann-designed boulevards, the elegant shops, the leafy trees. The money, the designer labels, the thirst for status, they all feed a rapacious maw that is persisten
tly desperate for “more,” that will never know satiation. And then there are those who scavenge off the leavings of that hunger, the salespeople and doormen, chauffeurs and personal assistants, beggars and thieves. Boulevard Saint-Germain may look like the epitome of discreet wealth and understated luxury, but I know better. I know the darkness obscured by the glitz.

  It is only because my client is well-heeled that I find myself here. Paris has been my home for a little over three years, but this arrondissement is not my usual stomping ground. Still, today I look the part—Givenchy black leather skinny jeans, a perfectly distressed four-hundred-euro T-shirt, Robert Clergerie platforms, my light brown hair swept back in a sleek ponytail, diamond studs in my exposed ears, eyes shadowed by oversized Chanel sunglasses. I am ostentatious, but I am also invisible. Wherever I am, whoever the target, I must blend in like a chameleon.

  I’ve been doing it for so long I don’t quite remember who I am anymore, not the real me, the me I left behind. But more on that later. I must concentrate on my current objective.

  Focus.

  I’ve done my homework. I always do. The facts check out. The first installment, a direct deposit to a Swiss bank account, is confirmed. I’ve followed my target for two weeks now without being detected. I’ve assessed her patterns and habits and, perhaps more important, those of the bodyguard who is never far from her side. I’ve enlisted Delphine as my driver for the day, always grateful for her steady, silent acquiescence to plans and payment.

  I move into position. The Sonia Rykiel storefront is attractive. Behind the pristine plate glass, wooden shelves laden with hardcover books rise from floor to ceiling. The rich colors of the books’ spines are mirrored in the ornate ensembles draped onto bald alabaster mannequins. Layers of complex embroidery on the most luxurious silks, fringes and furs, palettes that glimmer under the artfully directed lights. It’s dusk, and as the day darkens, the shop windows glow.

  I buy myself time to linger by extracting a pack of Gitanes from my Louis Vuitton handbag.

  The chubby toddler and his squabbling parents cross in front of me. The little boy totters. Lands on his plump butt as his parents continue on, absorbed in their heated fight. His small mouth curves into an indignant O as his face goes pale.

  “Nice fall!” I compliment the toddler cheerfully in French. “Next time, be sure your parents see, you’ll get more attention.”

  The kid’s watery eyes take me in. Should he cry? Be afraid? He’s undecided. Then he gives me a sly, delighted smile. He scrambles to his feet and rushes in front of his parents, only to plop down dramatically before them and wail, mouth open, eyes screwed shut. I choke back a laugh.

  And suddenly, there she is. Exiting the boutique. My target. High Slavic cheekbones. Thick, shiny blond hair. A full mouth and a strong jaw that gives her face a tinge of hauteur. Elegantly dressed, Alexander McQueen. Sky-high stiletto heels. A stunning pair of cabochon emerald earrings. Skittish despite all her sophistication and grooming. Like a high-strung Thoroughbred awaiting the starting gun.

  She’s empty-handed. To give truth to the lie, the day’s purchases will be delivered to her apartment on avenue Montaigne. As if she always expected to go home. As if he expected the same.

  My target’s bodyguard follows her out, thick-necked and dead-eyed.

  My nerves fade. I’m stone cold, as I knew I would be when the time came. That’s better. This is how I like me. Moving into action and reaction, calculated and sure. Ruthless.

  I pretend to dig in my purse for an errant lighter or matches. Approach her. I ask in French if she has a light. I extend my pack of cigarettes, an offering.

  Her eyes meet mine from under a heavy fringe of black lashes. I know she sneaks smokes when she thinks no one who matters is looking. I’ve watched her do it thirty-seven times in the last fourteen days. Now thirty-eight.

  Behind her, the bodyguard steps protectively forward, but she waves him off. I am nothing to fear, just another rich, spoiled coquette in need of a nicotine fix.

  She reaches into her purse and extracts a Cartier lighter, accepts a cigarette from my pack. When she snaps the lighter, our heads bend toward each other, near the flame, and my hand closes around hers. The door to the van parked behind us slides open.

  “Don’t resist,” I whisper in English. Her eyes dart to mine, instantly wary.

  My hand tightens around my target’s wrist. With one cruel jerk, I bundle her into the van, flicking my lit cigarette into the bodyguard’s face. He bellows and bats away the burning ember, too distracted to anticipate the thrusting thud of my platform shoe into his gut. He stumbles backward, reeling, cursing, as I scramble into the van.

  I plunge a hypodermic needle loaded with fentanyl into my target’s neck just as she opens her luscious mouth to cry out. She wilts in my arms. I slam the door shut.

  We peel away, Delphine expertly navigating the boulevard. I imagine the bodyguard, frantic, furious, recovering his balance, running after us, pulling out his cellphone, but we are prepared.

  Three swift turns and we stop in a narrow alley. Load our unconscious target into a waiting taxi. Delphine takes the wheel of the cab and we pull out, blending anonymously into traffic. Tucked in the back with my target, I settle her limp form comfortably against the velour seat. Strap on her seatbelt. I brush a wisp of blond hair away from the sharp angle of her cheekbone. Her life has been hell. But now that hell is over.

  Natalie Burrows pivots, scanning the horizon. She glances at her phone to check the time. He’s late.

  Parc Monceau is magical. The heavy gates are gold-tipped wrought iron; the swaths of manicured grass a stunning green. Wildflowers bloom exuberantly. Nestled in the 8th arrondissement, the exquisite little park features such delights as a miniature pyramid, a Dutch windmill, a grand rotunda, and a classical colonnade facing a man-made lake, at the center of which squats an island sprouting a majestic weeping willow. The park had been conceived as a “folly” in the late 1700s, its design intended to delight and amaze. Its wandering paths, luscious blooms, and sudden architectural surprises do just that.

  It feels good to be back in Paris. Natalie loves this gem of a park, and she loves the richly appointed apartment just off it that Brian’s rented for the summer. (She’s just started calling her father “Brian.” Even inside her own head it feels weird and unfamiliar. But at eighteen she is an adult now; she’s trying it on for size.)

  Natalie catches sight of the miniature windmill, its blades spinning lazily, then more urgently as the wind kicks up. A smile tugs at the corner of her lips as she remembers Derek, the Brit backpacker with whom she’d spent the last few days (and nights) in Amsterdam. And they say that Brits are passionless and pasty! Derek had been full of energy, able to tour all day, hit the clubs till the early hours of the morning, then make vigorous love as the sun rose. Natalie thinks Derek might have fallen a little bit in love with her.

  Not that he knew her as Natalie.

  Her smile broadens as she bids adieu to “Carolyn Somers,” rising sophomore at the University of Chicago. Natalie had toyed with Carolyn’s major, first trying out international relations with a minor in economics. But then she saw the panicked look on Derek’s face and gently punched his arm, saying, “Just kidding. Art history.” At least she knows something about art history.

  Natalie doesn’t quite know why she felt compelled to lie to Derek. They both knew the parameters of their hookup from their first meeting in a beer hall. Four days. Tulips and windmills and herring served from street carts. Canals and the Anne Frank house, bicycle rides and cannabis coffee shops. Nightclubs and a giddy tour through the red-light district. A lingering kiss, an exchange of contact information (all of Natalie’s false), and goodbye. It had felt wonderful to be somebody else. Freeing. Even if just for a few days.

  But now she is back. She is Natalie Burrows, raised in Westport, Connecticut; recently of New York City; based in Paris, France, for the summer; and heading to RISD, in Providence, Rhode Island, in the fal
l. Daughter of Brian. Sister of Jacob. Youngest child of Mallory Armstrong Burrows (missing and presumed dead). A dark cloud scuds across the sun and Natalie shivers.

  Where is Jake? When they had split up in Amsterdam they promised to meet in the park and return to the apartment together. Brian doesn’t need to know his little girl has been having passionate sex with a stranger. And Natalie doesn’t need to know what her brother has gotten up to. Still. They need a little rehearsal to get their stories straight for Dad. Brian.

  Natalie checks her phone again. Now Jake’s really late. She frowns. This isn’t like him. She’s about to text him when the dark cloud overhead splits. Plump raindrops splatter. Natalie tucks her phone in her pocket and runs, her backpack thumping against her shoulders. The day is still strangely sunny, even as the rain pelts down harder. Natalie laughs out loud, exhilarated by the sudden storm, the bright sky. She dashes through the exquisite park and out its wrought-iron gate toward their apartment on rue Murillo, sneakered feet slapping against the wet pavement. Raindrops drip from her nose; she tilts her head up to catch them on her tongue.