PRAISE FOR CARLENE THOMPSON
IF YOU EVER TELL
“A tense…engaging, romantic suspense thriller.”
—Harriet Klausner, BookReview.com
LAST SEEN ALIVE
“This story has plenty of suspense and an excellent mystery.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Gripping suspense.”
—Judith Kelman, bestselling author
of Hush Little Darlings
LAST WHISPER
“The characters are so well drawn that the reader will feel like she knows them personally. Thompson offers suspense and an intriguing mystery.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
SHARE NO SECRETS
“Intriguing…brims with madness and creepy thrills.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Turns and twists make you change your mind about who the killer is and the ending is a real shocker. Get this one quick.”
—Rendezvous
“Thompson knows how to write gripping suspense and keep readers enthralled throughout. A great mystery with thrilling intrigue.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A chilling murder mystery with lots of twists, turns, and unexpected curves…one of the best romantic mysteries I have read…a great book that you don’t want to miss.”
—Romance Junkies
“A page-turner that will leave you on the edge of your seat…another wonderful thriller from Carlene Thompson…a must-read.”
—A Romance Review
“An intriguing tale told in a wonderfully fresh voice. Thompson has a truly unique style that blends beautiful prose with compelling plots…this novel reads like lightning—and has the same effect on the reader…Thompson has created sharp, smart characters with motives that drive the story along. They are enough to keep the story moving at a quick pace. Her voice has a sense of rhythm and a rustic beauty that lingers in the reader’s memory.”
—Romance Divas
“An action-filled read with plenty of twists and turns that will keep you guessing until the very end! This story is highly detailed with an array of in-depth characters that are smart, funny, and engaging.”
—Fallen Angel Reviews
IF SHE SHOULD DIE
“A gripping suspense filled with romance. Ms. Thompson has the reader solving the mystery early in the novel, then changing that opinion every few chapters. [An] excellent novel.”
—Rendezvous Review
“With engaging characters and intriguing motives, Thompson has created a smart, gripping tale of revenge, anger, and obsession.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“If She Should Die is a riveting whodunit!”
—Road to Romance
“In the tradition of Tami Hoag or Mary Higgins Clark, Thompson has created a gripping page-turner. The story line is engaging and the characters’ lives are multidimensional. This is literally a book the reader will be unable to put down.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
BLACK FOR REMEMBRANCE
“Loaded with mystery and suspense…Mary Higgins Clark fans, take note.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Bizarre, terrifying…an inventive and forceful psychological thriller.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Gripped me from the first page and held on through its completely unexpected climax. Lock your doors, make sure there’s no one behind you, and pick up Black for Remembrance.”
—William Katz, author of Double Wedding
“Thompson’s style is richly bleak, her sense of morality complex…Thompson is a mistress of the thriller parvenu.”
—Fear
SINCE YOU’VE BEEN GONE
“This story will keep readers up well into the night.”
—Huntress Reviews
DON’T CLOSE YOUR EYES
“Don’t Close Your Eyes has all the gothic sensibilities of a Victoria Holt novel, combined with the riveting modern suspense of Sharyn McCrumb’s The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter. Don’t close your eyes—and don’t miss this one.”
—Meagan McKinney, author of In the Dark
“An exciting romantic suspense novel that will thrill readers with the subplots of a who-done-it and a legendary resident ghost seen only by children. These themes cleverly tie back to the main story line centering on the relationships between Natalie and Nick, and Natalie and the killer…Thompson fools the audience into thinking they know the murderer early on in the book. The reviewer suggests finishing this terrific tale in one sitting to ascertain how accurate are the reader’s deductive skills in pinpointing the true villain.”
—Midwest Book Review
IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH
“[A] blood-chilling…tale of vengeance, madness, and murder.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
THE WAY YOU LOOK TONIGHT
“Thompson…has crafted a lively, entertaining read…skillfully ratchet[ing] up the tension with each successive chapter.”
—Charleston Daily Mail
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles
By Carlene Thompson
If You Ever Tell
Last Seen Alive
Last Whisper
Share No Secrets
If She Should Die
All Fall Down
Black for Remembrance
Since You’ve Been Gone
Don’t Close Your Eyes
In the Event of My Death
Tonight You’re Mine
The Way You Look Tonight
You Can Run…
Carlene Thompson
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
YOU CAN RUN…
Copyright © 2009 by Carlene Thompson.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 0-312-37286-8
EAN: 978-0-312-37286-6
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / March 2009
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Rebecca Oldfield
The fairest English rose
Thanks to Pamela Ahearn, Anne Bensson, Keith Biggs, Patricia Nicolescu, and Jennifer Weis
Special thanks to Phyllis Sabellichi for encouragement when I most needed it
PROLOGUE
The child slid out of her bedroom window into the smothering folds of a hot summer night. Her mouth slightly open, she turned in a circle, gazing upward at the dome of sky, thinking that the stars looked like silver glitter sprinkled on Mommy’s black velvet dress. She’d never seen so many stars twinkling around a fat moon as white as fresh snow. Maybe the moon was made of snow, she mused. Maybe up so high, it was too cold for snow to melt.
She pulled her thoughts away from the beautiful night sky and directed them to her task. The girl grasped a glass jar sitting on the windowsill. She checked to make sure the lid bore several tiny holes. Then she listened for a moment. The sounds of a song floated from the house. She knew the song was called “In My Room,” sung by some boys who lived at the beach. Mommy always listened to that song when she was sad, and tonight she’d played it again and again.
Mommy
wasn’t just sad, though. For the last few days, while the little girl had been getting well from an operation on her tummy, Mommy hadn’t laughed like usual. After Mommy had brought her home from the hospital that morning, she’d kept walking through their little house, sometimes crying. When the child asked what was wrong, Mommy always said, “Nothing at all! Everything is fine, Willow.”
But Mommy didn’t look like she believed everything was fine. That’s why Willow had decided to give her a surprise, even if Mommy might get a little mad because Willow was supposed to be in bed. She had to hurry, though, before Mommy looked into her room like she’d done so many times today. If she saw the bed was empty. . . .
Willow decided she just wouldn’t think about that now. She had work to do, and if she moved real fast and tried real hard, she could be back before Mommy noticed.
Willow dashed across the yard as fast as her five-year-old legs would carry her. She loved the backyard, where she had a swing set and a little rubber swimming pool. She vaguely remembered once living in a big building—up high, with lots of windows. There was no yard and no swing set, but sometimes Mommy took her to a huge place called Central Park. Central Park had grass, but Willow liked her own grass much better.
She liked her grass so much, she couldn’t resist smelling it. She winced with pain before she remembered she was supposed to bend at her knees, not from her tummy. Too late now, though, and her tummy didn’t hurt very much. Besides, she’d spotted a dandelion. She sniffed it, too, loving its tangy smell. Willow thought dandelions were beautiful, all bright yellow and fluffy. This summer she’d often picked bouquets of dandelions for Mommy, who always put them in a glass of water.
Willow pushed aside her long red-gold hair and tucked the dandelion behind her ear. Then she headed farther back, toward the woods at the edge of the backyard. The moon and stars were so bright, she hadn’t needed to bring along her little plastic flashlight. She held her precious glass jar with both hands. If she dropped it and it broke, she’d ruin the surprise. She knew she had to be very careful.
Willow stepped just inside the line of trees. Then she removed the lid from her jar and stood still, hardly breathing, waiting. And waiting. And . . .
There! A tiny yellow flash above her head, but not too high! She reached up, gently closed her hand around the insect, dropped it in her jar, and put the lid back on. She held up the jar and looked. Blink, blink, blink! Her friend called this a lightning bug. Willow thought that was silly. These bugs didn’t shoot out scary spikes of blinding light. Some people called them fireflies, but they didn’t set things on fire, either. No, these bugs were nice and they flashed soft, glowing colors that didn’t hurt anyone. Mommy called them sparkle bugs and so did Willow. This sparkle bug she named Dandelion.
Willow took one more step into the woods and stopped. Mommy didn’t like her to go into the woods at all, which made them even more enticing to Willow. The woods were darker than the backyard, though, and Willow had to admit they looked a little bit scary at night. Besides, she didn’t need to go into them. If Dandelion had been floating around right here, other sparkle bugs would be, too.
Willow again went completely still, trying to take little, silent breaths. Little breaths weren’t easy, though. The night was so hot, she felt as if a blanket covered her head. A breeze blew, but it was hot, too. Sweat had popped out on her forehead, and she didn’t feel as good as she had when she climbed out the window. She thought briefly that maybe she should have waited one more night after her operation before she’d come out looking for sparkle bugs. Mommy needed cheering up now, though.
At that moment, a tiny light blinked right in front of her face. Willow giggled, quickly took off the lid, gently grasped the bug and put him in the jar with Dandelion. The bug blinked again, his light the color of the cantaloupe slice Mommy had given her with lunch. Willow named him Cantaloupe. Cantaloupe and Dandelion blinked at the same time. They’d made friends!
Willow wanted to get at least one more sparkle bug. She’d planned to get five because she was five, but she was just too hot, and all at once very tired. Just one more bug would be perfect. She’d have three sparkle bugs, and they would make Mommy as happy as five of them.
“Willow!”
The little girl almost dropped her glass jar when she heard her mother yell from the back door of the house. Willow whirled around and hurried out of the woods. She saw Mommy coming down the three steps from the back porch, heading directly for her. Now I’m gonna get in trouble, Willow thought dismally. She’d get in trouble, she didn’t feel good, and she had only two sparkle bugs. Her wonderful plan shattered.
“Willow Conley, what are you doing out here?” Mommy’s usually soft, sweet voice sounded high and sharp. “You know you’re supposed to be in bed. Do you want to end up in the hospital again? Because that’s what will happen if—”
Just at that moment, as Willow stood frozen in the face of Mommy’s anger, a tremendous blast shook the earth. Her mother pitched off the bottom step into Willow’s little rubber swimming pool, as a funnel of fire shot through the roof of their house. Vicious yellow flames darted like snakes’ tongues out of the shattered windows and burst through the open back door.
Stunned, the little girl stood rigid, paralyzed by shock and fright. Burning pieces of wood soared through the night, some landing only inches from her. She did not retreat into the woods though. Willow simply clutched the jar of sparkle bugs, her terrified eyes fastened on Mommy, lying motionless in the swimming pool as the hungry fire swept over her.
CHAPTER ONE
Twenty Minutes Earlier
1
Diana Sheridan had watched from behind her windshield as the horizon turned from bright blue to dusky lavender to violet, before the sunlight completely disappeared behind the tree-covered Appalachian Mountains. Now night had come and she was relieved to be almost home, her late arrival caused by a three-car collision on the interstate.
Behind a pile of crushed metal, and police cars and emergency service vehicles, Diana had waited in a line of cars full of people who were at first curious, then sympathetic, then cranky, trapped behind the wreck for over an hour in the August heat and humidity of Friday afternoon. Diana had stopped a passing state trooper and learned that one person had died in the accident and three were critically injured. Getting victims out of the mangled cars was a time-consuming feat requiring many expert hands, as well as the Jaws of Life.
Now, nearly two hours later, Diana soared off an exit ramp, happy to leave the speeding highway traffic. She spotted a fast food restaurant and longed to make a quick pass by the drive-thru window and order french fries. Her growling stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since the morning.
A glance at the dashboard clock stopped her, though. Nine fifteen—almost the exact time that her friend Penny had called Diana’s hotel room the previous night and, in an anxiety-edged voice, said she needed to talk in person as soon as possible.
“Is Willow worse?” Diana had asked, referring to Penny’s five-year-old daughter who’d had an appendectomy late Tuesday afternoon. No, Penny had assured her, the sound of distress giving way to relief. Willow had undergone laparoscopic surgery without complications. They were releasing her from the hospital in the morning.
Something else was terribly wrong. “Diana, please come by my house before you go home,” Penny had begged almost pitifully, her voice rushed and breathless again. “I can’t talk about this over the phone, but I have to give you an explanation. I can’t just leave you and Simon wondering what’s become of us. . . .” Penny had paused. “I’m involved in a situation that could be a matter of life and death.”
Deeply alarmed, Diana had urged Penny to go to the police, but Penny nearly shouted no, so Diana had promised to come by as soon as she arrived back in Huntington the following evening. She had said she’d be there by eight at the latest. Penny, sounding on the verge of tears, had thanked her and hung up so fast Diana didn’t have time to say good-bye—or
ask more questions, Diana thought later, puzzled. If Willow was on the mend, what could have gone so wrong in Penny’s world during the last three days?
Diana grabbed her cell phone to let Penny know that she was on her way, even though she was running late. She cursed softly when she saw her phone battery hovering at death’s door. Unfailingly, she’d misplace the phone, she’d need to use it in an area with no reception, or she’d forget to recharge the battery. Diana kept it only because her great-uncle, Simon Van Etton, a retired archeology professor with whom she currently lived, had been aghast when he learned that she didn’t have a cell phone, and immediately presented her with one he’d chosen especially for her. At seventy-five, Simon was obsessed with every new technological gadget that hit the market. Diana looked hopelessly at his latest gift—an iPhone lying on the seat beside her. She’d never even tried learning how to use it. Her technical acumen seemed confined to cameras.
Diana sighed as she stopped at a red light. Another delay. When the light finally turned, she pressed the accelerator, concentrating on “Layla,” by Eric Clapton, pouring forth from her CD player. She wouldn’t be lucky enough hear anything like “Layla” at the country club dance club tomorrow night, and she wished she hadn’t agreed to go with Glen Austen, a university history professor. Glen was nice looking, intelligent, warm-hearted, unfailingly courteous, and utterly predictable.
Even her great-uncle Simon kept telling her to stop seeing him. “I introduced you to Glen, although not as a potential love interest,” he often said. “He’s a nice fellow, but you need a man with some fire, girl. Someone more like me when I was twenty-five!”
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