by Lisa Regan
PRAISE FOR LISA REGAN
“Author Regan keeps the tension alive from the first page. Her psychological insight into her characters makes the story as intriguing as it is real as today’s headlines. This is a well-written and thought-provoking novel that will keep you riveted until the conclusion.”
—Suspense Magazine, September/October 2013 issue
“Readers should drop what they’re reading and pick up a copy of Finding Claire Fletcher.”
—Gregg Olsen, New York Times bestselling author
“Finding Claire Fletcher is truly a story of our times and magnificently told … it is superbly written and moves with intense, page-turning speed.”
—Nancy S. Thompson, author of The Mistaken
“The writing shows a maturity and control that many far more experienced writers lack. The characters—even the minor ones—are well developed and three-dimensional. Expect to hear a lot more of Lisa Regan.”
—David Kessler, author of You Think You Know Me Pretty Well
OTHER TITLES BY LISA REGAN
Aberration
Hold Still
Cold-Blooded
Finding Claire Fletcher
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. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Lisa Regan
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 Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503942998
ISBN-10: 1503942996
Cover design by Damon Freeman
For Shihan Robert Tomaino—you made me a better person.
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
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
SATURDAY
Leah knew she was driving fast enough when the children started screaming. Their shrieks punched through the air, careening off the interior walls of her SUV. Even baby Tyler wailed, the kind of purple-faced cries that not even a bottle could soothe. Still, her foot pressed harder against the gas pedal, pinning it to the floor and holding it there until her toes ached. The I-5 stretched out before her. Ahead she saw the overpass that crossed the American River. Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel. The numbers on her dashboard’s computerized screen that showed her speed jumped higher and higher.
Her daughter’s voice broke through the cacophony in the back of the vehicle. “Mommy,” Peyton said. “Slow down!”
Leah kept her eyes on the road. “I can’t, honey,” she mumbled under her breath. “Mommy needs all the speed she can get.”
“Mommeee, please.”
As she neared the overpass, Leah spoke loudly enough for the children to hear. “God help me.”
CHAPTER TWO
The sun glinted off the surface of the river, a thousand diamonds winking at her. Claire smiled and sucked in a deep breath, focusing on the feeling of contentment that had settled in her chest. A cool breeze lifted her curls from her neck. She had just looked down at her Roughneck boots, sunk into the mud along the American River, when the moment of perfect, silent peace was shattered by a great splash of water that fell on them. The culprit, her golden retriever, Wilson, raced past, followed by her sister’s shouts.
“Wilson! Get out of here!”
Brianna appeared at Claire’s side, her fishing rod in hand. “Damn dog,” she muttered. “If there were any fish in there, they’re gone now.”
Claire laughed and glanced over her shoulder at Wilson, busy sniffing something out beneath the I-5 overpass. He had wriggled between the large concrete pillars, probably ferreting out a squirrel.
“Now help me get the worm on the damn hook,” Brianna said, thrusting her fishing rod at Claire.
With a wry smile, Claire grabbed a small container of mealworms from her fishing vest and expertly attached the fat white body of one of them onto the hook of Brianna’s rod. Her sister gagged as the worm’s brown pus-like guts squirted out and onto her pants. Claire laughed, her eyes drawn to her sister’s feet. “Flip-flops? Really?”
Brianna arched a perfectly plucked brow. “There was a dress code?” She glowered at the scene around them. “I don’t see why we have to do this.”
“You wanted to come.”
Brianna sighed. “I wanted to spend time with you. I mean, we never see one another. It’s like we’re not even living together. I see Mom more than I see you, and she lives a half hour away! What I had in mind was a mani-pedi, not a mud party with stinky old Wilson in the middle of the damn wilderness.”
“This is hardly the wilderness,” Claire scoffed, then loaded her own hook with a mealworm. “Now go farther down—you’re too close to me for us both to cast.”
Grumbling, Brianna picked her way over some rocks farther down the bank. “How long do we have to stay out here?”
she called.
“Bree, really!”
Brianna held up a hand in concession. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Let’s fish. I want to spend time together.”
Claire smiled and cast her line. “Thanks.” She began reeling it in a little at a time, dragging the mealworm across the bottom of the river, hoping to draw the attention of any bass lingering nearby.
“But you owe me a mani-pedi,” Brianna shot back.
Claire rolled her eyes. She reeled the line back in and cast again. Another breeze swept across her bare calves. The temperature had been hovering between fifty and fifty-five degrees all morning. It would warm up as the day went on, but Octobers in Sacramento meant cooler mornings. Claire didn’t care. It felt good to be outside.
She glanced back at Brianna about to cast and noticed the overhanging limbs of a tree above her sister’s head. “Bree, wait. Don’t cast there. Your line will get—”
Between the gurgle of the river and the rush of cars passing over their heads, Brianna must not have heard her. Or maybe she did and just ignored the warning because she cast high, and her line got caught in the tree overhead.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Brianna griped, yanking hard on the rod. The fishing line pulled taut, completely snarled in the mass of branches.
Claire rested her rod on the bank and went over to where Brianna stood, pulling the line like she was in a game of tug-of-war with the tree. Claire put her hand on Brianna’s forearm. “Stop,” she said. “You won’t get it down. I’ve got to cut the line.”
“What about my hook?” Brianna said, crestfallen. She didn’t really enjoy nature, but she also didn’t like to fail at anything. She may have protested the entire morning, but Claire knew that Brianna fully intended to fish—and probably wouldn’t be satisfied until she caught the biggest fish in the river.
“I’ll tie you a new one,” Claire said, patting the left breast pocket of her fishing vest. “I’ve got a whole box of extras right here.”
Brianna groaned but Claire noticed the smile fighting to burst forth from the corners of her mouth. “Oh my God, you’re like a real-deal fisherman. Fisher person. Whatever. You really love this, don’t you?”
“I do. It helps with my anxiety. Now hold the rod.” Beaming, Claire extracted her Leatherman tool from the side pocket of her cargo shorts. She loved the thing and used it frequently when fishing. Though it fit easily in her pocket, the multitool was fitted with different types of knives, screwdrivers, pliers, and a number of other features she had yet to find a use for. Reaching overhead, she used it to cut the line.
Brianna pointed to the tool as she handed Claire her rod. “Isn’t that Connor’s?”
Without looking at her sister, Claire nodded. Even after all this time, just the mention of his name caused a small ache in the pit of her stomach. His face flashed into her mind. Those blue eyes—her perpetual oasis in a broken, damaged world. Sense in a world of senselessness. She squeezed her eyes closed and snapped them open again, trying to rid him from her mind. It didn’t work. It never did.
Connor Parks was a detective with Sacramento’s Office of Investigations, formerly known as the Major Crimes Unit. He had been instrumental in solving Claire’s cold abduction case. It was, in large part, the connection between them that had given Claire the courage to finally escape her abductor. They had dated for a few years after Claire’s return.
“How long have you had that?” Brianna asked as Claire slipped it back into her pocket. Her fingers worked nimbly to tie a new hook onto Brianna’s line.
“When’s the last time you guys tried to get us back together?”
Brianna put a hand to her chest, batting her eyes in feigned innocence. “Me?”
Claire raised a brow. “Yes, you. All of you. Mom, Dad, Tom.”
Brianna cast her eyes downward and jammed her hands into the pockets of her shorts. “We can’t help ourselves,” she mumbled.
Claire laughed loudly. “I know!”
Brianna met Claire’s eyes. “We love Connor.”
Claire sighed. “I know.” I do too, she almost said aloud.
A moment passed in silence. Claire handed Brianna her rod back. “Last year, when we went on the family fishing trip, and you ambushed me by bringing Connor along, he gave it to me.”
Brianna thrust a hip out. “He gave that to you?”
Claire matched her sister’s pose. “Yes. He did. How do you even know it was his?”
Brianna rolled her eyes. “How could you forget how excited he was about it? Mom got one for him, one for Tom, and one for Dad. It was that first Christmas after—” She faltered. It had been five years since Claire had been reunited with her family after being held captive by a pedophile for ten years, but Brianna still had trouble talking about it.
“After I came home,” Claire said pointedly.
“Yes,” Brianna said. “Don’t you remember the three of them doing those dumb poses by the tree, all lined up, flexing their arms and holding their Leatherman tools?”
Claire smiled even though the thought pained her. She did remember. The photo was still tucked into her bedroom mirror—only, for the last few years, Connor had remained covered by the edge of another photo.
“Yeah,” she said. “I remember.”
She looked away from her sister. She reached into her pocket and pulled the Leatherman out again. Brianna caught Claire’s hand and turned it so that the tool rested in Claire’s open palm. Brianna traced the handle with an index finger. “Besides, Connor cut a notch here so he could tell his from Dad’s and Tom’s.”
Claire stared at the tool, a lump growing in her throat. “Dammit,” she muttered, although she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. This was supposed to be a nice day. Fun, relaxing. She couldn’t stop the tears from stinging her eyes. Brianna wrapped Claire’s fingers around the tool and relinquished Claire’s hand. She put her rod on the ground and pulled Claire into a hug. Sighing, Claire nestled her head against her sister’s neck. She would never get tired of her family’s affection after having been deprived of it for so long.
Brianna waited a long moment before asking, “What happened?”
It was the one thing Claire never talked about. She had told her sister all the horrible things that had happened to her in captivity, but she could never bring herself to talk about why things hadn’t worked out between her and Connor. She disentangled from Brianna and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. With the other hand, she deposited the Leatherman back into her shorts pocket. “I couldn’t—we couldn’t—”
She took another step back from her sister and threw her arms into the air. “Men don’t like having sex with women who cry,” she blurted.
Immediately, she thought of the man who had kept her prisoner for all those years, of all the times she’d cried and begged him to stop. “Well, normal men don’t,” she added. “We couldn’t have sex. I always started crying, and I couldn’t stop. Connor said he would wait as long as I needed, but I couldn’t do that to him.”
She met Brianna’s eyes. They were frozen on her. Brianna’s entire body was stock-still like she’d encountered a deer in the woods, and the slightest movement might send it running off.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for sex. You know, real sex.”
Brianna let out a breath, her posture relaxing somewhat. “But, Claire,” she said carefully. “You’ve had sex with men.”
“It wasn’t the same.”
Brianna’s mouth twitched, a snicker fighting to stay hidden. “Not even with Too-Concerned Todd?”
Claire raised an eyebrow. “Brianna,” she admonished.
Brianna rushed over to Claire and shook her lightly by the shoulders. She thrust her neck forward and peered into her face with wide eyes. “Are you okay? Are you feeling okay? Is this okay?” she teased.
Claire brushed Brianna’s hands away, shaking her head but trying not to laugh.
Brianna smirked. “And don’t even get me started on Comb-Over Charlie.”<
br />
Claire had dated two men since she and Connor parted ways. Both had been incredibly kind, but very ill equipped to deal with her past. The chemistry was nil, and it didn’t help that the Fletchers ridiculed them mercilessly. The would-be relationships were doomed from the first date.
Claire sighed. “When I slept with them, I wasn’t really—I didn’t—I wasn’t there. I shut down. It was like I was out of my body. I felt nothing, emotionally and physically.”
Brianna grimaced. “Claire, I’m sorry.”
Claire waved a hand and retrieved her own fishing rod. “It’s okay. That was my coping mechanism all those years. After I’d been raped so many times”—Claire saw Brianna flinch at the word, but went on—“I learned how to disconnect. To remove myself mentally from the act.”
Brianna drew a deep breath. “Go on,” she said.
“With Connor, it’s real. It means something. I’m really there when I’m with him. I feel everything.”
Brianna swallowed, the pale skin of her throat quivering. “Isn’t that a good thing?”