PRAISE FOR THE WOMAN IN THE PARK
“Like a Rubik’s cube, The Woman in the Park twists the perception of reality and fantasy, keeping the reader hooked and curiously searching for the solution. Intriguing, intelligent and multifaceted.”
VERA NÄSSTRÖM, AUTHOR & PLAYWRIGHT, ALL IS AS IT SHOULD BE
“Fast and thrilling, Sorkin and Holmqvist’s novel The Woman in the Park kept me guessing until the final page. There’s no tranquility to this Manhattan’s Upper East Side, just darkness, disquiet, and suspense.”
JAMES STURZ, AUTHOR, SASSO
“This richly textured, beautifully written, and intricately plotted thriller, with a deeply sympathetic female protagonist, is at once a page-turner, a story of loss and redemption, and a beautiful testament to the power of the human spirit. The Woman in the Park is a remarkable achievement. I loved it.”
CAROLINE NASTRO, DIRECTOR & AUTHOR, THE BEAR WHO COULDN’T SLEEP
Copyright © 2019 by Teresa Sorkin and Tullan Holmqvist
FIRST EDITION
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Sorkin, Teresa, author. | Holmqvist, Tullan, author.
Title: The woman in the park / Teresa Sorkin and Tullan Holmqvist.
Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Beaufort Books, [2019]
Identifiers: LCCN 2019011815 | ISBN 9780825308994 (hardcover : alk. paper)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3619.O756 W66 2019 | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019011815
Émile Zola. (2006). Thérèse Raquin. Translator: Edward Vizetelly. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved March 4, 2019, from www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6626.
Robert Frost. (2006). Mountain Interval. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved March 4, 2019, from www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29345.
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Printed in the United States of America
Cover Design by Michael Short
Interior design by Mark Karis
TERESA
Dedicated to Ian, Jaden, and Bella, my everything.
TULLAN
For my mother Carin, who showed me that what really matters in this life is love.
PROLOGUE
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 2018
When the doorbell rang, neither of them reacted right away.
It rang so rarely that at first Sarah dismissed it as noise from a neighboring apartment and took another sip of her bitter coffee, waiting for her mind to fully awaken. Her husband went on reading the paper beside her, barely looking up. His placid face seemed to challenge her sense of purpose, and again she had the strangest sense that none of it had actually happened.
The bell rang again. Eric finally looked up from his paper, his eyes quizzical.
“Are you expecting someone?” he asked.
“No,” she said, a slight tremor passing through her. Quickly she got up to answer the door, then paused. Surely Lawrence would not come here, ring the bell for her…No, he’d never do something so careless, not even after leaving her hanging for the last few days. After all, she’d told him Eric was going to be home.
“Who is it?” she asked, not expecting an answer.
“NYPD.”
The voice was crisp, official. It took her a minute to register what it had said. Then it spoke again.
“Please open the door, ma’am. We just have a few questions we would like to ask you.”
She looked through the peephole. Two men were standing there, neither of whom she recognized, nor were they in uniform.
Panic flared up in Sarah’s mind. She looked down at her robe, abruptly realizing she was naked underneath. She tied the belt of her robe tightly, smoothed down her hair with her hands and opened the door.
“Good morning, ma’am,” said the older of the two men. They each held up a badge. She noticed the younger one had not ironed his shirt. “I’m Detective Duke; this is Detective Schmidt. Are you Sarah Rock?”
“I’m sorry, is something wrong?” she asked. Fear ran through her as her hands shook. “Oh my God—the kids?”
Eric appeared next to her, equally alarmed. “What’s happened?” he asked.
“No, it’s nothing like that at all,” the older officer said in a conciliatory tone, holding up his hands. “I’m sorry to startle you. We’re looking for Sarah Rock—we just have a few questions. Is that you, ma’am?”
“That’s me, yes.” She pulled the robe even tighter around herself, her heart pounding.
“Thanks, Mrs. Rock. We’re looking into a missing persons case and wanted to see if you could help us out with any details.” The younger detective, who hadn’t yet spoken, was now taking notes in a little spiral-bound pad. “Do you mind if we step inside?”
“Of course not. Come in.” She opened the door wider for them to pass through, the words “missing persons” rebounding chillingly in her ears. She’d waited for Lawrence every day this week; were they going to ask her about him?
As they walked by, Eric turned to her.
“Sarah, what’s this about?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice faint.
The detectives looked at her as they stepped into the kitchen.
“We’re very sorry to interrupt your breakfast, Mrs. Rock,” the older one said.
“Can I offer you anything?”
The officer smiled, his face businesslike but friendly. “A cup of that coffee would be nice, actually. Just black.”
She poured out two cups, utterly bewildered.
“Thank you.” The older detective sipped the coffee patiently while the younger drew something out of his notepad and handed it across to her.
It was a photo of a woman. The woman in the park.
“Do you know this woman, Mrs. Rock?” the younger cop asked, his voice surprisingly deep.
Sarah looked again. It was the young mother from the park, the one she’d seen several times before. The one she’d thought looked like a younger version of herself.
She swallowed hard, the blood pounding in her ears. Why were they here talking to her? Had they seen her in the park, waiting for Lawrence?
“Sarah—?” Eric asked dubiously.
She avoided his gaze, concentrating on the picture. For an instant, she imagined admitting that she’d watched the woman in the park before. She remembered vaguely the woman confronting her but wasn’t sure what it was about. Her thoughts were jumbled as she pictured herself scrambling for an explanation like a hunted woman, trying to cover for herself as they barraged her with more and more questions.
“Well, what do you think?” Detective Schmidt asked again.
“I don’t—” she began, but the words stuck in her throat and she shook her head instead. How could she tell them anything without revealing herself to Eric? How could she—how could any honest person—account for her actions over the past weeks? And where was Lawrence?
The phrase she’d seen i
nscribed on his ring flashed through her mind, sinister now in its implications. Was this somehow about him? In some way, hidden to her, those engraved words, her fate—and that of the woman in the park—were intertwined.
Amor vincit omnia. Love conquers all.
PART ONE
ABSTRACT
Existing in thought or idea
CHAPTER 1
FOUR WEEKS BEFORE
She kept all the impetuosity of her nature carefully concealed within her. She possessed supreme composure, and an apparent tranquility that masked terrible transports.
ÉMILE ZOLA, THÉRÈSE RAQUIN
A piercing scream cut through the night.
Ripped from her sleep, Sarah sat up, gasping for air. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her breathing was fast and hot. Where was she? She scanned the darkness, searching for clues. She had no idea. Her silk nightgown clung to her body, and the sheets felt moist with sweat.
As Sarah’s eyes adjusted to the faint light coming in through the window, the room returned to her and she knew where she was. Home. Her home. 1122 Park Avenue in Manhattan. She felt a flood of relief. That dream. Again. Then came the realization that the neighbors—no, the whole building—must have heard her scream. Her heart contracted in shame.
She looked over to find her husband’s sleeping shape beside her. Eric usually awoke to the slightest noise, but no—there he was, breathing peacefully beside her. It must have been a silent scream she’d uttered, a silent nightmare she’d endured. It was the worst kind of nightmare, in a way: the kind that tortured only her.
Silently, Sarah slipped out of bed and out of her nightgown, letting it drop to the floor. She tiptoed to the window and opened it. Dawn was on the horizon; the New York sky dark and heavy. A sudden gust of wind blew in, scattering grains of soil from her plants onto the Persian carpet. She needed air, despite her shivering; she couldn’t wait to get out of the apartment.
A shadow fluttered across the window in the building across from hers, and she felt observed, vulnerable. She looked down and remembered she was naked. Her cheeks flared hot, and she quickly stepped back from the window.
She snuck into the bathroom and stood for a while in darkness, letting the dream’s last reverberations still within her. That dream—the dark figure hovering over the woman; her and him together, embracing, grabbing at each other. And then there was the sound of a gunshot or something like it. She knew exactly who they were. Eric and Juliette. Images of them haunted Sarah ever since she had found pictures of Juliette on Eric’s phone. When she had confronted him about it, he had brushed it off and had said that she had sent them by mistake. Of course she didn’t believe him, but she had no real proof.
In the dream, Sarah was always just a spectator to them, fear rising in every part of her body until her scream inevitably woke her up. It was uncontrollable, irrational; the simple fear of having absolutely nowhere to go. How could she do this, time and again—fall asleep and wake up in the same place, and yet never know where she was? How could she feel lost, trapped in her own home?
She flicked on the light and found herself in the mirror. Her blonde hair was ruffled; tired eyes looked back at her. Wrinkles were forming there, defiant of the creams and oils with which she tried to keep them at bay. She touched her face, almost unsure she was real. The creases deepened under her thumb. She knew that others saw her differently than she saw herself. She had been told she was magnetic, youthful, that she was living “the good life.” At times she still believed it. She took a deep breath and shook her head.
She opened the medicine cabinet and took out her morning pills. Prozac, 20mg. Two in the morning, daily. She thought a moment, then took one. Shutting the mirrored door, she washed the pill down with a swallow of water and looked at her weary gaze.
It was the dream that made her feel so unlike herself. It frightened her beyond reason to be made to feel so powerless, to wake up confused in a cold sweat. In the daylight she was different; there were good reasons, rationales, behind the things she felt.
She looked back at herself, at the body she still tried hard to keep firm with exercise after two children and fifteen years of marriage. Was that really the problem? No, she could hide those changes under her clothes. Her eyes were the real difference, those seas of blue sadness with nothing to hide behind.
A shadow passed the doorway behind her, startling her. She watched as Eric appeared in the mirror, adjusting his tie. How long had she been standing here?
“You scared me,” she said, turning to kiss him.
“What, didn’t expect me?” he teased.
“You never know,” she said in a tone of mock accusation. In spite of herself she felt ashamed. Had he seen her looking over her own imperfections? Could he have noticed that she’d been going through his clothes the night before? But he only smiled at her, that same smile that had broken down her defenses all those years ago. It still had the same effect on her.
“Come on,” he said, kissing her again. “Early start for both of us today.”
She watched him as he retreated back into the shadowed room, brushing his teeth. He was dressed already, put together as always; so tall, and strong, and male. His wrinkles seemed to show character; the creases around his mouth and blue-grey eyes were beautiful on him, comforting. Sarah now found his salt-and-pepper hair as appealing as she had the dark-brown hair he’d once worn longer. She had always loved him so much—maybe too much. As much as she ached for him, it was worse when he was away—and he was away so often nowadays.
“Kids’ll be back this evening,” she said lightly, reaching for her own toothbrush.
“Mmm,” he answered. “It’ll be nice to be together. Remember to call Jason’s coach today, by the way.”
“Of course,” she said. Didn’t he know it was already on her to-do list? “What do you have going on today?” she asked lightly. Eric walked past the doorway again, pretending not to hear her.
“I’ll wait outside,” she heard him say. His voice sounded short; was it annoyance or concern? Sarah could never tell anymore. The more she knew him, the less she felt she knew him. Surely it wasn’t suspicion, anyway; she remembered how careful she’d been to put everything back the way she’d found it, the tailored suits and impeccably rolled ties all lined up like soldiers, so he wouldn’t notice that she’d been snooping for any telltale signs of Juliette’s bright red lipstick on any of his collars. She found herself searching for proof of his infidelity more and more frequently.
Sarah brushed her teeth, pulled her hair into a tight ponytail—so tight it hurt—and hurriedly threw on some makeup. She emerged into the bedroom. Eric was already gone, in a hurry, as always. Crossing to the closet she slipped into a form-fitting designer dress and high heels. Eric had always liked the heels, the way they elongated her already long, lean legs. Would he notice them today?
“Sarah? Coming?” he called. How could he be gone so often, yet still always be waiting for her?
She grabbed her coat and bag and met him at the door. He took her hand, and she felt the warmth of it entwined with hers. That, at least, felt right. They walked out together through the marble lobby of their building, passing pumpkins lined up cozily in the window. She felt a pang of sadness that there would be no searching for the perfect Halloween costumes with the kids this year. They were going to spend Halloween away for the first time, at boarding school.
“Good morning,” the doorman said, holding the door open for them.
“Good morning, Manuel,” Sarah answered as she looked at him. “Thanks.”
“Of course, Mrs. Rock.” The doorman lowered his voice, along with his eyes. She frowned; it seemed even he was looking at her with pity these days. “It’s gonna rain out there today,” he said quickly. “I feel it. You okay, you got an umbrella?” He offered her one from the vase by the door.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Anytime, Mrs. Rock. You have a good one.”
“You too, Manuel.”
She and Eric stepped out together into the brisk, autumn air. Their building spread out behind them, its formidable Gothic exterior presiding over Park Avenue. It was one of the first high-rises built on the Upper East Side in 1909, and Sarah had immediately fallen in love with its antiquated feel when they’d moved in fifteen years ago. She relished the sculpted animals and dragons crawling up the side, the two large gargoyles at the top; they made her feel part of something old and important. It had taken some convincing to pry Eric away from his dream of a “cool loft space downtown,” but in the end they had both been glad she’d persisted. She just wished it didn’t feel quite so empty these days.
“Why does Manuel do that?” she asked Eric once they were out of earshot.
“Do what?”
“Treat me like I’m a fragile bird or something.”
“He’s just being friendly. It’s his job.”
“I didn’t see him offering you an umbrella!”
Eric chuckled. “Maybe he has a crush on you.”
“Oh please,” she softened.
As they walked together down Park Avenue, rays of sun peeked through the clouds. The light glinted off a shiny car, and she caught her own figure reflected back at her, dark and alone. She could already feel Eric pulling away, and she leaned in toward him instinctively. He smiled back at her, and the sky seemed to brighten even more. They stopped at a corner, and without saying a word, he wrapped her in a warm embrace. For just a moment, there was a perfect peace between them.
“I love you,” he said, holding her close.
“I love you, too,” she answered, and meant it.
“I have to run.”
She looked into his eyes. “Me too,” she sighed. “You know how she gets when I’m late.”
“I do,” he laughed, drawing back. “I’ll see you later on, okay?”
His gaze accompanied her as she turned and walked a few steps down the block. When she looked back, his eyes met hers and he waved. Their little routine—one of the few that had survived the years. It always made her feel safe to know he was there, watching her go.
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