by Luanne Rice
PRAISE FOR THE SHADOW BOX
“The Shadow Box is Luanne Rice at her dazzling best. Filled with dark family secrets and wells of deep emotion, this novel will stick with you long after you’ve finished reading.”
—Harlan Coben, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Run Away
“As always, Luanne Rice gives us characters so real they feel like family and families so flawed they give us chills. Shocking, compassionate, and told with the unerring eye of a true and gifted observer, The Shadow Box will keep you turning the pages long past your bedtime.”
—Tami Hoag, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Boy
“A clever protagonist in extreme danger pitted against a cruel and powerful circle made the stakes in The Shadow Box so high I could barely stop reading for a drink of water. Luanne Rice creates a thrillingly compelling tale of common cruelty, high ambition, and the courage it takes to oppose them. Well done!”
—Barbara O’Neal, Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling author of When We Believed in Mermaids
“Every family has secrets, but in Luanne Rice’s clever thriller, The Shadow Box, the truth won’t set you free—it will put you in a shallow grave . . . particularly if you live in the posh Connecticut enclave of Catamount Bluffs, where corruption, kidnapping, and murder are only a few of the community’s hidden sins.”
—Lee Goldberg, #1 New York Times bestselling author
PRAISE FOR LAST DAY
“Lovely, lyrical—and lethal. Luanne Rice turns her talents in a new direction and succeeds completely.”
—Lee Child, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Luanne Rice is the master of small towns with big secrets. With a deft touch, she draws us into a picture-postcard New England village, behind the closed doors of a well-loved home with its beautiful gardens and perfect family, only to expose the truths within. Surprising, powerful, a total page-turner.”
—Lisa Scottoline, New York Times bestselling author of Someone Knows
“In Last Day, Luanne Rice shows once again her unique gift for portraying the emotional landscape of a family. By adding a riveting thread of suspense, she proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that love and murder make brilliant bedfellows.”
—Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author of The Shape of Night
“Last Day, by Luanne Rice, shines with its brilliant plot about four women friends, their families and loves, and, shockingly, a murder. Rice’s writing is flawless and fast—her characters are like the women I have coffee with—and the desire, violence, and betrayals shock me and remind me of Liane Moriarty’s Big Little Lies.”
—Nancy Thayer, New York Times bestselling author of Surfside Sisters
“A dark family history. A deeply flawed marriage. The complicated tangle of the ties that bind. Luanne Rice writes with authenticity and empathy, unflinchingly exploring her characters and diving into the shadowy spaces where they hide their secrets. Like all great stories, Last Day is a compulsive, twisting mystery dwelling inside a searing portrait of what drives us, as riveting as it is human and true.”
—Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of The Stranger Inside
“A brutal murder, a failed marriage, secret lovers, and enough suspects to fill a room. The truth lies somewhere between betrayal and love. A compelling mystery you won’t put down or solve until the final pages.”
—Robert Dugoni, New York Times and Amazon Charts bestselling author of the Tracy Crosswhite series
“I’ve long loved Luanne Rice for her trademark elegant style and her deep understanding of familial relationships, and she brings these superpowers with her as she delves into suspense. Last Day is a true page-turner, peopled by characters I care deeply about, with an ending I never saw coming.”
—Joshilyn Jackson, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Never Have I Ever
“In a family drama that is as suspenseful as it is empathetic, Rice again displays her ability to portray female friendship and the pain of loss.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Rice keeps the reader guessing as she gradually doles out long-hidden family secrets. Fans of intense family dramas will be rewarded.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Strong love overcomes pain in this latest from Rice, which combines suspense with stories of survivors, sisterhood, best friends, and small communities shaken by violence or death.”
—Library Journal
“A riveting story of a seaside community shaken by a violent crime and a tragic loss.”
—Brooklyn Digest
“From the exquisite opening, through twists and torment, this domestic thriller weaves an irresistible story of family and friends, trust and betrayal, love and murder.”
—Suspense Magazine
“Luanne Rice’s opening pages of Last Day illustrate elegant writing at its finest. Twist after twist is guaranteed to keep readers guessing all the way to the surprises in the final pages . . . a sheer pleasure to read. Rice, the author of more than thirty books, is a master at writing descriptions and portraying story settings, a skill other writers admire and strive to acquire.”
—New York Journal of Books
“The themes of love, loss, sisterly devotion, betrayals, and family ties are skillfully interwoven. [Rice] provides just enough intriguing detail to make the reader want to learn more . . . She once again doesn’t disappoint in this novel.”
—LymeLine.com
“Last Day by Luanne Rice is a gripping psychological suspense story. It starts out with an intensity from page one that never lets up.”
—Crimespree Magazine
“If you’re a fan of Shari Lapena or Ruth Ware, order this book and get ready to be sucked in. It’s one of the best books of the year so far.”
—GQ Magazine
OTHER TITLES BY LUANNE RICE
Last Day
Pretend She’s Here
The Beautiful Lost
The Secret Language of Sisters
The Night Before
How We Started
The Lemon Orchard
Little Night
The Geometry of Sisters
The Letters (with Joseph Monninger)
The Silver Boat
Secrets of Paris
What Matters Most
Sandcastles
Summer’s Child
The Deep Blue Sea for Beginners
Blue Moon
Home Fires
Dance with Me
Stone Heart
The Edge of Winter
Light of the Moon
Last Kiss
Follow the Stars Home
Firefly Beach
Summer Light
True Blue
Safe Harbor
The Perfect Summer
The Secret Hour
Silver Bells
Summer of Roses
Beach Girls
Dream Country
Cloud Nine
Crazy in Love
Angels All Over Town
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 © 2021 by Luanne Rice
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 A
mazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542025188 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1542025184 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781542009553 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1542009553 (paperback)
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
First edition
For Maureen and Olivier Onorato
CONTENTS
THE ATTACK
1 CLAIRE
2 CONOR
3 CLAIRE
4 CONOR
5 JEANNE
6 CONOR
7 TOM
FIVE DAYS EARLIER
8 CLAIRE
ONE DAY LATER
9 CONOR
10 TOM
FOUR DAYS EARLIER
11 SALLIE
12 CLAIRE
13 CONOR
THREE DAYS LATER
14 CLAIRE
15 TOM
16 CONOR
17 TOM
THREE DAYS EARLIER
18 CLAIRE
19 SALLIE
FOUR DAYS LATER
20 CLAIRE
21 CONOR
TWO DAYS EARLIER
22 CLAIRE
23 SALLIE
FIVE DAYS LATER
24 CONOR
25 CLAIRE
ONE DAY EARLIER
26 SALLIE
27 CLAIRE
28 SALLIE
29 CLAIRE
SIX DAYS LATER
30 CONOR
31 TOM
32 CLAIRE
SEVEN DAYS LATER
33 CONOR
34 TOM
EIGHT DAYS LATER
35 CLAIRE
36 TOM
37 CONOR
NINE DAYS LATER
38 CLAIRE
39 JACKIE
40 CLAIRE
41 CONOR
42 JACKIE
43 CLAIRE
44 CONOR
45 TOM
46 CONOR
47 CLAIRE
48 TOM
49 CONOR
50 CLAIRE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE ATTACK
1
CLAIRE
I died, and I relive my death hourly. Although my absence from the world remains constant, the method changes each time. Could it be that I was strangled, staring past the mask into emotionless eyes as he crushed my larynx with his thumbs? Or was it this rope knotted around my neck? I try to grab onto memories, but they slip away like waves and the receding tide.
Nothing is clear, but I feel blood trickling from my head, and I think, yes, he threw me across the garage in a sudden fit of rage, cracking my skull against the Range Rover’s right rear bumper, shocked and sorry for what he did.
I wonder, Did he try to revive me? Or had he come to kill me, plotting it out in his meticulous way? Had he come armed with his knife, maybe Ford’s baseball bat, timed my arrival, and patiently waited for me to walk into the garage with my beachcombing treasures? Friday, the start of Memorial Day weekend, and I was feeling so happy.
Am I dead? Am I dreaming this? What time is it? Are people showing up for my opening? My best friend manages the gallery. Does she realize yet that I’m not coming? Will she send help? A thought shimmers through my mind: I was warned, and I didn’t listen. My mind is dull, and my mouth is dry; my face and hands are crusted with blood. The sound of my head being smashed rings in my ears. I hear myself crying.
There is a line tied around my neck, chafing the skin raw. I can barely breathe; I try to claw it away. The knot is too tight, and my fingers barely work—my hands are covered with shallow cuts. I see the knife waving, jabbing my hands as I hold them up to block the thrusts. But he didn’t stab me. My wrist is raw, not from knife wounds, but from where he yanked my gold watch, a wedding present, over my hand.
I’m still in the drafty old carriage house we use as our garage. The concrete is solid beneath me, and I taste my own blood: signs that I’m still alive. Beside me on the floor are two lengths of splintered wood. My throat is on fire from the rope’s pressure. My fingernails break as I struggle to loosen the knot. I pass out on the hard floor. When I come to, I feel cold. Was I out for a minute or an hour or all day and night, and did I die? I try again to tug the line from my neck—that must mean I’m not dead. The knot refuses to give.
Still on the ground, lying on my back, I stretch my legs and flex my feet. My limbs work. Slowly I pull myself up by the car’s bumper; I lean on the rear door, leaving bloody handprints. My palms and fingers and the insides of my wrists are covered with small, almost superficial cuts.
An image fills my mind: a knife slashing the air but barely touching me, me punching and slapping and ducking, him laughing. Yes, it’s coming back now. He wore a black mask. He dangled my watch in front of me, a taunt that seemed to mean something to him but not to me.
“Let me see your face!” I screamed as I fought him.
My attacker wore black leather gloves and blue coveralls, the kind mechanics wear, and the mask. So he planned it. It wasn’t a bout of sudden rage. He came ready for this. He hid his face and hands, so he couldn’t be recognized. But it was his body, tall and lean, and nothing could hide that from me.
My husband is Griffin Chase, the state’s attorney for Easterly County, Connecticut, and a candidate in November’s gubernatorial election. Smart money says he will be the next governor, and there is a lot of money, a fortune, in his war chest: he has big donors, and he has made promises to all of them.
He studies the cases he prosecutes. He tells me what the husbands did wrong and that he would never make those mistakes. Griffin convicts violent offenders. He sends the abusers, the batterers, the stalkers, and the murderers to prison, and then comes home for dinner and tells me they are his teachers. He admires women killers too, including a local mother of two he successfully prosecuted for murdering her best friend.
John Marcus, a murderer he put away for life last October, had stabbed his wife forty-seven times. He was caught because he had accidently cut himself when his hand slipped down the bloody blade and his DNA had mixed with hers.
“I can’t think of anything more horrible than being stabbed,” I’d said to Griffin. “Even just seeing the knife, it would be pure terror, knowing what he was about to do with it.”
Now the memories flood in—clear, no longer a dream. Of course, he wouldn’t stab me, because prosecuting John Marcus had taught him what not to do. But he must have remembered what I’d said about the dread of a knife. Leaning against the car now, I could still see the blade thrusting, glinting in the cool daylight streaming through the window, nicking my palm, the insides of my wrists, but nothing more, never going deep. Terrifying me would give him pleasure.
After he shoved me and I hit my head on the car bumper, he quickly tied the rope around my neck.
“Griffin, take off the mask,” I said while I could still talk, before the noose tightened. Did he want my death to look like suicide? Or would he remove my body after I was dead? Stash me in his boat, take me out into the Atlantic, past Block Island, where the trenches were so deep a person would never be found?
He threw the rope upward once, twice. It took him three times to toss it over the rafter, but then he began to pull, and I could hear the line inching and scraping the rough wooden crossbar overhead. He was strong, his body taut—athletic and lean.
My neck stretched as he pulled on the line, my lungs bursting with air I couldn’t exhale. I rose onto my toes, up and up. I grabbed the rope circled around my neck and tried to loosen the grip. The insides of my eyelids turned purple and flashed with pinprick stars. Breathe, breathe, breathe, I thought, hearing the gasps and gurgles coming from my throat. I tried to keep my feet from leaving the ground, but they did, and I thrashed and scissor kicked the air. I passed out.
Through the fog of near death, I thought I heard a scream outside, a high-pitched wail, primal and wild. Is that why he left me there before he had finished killi
ng me? Had the sound scared him off? Or had the noise come from my own throat? Had my attacker run into the kitchen, hidden in the house? Or slipped out the garage door and escaped along the beach path? He must have thought I was dead or would soon die.
I look up at the garage ceiling. One rafter is damaged, part of it lying on the floor next to me. I realize it broke under my weight, and my eyes fill with tears. This old carriage house was built around 1900, at the same time Griffin’s great-grandfather, governor of Connecticut, the first Chase man to hold political office, constructed the “cottage”—growing up, I would have called it a mansion. We live at the edge of the sea, and countless nor’easters and hurricanes have battered this place. We’ve been meaning to reinforce the building for years. The rafter gave way, and I tumbled to the floor and lived. This weathered old structure saved my life.
My left ankle is bruised and swollen, and my legs are stiff. Will I make it through my backyard, over the stone bridge, into the marsh, and from there into the pines, the deep woods, to the safe place my father and I built together? It is a long way. Will my blood leave a trail for Griffin to follow? The state police have a canine unit. Griffin will make sure his minions send the cadaver dogs after me.
When will I be missed? I have until they first notice I am gone to get where I need to go. My whole body is shaking. Will I make it? What if the police find me first? They belong to Griffin. My husband rules law enforcement in Connecticut. He was already a man of power, and the backing he has for his run for governor gives him even more. The secret I keep could ruin his career. And once it gets out, his campaign will end, and the men who support him will be furious.
I think about the letter I received, and the warning it contained. Why didn’t I listen?
My hands hurt. I picture the knife again, and my knees feel like jelly.
Using the garage walls for support, I stagger to a shelf at the back and take down a can of animal repellent—a foul-smelling powdered mixture of fox, bobcat, and cougar urine that I bought by mail order. It is intended to keep deer away from gardens, dogs away from borders. The smell of predators will raise their hackles, send fear through their blood. My woodsman father taught me the potion has another use: when spread in the wild, rather than repelling, it will attract the species of animals that excreted the urine.