The Request
Page 1
Praise for The Request
“Fast-paced and thrilling, with twists at every turn, The Request kept me guessing until its satisfying conclusion.”
—Catherine McKenzie, author of I’ll Never Tell
“David Bell more than delivers on the shocking premise of The Request, which is a gripping exploration of guilt, loyalty, and desperation. [It] combines complex characters, social commentary, and expertly meted-out plot twists that will keep readers guessing—and gasping—until the final page. Bell is a master.”
—Robyn Harding, international bestselling author of The Party
More praise for the work of David Bell
“[Bell is] a bang-up storyteller, armed with enough detours and surprises to keep the pages turning.”
—The Cleveland Plain Dealer
“David Bell is a definite natural storyteller and a first-class writer.”
—Suspense Magazine
“Filled with twists and turns. . . . Bell is a master of suspense with well-fleshed-out characters.”
—Midwest Book Review
“[A] twisty, realistic thriller. . . . [Bell] is a skilled storyteller.”
—Houston Chronicle
“A tale straight out of the psychological thriller territory blazed by the likes of Harlan Coben and Lisa Gardner.”
—The Providence Journal
ALSO BY DAVID BELL
Cemetery Girl
The Hiding Place
Never Come Back
The Forgotten Girl
Somebody I Used to Know
Since She Went Away
Bring Her Home
Somebody’s Daughter
Layover
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2020 by David J. Bell
Readers guide copyright © 2020 by Penguin Random House LLC
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BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
The Library of Congress has catalogued the hardcover edition as follows:
Names: Bell, David, 1969 November 17– author.
Title: The request / David Bell.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Berkley, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019055517 (print) | LCCN 2019055518 (ebook) | ISBN 9780440000891 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780440000914 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.E64544 R47 2020 (print) | LCC PS3602.E64544
(ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019055517
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019055518
Cover images: woman by Robin de Blanche / Shutterstock; man by Terry Bidgood / Trevillion Images
Cover design by Eileen Carey
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0
CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for David Bell
Also by David Bell
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
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
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Chapter Seventy-eight
Chapter Seventy-nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-one
Chapter Eighty-two
Chapter Eighty-three
Chapter Eighty-four
Chapter Eighty-five
Chapter Eighty-six
Chapter Eighty-seven
Chapter Eighty-eight
Chapter Eighty-nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-one
Chapter Ninety-two
Chapter Ninety-three
Chapter Ninety-four
Readers Guide
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For Molly
PROLOGUE
Of all the things I never thought I’d say about my life, there is this—I have a blackmailer.
The blackmail started for a simple reason—I was guilty.
And over the years the guilt has taken a strong hold of me. Like a giant iron fist.
I used to do things differently. Before the blackmailing started.
I used to hand over the money voluntarily. And on my own schedule.
I would head to my bank branch and withdraw a couple hundred dollars from the savings account Amanda and I share. Once, after I received a one-thousand-dollar bonus at the PR firm where I worked, I handed the entire amount over. I always placed the crisp stack of cash in a manila envelope. I wrapped the envelope with tape, making sure it was secure and tight, and I drove thirty minutes away from my home and arrived in another town, where I traced the familiar path to a modest two-story house in an old subdivision.
Sometimes I arrived before daylight, telling Amanda I had an early meeting in my office. Other times I rolled up to the house late at night, headlights off, radio silent, claiming a social obligation from work or having made some other plausible excuse.
In those days, before everything else happened, Amanda never questioned me. She believed what I told her.
I always found the house dark, the porch light extinguished. I quickly pulled open the mailbox that sat at the end of the driveway, felt the coolness of the morning or night air against my face, slipped the envelope inside, closed the mailbox tight, and drove off. I’d mastered the smooth transaction, accomplishing my task in mere seconds.
I didn’t write on the envelope. Or leave a note.
But otherwise I did nothing to conceal my identity. It was there if someone wanted to find it.
My fingerprints were on the envelope, the tape, the money. My DNA was on the flap I licked.
I knew for a fact the family was getting the money.
I knew because just six weeks ago, the local paper ran a story. It detailed the anonymous gifts of cash that appeared randomly in the mailbox. The article’s author theorized that the person leaving the money was a Good Samaritan, someone moved by the plight of the family and the medical expenses related to the accident six years earlier that left their middle daughter with permanent disabilities and their youngest daughter dead. In the story, the family explained that the cash helped keep them afloat when times were tough by allowing them to purchase much-needed medical supplies or household items.
“We have insurance,” the father said in the article. “And the government helps some. But it’s never enough. These envelopes are a godsend.”
He went on to say they were initially reluctant to tell anyone about the money. More than anything else, they worried the publicity might scare off the anonymous donor. Clearly this person didn’t want attention or recognition of any kind.
But eventually the family couldn’t stand not saying anything.
They wanted the donor to know how much they appreciated what he or she was doing for them. They wanted the donor to know how much the money helped.
And they insisted they would never test the envelope for fingerprints or DNA. They would never set up a hidden camera to try to catch the person in the act.
And if the donor ever stopped leaving the money for any reason, they would understand. He or she had already been more generous than anyone could have imagined.
“I truly believe the person who gives us this money is an angel,” the mother said. “I know it sounds corny to say that in this day and age, but I really believe it’s an angel.”
* * *
—
Just under a month ago, I got caught.
Not by the police. Not by the media.
And not by Amanda.
No, I got caught by the family’s eldest daughter, the one who wasn’t quoted in the article about the anonymous angelic donations.
I’d been reluctant to go back and make another delivery. I feared that the article might have stirred up too much attention and might drive someone—another reporter, a neighbor, a random fame seeker who wanted something to brag about on social media—to stake the place out and catch me. Over time, my guilt grew greater than my fear. And I went back with another envelope.
After I dropped it off and was two miles from their house, a car pulled alongside me on the empty road. The sky was gray, just lightening toward sunrise. No one else was out.
At first I ignored the driver, but they paced me, and then made an aggressive move—increasing their speed, pulling ahead, and cutting over into my lane so I had no choice but to slow and then stop unless I wanted to go into the culvert that ran on my right.
The other driver stopped as well, blocking me in and allowing me no path forward.
I sat frozen in the car, my hands gripping the wheel. I was ready to slam the car into reverse and back up, turn around if I had to.
But then the driver stepped out. Instead of a cop or a menacing figure, I saw a woman about my age. She wore a long-sleeve T-shirt and jeans. Running shoes. Her dirty blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she walked briskly toward my car, her stride long and confident. She twirled her finger, telling me to roll down the window. Which I did.
“Is everything okay?” I asked. “Are you hurt?”
“Just listen,” she said. She spoke in clipped sentences, her voice husky, with a trace of a Kentucky accent. “You know who I am, right?”
I hadn’t seen her photo in six years. But the face wasn’t that different. A few smile lines around the eyes. A few gray strands in the hair. But it was her.
Dawn Steiner. The elder sister of Maggie and Emily Steiner. Maggie was killed in the accident, and Emily was left with a permanent injury to her leg, one that hindered her ability to walk and work.
My heart thumped. Triple time. The morning was cool, but beads of sweat popped out on my forehead like I was a sick man.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Shhh. You know me, then. And I know you. So, like I said, just listen.”
Her tone was flat as the road. Calm. Clear. Precise.
“I need money. I need my cut of what you have. In fact, I need more than that. I lost a sister here. And what you give to my parents . . . Let’s just say it doesn’t trickle down to me. And I have things I need the money for. I have obligations to keep up with. And you seem to be doing just fine. Help me out, and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“About the money?”
“About why you do this at all. My parents believe what they want to believe about their anonymous Good Samaritan. It helps them deal with the shit sandwich they’ve been given to eat. They can open up the envelope of money when it shows up, and they can turn to each other and say, ‘See, the world’s not such a bad place.’ But I’m not like that.”
“I’m going to go.”
“You’ll stay. You’ll listen. See, I had to ask myself, my cynical self, why would someone give money to my family this way? If you wanted to help them out, you could just donate to the fund that was set up after the accident. No, whoever is coming in the middle of the night and leaving money is up to something else. And what could that be?” She snapped her fingers. “Guilt. That’s the only explanation. Someone with a lot of guilt. A lot. Now, your friend Aaron, the one who went to prison, he’s done his time. And his life on the outside can’t be that great. He couldn’t just go around like Santa, leaving goodies for a struggling family.” She shook her head, a look of amusement on her face. “And your friend, the other one? The rich guy? What’s his name?”
“Leave my friends out of it.”
“One look at him and you can see he wouldn’t give his money to somebody. He’s a jerk through and through. He looks like the type to have an accident. Not the type to care if anyone got hurt. And not the type to feel guilt.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. “I’m just trying to help. You can’t conclude anything from my gesture.”
“I can’t? Okay. I’ll go to the police and the press and tell them it’s you leaving the money. I’ll tell them there’s something fishy about the accident. You riding in the backseat of your own car. They’ll want to look into that now that the story is back on everybody’s minds. If you want to take the chance that they open it back up, I’ll go do it.”
She turned to go, her movements
possessing a military crispness.
“Wait.” Heavy resignation pressed down on me, like bricks piled on my back. “I don’t know what you want.”
She told me the amount. Ten thousand dollars.
And she told me she needed it in one month. Thirty days.
“That’s the deadline. Thirty days. Round up the money or I go to the police and the media and tell them you’ve been leaving the envelopes. From there . . . like I said, they’ll start digging into everything in your life. You’re a pretty well-known guy in this town. It could be embarrassing for that kind of thing to hit the news.”
“You’re asking for too much. Far too much. I can’t come up with that much money on such short notice. I have a family. And we just . . .” It sounded silly to mention it in contrast to her lost and injured sisters. But I said it anyway. “We’re having work done on our house this spring. I put down a deposit. That was a lot of what we had saved.”
Dawn gave me a stare as cold as ice. She used her left fist and rapped on the hood of the car twice. “Cry me a river. I think you’ll find a way. I don’t believe you have a choice. Ten thousand. Thirty days.”
She drove off, leaving me sitting in the road as the sun came up. Just like that—I had a blackmailer.
I thought back to that article, the one in which Dawn’s mother had called me an angel.
* * *
—
Everything I’m about to tell you proves how wrong she was. . . .
CHAPTER ONE
“Ryan.”
Someone called my name. I was leaving the Juniper Pig and stepping into the parking lot, heading for my car. The voice that came through the dark was sharp and husky, a knife swipe through the night, and I jumped.
I couldn’t tell if a man or a woman had spoken.
After work I’d stopped by the Pig, the microbrewery I’d owned a small stake in for the last sixteen months. I was one of three partners, and my contribution had been the smallest, but we took turns going by in the evenings to see how things were running. And that night was my turn.
I hadn’t wanted to stop by the bar. Amanda was waiting at home with our baby, Henry, and thinking of seeing them made my stomach flutter with anticipation and joy. My time away from them felt longer than the hours that passed on the clock, and returning to them every evening was sweet relief. Since Henry had been born, I’d been trying hard to curb my tendency to overwork. But it wasn’t easy. Since my dad died while I was in college, leaving my mother and me high and dry, I’d been compelled to keep going forward, to keep pushing at work. . . .