And Then She Was GONE: A riveting new suspense novel that keeps you guessing until the end

by Christopher Greyson

  Jack tried to squeeze through after him, but his chest was too broad. He couldn’t fit. And Chandler wouldn’t either.

  “Ha!” Two Point taunted as he jogged away backward.

  “Running’s not going to do you any good!” Jack yelled. “You two-faced scumbag.”

  Chandler walked up behind him. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “He can’t stay hidden forever. He’ll have to come home sometime.”

  “And when he does, we’ll be waiting for him.”

  12

  The Red Whistle

  “What a slimy piece of garbage,” Jack grumbled as they crossed the road to cut through Hamilton Park.

  “So, J-Dog was telling the truth after all,” Chandler said. “It makes sense now. Why else would Jay not say anything? He’d do anything for Two.” He shook his head. “But taking the rap for stealing from an ATM?”

  “Jay’s been trying to step up since his dad died. When Jay confessed, he wouldn’t have known just how much he was confessing to,” Jack said. “He didn’t know anything about this missing woman or Two trying to use the ATM card. He probably assumed Two Point just boosted a purse. He thought he was pleading guilty to petty theft. That’s just a misdemeanor.”

  “And since Two Point’s on probation, Jay figured he’d take the hit,” Chandler said.

  “Yep. And now it’s too late. Even if he told the truth now—which he won’t, because he would never flip on his brother—no one would believe him. It’d be his word against Two’s.”

  “But what about the Facebook picture?” Chandler asked. “Can you show it to that detective you know?”

  “Detective Clark. I’ll try.”

  They were walking toward a little man-made pond about the size of a kidney-shaped football field. Beside it stood a white wooden pavilion, and inside, a woman paced back and forth across the weathered floorboards.

  As they passed, Jack could hear her muttering to herself. He glanced over his shoulder, watching her, and then suddenly stopped.

  Chandler gave him a little shove. “Don’t stare.”

  “Do you see her bag?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s tan with gold swirls.”

  “So? Let’s go.” Chandler nudged him.

  Jack walked back toward the pavilion.

  “Jack,” Chandler muttered. “What are you doing? She looks crazy. Let’s just go.”

  Jack ignored his friend and headed for the pavilion. Before he reached the steps, the woman stopped pacing and spun around to face him. Her hand flew to the big red whistle she wore on a chain around her neck. Her face was thin and so was her scraggly hair. It was wispy, and in the pale light it looked like a dandelion that was missing chunks of its fluffy seeds. Jack could see clear down to her scalp.

  Jack held up his hand as if he were approaching a frightened animal. “Hello.” He softened his voice and posture as he stopped on the bottom step. The wood creaked. “I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

  The woman clutched her whistle tighter and looked sideways at Jack. “You’re not a policeman.”

  Jack nodded. “You’re right, I’m not a policeman. But I was wondering where you got such a pretty handbag.”

  She clutched the bag tight. The whistle rattled in her hand. “It’s mine.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Jack smiled. “I thought it looked so pretty that I should get one for my girlfriend.”

  “It is pretty.” The woman’s finger traced along the gold swirl on the side of the handbag. “I like your cap. It’s red like my whistle.” She held up her whistle and pointed at Jack’s Red Sox cap.

  “Thank you. Do you know where I could get a bag like that for my girlfriend? Where did you get yours?”

  She shook her head, and the wisps of hair bobbed back and forth. One hand went to her head and tried to flatten down the flyaways. “I don’t know where to buy one. Who are you?” she asked suddenly. Her movements reminded Jack of a frightened bird.

  “I’m Jack. What’s your name?”

  “Robyn.”

  “That’s a nice name.” Jack looked closely at the bag. “Where did you find that handbag, Robyn?”

  “At number thirteen.”

  “Thirteen?”

  Robyn pointed toward the benches that lined the path through the park. “I count them. I don’t like thirteen so I won’t sit there. I like your hat.”

  “Thanks. Thirteen benches down from where?”

  “The fountain.”

  “Thirteen benches from the fountain heading to Main Street?”

  She nodded.

  Jack paused. He wanted to ask Chandler to do something, but he felt if he broke eye contact with Robyn, she’d dart away. “Where was the handbag? On the bench?”

  Her whistle rattled when she shook her head. “In the woods.” She clutched the bag again. “Someone threw it away. Now it’s mine.”

  “Yes. It’s yours. Did you see who threw away the handbag?”

  “No. I found it.”

  “Why were you in the woods?” Chandler asked.

  “I had to pee.”

  “Okay…” Jack tried not to make a face. “So you went into the woods to go to the bathroom?”

  Robyn nodded, then traced the gold swirl again. “Your hat’s red like my whistle. My whistle is real loud. Do you want to hear it?” She lifted it toward her lips.

  “NO,” Jack and Chandler said in unison.

  “If I blow it, my friends will come. We watch out for each other in the park. It’s really, really loud.”

  “I bet it is. Did you find anything else there?” Jack said.

  “Nope.” Robyn shook her head vigorously. “My whistle’s red.” She held it up. “Like your hat.”

  “It’s a nice whistle.”

  “Like your hat.”

  Jack took the cap off. “Would you like my hat?”

  “I’ll take it!” Her hand shot up like a little girl who knew the answer in her favorite class. “It matches my whistle.”

  “Well, I’m not sure I can give it up.” Jack looked down at the hat in his hands. “What about if I trade you for it?”

  Robyn eyed him suspiciously and darted backward. “I don’t have anything to trade.”

  “How about that bag? It’s tan and it doesn’t match your whistle.”

  “It doesn’t.” She nodded, but not too enthusiastically.

  “What about my red hat and ten dollars?” Jack took a ten out of his pocket.

  Robyn nodded rapidly. She reached into the handbag and took out a plastic shopping bag.

  “Was that plastic bag in the handbag when you found it?” Jack asked.

  “No. It’s mine. I didn’t take anything out of the handbag. Those things belong there. Things should stay where they belong.”

  Jack put the ten in his baseball cap, set it down on the floor of the pavilion, and stepped back. “I’ll just leave it here.”

  With three quick steps, Robyn darted forward, put the handbag on the ground, grabbed the hat, and hurried away. Like a bird with a bit of shiny string, she flitted to the far side of the pavilion, admiring her prize.

  “Thank you.” Jack picked up the handbag.

  As Jack and Chandler walked away, Chandler looked at Jack. “That was your dad’s hat, wasn’t it?”

  “What?” Jack spun around. “Oh, no! No way. Are you sure? I must have put the wrong hat in my gym bag.”

  Robyn was walking back and forth in the pavilion, muttering to herself again. Sure enough, Jack could see now that she was wearing his dad’s Special Edition Red Sox cap. It was similar to Jack’s, but Jack could tell the difference, and his dad certainly would.

  “I’m an idiot,” Jack grumbled as he turned back around. “That’s his favorite fishing hat. I’m a dead man.”

  Chandler patted him on the shoulder. “He’ll get over it. So why did you make that trade anyway?”

  Jack held up the handbag. “I think this is Stacy Shaw’s bag. The missing person flyer said she
had a tan handbag with gold swirls.”

  Jack opened it and looked inside. He was careful not to touch anything, but by shifting the bag around he was able to see all its contents. There was a glasses case, a set of keys, some lip balm, half a package of antacids, a compact, several hair clips and elastics, a hairbrush, hand wipes, two pens, a black case the size of a thick book, a bottle of prenatal vitamins, and two business cards—one for Luisa’s Luxe Hair Studio and one for a fertility clinic.

  “You really think it’s hers?” Chandler asked.

  “Maybe. It’s quite a coincidence if it isn’t. Especially since there’s a diabetic alert tag on the keyring. Come on.” Jack headed back into the park.

  “Where are we going now?”

  “The fountain. Then we need to go thirteen benches down.”

  13

  Thirteen Benches

  “Thirteen,” Chandler announced as they arrived at the bench. It sat at the edge of the walking path between two hills at the bottom of a little valley. The path here was wide enough for four people to stroll abreast.

  Jack jogged up the slope behind the bench. At the top, a large field of grass stretched away until it connected with another path in the distance. With no bushes or trees, it was a perfect spot for picnicking or Frisbees.

  Chandler caught up with Jack, huffing and puffing. “Now what?”

  Jack headed back down the slope. “Come on.” He motioned for Chandler to follow him. “Robyn found the handbag on the other side.”

  Chandler exhaled loudly. “How do you know where she found it?”

  “Robyn said she found it when she was peeing in the woods. This side looks like a golf course, so it has to be the other side.”

  “We should have asked her to come and point out where she found it.”

  “She never would have come with us.” Jack briskly walked past the bench and up the slope on the other side.

  “Why are you hustling?” Chandler said.

  “Stacy.”

  “What? You think she’s here? Her car was found at Ford’s Crossing.”

  “And her bag, if this is her bag, was found here. Look, if Stacy left town or something, she would have taken her purse. My dad says a woman never leaves her purse anywhere. Think about Victor’s grandmother—she held on to her handbag like her life depended on it.”

  Chandler nodded. “Sure, but you really think Stacy could be out here, alive?”

  “She was in an accident, and she’s diabetic. Vargas said she could be disoriented. Maybe she was trying to get back home and ended up here somehow. She could be injured or hurt somewhere nearby. It’s a big park with a lot of woods.”

  They reached the top of the hill and stopped again. The sun was low in the sky and the shadows stretched long across the ground. The grass here was wild and un-mowed. Scrub undergrowth was mixed with trash. The ground sloped away quickly, but a hundred yards distant, they could see the corner of the pond. Cattail reeds marked the edge of the marshy area.

  To their right, the ground sloped back up a bit. There, the brush and reeds gave way to maple and pine trees, creating a small stretch of forest.

  Chandler pointed to a trail that cut into the woods. “There’s a path over there.”

  Jack pointed to a different spot. “See those two small spruce trees? Perfect potty.”

  “Gross. I’ll wait here.”

  “You’re a germophobe,” Jack muttered.

  Jack walked toward the trees, scanning the ground as he went. The scrub brush at the edge of the grass was full of litter that probably ended up here after being blown by the wind. Plastic bags and discarded fast-food wrappers waved like small flags in the breeze.

  Jack checked the area around the two spruce trees. They were shielded from sight, but nothing about the spot stood out. Jack stepped over the remains of some old beer bottles, their jagged bottoms protruding from the ground like punji stakes. He looked back to see where Chandler was, and saw him squatting down in the scrub brush.

  “Did you find something?” Jack jogged over.

  Chandler pointed in the direction of the pond. “I think someone went that way. Look, these branches are broken.”

  The stubby pine Chandler pointed to was dead, but brown needles clung to the branches like ribs on a skeleton. Several of its lower branches were snapped off, and the tall grass in front of the bush had been crushed down in the direction of the pond.

  Jack cupped his hands to his mouth. “Stacy!”

  Silence was the only reply.

  They picked their way through the underbrush toward the pond. The scrubby plants changed to cattails, and then they came upon a two-foot-wide section of crushed and broken reeds. Someone had obviously trampled through here.

  “I’m getting the heebie-jeebies right about now,” Chandler said.

  “Someone came this way.” Jack peered down. The ground was spongy, but not wet. The reeds were dry and snapped off easily in his hand.

  “Maybe it was some kids trying to fish. The pond’s right there.”

  Jack kept walking. The trail of crushed reeds ran in a straight line to the pond. A short muddy bank with rocks spotted by dark-brown algae led to the mucky water’s edge. This area, too, was littered with trash. Nearby, the remains of a rusted bike frame were chained to a scrawny maple. The seat, handlebars, and tires had long since been stripped away. At Jack’s feet, the tire from a lawnmower stuck halfway out of the muck. He poked at it with the heel of his sneaker, and a rotten, wet compost stench rose up.

  Jack’s lip curled as he looked at the murky water. Lily pads and weeds choked the surface. The handle of an abandoned shopping cart rose out of the water ten feet from the shore.

  “If she did come this way, she must have turned back around,” Jack said.

  “I think it had to be a fisherman who made this path,” Chandler said. “It ends right at the bank.”

  A swarm of gnats discovered Jack and clustered around his face. Jack waved them away. “Who would fish in this water?”

  Somewhere back the way they’d come, a tree branch snapped. Jack spun around and peered into the woods, and Chandler jumped.

  “Stacy?” Jack called out.

  The brush and trees moved in the slight breeze. A squirrel darted along a branch and disappeared into the leaves. But something felt wrong. The hairs on the back of Jack’s neck rose.

  Chandler started to move, but Jack held up his hand, signaling him to stop.

  “What?” Chandler asked.

  “Apart from that snapping branch, did you hear something else?”

  “Are you trying to freak me out? You don’t need to. I didn’t hear anything besides me wetting my pants.”

  Jack couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching them. He looked around, but saw no one.

  “I think it was just the—look!” Chandler pointed.

  Jack looked toward the rusted bike frame. Just beyond it, a green trash bag lay open on the ground, with something sticking out. Jack couldn’t see what it was in the fading light. Then the wind blew the plastic, and it fluttered closed.

  Jack walked toward it. Chandler followed just behind him, matching each step.

  When they reached the bag, Jack grabbed a fallen branch and crouched down. The stick felt wet but not rotted. He stuck the branch in the opening of the bag. Slowly he lifted the plastic to see what lay underneath.

  A worn brown boot stuck partway out.

  “It’s just a boot.” Jack exhaled and stood back up. “Let’s go check that other path. It’s getting dark.”

  They had both started back the way they’d come when Chandler suddenly stopped and held his arm against Jack’s chest.

  “Don’t tell me you found the other boot?” Jack said.

  Chandler didn’t reply. His fingers grabbed the front of Jack’s shirt and tightened around the fabric.

  Jack followed Chandler’s gaze to a short, twisted holly tree. Its leaves were dark green and glossy. As a slight breeze blew down the hill, th
e strings of a hanging spider web reflected the light.

  Except the web wasn’t gray or white. It was golden.

  Coils of dread tightened around Jack’s chest. His breath stalled.

  It wasn’t a spider’s web. It was a clump of golden blond hair tangled on the branch.

  “Is that hair?” Chandler asked.

  Jack looked back up the hill. From this angle, it was easy to see the destruction that someone had made creating the path. It followed a straight line from the broken branches, past the holly tree with the hair, and to the pond.

  Jack turned back toward the pond. Chandler followed.

  The sun poked out from the evening clouds, bringing out the greens in the lily pads. The light danced on the water, but now that Jack was looking for it, he saw that one spot, only a few feet from the muddy bank, sparkled slightly differently from the rest.

  Cold sweat ran down Jack’s back, pinning his shirt to his skin. His throat tightened. He forced a labored breath between clenched teeth, then picked up a fallen branch and moved over to the water’s edge.

  “What do you see?” Chandler asked.

  Jack heard the question, but his focus was on the water. He squatted down and stretched out his arm with the branch. Slowly, he pushed away a couple of lily pads.

  Just under the surface lay Stacy Shaw.

  “Damn.”

  14

  My Own Lying Eyes

  Jack sat alone at a cold metal table in the police department interrogation room. They had split up Jack and Chandler after driving them to the police station, and now Jack stared at the empty chair across from him blankly.

  The stench of the bog had seeped into his clothes. He couldn’t get the odor out of his nostrils no matter how many times he blew his nose. Even his skin felt different—cold. The empty pit in his stomach had continued to grow, and he felt hollow.

  The door to the room swung wide, and Detective Clark stuck his head in. “You okay, Jack?”