ACCLAIM FOR LAURA MCNEILL
“Laura McNeill has a gift for writing taut prose while delving deep into characters. A harrowing tale that explores love and trust and the lengths one will go to save the things that are most important. Highly recommended!”
—ANITA HUGHES, AUTHOR OF FRENCH COAST ON SISTER DEAR
“McNeill’s debut is a heartstopping, nail-biting suspense novel that held me captive until I read the last page. Evocative writing and a compelling voice add to the mesmerizing effect of this excellent debut. I’ll be looking for her next book!”
—COLLEEN COBLE, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE INN AT OCEAN’S EDGE AND THE HOPE BEACH NOVELS ON CENTER OF GRAVITY
“A breathless, gut-wrenching, satisfying page-turner about the real superheroes of the world who stand up to evil and won’t back down.”
—ERIN HEALY, AUTHOR OF MOTHERLESS AND THE BAKER’S WIFE ON CENTER OF GRAVITY
“A bold and poignant look into an imploding marriage, told in a chorus of assured voices. I found myself so invested in Ava, a woman finally ready to examine the dysfunctional family dynamics that have shaped her and rise to courage. The story took me by the hand, bold and tender, and didn’t let me go until its extremely satisfying conclusion. Center of Gravity is a compelling, fierce, and ultimately hopeful tale, and McNeill is a writer to watch.”
—JOSHILYN JACKSON, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF SOMEONE ELSE’S LOVE STORY
“This powerful debut by a former television anchor is a suspenseful and haunting tale of a marriage spiraling wildly out of control. The story line is particularly unsettling as it mirrors the headlines found in newspapers and court cases everywhere. This title will resonate with readers of contemporary women’s fiction and fans of Gina Holmes.”
—LIBRARY JOURNAL STARRED REVIEW OF CENTER OF GRAVITY
“This incredibly fast-paced tale is difficult to put down, mostly because the reader gets invested in the characters and won't want to stop until it all plays out.”
—ROMANTIC TIMES, 4 1/2 STAR REVIEW OF CENTER OF GRAVITY
“Readers will find this tale of domestic suspense deeply compelling as a once-happy family unit disintegrates and a woman summons her heretofore hidden strength. Told from multiple perspectives, McNeill’s gripping tale explores family, trust, and how lives are rebuilt.”
—BOOKLIST REVIEW OF CENTER OF GRAVITY
“There’s plenty of chills in this thriller about twisted family secrets that will keep pulses pounding.”
—PARKERSBURG NEWS & SENTINEL REVIEW OF CENTER OF GRAVITY
© 2016 by Laura McNeill
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
ePub Edition April 2016: ISBN 9780718030933
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: McNeill, Laura, author.
Title: Sister dear / Laura McNeill.
Description: Nashville: Thomas Nelson, [2016]
Identifiers: LCCN 2015041860 | ISBN 9780718030926 (softcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Domestic fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Mystery fiction. | Christian fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3613.C58623 S56 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015041860
16 17 18 19 20 21 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Joshua
CONTENTS
ONE. ALLIE
TWO. ALLIE
THREE. CAROLINE
FOUR. SHERIFF GAINES
FIVE. ALLIE
SIX. CAROLINE
SEVEN. ALLIE
EIGHT. EMMA
NINE. CAROLINE
TEN. ALLIE
ELEVEN. EMMA
TWELVE. SHERIFF GAINES
THIRTEEN. EMMA
FOURTEEN. ALLIE
FIFTEEN. CAROLINE
SIXTEEN. EMMA
SEVENTEEN. ALLIE
EIGHTEEN. CAROLINE
NINETEEN. EMMA
TWENTY. NATALIE
TWENTY-ONE. CAROLINE
TWENTY-TWO. EMMA
TWENTY-THREE. ALLIE
TWENTY-FOUR. CAROLINE
TWENTY-FIVE. EMMA
TWENTY-SIX. EMMA
TWENTY-SEVEN. SHERIFF GAINES
TWENTY-EIGHT. ALLIE
TWENTY-NINE. CAROLINE
THIRTY. ALLIE
THIRTY-ONE. EMMA
THIRTY-TWO. ALLIE
THIRTY-THREE. EMMA
THIRTY-FOUR. ALLIE
THIRTY-FIVE. EMMA
THIRTY-SIX. ALLIE
THIRTY-SEVEN. EMMA
THIRTY-EIGHT. ALLIE
THIRTY-NINE. CAROLINE
FORTY. CAROLINE
FORTY-ONE. SHERIFF GAINES
FORTY-TWO. ALLIE
FORTY-THREE. SHERIFF GAINES
FORTY-FOUR. CAROLINE
FORTY-FIVE. CAROLINE
FORTY-SIX. ALLIE
FORTY-SEVEN. ALLIE
FORTY-EIGHT. ALLIE
FORTY-NINE. EMMA
FIFTY. CAROLINE
FIFTY-ONE. EMMA
FIFTY-TWO. ALLIE
FIFTY-THREE. ALLIE
FIFTY-FOUR. SHERIFF GAINES
FIFTY-FIVE. EMMA
FIFTY-SIX. CAROLINE
FIFTY-SEVEN. ALLIE
FIFTY-EIGHT. ALLIE
FIFTY-NINE. CAROLINE
EPILOGUE: ALLIE
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ENJOY AN EXCERPT: CENTER OF GRAVITY
PROLOGUE: AVA
CHAPTER 1: JACK
ONE
ALLIE
2016
In her final minutes as an inmate at Arrendale State Prison, Allie Marshall’s body pulsed with tension. Eyes averted, managing any movements with robotic precision, she remained on guard.
Only moments to go.
A sliver of time. Not even a quarter hour. An unremarkable measurement, when held up against the billion other moments in any person’s natural life. But after a decade inside, those last twelve minutes seemed the longest span in all of eternity.
To her right, rows of monitors blinked and recorded everything across the sprawling campus in Habersham County. Though the angles differed, the subject never changed: women in identical tan-collared shirts and shapeless pants. Inmates on work detail, in the cafeteria, in dormitories.
A corrections officer sat nearby, her pale blue eyes scanning the screens. To this worker, to all of them, Allie was GDC ID, followed by ten numbers. Nothing more. Inside the thick metal bars, Allie’s life was suspended, a delicate fossil in amber.
Until now. Ten more minutes.
Her reflection stared back, unblinking, in the shatterproof glass window near the door. Green eyes flecked with gold, dark-blonde hair tucked in a loose ponytail, barely visible brackets at the corners of her lips.
Maybe, Allie thought, she’d forgotten how to smile and laugh. Happiness seemed unreachable, as if the feeling itself existed on the summit of an ice-tipped mountain s
hrouded by storm clouds. Indeed, the rush of pure, unadulterated joy belonged only to those with freedom. Allie’s memories of it—her daughter’s birth, Caroline’s first smile, first steps—were fleeting and distant.
Instead, the perpetual motion of prison, the waking, sleeping, and sameness, all blended together, like a silent black-and-white movie on a continuous loop.
Until the news of her parole.
At first, the concept of liberty seemed impossible—a hand trying to catch and hold vapor. The judge had sentenced Allie to sixteen years, and she fully anticipated serving each and every one of them. She didn’t believe she’d be granted an early release—she couldn’t—until she stepped beyond the walls and barbed wire and chain-link fence, barriers that kept her from everyone and everything she’d ever loved.
Allie focused on breathing, stretching her lungs, exhaling to slow her pulse. Her own belongings, a decade old, lay nearby. Keys that wouldn’t open doors. A watch with a dead battery. A light khaki jacket with a photo of then five-year-old Caroline tucked in the pocket, one pair of broken-in Levis, and a white cotton shirt. Gingerly, with her fingertips, she reached for the clothing, then gripped the bundle tight to her chest.
A second guard motioned for Allie to change quickly in a holding room. With the door shut, she pulled the shapeless prison garb over her head and picked up the shirt. The material, cool and light, brushed against her skin like gauze. Allie shivered.
For ten years, all she’d known was the rasp of her standard-issue navy jacket, the scrape of her worn white tennis shoes along the sidewalk.
Back in Brunswick, Allie had filled her closet with easy summer shifts and crisp linen pants. Now her body was different too—the soft curves had dissolved, leaving lean muscle behind. The jeans hung loosely around her waist and hips. The top billowed out in waves from her shoulders.
Nothing would fit, she reminded herself. Not much in her past life would.
And that was all right.
When she walked out of Lee Arrendale State Prison, home to thousands of female inmates, Allie didn’t want reminders. No indigo tattoo inked down her back or neck. No numbers or symbols etched into her arms or fingers. The only external validation of time served was a faint scar that traced her eyebrow.
The real proof of her internment lay underneath it all. Below the seashell white of Allie’s skin, hidden in blood, tendons, and muscle, the experience indelibly marked on her soul. An imprint made by incident, mistake, and tragedy.
Evidence, and lack of it.
“I’m innocent,” she’d insisted to everyone who would listen. Her lawyers fought hard, rallied a few times, but in the end, the jury convicted her. Voluntary manslaughter.
A year later, Allie’s appeal failed. Then money ran out. Her father turned his attention back to his veterinary practice after his cardiologist warned the stress of another trial might kill him. Her mother did her best to minimize worry while Emma, her tempestuous and fun-loving sister, assumed the role of doting aunt and guardian to Caroline.
And there was Ben. Sweet, thoughtful Ben. The man who’d wanted to marry her, who said he would love her always. Even after her arrest, he’d promised to wait for her if the worst happened. Allie couldn’t live with herself if he’d sacrificed everything—his rising political career, his reputation, and his life for a decade or more. She’d broken it off, knowing it would wound him terribly. When he’d finally left, when she saw him for the last time, it was as if the very core of her being had been torn away, leaving a vast, gaping emptiness she couldn’t fill, despite how hard she tried. Allie closed her eyes. She’d convinced herself it was the logical thing, what made sense. She had done her best to forget him. It hadn’t worked in the least.
The days and months blurred. Entire seasons dissolved, shapeless and gray, like the ink of fine calligraphy smeared by the rain.
The squawk of the prison intercom barely registered in Allie’s brain. Sharp insults and threats were routine, eruptions of violence expected. Even along the brown scrub grass and wooden benches of the prison yard, there was no escape. Allie always tried to disappear—pressing her body close to the concrete walls, becoming a chameleon against the barren landscape.
The women in Arrendale weren’t afraid of punishment; most had nothing left. Some bonded with other inmates for favors; others paid for protection with cigarettes, food, and stamps. For those prisoners who had lost everything, inmates with little hope of parole, life was almost unthinkable.
Clutching her hands in her lap to keep from shaking, Allie watched as a woman collapsed in the cafeteria, stabbed in the jugular with a plastic fork. The next week, a fellow inmate in her dormitory was choked to death, purple fingerprints visible on the woman’s throat when the guards discovered her body. Allie was haunted with grief for weeks after a young girl, only four years older than Caroline, tried to hang herself with a scrap of fabric.
Despite it all, despite the desperation that seemed to permeate the very air she breathed, Allie had survived.
In another few minutes, her younger sister, Emma, would arrive, as bus service didn’t run from Alto to Brunswick. Tomorrow she’d meet her parole officer at noon. And like every parolee, she would receive a check, courtesy of the Georgia Department of Corrections, enough to buy shampoo, a bar of soap, and a comb for her hair.
Allie blinked up at the clock, almost afraid the time might start going backward. She forced her eyes away, squeezed them shut. If she tried hard enough, her mind formed a picture of her grown daughter’s face. In her daydreams, she’d imagined their reunion a million times, rehearsed every possible scenario. She worried about the right words to say, how to act, and whether it was all right to cry. The enormity of it was impossible to contain, like holding back the ocean with a single fingertip.
All that mattered now was seeing Caroline.
The buzzer sounded long and loud; its vibration shook the floor. The burly guard sighed and lumbered to her boot-clad feet. She stood inches from Allie’s shoulder, her breath hot and rank from a half-eaten roast beef sandwich.
Locks clicked and keys rattled. The barrier, with its heavy bars, groaned under its own weight. An inch at a time, the metal gate heaved open. Soon, there would be nothing but empty space standing between Allie and the rest of the world.
She felt a nudge.
In that moment, Allie heard four words, precious and sweet.
“You’re free to go.”
TWO
ALLIE
2016
As the gate closed behind her, Allie blinked, her eyes adjusting to the bright blue midday sky. Heat rose in waves off the blacktop. Sunlight reflected from windows along the campus.
Standing outside the gates of Lee Arrendale was surreal. Allie thought about running, maybe all of the way to Brunswick. She would sprint until her lungs burst and her heart exploded, feeling the rush of wind on her cheeks, putting miles between her and the prison.
Of course, she didn’t have to run. Her sister stood there, waiting. Lithe and slender, dark hair catching in the breeze, wrapped in a white dress that hugged her curves, Emma stood out against Arrendale’s red clay and gravel.
“Finally!” Her sister opened her arms to offer an awkward embrace. As Emma pulled her closer, Allie caught a whiff of coconut, of the ocean and sun. She smelled like home. “Let’s get out of here,” Emma said, pulling back with a lopsided smile. “This place gives me the creeps.”
Allie sucked in a breath of air. After ten years of following orders, standing at attention, and being counted, the pure silence of the open road sounded like a chorus of angels from heaven. There were no overhead announcements, no inmate complaints, and no scrape of shoes along cement. Just the late model BMW’s wheels on asphalt, the steady whoosh of air from bumper to taillight, and the heat through the window warming her arm and hand.
Allie glanced over at her sister. Emma had been the constant in the last decade, her only regular visitor. Morgan Hicks, her best friend, had vanished along with
everyone else the moment the police announced the arrest.
Her prison sentence changed everyone. Even living outside the imposing walls and curling barbed wire, Emma morphed into someone else. Someone reliable. Responsible. Allie’s rock.
Gone was the boy-crazy teenager who’d sneak out on school nights and drink Boone’s Farm on the beach. The girl who took double dares and learned to surf at fourteen. The girl who hadn’t ever hesitated to flirt with men twice her age.
Allie had been the safe one, the rule-follower; her sister, the rogue. But every month since her incarceration, Emma drove from Brunswick on Highway 95 to Savannah, then made the remaining trek to Alto. No matter how stilted or strange the visit, Allie was grateful that Emma made the effort. The twelve-hour round-trip took planning, not to mention the cost of an overnight stay.
At first, Allie’s parents, Lily and Paul, came on holidays and brought Caroline, who seemed to sprout an inch every few months. The visits, short and uncomfortable, became intolerable for her parents when her daughter developed an uncontrollable phobia to prisons and chain-link fencing. Caroline broke out in hives, the skin on her neck and face getting blotchy and red. According to her mother, she would complain of stomach pain—piercing, stabbing agony—in the hours before a scheduled drive.
It had hurt, but Caroline’s aversion didn’t surprise anyone. The prison, even on visitation days, was a loud and frightening place. The population, restless and violent, often swelled to collective anger, especially in the summer’s heat. Lockdowns were frequent. Shouts reverberated through the walls. Days were filled with the clank of metal on metal, locks clicking into place, the grind of mechanized gates.
When they drove by the turnoff to Commerce, Allie shuddered and turned, tucking her meager belongings behind the seat. The wheels hit a bump in the road and rumbled over deep ruts. The plastic crinkled, then settled into place.
Allie glanced down at her sister’s purse, wedged between them. The designer leather satchel, packed full, held Emma’s cell phone, an embossed address book, and lipstick. An empty Starbucks mug sat in the cup holder next to an extra pair of Wayfarers.
Sister Dear Page 1
