Her Secret Son

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  How far would you go to protect the ones you love...when they may not be yours to protect?

  When Josh’s longtime partner, Grace, dies in a tragic accident, he is left with a mess of grief—and full custody of her seven-year-old son, Logan. While not his biological father, Josh has been a dad to Logan in every way that counts, and with Grace gone, Logan needs him more than ever.

  Wanting to do right by Logan, Josh begins the process of becoming his legal guardian—something that seems suddenly urgent, though Grace always brushed it off as an unnecessary formality. But now, as Josh struggles to find the paperwork associated with Logan’s birth, he begins to wonder whether there were more troubling reasons for Grace’s reluctance to make their family official.

  As he digs deeper into the past of the woman he loved, Josh soon finds that there are many dark secrets to uncover, and that the truth about where Logan came from is much more sinister than he could have imagined...

  Tightly paced and brimming with tension, Her Secret Son is a heartbreakingly honest portrait of a family on the edge of disaster and a father desperate to hold on to the boy who changed his life.

  Praise for Her Secret Son

  “Compelling characters, heart-stopping suspense and an ending that blew me away. Her Secret Son is an unbearably tense page turner that I devoured in one sitting. Make room on your bookshelf for this gripping thriller!”

  —Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author

  “An engrossing mix of suspense, grief, and family drama, Her Secret Son is a powerful tale of the lengths parents will go to care for their children and ultimately, the true meaning of family.”

  —Kimberly Belle, international bestselling author of The Marriage Lie

  “McKinnon creates tenderly drawn characters, ordinary people thrown into haunting situations, and turns up the heat. Promise, you won’t see all the twists coming!”

  —Kaira Rouda, USA TODAY bestselling author

  “An intricate tangle of family secrets...with unforgettable characters who bring this heartbreaking and chilling story to life.”

  —K. A. Tucker, USA TODAY bestselling author

  “McKinnon skillfully balances suspense with emotional depth.... I raced through this gripping, heart-rending tale of secrets and lies all the way to the stunning conclusion.”

  —Laura McHugh, award-winning author

  “Warning: may cause sleepless nights and a frenzy of page-turning.... High-stakes family drama at its finest.”

  —Paula Treick DeBoard, author of The Drowning Girls

  “McKinnon continuously ratchets up the stakes to a stunning conclusion you won’t see coming. Emotionally tense and brimming with secrets, McKinnon showcases love in all its purity and peril.”

  —Mindy Mejia, author of Leave No Trace

  “You won’t be able to put this book down until you’ve unraveled the mystery surrounding this family. And you will root for them with every page.”

  —Robyn Harding, international bestselling author of Her Pretty Face

  “With skillful storytelling, McKinnon keeps us guessing to the end.”

  —Roz Nay, bestselling author of Our Little Secret

  “The perfect blend of taut suspense and heartbreaking family drama.”

  —Emily Carpenter, bestselling author

  “A smoldering domestic suspense, full of chilling secrets that will knock you sideways.”

  —Jennifer Hillier, author of Creep and Jar of Hearts

  “McKinnon does it again, weaving a twisted tale of lies, secrets, and conflicting loyalties that culminates in a surprise ending that I did not see coming!”

  —Jill Orr, author of The Good Byline

  “Riveting...vivid and surprising.”

  —Shannon Kirk, international bestselling author

  “Immediately captivating, shattering and poignant.”

  —Marissa Stapley, bestselling author of Mating for Life

  “You’ll race to the end.”

  —Karen Katchur, author of River Bodies

  “A read-in-one-sitting book that deals with family, love, and the fragility of trust. Dark and compelling.”

  —Karma Brown, bestselling author of The Life Lucy Knew

  “A masterfully twisty tale fraught with suspense.”

  —Wendy Heard, author of Hunting Annabelle

  HER SECRET SON

  Hannah Mary McKinnon

  To Mum & Dad and Joely & Co—with a lorra love!

  Also by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  THE NEIGHBORS

  Contents

  Quote

  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

  Acknowledgments

  Reader’s Guide

  Questions for Discussion

  A Conversation with Hannah Mary McKinnon

  “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”

  —Oscar Wilde

  CHAPTER ONE

  They say the lucky ones experience an incredible, life-defining moment, a moment they can point back to as the second everything changed. Maybe it was sitting down on the bus next to a stranger who became the love of their life. Or witnessing the birth of a child they were told they’d never conceive. Perhaps getting that elusive break the day the boss had the flu, launching a career that, until then, was only the stuff of dreams.

  And then there are the others. People like me, who have life-shattering moments instead. We’re the ones who want to believe we’ve had more than our fair share of bad luck, enough misfortune to last multiple lives over. We get comfortable, believe nothing else can go
wrong because fate has already played with us the most, seen how far we can be stretched and bent, twisted into the shape of a pretzel before becoming brittle and shattering into a million pieces.

  For me, one of these moments came late one Friday morning as I stood in Harlan Gingold’s dark, wood-paneled study, the musty air closing in on me. I pulled at the neck of my sweater in a futile attempt to cool down. I’d forgotten how warm he kept this room, as if he secretly longed to be a gecko under a heat lamp and pretend he was somewhere far closer to the equator than the outskirts of Albany, in upstate New York.

  His study smelled of expensive whisky and Cuban cigars, wizened fingers left to linger in an ashtray. A stereotypical rich man’s man-cave, complete with leather armchairs and gold-lettered law books Harlan no doubt cited by heart when he valiantly fought—and usually won—his cases in court, something he’d done for longer than I’d been alive.

  We were going over the quote for the pool house extension and elaborate backyard revamp he’d promised his wife for the spring. While he checked the details again, running an index finger down the page, I tried to ignore the buzz of my mobile in my back pocket. Harlan was the kind of man who commanded nothing but your undivided attention. In this case I couldn’t blame him. Not with the amount of zeros he was writing on the deposit check my bosses had sent me to collect.

  My phone rang a second time. While Harlan put the final flourish on the paperwork with his thick Mont Blanc fountain pen, I slid my mobile from my pocket and glanced at the screen. My neighbor’s number. Nothing unusual in itself. Mrs. Banks often called for a hand around the house—putting together yet another of her bookcases, repairing the front door, unblocking a sink. Nothing that couldn’t wait or would justify the lecture about people’s dependence on technology Harlan would no doubt dispense if I answered.

  “There you go, Josh,” he said as he handed me the check.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll see you next month?”

  “Yes. I’ve no doubt you’ll do a great job, as always. My yard has never looked better. Those Fraser firs were the talk of the street when they were lit up for Christmas. Even Ivan was impressed.”

  I grinned, thinking I’d enjoy ribbing Ivan about not paying the compliment forward. I wouldn’t give him too much of a hard time. He’d become my best mate since we’d met a few years back, and since then he’d pointed a number of his friends and colleagues my way, including the firm’s biggest cheese and Ivan’s uncle, Mr. Harlan Gingold himself. When I’d told Ivan I owed him one, he’d cheerily replied, “Better make it a big one, whatever it is,” before graciously settling for a pair of football tickets I’d got on the cheap.

  Harlan accompanied me to the front porch where he shook my hand as I ignored the ongoing buzzing of my phone. He lifted his nose toward the dark gray, early March skies, swirling with ominous fast-moving clouds, and breathed in deep, nostrils flaring. “Something wicked this way comes,” he said. “You’d better batten down the hatches, son. You Brits aren’t used to our snow. Tell that lovely wife of yours to keep you safe.”

  I didn’t bother reminding him Grace and I weren’t married, or argue that, despite my strong British accent, I’d lived in the US for twenty years. I was only too familiar with the legendary winters. For crying out loud, the city competed in the annual Golden Snowball Award, although it regularly lost to Syracuse. As Grace once said, upstate New York was where lake effect and nor’easter storms mated, making trillions of snowflake babies, and everyone’s life beneath a frozen misery.

  When we’d said our goodbyes, I finally pulled my phone from my pocket and trudged to my truck, glancing at the darkening skies, thinking Harlan’s prophecy could turn out to be the understatement of the season. Not that I’d mind a blizzard, within reason, anyway. It was Friday, the weekend gloriously stretching out ahead of us. As far as I knew, work didn’t need me, and Grace hadn’t mentioned any special plans. So what if we couldn’t leave the house? It would mean a family weekend; Grace, Logan and I huddled under the blankets in front of the TV, eating popcorn and watching movies, exactly the way we liked it.

  If I’d known what was actually coming, how my life was about to be forever, indelibly changed, I wouldn’t have grabbed my mobile so hastily. I’d have taken a few moments to savor how my life had become simple again, full of uncomplicated, innocuous decisions. I’d have mulled over my mundane lunch choices. Thought about which film Grace and I would watch once we’d tucked Logan up in his bed. What Grace and I would do to each other later, after we’d headed upstairs, too. I’d have enjoyed the excitement building in my gut when I pictured the ring I’d hidden at the back of my sock drawer, a gold band solitaire I’d saved up for over the last year in the hope Grace would say yes this time.

  But I didn’t do any of that. Instead I unlocked my phone, looked at all the missed calls from Mrs. Banks and dialed voice mail. My brow furrowed as I listened to her message. She sounded unusually high-pitched and grating, breathless, even, as if she were in the middle of a ten-mile run. A feat in itself considering she was in her midseventies and walked with a stick.

  “Josh, it’s Mrs. Banks,” she said. “There’s been an accident. Can you call me? Please. It’s urgent. Call me now.”

  I pushed a hand against the truck to steady myself. Perhaps her grandson had put his soccer ball through our bathroom window again. Or maybe the mangy dog who’d been hanging around the house, the one I’d caught Logan feeding his breakfast to, had dug up the tulip bulbs Grace replanted twice already. Although I grabbed hold of both ideas like a shipwrecked man to driftwood, I knew from Mrs. Banks’s voice it was more serious. Way more serious. My next thoughts went to Logan, peppering my brain like fully automatic gunfire.

  He’s hurt. Grace can’t call. She’s with him. She told Mrs. Banks to phone. How bad is it? He’s only seven. Christ! What’s going on?

  When I tried to hit redial, I missed the button four times, my fingers—thick and limp as raw sausages—impossible to maneuver. Finally I pressed the phone to my ear, and Mrs. Banks picked up on the first ring.

  “Josh! Oh, thank goodness.” Her voice sounded shakier than before, and I could barely make out her words with the crackling and whooshing of the wind in my ear.

  “What’s happened?” I said, an icy hand sneaking its way down to my stomach, grabbing hold of my innards and yanking hard. “Is Logan okay? Where is he? Has he—”

  “It’s not Logan... It’s...it’s...”

  Saliva collected in my mouth as Mrs. Banks stopped talking. Just as I was about to shout into the phone, demand she tell me what was going on, she very quietly said, “It’s Grace.”

  My stomach lurched, threatened to empty itself right there on Harlan’s driveway. I’d been so sure Logan was hurt, I thought I’d misheard, but she said it again. “It’s Grace.”

  I opened and closed my mouth three times, my tongue refusing to form a single syllable until I finally managed, “Is she okay? What happened?”

  “I was drinking my coffee by the window—” Mrs. Banks’s voice sped up, an out-of-control freight train barreling straight toward me “—when I saw Grace taking out the garbage and...and, oh, Josh...she slipped on the steps.” Her words came out garbled now, making it harder for my brain to process what it already struggled to decode. “She went down.”

  “Where is she?”

  Mrs. Banks’s voice fell to a strained whisper, as if she were pressing a hand over her throat, trying to keep her next sentence inside. “When she didn’t get back up, I—”

  “Where is she?”

  “—ran over and...and...” Her voice tailed off, the last syllables gobbled up by a sob. “We’re outside. The ambulance is here. And the police. You need to come home. Please, come home now.”

  “But Grace is okay? Has she broken anything? Can I talk to her?” Silence. “Mrs. Banks, please. Is she okay?”

  More silence, a whisper. �
��I don’t think so, Josh. I really don’t think so.”

  Yes, this was one of those life-shattering moments, an instance I’d point to in the future and say it was the second everything changed. And I was right.

  Except that worse—far, far worse—was still to come.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The drive home shouldn’t have taken more than fifteen minutes, but every traffic light had a personal vendetta against me, changing before I’d made it through, mocking me as if they were obnoxious, red-faced security guards.

  I gripped the steering wheel hard and reminded myself for the millionth time I was supposed to check the steps and the driveway that morning. I’d remembered when I’d been halfway to Harlan’s, had decided not to turn around, hastily scribbled SALT on a note instead and stuck it in the cup holder. Although I grabbed the paper, scrunched it into a tiny ball and stuffed it in the side of my door, it continued to burn a hole in my forehead straight to my conscience.

  I made a hopeless attempt not to picture what waited for me at home, but the images came all the same. Grace’s arms bent at unnatural angles. Feet twisted backward. Kneecaps bulging. Back shattered. I tried to shake the images, but they remained hot-glued to my brain. Was she in pain? Conscious? Able to walk? What if she couldn’t move at all? It took everything I had to keep my eyes on the road, telling myself getting hurt wouldn’t help anyone. Grace and Logan needed me now more than ever.

  When I arrived at our short street, the weathered bungalows and towering oak trees glistened in a mix of red-and-blue lights from the ambulance, fire engine and police cars. Uniform-clad figures moved with less urgency than I’d expected, and I allowed myself to breathe; Grace had to be okay if they weren’t rushing. But when I leaped out of the truck and ran to the house, hope melted away faster than a freak snowstorm in June.

  I saw the blood first. A dark, sticky pool on the third step. Smears of it across the concrete, some reaching the bottom of the snow pile I’d made the day before, which had softened and hardened again overnight. Bandages, compresses and whatever else the first responders had used splattered with red, and abandoned in the driveway.