by David Bell
Praise for the Novels of David Bell
The Forgotten Girl
“David Bell is a natural storyteller and a superb writer. The Forgotten Girl is a mystery lover’s mystery: a quick-paced and intriguing tale of what happens when the past catches up with the present. Mr. Bell understands the hearts and minds of ordinary and not-so-ordinary people, and his keen insights add a powerful dimension to his crisp writing.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Nelson DeMille
“The best crime novels combine a breakneck thriller plot with a piercing examination of family relationships. The Forgotten Girl hits this standard and then some.”
—Jeffery Deaver, New York Times bestselling author of The Skin Collector
“David Bell writes spellbinding and gripping thrillers that get under your skin and refuse to let go. This is his best so far.”
—Linwood Barclay, New York Times and #1 international bestselling author of Broken Promise
“David Bell’s The Forgotten Girl is both a tightly woven mystery and a frightening look at addiction, the mistrust it creates, the power of secrets, and the hurt created by the little lies we tell ourselves. I never felt like I had my feet under me. Bell has crafted an unforgettable story full of surprises. Don’t miss it.”
—J. T. Ellison, New York Times bestselling author of When Shadows Fall
“[Bell is] a bang-up storyteller, armed with enough detours and surprises to keep the pages turning.”
—The Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Realistic glimpses of small-town America. . . . You might want to read it the next time you’re drawn back to the place you came from. It’ll remind you of why you got the hell out of there in the first place.”
—The Washington Post
“[A] strong and moody novel . . . personal relationships are critical in this satisfying read, which is in the same class as Russell Banks’s The Sweet Hereafter.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“David Bell has fashioned a taut gem of a mystery in The Forgotten Girl, a tale straight out of the psychological thriller territory blazed by the likes of Harlan Coben and Lisa Gardner.”
—The Providence Journal
Never Come Back
“David Bell [has] established himself as one of the brightest and best crime fiction writers of our time . . . a definite page-turner. . . . Bell, once again, has written an incredible, unique thriller that will have you hooked!”
—Suspense Magazine
“[A] page-turner. . . . Bell does a good job exposing the seaminess underlying seemingly placid small-town life.”
—Publishers Weekly
“David Bell should be a household name for crime fiction lovers. . . . The twisted threads of this complex novel come together for the most explosive of revelations and family secrets.”
—She Knows Book Lounge
“An intriguing, layered psychological thriller.”
—Kirkus Reviews
The Hiding Place
“An artfully constructed tale . . . a powerful, provocative novel.”
—Publishers Weekly
“David Bell does a masterful job of crafting a crime story . . . a riveting book with surprising but believable twists on every page.”
—Suspense Magazine
“A truly fascinating novel . . . an intriguing and complex plot that will keep the reader guessing up to the last chapter.”
—I Love a Mystery
“An incredibly engaging, emotionally investing read. What David Bell does exceptionally well is maintain a heightened level of suspense from beginning to end.”
—S. Krishna’s Books
“Bell has written another winning thriller that is certain to entertain, frighten, and swiftly climb bestseller lists.”
—Bowling Green Daily News
Cemetery Girl
“Cemetery Girl is more than just an utterly compelling thriller. . . . Bell’s stellar novel is also a haunting meditation on the ties that bind parent to child, husband to wife, brother to brother—and what survives even under the most shattering possible circumstance. An absolutely riveting, absorbing read not to be missed.”
—Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of Heartbroken
“Cemetery Girl is my favorite kind of story because it takes the familiar and darkens it. . . . A fast, mean head trip of a thriller that reads like a collaboration between Michael Connelly and the gothic fiction of Joyce Carol Oates, Cemetery Girl is one of those novels that you cannot shake after it’s over. A winner on every level.”
—Will Lavender, New York Times bestselling author of Dominance
“Grabbed me by the throat on page one and never let up. An intense, unrelenting powerhouse of a book, and the work of a master.”
—John Lescroart, New York Times bestselling author of The Ophelia Cut
“A smasher. It twists and turns and never lets go, and . . . it could happen just this way.”
—Jacquelyn Mitchard, New York Times bestselling author of The Deep End of the Ocean
“Compelling. . . . Please don’t miss reading this book. You’ll do yourself a huge disservice if you do.”
—Fresh Fiction
“An intense ride, twisting through some creepy psychological terrain.”
—Houston Chronicle
“A tense and terrifying journey that brims with emotional authenticity. Bell manages not only to build suspense effectively but also [to] tell a story that goes way beyond simple thrills.”
—Booklist
“Suspenseful [and] disquieting.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A nail-biting page-turner. . . . David Bell has delivered a first-rate thriller. . . . Followers of the genre can celebrate the addition of another gifted storyteller.”
—LitStack
“A gripping and intense novel, keeping the reader on their toes until the end. Spellbinding and filled with angst, this absorbing story proves to be a page-turner.”
—Reader to Reader Reviews
“Smart, stark, and haunting. This is perfect reading for a spooky autumn night, but be forewarned [that] you might have to later sleep with the light on.”
—Tucson Citizen
“Disturbing, brilliantly engaging, and a must read for thriller fans.”
—Suspense Magazine
ALSO BY DAVID BELL
Cemetery Girl
The Hiding Place
Never Come Back
The Forgotten Girl
New American Library
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014
USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China
penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
First published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC
Copyright © David J. Bell, 2015
Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Random House, 2015
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRE
SS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Bell, David, 1969 November 17–
Somebody I used to know / David Bell.
pages cm.
ISBN 978-0-698-18882-2
I. Title.
PS3602.E64544S66 2015
813'.6—dc23 2015003218
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
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.
Version_1
Contents
Praise
Also by DAVID BELL
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
Excerpt from THE FORGOTTEN GIRL
About the Author
For Molly
CHAPTER ONE
When I saw the girl in the grocery store, my heart stopped.
I had turned the corner into the dairy aisle, carrying a basket with just a few items in it. Cereal. Crackers. Spaghetti. Beer. I lived alone, worked a lot, and rarely cooked. I was checking a price when I almost ran into the girl. I stopped immediately and studied her in profile, her hand raised to her mouth while she examined products through the glass door of the dairy cooler.
I felt like I was seeing a ghost.
She looked exactly like my college girlfriend, Marissa Minor, the only woman I had ever really loved. Probably the only woman who had ever really loved me.
The girl didn’t see me right away. She continued to examine the items in front of her, slowly walking away from me, her hand still raised to her mouth as though that helped her think.
The gesture really got me. It made my insides go cold. Not with fear, but with shock. With feelings I hadn’t felt in years.
Marissa used to do the very same thing. When she was thinking, she’d place her right hand on her lips, sometimes pinching them between her index finger and thumb. Marissa’s lips were always bright red—without lipstick—and full, and that gesture, that lip-twisting, thoughtful gesture, drove me wild with love and, yes, desire.
I was eighteen when I met her. Desire was always close at hand.
But it wasn’t just the gesture that this girl shared with Marissa. Her hair, thick and deep red, matched Marissa’s exactly, even the length of it, just below her shoulders. From the side, the girl’s nose came to a slightly rounded point, one that Marissa always said looked like a lightbulb. Both the girl and Marissa had brown eyes, and long, slender bodies. This girl, the one in the store, looked shorter than Marissa by a few inches, and she wore tight jeans and knee-high boots, clothes that weren’t in style when I attended college.
But other than that, they could have been twins. They really could have been.
And as the girl walked away, making a left at the end of the aisle and leaving my sight, I remained rooted to my spot, my silly little grocery basket dangling from my right hand. The lights above were bright, painfully so, and other shoppers came past with their carts and their kids and their lives. It was close to dinnertime, and people had places to go. Families to feed.
But I stood there.
I felt tears rising in my eyes, my vision starting to blur.
She looked so much like Marissa. So much.
But Marissa had been dead for just over twenty years.
* * *
Finally, I snapped out of it.
I reached up with my free hand and wiped my eyes.
No one seemed to notice that I was having an emotional moment in the middle of the grocery store, in the milk aisle. I probably looked like a normal guy. Forty years old. Clean-cut. Professional. I had my problems. I was divorced. My ex-wife didn’t let me see her son as much as I wanted. He wasn’t my kid, but we’d grown close. My job as a caseworker for the housing authority in Eastland, Ohio, didn’t pay enough, but who ever felt like they were paid enough? I enjoyed the work. I enjoyed helping people. I tended to pour myself into it.
Outside of work, I spent my life like a lot of single people do. I socialized with friends, even though most of them were married and had kids. I played in a recreational basketball league. When I had the time and motivation, I volunteered at our local animal shelter, walking dogs or making fund-raising calls.
Like I said, I probably looked like a regular guy.
I decided I needed to talk to that girl. I started down the aisle, my basket swinging at my side. I figured she had to be a relative of Marissa’s, right? A cousin or something. I turned the corner in the direction she had gone, deftly dodging between my fellow shoppers.
I looked up the next aisle and didn’t see her. Then I went to another one, the last aisle in the store. At first, I didn’t see the girl there either. It was crowded, and a family of four—two parents, two kids—blocked my view. One of the kids was screaming because her mom wouldn’t buy her the ice cream she wanted.
But then they moved, and I saw the girl. She was halfway down the aisle, opening the door of another cooler, but not removing anything. She lifted her hand to her mouth. That gesture. She looked just like Marissa.
I felt the tears again and fought back against them.
I walked up to her. She looked so small. And young.
I guessed she was about twenty, probably a student at my alma mater, Eastland University. I felt ridiculous, but I had to ask who she was. I wiped at my eyes again and cleared my throat.
“Excuse me,” I said.
She whipped her head around in my direction. She seemed startled that anyone had spoken to her.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
But I really wasn’t. In that moment, I saw her head-on instead of in profile, and the resemblance to Marissa became more pronounced. Her forehead was a little wider than Marissa’s. And her chin came to a sharper point. But the spray of freckles, the shape of her eyes . . . all of it was Marissa.
If I believed in ghosts . . .
Ghosts from a happy time in my past . . .
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
The girl just looked at me. Her eyes moved across my body, sizing me up. Taking me in. She looked guarded.
“I was wondering if you were related to the Minor family,” I said. “They lived in Hanfort, Ohio. It’s been about twenty years since I’ve seen them. I know it’s a long shot—”
The girl had been holding a box of Cheerios and a carton of organic milk. When I said the name “Minor,” she let them both go, and they fell to the floor at my feet. The milk was in a cardboard carton, but the force of it hitting the floor caused it to split open. Milk leaked onto the cruddy linoleum, flowing toward my shoes.
“Careful,” I said, reaching out for her.
But the girl took off. She made an abrupt turn and started walking away briskly, her bootheels clacking against the linoleum. She didn’t look back. And when she reached the far end of the aisle, the end closest to the cash registers, she started running.
I took one step in that direction, lifting my hand. I wanted to say something. Apologize. Call her back. Let her know that I hadn’t meant any harm.
But she was gone.
Just like Marissa, she was gone.
Then the family of four, the one I had seen earlier with the child screaming for ice cream, came abreast of me. The child appeared to have calmed down. She clutched a carton of Rocky Road, the tears on her face drying. The father pointed to the mess on the floor, the leaking milk and the cereal.
“Something wrong with her?” he asked.
