Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
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
Also by Mariah Stewart
Praise for Mariah Stewart’s Dead Trilogy
Can You Handle the Truth?
Copyright Page
For Bridget, Marianne, Liz, and Nicole —
with thanks for the warm welcome
to the Meadows
Acknowledgments
Getting a book from the author’s hands to the shelves in your local bookstore takes an incredible amount of teamwork. In the case of my Truth series, it took the Herculean efforts of some extraordinary people. My most humble thanks to the talented, dedicated, and hardworking professionals at Random House: Nancy Delia and Caron Harris in production; Carl Galian in the art department; Gilly Hailparn, Tom Perry, and Stacey Witcraft in publicity; Anthony Ziccardi and Kelle Ruden in sales. In editorial, the usual suspects: Signe Pike, Charlotte Herscher, and my new favorite guy, Dan Mallory.
And as always, Kate Collins, Linda Marrow, and Gina Centrello have my love and gratitude.
Prologue
February 1989
College of St. Ansel
Stone River, Maryland
Mounds of dirty snow rose from either side of the walk where the campus maintenance crew had just piled it. An unexpected storm had hit just as students were returning for the second semester. A slick glaze of ice made each step an adventure, but Nina Madden barely noticed. If not for the fact that she’d already slipped several times since she left the student union, she’d have been dancing. As it was, she was dancing on air.
Twenty minutes ago, she’d opened her on-campus mailbox to find the bid letter from the president of Theta Kappa Alpha, the first and only sorority she’d preferenced as the rush season came to a close. In forty minutes, she would walk into the Theta Kappa house and accept their offer of sisterhood. Nina shivered at the thought of it. She had just enough time to stop at her father’s office in the liberal arts building and give him the good news.
Her father, American lit professor Stephen Madden, might not be as pleased as Nina was, but that was to be expected. He’d not been keen on her decision to participate in rush, afraid it would take too much time from her studies and result in a lower GPA. Well, she’d just have to prove to him that one could be both brainy and popular. There was no question of her academic ability, and God knew the Thetas were the most popular sorority at St. Ansel’s College. Nina couldn’t believe they thought she was one of them.
And then there was the matter of the Theta house. It was definitely the best house on campus. Every sister was required to live in that house during her sophomore and junior years, and that suited Nina just fine. It was more than just fine. It was a lifeline. With a stepmother who made Cinderella’s look like a candidate for Mother of the Year, Nina couldn’t wait for the fall semester, when she could move into the house and be out from under Olivia’s scrutiny. It seemed no matter what she did—or didn’t do—she could not please her father’s wife of six years. A little breathing room would be good for everyone, Nina thought. Although Olivia did have her moments, Nina conceded. She had defended Nina’s decision to rush.
Probably because she wants me out of the house and out of her hair. But still, she’d proven to be an ally when Nina had least expected it.
Nina rounded the corner of Celestine Hall, deep in her thoughts, for a moment oblivious to the crowd that was gathering quietly. As she crossed onto the walk that led to Celestine’s front steps, she noticed the police cars that lined the narrow drive.
Intent on seeing her father and making it to the Theta house on time, she ran up the front steps of the redbrick building. Several of her father’s colleagues stood at the top of the stairs, their arms folded across their chests, their voices low, their expressions somber. Was it her imagination, or was everyone avoiding meeting her eyes?
In her hurried passing, Nina greeted those faculty members she knew, but received only muted responses. A member of the English department stood tall and imposing at the front door.
“Hello, Father Whelan.” Nina reached to grab the door handle and attempted to step past him.
“I’m sorry, Nina.” Father Whelan blocked her way and stopped her forward motion. “I’m afraid no one’s allowed into the building.”
“What’s happened?” She tried to look past him, into the lobby, but she couldn’t see beyond the police officers who were crowded around inside. “What’s going on?”
Suddenly realizing her father wasn’t outside with his colleagues, a really bad feeling began to spread through her. For a long minute, she felt as if she were holding her breath. Pushing Father Whelan aside, she ducked into the building, only to be caught inside the door by a young cop who grabbed her by both arms and held her against the wall.
“Let me go.” She struggled against him. “I need to see my father. Something’s wrong . . .”
In the crowd gathered in the lobby near the elevator, Nina spotted her father’s secretary, and called out to her.
“Mrs. Owens, what’s happened? Where’s my father?”
“Who’s your father?” The police officer shook her gently. “What’s your father’s name?”
“Stephen Madden. Dr. Madden. His office is up there, on the second floor.” She tried to calm herself, tried to stop the feeling of panic that was rising within her.
Whatever was happening here, it wasn’t good, but maybe she could get this nice young cop to help her find her father.
“Please, if you would just let me go up to my father’s . . .”
The elevator doors opened and the crowd fell silent.
Nina’s father stepped into the lobby, his head held high, his spine straight as a rod, his gaze straight ahead and unseeing. He was, as always, tall and handsome, and he wore the brown tweed jacket he’d bought the summer before in London, where he’d taught a course on Hawthorne at an English university as part of an exchange program. His prematurely white hair was tucked behind his ears; his beard was neatly trimmed. He walked toward her, his bright blue eyes focused on a spot above the door, his arms held behind his back. A police officer accompanied him on either side, and as he passed Nina, she saw the cuffs that held his hands together.
“Dad?” she said incredulously as soon as she could find her voice. “Daddy?”
In the murmur of the crowd, she could make out the words the Stone River Rapist.
Nina’s knees went weak, and her lungs felt as if all the air had been squeezed out of them. Her head began to spin, and through the blackness that engulfed her, she felt two strong arms catch her on her way down.
That sensation of spinning toward the floor, that loss of control, would be the last thing she’d remember of the day her father was arrested and charged with raping and murdering four of her fellow students over the past eighteen months.
One
November 2005
New Yor
k City
At eleven-ten on Tuesday morning, Nina Madden stared at the phone that sat on the corner of her desk, and willed it to ring.
Thirty seconds later, it did.
Finally. She punched the speaker button.
“Nina, we’re ready for you in the conference room.” The perky voice of the assistant to the marketing director chirped through the speaker.
“ ’Bout time. This is only the third time we’ve tried to have this meeting.” Nina slipped her feet back into the brown suede three-inch heels she’d kicked off the minute she got into her office that morning, and smoothed her newly cut short black hair. Then, papers in hand, she went immediately to the conference room at the end of the hall.
The door stood open, as the other participants in the marketing meeting of Griffin Publishing were already assembled. She closed the door behind her and took the first open chair. The head of the marketing department and her assistant, two copywriters, the art director, the publicist, and two people from sales were gathered around the oval table.
“Okay, next up on the schedule is Regan Landry’s Fallen Angels.” As always, Phoebe Valentine, the marketing director, got right to the point. She was mid-forties and buff as a twenty-year-old, blond and stylish. She was also the granddaughter of the company’s founder. “We’ve all read the blurb—college girls who earned their tuition money dancing in ‘gentlemen’s clubs,’ and who at some point were found murdered. Cases span the country . . .”
“Right.” Nina nodded. “Regan went through her dad’s files and found twenty-two such cases that remain open after nearly as many years. She selected four she felt were representative of the group as a whole, and concentrated on those.”
“Have you seen any of it?” Phoebe asked.
“No, but I’m sure it’s terrific,” Nina assured her.
“It’s her first solo work,” Darren Heller, VP of sales, reminded Nina.
“Regan worked with her father on a number of books before his death,” she replied calmly. “I have no reason to think this book will be any less wonderful than In His Shoes, which—I’m sure I don’t need to remind you—she completed after her father’s death. She’s experienced—”
“She’s not her father,” Darren interrupted. “Josh Landry was the biggest selling author this company had. Griffin built its reputation on him.”
“No, Regan is not her father, but she is a very fine writer, a good investigator. She does have her own style, puts her own spin on things. But that’s no reason to assume that her book will be any less riveting than Josh’s were.” Nina folded her arms and leaned back in her seat. The last thing she’d expected this morning was to have to defend her author, in whom she had complete faith. “I don’t think we need to worry about the quality of the book.”
“What were the sales on last year’s book?” Phoebe asked.
“Huge,” Darren admitted. “Almost two million copies.”
“Well, it was released not long after Josh’s death,” Tom DeMarco, the sales assistant and newest member of the staff, reminded them.
“Not so soon,” Nina said. “Actually, it was a full year before we released that book.”
“You sure?” Tom started searching through a folder.
“Positive.” Nina nodded. “Josh died in August of 2004. In His Shoes came out in July of 2005. The book was less than a third complete when Josh was murdered. Regan finished it herself, got it in on time, and went on tour to support the book. I don’t think we need waste any more time discussing whether or not she can carry this alone.”
“I agree.” Phoebe jumped in before anyone else could. “She’s proven herself. I do, however, think we need to invoke Josh’s name as often as possible.”
Phoebe pointed to Hollis Behl, one of the copy assistants.
“Make sure the cover reflects that this is Josh Landry’s daughter, the same daughter who coauthored his last however-many books.” Before the young girl could reply, Phoebe turned to the publicity director. “And Lydia, I think we need to use her father’s name in all our ads.”
“Of course. We’ve already worked up some preliminary promotions . . . magazine ads, newspapers, radio.” Lydia Post, the senior member of the group, skimmed her notes. In her mid-fifties, with fading strawberry blond hair and a soft waistline, Lydia was always one step ahead. “A shot on Today the day the book comes out, Oprah the day after.”
“How ’bout one of the late-night talk shows?” Darren rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“I don’t think she’d want to do that,” Nina told them.
“Why not?” Darren asked.
“I don’t think it’s her kind of thing. We can ask her, but I don’t think she’d go for it. She really likes to keep a pretty low profile.”
“How low a profile do you think you can keep with this kind of print run?” Phoebe wondered aloud. “And she’ll do Oprah and Today but not the nighttime talk shows?”
“I can talk to her about it, but she declined to do Leno last time because she feels it is too celebrity driven. That’s the best I can do.” Nina shrugged.
“When do you think you can do that?”
“Later this week.” Nina closed her file. “I’ve already made plans to meet with her, since I’ll be in Maryland anyway.”
“Oh, that’s right. Your stepmother.” Phoebe nodded. “You have our condolences, Nina.”
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, sorry to hear about your stepmother,” Darren added. “Anything else we need to discuss?”
“Just the cover art.” Phoebe turned to the art director, Leo Curran, Nina’s deceased stepmother now tidily tucked away with the cover copy and the publicity plans. “What have you got for us?”
Leo held up the poster that had been leaning against the table leg.
“Whoa. That’s a strong image.” Darren sat up straight in his chair.
“Amazing.” Nina nodded, as the others began to murmur. “I love it.”
“She’s pretty slick, I have to admit.” Leo’s smile played above his grizzled beard as he turned the poster to the opposite side of the table, so all could admire the shadowy silhouette of the girl pole-dancing on a deep gold background.
“Leo, it’s fabulous,” Phoebe told him. “That is simply fabulous.”
“I can see that on posters in every bookstore window . . .” Lydia said, scribbling notes. “Every college bookstore . . .”
“What do you think the author will say?” Leo asked Nina.
“She’ll say it’s outrageous. It is outrageous.” Nina grinned. “She’s going to love it. May I take that with me to show her?”
“I’ll get you a duplicate.” Leo beamed, pleased that his efforts were so well received.
“Maybe we ought to look again at that print run,” Tom suggested. “How many were we looking at, first printing?”
“Three quarters of a mil,” Nina reminded him.
“Maybe we ought to go out with a little more.” Phoebe turned to Darren. “Can you sell that many?”
“With that cover?” He laughed. “If you’re thinking of eight hundred thousand, I think you ought to be ready to go back to press real soon. That book is going to fly off the shelves, cover like that. Josh Landry’s name behind it.”
“You’re right. We’re going to have to come up with something really fresh—marketing-wise, publicity-wise—to really launch this one in a big way,” Phoebe agreed. “Ideas, anyone?”
“Ah, actually, Phoebe, I have to catch a plane.” Nina checked the time on the wall clock.
“Sorry, my fault,” Leo told her. “We spent way too much time on the last book, talking about cover possibilities for Sandra Ingram’s next historical romance.”
“I should have cut that discussion off sooner,” Phoebe said. “I knew Nina had to leave before noon to make her plane. We’ll shelve the marketing and publicity plans for now. Everyone, keep it on the front burner. We’ll talk again after Nina gets back from meeting with Regan and we’ll see what she
’s comfortable doing.”
“Great idea, Phoebe, thanks.” Nina rose and pushed the chair back.
“Hey, again, our condolences,” Leo called to her as she left the room. “Sorry you lost your stepmother.”
Nina nodded her thanks and closed the door behind her. There was no need for her coworkers to know she’d lost her stepmother sixteen long years ago. Right after her father was tried and convicted as a serial killer.
Nina tossed her bag into the backseat of the rented Trailblazer that was waiting for her at the airport, then studied the directions her stepbrother, Kyle Stillman, had given her over the phone when he called on Sunday to let her know that his mother—her late father’s wife—had passed away.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to be notified,” he’d said somewhat stiffly. Understandable. Nina hadn’t been in close contact with Kyle or his mother, Olivia Madden, in years.
“Yes, of course I’d want to know,” she’d assured Kyle. “I appreciate your thinking of me. And of course, I’ll be at the funeral. It will be good to see you again.”
“You, too, Nina.” Kyle relaxed and lowered the shield of attitude with which he’d started off the conversation. “I’m glad you’re going to be here. Do you think you’ll be able to stay for a few days?”
“I’m not sure.” Curious, she asked, “Why?”
“Well, there’s a lot of stuff in the house that needs to be dealt with.”
“Nothing I want, Kyle,” she quickly assured him.
“Well, don’t be too hasty. For one thing, before Mom died, she told me that she had some things she’d been meaning to send to you, but never got around to it. She made me promise to get them to you.”
“What sort of things?”
“Some things that belonged to you, some to your father. Your things you can just take and sort through later if you like, or throw away now, if you prefer. But I don’t want to be put in the position where I’m throwing away someone else’s belongings. I was hoping you’d be around long enough to go through his stuff.”
“I don’t need to go through it. Toss it all out. There’s nothing of my father’s I would want.”
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