PRAISE FOR SUSAN CRANDALL’S NOVELS
SEEING RED
“4 Stars! Crandall weaves a tight and suspenseful story that will have readers guessing until the last chapter. Poignant in places and nail-bitingly tense in others, this is one of those books readers will want to finish in one sitting.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Exciting romantic suspense… Readers will enjoy this tense thriller.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A fast-paced thriller that will keep you guessing… Seeing Red will lead you down a fear path of horrific crimes that could happen anywhere.”
— TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“Another fascinating story by the talented Susan Crandall… Seeing Red is a riveting tale that you won’t want to put down… Highly recommended!”
— RomRevToday.com
“Compelling… well-written… The suspense was fast-paced and the romance was irresistible… The book was hard to put down… Most definitely an author to keep your eye out for.”
— BookPleasures.com
PITCH BLACK
“Prepare to be thoroughly captivated by Crandall’s Pitch Black world!… A superbly woven suspense that sucks you in and doesn’t let go… Susan Crandall is a master storyteller whose characters never fail to touch your heart.”
—KAREN ROSE, New York Times Bestselling Author
“[A] taut potboiler… nicely turned.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Keep the lights on bright for Pitch Black… takes the reader on a thrill ride into the soul of a small town, a very special woman, and the sheriff who wants her even more than he wants to solve a terrible murder.”
—KAREN HARPER, New York Times Bestselling Author
“4 Stars! Suspenseful… interesting and complicated characters.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Nail-biting suspense… a pulse-pounding ride… enticing… What sets this book apart from other great suspense novels is Ms. Crandall’s skill in defining her characters… a great read.”
— WritersAreReaders.com
A KISS IN WINTER
“Everything a contemporary romance reader wants in a book.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A very character-driven story, A Kiss in Winter is a tale of family expectations and disappointments.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Complex characters, intricate relationships, realistic conflicts, and a fine sense of place.”
—Booklist
“Great characters, a touching relationship, and exciting suspense.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Brilliant characterization, edgy suspense… a tension-rich mystery.”
— ContemporaryRomanceWriters.com
ON BLUE FALLS POND
“A powerful psychological drama… On Blue Falls Pond is a strong glimpse at how individuals react to crisis differently, with some hiding or running away while others find solace to help them cope.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Readers who enjoy… fiction with a pronounced sense of place and families with strong ties will respond well to Crandall’s… sensitive handling of the important issues of domestic violence, macular degeneration, and autism.”
—Booklist
“Full of complex characters… it’s a well-written story of the struggles to accept what life hands out and to continue living.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
PROMISES TO KEEP
“An appealing heroine… [an] unexpected plot twist… engaging and entertaining.”
— TheRomanceReader.com
“FOUR STARS!”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“This is one book you will want to read repeatedly.”
— MyShelf.com
MAGNOLIA SKY
“Emotionally charged… An engrossing story.”
—BookPage
“A wonderful story that kept surprising me as I read. Real conflicts and deep emotions make the powerful story come to life.”
—Rendezvous
“Engaging… starring two scarred souls and a wonderful supporting cast… Fans will enjoy.”
—Midwest Book Review
THE ROAD HOME
“A terrific story… a book you will want to keep to read again and again.”
— RomRevToday.com
“The characters… stay with you long after the last page is read.”
— Bookloons.com
BACK ROADS
“Accomplished and very satisfying… Add Crandall to your list of authors to watch.”
— Bookloons.com
“An amazingly assured debut novel… expertly drawn.”
— TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“A definite all-nighter. Very highly recommended.”
— RomRevToday.com
ALSO BY SUSAN CRANDALL
Seeing Red
Pitch Black
A Kiss in Winter
On Blue Falls Pond
Promises to Keep
Magnolia Sky
The Road Home
Back Roads
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Susan Crandall
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Forever
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
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Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: January 2010
ISBN: 978-0-446-56400-7
Contents
COPYRIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
THE DISH
For Allison, my daughter, my friend.
Acknowledgments
Once again I am indebted to others for the successful completion of this book. Thanks to Melissa Crandall for the hours of poolside brainstorming; it was a great summer. And to Karen White for both in-person and long-distance chats; you helped keep me on track. To my son Reid, a great writer himself, for pushing me in the right direction when I called when faced with various forks in the writing road. And of course, to WITTS (Alicia, Brenda, Garthia, Pam, Sherry, and Vicky), best critique group ever. I can’t imagine writing a book without
you all.
I thank Dr. Walter Beaver for his help and insight to Alzheimer’s and dementia, and sleepwalking—as well as all of those other topics that popped up as we chatted.
No suspense would be complete without questions answered by the ever able crime scene writers group.
Mega-appreciation to my fabulous editor, Karen Kosztolnyik, for her keen insight and direction; and to those in the Grand Central family who lend their talents to making my dreams come true. Thanks to my agent, Annelise Robey, whose eyes lit up when I described this book idea to her over breakfast.
And most of all, thanks to my family: Bill, Reid, Allison, and Melissa, for their endless support and for listening to my shameless whining about something I truly do love to do.
PROLOGUE
The house where Abby Whitman’s family lived wasn’t like the plantation houses in the movies. There were no sweeping staircase and grand foyer. The house did have two sets of stairs. The second was at the back of the house—it had been for servants “back in the day,” as Abby’s daddy said. The foyer stairs was fancier, sure, but it was no Tara.
It was at the bottom of the foyer stairs that Abby’s mother stopped her and held her by the shoulders.
Confused and disoriented, Abby tried to pull away. She didn’t know why panic was squeezing the breath from her lungs. She shouldn’t be afraid of Momma.
“Abby. Abby, stop,” her mother’s voice was quiet, but Abby heard something underneath; a dark whisper of fear.
Abby’s eyes began to focus. Her mother was smiling, but her eyes looked scared. Momma was never scared.
Abby’s stomach took a roller coaster plunge.
“You’re sleepwalking again, sweetie,” Momma said. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
That was when Abby saw the heavy front door standing open and understood why Momma was so upset. Abby had been outside in the dark. Outside where there were gators and snakes and a river to drown in. Outside where there was quicksand and woods to get lost in.
Every night when she went to bed, Abby promised herself she wouldn’t sleepwalk. And then she prayed that God would fix her. Promises and prayers weren’t doing any good. This was the second time in a week Abby had wandered in the night. The last time she’d woken up in the hayloft in the barn.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Great-Gran Girault was there waiting.
Abby had been hoping now that she was eleven she’d grown out of being scared of Gran Girault. But sure as the moon, she hadn’t. Gran had to be a hundred; tall and thin with weathered skin sagging on her bones. Her white hair was always in a bun—even when she was in her nightgown.
She lived in Louisiana, where they believed in things like evil spells and devil’s curses. One time when she was visiting, Abby had found a little pouch under her pillow one morning. When she’d opened it, it had tiny bones and some dried weeds and a rock in it. It smelled funny. Momma had been really mad when she found out.
Almost always when Gran looked at Abby, it was with a frown.
Now Gran looked at Abby with a frown so intense it made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.
“I tell you, Betsy,” Gran said, her voice like sandpaper on rocks, “you need to do somethin’. It ain’t natural, her creepin’ ’round here in the night like she does. Starin’ eyes like she’s possessed.”
“Shush, Gran!” Momma kept them walking right past Gran.
Abby’s room was next to her sister Courtney’s. She was six and everybody always said she was “cute as a button.” Court never went sleepwalking. And Gran Girault never looked at her with a frown.
Momma tucked Abby into bed and kissed her on the forehead.
Abby pulled the sheet up to her chin, clutching it like it was a rope that might keep her tied in bed. “Gran hates me.”
Her mother ran a hand over Abby’s hair. “Gran is old and confused. You mustn’t pay attention to her. Besides, she’s going home tomorrow.”
The smile on Momma’s face said she was happy about it. That made Abby feel just a little better.
“Good night.” Her mother left the room, closing the door behind her.
Abby rolled onto her side, determined to stay awake all night. That way she couldn’t sleepwalk. At first she didn’t even blink. But soon her eyelids grew heavy. She tried counting the flowers on her wallpaper. But they started to run together.
She closed her eyes—just for a minute….
When Abby opened her eyes, it was daylight.
A car door slammed outside. Daddy was taking Gran Girault to the train station. Abby got up and watched the car pull down the lane, feeling like a dark and dangerous storm had finally blown away.
Always at Sunday evening dinner, right before grace, Abby’s family lit the oil lamp that was as old as their house. It was tradition; her daddy told her it was in honor of those Whitmans who’d gone off to war and never come home. It had been a custom he was passing along, just like he would pass this house to Abby someday.
Today was Abby’s first time to light the oil lamp. Naturally, Courtney had a hissy over it. She never liked it when Abby got to do something she didn’t—which wasn’t often.
At bedtime, Court was still pouting. And Abby climbed into bed with a smile on her face. She could hear Momma in the next room, telling Courtney that when she turned eleven, she’d get to light the lamp every other Sunday.
Courtney whined that it wasn’t fair. Abby hoped Momma and Daddy wouldn’t give in like they usually did. Abby had had to wait until after her eleventh birthday. Court should have to, too.
Abby drifted off to sleep feeling really good; not only did she get the special privilege of lighting the lamp, but Gran Girault wasn’t here to give her the stink-eye if she happened to go sleepwalking again. It was a good day.
Abby opened her eyes. Stinging smoke caused her to close them again. An orange glow flickered in the fog of smoke. There was heat at her back—and the sound of crackling dragon breath.
She opened her eyes in tiny blinking slits to see where she was. Darkness and smoke blotted out everything.
For a second she stood there, panic squeezing her chest. Then she remembered. She dropped to her knees. The smoke wasn’t as bad here. She even recognized the living room rug.
She’d been sleepwalking.
The fire was in the dining room.
She had to get everyone out!
She opened her mouth to yell for her parents, but breathing in felt like a cat was clawing her lungs. She coughed until she nearly threw up.
Suddenly she heard Courtney screaming. In the back of the house. On the other side of the dining room.
Abby tried to crawl through the dining room, feeling her way along, but it was too hot. She turned around and started crawling back the way she’d come, but she bumped into a piece of furniture. It was hot. So hot. So painful.
In a panic she got to her feet and tried to feel her way to the door. The smoke tore at her lungs. She smelled her hair being singed.
She had to get out.
Courtney was still screaming.
Abby thrashed forward, flailing her arms. She heard china break.
And then she found the door.
Help Court. Wake Daddy.
Dizziness made her stumble. She felt like she was trying to breathe underwater.
She tripped over something and fell face-first onto the living room rug.
The crackling was getting louder.
She heard Daddy calling her name, over and over, until she couldn’t hear anything at all.
CHAPTER 1
Life can so often be divided into before and after. Not by the little wrinkles and frays of daily wear, but by monumental events that rip cruelly through the fabric of a finely woven existence. It happened to everyone. Abby Whitman understood that. But she also felt she’d had more than her fair share of befores and afters; befores and afters that had thrust her onto unforeseen roads, leading to generally uninvited futures.
Some called it
fate. Some called it luck. Great-Gran Girault had gone so far as to call her cursed. The first time Gran said it, Abby’s mother had called Gran Girault a superstitious old kook from the backwater Louisiana swamp. And man, had that set off fireworks between Abby’s parents. At least the argument had taken Great-Gran’s condemning eye off Abby long enough for her to slip out of the house to the refuge of the old, overgrown rice fields where she could live in a world of her imagination; one where little girls did not do things in the night that they couldn’t recall the next morning.
Now Abby was a grown woman—and she realized that curse still clung to her with a tenacious grip. As she stood in the muted gray dawn that cast her small kitchen in gloom and shadow, she once again felt as if the jaundiced eye of Gran Girault was on her, and her stomach did a slow, nauseating roll.
Muddy prints left by bare feet trailed across the white kitchen tile like dirty accusations. They began at the dead-bolted back door and moved toward the living area.
Abby knew what she would find even before she kicked off the slippers she’d absently slipped on as she’d gotten out of bed. Even so, the dark smears between her toes and the grime following the crevices of her skin set her heart into a thoroughbred-out-of-the-gate gallop.
In a panic that was far too late to be of any value, she sniffed the air for smoke. Then she took off on a frantic circuit of her tiny house. All doors and windows were locked. She found no ignited stove burners, lit candles, overheating curling irons, or overflowing plumbing fixtures. Nothing unusual except those muddy footprints that became fainter as they went up the stairs to the half-story that housed her bedroom.
She followed them. Reaching her bed, Abby stared at it for a moment. Then she flipped back the covers. Her breath left her lungs in a rush as she looked at the mud-smeared sheets.
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