When She's Gone

by Palmer, Jane;

  WHEN SHE’S GONE

  A THRILLER

  JANE PALMER

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-62953-774-0

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-62953-809-9

  ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-62953-810-5

  ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-62953-811-2

  Cover design by Lori Palmer.

  www.crookedlanebooks.com

  Crooked Lane Books

  34 West 27th St., 10th Floor

  New York, NY 10001

  First edition: November 2016

  Contents

  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 ONE

  The man was staring.

  Ara felt the weight of the stranger’s gaze as surely as if he’d reached out to touch her. She pressed her arm against her clutch and felt the familiar outline of her handgun. The weight and solidness of it reassured her. It was, after all, the one thing she could count on.

  The art gallery sparkled with sophistication and color. The paintings on the wall were oil abstracts done by a new and upcoming artist who was, according to the gallery owner, extraordinary.

  Ara thought the paintings looked like something a two-year-old could do.

  Her opinion, no doubt, was in the minority. So far this evening, she’d overheard nothing but praise for the artist. The rooms were filled with flashy people, mostly women, wearing expensive dresses and designer shoes. They mingled and laughed, holding flutes of bubbling champagne and eating tiny appetizers. Each time the door opened to allow a new person entrance, the music of New York City filtered in. Buses, shouting, the faint smell of sausage.

  Still staring.

  Ara licked her lips, her gaze carefully tracking the room. Nothing else seemed amiss. Nothing but the stranger who’d been watching them for the last fifteen minutes.

  He bounced on the balls of his feet suddenly and began moving across the room, elegantly weaving through the throng. As he approached, she grew ever mindful, her entire body preparing. Her breathing slowed, her limbs relaxed, and she shifted her body protectively. Casually, she tucked her hand inside of her bag, her fingers wrapping around the cool metal of her weapon.

  He bypassed her without a glance.

  Ara watched as he greeted a woman who’d just come in from the brisk October night. They air-kissed each other’s cheeks in an Upper East Side fashion before quickly moving toward the bar. She relaxed her tense grip on her gun, allowing the purse to slide to her elbow. He’d been watching the door, not them.

  “Don’t you just love the colors in this one, Holly?” Kat, the gallery owner, cut through Ara’s thoughts. She was garishly dressed in a bright-orange jumpsuit—the color leaning closer to neon—and heavy turquoise jewelry. On anyone else, the outfit would have looked ridiculous. Kat made it work.

  Next to her, Holly’s understated elegance couldn’t be more noticeable. Everything from the upsweep of her hair to the faint star detailing on her shoes was sheer perfection. She was a woman to whom dressing beautifully came easily and naturally.

  Kat waved a hand toward the nearest painting. “The artist calls it Moonshine.”

  “It’s amazing.” Holly tilted her head delicately. “I think it would look stunning in Oliver’s office.”

  She stepped a bit closer, her pale-blue eyes tracking over the frame. No doubt assessing its worth. “What do you think, Ara? Wouldn’t this look wonderful? You know, in that space behind his desk.”

  Ara couldn’t imagine having to look at the large painting, with its dark, black-and-blue streaks, every day. Depressing didn’t even begin to describe it.

  “It would look amazing,” she said, smiling tightly.

  Holly flashed her a bright smile and turned back to Kat. “I’ll take it. And of course, I’d like to have it delivered tomorrow afternoon.”

  Ara half-listened to the conversation between the two women as she watched Sam, Holly’s daughter, across the room. She’d been sulking for most of the evening, but now her peals of laughter could be heard even from where Ara was standing. She was talking to a young man, her heart-shaped face lit up with interest.

  “Excuse me,” Ara murmured to the other two women, then slipped into the crowd. Even as she crossed toward Sam, she discreetly scanned the room. Her gaze skipped over the waiter serving tuna tartare, the man in the corner who’d had two glasses of champagne, the old woman in a sequined dress arguing with another woman in fuchsia shoes and pearl earrings.

  Ara had been to this art gallery many times before with Holly and Sam. She knew all the entrances and exits, the number of paces it took to cross the room in high heels, the positions of the security cameras. She might be outfitted in a tight red cocktail dress, her hair perfectly styled and a manicure gracing her fingertips, but it was all part of her job. Part of the ruse as Holly’s “personal assistant.”

  No one would ever guess she was actually the bodyguard.

  Ara took a glass of champagne off of a waiter’s tray as he went past and held it in one hand as she sidled up to the painting closest to Sam and the young man.

  “I agree—the colors here are extraordinary,” Sam said, tossing her long blonde hair over one shoulder. “You have such a good taste, Nick.”

  They moved to the next painting. Ara floated along behind them, her attention fixed on them even though she was facing the gray-and-orange monstrosity on canvas in front of her.

  Nick leaned close and whispered something in Sam’s ear, and she laughed again, a musical sound, cultured and clean. The simple white dress she wore clung to her body in all the right places, and the pencil-thin heels exaggerated her already long legs. Sam looked nothing like her age. She could have easily passed for twenty-five.

  Nick swiped his shaggy hair out of his eyes, a smile playing at the corners of his full lips. He was handsome, with chiseled features, broad shoulders, and a swoon-worthy smile. His hand was placed respectfully on the small of Sam’s back. Yet something about him made Ara wary. His nose had been broken. His knuckles and finger
nails were rough, as though he was used to hard labor. His suit was flattering, but it wasn’t made from the best material, nor was it tailored to his body.

  Обманщик.

  The Russian word flitted through her mind, and she searched for the English version. Imposter—that was it. Her native tongue wasn’t one she used much anymore, so sometimes it still took her a second to translate.

  She looked over at Sam and took in the way her charge leaned into Nick—her face lit up with a smile, her cheeks flushed.

  Nick was an impostor. And sure, she thought wryly, it takes one to know one. But while they both belonged among this group of wealthy elite about as much as a fish at a steakhouse, Ara knew how to fake it. Nick did not.

  Nick whispered something else in Sam’s ear, and when he pulled back, Ara could have sworn Sam’s eyelashes actually fluttered.

  Oh, this was not good.

  Sam’s lips brushed against Nick’s cheek, and she tenderly trailed a hand down his arm. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Sam turned and nearly ran right into Ara. She scowled at Ara before brushing past and crossing the room toward the big window near the front of the gallery. Ara fought back a sigh and followed.

  It wasn’t easy watching over a seventeen-year-old girl. Especially a stubborn, strong-willed, and rebellious one. For a moment, Ara felt a pang of loss.

  Stop. That’s all over.

  And it was. She’d left her old life behind and moved up north for a fresh start. Finding a job she liked had proved more difficult—no police department would touch her anymore—so she’d wound up here, a private bodyguard for the spoiled, teenage stepdaughter of an uber-elite billionaire.

  At least the pay was amazing.

  “Can’t you hover from the corner of the room or something?” Sam waved her hand in a flicking motion. “How am I ever going to get a date with you on my heels?”

  “Is that what you were doing?” Ara asked, ignoring Sam’s tone. A waiter passed by, and Ara placed her untouched champagne glass on his tray. “Isn’t he a bit old for you?”

  “No.” She opened her silver purse and removed a tube of lipstick. “He’s twenty-one, if you must know. An appropriate age.”

  “I doubt your mother would agree.” Ara passed a glance in Holly’s direction. The woman had been fluttering around the room in a giant circle for the last few minutes.

  “Oh, mind your own business.” Sam applied the rouge color with expertise, using her reflection in the window to check for smears. “Besides, he works with the gallery as an art dealer. Perfectly respectable.”

  “You should still be careful.”

  Sam arched her eyebrows. “I already have one mother, Ara. I’m not looking for another.”

  “I suppose you’re not. But I am hoping we can at least be friends.” She rocked back on her heels, easing the pressure on the balls of her feet. These shoes were not her most comfortable ones. “Maybe one day you’ll miss having me as your shadow.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.” Sam snapped the purse closed just as Holly appeared at their side.

  “There you are.” She sounded a bit breathless. “I’ve been searching the room for you.”

  “We’ve been here for the last three minutes, Mom. You couldn’t have been looking that hard.”

  Sam’s tone was dismissive. Annoyance flashed across Holly’s face, and she glanced at Ara as though looking for support.

  Ara didn’t say anything. She’d learned to keep quiet while mother and daughter dealt with each other.

  “Well, listen—I’ve run into an old acquaintance of mine, Claire Hutchinson. She’s a trustee for Princeton, and I want you to meet her.”

  “This woman that you want me to meet—did she refuse to give you the time of day before you married Oliver?”

  Holly rolled her eyes. “Don’t start again, Sam.”

  Sam’s face flushed. “These people are fake. They didn’t want anything to do with us a year ago.”

  Ara had to admit the teenager had a point. People had started taking a more serious interest in Holly, and subsequently Sam, once they found out about their connection to Oliver.

  “This woman can help open the doors to Princeton,” Holly hissed at her daughter. “Which you need, since your grades are absolutely atrocious.”

  “Yes, let’s buy our way in.”

  Holly reached out and gripped Sam’s forearm, her fingers turning white with the effort.

  “Cut it out. You’re lucky that Oliver is willing to pay for your college education at all.” She leaned in closer to Sam. “You need to be pleasant and respectful for ten minutes while meeting this woman. Do you think you can accomplish that?”

  It was a big request. Sam hadn’t been pleasant and respectful to any adult since Ara had known her.

  “Fine.” Sam plastered on a fake smile. “I’ll be nice. But only because college means I can move out.”

  Holly sucked in a breath and opened her mouth as though to say something but then seemed to change her mind. She swiped a hand over her tailored, mauve cocktail dress, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. “All right, let’s go.”

  * * *

  Ara was impressed. Not only had Sam been respectful—she’d been downright pleasant. The initial introduction had gone so well that Holly invited Claire to dinner. The restaurant was posh, with artistic chandeliers and more wine choices than food. The group was quickly ushered to an exclusive corner table.

  The waiter fluttered around, making sure they had everything they needed before taking their order. Afterward, Holly and Claire kept up a steady stream of conversation, occasionally punctuated by a comment from Sam. Ara said very little. She knew her place: Blend in, don’t talk unless spoken to, and then as little as possible. Basically, act like a piece of pretty furniture.

  “I can’t tell you, Holly,” Claire said after the food arrived, “how delightful it is to see what a wonderful young woman you’ve raised.”

  Holly beamed. “Thank you, Claire.”

  “I’m horribly delayed in telling you how sorry I was to hear of the plane crash. It must have been an awful time for you.”

  Beside her, Sam drew in a sharp breath, and Ara reached under the table to gently tap her wrist. Sam grabbed Ara’s hand and squeezed it so tightly, Ara felt her bones crunch together.

  It was in these moments Ara remembered Sam was still a child. A little girl trapped in a young woman’s body, without the tools or skills necessary to deal with the blows life had thrown at her. The loss of her father and her older brother in a plane crash two years ago was rarely discussed in the Boone house, even between Sam and her mother. It was as if, with her new marriage, Holly wanted to erase any painful reminders of the life she would never have again. Unfortunately, it left Sam floundering, alone and in pain.

  Ara knew exactly what that felt like.

  “It was very painful, as you can imagine.” Holly’s voice was low and trembled slightly. She pasted on a smile. “But of course, now we have many new, wonderful things to celebrate.”

  “Absolutely. Like your marriage.” Claire gently cut into her fish and delicately lifted a piece to her mouth. “And to Oliver Boone, no less. Very impressive.”

  “Oliver works very hard at being impressive,” Sam said.

  Holly shot her a warning glance before turning her attention back to Claire. “Oliver is a very special man.”

  “Of course he is.” Claire raised her eyebrows slightly. She had to be picking up on the tension at the table, but either good manners or simple decency kept her tone easy and polite. “How did the two of you meet?”

  “I was working for ABC,” Holly said, “and did a story on Oliver’s investment into the New York Giants. He agreed to be interviewed. It was as simple as that, I’m afraid.” She leaned in toward the other woman. “How is your son doing? Last I knew, he was at Princeton, aiming for law school next.”

  Claire smiled, but her face barely moved, not a wrinkle appearing. “He’s wonderful. He’s VP
now. Charles, my husband, is so happy to have him working in the family business.”

  The conversation droned on. Next to Ara, Sam was scowling, pushing her food around on her plate and surreptitiously checking her phone for the time.

  When dinner was finally over, Sam dumped her linen napkin on the table and said, “Excuse me. I’m going to run to the ladies’ room. It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Hutchinson.”

  Claire gave her a polite nod. “You too, dear. Please contact me after your final examinations. I know Princeton would adore having you join the freshman class. I do hope you’ll apply next year.”

  “I’ll make sure she does,” Holly assured her. Sam quickly slipped from the room, and Ara rose to follow her.

  Before she could take a step, however, Holly said, “Ara, why don’t you ask the valet to pull Claire’s car around? And please text our driver and let him know we’re ready to go. I’ll just say good-bye to Claire, and then I’ll come find you outside.”

  Ara debated arguing. She couldn’t protect Sam and Holly from outside the restaurant. She shouldn’t have even let Sam go to the bathroom alone, but explaining that fact wasn’t possible right now. Not only would it reveal her as the family’s bodyguard, but it would also embarrass Holly in front of Claire.

  Smothering a frustrated sigh and making a note to have a conversation with her employer later, Ara gave a short nod. “Of course. I’ll be right outside.”

  The quiet murmurs of the restaurant gave way to the bustle of city life as Ara stepped out. She handed Claire’s valet ticket to the sharply dressed man at the station before texting David, the Boones’ driver, asking him to bring the town car around.

  Business done, she tightened the belt on her coat against the evening chill. One thing she loved about New York was the cooler weather. Long sleeves were a must for most of the year, and since that was all Ara wore, she fit in far better than she had in Texas, where the heat was blistering from March until October.

  The door swung open, and Claire stepped outside, bundled in a fur coat, just as her car arrived at the curb.

  “Ara, it was lovely to meet you,” Claire said as she passed. “Have a nice evening.”