PRAISE FOR CARLENE THOMPSON
SHARE NO SECRETS
“Turns and twists make you change your mind about who the killer is and the ending is a real shocker. Get this one quick.”
—Rendezvous Reviews
“A great mystery with thrilling intrigue. Thompson knows how to write gripping suspense and keep readers enthralled throughout.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A chilling murder mystery with lots of twists, turns, and unexpected curves . . . one of the best romantic mysteries I have read . . . a great book that you don’t want to miss.”
—Romance Junkies
“A page-turner that will leave you on the edge of your seat . . . another wonderful thriller from Carlene Thompson . . . a must-read.”
—A Romance Review
“An intriguing tale told in a wonderfully fresh voice. Thompson has a truly unique style that blends beautiful prose with compelling plots . . . this novel reads like lightning—and has the same effect on the reader . . . Thompson has created sharp, smart characters with motives that drive the story along. They are enough to keep the story moving at a quick pace. Her voice has a sense of rhythm and a rustic beauty that lingers in the reader’s memory.”
—Romance Divas
“An action-filled read with plenty of twists and turns that will keep you guessing until the very end! This story is highly detailed with an array of in-depth characters that are smart, funny, and engaging.”
—Fallen Angel Reviews
IF SHE SHOULD DIE
“A gripping suspense filled with romance. Ms. Thompson has the reader solving the mystery early in the novel, then changing that opinion every few chapters. [An] excellent novel.”
—Rendezvous Reviews
“With engaging characters and intriguing motives, Thompson has created a smart, gripping tale of revenge, anger, and obsession.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub
“If She Should Die is a riveting whodunit!”
—The Road to Romance
“In the tradition of Tami Hoag or Mary Higgins Clark, Thompson has created a gripping page-turner. The storyline is engaging and the characters’ lives are multi-dimensional. This is literally a book the reader will be unable to put down.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
BLACK FOR REMEMBRANCE
“Loaded with mystery and suspense . . . Mary Higgins Clark fans, take note.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Gripped me from the first page and held on through its completely unexpected climax. Lock your doors, make sure there’s no one behind you, and pick up Black for Remembrance.”
—William Katz, author of Double Wedding
“Bizarre, terrifying . . . an inventive and forceful psychological thriller.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Thompson’s style is richly bleak, her sense of morality complex . . . Thompson is a mistress of the thriller parvenu.”
—Fear
SINCE YOU’VE BEEN GONE
“This story will keep readers up well into the night.”
—Huntress Book Reviews
DON’T CLOSE YOUR EYES
“Don’t Close Your Eyes has all the gothic sensibilities of a Victoria Holt novel, combined with the riveting modern suspense of Sharyn McCrumb’s The Hangman’s Beautiful Daughter. Don’t close your eyes—and don’t miss this one.”
—Meagan McKinney, author of In the Dark
“An exciting romantic suspense novel that will thrill readers with the subplots of a who-done-it and a legendary resident ghost seen only by children. These themes cleverly tie back to the main story line centering on the relationships between Natalie and Nick, and Natalie and the killer. Carlene Thompson fools the audience into thinking they know the murderer early on in the book. The reviewer suggests finishing this terrific tale in one sitting to ascertain how accurate are the reader’s deductive skills in pinpointing the true villain.”
—Midwest Book Review
IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH
“[A] blood-chilling . . . tale of vengeance, madness, and murder.”
—Romantic Times
THE WAY YOU LOOK TONIGHT
“Thompson . . . has crafted a lively, entertaining read . . . skillfully ratchet[ing] up the tension with each successive chapter.”
—Charleston Daily Mail
ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES
BY CARLENE THOMPSON
Share No Secrets
If She Should Die
Black for Remembrance
Since You’ve Been Gone
Don’t Close Your Eyes
In the Event of My Death
Tonight You’re Mine
The Way You Look Tonight
Last
Whisper
CARLENE THOMPSON
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
LAST WHISPER
Copyright © 2006 by Carlene Thompson.
Cover photo © Shirley Green
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 0-312-93728-8
EAN: 9780312-93728-7
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / September 2006
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
In loving memory of Vera Gladys Biggs
A gracious lady
Last
Whisper
prologue
Brooke Yeager flopped over on her back, put her hand on her upset stomach, and looked up at the stars on her bedroom ceiling, their iridescent paint catching the glow from the night-light that helped ward off her intense fear of the dark. Her mother had painted the stars on Brooke’s ceiling six months ago. When her grandmother Greta had first viewed them, she’d clucked her tongue and declared she’d never seen such nonsense in an eleven-year-old girl’s room. But Brooke had noticed the twitch of a smile on her grandmother’s round face.
After her many years in the United States, Grossmutter Greta had not lost the German accent Brooke loved, especially when she told bedtime stories. Brooke wished she could hear one of those stories now, but Greta had visited less and less during the last two years after her former daughter-in-law, Brooke’s mother, had married Zachary Tavell.
Brooke rolled on her side and pulled her knees to her stomach. She didn’t blame her grandmother for not wanting to be around Zach. He was always polite, but Brooke felt his coldness toward both her and Greta. Brooke thought maybe he was jealous of her father, who had been handsome, full of joy, and had lots of friends. Zach was quiet, only knew a couple of guys Brooke didn’t like, and seemed to live in a world that included only him and Brooke’s mother. How different Daddy had been! Brooke still missed him terribly, even though he’d died three whole years ago of cancer.
At the time of his death, Brooke had believed her beautiful, gentle mother, Anne, might die, too. Anne didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, and cried all the time. Brooke adored her girlish mother who seemed more like a sister than a parent, and she’d been frightened of losing her, too. Finally, Greta had convinced her daug
hter-in-law to go to a doctor, who gave Anne a bunch of pills that seemed to make her feel lots better. Then, almost before Brooke realized what was happening, her mother started dating Zachary, who had a tiny photography store where he took their picture at Christmas, and a couple of months later, Zach and Anne had gotten married. Brooke had been surprised, and not too happy, but Zach was fairly nice to her and he made her mother laugh again. At least for a while.
But eighteen months after their marriage, Zach had changed. He watched television most of the time, ignored Brooke, drank beer and whiskey almost constantly, and started bickering with Anne. Their squabbles were small and few at first, then grew louder and more frequent. Lately the arguments had become downright scary, close to physical on Zach’s part, and Brooke had grown afraid of what might happen.
The fight this evening had been extra bad. Zach had thrown a glass figurine against the wall, cursed at Anne, then slammed out of the house. Anne had yelled that she was going to divorce him. Anne never yelled, but tonight her voice had been ragged with grief and anger. That’s when Brooke’s stomach had begun to hurt. She was supposed to go to her friend’s for a sleepover, but Brooke had made up an excuse not to go. She had wanted to stay home and comfort her mother, but the more Anne cried and ranted, the more helpless Brooke had felt and the worse her stomach ached. Finally, defeated and queasy, she had retreated to her bed. With a tearstained face, Brooke’s mother had whispered, “Good night, my angel,” but even Mommy’s affection didn’t make her feel much better than she had an hour ago.
Suddenly, Brooke wondered if she might be dying like Daddy, and as much as she missed him and thought she might see him again in Heaven, or Himmel, as Grossmutter called it, she wasn’t ready to die. “Please don’t let me die, God,” Brooke whispered. “I need to stay to take care of Mommy.”
Suddenly, music began playing downstairs. Brooke jerked in surprise, then relaxed when she heard “Cinnamon Girl” by Neil Young. Her father had loved the song, played it almost every day, and often called Brooke his Cinnamon Girl. Neil Young was singing about running in the night and chasing the moonlight. Right now Brooke wished she could run in the night and chase the moonlight with Daddy. She wished she and Daddy and Mommy were all running far away from this small, dark house Brooke had come to hate. The fantasy was so pleasant, Brooke began to feel easier. A tiny hope grew within her that maybe this evening would improve. Maybe Zach would come home—sober—and he and Mommy would kiss and make up and tomorrow would be a brighter day.
Eventually Brooke rolled onto her back again, stared up at the shining painted stars, and fell into a light sleep. She dreamed of one of her grandmother’s tales of a beautiful princess who had once lived in a castle in the Black Forest of Germany. The princess had waited for a handsome prince to come for her, but years went by and she’d nearly given up hope when her father and his servants had carried in a huge stag her father had shot with an arrow. “There is something strange about this deer,” the father had told the princess. “In my heart, I know I should not have shot him. But he isn’t dead. We will care for him until he is well, Daughter, and then we will release him again into the forest.” That night the princess learned what was “strange” about the deer. Under her gentle care, he had gradually turned into a man, explaining to her that he was really a prince who’d been turned into a deer by a witch jealous that he did not love her. For years he had roamed the forests, waiting to meet his princess, but unable to do so until he could enter her castle and show her who he truly was. The deer-turned-prince and the princess had kissed, and then—
Brooke jerked awake. Something was wrong. The atmosphere of the house seemed to jitter and throb with tension. Brooke stiffened as her senses grew more acute. She could hear voices, but they were partially lost beneath the loud tones of “Cinnamon Girl,” which her mother must have been playing over and over. Brooke strained to listen, but all she heard was Mommy’s voice, full of the stridency Brooke hated. On went the music. On went the voices.
Not again, Brooke thought desperately. Please don’t let them have another fight. If they did, something terrible would happen. She didn’t know how she knew this, but she did. She rolled into a ball, battling the dreadful certainty that disaster was stalking a dark path to her house.
She put her hands over her ears. “Stop it; stop it!” she chanted beneath her beautiful, glowing stars, trying to drown out the cacophony of sounds traveling up the stairs. “Stop shouting. Stop fighting!”
Brooke closed her eyes. She willed herself back into her dream of the prince and princess in their castle in the Black Forest, but it didn’t work. She couldn’t escape the commotion downstairs. She couldn’t escape the air of menace taking over the house, creeping into her soul.
And then, although she still covered her ears, she heard it—a loud sound like a firecracker going off. Then another. And another. But it wasn’t the Fourth of July or New Year’s Eve. No one would be setting off firecrackers in early October, especially in this quiet neighborhood. Brooke knew from watching television what she had heard. It was a gun being fired. Once and again and again.
Trembling, she took her hands away from her ears. All she heard was music. Then the music stopped and there was nothing. A terrible nothing.
She slid from her bed and crept to her door. I shouldn’t do this, she thought. If I get back in bed and go to sleep, I’ll wake up in the morning, the sun will be shining, and everything will be all right.
But Brooke couldn’t force herself back into bed. The silence downstairs drew her as irresistibly as the fatal Sirens’ song had drawn sailors in the little bit of ancient Greek stories her grandmother had read to her. Brooke slowly turned the handle and pushed open the door an inch. Still silence. Then another inch. More silence, but not a peaceful silence.
Chills raced over her although the night was only chilly and she wore flannel pajamas. But she knew she had to see what was happening downstairs, no matter how cold she was, no matter how her hands trembled, no matter how painfully her heart thudded in her chest.
Forcing herself down the hall from her room, Brooke took hold of the mahogany banister and started down the flight of stairs. Usually her mother told Brooke to stop flying up and down those stairs before she fell and broke an arm or a leg, but no one had to give her a warning to slow down tonight. Her dread grew with every step downward, but she went on relentlessly. By the time she reached the last stair, a cold sweat had popped out on her forehead beneath her blond bangs.
Then she saw it, the thing she’d feared, the thing that had caused both the chills and the sweat, the thing too awful to be fully realized with one glance.
Her mother lay sprawled in the front hall washed in cool night air seeping in from the open front door. Her slender body was twisted, the lower half turned to the left, one leg wrenched at the knee and bent outward, her upper body turned right at her waist. Scattered beneath her rested white roses—a dozen delicate long-stemmed roses Zach had brought home for her yesterday, now crushed and garishly splashed with bright, crimson blood. But worst of all, nothing was left of Anne’s beautiful face—nothing except a pulpy red mass pointed right at her daughter.
And above Anne stood her husband, Zachary Tavell, holding a gun aimed at Brooke.
one
FIFTEEN YEARS LATER
1
“I can’t believe someone is actually thinking of buying this house,” Mia Walters said. “How long has it been since we’ve even shown it?”
“You mean shown it to anyone who was interested, not just someone we dragged there on a tour of other houses?” Brooke Yeager shook her head, grinning. “At least six months. Certainly not since you started at Townsend Realty.”
Mia peered from Brooke’s car at the late-summer dusk falling on the South Hills section of Charleston, West Virginia. “I just wish we didn’t have to be showing the place at night. I had plans.”
“A date?”
“No. To color my hair. My dark roots are showing,”
Mia giggled. “And I insist on keeping my hair the same color as yours. Do you realize how lucky you are to have naturally wheat blond hair?”
“It’s my German and Scandinavian heritage.” Brooke paused, forcing herself to say brightly, “Both my parents were blond. They looked like brother and sister.”
Mia, who knew Brooke’s father had died young and her mother had been murdered, clearly didn’t know what to say and began fiddling with the CD player. “You’re listening to a country music CD? I thought you hated country music.”
“Patsy Cline is in a class by herself. Besides, I do a rockin’ version of ‘Walking After Midnight.’ ”
“I’ve heard you singing at your desk, Brooke,” Mia said dryly. “Remind me never to go to a karaoke bar with you.”
Brooke burst into laughter. Mia was twenty-one and had been with Townsend Realty for only two months. The owner of the firm, Aaron Townsend, had assigned Mia to Brooke for training. The two had hit if off immediately. Brooke knew Mia looked up to her—she’d started dressing like Brooke and even bleached her light brown hair to blond—but Brooke liked the girl for her intelligence and sense of humor, not her blatant admiration. Brooke hoped that in a few more months Mia’s confidence would grow and she’d begin to develop her own style.
“Aaron really should be showing this house,” Brooke said of the boss she barely liked. “After all, it is night. Or it will be when we’re trying to tour the place.”
“That’s why he assigned us,” Mia said dismally. “He has plans. Real plans, not like coloring his hair. He and one of his snooty girlfriends are probably entertaining other snooty people, or going to the symphony, or eating snails or raw beef at some fancy restaurant.”
“If I know Aaron, he simply didn’t want to waste time showing this lost cause of a house tonight,” Brooke returned. “Most likely he’s home alone or with his sister watching television and drinking a bottle of those vintage wines he spends a fortune on. I don’t think his life is half as glamorous as he tries to make everyone believe.”
Last Whisper Page 1
