For the Best
Page 1
PRAISE FOR VANESSA LILLIE
For the Best
“As a woman tries to clear her name of a murder charge using an investigative vlog, she unearths secrets that hit close to home. The resolution is emotionally complex and devoid of sneaky tricks and tropes. For the Best is intelligent and wholly original. It is that rare book that makes you race to the end but then stop in your tracks and just say WHOA! The perfect follow-up to Lillie’s sensational debut, Little Voices.”
—Wendy Walker, internationally bestselling author of The Night Before and All Is Not Forgotten
“What happens when the secrets from your past finally catch up to you in the present? For the Best is a dark and twisting tale that takes you on a breathless ride from the first page to the final jaw-dropping conclusion. Juliet Wellington-Smith, a prominent foundation CEO, is stunned to wake up to a murder accusation after an alcohol-fueled gala the night before. She sets out to clear her name and uncover the truth, but to do so, she will need to confront her demons from the past. And some of those demons are still very much alive. A must read for thriller lovers!”
—Amy Impellizzeri, award-winning author of The Truth About Thea and Why We Lie
“Lillie follows up her smashing debut, Little Voices, with another winner, this time exploring just how far a person will go to keep old secrets buried. For the Best is dark and gritty, starring a host of damaged characters who blur the line between what’s true and what’s not. A slow-burn, moody mystery that will keep you on your toes.”
—Kimberly Belle, internationally bestselling author of Dear Wife
“In For the Best, Vanessa Lillie deftly writes about complex and gritty relationships and the damage long-term familial secrets can cause. The story had me switching allegiances like it was a tennis match, made me suspect everyone, and the ending . . . pure perfection. A fast-paced read thriller lovers won’t want to miss!”
—Hannah Mary McKinnon, bestselling author of Her Secret Son and The Neighbors
“In her sophomore novel, For the Best, Vanessa Lillie proves once again she is a master of the final twist. With an expert hand, Lillie creates a fascinating, gripping, thought-provoking thriller that weaves past trauma and present-day consequences for a protagonist accused of her beloved colleague’s murder. Complex, edgy, and smart, For the Best reveals secrets page after page, leading to a shocking ending you won’t see coming.”
—Samantha M. Bailey, bestselling author of Woman on the Edge
“A fascinating look at the power of restorative justice, For the Best is Vanessa Lillie at her finest. With damaged characters and a dark undercurrent, the plot unravels a myriad of devastating secrets in the wake of an alcohol-soaked night that left a man dead and a woman accused of his murder. Mesmerizing and thought provoking, For the Best smolders with a brooding, slow-burn tension you simply won’t want to miss.”
—Christina McDonald, USA Today bestselling author of The Night Olivia Fell and Behind Every Lie
Little Voices
“[An] impressive debut . . . This superb psychological thriller is hard to put down.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Fast paced and psychologically complex, this debut mystery has plenty of twists and turns that will appeal to fans of Gillian Flynn, Paula Hawkins, and Megan Abbott.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Haunting and gripping . . . [Little Voices] grabs you from the first chapter and takes you on a twisting, turning journey with a surprise ending that will leave you stunned and wanting more.”
—Miami News-Record
“With her debut novel, Little Voices, Vanessa Lillie has arrived on the American literary scene with a flash of brilliance. Aficionados of mystery, thriller, and horror will savor this intricately plotted page-turner that builds to a stunning denouement . . . [a] treasure of a book . . . Lovers of good fiction in general also will appreciate Little Voices—Rhode Islanders especially.”
—Providence Journal
“Little Voices checks all the boxes of a great thriller and then some.”
—Real Simple
“An unsettling mystery with an unreliable narrator who will keep you guessing the whole way through. Little Voices is as haunting as it is gripping.”
—Liv Constantine, bestselling author of The Last Mrs. Parrish
“Intricate, unpredictable, and deliciously addictive.”
—Minka Kent, bestselling author of The Memory Watcher and The Thinnest Air
“Little Voices grabs you from the first chapter and doesn’t let go until one shocking final twist. Vanessa Lillie is an author to watch, taking us deep into the world—and mind—of former prosecutor turned struggling new mom Devon Burges as she battles old politics, new money, big fish, and, worst of all, that little voice in her head to help solve the murder of her close friend. Psychological suspense at its best.”
—Kellye Garrett, Anthony, Agatha, and Lefty Award–winning author of Hollywood Homicide
“From the opening chapter to the last line of the book, Vanessa Lillie takes you on a ride you won’t be prepared for but, at the same time, won’t want to end. Twists, turns, suspects, and small-town motives are around every corner with an ending that will blow you away. One of the best books I’ve read this year.”
—Matthew Farrell, bestselling author of What Have You Done
“Vanessa Lillie’s Little Voices is my favorite kind of mystery: densely plotted, character rich, and full of sharp and perceptive writing. This is a stunning debut with a gut punch of a twist. You’ll be reading all night long.”
—Jennifer Hillier, author of Jar of Hearts
“Hypnotic and harrowing, Little Voices is psychological suspense at its best. The twisted path of wrongdoing that winds through the novel will keep you on the edge of your seat, but it’s the little voices the narrator hears in her head that will haunt you. Vanessa Lillie’s exceptional debut took my breath away.”
—Hilary Davidson, bestselling author of One Small Sacrifice
“Nothing not to love about this awesome, intriguing, exceptionally well-crafted, politico-financial murder thriller that is not only a page-turner but a model of how a woman can go through physical and mental wood chippers, time and time again, and still be the strongest person in the room. Read it.”
—Shannon Kirk, international bestselling author of Method 15/33, In the Vines, and Gretchen
“I love this book. Complex plot. Sharp narration. Wonderfully deep characters and setting. So, so good!”
—Wendy Walker, international bestselling author of The Night Before and All Is Not Forgotten
“It’s not easy to hit me with a twist I don’t see coming, but Vanessa Lillie did just that in her smashing debut, Little Voices—a murder mystery, political thriller, and psychological suspense wrapped into one sensational story. Lillie doesn’t shy away from big topics—postpartum depression and money laundering and child abuse—deftly weaving the layers into a twisty and surprising plot. A clever and addictive read from a bright new talent.”
—Kimberly Belle, bestselling author of The Marriage Lie and Dear Wife
“Little Voices is an engrossing, wholly satisfying thriller, complete with complex, morally ambiguous characters, an intricate plot, and clever twists—including one final twist so shocking that I gasped aloud.”
—Kathleen Barber, author of Are You Sleeping
“Little Voices is an utterly original debut novel with a twist so unexpected I jumped from the last page right back to the first to start reading again.”
—Victoria Helen Stone, bestselling author of Jane Doe
OTHER TITLES BY VANESSA LILLIE
Little Voices
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations
, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Vanessa Lillie
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542005876
ISBN-10: 1542005876
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
To my wonderful parents,
Mike and Carla Lillie,
for the foundation of love they gave me
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 1 LIVE RECORDING THE POE FOUNDATION
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 2 STATEMENT BY JULIET WORTHINGTON-SMITH SUBMITTED TO DETECTIVE FRANK RAMOS
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 3 PERSONAL VLOG
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 4 PERSONAL VLOG
Chapter 10
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 5 PERSONAL VLOG
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 6 PERSONAL VLOG
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 7 PERSONAL VLOG
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 8 PERSONAL VLOG
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 9 TESTIMONY OF LOUIS WORTHINGTON
Chapter 21
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 10 PERSONAL VLOG
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 11 PERSONAL VLOG
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 12 ILLEGALLY OBTAINED NEST CAMERA NETWORK SECURITY FOOTAGE
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 13 PERSONAL VLOG
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 14 POLICE INTERVIEW REBA GABLES
Chapter 32
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 15 RECORDING IN DR. HELENA POTTER’S OFFICE PERSONAL VLOG
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 16 PERSONAL VLOG CHANNEL OF LOUIS WORTHINGTON
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
VIDEO TRANSCRIPT 17 SECURITY FEED THE WRONG SIDE OF HOPE
Chapter 37
FINAL DOCUMENTATION THE STATE OF RHODE ISLAND VS. JULIET WORTHINGTON-SMITH JURY VIDEO TRANSCRIPT LIST:
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
I don’t like to sleep naked, but “Drunk Me” doesn’t negotiate. I shift against the pillow and scoot away from the strands of cool, damp hair clinging to my bare shoulders. My head throbs from the movement and will need to be dealt with, but I’m distracted by the smell of my special-occasion-only honeysuckle shampoo. What should be wafting my way is cigarette smoke and rail gin.
I’ve never taken a shower before passing out.
Flopping an arm over to my husband’s side of the bed, I sigh into the cool sheets. Ethan hasn’t been cuddled beside me for a while. If I’m out late, which really isn’t that often, I want Ethan next to me in the morning. To reassure me everything is okay.
Did I say anything stupid when I came home?
Of course not, Jules. Don’t worry about it. You were having fun.
I smell bacon, our son’s favorite, so it’s likely they’re having breakfast.
Then I remember: The Genius Grant launch last night. Too much champagne. I gag at how that bubbly sweet taste coated my tongue. How many glasses did I have? Three? Four? Fifty?
I sit up, and my skull feels pierced in the middle, so I lie back down. That also hurts. The room spins, even as I’m flat. This hangover was inevitable with the stress of my new job as CEO of the Poe Foundation. I shouldn’t lean on alcohol. But I did. I’m never drinking again.
Shit, shit, shit.
I do the memory scrape where I try to think of anything stupid I said. Shifting to jam my face into the pillow, I claw for truth that’ll ease this anxiety already building in my chest. The night goes by in flashes like video snippets: Funder conversations, pep talks to key members of my staff, my speech to every major funder in Rhode Island, and, of course, Terrance Castle, guest of honor and genius of aforementioned grant, leaving our launch event early in a huff. Not perfect, but no disasters. Nothing I can’t handle the morning after.
I roll my shoulder muscles, and they’re sore, as if I’ve started running again. I need to find my phone. To see if I texted anyone or if there’s a terse email from board chairman Miller Marks, who never wanted me as Poe CEO.
After I shift again, pain sizzles in my knees. I lift my legs off the bed despite my throbbing head. There are large scrapes on both of them, red and still oozing. I drop my legs back onto the bed, cursing those damn Providence sidewalks. Did that happen when I got home from the launch? Wait. No. Oh, no.
I went out after the event. Good Lord, that champagne really got to me. I should have had dinner. Or lunch. Or switched to water. Or stuck to my two-drink plan.
With a groan, I reach to touch the cuts, and there’s something dark, maybe dirt, under my thumbnail. I pick at it until it’s gone and then draw my fingers to my mouth. My lips feel slightly swollen, as if I’ve been kissed. What the hell did Drunk Me do last night?
Familiar music blasts from downstairs. Our son, Fitz, has the TV on YouTube, and he’s watching his favorite show. Well, not a show exactly, but videos of this family living their life, raking in millions of viewers. A vlog, it’s called.
It’s half the reason I pushed the board to agree to have a camera crew around last night. We even streamed the official announcement, made by me, live on our YouTube channel. Video is where it’s at these days.
I feel a spasm in my chest at the thought that maybe I was already tipsy during my speech. I can’t quite remember. Our public relations consultant, Elle Freshly, should have sent me the video files the team recorded and broadcast. Surely it wasn’t that bad? It has to be fine. It must be fine.
There’s a knock on the front door, loud and firm, echoing from downstairs.
“Ethan?” I call out to my husband and flinch at the effort.
The house is silent except for the TV. Another knock, this one even louder.
Mumbling a curse, I have to hold my temples to yell again. “Ethan, do I need to get it?”
There’s no response, only the deep rumble of the vlog father’s voice as he makes Fitz laugh.
I throw my legs over the side of the bed in one fluid move, and just as quickly, I have to brace myself on my scraped knees in a vertiginous double-over.
This is going to be a long day at work. “Ethan?” I call again. “Fitz?”
“He left for CVS, Mama!” Fitz hollers, punctuating each word in his annoyed-little-boy tone.
Not completely unusual, since we’re only a couple of blocks away, but definitely not the best timing. “Okay, honey. Let Mama get the door.”
I do not want to chase kidnappers with this hangover.
Conscious that I’m about to be seen, I hobble—that’s the only word for it—over to examine myself in the mirror: damp bangs over my bloodshot eyes, dehydrated pale skin, and my dark-brown shoulder-length hair chilling my freckled shoulders. After taking a long steadying exhale, I release a breath that could peel wal
lpaper.
No “Hot Moms of Rhode Island” contest for me today.
I have to answer the door. It could be important. And I don’t want Fitz to do it alone.
As I cross my bedroom, I consider the bottle of Sprite that Ethan left on my bedside table with two Aleve. My stomach quakes at the thought of trying it.
Another firm knock. I hurry over to my clothes from last night. The scent of cigarette smoke wafts up from my black dress. I certainly can’t put that back on.
Instead, I grab Ethan’s clean workout clothes and slip on my strapless bra from last night. His mesh shorts go past my knees, and I have to pull the drawstrings tight to keep them up.
Taking one step and then another, I make it out of the bedroom, but our wide stairway spins like I’m a girl back on the old wooden carousel in East Providence.
Damn champagne hangover. My mind sputters, and I can almost taste the bitter smack of gin too. I gag, and there’s another knock that’s relentless, firm, urgent, and it reverberates in my poor desiccated brain.
After making it down the steps, I pause at the mostly open front door and stare through the glass storm door. The cable salesperson or Save the Bay petitioner has on very, very shiny black shoes. Almost tap dance worthy.
“I’m coming,” I call toward the door.
My breath catches at the perfectly hemmed gray-blue pants leg with a stripe running up the side. It’s a cop.
I hurry the few steps to the living room to make sure Fitz is safe. He’s lying on his stomach, brownish-blond hair sticking up, as he grabs for another piece of bacon.
“Hey, Mom. This is my new, new favorite one. The Farm Family moved into a big house.”
“How long has Dad been gone?” I say, glancing through the glass door at the cop.
“Maybe for one Farm Family video. Our milk is stinky. He said he’d bring me a treat.”
Jesus Christ. Ethan got hit by a car.
I bolt over to the door. “Officer, please, my son is inside. Can we talk—” I step into his personal space before he can answer.
The cop looks about fifteen and a day, and he’s suddenly red faced as he stutter-steps backward. He’s completely off the porch like a windup toy when I see he’s not alone.