The Whole Truth: The MisFit, #7

By AB Plum

An addictive, mind-boggling psychological thriller with twists and turns that will keep you up all night.

An eye for an eye.

A child for a child.

Three children for an only son.

Watch AnnaSophia come undone.

Not all monsters win when they come out from under the bed. AnnaSophia Romanov survives fifteen lonely years of psychological abuse married to a psychopath. He's handsome. Uber-wealthy. Powerful. Charismatic. A psychopath.

After his brutal murder—still unsolved three years later—AnnaSophia thinks she's helped their three children heal. Until … her oldest daughter uncovers her father's most heinous atrocity.

Suddenly, AnnaSophia's carefully re-envisioned life falls apart.

In defense of her family, AnnaSophia kills Dimitri Karpov's only son. The police call the killing an accident. Dimitri calls her over-reaction criminal. Murder.

Dimitri knows about murder. He is a serial killer who has a long, complicated history with AnnaSophia's husband. When it becomes apparent Dimitri intends to exact justice from her children, she must trust two combative men to help her stop another monster.

Past and present collide in this dark and disturbing psychological thriller, by AB Plum, author of the gripping MisFit Series.

WARNING: Fans of Gillian Flynn, Elizabeth Haynes, Jo Nesbo, and Karin Slaughter ... The Whole Truth goes to the darker side.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AB Plum
• Release date: Apr 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386128687

Book preview

Prologue

i.

Boundary Waters Canoe Area—20 Land Miles from Ely, MN—Sunday Afternoon, Four Weeks after Labor Day—5:00 p.m.

Oh, my God.

Sit down, Kristi! Heart pounding, veteran canoer Jeff Danforth yelled as he sculled his paddle in the churning water. Now, goddammit.

You saw it. She dropped down like a ton of bricks, and her body weight sent the bow yawing further off course.

Idiot. He refused to turn his head to glance behind them and jammed his paddle against the water’s force. Help me out here.

We have to pull in, Kristi shrieked, rummaging in their knapsack. "Twenty degrees to your left. We have to send an SOS."

Are you crazy? The spit of land they’d just passed wasn’t big enough for a cedar waxwing, and the tree-covered bank beyond the spit rose straight out of the water. They didn’t have a prayer of going ashore. There is no shore. We’ve gotta beat those clouds. Get your paddle in the water, dammit.

Stop yelling. She picked up her paddle and started rowing for the spit. I’m going ashore.

Like hell. Jeff strained harder on his handle, sending the canoe into a harder spin.

Stop, she screamed. I’m trying to text the ranger. Report—

He’ll think you’re drunk. Dammit, we’ve spent three weeks in the wilderness without using that damn thing. Now, an hour away from civilization and they had to forget the unbelievable tranquility they’d found in favor of state-of-the-art satellite technology.

I don’t care. She was panting from the effort to change their course and hold onto the satellite texting device at the same time. We have to report … Jeff, we saw a body.

---

ii.

Boundary Waters Canoe Area—Ely, Minnesota—Ely Weekly Register—November 15

Six weeks ago, Kristi and Jeff Danforth left Ely on a three-week vacation of a lifetime to canoe and camp in the BWCA. The whereabouts of the married couple remains a mystery.

Their 2016 Subaru sits in Ely’s unclaimed vehicles lot. Their hand-made canoe and camping equipment remain missing. Neither friends nor family in the Minneapolis Metro Area has heard from either Kristi or Jeff since they left on their vacation September 11.

Record heavy rain of the past three weeks has prevented a water search beyond Little Indian Sioux River. Despite the inclement skies, dozens of local and regional citizens have searched around Ely every day for the past ten days.

Ranger Clinton Anderson has produced permits for the Danforths’ last night on October 30 in Sawbill Lake, Tofte.

Anyone with information about this couple should contact the Minnesota BCA (Bureau of Criminal Apprehension) at 1-888-123-3211.

Due to the impending winter storms, further searches will be postponed until Spring.

---

iii.

Obituary: San Jose Mercury News—November 21

Family and friends of Alexandra Katerina Romanov will celebrate her life at her home today from 2:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. The family requests no flowers.

---

iv.

Boundary Waters Canoe Area—5 Nautical Miles from Ely, MN— November 21—10:25 a.m.

The skeleton lay tethered by wrists and ankles to a sturdy scaffold above the sandbar, face up, gazing through rain-filled sockets at Ranger Wiley Gowdy.

Christ, the bullet hole in the middle of the forehead told more than the bare bones.

No matter how long the deceased had been in the water—and Wiley guessed years—he’d bet his pension the poor bastard didn’t drown.

Drowning victims rarely showed up on a scaffold that showed all the workmanship of a wilderness expert.

---

v.

Los Altos, CA—November 21—1:25 p.m.

Take that out of here!

But ma’am. You said— The deliveryman’s voice rose to an adolescent’s crack behind the reeking tower of white peonies, Calla lilies, and carnations. You said you’re AnnaSo—

Get out of here or I’ll call the police.

Okay, okay. You don’t have to yell. Or shoot the messenger. He delivered the last with an audible laugh in his voice—as if he’d invented the cliché.

As he stepped backwards onto the walkway, a white envelope tumbled out of the bouquet. The envelope landed with an oomph on the sun-soaked step.

Pick that up. Come back here. Don’t leave it. Pick it up.

He kept walking backwards, then turned and fled toward the black, unmarked hearse idling in the street.

---

vi.

Los Altos, CA—November 21—1:35 p.m.

No sign of the cop. Surprising he didn’t open the front door instead of The Bitch. Or at least stand next to her—close as a leech. Bastard. Damn, the game would lose most of the challenge if the cop stayed on the sidelines.

Slipping now that he’s a civilian? The driver of the black hearse zigged and zagged through the tony Moscow neighborhood streets he now knew as well as his Patriarshiye Prudy district. After vetting this much smaller area for more than a hundred hours and reviewing Google Maps for an additional twenty hours, he ought to know his way around.

Constant checks in the rearview mirror revealed no tails.

Another surprise.

He’d spotted Special Agent Patrick Reid as soon as he drove onto AnnaSophia’s street.

So obvious. The FBI could take lessons.

The driver parked the hearse a mile from the Romanov house. Plenty of out-of-the-way spots in the deserted park. He smiled. Planning. Most people considered plan a four-letter word. He laughed, ripped off the synthetic yellow wig, and replaced it with a longish, curly black hairpiece made from the finest Peruvian virgin hair. He popped out the blue contacts and slipped on Harry-Potter spectacles. The turquoise stripes in the Eton tie coordinated perfectly with his black eyes.

No one—least of all AnnaSophia Romanov—would recognize him.

His iPhone beeped. A reminder he still had to walk five blocks to pick up the Audi. Blue, not red. But still a brand-new R8 Spyder … Another smile played around his lips. He pulled a navy Armani jacket off the backseat of the hearse, stepped onto asphalt, and casually slung the jacket over his shoulder with two fingers.

Eat your heart out, George Clooney.

---

vii.

Los Altos, CA—November 21—1:55 p.m.

AnnaSophia answered the door on his first ring—almost as if she were waiting for him. This time, ex-Detective Satish Patel stood at her elbow. Music—Taylor Swift or Beyoncé or Katy Perry, he’d never learned to tell them apart—played below the buzz of voices from the back of the house.

Yuri Turgenev. The mourner extended his hand and fought the impulse to flinch when he enclosed AnnaSophia’s fingers. Christ, more blood flowed through a corpse. Alexandra was my favorite student.

She frowned. In what subject, Mr. Turgenev?

Russian. Alexandra had perfect pronunciation—far superior to any girl I’ve ever tutored. He deliberately avoided eye contact with any of the four girls he’d chosen to attend the celebration. Eye contact was unnecessary. They knew the consequences if they fucked up.

A slight flush colored AnnaSophia’s high cheeks. I-I didn’t know Russian was offered at Woodside Prep.

Oh, not at Woodside, Mrs. Romanov. I met Alexandra at Westbrier.

At West—

Mamá. Lovely forehead puckered, the blonde Anastaysa hurried into the foyer. One of Alexandra’s friends cut her finger. Can you examine it?

Naturally she went. And where she went, so went her hound Patel.

Neither looked back.

The girl with the cut finger was the center of attention. Following his earlier instructions, she milked her injury. So no one noticed the white envelope he laid on the pile of condolence cards. God, what he’d give to be present when AnnaSophia opened this expression of sympathy.

Sentry Patel stood outside the circle, his gaze sweeping over the room. When the doorbell rang again, he answered—as if he lived there. Half a dozen celebrants entered, speaking in hushed tones, nodding like puppets as Patel ushered them into the room where AnnaSophia played doctor.

No one except me notices the bulge at his hip, Yuri thought, his mouth curling in involuntary contempt. A Glock. More a toy than a weapon.

AnnaSophia finished with her doctorly ministrations, gazed around the room, and immediately returned to Yuri. He fed her pathetic ego with superlatives for Alexandra’s language ability. Mourners interrupted, but AnnaSophia kept Yuri close, introducing him as if he’d been special to Alexandra.

Which—of course—he had been.

Around 4:00 a cloud passed over the sun, dimming the rooms where celebrants of Alexandra Romanov’s short life huddled like herds of walruses too gorged on the tiny crab and shrimp and ham and cucumber sandwiches to move. Soft lights came on throughout the house, but the air carried a chill. One after another of his girls leaned into Anastaysa, pecked her cheek, and swarmed toward the foyer. Yuri joined them, but stopped in the door—hijacked by AnnaSophia.

Despite her lifeless eyes, she shone with a transcendent luminosity. Yuri wanted to smash her face to a pulp.

She said, Thank you for representing Westbrier today and for bringing some of Alexandra’s friends. Coming from the East coast… thank you. I hope you’ll stay in touch.

Yuri smiled. You will definitely hear from me again.

Chapter 1

ANNASOPHIA

Los Altos—November 21—5:00 p.m.

Fatigue hung on AnnaSophia’s shoulders like a cement coat. The caterers, efficient from arrival to departure, had left the house immaculate, the leftovers covered in the fridge, and the condolence cards neatly arranged in a basket in the foyer. Magnus, Anastaysa, Soshanna, Ari, Benazir, and Satish stood in a half circle silent as statues in a cemetery.

What did they expect? That she’d start howling? Tearing her hair? Ripping her clothes? Rend, not rip. That was the Biblical phrase.

Biblical phrase? Where the hell did that come from? Not from her rational mind that was for certain. She jammed her hands in her pockets and made a pathetic attempt to smile, then stopped. The seven faces in front of her reflected … horror.

Smiling—trying to smile at them as darkness pierced the windows—signaled her otherness, her differentness from the rest of her pack. If they were animals, they’d have their heads thrown back, noses in the air, sniffing for clues about her, growling.

Suck it up, AnnaSophia. You’re scaring everybody. She shifted her weight to calm her brain’s spinning, and Satish leaped forward.

Stepping outside herself—something she did more and more, especially since removing Alexandra’s bed from the family room—she laid her hand on his arm. More from necessity than from courtesy since she felt disconnected from her body. Her fingers were numb as he led her to the nearest wing chair. She eased into the plush velvet and something clicked in her mind. An old memory jittered. Flashed. Faded.

Heart thumping, she stated, I’m tired, but I’m okay. Honest. Please go. Leave me alone. No more talking.

Shall I make you tea? Benazir moved next to her son and offered the eternal Indian solution to all sorrows.

Thank you, no. I’m okay. Really.

Soshanna, ever the astute shrink and best friend said, Could you use a little breathing space? Time alone?

Yes. For the rest of my life. AnnaSophia nodded.

Fifteen minutes. That’s all I need. A lie, but she had to think about Magnus and Anastaysa, their eyes too bright, their faces pale, their lips thin, white lines.

Soshanna bussed her cheek and ushered everyone into the family room at the back of the house. Everyone went—docile as lambs. Everyone except Satish. Surprise, surprise, God … dammit. She flexed her fingers and refused to meet his eyes.

He said, I’m taking my mother home, but I’m coming back later. After the kids’ve gone to bed.

I don’t think that’s a good idea.

I’m coming back. While I’m gone, Reid’s outside.

I’m going to bed soon. Her tone was sullen, but too damned bad.

Chapter 2

SATISH

What are you doing, Satish? Disapproval rides Mère’s question as I tuck the basket of condolence cards under my arm.

Good-nights, delivered in the family room, I open the front door and nudge her out of AnnaSophia’s house. Let me help you with the steps.

Let me repeat my ques—

In the car. I close the door and guide her down three broad, brick steps that meld into a softly lit path curving to the driveway.

Those belong to AnnaSophia.

Surprised, because she rarely states the obvious, I see no reason to reply. I punch the Porsche’s remote, open my door, set the basket behind the driver’s seat, then lead Mère in front of the car and help her into her seat, patting her shoulder.

She brushes away my hand. I thought you’d wait a few more years before you stooped to condescension.

Busted. I fire up the Porsche, back out the drive, and wait until we reach the end of the cul-de-sac before apologizing, rejecting any attempt to convince her I patted her shoulder because I love her even though she can drive me bloody crazy.

Sorry, Mère. I won’t pat your shoulder again until you’re at least eighty.

Thank you. She pinches my cheek. Now please answer my question. Before we get home. Before you go to your room and fall in bed. You look like a recently interred corpse.

I laugh. She almost never falls back on speaking faster than a Mumbai taxi driver so I know she’s stressed. And why not? This week has taken a toll. She’s seventy-one, and I have no intention of telling her I plan to return to AnnaSophia’s before falling into bed.

I brought the cards because I think there are at least two that will upset AnnaSophia.

Why only two? Few people know how to express their sympathies. They make gaffes. They fall back on clichés. AnnaSophia will have to develop a thick skin or she’ll be crying for the rest of her life. For one, I think she’s stronger than you give her credit.

I give her plenty of credit. We coast to a stop at a red light, and I face her, keeping my hands on the steering wheel. But. I see no reason she has to deal with malice or malevolence.

Mère narrows her eyes. What are you talking about?

I’m talking about Alexandra’s Russian teacher. She opens her mouth, but I talk over her. There was something off about that guy. Something wonky. At the very least, he’s a liar. At the worst, I think he intends AnnaSophia harm.

Chapter 3

ANNASOPHIA

In the midst of death, life boogies on. Yuri Turgenev’s whispered parting banged AnnaSophia’s aching brain. She laid her head against the chair’s velvet-covered high back and massaged her temples, digging into the top of her skull.

Jumpstart blood flow to my brain. Stir up some thinking cells.

Had she heard him correctly? She closed her eyes and brought back the scene. Elegant in his school tie and navy jacket, his ebony hair shiny and curly, he had all but sung an aria to Alexandra’s talents as a student of Russian.

Perfect cadence. Amazing intonation. Precise pronunciation. Intuitive grasp of idioms. Every teacher’s ideal student.

And AnnaSophia ate up every sentence. Every word. Every syllable.

She’d brushed off the kissers and huggers and lamenters so she could suck the poetry from his brain into hers. Even now, drained of energy, she remembered his willingness to fill up her senses with visions of Alexandra’s boundless future, echoes of her girlish giggle, memories of her soft caresses, whiffs of roses lingering in her hair and on her soft nape.

If he hadn’t said boogies, what had he said?

Why didn’t you go after him?

She blinked and rewound the memory-tape. Afternoon fog drifted from the Bay and muted the sun’s neon-orange brightness. It was close to four o’clock. Everyone was finishing one last glass of wine or swallowing one more crab patty, milling back and forth between AnnaSophia and the pictures of Alexandra.

Two o’clock to four the obituary had noted. Soshanna started herding the celebrants toward the door.

Yuri Turgenev leaned into AnnaSophia. In death … boogies …

Her mouth dropped. He turned away and one of the girls from Westbrier muscled between them. Eyes bright with tears, she kissed AnnaSophia three times, alternating cheeks as if greeting an old Russian friend. Caught off guard, AnnaSophia stepped back and stared at the girl she’d never met until the memorial service. A sly smile twitched around the girl’s crimson mouth. Her black eyes flashed with contempt.

At least that’s how AnnaSophia had consciously characterized the expression that reminded her of Michael’s undisguised, searing disdain.

Pain sliced between her eyes and she pinched the bridge of her nose. Murdered four years ago, her dead husband had recently started haunting her again. That was why, peering into the girl’s eyes, suddenly chilled to near hypothermia, she’d let Yuri Turgenev leave without asking him to explain what the hell he meant by life boogies on.

Hey. You asleep? Soshanna stuck her dark head around the corner. The kids are getting a little anxious.

Dry-mouthed, AnnaSophia stirred in the overstuffed chair. Time—?

Five before six. No one’s really hungry, but we think you should eat.

AnnaSophia’s stomach dropped and then leveled out. Later. Not now.

How about some soup? Anastaysa says you haven’t eaten any of what she made day before yesterday.

Day before yesterday … the longest day in AnnaSophia’s life. The day she killed her oldest daughter.

Chapter 4

SATISH

Mountain View, CA—November 21—7:30 p.m.

Oh, my God. Ninety minutes into reading the sympathy cards, Mère hands me the one she has just finished reading and shudders. Where do these sick minds live?

I take the note, silently scanning the two lines:

So sorry, dearest AnnaSophia, I am unable to be there to console you—since I know too well what it means to lose a child.

Handwritten on thick, pristine white stock, two initials comprise the signature. Both the D and K are oversized and intertwined, with ornate flourishes and calligraphic exaggeration. Under other circumstances, the letters would convey purity versus the soul-deep corruption of the author, Dimitri Karpov.

Why can’t you find this monster? Mère whispers. How—after a year—can he still be free?

Because crime pays. Pornography. Prostitution. Drugs. Human trafficking. Kidnapping. Hacking the Internet. Name it, and Dimitri Karpov has a stake.

My God, Satish. You must back off from this-this creature. He will kill you.

I’m more worried he’ll stalk AnnaSophia and her children for the rest of their lives. I stop, debating whether to scare her to death. She’s strong, my Hindi mother. But I’ve kept the secret this long …

What aren’t you telling me? What can be worse than having him kill you?

Nothing, I say, answering the second question and rushing on. I have no intention of becoming one of Dimitri Karpov’s fatalities.

She rolls her eyes, but then nails me with an unrelenting glare. And who does?

Sinking in my own quicksand, I wish I could find the words to comfort her. But nothing poetic or practical flows off my tongue. So I take the rest of the cards and urge her to let me finish reading them. Her instant compliance shows me the depth of her fear. She’s not above manipulation to bring me to her will, but there is no manipulation in her unasked questions. They simply stem from her inability to understand her only child.

Why can’t I give her the gift of taking and passing the bar exam? Why can’t I marry a nice Hindi girl, settle down, have my own children like a normal Hindi boy? Why does AnnaSophia Romanov pull me into her orbit like the sun pulls a lesser planet?

No one, me included, ever wins against my mother in a staring contest. This time is no exception—because I let her win. After which, she kisses me, goes to her bedroom, calling from the open doorway, Tomorrow will be a grueling day for AnnaSophia. She won’t make it without sleep.

We agree. I take the basket of cards, ready to hit something by the time I have only three left.

The card I want is the last one, and I have to fight the instinct to rip it to shreds. I tuck it and the first one inside my jacket, pick up the basket, and walk out the door. Ten o’clock and I’m stumbling like a drunk.

Patrick Reid picks up on the first ring. How many?

Two. Have the Levi-Hoffmans left?

The garage door’s sliding up as we speak. He snorts. Hoffman’s spent too much time with the chimps in Africa. He’s not even checking over his shoulder.

He lives in the ivory towers of academia. You and I dwell in the open sewers running past said towers.

Jesus, Patel. Sure you can make it till midnight? Your brain’s fried. When I don’t take the bait, he adds, Nothing on Yuri Turgenev. Never went to Eton. Doesn’t teach now or ever at Westbrier or anywhere else I can find. The dean claims no one left the school to attend the memorial service.

Chapter 5

ANNASOPHIA

Mountain View, CA—November 21—10 p.m.

Satish called from the front step, texting AnnaSophia he was freezing. If she didn’t answer the door, would he go away?

Would her fairy godmother appear and grant three wishes?

She lurched out of the family room chair. On her march through the hall, she managed to square her shoulders. Being pissed might help. Who pissed her off more than Satish? Why?

Because he came back when I told him not to.

What happened to telling the truth? The whole truth …

In no mood for a sermon from her conscience, she detoured down the hall to Magnus’s room. He’d fallen asleep before she finished reading him the first page of his new Rick Riordan. What was the name of it? She pinched the bridge of her nose. The title danced on the edge of memory. Not a single word of the title came back.

Life boogies on, but the memory … A blurry image of Yuri Turgenev popped, then faded. Would she recognize him again? She yawned and cracked Magnus’s door.

A sliver of light from the hall slanted across Molly, head raised. Thank God, for Molly. AnnaSophia closed the door. The dog stayed by Magnus every minute he spent at home and waited by the back door till he returned from school—no matter how late. Alexandra’s hatred for the mutt had been unreasonable from the day Magnus chose her at the Humane Society.

AnnaSophia swallowed a surge of acid laced with confusion and sorrow and anger. Don’t go there. You’ve got to get through tomorrow.

If I get through today. She rubbed her arms and stood for a second—the memory of where she was going lost in one of those bubbles laughingly called an Alzheimer’s moment. Recently, more and more of those moments mutated into days of brain-fog.

Her cell phone vibrated. Her brain clicked on. Satish. Annoyed because he’d shown up, she’d sent a silent rebuke by letting him wait in the cold. God, she was a bitch. She glanced at his text.

Did i mention i m frzng?

Yes, but did he expect her sympathy? She didn’t want his sympathy. Which was no doubt fake. He never liked Alexandra. Didn’t matter that he had good reason … nothing mattered except Alexandra was dead. A switch flipped on in her brain.

Not his fault.

Okay, but why hadn’t he found Dimitri Karpov? Why did that monster get to live with her daughter dead? AnnaSophia stared blankly at the dusky blue walls. Alexandra had pronounced them ugly. Nothing like the burgundy reds and forest greens at Belle Haven.

AnnaSophia touched the nearest wall. Her legs felt like water, but her downward plunge slowed. She turned and passed Anastaysa’s door. Her pulse leaped. How could she let Anastaysa go away to Stanford next year? Only five miles to campus, but her lungs seized every time her surviving daughter left the house. The same with Magnus. What if …

The question slipped into the ether. The front door stood three feet ahead. With Satish on the other side. Undoubtedly wanting to review one more time the plan for tomorrow. A thousand reasons to reject the plan clashed inside her head. A hundred things could go wrong to ruin her final goodbye to Alexandra. What if …

Okay, Satish. Here I come. Ready or not. She tore open the door.

A bone-chilling damp snaked into the foyer and she gulped in cold air. I told you not to come back.

Neither of us listens worth a damn. He pushed past her and set the basket of sympathy cards on the hall table and continued toward the family room without a backward glance. He held two white envelopes over his head. We don’t do any better talking to each other, but we’d better learn.

Her chest tightened and her heart beat too hard. Too fast. A trickle of fear stung her arms like an army of stinging ants. She took a deep breath and followed him, brain racing, in no mood for melodrama. Or scare tactics.

Logic kicked in.

Melodrama wasn’t Satish’s style.

Neither was trying to scare her.

She was tired.

Overreacting.

His eyes—those strange, warm, navy-blue eyes—met hers and reminded her he was a kind, decent man. Knowing she had cost him his career as a cop and more. His sad