Bad Road to Nowhere

By Linda Ladd

First in a spinoff of the Claire Morgan crime series. “[A] nail-biting case . . . what a suspenseful thriller it is!” (Fresh Fiction)
 
Bad Memories
Not many people know their way through the bayous well enough to find Will Novak’s crumbling mansion outside New Orleans. Not that Novak wants to talk to anyone. He keeps his guns close and his guard always up.
 
Bad Sister
Mariah Murray is one selfish, reckless, manipulative woman, the kind Novak would never want to get tangled up with. But he can’t say no to his dead’s wife sister.
 
Bad Vibes
When Mariah tells him she wants to rescue a childhood friend, another Aussie girl gone conveniently missing in north Georgia, Novak can’t turn her down. She’s hiding something. But the pretty little town she’s targeted screams trouble, too. Novak knows there’s a trap waiting. But until he springs it, there’s no telling who to trust . . .
 
Praise for Linda Ladd’s Claire Morgan thrillers
 
“A tough, no-nonsense detective with a well-hidden vulnerable side . . . edgy, clever!” —Beverly Barton, New York Times bestselling author
 
“Chilling, compelling suspense . . . be prepared to lose sleep!” —Eileen Dreyer, New York Times bestselling author
 
“A feisty new heroine to root for!” —Patricia Gaffney, New York Times bestselling author
 
“Plenty of suspense and surprises.” —Publishers Weekly

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyrical Press
• Release date: Dec 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781601838568

Linda Ladd

Since she was a little girl, Linda Ladd has always been a romantic, loving nothing better than to lose herself completely in the faraway times and places of great novelists such as Jane Austen, Margaret Mitchell, and the Brontë sisters. Little did she dream that someday she would be transporting legions of her own fans into exciting love stories, where darkly handsome heroes are swept away with beautiful, high‑spirited heroines. Millions have enjoyed her novels since her first historical romance, Wildstar, hit the shelves in 1984. Within a year, she had signed multiple‑book contracts with two different publishers and resigned from her teaching position in order to write full time. Since then, she has penned fourteen bestselling historical novels, which have been acclaimed by readers and booksellers alike. An award‑winning author with a loyal following all over the world, her primary love remains with her family. Ladd recently celebrated her silver wedding anniversary with husband, Bill, and the magic between them still lingers, as he remains the inspiration for all her heroes. She enjoys a lakefront home in southern Missouri, and her daughter Laurel and son Bill have gone away to college. When not hard at work on her latest novel, her two dogs (Pete and Sampras) and two cats (Tigger and Tounces) keep her company, as well as Romeo and Juliet, a pair of snow‑white swans who glide gracefully past her gazebo overlooking Misty Lake.

Book preview

chapter

Chapter One

Will Novak swung a leg over the starboard gunwale of his sailboat, got a good firm grip on the railing, and then stretched down far enough to reach the layer of salt and brine crusted at the waterline. Novak was a big guy with big fists and big shoulders and an intimidating look to him. People usually gave him a wide berth if they didn’t know him well, and that’s the way he liked it. It was a beautiful afternoon, late September in South Louisiana, and still hot as hell. Unseasonably so. He was shirtless, muscles straining with effort, sweat shining on his torso. His body was in peak physical condition, banded with thick, powerful muscles that he knew how to use and that he wasn’t slow to put to good use if anybody messed with him. He followed the rigid daily workout he had mastered a long time ago while in the military, and still adhered to it almost every day. He wasn’t quite as fit as when he ran special ops missions with the SEALs, but he wasn’t too far off. He liked that kind of order and rigidity and purpose in his life, especially now when little else he had meant a damn thing to him.

The Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 379 on which he labored was a sleek and powerful craft, practically new and spotless after an entire day spent scrubbing her after over a week spent at sea. She was a forty-footer that he’d had for almost three months, new out of the factory and built to his own specifications. He’d made sure that the boat was perfectly suited to him. Everything was somewhat oversized, enough to comfortably accommodate his six-feet-six-inch frame. He’d sailed her from South Carolina on the Intracoastal Waterway to his home deep in the bayous of Lafourche and Terrebonne Parishes. He’d worked hard all day making her look like new again. Everything was spotless, inside and out, his gear clean and orderly and stowed in the proper places. That kind of thing was important to him.

On the eve of September 11, he had steered his gleaming boat down the wide Bayou Bonne that edged the back side of his property and eventually sailed her out into the deep royal blue waters of the vast Gulf of Mexico. He’d spent ten full days out there, completely alone, as was his habit every year on the anniversary of that day of infamy for all Americans. He had stayed out on the rolling waves, working through the most catastrophic event in his life, a trauma that he had fought to accept daily for so many years that he no longer kept count. It didn’t matter how long it had been. Not if he lived to be a hundred. He wasn’t going to get over it. He had accepted that now. He just forced himself to live with it. Endless day after endless day.

Out there, though, completely by himself in the dark, quiet, ever-swaying, ever-restless sea, under untold billions of glittering stars spangled across ink-black skies, he had suffered alone and wept fresh tears for his dead family while he fished for bonito and sea bass and flounder and mourned to the depths of his soul and studiously drank himself into oblivion every single night. But that’s the way he liked it during his own personal, self-inflicted hell week, far away from every other living being on earth, alone and buffeted by ocean winds and rocking waves and the merciless sun, and most of all, the silent solitude where he could work through the grief that never left him, not for one hour, one minute, one second of conscious thought.

But now, on this sunny day, Novak was back at home, ready to live his miserable existence once more, an empty, futile objective that he never really accomplished. But that’s the way it was. Swiping his sponge a few more times down the wide blue stripe painted along the length of the white hull, he took a few extra minutes to scrub the giant silver letters naming his boat. He had called her Sweet Sarah, in memory of his dead wife. Another way to keep Sarah close when she wasn’t close and never would be again.

Once Novak was satisfied with his efforts, he hoisted himself back up and straddled the rail. He raised his face, shut his eyes, and felt the fire of the sun burn hot into his bare skin. He was already sunburned from his time out on the drink, his skin burnished a deep, warm bronze. After a few minutes, he shifted his gaze down onto the slow, rippling bayou current. It was good to be back home, good to be sober, good to be able to think clearly. He had wrestled his demons back under control, at least for the moment. He left his perch, stooped down, and pulled a cold bottle of Dixie beer from the cooler. He twisted off the cap and took a deep draft, thirsty and tired from a full day of hard physical labor. That’s when he first heard the sound of a vehicle, coming closer, turning off the old bayou road and heading down through the swampy woods to his place.

Grimacing, annoyed as hell, not pleased about uninvited guests showing up, he lowered the beer bottle, shielded his eyes with his forearm, and peered up the long grassy field that stretched between the bayou and the ancient plantation house he’d inherited from his mother on the day he was born. He had not been expecting company today. Or any other day. He did not like company. He did not like people coming around his place, and that was putting it mildly. He was a serious loner. He liked to be invisible. Anonymous. He liked his privacy. And he was willing to protect it.

The sun broiled down, the temperature probably close to ninety, humidity hugging the bayou like a wool blanket, thick and wet and heavy. Drops of perspiration rolled down his forehead and burned into his eyes. Novak grabbed a towel and mopped the sweat off his face and chest. Then he took another long drink of the icy beer. But he kept his attention focused on the spot where his road emerged from the dense grove of giant live oaks and cypress trees and magnolias. The sugar plantation was ancient and now defunct, but it was a huge property, none of which had ever been sold out of his family. It took a lot of his effort to keep the place even in modest repair. The mansion on the knoll above him had stood in the same spot for over two hundred years. And it looked like it, too, with most of the white paint peeled off and weathered to gray years ago.

Once upon a time, his wealthy Creole ancestors, the St. Pierre family, had sold their sugar at top price and flourished for a century and a half on the bayou plantation they’d named Bonne Terre. They had been quite the elite in Napoleonic New Orleans, he had been told. They still were quite the elite, but mostly in France now. The magnificence with which they’d endowed the place was long gone and the house in need of serious renovation. Someday, maybe. Right now, he preferred to live on his boat where it was cooler and more to his liking.

Minutes passed, and then the car appeared and proceeded slowly around the circular driveway leading to his front gallery. It was a late model Taurus, apple-red and shiny clean and glinting like a fine ruby under the blinding sunlight. Probably a New Orleans rental. He’d never seen the car before. That meant a stranger, which in Novak’s experience usually meant trouble. Few visitors found their way this far down into the bayou. Ever. That’s why he lived there.

Claire Morgan was the exception and one of the few people who knew where he lived, but he trusted her. She was a former homicide detective who’d hired him on as a partner in her new private investigation agency. But it wasn’t Claire who’d come to call today. She was still on her honeymoon with Nicholas Black, out in the Hawaiian Islands, living it up on some big estate on the island of Kauai. They’d been gone around eight weeks now, and that had given Novak plenty of time to do his own thing. Especially after what had happened on their wedding day. The three of them and a couple of other guys had gotten into a particularly hellish mess and had been lucky to make it out alive. Novak’s shoulder wound had healed up well enough, but all of them deserved some R & R. Other than Claire, though, only a handful of people knew where to find him. He didn’t give out his address, and that had served him well.

Novak wiped his sweaty palms on his faded khaki shorts and kept his gaze focused on the Taurus. Behind him, the bayou drifted along in its slow, swirling currents, rippling and splashing south toward the Gulf of Mexico. As soon as the car left his field of vision, he headed down the hatch steps into the dim, cool quarters belowdecks. At the bottom, he stretched up and reached back into the highest shelf. He pulled out his .45 caliber service weapon. A nice little Kimber 1911. Fully loaded and ready to go. The heft of it felt damn good. Back where it belonged. He checked the mag, racked a round into the chamber, and then wedged the gun down inside his back waistband. He grabbed a clean white T-shirt and pulled it over his head as he climbed back up to the stern deck. Picking up a pair of high-powered binoculars, he scanned the back gallery of his house and the wide grassy yard surrounding it.

Nothing moved. He walked down the gangplank and stepped off into the shade thrown by the covered dock. He moved past the boatlift berths but he kept his attention riveted up on the house. The long fields he’d mowed the day before stretched about a hundred yards up from the bayou. The big mansion sat at the far edge, shaded by a dozen ancient live oaks, all draped almost to the ground with long and wispy tendrils of the gray Spanish moss so prevalent in the bayou.

The wide gallery encircled the first floor, on all four sides, twelve feet wide, with a twelve-feet-high ceiling. No wind now, all vestiges of the breeze gone, everything still, everything quiet. He could see the east side of the house. It was deserted. The guy in the car could be anywhere by now. He could be anybody. He could be good. He could be bad. He could be there to kill Novak. That was the most likely scenario. Novak sure as hell had plenty of enemies who wanted him dead, all over the world. Right up the highway in New Orleans, in fact. Whoever was in that Taurus, whatever they wanted, Novak wanted them inside his gun sights first before they spotted him.

Taking off toward the house, he jogged down the bank and up onto a narrow dirt path hidden by a long fencerow. Then he headed up the gradual rise, staying well behind the fence covered with climbing ivy and flowering azalea bushes. He kept his weapon out in front using both hands, finger alongside the trigger. Guys who were after him usually just wanted to put a bullet in Novak’s skull. Some had even tried their luck, but nobody had tried it on his home turf. He didn’t like that. Wasn’t too savvy on their part, either.

When he reached the backyard, he pulled up under the branches of a huge mimosa tree. He crouched down there and waited, listening. No thud of running feet. No whispered orders to spread out and find him. No nothing, except some stupid bird chirping its head off somewhere high above him. He searched the trees and found a mockingbird sitting on the carved balustrade on the second-floor gallery.

Novak waited a couple more minutes. Then he ran lightly across the grass and took the wide back steps three at a time. He crossed the gallery quickly and pressed his back against the wall. He listened again and heard nothing, so he inched his way around the corner onto the west gallery and then up the side of the house to the front corner. That’s when he heard the loud clang of his century-old iron door knocker. He froze in his tracks.

Directly in front of him, a long white wicker swing swayed in a sudden gust of wind. He darted a quick look around the corner of the house. Three yards down the gallery from him, a woman stood at his front door, her right side turned to him. She was alone. She was unarmed, considering how skin-tight her skimpy outfit molded to her slim body. While he watched, she lifted the heavy door knocker and let it clang down again. Hard. Impatient. Annoyed. She was tall, maybe five feet eight or nine inches. Long black hair curled down around her shoulders. She was slender and her body was fit, all shown to advantage in her tight white Daisy Dukes and a black-and-white chevron crop top. She turned slightly, and Novak glimpsed her impressively toned and suntanned midriff and the lower curve of her breasts. She was not wearing a bra, and her legs were naked, too, shapely and also darkly tanned. White sandals with silver buckles. She looked sexy as hell but harmless.

On the other hand, Novak had known a woman or two who’d also looked sexy and harmless, but who had assassinated more men than Novak had ever thought about gunning down. Keeping his weapon down alongside his right thigh but ready, he stepped out where she could see him but also where he’d have a good shot at her, if all was not as it seemed. The woman apparently had a highly cultivated sense of awareness because she immediately spun toward him. That’s when Novak’s knees almost buckled. He went weak all over, his muscles just going slack. His heart faltered mid-beat. He stared at her, so completely stunned he could not move or speak.

Then his dead wife, the only woman he had ever loved, his beautiful Sarah, smiled at him and said in her familiar Australian accent, How ya goin’, Will. Long time no see.

Chapter Two

At first, Novak could not think what to say or do. He could not seem to speak or move or form any intelligent words. He simply could not believe his eyes. The beautiful ghost stared right back at him. She waited a moment, and then she laughed a little. It sounded uncertain.

Oh, come on now, Will, don’t look so bloody shocked. It’s just me. Mariah.

At that, something in Novak died instantly, reality hitting him like a gunshot blast, dead on and right between the eyes. Mariah Murray was his wife’s sister, which he should have figured out right off. But shocked disbelief had gotten him first, and he hadn’t been expecting to see Mariah, not ever again. Certainly not today. Not on his front gallery. Because Mariah was the one person whom Novak loathed more than anything or anybody else on earth. And he had hated more than a few and for some very good reasons. Long and deeply repressed emotions flooded up through his gut, alive and well and bitter as acid, even after so many years. His heart thudded hard and fast and out of control, the old anger ripping through him, as if it were only yesterday when he’d last seen her. But he didn’t show any sign of all that inner turmoil. He just stood there, unmoving, unspeaking.

Novak couldn’t take his eyes off her. He could not force his gaze away from her face. It was as if his wife stood there again, staring straight at him and smiling that same beautiful smile. But in a different way, too, in the way she would have looked now, if she had lived. It cut him deeply to look upon those beloved features again, even though he’d longed day and night to see her one more time, even for one more minute. Just to see her. Touch her cheek. Hear her voice.

Somber now, too, Mariah returned his silent stare without speaking. Their gazes locked and didn’t waver. She didn’t say anything else. Probably afraid to. It had been well over a decade since he’d seen his despicable sister-in-law. But her face was almost exactly like Sarah’s had been, beautiful beyond description. There were now a few fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but not many. She looked good. Healthy, and as sun-browned and physically fit and arrogant as she had always been. Her black hair was longer than Sarah’s had been when she died, but her eyes were hauntingly the same. Huge and almond-shaped and black-lashed, the color of fine Chinese jade. But Mariah’s were heavily made up, smudged with black all the way around. Sarah had rarely worn makeup at all, hadn’t needed to.

Even though he knew better and fought the tingling sensation, it still seemed as if his wife had unexpectedly walked back into his life, alive again and so close to him that a few steps would allow him to reach out and touch her. His hand almost twitched with the need to touch the softness of her cheek. The whole encounter was surreal and startling and awful, and he hated it. And he hated Mariah for renewing the pain of the loss that he kept buried so deep inside his heart.

Mariah waited a moment and then took a tentative step in his direction. She stopped, probably because of the look on his face. She remained where she stood. Hey, look now, Will, I’m really sorry, I mean it. I am. I can see how I shocked you. I didn’t mean to, I swear to God, I didn’t. I just didn’t think how you would react to seeing me again, I guess. She glanced away from him for a moment, looking past him at the ancient rose garden, as if trying to formulate what she should say next.

I would’ve called first, seriously. I swear I would’ve, but I don’t have your number anymore. I couldn’t find it anywhere. Nobody seems to know how to get hold of you. Nobody knows where you live, either. It’s a good thing I remembered how to get down here. It took some trial and error, but I found you.

Nobody from his past had his number, true. He used burner phones, and changed his number often, and rarely gave it out. She’d thrown Novak off his game a bit, something that didn’t much happen anymore. He was trained to be ready for anything; any attack, any threat, and he was always prepared. But this intrusion was a whole different ballgame. All he wanted now was for Mariah Murray to get back into her rented Taurus and get the hell out of his sight. Anger was controlling him now. He didn’t try to conquer it. His voice came out harsh.

Why the hell are you here, Mariah?

Mariah’s focus moved down to the weapon he still held beside his thigh.

What’s going on, Will? You expecting trouble? You going to shoot me down right here and now? That’s what you’ve always wanted to do, right? I guess now is your chance. Here I am, all alone and unarmed. Go ahead. Do it. She laughed a little after her challenge, but she sounded self-conscious and phony and wary of his dark mood and what it meant.

Maybe he should. Maybe she deserved it. He sure as hell wanted to lift the gun and pull the trigger.

Mariah’s lush Australian accent was alive and well, just like his wife’s had been. His own had faded long ago, become Americanized with a bit of Louisiana Cajun mixed in. Novak just stared at her without speaking. He steeled himself against the utter disgust he felt and pushed the .45 back into his waistband. He put his fists on his hips. Okay, you’re here. What the hell do you want?

Looks to me like you were expecting somebody else, she said. Somebody you don’t like so much.

Novak said nothing.

Still as chatty as ever, I see.

Their families had been neighbors down in Sydney and lived in the same exclusive neighborhood when they were kids, in Balmoral, a town located on the Balmoral Slopes, with all its beautiful views and sandy beaches. Mariah and Sarah had always teased him about his reticence and quiet demeanor. Novak didn’t want to think about those long-ago days. He just stared at the woman. He wanted her gone.

Well, may I come in, or not? It took me a long time to drive down here from New Orleans. I almost never found this place. You’re quite the bushie now, aren’t you? Back of beyond, for God’s sake. And just as antisocial as you’ve always been.

What the hell do you want, Mariah?

Don’t be so pissy, Will. You’ve got to let bygones be bygones. I can’t believe you’re still holding on to that stupid grudge. I came a long way to see you. All the way from Sydney.

Novak kept examining her face as she groused about him, her voice slowly but surely metamorphosing into that same old beseeching, coy, stupid baby talk that she had always used to charm men. One designed to disarm her male prey du jour. She wanted something from him. She had always wanted something, either from Sarah or from him or from anyone else she could control and manipulate and make miserable. Maybe she had changed in the years gone by since he’d last seen her. Maybe she’d grown up and found her heart somewhere deep down inside that black soul of hers. Novak doubted it. Mariah Murray had always been full of blind ambition and jealousy and vanity and conceit. She had thought of no one but herself since the day she was born. She’d proved that both to him and to her sister, over and over and over again.

I take it by that utterly disgusted look on your face that you still hate my guts. That’s it, isn’t it, Will? You haven’t forgiven me, not even after all these years?

One last time, Mariah. What in the hell do you want with me?

Mariah sighed, making sure that it sounded heavy and resigned and put upon, and then she stared past him again, out at the rose garden, the one on the west side of the mansion, where a ring of ancient mimosa trees sheltered the ornate white iron benches and tinted the ground pink with fallen fuzzy blossoms that he never raked away. So you do still hate me. After all this time? My God, Will. Really? You are undoubtedly the most unforgiving man I’ve ever met.

That’s right. I do hate you. So what? Tell me what you want and then get out.

I need to talk to you. It’s important. I promise. Mariah frowned when he just kept staring at her. He didn’t trust her, not for one tiny little second. Well, may I come in? It’s hot as the devil out here. And I’m so thirsty I can barely stand it. God, how can you stand this horrible humidity? At this time of year? Sweat’s just dripping off me. You live in a bloody swamp, for God’s sake. And I’m surely going to die if I don’t get something to drink. Got some bottled water, maybe? Better yet, a spot of cold grog? Hell, Will, I’ll pay you for it.

Annoyed, and growing more so with every single word that came out of her mouth, Novak walked past her, opened the tall front door with its ancient fanlight made by Tiffany himself, and stepped back out of her way. Mariah swept past him into the spacious grand foyer, wafting the lingering scent of her expensive perfume. Red Door. She had always worn that. He hated that, too. It brought back memories he didn’t want to think about.

Inside the old mansion, the rooms smelled as musty and closed up as they always did. The house was still furnished, almost in exactly the same way as it had been two centuries ago. All the original furnishings were still in the family, still in the same spots in the same rooms, still in good shape, all passed down for generations of St. Pierres until it had all stopped with him. Once upon a time, Novak had tried to modernize the mansion some, right after he’d first brought Sarah to America when they’d been young and newly married and happy. Those were the days when he’d commuted up to Tulane for his master’s degree in Criminal Law, but they hadn’t stayed long enough on the bayou to make any difference. And he’d pretty much kept it shuttered and locked up tight until he got out of the military and had come back home.

Mariah Murray strolled over to the wide pink marble staircase and placed her hand on a carved newel post. She glanced down the wide hall that stretched all the way back to the rear gallery. She looked up at one of the giant crystal chandeliers, its prisms dull from years of dust and neglect, and then at the twin gilded mirrors that stood floor to ceiling and reflected a double image of her, and then at the Empire blue velvet chairs, all priceless antiques that Novak could not care less about.

Still living in your own private museum, eh, Will? Well, I must say, not much has changed in all these years. Looks pretty much the same as it did last time I was here.

I don’t have time for a trip down memory lane, Mariah. Got that? Just say whatever you came here to say and then clear out.

I need your help.

Novak placed his attention back on her. Mariah was waxing serious now, or was pretending to. Probably that. Her big green eyes were expressive, imploring him to listen to her tale of woe and then bow to her wishes. Will, please, please. Just hear me out? I know I made some terrible mistakes the last time I came down here. I was awful. I know that. And I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry about it, Will. But I’m different now. I swear I am. I’m not that kind of woman anymore. I’m ashamed of the things I’ve done. Of the things I did to you and Sarah. I’ve changed, though, I really have.

Yeah, right, Novak thought. Not a chance in hell she’d ever change. Even Sarah had come to believe that Mariah was irredeemable. He said nothing. Waited.

Mariah shook her head, and then she grimaced and muttered a low oath under her breath, which was more her speed. Well, I miss her, too, you know. We were sisters, after all. Just a year apart. And the kids, too, those poor innocent little babies. I miss Kelly and Katie, too.

Novak’s whole body went rigid, his muscles tensing up when she mentioned his children. He did not want to talk about them. He never talked about them, not about Sarah, not about any of them, not with anybody. Not ever.

Mariah had wandered away from him, looking at things along the grand foyer, admiring the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century paintings adorning the walls and the dusty French first editions in the mirrored antique bookcases designed in the amazingly ornate, hand-carved rococo style. We missed you at their memorial service in Sydney, she mentioned, trying to act casual. Your dad was there. Did you know that?

Novak had been in no shape to go anywhere in the aftermath of 9/11. He never talked about that day, and he wasn’t going to talk about it now. He fought down rising heart-wrenching emotions and spoke calmly. Tell me what you want. And then I want you to get out of my house and never come back.

She sighed some more, frustrated with him. Same old prickly Will, huh? Good grief. But hey, how about getting me that drink? Like I said, I drove a long way down here, just to see you. And you’re treating me like a stranger.

Novak left her where she stood and walked down to the far end of the grand foyer and entered the kitchen through a mahogany swinging door. Unfortunately, she followed along, right behind him.

Chapter Three

The kitchen was the only room in the mansion that Novak had completely remodeled, other than several bathrooms. He walked across the big room and opened an oversized side-by-side Samsung stainless fridge, got out two Dixie beers, twisted off the caps, and handed one to Mariah. She took it and sat down on a high stool at the wide black granite bar and crossed her long, bare legs. Novak remained standing on the other side, away from her, where he didn’t have to smell her perfume. He waited, not looking at her.

You’re not making this easy.

Making what easy?

You are a bitter, bitter man, Will Novak. You know that? She smiled a little, looked almost as if she were thinking about flirting with him, wheedling him into doing whatever it was that she wanted. That was her usual MO. That’ll be the day, Will thought. Not a chance in hell that would ever work on him.

Novak took a swig of the beer but he was growing more and more agitated. She had practically wrecked his marriage with Sarah, on purpose and for her own selfish reasons. He had not forgiven her for that and he never would. He had never been the forgiving type, especially after what she had done. He had written her off as a sworn enemy a long time ago.

Why don’t we just forgive and forget all our past mistakes? How about that? It’s been years and years. Good God, how long has it been? I can’t even think how long. Sarah would’ve wanted us to be friends, to keep in touch, you know, all that kind of thing. We’re still family, Will.

We are not family. Why are you here? How many times do I have to ask you? Just get to it. Tell me. I don’t have time for this. I don’t want you in this house. And quit talking about Sarah. I don’t want to talk about her.

I need your help.

Novak had had it. You already said that. I’m fast losing patience, Mariah. Spit it out. I’m not playing your silly games this time. I stopped believing anything you said a long time ago.

Please, Will. This really is important. I swear it is. Just sit down and hear me out. Just for a few minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Another minute or two. Then I’m gone.

Okay, go ahead. Talk. Make it quick. I’m busy.

Are you a private eye now? That’s what I heard.

Why do you wanna know?

Because I want to hire you. I can pay you. Whatever you say. I make a lot of money now. Lots of it.

Doing what? Novak hated to think. There were only a few things she’d be good at and not one of them was anything he could mention in polite company.

"I’m an investigative reporter now. In Melbourne. The Melbourne Herald Sun. You remember that newspaper, don’t you?"

Will said nothing.

I do very well. I can pay you. Anything you want. I mean it. Just name your price. I’ll be glad to pay it. In advance, if you want. Today. Right now.

I don’t need money.

Mariah started nodding her head, smiling again. You inherited millions from your mother, didn’t you, all those years ago when you were just a baby? What’d you do with all that money, anyway? Mariah hesitated when he just stared at her, and then she sighed again. I think an innocent woman has been kidnapped, but I can’t prove it.

Novak stopped the beer bottle halfway to his mouth. Then he went ahead and took a drink. Yeah?

You remember that little girl who lived on our street when we were kids? Not so close to your parents’ house, I guess, but right next to us? The Beckenridge family? Her name was Emma. Little bitty thing, and really smart and quiet. Wavy blond hair, real long, so long that it reached down past her waist? Remember her?

Novak didn’t recall that name or any girl with long blond hair that reached down anywhere. He shrugged. The only thing he wanted right now was to see Mariah walking out the front door and driving away from him for good.

She’s younger than you are. What was it? Maybe two years younger. Maybe three or four, even. I don’t remember all that. Just a real pretty little kid. Very talented at drawing and painting, startlingly keen at it, in fact, even way back then. I remember she won some art awards in primary school. We used to draw pictures with colored chalk out on her sidewalk. I remember that the most about her, her artistic ability. By the time we were in secondary school, she was really good.

So? What’s this got to do with me?

She just disappeared. They lived out on this rather exclusive beach, one up north of Sydney. Happened about two years ago. She and her husband and her little son. The whole family. The little boy’s name was Ryan. Just five years old. The authorities finally ruled that they must have gotten caught in a riptide while swimming. The rips are supposed to be treacherous out around there, and they think that Emma and her husband might have tried to save the little boy from drowning but were swept out too far and couldn’t make it back to shore. They were last seen on the beach that day, by their housekeeper before she left for the day. Nobody knows what happened, not for sure.

She stopped and waited for him to say something. He didn’t, so she continued.

The whole thing was a huge story in the Australian news media for months and months. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it. They searched everywhere for them, and hundreds of volunteers came out on foot and horseback to search along the coast near where they lived. Everything humanly possible was done to find them. I joined in, too.

So what are you saying? You don’t think the family drowned?

No. Take a look at this.

Mariah bent down and picked up the large black leather shoulder bag she had carried inside, about the size of an airplane carry-on. She opened the top zipper, dug around inside, and pulled out a small plastic bag. She tossed it across the counter to him. A couple of weeks ago I got this in the mail, addressed to me at the newspaper. I’m pretty sure that Emma sent it.

Novak picked up the plastic bag, pulled open the top, and examined the contents. A matchbook? What makes you think she sent this?

Take it out. Look inside the back cover.

Shaking the maroon matchbook out onto the counter, Novak picked it up and read the logo on the front cover, printed inside a stylized yellow neon triangle. The Triangle Club. Sikeston, Georgia. Where’s that?

"I didn’t have the foggiest, either, not until I Googled it. It’s somewhere southeast of a city named Chattanooga, Tennessee. Up in the hills or foothills or mountains or whatever they have up there. But that town named Sikeston is in Georgia, northeast of Atlanta, I think, as in the Gone with the Wind Atlanta, right? Do you know where Sikeston is?"

Sounds like it’s out in the middle of nowhere. Why do you think she’s the one who sent it?

Open it and see what’s written behind the matches.

The matchbook was full. He pulled two rows of red-tipped matches forward and found five words inked behind them, written in a tiny but beautiful cursive, done with a backhand slant. It said: Cinder, please help me. Goldie.

Novak looked up at Mariah. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?

"That’s