The Road to Hell: How far would you go for family?

By Sian Cook

About the Book
Lucy, Nina, and Tarquin Noble have lived their lives the only way they know how—in constant terror of an abusive and neglectful father who involves them in his schemes of evading the authorities. Their mother having left them out of the blue one day, the siblings learned to only depend on each other.
But suddenly they find their world has been turned upside down when new evidence suggests their mother’s disappearance may not have been her own choice, thus leading her children to question everything they had ever been told.
The Road to Hell is a psychological thriller about two sisters who, faced with a difficult situation, find very different ways of coping with it. How far can someone go to save their family, and how much can they sacrifice in order to protect their loved ones?
About the Author
Sian Cook is a mother of two who studied medicine, then went on to do advertising, marketing, and copywriting. She was born in South Africa, before moving to the U.S. twelve years ago with her family. She loves reading, writing, and watching sports. She also enjoys learning about psychology and trying to understand why people do what they do.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Sep 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889258094

Book preview

Chapter 1

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Declan Collins

FBI Office, Miami, Florida

1982

Don’t fuck this up were the words that greeted me as I carried my briefcase up the short flight of stairs. The Florida heat was a swampy slap in the face and my neatly pressed shirt clung to my body like a desperate ex-girlfriend. And here I thought the D.C. summer was brutal.

A hulking man was waiting for me outside the glass double doors of the FBI field office, a cigarette clenched between his thick fingers.

Special Agent in Charge Rhett Mills ground out the cigarette with the toe of his highly polished shoe. He stepped forward, gave my hand a brief bone-crushing shake, then stepped back. His close-set pebble eyes scoured me, and I could tell from the downward curl of his lip that he was far from impressed.

There was a time when that would have bothered me, but my twenty-plus years of experience as a special agent in the Criminal Investigations Division had desensitized me to the likes of SAC Mills. At five foot six with a slim build, I was used to being derided. Add to that my pale complexion and balding pate, and I could understand why so many saw me as a meek and mild accountant rather than an interview specialist. But I had learned that being underestimated had its advantages.

Mills looked pointedly at his watch and strode toward the doors. He yanked one open and virtually pushed me inside. Droplets of sweat beaded his fleshy face, and I sensed it had more to do with tension than the temperature. Over one hundred people were dead, and I could well imagine the pressure being heaped on Mills to find out why.

As we entered the building, the icy breath of the air conditioning seemed to freeze my sticky shirt to my body, and I shivered involuntarily.

Nervous? smirked SAC Mills as he repeatedly jabbed at the elevator button.

Not in the least, I lied.

It was my first interview since the last debacle, and if I messed this up it would no doubt be my last. I bit at the inside of my cheek, trying to block out the shame and self-loathing that always burned in my chest whenever I thought of Rosie.

Well, you should be, Mills cut into my reverie. This is huge. Shit-storm huge. He glanced at me as the elevator doors opened. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how important the next few hours will be, he continued as he stabbed a thick finger at the button for the third floor, practically bouncing on his toes as the elevator doors slowly shut. We have dozens of dead civilians, plenty of questions and fuck-all answers. We have no idea who did this, or if anyone escaped and there’s still a maniac out there. These two kids are our only known witnesses. Or perps.

His eyes slid over me. And no going easy on them. I don’t give a shit how young these two are; they know what happened and they need to tell us. Like yesterday.

I hid my annoyance behind a mask of serenity, something I had become remarkably good at. It was way too early to start labelling, and I got the sense that in his urgency to solve this case as quickly as possible SAC Mills was funneling the little information he had into the direction he wanted it to go. Well, he was going to get very frustrated with me then. I knew all too well what rushing an interview could do, not only to the investigation but to the person being questioned. Especially a child.

Two minutes later we stood in a hallway outside a windowless room. Fluorescent lights cast a harsh light on the utilitarian space, and the cloying smell of disinfectant hung in the air. Mills rested his meaty hand on the door handle as he turned to address me once more.

This is the girl, he said. She’s the older of the two. The boy is down the hall, with our child psychologist. Neither have said a word. We don’t even know their names.

How old are they?

The girl’s in her late teens, I guess. The boy, around five or six.

I nodded. Anyone in here with her?

Nope. I was instructed to wait for you. Was told you’re some bigshot interviewer and that no one was to say anything to her until you got here. He looked slightly annoyed, and I guessed that he liked to be the one in charge, the indispensable one.

I looked up at him. I’ve had some successes, I acknowledged, biting the inside of my cheek again. I didn’t add that my definition of victory was far different to that of my bosses. I guess success depended on how you defined it.

Well, I hope this is one of them, he said, stress coming off him in hot, heavy waves. All our asses are on the line. I’ve got everyone from the president to the press breathing down my neck on this, so I’m going to be breathing down yours.

I shivered once again.

By the way, I told him as he moved to open the door, I will be recording this interview. I believe it to be a better method than filing a 302.

I didn’t add that I found it ludicrous that it was 1982 and yet the bureau still clung to the odd idea that it was better to summarize an interview after it had taken place rather than simply record it in full at the time. To my mind, the FD-302 memo was an unreliable document, often missing crucial facts and failing to convey the nuances of an interview. Who could remember all the specific details after hours of interrogation and then record them all accurately? At any rate, I needed my time in the interview room to be fully focused on the witness. Scribbling down notes was disruptive and did little to enhance rapport. This way it was just me and them, human to human.

Mills shrugged his massive shoulders. Whatever, just get it done. All the rooms have listening devices anyways.

He opened the door as I wondered if this was some new operating procedure I was not yet aware of, or if SAC Mills had them installed as a way of controlling those under his command. My money was on the latter.

Oh, a DEA agent will be joining you shortly, he added. Seems they have a stake in this too. Fucking fabulous.

Mills moved his bulk aside and I stepped into the room.

•••••

She was a wisp of a girl. Although she was seated, I guessed her to be a fraction over five foot. Her blonde hair reached almost to her waist, and her limbs were long and thin. She was dressed in a shapeless tunic, far too big for her. I guessed it had once been white, but it was filthy now, caked with mud and what appeared to be dried blood. She was staring down at the table in front of her, her tiny hands clasped on the top. She didn’t move as I entered.

Hello. I’m Special Agent Declan Collins. I kept my voice low, soothing. I understand you’ve been though a lot, and I’m sure you must be frightened. I want you to know that I’m here to help you.

No response.

May I sit down?

Utter silence.

I walked slowly toward the table and pulled out the chair opposite hers. It protested shrilly, the high-pitched sound jarring in the quiet room. She remained unmoving, her eyes still downcast.

I sat down and opened my briefcase, pulling out the tape recorder. I placed it on the desk and looked at her. I’m going to record our talk. It’s just a formality but it protects both of us.

She remained motionless.

I started the recording, stating my name, the date, time and where we were. Then I looked about the small space as the girl continued to stare down at the table. I would say it was sparsely decorated, but that would be a gross understatement. It was as bare and bland as unbuttered toast. Gray walls, gray linoleum floor, gray metal table, gray metal chairs.

"Well, I doubt this place is going to be featured in House Beautiful anytime soon," I muttered.

To my relief, a slight smile flickered across her face.

 So, as I said, my name is Declan, I said, trying to capitalize on this small victory. What’s yours?

She didn’t answer but she did lift her head and looked at me. I was immediately struck by how green her eyes were, large emeralds in a petite wan face. Her skin was stretched tight across high cheekbones, and her small mouth was drawn into a taut line. She continued to stare at me wordlessly.

Look, you are not in any trouble, and this is just a chat, to try and figure out what happened. You don’t have say anything you’re not comfortable with. I could just imagine SAC Mills frothing at the mouth in his kitted-out office as he heard that.

Her gaze flicked around the room as she remained silent. She looked trapped, like a wounded animal, desperate to escape. Her fragility reminded me of Rosie, and it was extremely unsettling. I drew in a deep breath, determined to shift my focus back to the present, this room, this girl.

I tried a new tactic. So, a little about me then. I was born in Boston, I have two brothers, one older one younger, and so yes, I have middle-child syndrome.

Not even a hint of a smile.

I gnawed at the inside of my cheek, then barreled on. I am forty-two, I have a pet pug named Brutus and my favorite color is yellow. Your turn, I coaxed her.

The girl looked down at her hands, silent.

Okay, then, I’ll take another turn, I chirped. I love tennis but I’m pretty crap at it, I can cook a mean lasagna, I hate sitcoms, and I’m terrified of butterflies.

Nada.

It’s actually pretty common, called lepidopterophobia, I added lamely.

My heartrate was starting to climb, and I could feel the sweat begin to pool under my armpits despite the chill in the room. My supervisor had not hidden his concern at my return to work so quickly after the Rosie incident, but I had assured him I was one-hundred-percent ready to climb back on the horse. Now I was starting to realize he may have been right. If this interview didn’t go as it should, my reputation would be shot and there would likely be no horse to climb back on at all.

A strident rap on the door caused me to flinch and the girl to look up sharply. I tried to smile reassuringly at her.

I’ll be right back; must be the donuts I ordered.

She looked back down at the table.

•••••

What the fuck are you doing? Mills yelled as I closed the door behind me.

What, no donuts? I tried, but he was even less receptive than the girl.

This is not a fucking joke, Collins! Civilians are dead, the brass are livid, and the press is about to push down the fucking front door! And you’re here doing what, huh? Playing the clown?!

I grimaced at his vulgarity and pushed down the knot of anger swelling inside me. With as calm a voice as I could muster, I said, I realize that my methods may not be what you anticipated—or understand, I added for good measure, but I assure you I know what I am doing. That young girl has been utterly traumatized, and she doesn’t know whom to trust. I’m not going to just barge in there and ruthlessly grill her. I did not want to even think about the fact that I may indeed have lost my touch.

Mills leaned forward, his breath hot and fetid in my face. So, you’re going to what, just chitchat about your fucking phobias all day? He shoved his large hand against my chest, forcing me to take a step backwards.

The knot of anger would not be suppressed. I leaned toward him now, my usually calm demeanor fraying rapidly. I could feel my face burning red, taste the bile rising in the back of my throat. Yes, I had a job to do, but I also had a young girl to protect. I had no idea how I was going to do both, and Mills was certainly not making things any easier for me.

Well, then, why don’t you just go on and call your boss? The one who specifically asked for me to be here, to talk to her? Maybe tell him that his judgment stinks and that you can do a better job? My voice was low but venomous, and he shrunk back a little.

I was, uh, just, he stammered, no doubt taken aback by my sudden ferocity. I just want to make sure we get answers as soon as possible, that’s all. I’m under a time clock here.

I smirked inwardly at how quickly a bully would back down when challenged.

Getting answers is my specialty, I replied. And it will take as long as it needs to. These things can’t be rushed.

Mills’ face darkened at this, and he took a couple of steps backward before spinning on his heel and striding back down the hallway. Just get it done, he threw over his shoulder, clearly determined to have the last word.

I turned back to the door and rested my shaking hand on the knob, trying to compose myself. I was surprised how quick I was to anger, and I mentally ran through the techniques I had been taught to reset myself. I needed to appear calm if I had any hope of gaining her trust.

After a minute, I entered the room, closing the door quietly behind me.

Sadly, no donuts, I smiled at the girl, walking back to the desk and sitting down.

As much as I detested Mills, he had a point: This was not working. I tried to put myself in her shoes, tried to find some element with which I could connect with her. I didn’t even know her name, her age, where she was from.

But I did know she was found with a young boy. I restarted with that.

I realize you’re scared, but I need you to know that I am here to help you. I know something bad happened out there, but you’re safe now. I will do everything I can to make sure you stay that way. You and the little boy you are with.

Her head snapped up at that and I felt a little trill of relief run through me. Finally, a connection.

I’m sure you’re worried about him.

Her large green eyes stared at me, and she gave me a small nod.

He’s doing just fine, I said, hoping it was not a lie. He’s with a child psychologist right now, being well taken care of. Like you, though, he hasn’t said a word.

He won’t, he’s mute.

I was so stunned she actually spoke that I was struck mute for a moment. I quickly tried to recover myself. Is he your brother? I asked, praying that now she had started talking she wouldn’t stop.

Yes.

Okay, good, I replied. How old is he?

Six.

And he’s never spoken?

The girl shook her head. Defensively, she added, It’s not that he’s stupid or anything, he just refuses to speak. That’s what the psychologist said, anyway.

Sounds like someone else I know, I said gently.

She smiled at me, only a half-smile, but I was struck by the way it softened her face.

What’s his name? I continued prodding.

Tarquin, she replied, her smile widening.

It was easy to see how much she loved the little boy. It was something I could use.

Cool name, I replied.

Yes, it is, she smiled at me. She looked back down at her hands, cracking her knuckles, her smile vanishing. Can I see him, please?

Her eyes were misty with tears, and I was startled by how much it tugged at me. I shrugged off the feeling and tried to focus on moving the conversation forward.

Yes, you can, I replied, and as she made to stand up I hastily added, But you are going to have to talk to me first. There are some questions that need to be answered.

She scowled at me and threw her slim body back down into the chair.

Look, if it were up to me, I’d let you see Tarquin right now, I sighed, doing all I could to keep our hard-won rapport going. I was desperate for her not to clam up again. But the bosses on high, I tipped my head toward the door, well, they can be real jerks and they’re not going to give you what you want unless they get what they want.

She rolled her eyes at that, and I smiled conspiratorially back at her.

I leaned forward. Let’s just start with the basics and see how it goes, okay? I promise you I’m on your side here.

She sat back in her chair and scrutinized me, those green eyes unblinking. The intensity of her gaze belied her youth, and I wondered what she had been through that had hardened her so much.

My name is Nina Noble, she said at last.

I mentally gave Mills the finger.

Chapter 2

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Lucy Noble

Truth or Consequences, New Mexico

1981

As our father drove his beat-up old Chevy down the main road, I wondered how long we would be staying this time. He had promised us that this would be our final move, but his promises were as fantastical as fairies and I had long ago stopped believing a word the old man said.

‘Welcome to Truth or Consequences!’ I read the sign out loud, tucking a strand of unruly blonde hair behind my ear. Lordy, what a name! Sounds like a game. Don’t you think so, T?

I winked at my little brother Tarquin and tousled his dark curls, but his solemn face just stared out the window at our dusty new surroundings, his blue eyes even rounder than usual.

I think it’s a nice name for a town, said Nina, turning to face us from the front seat. As usual, she was being her annoyingly optimistic self. Very different. Maybe it’s a good sign for a new beginning. She smiled at T, but his gaze remained fixed on the buildings flicking past.

 I glowered at my older sister. I wanted to say, Different town, same fucking family situation, but I bit the words back. There was no point stomping on their fragile hopes.

Ten minutes later, we pulled into a dusty run-down RV park. None of us said a word as we unpacked the few belongings we had and transferred them to the twenty-foot trailer that would be home for the foreseeable future. Mind you, T had never uttered a word, and though Nina was permanently positive she was not exactly a chatterbox. It was the old man and I who were the verbal ones, though it mostly consisted of squabbles and spats, especially since my mother had left.

You kids need to figure out the school stuff tomorrow, said my father as we sat around the campfire that night, fine dining on baked beans and Spam.

The sun had set, and the temperature had dropped significantly, as was typical for New Mexico this time of year. I breathed in the smoky scent of the fire, finding it oddly soothing.

I’m gonna be busy finding myself a job to keep y’all fed, my father continued, shoveling a forkful of food into his mouth. The way his jaw clicked as he chewed made me want to scream.

Finding a job or casing a joint? I asked. Same thing, I guess. I could feel Nina’s gaze on me, willing me to shut up. But I was tired and in no mood for my father’s crap.

You need to learn to watch that mouth of yours, girl, snapped my father, bits of food slipping from his mouth. It’s gonna get you into a whole heap of trouble with folks who are not as tolerant as me.

I snorted with laughter. Tolerant was definitely not a term anyone would associate with the old man. His hair-trigger temper and my bruises were a testament to that. I blamed my mother for that too, though. The beatings had only started after she left.

Tarquin! he yelled, and my little brother just about fell out of his chair with fright. Go get me a beer. Your sister here’s got me needing to calm my nerves.

Get your own damn beer, I muttered, but T had already obediently put down his plate and scurried over to the small fridge to retrieve a Bud. He handed it to my father and hurried back to his seat.

I’m actually looking forward to getting back to school came Nina’s quiet voice.

I rolled my eyes at her as she thrummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. Nina the peacemaker, the substitute mommy.

That’s my girl, replied my father, mollified by the beer and her calm tone. A kid should always aim to do better than her parents.

Lordy, I was tempted to point out that rising above his level was as simple as rolling out of bed in the morning and staying somewhat sober. But I looked over at T’s wide eyes and thought better of it. The poor little guy had been through enough and my chirping at my father, however true my words, was not helpful.

Instead, I stood up, scooped him into my arms and told him it was time for bed. His chubby little arms around my neck, along with the sweet smell of him were like a balm, and I instantly forgot about my feckless father and our grimy surroundings. I tucked him in and read him his favorite story. It was the only book he had, a grubby page-worn Winnie the Pooh book that our mother had bought him not long before she left. Before she ran off, truth be told. He was asleep before I got halfway through. I kissed his little head, switched off the light and tumbled into my own bed, wondering what tomorrow might bring.

I had no illusions that I would be making any friends in this new place. I had never been much of a joiner; I preferred being on the fringes to being in the fold. I was labelled a loner because of it, but I didn’t care, for my peers or for labels. Nina, on the other hand, would soon be deeply involved with some group or other. She was like water, easily melding into whichever situation she found herself in. In some ways I envied her for it.

My thoughts turned to T and how he would fit in. My gut told me he’d be more like me than our agreeable sister. Ah, well, at least we had each other.

•••••

Thankfully, the school was a little more than a mile away from the park. Our father had left early that morning to go job hunting in the Chevy so we had no choice but to walk. My sister, T and I had scrubbed our faces clean and pulled on our neatest clothes—first impressions count, Nina had said.

Like most government buildings, the K-through-twelve school was a rather uninspiring concrete monstrosity. Kids were pushing and shoving their way through the hallways as the three of us made our way to the admin office. The high-pitched shrieks of the kids seemed to startle T, so I took his little hand in mine and gave it a squeeze.

A harassed-looking receptionist with a phone pressed to her ear glanced at us and waved us to a bank of chairs lined up against the wall. The school bell rang, head-splittingly shrill, and I could hear a final, fast shuffle as kids scurried to their classes. The receptionist finished her call and beckoned us forward with a terse gesture. Although Nina was older than me, she was really shy around adults so I typically did most of the talking in such situations.

Good morning, ma’am, I started. Despite my blunt and sassy nature, I knew how and when to be polite. My siblings and I have just moved to the area and would like to enroll at school. How do we go about doing that?

The woman visibly softened when she saw my little brother—his cherubic cheeks and large blue eyes always had that effect on people. She gave him a warm smile and told us we needed to see the guidance counselor. Shepherding us out the admin office and down the now empty hallway, she stopped at a door bearing the name Ms. Johnson. She tapped lightly on the door and opened it, ushering us inside. T clung to my hand as we entered.

These children have just moved here and need to register for classes, she explained before turning to us. Ms. Johnson will see to you, dears. And welcome to Truth or Consequences!

She left, closing the door behind her. I could hear her heels tapping as she made her way back down the hallway.

Ms. Johnson had a pleasant round face, with soft brown eyes and a ready smile. She indicated for us to sit, and because there were only two chairs in front of her desk I pulled T onto my lap. He was trembling slightly, so I gave him a reassuring cuddle, silently cursing my father for continually putting us through all this. I couldn’t remember a time when we had spent a full year in one place, and while I quite relished change I didn’t feel it was the best thing for my little brother.

It didn’t take long for Nina to be registered as a senior and me as a junior. Of course, they would need our previous records, she told us, but she would contact our former school for that. I refrained from telling her just how many former schools there had been.

You will also need a parent or guardian to fill in and sign these, she said, handing over a sheaf of papers.

No problem, I replied. Forging my father’s signature was just one of my many talents.

And as for you, young man, she smiled at my brother, I see you will be entering kindergarten. You must be very excited!

T gazed solemnly back at her, and I could hear him grinding his little teeth together.

"We can