The Night Side

By M.M. DeLuca

Twenty years of secrets. One deadly truth.

When Ruby Carlson was eighteen, she ran away from her home in Stoneybrook, Montana, and vowed she’d never return. Never return to life under the control of her manipulative mother, Ida, a self-styled medium and psychic scammer who made a career out of ruining people’s lives. Never return to the small town where enemies lurk at every turn.

But now, twenty years later, Ruby is back. Her mother is missing, presumed dead, and Ruby reluctantly returns to a home filled with chilling memories to settle Ida’s affairs. Did she really commit suicide by drowning, or is this another dark scheme? Ruby thought she knew everything about her mother, but finds herself unraveling a web of lies and secrets to reveal a story more twisted than anyone could have imagined . . .

PRAISE FOR THE NIGHT SIDE

“A vividly atmospheric and frightening thriller”
CAROLE JOHNSTONE, bestselling author of Mirrorland

“A spine-tingling read that will haunt you long afterward”
The Big Thrill

“Genre fans will relish the head-spinning twists and white-knuckle suspense in this compelling, suspenseful, gothic-style mystery”
Booklist

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Dec 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781448312511

M.M. DeLuca

M.M. DeLuca spent her childhood in Durham, England. After studying at the University of London, Goldsmiths College, she moved to Winnipeg, Canada, where she worked as a teacher then as a freelance writer. She is the author of four other gripping suspense novels, The Savage Instinct, The Secret Sister, The Perfect Family Man and Lilah.

Book preview

ONE

Somerset, England, 2022

Ruby dreams about Stoneybrook for the first time in twenty years.

It’s a dream in two parts: past and present.

First, she’s fourteen when the real spirit came to her. Not the pretend kind her mother, Ida, made her impersonate, with a white veil and daisy crown. Or the feral sprite, yelping like a pup, her body slathered head to toe in mud.

She’s at one end of the dining table. Ida’s at the head. Two guests sit on each side, wide-eyed, eager – waiting for the show. Ida wields the spirit-writing pen over a blank sheet of paper. Coins of light from the crystal ball play across her face. Ruby blinks twice at the sudden flicker of scaly cheeks, the sly, reptilian glint in Ida’s eyes.

Ruby’s mouth goes dry. She can’t recite or speak in tongues or even fall to the floor in a faint. A lace curtain rustles. A moth flaps up against the window. Shadows solidify into hazy, distorted shapes. The air feels clammy, tainted with the stink of ashes. A bonfire doused with water.

A memory of something long past.

She’s keeping you prisoner here, says a faint voice from behind the door.

Is it coming from under the table?

She’s not who you think she is.

Maybe it’s just inside her head?

Your family are buried under the ashes.

No one notices when she gets up and collects her navy jacket from the coat stand in the hallway, or when she slips on her canvas runners, forgetting to lace them up in her haste.

Back door or front door?

Front door.

Ida is in the throes of a trance. Speaking in her Southern-belle twang. Spirit, show yourself. Come forward into the light.

Ruby runs toward the streetlight – to the main road.

She’ll wave down a car or a passing truck. Go someplace far. Live on the streets.

She glances back just as Ida appears on the front step: a thin black figure set against the light. Mosquitoes and moths circle her hair, as if her head has cracked open, released her scrambled thoughts and sent them buzzing in vexation all around her. She smiles and beckons, and Ruby stops. Too afraid to cross her.

Then time slips out of joint and something shifts in the air. Years melt away and a heavy silence cloaks the night. A silence filled with the muffled breathing of waiting things.

She’s hidden among a thick stand of pines, watching as the moon moves out from behind a flurry of clouds and sheds white light on the khaki-armored vehicle crawling behind a darkened police cruiser. The convoy swishes up the driveway of her two-story clapboard house, headlights out, engines purring low. Swerving away onto the grass, they pull up alongside the dark shape of an old barn, then kill the engines. Silence.

The back door of the SWAT vehicle creaks open and boots hit the gravel as six officers dressed in black uniforms and gray helmets emerge into the warm July night, shouldering rifles, their eyes trained toward the lit windows in the lower level of the house. Two officers climb out from the cruiser. The leader – a tall, athletic woman wearing a bulletproof vest over her uniform – holds on to the door with one hand and beckons the SWAT team forward.

Pinpricks of light dance from the two-way radios clipped on their belts, bleeding on to the dull glint of pistol and taser handles. Falling into formation, they snake toward the house in an orderly line. The leader freezes at the front door. She gives two sharp knocks, waits ten seconds for a response, then waves the others on. Two swift kicks and the door crashes open, splintering the rotten wood. Rifles poised, the shooters rush inside.

TWO

Ruby polishes a whistle made from the human thigh bone of a Bronze Age priestess. Seems like a morbid practice to use the perforated skulls and bones of loved ones as musical instruments, she thinks, just as Ivan, the dig supervisor, bustles over to her, all business. He hands her a folded piece of paper and shakes his head. ‘Sorry to break this to you, but someone called and said your mother’s passed. Wants you to contact this number. Immediately.’

Ruby doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cry out. Her eyes are bone dry.

She tries not to think about the timing of last night’s dream. Tries to quell the eerie sense of foreboding that comes when memories of Stoneybrook creep into her head, drawing her back to a time and place she left behind.

But this dream was so vivid. A movie playing in real time. Maybe a vision? But it can’t be, that’s all in the past. She shivers.

‘Ruby?’

She blinks. Glances at Ivan, who wipes mud-speckled glasses on the hem of his T-shirt, perches them on the bridge of his nose and glares at her with a twisted expression that falls somewhere between perplexity and suspicion. He holds out his hand. ‘Specimen, please.’

She slips the bone into his soiled palm, registering the grimy fingernails. Too bad all her painstaking work with the baby-fine toothbrush will be wasted once he gets those dirty hands on her prize. He turns and heads toward the field hut, leaving her standing in the silty mound of Wiltshire clay, shivering under a simmering August sun.

She sighs. It’s finally happened. Ida Carlson. Professional grifter. Ex-hippie. Seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, who claimed to see far beyond the corporeal world, has finally gone to the other side. Entered the foggy in-between place filled with lost and wandering souls that had so fascinated her during her life.

She glances at the scrawled message: It’s over. She’s dead. Call Ione immediately. Aidan.

Prickles of heat crackle across her skin. A fly buzzes and throws itself at the fieldhouse window, pock-pocking against the glass. The breath catches in her throat. Aidan. She mouths his name over and over. She’s followed the recent news about Ida’s arrest and impending trial online, but what happened? Why wasn’t she safely locked away in jail?

Disoriented, she scans the dig site, committing the swollen hillocks of loam, clay and gravel to memory. The moist, earthy smell of newly turned soil. The students in khaki work shirts, digging and sifting, eager for the glint of a copper coin or a flint arrow tip. The cheery prospect of a few pints and a pie at the pub, accompanied by the buzz of conversation about the day’s discoveries.

She’s happy here. Content to muddle along in the slow rhythm of days. Existing in present reality, but still haunted by old secrets. One so dark that even Aidan doesn’t know about it. Only Ida. And now there’s a chance she’s taken it to her grave.

Ruby needs to be sure of that. So she’ll have to leave England for a while. Settle Ida’s affairs. Attend to an unfinished chapter of her life. Close the door on Stoneybrook for good.

Now that Aidan has contacted her, she has no choice but to go.

Just thinking about Ida causes instant heart palpitations. A river of sweat trickles down her temple and stings the inside of her eye, and a tight, uneasy feeling clutches at her throat when she dares to think of the house at Stoneybrook with its clammy sense of unease that sucked the joy from everything?

But she puts down her tools, peels off her gloves and walks toward the field hut, averting her eyes from the gauntlet of quizzical looks that follow her progress.

Head bowed, she forces herself forward, as if walking to her own execution.

THREE

Flying over the Great Plains, Ruby feels an overwhelming sense of insignificance. Compared to England’s mismatched jumble of miniature fields and crooked stone walls, the vast, flat expanse of prairie landscape stretches toward the horizon, scarred and bleached by the blistering sun – a bare and ravaged section of the earth’s skin. She’s forgotten how, when the sun is high, the intense blue skies dissolve into a white glare.

A single straight highway cuts across the scene with the occasional vehicle crawling along like a minuscule black beetle. Overwhelmed, she rests her head against the seat, closes her eyes and recaps the phone conversation with Ione, the forensic psychiatrist.

‘The pre-trial hearing was scheduled for next week. Some other related lines of inquiry opened up, then Ida skipped bail. I’d prefer to discuss the specific circumstances with you in person, but enough to say it could possibly be suicide. We’ll talk about the details in a more private setting.’

Suicide. Not possible. Ida was too vain to do away with herself. She always claimed she’d discovered the secret to eternal youth. That’s why, when she turned fifty, she claimed everyone still pegged her at thirty-five.

But suicide? Ruby runs over the possibilities. Hanging? Too brutal. Eating a revolver? Too messy. Facial destruction was inconceivable to Ida. (No potential for evocative death portraits or moody open-casket displays.) Overdose? Lack of drama and strong on cliché. It had to be something more spectacular. A tableau to be photographed and wondered at. Something artistic – even elegant. Maybe poison?

But the idea of suicide still doesn’t ring true. Ida had always bargained on being a youthful centenarian, doling out life advice to anyone who would pay.

Suicide? Totally out of character.

The plane crosses the North Dakota border into Montana and the land begins to change. The rolling swell of the Cypress Hills are dark shadows to the north, and in the far west, a great wall of mountains – the Rocky Mountain Front.

Below her, the Missouri River gleams, snaking through parched grassland, thirsty for rain. England’s dewy greenery recedes to the back of her memory, along with Marcus, her current lover. His white body dusted with fine brown hair, arms bronzed from the elbows down, tanned face and neck, as if he’s wearing a flesh-colored T-shirt. He has long, delicate fingers, like a pianist’s, perfect for teasing filaments of bone and arrow tips from the clay. Ideal for massaging every inch of her body. But he isn’t Aidan. Aidan is in her blood. Always has been.

She’d left Marcus a note: Mother died. Need to sort stuff out. Had to leave in a hurry. Call later.

It’s better that way. No need for a tearful goodbye and the litany of questions that would accompany the news. Questions that require too much back story and revelations that don’t need to be made.

Yet.

Her life history is so twisted it defies logic. Best leave it in the past where it belongs. To the person she once was.

And when she’s looked after everything and tied up all the loose ends, there’ll be no need to ever go back to Stoneybrook. With Ida dead, the memories of that terrible place could be banished forever.

The plane begins its descent as the city of Great Falls comes into view. Its uniform grid of parallel streets and avenues a striking contrast to the quaint winding lanes of the English villages. Over twenty years have passed since she stepped on to a plane bound from Great Falls, Montana, to New York LaGuardia, then straight on to London Heathrow. She was eighteen at the time, carrying a backpack and rolls of hundred-dollar bills stuffed into her underwear. A lifetime ago. Now another version of her is returning. An educated, accomplished woman whose outer poise conceals the deep scars of a messed-up youth.

The sudden bump of wheels on tarmac and the chirpy voice of the attendant signals their landing in Great Falls, Montana, hunting capital of the US, home to nature’s greatest display of scenery and wildlife. Big Sky Country. A vast, wild and brutal panorama. At least, that’s what the guide books say.

She’s booked two nights at a downtown hotel just to rest and get herself together. Visit Ione and find out where the body is being held before figuring out what to do with the house in Stoneybrook. She’s already decided to sell the place as soon as it can be arranged, unless the cops have appropriated it already. It doesn’t matter who takes the proceeds and all the other ill-gotten gains of Ida’s scams. She wants rid of everything that links her to Ida, so she can finally erase the woman from her life.

Waiting at the luggage carousel, she tries not to think about the possibility she’ll have to identify Ida’s body. The image of Ida’s lifeless corpse lying on a gurney suddenly flashes into her mind, and she can’t shake the thought that when the mortuary attendant pulls back the sheet to reveal Ida’s corpse, her eyes might snap open like a doll’s glass eyes and fix on to Ruby, her dead mouth whispering, Told you I’d get you back here. I haven’t crossed the river yet.

Ruby’s knees turn to jelly. She stumbles against the moving belt. A man standing nearby, holding on to a stroller, lunges sideways to catch her arm.

‘You OK?’

She takes a deep breath and tries to smile. ‘Must be the seventeen-hour journey. Couldn’t sleep once we left Chicago.’

He nods and goes back to his toddler who’s burst into tears at his father’s sudden movement.

‘Thanks.’ She nods as her suitcase comes around. She’s beat. Just needs to sleep. Her mind has already started drifting into the kind of dark imaginings she hasn’t experienced since leaving Stoneybrook.

She’s spent so many years trying to anchor her mind to reality. Swapped all the spirit mumbo jumbo for a quiet life spent digging up real, tangible relics of the past. The earth cradles its secret past, her prof always said. It’s up to us to tease out the stories, reconstruct the lost world, its culture and the lives once lived there. Now that she’s built her career, and established her reputation, she won’t allow Ida to reduce her to a passive, compliant state ever again.

But she can’t anymore, can she? She tells herself the news, again. Tries to convince herself that Ida’s gone. Really, truly, finally erased from Ruby’s life.

She shivers. Is it the air conditioning in the baggage area, blasting out in icy gusts? Or is it some deeper chill? Ida’s influence still creeping into the pores of her skin, tunneling into her head and messing with her thoughts?

FOUR

A burst of music blares out from the blackness. Ruby rolls over and grabs her phone, fumbling with the icons before silencing the alarm. She’s slept a solid twelve hours, broken only by a mosaic of dream fragments, none of which made sense. Only colors came to her. A waving banner of neon green, fuchsia pink and bright indigo.

Is it the clothes rack in the wooden hut on the commune in Saskatchewan, near Ness Creek?

She was only a toddler when they lived there. Can barely remember anything about it, but then it comes to her. A memory as sharp as a TV image. A rack of brightly colored clothes hanging in a makeshift bedroom. Bell-bottomed jeans, smock tops, T-shirts, batik shawls and strings of multicolored beads. Flower-child gear from the sixties. Ray, her dad, was a hippie. In later years he always talked about his spiritual reawakening when he’d opened himself up to altered consciousness and the deeper mysteries of the cosmos. How many times had he ranted about his epiphany, a skunky cloud of smoke billowing from his mouth? Enough times that Ruby knew it by heart.

Her phone buzzes. A text from Aidan. Heart leaping, she scans it.

You’re here?

At the Marriott.

A pause. The response box pulses. Three dots taunt her. She wills him to tell her he’s on his way. The box disappears. She types frantically.

Are you coming here?

No. Not yet.

When?

So what if she sounds desperate? She’s waited years to see him again.

Soon.

What does that mean?

You’ll find out.

He’s being so cryptic she could smash the phone against the wall.

Ray’s here? Did u know?

The dark shapes of furniture blur and merge into each other. Now she’s back, it’s happening again. She thinks or dreams of something and then it materializes into reality.

No way. Where? she texts back, relieved to still be talking to him at least.

Psych ward at the hospital.

Why?

Go see him and you’ll understand.

Maybe after I meet Ione.

Up to you.

But I want to see you.

Right away, she regrets clicking send. Her message comes across too needy. Too desperate.

You will but don’t let on you know me well.

???

You’ll find out.

She waits for another text, but he’s done; his evasive responses leave her frazzled. So many other unanswered questions buzz around in her head. Too many loose ends. But that’s what’s driven her back. A solid, fulfilling life can’t be built on a foundation of uncertainty. She has to be here in person to witness Ida’s downfall and lay the ghosts to rest. But deep down she knows she’s here to see Aidan. To atone. To finish what was started. Maybe he’ll be ready to talk to her once she’s met with Ione, identified the body and established that Ida’s gone, never to return.

She climbs out of bed. It’s later than she thought. Now she only has an hour left to eat breakfast and get over to the hospital, but she needs a shower. Washing the grime off after a long plane ride is way more important than limp bacon, scrambled powdered egg and spongy waffles or – worse still, biscuits and lumpy gravy bubbling in a crock pot like an alien swamp.

An hour later she winds her way through the busy hospital corridors, clasping the remains of a doughnut in one hand and coffee in the other. A voice in her head keeps telling her Ray is there, in the psych wing where Ione’s office is. Only a few minutes away from her. Perhaps she’s even passed his room but didn’t recognize him. She shudders at the thought of him being nearby. She’d assumed he and Ida were still together, but why is he in a psych ward and Ida dead? Surely he should be locked up in jail, awaiting trial? Unless Ida struck out on her own. Maybe that’s why most of the news articles didn’t mention him by name.

A group of nurses in various shades of scrubs stride along the corridor, laughing and chatting, oblivious to the lingering scent of bleach, stale urine and fake air fresheners. She swerves to avoid them, envious of their casual confidence. If only she could be so laid-back – even just for a few minutes. Living in a permanent state of tension makes it difficult to relate to people in a relaxed fashion. Hence, she’s only maintained a tiny circle of close friends.

Clenching her fists, she turns her attention to a polished brass plate that reads, Ione Gough, Forensic Psychiatrist. She knocks, and a husky voice invites her in. The door opens on to a cool, spartanly furnished office. Gray walls. White desk. Single white orchid tinged with pink in a striped gray-and-white pot. The only bright spot in the room, a painting above the desk, its canvas covered in multicolored swirls. A maelstrom of churning color.

‘My impression of the human mind,’ says the olive-skinned woman sitting behind the desk. A smile tugs at the right corner of her lips, revealing a small gap between her bright front teeth. Her tawny hair is wrapped into an elaborate twist, which adds height to her already tall, elegant stature. She stands up and holds out her hand.

‘Ruby?’

She nods and shakes Ione’s hand. ‘Good to meet you – but not in these circumstances, I guess.’

‘Please, sit.’ She gestures toward the chair opposite.

Ruby perches on the edge, aware she’s being scrutinized.

‘You don’t look like your mother. I mean, with your dark hair and eyes.’

Ruby touches her hair. She’s scraped it up into a ponytail. ‘Truth is, I never really felt like I was hers. But then I guess all kids think they’re adopted at some time or another in their lives.’

‘I was twelve when I asked my mom that question. Poor woman. She still reminds me of it to this day.’

Ruby’s stomach turns. The doughnut lies heavy in her gut. ‘For me it wasn’t just a temporary feeling. Let’s just say it persisted throughout my teen years.’

‘Well, you’re named as Ida’s nearest surviving heir, and I understand her lawyer has some important details to discuss with you. Do you have his contact info?’

Ruby nods. ‘She’s used the same guy for years. I plan on seeing him tomorrow.’

‘Sounds good. But I’m here to talk about Ida. I have a duty to the police and the court regarding her disappearance. If you’re ready, I’d like to ask some questions about her.’

Ruby frowns. ‘I hear you have Ray in here. Why don’t you ask him about Ida? He knows everything. Right from the start.’

‘We’ve tried, but your father only has brief periods of lucidity. It’s difficult to get a clear picture of events from him, as you’ll find out if you intend to pay a visit. Do you?’

‘I haven’t decided. We’ve been estranged for a long time. And after everything that happened, it won’t be easy.’

‘I understand. You were so young.’

‘Do you really?’ says Ruby, her breathing shallow. The first fluttering of panic tickling her stomach.

Ione presses her fingertips together. ‘Let’s talk about Ida.’

‘Go ahead. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Did your mother ever attempt suicide at any time in her life?’

Ruby blinks away a sudden, vivid image. White mounds of flesh rising from soapy bathwater. A thin bracelet of blood on a dangling wrist. She shakes her head.

‘Is that a no?’

Ruby’s windpipe constricts. She waits for a moment to catch her breath. ‘I don’t want to talk about that right now.’

Ione purses her lips and nods. ‘OK. Did your mother … I mean Ida, ever receive psychiatric treatment at any time?’

‘Never. She was a stubborn woman. Whenever Ray lived with us, they had one row after another. He’d call her a crazy, whacked-out nutcase. Sorry, I know those terms are unacceptable these days, but I’m just relating his specific words. He claimed she was unbalanced, but then he’d up and leave for a few days before anything could be done about it.’

‘So he left you alone with Ida at those times, even though he considered her unstable?’

Ruby nods. ‘That’s Ray for you. Always took off when the going got tough.’

‘And she’d take care of you?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’ Ruby feels a sudden shifting of her center of gravity. ‘Look, I just arrived here yesterday after an exhausting flight. This is all a bit overwhelming. Just tell me what you need to about the … the incident. How she killed herself.’

Ione holds up her hands, palms facing outwards. ‘Apologies. Understood.’

‘So – the circumstances?’ says Ruby, trying to soften the sharp edge of her voice.

‘It seems your mother was finally successful at staging her own suicide.’

‘You’re sure it was suicide?’

‘Why do you doubt that?’

Why does this woman answer questions with more questions? Ruby isn’t in the mood for game-playing. Maybe it’s the jet lag, but she feels the panicked breathlessness of claustrophobia. ‘No. Forget I said it. Go on.’

‘The evidence points to suicide. Her clothes, shoes and purse containing all her ID were found on a remote beach near Holter Lake.’

Holter Lake. Why there? Ruby’s mind flashes back twenty-five years to a summer bike ride with Aidan. Had Ida known about it? ‘Any note?’

She shakes her head. ‘Nothing. Just her clothes, folded in a tidy heap.’

‘Who found them?’

‘A jogger. Just after dawn. Claimed he’d seen a woman standing on the beach staring at the water. He didn’t think anything of it until he came back along the path and found the clothes she’d been wearing. But there was no sign of her. He called it in right away. Her car was still in the parking lot.’

‘And … and the body?’

‘Nothing – yet. They haven’t recovered it.’

The knowledge is like a punch to Ruby’s gut. Of course they haven’t found her body. Ida never tied anything up with a neat bow. She’d want to keep everyone wondering, talking, speculating about the mysterious disappearance of Ida Carlson, hoping someone will make a true-crime Netflix series about her, or some podcast that ends with the questions now echoing in Ruby’s head: Did Ida Carlson escape the law, and is she still alive and living under an assumed identity? Did she stage her own fake suicide? Why didn’t Aidan tell her this vital piece of information? The answer comes to her in seconds – because he knew she wouldn’t have come if there was no actual body to be seen.

She turns her attention back to Ione. ‘Why am I talking to you and not to the cops?’

‘I’m helping the investigation – in a consultative capacity. We needed to establish her competency to stand trial.’

Now Ruby felt the slow twist of nausea. ‘Why?’

‘I can’t reveal that to you. Our patient records are confidential. But I wanted to meet you, and the police thought it better that you hear about your mother from me. Soften the blow a little.’

‘Ida and I haven’t spoken for years. I don’t give a damn about her. Or maybe that’s another thing you didn’t know?’

Ione picks up a pen and taps it on the desk. ‘So why bother to make the journey at all?’

Ruby bites her lip to stem the sudden rush of emotion. ‘Ida was a complicated and twisted woman – a chronic grifter who screwed up a whole lot of people, including me. I’ve spent the last twenty-odd years trying to quit hating myself. Now I want to settle her affairs and finally move on.’

‘Will you be going back to your old house?’

‘It was never really a home to me, and I’ll only stay long enough to empty the godforsaken place and sell it.’

‘You’ll have to talk to the cops about that. It could be tied up in the ongoing investigation and victim settlement. You know how slow the courts are.’

‘Don’t worry. I knew that might be a factor. I don’t need or want anything from her.’

Ione leans forward. ‘But if you’re going through her things, maybe you could look out for anything that might shed some light on her frame of mind. Any clues or hints about a possible suicide. We have to keep an open mind here. Until a body is found, we have to consider all options.’

Ruby rocks slightly in her chair. ‘Once a con artist, always a con artist. Grifters don’t ever drop their game.’

Ione raises one perfectly groomed eyebrow and sighs. ‘I realized that when I interviewed Ida after her arrest. I had to stop halfway through the session and leave the room just to get my objectivity back. She was so charismatic, so convincing. She knew so much about me and my work. Even complimented me on a lecture I’d given at Michigan State.’

‘She’d probably looked you up online. Researched your work. No doubt there’s a transcript of that lecture somewhere. That’s how grifters operate. Flattery is