No Little Lies: Ryn Davis Mystery Series, #3

By AB Plum

Burying memories sharp enough to raise a welt on the heart can work.

Or not.

Ask Ryn Davis. The adult daughter of a former high-class prostitute, she knows chronic, long-term insomnia reduces repression as a preferred coping technique. Still, she relies on denial.

A phone call from a stranger claiming her mother was murdered twenty years ago turns her life inside out. The reappearance of a forgotten childhood friend exposes buried and forgotten memories. Lies and half-truths torpedo her shaky world.

In this fast-paced psychological thriller, the suspense ratchets up. A psychopath's ever-present memories drive him to exact revenge for Ryn's lies about the past. His terrifying game of cat and mouse pit him against her where she is most vulnerable. His ties to organized crime make him even more dangerous.

Who is in control? What really happened to her mother? Why can't Ryn remember?

Is facing her past the path to survival or death?

If you love Gregg Olsen, A.J. Finn, and T.R. Ragan, read this stay-up-all night novel today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AB Plum
• Release date: Jul 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9798223932468

Book preview

Chapter 1

Alta Vista, California—January—Midnight

Steven White

1-816-555-5555

Owww. Ryn Davis resisted the impulse to touch the bandage on the inside corner of her nose. Squinting hurt, dammit. One day after surgery … how long before she remembered to maintain a poker face?

She stared at the area code. Okay, she couldn’t remember not to irritate the post-surgical site, but she did remember a Steven White she’d long ago buried in her things-to-forget vault.

Probably triggered by poker face. She swallowed the involuntary snort.

The muted phone flashed caller id again. Can’t be Detective Steven White. He’d died the year after interviewing her in fifth grade, hadn’t he? During the interview, he suggested that—with her poker face—she’d make a good poker player.

Don’t go there.

Her chest tightened. So many lies—and none little. Without warning, her nose stung. Hands on her desk, she swore, pushed away, and stared into space.

Some freak misdialed—probably after too much to drink. She stood and stretched. The stinging stopped. Forget the damn phone. Go to bed. Get some sleep. Nurture her immune system.

Nurture raised echoes of the dermatologist’s sermonette. Chronic insomnia compromises the immune system. Squamous cell carcinoma loves weakened immune systems.

Leave a message, she said to the flashing phone and tiptoed out of her office.

Maj, royal resident feline, could hear an eyelash drop. In which case, she would start yowling as if she required food that instant. In which case, Beau would lumber out of bed. Chaos would escalate as Beau fussed over Maj and clucked over Ryn.

Why wasn’t she in bed? What had the doctor said about sleep? When would she ever listen? Yada, yada, yada …

Holding her breath, Ryn crept down the hallway to her bedroom. Two months since Marta Fuentes confessed to her thirteen-year-old daughter’s murder and killed herself, but Beau hovered over Ryn every waking hour. She’d about convinced him to go to Sacramento for a long visit with Angela, his jigsaw puzzle bud. Their mutual friend showed the patience of a saint.

But then the day before Beau’s departure, Ryn visited her shrink for a post-traumatic-stress session. She’d witnessed the ritualistic maiming Marta meted out and her subsequent suicide. During the past sixty days, Ryn slept three, four hours a night at most.

While she’d dredged up detail after gory detail, Dr. Tim noticed her repeatedly scratching the inside corner of her nose.

Nerves, she’d protested.

Who’s the doctor? He examined the spot and forgot shrinking her. Finished with his exam, he ticked off a list of the obvious: Red hair. Fair, freckled skin. Years of exposure to the sun. An iffy immune system—stressed by the fire at Esperanza House, the murder, and an unlikely bad guy. Her heart missed a beat as she opened her bedroom door and flashed on Kirk Wetherill’s ruggedly handsome face. As Alta Vista’s fire chief, it had fallen to him to call her about the blaze that destroyed part of Esperanza House, the haven she’d established for former prostitutes.

Her mind veered from the inferno back to Dr. Tim. He had ordered an immediate consultation with a top doc specializing in Mohs diagnosis and surgery. When she scheduled a procedure the next day, she had no choice but to tell Beau. Too many secrets lay buried to add one more lie to the list.

Back and neck muscles bunching, Ryn kicked off her house slippers and padded into her dressing room. She ignored the bed. It might as well be a medieval rack. She dropped her clothes on the floor and pulled on her favorite fuzzy robe. She studied the gun safe on the top shelf. A sudden image of her and Kirk Wetherill stowing their weapons pulled her into the past.

In her mind’s eye, she heard herself give Wetherill the safe’s combination. She then led him to the family room. They ate crackers and cheese and chips while watching televangelist Reverend AB Jacobs preach to unseen audiences. They’d analyzed his style as if commenting on a Sunday-afternoon football game.

When Wetherill stood hours later, declaring he’d had enough fire and brimstone, they returned to the bedroom for his revolver. She’d fantasized his kiss and a long night of hot sex.

His perfunctory good night shattered her fantasy.

The ping of her cell phone broke the memory. God, what if she had gone to bed with him? Another ping saved her from answering that question but stoked her irritation—normal, Dr. Tim said, for insomniacs.

Not so normal if you limit who has your cell number. She grabbed the phone on its third ring.

Steven White? She jabbed the on button. Why the hell do you keep calling this number, asshole?

Ouch. For all you know, I may be your fairy godfather.

For all you know, I may be your worst nightmare. Now, crawl back under your rock—

Miz Davis! Wait, please. Hear me out. I’m not a crazy. Or a perv. Hear me out, please.

Hang up. Now.

For once, she ignored all the sarcastic comebacks scalding the back of her throat. Head pounding, she listened to common sense. She disconnected and tossed the phone on the bed.

It started ringing before it landed. The led flashed Steven White.

Slamming the damn phone against her right ear, she yelped and dropped the instrument of torture. Her nose throbbed with a thousand invisible red-hot needles.

Shit! Shit. Shiiiit. Tears streamed down her cheeks, pooling toward the bandage.

Keep the dressing dry. The nurse’s final warning clanged in her ears. Images of a huge, foul-smelling abscess exploded in her head. Instant frames of her nose falling off the bone unrolled. She grabbed the hem of her robe, patted the tears, and counted out loud without taking a breath.

Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnine … By ten, she’d fought back the urge to smash the phone against the nearest wall. What the hell was going on? Was she sleepwalking? Hallucinating? Losing her mind? Maybe she should’ve filled the surgeon’s prescription for Percocet.

On the bed, the ringing stopped.

She wanted to laugh but caught herself. Laughing hurt almost as much as squinting. Or clenching her jaw. Thank you, universe.

The universe replied with a low vibration.

A text.

Make that a test—to drive her certifiably nuts.

The phone crawled across the silk bedspread and inched toward her like a Ouija board.

Aware all the bats in her belfry were careening off her skull, Ryn dropped down on the edge of the bed. When the phone bumped into her hip and stopped moving, she glanced at the message.

Have info about your mother’s murder. Will wait for your callback.

Chapter 2

Kansas City, Missouri—2:00 AM

What do you want, you sick bastard? Ryn Davis’s voice shook with—rage? menace? fear?—bouncing off the paintings and wall hangings in the dimly lit bedroom.

To put you in touch with someone who knows about your mother’s murder. Steve White laid the phone on the bedside table and pressed speaker.

What’s your scam? My mother’s death was ruled accidental. Her raspy whisper bordered on a scream.

Reasonable under the circumstances, but fallacious.

Fallacious? Are you trying to project you have an IQ bigger than your shoe size?

Hoping to goad her a little, he chuckled. Just like you’re trying to project your contempt.

Knock it off. The man in the king-sized bed waved his trembling hand. Despite the soft light pooling from the brass lamp, the crooked, misshapen joints stood out like moguls on a ski slope under the thin white skin.

Okay. Steve nodded and drawled, Can we start again? We got off on the wrong foot—

The antique grandfather clock at the end of the long hall chimed twice. He stifled a yawn and waited a beat. When she didn’t reply, he introduced himself, adding, You may remember my father. He was a detective on the Independence force when Hannah Gleeson killed herself.

Yes, I remember your father. Flat. Totally neutral. No curiosity. Not a hint of interest. Nothing about Dad. Or Hannah.

How’d she develop that kind of control?

Aware whoever spoke first surrendered the psychological advantage, he said, My father’s brother is William Ward White.

The speaker magnified her intake of breath—a bigger advantage than speaking first. No need to weaken that advantage by explaining Dad and Uncle William had different fathers. She probably knows that factoid.

Uncle William would like to talk to you about your moth—

Don’t think so. I spoke to him once. Once was enough. In case he missed her point, the click, followed by a buzz, clarified her statement.

Uncle William laughed. My, but that went well, Steven.

His quiet tone took any sting out of the statement, but he coughed, wheezing and straining to catch his breath. Before Steve could readjust the oxygen mask, Margaret appeared. She placed a small hand in the middle of his uncle’s chest and managed the mask with the other hand. Crooning his name, she massaged small circles over the old man’s heart. He closed his eyes. His labored breathing evened out.

Margaret spoke to Steve so low he had to lean in to hear. I think your uncle should rest. It’s late. He needs sleep.

He needs forgiveness. Steve touched the sheet covering his uncle’s bony legs. Get some rest, Uncle Bill. We’ll talk later this morning. I’ve got a plan.

Chapter 3

Safety Harbor, Florida—8:00 AM

The alligator climbed up the wooden ladder and crawled across to the middle of the wooden pier. Scaly eyelids closed, she settled in for her morning siesta, unperturbed by the cawing birds in the nearby cypress trees.

Doesn’t that scene just make you warm and fuzzy all over? Chad nibbled a spot between Molly’s neck and shoulder blade. Once, she’d have gone hot and cold all over at his touch.

She managed not to shudder, softened her knees, and turned toward the kitchen for a third mug of coffee. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never get used to that scene.

Beats staring at the walls over at Lowell.

Uh-huh, I imagine. About anyplace beats the second worst women’s prison in the country. Jaw clenched, she set her mug on the granite counter and filled it with coffee. Chad, the Jerk. Can’t resist jabbing me every chance he gets.

So, what’s the word? Dying to hear from Steeeeven? Chad blew her a kiss and then hugged his waist and made kissy sounds. She’d never met the mysterious Steven, but Chad loved portraying her as if she’d gone to bed with the guy.

It’s only six o’clock in Kansas City.

The kissy sounds stopped. The silence screamed, and her skin went clammy.

Idiot. Too late, she realized her mistake.

Tensing her shoulders for a blow, she turned and forced a smile. Or is it seven there? You know me. I never can remember the time difference between here and there.

The flash of all his gleaming, perfect teeth was the only warning. He closed the space between them faster than an alligator—the fastest creature on land for short distances. His palm connected above her left ear before she could duck.

Head ringing, she strained to hear him rumble, A little love whack upside the head should jiggle your memory, Molly.

The pain from the little love whack vibrated throughout her whole body, but she refused to make a noise. He loved it when she made a peep. She imagined picking up the hot coffee and tossing it in his face. His grin telegraphed a dare to go for it. Or maybe for one of the butcher knives hanging within arm’s reach.

She licked her lips and mentally dialed her voice to normal. You want ham or bacon this morning?

He cocked his blond head to one side. How about both? I’ve got a long day. Probably miss coming home for lunch. Think you can make it all day without me?

Hearing the trap crack open, she said, I’ll use the time to fix something special for supper.

Could a man ask for a better ho?

Chapter 4

Alta Vista, California—12:09 AM

Mind racing, Ryn left her smartphone on the bed and retraced her steps to the kitchen. William Ward White. One of the richest men in Kansas City. Why would he contact her now? Why had she never made the connection between him and Detective Steven White? Was that how Mama met him—through the cop?

"No idea," she said out loud.

Why not?

Wasn’t interested. She heard herself answer and laughed. Pain shot into her nose, but she welcomed the bright twinge to center her mind. The damn phone call had caught her off balance. Along with the lack of sleep, the phone call had her gibbering like a drunk.

For a second, drinking a glass of wine made more sense than a cup of hot chocolate. She was pretty sure she had an unopened bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge.

A bottle of wine—exactly what the doctor ordered after cutting off half your nose.

Dammit, get out of my head. Barefoot, she charged into the kitchen, hydroplaning a couple of feet on the hardwood floor.

Solar lights in the garden projected bluish circles along the base of the island. She’d missed slamming into it by half a toe.

Fool. Heart jumping, she flipped on all the pendant lights.

An airport brightness flooded the room. Relief sloshed in her gut. Compartmentalizing rarely happened in the dark. She bypassed the fridge and opened a cabinet above the ovens. The smell of chocolate and cinnamon floated over her head. She dragged the can with the pre-mixed ingredients off the shelf and set it next to the microwave.

Beau’s gonna pick up that smell any second.

"And right at this second, I don’t give a damn." She jerked the lid off, held the open can toward the door, and spared a thought to her sanity.

Either wake him or call Angela in Sacramento. Angela had a major test at eight o’clock. She needed sleep. Beau, on the other hand, would stay awake all night if he thought his company would help Ryn stop staring at her bedroom ceiling thinking about William—

She smacked Beau’s favorite mug and a tin of Oreo cookies on the counter. Forget William Ward White.

Surprisingly, the cookie tin was full. Since the fire at Esperanza House and Marta’s suicide in November, Beau’d actually lost a few pounds.

Murder exacts all kinds of costs. Ryn replaced the lid on the Oreos. Beau and she rarely talked about Marta’s motivation for murder. He simply repeated he’d never understand how a mother could kill her only child.

The appearance of Maj, feline royale, and the slap-slap-slap of Beau’s flip-flops announced he’d left his bedroom. Ryn sidestepped Maj and returned to the hall.

Beau wrapped her in a bear hug. Can’t sleep, huh?

Thanks for getting up. I need some company.

Does your nose hurt? His thin, whitish eyebrows rose to his hairline. Should we call the doctor?

No. She shook her head, suppressed a wince, and guided them into the kitchen. No. My nose doesn’t bother me unless I touch it.

You’re sure? His big blue eyes peered at her as if he could see into her lying soul. You’re not being a martyr?

Martyr? Thank you, Angela. I’m going to wring Angela’s neck.

Bella Dog would probably bite you if you did. He wiggled his brows.

Maj yowled at that moment as if she understood the name of her nemesis.

Beau picked up the cat, planting her over his heart. Don’t be jealous, Maj. We love you. Right, Ryn?

Right. Grateful the subject had changed from her nose, Ryn patted Maj’s head. How could we not love the cat queen of the universe?

They spent the next hour sipping hot chocolate and discussing Angela’s dream of providing veterinarian services to street people with ailing animal companions. Beau was composing a song for her website.

I’m thinking about asking Rip and Repeat to join me in a benefit concert. You know, to kickstart Angela’s project. His eyes sparkled, reminding her of when he, Rip, Repeat, Amber, and Stone—The Stoned Gang—had sent thousands of fans screaming at their high-octane performances.

I bet they’d like that.

Would you manage us if I can pull the guys together?

Ryn’s stomach knotted, but she pasted on her listening face. While she stalled, Beau talked. The eagerness in his voice rang with the enthusiasm of a kid meeting Santa at the Christmas tree, and she hated throwing water on his idea. Beau still missed Stone and the ego-boost of performing live music for millions of wild fans around the world. But she’d decided months before Stone, a rock icon and her demanding lover, was murdered that she wanted out of managing The Stoned Gang. Most of the people she met had over-inflated egos easily bruised and hair-trigger tempers quick to blame everyone but themselves. Those attitudes bred their own toxicity.

Apparently unaware of her reluctance, Beau rushed on. I have to find a lead singer, of course. Preferably someone who plays guitar. So that lets you out. Plus, you don’t even hum in the shower.

Even though her nose was throbbing, she laughed at the joke Beau, Stone, and she had shared. Sounds like a lot of work.

Hard part’s finding a singer, but Angela’s worth it. And I need something to do to forget Elena.

Damn. Ryn crammed a cookie in her mouth. She, better than anyone, knew Beau didn’t have a manipulative bone in his body. Mention of Elena came from his heart, not from a strategy to get what he wanted.

We’re talking about one benefit concert, right? she asked. Locally. Not on the road.

He grabbed her fingers and squeezed until the small bones cracked. That’s the plan.

As if he knows what plan means. She removed her hand from his. Okay. Sure. Why not?

Taking on the project would guarantee having no time to think about Steven White’s lie.

My mother died in a car accident. The Kansas City police had sent her the accident report. No sign of foul play. No sign of drugs. Case closed.

The third time Beau yawned, Ryn took pity on him. If discussing his upcoming concert failed to keep him awake, it was unfair to keep him sitting at the table until she felt sleepy. She’d lost those delicious sensations of feeling sleepy.

The clink of dishes being loaded into the dishwasher raised memories of cleaning up after one of Stone’s marathon practice sessions. A popcorn addict, he never invited any of The Stoned Gang to the Beverly Hills mansion for cocktails. Popcorn—slathered in butter—beer, soda, and flavored waters provided the carbs to work all night. Although they had a housekeeper, loading the dishwasher had never bothered her until the last year of living with Stone.

Not until after Lavender … Ryn paused pouring detergent into the dispenser. Was this the first time she’d realized Stone’s mother and Mama had both died in car accidents?

Her shoulders tensed. She closed the dishwasher and pushed start. Her mother’s face hovered in front of her. The face of Mama as a young woman. The woman who sat on the couch with Daddy and read bedtime stories every night. The woman who never went out alone after dark.

She tried her best …

Running a safe house for ex-prostitutes had taught Ryn a few things about women selling their bodies to feed and clothe their children. She wanted to believe she didn’t judge those women. Not the ones at Esperanza House learning computer skills to revision their lives. She wanted to believe their resilience and determination to protect their kids catapulted them into their own class of heroics.

You don’t believe Mama did her best.

The truth slithered out of the black hole below her heart.

Air whooshed out of her lungs. She fell against the dishwasher. Why else had she refused to return to Kansas City to identify Mama’s body?

Chapter 5

Jack, The REal McCoy and star reporter for the sleazoid, The Inquiring Enquirer, answered on the first ring.

Hey, Ryn! Do I sound cynical if I ask what you want from me?

No, you sound pissed. He was awake. Maybe Jack’s boast was true. Maybe he was one of those Einstein-Edison type guys who thrived without sleep. Seated at her desk, Ryn’s guilt faded.

In case the hour slipped by you, he pointed out, it is three in the morning.

You brag you never sleep.

I don’t. I meditate between three and six every day.

Bull— she stopped herself. If Jack meditated, unicorns danced with the Bolshoi. I guess you’re still mad I didn’t give you an exclusive about the fire.

Pshaw. How shallow do you think I am?

Not as shallow as you pretend. He definitely considered himself a genius. Yet, despite the blunt clues she’d thrown him, he had no idea why she refused to fall in bed with him.

Careful. I could take that as a backhanded compliment.

Dammit, this was a mistake. Manipulation never worked for her—despite all the lessons she’d learned from Stone. She said, Let’s talk one of these days about a story on Esperanza House rising from the ashes.

Sounds good. When?

March. Late March. We plan a grand reopening April 5th.

Okay, I’ve penciled in an interview on March 21st. In the meantime, what do you really want?

Suspicion rode his question, but she jumped at the opening. I’d like anything you can find on the death of Hannah Gleeson in 1986. She lived in Independence, Missouri, and attended Independence Academy.

Name spelled like it sounds?

Yes. She imagined him googling the search she’d already tried. Her father practiced law. Also owned a bank. Her mother—I’m not sure. I think she was a housewife. One brother—older. They lived on Sycamore Hill. That’s about all I remember.

A small lie. Ryn pressed her lips together and felt a stitch pull in her nose. Sycamore Hill … the most beautiful street in town. Number 1 … the most beautiful house in town—despite Harry Truman’s claims to his dying day about the house he and Bess had shared.

Not a lot to go on. What about a newspaper?

I don’t remem—don’t know. If you can email me anything you find as soon as possible—

Would yesterday be soon enough? His baritone projected no hint of sarcasm.

Dammit, he wanted her to grovel. I know I’m imposing—

I’ll let you know—whether or not I find anything.

The conversational ball hit her between the eyes. For a second, she blanked but then said, Great. Thanks, Jack.

Had he heard her? She held the dead phone away from her ear.

Chapter 6

An hour after Jack McCoy hung up on her, Ryn stepped off the Peloton bike in the workout room, dripping sweat. Her nose felt as if she’d stuck a match up her nostril, and her butt burned down to the bone. Her legs wobbled as if she teetered on stilts.

No big surprise she was fast morphing into a blob. Since the fire at Esperanza House and Elena’s murder, she’d visited the workout room exactly two other times.

Hopes that a burst of oxygen would kickstart her brain had vaporized during the warm-up on the bike. Staying on required all her attention and ninety percent of the oxygen. Sucking in her gut required the other ten.

She mopped her face, patting the bandage. Pain jolted into her eye and then ricocheted off her skull. Her breath hitched. She stilled and exhaled. The black border on the edge of her brain cleared.

"A smart woman would now go to bed."

Jacuzzi first, she mumbled, aware she’d reverted to talking to herself again, adding, Sign of stress.

Dr. Tim insisted talking to herself didn’t make her crazy. A MacArthur genius and Stanford chronobiologist should know from crazy, right?

Right. She removed her socks and shoes. Dropped her shorts and tee in the dirty clothes hamper. Slid into the