Praise for the Novels of David Bell
Somebody I Used to Know
“Filled with twists and turns that will have you forgetting everything you are supposed to do until you reach the very last page. . . . David Bell sure knows how to rope the reader in.”
—Fresh Fiction
“[A] satisfying thriller . . . distinctive characters and a smartly crafted plot.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A well-written, well-timed, steady-paced mystery.”
—Shelf Addiction
“Bell has a knack for writing suspenseful crime fiction with strong emotional, human elements, and his latest, Somebody I Used to Know, is no exception . . . a perfect read for fans of dark mysteries and crime thrillers mixed with poignant family drama.”
—Book of Secrets
The Forgotten Girl
“David Bell is a natural storyteller and a superb writer. The Forgotten Girl is a mystery lover’s mystery: a quick-paced and intriguing tale of what happens when the past catches up with the present.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Nelson DeMille
“The best crime novels combine a breakneck thriller plot with a piercing examination of family relationships. The Forgotten Girl hits this standard and then some.”
—Jeffery Deaver, New York Times bestselling author of
The Skin Collector
“[Bell is] a bang-up storyteller.”
—The Cleveland Plain Dealer
“[A] strong and moody novel . . . personal relationships are critical in this satisfying read, which is in the same class as Russell Banks’s The Sweet Hereafter.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“David Bell writes spellbinding and gripping thrillers that get under your skin and refuse to let go.”
—Linwood Barclay, New York Times bestselling author of
Far from True
“Realistic glimpses of small-town America. . . . You might want to read it the next time you’re drawn back to the place you came from. It’ll remind you of why you got the hell out of there in the first place.”
—The Washington Post
“A taut gem of a mystery . . . a tale straight out of the psychological thriller territory blazed by the likes of Harlan Coben and Lisa Gardner.”
—The Providence Journal
Never Come Back
“David Bell [has] established himself as one of the brightest and best crime fiction writers of our time . . . a definite page-turner.”
—Suspense Magazine
“Bell does a good job exposing the seaminess underlying seemingly placid small-town life.”
—Publishers Weekly
“David Bell should be a household name for crime fiction lovers.”
—SheKnows Book Lounge
The Hiding Place
“A powerful, provocative novel.”
—Publishers Weekly
“David Bell does a masterful job of crafting a crime story . . . a riveting book with surprising but believable twists on every page.”
—Suspense Magazine
“A truly fascinating novel . . . an intriguing and complex plot that will keep the reader guessing up to the last chapter.”
—I Love a Mystery
Cemetery Girl
“An absolutely riveting, absorbing read not to be missed.”
—Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of Heartbroken
“A fast, mean head trip of a thriller that reads like a collaboration between Michael Connelly and the gothic fiction of Joyce Carol Oates.”
—Will Lavender, New York Times bestselling author of Dominance
“Grabbed me by the throat on page one and never let up. An intense, unrelenting powerhouse of a book, and the work of a master.”
—John Lescroart, New York Times bestselling author of The Ophelia Cut
“A tense and terrifying journey that brims with emotional authenticity. Bell manages not only to build suspense effectively but also [to] tell a story that goes way beyond simple thrills.”
—Booklist
“An intense ride, twisting through some creepy psychological terrain.”
—Houston Chronicle
“Disturbing, brilliantly engaging, and a must read for thriller fans.”
—Suspense Magazine
ALSO BY DAVID BELL
Cemetery Girl
The Hiding Place
Never Come Back
The Forgotten Girl
Somebody I Used to Know
NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY
Published by New American Library,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
This book is an original publication of New American Library.
Copyright © David J. Bell, 2016
Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Random House, 2016
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Names: Bell, David, 1969 November 17– author.
Title: Since she went away/David Bell.
Description: New York, New York: New American Library, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016000473 (print) | LCCN 2016004532 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780451474216 (softcover) | ISBN 9780698188839 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Missing persons—Investigation—Fiction. | Secrets—Fiction. | BISAC:
FICTION/Suspense. | FICTION/Thrillers. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.E64544 S56 2016 (print) | LCC PS3602.E64544 (ebook) |
DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016000473
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For Molly
Contents
Praise for David Bell
Also By David Bell
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
&nbs
p; CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Acknowledgments
Reader's Guide
Excerpt from Somebody I Used To Know
Author Bio
CHAPTER ONE
Five police cars. Three news vans. And one coroner’s wagon.
Jenna Barton saw them as she made the turn onto the last county lane. The vehicles were fanned out around the old weathered barn with one wall collapsing and the others hanging on for dear life.
The fields around her on either side, stretching away for miles to the edges of the county, were empty and barren, still marked by patches of snow from an uncharacteristically heavy storm for that part of Kentucky. The soil was dark and lumpy, the remnants of cornstalks sticking out like spikes.
As she came closer, the dirt and gravel on the narrow road pinging against the underside of her car, she saw the people as well. County sheriffs in their pale green uniforms and Smokey Bear hats. News reporters in their nice clothes, their hair perfect, were being followed by cameramen in flannel shirts and heavy boots. And a scattering of onlookers, the curious good old boys who heard the call on their scanners or read about it on Twitter, were standing around in their feed caps, hands thrust deep into pockets against the cold, hoping for a glimpse of something horrific. Something gory or gross, some story they could tell later that night in the Downtowner while they sipped beers or threw darts.
Yeah, they’d say, their bravado mostly covering their unease, I saw them bring the body out. Wasn’t hardly anything left. . . .
Jenna parked next to a sheriff’s cruiser, but she didn’t get out. She sat in the car, hands clenching the wheel, and took a few deep breaths. She told herself this was probably nothing, another false alarm, one of many she had experienced over the past three months. Every time an unidentified woman’s body was found in central Kentucky, along an interstate or in a culvert, an abandoned house or the woods, someone called her. Usually the media but sometimes the police, and Jenna would have to wait it out, wondering whether this would be the time they’d tell her they’d found Celia. As she sat in the car, her eyes closed, the heater making the cabin of her Civic feel even closer and more cramped than it already was, she wondered whether she wanted to know the truth or if she could keep her eyes shut and hide forever. Would she finally feel relief when they found her best friend’s body?
The thoughts swirled through her brain like some twisted Zen koan:
I want to know.
I don’t want to know.
A light tapping against the window brought her eyes open. Jenna blinked a few times, turned her head. She saw a smiling face, one wearing a pound of makeup. Becky McGee from Local 40 News. Becky gave a short wave, her shoulders rising in anticipation of Jenna’s response.
Jenna turned the car off and stepped out. She’d been at work when Becky called and still wore her light blue scrubs. She’d rushed out of the office so fast she barely had time to grab her keys and purse. A damp winter chill hit Jenna as she straightened up, so she pulled her coat tighter, felt the light sting of the wind against her cheeks.
Becky placed her hand gently on Jenna’s upper arm. “How are you?” she asked, her voice cooing as if she were talking to an invalid or a frightened child. “Tough day, huh?”
“Is it her?” Jenna asked.
“They don’t know anything,” Becky said. “Or they won’t tell us anything. They’ve been poking around in there for the last thirty minutes. It’s a potential crime scene, so they have to take their time. . . .”
Becky’s voice trailed off as Jenna’s eyes wandered to the old barn. Some cops stood at the opening where a door once hung, staring inside. One of them said something and then smiled, looking to the man next to him for a laugh as well. They were close to fifty feet away from Jenna, so she couldn’t hear them, and she envied their ease at the scene, their lack of emotional involvement in the outcome of the search. She looked around. She was the only one truly invested, the only one who would buckle with pain if Celia’s body was discovered in the shitty, run-down barn.
Jenna turned back to Becky. The camera guy, Stan, loomed behind her, the equipment in his hand but not shooting. Jenna had learned over the past few months what the red light meant. “What did they find?” she asked. “You said on the phone it was a body.”
“Well, it’s—” The cheer and lilt quickly went out of Becky’s voice. She was a little older than Jenna, probably in her early forties, but her voice still sounded like the high school cheerleader she had once been. “Bones. I guess a bone to be more specific.” Becky nodded, confirming the fact. “Yes, they found a bone. A surveying crew was out here, and they went inside the barn to get out of the cold or to take a smoke break, and they found a leg bone. Now they’re digging around in there, looking for more.” Becky made an exaggerated frown to show how awful she found the whole situation.
“Did someone call Ian?” Jenna asked.
“I did. He said he wasn’t going to come. You know he never makes it out to anything like this.” Becky lowered her voice. “I think he mistrusts any potential display of emotion. Plus, you know, a lot of people still think he’s guilty.”
“The police cleared him,” Jenna said.
“Mostly,” Becky said, her voice low.
Jenna wished she could be as strong as Ian, could so easily and readily draw lines and never cross them. It was easier for men. People accepted it if a man was cold and distant. “He’s smarter than me, I guess. It’s so cold out here.”
Jenna saw the other reporters and their cameramen moving her way. They recognized her, of course, after all the stories and interviews, after all the features and updates on Celia’s case. They knew she was good for a quote or two, knew the viewers loved to hear from her, even the ones who took to online forums and social media to criticize her. It was Jenna whom Celia was leaving the house to see that night back
in November. It was Jenna who first called Ian when Celia didn’t arrive at their designated meeting place. It was Jenna, Celia’s best friend since high school, who could tell the viewers anything they wanted to know about Celia.
Jenna knew the reporters were using her, but she couldn’t help herself. She felt obligated to speak to them out of loyalty to Celia, even though she always received crank calls—at work and at home—and hateful comments on Twitter and Facebook. People offered support too, plenty of people, she reminded herself. But the nasty ones stuck with her.
Becky nodded to Stan, easing toward Jenna, reaching out with one hand to brush something off her coat. “You know what would be great? We’d love to be able to get your reaction now, you know, and have it as part of the story tonight. And I’ve already heard from New York. Reena wants to do a live remote tonight, put it all over CNN. Of course she’d love to have you again. She thinks you’re great.” Becky tilted her head to one side, studying Jenna. “This is so cool that you wore your work uniform. It’s so real. If you could slip your coat off and—”
“Please, Becky.” She didn’t want to be rude, didn’t want to snap at the reporter, who Jenna knew was only doing her job and who had always been decent to her. Jenna tried to soften her words with a smile, but it felt forced, like squeezing toothpaste back into a tube. “It’s cold out here.”
“You want the coat on?” Becky asked. “That’s fine. It’s a little brisk, even for February.”
“No, I don’t want to talk right now,” Jenna said, her voice friendly but firm. “Not before.”
Becky was a professional, but that didn’t mean she could hide all her emotions. One side of her mouth crinkled when Jenna told her no, and a glossy coldness passed over her eyes. “You don’t want to talk now?” Becky’s eyes darted around. She scooted closer, lowering her voice and adding a steely edge. “You’re not going to talk to someone else, are you?”
“I’m not going to talk to another reporter, no. Of course not.” Jenna sighed. “Whatever happens, I’ll talk to you first.”
“Good. Because you and I—” Becky’s glance darted to the other reporters, who stood just out of earshot. She eyed them like a school of circling sharks, which in a way they were. “We’ve always had a rapport, ever since this happened. And with Reena in New York helping me—”