Finding Claire Fletcher

• Title Page
  
• 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
  
• 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
  
• CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
  
• CHAPTER EIGHTY
  
• CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
  

“A powerful, emotionally-charged story by a debut author you’ll want to keep an eye on!”

-J.C. Martin, author of
Oracle

“Finding Claire Fletcher is a fantastic suspense story that excels not only because it is a page-turner, but also because it has such rich and compelling characters.”

-Julie Flanders, author of
Polar Night

“Finding Claire Fletcher is truly a story of our times, and magnificently told . . . it is superbly written and moves with intense, page-turning speed.”

-Nancy S. Thompson, author of
The Mistaken

“The writing shows a maturity and control that many far more experienced writers lack. The characters—even the minor ones—are well developed and three dimensional. Expect to hear a lot more of Lisa Regan.”

-David Kessler, author of
You Think You Know Me Pretty Well

Copyright © 2012 Lisa Regan

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the publisher.

Sapphire Star Publishing

www.sapphirestarpublishing.com

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Names, characters, places, and plots are a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN-13: 978-1-938404-29-0

Cover Images by Lightkeeper/Dunca Daniel

www.sapphirestarpublishing.com/lisaregan

For my husband, Fred and daughter, Morgan—everything I do is for you!

I'd like to thank my parents for nurturing this dream without hesitation or exception from the time I was old enough to put letters on the page and for not letting me give up: Donna House, William Regan, Rusty House, Joyce Regan.

The following people have inspired me, always had my back and shown me incredible support and without them I would be lost: Sean House, Kevin and Andy Brock (my brothers), Dot Dorton and family, Melissia McKittrick, Kerry Graham, Laura Aiello, Mike Debelle, Michael Infinito, Jr., Robert Tomaino, Joanne Smith, Dr. Danny Robinson, Dr. Julie Vandivere, Dr. Elaine Atkins, Bill Baker, Julie, Kirk & Grace House, Marilyn House, Amy Schoenfeld, Kitty Funk, Helen Conlen, the late Walter Conlen and the rest of the Conlen family, the amazing Regan family, the Funk family, the McKittricks, the Nova family, the Tralies family and the rest of my wonderful in-laws.

Thanks to Stephanie Kuehn for helping me find the essence of the book finally. Special thanks to my close friend, alpha critique partner and writing soulmate, Nancy S. Thompson. You mean the world to me and I would not be here were it not for you! Thanks to my agent, Jeanie Pantelakis for believing in this book. Thanks to Amy Lichtenhan and Katie Henson for taking a chance on it and for making my dream come true!

Finally, thank you to my husband Fred and daughter, Morgan—you are my world!

I still saw her sometimes—the girl I used to be. She lived behind a locked door in my mind. The door that protected the last secret part of me. The last bastion I had that no one else could infiltrate or overcome. It was locked so securely that no one but me could force or tease it open.

Behind the door, the girl stood on the street corner waiting to cross, shielding her eyes from the sun with one slender hand. She was in the tenth grade and she was on her way to school. She had a backpack slung over her left shoulder. She wore jeans and a yellow cotton shirt.

Behind the door in my mind, I liked leaving the girl suspended on the street corner for as long as I could. Sometimes I just watched her stand there, shielding her eyes, vaguely aware of the cars whizzing by in front of her. She had a slight smile on her face. I wanted her to stay right there on the street corner forever, frozen in her peaceful beauty and teenaged innocence.

But she couldn’t stay there forever, not even behind the secret locked door in my mind. Eventually she crossed the street, walked the 30 feet or so… In my mind, however, she didn’t stop when she saw the man crouched next to his car, neck craning to peer beneath it, the backseat door hanging open next to him. In my mind, she kept walking.

She never knelt down beside him to look beneath the car as he did, attempting to coax an imaginary but frightened kitten from beneath it. In my mind, the man didn’t smash her head off the doorjamb and stuff her stunned, slack body unceremoniously into the backseat. These things never happened to the girl I used to be behind the locked, secret door in my mind.

I envisioned two alternatives for that girl. One was that she stood on the corner, shielding her eyes with one hand, and when she stepped off the curb into the street, certain that the way was clear, she was crushed by an oncoming truck and killed instantly. There she lay in the street, limbs twisted and bent at odd angles, her thick red blood congealing on the pale asphalt. Her eyes were fixed upward, blank, unknowing. I liked this scenario because it did not involve the man who unmade her and took everything pure away from her.

The second alternative was that she did not cross the street. She decided to turn left instead of crossing and she avoided the man altogether. And so she went on with her life. She knew nothing of the abject horror she avoided. She was still innocent in that way.

This girl from scenario two lived a parallel life. I imagined that she was out there, still living my life. She went to her proms and high school graduation. She had a boyfriend and went off to college. The very second I thought about her, she was out there living the life I was supposed to live.

Maybe she was making plans to get married or have a child with someone. I liked to think of her that way, as if she still existed in some other dimension. I liked to think that someday I’d run into her and see in her face that in spite of what I’ve been through, the girl I used to be is all innocence and light.

That when she smiles, it’s beautiful and not broken.

“First time in a bar?” the woman asked. She smiled at Connor in a way that made him feel like prey. A meal waiting to be devoured. He almost sighed.

Ten years on the job and his first thought was she must be a prostitute. Except she wasn’t dressed like one. She wore a simple cotton V-neck shirt that was just small enough to show the pertness of her breasts without being tight. Straight-legged blue jeans and plain black shoes. Her face was fresh and unlined, but when Connor looked into her blue eyes, he saw something worn down and leathery from use. Her long, untamed brown curls tumbled over her shoulders and down her back.

She almost looked like somebody’s wife. Almost.

There was something undone about her though. She couldn’t be somebody’s wife, he decided. And thank God, because if she was trying to pick him up, he wasn’t so sure he’d refuse.

“Connor,” he said, releasing his scotch long enough to extend a hand.

She arched an eyebrow but accepted it, her grip firm and dry.

“Claire,” she responded.

He downed the rest of his drink and motioned to the bartender for another.

“Scotch?” she asked.

He smiled. “Perceptive.”

She caught the bartender’s eye and signaled for two. Connor stared straight ahead. When the scotch arrived he swiveled to face her.

“Claire,” he said, holding his glass aloft. “What should we toast to?”

She half smiled, and he noticed just how wide and full her lips were. “Let’s toast to being found,” she said.

“Found?”

She leaned into him, and he caught a whiff of lavender. Her blue eyes were flecked with green, and they looked even older than he’d first thought.

“Yes,” she said. “To being found.”

He clinked his glass against hers. “Interesting,” he said.

“Indeed.” She sipped her scotch without taking her eyes from his.

“Which of us has been found?” Connor asked.

She set her glass down and put her hands in her lap, studying them. “That remains to be seen.”

“Enigmatic.”

“Maybe.”

“So, are you picking me up, Claire?”

She looked at him again, unruffled. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m already having a pretty rough day, and if you are picking me up, I’d just as soon dispense with the formalities and go to my place.”