Here She Lies
Authors: Katia Lief
for the Novels
of Kate Pepper
One Cold Night
“I was sucked into the book … and felt I was living each minute… . The story is full of nuanced characters that make it come alive. Add that to the jagged emotions, incredible tension, and gritty street feel and you’ve got a really good book.”
—
Rendezvous
“Jam-packed with heart-stopping suspense,
One Cold
Night
is a book not to be missed. Ms. Pepper has a magnificent way of bringing each character to life in this very fascinating and intriguing tale.”
—MyShelf
Seven Minutes to Noon
“In this highly suspenseful domestic mystery, readers are treated to the terrifying aftermath of secure and cozy lives gone chillingly wrong. Likable characters, plenty of suspects, and a relatively shocking ending that stuns and thrills.”
—New Mystery Reader Magazine
“
Seven Minutes to Noon
starts off running, and never stops until the end. A tightly woven plot keeps the story flowing… . You’ll startle at every strange sound as you read Kate Pepper’s second book. Best not to be alone when turning the pages.”
—BookLoons
continued …
“Powerful… . The audience will hold their breath until the last revelation.”
—
Midwest Book Review
“Launches the reader on an emotional roller-coaster ride.”
—Roundtable Reviews
“A disturbing psychological thriller … throat-grabbing, visceral intensity… . Kate Pepper knows how to put the pinch on a reader’s emotions, and goes in for the kill with slick, controlled cleverness.”
—Heartstrings
Five Days in Summer
“Mesmerizing… . Your heart will be pounding long after you’ve turned the final page.”
—Lisa Gardner, author of
Gone
“Kate Pepper has an amazing eye for detail … clever and realistic—a gripping, poignant portrait of an innocent family caught in a nightmare of evil.”
—Anne Frasier, author of
Before I Wake
and
Pale Immortal
“
Five Days
has it all—an attractive female detective, a crusty FBI profiler, and the scariest killer you’ll never want to meet.”
—Leslie Glass, author of
A Clean Kill
“I put
Five Days in Summer
aside only once … to make sure my doors were locked.”
—Barbara Parker, author of
Suspicion of Rage
“[A] tightly plotted debut thriller… . Pepper’s finely drawn characterizations and taut, clean storytelling make this an enjoyable read.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“The pacing is swift, the action scenes leave the audience breathless, and the suspense is at a high level. A very frightening book.”
—
Midwest Book Review
“Especially hard to put down … had this reviewer looking over her shoulder in her quiet apartment… . The plot really cooks.”
—The Mystery Reader
ALSO BY KATE PEPPER
One Cold Night
Seven Minutes to Noon
Five Days in Summer
HERE SHE
LIES
-
Kate Pepper
ONYX
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore, Auckland 1311, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Onyx, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Kate Pepper, 2007
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA ISBN: 1-4295-3421-4
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Always
Many thanks to my editor, Claire Zion, whose insight, skill and patience helped shape this story from its in-ception, and to my literary agent, Matt Bialer, who met each new draft with sagacity and encouragement.
Thanks also to Matt’s assistant, Anna Bierhaus, who read and commented on an early draft of the novel; D. P. Lyle, M.D., for factual guidance on the forensics of blood; and friend and attorney Michael Fay, for throwing legal documents my way in the hope that I might actually read them. A very special thank-you to Jessie Lief, whose input was invaluable, as was the hard work and dedication of the talented staff at New American Library and Penguin. And, last but not least, I owe special gratitude to my husband, Oliver, who listened, advised, read and commented throughout the entire process of bringing this novel to life.
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Sunlight poured through our front door’s stained-glass window, splashing the floor with an impressionistic rainbow. My two large suitcases sat at the ready; everything I needed for the next few months was in them, plus various sizes of clothes for Lexy to grow into. I stood there, stunned by the reality of what was happening. I was really doing it: I was leaving my husband. Stood there, in this moment that felt too heavy and too long, torn between letting my baby daughter finish her morning nap and waking her up and leaving.
I decided I should wake her or we might miss our plane. And, truthfully, I was afraid of another fight with Bobby. Our arguments at this point were just filler; we had been through this for months already and nothing had changed. But before I reached the bottom of the staircase I heard his footsteps, steady echoes from the direction of the kitchen, and I turned to face him.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“I can’t anymore.”
There he was, my handsome husband—sandy brown hair still unbrushed from bed, plaid pajama bottoms and an old T-shirt advertising a dentist in Oregon, ocean blue eyes searching my face—stricken that I was making good on my threat to leave him. There was a smudge of newsprint ink on his cheek; he had been reading in the kitchen. I wanted to cry, but didn’t.
Bobby was the love of my life and even now, in the middle of this stalemate, I wanted to move in his direction. I wanted his hands on my skin and my nose in his neck and his breath in my ear. But he was having an affair with some woman who was just delirious over him; he was wining her and dining her and gifting her in a romantic torrent he had not afforded
me
during our brief courtship. All on our joint credit card, making it so obvious he might as well have brought her home to dinner. He’d denied the affair, disavowed all the unimaginative charges (books of poetry, flowers, candy—not an original gesture on the list, but even so …). I had wanted to believe him—I
tried
—but if it wasn’t true, why had the charges started up again on our new cards even after we’d canceled the old ones?
And why had
she
written to him again, just today?
“Annie,
please
.” He stepped toward me, but I shook my head.
“I want you to read something.” I opened my purse, balanced atop one of the suitcases, withdrew the e-mail I’d printed out that morning and handed it to him. He disliked computers and rarely checked his e-mail himself; lately, since all this had started, I had taken to checking it for him.
I watched him, now standing in the colorful puddle of light, as he read the letter. It was without a doubt the most painful one yet, describing his body in accurate detail, the way his collarbones seemed to spread like wings when he was above you, making love. The first time I’d read it,
seeing
him over
her
brought such crisp pain I’d had to look away from the page. By the third and fourth readings, I was stoic, and by the fifth, in my imagination I saw him fly away. She began the e-mail using his childhood nickname, Bobbybob, and ended it with a flourish of intimacy that nonetheless concealed her name: Lovyluv.
His hand, and the letter, fell to his side. “I’ve told you so many times: I don’t know who’s sending these.”
“I never thought you’d lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
“So all those love letters are fictitious?”
“Annie,
please
—”
“And all those credit card charges?”
“Why won’t you believe me?”
“I’ve been wanting to ask you,” I said, “and please tell the truth: Would you have even married me if I hadn’t gotten pregnant?”
“This is exhausting, Annie.”
“It would help me to know.”
“I didn’t marry you because you were pregnant. I married you because I love you. The pregnancy just sped things up.” He stepped toward me and reached for my arm, saying,
“Don’t go.”
Reflexively, I moved away, tripping over the nearest suitcase and falling against the door. My sweater-clad elbow pressed into the bottom edge of the stained glass and the first thing I thought was how soft it was as the lead seams bowed under pressure. The next thought:
Who would know how to fix such a window?
I regained my balance and stepped away from the door. Fixing it wasn’t my problem anymore. I was leaving.
“What about Kent?” he asked. “When are you going to tell him?”
Outside, a bird sang a sudden, tremulous spring song. I kept my voice low and steady because I knew this information would convince him I was serious:
“Bobby, I already quit. I called Kent this morning at home. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I have another job lined up in New York.”
His face, already pale from last winter, went ashen.
Bobby was nineteen years into his career as a physical therapist in the U.S. Public Health Service. In one year, he could retire with bounteous lifelong benefits. Me, I was just two years in and I didn’t care anymore. After Lexy was born I’d had only six weeks off before jumping back on track, and our workday at the prison began at seven a.m. I didn’t want to drop my baby off at day care in the pitch-dark morning ever again.
“Annie, don’t leave me.” The strain in his voice, the regret, the
yearning
, were painful to hear. “I’ll find a way to show you you’re wrong.”
Then show me!
But I didn’t say it, because that plea had been my mantra and yet—nothing. I was finished waiting. This latest e-mail was the last straw. Lately I’d wondered if he had met her while I was still pregnant with Lexy, toward the end when we weren’t having sex anymore. Julie, my twin sister, had told me that was just what happened to a friend of hers: a loving marriage, a wanted baby, and then the husband couldn’t tolerate a couple months of abstinence and he
“roamed.” Like he was a cow who’d wandered through a broken fence. I’d never thought Bobby could do such a thing.
Never.
Julie’s friend hadn’t either—but then you never do.
