You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone

SOMEONE'S WATCHING

He watched the light go out in the master bedroom on the second floor.

They'd left a lamp on in the living room just to throw off someone like him. It was the Mission-style lamp with the Tiffany shade. He'd noticed it while inside the house two nights ago. They weren't throwing him off at all. He'd been here long enough to know nobody was in that living room—or on the entire first floor. The two of them had gone upstairs to their respective rooms about forty minutes ago. Though their bedroom lights were off, he was pretty sure neither of them was asleep yet.

He was parked across the street from the town house. He'd been there for almost an hour, and only twenty or so cars had passed him—none of them police cars. It was a far cry from three weeks ago, when this place had swarmed with cops and reporters. How quickly people forgot.

But he didn't forget. He held onto things.

Andrea and Spencer had foiled his break-in the night before last. But he would get inside that house again. It just wasn't happening tonight.

He'd get the two of them while they were home—with their guard down.

And then he'd go a little crazy . . .

ONLY SON

 

THE NEXT TO DIE

 

MAKE THEM CRY

 

WATCH THEM DIE

 

LEFT FOR DEAD

 

THE LAST VICTIM

 

KILLING SPREE

 

ONE LAST SCREAM

 

FINAL BREATH

 

VICIOUS

 

DISTURBED

 

TERRIFIED

 

UNSPEAKABLE

 

TELL ME YOU'RE SORRY

 

NO ONE NEEDS TO KNOW

 

YOU'LL MISS ME WHEN I'M GONE

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

KEVIN O'BRIEN

YOU'LL MISS ME WHEN I'M GONE

PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

 

Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018

 

Copyright © 2016 Kevin O'Brien

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

 

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-7860-3881-7

 

 

First electronic edition: August 2016

 

ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3882-4
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3882-9

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

What I love about the acknowledgments section of my novels is that it's like giving an Oscar acceptance speech in which I get to thank a lot of wonderful people—and there's no orchestra to cut me off.

This is my twentieth year with Kensington Books. I'm so lucky to be with a publisher who believed in me back when I was a railroad inspector moonlighting as an author. They stuck with me, built a career for me, and always had my back. My thanks to everyone there at Kensington Books. You guys rule! Of course, I have to give a special shout-out to my brilliant editor and dear friend, John Scognamiglio.

My thanks to Meg Ruley, Christina Hogrebe, and the terrific team at Jane Rotrosen Agency. You guys are amazing.

Thanks also to my Writers Group friends, who saw early drafts of this book and came back with marvelous suggestions on how to make it better: John Flick, Cate Goethals, Soyon Im, David Massengill, and Garth Stein.

I'm also grateful for the support, encouragement, and friendship of my fellow Seattle 7 Writers, especially the Core members: Garth (again), Jennie Shortridge, Erica Bauermeister, Dave Boling, Carol Cassella, Randy Sue Coburn, Laurie Frankel, and Stephanie Kallos.

A special thank-you goes to Doc Doolittle for helping out with some of the nautical nomenclature in this book.

Another very special thank-you goes to Doug Mendini.

I'd also like to thank these fabulous friends and groups who have been incredibly supportive. Without you, I'm nothing! Thank you: Dan Annear and Chuck Rank, Ben Bauermeister, Pam Binder and the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, Marlys Bourm, Amanda Brooks, Terry and Judine Brooks, Lynn Brunelle, Deb Caletti, George Camper and Shane White, Barbara and John Cegielski, Barbara and Jim Church, Pennie Clark Ianniciello, Anna Cottle and Mary Alice Kier, Tommy Dreiling, Paul Dwoskin, the gang at Elliott Bay Book Company, Bridget Foley and Stephen Susco, Matt Gani, Bob and Dana Gold, my friends at Hudson News, Cathy Johnson, Elizabeth Kinsella, David Korabik, Stafford Lombard, Paul Mariz, Roberta Miner, Dan Monda, Jim Munchel, my friends at The News Group, Meghan O'Neill, Midge Ortiz, the folks at ReaderLink Distribution Services, Eva Marie Saint, John Saul and Mike Sack, the gang at Seattle Mystery Bookshop, Suzanne Selfors, John Simmons, Roseann Stella, Dan, Doug and Ann Stutesman, George and Sheila Stydahar, Marc Von Borstel, Michael Wells, Susan Wiggs, and Ruth Young.

A great, big thank-you and lots of love to my wonderful sibs.

And finally, thanks to all my loyal readers. You know who you are!

CHAPTER ONE

 

T
here was no backing out of it now.

She'd already mentioned to Luke that she had something important to discuss with him over lunch. Of course, that had been this morning before he'd had his coffee, before he'd gone off to the theater to work on rehearsals and rewrites for his new play. Luke might have forgotten by now. Hell, he probably didn't even remember they had a lunch date. So she'd texted him a quick reminder before leaving his place. She hadn't heard back from him yet.

Andrea Boyle had her phone in the cup holder of her car—in case he called. Sitting at the wheel, she focused on the road ahead. It was a short drive from his town house apartment to the theater in the Seattle Center. As her eight-year-old, red VW Beetle took the steep descent on Queen Anne Avenue, a few drops of rain hit the windshield. It wasn't quite enough to switch on the wipers yet. Andrea had been in Seattle only a few months, but she'd already figured out that true Seat-tleites didn't use their wipers or umbrellas until the rain started coming down heavy and hard.

She'd moved here from Washington, DC, with her seventeen-year-old nephew, Spencer. Andrea was a copyeditor. She polished manuscripts for authors before they sent their work off to publishers. She copyedited everything from textbooks to thrillers to bodice-ripper romances. It was a job she could do anywhere, which made moving to Seattle a bit easier. In fact, she'd first met Luke at a party in the home of her one and only Seattle client, a true-crime writer.

Andrea had relocated with the hope that she and Spencer could start fresh, where no one knew them. She'd made a dozen calls and filled out a pile of documents to have Spencer's last name legally changed. Too many people had heard of Spencer Rowe. He was Spencer
Murray
now. Murray was his choice, because he worshiped Bill Murray. Spencer claimed that while in the hospital, the only thing that could cheer him up was a Bill Murray comedy. He must have seen
Stripes
,
Caddy-shack
, and
Rushmore
at least a dozen times each.

She and Spencer had a distinct family resemblance, both of them lean, tall, dark-haired, and blue-eyed. Traveling together and renting an apartment together, they must have looked like a slightly odd pair. Andrea was thirty-six, but thanks to good genes, her Fitbit, and Clairol's “Chestnut Shimmer” hiding the gray in her shoulder-length hair, she passed for someone in her late twenties. Most people in Seattle assumed Spencer was her younger brother—until she told them he was her nephew. The story people got was that his parents had died in an automobile accident back when he was eleven, and she'd been taking care of him ever since.

At least the part about Spencer being her nephew was true.

No one asked any probing questions after hearing about her family tragedy. As far as Andrea could discern, no one in Seattle knew the real story—including her dear, handsome Luke.

But she needed to tell him the truth today—before someone else did. Thinking about that discussion made a knot form in her stomach.

The rain came down faster now, and Andrea switched on the wipers. She tried to think of where they could go for lunch: Tup Tim Thai, or maybe the 5 Spot. Whichever restaurant they ended up in, she'd be too nervous to eat. And from today on, it would always be the place where they had “the talk.” If, by some miracle they survived this and didn't break up, they probably wouldn't want to set foot in that restaurant again.

Would he ever forgive her?

She'd been dating Luke for over four months—and deceiving him the whole time. He'd gotten close to her nephew, and she didn't want anything to foul up that friendship. Sometimes Spencer seemed more like Luke's son than Luke's real offspring, Damon. Spencer and Damon were both juniors at Queen Anne High. They hadn't exactly hit it off, which wasn't Spencer's fault. Early on, he'd tried to reach out to Damon.

“I figured the guy could use a friend,” Spencer had told her near the beginning of the school year. “I could see he was getting picked on and all. So in the hallway, between classes, I introduced myself, and said, ‘I know this is awkward, because my aunt is dating your dad, but we might as well at least acknowledge each other or whatever.' And all I got from him was this snooty, blank stare. Then he rolled his eyes at me and wandered away. I mean, God, no wonder people hate him. I'm sorry, Aunt Dee. Please don't tell Luke I said that . . .”

Aunt Dee
was what he'd been calling her ever since he'd learned to talk. He'd had a hard time saying
Andrea
.

Spencer had a point about Damon Shuler.

She and Spencer had moved in with Luke about three weeks ago. Under ordinary circumstances, cohabitating with a guy after knowing him only three months would have been way too soon for her.

But the circumstances were far from ordinary.

She hadn't had much time to get used to their living arrangement. And she hadn't had much time to get used to Damon, who—so far—had spent two of his “alternate weekends” with them.

He'd declared he wasn't comfortable sharing his room with anyone. So even though Damon's room had twin beds, Spencer had to sleep on the couch in Luke's study for those weekends. Technically, it wasn't even Damon's room. It was a guest room—with only a few of Damon's possessions in there. During those designated weekends, Damon acted as if staying with them was a huge ordeal. He was icily polite and in total said about a hundred words to her. She was the recipient of much eye-rolling as well. He wasn't a bad-looking kid—with his skinny build, pale complexion, and wavy brown hair. But his demeanor was so off-putting, he seemed unattractive.

Damon had a bit of OCD, which wasn't noticeable at first. But then Andrea realized he had to touch everything he came in contact with—as if testing how hot it was. Damon touched a pencil before picking it up, touched a chair before sitting down in it, touched a door before pushing it open, and sometimes he just test-touched something and then after that, didn't handle it at all. He also washed his hands about forty times a day.

Apparently, the kids at school had picked up on it, and they teased him mercilessly. In fact, Luke and his estranged wife, Evelyn, had had a few meetings with the school principal about it. Those were the only times Luke ever saw Evelyn—at these conferences to discuss the bullying inflicted on their son.

As the newbie in their class, Spencer had been harassed by a few bullies, too, but he said it was nothing compared to the treatment Damon endured.

It broke Andrea's heart to know that her sweet, vulnerable nephew was being harassed at school. He'd already suffered enough. But Damon was so arrogant, she couldn't help feeling he'd sort of set himself up for the abuse he got.

Still, Andrea did her damnedest to be nice to him. After all, he was Luke's son—even though he could get bratty toward Luke at times. Andrea was pretty certain it was Damon's mother's influence that made him so strange and standoffish.

To his credit, Luke Shuler never complained about his soon-to-be-ex. He admitted he'd only stayed with his wife for Damon's sake, and things had been pretty awful for a long time. “Let's just say I'm in a much better place now,” he'd told Andrea. Of course, Andrea was curious about her predecessor. Obviously, the woman was still very connected to Luke—after nearly nineteen years of marriage and having a son together. They'd been separated for only seven months. Andrea couldn't help wondering if Luke might end up going back to her.

She'd found herself admitting as much to a new friend, Barbara James-Church, manager of the Seattle Group Theater, over lunch at Café Lola. The petite, attractive, fortyish brunette had already set up Andrea with two new Seattle author-clients.

“I love Luke and hated seeing how miserable he was with Evelyn—for years,” Barbara had said. “Evelyn was very clingy and possessive. She's always been a cold fish to me. But then I compared notes with people, and realized she was that way with
everybody
—at least, everybody who had anything to do with Luke. Evelyn wanted him all to herself. I've known her for six years, and the first time Evelyn was ever nice to me was two weeks ago. She donated five thousand dollars to the Seattle Group Theater. She comes from money, you know. Five thou is a drop in the bucket for her. We've never gotten a dime out of her before. But suddenly, once they split, she was so bighearted. Anyway, the very day the check arrived in the mail, she phoned me—all chummy-chummy, wanting to know if I'd gotten the donation. Then she asked about Luke and started grilling me about you. I mean, could she be any more transparent? Anyway, I said you seemed ‘nice.' Of course, Evelyn wasn't too happy with that reply. But to her credit, at least she didn't stop payment on the check. Anyway, in answer to your question, I don't think Evelyn is ready to give him up—not without a fight. But it's a losing battle, because Luke is so much better off now—with you. He knows it, too. And I'm not just saying that because I like you and you're buying me lunch . . .”

Andrea wondered what Luke had ever seen in Evelyn. He didn't seem to need her money. But then Andrea had seen photos of Evelyn among the family snapshots that Luke had saved. Evelyn Shuler was a knockout—blond, elegant, and chic. The only possible physical flaw Andrea could find was a slight overbite—which some men found attractive.

As curious as she was about Luke's almost-ex, Andrea had no desire to meet her.

Then just a few days after the informative chat with Barbara at Café Lola, Andrea had received an email from Evelyn with the subject line:
Free for Lunch?
How Luke's wife had gotten her email address was a mystery:

At the time, Andrea had been living with Spencer in an apartment in Ballard. She'd been dating Luke for only six weeks and hadn't yet spent the night at his place. She hadn't witnessed Luke's morning routine with the Bruce Lee coffee cup. However, they'd shared many extended lunch hours at his apartment or at the Westin. It was no secret they'd been seeing each other. She'd merely been reluctant about leaving Spencer alone in the apartment for a night—or having Luke in her bed while Spencer slept across the hall from them.

Maybe she had read too much into a friendly email, but it seemed a bit manipulative and meddling. Andrea might have had a little more respect for Evelyn if she'd focused more on Damon in that note. Instead, she didn't mention him until the very end. Her son seemed like an afterthought.

Andrea didn't tell Luke about his wife's email, not until after she'd sent Evelyn a reply. She spent forty-five minutes carefully wording the short response:

She'd shown both emails to Luke that evening. “Well done,” he'd said, kissing her on the forehead. “Let me know if she tries to get in touch with you again.”

She never heard back from Evelyn.

That wasn't to say Evelyn had backed off. The email had been harmless. What came later was far more disturbing. In fact, things got so bad that she and Spencer had to leave their apartment in Ballard and move in with Luke.

Though it was “Modern Cookie-Cutter” in its construction, Andrea had liked their first Seattle home. It was part of the Briarwood Court, a complex of six tall, thin, identical buildings, each with two apartment units. She and Spencer had an upper unit. Once through the outside front door, they had to climb up a stairway to the living room, kitchen, and powder room. Another flight of stairs led to the two bedrooms and another bathroom.

The manager had pointed out that the beige Berber carpeting throughout the apartment was brand new. He asked that they and their guests remove their shoes before going upstairs to the unit. After two weeks, there was a different pair of shoes—belonging to either her or Spencer—along the edge of each step nearly halfway up the stairs. In fact, Spencer had more shoes on the stairs than in his bedroom closet. Though it was a bit messy, Andrea found the display of footwear on the steps a comforting, homey image when she came through the front door—a sign that they were settled in.

She got the manager's okay to plant some iris, chrysanthemums, and pansies near the bushes beside their front door. She loved to garden—to the point that Spencer jokingly called her “Fanny View” because she was always bent over, tilling the soil. But to her knowledge, she'd never actually mooned anyone.