Somebody's Daughter
DAVID BELL IS . . .
“A natural storyteller and a first-class writer.”
—Suspense Magazine
“A master storyteller.”
—USA Today bestselling author Allen Eskens
“A natural storyteller and a superb writer.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Nelson DeMille
“A master of suspense with well-fleshed-out characters.”
—Midwest Book Review
PRAISE FOR SOMEBODY’S DAUGHTER
“A tautly told, heart-pounding read, Somebody’s Daughter is a page-turning whodunit where every character’s a suspect and no one can be trusted.”
—Mary Kubica, New York Times bestselling author of Every Last Lie
“With razor-sharp prose and a satisfyingly twisty plot, Somebody’s Daughter is an intense, emotional thrill ride readers won’t want to miss!”
—Karen Dionne, international bestselling author of The Marsh King’s Daughter
“Both plausible and pulsating, a psychological thriller that hits perilously close to home.”
—Craig Johnson, New York Times bestselling author of the Walt Longmire Mysteries
“A well-paced race against time that will grip you from the first chapter all the way to its satisfying conclusion.”
—Jessica Strawser, author of Almost Missed You
“Hooks you from the start and draws you into a tale of secrets, lies, and lives haunted by the past. A suspenseful—and poignant—thriller.”
—Meg Gardiner, Edgar Award–winning author of Unsub
“A stunner, full of twists and turns and duplicitous motivations. Bell’s solid storytelling is as sharp and scary as ever. Fans of Harlan Coben will love this one.”
—J.T. Ellison, New York Times bestselling author of Lie to Me
“A compulsive, twisty, race-against-the-clock thriller . . . it’s also a sensitive meditation on what connects us to each other—and what we’ll do to hold on when life tears us apart. Don’t miss this smart and unrelenting page-turner!”
—Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of The Red Hunter
ALSO BY DAVID BELL
Cemetery Girl
The Hiding Place
Never Come Back
The Forgotten Girl
Somebody I Used to Know
Since She Went Away
Bring Her Home
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2018 by David J. Bell
Readers Guide copyright © 2018 by Penguin Random House LLC
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BERKLEY is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition of this title as follows:
Names: Bell, David, 1969 November 17, author.
Title: Somebody’s daughter/David Bell.
Description: First edition. | New York: BERKLEY, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017044857 | ISBN 9780399584466 | ISBN 9780399584473 (e-book)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.E64544 S67 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017044857
First Edition: July 2018
Cover image © Jo McRyan/Getty Images
Cover design by Colleen Reinhart
Title page art by Joyce Vincent/Shutterstock Images
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.
Version_1
contents
Praise for David Bell
Also by David Bell
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
part onechapter 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
part twochapter 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
chapter eighty-two
chapter eighty-three
chapter eighty-four
chapter eighty-five
epilogue
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
About the Author
To Molly
part
one
EVENING
chapter
one
TUESDAY, 8:16 P.M.
The doorbell rang shortly after eight o’clock.
The doorbell almost never rang. Certainly not so late in the evening.
From the kitchen, he heard the scrape of silverware against plates, the opening and closing of the refrigerator as Angela put the leftovers away in preparation for Michael doing the dishes. It was their usual, long-agreed-upon routine for nights when she cooked.
Then the doorbell rang. At first the sound was so small, so distant and surprising, that Michael decided he’d imagined it. An auditory hallucination. Maybe two glasses clanked against each other in the kitchen, and he just thought it was the doorbell.
But then the bell rang again. Two times in a row. An insistent ringing, a sound that said someone outside meant business about getting their attention.
Angela appeared in the kitchen doorway. Her hair was pulled back off her face, and she held her hands away from her body as though they were wet or dirty.
“Who is that?” she asked.
“I’m not expecting anyone.”
“Can you get it? My hands are dirty.”
“I’ve got it,” Michael said. He looked at his watch. Eight sixteen. “Probably a kid selling something.”
“A determined kid apparently,” Angela said as the bell chimed again. She smiled. “They must know who they’re dealing with.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Michael held back a laugh as he said it. He knew exactly what Angela meant.
“They know you’re an easy mark,” she said. “You always buy from them. Candy bars, magazines. They love you.”
“Should you go answer, then?” he asked. “You can be the bad cop, and I’ll watch baseball.”
“I don’t mind what you do,” she said, smiling wider. “I like that these kids know how to push your buttons.”
“Admit it. You don’t mind eating the chocolate I buy.”
“Touché.”
Michael started for the door.
“Hey,” Angela said, stopping him. “Did you call your sister yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t forget, okay? This is a big deal. Lynn’s coming up on five years cancer free.”
“I know, I know. You sent flowers, right?”
“Yes. But you still need to call. It will mean a lot to her.”
“I will. I promise.”
Michael felt light as he walked to the front of the house. He looked forward to watching some of a baseball game or maybe reading a book. He felt encouraged as he reflected on the continued good news about Lynn’s health. Next week, he and Angela were going away, a trip to St. Simons Island, just the two of them. Summer was good. Languid. Less work. If they relaxed more, if they got the time away, maybe they’d finally have luck in their ongoing struggle to have a child.
If not, he wasn’t sure how things would play out. He and Angela were both feeling the strain, the weight it was adding to their marriage. He hated that sex had become a chore, a duty to be performed with the specific goal of producing a baby. Michael so wanted to get back to normal.
Michael entered the foyer and opened the front door. The sun was dropping, the horizon orange and hazy with the heat that brushed across his face. Someone was grilling, the rich odor of sizzling meat reaching his nostrils.
It took him a moment to comprehend the reality of the figure on his porch. She paced from one side to the other, a cigarette in her mouth, arms crossed.
He couldn’t find the words. He didn’t know the words.
So he just said, “What the hell?”
She stopped pacing, removed the cigarette. She looked scared, haunted. Her eyes wide and flaring. “I need you, Michael. I need your help.”
“I don’t understand. Why are you even here?”
She took a step toward him, gesturing with the hand that held the burning cigarette. Michael caught a whiff of the smoke, leaned back as the cigarette came closer to his body.
She dropped it on the porch. The ash sparked as it hit the ground.
“I just need your help, Michael.”
“You need to back up, Erica. You need to—you need to leave.”
“Michael. My daughter. Someone kidnapped my daughter this morning.”
chapter
two
“What is it, Michael?” Angela called from the kitchen. “Chocolate? Magazines?”
“I’ve got it,” Michael said, his voice hollow and barely audible.
Michael moved onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind him. Erica stepped back, allowing Michael room. She started digging in the pocket of her jeans, which were dark and fitted, and brought out more cigarettes. While she shook one loose from the pack and flicked her thumb against the lighter, Michael took her in, observing the changes ten years had etched on his ex-wife. Some lines had formed around her eyes, some skin hung looser beneath her chin, but her shoulder-length hair showed no gray, and the cut looked more stylish and professional than the messy ponytail she had preferred in college. Michael noticed the gray Apple Watch on her wrist, the smartphone tucked in her pocket.
She looked like a grown-up. An adult. And the difference was striking.
She took a long drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke away from Michael. “You never liked this habit. I’d given it up until about twelve hours ago.”
“What do you mean, your daughter?” Michael asked. “You have a daughter? How old is she?”
Erica’s hand shook as she held the cigarette between her index and middle fingers. “Felicity. That’s her name. Felicity.”
“Your favorite show,” Michael said, remembering. Erica coming to his dorm room after class, sprawling across his bed, her shoes kicked off, catching reruns of Felicity. She loved to analyze and debate the character’s choices of men, wailed in distress when an episode played in which Keri Russell’s hair was cut short.
Michael remembered it all. The late nights with friends in college. The drinking and the partying. Their histrionic fighting and the ensuing make-up sex.
The day of their wedding. And also the day a year later when he left.
All of it so long ago. When he looked back on that time, he thought they had both acted like children.
“None of this makes sense, Erica. I haven’t seen you in ten years. I’m married.”
“I know.”
“You know? You can’t just show up at my door like this.”
“There’s a man.” She started pacing again, lifting the cigarette to her mouth, the tip glowing the same color as the sky while she dragged. “He’s a music teacher at her school. He’s odd. I think he liked her. Felicity. In an unhealthy way—you know? This man knows something.”
Her words became more and more clipped, her gestures more frantic as she spoke. Ash fell off the cigarette and hit the concrete porch. Even when things were at their best between them—many days in college, the early months of their marriage—Erica tended toward exaggeration. She always managed to turn even the smallest misunderstanding—either with him or with someone else—into an operatic blowup.
Michael reached out, placed a hand on her arm. “Stop, Erica. Just stop and slow down.”
She did. She looked at his hand where it held her arm near the crook of the elbow, his skin touching her skin for the first time in a decade.
Michael let go. But he said, “If someone you know is in trouble, you need to call the police. They can figure it out. I have to work tomorrow.”
Erica paused for a moment. She dropped the cigarette, ground it under her sneaker, a new running shoe, and scuffed her foot, leaving a smear of dark ash across the concrete. Erica ran cross-country in high school, jogged three to five miles a day in college, even on mornings after late nights of partying. She’d always been energetic, almost frantic when she did anything—walking, studying, talking, having sex. She looked at Michael as if he didn’t understand something fundamental. “The police are looking. They’ve been looking all day. Do you know what happens if they don’t find someone right away? Do you know what happens to the missing person? The child?”
“Erica—”
“I’ve been talking to the police constantly, answering questions about me and my finances and my personal life and everyone I’ve ever known. Including you.”
“Me?”
“Everyone. Everything about my life. They look into everything when a child disappears. I’ve had to answer the most embarrassing questions. The most personal questions.”
Michael took a step back. He reached behind him, his hand fumbling for the doorknob. Baseball, he thought. A good book. Michael craved those things. And needed to get back to them.
To his real life. Not somebody else’s.
He saw a wasp’s nest in the corner of the porch, where a support post met the roof. He was supposed to knock the nest down the weekend before, but he hadn’t, even though a wasp managed to get inside and zip around the kitchen, throwing itself against the window above the sink until Angela swatted it with a magazine. The nest was bigger now. More wasps stirred, floated above their honeycombed dwelling. The odor of the cooking meat grew stronger as the wind shifted. The sky was transitioning from the day’s blue to the evening’s purple.
“You should go talk to them,” he said. “The police. Go back to them. Listen to them. Tell them whatever they want to know. You were never one to keep secrets, so tell them anything that might help. I’m just a guy you don’t know anymore. I can’t help you.”