Chevy Stevens

THE OTHER SIDE

I’d been working the Campsite Killer case for years—ever since I joined the Serious Crimes Unit in Vancouver—and I became close to a few of the victims’ families, which made it worse every time he slipped away from us. The case would get cold for a couple of years, then heat up again when he murdered another woman, always in the summer. I’d been tense that spring, knowing he’d probably hit again soon. What we hadn’t expected was that the Campsite Killer had a daughter—and that he’d contact her.

My partner, Billy Reynolds, and I traveled over to Vancouver Island from the mainland to meet her and see how legit her claim was. Billy’s a good guy. Fun to work with when he isn’t spouting off his Art of War quotes. Whenever I’m getting too serious, he likes to sing “Oh, Sandy” from Grease. His John Travolta impression is terrible, but he’s pretty easy on the eyes. Younger than me at thirty-six, he’s in good shape, has a shaved head, some Asian symbols tattooed on his arms, and dresses spiffy. Not my type, though—I have a boyfriend, another cop, but we aren’t doing so great lately. He’s pissed that we haven’t had a kid yet, but I have doubts about two cops raising one, plus I just turned forty-two. Billy keeps himself single, not sure what that’s about but it comes in handy when we want to smooth our way with a female witness. They might get bristly with me but they always want to tell Billy and his killer dimples all their troubles.

I was hoping he could work his magic with Sara Gallagher. If her story was true, then her birth mother was Karen Christianson, the only woman to survive an attack from the Campsite Killer. She changed her name to Julia Laroche, moved to the island, and gave up the child. No one ever knew she’d been pregnant—until Sara tracked her down a couple of months ago. When the news got splashed all over the Internet recently, the Campsite Killer called Sara up, wanting to connect. Terrified, she made a report at her local police station, and they got in touch with us.

When we met Sara and gave her our business cards, I could tell she was surprised I was the staff sergeant and Billy was the corporal. That reaction used to piss me off, but I enjoy it now. I like the shock effect. People are also usually surprised that we don’t wear uniforms, but my gun is tucked against my side, the weight and rub of it comforting and familiar.

Sara was thirty-three and very pretty. I realized instantly that with her auburn hair and green eyes she had some of the same physical characteristic as the Campsite Killer, something I don’t think she was too pleased about. She also didn’t look thrilled about working with us, but we needed her help—she was the best lead we’d had in years. We had to be careful how we coaxed her to talk to him the next time he called, and I was sure he would. We finally had a chance to nail this bastard. He’d killed at least thirty people over the years and I didn’t want to deliver more bad news to another devastated family, didn’t want to find the remains of another body left alone in the woods.

It was obvious that Sara was scared to talk to her father again—can’t say I blame her. My father had only killed one woman. My mother. I was six. She had just enough time to shove me in her bedroom closet and block it before he burst through the front door. He raped her, then strangled her. She never screamed. I think about that sometimes, what it must have been like for her, knowing I was listening on the other side of that door. My dad took off that night and has never been seen again. When I’m not working active cases, I’m working his.

* * *

Two months after that first meeting, we were still working with Sara. Her father—John, as he called himself—had been calling constantly and sending creepy gifts. He was leading us all to hell and gone, and then eventually, just like we feared, he killed another woman. We managed to set up a meeting between him and Sara, hoping to catch him, but he didn’t show. I was frustrated, Sara was a nervous wreck, and I didn’t know what was going on with Billy, but I didn’t like it.

“You’re getting too close to Sara,” I said one morning when we were driving to get coffee.

“I thought we wanted me to form a connection with her,” he said. It had become apparent pretty early on that Sara and I didn’t click, but she trusted Billy. We agreed that I’d act as the aggressor and push her hard, and Billy would follow up with the soft touch.

“It’s starting to look more personal, Billy.”

“It’s not like that. Not at all. She’s in love with her fiancé.”

“Just be careful.” Sara did love her fiancé, that was obvious, but I still had a feeling Billy was drifting over the line. It happens, one reason we work in teams. More common is work-related relationships, and my own, to say the least, was rocky. Last night Jeff had come pretty close to an ultimatum on the phone.

He’d said, “Look, it’s time to shit or get off the pot. We’ve been living together for ten years. I want to get married, I want a kid.”

“I told you, it’s too late now. We probably can’t even get pregnant—and I’m not doing fertility treatments.” When we first got together we talked about children as something we’d like “someday,” but we were busy with our careers, and I worried about our kid growing up alone, both parents killed by some gangbanger or drug dealer. As the years passed by I accepted that it would probably never happen, it just wasn’t in the cards. Then Jeff got baby fever.

“You said we probably can’t get pregnant, but we don’t know until we try.”

“Too old means too old—we missed the bus. You said the same thing yourself last year—but that you were happy with the way our lives are now.”

“Yeah, I did, but I changed. Now I want to know what we’re doing about it.”

“You can’t seriously be laying this on me when I’m working this case?”

“There’s always another case.”

“So what if I say no?”

“I just want to know one way or another.”

But I heard the undertone. If I said no, I could also be kissing my relationship good-bye. We hung up, agreeing to talk again this weekend when I went back to the mainland. I was upset, but I tried to put the call out of my head and focus on the next step in the Campsite Killer case. Things were finally heating up—we just had to push Sara in the right direction.

* * *

Two weeks later things had gone haywire with the case, and I was at the hospital interviewing Nadine Lavoie—Sara’s shrink. Nadine had been attacked and nearly killed by John. A couple of days earlier, we’d gotten Sara to set up another meeting with John, but he called to reschedule at the last moment. Sara had finally lost it and refused to see him. He went after her fiancé, and when she still refused to see him, he obviously decided to attack her shrink. Sara had seen her the evening before at her office, and we suspected John had followed her there before attacking Nadine. I was the first to interview her after the investigating officers had a go at her.

“Hello, I’m Staff Sergeant McBride,” I said.

She held out her hand. “Thank you for coming, Officer.” In her early fifties, she reminded me of Sara’s birth mother, Julia, who is also beautiful and has that cultured, professional-woman aura about her. Even with a bandage around her head she had a pulled-together look, the hospital gown unwrinkled, her silver hair tidy. I wondered how I looked to her in my white dress shirt with a little bit of lunch on it, my hair rumpled and bleached out from too much time in the sun, usually windblown because I like to drive with my window down.

She said, “You’re working the Campsite Killer case?”

“That’s correct.” She was a psychiatrist, and from what I understood a very good one. I probably could’ve used her thirty years ago. Though I still have nightmares about my mother’s murder, I’ve never talked to anyone about it—including the therapist my aunt and uncle took me to until they found out all I did was cry the whole time. They decided it was too traumatic and taught me how to kayak instead. Something I still do for recreation.

“How is Sara?” Her eyes were worried as she studied my face intently, looking for clues, some sign of reassurance.

“She’s hanging in there.” Interesting that her first concern was her patient, not herself, but she was right to be worried. If John kept escalating, more people could get hurt.

I said, “I know you’ve already been over this, but do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Yes, please.”

“Can you take me through last night?”

“I had just locked up the building and was walking toward my car when I felt someone rushing up behind me. Before I could turn around, he hit me in the back, with his body, and I fell to the ground. My head hit the side of the curb.” She touched the bandage, an unconscious movement. “I heard footsteps running away, then I passed out.”

“You didn’t get a look at your assailant?”

“No, he came up from behind too fast.”

“Was there anything else you remember? A scent, a noise, maybe?”

She paused a few seconds, then shook her head.

“I know you suspect it was the Campsite Killer, but I’m not sure.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I just didn’t get the feeling it was him. I don’t know why.” She looked perplexed, her gaze drifting over to a glorious bouquet of flowers on her nightstand. Beside them was a smaller, wilted bouquet that looked like it had been bought at a corner store.

“Is there anyone else you think might have wanted to hurt you?”

She turned back to me. “The husband of one of my patients is unhappy with my treatment of her. He’s called and threatened me.”

“What’s his name?”

“Henry Flynn.”

I made a note. “Can you think of anyone else?”

She hesitated for a moment, and I wondered what she was holding back. But she just said, “No, no one.”

“No ex-husbands or relationships that have gone sour?”

She seemed almost amused by the idea.

“My husband passed away ten years ago and I haven’t been involved with anyone since.”

So who’d brought the flowers? I made another note.

“Any children?”

“My daughter and a stepson. They both live in Victoria.”

“Any problems with either of them?”

She shook her head but looked sad, and I didn’t press. Her attacker had to be John. I didn’t need to know about her family issues.

“Thanks for your time.” I closed my notebook.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. I know how hard you’re all working to find him, but I hope you can stop him soon. I’m worried that he may be escalating.”

“We are too, and we’re doing our best.”

“He won’t give up without a fight. He wants a family and he views anyone standing in his way as a threat. I’m very concerned for Sara and her daughter.”

I nodded. “I understand, and she’s well protected.”

* * *

Billy also wanted to talk to the investigating officers and Nadine Lavoie, so he asked me to watch Ally, Sara’s six-year-old daughter, while Sara was at the hospital with her fiancé in Pt. Alberni—an hour from Nanaimo, and near where he’d been shot at his fishing resort. We were keeping a close eye on Ally, in case John decided to come for her, and also had an officer posted at the end of the road to Sara’s home. I thought Billy was wasting his time interviewing Nadine, but he said that he needed to assure Sara that she was okay. Again, I wondered if they were getting too close, but we did have to keep Sara calm, and if this helped, so be it.

While I played with Ally at her house—scrunched down at her Barbie doll table drinking my thousandth cup of pretend tea and nibbling on my pretend cookies—I thought back to my weekend with Jeff. We had decided to give it another couple months, maybe talk to a doctor, and see how we felt. We’d fooled around, but it had a desperate feeling to it, like we knew we were heading for a breakup. I studied the kid in front of me, who was now telling me that she was hungry and asking if she could make lunch.

“Are you allowed to do that?” I realized the second I asked that it wasn’t like she was going to tell me the truth, but I was stumped. Do six-year-olds use the stove?

She nodded, her dark hair bouncing in ringlets.

I decided it would be okay so long as I kept an eye on her.

“Sure, what do you want?”

Ally squealed and clasped her hands together.

“SpaghettiOs!”

I found the can in the pantry, helped her open it and dump it in the pot. She stood on her little stepstool, her face serious as she stirred. My phone beeped. It was a text from Doug, one of the officers back where I grew up in Kelowna: Call me ASAP. Though Doug was retired now, he’d been on the force a long time and still worked cold cases. He worked my mother’s murder, said he’d never forget pulling me out of the closet. We’d kept in touch over the years. I think he liked that I became a cop.

I watched Ally scoop her lunch into her bowl, worried the entire time that she was going to burn herself. When I tried to take over, she said, “Nooo! I have to do it!”

When she was settled at the table I put a glass of milk in front of her, figuring that would balance out the canned lunch.

“I have to make a call, so you stay here, okay?”

She nodded, her mouth around a heaping spoonful.

In the living room, where I could still keep an eye on Ally, I dialed Doug’s number.

He said, “Hey, kid. How you been?”

“I’m okay, busy.”

“I heard you were working the Campsite Killer case. He’s got a daughter?”

“Yeah.”

We both paused, and I knew he was thinking about my father. I’d been thinking about him a lot myself lately, seeing what Sara was going through. He’d taken me everywhere when I was a kid, fishing, hunting, never laid a hand on me, but he was a jealous bastard when it came to my mother. Men liked to look at her, a lot, and she liked them looking at her. He blackened her eye one too many times and she finally kicked him out a couple of weeks before she died.

“I’m actually calling about your father,” Doug said.

My body stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Think I got a lead.”

I sat down hard on the couch.

“What kind of lead?” The sweet tomato smell of SpaghettiOs suddenly made me feel sick.

“The guy who was with your mother that last week? Mark Braithwaite?”

The week before my father killed her, my mom played cards in the kitchen with Mark, the radio on, smoke curling up from their cigarettes as they laughed and talked, their hands occasionally touching. I watched from the living room, an anxious hum in my stomach, knowing how pissed my dad would be if he knew this younger friend of his was at our house.

“Yeah?”

“One of my buddies on the force remembered your case and gave me a call. Mark, he was picked up for assaulting his girlfriend. He’s in his sixties but he still did quite a number on her face. Girlfriend says he kept saying he was going to kill her. He raped her too, though he’s saying it was consensual. Thing that’s weird is, he used to be friends with her ex-husband.”

I was too stunned to say anything.

“Maybe we’ve been looking for the wrong man,” Doug said.

Impossible. It had to be a coincidence. “No. It was my father.”

“Think back to that night. Are you sure? You never saw him.”

“Give me a minute.” I closed my eyes, remembering.

My mother’s face goes white with terror when a truck pulls up outside. She grabs my arm and drags me to her bedroom, shoves me in the closet so roughly I cry out.

“Sorry, baby, but you’ve gotta be quiet, okay? Real quiet, no matter what you hear.”

“I don’t want to—” There’s a loud knock on the door. My mom’s expression is frantic. I’m crying.

She says, “Promise me.”

“I… promise.”

“Don’t say a word. No matter what. Don’t say a word.”

She closes the door and drags something in front, blocking me in.

I bite my lips hard and cry softly in the dark. In the kitchen I can hear a man’s deep baritone voice—my father’s voice, muffled, then my mom’s voice, pleading. I hear the smack of something hitting against flesh. A body hitting the floor. Dragging noises coming toward me in the bedroom. Then a thud, the body being tossed on the bed. Moans from my mom, clothes being ripped, something dropping on the floor, flesh hitting flesh, a louder moan from my mom. Then the bed, rocking. I know the sound and press my hands against my ears, but I can still hear the headboard slam into the wall, over and over. Sounds of a struggle, gasps, stifled screams. I want to cry out, beg him to stop, but I’m terrified in the dark, a puddle of pee around my feet, my promise to Mom loud in my head. Finally the noise stops. I hold my breath, hoping it’s over. I hear a muffled, “Fuck, Ginny, look what you made me do.”

No response from my mom.

Footsteps walk away, a truck’s noise fades. I start screaming. No one comes.

I was locked in that closet for two days, smelling my mother’s body rotting in the summer heat, hearing the flies buzz. Finally someone from the restaurant where my mom worked came looking for her, found the body, and called the police. By then I was nearly catatonic.

“My mom wouldn’t have put me in the closet if it wasn’t him,” I told Doug.

“Are you sure? Did you hear her fighting on the phone or anything in the days leading up to that?”

I thought back. A memory kicked in: Mom on the phone, urgent and angry, telling someone it was over.

“Yeah, but I thought it was my father.”

“He was supposed to be in the logging camp at the time.”

“There are camp phones. He might have heard something about what she was doing.”

“Do you remember much about this Mark guy?”

“I didn’t like him, but I didn’t like my mom being with anyone.” I’d read the reports. He was also a logger, and also married. He’d cried at the funeral, saying he knew my father had a temper but never thought it would come to this. He’d supposedly broken off his affair with my mother that week to go back to his wife.

“I thought you might want to have a talk with him,” Doug said.

“Damn, I’m dealing with this case right now.”

“Let me know if you need any help.”

“Thanks.” I hung up the phone, my mind thundering with thoughts that crashed into one another. I seized on one, seeing it from a different angle. Where was my father?

Ally got up from the table and took her dish of SpaghettiOs to the sink.

“Can we play dress-up?” We played dress-up, then house, then watched cartoons. I’d made sure all the doors were locked and was doing some periodic checks, but all seemed quiet. Moose, the family French bulldog, was pacing in the kitchen, then standing by the back sliding glass door. I knew the signs. The dog had to pee.

Ally ran upstairs to grab one of her dolls. I turned off the alarm and slowly opened the sliding glass door, glancing around the perimeter. All clear.

I said, “Okay, Moose. Do your business.”

He zipped out the door and ran around the side of the house. I stepped outside to keep a better eye on him. That’s when I felt a blow to my left shoulder, hard enough to throw me to the ground. I managed to draw my gun and flip around, catching a brief glimpse of a large man just before his fist connected with the side of my head and knocked me unconscious.

* * *

The next thing I remembered was waking up with a couple of police officers standing around me.

“Hang tight,” one of them said. “We’ve got help coming.”

My head was pounding, ears ringing. My body felt like it had been hit by a dump truck. I reached up, touched a trickle of blood under my nose.

“Where’s Ally?”

“He got her.”

“Shit!” I tried to sit up, but everything started spinning. I collapsed back onto the ground, trying to catch my breath. After a moment I said, “Where’s her mother? What’s happening?”

The officer said, “Looks like she arrived home, found you hurt—and Ally missing. The constable who had been following Sara from the hospital came in moments later. While he was attending to you, Sara took off. We think John left some sort of message, maybe a note.”

I tried to push myself up again. The world squeezed down to a black dot. The next thing I knew, I was lying on a stretcher, looking up at the ceiling of an ambulance.

* * *

I was trying to call Billy over and over from my hospital room when Jeff showed up—the RCMP had flown him in from the mainland. He’s older than me, in his late forties, but he doesn’t look his age. His hair is still blond, bleached from the sun like mine, and he has a dark tan. We spend a lot of time outdoors together. We became friends before we were lovers, kayaking together on the weekends. I respected him for his no-bullshit attitude, loved him for the fact that he was willing to put up with my crap.

“What’s going on?” I felt frantic. “Where’s Billy?”

“With the task force. They’re trying to find Ally and Sara.”

My eyes filled with tears that I angrily wiped away.

“I screwed up, Jeff. Big-time.”

“No, you didn’t. You drew your gun. He was just too big and fast.”

“I shouldn’t have turned off the alarm or—”

“He’d have come in one way or another.”

“Is Hoffman okay?” He’d been posted at the end of the driveway.

“He’s fine, just pissed at himself. Someone, probably John, had set a fire down at the end of the road and he went to check it out. Billy says it looks like John made his way through everyone’s backyards and was planning on breaking into the house when you opened the back door.”

I thought of Ally, how much Sara loved her. What would she do to save her daughter?

“When can I get out of here?”

“They want to keep you for observation.”

“Dammit.” I felt so helpless. I wanted to be out there, doing something.

“Doug called. He heard what happened. I told him you were okay.”

“Thanks.”

The way Jeff seemed to be waiting for me to say something else told me they’d probably talked about more than my concussion. I was right.

“He told me about the guy in Kelowna,” he finally said. “Want me to talk to him?”

“I want to find Ally and Sara.”

He paused, and I thought he was going to push me harder, but he just said, “I could see if I can get hold of anyone on the task force, if you like.”

“Yeah, please.”

He left to make the calls. I stared up at the ceiling, wondering where Sara and Ally were and what John might be doing. I didn’t let myself think about the fact that my mother’s real killer might be sitting in a jail in Kelowna. Or that I had no idea where my father might be.

* * *

The next morning they called the doctor in because I was nauseous. He did some routine checks and said it was probably the concussion. I kept calling Billy, but no luck. Finally he called.

“We got them!”

“Oh, sweet Jesus. Are they okay?”

“They’re good,” he said. “A little shook up, but good.”

“Where’s John?”

Billy filled me in on the rest. The Campsite Killer wasn’t going to hurt anyone ever again.

* * *

A couple of days later, I was released from the hospital. Jeff picked me up.

“I’m going to Kelowna,” I said.

“Want me to come with you?”

“No, thanks, I’m going alone.”

He nodded, understanding. He always knew when I needed space to figure shit out on my own, and I had a few things to think about. A lot had happened in the last month.

We flew over to Vancouver. I stopped at my house long enough to change my clothes, jumped in my Tahoe, and headed out to Kelowna.

Mark hadn’t been able to make bail. They brought him in, still in cuffs. He eyed me as they undid them, no doubt wondering who the hell I was and what I wanted. As a young man he’d been big, with huge forearms from hours working as a faller. I remembered a crew cut and a mean face with thin lips and cold blue eyes. I also remembered him drinking beer with my father while they watched the hockey game, his gaze lingering on my mother as she moved around the living room. Now he had a beer belly and the flushed face of a drinker, but his arms were still big and his face still mean.

I introduced myself, then said, “Do you remember me?”

His hooded eyes stared out at me. “Nope.”

“You were friends with my father. Tom McBride.” He kept his face blank, but his head tilted back, on guard. “You’re Tom’s kid?”

“Yes. I heard you got yourself into a bit of trouble.”

He tightened his mouth, one of his meaty fists clenching. “The bitch is lying.” Yeah, yeah, the bitch is always lying.

“The bruises on her body tell a different story.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why you here?”

“I want to talk to you about my mother’s murder.”

“Yeah? Ask your dad.”

“I’d love to. You know where he is?”

We stared each other down. Finally he said, “No idea. He stopped talking to me before she was killed.”

“Because you were seeing my mother and he didn’t like that. Your wife didn’t like it much either.”

He shrugged. “I strayed. Your dad was no saint either. Had a real bad temper.”

“Seems like you might have a bit of a temper too, Mark.”

“What are you getting at, lady?”

“Where were you the night my mother was killed?”

“I already told the cops—I was home, with my wife. She vouched for me.”

“She did, didn’t she? Of course, back then she thought you were coming home to stay. I wonder if she remembers things a little differently now.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair. “She’ll remember things the way they happened.” His tone was cocky. “I was at home.” His mouth curled up in a smile. “So was your daddy.”

“We’ll see.”

I called Doug the minute I was out of the building. “I think you’re onto something. He’s being cagey about that night. Is the wife still around?”

“Far as I know. I think she’s even in the same house. Want me to talk to her?”

“Thanks, but I’ll do it. Just give me the address.”

* * *

Eileen Braithwaite’s house was falling apart, the weeds and grass knee-high, the deck crumbling, a blue tarp covering most of the roof. I didn’t see a car in the driveway, but I could hear a TV blaring inside. I knocked loudly.

A dog started yipping and toenails scrambled on the floor. A haggard-looking woman opened the door: early seventies, long white hair, dressed in a faded jogging suit. The suit hung on her, like she’d lost a lot of weight recently. A small white dog was going nuts at her feet. Smoke from her cigarette curled up around her.

“Yeah?”

“I’m Staff Sergeant McBride and I was hoping to speak with you about your ex-husband.”

“What did the scumbag do now?” She squinted at me. The dog barked. She gave him a little shove with her foot. “Give it a rest, Louie.” Louie shut up.

I said, “I’d love to come in and talk about it.” She hesitated, then opened the door.

I perched on the edge of her couch, which had been floral at some point in its life, but was now faded pinks and browns. She eased herself down on a La-Z-Boy, a full ashtray of cigarette butts on the coffee table. The dog, who also looked yellowed with age, settled in her lap, giving me a warning growl. I told her what her ex had been picked up for.

“Asshole was always too quick with the fists.” She opened her mouth, pointed to a missing tooth.

“You never reported him for abuse when you were together?”

“Back then, you didn’t rat out your man. Now…” She waved her hand in the air. “Everyone’s running to the cops and their shrinks, whining about their problems.”

“You split up for a while, back in the seventies.”

“Yeah.” Her eyes squinted again, wondering where this was going.

“He was seeing another woman,” I said. “Virginia McBride.”

She leaned back in her chair, tense. “He was, but he came back home.”

“And you took him back no questions asked?”

“We had kids, mouths to feed. He was a good provider.” Never mind that he beat the crap out of her, and no doubt her children too.

“The night Virginia died, you said he was here with you.”

She stubbed out her cigarette, lit another, taking her time and watching me through the smoke.

“That’s right, I did.” She sounded belligerent.

“Now, with the benefit of time, is there anything else you can remember about that night, maybe him getting up while you were sleeping, maybe you thought he came back to bed…?”

I wanted to show her that I was willing to work with her on this. I could see her weighing her options, what was in it for her, why it mattered to me. Any minute, she’d ask. And she did.

“Why you want to know all this? Thought you got him for something else.”

“His woman, she might change her mind in a day or so, then he’ll move on to another one. Do the same thing. Bet it was real hard on you when he started fooling around with Virginia. You home with the kids, him over there having a good time. Bet he made a lot of promises when he came back, how sorry he was, how things were going to be different. You just had to help him out with this one thing—because he was innocent, right? The cops were going to pin it on him, then he wouldn’t be able to look after you and the kids. But he skipped out anyway. How long did it take him to find another single mother on the side? A year? Two?”

She sucked hard on the cigarette, blew the smoke out in a gust of air. “Six months.”

“Six months. And for that, he gets to go free, to walk around, no headaches, no problems, no nagging wife, because you did him a favor. But what did he do for you?”

She took another drag, nodding her head.

“He’s a mean son of a bitch,” she said. “A real charmer, and then he’ll turn around and hurt you for looking at him funny. If he gets out and finds out I talked to you…”

“If you talk to me, he’s not getting out.”

She scratched a breast, gave a hacking cough, and sighed. “I’m dying.”

Surprised, I didn’t say anything. She continued, “Got cancer, too far gone. Too much smoking.” She stared at the cigarette for a moment. “His favorite time for one of these was after sex.”

And there it was, the thing I’d forgotten all those years. The snap of a lighter, the smell of cigarette smoke filling the air. My father didn’t smoke.

“What really happened that night?”

“He was here, then he went out, said he had to go talk to her, said she’d called him crying and he had to end it once and for all, she was getting all crazy on him. He stumbled home around midnight, climbed into bed stinking of beer and sweat. Next day we hear about the murder. Said he figured your dad must of come in later, but he’d get blamed for it.”

“What do you think?”

“I think maybe there was a little more to it.”

“I think you’re right. Did you ever see Tom McBride around after that? Or did Mark ever mention him?”

“Never saw him, never talked to him.” Her gaze flicked up for a moment to a wooden fishing trophy tacked high on the wall. She realized I was watching and turned back to me. “And I never could figure out why Ginny got rid of Tom and hooked up with another asshole.”

It was an odd statement, considering the source. “People do strange things,” I said.

“That all?” She looked tired.

“For now, but some other officers will probably want to talk to you.”

“Might as well talk while I still can.” She broke into another cough.

* * *

I sat in my truck for a long time outside my old house. Where had my dad gone after he got out of camp? There’d been three days when no one saw him—his boss gave him his last paycheck and that was it. I thought back to when I was a kid, he and Mark coming home drunk as skunks, cleaning fish in the garage, their hands covered in blood and scales….

I called Doug. “We’re going to need some cadaver dogs, up at an old fishing cabin.”

They found my father’s body two days later. He’d been shot with a twelve-gauge shotgun—in the back. They weren’t sure whether Mark shot him before or after he killed my mother, but it didn’t matter. He was dead, and I could finally lay my father to rest.

* * *

For the next week, I threw up every morning, so I went back to the doctor. Then I went straight to Jeff’s office.

“Got some news.”

He wheeled back his chair. “Yeah? What’s that?

“I’m pregnant.”

He dropped the chair down. “Holy shit! How… like, when?”

“I guess the last time.” I knew I’d skipped my pill a couple of times when I rushed to the station early, but I’d just taken them the next day, figuring chances were slim. Obviously not….

“What are you going to do?”

“Keep it, I guess.”

He grinned, his face full of hopeful excitement. In a second he’d be handing out cigars.

I said, “I’m still coming around to the idea, so you have to go easy on me. No baby balloon bouquets yet, no telling anyone. It’s early, and I’m older, there could be complications.”

“Deal.” He stood up with his arms stretched wide. “Come on, give me a hug, Mama.”

“You shithead.” But I walked into his arms.

* * *

The next day I called Nadine Lavoie, told her I had some follow-up questions. She welcomed me at her office with a smile, but she looked concerned.

“Is Sara all right?”

“She’s doing fine, considering. I kind of lied about why I’m here. I need to talk to you about something else.”

Now she looked confused. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s about me. I think I need some help. My parents, they were murdered—years ago, but I still get nightmares. And I’m pregnant….”

“I see.” Her body relaxed. What had she thought I was going to say?

I noticed that some of her books had been packed. “You going somewhere?”

“Just taking a little sabbatical for the summer, while I consider moving to Victoria.” She touched her head where she’d been injured during the attack. “This made me do some thinking.”

“About your daughter?” It was a random guess, but her body stiffened.

“Yes, we’ve lost touch. She lives on the streets.”

How did a shrink’s kid end up on the streets? I thought of the baby growing inside me. What kind of hell would my child end up in with two cop parents? How bad would I screw him or her up?

Nadine shook her head, like she too was trying to clear away a negative thought, then said, “How about we talk, then I’ll see who I can suggest that you might connect with here?”

“It’s a start.”

She smiled. “We all have to start somewhere.”

A Preview for Always Watching

You need to know the rest of the story…

Read on for the first chapter of Chevy Stevens’ chilling

ALWAYS WATCHING

Available digitally in June 2013

You can try to forget the past, but you can never escape it…

CHAPTER ONE

The first time I saw Heather Simeon, she was curled into a ball in the seclusion room at the hospital, a thin blue blanket tight around her, the bandages sharp white lines circling her wrists. Her blond hair obscured most of her face. Even then, she still gave off a sense of refinement, something in the high cheekbones barely visible through the veil of her hair, the beautifully arched brows, the patrician nose, the delicate outline of pale lips. Only her hands were a mess: the cuticles raw and bleeding, the nails jagged. They didn’t look bitten, they looked broken. Like her.

I’d already read her file and talked with the emergency psychiatrist who’d admitted her the night before, then gone over everything with the nurses, most of whom had worked in the Psychiatric Intensive Care unit for years, and who were also my best sources of information. I might spend fifteen minutes to an hour with each patient during my morning rounds, but the rest of the time I was at my office in the Mental Health building, treating patients who are out in the community. That’s why I like to bring a nurse with me when I first meet a patient, so we’re on the same page with the care plan. Michelle, a cheerful woman with curly blond hair and a wide smile, was with me now.

Heather’s husband had come home the night before to find her sprawled on the kitchen floor, the knife near her hand. When she was admitted to the hospital, she’d become agitated, crying and fighting the nurses. The emergency-room doctor ran a drug screen that came back clear, so she’d been given Ativan and placed in the seclusion room. She was under close observation on the monitor, and a nurse checked on her every fifteen minutes.

She’d been sleeping all night.

I knocked softly on the door frame. Heather rolled over and opened her eyes, blinked a few times. I stepped closer to the bed. She gazed up at me, licked her lips, which were dry and chapped, then swallowed. Her mouth parted as if she was going to say something, but only her breath escaped in a long sigh. Her eyes were dark blue.

“Good morning, Heather,” I said in my gentlest voice. “I’m Dr. Lavoie, the attending psychiatrist.” When I had my private practice up island, my patients called me Nadine. But since moving to Victoria to work at the hospital, I’d started using my title, had come to like the emotional distance—one of the reasons for my move in the first place. “Would you like some water?”

She was staring somewhere over my shoulder, her expression blank, devoid of sorrow or anger. She might not have succeeded in checking out physically, but she had definitely disappeared emotionally.

“I’d like to talk with you for a little bit if that’s okay.”

Her eyes skimmed past me, landing on Michelle. She pulled the blue blanket tight around her.

“Why… is she here?” Her voice was a whisper.

“Michelle? She’s one of our nurses.”

On the psychiatry floor, the doctors are generally in business casual, the nurses dressed more for comfort. Michelle tended to favor fun clothes, today a funky striped shirt with dark denim dress jeans. Unless you noticed the ID badge around her neck, you might not realize she was a nurse.

Heather’s body language was defensive, almost cringing under the blanket, her gaze flicking back and forth between us like a cornered animal’s. Michelle stepped back, but Heather still looked overwhelmed. Some patients felt ganged up on when we brought a nurse in with us.

I said, “Would you be more comfortable just talking to me?”

She gave a small nod as she worried a corner of her bandage with her teeth. Again, I was struck with the image of a wild animal trying to escape its bindings. I glanced at Michelle, signaling that it was okay for her to leave.

Michelle smiled at Heather.

“I’ll check on you later, honey. See if you need anything.”

I liked Michelle’s warmth with the patients, had noticed it before. She’d often sit and talk with them, even on her breaks. When the door closed behind her, I turned back to my patient.

“Can you tell me how old you are, Heather?”

She slowly said, “Thirty-five,” as she looked around, starting to become more aware of where she was. I saw the room through her eyes and felt bad for her: the small plastic window in the heavy metal door, the Plexiglas cover on the window with scratch marks down it like someone had tried to claw their way out—which someone had.

“And your name?” I said.

“Heather Duncan…” She shook her head, catching herself, but the movement was sluggish, delayed. “Simeon. My name now, it’s Simeon.”

I smiled. “Did you get married recently?”

“Yes.” Not yeah or uh-huh, but yes. She was educated, brought up to speak clearly. Her gaze focused on the heavy metal door. “Daniel… is he here?”

“He’s here, but I’d like to talk with you first. How long have you and Daniel been married?”

“Six months.”

“What do you do for a living, Heather?”

“I don’t do anything now, but I used to work in the store. We take care of the earth.”

I noticed her shift to present tense.

“Are you a landscaper?”

“It’s our job to tend and keep the land.”

I felt an uncomfortable flutter in my stomach about the phrase. It sounded familiar, and she’d also said it like she was reciting an expression she’d heard many times. She was repeating it, not speaking for herself.

“I heard you had a bad night,” I said. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”

“I don’t want to be here.”

“You’re in the hospital because you’ve been certified under the Mental Health Act. You tried to hurt yourself, and we don’t want that to happen again, so we’re going to help you get better.”

She pulled herself up into a sitting position, and I noticed how thin her arms were as she braced on the mattress, the veins popping. Her arms shook as if the effort of holding up her body up was exhausting.

“I just wanted it all to stop.” Her eyes filled with tears that weaved down her face, dripped off her nose. One landed on her arm. She stared at it as though she had no idea how it got there.

“What did you want to stop?”

“The bad thoughts. My baby—” Her voice caught and she flinched, gritting her teeth as though something had stabbed her deep inside.

“You had a miscarriage, Heather?” According to her file, she’d lost the baby a week ago, but I wanted to see if she would tell me more about it herself.

Another tear slid down and dropped onto her arm.

“I was three months along. I started bleeding…” She took a breath and let it out slowly through clenched teeth.

I paused, a beat of silence in honor of what she’d just told me, then said, very gently, “I’m sorry, Heather. That must have been very painful for you. It’s normal to have feelings of depression after losing a child, but we can help you manage your feelings so they aren’t so overwhelming. Your file said your doctor prescribed Effexor last year. Are you still taking it?”

“No.”

“When did you stop?”

“When I met Daniel.” I caught the slightly defensive tone and knew she felt guilty that she’d stopped taking the pills, ashamed that she needed them. People with depression often stop their medication when they fall in love, the endorphins creating their own natural antidepressant. Then real life kicks in.

“The first thing I’d like to do is put you back on the antidepressant.” My voice was casual: This isn’t a big deal. You’re okay. “We’ll start you off on a low dose and see how you do. Your file mentioned that you also went through a hard time a few years ago.” Her previous two suicide attempts had been with pills. She’d been found at the last second in each case, but now that Heather had progressed to more violent means, she might not be so lucky next time.

“You were referred to a psychologist. Are you still seeing him?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t like him. Daniel, is he okay?”

“The nurses said he stayed here all night and only went home this morning to get some of your things. He’s back in the waiting area now.”

Heather frowned, her face worried. “He must be so tired.”

“I’m sure Daniel just wants you to get well. We’re here to help with that.”

Fresh tears made her eyes seem even bluer, like sapphires set in diamonds. She was so pale you could see every vein in her neck, but she was still hauntingly pretty. People often assume that beautiful people have no reason to be unhappy. It’s usually the complete opposite.

“I want Daniel,” she said. Her eyelids had begun to droop, the effort of talking draining what little energy she had left.

“I’m going to speak to him first, then we’ll see if we can arrange a little visit.” I wanted to get a sense of what kind of emotional shape he was in, so he didn’t make the situation worse.

“They can’t find me in here.” She said the words to the room as though she’d forgotten I was there and was just reassuring herself.

“Who are you afraid is going to find you?”

“I want them to leave us alone, but they just keep calling and calling.” She picked at her cuticles as she spoke, tearing at a small piece of flesh.

“Is someone bothering you?” Her file hadn’t said anything about paranoia or hallucinations, but psychosis is sometimes possible with severe depression, which Heather was clearly suffering from. But if she was also having problems with some people in her life, we needed to know about it.

She started to worry the bandage with her teeth again.

I said, “This is a safe environment—it’s a place for you to get better. We can bar anyone you don’t want to visit, and there’s a security guard on the floor at all times. No one can get to you.” If there was a real threat, I wanted to make sure Heather felt secure enough to tell me what was going on. If it was just paranoia, she still needed to feel protected, so we could begin to treat her.

“I’m not going back.” The last part was said as though she was warning herself. “They can’t make me.”

“Who can’t make you?”

She forced her eyes open, met mine with a flash of confused alarm. I could see her wondering what she’d just told me. Fear, and something else, something I couldn’t name yet, rolled off her body in thick waves, pressing into me. I fought the sudden urge to step back.

“I need to see Daniel.” Her head lolled forward, and her chin dropped onto her chest. “I’m so tired.”

“Why don’t you get some rest while I talk to your husband.”

She curled up under the blue blanket in the fetal position, her face to the wall, shaking even though the room was warm.

Her voice now barely a whisper, she said, “He sees everything.”

I paused at the door. “Who sees everything, Heather?”

She just pulled the blanket over her face.

* * *

When I walked into the visiting area, a tall man with dark hair leaped to his feet. Even unshaven, with shadows under his eyes and a rumpled dress shirt hanging outside faded jeans, Daniel was an attractive man. He was probably in his mid-forties, judging by the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, but I had a feeling he was one of those men who grow even more handsome with age. Their child would have been lovely. I felt a wave of sorrow for them.

He strode toward me, a brown leather bomber jacket hanging over his arm and a knapsack hooked over his shoulder.

“How is she? Is she asking for me?” His voice cracked on the last word.

“Let’s go where we can talk privately, Mr. Simeon.” I led him down the hallway toward one of the interview rooms, skirting the janitor mopping the floor. I frowned when I noticed that the utility room behind him was unlocked and gaping, and made a mental note to mention it to the nurses.

“Call me Daniel, please. Can you tell me if she’s all right?”

“I’d say yes, considering. She’s having a hard time, but we’re doing everything in our power to help her. This is the best place for her right now.”

“There was so much blood…”

I felt bad for him, knowing what he was probably thinking: What if I’d come home ten minutes later? Why didn’t I see the signs? Families seem to fall into two categories: those that blame themselves and those that blame the patient. But they always need to blame someone.

“It must have been very upsetting to find her like that,” I said. “Is there anyone you can talk to? I’d be happy to suggest someone.”

A quick shake of his head. “I’m okay. I just want Heather to be safe.”

I thought about what Heather had just told me. Was someone harassing her? Or was his fear just related to what she had done?

“That’s what we want too.” I unlocked the heavy metal door to the interview room and waved Daniel into a chair.

He sat across from me. People might think that the ward would be decorated in soothing colors, a warm, nurturing environment, but the chairs, mismatched shades of pink, blue, and puce, have been there since the seventies. The desk was laminate, the edges cracked and peeling. A wood shelf stood against one wall with a few lonely books stacked haphazardly. Even the waiting area where he’d been sitting for so many hours was just a few chairs by the elevators. It’s an old hospital. But the funding isn’t there, and this isn’t meant to be a holiday.

“Did she tell you why she…” Daniel choked up, took a quick breath. “Why she tried to kill herself?”

“I can’t share anything Heather tells me without her permission. But I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Sure, anything.”

“Did you know how depressed she’s been?”

He rubbed his chin, his face bleak.

“Since we lost the baby, she won’t eat or get out of bed. Most days she won’t even shower. I thought it was postpartum, or whatever it’s called, and she just needed some time… I keep thinking about how quiet she was when I left last night. I was late for work—I’ve been picking up odd jobs in the evening to make some extra cash—so I was in a rush.” He shook his head. “If I’d stayed with her…”

He was the type who blame themselves. I leaned forward.

“This isn’t your fault, Daniel. If you’d been there, she’d have waited until you weren’t and tried again. People as troubled as Heather always find a way.”

He looked at me—long enough, I hoped, for my words to sink in—then his face clouded over.

“Her parents are going to take this really hard.”

“They don’t know?”

“They’re on an RV trip in Northern BC. I tried to call, but they must be out of range. She hasn’t talked to them for a while.”

“What about her friends?”

“She never wanted to do anything with them, so they stopped phoning.”

I wasn’t surprised that Heather had pushed people away, except for Daniel. A classic symptom of depression was detaching from friends and family.

“What do you do for a living, Daniel?”

“I’m a carpenter.” That explained his build, and his deep tan. He smiled as he looked down at his rough hands. “Heather and I came from different worlds, but the minute we met, we had this instant connection, like on the deepest level. Neither of us had ever felt that way before.” He looked at me as if expecting skepticism.

I gave him an encouraging nod.

He continued. “She’d just gone through a breakup—her ex was a real jerk. But we started hiking and doing yoga together. It seemed to cheer her up.”

It had been a good idea on his part. Exercise is one of the best natural aids for depression.

“So you noticed some signs of depression before you got married?”

“I guess… She’s the kind of person who’s always trying to take care of everyone else, so it’s hard to tell sometimes. She’d get really quiet or start crying, but she wouldn’t want to worry me, so I wouldn’t know what she was upset about. But when she got pregnant, she was really happy about the baby, picking out names, buying toys…” His voice wavered. “I don’t know what to do about the baby’s room or all the clothes she bought.”

My mind flashed to Paul painting Lisa’s nursery strawberry red with apple green stripes because our child would be different, would skip to her own beat. Which she had, always—a trait I’d admired, until she danced away from me.

“Let’s take it one day at time,” I said, as much to myself as to him. “You can work all that out later.”

“When can Heather come home?”

“She’s been involuntarily admitted into the hospital so we can keep an eye on her. We can’t release her until she’s no longer a danger to herself.”

“What if she tries… you know.” He swallowed hard. “What if she tries to do it again?”

“We won’t let her here. And we won’t send her home until she’s stable and has a good support system in place.”

“Can I see her? I brought some of her things.”

Normally, we’re strict about visiting hours—they’re only from four to nine in PIC, where everyone has to be buzzed in and out. We don’t allow visitors before noon, so patients can attend programs, and we can make our rounds. But he looked desperate, and I thought seeing him might help Heather settle in.

“She’s resting right now, but you can say a quick hello.”

* * *

We didn’t talk as we rode up the elevator to Psychiatric Intensive Care on the next floor. Daniel seemed lost in thought, and I was busy counting my heartbeats while focusing on my breathing. I’ve suffered from claustrophobia for years, a fact that would probably shock my patients. Various coping techniques help, from mental imagery to breathing exercises, but when I first heard the elevator seal shut, I had to restrain myself from hitting the panic button.

We were buzzed into the unit. In PIC, the nurses’ station is behind glass, and a security guard is always at hand. One side of the unit is for high-risk patients like Heather, and the other is the step down unit, where they go when they don’t need the same level of monitoring. If they continue to improve, they are moved down to the next floor, where they have more freedom.

The nurse searched the bag Daniel had brought for Heather to make sure there wasn’t anything she could hurt herself with—the frame was removed from their wedding photograph, same with the tie from her robe. When the nurse was finished, I showed Daniel to an alcove in the lounge area, where they could have some privacy but still be in view, then went to get Heather.

As I entered the seclusion room, I gave her a quick visual. She was still curled in a ball, her pale arms wrapped around her torso with both small hands on her shoulders, as if she were trying to hold herself together.

“Heather, do you feel up to a visit with Daniel now?”

Heather twitched at the sound, then slowly rolled over. Her voice was pleading and her eyes flooded with tears as she said, “I need to see him.”

“Okay, but you’ll have to come out with me because we don’t allow visitors in the seclusion rooms. Are you feeling strong enough to stand?”

She was already pulling herself up into a sitting position.

* * *

When we entered the lounge area, Daniel jumped to his feet—and froze as he took in the sight of his wife slowly shuffling beside me, the bandages on her wrist, the hospital blue pajamas, the blanket she’d wrapped around her shoulders like an old woman’s shawl.

“Daniel!” she cried out.

“Oh, sweetie,” he said as he gathered her into her arms. “You can’t scare me like that again.”

Once a patient has been in for a few days we leave them alone with their visitors, but I wanted to see how Daniel and Heather interacted—in case Daniel was part of the problem. I sat in one of the chairs a little to the side.

Daniel gently helped Heather lower herself before taking a seat. Heather rested her head against his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her back, supporting her.

“I’m sorry, Daniel.” Heather’s voice was raw with emotion. “I hate what I’m doing to you. You shouldn’t have to take care of me all the time.”

A red flag. Suicidal patients try to convince themselves that people would be better off without them.

Daniel said, “Don’t talk like that. I love you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to take care of you forever.” As though to prove his point, he pulled the blanket up around her shoulders, tucking it around her neck where the hospital pajamas had drifted down, revealing the hollow of her thin collarbone.

She clearly wasn’t frightened of Daniel, so I decided to leave and finish my rounds. Then Heather, speaking slightly under her breath, said something that caught my attention.

“I told the doctor about how they keep calling.”

“What did you say?” Daniel didn’t sound upset, just a little worried.

“Not much, I don’t think… I’m confused, and my head feels funny. Are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad, sweetie. But maybe you shouldn’t think about any of that right now, just think about getting better. We can talk about everything else another day.” His face was earnest, making sure she understood.

“Do you think Emily knows… what I did?”

“No, they probably wouldn’t have told her at the center.”

Heather nodded, then glanced up at the camera in the corner. She’d also glanced at it when she first sat down, and I wondered if she’d been at a treatment center where patients were monitored.

“Is there someone you’d like me to contact for you?” I said.

Heather looked at Daniel. He shook his head, just a slight movement, but she nodded back, acquiescing to whatever he’d just silenced.

I said, “It would help my treatment plan for Heather if you told me what program you were attending.”

Heather rested her hand on his Daniel’s leg, her eyes pleading with him. Daniel’s were focused on her bandages, then he turned to me.

“We used to live at a spiritual center. It’s out in Jordan River. We left when Heather got pregnant because she didn’t want to have the baby there. Some of the members have been calling to make sure we’re okay. They’re nice people.”

I’d heard that there was a center out in Jordan River, a spiritual retreat of sorts that was well respected, but I didn’t know much else about them.

Heather had started to cry again, her shoulders shaking.

“They made me feel like it was my fault I lost the baby.”

“They don’t really believe it’s your fault—no one thinks that,” Daniel said. “They’re just trying to help, sweetie. You were doing so well.”

Heather was crying harder now, her face twisted.

“I didn’t like how they’re always telling us what to do. They—”

“Heather, stop— you don’t know what you’re saying.” Daniel’s eyes shot to my face, his voice concerned and his expression helpless. “They have rules, Dr. Lavoie, but they’re so we can stay focused on the workshops.”

Heather and Daniel clearly weren’t on the same page about the center, but she didn’t want to contradict Daniel in front of me. She kept glancing at him. Is it okay that I’m saying this? Do you still love me?

She gazed at him now, her hands gripping her blanket tight around her.

“They wouldn’t let me say good-bye to Emily.”

This was the second time Heather had mentioned Emily.

“Emily didn’t want to leave with us, remember? She loves it at the center. I know you miss her, but you need to worry about yourself and the bab—”

Heather recoiled like he’d hit her.

Daniel said, “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. It was just habit.”

Heather’s eyes had gone dark and empty again, her hands dropped by her sides, palms up—defeated.

“It’s my fault I lost the baby. You’re mad at me.”

“It’s not your fault, Heather—and I’m not mad at you.” In a voice so loving and sad it made my heart hurt, he added, “You’re the most important thing in the world to me.”

“They said we should stay. They said it was better for our baby— and maybe they were right. I made you leave, and now the baby’s dead.”

“Heather, stop.” Daniel was rubbing her back. “Don’t say things like that.” He put his face close to hers. “Hey, look at me.” But Heather was just staring at the wall now, her expression blank.

I didn’t want to push things too much, especially with Heather starting to dissociate from the conversation, but I was concerned about why she was blaming herself so much for the loss of her baby.

“Why did you want to leave the center, Heather?”

She began to rock, her arms wrapped around her body.

“They said that all adults are the child’s parents. So everyone helps raise them, and they don’t even stay with you.”

The horror in her face made it clear that this hadn’t sat well with her.

“At the center, they believe it’s better for the baby’s spiritual growth to be loved by many hearts,” Daniel said. “They have highly trained caregivers.”

This center sounded highly controlling. I turned to Heather.

“But you didn’t want to share your child?”

She nodded and glanced at Daniel, who stared down at Heather’s bandages again. She looked like she wanted to explain herself more, but then she reached out and held Daniel’s hand. He gave it a small squeeze.

“I think I was wrong, though,” she said. “We should’ve stayed. Then I wouldn’t have miscarried.”

I said, “How can you know that you wouldn’t have miscarried even if you had stayed? Did they actually tell you that you were responsible?”

“They didn’t say it was our fault,” Daniel said. “They were just worried that Heather had gotten herself too stressed out by moving.”

In other words, they had implied that it was her fault.

“What is this center called?” I said.

Daniel sat straighter, his shoulders proud.

“The River of Life Spiritual Center.”

Something tickled at the back of my mind, followed by an uncomfortable feeling of dread settling in my stomach.

“Who runs it?”

“Aaron Quinn. He’s the director of all the programs at the center.”

Aaron Quinn. He said Aaron Quinn.

It couldn’t be the same man.

Heather’s voice was a whisper. “Most of the members call it the commune.”

The commune. I hadn’t heard that name in years. I hadn’t wanted to hear it ever again. I stared at Heather, trying to think, my heart thudding in my ears.

“Dr. Lavoie?” Heather’s blue eyes were full of sorrow and pain. “Do you think it’s my fault the baby died?”

It took a second for me to refocus my thoughts. You have a patient, and she needs your help.

“No, I don’t think it’s your fault. You made a decision you thought was best for your child—you were just being good parents.” I talked on for a minute or two, heard the comforting words coming out of my mouth. But all the while my head was filled with a dull roar, the sound of fate and life colliding. Because what I couldn’t tell them was that I knew Aaron Quinn.

I knew exactly who he was.

Praise for Chevy Stevens

‘A harrowing tale of manipulation that got under my skin by the end of the first chapter.’

Linwood Barclay

‘Stevens lights that fuse and lets it burn all the way to an explosive ending. A chilling, compelling read.’

William Landay, author of DEFENDING JACOB

‘Block off the weekend, grab a comfy seat, and prepare for the rocket ride of your life.’

Lisa Gardner

‘A terrifying, chilling scenario that unfolds into a nightmare that had me keeping the light on at night.’

Rosamund Lupton

‘An astonishingly well-crafted debut novel.’

Karin Slaughter

‘Grim and unsettling… utterly absorbing.’

Kathy Reichs

‘Engrossing, terrifying.’

Chelsea Cain

‘I had to remind myself to breathe. Simply terrifying.’

Erica Spindler

‘Frank, fierce, and sometimes even funny, this is a dark tale pinpricked with light-and told by an unforgettable heroine’

Gillian Flynn

‘Thriller writers such as Kathy Reichs and Karin Slaughter had better watch out, they have a real competitor on their hands in Stevens… chilling suspense mixed in with disturbing psychological insight — and a real heroine.’

Daily Mail

‘Stevens writes in a fresh, truly authentic human voice, gripping you and tearing your heart from the very first page to the last. Still Missing is one of the very few books I’ve read in a long while that I absolutely could not put down until I had finished it.’

Peter James

‘It’s a knockout, a psychological thriller that pulls no punches… relentless and disturbing.’

Booklist

‘Blistering debut… a grueling, gripping demonstration of melodrama’s darker side.’

Kirkus Reviews

‘Pulsates with suspense… [with a] jaw-dropping but credible closing twist.’

Publishers Weekly

Also by Chevy Stevens

Still Missing

Never Knowing

Always Watching

About the Author

CHEVY STEVENS grew up on a ranch on Vancouver Island and still lives on the island with her husband and daughter. When she’s not working on her next book, she’s camping and canoeing with her family in the local mountains. Her debut novel, Still Missing, won the International Thriller Writers Award for Best First Novel. Please visit her at www.chevystevens.com.

COPYRIGHT

Published by Hachette Digital

ISBN: 9781405528344

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Chevy Stevens Holdings Ltd. All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

Hachette Digital

Little, Brown Book Group

100 Victoria Embankment

London, EC4Y 0DY

An Hachette UK company

www.hachette.co.uk

www.littlebrown.co.uk

STILL MISSING

An abducted woman. A year held in captivity. An escape that is just the beginning…

On the day she was abducted, thirty-two-year-old Annie Sullivan had three goals — sell a house, forget a recent argument with her mother, and be on time for dinner with her ever-patient boyfriend. Then a van pulls up outside the house she is selling. Annie thinks it’s her lucky day. But nothing could be further from the truth…

Annie wakes to find herself in a remote mountain location with only her kidnapper, ‘The Freak’, for company. Subjected to his sadistic treatment for over a year Annie eventually escapes, but begins to suspect that someone in her former life wanted her gone — and isn’t pleased she’s back.

Content

Chevy Stevens
THE OTHER SIDE

A Preview for Always Watching

CHAPTER ONE

Praise for Chevy Stevens

Also by Chevy Stevens

About the Author

COPYRIGHT

STILL MISSING