After She's Gone Read online

  ALSO BY MAGGIE JAMES

  Fiction

  His Kidnapper’s Shoes

  Blackwater Lake

  The Second Captive

  Guilty Innocence

  Sister, Psychopath

  Non-Fiction

  Write Your Novel! From Getting Started to First Draft

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 Maggie James

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503942349

  ISBN-10: 1503942341

  Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com

  This novel is dedicated to the real-life Lori Golden, her son Steven Simmons and her beautiful cat Oreo. Thank you, Lori, for allowing me to use your name in my book.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE FIRE

  Chapter 1 MISSING

  Chapter 2 IDENTIFICATION

  Chapter 3 INVESTIGATION

  Chapter 4 ALIBI

  Chapter 5 ARSON

  Chapter 6 SUSPICION

  Chapter 7 DEPRESSION

  Chapter 8 ARREST

  Chapter 9 CARDS

  Chapter 10 FUNDRAISING

  Chapter 11 FUNERAL

  Chapter 12 DECISION

  Chapter 13 DESPAIR

  Chapter 14 AFTERMATH

  Chapter 15 LETTER

  Chapter 16 REVELATION

  Chapter 17 MISTRUST

  Chapter 18 DREAD

  Chapter 19 DISCOVERY

  Chapter 20 PREDATOR

  Chapter 21 RESCUE

  Chapter 22 CONFESSION

  Chapter 23 BITTERSWEET

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  FIRE

  Four Months Ago

  The man hesitates after striking the match, savouring the pause before he drops the flame onto the petrol-soaked debris. Above Bristol, the sky yawns black and star-studded; night-time is when he always lights his fires, darkness providing an essential cloak for his activities.

  He’s aware people like him are labelled pyromaniacs, a term he rejects. Nothing maniacal about him, although should any psychiatrist probe into his past, they’d find plenty worthy of comment. Impossible for them to understand, of course. His fires are his own version of therapy; he’ll take them over a shrink any day.

  He’s built quite a reputation for torching disused buildings in Bristol over the past few months, often starring in the Evening Post’s headlines. ‘Bristol Ablaze!’ proclaimed one edition. His fires have escalated in size and number recently, in line with his increasingly churned-up feelings – a cocktail of emotions that include anger, hurt, betrayal – all of which have led to this abandoned industrial unit. He’s holding the flaring match between his fingers, ready to drop it through the window he’s broken. One final deep breath, then he’s ready. The man lets go of the match, its fiery tongue falling onto the petrol-drenched rubbish inside the building. The fire takes hold instantly, hot ribbons of flame rushing upwards.

  Near the industrial estate is a thick privet hedge, and he retreats to watch the blaze from behind its bulk, his expression rapt. The flames mesmerise him as they build, higher and fiercer, to consume the building. Then, in the distance, sirens wail, their keening sound drawing closer. Time to go.

  Chapter 1

  MISSING

  Present Day – Early October

  Lori Golden, unaware her life is about to shatter, chews her lower lip, a habit of hers when tense. Unbeknown to her, fire crews will soon extinguish a blaze at a house close by, ignorant of the horror awaiting them within its walls. Lori also has no idea who lies dead in its basement, although she’ll find out soon enough. For now, though, most things are well in her world on this Thursday evening. From the depths of her beanbag, she twists a finger through her hair, its blonde curls back despite the time she spent straightening them. Her eyes trace the pattern on the worn carpet, unwilling to make contact with the other occupant of the room. He appears equally ill at ease, his right foot tapping a rapid rhythm as he sits on the sofa opposite her. She’d hoped he’d be at work tonight, but it seems she’s out of luck.

  Lori scrambles for something to say. Why is it so hard to talk to Damon Quinn? Mostly, she decides, because he often greets her conversational gambits with monosyllables and averted eyes. ‘You firefighters must be busy, what with this crazy arsonist on the loose,’ she remarks.

  When he doesn’t respond, she follows with, ‘Must be good for overtime.’

  Damon Quinn nods. ‘Been putting in loads of hours lately, yeah.’

  What next? Inspiration strikes. ‘You’ve just finished your shift?’

  He shakes his head, his gaze averted. ‘I wasn’t on duty tonight. Had somewhere I needed to be.’ He doesn’t elaborate, but Lori doesn’t expect him to. From the kitchen, she hears Aiden opening the fridge, the clink of cans being placed on the melamine worktop. Hurry, she begs him wordlessly. Doesn’t he realise she finds his housemate heavy going?

  The tension in the room melts as Aiden returns, carrying a tray laden with cans of Thatchers and a large bag of peanuts. ‘This is a nice surprise,’ he tells Lori.

  ‘Sorry if I’ve caught you on the hop.’ Although he doesn’t seem to mind, she thinks. ‘I decided to call in on the off-chance on my way home from Celine’s, to ask if you could help with my next fundraiser.’

  ‘The car boot sale, right? Sure. Just let me know when and where.’

  Aiden hands her a can. Then thrusts one towards his housemate. ‘We’re out of beer. Cider will have to do.’

  Damon takes a can, pops the top with a soft phizz, raises it to his lips. Aiden sits next to him on the sofa. ‘Want some?’ he asks, proffering the bag of peanuts her way. Lori sips her cider and makes small talk with Aiden. They’ve become good friends since their accidental meeting a couple of months ago at the Bierkeller. Not that she’s seen him much since dating her new boyfriend. The delectable Ryan Brooks: the man she’d be with tonight, if he wasn’t out with colleagues celebrating a good sales quarter, damn him.

  ‘It’ll probably turn into the mother of all piss-ups, and go on pretty late,’ he had told her, before kissing her hard enough to make her shiver with longing. ‘Believe me, babe, I’d rather spend time with you. But it’ll look bad if I don’t go.’

  At the time, Lori had played it cool, not wanting to appear clingy. They’ve only been seeing each other a month, after all; he’s not met any of her family or friends. Now, though, worry prickles the back of her mind. Ryan’s the epitome of male good looks, all dark hair, baby-blue eyes and come-hither mouth. At thirty, he’s eight years older than her, but his body is toned and in good shape. Her boyfriend’s Hollywood smile could seduce any straight woman on the planet – a fact that concerns her. Suppose he finds one of his female colleagues too tempting to resist?

  ‘Have some more peanuts,’ Aiden says, thrusting the bag towards her again.

  Despite her best efforts, Lori’s finding it hard to relax. The knot of tension that’s taken up residence in her belly in recent weeks squeezes tighter. The argument over breakfast that morning had proved particularly vicious, reminding her why she’s reluctant to go home. Her mother and Jake Hamilton certainly hadn’t pulled any punches in
the angry words they’d flung at each other.

  As Aiden talks, her brain zones out as she reflects, not for the first time, on how little she knows about the Hamiltons. Jake, with his son Spencer in tow, moved into the Golden home far too soon in Lori’s opinion. But Dana Golden, aged forty-two, isn’t getting any younger, as she often comments with a forced smile. Lori’s aware of how lonely her mother’s been following her divorce; she’s not sure Jake Hamilton’s the answer, though. In her view, he’s yet to prove himself worthy of Dana. He ticks all the right boxes, sure. Handsome in an understated way, partner in a local firm of solicitors, well-off financially. But something about the man makes her uneasy. In particular, the way his eyes often stare at her sister Jessie.

  ‘I need a piss.’ Aiden stands up, breaking Lori’s train of thought. She glances at her watch. Eleven o’clock; her bed is calling, her cat Oreo purring beside her. At that moment, her mobile sounds from her bag. She extracts it, concern gripping her on seeing it’s her mother who’s calling; has Dana’s illness taken a turn for the worse? Stay positive, she admonishes herself. Besides, if her mother was seriously unwell, Jessie, Jake or Spencer would phone her, not Dana. She forces her panic aside, swiping her finger across the screen to accept the call.

  ‘Hi, Mum. Is everything—’

  Dana Golden’s tone is frantic, her syllables tripping over themselves. So much so that her daughter can barely understand her. ‘What’s wrong, Mum? Has something happened?’

  Through the tears and the panicked swallowing, she makes out a few words. ‘Jessie . . . not come home . . . not answering phone . . .’

  Lori forces herself to take a deep breath. ‘Slow down, Mum. You’re not making sense.’

  Jake Hamilton’s voice reaches her from far away. ‘Give me the phone, Dana.’ His nasal twang sounds in her ear when he next speaks. ‘Lori, we have a problem. Your sister’s not come home and nobody’s seen her. Your mother’s out of her mind with worry.’

  Fear tugs at her. ‘Have you called Marcie’s parents?’ The thought occurs to Lori that, had Jessie spent the evening at Marcie’s, she’d have been back long before now, safely driven home by her friend’s father.

  ‘Yes. We’ve phoned everyone we can think of. You need to come home, Lori. Your mother’s desperate.’

  Dana Golden’s voice slices through the air. ‘Did she say anything to you, Lori? Anything at all?’

  The beginnings of a headache are making themselves felt against Lori’s temples. Think, for God’s sake, she admonishes herself, forcing her brain into gear. What were the words Jessie had flung over her shoulder before she left earlier that evening?

  ‘She said . . .’ The hammer inside her head pounds more insistently. ‘Something about hanging out at a friend’s place.’

  ‘Which friend? Who was it, Lori?’ Her mother’s voice, agitation in every syllable, is urgent, demanding.

  ‘She didn’t elaborate. Look, Mum, I’m sure she’ll be fine . . .’

  Dana Golden’s expression takes on a feral look. She moves closer to her eldest daughter. ‘She. Is. Sixteen. Years. Old.’ Desperation creeps onto her face. ‘She may act sassy but that’s just teenage bravado. Where the hell is she? It’s almost midnight, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Dana.’ Jake Hamilton steps between them. ‘Lori’s only trying to help. She’s not her sister’s keeper, remember.’

  ‘No, she’s not.’ Spoken in a curt tone. ‘That should have been your role tonight. You were here, remember, not me.’

  Same old, same old, decides Lori, except lately the arguments have become more frequent, the recriminations more bitter. Most of them have centred on Spencer Hamilton. How Jake should have been honest with Dana about what she dubs his son’s sordid past. Behind Lori, the clock ticks away, a counterpoint to the hammering in her head. Worry nags at her. Almost midnight, and on a school night too. However much she hates to admit it, her mother is right. Jessie should have been back long before now.

  And where the hell is Spencer? Shouldn’t he be home too?

  Lori reminds herself she can’t worry about a grown man when her sister is missing. Spencer’s probably out clubbing with his mates, meaning he’ll most likely sleep off the beer elsewhere rather than come home. She chews her lip, her gaze falling on Jake’s car keys on the kitchen table. He sees the direction of her glance, his face reddening as he grabs the keys, thrusting them into the back pocket of his jeans.

  A thin keening sound punctures Lori’s thoughts. It’s her mother, her anger at Jake forgotten, so consumed is she by terror on Jessie’s behalf. Dana Golden sinks onto a chair, her face taut with worry, a tear sliding down one cheek. Her skin’s pallid; her greying hair is a bird’s nest, dry and frizzy. Fear squeezes Lori’s heart. Stress and anxiety won’t do Dana’s health any favours. From her vantage point by the door, she glances at her mother’s ankles, checking for signs of swelling. Along with puffy morning eyes, lower limb oedema signifies Dana’s medical condition is getting worse. They appear normal, thank God. For now, anyway.

  Tick, tock throbs the clock. Lori drags her handbag across the kitchen table and rummages inside, pulling out her mobile. She moves behind Dana, her head against her mother’s, their hair touching as she squeezes her close.

  Her words brush Dana’s cheek. ‘We’ll find her.’ The promise rings with forced optimism. ‘But we need to call the police, and right away.’

  Dana’s sobs increase, choking sounds wrenching themselves from her chest as she gulps in air. Above her head, Lori’s eyes meet Jake’s.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Jake says, extracting his mobile from his pocket. Relief floods Lori, then recedes, beaten back by a terrible thought: Fraser Golden. Her father needs to know his favourite daughter is missing.

  Impossible to call him with Dana around. Instead, Lori heads upstairs to her bedroom, needing to be alone if she’s to do this. Her hands shake as she pulls up Fraser’s number. What time is it in New York, anyway? Six, seven in the evening? Tears stab her eyes at the thought of how her father will react to the news.

  ‘Lori?’ She’s so tightly wound that Fraser’s voice startles her when it booms in her ear. ‘This is a surprise. You don’t normally call me when I’m abroad.’

  ‘Dad?’ Lori’s voice is a whisper, no more. All the saliva has drained from her mouth. She swallows convulsively, fresh tears stinging her eyes.

  ‘You’ll have to speak up. I can hardly hear you.’ In the background, Lori detects laughter, chatter, music. ‘Wait a second. I’ll step outside.’

  The sounds recede. ‘Sorry about that. I’m at a business function with colleagues,’ Fraser says. His tone turns edgy. ‘Is everything all right? Has something happened?’

  Lori closes her eyes, leans against her bedroom wall, her head tipped back. She hasn’t the slightest idea how to deliver such terrible news. The words will tear his heart in two, of that she’s sure.

  ‘Lori?’ She detects worry in her father’s tone. ‘Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Is your mother ill again?’

  From somewhere, she finds the words. Jessie. Not come home. Not with friends. Whereabouts unknown. Police called.

  Her father’s reaction isn’t one she’ll ever forget, along with the questions he barks at her, their brusqueness an attempt at masking his dread. Every syllable hammers home to Lori her father’s terror.

  ‘Dear God.’ His convulsive gasps for air sound in her ear. ‘I’ll get the next flight I can. I’ll call you after I land.’ The connection goes dead.

  Lori slides down the wall to slump on the floor, burying her head against her knees. Her big, strong, larger-than-life daddy had sounded close to tears, an unprecedented event as far as she can recall. If Jessie isn’t found soon, and alive, she suspects he may shatter into pieces.

  Twelve thirty in the morning. Two police officers have arrived at the Golden house, where the atmosphere remains fraught with tears, tension, recriminations. As she huddles in the depths of the sofa, Lori strokes Oreo, his purrs rumbling under
her fingers. She fights to stay calm. This can’t be happening. Any second now Jessie’s key will sound in the front door, and she’ll walk in, bold as brass and twice as sassy, with some credible explanation about where she’s been. Dana will yell at her, ground her for a month, but all will be well again in the Golden household. Except Lori’s intuition’s telling her a different story.

  The voice of one of the police officers, Detective Constable Sarah Lightfoot, floats into her head. The woman has already ascertained who everyone is. Now she’s telling Dana, her tone empathetic yet firm, that she needs to calm down. How Lightfoot realises this is a difficult situation – My God, what an understatement, thinks Lori – and how it’s important they establish the facts of the matter. Her colleague DC Eleanor Baldwin’s expression is concerned, sympathetic.

  Dana hiccups, blows her nose, wipes her tear-stained cheeks. Lori reaches out a hand, squeezing her mother’s arm in an attempt at reassurance. Please, God, Lori thinks, let the police find Jessie as quickly as possible. Above all, alive. Her world has become surreal at best, a nightmare at worst.

  Lightfoot is speaking again. ‘Can you tell me again what happened?’

  Dana draws in a ragged breath. ‘I returned from the hospital about half past ten. Jake was here, watching television. I asked him whether Jessie had gone to bed, but he said she went out earlier, wasn’t back yet.’ She shoots her live-in partner a glare over her shoulder, a ‘you were negligent’ accusation plain in her expression. Jake Hamilton’s face is pale, his fingers raking through his hair, now as messy as Dana’s. ‘I don’t allow her out later than nine p.m. during the week. Even at weekends, she has to be back by ten o’clock, in bed by half past. When I called her mobile, there was no answer.’

  ‘You’ve tried phoning her friends, the likely places she might be, I take it?’

  A fresh tear snakes down Dana’s cheek. ‘Yes. We’ve tried everyone we can think of. She’s not been with Marcie, or Emma, or any of her other friends. It’s so unlike her to do something like this.’