Praise for Bring Her Home
“David Bell writes taut, intelligent, and intense suspense that is deeply human.”
—Mark Greaney, New York Times bestselling author of Gunmetal Gray
“Riveting . . . the story races through stunning twists all the way to its revelation, without letting its heart fall away in the action. Intense, emotional, and deeply satisfying. This one will keep you up late into the night. Don’t miss it!”
—Jamie Mason, author of Monday’s Lie
“Spellbinding and pulse raising, Bring Her Home hooked me from the first sentence and surprised me until the final pages. Sharply written and richly observed, this book is about the secrets we keep, the mysteries that keep us, and the lengths a father will go to for the daughter he loves. David Bell is a masterful storyteller who has perfected the art of suspense.”
—Sarah Domet, author of The Guineveres
“An exciting and well-layered mystery that keeps the reader guessing until the very end. David Bell is a master storyteller with a sure hand at crafting characters you feel for and stories you relish.”
—Allen Eskens, USA Today bestselling author of The Life We Bury
“A gripping, immersive tour de force full of twists and turns, Bring Her Home kept me flipping the pages late into the night. Don’t expect to sleep until you’ve finished reading this book. I could not put it down!”
—A. J. Banner, bestselling author of The Twilight Wife
“A tense and twisty suspense novel about the dark secrets that lie buried within a community and a father who can save his daughter only by uncovering them. Will leave parents wondering just how well they truly know their children.”
—Hester Young, author of The Shimmering Road
Praise for David Bell and His Other Novels
“The best crime novels combine a breakneck thriller plot with a piercing examination of family relationships. The Forgotten Girl hits this standard and then some.”
—Jeffery Deaver, New York Times bestselling author of The Skin Collector
“[A] twisty, realistic thriller.”
—Houston Chronicle
“Bell is a brilliant craftsman as well as storyteller.”
—The Providence Journal
“[Bell is] a bang-up storyteller.”
—The Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Realistic glimpses of small-town America. . . . You might want to read it the next time you’re drawn back to the place you came from. It’ll remind you of why you got the hell out of there in the first place.”
—The Washington Post
“David Bell is a natural storyteller and a superb writer. The Forgotten Girl is a mystery lover’s mystery: a quick-paced and intriguing tale of what happens when the past catches up with the present.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Nelson DeMille
“David Bell writes spellbinding and gripping thrillers that get under your skin and refuse to let go.”
—Linwood Barclay, New York Times bestselling author of The Twenty-Three
“One of the brightest and best crime fiction writers of our time.”
—Suspense Magazine
“An intense, unrelenting powerhouse of a book, and the work of a master.”
—John Lescroart, New York Times bestselling author of Fatal
“A well-written, well-timed, steady-paced mystery.”
—Shelf Addiction
“[A] tantalizing thriller. . . . Bell keeps readers on edge throughout.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The totally unexpected ending alone [makes it] worth reading this thriller . . . an exciting read.”
—RT Book Reviews
“[A] strong and moody novel . . . personal relationships are critical in this satisfying read, which is in the same class as Russell Banks’s The Sweet Hereafter.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Filled with twists and turns that will have you forgetting everything you are supposed to do until you reach the very last page.”
—Fresh Fiction
ALSO BY DAVID BELL
Cemetery Girl
The Hiding Place
Never Come Back
The Forgotten Girl
Somebody I Used to Know
Since She Went Away
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by David J. Bell
Readers Guide copyright © 2017 by Penguin Random House LLC
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Bell, David, 1969 November 17– author.
Title: Bring her home/David Bell.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016053301 (print) | LCCN 2017000021 (ebook) | ISBN 9780399584442 (softcover) | ISBN 9780399584459 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3602.E64544 B75 2017 (print) | LCC PS3602.E64544 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016053301
First Edition: July 2017
Cover photos: forest by Danielle D. Hughson/Moment/Getty Images; hair by Sven Krobot/EyeEm/Getty Images; leaves by OJO Images/Robert Daly/Iconica/Getty Images
Cover design by Colleen Reinhart
Title page photos: leaves by vnlit/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 One CHAPTER 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
CHAP
TER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
Part Two CHAPTER 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-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
Part Three 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
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
CHAPTER NINETY
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
Excerpt from SINCE SHE WENT AWAY
About the Author
In memory of Ed Gorman and Jim Reiss
Part
One
CHAPTER ONE
Bill Price stepped into the whirling chaos of the emergency room.
To the left, he saw a woman holding a red-faced, crying baby. The child’s eyes were pools of tears, its mouth contorted into a wailing “O.” The mother made shushing noises, but the baby didn’t seem to hear them. Ahead of Bill, a teenage girl with a nose ring and a neck tattoo tried to calm a man holding a bloody rag against his shaven head. The man appeared agitated, waving his free hand around as though orating.
Bill looked to his right. He saw a small crowd gathered but no one he recognized.
He felt overwhelmed. Alone.
A nurse sat behind the admitting desk. She held a metal clipboard and wore half-moon glasses perched on the end of her nose. The glasses aged her, made her look ten years older than she probably was.
Bill approached her, a knot of tension growing in his chest.
“Excuse me,” Bill said.
“Just a minute.” The woman turned and stood up, walking away from Bill and going through a door behind her.
“Hello?” Bill said, his voice low.
He tapped his finger on the Formica desk.
She’s here. Somewhere. She’s here.
Should I just go find her?
“Hey,” he said, his voice louder.
But the nurse didn’t return. And no one else came out of the room to help him.
It felt like one of those dreams, the kind he’d been having too often lately. In the dreams, he’d open his mouth to scream but could make no sound. And the very act of trying to force words out made his throat feel as if he’d swallowed broken glass.
Bill looked around, hoping to see a familiar face. He saw only misery. The people in the room—the bleeders and the criers and the scared—were all his companions in misery.
She is here. She too is one of them. . . .
The admitting nurse appeared again. She still carried the clipboard. She went out of her way not to make eye contact with Bill. She focused on the desktop, coming over and reaching for a piece of paper.
“Excuse me,” Bill said. “I’m here because—”
“One second, hon,” she said.
The nurse lifted the paper, studying it through her glasses. Her hair was streaked with gray, her pink smock decorated with a small mustard stain.
“My daughter—,” Bill said.
The woman raised her index finger in the air, requesting silence. She turned again, disappearing back behind the door through which she’d just emerged.
“Wait,” Bill said.
But she was gone.
Bill craned his neck, rising up on tiptoes to try to see into the room through the window in the door. He couldn’t.
“Hello?”
No response.
“Hey!” he said, his voice rising.
The nurse stuck her head out the door, her face creased with agitation. “Sir, we’re backed up now. I’ll be right there.”
“No, no.”
“Excuse me?”
“No!”
Echoing off the walls and the tiled floor, the single word cut through the room, bringing everyone to a halt. Bill sensed their anticipation, their fear, and, yes, their glee. They might get to witness a scene.
Some guy went apeshit in the ER. . . .
The nurse looked angry as she walked toward him.
“My daughter is here,” Bill said. “Summer Price. Summer Price is my daughter.”
And then the nurse’s features softened. She understood.
She recognized the name. Everyone in the room probably did.
“Oh,” she said, removing her glasses. “I know who to call.”
A minute passed, maybe less, and then someone came through another door and into the emergency room, a familiar face above a coat and tie.
“Mr. Price?”
Bill felt the smallest measure of relief. “Detective Hawkins,” he said. “Where is she? Where’s Summer? Someone called. They said you were here—”
Hawkins wiggled his fingers, his hand in the air. “This way, okay? This way.”
Bill followed the detective as Hawkins stepped over to a plain brown door and turned the knob. It looked like a janitor’s closet, and Bill wondered why he was being led where mops and buckets were stored.
But then he saw it was a consultation room, one of those places where doctors took families to give them bad news. Bill had been in one of them before, almost a year and a half earlier. Nothing good ever happened in one of those rooms.
He stopped in his tracks even as Hawkins reached for him, trying to guide Bill along.
“Where is she?” Bill asked. “Just tell me something.”
“Inside, Bill. Please? We can talk in there.”
“Is she alive?” Bill felt anger laced with fear building in his chest, the heat and pressure at his core like lava waiting to burst forth. He gritted his teeth. “Just tell me the truth. On the phone they said she’s alive. Is Summer alive?”
Hawkins stared directly into Bill’s eye
s. “She’s alive, Bill. Summer is alive.”
Bill closed his eyes, as though bracing for a blow. He felt a slight cooling in his body, a tiny sliver of relief. Okay, he thought. Alive. She’s alive.
“When can I see her?” he asked, opening his eyes.
“She’s alive, Bill,” Hawkins said. “But—we should talk inside.”
CHAPTER TWO
Bill’s hands shook as he sat in the consultation room.
The space was small, confining. The papered walls were brown, earth tones, something meant to be soothing. The furniture felt stiff and unforgiving. Some well-meaning soul had placed a vase full of artificial flowers on the coffee table, an attempt to cheer the uncheerable. Bill stared at them, wishing his eyes were lasers that could destroy.
Hawkins sat down across from him. He looked to be in his early fifties, about ten years older than Bill. His salt-and-pepper hair was messy, as if he’d just come inside out of a stiff wind. He wore a sport coat and no tie, his graying chest hair reaching up from the open-neck shirt like spiders’ legs.
Bill tried to keep his voice steady, to not shout at or berate the public servant before him. “Tell me what’s going on, Detective. Tell me when I can see Summer. I want to see her.”
The room felt too familiar. Hell, it might have been the same one he sat in when Julia died. He feared he would be getting horrible news from Detective Hawkins.
“Summer is alive, but she’s critically injured. She’s been stabilized, and they’re moving her to Intensive Care. You can see her in a moment, once they have her settled in up there.”
“What happened to her? How was she injured? Wait a minute—where the hell was she? She’s been gone for almost two days. Where? Tell me something.”
“They were found in Dunlap Park.” Hawkins spoke with a soothing Kentucky accent, his words rolling out like a gentle stream. Bill tried to reconcile the awful message with the sweet sound of the messenger. “Early this morning, we received an anonymous call at the station. Not a nine-one-one call—just the general line. The caller told the officer who answered that two girls could be found in Dunlap Park.”
“Dunlap Park?” Bill looked down and saw the flowers again. He lifted his head.
“Did Summer hang out there?” Hawkins asked.