ABDUCTED
The private investigator hired by Sally peeked into the living room. But Anna headed toward the dining room and kitchen. One of the dining room chairs was tipped over. It was the chair closest to the kitchen entrance. “Hey!” Anna called to the man.
She turned around and realized he was right behind her.
“Don’t touch anything,” he said. Brushing past her, he moved around the corner into the kitchen. The sharp, burning smell came from there. Anna was almost afraid to follow him. She thought the worst. She imagined finding Taylor dead on the kitchen floor.
Covering her nose and mouth from the stench, she stepped around the corner. It was a modern kitchen with stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, and a subway-tile backsplash. After the smoke, the next thing Anna noticed was the dark red puddle on the black-and-white tiled floor.
“I’ll go check the bathroom and bedroom,” Anna said.
Sally’s man put his hand out to stop her. “No, don’t go anywhere, and don’t touch anything. Let me speak to Sally first, and then the police.”
Anna was obedient. A hand still over her nose and mouth, she stood there and waited while the private investigator phoned Taylor’s mother.
All Anna could think was that “Bud” had found himself another deaf girl . . .
Books by Kevin O’Brien
ONLY SON
THE NEXT TO DIE
MAKE THEM CRY
WATCH THEM DIE
LEFT FOR DEAD
THE LAST VICTIM
KILLING SPREE
ONE LAST SCREAM
FINAL BREATH
VICIOUS
DISTURBED
TERRIFIED
UNSPEAKABLE
TELL ME YOU’RE SORRY
NO ONE NEEDS TO KNOW
YOU’LL MISS ME WHEN I’M GONE
HIDE YOUR FEAR
THEY WON’T BE HURT
THE BETRAYED WIFE
THE BAD SISTER
THE NIGHT SHE DISAPPEARED
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
THE NIGHT SHE DISAPPEARED
KEVIN KEVIN O’BRIEN THE NIGHT SHE DISAPPEARED
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
ABDUCTED
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Epigraph
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
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-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2021 Kevin O’Brien
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-4509-9
Electronic edition: August 2021
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4512-9 (e-book)
ISBN-10: 0-7860-4512-4 (e-book)
This book is for my dear friend,
Marlys Bourm.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Here’s a huge Thank-You to my brilliant editor and good friend, John Scognamiglio, and the remarkably talented team of pros at Kensington Books. Without you, I’m nothing!
Thanks also to my agents, Meg Ruley, Christina Hogrebe, and everyone at Jane Rotrosen Agency.
I’m in debt to my Writers Group for helping me get this book off the ground: David Massengill, Garth Stein, Colin McArthur, and Sasha Im. And speaking of writers, my old Seattle 7 Writers pals have always had my back, especially Garth, Dave Boling, Erica Bauermeister, Terry Brooks, Lynn Brunelle, Carol Cassella, Bridget Foley, Laurie Frankel, Elizabeth George, Suzanne Selfors, Jennie Shortridge, Stephen Susco, and Susan Wiggs. Thanks, you guys!
Another great big thank-you goes to my fellow Kensington author, Carlene O’Connor, for helping me with my research on hearing loss and sign language. Thanks also to John Flick for answering so many pesky questions about TV news reporting. And thanks to my wonderful proofreader/editor, Cathy Johnson, who always does an amazing job of correcting my typos, bad grammar, inconsistencies, and inaccuracies before anyone else sees them.
A special thank-you goes to Jim Munchel and the late Jennifer Musser (1971–2020) for hand-selling so many of my books.
And a special shout-out to the terrific team at Reader-Link Distribution Services.
I’d also like to thank the following friends and groups, who have been incredibly supportive: Dan Annear and Chuck Rank, Jeff Ayers, Ben Bauermeister, Dante and Pattie Bellini, A Book for All Seasons, The Book Stall, Amanda Brooks, Judine Brooks, George Camper and Shane White, Barb and John Cegielski, Barb and Jim Church, Marti Converse, Anna Cottle and Mary Alice Kier, Paul Dwoskin, Eagle Harbor Books, Elliott Bay Book Company, Margaret Freeman, Matt Gani, The Girls Gone Wild Reading Books, Cate Goethals and Tom Goodwin, Bob and Dana Gold, Island Books, Elizabeth Kinsella, David Korabik, Stafford Lombard, Susan London, Paul Mariz, John and Tammy and Lucas Millsap, Roberta Miner, Dan Monda, Debbie Monda, Deborah Neff, my wonderful friends from Sacred Heart School, Mike Sack and John Saul, Eva Marie Saint, Michael Schuler, the cool gang at Shelf Awareness, John Simmons and Scott Hulet, Roseann Stella, Dan Stutesman, George and Sheila Stydahar, Marc Von Borstel, and Ruth Young.
Finally, thanks to my marvelous sibs and their families. Adele, Mary Lou, Cathy, Bill, and Joan . . . I love you to smithereens.
“For a moment, I co
uldn’t move. My heart was racing. I couldn’t believe what I’d just done. But then something clicked, and I suddenly realized I had to clean up all the blood. I grabbed a towel out of the bathroom and wrapped it around her head.”
—Excerpt: Session 3, audio recording
with Dr. G. Tolman, July 23
CHAPTER ONE
Friday, July 10—9:13 A.M.
Seattle
Anna Malone woke up to her phone ringing. But for a few seconds, she didn’t move.
Her head ached and throbbed. It hurt just to roll over—away from the phone. She didn’t even want to open her eyes.
Thankfully, the phone went to voice mail.
Her mouth was pasty, and she felt dehydrated. Where the hell was her night guard?
Now it was coming back to her: feeling so tense and uncomfortable, sitting in that elegant restaurant with Russ and Courtney, and wishing the entire time that a hole would open up in the floor so she could just slide under the table and disappear. What was the name of the drink Courtney had ordered for her again and again? Lemon Drop. Anna wondered how many she’d put away. She’d lost track after three.
She barely recalled anything else. She must have blacked out.
It took Anna another few moments to realize she wasn’t in her own bed. That was why the room was so hot and bright. The shade wasn’t down, and the sun streamed through the window. She could feel it against her face.
Grimacing, she opened her eyes. “Oh shit,” she muttered.
She was in her mother’s bedroom.
She still called it that sometimes—even though her mom had been dead for twelve years. The compact little room was now Anna’s office, with a daybed for guests—though she rarely had any.
Back when she’d been in high school, when she and her mother had first moved into the Lake Union floating home, this had been Anna’s bedroom. Her mom had had the bigger bedroom upstairs. But then, after only a few months, the steep, narrow stairs that led up to those quarters became too much of a challenge for her mom. She was only fifty but claimed her balance was failing her, so she wanted to be on the main level, closer to the bathroom.
The truth was, in the course of those few months, her mother had become an alcoholic. That was why they’d switched rooms and Anna had gotten the master bedroom upstairs. Her mother was usually too drunk or hungover to make it up and down those steep steps.
She used to stay sober long enough to punch in and out at Macy’s, where she was a clerk in Kitchenware. Then she’d come back to their charming little floating home and get quietly smashed on bourbon and water while watching TV. Anna’s mother wasn’t a mean drunk. She’d merely become sleepy, sloppy, and out of it by the fourth drink. But she always stayed sweet.
Looking back, Anna knew she was pretty pissy and impatient with her poor mother, who, after all, had been through hell. Anna regretted how bratty she’d been back then—always rolling her eyes at her mother. But at the time, she felt that, if her mother could stay sober at work, couldn’t she stay sober for her at least one or two nights during the week? Anna used to do all the cooking, and she remembered some evenings acting as if it was a major burden to fix their dinner and clean up afterward. Occasionally, her mother would insist on washing the dinner dishes. But Anna would only have to wash them over again, because her well-meaning, inebriated mom did such a crappy job of it.
Anna still didn’t have a dishwasher, and sometimes, when she noticed a spot of food she’d missed on a dish in the drying rack, she would think she was becoming just like her mother.
That was why Anna rarely drank more than one glass of wine a night.
And that was why she hated waking up in her mother’s old bedroom, barely remembering anything from the night before. This was a first for Anna, and a wave of panic went through her. What the hell had happened? How did she get here?
She rolled over again, sending a jolt to her aching head. She grabbed the phone off the end table and squinted at the time. She should have been at work an hour ago.
Throwing back the bedsheet, Anna realized she was wearing—along with her panties—a semidressy, striped tee from J.Crew. She usually wore a large, old T-shirt to bed. It made no sense that she’d decided to sleep in this seventy-nine-dollar top.
She staggered into the bathroom, turned on the cold water at the sink, and slurped from the faucet. She was dying of thirst. After splashing some water on her face, she winced at her reflection in the mirror. She was thirty-one, but this morning, she looked more like fifty. Rode hard and put away wet, as her mother used to say. Her face was pale and droopy, her green eyes bloodshot, and her shoulder-length, cinnamon-colored hair was a hopeless mess.
A major part of Anna’s job was appearing presentable. She was a reporter for KIXI-TV News. Fortunately, she didn’t have to be in front of the cameras until six o’clock tonight. But she’d missed this morning’s editorial meeting. She also needed to edit a feature story for the evening’s telecast, a piece she’d been working on for most of the week. She and her cameraman, George, had an editing room reserved for nine this morning. And they still had to record her voice-over.
The story was about Courtney Knoll, her dinner companion from last night—the Lemon Drop pusher. Anna had known Courtney for about a month—a miserable, confusing, conflicted month. She’d known about Courtney for over a year before that.
Anna took two aspirins and slurped them down with more water from the faucet. While brushing her teeth, she staggered into the kitchen and turned on the coffeemaker.
The phone rang again. Anna spit out the toothpaste in the kitchen sink, rinsed out her mouth, and hurried into the office to answer the phone. She figured it was probably George at work. They had the editing room only until noon.
She snatched the phone from the end table and saw Russ was calling. She clicked on the phone. “Hey . . .” she murmured.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I should get the license plate number of the truck that hit me,” Anna replied, rubbing her eyes. “My head’s about to explode. I overslept. I’m still home. Did you try calling me earlier?”
“Yeah, about ten minutes ago. So—I’m guessing you haven’t heard from Courtney this morning.”
“Let me see. Give me a sec.” Anna checked her missed texts and e-mails. Her hands were trembling. Was this what people called the shakes? She took a deep breath, tried to steady herself, and got back on the line. “Um, looks like you’re the only one who called. Listen, what—what happened last night? I don’t remember anything after the restaurant . . .” Her voice started to crack. “It’s really scaring me . . .”
“I’m sorry,” he said, sighing. “It’s Courtney’s fault. She kept reordering drinks, and you kept telling her that you’d had enough. By the time we left Canlis, you were pretty wasted. Courtney insisted you come by our place for coffee—”
“I had coffee at your place?”
“You were at our place, but the coffee never got brewed. Once we returned from the restaurant, Courtney headed straight for the liquor cabinet, and the last thing she needed was a nightcap. She started to get nasty—to me and especially to you . . .”
“Were there accusations?” Anna asked warily.
“She didn’t come out and actually say anything, but she made a few insinuations. I couldn’t take any more. So I drove you home—”
“You drove me?” she asked. Russ and Courtney’s $2 million floating home was two docks down on Lake Union from her place, only a ten-minute walk away.
“Well, you could barely stand,” Russ said. “By the time we reached your place, you got sick. You just made it to the head. I cleaned you up, gave you an aspirin, and put you to bed.”
Anna didn’t remember any of it. She still had the shakes. She hadn’t felt this awful since she’d had the flu two years ago. She glanced down at her J.Crew tee again and realized Russ must have put it on her, thinking it was a pajama top. “
So you tucked me in. Well, thanks . . .” She headed into the kitchen. “What time was that?”
“Around midnight. I wasn’t ready to go back for more abuse. So I drove around for a couple of hours. When I finally came home, Courtney was gone . . .”
Anna poured her coffee. A few drops spilled on the countertop. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”
“Just what I said, gone. No note, no message, nothing. Looks like she took her overnight bag. She must have Ubered. Her car is still in the lot. I guess she was smart enough not to drive while drunk. Anyway, I thought she might have texted you this morning to apologize. After all, you’re airing that promo piece on her tonight . . .”
Anna sipped her coffee. “Well, like I say, I haven’t heard from her. Has Courtney ever done this before?”
“You mean, packed a bag and disappeared? No, this is something new, and I’m going nuts here . . .”
“I’m sure that’s exactly what she wants you to do.” Anna sighed. “Are you at work?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Anyway, I have a feeling that, before she contacts me, Courtney will get in touch with you—if for no other reason than to make sure you don’t yank her story off the news tonight. She’s been counting on it to boost her book sales. Could you do me a big favor and let me know as soon as you hear from her? Maybe find out where she is, too . . .”