Bloodline(85)

I finally get the courage to look at her. “Regina—”

She’s smiling so broadly that I momentarily forget what I was about to say.

“What is it?” I ask.

She sweeps the air with her free arm, indicating the sun setting between two palm trees, the jewel-colored sky, the golden sand, the baby. “It’s paradise, that’s what it is. If you’re staying, I’m staying, too.”

A warmth grows in my chest, expands until it reaches my eyes. I realize I’m crying. Regina throws her arms around me, and that makes Frances giggle, a rolling melody of pure joy.

I join in the laughter, I can’t help it, and then so does Regina.

We’re still laughing when the sun drops into the water.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Bloodline is my eighteenth published novel. (I have a couple more, but they’re crappers that deserve to live in a drawer.) My kids, friends, family, editors, publicist, agent, and the person who built my computer all helped in this endeavor, but here’s the truth: this book wouldn’t have been written without you. I would have given up long ago if not for readers who take time out of their busy lives—and often money out of their pockets—to buy and read my books. (If you checked this out from the library, I’m okay with that, too. I love libraries.)

Thank you, particularly those of you who have followed me across genres. It is your attention that turns this pile of words from a doorstop into a book, and for that, you have my gratitude. May your kindness find its way back to you ten times over.

A special thanks to Jessica Tribble, editor extraordinaire, for all the time and talent she dedicated to helping me structure and refine this book. It looked much different when it first landed on her desk, and it’s a better book for her efforts. Charlotte Herscher, your patience and guidance took it to the next level; Jon Ford, you are an incredible copyeditor, somehow managing to be surgical, kind, and funny all at once; Kellie Osborne, your sorceress-level proofreading, particularly when it comes to verb tense and continuity, is breathtaking and appreciated; and Sarah Shaw, your support and sunniness make me feel like I’m heard and part of something bigger, and I cannot thank you enough. I am grateful that I get to work with all of you, and everyone at Thomas & Mercer who works hard to get books into the world.

Jill Marsal, thank you for the guidance, both with my stories and my career. I won the lottery when I landed you as an agent. Jessica Morrell, I believe you have freelance edited every single one of my published novels, and your work has made me a better writer. Thank you.

Zo? and Xander, thanks for growing up into amazing humans whom I no longer have to pay to read my books. (That’s not true—I still pay you, but at least you follow through on it now.) Carolyn Crane, you are my writing rock. Your wisdom means the world to me, and you’re so generous with it. Lori Rader-Day, Susanna Calkins, Catriona McPherson, Shannon Baker, Erica Ruth Neubauer, Johnny Shaw, I love your writing almost as much as I love you; thank you for being on my squad. You too, Terri Bischoff. Cindy, Christine, Tony, and Suzanna, you’re the family I choose.

We all come together in story.





FROM UNSPEAKABLE THINGS





PROLOGUE

The lonely-scream smell of that dirt basement lived inside me.

Mostly it kept to a shadow corner of my brain, but the second I’d think Lilydale, it’d scuttle over and smother me. The smell was a predatory cave stink, the suffocating funk of a great somnolent monster that was all mouth and hunger. It had canning jars for teeth, a single string hanging off a light bulb its uvula. It waited placidly, eternally, for country kids to stumble down its backbone stairs.

It let us swing blindly for that uvula string.

Our fingers would brush against it.

light!

The relief was candy and sun and silver dollars and the last good thing we felt before the beast swallowed us whole, digesting us for a thousand years.



But that’s not right.

My imagination, I’d been told, was quite a thing.

The basement wasn’t the monster.

The man was.

And he wasn’t passive. He hunted.

I hadn’t returned to Lilydale since that evening. The police and then Mom had asked if I wanted anything from my bedroom, and I’d said no. I’d been thirteen, not stupid, though a lot of people confuse the two.

Now that his funeral had called me home, that cellar stink doubled back with a vengeance, settling like a fishhook way deep in my face where my nose met my brain. The smell crept into my sleep, even, convinced me that I was trapped in that gravedirt basement all over again. I’d thrash and yell, wake up my husband.

He’d hold me. He knew the story.

At least he thought he did.

I’d made it famous in my first novel, shared its inspiration on my cross-country book tour. Except somehow I’d never mentioned the necklace, not to anyone, not even Noah. Maybe that piece felt too precious.

Or maybe it just made me look dumb.

I could close my eyes and picture it. The chain would be considered too heavy now but was the height of fashion in 1983, gold, same metal as the paper airplane charm hanging off it.

I’d believed that airplane necklace was my ticket out of Lilydale.

I didn’t actually think I could fly it. Big duh, as we said back then. But the boy who wore the necklace? Gabriel? I was convinced he would change everything.