What Lies Below: A Novel Read online

  PRAISE FOR BARBARA TAYLOR SISSEL

  THE LAST INNOCENT HOUR

  “This is a plot worthy of Daphne du Maurier . . . a compelling tale of innocence lost.”

  —The Houston Chronicle

  “Sissel’s writing is strong and the characters and their motivations clearly drawn.”

  —Bev Vincent, author of The Road to the Dark Tower and The Stephen King Illustrated Companion

  “A taut psychological suspense thriller, exciting and quite dark with no light in sight adding an almost gothic feel.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Sissel’s first novel is a worthy achievement . . . along the lines of Iris Johansen. Frightening . . . poignant. Sissel’s strength lies in her multi-dimensional characters . . . that make the reader react—with fear, with relief, with anger, with tenderness.”

  —Book Browser Review

  “The Last Innocent Hour will ensnare you in a web of family secrets and suspense, powerful crisp writing and characters so real you’ll think you’ve met them.”

  —Colleen Thompson, bestselling author of The Salt Maiden and Phantom of New Orleans

  THE NINTH STEP

  “Barbara Taylor Sissel crafts a sure-handed, beautiful garden of a novel on ground tilled by Jodi Picoult and Anita Shreve . . . Sissel’s vibrant voice, rich characters, and deft plotting draw the reader in and keep pages turning to the gripping, unexpected end.”

  —Joni Rodgers, New York Times bestselling author of the novels Crazy for Trying and Sugarland, and a memoir, Bald in the Land of Big Hair

  EVIDENCE OF LIFE

  “The . . . pace of Sissel’s novel allows readers to savor the language and the well-drawn characters . . . Enjoyable and insightful.”

  —RT Book Reviews Magazine, four stars

  “A chilling mystery with a haunting resolution you won’t see coming.”

  —Sophie Littlefield, bestselling author of Garden of Stones

  SAFE KEEPING

  “Past secrets contribute to present-day angst in this solid suspense novel, and the even pacing keeps the reader’s interest until the captivating conclusion.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Impressive writing and affecting subject matter.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A gripping read . . . perfect for a book club.”

  —Library Journal

  “A book you need to set aside time for because you will not be able to break away.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  FAULTLINES

  “An in-depth portrayal of how one moment—and one mystery—can crack a family open. These compelling characters will stay with you long after the final reveal. Sissel’s fans will not be disappointed.”

  —Catherine McKenzie, bestselling author of Hidden and Fractured

  “This is that rare sort of book that grabs you from the very first line and refuses to let go. Beautifully written, intricately plotted, and perfectly executed, Faultlines is an intimate look at the unraveling of a family after a tragic accident. Sissel weaves a clever web of emotional fallout as she alternates seamlessly between two storylines that converge in a devastating way. An atmospheric, emotional, suspenseful journey that will stay with you for a long time after you’ve finished the last page.”

  —Kristin Harmel, international bestselling author of The Sweetness of Forgetting

  “Barbara Taylor Sissel brilliantly weaves a compelling, suspenseful, and emotional family drama . . . As the parent of a teenager, I immediately connected with the story and the characters, and was hooked from page one. Ms. Sissel is a masterful storyteller when it comes to suspense and an exceptional writer. It’s a definite page-turner!”

  —Kerry Lonsdale, bestselling author of Everything We Keep

  “A gripping tale of secrets and obsessions in which nothing is quite as it seems. After tragedy and accusations of blame rip a family apart, Barbara Taylor Sissel masterfully unravels the shocking truth.”

  —Barbara Claypole White, bestselling author of The Perfect Son

  “I was completely sucked into Faultlines. Told with great skill and compassion, Faultlines had me feeling for so many of its flawed but very human characters, each of them struggling toward the grace that can only come of forgiveness. My favorite of Sissel’s many fine books, Faultlines kept me reading long past midnight . . . and the powerful, yet hopeful, resolution will stay with me for a long time.”

  —Colleen Thompson, author of The Off Season and Fatal Error

  THE TRUTH WE BURY

  “Once again, Barbara Taylor Sissel has kept me up into the wee hours of the night with an unputdownable masterpiece that explores family, love, and the ramifications of the decisions we make. The perfect blend of mystery, danger, and the type of secrets people kill for, The Truth We Bury will keep you reading furiously until you reach the perfectly executed end.”

  —Kristin Harmel, international bestselling author of The Sweetness of Forgetting and When We Meet Again

  “What would you do if your grown child was implicated in a brutal murder? . . . As family secrets, lies, and betrayals are revealed, they also find the strength to take ownership of their own mistakes. A gripping book club read!”

  —Barbara Claypole White, bestselling author of Echoes of Family

  “Engrossing murder mystery . . . Sissel’s characters are all too real, their harrowing devotion and blind love for their children not far from what every parent feels. As their choices play out, and the consequences and truth unspool, you will be riveted until the very last page.”

  —Emily Carpenter, author of The Weight of Lies and Burying the Honeysuckle Girls

  “Barbara Taylor Sissel ratchets up the suspense . . . Rich with beautiful prose, compelling characters, and questions about the imperfect nature of family relationships, this is one of those books that will stay with me for a very long time.”

  —Colleen Thompson, author of The Off Season

  “Beautifully written . . . the perfect emotional storm of family secrets, regret, and revenge. The Truth We Bury will keep you guessing until the final shocking reveal, all while making you wonder which of your own little buried truths could come back to haunt you.”

  —Jenna Patrick, author of The Rules of Half

  “Compulsively readable and gorgeously written, Barbara Taylor Sissel’s The Truth We Bury had me enthralled from the first page to its stunning conclusion. Readers will love the blend of suspense, mystery, and family drama, and book clubs will find much to discuss. This is a novel you won’t want to miss.”

  —Karen McQuestion, bestselling author of The Long Way Home and Hello Love

  “Part riveting mystery, part moral dilemma, The Truth We Bury is a beautifully written exploration of the depths of a mother’s love.”

  —Robyn Harding, author of The Party

  ALSO BY BARBARA TAYLOR SISSEL

  Safe Keeping

  Evidence of Life

  The Last Innocent Hour

  The Ninth Step

  The Volunteer

  Crooked Little Lies

  Faultlines

  The Truth We Bury

  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 © 2018 by Barbara Taylor Sissel

  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

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

  ISBN-13: 9781503950115

  ISBN-10: 1503950115

  Cover design and photography by Faceout Studio, Derek Thornton

  For and in celebration of those who take time to whisper to a child: you can do it.

  CONTENTS

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  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

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  15

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  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  WHAT LIES BELOW BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  Zoe Halstead wouldn’t go missing until Thursday, the day after Gilly made her a breakfast pancake in the shape of an elephant’s head. Zoe ate the ears first, then worked her way up the long trunk, but when she got to the eyes—chocolate chip–dotted mini marshmallows—she balked.

  “Daddy,” she said, “if I eat its eyes, how will it see?”

  Gilly, doing coffee refills at the adjacent booth, glanced at Jake over Zoe’s head, interested in how he’d answer.

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Those are pretend eyes. They’re made to eat.”

  “But what if a monster comes and eats my eyes?”

  “Can’t happen, snickerdoodle. All the eyeball-eating monsters are gone. Ask Miss Gilly.”

  “It’s true.” Gilly came to their table, not missing a beat either, although had she been summoned by any other man wearing untidy smears of glittery blue polish on his fingernails she might have lost focus. “One night, very late, those monsters were out hunting for eyeballs, and they got lost in the woods.”

  “The woods by my school? We aren’t supposed to go there.”

  “Well, the monsters didn’t follow the rules. That’s why they got lost.”

  “Are they still there?”

  “No,” Gilly answered. “They got very tired from hunting and being lost; they fell asleep under the trees, and the next morning a fairy found them.”

  “Did they eat her eyes?” Zoe’s own eyes were worried.

  “They couldn’t.” Gilly looked at Jake, waiting for his nod, his smile of approval, before she continued.

  She wasn’t sure how it had happened, but in the six months since she’d started waitressing at Cricket’s Café the storytelling had become ritual like the pancakes. At first Gilly had related short versions of the old standards, fairy tales she knew from her own childhood. “The Twelve Dancing Princesses” was a favorite of Zoe’s. Eventually, though, she had branched out, making up stories on the fly. Eyeball-eating monsters was the latest, and most far out, if Jake’s dubious, one-cornered grin was any indication.

  Gilly looked back to Zoe. “You see, the fairy put a magic spell on those monsters while they were sleeping, and when they woke up, they weren’t monsters anymore. They only wanted to eat pretend eyes like the marshmallow ones on your elephant.”

  Zoe looked at her plate, and quickly, not allowing time to reconsider, she popped a marshmallow into her mouth, looking from Gilly to her dad, clearly pleased with herself. “When I come next time, will you make a g’raffe pancake?” She tipped her glance at Gilly. “With his neck this long?” Zoe spread her hands apart over her head, and her delighted smile made Gilly’s heart turn over.

  “With blueberries for eyes?” Gilly asked.

  “Yes! And a Blue Moon smoovie?”

  “Yep. I can do that.” It was another of Gilly’s online discoveries in her quest for kid-friendly recipes. She combined blueberries with bananas, a dollop of plain yogurt, and a splash of apple juice and whirred the concoction up in the blender. Zoe loved it. But as she had explained once in detail to Gilly, she liked blueberries because they were blue. She liked blue potatoes, too, and Blue Bell ice cream, and she carried a tattered length of blue satin ribbon, or at least Jake claimed it had once been blue. She wore it looped around her wrist, or sometimes tied in her hair or pinned to her shirt. But often, she just carried it in her hand.

  There was a story behind the ribbon, Gilly was certain of it, but while she had gotten to know Jake a bit over the six months she’d worked at the café, she didn’t feel comfortable asking about it.

  “Did you see mine and Daddy’s polish?” Zoe spread her fingers wide, making Gilly think of blue-tipped starfish, lovely and plump. “I let Daddy pick the color this time, and he chose my very favorite.” She turned her hand in the warm bar of sunlight that striped the table. “It’s real glittery, see? Like stars at night. Show her, Daddy.”

  Jake spread his hand as if wearing nail polish was the most natural thing in the world for a man. And Gilly guessed it was for him. It seemed to her he wore a different color every few weeks.

  She bent to inspect the latest shade, minding her expression, keeping it earnest for Zoe’s sake. She’d intuited the first time she had spotted Jake’s polished nails—alternate shades of yellow and green that week—that it was serious business. It was hard, though, not smiling—Jake’s hands were a workman’s hands—solidly made, square, big knuckled, and so obviously masculine—and the exuberantly applied strokes of girly polish looked funny, and silly, and endearing. That he would do that—let his little girl paint his nails. It got to Gilly every time. “Just gorgeous,” she said. “I really liked that shade of rose last week,” she added, “but now, I think this blue is my favorite.”

  Zoe bounced excitedly. “I could paint yours like I do Daddy’s. Want me to?”

  “Oh.” The moment turned awkward. Regretting it, and the flush she felt warming her face, Gilly glanced at Jake. He had stopped in at the café occasionally when she’d happened to be on a break, and they’d sat together over coffee, but they’d never met outside Cricket’s.

  “Maybe sometime, ZooRoo,” he said. “But right now we have to go. You have to get to school, and I’ve got to go to work.”

  He ran a concrete company. Gilly had heard he’d inherited it when his dad died suddenly of a heart attack two years ago. She knew he’d been close to his dad. He was close to his mom, too. His affection for his folks showed in his voice whenever he mentioned them. Gilly envied him.

  She hefted the coffee carafe. “Let me refill the guys at the counter, and I’ll meet you at the register.”

  Jake thanked her, and that quickly their routine was restored. They had the same conversation every Wednesday morning.

  Wednesday was Zoe’s day. If asked, she would tell you she’d been “borned” on Wednesday, and she was its princess—the Princess of the Wednesday Kingdom. By her imperial order it was also Pancakes for Breakfast Day.

  Gilly refilled coffee mugs down the length of the counter, and Jake helped Zoe out of the booth. Her strawberry-blonde hair was in pink-ribboned pigtails that curled to her shoulders. Painting fingernails wasn’t Jake’s only talent. He did Zoe’s hair, too. Braids were a specialty, although he complained that Zoe’s hair was slippery; he had trouble getting the braids to hold.

  But he was careful in so many ways with his daughter. Gilly had heard folks call him Mr. Mom. Sometimes the older ladies teared up when they talked about him, and Zoe, his poor motherless child. Mandy Bright, the stylist at A Cut Above, who cut Gilly’s hair, had given Gilly an earful about Jake’s ex-wife, the infamous Stephanie, citing details that had made Gilly feel bitter against her, too—a woman she’d never met. But Stephanie had abandoned Jake and Zoe, who would be four in July, almost two years ago, around the time of Zoe’s second birthday.

  “What kind of mother does that?” Gilly had asked Mandy.

  “An alcoholic one,” she had answered.

  H
ad Stephanie never heard of Twelve-Step? Gilly hadn’t asked. For herself, she attended meetings up in Greeley. She didn’t want folks in Wyatt knowing she had her own issues.

  Gilly set the carafe on the burner and joined Jake and Zoe at the cash register. “So are we all set?”

  Jake was patting his pockets, looking worried.

  “Daddy can’t find his wallet,” Zoe said. “I have some money,” she told him, and squatting on the floor, she opened her backpack, a facsimile of Nemo, the cartoon clownfish from the movie Finding Nemo. She’d been aghast, as only a three-going-on-four-year-old can be, when Gilly had confessed she’d never seen it.

  “Here!” She shot straight up now, brandishing two one-dollar bills. “I have ’leven dollars.”

  “Where did you get that money?” Jake asked.

  “Grammie gived me it yesterday when I weeded her garden.”

  “Ah. Well, it’s only two dollars, ZooRoo.”

  She wrinkled her brow, perplexed. Jake explained. Gilly wasn’t sure when he was done if Zoe was any clearer on the issues of high finance.

  Jake met Gilly’s glance. “I must have left my wallet in my truck. Can you hang on and let me look?”

  “Sure,” Gilly said. “I’ll keep Zoe in lieu of payment. If you don’t come back, she can wash dishes. Want to, Zoe?”

  “Okay, but I’ll have to have a stool so I can reach,” she answered somberly.

  Gilly laughed. “Just teasing, kiddo.”

  After settling Zoe at the counter, Gilly rang up another customer’s tab and made change. She filled Clint Mackie’s thermal mug with hot coffee. He was local law enforcement, the police captain, and got all the coffee he wanted for free. He would likely get his coffee free anyway, given he was married to Cricket, Gilly’s boss. “Where’s Sergeant Carter?” she asked him. “Doesn’t he want a refill, too, before you go out on patrol?” Looking around for the sergeant, she caught sight of him at the back of the café.

  “He’s talking to Liz Ames,” the captain said at the same time Gilly caught sight of her.

  She gave Liz a small glad wave when their eyes met. “I didn’t know she was back in town.”

  “She’s from Dallas, right?” the captain asked. “Ken told me she’s a pharmaceutical rep?”