Praise for Heather Gudenkauf
Brilliantly constructed, this will have you gripped until the last page
Closer
Deeply moving and lyrical it will haunt you all summer.
Company
5 stars Gripping and moving
Heat
Her technique is faultless, sparse and simple and is a master-class in how to construct a thriller A memorable read A technical triumph.
Sunday Express
Its totally gripping
Marie Claire
Tension builds as family secrets tumble from the closet.
Woman & Home
This has all the ingredients of a Jodi Picoult novel.
Waterstones Books Quarterly
Set to become a book group staple
The Guardian
A skilfully woven thriller that will keep you hooked to the end
Choice magazine
Jodi Picoult has some serious competition in Heather Gudenkauf.
Bookreporter
Deeply moving and exquisitely lyrical, this is a powerhouse of a debut novel.
Tess Gerritsen, No. 1 Sunday Times bestselling author
Fans of Jodi Picoult will devour this great thriller.
Red
The author slowly and expertly reveals the truth in a tale so chillingly real, it could have come from the latest headlines.
Publishers Weekly
Heart-pounding suspense and a compelling family drama come together to create a story you wont be able to put down.
Diane Chamberlain, bestselling author of
The Midwifes Confession
This haunting psychological thriller lives up to expectation. Jodi Picoult or perhaps Joanne Harris are the nearest comparisons.
Peterborough Evening Telegraph
A great thriller, probably the kind of book a lot of people would choose to read on their sun loungers. It will appeal to fans of Jodi Picoult.
Radio Times
An enchantingly lyrical novel mixed with shockingly menacing overtones
Newbooks
Gripping and powerful, right to the end
Northern Echo
Secrets are slowly revealed by Gudenkaufs skilled writing.
NY Metro
A real page-turner
Womans Own
About the Author
HEATHER GUDENKAUF is the critically acclaimed author of the New York Times bestselling novels The Weight of Silence and These ThingsHidden. Her debut novel, The Weight of Silence, was picked for The TV Bookclub. She lives in Iowa with her family.
Read more about Heather and her novels at www.HeatherGudenkauf.com
Also available fromHeather Gudenkauf
THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE
THESE THINGS HIDDEN
One Breath Away
Heather
Gudenkauf
For Alex, Anna and Grace
~My three wishes
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As always, enormous gratitude goes to my agent, Marianne Merola, for her wisdom, guidance, attention to detail and her friendship. Thanks also to Henry Thayer for his behind-the-scenes support.
A thousand thanks to my editor, Miranda Indrigo, whose insights and suggestions are always spot on. Thanks also to all the folks at HQespecially Margaret ONeil Marbury and Valerie Gray. Im so proud to call HQ my home.
Thank you to John and Kathy Conway and Howard and Shirley Bohr for opening up their homes and farms to me as I researched the novel. I always enjoy our time together.
Much appreciation goes to Mark Dalsing, whose advice in regard to police procedure and his early readings of the manuscript were invaluable.
A heartfelt thank-you goes out to my parents, Milton and Patricia Schmida, my brothers and sisters and their families, for their generous support and enthusiasm.
Much love and thanks to Scott, Alex, Anna and GraceI couldnt do it without you.
Holly
Im in that lovely space between consciousness and sleep. I feel no pain thanks to the morphine pump and I can almost believe that the muscles, tendons and skin of my left arm have knitted themselves back together, leaving my skin smooth and pale. My curly brown hair once again falls softly down my back, my favorite earrings dangle from my ears and I can lift both sides of my mouth in a wide smile without much pain at the thought of my children. Yes, drugs are a wonderful thing. But the problem is that while the carefully prescribed and doled-out narcotics by the nurses wonderfully dull the edges of this nightmare, I know that soon enough this woozy, pleasant feeling will fall away and all that I will be left with is pain and the knowledge that Augie and P.J. are thousands of miles away from me. Sent away to the place where I grew up, the town I swore I would never return to, the house I swore I would never again step into, to the man I never wanted them to meet.
The tinny melody of the ringtone that Augie, my thirteen-year-old daughter, programmed into my cell phone is pulling me from my sleep. I open one eye, the one that isnt covered with a thick ointment and crusted shut, and call out for my mother, who must have stepped out of the room. I reach for the phone that is sitting on the tray table at the side of my bed and the nerve endings in my bandaged left arm scream in protest at the movement. I carefully shift my body to pick up the phone with my good hand and press the phone to my remaining ear.
Hello. The word comes out half-formed, breathless and scratchy, as if my lungs were still filled with smoke.
Mom? Augies voice is quavery, unsure. Not sounding like my daughter at all. Augie is confident, smart, a take-charge, no one is ever going to walk all over me kind of girl.
Augie? Whats the matter? I try to blink the fuzziness of the morphine away; my tongue is dry and sticks to the roof of my mouth. I want to take a sip of water from the glass sitting on my tray, but my one working hand holds the phone. The other lies useless at my side. Are you okay? Where are you?
There are a few seconds of quiet and then Augie continues. I love you, Mom, she says in a whisper that ends in quiet sobs.
I sit up straight in my bed, wide awake now. Pain shoots through my bandaged arm and up the side of my neck and face. Augie, whats the matter?
Im at school. She is crying in that way she has when she is doing her damnedest not to. I can picture her, head down, her long brown hair falling around her face, her eyes squeezed shut in determination to keep the tears from falling, her breath filling my ear with short, shallow puffs. He has a gun. He has P.J. and he has a gun.
Who has P.J.? Terror clutches at my chest. Tell me, Augie, where are you? Who has a gun?
Im in a closet. He put me in a closet.
My mind is spinning. Who could be doing this? Who would do this to my children? Hang up, I tell her. Hang up and call 9-1-1 right now, Augie. Then call me back. Can you do that? I hear her sniffles. Augie, I say again, more sharply. Can you do that?
Yeah, she finally says. I love you, Mom, she says softly.
I love you, too. My eyes fill with tears and I can feel the moisture pool beneath the bandages that cover my injured eye.
I wait for Augie to disconnect when I hear three quick shots, followed by two more and Augies piercing screams.
I feel the bandages that cover the left side of my face peel away, my own screams loosening the adhesive holding them in place; I feel the fragile, newly grafted skin begin to unravel. I am scarcely aware of the nurses and my mother rushing to my side, tearing the phone from my grasp.
Augie
My pants are still damp from when Noah Plum pushed me off the shoveled sidewalk into a snowbank after we got off the bus and were on our way into school this morning. Noah Plum is the biggest asshole in eighth grade but for some reason Im the only one who has figured this out and Ive only lived here for eight weeks and everyone else has lived here for their entire lives. Except for maybe Milana Nevara, whose dad is from Mexico and is the town veterinarian. But she moved here when she was two so she may as well have been born here, anyway.
The classroom is freezing and my fingers are numb with the cold. Mr. Ellery says its because it is not supposed to be below zero at the end of March and the boiler has been put out to pasture. Mr. Ellery, my teacher and one of the only good things about this school, is sitting at his desk grading papers. Everyone, except Noah, of course, is writing in their notebooks. Each day after lunch we start class with journal time and we can write about anything we want to during the first ten minutes of class. Mr. Ellery said we could even write the same word over and over for the entire time and Noah asked, What if its a bad word?
Knock yourself out, Mr. Ellery said, and everyone laughed. Mr. Ellery always gives time for people to read what theyve written out loud if theyd like to. Ive never shared. No way Im going to let these morons know what Im thinking. Ive read Harriet the Spy and I keep my notebook with me all the time. Never let it out of my sight.
In my old school in Arizona, there were over two hundred eighth graders in my grade and we had different teachers for each subject. In Broken Branch there are only twenty-two of us so we have Mr. Ellery for just about every subject. Mr. Ellery, besides being really cute, is the absolutely best teacher Ive ever had. Hes funny, but never makes fun of anyone and isnt sarcastic like some teachers think is so hilarious. He also doesnt let people get away with making crap out of anyone. All he has to do is stare at the person and they shut up. Even Noah Plum.
Mr. Ellery always writes a journal prompt on the dry erase board in case we cant think of what to write about. Today he has written During spring break I am going to
Even Mr. Ellerys stare doesnt work today; everyone is whispering and smiling because they are excited about vacation. All right, folks, Mr. Ellery says. Get down to work and if we have some time left over well play Pictionary.
Yesss! the kids around me hiss. Great. I open my notebook to the next clean page and begin writing.
During spring break were going to fly back to Arizona to see our mother. The only sounds in the classroom are the scratch of pencils on paper and Erikas annoying sniffles; she always has a runny nose and gets up twenty times a day to get a tissue. I dont care if I ever see snow or cows ever again. I dont care if I ever see my grandfather again. I am hoping with all my might that instead of coming back to Broken Branch after spring break, my mother will be well enough for us to come home. My grandfather tells us this isnt going to happen. My mother is far from being able to come home from the hospital. My mom will be in Arizona until she is out of the hospital and well enough to get on a plane and come here so Grandma and Grandpa, who I met for the first time ever a couple months ago, can take care of all of us. But it doesnt matter what my grandpa saysafter spring break, I am not coming back to Broken Branch.
A sharp crack, like a branch snapped in half during an ice storm, makes me look up from my notebook. Mr. Ellery hears it, too, and stands up from behind his desk and walks to the classroom door, steps into the hallway and comes back in shrugging his shoulders. Looks like someone broke a window at the end of the hallway. Im going to go check. You guys stay in your seats. Ill be right back.
Before he can even leave the classroom the shaky voice of Mrs. Lowell, the school secretary, comes on the intercom. Teachers, this is a Code Red Lockdown. Go to your safe place.
A snort comes from Noah. Go to your safe place, he says, mimicking Mrs. Lowell. No one else says a thing and we all stare at Mr. Ellery, waiting for him to tell us what to do next. I havent been here long enough to know what a Code Red Lockdown is. But it cant be good.
Mrs. Oliver
The morning the man with the gun walked into Evelyn Olivers classroom, she was wearing two items she had vowed during her forty-three-year career as a teacher never to wear. Denim and rhinestones. Mrs. Oliver was a firm believer that a teacher should look like a teacher. Well-groomed, blouses with collars, skirts and pantsuits crisply ironed, dress shoes polished. None of that nonsense younger teachers wore these days. Miniskirts, tennis shoes, plunging necklines. Tattoos, for goodness sake. For instance, Mr. Ellery, the young eighth-grade teacher, had a tattoo on his right arm. A series of bold black slashes and swoops that Mrs. Oliver recognized as Asian in origin. It means teacher in Chinese, Mr. Ellery, wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, told her after, embarrassingly, he caught her staring at his deltoid muscle one stifling-hot August afternoon during in-service week when all the teachers were preparing their classrooms for the school year. Mrs. Oliver sniffed in disapproval, but really she couldnt help but wonder how painful it must be to have someone precisely and methodically inject ink into ones skin.
Casual Fridays were the worst, with teachers, even the older ones, wearing denim and sweatshirts emblazoned with the school name and logothe Broken Branch Consolidated School Hornets.
But on this unusually bitter March day, the last day school was in session before spring break, Mrs. Oliver had on the denim jumper she now knew she was going to die while wearing. Shameful, she thought, after all these years of razor-sharp pleats and itchy support hose.
Last week, after all the other third graders had left for the day, Mrs. Oliver had tentatively opened the crumpled striped pink-and-yellow gift bag handed to her by Charlotte, a skinny, disheveled eight-year-old with shoulder-length, burnished-black hair that chronically housed a persistent family of lice.