A shocking discovery and chilling secrets converge in this latest novel from New York Times bestselling author Heather Gudenkauf
When a tragic accident leaves nurse Amelia Winn deaf, she spirals into a depression that ultimately causes her to lose everything that mattersher job, her husband, David, and her stepdaughter, Nora. Now, two years later and with the help of her hearing dog, Stitch, she is finally getting back on her feet. But when she discovers the body of a fellow nurse in the dense bush by the river, deep in the woods near her cabin, she is plunged into a disturbing mystery that could shatter the carefully reconstructed pieces of her life all over again.
As clues begin to surface, Amelia finds herself swept into an investigation that hits all too close to home. But how much is she willing to risk in order to uncover the truth and bring a killer to justice?
New York Times bestselling author Heather Gudenkauf has been described as masterful and intelligent and compared to Lisa Scottoline and Jodi Picoult. Introducing her most compelling heroine yet, she delivers a taut and emotional thriller that proves shes at the top of her class.
Not a Sound
Heather Gudenkauf
Praise for
Heather Gudenkauf
This gripping tale will keep you up all night
Heat
An action packed thriller Gudenkaufs best book yet!
Mary Kubica
Fans of Jodi Picoult will devour this great thriller
Red Magazine
This tense tale keeps you hooked right up to the last page
My Weekly
A great thriller
Radio Times
A real page-turner
Womans Own
Tension builds as family secrets tumble from the closet
Woman & Home
A gripping thriller
Inside Soap
Deeply moving and lyrical it will haunt you all summer
Company
A powerhouse of a debut novel
Tess Gerritsen
Totally gripping
Marie Claire
Heart-pounding and compelling
Diane Chamberlain
Also by Heather Gudenkauf
Missing Pieces
The Weight of Silence
These Things Hidden
One Breath Away
Little Mercies
HEATHER GUDENKAUF is the critically acclaimed and New York Times bestselling author of The Weight of Silence, These Things Hidden, One Breath Away and Little Mercies. 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
For Erika Imranyi who knows how to make lemonade from lemon squares.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Title Page
Praise
Booklist
About the Author
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Authors Note
Acknowledgments
Extract
Copyright
Prologue
I find her sitting all by herself in the emergency waiting room, her lovely features distorted from the swelling and bruising. Only a few patients remain, unusual for a Friday night and a full moon. Sitting across from her, an elderly woman coughs wetly into a handkerchief while her husband, arms folded across his chest and head tilted back, snores gently. Another man with no discernable ailment stares blankly up at the television mounted on the wall. Canned laughter fills the room.
Im surprised shes still here. We treated her hours ago. Her clothing was gathered, I examined her from head to toe, all the while explaining what I was doing step-by-step. She lay on her back while I swabbed, scraped and searched for evidence. I collected for bodily fluids and hairs that were not her own. I took pictures. Close-ups of abrasions and bruises. I stood close by while the police officer interviewed her and asked deeply personal private questions. I offered her emergency contraceptives and the phone number for a domestic abuse shelter. She didnt cry once during the entire process. But now the tears are falling freely, dampening the clean scrubs I gave her to change into.
Stacey? I sit down next to her. Is someone coming to get you? I ask. I offered to call someone on her behalf but she refused, saying that she could take care of it. I pray to God that she didnt call her husband, the man who did this to her. I hope that the police had already picked him up.
She shakes her head. I have my car.
I dont think you should be driving. Please let me call someone, I urge. Or you can change your mind and we can admit you for the night. Youll be safe. You can get some rest.
No, Im okay, she says. But she is far from okay. I tried to clean her up as best I could but already her newly stitched lip is oozing blood, the bruises blooming purple across her skin.
At least let me walk you to your car, I offer. Im eager to get home to my husband and stepdaughter but they are long asleep. A few more minutes wont matter.
She agrees and stands, cradling her newly casted arm. We walk out into the humid August night. The full moon, wide faced and as pale as winter wheat lights our way. Katydids call back and forth to one another and white-winged moths throw themselves at the illuminated sign that reads Queen of Peace Emergency.
Where are you staying tonight? Youre not going home, are you?
No, she says but doesnt elaborate more. I had to park over on Birch, she says dully. Queen of Peaces lot has been under construction for the better part of a month so parking is a challenge. It makes me sad to think that not only did this poor woman, beaten and raped by her estranged husband, have to drive herself to the emergency room, there wasnt even a decent place for her to park. Now there are five open parking spaces. What a difference a few hours can make in the harried, unpredictable world of emergency room care.
We walk past sawhorse barriers and orange construction cones to a quiet, residential street lined with sweetly pungent linden trees. Off in the distance a car engines roars to life, a dog barks, a siren howls. Another patient for the ER.
My car is just up here, Stacey says and points to a small, white four-door sedan hidden in the shadows cast by the heart-shaped leaves of the lindens. We cross the street and I wait as Stacey digs around in her purse for her keys. A mosquito buzzes past my ear and I wave it away.
I hear the scream of tires first. The high-pitched squeal of rubber on asphalt. Stacey and I turn toward the noise at the same time. Blinding high beams come barreling toward us. There is nowhere to go. If we step away from Staceys car we will be directly in its path. I push Stacey against her car door and press as close to her as I can, trying to make ourselves as small as possible.
Im unable to pull my eyes away from bright light and I keep thinking that the careless driver will surely correct the steering wheel and narrowly miss us. But that doesnt happen. There is no screech of brakes, the car does not slow and the last sound I hear is the dull, sickening thud of metal on bone.
1
Two Years Later...
Nearly every day for the past year I have paddle boarded, kayaked, run or hiked around the sinuous circuit that is Five Mines River, Stitch at my side. We begin our journey each day just a dozen yards from my front door, board and oar hoisted above my head, and move cautiously down the sloping, rocky bank to the waters edge. I lower my stand-up paddleboard, the cheapest one I could find, into the water, mindfully avoiding the jagged rocks that could damage my board. I wade out into the shallows, flinching at the bite of cold water against my skin, and steady it so Stitch can climb on. I hoist myself up onto my knees behind him and paddle out to the center of the river.
With long even strokes I pull the oar through the murky river. The newly risen sun, intermittently peeking through heavy, slow-moving gray clouds, reflects off droplets of water kicked up like sparks. The late-October morning air is bracing and smells of decaying leaves. I revel in the sights and feel of the river, but I cant hear the slap of my oar against the water, cant hear the cry of the seagulls overhead, cant hear Stitchs playful yips. Im still trying to come to terms with this.
The temperature is forecast to dip just below freezing soon and when it does I will reluctantly stow my board in the storage shed, next to my kayak until spring. In front of me, like a nautical figurehead carved into the prow of a sailing vessel, sits Stitch. His bristled coat is the same color as the underside of a silver maple leaf in summer, giving him a distinguished air. He is three years old and fifty-five pounds of muscle and sinew but often gets distracted and forgets that he has a job to do.
Normally, when I go paddling, I travel an hour and a half north to where Five Mines abruptly opens into a gaping mouth at least a mile wide. There the riverside is suddenly lined with glass-sided hotels, fancy restaurants, church spires and a bread factory that fills the air with a scent that reminds me of my mothers kitchen. Joggers and young mothers with strollers move leisurely along the impressive brick-lined river walk and the old train bridge that my brother and I played on as kids looms in the distanceout of place and damaged beyond repair. Kind of like me.
Once I catch sight of the train bridge or smell the yeasty scent of freshly baked bread I know its time to turn around. I much prefer the narrow, isolated inlets and sloughs south of Mathias, the river town I grew up in.
This morning theres only time for a short trek. I have an interview with oncologist and hematologist Dr. Joseph Huntley, the director of the Five Mines Regional Cancer Center in Mathias at ten. Five Mines provides comprehensive health care and resources to cancer patients in the tristate area. Dr. Huntley is also on staff at Queen of Peace Hospital with my soon-to-be ex-husband, David. He is the head of obstetrics and gynecology at Q & P and isnt thrilled that I might be working with his old friend. It was actually Dr. Huntley who called me to see if I was interested. The center is going to update their paper files to electronic files and need someone to enter data.
Dr. Huntley, whom I met on a few occasions years ago through David, must have heard that Ive been actively searching for work with little luck. David, despite his grumblings, hasnt sabotaged me. Ill be lucky if he can muster together any kind words about me. Its a long, complicated story filled with heartache and alcohol. Lots of alcohol. David could only take so much and one day I found myself all alone.
I come upon what is normally my favorite part of Five Mines, a constricted slice of river only about fifteen yards wide and at least twenty feet at its deepest. The western bank is a wall of craggy limestone topped by white pines and brawny chinquapin oaks whose branches extend out over the bluff in a rich bronze canopy of leaves. Today the river is unusually slow and sluggish as if it is thick with silt and mud. The air is too heavy, too still. On the other bank the lacy-leaf tendrils of black willows dangle in the water like limp fingers.
Stitchs ears twitch. Something off in the distance has caught his attention. My board rocks slowly at first, a gentle undulation that quickly becomes jarring. Cold water splashes across my ankles and I nearly tumble into the river. Instead I fall to my knees, striking them sharply against my board. Somehow I manage to avoid tumbling in myself but lose my paddle and my dog to the river. Stitch doesnt appear to mind the unexpected bath and is paddling his way to the shore. Upriver, some asshole in a motorboat must have revved his engine, causing the tumultuous wake.