Copyright © 2019 by A.J. Rivers

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Gone Woman

  A.J. Rivers

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Staying In Touch With A.J.

  Prologue

  LB Project – Pg. 1

  “Behind Blue Eyes”

  FADE IN:

  EXT. LANDSCAPE – DAY, EARLY MORNING

  Open with a sweeping shot of the land. The field is empty; the grass tipped in dew. Pre-dawn blue atmosphere. Move to the garden, the stables, and finally, a golden dirt path.

  Violet: (V.O.)

  There are some things your mother never teaches you. One of them is how to die.

  CUT TO:

  INT. – SHADOWY LIGHT – TIGHT SHOT OF WOMAN’S FACE

  Sound of fast, shallow breathing. Blue eyes snap open.

  He made sure her eyes were open. That wasn’t a mistake he was going to make this time. He’d been fooled by the first woman. Her closed eyes had seemed appropriate, but they’d concealed the tightness of her stomach muscles as she held her breath and the fluttering of her rapid heartbeat just beneath the surface of her summer-gold skin. He’d come to hate that skin. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t notice her struggle to conceal that little bit of life still left in her. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her that closely anymore. Her clumsy bolt through the house, the last bid for survival, had been an inconvenience he’d rather not repeat. Chasing her had left troublesome blood drops across the white carpet. It had taken all night for him to wash them away, and even still, two days later, they rose up from the fibers again. Fainter, but there. So, he’d cleaned again. He couldn’t have it like that when his new wife came home. She would notice.

  But he had learned from that mistake. He ensured this woman’s eyes were wide open. Much simpler. They were still visible through the clear sheeting. Three large rose bushes sat in the grass behind him, ready to mark and conceal the ground where he would lay her. Perfect white blooms. That’s all he wanted. Crisp, clean perfection. It’s why she tumbled into the ground now. It’s why another would follow.

  She wasn’t missed yet, but soon she would be.

  By then, he’d have what he’d always wanted.

  Cool white light replaced the burning glow of day overhead. He pushed the rolled sleeves of his white shirt higher over his elbows and filled the shovel with the first scoop of dirt. It rained down over her, and he couldn’t help but wonder what she would see if those wide eyes were watching.

  Chapter One

  Mary

  I brace myself against the intense cold as I run through the deep snow. It's biting, the wet chill sinking through my clothes and onto my skin. My legs ache, the muscles feeling as though the individual fibers have turned to ice and are slicing through the veins and skin around them. I look down at them. I'm not wearing enough clothing for the intense cold swirling around me. My skirt brushes my knees, exposing a long stretch of skin above my lightweight shoes. My skin looks pale and sparkles with flecks of snow that tumble through the air around me. Each breath cuts through my lungs and hangs in opaque white gusts in front of my mouth.

  Every step is excruciating, but terror keeps pushing me forward. I don't know where I'm going or what I'm running from. Whatever it is, it's close enough behind me to keep the hair on the back of my neck standing up and my legs pumping. The swirl of the snow keeps getting thicker the further I go. Trees on either side of me block my view, and something tells me if I can just get past them, I'll find safety.

  I think I hear my name echoing through the cold. But maybe that wasn't it. It sounded familiar, and it didn't. The sound could have just as easily been the call of a night bird as it could have been a voice. But I haven't heard any other birds. There is only the sound of my footsteps crunching over the snow. I try to think it through, to figure out how I got here, what drove me into the blizzard when I'm obviously not prepared for it. But I can't drag anything forward. All that exists in my mind is fear.

  Finally, just ahead of me, I see the end of the tree line. The space is bright white and glittering. If I can just make it through the blackened skeletons of trees, I can get away. Every breath is getting more difficult. It feels like less and less oxygen is getting into my lungs as I inhale the snowflakes and let them build up in icy drifts inside me. My fingers ache, and strands of my hair feel heavy and brittle hanging against my wind-battered cheeks.

  Something – or someone – is coming after me. They're getting closer. The whipping, rippling air cascades the snowflakes around me. Each is its own sound. A screech of wind. A note of music. A syllable of my name. As they stream past my face and cling to my skin, they bring the sounds with them until they are as disorienting as the whitewash and the cold.

  I could duck behind one of the trees and hide. But then what? I don’t know what’s behind me or what it’s seen. Even if hiding confused it, the cold would take me within minutes. Running keeps my blood from freezing and forces it through my veins. It’s all that’s keeping my body warm. If I crouch down behind a tree, I’ll be buried in the snow. Forgotten.

  Just get beyond the trees. If I can get there, I’ll be safe.

  Finally, I break beyond the tree line. The fear still creeps up the back of my neck, but there’s a timid, cautious sense of hope as I run out into the open space. Even the snowflakes were lessening, like I’d willed them to quiet, like I’d earned the softer brush of them against my skin.

  The lift of hope is short-lived. The heavy snowfall meant flakes stinging in my eyes, blurring my vision. Gone now, I can see ahead of me. In the distance, there is… nothing. Where there should be more openness, more snow, there is only a strange shimmer. The air itself seems to have captured the light from the ice and is reflecting it back. Beyond that is darkness. I run to it, hoping it will disappear. Instead, I see myself.

  A shadowy, translucent image of my own wild eyes and tangled hair, my frozen blue skirt and ice-coated legs, comes toward me. I’m emerging from the darkness toward myself, and new fear wraps my stomach around my spine. The closer I get to the shimmering air, the farther I watch myself run back toward the trees.

  I stop, and my image stops. The strange, glistening mirror image is less than a foot in front of me. My hands tremble as I lift them. The hands that match mine feel cold and hard. A reflection in the glass trapping me.

  The tears on my cheeks sparkle like the snow.

  Warren Hull’s voice snaps me out of the disturbing vision, startling me so much I nearly drop the snow globe in my hand. Gripping it tightly to compensate for the way my hand is still shaking, I carry the decoration over to the mantle and nestle it amongst the shiny green holly boughs. A quick brush of my dusting cloth takes away the prints my fingertips left. Laughter from the audience trickles from the television in the corner, and I cross the room to turn it off. Time got away from me while staring at the globe. I didn’t realize it was already past eleven-thirty.

  I never watch Strike It Rich. Those people are so desperate for help, and the television producers trot them out to be a spectacle for people sitting at home watching. Thank goodness the weekly evening version stopped airing in January. And yet, somehow having it show at this time of day makes it worse. Housewives have enough on their mind taking care of their homes and their families to be drawn into the tales of woe the contestants tell. Especially at this time of year. Christmas is just two weeks away, and watching those sad-eyed people hoping for the scraps of help the show can give could make anyone feel guilty about decorating their home and preparing gifts.

  The distinct click of the dial sends the house into silence. A chill ripples down my back. I’m used to being home alone while Charles is at work, but there are days when the silence is unnerving. It moves through the house, filling the rooms, and leaving me waiting to hear… something. That uncertainty of what I might hear brings me over to the radio. Another dial clicks, and Bing Crosby melts away the silence.

  It’s impossible not to feel the spirit of the holidays when listening to his voice. Humming along, I open the next of the boxes stacked neatly in the corner. The smell of last year’s Christmas wafts out at me. It’s a smell that never changes. Cinnamon and paper, pine boughs, and gingerbread. Dust and cardboard. Breathing in memories. I only wish I could make them more real.

  Charles came home with our tree a few days ago and then dutifully went to the attic to bring down the boxes. He’s strung the silvery green branches with lig
hts, but the rest of the decorations are still tucked away. We’ll trim the tree together. But for now, there are plenty of other touches I can put on the house. Starting with the pictures of us from past years. I set the silver frames on the mantle, focusing on the pictures rather than the snow globe between them. The first picture is of Charles and me standing beside a far sparser tree than the one we have now. White lights make it seem to glow and cast shadows over us. But through the dimness I can see Charles has his arm around my waist, and my head leaning toward his as I smile up at him.

  “That was one of our best Christmases.”

  I gasp and turn around, pressing my back to the fireplace and my hand to the center of my chest. Charles crosses the room to me quickly, his eyebrows furrowing with worry.

  “Charles,” I force over my erratic heartbeat.

  “I’m sorry, Darling. Did I startle you?”

  He brushes his thumb over my cheek. His voice is smooth like Bing Crosby’s.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” I tell him.

  “It’s noon,” he says. “I told you I’d come home for lunch. Or did you forget?”

  Something flickers in the back of my mind, and I wrap my arms around his neck for a hug.

  “Of course, not,” I say, even though I had. “I must have just gotten so wrapped up in preparing for Christmas.”

  He smiles at me, and I feel a familiar brief sense of relief when he steps away from me. I hate that relief. But it’s there.

  “You always have.”

  I step out of the intensity of his gaze to turn back to the picture.

  “When was this?” I ask.

  He steps up beside me, and I feel the warmth of his hand on the small of my back. Holding me steady. Guiding me.

  “Five years ago,” he explains. “Our first Christmas in this house. You were so excited to get our tree; you insisted we go out on Thanksgiving to get it.” He chuckles in a way that sounds like it’s rattling around in a can. “Of course, none of the lots were open Thanksgiving night, but for you, Darling, I will find anything.”

  “Even a Christmas tree on Thanksgiving night?”

  He touches his finger to the glass over the tree.

  “After driving around from lot to lot, I finally stopped at a little farm out past the edge of town. There were some trees growing around, and I walked right up to the front door, knocked on it, and asked to buy one.”

  I feel like I should laugh, but the sound won’t form in my chest. This isn’t a story; it’s a lesson.

  “You didn’t mind bothering them on the holiday?” I ask.

  “It was for you. When I left the house that night, you were already preparing the living room. I wasn’t going to come home without a tree for you. So, I marched right up to the door, determined to fulfill my promise. The man who answered wasn’t happy with me, I’ll tell you. But I told him it was for my bride and that softened him up. He sold me a tree and a length of rope to tie it to the roof of the car, and I brought it home. It wasn’t until I got it here and brought it inside that I realized it was the scrawniest tree I ever did see.”

  His laugh rattles a little less this time. It tugs the corners of my lips, encouraging the smile that should be there. I turn back to the picture and let my eyes scour it. They dig into the shadows and plunge past the hazy needles. Searching for something. Anything that feels familiar beyond the story. Charles has told me that story before. I’ve seen other pictures and prepared the corner of the living room the same way for this tree as for that. But those are his words. I want to find something in the picture that’s mine.

  “I just wish I could remember.”

  Chapter Two

  Mary

  “I know, Darling.” Charles takes my wrist and pulls me away from the mantle and my search. “You will. More has been coming back every day. Just like the doctors promised.”

  Rudolph crackling over the radio feels invasive.

  “You must be hungry. Let’s have lunch.”

  There used to be a window over the sink. I suppose it’s still there. The sill still juts out from the creamy wall, and the wooden frame still sketches out the shape. But the pink curtains hang over a smoothly painted piece of wood sealed into place over the glass. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. And as long as I can’t.

  Last night’s roast beef makes perfect sandwiches on the loaf of stiff sourdough Charles brought home from the bakery. Alongside deviled eggs I made this morning and a scoop of the macaroni salad always sitting on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, it doesn’t seem I forgot about him coming home. It’s just a simple lunch, so we eat at the pink Formica table in the kitchen rather than going to the dining room. He takes a bite of his sandwich, and his eyes drop to the empty spot by the top of his plate.

  He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

  “What are you planning for this afternoon?” Charles asks as I start a fresh pot of coffee.

  “I thought I would start addressing the Christmas cards,” I tell him.

  My husband nods approvingly.

  “I’ll leave my address book for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  The smell of coffee bubbling through the percolator takes the place of more words. His deviled egg is gone, and most of his macaroni has joined it by the time I set a white mug of black coffee beside his plate.

  “Is something bothering you?” he asks after a few more minutes when he notices my sandwich hasn’t moved, and my egg has just made a slight turn across the plate.

  I know I shouldn’t bother him. He’s been working so hard recently, and I know he’s gone through so much for me already. But his dark grey eyes don’t move away from me. Even as I take a sip of my own milk-swirled coffee. Even as I swallow a bite of cold roast beef.

  “It happened again,” I tell him.

  His hand comes across the table to touch mine.

  “Another vision? What did you see?”

  “The woods. I don’t know where. I was running.”

  “Running?”

  “Something was chasing me.”

  “An animal?”

  “I don’t know.”

  These are my words, the only ones I really have. So much has slipped through my fingers, I don’t know what to think or to trust. Not until I hear my own voice say it.

  “Darling, I’m worried about you. These visions have been happening more often. I can see how much they upset you. You really should talk to the doctor about it.”

  I shake my head adamantly.

  “No,” I say. “Please don’t ask me to do that.”

  “It’s really concerning me. I thought your visions would get fewer with time and you’d get more of your memory back, but it’s been six months since the accident.”

  “I know.”

  “The doctor may be able to help you. Don’t you want to stop seeing these things? Don’t you want to remember our life together?”

  “Of course, I do. But if I have to go to the doctor…”

  Charles knows what I mean, even without me finishing the sentence. Seeing a doctor would mean going out of the house, something I haven’t done since the day we moved in. Agoraphobia seals me into this house. It set the wood into place over the windows and built up the stone breezeways leading from the doors to other doors. All designed, so I don’t see the world beyond the house, a world that makes my stomach turn and my heart pound just thinking about it. Designed to make me feel safe.