Closer Than You Think Read online

  Copyright © 2014 Karen Rose Hafer

  The right of Karen Rose Hafer to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2014

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  eISBN: 978 0 7553 8999 5

  Cover photograph © Stephen Carroll/Trevillion Images

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Karen Rose

  Also By Karen Rose

  Dedication

  Praise

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  More from Karen Rose

  About Karen Rose

  A former high school chemistry and physics teacher, Karen lives in Florida with her husband of twenty years and their children. When she’s not writing, Karen enjoys traveling, karate and, although not a popular Florida pastime, skiing.

  By Karen Rose and available from Headline

  Novels

  Don’t Tell

  Have You Seen Her?

  I’m Watching You

  Nothing to Fear

  You Can’t Hide

  Count to Ten

  Die For Me

  Scream For Me

  Kill For Me

  I Can See You

  Silent Scream

  You Belong to Me

  No One Left to Tell

  Did You Miss Me?

  Watch Your Back

  Closer Than You Think

  Novellas available in ebook only

  Broken Silence

  Dirty Secrets

  To my readers all over the world. You make it possible for me to have the coolest job ever.

  To my wonderful family and friends for your support during this difficult year. I love you all more than I can say.

  As always, to Martin, for loving me just the way that I am. You are my heart.

  Praise

  Praise for Karen Rose:

  ‘Fast and Furious’ Sun

  ‘Rose delivers the kind of high-wire suspense that keeps you riveted to the edge of your seat’ Lisa Gardner

  ‘Rose juggles a large cast, a huge body count and a complex plot with terrifying ease’ Publishers Weekly

  ‘[Karen Rose’s] glossy blend of romance and crime is completely compelling . . . another enojoyable and page-turning novel from the queen of romantic suspense’ Crime and Publishing

  ‘Blistering, high-octane suspence that never lets up . . . Don’t miss it!’ Karen Robards

  ‘Gripping, chilling and utterly compelling, Karen Rose is a classy storyteller’ Lancashire Evening Post

  ‘A high-octane thrill ride that kept me on the edge of my seat and up far too late at night!’ Lisa Jackson

  ‘Don’t miss this perfectly pitched chill-fest with a human edge from a rising star in the thriller market’ The Scottish Daily Record

  ‘A pulse pounding tale that has it all’ Cosmopolitan

  Acknowledgements

  Marc Conterato, for answering my medical questions when you probably have much better things to do!

  Cheryl Wilson, Christine Feehan, Susan Edwards, and Kathy Firzlaff for welcoming me into your writing group. Writing with you has been my anchor. Cheryl, you were unequivocally right – I should have joined you guys a lot sooner!

  Terri Bolyard, Kay Conterato, and Sonie Lasker for helping me brainstorm when I got stuck and for encouraging me through this year.

  Mandy Kersey for taking care of all of the barn details so that I could write this book and for going with me to the hospital even though you knew it was going to make you queasy.

  Caitlin Longstreet for being everything I’ve needed you to be and more.

  Denise Pizzo for getting me back in the writing chair (and keeping me there).

  Claire Zion, Vicki Mellor, and Robin Rue for your ongoing encouragement and for allowing me to tell my stories the way the characters tell them to me.

  Martin Hafer for loving me, for taking care of our family, and for supporting my dreams. You are the very best.

  Prologue

  Oh God. Corinne fought the sudden wave of nausea, contracting her body into a fetal position. Wine. Too much wine. This is the worst hangover ever.

  But . . . Wait. No. Can’t be. A sliver of clarity returning, she shook her head, swallowing a moan when the room tilted. Haven’t had a drink in two years.

  The flu. Dammit. She’d had the damn flu shot. She lifted her hands to rub her eyes, but—

  Tied. Realization rushed in. She gave her arms a panicked jerk, shooting pain up through her shoulders. Her hands were tied. Behind her back.

  The room wasn’t dark. I’m blindfolded. She lurched to one side, heard the clank of a chain before her movement was abruptly checked.

  Terror crashed through her, filling her mind. Tied. Chained. Blindfolded.

  A scream rose in her throat, but came out a rusty croak. Her throat was dry as dust, her lips cracked. Not a hangover. Drugged. I was drugged.

  How? When? Who would have? Who could have? What had they done to her? She drew a breath, tried to calm herself. Breathed deeply. Think, Corinne. Think hard.

  The musty odor of the room burned her nose, making her sneeze violently, sending her head spinning again. She clenched her teeth. Rode the nausea through.

  She listened, but there was nothing. No wind. No music. No voices.

  Okay. Okay. This sucks. This really sucks. Calm down. Think. Think.

  She forced her arms to relax, felt the chain go slack. She moved her fingers, her toes. Straightened her spine, careful not to make any more sudden movements.

  She was on a bed. A mattress. With a sheet. And a pillow. Slowly she rubbed her cheek over the pillow. Rough. The room was musty, but the pillow smelled clean.
<
br />   A sudden creak had Corinne freezing. The door opened, letting in a cold draft. And the smell of lemons. And the beginning of a shrill scream, muffled by the quick closing of the door.

  Who was screaming? Who is here? And then Corinne remembered. Last night. Walking back to the dorm. From the library. With Arianna. They’d walked together because it was late.

  Oh God. Ari is here too. She’s screaming. Somebody has her and they’re hurting her. They’re hurting her. They’ll hurt me next.

  ‘You’re awake.’ It was a girl’s voice, shocking Corinne out of her panic. The girl sounded young. Not a little girl. Not an adult. A teenager, maybe. She sounded . . . hesitant. ‘I’ve been worried about you,’ the girl added.

  Corinne could hear the girl’s feet shuffle against the floor. Count her steps. One, two . . . four, five . . . eight, nine, ten. Ten steps to the door.

  ‘Who are you?’ Corinne whispered, her throat so dry it burned. ‘Why?’

  The mattress shifted. Just a little. The girl was small. Cool hands cupped Corinne’s face. ‘You had a fever,’ the girl said. ‘It’s better now. Are you thirsty?’

  Corinne nodded. ‘Please. Water.’

  ‘Of course,’ the girl said agreeably. A cup was placed against Corinne’s lips. A metal cup. Not glass. Glass could be broken, used as a weapon, but that wasn’t going to happen here.

  The water trickled down Corinne’s throat and she gulped greedily. ‘More.’

  ‘Later,’ the girl said, gently laying her head back on the pillow. ‘You’ve been very sick.’

  ‘Who are you? Uncover my eyes.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’ The girl actually sounded sorry.

  ‘Why not?’ Corinne asked, trying to keep the panic from filling her voice.

  ‘I just can’t. I’m allowed to take care of you. I’m not allowed to take off your blindfold.’

  Panic won and Corinne lunged, rattling her chains. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  The mattress abruptly shifted as the girl jumped off the bed. ‘Nobody,’ she whispered. ‘I’m nobody.’ Footsteps shuffled, the girl moving away. ‘I’ll come back later with some soup.’

  ‘Wait. Please. Please don’t go. Where am I?’

  A slight hesitation before the resigned answer. ‘Home.’

  ‘No. This is not my home. I live in the dorm. King’s College.’

  ‘I don’t know about your college. This is . . . home. My home. And yours. For now.’

  For now? Oh God. ‘But where are we?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Said simply. Truthfully.

  ‘Can you help me get away?’

  ‘No. No.’ The girl’s tone became adamant with fear. ‘I can’t.’

  But she wanted to. Corinne could hear it in her voice. Or she wanted so badly to hear it that she told herself it was there. Either way, she needed this girl on her side.

  ‘All right,’ Corinne said softly. ‘Can you tell me your name?’

  Another long hesitation. ‘I have to go.’ The door opened. Ari’s screams filled the air.

  ‘Please. What’s happening to my friend? Her name is Arianna. What’s happening to her?’ The girl’s answer was quiet, spoken with a dull finality that had fresh terror clawing its way up Corinne’s throat. ‘He’s teaching her.’

  ‘Teaching her what?’

  ‘What she needs to know,’ the girl said. ‘I’m very sorry.’

  The door closed. Corinne waited a few seconds. ‘Hello? Are you there? Please.’

  But the girl was gone and Corinne was alone in the dark.

  Chapter One

  Mt Carmel, Ohio, Sunday 2 November, 5.45 P.M.

  ‘It’s only a house.’ Dr Faith Corcoran gripped the steering wheel, willing herself to look at the house in question as she slowed her Jeep to a crawl. ‘Just four walls and some floors.’

  She drove past, eyes stubbornly pointed forward. She didn’t need to see. She knew exactly what it looked like. She knew that it was three stories of gray brick and hewn stone. That it had fifty-two windows and a square central tower that pointed straight to heaven. She knew that the foyer floor was Italian marble, that the wide staircase had an elegantly curved banister made out of mahogany, and that the chandelier in the dining room could sparkle like a million diamonds. She knew the house, top to bottom.

  And she also knew that it wasn’t the four walls and floors that she really feared, but what lay beneath them. Twelve steps and a basement.

  She did a U-turn and stopped the Jeep in front of the house. Her heart was beating faster, she thought clinically. ‘That’s a normal physiological response. It’s just stress. It will pass.’

  As the words slipped out, she wondered who she was trying to convince. The dread had been steadily building with every mile she’d driven the last two days. By the time she crossed the river into Cincinnati, it had become a physical pain in her chest. Thirty minutes later, she was close to hyperventilating, which was both ridiculous and unacceptable.

  ‘For God’s sake, grow the hell up,’ she snapped, killing the engine and yanking her keys from the ignition. She leapt from the Jeep, angry when her knees wobbled. Angry that, after all this time, the thought of the house could make her feel like she was nine years old.

  You are not nine. You are a thirty-two-year-old adult who has survived multiple attempts on your life. You are not afraid of an old house.

  Drawing strength from her anger, Faith lifted her eyes, looking at the place directly for the first time in twenty-three years. It looked . . . not that different, she thought, drawing an easier breath. It’s old and massive. Oppressive. It was more than a little run-down, yet still imposing.

  It looked old because it was old. The house had stood on O’Bannion land for more than a hundred and fifty years, a testament to a way of life long gone. The three stories of brick and stone loomed large and dark, the tower demanding all visitors look up.

  Faith obeyed, of course. As a child, she’d never been able to resist the tower. That hadn’t changed. Nor had the tower. It maintained its solitary dignity, even with its windows boarded up.

  All fifty-two windows were boarded up, in fact, because the O’Bannion house had been abandoned twenty-three years ago. And it showed.

  The brick stood, weathered but intact, but the gingerbread woodwork she’d once loved was faded and cracked. The porch sagged, the glass of the front door covered with decades of grime.

  Gingerly she picked her way across the patchy grass to the front gate. The fence was wrought iron. Old-fashioned. Built to last, like the house itself. The hinges were rusty, but the gate swung open. The sidewalk was cracked, allowing weeds to flourish.

  Faith took a moment to calm her racing heart before testing the first step up to the porch.

  No, not the porch. The veranda. Her grandmother had always called it the veranda because it wrapped around the entire house. They used to sit out here and sip lemonade, she and Gran. And Mama too. Before, of course. Afterward . . . there was no lemonade.

  There was no anything. For a long time, there was absolutely nothing.

  Faith swallowed hard against the acrid taste that filled her mouth, but the memory of her mother remained. Don’t think about her. Think about Gran and how she loved this old place. She’d be so sad to see it like this.

  But of course Gran never would see it again, because she was dead. Which is why I’m here. The house and all it contained now belonged to Faith. Whether she wanted it or not.

  ‘You don’t have to live here,’ she told herself. ‘Just sell the property and go . . .’

  Go where? Not back to Miami, that was for damn sure. You’re just running away.

  Well, yeah. Duh. Of course she’d run away. Any sensible person would run if she’d been stalked for the past year by a homicidal ex-con who’d nearly killed her once before.

  Some had said that she shouldn’t be surprised that she’d been stalked, that by doing therapy with scum-of-the-earth sex offenders, she’d put herself in harm’s way
. Some even said she cared more about the criminals than the victims.

  Those people were wrong. None of them knew what she’d done to keep the offenders from hurting anyone else. What she’d risked.

  Peter Combs had attacked her four years ago because he’d believed that her ‘snitching’ to his probation officer about missed therapy sessions had sent his reoffending ass to prison. Faith shuddered to think of what he would have done had he known the truth back then: that her role in his reincarceration had been far more than marking him absent. But given the cat-and-mouse game he’d played with her in the year following his release, the fact that his stalking had escalated to attempted murder four times now . . . Maybe he did know. Maybe he’d figured it out.

  Slipping her hand into the pocket of her jacket, Faith’s fingers brushed the cold barrel of the Walther PK380 she hadn’t left her Miami apartment without in almost four years. Miami PD hadn’t been any help at all, so she’d taken her safety into her own hands.

  She was sensible. Prepared. But still scared. I’m so tired of being afraid.

  Suddenly aware that she’d dropped her gaze to her feet, she defiantly lifted her chin to look up at the house. Yeah, she’d run all right. She’d run to the one place she feared almost as much as the place she’d left behind. Which sounded about as crazy now as it had when she’d fled Miami two days ago. But it had been her only choice. No one else will die because of me.

  She’d packed the Jeep with as many of her possessions as she could make fit and left everything else behind, including her career as a mental health therapist and the name under which she’d built it. A legal name change, sealed by the court for confidentiality, had ensured that Faith Frye was no more.

  Faith Corcoran was a clean slate. She was starting fresh. No one she’d left behind in Miami – friend or foe – knew about this house. No one knew her grandmother had died, so no one could tell Peter Combs. He would never think to look for her here.