Finding Claire Fletcher (A Claire Fletcher and Detective Parks Mystery Book 1)
PRAISE FOR LISA REGAN
“Author Regan keeps the tension alive from the first page. Her psychological insight into her characters makes the story as intriguing as it is real as today’s headlines. This is a well-written and thought-provoking novel that will keep you riveted until the conclusion.”
—Suspense Magazine
“Readers should drop what they’re reading and pick up a copy of Finding Claire Fletcher.”
—Gregg Olsen, New York Times bestselling author
“Finding Claire Fletcher is truly a story of our times and magnificently told … it is superbly written and moves with intense, page-turning speed.”
—Nancy S. Thompson, author of The Mistaken
“The writing shows a maturity and control that many far more experienced writers lack. The characters—even the minor ones—are well developed and three-dimensional. Expect to hear a lot more of Lisa Regan.”
—David Kessler, author of You Think You Know Me Pretty Well
OTHER TITLES BY LISA REGAN
Aberration
Hold Still
Cold-Blooded
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. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2012, 2017 by Lisa Regan
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 Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542046107
ISBN-10: 1542046106
Cover design by Damon Freeman
For my husband, Fred, and daughter, Morgan—everything I do is for you!
CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CHAPTER EIGHTY
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
I still saw her sometimes—the girl I used to be. She lived behind a locked door in my mind. The door that protected the last secret part of me. The final bastion I had that no one else could infiltrate or overcome. It was locked so securely that no one but me could force or tease it open.
Behind the door, the girl stood on the street corner waiting to cross, shielding her eyes from the sun with one slender hand. She was in the tenth grade and was on her way to school. She wore jeans and a yellow cotton shirt with a backpack slung over her left shoulder.
Behind that door in my mind, I liked leaving the girl suspended on the street corner for as long as I could. Sometimes I just watched her stand there, guarding her eyes, vaguely aware of the cars whizzing by in front of her, a slight smile on her face. I wanted her to stay right there on the street corner forever, frozen in her peaceful beauty and teenaged innocence.
But she couldn’t stay there forever, not even behind the locked secret door in my mind. Eventually she crossed the street, walked the thirty feet or so … however, in my mind, she didn’t stop when she saw the man crouched next to his car, his neck craning to peer beneath it, the back-seat door hanging open next to him. No. In my mind, she just kept walking.
She never knelt down beside him to look beneath the car just as he did, in his attempt to coax an imaginary but frightened kitten from underneath it. In my mind, the man didn’t smash her head on the doorjamb and stuff her stunned, slack body unceremoniously into the back seat. No. These things never happened to the girl I used to be behind the locked secret door in my mind.
I envisioned two alternatives for that girl. The first was that she stood on the corner, shielding her eyes with one hand, and when she stepped off the curb into the street, certain that the way was clear, she was crushed by an oncoming truck and killed instantly. There she lay in the street, limbs twisted and bent at odd angles, her thick red blood congealing on the pale asphalt. Her eyes were fixed upward, blank, and unknowing. I liked this scenario because it did not involve the man who unmade her and took everything pure away from her.
The second alternative was that she did not cross the street at all; instead, she turned left and avoided the man altogether. The girl went on with her life, knowing nothing about the abject horror she had escaped—and she was still innocent in that way.
This girl from the second scenario lived a parallel life. I imagined that she was still out there, living out my existence. She went to her proms and high school graduation. She had a boyfriend and went off to college. And at the very second I thought about her, she was out there living the life I was supposed to live.
Maybe she was making plans to get married
or have a child with someone. I liked to think of her that way, as if she still existed in some other dimension. I liked to think that someday I’d run into her and see in her face that, in spite of what I’ve been through, the girl I used to be is all innocence and light.
That when she smiles, it’s beautiful and not broken.
CHAPTER TWO
“First time in a bar?” the woman asked. She smiled at Connor in a way that made him feel like prey. A meal waiting to be devoured. He almost sighed.
Ten years on the job and his first thought was She must be a prostitute—except she wasn’t dressed like one. She wore a simple cotton V-neck shirt that was just small enough to show the pertness of her breasts without being tight. Straight-legged blue jeans and plain black shoes. Her face was fresh and unlined, but when Connor looked into her blue eyes, he saw something worn down and leathery from use. Her long, untamed brown curls tumbled over her shoulders and down her back.
She almost looked like somebody’s wife. Almost.
There was something undone about her, though. She couldn’t be somebody’s wife, he decided. And thank God, because if she was trying to pick him up, he wasn’t so sure he’d refuse.
“Connor,” he said, releasing his scotch long enough to extend a hand.
She arched an eyebrow but accepted it, her grip firm and dry.
“Claire,” she responded.
He downed the rest of his drink and motioned to the bartender for another.
“Scotch?” she asked.
He smiled. “Perceptive.”
She caught the bartender’s eye and signaled for a second one. Connor stared straight ahead. When the scotch arrived, he swiveled to face her.
“Claire,” he said, holding his glass aloft. “What should we toast to?”
She half smiled, and he noticed just how wide and full her lips were. “Let’s toast to being found,” she said.
“Found?”
She leaned into him, and he caught a whiff of lavender. Her blue eyes were flecked with green, and they looked even older than he’d first thought.
“Yes,” she said. “To being found.”
He clinked his glass against hers. “Interesting,” he said.
“Indeed.” She sipped her scotch without taking her eyes from his.
“Which of us has been found?” Connor asked.
She set her glass down and put her hands in her lap, studying them. “That remains to be seen.”
“Enigmatic.”
“Maybe.”
“So, are you picking me up, Claire?”
She looked at him again, unruffled. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m already having a pretty rough day, and if you are picking me up, I’d just as soon dispense with the formalities and go to my place.”
She smiled wryly. “Charming.”
He pursed his lips and nodded. “Honest,” he replied.
She gazed at him thoughtfully. “Connor, what do you do?”
“I’m a detective,” he said.
“Are you any good?”
He laughed. “I was.”
“Was?”
He bit his lip and tightened his fingers around his glass.
“Oh,” she said. “The bad day.”
“Some of it.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “The rest?”
He took a moment to study her. She had her elbow propped on the bar, one hand playing absently at her curls. She was appraising him. He shuffled his bar stool closer to hers and leaned his face into hers so that their mouths were nearly touching. She remained still, relaxed.
“You are interesting,” he said.
“Are you picking me up?”
“I don’t know,” he said, backing away. “Would you like me to?”
She ran a finger around the rim of her glass. “That depends.”
“On what?” he asked.
“On the rest of this conversation.”
“Formality,” he said, waving a dismissive hand.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” she countered. “Tell me the rest.”
“The rest of what?”
“Of what made today a bad day.”
Suddenly, Connor felt like hurling his glass against the wall. Instead, he gritted his teeth and replied, “So, what is this? What? I have to buy you a drink and pour my heart out to you just for some sex? Or do I have to buy you seven drinks while I pour my heart out so you’ll be good and shit-faced when I take you home?”
Claire continued to eye him with a calculating look that slowly began to unnerve him. She stood and slid a twenty-dollar bill across the bar. She put her lips to his ear. Her voice was calm, even. Her breath felt cool on the nape of his neck.
“I’m buying,” she said. “Three minutes ago, you thought I was a hooker. Then, for about ten seconds, you thought I was a bored housewife. After that, you wondered if I was a bar hag, hitting on the fresh meat. None of those things are the truth.”
With a single finger, she turned his chin so that he was looking directly at her. For a fleeting moment, staring into her bottomless eyes, Connor felt terrified. “Not a very good detective, are you?” she said.
She sauntered away from him and out of the bar, her supple behind swaying. She carried nothing. No purse, no jacket. Connor’s stupefied jaw hung where she’d left it.
Before he realized what he was doing, the bar door was flapping behind him and the cool night air rushed at his face like a hard slap. He caught up with her a block later, tugging on her arm from behind. She snatched it from his grip, a flicker of something in her eyes. “Are you crazy?” she said. It was the first sign of emotion he’d heard in her voice. Anger.
He huffed but stood in front of her, blocking her way. She tried to move around him, but he followed her. She spun on her heel and began walking back toward the bar.
“Wait,” he called. He ran again and planted himself in front of her. “Divorce,” he said.
She folded her arms and glared at him, but she didn’t leave.
Connor threw his hands up in surrender. “My divorce went through today, okay? That’s the rest of it. I fucked up at work—botched an arrest—and then came home and there was this letter in the mail from my attorney saying my divorce was final. It’s been coming for a year, you know, but to get the news today of all days. I mean I fucked up my marriage, I fucked up my job. I just … I don’t …” He floundered and fell silent.
A smile crept across her face. “So, what you’re saying is you’re a fuckup?”
He laughed. “Well, yeah, okay. I guess I am. I fucked up with you.”
Her eyebrows knitted together. “Well, you’re starting to repair some of the damage.”
“I guess that’s something,” he said.
“You’re much cuter when you’re honest and vulnerable.”
He shot her a quizzical look. “Yeah. I was honest in the bar and that didn’t go so well.”
“I said honest and vulnerable,” she clarified.
Connor looked at his feet, then back at Claire, feigning shyness. “So you think I’m cute, huh?”
This time, she laughed. The sound surprised Connor, both because he liked it and because there was a harshness to it he hadn’t expected.
“Can I give you a lift?” he asked.
“No.”
“Okay. Can we get another drink? Something to eat?”
“No.”
“How about a walk?”
Claire considered that. “How far do you live from here?”
“Like ten blocks, but I have my car.”
“I’ll walk you home,” she said.
Connor studied her for a moment. “Well, all right,” he agreed. “It’s that way.”
He pointed over her shoulder and she turned. They walked the ten blocks in silence. Connor glanced at Claire repeatedly, but she did not look at him.
“This is it,” he said when they reached his house.
It was a simple white one story with black shutters and a small but neatly kept front lawn. There was a brick path leading from the sidewalk to the front door with large clusters of yellow flowers crowding the path on either side.
Connor watched her take it in. “Not very masculine, I know,” he said. “My wife’s touch. Ah, my ex-wife. Sorry. First day.”
“You have a yard” was all Claire said.
Connor took two steps onto the walkway and gestured toward the house. “Uh, yeah, there’s one in the back too.”
Claire was mesmerized by the flowers—their long, muted stalks rising and leaning in unison toward the direction of the next morning’s sunrise.
Connor clapped his hands together awkwardly. “Look, Claire, if you don’t want to come in, that’s okay. I just wanted to meet you—properly, that is. I don’t expect anything.”
The spell broken, she stepped onto the path with him and extended a hand for the second time that night. “Claire Fletcher,” she said.