Long Gone. Alafair Burke
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in better days, Alice felt an intense irritation navigating…
Chapter Forty-One
“Holy shit, you actually picked up your phone.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Alice rose from damp moss beneath a towering mulberry tree,…
Chapter Forty-Three
The next time she opened her eyes, she felt groggy.
Part III: Memories
Chapter Forty-Four
Joann Stevenson hit the play button once again on her…
Chapter Forty-Five
Alice maintained a brisk but unexceptional pace down Second Avenue…
Chapter Forty-Six
As Alice watched clumps of hair fall from the scissor…
Chapter Forty-Seven
Alice caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the…
Chapter Forty-Eight
Just as Beckman had predicted, they pulled off 684 at…
Chapter Forty-Nine
“Don’t you need a search warrant or something?”
Chapter Fifty
Joann Stevenson felt like the wind had been knocked out…
Chapter Fifty-One
The home in which Christie Kinley had supposedly passed away…
Chapter Fifty-Two
They were back at their motel outside White Plains, strategizing…
Chapter Fifty-Three
It was nearly four o’clock, and Jason was still pissed…
Part IV: Mia
Chapter Fifty-Four
Alice’s disposable phone rang at 5:58 p.m. She recognized her…
Chapter Fifty-Five
Alice tapped her nails against Hank Beckman’s steering wheel, trying…
Chapter Fifty-Six
For two hours, she and Arthur had waited in Arthur’s…
Chapter Fifty-Seven
“I’d have to say this has been a much more…
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Jason Morhart managed to cram his truck into the hybrid-sized…
Chapter Fifty-Nine
“This is certainly a lovely treat.” Arthur Cronin was inspecting…
Epilogue
Alice was panting by the time she reached her turnoff…
Acknowledgments
A Special Note of Thanks
Winning: Alafair Burke
About the Author
Other Books by Alafair Burke
PROLOGUE: THE KISS
Alice Humphrey knew the kiss would ruin everything.
“You’ve heard what they say about pictures and a thousand words.”
She looked up at the man—Shannon was his last name, the first hadn’t registered. He was the one with the faded, reddish blond hair. Ruddy skin. Puffy, like a drinker.
She didn’t like sitting beneath his eye level like this. In this tiny chair at her kitchen table, she felt small. Trapped. She mentally retraced her steps into the apartment, wondering if the seating arrangement had been planned for catastrophic effect.
Shannon and his partner—was it Danes?—had been waiting on the sidewalk outside her building. The two of them hunched in their coats and scarves, coffee cups in full-palmed grips to warm their hands, everything about their postures hinting at an invitation out of the cold. She, by contrast, hot and damp inside the fleece she had pulled on after spin class. She’d crossed her arms in front of her, trying to seal the warmth in her core as they spoke on the street, the perspiration beginning to feel clammy on her exposed face.
Shannon’s eyes darted between the keys in her hands and the apartment door before he finally voiced the suggestion: “Can we maybe talk inside?”
Friendly. Polite. Deferential. The way it had been with them yesterday morning. Only a day ago. About thirty-one hours, to be precise. They’d said at the time they might need to contact her again. But now today they suddenly appeared, waiting for her on the sidewalk without notice.
“Sure. Come on up.”
They’d followed her into the apartment. She’d poured herself a glass of water. They declined, but helped themselves to seats, selecting the two kitchen bar stools. She opted for the inside chair of the two-seat breakfast table, leaving herself cornered, she now realized, both literally and figuratively. But hers was the obvious choice, the only place to sit in the small apartment and still face her unannounced guests.
She’d unzipped her fleece, and found herself wishing she’d showered before leaving the gym.
They’d eased into the conversation smoothly enough. Initial banter up the stairs about how they should both get more exercise. Just a few follow-up issues, Shannon had explained.
But there was something about the tone. No longer so friendly, polite, or deferential. The surprise visit. Her heart still pounding in her chest, sweat still seeping from her scalp, even though she had finished her workout nearly half an hour ago. Maybe it was a subconscious shaped by television crime shows, but somehow she knew why they were here—not the reasons behind the why, but the superficial why. Even before the kiss, she knew they were here about her.
And then came their questions. Her finances. Her family. The endless “tell us agains”: Tell us again how you met Drew Campbell. Tell us again about this artist. Tell us again about the trip to Hoboken. Like they didn’t believe her the first time.
But it wasn’t until she saw the kiss that she realized her life was about to be destroyed.
Shannon had dropped the photograph on the table so casually. It was almost graceful, the way he’d extended his stubby fingers to slide the eight-by-ten glossy toward her across the unfinished pine.
She looked down at the woman in the photograph and recognized herself, eyelids lowered, lips puckered but slightly upturned, brushing tenderly against the corner of the man’s mouth. She appeared to be happy. At peace. But despite her blissful expression in the picture, the image shot a bolt of panic from her visual cortex into the bottom of her stomach. She inhaled to suppress a rising wave of nausea.
“You’ve heard what they say about pictures and a thousand words.”
She’d pulled her gaze from the picture just long enough to look up at Detective Shannon. His clichéd words echoed in her ears, her pulse playing background percussion, as her eyes returned to her own image. There was no question that the man in the photograph was Drew Campbell. And even though the cognitive part of her brain was screaming at her not to believe it, she had to admit that the lips accepting his kiss were her own.
She ran her fingertips across the print, as if the woman in the picture might suddenly turn her head so Alice could say, “Sorry, I thought you were someone else.” She felt the detectives looking down at her, waiting for a response, but she couldn’t find words. All she could do was shake her head and stare at the photograph.
Alice Humphrey knew the kiss would destroy her life because thirty-one hours earlier she had stepped in Drew Campbell’s blood on a white-tiled