Evidence of Life by Barbara Taylor Sissel | NOOK Book (eBook) | Barnes & Noble
Evidence of Life

Evidence of Life

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by Barbara Taylor Sissel
     
 

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A mother's love. A wife's obsession. And the invisible fractures that can shatter a family… 

As her husband, Nick, and daughter, Lindsey, embark on a weekend camping trip to the Texas Hill Country, Abby looks forward to having some time to herself. She kisses them goodbye, and thinks to herself that she has it all—a perfect marriage, a perfect

Overview

A mother's love. A wife's obsession. And the invisible fractures that can shatter a family… 

As her husband, Nick, and daughter, Lindsey, embark on a weekend camping trip to the Texas Hill Country, Abby looks forward to having some time to herself. She kisses them goodbye, and thinks to herself that she has it all—a perfect marriage, a perfect life… Until a devastating storm rips through the region, and her family vanishes without a trace. 

Though Nick and Lindsey are presumed dead, Abby refuses to give up hope. Consumed by grief and convinced her family is still alive, she sets out to find them. But as disturbing clues surface, Abby realizes that the truth may be more sinister than she imagined. Soon she finds herself caught in a current of lies that challenges everything she once believed about her marriage and family.

www.BarbaraTaylorSissel.com

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"If you love Jodi Picoult and Anita Shreve, read Barbara Taylor Sissel."
-Joni Rodgers, bestselling author of The Secret Sisters

"A chilling mystery with a haunting resolution you won't see coming."
-Sophie Littlefield, bestselling author of Garden of Stones

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781460325315
Publisher:
Harlequin
Publication date:
01/28/2014
Sold by:
HARLEQUIN
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
400
Sales rank:
182,483
File size:
335 KB

Read an Excerpt

On the last ordinary day of her life before her family went off for the weekend, Abby made a real breakfast—French toast with maple syrup and bacon. It was penance, the least she could do, given how utterly delighted she was at the prospect of being left on her own for two whole days to do as she pleased. It would sicken her later, in the aftermath of what happened, that she could so covet the prospect of solitude, but in that last handful of ordinary hours, she was full of herself, her silly plans. She set a small mixing bowl on the counter, found the wire whisk, and when Nick came in the backdoor, she brandished it, smiling at him.

He frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Cooking breakfast, French toast."

"We don't have time. We're going to hit rush-hour traffic as it is."

"It'll be fine," Abby soothed.

He came to the sink still wearing the wisp of bloodstained tissue he'd stuck below his ear where he'd cut himself shaving and the rumpled cargo shorts he'd pulled out of the hamper as if he didn't have a drawer full of clean ones. As if the unwashed pair were the only ones that suited him.

Abby got out a frying pan, aware of his mood, regretful of it. She wished he hadn't bothered with shaving. She wished she'd done the laundry yesterday. Leaving the breakfast makings, she went to him, circled his waist from behind, laid her cheek against his back. "I'm sorry about your shorts." The words were right there, but they caught in her throat when she felt him go still.

"Don't," he said, and she backed away. She returned to the stove, absorbing herself in the task of separating the strips of bacon and arranging them with care in the bottom of the pan. As if her care made a difference, as if it could keep her family safe when it couldn't. She ought to have known that much at least. She went to the refrigerator and took out the carton of eggs.

Nick washed his hands.

"I wish you'd tell me what's wrong," she said when he shut off the water.

"Why do you always think something's wrong, Abby?"

"I don't."

"You do."

"Fine," she said. She would not stand here squabbling as if they were their children.

He hung the kitchen towel over the oven door handle, gave her one of those side-of-the-mouth kisses. "I'm sorry," he said. "Nothing's wrong. I just want to get on the road."

Abby's jaw tightened. She knew better.

"Wouldn't cereal be easier?" he asked.

She broke the eggs into the bowl. "I'd like us to sit down to breakfast together for once."

"What about the mess? You do realize we can't stay to help you clean up."

"I don't mind."

He went to the foot of the stairs and shouted, "Lindsey? What's taking you so long? I could use some help loading the camping gear."

"Down in a minute, Dad," she shouted back. "I had to get ready in Jake's bathroom because the shower in mine is still leaking."

Nick looked at Abby. "I thought you called the plumber."

"I did. He hasn't—"

Nick left. The screen door clattered shut behind him. "—called back yet," Abby finished.

She whipped the eggs, fuming. She wished she had taken Nick's advice and served cereal. They'd be gone faster. She wished she had said it was only lately that she assumed something was wrong. Because there was something; she could feel it. Nick was distracted, moodier than usual. Too quiet. That is, when he wasn't biting her head off for no reason. And since when did he push her away? Say no to her touch? It wasn't like him.

Abby added powdered sugar and a splash of vanilla to the eggs. She got out a fork and poked at the bacon, aggravated at the sudden stab of her tears, a duller sense of alarm. Whatever it was, she wasn't a mind reader; she couldn't fix it by herself. Why couldn't he see that?

"I can't get my hair to do anything." Lindsey came up beside Abby, her brush and comb in her hand.

Abby composed her face. "Want me to French braid it?"

"Would you?"

Lindsey's hair reached the middle of her back, a thick mane that blended shades of honey blond with darker shades of reddish brown, colors very similar to those of Miss Havisham, Lindsey's chestnut mare. Lindsey said she'd rather groom Miss Havisham's mane than her own, and she conned Abby into doing it whenever she could. Abby didn't mind; she loved the feel of it through her fingers, like rough silk. Deftly, she parted off three sections and began weaving them together. "Should I call you tomorrow and let you know if Hardys Walk wins tonight?"

"Samantha will."

"Is Scott pitching?"

"I don't know. Who cares anyway? He barely knows I'm alive."

"Oh, honey." Abby squeezed Lindsey's shoulder. Scott Kaplan was her first serious crush, the first boy to truly trouble her heart, and Abby was both exasperated and pained by the experience. She wished she could say how little Scott would matter in the long run, but she didn't dare. "Did you bring a rubber band?

Lindsey handed it over along with a bit of taffeta ribbon, pink with a narrow green stripe. "I don't see why I have to go on this trip when Jake doesn't."

"He has finals," Abby said.

"Oh, sure," Lindsey scoffed. "Like he'd choose cramming for finals over camping in the Hill Country. Finals aren't until next month anyway."

Abby kept silent.

Lindsey said, "If you ask me he's not going because he doesn't want Dad on his case about law school again."

"Can you blame him?" Abby asked.

Lindsey didn't answer. She was as tired of Nick and Jake's continual bickering as Abby was. Nick was so much harder on Jake than he was on Lindsey. His preference was obvious, hurtful, but if Abby brought it up, Nick denied treating Lindsey differently. "You don't understand about boys," he would say.

"Oh, I think I understand perfectly. He's exactly like you," Abby would say.

Stubborn, she meant. Each one was determined to have it his own way.

"You know I'm right, Mom," Lindsey said.

"At least you won't have to listen to them argue."

"Maybe I'll go to law school."

Abby made a face. Lindsey never passed up an opportunity to remind her parents that she was the better student, the orderly, more agreeable child. "I thought you were going to play pro basketball overseas, travel the world."

"Is there a reason I can't do both?"

"Nope. You, my darling daughter, can do anything you set your mind to, just like your brother." Abby ran her fingers lightly down the length of Lindsey's braid.

"If only I could stay home like my brother."

"Your daddy has gone to a lot of trouble to plan this trip so he can spend time with you."

"I know. I just wish it wasn't this weekend."

"There are worse sacrifices," Abby answered, blithely.

"I have finals next month, too. And don't say it's not the same."

"Okay, I won't." Abby centered the griddle over the burner. "Will you set the table and call your dad? The French toast'll be done in a minute." She could feel Lindsey considering whether or not to push.

Please, don't. It was a prayer, a wish, yet one more in the sea of mundane moments from that morning that would return to mock her. To ask her: How could you? Because she would remember that Lindsey hadn't pushed; she'd set the table and left the kitchen without another word.

"What about jackets?" Abby followed her husband and daughter through the back door, onto the driveway. Although it was April, it was still chilly, and it would be colder where they were going. Colder than home.

"It's supposed to rain," she said. "Maybe you guys should take your boots."

"Dad says it's not going to rain, that the weatherman doesn't know his—"

"Lindsey," Abby warned.

"I wasn't going to say ass, Mom. I was going to say bum or buttocks or what about seater rumpus?" Abby rolled her eyes.

"He doesn't know his seater rumpus from a hole in the ground," Lindsey finished. She stowed her purse and iPod in the front seat. "Mom?"

"Yep?"

"I wish you were going."

"You do? How come?"

"Because that delicious French toast you made for us? It's the last good meal I'll eat till we get home." Abby laughed.

"Very funny." Nick hefted his briefcase and laptop into the back of Abby's Jeep Cherokee, shifting it to fit, muttering what sounded to Abby like, "Who needs this?" Or, "Why am I doing this?"

She said, "Why don't you leave that stuff here? You don't have to work every weekend."

"I gave you the keys to the BMW, didn't I?" he asked as if he hadn't heard her, and maybe he hadn't or didn't want to.

"Oh, my gosh!" Lindsey's eyes were round in mock amazement. "Dad's letting you drive his precious BMW?"

"I know," Abby said. "I'm astonished, too."

He straightened. "Hey, funny girl, maybe I'll let you drive Mom's Jeep."

"For real?" She only had her learner's permit, wouldn't turn sixteen until August.

"Do you think that's wise?" Abby was instantly anxious. "She's never driven on the highway."

"She has to learn sometime."

"But they said it might storm."

"Like they know." Nick dropped his arm around her shoulders. "You worry too much."

"Just promise me you won't let her drive if the weather's bad."

"Jesus, Abby, I'm not stupid."

"No, Nick, I didn't mean—"

But he was stepping away, telling Lindsey to get in the car. He wanted to get to the campsite before dark.

She came over to Abby and hugged her. "Never mind, Mommy. You know how stressed he gets before a road trip. If he lets me drive, I promise I'll be careful."

Abby clung to Lindsey for a moment, breathing in her scent, leftover maple syrup and something citrusy, a faded remnant of little girl, the color pink, a lullaby. She said, "I know you will." She walked with Lindsey to the car.

"We'll be back on Sunday." Lindsey settled into the front seat. "Unless we've starved to death from Daddy's cooking."

"I'll make a big dinner, barbequed chicken and corn on the cob. Chocolate cake for dessert. How's that sound?"

"I just hope I'm not too weak to eat it."

"I think you'll survive," Abby said. She looked at Nick over the hood. "Don't be mad because of what I said about Lind-sey driving, okay? I didn't mean anything."

"She has to learn, Abby, and it's best if one of us is with her."

"I'm glad it's you." Abby meant it. Nick's nerves were steadier. She went around to him. "I hope you can relax and have some fun."

"Yeah, me, too."

She wanted his gaze and touched his wrist. "Nick?"

"We should probably talk when I get home."

"About?"

"Things. Us. You know. Isn't that what you're always saying, that I should be more open with you?"

"Yes, but—" What's wrong? She bit her lip to stop herself from asking.

"Thanks for making the French toast." His eyes on hers were somber.

"Sure, of course. I was glad to. You'll be careful, won't you?"

Instead of answering, he cradled her face in his hands and kissed her, and his kiss was so gentle and tender, and so filled with something she couldn't define. Later she would think it was regret she felt coming from him, maybe even remorse. But then she'd wonder if she'd read too much into it, if her sense of that had been created in hindsight.

He touched her temple, brushed the loose wisps of hair from her forehead. "I don't want you to worry. We'll be fine, okay?" His look was complicated, searching.

"Okay," she said, and she might have questioned him then, but he left her and got into the car too quickly. They reached the end of the driveway, Lindsey waved, and they were gone.



The first time Abby had visited the Texas Hill Country was during the summer after third grade when she went to camp, the year she turned nine. Her mother got the idea from a magazine article that said a summer camp experience could boost a child's self-confidence and help them feel more independent. But the psychology behind it wasn't how she convinced Abby to go. No. What Abby's mother did was to invite Kate Connelly, Abby's best friend, to join her. The girls didn't know it—Kate still didn't—but Abby's mother paid Kate's way.

Camp Many Waters—Many Manures, the girls had dubbed it that first year screaming with laughter—was on the Guadalupe River, near Kerrville. Kate loved it from the first day. Abby struggled with homesickness but not after their first year. Camp was where they learned to swim and ride horses and do the Cotton-Eyed Joe. Camp was where they napped together in a salt-sweat tangle of limbs in a hammock strung between a couple of ancient live oaks.

The rest of the year they lived a block apart in the same Houston neighborhood and shared almost the same birthday. Kate was older and never minded saying so until they hit thirty. They'd been in most of each other's classes through school and went on to start college together. Mr. Tuttle at Tuttle's Rexall Drugs two streets over from theirs, where they'd bought Jujubes and Superwoman comic books and then their first lipsticks together, had labeled them the Stardust Twins. But where Abby's childhood had been predictable and sure, Kate's had been uneasy; it had wounded her in an unreachable way, like a too-deeply buried splinter. Camp in the Hill Country had been her escape, the one place where every hour was wholly welcome.

So it didn't surprise Abby that when they were grown and married, Kate went there to live. She said there was just something about that part of Texas. She could never define it. Neither could Abby. But then people had been flocking to the Hill Country since pioneer days, and most came away at a loss to describe what set it apart, what made it so special.

But there was one thing everyone did agree on, one thing for sure: It was dry.

Unlike Houston, where Kate and Abby had grown up, where the land began a flattened, flood-prone slide into Galveston Bay, the Hill Country region, near the center of the state, encompassed miles and miles of rumpled, rough-dried terrain. It had been submerged once, eons ago, beneath a shallow, urchin-filled, inland sea, but then the sea leaked out and left behind the skeletal remains of countless marine animals in layers like cake.

That's when the soil became stony and dry.

So dry you could scarcely scratch it with your fingernails.

There were the rare exceptions, the record-making torrential downpours, like the one Nick was driving Lindsey straight into at that very moment. Of course he wouldn't know that for a while yet. He was still in the vicinity of home, having just cleared the outskirts of Hardys Walk, where he and Abby had lived since Jake was a toddler. He was a shade over an hour's drive north of Houston, and the clouds drifting here in this piece of Texas sky were small and as white and innocent as dandelion fluff. Abby noticed them, but only subliminally, as she made her way into the barn to freshen the stalls.

Her mind was still on Nick, her sense of his unhappiness. She was thinking how he used to help care for the horses. He used to ride nearly every day after work, too. Often he and Lindsey had ridden together. Now Abby couldn't remember the last time he'd done anything with the horses other than complain about the feed and vet bills—which were enormous, Abby had to admit. He was always ranting about expenses, though. The way they lived wasn't extravagant, but it wasn't cheap either, what with taxes and upkeep on the house and property, never mind the kids and cars and college. Abby leaned on her rake. It had been her idea to move out here, to the Land of Nod, as her mother called it, and she'd never regretted it. But maybe Nick had. More than she realized. The commute alone was a nightmare, and traffic got heavier every year. On the occasions when she made the drive herself, she always wondered how he stood it.

What People are saying about this

From the Publisher
If you love Jodi Picoult and Anita Shreve, read Barbara Taylor Sissel."

-Joni Rodgers, bestselling author of The Secret Sisters

"A chilling mystery with a haunting resolution you won't see coming."

-Sophie Littlefield, bestselling author of Garden of Stones

Meet the Author

Barbara Taylor Sissel is the author of five novels, including Evidence of Life and Safe Keeping. With heartfelt emotion and page-turning suspense, her stories focus on ordinary families and what happens when they are abruptly confronted with extraordinary circumstances. In addition to writing, Barbara is an avid gardener and the mother of two sons. She lives and writes in a small garden cottage on a farm located in the beautiful Texas Hill Country.

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