Terry Thomas - The House of Secrets

TERRY LYNN THOMAS grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, which explains her love of foggy beaches and Gothic mysteries. When her husband promised to buy Terry a horse and the time to write if she moved to Mississippi with him, she jumped at the chance. Although she had written several novels and screenplays prior to 2006, after she relocated to the South she set out to write in earnest and has never looked back.

Terry Lynn writes the Sarah Bennett Mysteries, set on the California coast during the 1940s, which feature a misunderstood medium in love with a spy. The Drowned Woman is a recipient of the IndieBRAG Medallion. She also writes the Cat Carlisle Mysteries, set in Britain during World War II. The first book in this series, The Silent Woman , came out in April 2018 and has since become a USA Today bestseller. When she’s not writing, you can find Terry Lynn riding her horse, walking in the woods with her dogs, or visiting old cemeteries in search of story ideas.

‘Intriguing and page-turning’

‘I really enjoyed this fascinating historical thriller’

‘An absorbing novel’

‘A marvellous historical suspense that had me engrossed from the start’

‘I read it in one sitting’

‘A fabulous page turning, mildly paranormal whodunnit’

‘A good read, difficult to put down!’

‘Brilliant! Thoroughly enjoyable read’

‘I look forward to reading the next in the series’

‘A real page turner!’

The Drowned Woman

The Silent Woman

The Family Secret

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Terry Lynn Thomas 2019

Terry Lynn Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008328894

Version: 2019-02-06

For Bonnie Tombaugh. Always missed. Never forgotten.

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for Terry Lynn Thomas

Also by Terry Lynn Thomas

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Turn the Page for an Extract From Terry Lynn Thomas’s Gripping The Silent Woman

Dear Reader

The Next Book From Terry Lynn Thomas Is Coming in 2019

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

Within seconds, strong arms reached around me from behind, encircling my waist. I held fast to my hat with one hand and clutched my purse with the other as the man lifted me up and slung me over his shoulder like a sack of sugar. He knocked the hat out of my hand, and I watched, unable to do anything, as it blew away on a gust of the March wind.

The Viking hauled me to the waiting car. He opened the rear passenger door and threw me onto the smooth leather seat with such force that I slid across it and hit the door on the opposite side. The giant stayed outside the car, leaning on the car, trapping me. I sat up and pulled my skirt back down over my legs. My purse had fallen to the floor, its contents scattered everywhere.

‘Collect your things. Be quick about it.’

The fat man who sat across from me expected me to obey. I almost defied him. A quick glance at the Viking, who had pushed away from the car door, changed my mind. With shaking hands, I stuffed my belongings back into my purse. I dropped my lipstick. It slid under the seat.

‘Bit of a klutz.’ The man who sat across from me had jowls like a bulldog and soulless eyes.

‘I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.’

‘No. I know who you are, Miss Bennett. Your boyfriend has something of mine.’

The weeping started when the foreman read the ‘not guilty’ verdict.

The sobs played like background music as I sat numb, unable to fathom how my adoptive father, Jack Bennett, had got away with so many crimes. I remained in my seat as the audience in the gallery, the jury, the judge, and, finally, the attorneys filed out of the courtroom, their expressions running the gambit from pity to loathing and all the emotions in between.

The weeping echoed off the oaken walls of the courtroom, a solemn reminder of all that I had lost. Zeke. He crept into my mind. I didn’t have the strength to push him away. I had experienced my share of auditory hallucinations since falling from the second-storey landing at Bennett House last October. The fall had killed my stepmother. By some fortuitous stroke of luck, I had survived. Dr Upton, my psychiatrist, blamed the stressful situation for my current state of mind. I didn’t tell him everything that I had seen and heard since the fall. Dr Upton had been so kind to me during the trial, I didn’t have the heart to burden him with the truth.

In the days following the trial, I took the morphine drops that he prescribed for me, but they did little to quell the baleful tears. I tried to ignore the weeping and function as though nothing were wrong. I needed a job. I needed a place to stay. No small feat in San Francisco. Thousands of enlisted men flooded the city each day. The housing shortage had become so severe, many of these young men were forced to sleep in the lobbies of the over-booked hotels and in the seats of the theatres.

When Miss Macky, the proprietress of the school where I studied typewriting, referred me to the Geisler Institute for a secretarial position – good pay, room and board – I jumped at the opportunity without a second thought. I knew that my presence at the school distracted the other girls, and that Miss Macky wanted to get rid of me. This job would provide me an income and a chance to remove myself from the public eye.

As the taxi pulled up to the big house on the corner of Jackson and Laguna, I wondered what I had got myself into. We coasted to a stop just as the first rays of sun sliced through the morning fog. My driver, an old man with gaps in his smile where teeth should have been and a wad of chewing tobacco jammed behind his bottom lip, spat into a chipped coffee mug that rested on the dashboard. I got out of the cab, pulling my coat tight against the gust of wind that whipped around my ankles, while the driver retrieved my carryall – a scuffed Hermès leather case that had belonged to my adoptive mother – and hoisted it onto his hip with ease. I followed him as he limped up the walkway.