Barbara Sissel - Evidence of Life

On the last ordinary day of her life, Abby Bennett feels like the luckiest woman alive. But everyone knows that luck doesn’t last forever…

As her husband, Nick, and daughter, Lindsey, embark on a weekend camping trip to the Texas Hill Country, Abby looks forward to having some quiet time to herself. She braids Lindsey’s hair, reminds Nick to drive safely and kisses them both goodbye. For a brief moment, Abby thinks 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.

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

With a voice that resonates with stunning clarity, Barbara Taylor Sissel delivers a taut and chilling mystery about a mother’s love, a wife’s obsession and the invisible fractures that can shatter a family.

Evidence of Life

Barbara Taylor Sissel

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Michael and David, who remember the way we were.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Acknowledgments

Questions for Discussion

A Conversation With the Author

Chapter 1

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.