Don't Go Home

by Janelle Taylor

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

Delivering edge-of-your-seat suspense and breathtaking romance is what New York Times bestselling author Janelle Taylor does best. Now she returns with the story of two strangers thrown together in the face of danger, fighting to uncover the truth about the people they love. . . Don't Say A Word Newly divorced schoolteacher Mia Anderson is looking forward to exploring her identity without her ex-husband's criticism. But a frantic call from her much wilder twin Margot suddenly plunges Mia into her sister's life, which Margot has fled--leaving a dead man in her wake. Before Mia can unravel Margot's disappearance, she's faced with Matthew Gray, the dead man's distraught brother. Asking him for help is a long shot--but it's the only way to carry out a dangerous charade. . . Don't Look Back Deceit is the last thing Matthew wants in his life--it ruined his parents' marriage, and it killed his cheating brother, who was seen flirting with Margot the night he was murdered. But Mia is sure that her sister is only a pawn in this deadly game, and he can't let her investigate on her own--not when she's determined to put her own life on the line. And as they sift through clues, talking long into each night to unravel the mystery, he begins to realize that what matters most is making sure Mia isn't the next victim. . .

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

One week later

Please don’t ask me out on a date, Mia Anderson prayed as she spied Norman Newman, belly jiggling, plodding toward her classroom with a wilted bouquet of lilacs. Please, please, please have gotten the hint after all these months!

Mia ducked back inside the room, staring longingly at the water fountain just across the hall. It was unseasonably hot for late June—eighty-six degrees and equal humidity—and of course, the air conditioner in her classroom had broken that morning. But a cool drink of water meant a hallway of students and faculty saying their goodbyes to each other would witness Norman’s final attempt at asking her out.

And what was he doing here, anyway? It was three-fifteen on a Friday, the final day of school, so perhaps he’d come back to say his goodbyes, too. Norman had been given special permission to cram all his unused vacation time into the past two weeks in order to care for his mother, who’d had a terrible stroke and was all alone, save Norman. The staff had banded together and taken care of his finals, grading, and all the administrative duties that had to be performed in the final days of school.

The smell of the fragrant purple flowers was getting closer. Why had she ever told that traitorous bunch of students that lilacs were her favorite flowers! The entire school knew that Mr. Newman—voted Most Absentminded Teacher per the unofficial school poll (quickly confiscated by the vice principal during lunch period)—had a longtime crush on Ms. Anderson, who’d been voted Favorite Teacher and, to Mia’s embarrassment, Prettiest.

Prettiest. Mia shook her head. If everyone, including Norman, had seen what Mia had looked like before she began teaching at Baywater five years ago, they would have voted her Most in Need of a Makeover. Most Mousiest Brown Hair. Most Blah Brown Eyes. Most Blah Schoolmarm Clothes. Most Blah.

After all, she’d been awarded that title by her own husband before she’d changed to please him. Before she’d turned into someone else. Before she’d become someone who could win “prettiest teacher” four years in a row.

Yes, she thought, catching her reflection in the pane of glass on the classroom door. The long blond hair. The pale brown doe eyes enhanced by a light dusting of makeup. The fitted dress and stylish sandals. The hoop earrings and large sterling silver ring. It all adds up to pretty.

A pretty lie.

But tonight, after the makeup came off for good and the Miss Clairol Ash Blonde hair dye was rinsed clean from her hair, Mia would once again be a fresh-scrubbed ponytailed brunette. Add the clothes she preferred—long, comfortable cotton skirts and pretty blouses, the pearls she’d inherited from her mother her only adornment—and she’d once again be the Mia she used to be. The Mia she was before David Anderson had come into her life.

You don’t see your sister wearing pearls, do you, Mia? her ex-husband had asked every time Mia even looked at her pearls. They’re a little matronly, don’t you think?

Five years ago, she hadn’t had the self-esteem to tell David that no, she most certainly didn’t think pearls were matronly, that in fact the pearls were her most precious possession, that they were all she had left of her mother besides wonderful memories. She’d simply stopped wearing them. She also hadn’t had the self-esteem to tell David that if he wanted her to dress like her twin sister, Margot, maybe he should have married Margot.

Five years ago—heck, one year ago—she hadn’t had the confidence to tell David Anderson to go to hell. And it had cost her dearly.

“Afternoon, Mia! Hot enough for you out there?”

Norman Newman. He was hovering in the doorway of her classroom, the wilted lilacs in one hand, a sweating can of iced tea in the other.

At least he was a respite from her thoughts. The last thing she wanted on her mind was her ex-husband.

Problem was, Mia didn’t want Norman on her mind, either. She wished she could feel more kindly about Norman, but the man wasn’t a sweet, “absentminded” chemistry and physics teacher. Mia hated to think it, to say it, but Norman Newman was a real pain in the butt. Six months ago, when word had spread that Mia’s divorce was final, Norman had begun asking her out immediately—and upon being turned down had continued to ask her out every Monday morning for the following Saturday night. She’d nicely told him she was flattered, but that it would take her a long while to get over her divorce and that she had no interest in dating, now or in the near future, which was every bit the truth. So Norman had asked about the distant future. She’d let him know that, too, was out. And yet every Monday morning, in the faculty dining room, in the office, in the hallway, at the water fountain, in the parking lot, anywhere, Norman Newman would ask her if she would like to have dinner and perhaps see a movie that upcoming Saturday night.

Norman had begun to make her feel the way her ex-husband had. As though her wishes, her thoughts, her words, had absolutely no bearing, no impact. And instead of finding his “crush” sweet, she began to find it unbearable. What a relief his absence had been these past two weeks.

Norman smiled, revealing a mouthful of clear braces. “I was hoping to speak with you alone about—”

“Sorry we’re late, Ms. Anderson! We had so many kids to say goodbye to.”

Relief. The Farley twins, Amy and Anne, came barreling into the classroom behind Norman and rushed for seats in the front row. Only the Farley twins would manage to get detention on the last day of school.

Mia glanced at her watch. “Afternoon, girls—I’ll be with you in a moment.” She turned her attention back to Norman. “Afternoon, Mr. Newman. Yes, it certainly is warm out there. Well, I’d better get these two students’ detention started,” she told him. “I don’t want to stay later on the last day of school, especially in this heat wave, than I have to.” She tidied a stack of very tidy papers on her desk. “How’s your mother?” she added out of politeness.

Norman frowned. He glanced uncomfortably at the girls, then slid his beady-eyed gaze back to Mia. “Mother is recuperating slowly but surely, thank you.” He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “I was hoping you might want to go out for a cup of coffee to celebrate the last day. There was something I wanted to ask you.”

Mia had no doubt what he wanted to ask her: out for Saturday night!

“Well, thanks, Mr. Newman, but I’ve got my hands full for the next hour, and then I’ve got quite a busy few weeks ahead, so ...”

Norman’s face fell. “In that case, I’d better ask part of what I intended now.”

Amy Farley was stifling a giggle.

“I was wondering,” Norman began, clearing his throat again, “if, uh, you were free this Saturday night, if you’d like to have dinner. There really is something I’d like to discuss with you—off school property.”

Amy burst out into laughter. Mia gave the girl a sharp glance, then turned to Norman, whose cheeks were tinged with pink.

Mia hated to reject him in front of the girls, but he’d given her no choice. He had put himself in this position. “Mr. Newman, I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid the answer is no. I have a very busy summer ahead of me and doubt I’ll have any free time.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, his expression darkening for just a moment. “Very well, Ms. Anderson,” he said, running a hand through his wiry brown hair. “Perhaps I’ll call you over the summer. I’m not coming back to Baywater in the fall. Mother needs me.” He awkwardly handed her the lilacs and plodded back out the door with the can of iced tea.

He wasn’t coming back in the fall! Mia tried to suppress her joy, given his terrible circumstances, but she couldn’t help the hallelujah! that echoed through her mind.

Amy opened her mouth to speak, but Mia beat her to it. “Not a word, Miss Farley. Your detention began five minutes ago. Am I making myself clear?”

Amy smiled and made a show of clamping her mouth shut. Anne darted a glance at Mia, then stared back down at her folded hands.

Mia let out a deep breath. “Okay, girls. Your detention assignment is to write a five page essay on the importance of paying attention in class—even on the last day.”

Amy groaned; Anne immediately opened her loose-leaf binder and began writing.

“Anne, can I have a sheet of paper?” Amy asked, making a noisy show of getting up from her desk and retrieving a piece of paper from her sister. Upon sitting back down, she began staring out the window at a group of boys playing basketball without their shirts on.

Mia mentally shook her head. An hour with the Farley twins would feel like two hours. The twelve-year-olds had been writing notes back and forth in her morning English class during the entire period, had been warned twice, and had still passed folded-up pieces of paper. And then Mia had had the “fortune” of cafeteria duty and had witnessed Amy spoon green Jell-O down the back of her sister’s shirt, resulting in a furious-faced Anne uncharacteristically flinging mashed potatoes on Amy’s lap, which had started a food fight at their table. And now both the girls and Mia had to stay an additional hour. At least Mia wouldn’t have to grade the essay. She would have to drop off Amy and Anne clear across town because they’d miss the school bus home.

Amy was now trying to get her sister’s attention without Mia noticing. An impossible feat, given that both girls sat in the front row, just a few desks over on the left from Mia’s desk. Mia bit back a smile as Anne nervously glanced at Mia to determine whether Teacher was aware of her sister’s shenanigans.

The angelic-faced, white-blond twins reminded her so much of herself and Margot, her own identical twin. Amy Farley was mischievous, an instigator, and so charming that she often got herself out of trouble. Anne Farley was cautious and unable to tell a lie, which meant she got herself into the trouble Amy started. Mia’s heart went out to Anne, who sat straight up in her seat, diligently writing her essay, pink tongue sticking out in concentration. And there was Amy, staring at the basketball players. She was probably writing her essay on the importance of paying attention to which boys were the cutest.

When Mia was twelve, she’d been too shy to sneak peeks at the boys who did funny things to her stomach. And despite the fact that she and Margot looked exactly alike, well, save for their use of cosmetics, their hairstyles, and clothes, Mia hadn’t been a hit with the boys the way Margot had been her entire life.

I just don’t get Mia, she’d heard girls say all during her school years, while she was behind bathroom stalls or just around the corner from or a table away in the cafeteria. Why would she choose to look like that when she could look like her identical twin? All she has to do is buy the clothes Margot buys and style her hair like Margot’s and put on some makeup, and she’d be one of the most popular girls in school. Why would Mia purposely want to look so plain and dowdy?

Mia’s ex-husband had the same question for Mia when he’d met Margot for the first time.

“Hel-lo, Miss Anderson. Earth to Miss Anderson.”

Mia blinked and suddenly realized that two sets of bright blue eyes were staring at her. “Yes, Amy?”

“How do you spell gorgeous?” Amy asked, staring out the window at the boys, a dreamy expression on her face.

Mia sighed. “Amy. Amy, face forward, please.” The girl dragged her attention to Mia. “What are students supposed to do when they want to know how to spell a word?”

“Um, look it up?” Amy responded, her gaze once again out the window.

“Exactly. You know where the class dictionary is—if you can stop looking at the boys long enough to actually get up and get it.”

Anne suppressed a giggle, and Mia smiled at her. Amy trotted over to the bookcase under the clock, noisily flipped some pages and let out an “oh, it’s ‘e-o-u-s.’ I forgot the ‘e.’ ” She slapped shut the heavy dictionary and skipped back to her seat. She took one more look at the boys; then her own tongue darted out in thought as she began writing.

Mia wondered if Amy and Anne would soon start to look different, so different that their classmates would forget they were twins, the way Mia and Margot’s classmates had forgotten. If when puberty set in with all its demands, Amy would dress like the teen pop stars on MTV the way Margot had and Anne would hide her personality behind baggy jeans and baggy sweaters and ponytails the way Mia had. If the boys would notice Amy and ignore Anne. If the girls would envy Amy and be disdainful of Anne for giving up what she could so easily have, the very thing they all wanted.

What the boys wanted. And continued to want for as long as Mia could remember. She was ignored in junior high and high school, except by one or two Norman-like guys in her extracurricular activities. She’d had a few boyfriends in college, but when she refused to sleep with them, they drifted away. And so five years ago, when Mia had been a twenty-four-year-old virgin who truly wondered if she’d die a virgin, she’d been an easy target for a manipulative man. A handsome, charming, intelligent man whose manipulations were at first so subtle, Mia wasn’t sure if she or he had had the critical thought of her.

She’d been easily seduced, easily changed into the flashy, stylish woman he wanted her to be. The woman he wanted her to look like. And so within a few months of his constant criticism, she’d gone from mousy brown to blond, from chin-length to shoulder-length, to a new wardrobe bought in stores she’d never think to enter, to perfecting the makeup application tips she’d learned from the saleswomen at the cosmetics counter at the mall.

Sometimes, when Mia looked at her wedding album, she was sure it was Margot who stood smiling next to David.

Their marriage had lasted as long as David thought he could also change her personality. Oh, he’d tried, but no matter how he berated her for shyly glancing down every time she was introduced to someone new, a client or friend of his, no matter how he criticized her for how dull her small talk was at parties, she remained the same old Mia. The same old boring Mia.

He’d finally considered her a lost cause, told her she’d never be the woman of his dreams. Margot, essentially. On the surface, anyway. Of course, David had nothing but criticism for her sister, who ran too wild for his taste, intimidated him with her reckless ways. The two of you combined would make the perfect woman, David used to say. But alone, you’re both off. She’s a reckless whore, and you’re a schoolmarm bore.

David had always added a chuckle with that line, proud of his clever rhyme.

The first time it had come out of his mouth, Mia knew their marriage was over. She might not have had confidence or self-esteem, but she’d been smart enough to know that her husband couldn’t possibly even like her, let alone love her, if he could even think such a thing, say such a thing. It had taken her four years of marriage to figure that out. Four years.

She had never been enough for David. But what hurt, what really hurt, was that she hadn’t been enough for herself. At twenty-nine, Mia was just starting to believe that she was enough. More than enough. Just the way she was.

She glanced at sweet, quiet Anne Farley, in her baggy jeans and baggy T-shirt, her blond hair in a neat ponytail, and Mia wished on every star in the galaxy that the girl would have more self-esteem than Mia had had. That it wouldn’t take Anne into adulthood to realize how very right she was as she was.

Finally, tonight, Mia would look right again, look like Mia Daniels, the person she’d been before she’d married David Anderson—the person she had grown into since him.

She’d been dying to change her appearance for many months, even and perhaps especially before David had moved out last Christmas. But she hadn’t wanted to dramatically change her appearance midway through the school year, so she’d kept up with the hair color, the makeup, the clothes.

Her appearance was about to change so dramatically there was a very good chance that even Norman Newman wouldn’t recognize her.

Mia smiled.

Fatherless at two years old.

Matthew Gray closed his eyes and held his little nephew, Robbie, tight against his chest, breathing in the smell of baby powder, baby shampoo. Innocence. He pushed through the screen door of his brother’s house—his sister-in-law’s house now—stepped onto the porch and carefully sat down on the white wooden swing he and his brother had installed a couple of years ago, when Laurie had been pregnant with Robbie.

Robbie wound his chubby arms around Matthew’s neck and fell fast asleep, his warm, tiny body rising and falling with each breath on Matthew’s chest. Matthew shut his eyes against the unfamiliar sting of tears and rested his chin on the baby’s head, on the Yankees baseball cap he’d given Robbie that morning as a belated birthday gift.

This is some party, Matthew thought bitterly as he opened his eyes and looked around the front yard. There were no toddlers running around squealing with delight. No silly clown or talking mule. No nursery songs.

There were only the sounds of grief, of sobbing, of soothing words.

And there was only little Robbie, sweet, innocent Robbie. The only blood relative Matthew had left in the world.

Matthew squeezed his eyes shut again and looked up at the sky. I’m going to watch over Robbie, you bastard, he told his brother. I promise you that. He’ll never want for anything.

You bastard. You damned bastard!

Matthew knew he shouldn’t be thinking this way, looking heavenward and using language that wouldn’t sit well with The Man Upstairs. But Robert had gotten himself killed, left a grieving wife and a beautiful son who’d never know his father.

Robert might have been a Class A jerk when it came to how he led his life, but at least he acted the good father to Robbie. Robert seemed to truly love the boy, as much as he could love anyone. And Robbie had adored his father, had laughed and squealed and crawled the distance of the house to find him and throw his arms around him.

Robert had given that up. Gave all this up, Matthew thought, looking at the white colonial house that Robert had been so proud to be able to buy. Robert had given up a chance at a perfect life, the life Matthew would never be willing to even shoot for.

Because it couldn’t exist.

Matthew and Robert’s father had proved that.

And now Robert had proved that.

Identifying his only brother, a tag around his big toe, in the county morgue a week ago had proved that.

Last Saturday night, Robert Gray had been found stabbed to death in the parking lot of a small nightclub in Center City, right next to his own car.

On the eve of his son’s second birthday.

Laurie had gotten the call and had immediately called Matthew, who’d driven the half hour from Center City to Clarkstown so fast he was surprised he wasn’t pulled over for speeding. Surprised he’d actually made it there alive.

His brother couldn’t possibly be dead; after all, Matthew had just seen him with his own eyes a couple of hours earlier. Had talked to him.

Had fought with him.

Again, Matthew blinked away the sting of tears. He’d cried only once in his entire life and had vowed long ago that nothing would ever make him lose control of his emotions like that again. Besides, Robert didn’t deserve Matthew’s tears. Robbie was all that mattered now, and Robbie needed strength, needed his uncle to be there for him now and always.

Robbie needed his family to celebrate his birthday. His second birthday. Matthew had been the one to call the Grays’ friends early last Sunday morning to explain that Robbie’s birthday party was cancelled—and the reason why. That day and the days that followed, gifts for Robbie, pots and pans of hot and cold food and baked goods, cleaning services, and sympathy callers had flooded in. Laurie had a small family, but they immediately drove and flew in for the funeral. Matthew had been the only member of his family present. His parents were gone, and there were no other Gray relatives. Only Robbie.

Laurie had decided to hold a small birthday party for close friends and family today, Friday, since tomorrow, she and Robbie were going to stay with her parents in Pennsylvania for a couple of weeks.

Matthew gently patted the baby’s back, once again breathing deeply of the scent of baby powder. Thank God you’re too young to understand, Robbie, because I don’t know how I’d explain it to you. I don’t know why your daddy is dead.

I do know why, Matthew amended. I saw why. Over and over again.

“You and Robbie okay out here?”

Matthew turned around and nodded at Laurie, standing behind the screen door. She offered a weak smile and disappeared back inside the house. In her early thirties, pretty and kind to a fault, Laurie Gray had deserved better than a husband who didn’t appreciate her. Who’d cheated on her constantly. Who’d made her a widow. Had she known about Robert’s philandering? Robert was sure she didn’t, but maybe Laurie just kept quiet about it to keep the family together.

Like Robert and Matthew’s mother had done—until the secrets and lies had destroyed her, destroyed their family.

You bastard, he bitterly thought again. You damned bastard. If you weren’t dead, Robert, I’d kill you myself for what you’ve done to your family.

He let out a deep breath. He knew that the police, in fact, wondered if he had killed Robert. The thought made him shudder. But he understood their suspicion. He’d been seen arguing with Robert just a half hour before Robert had been found dead in the parking lot of Chumley’s. Questioned for hours about the argument at the Center City Police Precinct, Matthew had finally been allowed to return to Laurie’s house. He wasn’t a suspect, the officers had said, not yet anyway, but they would appreciate it if he didn’t leave town.

Matthew had been shocked more than a few times in his life. But nothing had come close to someone, anyone, thinking for even a moment that he might have killed someone, let alone his own brother.

And when the police were through with the questions for him, he’d had his share for them. The detectives weren’t very forthcoming with him, but they had told Laurie that were no clues, no fingerprints. Nothing to go on. No similar homicides. Because Robert’s wallet containing over a hundred dollars in cash, car, car keys, expensive watch, and gold wedding ring had not been taken, the police were operating under the assumption that he’d gotten into a drunken brawl in the parking lot and that the perpetrator, freaked by what he’d done, had fled the scene.

But what about the blonde? Matthew had asked over and over. She’s your link. Either she killed him, or a jealous boyfriend or husband saw her and Robert together and ambushed him in the parking lot. You have to find the blonde, he’d pleaded.

But they’d been unable to trace her. A cocktail napkin with a telephone number and the name Candy written inside a heart had been found folded in Robert’s wallet; but the number belonged to a nearby pizza joint, and no one named Candy or any blondes worked there. A couple of witnesses and the bartender had . . .