In the acclaimed Once Upon a Lie, Maggie Barbieri introduced Maeve Conlon, a single mother and bakery owner hiding dark secrets behind her cookie-cutter suburban life.
Now, Maeve's moving on with everyday life when the unthinkable happens: her father dies of a massive heart attack. Maeve's mother died when Maeve was very young, and growing up, it was always just her and her father. But on the day of his funeral, Maeve learns a shocking secret. She might have a sister she's never met. Maeve knows her father would never have kept something like that from her…Unless he thought he had to.
Meantime, someone keeps sneaking around Maeve's bakery. At first the signs are subtle, but then it becomes vandalism, and then it grows even more frightening. Could it be related to Maeve's search for her missing sister? Maeve soon decides it's time to take matters into her own capable hands. But administering her personal brand of justice is a dangerous undertaking, and between the ever-watchful eyes of her family and the lingering attention she's attracted from local police, Maeve will be forced to decide just how much she's willing to risk in the name of justice.
Release date:
February 17, 2015
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
336
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Maeve knew a guy who knew a guy, well, who knew this guy.
What a gorgeous day for a ride, she thought, heading up the Taconic in her sensible Prius. She pulled into a rest stop about forty-five minutes after she left her house, spying her contact immediately. Handsome, with waist-long dreadlocks, he looked exactly as he had been described to her, standing out among the elderly leaf-peepers who stopped to eat their bag lunches, the families on their way to the apple orchard off the highway that Maeve had once taken her girls to a long time ago.
Plus the state trooper idling in his car in the parking lot.
No one looked twice at the petite woman in a hybrid stopping by a rest stop on a beautiful day, one made for the people touring the Hudson Valley. She sat in the car and waited until the trooper drove off, his lights turning lazily as he hit the highway, trolling for speeders on a scenic, twisty road.
The guy she was about to meet had been given a wide berth by the other people there, the area surrounding his shiny sports car devoid of other vehicles. He was young, and if he didn't have the hair, would have looked like any other college kid she knew. Dark-washed jeans, a nice designer polo shirt. Clean shaven. Bright, white smile. If she didn't know what he did for a living-or maybe it was just a sideline-she would have picked him out for Rebecca, at college and unhappily single. She pulled up two spaces away and looked over at him. He gave her a warm smile and a quick wave.
"Hello," he said when she emerged from the car. In the sunlight, she noticed a wide streak of caked icing on the right thigh of her jeans. What must he think of her, this rumpled little woman with a very particular, peculiar, need?
"Nice to meet you," she said, offering her hand, sliding an envelope into his palm with a polite shake. He didn't look scared to meet her, this guy who was young enough to be her son-or maybe her nephew if she was feeling generous. Why should he?
Maybe he didn't know she was likely more dangerous than he was.
"A beautiful fall day," he said. "Warm." The bag he handed her, the one that he reached into the front seat of his car to get, was a recycled gift bag. He had gone so far as to stuff the top of it with brown tissue paper, tying the handles with some jaunty raffia. It looked as if he were giving her a birthday present.
"A gift?" she said. "For me?"
"A gift," he said, with fake solemnity. "For you." His laughter shook his dreadlocks.
It wasn't really a gift; that's what the envelope stuffed with cash had been for. It was more of a transaction. She held the bag; it was heavy, just like she expected it would be. "So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?"
He pointed to the backseat of the tiny car, where his little boy sat in a booster seat, drowsing peacefully, his thumb hanging from a slack mouth; Maeve hadn't noticed him up until this point. "I'm taking the little guy to the haunted house at a farm up the road. He loves to be scared."
"Don't forget to get some apples," she said. "The Macouns are particularly tasty this time of year." The talk of apples jogged her memory and she opened the back of the Prius. "That reminds me," she said. She pulled out a plain brown box; in it was a freshly baked apple pie. "Named 'Best of Westchester' by a local magazine," she said.
"Is that a pie?" he asked, a little surprised by the gesture.
"It is."
"Our mutual friend told me about your pies. And your cupcakes. He loves those. My granny will be so happy."
She was finding out more than she needed to know, wanted to know. She had to end the conversation. "Have a safe trip home."
"I will."
Good. He didn't seem to know her name. And she didn't know his. Better that way.
"I'll be off," she said.
He reached into his pocket. "Here's my card. In case you need anything else," he said.
But she wouldn't. One was enough for now and probably ever, if she took good care of her purchase. The card had only a number on it, no name. She put it in her jeans pocket, making a mental note to throw it out the window as soon as was acceptable and he was out of sight. She didn't want to offend him on the off chance she needed him again. Her friend would be able to find him again; the card was unnecessary. "Have fun at the haunted house," she said, walking around to her side of the car. He was still standing there as she drove off, heading south on the Taconic, marveling at the beautiful colors of the changing leaves.
It had been a wet end to the summer. That's why the leaves were so brilliant. At least that's what they had said on the news the night before. She drove along the highway, enjoying the time alone, the respite from her busy store. For the first time in a while, she felt free.
And her hands-her palms really-had finally stopped itching. It took her a moment to figure out what felt different.
It was all she could do not to pull over and caress the gun that lay in the bag beside her.
Why did she need a gun? She wasn't sure. But she needed it; she was sure of that and that was all that mattered. Security, a feeling of safety, of never being afraid, had been robbed from her years ago and while she had no immediate-or even future-plans to use this item in the bag, she felt safer having it. No one really would understand that, ever; after all, she was a suburban mom, a business owner. A nice lady, as one of her clients called her. It made sense, but only to her.
She would keep it hidden; no one would ever know.
"Thanks, Rodney Poole," she said, the utterance of his name bringing a smile to her face.
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