She Thought She Was Safe

by Terri Parlato

Genres: Crime Fiction; Domestic Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

A young woman is reunited with the famous father she never knew at a secluded lakeside community hiding nightmarish secrets in this immersive modern-day gothic for readers of psychological suspense by Mary Kubica, Shari Lapena and Megan Miranda.

After the double blow of divorce and her mother’s death, Emma Shrader receives an invitation to meet her estranged father for the first time. Alex Spencer is a wealthy, renowned author who had a brief fling with Emma’s mom, then disappeared. Now he’d like Emma to come stay at his beautiful home on Cheshire Lake in Maine.

The Spencer house is a towering Victorian steeped in history and lore, from its ornate turret to the little cemetery nestled in adjoining woods. It should be an inspiring place for Emma to finish working on her own novel, especially with Alex’s guidance. But when a neighbor is found dead under strange circumstances, the surroundings begin to feel less idyllic and welcoming. Not everyone is happy about Emma’s arrival, either—especially not Alex’s other daughter, Sunny.

There are things Emma keeps to herself about her chaotic childhood and ex-husband, but Cheshire Lake harbors secrets too—some recent, some decades old. What exactly has been going on in this quiet, close-knit community? And how much of it has to do with Emma’s arrival?

As Emma learns of other disappearances and mysterious deaths, what seemed like a fresh start begins to fill her with unease. Emma thought Cheshire Lake held the home and family she’s long been looking for. Now she wonders if she’ll ever be allowed to leave alive . . .

Release date: February 24, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

RAIN SPATTERS THE WINDSHIELD, SO I TURN ON THE WIPERS, WISHING every problem could be solved so easily. My palms are sweaty on the steering wheel. It’s that strange time of year, summer barely over and the chill of fall seeping in like a stealthy intruder. But my little car heated up quickly, and I pull at the neck of my sweater, thinking I dressed too warmly for mid-September.

I concentrate on my breathing, leaning on my yoga training, trying to settle, but anxiety fills my chest like a nasty weed that refuses to be eradicated. I guess it’s in my DNA. Growing up with my single mom, living day to day with her nervous energy that had no known source, at least not to me. We moved city to city, town to town in my mother’s desperate search for peace. It seemed to elude her all the way up to her death two months ago.

And now I’m here, running to a new city myself with my few possessions tucked into her battered old suitcases. It’s almost laughable how my life has started to mirror hers. At this point, I’d hoped to have found a sense of calm and purpose, and I thought I had these last ten years. I was married to my college sweetheart, working my dream job at the city library, even eking out a little time to work on my writing, hoping someday to become a published author. I was content and fulfilled, until I showed up at Ben’s office that day last spring, planning to take him to lunch for his birthday, but instead found him with his office manager, in flagrante as the saying goes.

My mother always said you couldn’t trust anyone. I don’t know where her paranoia came from. Maybe from her parents throwing her out at eighteen when she got pregnant with me, but I’ll never know. Her past was a closed book. And now she’s gone.

My divorce proceedings are over, but apparently Ben borrowed money to pay off debts he’d accrued from sports betting, something else I had been oblivious to. Now his financial troubles are my problem as well as his for some reason. I had no idea what he had been up to online, or that he’d borrowed money from unscrupulous people, and now they want to be paid. There have been strange men trying to contact me even though I had nothing to do with it, and I need to get away. Anywhere.

But I do have a destination. Boston. I was grasping at straws after my mother died, wondering where I should go to escape my ex-husband and his messy life. I needed a fresh start, so when the invitation came, I made the decision to leave my job, my friends, and my life here in Albany.

My phone rings in the cupholder. Unknown caller. I shudder. It can’t be the same man who called yesterday. I blocked that number. But maybe he’s using a different phone. The man yesterday said that he knows I made money from the sale of my mother’s little house, all the money I have to my name. It didn’t seem to matter to him that I was no longer married to Ben. I hit the decline button and wipe a tear from my cheek, concentrating on the stormy road ahead.

TRAFFIC THICKENS AS I APPROACH BOSTON, BUT AT LEAST THE RAIN has subsided. My stomach is in knots, and I wonder if I’m doing the right thing.

At thirty-two I’m going to meet my father for the first time.

My mother had gotten pregnant with me after a short relationship with a young man who’d just graduated from college and was touring the country. He’d stopped off at Mom’s small hometown, Truckee, California, and they’d become involved. When he found out she was pregnant, he left as fast as he could without a backward glance. That’s what my mother told me anyway.

She raised me alone and refused to tell me his name, saying that we were better off without him. Who leaves a pregnant eighteen-year-old to fend for herself and their baby? On my birth certificate, in the father’s spot, is just one word: Unknown.

When I was growing up, we moved from one little town to another. Mom worked at all kinds of jobs: fast food, department stores, plant nurseries, which were her favorites. But money was always scarce.

We crisscrossed the country. Eventually, we made it to Albany, New York, and she started to wind down from her wanderlust. By the time I started high school, we were permanent residents. She worked her way up to manager of a local nursery and our lives stabilized. I started to pressure her to tell me about my father, but she would get angry and tell me that I was better off not knowing. This caused a lot of friction between us, but then college loomed, and I jumped at the chance to get out on my own. Armed with grants, scholarships, and student loans, I found a new life, one that suited me, a place where I could find a quiet corner and write.

After I left Ben, I moved back in with my mom, into the tiny house we had shared before I got married. I was trying to make sense of my life, trying to figure out what was next after the divorce, when tragedy struck.

My mother’s death was sudden, unexpected. She was young, just fifty. During a summer storm, she’d been driving a country road when her car skidded and hit an embankment. She’d been killed instantly. Ben had been telling her for months, “Lana, those tires are bald. You need to replace them. They’re dangerous.” But after all those years of scraping by, counting change to pay bills, Mom wasn’t keen on spending money.

I was numb. My mother was the only family I had ever known and while she was different, unconventional, and maddening sometimes, we were close. After the shock had worn off, after the memorial service was over, I went through the junk that crowded the house. Mom wasn’t exactly a hoarder, but she was close. I felt a little guilty as I went through her personal things, but I held a secret wish that I might, finally, find out who my father was. Had she left a clue somewhere in her stacks of papers?

And I found out at last. I thought for years that he must be a criminal. Maybe a con man or a rapist, my mother was so adamant that we were better off without him, so when I finally found his name, I expected to find him in prison somewhere, or dead from his misdeeds maybe. I never expected to find out that he was famous.

THE BOSTON SKYLINE COMES INTO VIEW, GRAY BUILDINGS POKING UP through the mist, the Charles River dark and winding through town like a snake. I exit the highway and head downtown. I listen as Siri guides me to a multilayered parking garage close to my father’s building. The scent of exhaust and a light tinge of sea water fills the air as I make my way down the busy city block. At the steps of a tall, impressive apartment building, a doorman greets me and asks my name. I get past the first gatekeeper.

The lobby of the building is shiny with brass accents and crystal lamps. At the desk, I am questioned again, and Alex Spencer is notified of my arrival. Then I’m shown to the elevator. My heart beats in heavy thumps as I’m whisked to the penthouse. And I wonder if this is a mistake.

Two months ago, after Mom died, I contacted Alex Spencer through his website and told him that Lana Breen had been my mother and gave him the details of my birth, as far as I knew them. I didn’t hear anything for several weeks and concluded that he thought I was some nut, or I was mistaken about what I’d found in my mother’s strong box.

But then his lawyer called and asked me questions and if I’d submit to a DNA test, which I did, and the proof was there. I was stunned to find out that my father is a bestselling author when I have written fiction nearly my whole life, something my mother discouraged, but that makes sense now. Anything to do with him was poison to her.

Alex and I have been emailing back and forth, trying to get to know each other. When he learned of my mother’s recent death, he extended an invitation to me to stay at his family’s lake house. And, while anxious, I’ve accepted.

The doors of the elevator slide open with a chime and I’m standing in a carpeted hallway in front of a massive door. I ring the bell and a woman, not much older than I am, answers.

“Emma? How nice to meet you. I’m Liliana.” She’s his third wife. I’d researched what I could about my father, trying to make sense of his life and mine. She’s gorgeous. Olive skin, large dark eyes, a beautiful smile, and heavily pregnant.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I say, my voice squeaky. I feel dowdy in my jeans and black turtleneck, my long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“Alex is so anxious to see you. He’s in his office.”

I follow her through a richly appointed living room full of antiques and heavy furniture. She stops before a carved wooden door, knocks softly, and pulls the door open.

He’s sitting at a large, ornate desk, an open laptop in front of him. He stands and removes black-framed glasses when he hears me enter.

My father is tall with thick dark hair mixed with a bit of gray. His blue eyes, which I inherited, are sharp and friendly, with a smattering of fine lines at their corners. He smiles widely as he moves around the desk to greet me.

My knees feel like they might buckle and render me a puddle at his feet. But he takes my hand in both of his and his strength reassures me.

“Emma.” He says my name slowly.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” I manage, my thoughts and emotions whirling through my brain. I feel hot; my face is surely red, and I wonder what I’ve done coming here.

“Let’s sit.” He waves me over to two leather wingback chairs that are positioned in front of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Alex doesn’t say anything for a moment. He seems to be assessing me, looking almost through me, maybe trying to see traces of my mother. I try not to squirm, to keep my face pleasant, to keep my nerves at bay.

“It’s great to finally meet you in person,” he says at last.

My thoughts turn to my mother, and I wonder what really happened between them. In our emails, Alex and I had tiptoed around my mother’s pregnancy and his leaving her. He didn’t volunteer any details, and I didn’t want to ask, not yet anyway.

He clears his throat. “How was traffic?”

“Not too bad.”

“Good. I’m so glad you accepted my offer to stay at the lake house.”

“I’m glad to be here. I’m looking for a new start.”

He nods and taps his fingers on the armrest of his chair as if wondering where to take the conversation next. We’d covered a lot of the basics in our emails. “So, tell me about this novel you’ve been working on.” He crosses his legs like some TV interviewer.

“I’ve been writing most of my life, like I told you. I started my novel in college. It was an assignment in one of my creative writing classes—”

“Amazing.” He shakes his head. “And you really had no idea who I was?”

“No. My mother wouldn’t tell me.”

He chews the earpiece of his glasses. “My other children have no interest in writing. And they grew up with me!” He huffs out a breath. “Anyway, continue.”

“We were supposed to come up with an outline for a novel and the first chapter. That was the assignment.”

“I never outline,” he says. “That never worked for me.”

I try to smile, steady my breath. “I managed to complete the assignment, but I’ve deviated from my outline completely.”

“So, what’s it about?”

I feel small and inadequate as I look at the framed book cover art hanging on his office wall, all bestsellers. And two of his novels have been made into major films. “Well, it’s nothing special. I don’t even know what genre it fits into. Just general fiction, I guess.”

He chuckles. “Okay. Where’s it set?”

“New York. Upstate. I’ve lived there since high school.”

“So, what happens there in Upstate New York?”

I swallow. “It’s about a young woman and her mother. Their relationship.” God, that sounds awful.

“Well, I’d love to read it and help if I can.”

“I’d be honored.” My eyes wander to the first book cover on the wall. Its title is Killer on the Trail. Alex Spencer writes thrillers based on historical events. His first novel is about a serial killer who hitches a ride with pioneers on the California Trail. Since I discovered his identity, I managed to read his first three novels and am halfway through the fourth. I was completely drawn to his immersive prose, historical settings, and heart-pounding mystery. My novel has felt a little flat since.

He stands suddenly. “Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please.” He hurries from the room, and I sink back into my chair. All my life I’ve wondered about my father. Who was he? What was he really like? And there was always that yearning for family, a deep feeling of being left, a vast emptiness. That desire for connection was probably what blinded me to my ex-husband’s faults, which, looking back, are glaringly obvious now. Ben was so handsome, so charming, and I had such a longing to be part of a family that marriage seemed to be the way to fill that void in my life. A painful lesson to learn.

Alex returns bearing a tray containing a tall mug of black coffee, a delicate teacup, and cream and sugar. A plate of cookies, macaroons, in a rainbow of colors, sits beside the drinks.

“Help yourself,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. While I fix my tea, he goes to his desk and removes a notebook. “I need to give you directions to the lake house.” His eyes meet mine. “Your GPS won’t find it. It’s quite remote.”

He sits again, sips his coffee, and sets his mug on the table between us. “Let me give you a little rundown on the house first. There are only three, no four houses, on Cheshire Lake. For years there were only three. The fourth is fairly new.” He smirks. “The original three were built, shit”—he scratches his head—“over a hundred years ago by three families, one, of course, being the Spencers. I grew up there, and I go there now when I’ve got serious writing to do, or I just need a break from the city. The closest town is Evansport, not far over the Maine border. It’s not a big place, but it’s quaint and has everything you need. And you won’t be alone at the house. The Harwoods, Ruth and Simon, live next door. They’re practically family. They’re elderly, but Ruth is pretty spry, knows everything about the area. I’ve already let her know that you’re coming, so brace yourself to be inundated with homemade baked goods. Simon is starting into dementia unfortunately.” A shadow passes over his face. “But he’s still doing okay. Now, on the other side, the first house you come to is the Cole house. Noah Cole is a nice enough guy but keeps to himself. His parents own the place, but they prefer to spend their time in New York, so you probably won’t see them.”

Alex glances out the window where Boston Harbor lies, dark and choppy.

“What about the fourth house?” I ask.

“That was built about ten years ago. A modern monstrosity.” He winces. “It sits across the lake. The original three families wanted to keep Cheshire Lake private and bought all the surrounding land, but old man Cole decided to sell a chunk that belonged to him, desperate to make a buck, I guess. There’s a couple that lives there. Nice people, but outsiders really. They moved up from New York quite a while ago looking to buy up land in Maine. Anyway”—Alex picks up a lavender macaroon—“you’ll have all the privacy you need but with company if you want it.”

“It sounds lovely.”

He smiles and, so far, it’s hard to square this man with the one my mother painted.

“I’ll write down the directions or you’ll never find it. Siri doesn’t even know where it is.” He laughs, exposing perfect white teeth.

I sip my tea while Alex scribbles in the notebook. “When you come to the gate, you’ll need to punch in the code.” He writes a string of numbers in a bold hand. “After that, you’ll get to the lake in another quarter mile. Turn left and you’ll see three large houses in a row. Spencer House is the middle one.” He stands and goes to his desk, rummages in the top drawer. “Keys.”

We finish our drinks, and I manage to eat a pink macaroon, although I have no appetite. Too much happening to process. Alex tears off a sheet from the notebook and I notice the detailed directions. “You better get going, Emma.” He glances out the window again. “Before the sun sets.” He clears his throat. “It’s hard enough to find the house in broad daylight.” We stand and Alex grasps my hand.

“I’m thrilled I’ve got a new daughter,” he says. “After you get your feet under you, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the clan.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“Enjoy the house, Emma. I’ll talk to you soon.”

BY THE TIME I REACH THE EXIT OFF 95, IT’S EARLY EVENING. I SLOW down as I pass through town and wonder if I should pick up groceries on the way. But looking up at the dusky sky, I worry that it might get too dark for me to find my way to the house, so I drive on, periodically glancing at the directions Alex gave me.

After a couple of turns, trees close in on both sides of the winding road, their branches dangling overhead, swaying with the wind. No houses. No buildings. No evidence of people, and I feel alone here in the countryside. I’ve lived my whole life in one town or another. Despite my mother’s love of growing things, we’d never lived in the country. Here the proliferation of trees, the lack of manmade structures, feels almost sinister against the darkening sky.

My eyes sweep the side of the road, looking for the entrance to the Cheshire Lake community. Then I see the landmark Alex noted on the directions, an old, tilted billboard displaying a faded advertisement, a home-spun restaurant probably long closed. Vines clutch the side of the billboard and look as if they would pull it down and wrestle it out of existence.

There’s a little opening in the woods just beyond it and I slam on my brakes, turn onto the gravel road. Rocks crunch under my tires and with thick woods on either side, I need to put on my headlights.

Gates appear up ahead. Tall, wrought iron spokes with pointed tops, like some medieval castle lies beyond them. I stop and roll down my window. Dank, cold air invades the car. I grab the paper from the center console and punch the number into a black metal box. With a mechanical whir, the gates slowly swing open. I take a deep breath. Something about driving through these gates feels like entering a new world, a permanent shift in my life. Like I’m closing the door on who I used to be and starting as someone new, and the feeling is a little discomfiting, foreboding, like my old self is whispering to me to turn around, leave things the way they are.

I screw up my courage and drive through. The car jounces along the rutted, narrow road.

Rounding a bend, I see something lying in the dirt. A lump near the forest edge. A dead rabbit, his ears laid back. I shiver.

Eventually, the trees thin and the dark, still water of the lake appears up ahead. The road nearly brings you to its shore before splitting, and the surface smooths to macadam. Per Alex’s directions, I take a left turn. Soon, three huge houses come into view, and I let go a breath. Civilization. I pass the first one, which sits back among the trees, and turn into the driveway of the second house.

Chilly, pine-scented air greets me as I open my car door. I pull my bags out of the trunk, pause, and look out at the shoreline. Three docks are spaced evenly there with a small open boat tied to each one, like a matching set, bobbing gently, the water lapping quietly against their hulls. There’s a small light atop a pole in front of a tall, glaringly white contemporary house across the lake. It must be the newer house Alex spoke of. I turn back to Spencer House, a towering Victorian with a wraparound porch studded with white gingerbread trim, like small bones gripping the edges of the house. It’s hard to make out the color of the clapboards in the encroaching darkness, maybe gray. Tall windows, like empty eyes, are situated across two floors, and there’s a small, round window in what looks to be an attic. An ornate turret topped with a weathervane of a running rabbit rises into the murky sky.

Next door, the Harwoods’ house, I presume, is also a large Victorian, similar in build, but it looks more lived-in. There are plants in pots along the porch railing, not quite frost bitten, but definitely waning. Outlined in the porch light, two rocking chairs sway slightly in the breeze as if ghost people were sitting there.

I see movement in an upstairs window and wonder if someone is there, watching me. I turn away and clasp my arms together as a gust of cold air flutters under my jacket. Then I swing my laptop bag over my shoulder, grab my suitcases, and head to the Spencer front door.

It takes a minute of jangling the key and the cold knob to get the door open, but it finally swings inward with a sigh. It’s warmer than I expected as I walk into the foyer. The heat’s been turned on and there’s a light on down the hall. I drop my bags on the floor, shut the door, and head toward the light.

The kitchen is distinctly old-fashioned, green painted cabinets and a farmhouse sink that looks original. The appliances look like antiques, and I hope they work. On an interior wall is a small door, chest high. I pull at the handle and it squeaks as it slides up. A dumbwaiter. I smile. Of course they have a dumbwaiter. I close the little door and turn to the table. There’s a note next to a pie sitting there.

Hello Emma,

Alex told us you’d be arriving tonight, so I took the liberty of stocking the fridge. Also, I wanted to leave you one of my famous wild blueberry pies. Please stop by if you need anything at all.

Welcome!

Ruth Harwood

P.S. The upstairs bedroom at the end of the hall has been made up for you.

The writing is a beautiful cursive, like they don’t teach in school anymore, and I’m touched by the kindness of a stranger. I open the fridge, and despite looking like it came from a fifties movie set, it hums along and is plenty cold. I find milk, eggs, cheese, bottled water, and other items I can use to put together something of a dinner.

But first, I explore the rest of the house, turning on lights as I move room to room. In the dining room, a long mahogany table sits beneath a chandelier that glitters with dozens of crystal prisms. The breakfront cabinet holds a delicate china service fit for at least twenty people. It all looks like something from a hundred years ago, and I wonder if the Spencers still gather here for holidays.

Through a wide, arched doorway, the front room windows look out across the road at the lake. The furniture is heavy with carved wood accents and deep red velvet upholstery. A fireplace dominates one wall and sits dark and cold. There are bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound classics, and there’s a flat-screen nestled among them. It looks out of place surrounded by old books and antiques.

There’s a door at the far end of the front room and when I walk through, there’s a spot of cold air like people claim they feel when a ghost floats by. I know it’s the product of an old house, but I shiver just the same. I flick on the light. This room is obviously Alex’s office. A large antique desk sits in front of the windows, and office supplies, stacks of computer paper, a cup of pens, and paper clips on a little dish, cover the desktop. I wheel back the chair and see a powe. . .