Sleep No More
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Synopsis
A doctor attempts to clear up the mysteries surrounding a troubled sleepwalker in this romantic suspense novel from the acclaimed author of Seeing Red. The night was always Abby Whitman’s enemy. As a young girl she walked in her sleep, and one night, she started a fire that scarred her sister for life and left Abby with unbearable guilt…and a loneliness that echoes within her. Now Abby has begun blacking out again—with apparently fatal results. A car accident has killed the son of a prominent family. Even though the evidence seems to exonerate her, Abby is plagued by doubts—and soon by mysterious threats. Psychiatrist Dr. Jason Coble is intrigued by Abby and offers to help her explore the dark recesses of her mind. Through this terrifying journey, Jason’s interest turns to passion, and he yearns to give her the love she craves. But first, Abby must trust him—and shed light on secrets that will rock this Southern town and reveal a danger that threatens them both. “A good cozy mystery wrapped in a solid romance . . . both an easy and riveting read.” — Romantic Times Book Review
Release date: December 16, 2009
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 400
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Sleep No More
Susan Crandall
SEEING RED
“4 Stars! Crandall weaves a tight and suspenseful story that will have readers guessing until the last chapter. Poignant in
places and nail-bitingly tense in others, this is one of those books readers will want to finish in one sitting.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Exciting romantic suspense… Readers will enjoy this tense thriller.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A fast-paced thriller that will keep you guessing… Seeing Red will lead you down a fear path of horrific crimes that could happen anywhere.”
—
TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“Another fascinating story by the talented Susan Crandall… Seeing Red is a riveting tale that you won’t want to put down… Highly recommended!”
—
RomRevToday.com
“Compelling… well-written… The suspense was fast-paced and the romance was irresistible… The book was hard to put down… Most
definitely an author to keep your eye out for.”
—
BookPleasures.com
PITCH BLACK
“Prepare to be thoroughly captivated by Crandall’s Pitch Black world!… A superbly woven suspense that sucks you in and doesn’t let go… Susan Crandall is a master storyteller whose characters
never fail to touch your heart.”
—KAREN ROSE, New York Times Bestselling Author
“[A] taut potboiler… nicely turned.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Keep the lights on bright for Pitch Black… takes the reader on a thrill ride into the soul of a small town, a very special woman, and the sheriff who wants her even
more than he wants to solve a terrible murder.”
—KAREN HARPER, New York Times Bestselling Author
“4 Stars! Suspenseful… interesting and complicated characters.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Nail-biting suspense… a pulse-pounding ride… enticing… What sets this book apart from other great suspense novels is Ms.
Crandall’s skill in defining her characters… a great read.”
—
WritersAreReaders.com
A KISS IN WINTER
“Everything a contemporary romance reader wants in a book.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A very character-driven story, A Kiss in Winter is a tale of family expectations and disappointments.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Complex characters, intricate relationships, realistic conflicts, and a fine sense of place.”
—Booklist
“Great characters, a touching relationship, and exciting suspense.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Brilliant characterization, edgy suspense… a tension-rich mystery.”
—
ContemporaryRomanceWriters.com
ON BLUE FALLS POND
“A powerful psychological drama… On Blue Falls Pond is a strong glimpse at how individuals react to crisis differently, with some hiding or running away while others find solace
to help them cope.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Readers who enjoy… fiction with a pronounced sense of place and families with strong ties will respond well to Crandall’s…
sensitive handling of the important issues of domestic violence, macular degeneration, and autism.”
—Booklist
“Full of complex characters… it’s a well-written story of the struggles to accept what life hands out and to continue living.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
PROMISES TO KEEP
“An appealing heroine… [an] unexpected plot twist… engaging and entertaining.”
—
TheRomanceReader.com
“FOUR STARS!”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“This is one book you will want to read repeatedly.”
—
MyShelf.com
MAGNOLIA SKY
“Emotionally charged… An engrossing story.”
—BookPage
“A wonderful story that kept surprising me as I read. Real conflicts and deep emotions make the powerful story come to life.”
—Rendezvous
“Engaging… starring two scarred souls and a wonderful supporting cast… Fans will enjoy.”
—Midwest Book Review
THE ROAD HOME
“A terrific story… a book you will want to keep to read again and again.”
—
RomRevToday.com
“The characters… stay with you long after the last page is read.”
—
Bookloons.com
BACK ROADS
“Accomplished and very satisfying… Add Crandall to your list of authors to watch.”
—
Bookloons.com
“An amazingly assured debut novel… expertly drawn.”
—
TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“A definite all-nighter. Very highly recommended.”
—
RomRevToday.com
The house where Abby Whitman’s family lived wasn’t like the plantation houses in the movies. There were no sweeping staircase
and grand foyer. The house did have two sets of stairs. The second was at the back of the house—it had been for servants “back in the day,” as Abby’s daddy
said. The foyer stairs was fancier, sure, but it was no Tara.
It was at the bottom of the foyer stairs that Abby’s mother stopped her and held her by the shoulders.
Confused and disoriented, Abby tried to pull away. She didn’t know why panic was squeezing the breath from her lungs. She
shouldn’t be afraid of Momma.
“Abby. Abby, stop,” her mother’s voice was quiet, but Abby heard something underneath; a dark whisper of fear.
Abby’s eyes began to focus. Her mother was smiling, but her eyes looked scared. Momma was never scared.
Abby’s stomach took a roller coaster plunge.
“You’re sleepwalking again, sweetie,” Momma said. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
That was when Abby saw the heavy front door standing open and understood why Momma was so upset. Abby had been outside in
the dark. Outside where there were gators and snakes and a river to drown in. Outside where there was quicksand and woods
to get lost in.
Every night when she went to bed, Abby promised herself she wouldn’t sleepwalk. And then she prayed that God would fix her.
Promises and prayers weren’t doing any good. This was the second time in a week Abby had wandered in the night. The last time
she’d woken up in the hayloft in the barn.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Great-Gran Girault was there waiting.
Abby had been hoping now that she was eleven she’d grown out of being scared of Gran Girault. But sure as the moon, she hadn’t.
Gran had to be a hundred; tall and thin with weathered skin sagging on her bones. Her white hair was always in a bun—even
when she was in her nightgown.
She lived in Louisiana, where they believed in things like evil spells and devil’s curses. One time when she was visiting,
Abby had found a little pouch under her pillow one morning. When she’d opened it, it had tiny bones and some dried weeds and
a rock in it. It smelled funny. Momma had been really mad when she found out.
Almost always when Gran looked at Abby, it was with a frown.
Now Gran looked at Abby with a frown so intense it made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.
“I tell you, Betsy,” Gran said, her voice like sandpaper on rocks, “you need to do somethin’. It ain’t natural, her creepin’
’round here in the night like she does. Starin’ eyes like she’s possessed.”
“Shush, Gran!” Momma kept them walking right past Gran.
Abby’s room was next to her sister Courtney’s. She was six and everybody always said she was “cute as a button.” Court never
went sleepwalking. And Gran Girault never looked at her with a frown.
Momma tucked Abby into bed and kissed her on the forehead.
Abby pulled the sheet up to her chin, clutching it like it was a rope that might keep her tied in bed. “Gran hates me.”
Her mother ran a hand over Abby’s hair. “Gran is old and confused. You mustn’t pay attention to her. Besides, she’s going
home tomorrow.”
The smile on Momma’s face said she was happy about it. That made Abby feel just a little better.
“Good night.” Her mother left the room, closing the door behind her.
Abby rolled onto her side, determined to stay awake all night. That way she couldn’t sleepwalk. At first she didn’t even blink.
But soon her eyelids grew heavy. She tried counting the flowers on her wallpaper. But they started to run together.
She closed her eyes—just for a minute….
When Abby opened her eyes, it was daylight.
A car door slammed outside. Daddy was taking Gran Girault to the train station. Abby got up and watched the car pull down
the lane, feeling like a dark and dangerous storm had finally blown away.
Always at Sunday evening dinner, right before grace, Abby’s family lit the oil lamp that was as old as their house. It was
tradition; her daddy told her it was in honor of those Whitmans who’d gone off to war and never come home. It had been a custom
he was passing along, just like he would pass this house to Abby someday.
Today was Abby’s first time to light the oil lamp. Naturally, Courtney had a hissy over it. She never liked it when Abby got
to do something she didn’t—which wasn’t often.
At bedtime, Court was still pouting. And Abby climbed into bed with a smile on her face. She could hear Momma in the next
room, telling Courtney that when she turned eleven, she’d get to light the lamp every other Sunday.
Courtney whined that it wasn’t fair. Abby hoped Momma and Daddy wouldn’t give in like they usually did. Abby had had to wait
until after her eleventh birthday. Court should have to, too.
Abby drifted off to sleep feeling really good; not only did she get the special privilege of lighting the lamp, but Gran Girault
wasn’t here to give her the stink-eye if she happened to go sleepwalking again. It was a good day.
Abby opened her eyes. Stinging smoke caused her to close them again. An orange glow flickered in the fog of smoke. There was
heat at her back—and the sound of crackling dragon breath.
She opened her eyes in tiny blinking slits to see where she was. Darkness and smoke blotted out everything.
For a second she stood there, panic squeezing her chest. Then she remembered. She dropped to her knees. The smoke wasn’t as
bad here. She even recognized the living room rug.
She’d been sleepwalking.
The fire was in the dining room.
She had to get everyone out!
She opened her mouth to yell for her parents, but breathing in felt like a cat was clawing her lungs. She coughed until she
nearly threw up.
Suddenly she heard Courtney screaming. In the back of the house. On the other side of the dining room.
Abby tried to crawl through the dining room, feeling her way along, but it was too hot. She turned around and started crawling
back the way she’d come, but she bumped into a piece of furniture. It was hot. So hot. So painful.
In a panic she got to her feet and tried to feel her way to the door. The smoke tore at her lungs. She smelled her hair being
singed.
She had to get out.
Courtney was still screaming.
Abby thrashed forward, flailing her arms. She heard china break.
And then she found the door.
Help Court. Wake Daddy.
Dizziness made her stumble. She felt like she was trying to breathe underwater.
She tripped over something and fell face-first onto the living room rug.
The crackling was getting louder.
She heard Daddy calling her name, over and over, until she couldn’t hear anything at all.
Life can so often be divided into before and after. Not by the little wrinkles and frays of daily wear, but by monumental events
that rip cruelly through the fabric of a finely woven existence. It happened to everyone. Abby Whitman understood that. But
she also felt she’d had more than her fair share of befores and afters; befores and afters that had thrust her onto unforeseen
roads, leading to generally uninvited futures.
Some called it fate. Some called it luck. Great-Gran Girault had gone so far as to call her cursed. The first time Gran said
it, Abby’s mother had called Gran Girault a superstitious old kook from the backwater Louisiana swamp. And man, had that set
off fireworks between Abby’s parents. At least the argument had taken Great-Gran’s condemning eye off Abby long enough for
her to slip out of the house to the refuge of the old, overgrown rice fields where she could live in a world of her imagination;
one where little girls did not do things in the night that they couldn’t recall the next morning.
Now Abby was a grown woman—and she realized that curse still clung to her with a tenacious grip. As she stood in the muted
gray dawn that cast her small kitchen in gloom and shadow, she once again felt as if the jaundiced eye of Gran Girault was
on her, and her stomach did a slow, nauseating roll.
Muddy prints left by bare feet trailed across the white kitchen tile like dirty accusations. They began at the dead-bolted
back door and moved toward the living area.
Abby knew what she would find even before she kicked off the slippers she’d absently slipped on as she’d gotten out of bed.
Even so, the dark smears between her toes and the grime following the crevices of her skin set her heart into a thoroughbred-out-of-the-gate
gallop.
In a panic that was far too late to be of any value, she sniffed the air for smoke. Then she took off on a frantic circuit
of her tiny house. All doors and windows were locked. She found no ignited stove burners, lit candles, overheating curling
irons, or overflowing plumbing fixtures. Nothing unusual except those muddy footprints that became fainter as they went up
the stairs to the half-story that housed her bedroom.
She followed them. Reaching her bed, Abby stared at it for a moment. Then she flipped back the covers. Her breath left her
lungs in a rush as she looked at the mud-smeared sheets.
Straightening her spine and ignoring the trembling in her hands, she slowly lowered the blanket, pulling it up to the head
of the bed, as if she could tuck this nightmare in and drive it back into sleep.
With slow and heavy footsteps, she retraced her previously panicked path through her tiny house, the converted brick summer
kitchen had been spared when her family home had burned.
At some point over the past few years her reason for living out here had slipped from front and center, shifting so slowly
into her peripheral vision that she’d barely noticed. She’d allowed herself to be diverted by the pleasure of restoring the
old gardens of the plantation. Here in this secluded place of atonement, she’d somehow found peace.
But this morning the branches of gnarled oaks against the gray skies outside her windows looked menacing and the isolation
had an air of desperation.
The dark realization settled upon her. Fate had just doled out another before and after:
Before I started sleepwalking—again.
She’d been free of the disorder for her entire adult life. It was a demon thought exorcised at puberty; gone and yet never
fully forgotten.
As Abby stood in the early morning silence, she realized that this particular demon’s reappearance did not feel wholly unexpected.
The fear of the disorder’s return had been a dark shadow that lurked in the fog every night when she closed her eyes; the
real bogeyman under the bed. And it was the reason she would always live alone.
An isolated incident, she assured herself.
Why now?
Stress and hormones; Dr. Samuels had listed both as likely triggers for sleepwalking. There was only so much a person could
do to insulate a life from such things, and Abby had employed them all. Still, stress had come crashing into her carefully
constructed life with the unexpected death of her mother a few weeks ago.
Her gaze was drawn back to the footprints.
Vulnerability raced up her spine on spider’s legs. She’d been outside. In the dark. Alone. Unaware.
Doing what?
It was a question she wasn’t sure she wanted to answer.
She opened the back door and stepped onto the small stoop. The early April wind plucked loose hairs from her ponytail and
snaked beneath her robe, drawing goosebumps on her bare legs. The marsh grasses leaned in unison and the distant surface of
the Edisto River ruffled like tide-sculpted sand. Clouds boiled overhead, blotting out the rising sun, promising a storm before
the day concluded.
The garden hose normally hung on a decorative hook near the back steps. It was unwound, the end disappearing into the squared
boxwood hedge that bordered the main garden.
She crossed the coarse grass, the dew of early morning turning the dirt between her toes once again to mud.
Water cascaded over the lip of the birdbath like a fountain. The slap and splatter of it hitting the soggy ground reminded
her of the way rain used to roll off the gutterless roof of the old plantation house that had been her family’s for generations—the
house she’d burned to the ground. It was a sound that conjured both comfort and regret.
She returned to the stoop and shut off the spigot with a firm hand, just as if this was a normal morning and she’d just finished
watering. Then she marched back inside, refusing to look back at the hose winding like a snake into the hedge.
An isolated incident. That’s what she had to believe.
As she closed the door behind her, she looked at the footprints on the tile, then at her dirty feet, both grating reminders
of a raw vulnerability she’d hoped never again to experience.
Gran had been right. There was something unnatural about Abby—and she hadn’t grown out of it at all. She couldn’t let her
father know. He thought she’d been cured years ago. In fact, she couldn’t let anyone know. Everyone in Preston already looked
at her as the girl who’d burned down an irreplaceable historic treasure; the girl who’d nearly killed her own sister. The
looks would return. Old ladies would once again shy away from her. Mothers would keep their children out of her path.
She went into the bathroom and started the shower. If only she could wash away the stain of fear as easily as she did the
mud on her feet.
Sometimes Jason Coble thought it a cruel twist of fate that he, a psychiatrist who spent his days untangling other people’s
emotions and assessing their mental health, had missed the signs of his now ex-wife’s alcoholism for so long. Sadly, it hadn’t
been his professional skill that had guided her into recovery. It had been his harsh threat to seek sole custody of their
children. Nothing else had broken through the stone wall of Lucy’s bitterness and denial.
In reality, there was little chance of his getting guardianship of his stepson Bryce, whom Lucy hadn’t allowed Jason to adopt.
But their daughter Brenna was another case altogether.
Not that he wanted to live that way, with hostile court battles and ugly scenes. What he wanted was Lucy sober and an amiable coexistence that would nurture their children. Generally that’s what he’d achieved—so far.
But it was a tightrope-balancing act. In order to safeguard that balance, he had to keep up constant covert observation of
Lucy’s state of mind and her behavior. It was an unpleasant and unalterable fact of life.
Today he lingered on the fringes of Lucy’s family as they gathered in the tiny narthex of St. Andrew’s before Vera Marbury’s
funeral. The loss of her Grandmother Vera had hit Lucy hard. It showed in her brittle posture and the jittery movement of
her hands.
Jason’s feet shifted on the well-worn slate floor of the old church as he looked for signs that she’d found her consolation
in a bottle of vodka. She was very good at disguising it.
He walked across the narthex.
Stepping behind her, he touched her elbow and leaned close, getting her to turn. “Hello, Lucy.”
“Jason.” Her eyes narrowed. Clearly, she’d figured out what he was doing; maneuvering her so he could smell her breath for
alcohol. It was a dance they’d done more times than he could count.
He looked at his ex-mother-in-law, Constance. “I’m so sorry about your mother. Vera will be sorely missed.”
Constance nodded as regally as a queen. “Thank you, Jason.”
Lucy said in a chilly tone, “You don’t need to be here.”
Jason glanced at his seven-year-old daughter. She was looking at them with measuring eyes. He gave her a smile and a wink
and received a bashful head duck in return. It broke his heart to see how far she had retreated into herself in the past year,
since the finality of the divorce had officially broken their family in two.
“But I do,” he said to Lucy. “Vera was Bryce and Brenna’s great-grandmother. We’re family.” Sometimes Lucy got so tied up
in her own emotions, she forgot that her children had feelings, too.
Bryce stepped forward and gave Jason a quick hug. “Thanks for coming, Dad.”
His seventeen-year-old stepson only called him Dad when he was feeling particularly vulnerable. His biological father had
died of testicular cancer when Bryce had been only two. Lucy had been adamant about keeping her first husband’s memory sacred.
Jason had honored her decision, but even without adoption papers he felt as much Bryce’s father as Brenna’s.
Lucy turned her back on Jason. “You won’t be sitting with the family.”
Constance spoke up in a tone that left no room for argument. “If Brenna wants her father to sit with her, that’s where he’ll
sit.”
Surprised by her support, Jason nodded his appreciation. He knew Constance held him one hundred percent responsible for the
divorce, that she considered it abandonment of the vilest kind. For better or worse, he’d taken the vow—and broken it.
He held out his hand to Brenna. She cast a skittish glance at her mother before she reached out and took it. But Lucy was
walking away, diverting her attention to the flower arrangements being set at the front of the nave. She might not like being
overridden by her mother, but she didn’t have the backbone to defy her openly. It used to make Jason angry for her; he’d seen
his ex-wife run roughshod by her mother enough to understand that Constance was part of Lucy’s problem. But today he was selfishly
grateful.
Bryce gave Jason an apologetic shrug and followed his mother.
Jason clasped his daughter’s hand. “Come on, Peanut. Let’s go sit down for a bit.”
She smiled up at him, showing the adorable gap where she was missing a couple of teeth.
A lump gathered in Jason’s throat. How was it possible to love someone this much?
He squeezed her hand more tightly as they walked into the sanctuary. He hadn’t been inside St. Andrew’s since Brenna’s baptism.
The church smelled of aged wood, lemon polish, and incense.
In her bleakest moments, Lucy liked to blame his refusal to convert to Catholicism (and his ambivalent approach to religion
in general) as a major stumbling block in their marriage. Lucy liked to blame lots of things that took the spotlight off her
own behavior.
Father Kevin Ferraro approached, meeting Jason and Brenna in the main aisle. “Good to see you, Jason.”
They shook hands. “It’s been a while.”
Jason and Father Kevin were in the same golf league. Here in South Carolina there were few completely golf-unfriendly months,
but this spring had produced one. In the past weeks the priest looked to have lost weight; his cheeks were hollowed and his
eyes appeared sunken. Jason wondered if the man was ill.
“And Miss Brenna”—the priest placed a gentle hand to the top of her head—“have you been keeping up with your studies for your
Parish School of Religion class?”
Jason knew the man used the full name of the class because he assumed Jason was ignorant of the abbreviation. But Jason was
well aware of Brenna’s love of her PSR studies. He was proud of her dedication to her spiritual responsibility, even though
he sometimes worried that she used it as an escape.
“Yes, Father.” Brenna smiled proudly, but her voice was barely audible even in the silent sanctuary.
“Wonderful. Wonderful,” Father Kevin said. “Pretty soon you’ll be old enough to be an altar server. We need more little girls
like you here at St. Andrew’s.”
The priest moved on. Jason and Brenna took a seat in a pew near the rear of the church, and began quietly discussing what
Brenna was learning in PSR. Listening to his shy, lonely little girl, Jason wished other less introverted parts of her young
life could also inspire that kind of light.
Abby’s morning had been so hectic that the muddy footprints were relegated to the periphery of her mind. Even so, the implications
of their presence stuck there like a festering splinter as she rushed the last flower arrangement for Vera Marbury’s funeral
from the back of her van to the side door of St. Andrew’s.
As always, Maggie was there on the doorstep to greet Abby with a wide smile. Father Kevin was guardian for his niece, a blue-eyed
teen with a bright spirit, sharp wit, and Down syndrome. Maggie was Abby’s right-hand gal for all events that required flowers
at St. Andrew’s.
Maggie crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re late.”
“I know, I know. Can you unwrap these and take them into the sanctuary?” Abby handed the bouquet to Maggie. “I have to go
pick up Dad for the service.”
“Sure, but you’d better not come in late. Uncle Father doesn’t like it when people come in late.”
Abby waved as she hurried back down the steps, smiling at Maggie’s name for her uncle. Her parents had been killed in a helicopter
crash two years ago while on a relief trip for Children of Conflict, the organization they’d founded to assist orphans of
war-torn areas in Africa and the Middle East. They’d left both Maggie and COC in Father Kevin’s capable hands.
Because everyone called him Father, Maggie had decided calling him Uncle Kevin wasn’t respectful enough for her; Uncle Father
was born.
There were ten stoplights in Preston. Abby had to drive through seven of them to reach her father’s house. While sitting at
the fifth, her cell phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID. Her sister always called at the worst moments.
“Hi, Court.”
“I was just thinking you need to hire someone to wash Dad’s windows. I noticed when I was home for the funeral how dirty they
are. Mom would have a fit.”
At sixty-three Betsy Whitman had been taken by a massive stroke, her death a shock without warning. The funeral had brought
about Courtney’s only trip back to Preston since she’d left the day after she’d graduated from high school.
Courtney didn’t give Abby a chance to respond before she added, “You know I’d do it myself, but…” She paused. “Well, you know
how it is with people in Preston….” Her voice slid into that tone that chafed Abby’s ass like wool underwear.
“I’ll take care of it.” She immediately regretted her sharp tone. After all, it was her fault Courtney felt uneasy in Preston.
She bore horrible scars from the fire and had always felt everyone here strained to see them, no matter what she did to cover
them up. The plastic surgeon had done what he could, but he’d reminded them at every operation that childhood burn scars were
the worst. There was only so much medically possible.
Courtney now lived like a hermit in a cinderblock house (as fireproof as she could get) in New Mexico. Both decisions she
wouldn’t have made if Abby hadn’t been sleepwalking and set the house on fire.
The light turned green and Abby crossed the intersection.
“Have you seen him today?” Courtney asked.
“Not yet. I’m headed to his house right now.”
“Abby! You are not taki. . .
“4 Stars! Crandall weaves a tight and suspenseful story that will have readers guessing until the last chapter. Poignant in
places and nail-bitingly tense in others, this is one of those books readers will want to finish in one sitting.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Exciting romantic suspense… Readers will enjoy this tense thriller.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A fast-paced thriller that will keep you guessing… Seeing Red will lead you down a fear path of horrific crimes that could happen anywhere.”
—
TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“Another fascinating story by the talented Susan Crandall… Seeing Red is a riveting tale that you won’t want to put down… Highly recommended!”
—
RomRevToday.com
“Compelling… well-written… The suspense was fast-paced and the romance was irresistible… The book was hard to put down… Most
definitely an author to keep your eye out for.”
—
BookPleasures.com
PITCH BLACK
“Prepare to be thoroughly captivated by Crandall’s Pitch Black world!… A superbly woven suspense that sucks you in and doesn’t let go… Susan Crandall is a master storyteller whose characters
never fail to touch your heart.”
—KAREN ROSE, New York Times Bestselling Author
“[A] taut potboiler… nicely turned.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Keep the lights on bright for Pitch Black… takes the reader on a thrill ride into the soul of a small town, a very special woman, and the sheriff who wants her even
more than he wants to solve a terrible murder.”
—KAREN HARPER, New York Times Bestselling Author
“4 Stars! Suspenseful… interesting and complicated characters.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Nail-biting suspense… a pulse-pounding ride… enticing… What sets this book apart from other great suspense novels is Ms.
Crandall’s skill in defining her characters… a great read.”
—
WritersAreReaders.com
A KISS IN WINTER
“Everything a contemporary romance reader wants in a book.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A very character-driven story, A Kiss in Winter is a tale of family expectations and disappointments.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Complex characters, intricate relationships, realistic conflicts, and a fine sense of place.”
—Booklist
“Great characters, a touching relationship, and exciting suspense.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Brilliant characterization, edgy suspense… a tension-rich mystery.”
—
ContemporaryRomanceWriters.com
ON BLUE FALLS POND
“A powerful psychological drama… On Blue Falls Pond is a strong glimpse at how individuals react to crisis differently, with some hiding or running away while others find solace
to help them cope.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Readers who enjoy… fiction with a pronounced sense of place and families with strong ties will respond well to Crandall’s…
sensitive handling of the important issues of domestic violence, macular degeneration, and autism.”
—Booklist
“Full of complex characters… it’s a well-written story of the struggles to accept what life hands out and to continue living.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
PROMISES TO KEEP
“An appealing heroine… [an] unexpected plot twist… engaging and entertaining.”
—
TheRomanceReader.com
“FOUR STARS!”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“This is one book you will want to read repeatedly.”
—
MyShelf.com
MAGNOLIA SKY
“Emotionally charged… An engrossing story.”
—BookPage
“A wonderful story that kept surprising me as I read. Real conflicts and deep emotions make the powerful story come to life.”
—Rendezvous
“Engaging… starring two scarred souls and a wonderful supporting cast… Fans will enjoy.”
—Midwest Book Review
THE ROAD HOME
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RomRevToday.com
“The characters… stay with you long after the last page is read.”
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BACK ROADS
“Accomplished and very satisfying… Add Crandall to your list of authors to watch.”
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Bookloons.com
“An amazingly assured debut novel… expertly drawn.”
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TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“A definite all-nighter. Very highly recommended.”
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RomRevToday.com
The house where Abby Whitman’s family lived wasn’t like the plantation houses in the movies. There were no sweeping staircase
and grand foyer. The house did have two sets of stairs. The second was at the back of the house—it had been for servants “back in the day,” as Abby’s daddy
said. The foyer stairs was fancier, sure, but it was no Tara.
It was at the bottom of the foyer stairs that Abby’s mother stopped her and held her by the shoulders.
Confused and disoriented, Abby tried to pull away. She didn’t know why panic was squeezing the breath from her lungs. She
shouldn’t be afraid of Momma.
“Abby. Abby, stop,” her mother’s voice was quiet, but Abby heard something underneath; a dark whisper of fear.
Abby’s eyes began to focus. Her mother was smiling, but her eyes looked scared. Momma was never scared.
Abby’s stomach took a roller coaster plunge.
“You’re sleepwalking again, sweetie,” Momma said. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
That was when Abby saw the heavy front door standing open and understood why Momma was so upset. Abby had been outside in
the dark. Outside where there were gators and snakes and a river to drown in. Outside where there was quicksand and woods
to get lost in.
Every night when she went to bed, Abby promised herself she wouldn’t sleepwalk. And then she prayed that God would fix her.
Promises and prayers weren’t doing any good. This was the second time in a week Abby had wandered in the night. The last time
she’d woken up in the hayloft in the barn.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Great-Gran Girault was there waiting.
Abby had been hoping now that she was eleven she’d grown out of being scared of Gran Girault. But sure as the moon, she hadn’t.
Gran had to be a hundred; tall and thin with weathered skin sagging on her bones. Her white hair was always in a bun—even
when she was in her nightgown.
She lived in Louisiana, where they believed in things like evil spells and devil’s curses. One time when she was visiting,
Abby had found a little pouch under her pillow one morning. When she’d opened it, it had tiny bones and some dried weeds and
a rock in it. It smelled funny. Momma had been really mad when she found out.
Almost always when Gran looked at Abby, it was with a frown.
Now Gran looked at Abby with a frown so intense it made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.
“I tell you, Betsy,” Gran said, her voice like sandpaper on rocks, “you need to do somethin’. It ain’t natural, her creepin’
’round here in the night like she does. Starin’ eyes like she’s possessed.”
“Shush, Gran!” Momma kept them walking right past Gran.
Abby’s room was next to her sister Courtney’s. She was six and everybody always said she was “cute as a button.” Court never
went sleepwalking. And Gran Girault never looked at her with a frown.
Momma tucked Abby into bed and kissed her on the forehead.
Abby pulled the sheet up to her chin, clutching it like it was a rope that might keep her tied in bed. “Gran hates me.”
Her mother ran a hand over Abby’s hair. “Gran is old and confused. You mustn’t pay attention to her. Besides, she’s going
home tomorrow.”
The smile on Momma’s face said she was happy about it. That made Abby feel just a little better.
“Good night.” Her mother left the room, closing the door behind her.
Abby rolled onto her side, determined to stay awake all night. That way she couldn’t sleepwalk. At first she didn’t even blink.
But soon her eyelids grew heavy. She tried counting the flowers on her wallpaper. But they started to run together.
She closed her eyes—just for a minute….
When Abby opened her eyes, it was daylight.
A car door slammed outside. Daddy was taking Gran Girault to the train station. Abby got up and watched the car pull down
the lane, feeling like a dark and dangerous storm had finally blown away.
Always at Sunday evening dinner, right before grace, Abby’s family lit the oil lamp that was as old as their house. It was
tradition; her daddy told her it was in honor of those Whitmans who’d gone off to war and never come home. It had been a custom
he was passing along, just like he would pass this house to Abby someday.
Today was Abby’s first time to light the oil lamp. Naturally, Courtney had a hissy over it. She never liked it when Abby got
to do something she didn’t—which wasn’t often.
At bedtime, Court was still pouting. And Abby climbed into bed with a smile on her face. She could hear Momma in the next
room, telling Courtney that when she turned eleven, she’d get to light the lamp every other Sunday.
Courtney whined that it wasn’t fair. Abby hoped Momma and Daddy wouldn’t give in like they usually did. Abby had had to wait
until after her eleventh birthday. Court should have to, too.
Abby drifted off to sleep feeling really good; not only did she get the special privilege of lighting the lamp, but Gran Girault
wasn’t here to give her the stink-eye if she happened to go sleepwalking again. It was a good day.
Abby opened her eyes. Stinging smoke caused her to close them again. An orange glow flickered in the fog of smoke. There was
heat at her back—and the sound of crackling dragon breath.
She opened her eyes in tiny blinking slits to see where she was. Darkness and smoke blotted out everything.
For a second she stood there, panic squeezing her chest. Then she remembered. She dropped to her knees. The smoke wasn’t as
bad here. She even recognized the living room rug.
She’d been sleepwalking.
The fire was in the dining room.
She had to get everyone out!
She opened her mouth to yell for her parents, but breathing in felt like a cat was clawing her lungs. She coughed until she
nearly threw up.
Suddenly she heard Courtney screaming. In the back of the house. On the other side of the dining room.
Abby tried to crawl through the dining room, feeling her way along, but it was too hot. She turned around and started crawling
back the way she’d come, but she bumped into a piece of furniture. It was hot. So hot. So painful.
In a panic she got to her feet and tried to feel her way to the door. The smoke tore at her lungs. She smelled her hair being
singed.
She had to get out.
Courtney was still screaming.
Abby thrashed forward, flailing her arms. She heard china break.
And then she found the door.
Help Court. Wake Daddy.
Dizziness made her stumble. She felt like she was trying to breathe underwater.
She tripped over something and fell face-first onto the living room rug.
The crackling was getting louder.
She heard Daddy calling her name, over and over, until she couldn’t hear anything at all.
Life can so often be divided into before and after. Not by the little wrinkles and frays of daily wear, but by monumental events
that rip cruelly through the fabric of a finely woven existence. It happened to everyone. Abby Whitman understood that. But
she also felt she’d had more than her fair share of befores and afters; befores and afters that had thrust her onto unforeseen
roads, leading to generally uninvited futures.
Some called it fate. Some called it luck. Great-Gran Girault had gone so far as to call her cursed. The first time Gran said
it, Abby’s mother had called Gran Girault a superstitious old kook from the backwater Louisiana swamp. And man, had that set
off fireworks between Abby’s parents. At least the argument had taken Great-Gran’s condemning eye off Abby long enough for
her to slip out of the house to the refuge of the old, overgrown rice fields where she could live in a world of her imagination;
one where little girls did not do things in the night that they couldn’t recall the next morning.
Now Abby was a grown woman—and she realized that curse still clung to her with a tenacious grip. As she stood in the muted
gray dawn that cast her small kitchen in gloom and shadow, she once again felt as if the jaundiced eye of Gran Girault was
on her, and her stomach did a slow, nauseating roll.
Muddy prints left by bare feet trailed across the white kitchen tile like dirty accusations. They began at the dead-bolted
back door and moved toward the living area.
Abby knew what she would find even before she kicked off the slippers she’d absently slipped on as she’d gotten out of bed.
Even so, the dark smears between her toes and the grime following the crevices of her skin set her heart into a thoroughbred-out-of-the-gate
gallop.
In a panic that was far too late to be of any value, she sniffed the air for smoke. Then she took off on a frantic circuit
of her tiny house. All doors and windows were locked. She found no ignited stove burners, lit candles, overheating curling
irons, or overflowing plumbing fixtures. Nothing unusual except those muddy footprints that became fainter as they went up
the stairs to the half-story that housed her bedroom.
She followed them. Reaching her bed, Abby stared at it for a moment. Then she flipped back the covers. Her breath left her
lungs in a rush as she looked at the mud-smeared sheets.
Straightening her spine and ignoring the trembling in her hands, she slowly lowered the blanket, pulling it up to the head
of the bed, as if she could tuck this nightmare in and drive it back into sleep.
With slow and heavy footsteps, she retraced her previously panicked path through her tiny house, the converted brick summer
kitchen had been spared when her family home had burned.
At some point over the past few years her reason for living out here had slipped from front and center, shifting so slowly
into her peripheral vision that she’d barely noticed. She’d allowed herself to be diverted by the pleasure of restoring the
old gardens of the plantation. Here in this secluded place of atonement, she’d somehow found peace.
But this morning the branches of gnarled oaks against the gray skies outside her windows looked menacing and the isolation
had an air of desperation.
The dark realization settled upon her. Fate had just doled out another before and after:
Before I started sleepwalking—again.
She’d been free of the disorder for her entire adult life. It was a demon thought exorcised at puberty; gone and yet never
fully forgotten.
As Abby stood in the early morning silence, she realized that this particular demon’s reappearance did not feel wholly unexpected.
The fear of the disorder’s return had been a dark shadow that lurked in the fog every night when she closed her eyes; the
real bogeyman under the bed. And it was the reason she would always live alone.
An isolated incident, she assured herself.
Why now?
Stress and hormones; Dr. Samuels had listed both as likely triggers for sleepwalking. There was only so much a person could
do to insulate a life from such things, and Abby had employed them all. Still, stress had come crashing into her carefully
constructed life with the unexpected death of her mother a few weeks ago.
Her gaze was drawn back to the footprints.
Vulnerability raced up her spine on spider’s legs. She’d been outside. In the dark. Alone. Unaware.
Doing what?
It was a question she wasn’t sure she wanted to answer.
She opened the back door and stepped onto the small stoop. The early April wind plucked loose hairs from her ponytail and
snaked beneath her robe, drawing goosebumps on her bare legs. The marsh grasses leaned in unison and the distant surface of
the Edisto River ruffled like tide-sculpted sand. Clouds boiled overhead, blotting out the rising sun, promising a storm before
the day concluded.
The garden hose normally hung on a decorative hook near the back steps. It was unwound, the end disappearing into the squared
boxwood hedge that bordered the main garden.
She crossed the coarse grass, the dew of early morning turning the dirt between her toes once again to mud.
Water cascaded over the lip of the birdbath like a fountain. The slap and splatter of it hitting the soggy ground reminded
her of the way rain used to roll off the gutterless roof of the old plantation house that had been her family’s for generations—the
house she’d burned to the ground. It was a sound that conjured both comfort and regret.
She returned to the stoop and shut off the spigot with a firm hand, just as if this was a normal morning and she’d just finished
watering. Then she marched back inside, refusing to look back at the hose winding like a snake into the hedge.
An isolated incident. That’s what she had to believe.
As she closed the door behind her, she looked at the footprints on the tile, then at her dirty feet, both grating reminders
of a raw vulnerability she’d hoped never again to experience.
Gran had been right. There was something unnatural about Abby—and she hadn’t grown out of it at all. She couldn’t let her
father know. He thought she’d been cured years ago. In fact, she couldn’t let anyone know. Everyone in Preston already looked
at her as the girl who’d burned down an irreplaceable historic treasure; the girl who’d nearly killed her own sister. The
looks would return. Old ladies would once again shy away from her. Mothers would keep their children out of her path.
She went into the bathroom and started the shower. If only she could wash away the stain of fear as easily as she did the
mud on her feet.
Sometimes Jason Coble thought it a cruel twist of fate that he, a psychiatrist who spent his days untangling other people’s
emotions and assessing their mental health, had missed the signs of his now ex-wife’s alcoholism for so long. Sadly, it hadn’t
been his professional skill that had guided her into recovery. It had been his harsh threat to seek sole custody of their
children. Nothing else had broken through the stone wall of Lucy’s bitterness and denial.
In reality, there was little chance of his getting guardianship of his stepson Bryce, whom Lucy hadn’t allowed Jason to adopt.
But their daughter Brenna was another case altogether.
Not that he wanted to live that way, with hostile court battles and ugly scenes. What he wanted was Lucy sober and an amiable coexistence that would nurture their children. Generally that’s what he’d achieved—so far.
But it was a tightrope-balancing act. In order to safeguard that balance, he had to keep up constant covert observation of
Lucy’s state of mind and her behavior. It was an unpleasant and unalterable fact of life.
Today he lingered on the fringes of Lucy’s family as they gathered in the tiny narthex of St. Andrew’s before Vera Marbury’s
funeral. The loss of her Grandmother Vera had hit Lucy hard. It showed in her brittle posture and the jittery movement of
her hands.
Jason’s feet shifted on the well-worn slate floor of the old church as he looked for signs that she’d found her consolation
in a bottle of vodka. She was very good at disguising it.
He walked across the narthex.
Stepping behind her, he touched her elbow and leaned close, getting her to turn. “Hello, Lucy.”
“Jason.” Her eyes narrowed. Clearly, she’d figured out what he was doing; maneuvering her so he could smell her breath for
alcohol. It was a dance they’d done more times than he could count.
He looked at his ex-mother-in-law, Constance. “I’m so sorry about your mother. Vera will be sorely missed.”
Constance nodded as regally as a queen. “Thank you, Jason.”
Lucy said in a chilly tone, “You don’t need to be here.”
Jason glanced at his seven-year-old daughter. She was looking at them with measuring eyes. He gave her a smile and a wink
and received a bashful head duck in return. It broke his heart to see how far she had retreated into herself in the past year,
since the finality of the divorce had officially broken their family in two.
“But I do,” he said to Lucy. “Vera was Bryce and Brenna’s great-grandmother. We’re family.” Sometimes Lucy got so tied up
in her own emotions, she forgot that her children had feelings, too.
Bryce stepped forward and gave Jason a quick hug. “Thanks for coming, Dad.”
His seventeen-year-old stepson only called him Dad when he was feeling particularly vulnerable. His biological father had
died of testicular cancer when Bryce had been only two. Lucy had been adamant about keeping her first husband’s memory sacred.
Jason had honored her decision, but even without adoption papers he felt as much Bryce’s father as Brenna’s.
Lucy turned her back on Jason. “You won’t be sitting with the family.”
Constance spoke up in a tone that left no room for argument. “If Brenna wants her father to sit with her, that’s where he’ll
sit.”
Surprised by her support, Jason nodded his appreciation. He knew Constance held him one hundred percent responsible for the
divorce, that she considered it abandonment of the vilest kind. For better or worse, he’d taken the vow—and broken it.
He held out his hand to Brenna. She cast a skittish glance at her mother before she reached out and took it. But Lucy was
walking away, diverting her attention to the flower arrangements being set at the front of the nave. She might not like being
overridden by her mother, but she didn’t have the backbone to defy her openly. It used to make Jason angry for her; he’d seen
his ex-wife run roughshod by her mother enough to understand that Constance was part of Lucy’s problem. But today he was selfishly
grateful.
Bryce gave Jason an apologetic shrug and followed his mother.
Jason clasped his daughter’s hand. “Come on, Peanut. Let’s go sit down for a bit.”
She smiled up at him, showing the adorable gap where she was missing a couple of teeth.
A lump gathered in Jason’s throat. How was it possible to love someone this much?
He squeezed her hand more tightly as they walked into the sanctuary. He hadn’t been inside St. Andrew’s since Brenna’s baptism.
The church smelled of aged wood, lemon polish, and incense.
In her bleakest moments, Lucy liked to blame his refusal to convert to Catholicism (and his ambivalent approach to religion
in general) as a major stumbling block in their marriage. Lucy liked to blame lots of things that took the spotlight off her
own behavior.
Father Kevin Ferraro approached, meeting Jason and Brenna in the main aisle. “Good to see you, Jason.”
They shook hands. “It’s been a while.”
Jason and Father Kevin were in the same golf league. Here in South Carolina there were few completely golf-unfriendly months,
but this spring had produced one. In the past weeks the priest looked to have lost weight; his cheeks were hollowed and his
eyes appeared sunken. Jason wondered if the man was ill.
“And Miss Brenna”—the priest placed a gentle hand to the top of her head—“have you been keeping up with your studies for your
Parish School of Religion class?”
Jason knew the man used the full name of the class because he assumed Jason was ignorant of the abbreviation. But Jason was
well aware of Brenna’s love of her PSR studies. He was proud of her dedication to her spiritual responsibility, even though
he sometimes worried that she used it as an escape.
“Yes, Father.” Brenna smiled proudly, but her voice was barely audible even in the silent sanctuary.
“Wonderful. Wonderful,” Father Kevin said. “Pretty soon you’ll be old enough to be an altar server. We need more little girls
like you here at St. Andrew’s.”
The priest moved on. Jason and Brenna took a seat in a pew near the rear of the church, and began quietly discussing what
Brenna was learning in PSR. Listening to his shy, lonely little girl, Jason wished other less introverted parts of her young
life could also inspire that kind of light.
Abby’s morning had been so hectic that the muddy footprints were relegated to the periphery of her mind. Even so, the implications
of their presence stuck there like a festering splinter as she rushed the last flower arrangement for Vera Marbury’s funeral
from the back of her van to the side door of St. Andrew’s.
As always, Maggie was there on the doorstep to greet Abby with a wide smile. Father Kevin was guardian for his niece, a blue-eyed
teen with a bright spirit, sharp wit, and Down syndrome. Maggie was Abby’s right-hand gal for all events that required flowers
at St. Andrew’s.
Maggie crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re late.”
“I know, I know. Can you unwrap these and take them into the sanctuary?” Abby handed the bouquet to Maggie. “I have to go
pick up Dad for the service.”
“Sure, but you’d better not come in late. Uncle Father doesn’t like it when people come in late.”
Abby waved as she hurried back down the steps, smiling at Maggie’s name for her uncle. Her parents had been killed in a helicopter
crash two years ago while on a relief trip for Children of Conflict, the organization they’d founded to assist orphans of
war-torn areas in Africa and the Middle East. They’d left both Maggie and COC in Father Kevin’s capable hands.
Because everyone called him Father, Maggie had decided calling him Uncle Kevin wasn’t respectful enough for her; Uncle Father
was born.
There were ten stoplights in Preston. Abby had to drive through seven of them to reach her father’s house. While sitting at
the fifth, her cell phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID. Her sister always called at the worst moments.
“Hi, Court.”
“I was just thinking you need to hire someone to wash Dad’s windows. I noticed when I was home for the funeral how dirty they
are. Mom would have a fit.”
At sixty-three Betsy Whitman had been taken by a massive stroke, her death a shock without warning. The funeral had brought
about Courtney’s only trip back to Preston since she’d left the day after she’d graduated from high school.
Courtney didn’t give Abby a chance to respond before she added, “You know I’d do it myself, but…” She paused. “Well, you know
how it is with people in Preston….” Her voice slid into that tone that chafed Abby’s ass like wool underwear.
“I’ll take care of it.” She immediately regretted her sharp tone. After all, it was her fault Courtney felt uneasy in Preston.
She bore horrible scars from the fire and had always felt everyone here strained to see them, no matter what she did to cover
them up. The plastic surgeon had done what he could, but he’d reminded them at every operation that childhood burn scars were
the worst. There was only so much medically possible.
Courtney now lived like a hermit in a cinderblock house (as fireproof as she could get) in New Mexico. Both decisions she
wouldn’t have made if Abby hadn’t been sleepwalking and set the house on fire.
The light turned green and Abby crossed the intersection.
“Have you seen him today?” Courtney asked.
“Not yet. I’m headed to his house right now.”
“Abby! You are not taki. . .
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