The Drowning Woman

by Robyn Harding

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

The bestselling author of The Party returns with a deliciously twisted story of friendship, retribution and betrayal about a homeless woman fleeing a dangerous past – and the wealthy society wife she saves from drowning, who pulls her into a dark web of secrets and lies.

Lee Gulliver never thought she’d find herself living on the streets – no one ever does – but when her restaurant fails, and she falls deeper into debt, she leaves her old life behind with nothing but her clothes and her car.

Parked in a secluded spot by the beach, she sees a sobbing woman throw herself into the ocean. Lee hauls the woman back to the surface but, instead of appreciation, she is met with fury. The drowning woman, Hazel, tells her that she wanted to die. She’s trapped in a toxic, abusive marriage, and is a prisoner in her own home. Lee has now thwarted her one chance to escape her life.
 
Out of options, Hazel retreats to her gilded cage. Lee thinks she’s seen the last of her, until Hazel unexpectedly returns the next morning. The women strike up an unlikely friendship and then, one day, Hazel makes a shocking request: she wants Lee to help her disappear. It’ll be easy, Hazel assures her. But Lee soon learns that nothing is as it seems – and that Hazel may not be the friend Lee thought she was …

Praise for The Drowning Woman
 
‘Pulse-pounding and deliciously unpredictable … Robyn Harding can twist a plot like a corkscrew’ Laurie Elizabeth Flynn, author of The Girls Are All So Nice Here
 
‘I’m in absolute awe of Robyn Harding's talent and skill. The Drowning Woman is an astonishing, expertly crafted story … With one killer twist after another and a masterful plot’ Samantha M. Bailey, author of Woman on the Edge

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

1

In sociological terms, they call it the fundamental attribution error. Basically, it means that when people see someone in a bad situation, they tend to believe that individual brought it on themselves. Of course, there are always external, situational forces at play, but it’s human nature to think it could never happen to you. You’d fight back differently if attacked; crawl your way out of the burning building; wouldn’t fall for that online scam. And, of course, you’d never end up sleeping on the streets. Those people have drug problems, mental health issues, no work ethic.

What did I think of the homeless before I became one of them? Not much, is the short answer. Each year, I donated to a local shelter that served Thanksgiving dinners. I occasionally tossed coins into hats or empty coffee cups, but I didn’t meet their eyes, I didn’t ask their names. Sometimes I’d even cross the street to avoid them. I was not without compassion for the displaced, but they were just so separate, so other. There was no way I’d ever become one of them.

I pull the sleeping bag up to my chin and stretch my legs out under the steering column. The back seat would be more comfortable, but I’m too on edge to sleep there. Instead, I doze in the reclined driver’s seat, with the doors locked and the keys in the ignition. If anyone comes—the police, thieves, or worse—I can be on my way in a second. My Toyota sedan is just one in a row of bedrooms on wheels, parked on this quiet street, under a dank underpass. Our vehicles form an unsightly border along the edge of a big box hardware store’s parking lot. Will I ever relax enough to sleep soundly, horizontally? Hopefully I won’t be here long enough to find out.

In these quiet moments, it still baffles me that I ended up like this. I’m bright, educated; I owned a successful business. I’m not hooked on any substances…although I drink more now. In the console beside me sits a bottle of whisky. It’s for warmth, to dull the edges and settle my nerves enough to allow me to doze off. Picking it up, I take a sip and for a moment, I feel nothing but this…the warmth traveling down my throat, burning in my belly. It’s tempting to take another drink. And another. But I can’t overdo it. I need to keep my wits about me, and I mustn’t develop a dependency. I replace the cap and set it back in the console.

The light goes out in the motor home in front of me. It’s a kerosene lantern; the occupants can’t afford to drain their battery using the vehicle lights. Margaux and Doug are in their sixties. Margaux has health issues—cancer, though I’m not sure what kind. Doug worked at a hotel but was laid off, another victim of the pandemic, the economy, life in general. They have a large dog, Luna, a pit bull cross that makes it hard to rent a room. I try to park behind them when I can. Their run-down Winnebago never moves, sporting an intricate addition of tarps that keeps out the rain and creates an awning they can sit under. We’re not friends, exactly, but we chat sometimes, and their proximity—and Luna’s—makes me feel safer, less alone. They look out for me, too. It was Doug who gave me the knife.

I finger the wooden handle pressing against my right hip. The blade is between the seat and the console, a sort of holster. If I need to, I can pull it out in a second, brandish it at my attacker. “Women aren’t safe here.” Doug stated the obvious. “Be prepared to use this.” I had assured him I was, but could I really stab someone? Pierce their flesh with this sharp blade? Plunge it into their chest or neck or belly? I’m capable of lots of things I never thought possible before. Desperate people will commit desperate acts. When my restaurant was failing, my life’s dream crumbling before my eyes, I lied, I cheated, and I manipulated. I destroyed people, hurt the ones I loved. So, could I stab someone to save my own life? Of course.

It is late…and a false sense of peace descends. In the distance, someone is shouting angrily—at someone or no one—but eventually, it peters out. A bottle clinks against another, but it is soft and infrequent. The hum of sporadic traffic on the overpass lulls me. Somehow I don’t hear them approaching—either I have drifted off, or they are being stealthy…probably a combination of the two. Suddenly, they’re here, on either side of my car, gray, sunken faces peering into my darkened home. Fear twists in my belly. My hand moves to the knife at my side.

“Hey, honey,” one man says, and I see missing teeth through the fog of his breath on my window. I meet his eyes for a second and see the blackness, the blankness. He’s an addict; I know the look by now. His humanity has been usurped by his need for drugs. Judging by the sores on his face, he’s hooked on meth. The chemical can turn humans into wild animals: angry, aggressive, unpredictable.

The man on the other side of the vehicle has his face to the passenger-side glass. His eyes dart around the car and its contents, sizing up anything valuable. In the weeks I’ve been sleeping here, I’ve had to speed away once before. I heard them that time; they broke a window in a van farther up the line. That night, I started my car and pulled away before they got to me. Since then, I’ve practiced this scenario in my mind: pull the lever to return the seat to its upright position, turn the key, stomp on the gas.

“Open up, pretty lady,” the toothless man says, and a frisson of disgust shudders through my body. Does he want more than my belongings? I grab the knife and hold it to the window. The blade taps on the glass: a threat. But he doesn’t back away, and he doesn’t look concerned. In fact, his rotten mouth smiles at me.

My hands feel sweaty and slippery as I fumble to right my seat. I’m not drunk but the whisky has made me slow and dull. And I’m terrified. My seat pops forward and I drop the knife, reach for the key. It’s okay, Lee, I assure myself as I turn the ignition. You’re safe. You’re out of here.

And then the passenger window shatters. I scream as a hand dives into the car, feeling blindly for something, anything to grab. It’s not me he’s after, at least, but my backpack is right there on the seat, my purse is on the floor. Before I can put the car into gear, the backpack disappears through the broken window. That, I can live without. It’s got clothes, toiletries, things I can just afford to replace. I slam the gear shift into drive as the arm dives back inside, reaching for my purse.

No, no, no, not that. While I’m smart enough not to keep all my cash in it, my phone and my ID are in that stylish Coach bag, a remnant of my old life. As the car shoots forward, I lunge for the purse on the floorboard, trying to drag it into my lap. But the arm is still inside, and it grabs my wrist. Dirty fingernails pierce my skin and I gasp with the pain. I lean on the horn, hoping someone—Margaux and Doug—will wake up. If they open the door and release Luna, these men will run. I’ll be able to get away. But the motor home stays dark.

I gun the engine, but the hand is still inside the car. He’s got my purse in his grasp and he won’t let go. Gathering speed, I swerve on the empty road, trying to dislodge him, but he holds on. And he’s fast, sprinting along at pace, and he won’t let go. He won’t fucking let go! Using my right hand with its damaged wrist, I grab for the knife and swipe blindly at his arm. I slice into his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. The meth has given him superhuman strength and speed, made him impervious to pain. The purse, with all the documents that make me a person, slips through the window. Gone…

And just like that, I am nobody.

2

The sting of chlorine assaults my nostrils and sends a swell of nostalgia through me. The neighborhood pool was a regular and sustained part of my childhood. Growing up, my family had a summer house in the Catskills. It wasn’t opulent, but it was comfortable and lakefront. My mother insisted my sister and I take years of swimming lessons so that she didn’t have to worry about us drowning while she sipped gin and tonics on the sunporch with her girlfriends. Teresa and I spent hours paddling in the water, floating in our dinghy, or just lying on damp towels on the dock, staring up at the endless blue as the sun fried the water on our skin. We talked about horses, and boys, and what we wanted to be when we grew up. Teresa wanted to be a veterinarian. I wanted to be a movie star, or a rock star, someone shiny and bright.

The lobby is warm and damp and cloying as I approach the woman at the chipped Formica counter. She looks up, her eyes wary. “I lost my pass,” I mumble, the familiar sweep of shame making my cheeks hot. She knows I’m lying. She knows I’m not here to swim. I see myself through her eyes: haunted, disheveled, carrying two canvas bags stuffed with clothing, food, a few dishes…the items that I couldn’t stuff into my trunk. A plastic bag is taped over the broken window, but my car is no longer secure. This is not me, I want to tell the receptionist. I’m a restauranteur. A businesswoman. An entrepreneur. She gives me a begrudging nod. “Go ahead. But make it quick.”

“Thank you.”

A dingy path worn into the linoleum guides me toward the changeroom. It’s vacant except for a couple of seniors fitting their bathing caps in the mirror. I wait for them to leave before heading straight to the showers. A large sign on the cinder-block wall reads:

CHANGE ROOMS ARE FOR
POOL CUSTOMERS ONLY

Vagrants, people like me who are here for a hot shower and some free soap, are not permitted. But the staff will look the other way if it’s not too busy, if I am quick and quiet. Admission is seven dollars. I could pay but every penny counts. I need to save up the deposit to rent an apartment; I won’t survive living in my car for much longer. There are free showers at some of the shelters, but terrifying stories of theft, rape, even murder swirl around them. And going to a shelter will make my homelessness official, and it is not. It’s a temporary, ephemeral state.

Stripping off my clothes, I step into the tiled stall. I kick at a soggy Band-Aid left on the floor and punch the button to turn on the water. My right index finger throbs with the effort, and the scratches on my wrist sting as the hot stream hits them. I probably need a tetanus shot, but that’s not going to happen without insurance. For a moment, I close my eyes, let tears flow down my face. I want to go home. I want to get in my car and drive back across the country to New York. But I can’t. I have torched and burned every bridge behind me. My family hates me. I have no friends left. And then there is Damon, who will hurt me. Even kill me.

We met when I was working at a swanky brasserie in the Meatpacking District. He was a regular, occupying a prime booth near the back, accompanied by burly associates or beautiful women, frequently both. Oysters, steak frites, vodka for the table. It never changed. Damon was polite and generous, so we all ignored the pervasive sense of danger surrounding him. It was not uncommon in that restaurant, in the industry at large. Men in flashy suits, with significant money to spend but no discernible career.

One night, as service wound down, he summoned me from the kitchen. He told me he loved my cooking. I told him about my plans for the Aviary. My vision was clear: I’d serve elevated but accessible food—short ribs with duck-fat potatoes, buttermilk-fried chicken drizzled with spiced honey, chanterelle mushroom risotto. The tables would be six-tops and four-tops, only a handful of two-tops. Every night would feel like a dinner party in my home. I’d recently found a space in the East Village that would be perfect.

“I want in,” he’d said, so confident, so casual. “How much do you need?”

I needed a lot. I had only two other interested investors. Damon’s money was shady, I knew that, but I took it anyway. Because the Aviary was my life’s dream. I was done working for egotistical, demeaning, or downright abusive bosses. And I was confident in my concept, my capabilities, and my connections. The restaurant would thrive, even in the highly competitive New York market. I’d make my payments on time, so the way Damon made his money was none of my concern.

And then the pandemic. People stopped coming. I knew I was going to have to close my doors, even before the mayor forced me to. When restaurants reopened, I tried again, but I was too new; the momentum was lost. I hung on as long as I could, but omicron was the final straw. My servers got sick, followed by my kitchen staff, and then I went down. We tried to operate short-staffed, pivoted to takeout, but it wasn’t enough. I had to admit that my business, my dream, had failed.

I worried about my staff, my vendors, my health insurance, and my investors, in that order. Because this was force majeure. They wouldn’t expect me to pay. And yet…they did. I tried to apply for a disaster loan, but the website kept crashing. I asked for a line of credit but was turned down due to “inadequate business,” which was the reason I needed it in the first place. My lead line cook suggested a GoFundMe page, but everyone in the industry was suffering. How could I ask for money to keep my restaurant afloat? Finally, my accountant advised me to declare bankruptcy. It would mean I could walk away from all my debts, leaving a trail of spurned and angry suppliers, staff, and investors.

That’s when Damon crushed my finger with a meat mallet.

What had I expected of him? Forgiveness for the money I owed? Understanding at least? Damon was a gangster. Violence was his currency. But still, I was shocked by the cruelty, the ruthlessness. He promised to break a finger a week until I paid. I’d lose my ability to cook. There was no choice but to run.

I kept moving, from city to town, ensuring that I never stayed in one place for too long. Damon had other avenues of income, other businesses that would be making their payments on time. He didn’t need my money badly enough to send his thugs chasing me across the country. But still…I pushed onward, until I reached Seattle. The Pacific. The end of the line. One of the farthest geographical points from New York in the country.

With my elbow, I pump the lemon-scented soap into my hand, wash my body, and use it as shampoo. The harsh detergent will dry my skin, make my hair stiff and frizzy, but all my toiletries were in my backpack. I try to wash away the fear, the loss, the utter sense of desolation that threatens to overwhelm me. Because I have no choice but to keep trying, keep moving forward, keep existing.

Stepping from the shower, I dig a towel from my bag. It smells musty, but I pat at the droplets on my skin, hoping the scent won’t cling to me. Clean laundry has become a luxury I can afford only once a week. A woman with a toddler on her hip enters and gives me a side-eyed glance. I see her brow furrow as she spots the angry red scratches on my arm, clocks my pile of belongings, puts the pieces together. I need to hurry.

I used to wear makeup—just a little concealer and mascara, a pop of color on my lips and cheeks, but it’s all gone now, taken with my purse. I finger-comb my tangle of dark hair, the highlights grown down to my chin, pressing it into some semblance of a style. It’s not really working, but at least I’m clean and presentable if not attractive. I’ve let that go. In some worlds, you trade on good looks; in others, you hide them. Eventually, they abandon you anyway. Just a lot quicker when you’re homeless.

Hurriedly, I slip on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, my work “uniform.” Thankfully, the diner’s dress code is extremely casual. The protective mother is still watching me as she steps out of her clothes, eyes alert and wary. Does she think I’m crazy? Dangerous? That I might steal from her? I’m not interested in your bag of diapers and animal crackers, I want to snap, but I don’t. I drop the moist towel onto one of my canvas bags and hurry past two more moms and babies coming in for swim class.

The crisp air outside the pool hits me like a slap, sharpens my senses. I’m beginning to feel weak and light-headed. I need food and caffeine. There is a coffee shop a few blocks from the pool that sells discounted day-old muffins, spotted bananas, and mealy apples kept in a basket by the till. I’ll order a drip coffee loaded with cream and sugar for breakfast and a stale pastry for lunch. I eat supper at the diner, a definite perk of my otherwise unfulfilling employment.

Sliding into the driver’s seat of my car, I feel the knife press into my hip. I shoved it farther down beside the console, but an inch of the handle is still exposed. I pull it out and look at the blood dried on the blade. A shudder runs through me as last night’s attack returns to me. I stabbed a man, cut his skin, and yet, he didn’t care, he didn’t stop. I couldn’t protect myself or my belongings.

I know what I have to do. This car is my home, and it must be secure. My survival depends on it.

3

It’s not hard to identify the type of establishment that will hire illegal staff: people without work permits, or bank accounts, or a home address. People who have criminal records, who come without résumés or references. I have found these types of places across the country, and I found Uncle Jack’s. Set in a rough neighborhood just south of Seattle, the peeling paint and faded sign signal a certain willingness to bend the rules. I’d first entered two weeks ago, taken a seat at the scratched orange counter, and nursed a cup of coffee. When “Uncle Jack,” whose name is really Randy, left the kitchen for a smoke break, I’d hit him up for a job. Randy has a rap sheet, apparently. I’ve heard everything from assault to cocaine possession to murder. Whatever he’s done, he knows that sometimes people need a second chance.

My usual shift is 4:00 p.m. to midnight, six days a week. It’s a lot but it suits me fine. I’d rather waitress than sit in my car, fruitlessly trying to sleep. The café serves an all-day breakfast, burgers, nachos, beer, and wine. Each item is a heart attack on a plate, but there is something comforting about Uncle Jack’s greasy fare and generous portions. My restaurant prided itself on quality ingredients, comfort food kicked up a notch. The brasserie I’d worked at served upscale plates that bordered on pretentious: bone marrow croquettes, cured scallops, Wagyu carpaccio…I’m qualified to work somewhere more high-end, but then, there would be questions.

Uncle Jack’s clientele is practically the same every night. There are dealers and prostitutes, club kids and gangbangers. It’s the kind of place where people look the other way, eat their cheap food, and conduct their business. The old me wouldn’t have set foot in an establishment like this, would have been terrified by Lewis, the guy with the gold front tooth and the slash of a scar across his jaw. He sits at the end of the bar, drinking Sprite and waiting for customers to buy cocaine from him. Or Talia, who comes in between tricks, using the bathroom for up to half an hour at a time. Maybe she’s shooting up? Maybe she’s just washing? No one asks and no one cares. They’re just people…I see that now. They’re just doing what they have to.

My boss, Randy, wanders through the long, narrow space, checking on his customers. He’s short and stocky in his jeans and pale green T-shirt, and he’s sweaty…so sweaty. It’s warm in here but it doesn’t account for the dark circles under his arms, the droplets on his forehead. I’ve never seen him use drugs, but it can be a side effect. He’s about fifty, I’d guess, but a hard fifty, his skin thick and gray and lined. His eyes are a cold, hard blue.

I refill Lewis’s Sprite. At the end of my shift, he’ll slip me ten bucks for serving him and looking the other way. It will be the most generous tip I’ll receive by far. Uncle Jack’s patrons don’t have a lot of extra money. A buck or two is standard, but a handful of coins is not uncommon. My eyes track Randy’s movements, and when he steps behind the counter, I make my move.

“Hey, Randy. I was wondering…I, uh, need a favor.”

He says nothing and shows no curiosity as he slowly pulls a glass of beer from the tap. I clear my throat and press on. “My car was broken into last night. The passenger window was smashed.” I leave out the minor detail that I was inside it at the time. “I took it to two different mechanics today and they both said it’ll cost over four hundred bucks to fix.”

Randy’s eyes meet mine over the beer glass. They’re blank, impossible to read.

“I was wondering if I could get an advance on my paycheck.”

“Check” is not a literal term. Randy pays me cash, under the table. While illegal, it’s more profitable for him and essential for me. I don’t even have a bank account anymore. If I did, my wages would be garnished to pay back my loans.

“I don’t do advances,” Randy says, taking a sip of the foamy beer.

“I don’t need the whole thing,” I continue. “Just a hundred bucks. And it’s only for a few days.”

“Nope.” He sets the glass down on the counter. “It’s my policy.”

“Please,” I say. “I really need this.”

Those blank eyes take me in, assessing me. My looks have deteriorated in the weeks since Randy hired me, stress and poverty taking their toll. I’m only thirty-four, but I feel—and look—older. If I still had my makeup, I could mask the fatigue and tension, but it’s on full display. I pulled my hair back with an elastic band, but frizzy tendrils have escaped in the humidity from the kitchen. Does my boss think I’m using? That I need the money for drugs?

“My car is parked in the back lot,” I add quickly. “You can see the broken window for yourself. The guy stole my purse and my phone.”

“If I do it for you, I have to do it for everyone,” he says with an indifferent shrug. “Sorry.”

A feeling of panic flutters in my chest. I can’t sleep unpro. . .