The Missing Woman

by Georgina Cross

Genres: Coming of Age; Family Life; Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction; Mystery; Police Procedurals; Noir; Romantic Suspense; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

“I was totally hooked from the beginning” ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ “I could not put it down!!!” ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ “Had me gripped to my core” ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ “Seriously addictive… jaw-dropping” ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ They live in the big houses on the pretty street. Those other women, as we call them. And to think I used to want to be like them, to have their money and happiness, to live and laugh and play like them. Not any more. It’s the fourth of July and the whole town is gathered at the local pool. Through the sweltering afternoon, we single mothers don’t mix with the other women––the ones with the perfect lives and happy marriages. Women like Sabine Miller. But when Sabine shoots me a desperate look across the water and suddenly disappears, my blood runs cold… Running to the back gate, all I find is a silver charm bracelet she dropped on her way out. I convince myself I’m imagining things until Sabine’s husband Mark appears. When he realizes she’s missing, he phones the cops straight away. “Someone has been threatening Sabine,” he says. “Now they’ve kidnapped her.” Hours later, I wish I’d run faster. The whole town is searching the streets, calling Sabine’s name over and over. On the TV, Mark is begging for someone to bring his wife home. The truth is, I was the last person to see her alive––and it’s killing me inside. Now the cops are at my door asking questions. I’m terrified they’ll find out what happened years ago between me and Sabine. Something I’ve never told anyone. But I need to tell someone. Can you keep a secret? From bestselling author Georgina Cross, the most exciting new voice in suspense, comes a twisted and unputdownable psychological thriller about the power and damage of secrets behind closed doors. Perfect for anyone who was totally hooked by The Wife Between Us, Big Little Lies or Gone Girl. Readers are utterly gripped by The Missing Woman! “ Well I did not see that one coming my goodness!!!... It was genius!!... Had me gripped to my core. I could not put it down!!!... The twist had my jaw on the ground.” Goodreads Reviewer ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ “ Wow, wow, wow!!!!! I’m speechless… I couldn’t put it down for the life on me… Don’t miss out on this one!!!!!” Blue Moon Blogger ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ “ Wow! Fantastic book that grabbed me at page one and didn’t let go until the very last word. So many fantastic twists and turns!… Huge five stars from me!” Goodreads Reviewer ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ “ Seriously addictive!... I just could not stop turning the pages… It’s jaw-dropping… This domestic thriller will completely consume you, it’s twisty and compelling.” Goodreads Reviewer ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ “ WOW!! The mystery and suspense were intense. When you thought you knew what was going to happen she threw something else in to totally throw you off.” Heidi Lynn’s Book Reviews ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ “ Ooh I have loved this one. It’s a book which I haven’t been able to put down! I have been completely addicted from start to finish… Read in one sitting.” Goodreads Reviewer ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ “An electric thriller that kept me wanting more, excited and eager for the jaw-dropping conclusion. I absolutely love this book… I highly recommend it.” Goodreads Reviewer ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Release date: January 6, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

There they sit. On one side of the neighborhood pool, Sabine and her crew with their monogrammed towels and teal tumblers with initials emblazoned on the sides. Hers reads SLM for Sabine Lorelei Miller, on the off chance someone could accidentally pick up her wine spritzer. Everything monogrammed: the calling card of Southern women.

It’s hard not to notice the three women lying side by side on their lounge chairs wearing matching green sun visors, their hair pulled back into ponytails: Monica’s hair jet-black; Sabine, a honey-blonde; and Carol, a natural redhead. Even their personalities have corresponding hair colors.

Their street is called Honors Row. Not my street, theirs. We live in the same neighborhood but orbit in entirely different circles. Those other women, as we call them. They’re beautiful, everything I look up to. And I used to want to be like them, to have their money and happiness, to live and laugh and play, enjoying perfect marriages. But not anymore.

My daughter closes the pool gate behind me, a metal clang that hits sharply against the post and my gaze snaps away from Sabine and back to the present, my family’s Fourth of July celebration at the pool.

Our group squeezes onto the patio: me and my two kids, hot and sweaty from dragging our bags across the asphalt parking lot, and my best friend Tish with her five-year-old son, Charlie. Charlie’s cheeks are blotchy pink from the heat with his arms shoved into a pair of swim floaties.

“Erica, grab this, will you?” Tish asks me, off-loading one of the kids’ pool noodles so she can readjust her grip on the rolling cooler. One of the wheels is turned sideways against the pavement and I make a mental note to replace the cooler soon.

Jostling the noodle under my arm, I feel it slip, my hands loaded down with three canvas bags and car keys dangling from my fingertips, and nudge the noodle in the direction of my eleven-year-old daughter. Lydia takes it without saying a word; she’s too busy scanning the pool for friends.

I look too. The pool is packed and who can blame everyone for coming out? There’s a reason why July in Huntsville, Alabama is called Hell’s Front Porch. Situated at the base of the Appalachian Mountains, our neighborhood takes shelter in the shadow of Monte Sano at night, our homes stretched across the sweeping valley. But during the day, and especially during the summer, nothing but heat.

Blinding sun beams off the concrete, the water glaring an electric blue, and I bob my head once to let my sunglasses drop from my forehead to cover my eyes. The oversized thermometer on the clubhouse wall shows the temperature holding steady at a heatstroke-inducing ninety-five degrees. It’s five o’clock. Three more hours until sunset.

The main reason we’re here is the fireworks show tonight. The July Fourth holiday where we can stay at the pool and watch Roman candles dazzle the night sky, our faces tilted upwards as we clap and cheer. Every year, our neighborhood pulls out all the stops and this summer will be no different. The fireworks are said to be bigger than the last spectacle with everyone invited to the party—so long as you’ve paid your membership dues. The membership fees, I admit, I’ve spent months saving up for.

A group of children line up to have their faces painted. They’re donning American flag swimsuits and holding popsicles melting in the sun. The clubhouse manager strolls past wearing a blue-and-white sundress and she calls out, “Happy July Fourth!” as we tell her the same.

Everyone is so cheerful and I know I’ll remember this moment. A freeze frame in time before the fireworks fill the sky.

Tish walks ahead, her long blonde hair hiked in a messy bun, tiny wisps curling around her forehead. We follow, and so begins the process for us to find a place to sit. A table would be best, lounge chairs even better, but so late in the day and with the fireworks show scheduled for this evening, we’ll settle for a single chair if we’re lucky.

Halfway around the deck, sweat is dripping behind my ears and Taylor, my youngest daughter, who’s seven, pulls at her ponytail that’s slick against her head. Our flip-flops beat a rhythmic rubber thwacking sound across the concrete as we move steadily through the crowd.

Tish side-steps a crying child, swim diaper ready to bust. A man sunscreens his son from head to toe, the kid puffing out his cheeks to hold his breath. Music pumps from the club speakers, surround sound blasting a Today’s Hits playlist while kids shoot down the water slide, each child hollering louder than the last as mothers at the bottom scoop away their paddling toddlers.

Tish spots a solitary chair and she rushes over, plunking down her bags as if planting a flag. I hurry to throw my stuff down too before surveying our area, the four by six patch of concrete we’ve commandeered for ourselves. More sweat pools along my hairline, and I reach back, twisting the knot at my neck tighter.

Another look at the towels littered at our feet. One chair. Five people.

But Tish is on the move. She’s spotted a seat a family doesn’t appear to be using anymore and asks in the polite voice I’ve heard her use during countless budget meetings at work if we can have it. The woman says yes, without so much as looking up from her magazine.

Tish drags the chair over. “Beer me,” she says.

With a grin, I pull two Blue Moons from the cooler and slip them into koozies, tossing the twist caps into my bag as we take long, deep sips. But before us, our brood is growing antsy, ready to bolt, and I set aside the bottle and hand Tish a can of SPF 50.

We go to town, coating our children with sunscreen, paying extra attention to the tender skin below their eyes, especially Charlie’s freckly nose. Lydia insists on doing her own and carefully runs a sunscreen stick up and down her face with the precision of someone who has been experimenting with my makeup at home. She snaps the cap back in place, done.

Tish and my two kids are close, just as I am with her son, Charlie. She’s practically an aunt to my children, having known them since they were small with Tish being an almost constant fixture in our lives. She and Charlie live just around the corner and come around often. We’re both divorced so we also have that turmoil in common. And we work at the same aerospace and defense contractor, jobs we fell into after years of government proposal work, even though these days, I find I’m growing increasingly bored. Something lately has left me distracted.

Taylor shimmies to escape my clutches, her arms covered with white-streaked sunscreen I’m attempting to rub in.

“You’re good,” I tell her and her shoulders relax, but then I apply one more blast to the back of her neck and she shrieks, “Quit it!” with a gap-toothed smile.

I swat my daughter playfully on the butt and smack the back of Charlie’s legs too. “Get out of here. Go swim,” I laugh.

The younger two scamper toward the shallow end, water toys clutched in their hands. Lydia runs in search of friends near the diving board.

And I sit back, letting out my breath, willing for the peace to come. But I didn’t know how short-lived that would be.

Sabine Miller stands up. That’s not a big deal, everyone stands up from their chair now and again to go to the bathroom, buy something from the clubhouse café, walk around and talk to friends—but she’s leaving before the fireworks. She’s pulling her white coverup over her shoulders and slipping it down her waist, sliding one foot into her flip-flop and then another, collecting her magazine, drink cup, and car keys before saying something to Monica and Carol. Her friends motion for her to sit back down.

She gestures to the parking lot and then somewhere in the distance, maybe her home. The women scrunch their faces, but Sabine lifts her cooler as if assuring them she’ll restock their drinks and will be right back. Carol shakes her tumbler—it’s empty—and Monica cracks a joke that makes all three of them laugh.

Monica and Carol are wearing nearly identical two-pieces, the kind with a twisted bandeau top that shows off their toned stomachs and sculpted arms. They do enough Pilates and walk enough miles around Green Cove to earn their bodies, Sabine too. Most mornings, I see the three of them power walking toward the nature preserve while I’m on my way to work, their ponytails and green visors bobbing in unison. I’m lucky if I can squeeze in a jog on the weekends.

I look away and plop down beside Tish. She hikes her foot on the chair and frowns at the Dark Raven nail polish that’s chipping on her toes.

The sun is boiling on our heads and since we aren’t lucky enough to secure an umbrella, the sweat is spreading across my lower back and into the cotton of my coverup, the material sticking to my skin. But I know we’re content to sit for a little while longer. We do this every time—get the kids in the pool first before finishing our beers and jumping in the water.

A deep-bellied laugh catches my attention and I look up. It’s one of the dads, Tom Humphries, making a cannonball splash in the deep end. Tom sells enough real estate to keep a home on Honors Row, his immaculate front yard awarded the recent Garden of the Month with his wife, Genevieve, responsible for sending the Green Cove newsletter every Sunday with the precision of a schoolteacher. Her latest email announced an increase in homeowner’s dues, the money supposedly essential for maintaining the grounds and all six miles of painted fence. But I’m almost positive it’s paying for the upkeep of the waterfall entrance at Honors Row. Genevieve stretches out on a chair, her perfectly pedicured toes pointing in the sun.

I also spot Jeff Maddox, my neighbor from two streets over. He’s kneeling at the edge of the pool helping his daughter with her float. When he sees me, he waves awkwardly and I wave awkwardly in return.

We went on a date once, Jeff and me. It fell flat, the highlight of the night being a shared plate of chicken curry at a local Thai place. Making conversation with Jeff was like trudging through mud. Talking about the weather might have been easier or perhaps lawn care, as I see him cutting his grass every weekend.

After that, I told Tish, no more dating neighbors. It’s bad enough we might run into each other at the pool but driving past each other or bumping into one another at the grocery store too?

We started using dating apps instead and with much better success. Tish met someone who lives about twenty minutes away in Harvest. He’s divorced with kids about the same age as Charlie. But he freaked her out recently, talking about second chances and getting remarried. Tish assures me they’re taking it slow. And I’ve just started seeing a guy named Terry. We messaged a little bit last week before going on our first date. I’m hoping we’ll be able to meet up again next weekend. Terry is divorced with no kids and sells software for a tech company. At least he laughs at my jokes which is something Jeff Maddox couldn’t manage to do.

I hear the bounce of the diving board and it’s Lydia, ready to jump, fingers pinched against her nose with one arm raised above her head. She comes down with a splash and when she surfaces, she spins toward me, her eyes blinking away the water as she smiles. I cheer and Tish looks up, clapping too.

A shout from across the deep end—it’s Carol. She’s cupping a hand to her mouth and calling to her daughters to, “Flip off the swan!” before reaching for Sabine’s arm and gripping it tightly, insisting she watches before she goes.

Carol’s daughter hoists her body up and over the swan inflatable before rising to her feet, steadying herself for one moment, two, before pushing off to a front flip, the float shooting behind her and skimming across the water. The girl breaks free to the surface. “Good girl!” Carol shouts, and her youngest daughter scrambles for a turn.

Monica says something to Sabine which prompts both women to smile at Monica’s sons floating lazily on nearby rafts, neither of them lifting their heads at the commotion. Sabine doesn’t have children.

Sabine hikes the cooler bag higher on her arm and blows the women a kiss, her wrist showing off a slew of silver bangles, one with a bright blue charm. Sunlight beams off the charm with a flash. Her friends blow a kiss back but it’s rushed. They’re turning their heads to watch the next girl jump.

Sabine shifts where she stands. She wants to say something, her eyes pinched, lips parting, as if a thought is charging swiftly across her brain. But the moment passes and her face goes still. Her friends are no longer paying attention.

She looks down at her feet, at the water. Across the pool. Our eyes lock.

And I catch my breath, my body halting in position. But I don’t look away.

It’s a coincidence, that’s what it is. I’m in her line of sight. She’s staring at something in the distance, someone standing behind me or the new row of crape myrtles planted behind the gate.

But no, there’s no mistaking it. We’re across the deep end from one another, a short enough distance—less than twenty feet—for me to know her eyes are fixated on mine. Her smile is gone and replaced with something hard. Wincing. Pleading and pained.

And something else—am I imagining this—does she look terrified?

A chill tingles across my scalp, the moment slicing through time. The look only lasts a few seconds but it’s long enough. An unsettled sensation races down my spine until all I want to do is break free from her gaze and look anywhere else.

We’ve just shared something—I have no idea what it is but it’s there. She thought of something. She remembered something. And I’m the only one who saw the shadow fall across her face.

But what, Sabine?

What could possibly be wrong with your life? And why look at me? We orbit in entirely different worlds. You live on Honors Row, and I do not. We don’t attend the same dinner parties. We only share this neighborhood pool.

But I don’t get to ask because Sabine turns her head and she’s gone, the pool gate slamming behind her.

And the truth is, if I’d called out to her, I’m not sure if she would have told me anyway. I’m not someone she would confide to. Despite the heat, I suddenly feel cold.

“Ladies, is she here? Have you seen her?”

I’m on the other side of the pool standing in line with the kids who have been begging the last hour to have their faces painted. Mark Miller, Sabine’s husband, is heading directly to where Sabine’s friends are sitting and when he reaches them, I can’t help but lean to one side to listen. I’m unable to forget that look she gave me.

And something else, a bracelet I found near the gate. Silver with a bright blue charm and looking very much like the one she had been wearing on her wrist. Another strange coincidence—me finding this jewelry while a crowd rallied around the snow cone truck, the kids pleading with their parents for money.

How did it drop—the bangle? Did it get tangled when Sabine hoisted the cooler bag up her arm, the clasp coming loose? And in her hurry, did she not hear the bracelet drop to the ground?

The bracelet is shoved in my pool bag now. I’m thinking I can bring it to Sabine when she returns. I can hand it to her quickly or leave it on her chair when her friends aren’t paying attention. We don’t have to speak.

But Mark is perched on the side of Sabine’s chair and looking sorely out of place from everyone else in his khaki pants, tie, and button-down shirt. An American flag button pinned to his chest, the man in constant campaign mode.

He lifts his shoes, an expensive-looking pair of brown leather loafers, when he realizes he’s parked his feet in a puddle of water. He keeps a steady gaze on Sabine’s best friends.

Mark Miller, our county commissioner, is running for a second term this fall with billboards lined up and down the parkway, his golden hair and brilliant white teeth smiling upon every commuter, his radio commercials promising continued transparency for local government. The election is this November and a slam dunk if you ask me. Many of our neighbors are voting for him.

He’s intense but well-loved. A shining star in local politics who can do no wrong. The addition of the new surgery center at the hospital is his major coup, along with the economic growth he’s secured the last few years. Several companies have also announced they’re relocating their headquarters to North Alabama and bringing more jobs with them. Mark Miller is everything and more you would want in your county commissioner and it doesn’t hurt he is also drop-dead gorgeous.

“Sabine?” Monica says as Mark waits for an answer.

“Yes. She’s here, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, but…” She leans over and taps Carol on the arm. “She went back to the house, right, Carol? Isn’t that where she said she was going?”

Carol lolls her head to one side. “She went to get us more drinks.” She glances at the time. “But that was like an hour ago.”

He presses his phone to his ear. “She’s not answering. I’ve called several times and nothing.” Motioning at Monica, he asks, “Can you try?”

In front of me, two chairs open up and Taylor and Charlie leap forward as Taylor points at a picture and asks, “What about this?” or “What about a ladybug?” and I nod faintly, not sure if she’s asking me or Charlie, or the teenage girls assigned to face paint, because my head is tilted, painfully aware I’m still eavesdropping.

Monica frowns. “She’s not picking up for me either. Maybe she has it on silent.”

Carol shrugs. “Or maybe she ran to the store and left it in the car.”

“I thought you were supposed to be at work?” Monica says.

“I was but I finished early,” he says. “Thought it’d be nice to join you all and surprise Sabine. Come up here and watch the fireworks.”

“You’re so good,” Monica tells him. “So sweet. Frank’s not bothering.”

“Ted neither,” Carol adds.

He picks up his phone and tries again. “Why won’t she answer?” A long, heavy pause as he stares at the pool. “I think something’s wrong.”

The women don’t respond, and something about their silence is eerie. Carol’s shoulders stiffen. The hair on the back of my neck tingles with alarm.

“Last night,” Mark begins. “She was spooked.”

Monica whips her head. “We were all spooked.” She rubs at something on her towel, her fingers pressing harder. “She’ll be fine.”

Mark stands up. “Something’s not right. I’m going home. I need to check.”

She reaches out to him but he pulls away, looking worried.

“They won’t try it again,” she says.

But Mark doesn’t look so sure. His often confident-looking face now appears terrified. Almost in a whisper he says, “You know as well as I do she shouldn’t have gone home by herself.”

My daughter Lydia’s voice from the backseat: “What’s happening?”

Less than a half mile from the pool, we’re rounding the corner to Honors Row when we spot police cars lined up and down the street.

We don’t normally take this route home; it’s much faster to cut through the back of the neighborhood around the other side of the golf course. But with the fireworks show finished, the crowd oohing and aahing at every pop, aerial, and bang, the kids begged us to drive past the waterfall, the multiple tiers of water splashing and cascading down the rocks. The kids reminded us how they light up the landscaping for the July Fourth celebrations.

But it looks like we won’t be seeing the light show today.

Lydia leans forward, her face appearing between the front seats, her eyes wide and unblinking, as she asks, “Whose house is that?”

Tish stares out the window. “I think it’s the Millers’.”

I slow down, a soft churn in my stomach.

Tish puts a hand to her chest. “I hope everything’s okay.”

I count eight patrol cars in all, their blue-and-red lights strobing against the Millers’ chateau-white walls. Just beyond their roof, the sky lights up with the flare of a neighbor’s firework, the pop and sizzle making my hands flex against the steering wheel.

A police officer stands in the middle of the street and directs us to turn around. I do what he instructs but only after coming to a near crawl, my foot pressing gently on the brake, my speed dropping to five miles an hour. My head, along with every one of my passengers’ heads, swiveling to get a better look.

The front door of the Millers’ house opens revealing a chandelier the size of my kitchen table rippling light against the foyer, a vestibule of marble floors and a grand curved staircase with several police officers assembled inside. Someone steps onto the front porch and closes the door, the light shining behind them through a patchwork of diamond shapes cut in the glass. He’s clutching an evidence bag and runs it down the sidewalk to a waiting patrol car. They drive off, and in their place, a news van pulls up, and then another.

I look for Mark, any signs of Sabine, but there are only police officers from what I can tell, the front sitting room filling with the outlines of black uniforms. An ambulance is parked out front with its doors shut—no indication it’s racing to the hospital any time soon. My stomach churns again.

“This doesn’t look good,” Tish says, but she coughs lightly, covering her mouth as if she didn’t mean to say the words out loud, doesn’t want to scare the children, but everyone hears. There’s not a sound from anyone else in the car.

In my rearview mirror, a minivan pulls in behind me, the driver forced to turn around too. T. . .