Trust Issues

by Elizabeth McCullough Keenan, Greg Wands

Genres: General Fiction; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Domestic Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

A fresh take on the classic conman chase novel following two adult siblings forced to play nice in hopes of tracking down the man they believe killed their mother and ran off with their sizable inheritance.

Siblings Hazel and Kagan Bailey haven’t been close for a long time, but when their mother passes under mysterious circumstances an investigation quickly follows, and the siblings are high on the list of possible suspects. As they deal with the emotional tragedy of losing their only living parent, brother and sister are forced to team up against a master con man—someone they once called “family”.

After the silver-tongued trickster disappears with the family fortune, Hazel and Kagan must put aside their differences to track him down. Along the way, they encounter a host of secrets, lies, and double-crosses as they dive into the murky waters of their family’s past. With an unlikely ally by their side, the siblings race against time, unraveling a web of deceit that’s more tangled than they ever imagined.

Packed with pulse-pounding suspense and sharp insights into the complexities of family, Trust Issues delivers shocking twists at every turn.

Release date: January 28, 2025

Publisher: Dutton

Print pages: 336

Sample

Chapter 1

Perry watches as the doorman retrieves his suitcase from the trunk of the parked sedan. He offers Perry a tentative smile, teeth clenched. "Good evening, Mr. Walters. How was your trip?"

"As well as could be hoped for, Theo." Perry shuts the door behind him and taps the roof of the car, sending it off.

"You have visitors waiting." Theo lowers his voice a shade. "A couple of detectives, from the NYPD."

As Perry picks up on the look of unease the young doorman is doing his best to mask, a hollow feeling creeps into the pit of his stomach. Distracted by the sensation in his gut, he's suddenly transported back to childhood, to an interaction with his mother.

When his older sister, Constance, abruptly left home, Perry began splitting his time between the one-screen movie house in his small town and the children's nook of the public library. He first encountered the expression "pit of the stomach" in one of the storybooks he read while working his way through the contents of the towering shelves. When Perry returned home that particular day, he asked his mother about the meaning behind the phrase. She mumbled something unintelligible in response, her voice thick with booze, before sucking down a long pull off her Pall Mall.

The sight of the duo awaiting him in the lobby snaps Perry back into the present, and he shakes off a chill that can't be blamed on the warm spring weather. He smooths his rumpled shirtfront with flat palms as a smartly dressed woman and a sinewy man with a neatly manicured goatee stand up from a pair of chairs. They both appear impossibly youthful for their job titles.

"Perry Walters?" asks the woman.

"Yes, that's me."

"Detective Gina Calabrese, with the NYPD. This is my partner, Detective Woodson." The young woman extends a hand, which Perry takes with his own. Her hair is collected in a bun, and her fresh face is devoid of all but a hint of makeup. There's a trace of Long Island in her voice. She's doing a fine job of keeping her expression neutral, but he can sense unease at the edge of her gaze. Her partner, meanwhile, offers a polite but solemn nod. "Mind if we have a word with you in private?"

"Is everything okay?" asks Perry, the churn in his gut ramping up. "Did something happen?"

"Mr. Walters," says Calabrese, her gaze shifting subtly toward the doorman. "It would be better if we spoke elsewhere."

"Of course." Perry leads Detective Calabrese toward the elevator as Detective Woodson takes Perry's suitcase and follows them down the hall. They step into the elevator and head upstairs.

"You've been traveling, sir?" asks Calabrese as she eyes the luggage.

"Yes, I was down in South Carolina these past few days, handling some family matters."

"I see," she says, and the detectives exchange a glance. A stilted silence ensues, until they arrive on the tenth floor and step out of the elevator. Perry leads the partners down the hall and opens the apartment door.

He studies the detectives as Calabrese subtly takes in the interior of the space-the extravagant artwork on the walls, the antique furniture, the Restoration Hardware light fixture above the long table, all courtesy of his wife Janice's deep pocketbook-while a deferential Woodson sets the suitcase in a corner and watches his partner closely for cues. After a moment, the young woman turns to Perry with a look of concern.

"Is there somewhere we can have a seat and talk, Mr. Walters?"

"Please, call me Perry." He points the detectives to the living room, then nods in the direction of the walnut-and-leather lounge chairs at either end of the coffee table. They take their seats as he lowers himself onto the sofa. Calabrese's eyes sweep across the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves built into the wall before landing uneasily on Perry. "You're the emergency contact for a Janice Thornhill?"

"Yes, she's my wife." He sets a hand on the arm of the sofa to steady himself. "Oh, God, is everything okay?"

"When's the last time you spoke with your wife, sir?"

"I called her as soon as I landed, but it went to voicemail."

Detective Calabrese blinks for a long second, as if trying to ward off the news she and her partner have come here to break. "I'm afraid there's been an accident."

Perry digs the heel of his other hand into the sofa cushion beside him. "What sort of . . . accident?"

"Your wife was found late this afternoon. I'm very sorry."

"Very sorry, sir," echoes Woodson.

"No." Perry tries desperately to suck air into his lungs as a sob erupts. He rocks back and forth, folding further into himself with each sway. "No, no, no." Oh, Janice. "This can't be."

The detectives say nothing as they allow Perry time to work through the horrific shock of the news. After a few long, agonizing moments, he straightens up, wipes the tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his oxford shirt, and squares his attention on Calabrese.

"Tell me what happened to her."

"Well, that's what we're trying to figure out, sir. Can you share a bit about your wife's typical routine?"

"Certainly." Perry clears his throat. "Janice spent most days working as a docent at the Cloisters, up near Inwood."

"A docent, you said?"

"Yes, sort of like a museum tour guide. It's a voluntary position. Mostly retired people, like us."

"I see." Detective Calabrese jots something in a notepad she's plucked from her jacket pocket. "So you're retired as well, Mr. Walters?"

"I am. I worked as a corporate accountant for many years."

"Uh-huh. And your wife was interested in art, I take it?"

"She was. Janice studied art history during undergrad. She's been an avid collector for years, and the museum position was the perfect fit."

"Right. And do you have a sense of what her postwork routine normally entailed?"

"On nice days, like today, she'd usually take a walk around the grounds after the museum closed at five, to have a look at the scenery. Then she'd get a car home. I'd often be coming back from bird-watching in Central Park, and so we'd discuss our time in nature with each other. It was one of our favorite parts of the day." Perry's voice cracks, and he takes a moment to compose himself. "I'm sorry, I'm just . . ."

"Nothing to apologize for. Please, take all the time you need."

He looks at the ceiling as he blinks away tears, then turns back to Calabrese and nods.

"Are you okay to go on?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Of course. Now, were you concerned when your wife failed to pick up her phone earlier?"

"Not particularly. Janice doesn't always answer. Neither of us is very tech savvy. And to be honest with you, I was still a bit distracted from the visit with my sister."

"In South Carolina."

"That's right."

"I see." Calabrese adds to her notes. "And I'm assuming your sister can confirm this?"

"I . . . well, I hope so, yes."

She catches Woodson's glance before cocking her head to the side and reassessing Perry. "You hope so?"

"My sister's memory is slipping. Considerably, I'm afraid. Part of the reason I went for a visit was to see what sort of shape she was in." He clears his throat. "I may have to set up other arrangements for her soon." Constance's current condition jarred Perry. It seemed these days that every time he showed up at the neglected old house on Hilton Head, his sister had slid further toward the abyss. The condition of the place, along with the woman's failing health, served as an unsettling reminder of impending mortality.

"I see. I'm sorry to hear that. Do you have any other family you can reach out to?"

"Well, I had a daughter." Perry stares off mournfully. "Once upon a time."

"Oh." Calabrese is quiet for a moment. "Again, I'm sorry."

"That's kind of you to say. Thank you." He returns his focus to her. "In any case, I'm sure I can provide you with the ticket stubs from my flights, and the car receipts." He offers both detectives a grim look. "I realize you have a job to do."

"That would be appreciated." There's a trace of bashfulness in the detective's expression. "Now, I just want to pivot back for a moment, Mr. Walters. Would you say your wife got along with her work colleagues, as far as you were aware?"

"I believe so, yes. There was a lot of competition around landing that position, if you can believe it. Lots of lobbying, getting the right recommendation, that sort of thing. There's a certain cachet to being a docent, and I know Janice engendered some animosity at first." He studies Calabrese's eyes as he assesses her question and finds in them a look of morbid curiosity. What exactly is this young detective angling at? "Why are you asking about this? Didn't you say that her death was accidental?"

Detective Calabrese straightens up nearly imperceptibly in the chair, and her partner unconsciously mirrors the movement. "Sir," she says, "your wife was discovered at the bottom of a steep incline near the base of a stone wall surrounding one of the lookout points in the park. It's entirely possible that she simply lost her balance and tumbled over the wall, but the trajectory of the fall suggests there may have been foul play involved."

"Foul play?" Perry's stomach clenches up all over again.

"Yes, sir. We think it's possible someone may have pushed her over that wall."

A fog of silence fills the space as Perry grapples with the thought. "But who in the hell would have . . ."

"That's what I was hoping you might be able to help us answer. You don't think it's possible anyone at work was harboring a big enough grudge to do this sort of thing?"

"It's a museum job, for Christ's sake!" Perry catches the emotion in his voice and takes a long, slow breath. "I'm sorry, Detective."

"Completely understandable." She marks something down in the notepad. "And you'd describe your wife as a happy person overall?"

"Happy? Yes, I mean, all in all. Why do you ask?"

Calabrese swallows nervously. "I don't mean to be indelicate, Mr. Walters, but I just need to rule out all . . . possibilities here."

Perry laughs in spite of himself. "Detective, I can't tell you with any certainty what happened to Janice, but I can absolutely assure you that my wife did not take her own life. In addition to being a person of devout faith, she was the most positive human being I've ever known. The thought would never have crossed her mind."

"I see."

"This was a woman who truly looked at every day as a gift filled with the possibility of infinite surprise. And not in that sunny affirmation, self-help way. She really felt the truth of it, as hokey as that might sound. There was a passage from Corinthians that she liked to quote, about God's temple being holy, and each one of us being that temple." Perry swipes away a looming tear. "No, Detective, you can go ahead and take that idea right off the table."

"Okay, Mr. Walters. I hear what you're saying." She makes a note. "Which brings us back to my previous question. Is there anyone else you can think of, outside her job, who may have had an issue with your wife?"

Perry's focus fuzzes out for a stretch before landing squarely back on Calabrese. His jaw tightens as the lids over his eyes narrow. "You know what, Detective? I think there just might be."

Chapter 2

Hazel knows she's pushing too hard, but she can't control herself. If she doesn't find Adam, she's going to lose it. This isn't like him, and she's starting to think she should call the police. The only thing stopping her is the possibility that he is fine; maybe his phone died or he had an emergency that has kept him from returning her many, many calls and texts. How would that look to him? Like she's taking their relationship a lot more seriously than he is. They haven't been together long enough to merit a call to the authorities. No, she can't go there yet.

Hazel trembles as she taps Adam's number on her phone. She hasn't slept more than an hour the entire night, tossing and turning, waiting for some message letting her know that he's okay. The voicemail prompt comes on after two rings, and she screams into her room and disconnects. This is the same result she's gotten for the past twenty-four hours since he failed to show up for their date yesterday. She can't leave another message.

Hazel tries everything she can think of to no avail. She's already gone by his place on the Upper East Side and buzzed his apartment, but nothing. She has an irking feeling that something terrible has happened. He wouldn't just disappear off the face of the earth like this.

She recalls their conversations earlier this week, trying to mine her memories for some missed comment or clue that would explain things. She tenses thinking about their argument last week, when Adam criticized her for being too distracted. She was the one to pick a fight, accusing him of being secretive and aloof lately, and he turned it back on her instantly. He'd been more or less supportive of her online persona and social media platforms, if not apathetic. Hazel assumed it was because he felt a little jealous about her admirers, who she explained were necessary to her only for their monetary validation. They'd started dating around the time she'd hit her stride with the MeTube channel she'd built up, and initially, he'd been amused, then aloof. Last week, he was judgmental.

"The social media stuff has completely consumed you," he said disapprovingly. They'd just had sex, and as soon as he got up to shower, she got on her laptop and started filming her next video.

"You sound like my mother," she replied.

"She's a smart woman, then."

"Is this about my stalker?" she asked, wondering if her most ardent fan, JanArt54, who'd liked and commented on every single post she'd ever made, actually bothered him. Hazel had mentioned this follower more than once to spur Adam's jealousy, which may have worked.

"Your followers are wing nuts. And honestly, your channel is unhinged."

Adam didn't spend the night and didn't call or message her for two days. She was raw and pissed off, but she was proud of herself for not calling him or sending any fishing texts. Her unavailability worked, and Adam suggested lunch and a walk in the park, which she happily accepted. But his comments rooted in Hazel's body like a splinter.