Forgive Me - Hardcover

Palmer, Daniel

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 075829347X ISBN 13: 9780758293473

Publisher: Kensington, 2016

Synopsis

In a heart-pounding thriller from one of the most innovative voices in contemporary suspense, a woman unravels the shocking truth about her parents, her past, and a life built upon an unthinkable lie.

At DeRose & Associates Private Investigators in Virginia, Angie DeRose strives to find and rescue endangered runaways--work that stands in stark contrast to her own safe, idyllic childhood. But in the wake of her mother's sudden death, Angie makes a life-altering discovery. Hidden among the mementos in her parents' attic is a photograph of a little girl, with a code and a hand-written message on the back: "May God forgive me."

Angie has no idea what it means or how to explain other questionable items among her mother's possessions. Her father claims to know nothing. Could Angie have a sister or other relative she was never told about? Bryce Taggart, the US Marshal working with her agency, agrees to help Angie learn the fate of the girl in the photograph. But the lies she and Bryce unearth will bring her past and present together with terrifying force. And everything she cherishes will be threatened by the repercussions of one long-ago choice--and an enemy who will kill to keep a secret hidden forever.

Praise for the novels of Daniel Palmer

Constant Fear

"An electrifying thriller with action that keeps you on the edge of your seat!" --Lisa Jackson, New York Times bestselling author

Desperate

"If you've somehow missed reading Daniel Palmer, it's time to--pardon the pun--get Desperate." --Harlan Coben

"Firmly places Palmer alongside the likes of Harlan Coben and Lisa Gardner." --The Providence Journal

Stolen

"Unrelentingly suspenseful." --Publishers Weekly

"A twisting, suspenseful chiller of a book." --William Landay

Helpless

"Warning: once you start reading this novel, you will not stop!" --Lisa Gardner

Delirious

"Not just a great thriller debut, but a great thriller, period." --Lee Child

About this title

About the Author

Daniel Palmer is the author of five critically-acclaimed suspense novels. After receiving his master's degree from Boston University, he spent a decade as an e-commerce pioneer. A recording artist, accomplished blues harmonica player, and lifelong Red Sox fan, Daniel lives in New Hampshire with his wife and two children where he is currently at work on his next novel. Visit his website at www.danielpalmerbooks.com.

Reviews

High school student Nadine Jessup, the heroine of this derivative thriller from Palmer (Desperate), lives with her divorced, alcoholic mother, Carolyn, in Potomac, Md. Tired of taking care of Carolyn and certain that neither of her parents wants her, Nadine takes off for Union Station in Washington, D.C., where she's targeted by a predator. The naive teen believes the man's pitch that he runs an entertainment agency and that she has the look he's been searching for. A month later, a distraught Carolyn calls on Virginia PI Angie DeRose, who specializes in missing person cases. Angie searches for Nadine, but after Angie's mother's sudden death, the investigator finds herself increasingly distracted by her own family concerns. Frequent excerpts from Nadine's diary, which detail her terrible fate as she's forced into a life of sexual slavery, fail to convince. Palmer has displayed more ingenuity at plotting and created more sympathetic and complex characters in his other books. Agent: Meg Ruley, Jane Rotrosen Agency. (June)\n

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Forgive Me

By DANIEL PALMER

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

Copyright © 2016 Daniel Palmer
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-7582-9347-3

CHAPTER 1

Nadine had thought about running away for years. She lived in a nice colonial house in Potomac, Maryland, but home was hell. She was supposed to be the child, so why was she the one taking care of her mother? It wasn't fair. No, not right at all. Her mother had always loved to drink, but it was different after Dad left. Wine used to make her giddy, but now it just made her slur her words.

Nadine had begged her father to let her come live with him, but he was too busy with work to look after her, or so he'd said. She'd be better at home with Mom, he'd said. Ha! He should come and see what Mom had become since he'd left them for that bitch.

She tried to tell her father what it was like living with Mom. Weekends spent in bed. Often there was no food in the refrigerator, and Nadine would have to do all the shopping (driving illegally, but always carefully, on her learner's permit) and the cooking, not to mention the cleaning. Mom walked into walls, tripped over her own feet.

Somehow her mother still had a job. She worked for Verizon, doing something in customer service. How she got to work each day, given her evening's alcohol consumption, was nothing short of a miracle. Her get-ready ritual involved a lot more than a shower, some makeup, and breakfast. Her mother needed half the Visine bottle to get the red out. She often turned on bathroom faucets full strength to mask the sound of retching.

She'd come downstairs, cupping what looked like a handful of aspirin in her palm, and bark something unpleasant at Nadine. "Turn down that TV. I have a headache."

Of course you do, Nadine would think.

"Is that what you're wearing? You look like a tramp." It never failed. Mom's mouth would open and something cruel, something cutting, would spill out.

"I made the honors list," Nadine announced on the fifteenth day of March, the day she finally ran away.

Her mother rubbed at her pounding temples as she poured a cup of coffee flavored with Kahlüa. Something to take the edge off, she would say.

"You better, for what we pay that private school," was her mother's reply.

Nadine's chest felt heavy, throat dry, while her eyes watered. She would not give her mother the satisfaction of seeing her cry again. Her mother would pounce if a single tear leaked out.

"Toughen up, Nadine," she'd say. "The world is a brutal place, and you'd best have a thicker skin."

Her mother's jabs always held a hint of truth, which made them hurt even more. Nadine's school was expensive, that was a fact. But her father paid most of the tuition.

Money, it seemed, was the only thing that wasn't a problem in Nadine's life. Dad sent them plenty. He said he was happy to support them, but Nadine knew the truth. He was assuaging (an SAT word she'd recently learned) his guilt.

He didn't want her in his life. He wanted his new, young wife and no kids to hassle them. He wanted to travel and go to all the fancy restaurants he posted on his Facebook feed. One look at her dad's profile page and it was obvious a kid didn't fit into the picture. After the divorce, her father had moved to Philadelphia — Bryn Mawr East, to be exact — with a new executive position at an insurance company and a new woman in his life. He posted a few photos of Nadine, but those were all recent. No "Throwback Thursday" posts (#tbt in Facebook parlance) on her dad's page. No pictures of Nadine aged infant to tween; no evidence of his former life, aka his great mistake as he'd called his marriage during an epic pre-divorce blowout.

That was how he viewed his family. That was all Nadine was to him — a great mistake.

Apparently her mother felt the same way.

Nadine's last meal at home was chicken casserole, which she prepared using a recipe she got off the Internet. Her mother downed a bottle of wine with the meal. In her drunken stupor, she failed to notice the shoes Nadine had left in front of the closet door. Her mother tripped over the shoes and fell to the floor, twisting her ankle on the way down.

Nadine apologized. She had meant to put the shoes where they belonged, but was preoccupied with school, and dinner, and her too many responsibilities.

Her mother was hearing none of it. She went to the couch and applied ice to the injury, then poured herself another glass of wine, allegedly because it helped with the pain.

"Sorry again, Mom," Nadine said. "Are you okay?"

Her mother's eyes were red as her nail polish. "You're so thoughtless, Nadine," she slurred. "How am I going to go to work now? I can't even walk. Sometimes I wish your father would let you go live with him. I know that's what you want."

That was it. That did it. Enough was enough. Her father didn't want her. Neither did her mother. The choice was made not by her, but for her. Nobody wanted Nadine, so nobody had to have her.

After her mother slipped into drunken sleep, Nadine took all of the money they kept in the house — $400-some dollars — and her mother's jewelry and walked out the door with a school knapsack filled with clothes instead of books. She walked to Montgomery Mall, about four and half miles, then took a Metrobus downtown. She had plenty of money to spend, plus whatever a pawnshop would give her for the jewelry.

Pretending to be her mother, Nadine had called in sick to school. It was that easy. Her mother would take the day off to nurse her injured ankle — she'd already sent the e-mail to her boss. She'd wake up late and hung over, and think Nadine was at school. She'd think that until five o'clock rolled around.

Then she'd wonder. Maybe she'd call some of Nadine's friends. It would be seven ... and then eight ... and then panic. Maybe panic. Or maybe not. She'd probably be happy. Relieved to be rid of Nadine once and for all.

Nadine didn't know what her mother was thinking. She'd been gone for three days without calling home. She'd found a motel on the far side of the city that didn't bother to check ID, didn't care that she was a sixteen-year-old girl out on her own.

The question was what to do with all the time on her hands. She enjoyed school and did her homework diligently. She loved English especially, loved to escape into other people's happy or miserable lives and forget about her own for a while. She found a used bookstore off Dupont Circle and bought several books, including the entire Testing Trilogy by Joelle Charbonneau. She devoured all three volumes in the span of two days. But something was missing. Idle time to read had in some ways diminished the pleasure.

She was wandering aimlessly in Union Station, admiring the shops and all the things she had no money to buy, wondering how to pass the day, when a man approached.

He was tall and good-looking for an older man, with a nicely round head sporting a buzz cut like Jason Statham's, and a clean-shaven face. His most notable feature was a pair of piercing blue eyes. He carried a bag from Heydari Design, which Nadine knew sold women's clothing and accessories.

"Can I ask you something?" he said to her.

He had a foreign accent, Nadine thought. But it was subtle. Something distinct — sophisticated was the word that came to mind — something like a count would use. He was dressed sharply in a tailored navy suit, blue oxford underneath, no tie. His shoes were polished black loafers.

Nadine gazed at the man, unable to speak before finding her voice. "Yes," was all she said. Why is he talking to me? What could he want? Did Mom put out a missing persons report? Does he recognize me? Am I in trouble? Will he call the police? Will they take me to jail? Worse, will they take me back home?

"I just bought something for my daughter. She's about your age. But after I left the store, I was hit with doubt. I could use a second opinion. She likes the color blue, if that helps any."

From inside the Heydari bag, he removed a twilight blue linen- blend scarf, fringed at the ends for a touch of sophistication. It was lovely, something Nadine would have bought for herself if she had money to spend on such purchases. Books and food were all she could afford to buy. Plus she needed money for her motel room. Where else was she going to sleep? There was a lot more to running away from home than she had contemplated.

"I think she'll love it." Nadine meant it, too. To her surprise, her chest suddenly felt heavy. Here was a dad doing something lovely and thoughtful for his daughter. Her father gave her birthday presents, but always mailed them. It was never anything she wanted because he didn't take the time to get to know her tastes, her color palette.

Her father was nothing like this one, she decided.

"Thank you. I feel a bit more confident now."

That accent, where was it from? European? "You're welcome," Nadine said.

The man nodded his thanks, turned to leave, but stopped. He seemed to be appraising her in a way that made her feel vulnerable. "This is going to sound odd," he said as he took out his wallet.

Does he think I need a handout? Nadine was mortified to think she looked so bedraggled (another SAT word) that he suspected she was homeless and in need.

To her great relief, he took out a business card instead of cash. "I run an entertainment agency, and I'm always on the lookout for new talent. If you don't mind my saying, you have a great look. Almost like a Jennifer Lawrence type."

Nadine had to suppress a laugh. JLaw? Her? Come on. Nadine didn't think herself exceptional in any way. She was average at everything — height, weight, academics, sports. Name it, and she fit smack dab in the middle, undistinguished and undistinguishable from her peers. Her hair color was brown, eyes brown, and that's what it would say on the missing person posters if her mother bothered to file a report. Weight 118, height 5'3". Average. Perfectly average.

She blushed.

"I'm not saying you look like her exactly," the man explained. "But there's something about you that's very compelling. I'm not kidding. I find talent for TV, movies, reality shows. It's a booming business these days with so many places for content."

Nadine shrugged. She didn't know what to say. She looked down at the card. Stephen J. Macan. Macan Entertainment. No address, no phone number, no website or e-mail. It felt secretive, which made the business seem more exclusive. He had to find you; you couldn't find him.

"Have you ever had headshots done?"

Before Nadine could answer, the man's cell phone rang. A smile came to his face as he answered the call. "Hi honey. I'm still at the mall shopping for Megan." He pulled the phone away and mouthed the words my wife for Nadine's benefit. He held up his finger, an indication he wanted her to stay.

For some reason, she did.

"I'll be home soon. Want me to pick up something for dinner? I could grill up salmon, if you'd like."

A pause while his wife said something in response.

"Great. Oh, and I got the opinion of a girl about Megan's age, so I think I did well with my gift. We shall see." He gave a little laugh.

Some inside joke about how difficult Megan could be to shop for, Nadine supposed. The joke was made with love, not malice. It was so obvious Megan's dad adored her.

Nadine's heart turned. Why can't I have the same sort of relationship with my father?

"I'll be home soon. Love you. Bye." The man's attention went back to Nadine. "So are you interested in becoming famous?" His smile was warm, genuine.

Nadine wondered if his daughter Megan had the right look. The man, this Stephen Macan, seemed so certain Nadine did.

He wouldn't lie about something like this.

It was all happening too fast for her to process. A little tickle in the gut told her to be cautious. She handed the man back his card. "I don't think so."

The man looked resigned and a little disappointed, but offered no hard sell. "Just so you know, there's no second chances. This business is too hard for any self-doubters. We look for people who think they were meant for something more. I thought I had it right with you." He shrugged. "Maybe all this shopping has dulled my instincts. Anyway, I wish you the best of luck." He stuck out his hand.

As soon as she shook it, Nadine felt numb all over her body. She wasn't sure what she was feeling. Ashamed? Disappointed in herself? What were his words exactly?

People who think they were meant for something more.

That struck a chord. Despite her parents, she thought she was worth something more. She could make something out of her life and show them all. That's right. Become somebody and get on Ellen or Good Morning America and have a tear-filled reunion on live TV while her parents apologized to their celebrity daughter for years of mistreatment. Wouldn't that show them!

She watched Stephen Macan walk away, swinging the bag that contained a beautiful scarf for his daughter, who wasn't pretty enough for a movie career of her own. He wasn't creepy at all. She got no vibes like that from him. He had a wife to whom he spoke sweetly and a kid about her age. It was happenstance that he saw her and asked a very reasonable question about the gift, and then luck that he saw something in her.

It was the real deal, Nadine decided, a genuine opportunity that she let pass by. And think! The next time her mother might see her could be on TV or in the movies. She tried to imagine her expression. It would be priceless!

The man was a good distance away, almost out of sight.

Nadine took a determined breath and went running after him.

CHAPTER 2

Four weeks later

Angie DeRose arrived on foot at the Columbia Firehouse to have lunch with her parents at the scheduled time, on the scheduled hour, on the scheduled day. Given the fluid nature of her job, that was a minor miracle.

Angie loved the work, though. A good thing because it was all consuming. The phone rang day and night. No one took vacations when kids ran away, and run they did, twenty-four by seven by three sixty-five.

The calls varied. Sometimes it was a crisis with a child custody case, or surveillance work that might require her to spy on a cheating spouse, or follow a lead on a possible parental child abduction. Maybe an irate spouse had gotten wind that their ex was headed off to party — and who was going to watch little Joey while Mom or Dad did the Harlem Shake with a shot of tequila in one hand and a beer chaser in the other? An anxious parent didn't care one iota what time of day it was, whether or not it was a holiday, or if Angie had plans to meet her parents for a meal. Thus was life as a private investigator. She wouldn't have it any other way.

The restaurant, a renovated fire station with exposed brick walls, served quality American eats. It was a favorite of the DeRoses. Angie and her mother Kathleen ordered salads and soda water with lime, while her father got the salmon special. It was easy to meet for lunch because her parents lived near her office, still in the same house in Arlington, Virginia where Angie grew up.

Having lunch with her parents grounded Angie. Since founding DeRose & Associates at twenty-eight, five years ago, she had struggled with orbiting so closely to the dregs of humanity. She had gone into the business with a purpose, but had been naïve about the depth of human cruelty. The deplorable ways parents could treat each other or treat their precious children were too numerous to count and endlessly gut-wrenching. Each case was like turning over a rock to see what sort of horror might slither out.

Most difficult were the surveillance gigs to get proof of child abuse. Those hit her the hardest, but they were also the best way to get a kid out of danger. Some of her colleagues — the men, mostly — could shut it off, go to bed without seeing the cigarette burns dappled on a young kid's arm. Not Angie. She took it all to heart, carried with her the emotion of what she saw every day.

When it was a runaway or a child custody case, she went overboard to get results, to get proof, in order to protect the child. She lived and breathed it. Her wheels were constantly going, just like her office phone. Hell, somebody had to make sure the kids ended up safe or with the right parent.

Over the years, Angie had seen squalor that made a cardboard box on some desolate street corner look like an upgrade. Malnourished children. Beaten children. Children terrified of abuse. Neglected children. Drug-addicted parents who preferred the pipe to their kid. Out-of-control teens who raged against authority and railed against their terrified and despondent parents.

For the most part, Angie saw the world as a broken place that could never be properly fixed. In the presence of her parents, that world shone a little brighter.

She knew she was one of the lucky ones. Not many of her clients wanted to meet their parents for lunch, or surprise them with a spur-of-the-moment visit. Her parents' support and friendship over the years had made all the difference, especially during the hardest period of her life.

Her best friend Sarah had vanished without a trace. It was senior year of college at the University of Virginia, and they were a few months shy of starting their lives. That semester Sarah got hooked on something — Oxy, the cops thought. Then she was gone, just like that. Gone. And that was how she stayed. Missing.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Forgive Me by DANIEL PALMER. Copyright © 2016 Daniel Palmer. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Kensington
• Publication date: 2016
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 075829347X
• ISBN 13: 9780758293473
• Binding: Hardcover
• Number of pages: 416