Forgotten Girls, The
Read Forgotten Girls, The Online
Authors: Alexa Steele
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Women Sleuths
the forgotten
girls
(A Bella DeFranco
Mystery)
Book #1 in the
Suburban Murder Series
Alexa Steele
About Alexa Steele
Alexa Steele is an attorney,
practicing in New York City, where she lives with her family, and a lifelong
mystery reader. THE FORGOTTEN GIRLS is her debut work of fiction. Alexa loves
to hear from you, so please visit
www.alexasteele.com
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Copyright
© 2014 by Alexa Steele
All
rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no
part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any
form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the
prior permission of the author.
This
ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be
re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for
your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the hard work of this author.
This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places,
events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.
Jacket
image ©iStock.com/Casarsa
Contents
Joslyn Freed had always been terrified
of water. Tonight, as she made her way down to the shore on the jagged, uneven
path alone, in darkness, she felt a rising sensation to turn and run as fast as
she could. She didn’t, of course. She had said she would be there and she
would.
Carefully and slowly she navigated
the trail, her shimmering, sky-high stilettos faltering under the pressure to
support her. They gave way on a pile of loose rocks when she slipped and fell,
catching herself as she landed on her side.
Shaken, she lifted herself, brushed
dirt off her dress and continued, unsteadily, down to the yacht she had
promised she would go.
Joslyn had regretted agreeing to
this meeting before she even snuck outside and now, as she approached the dock,
she felt queasy, gagging from the smell of salt water and fish.
She bent over and vomited.
Miserable, she straightened
herself and looked back up the hill at the well-lit club, the faraway sound of voices
and laughter eerily distant.
She turned. The gate to the marina
stood before her, hanging loosely off its hinges, tempting her. Swirling,
agitated water slapped against the side of the pier. She felt queasy and turned
away.
Joslyn had never liked the sea,
found it way too unpredictable. Even as a young girl she could never relax when
in its grip. On her family vacations, her father would hold her hand and walk
her out, deep into the water, to a spot where they could dunk under the gigantic
waves that crashed for them, one after another. She would hold her breath even
after she came up for air and beg him to let her go back to shore. He would
just laugh.
Joslyn stood frozen, staring at
the churning, deep water, and wished she hadn’t allowed herself to be talked
into coming down here. She needed to learn to say no, to not worry so much
about others’ feelings. That was her problem; she was too kind. After tonight,
she decided, it was time to make some changes.
For starters, she would get out of
Greenvale this summer to spend time with her sister back home. The years had passed
without her having shared with her daughters the simplicity of her childhood in
rural Wisconsin—so different from the life they knew here. She would plan a surprise
girls’ trip in honor of Carly, her oldest, off to college this Fall. A pang of
sadness tore through her as she thought of the double suicide of two high
school senior girls in town, both of whom Carly knew. Now, instead of sending
their girls off to college, their mothers had just finished burying them. What
was wrong with this town?
Leaving for a while wouldn’t be
enough, though, and she knew it. She was going to have to end the toxic
relationships that permeated her life, starting with this one, the worst of
them all. Really, what was left to say? Their differences were glaring, and
this last-ditch attempt to revive something was a waste of time. This would be
the last time she would engage, she promised herself. Ending this relationship
was way overdue.
Joslyn forced herself forward,
through the gate, out onto the dock and toward the yachts, lined up like sardines.
Her instructions were clear: walk to the very end.
Paradise Found
would
be on her left.
She hadn’t been on a yacht in
years, though she had been invited many times. As she walked past them, she had
forgotten how imposing they looked up close, each one grander than the next. They
screamed money and leisure like nothing else. She thought of the gala that
evening, how it too broadcast the same message: a self-congratulatory air for
being rich, privileged, and fabulous.
Suddenly it dawned on her. It
wasn’t the wealth in her town that bothered her—she liked beauty and luxury as
much as the next person. It was the way everyone around her idolized it. It was
the way they all strived to project an image of perfection, especially through
their kids; succeeding at all costs, at any cost, had become everyone’s number
one goal.
She was sick of all the affect,
the self-absorption, the constant preoccupation with themselves and their
children. No one she knew had saved the world last time she checked, or found a
cure for cancer or worked as a firefighter and saved a life. She was disgusted
with it all quite frankly, and with herself, for having become so fully lost in
it. Somewhere along the line, her life had morphed into a bubble of money,
privilege, status, and inordinate self-obsession. She was suffocating in it; she
had to get out.
It was eerily still as Joslyn meandered
down the rickety, wooden dock, an invisible force pushing her along. Two
lampposts at either end cast a shrouded light, and a few errant stars hung in
the sky, defying the quickly-moving cloud cover. The yachts groaned angrily, struggling
against their tethering ropes.
After a few more reluctant steps,
Joslyn reached the 54-foot Alden Ketch, nestled proudly into a side slip at the
very end. A small white note was taped to the piling, its words barely legible
in the dim light:
“Come inside.”
Joslyn looked down the gangway and
saw the cabin, lit.
Trying to be cute
, she
thought.
As she unstrapped her heels she
heard a door slam on the yacht and looked up.
No one was there. Where was Fred?
He always worked the marina during parties, but she’d noticed he hadn’t been in
his chair near the entrance.
Leaving her shoes on the deck, Joslyn
gripped her clutch and the gangway rails and gently made her way down the plank.
She felt like an intruder as she stood, barefoot, on the rocking teak deck,
steadying herself.
The cabin door stood slightly ajar
and a warm, comforting light glowed inside like a refuge from the elements,
from the churning sea. Tentatively, she made her way toward it.
As she reached for the door,
Joslyn suddenly had an awful premonition; before she could understand what it
was, she sensed motion and saw a face, contorted in rage, and rushing for her at
full speed. She was confused as she saw hands, wearing gloves despite the warm
weather, rushing up for her mouth—and the last thing she saw, as they clamped
her mouth, was the teak deck of this million dollar yacht, rushing up to meet her.
Billy knew, as soon as he hung up
the phone, a familiar knot in his stomach, that Isabella was the only detective
to call for a case like this. As the smartest detective in his Special Victims
Unit, Isabella’s edge was her skill in handling women. As a woman herself she
had an advantage, but she had taken that edge and honed it by handling the unit’s
most sensitive scenarios. That skill would come in handy here—country club set,
tony town, mother of two daughters—a lot of women to handle.
At thirty-seven, Isabella was one
of the youngest female detectives in the country. A twelve-year member of the
police force, she had made a name for herself participating in one sting after
another. With her stunning Irish looks—long, wavy strawberry blond hair, big
green eyes, freckles dotting her small, delicate nose, and a killer body to boot—she
looked like anything but a detective. The Master’s in Forensic Psychology she
earned from John Jay at night hadn’t hurt her career either. So when his
precinct opened a dedicated unit for special victims—the first of its kind in
the country for women and children sexually attacked and/or killed—one of the
first names Billy thought of was Isabella.
Billy had met her once before and
knew her reputation when he contacted her. Three months later her transfer was
complete. As with most others, her beauty blinded him a bit. His only worry was
whether the guys in his place could work with her. He hoped her track record
would give her the credibility she would need with them, and made sure they all
knew her reputation and her latest achievement when she arrived—solving the
murder of a city councilman’s daughter, a girl found dead in a crack house in
East Harlem.
“She’s too good-looking to ever be
taken for a cop, and she knows how to use it to advantage,” Billy confided to
his superiors. “A lethal combination.”
In the five years since she had
joined the unit he had grown to love her like a daughter. She had come into his
precinct willing to do whatever was needed. She worked harder than most of his
guys, spending hours poring over endless paperwork. She could read and
interpret a psych report, knew forensics, interrogated like a pit bull, and
could work both sides, aggressive with a suspect, sensitive and solicitous with
a victim. She went home later than everyone, didn’t need to take credit, and
took on whatever assignment was thrown at her. He didn’t know what drove her,
but driven she was. It was hard not to love her.
He had wanted to partner her up
and tried out a few guys but, as most were single, divorced, or going through a
breakup, it inevitably turned incendiary, on their end, not hers. Hell, even he—happily
married for thirty years—would be hard pressed to concentrate with her in the
car. So she worked alone most of the time. Something she didn’t seem to mind.
This case was different though—she
was not going to have the luxury of time here. There would be eyes all over it,
everyone breathing down her neck. It could spiral down fast and bring his buddy
Dennis’s career with it.
Billy picked up the phone and
called her. She answered on the first ring.
“This better be good,” she greeted
him sleepily.
“It’s better than good. I need you
down here right away.”
“Or else?”
“No joke, Bella. Wife of a hedge
fund guy. Mother of two. Sexually assaulted and killed. In Greenavle. I’ll explain
the rest when you get here. Just get your ass in the car and get over here.
Now.”
Billy hung up the phone and thought
about sending Bella up to Greenvale. He needed to give her a partner on this
one. The only issue was who to give her. Menendez had popped into his mind. A
bit tricky maybe, but his gut told him it just might work. After pondering its
wisdom a few moments, he picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory.
Leaning back in his chair he swiveled around to glance at the rain pouring down.
Only 4:20 in the fucking morning. A real dreary day. A real dreary life. He
heard Mack’s voice on the other end.
“Rise and shine, sunshine, it’s
your morning glory.”
Billy broke into a grin.
“Well, that’s about to change, my
friend. Get your ass in the car and get down to the precinct. Now. Right now.
There’s someone I want you to meet.”
