No One Needs to Know

A MOTHER’S WORST FEAR

“Mommy . . .”

The distant voice came through Laurie’s baby monitor. It was a man’s voice, teasing and singsong.
“Mommy . . .”

“Oh, my God,” Laurie whispered. “Vincent, call nine-one-one. Somebody’s in my apartment. I think they’re going to hurt Joey.”

Dumbfounded, he stood in the doorway for a moment.

“Please!” she cried. “I’m counting on you, Vincent.”

He quickly nodded and ducked back inside.

Laurie hurried to her apartment and threw open the door.

It was quiet. Her lungs burning, Laurie frantically glanced around the living room.

She ran up the stairs to Joey’s room—where she’d checked on him less than five minutes ago.

But his crib was empty now . . .

Books by Kevin O’Brien

ONLY SON
THE NEXT TO DIE
MAKE THEM CRY
WATCH THEM DIE
LEFT FOR DEAD
THE LAST VICTIM
KILLING SPREE
ONE LAST SCREAM
FINAL BREATH
VICIOUS
DISTURBED
TERRIFIED
UNSPEAKABLE
TELL ME YOU’RE SORRY
NO ONE NEEDS TO KNOW

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

KEVIN O’BRIEN

N
O
O
NE
N
EEDS
T
O
K
NOW

PINNACLE BOOKS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

A MOTHER’S WORST FEAR
Also by
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
C
HAPTER
O
NE
C
HAPTER
T
WO
C
HAPTER
T
HREE
C
HAPTER
F
OUR
C
HAPTER
F
IVE
C
HAPTER
S
IX
C
HAPTER
S
EVEN
C
HAPTER
E
IGHT
C
HAPTER
N
INE
C
HAPTER
T
EN
C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN
C
HAPTER
T
WELVE
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN
C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN
C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN
C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN
C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN
C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN
C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-ONE
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FIVE
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SIX
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SEVEN
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-EIGHT
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-NINE
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-ONE
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-TWO
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-THREE
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FOUR
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FIVE
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-SIX
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-SEVEN
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-EIGHT
E
PILOGUE
Copyright Page

This book is for Tim Curtis, Denny Kinsella,
Mike Leonard, Judy O’Donnell O’Brien and
Tom O’Brien . . .

With love from your brother-in-law.

You guys are the greatest!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my marvelous editor and friend, John Scognamiglio, who has been there for me for fifteen novels—so far! John, you’re amazing. The same goes for everyone at Kensington Publishing Corp. What a terrific group. Without you, I’m nothing!

Thank you to Meg Ruley, Christina Hogrebe, and the gang at Jane Rotrosen Agency. It’s because of you that I’m an International Man of Mystery.

Another great big thank you goes to my Writers Group: John Flick, Cate Goethals, Soyon Im, David Massengill, and Garth Stein. You guys are the best.

Speaking of Writers, I’m grateful for the support of my Seattle 7 Writer friends, especially my fellow board members: Garth (again), Jennie Shortridge, Kit Bakke, Erica Bauermeister, Dave Boling, Carol Cassella, Randy Sue Coburn, Laurie Frankel, Stephanie Kallos, and Tara Austen Weaver. Check us out at
www.seattle7writers.org
.

Thanks also to the terrific people at Levy Home Entertainment.

A special shout-out and thank-you to Doug Men-dini.

I’d also like to thank the following friends and groups who have been incredibly supportive: Nancy Abbe, Dan Annear and Chuck Rank, Pam Binder and the gang at PNWA, Marlys Bourm, Amanda Brooks, Terry and Ju-dine Brooks, George Camper and Shane White, Barbara and John Cegielski, Barbara and Jim Church, Pennie Clark Ianniciello, Anna Cottle and Mary Alice Kier, Tommy Dreiling, Paul Dwoskin, my friends at Elliott Bay Book Company, Tom Goodwin, the wonderful people at Hudson News, Cathy Johnson, Elizabeth Kinsella, David Korabik, Stafford Lombard, Roberta Miner, Dan Monda and Kyle Bryan, Jim Munchel, the fantastic people at The News Group, Meghan O’Neill, my pals at Open Road Media, Midge Ortiz, Eva Marie Saint, John Saul, and Mike Sack, the gang at Seattle Mystery Bookshop, John Simmons, Roseann Stella, Dan, Doug and Ann Stutesman, George and Sheila Stydahar, Marc Von Borstel, Michael Wells, and Ruth Young.

Finally, thank you to my family. I love you guys!

C
HAPTER
O
NE

Wednesday, May 28, 10:51
P.M.

Ellensburg, Washington

L
aurie Trotter had a bad feeling about the man who stepped inside the restaurant just ten minutes before closing. There were no other customers in the place. The last one had left about five minutes ago.

The Superstar Diner off Interstate 90 was isolated—a Texaco station on the other side of the highway was its closest neighbor. Laurie hated working this “bare-bones staff” late-night shift. Somewhere along the line, the owner, Paul, had done a survey and determined their slowest evening for business was in the middle of the week, especially in the summer, when most of the students at Central Washington University had gone home. So from nine until closing on Wednesday nights, the menu was limited to grill food.

A trained chef, Laurie reluctantly emerged from her sanctuary in the kitchen to double as a waitress and short-order grill cook on those nights. The only other person working the shift was the dishwasher, Duncan, a sweet, nerdy eighteen-year-old with a puny build and a nervous manner. He always seemed overwhelmed, rushing around, bussing tables and washing dishes as if it were his first day on the job. Whenever he became flustered—which was often—he got tremors, which made him shake from the neck up like a bobblehead figure. If some creep were to wander into the diner and make trouble, poor Duncan could hardly come to Laurie’s rescue.

In fact, it was sort of the other way around. A while back, a trio of jerks from Duncan’s high school had come in. They’d sat down at the counter, where they could see him through the pass-through window while he’d toiled away in the kitchen. They’d started teasing him.

“Hey, retard, how many plates did you break today?”

“Shit, look at him shaking . . .”

“When I grow up, Duncan, I want to have a real cool job like the one you have!”

Laurie had spotted Duncan, bent over the sink, trying to ignore them. All the while, his head trembled on his skinny neck.

Instead of handing menus to Duncan’s tormentors, she’d just glared at them. “If you guys ever want to eat in here again, you’ll shut the hell up right now,” she’d growled. “I’m serious, knock it off.”

And they’d clammed up.

Laurie had that kind of pull at the Superstar Diner. In the two years she’d been employed there, business had almost doubled. Thanks to her daily specials and the desserts she added to their menu, the once-foundering truck stop had become a popular dinner spot in Ellensburg—like one of those places profiled on
Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.
Plus, Laurie was well respected in town. A graduate of Central Washington U, she’d been married—too briefly—to the star player on their football team before he’d joined the army and been sent overseas. At least Brian Trotter had gotten to see his infant son, Joey, before dying a hero five months ago. He was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross and a Silver Star posthumously. They had a big ceremony at City Hall, and the event made the front page of the
Daily Record.
As Brian’s widow and the mother of his child, twenty-six-year-old Laurie was revered around town. Sometimes that wasn’t easy. The perfect widow wasn’t exactly something she’d aspired to be.

The local high school boys were especially in awe of her—and it wasn’t just due to her dead husband’s heroics on the football and battlefields. Laurie was cute, with auburn hair and a buxom figure. Laurie thought she was a bit too buxom. She still hadn’t completely shed the extra baby weight, and working in a kitchen didn’t help.

At the moment, she would have welcomed a familiar face or two. These last few lonely minutes before closing were sometimes a bit unnerving. There was always the chance of a stranger wandering in there, a stranger who might want to cause trouble or rob the place.

Laurie wasn’t usually this paranoid. But six nights ago, only thirty miles away at Paddy’s Pantry off Highway 82 near Yakima, a waitress and a cook had been viciously beaten by a pair of armed robbers. It had occurred just minutes before closing.

The gunmen had emptied out the register, stealing close to seven hundred dollars. They’d also made the waitress, cook, and a busboy surrender their wallets. Laurie had followed the story closely. The waitress and cook resisted. She ended up with a black eye and a split lip; the cook spent three days in the hospital having his broken jaw wired. Their attackers were still at large. Paddy’s Pantry had surveillance cameras. Blurry shots of the perpetrators were printed in the newspaper, and distributed to several restaurants in the area. The photos were plastered in the break room at the Superstar Diner. Laurie thought it was pretty ridiculous that they were expected to recognize the assailants from those fuzzy snapshots. Both men had medium builds and dark hair; one looked pale, and the other might have been Latino—that was all she had to go on. The descriptions from the waitress, cook, and busboy could have fit half the men who had walked into the Superstar Diner tonight.

“My Sharona” was churning over the jukebox, Laurie’s selection. That
thump, thump, thump
rhythm always helped revive her at the end of a long day on her feet. “Walking on Sunshine” was another song selection that reenergized her near closing. Both tunes were probably brand new when Paul had last changed the jukebox selections.