Without a Trace. Carissa Lynch Ann

       Chapter Twenty-Eight

      

       Chapter Twenty-Nine

      

       Chapter Thirty

      

       Chapter Thirty-One

      

       Chapter Thirty-Two

      

       Chapter Thirty-Three

      

       Chapter Thirty-Four

      

       Chapter Thirty-Five

      

       Chapter Thirty-Six

      

       Chapter Thirty-Seven

      

       Chapter Thirty-Eight

      

       Chapter Thirty-Nine

      

       Chapter Forty

      

       Chapter Forty-One

      

       Chapter Forty-Two

      

       Chapter Forty-Three

      

       Chapter Forty-Four

      

       Chapter Forty-Five

      

       Chapter Forty-Six

      

       Chapter Forty-Seven

      

       Chapter Forty-Eight

      

       Acknowledgements

      

       About the Author

      

       About the Publisher

      

       I don’t believe in ghosts. But standing here now, with the tips of my toes tingling with heat, and my eyes stinging, not from the fire but from me, forcing myself to keep them open, never blinking, I can’t help wondering if she’ll come back and haunt me for this. Her limbs twist at uneasy angles. Her skin splits apart and dissolves. Her hair and clothes fall away, like feathers caught in a dust storm. And her face…it almost looks plastic, quivering and bending in the amber glow of the flames. It’s as though she never breathed life in the first place. This is not how I imagined it—I thought it would be quicker. I thought she would scream more. Fight more. But it’s almost like she’s resolute, like she’s telling me it’s okay…that she forgives me for what I must do.

       CHAPTER ONE

       The Mother

       NOVA

      I shivered as I stepped off the front porch and followed the well-beaten path down to the shady tree line. It was early, the sun playing peek-a-boo through the trees, and little wet kisses of dew were sprinkled around the yard like watery pockets of glitter. Such a peaceful morning, like the promise of a brand-new day. A beautiful day, in fact.

      It was a rental property, but still, it felt like mine. Like the perfect place to raise my daughter.

      Suddenly, the wind whipped through the trees, shocking the breath from my chest. It reminded me of what I already knew—looks can be deceiving.

      Clouds bubbled up in the sky, the morning sun dissolving away like a figment of my imagination. As a flurry of cold air rushed around me and through me, I pulled my jacket tight against my chest and glanced back at our new house. It was a small log cabin, like something you’d see at a state park or campground. But the size was perfect for the two of us, and unlike my husband, I liked the coziness and simplicity of a single-family home.

      Lily would be waking up any second now, and I didn’t want her to be afraid in our empty, new house.

       How can I raise a daughter who is strong and brave when I’m so damn scared all the time?

      I took one last look at the trees, at the once-soothing sunrise. Branches morphed into bony claws. They reached for me, gnarly and twisted, eager to pierce through my ragged flesh like broken bones…

      Whipping around, I raced back toward the house. A low moan escaped from between my teeth as the house swayed from side to side, like one of those carnival mirrors. The distance between the front door and the tree line suddenly stretched, for what looked like miles…

      My sneakers were squishy on the cool, wet grass, and as I slipped and slid across the yard, I imagined the mud was quicksand, sucking me deep down into the earth, consuming me whole…

      Once inside, I locked the door and pressed my back against it, sucking in long, craggy breaths until they evened out. It only took a few minutes to still my thumping heart.

      That’s better. Well done, Nova, I commended myself. Each time I panicked, it was taking fewer and fewer minutes to calm back down.

       Hell, maybe after a few weeks of being here, I won’t have panic attacks at all.

      Fumbling for a light switch in the kitchen, I stubbed my toe on Lily’s tiny Cars suitcase. It was still lying in the middle of the kitchen floor, next to my duffel bag, where we’d tossed our luggage last night.

      In the light of day, our new kitchen looked different than it did last night. White paint on the cupboards looked yellowish and worn. The sink was rusty, and a slow drip of water ping ping pinged in the basin below. Looking around, I tried to imagine this kitchen as our own—baking cookies for Lily while she sat on the edge of the counter, kicking the backs of her heels against the cupboards below. Normally, I would make her get down because