Don't Scream
MARKED FOR DEATH
“What if we went to the police and we didn’t tell them anything about what happened with Rachel?” Brynn asks carefully. “What if we just told them what’s going on now and that somebody is obviously threatening us?”
“How long do you think it’s going to take them to figure out that what’s going on now has something to do with something that happened in the past?” Fiona asks. “Specifically when we were in college?”
“If Cassie would just call us back…You did leave her a message on her cell phone voice mail, right?”
“Three. Cassie said she was going to take off, remember?” Fiona goes on. “And she told Alec the same thing.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s safe.”
“No, but we both know there’s no reason for us to start panicking until we know for sure something’s happened to—”
“Stop!” Brynn holds up a hand to cut her off. “Don’t even say it.”
Brynn hugs herself, still quaking from her latest bout with nausea, which has everything to do with what she found inside the parcel left by her front door.
There was an identical one at Fiona’s door.
Both packages contained framed copies of their sorority composite picture from ten years ago.
Four smiling faces are circled in thick black marker: Brynn’s, Fiona’s, Cassie’s and Tildy’s.
And both Cassie’s and Tildy’s are crossed out with an ominous, blood-red X…
Books by Wendy Corsi Staub
DEARLY BELOVED
FADE TO BLACK
ALL THE WAY HOME
THE LAST TO KNOW
IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE
SHE LOVES ME NOT
KISS HER GOODBYE
LULLABY AND GOODNIGHT
THE FINAL VICTIM
MOST LIKELY TO DIE
DON’T SCREAM
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Don’t Scream
Wendy Corsi Staub
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Dedicated in loving memory of my grandfather,
Samuel J. Ricotta (April 1915–May 2006)
and in honor of my grandmother, Sara J. Ricotta.
And for Mark, Morgan, and Brody.
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to Carolyn MacNeil and Officer Michael McCarthy of the Boston Police Department, who patiently answered countless questions about murder and mayhem. Any errors in police procedural are strictly my own. In addition, I owe a tremendous thank you to my editor, John Scognamiglio, and the staff at Kensington Books; to my agents, Laura Blake Peterson, Holly Frederick, and the staff at Curtis Brown, Ltd; to my publicists, Nancy Berland and Elizabeth Middaugh, as well as Kim Miller and the rest of the staff at Nancy Berland Public Relations.
Heartfelt thanks as well to Cathy Cadek and Laura Pennock and staff at Levy Home entertainment for their ongoing, enthusiastic support, and to Levy’s Sales Promotions team—Pam Nelson, Sarah Donaldson, Janet Krey, Emily Hixon, Devar Spight, Kathleen Koelbl, Justine Willis, Renna Thomas, and George Tyrrell—for making the K-mart/Levy Sizzling Summer Author Tour such fun! Thanks to Carol Fitzgerald, Sunil Kumar, and the staff at The Book Report Network; and to Rick and Patty Donovan, Phil Pelletier, and their staff at my favorite store, The Book Nook, in Dunkirk, N.Y. Finally, Mark Staub: I could never do any of it without your feedback and support every step of the way along every literary journey.
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
PART I HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR RACHEL
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
PART II HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR TILDY
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
PART III HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR CASSIE
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
PART IV HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR FIONA
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
PART V HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR BRYNN
CHAPTER 22
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
September, ten years earlier
“…and I do solemnly swear that I will never ever tell another living soul what happened here tonight…”
“And I do solemnly swear that I will never ever tell another living soul what happened here tonight,” the female voices echo dutifully, none without a quaver.
Brynn’s is the most tremulous of all, barely audible even to her own ears. She prays Tildy won’t notice and single her out to repeat the pledge solo. If that happens…
What will I do?
What can I do?
She’ll just have to go along with it, the way she’s gone along with all of this, right from the start. Against her better judgment, against her conscience, and, ultimately…
Against the law?
Tildy says no. Adamantly. She insists that they haven’t broken any laws.
“It’s not like we’ve murdered someone,” she hissed when Brynn balked at the proposed plan. “Anyone in our situation would do the exact same thing.”
Brynn highly doubts that, but she can’t bring herself to say it.
There was a time when Brynn Costello—apple of her daddy’s eye, valedictorian of her high school class, dean’s list candidate for her first four semesters at Stonebridge College, Zeta Delta Kappa pledge—would have stood up to all of them. Even Matilda Harrington.
So why didn’t you?
Why are you standing here in the woods in the middle of the night being sworn to secrecy?
This can’t really be happening. If anyone ever found out…
But nobody will find out.
They’re not going to tell.
Anyway, Tildy was right when she pointed out that what happened isn’t their fault.
Still…
I just want to get out of here, go back to the sorority house, and forget this ever happened.
Or, better yet, just go home.
Home.
Swept by a wave of nostalgia, Brynn swallows hard over a lump in her throat. She longs for worn oak floors, oval braided rugs, chintz slipcovers. The savory aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, and onions frying in olive oil. The radio in the background, sock-hop standards and sixties’ anthems of the local oldies station. Clutter, and laundry, and people coming and going…
Home.
But the seaside blue-collar household on Cape Cod is two hundred miles and a world away from the campus nestled in the Berkshires, the mountains of western Massachusetts.
And there’s no going back—not the way Brynn yearns to do.
Before her thoughts can meander down the fateful path that ultimately led to Stonebridge College, she’s dragged back to the present.
Tildy, apparently deciding their oath needs something more to make it official, solemnly declares, “So help me God.”
“So help me God,” the others obediently intone.
Not Brynn. She just moves her lips, refusing to invoke God. Not under these circumstances.
“Now we’ll sing the sorority song,” Tildy commands, lifting her hand to push her blonde hair back from her face. Her sorority bracelet, a silver rope of clasped rosebuds, glints in the moonlight. They’re all wearing them—including Rachel—and each is personalized with dangling silver initial charms.
Brynn manages to join the others in singing. The ingrained lyrics she sec
retly always considered embarrassingly hokey now seem bittersweet as she forces them past the lump in her throat.
We’ll always remember
That fateful September
We’ll never forget
The new sisters we met
We’ll face tomorrow together
In all kinds of weather
ZDK girls, now side by side
May travel far and wide
But wherever we roam
Sweet ZDK will be our home.
The sisters’ voices give way to the hushed nocturnal woodland descant: chirping crickets, a rushing creek, and the September breeze that gently rustles the maple boughs high above the clearing.
Then another sound reaches Brynn’s ears…
The faint, yet resonant crack of a branch splintering underfoot.
She clutches her friend Fiona’s arm, asking in a high-pitched whisper, “Did anyone hear that?”
“Hear what?” Tildy’s tone is sharp.
“Shhh!” Standing absolutely still, afraid to breathe, Brynn listens intently.
They all do.
There is nothing.
Nothing but the crickets, the creek, a gust stirring the leaves overhead. Just like before.
After a long, tense moment, Cassie says, “I don’t hear anything, Brynn.”
Brynn doesn’t either. Not now.
But someone is there.
She can feel it.
Someone is lurking in the shadows among the trees, listening.
Perhaps even watching…
And recognizing.
PART I
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR RACHEL
CHAPTER 1
September, present day
Cedar Crest, Massachusetts
It happened ten years ago this week, just after Labor Day, and just a few miles from here.
In fact, if one knows where to look, one can pinpoint up in the greenish-golden Berkshires backdrop, beyond the row of nineteenth-century rooftops, precisely the spot where it happened.
And I know where to look…because I was there. I know exactly what really happened that night, and it’s time that—
“Oh, excuse me!” The elderly woman is apologetic, having just rounded the corner from Second Street. “I didn’t mean to bump into you…I’m so sorry.”
She looks so familiar…
It takes just a split second for the memory to surface. Right, she used to be a cashier at the little deli down the block. The place that always had hazelnut decaf. Yes, and she was always so chatty.
What was her name? Mary? Molly?
What is she doing out at this hour? The sky is still dark in the west, and none of the businesses along Main Street are open yet.
Don’t panic. She probably doesn’t even recognize you. Just smile and say something casual…
“Oh, that’s all right, ma’am.”
Good. Now turn your back. Slowly, so that you don’t draw any more attention to yourself.
Good. Now get the heck out of here, before—
“Excuse me!”
Dammit! The old lady again.
What can she possibly want now?
“You must have dropped this when I bumped you.” With a gnarled, blue-veined hand, she proffers a white envelope.
“Oh…thank you.”
Could she have glanced at the address on the front before she handed it over? If she did, could she have recognized the recipient’s name?
“It’s going to be a nice day today.” She gestures at the glow in the eastern sky, above the mountain peaks. “We needed that rain, though, at this time of year.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Just nod. Be polite.
“Well…Enjoy the day.”
“I will.” But not as much as I’ll enjoy tomorrow. “You, too.”
With a cheerful wave, the woman turns and makes her way down the block.
The post office is just a few doors in the opposite direction. These last two envelopes—the ones to be delivered right here in town—must go out in this morning’s mail.
It’s important that they be mailed from here, so that the recipients will realize that the sender is nearby.
The timing is just as crucial. All four cards need to arrive at their destination tomorrow, on the anniversary.
The others went out first thing yesterday morning—one to Boston, one to Connecticut. That excursion was uneventful. It was raining, and there were no witnesses…
Unlike today.
Now isn’t the time to start taking chances. Not after months of painstakingly laying the groundwork. Not when it’s finally about to begin at last.
Millie.
That’s her name.
The post office can wait. The first pickup won’t be for at least another hour.
What a shame, Millie.
What a shame you weren’t more careful.
“Whoa, hang on there, kiddo!” Brynn Saddler swoops toward her barefoot toddler as he dashes across the front lawn toward the street.
“Hey, good catch, Mom!” Arnie, the mail carrier, calls from the sidewalk a few doors down leafy Tamarack Lane as Brynn lifts her squirming son into her arms.
“I’m getting enough practice…third time he’s made a run for it in the last five minutes!” Laughing, Brynn carries Jeremy back to the steps of their Craftsman bungalow, where they’ve been waiting for the school bus in the late summer sunshine.
This is Caleb’s first day of kindergarten at Cedar Crest Elementary; she’s been holding her breath and checking her watch for almost seven hours. She won’t relax until the moment he’s safely home again. But the whole process is bound to kick in again tomorrow morning…
And, she supposes, every morning until high school graduation. She can’t imagine ever getting used to sending her child off each morning with a wave, a kiss, and a fervent prayer that he’ll be safe until he’s home again.
Never mind her friend Fiona swearing that by next August, Brynn will be counting down the days until school begins—and maybe even looking for a job.
Fee isn’t exactly a doting mother. Not that she doesn’t love her only daughter. But given the option of spending her time with Ashley or at work, Fee would undoubtedly choose the latter, and always has. Her marriage ended because she couldn’t give her husband the second child he wanted.
No, not “couldn’t,” Brynn amends. Wouldn’t.
It isn’t that she believes Fee should have had another baby she didn’t want.
Just…
Well, lately, Brynn can identify with Fee’s ex, Patrick.
She wants another baby. Garth does not.
But it’s not going to destroy our marriage.
“Mommy,” Jeremy croons, and plants a wet kiss on her lips before she can stop him.
“Oh, no, sweetie…Mommy’s been sick.” She does her best to wipe off his mouth with the sleeve of her T-shirt.
Chances are, he’ll come down with strep throat anyway. It’s surprising he didn’t catch it when Caleb first became ill last week, as Brynn did. Thanks to antibiotics, they’re both on the mend; she’s been hoping to spare Jeremy.
“I love you.” Jeremy reaches up around her neck to yank her high brown ponytail with playful, and painful, affection.
“I love you too, baby.” She laughs even as she winces, knowing there will come a day when she’ll once again be able to wear her naturally wavy chestnut-colored hair loose around her shoulders. She’ll be able to wear earrings without worrying about tugs, or white shorts free of smudges from chubby, sticky little fingers.
But will she even want to?
She’s never been prone to fussing with hair, jewelry, and clothes. Her mother, Marie, used to say it was a good thing Brynn was naturally pretty, since she refused to primp. She always had her share of boyfriends, drawn to her wide-set brown eyes, long-waisted, willowy-looking athletic figure, and a generous length of wavy brown hair becomingly streaked lighter from the sun.
When she got to college, her sorority sister Tildy dubbed
her W2, shorthand for Wash and Wear, because that was invariably the case with Brynn’s hair, face, clothes.
It still is—though on rare occasions, it might be nice not to look like a domestic refugee.
Sometimes she wonders if Garth is thinking the same thing when he walks in the door to find her in tattered jeans and sweatshirts, covered in flour or glitter glue.
But Brynn is having so much fun with her boys that she isn’t particularly anxious to reclaim her former unmaternal self, or the career she never got off the ground, or the hours of “me” time she sacrificed along this path.
Healthy children, a loving husband, a cozy antique house in a charming New England town…
She has everything she ever hoped for, everything her own mother had.
Did Brynn Costello Saddler ever really want anything more out of life?
She went to college, after all. But not necessarily with the single-minded goal of earning a degree and becoming something specific that she’d always yearned to be: a businesswoman, an artist, a doctor…
No, unlike her more ambitious friends, she was mainly at Stonebridge College because she couldn’t bear to be at home anymore.
After four years there, on the verge of being sprung into the world to either return home or start fresh somewhere else and make something of herself, she fell in love.
Dr. Garth Saddler was older, someone with whom she could recreate the domestic stability she’d had growing up, before her mother died and that world dissolved.
And here I am.
Me, living my life…
My mother’s life, too…
And it’s fulfilling.
And maybe I need to see it through for both of us.