The Rumor, page 1
The Rumor is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Lesley Kara
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Originally published in hardcover in the United Kingdom by Bantam Press, an imprint of Transworld Publishers, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, in 2018.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Kara, Lesley, author.
Title: The rumor : a novel / Lesley Kara.
Description: Ballantine Books Trade Paperback Edition. | New York Ballantine Books, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019007585 | ISBN 9781984819345 (paperback) | ISBN 9781984819352 (ebook)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Suspense. | FICTION / Contemporary Women. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6111.A73 R86 2019 | DDC 823/.92—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019007585
Ebook ISBN 9781984819352
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Debbie Glasserman, adapted for ebook
Cover design: Emily Osborne
v5.4
ep
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Interlude 1
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Interlude 2
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Interlude 3
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Interlude 4
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Interlude 5
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Interlude 6
Dedication
Acknowledgments
About the Author
He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster. And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee.
—FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE
It’s happening again. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do. I see it in the roll of the waves, the way they’re bearing in at a slant. Fast. Relentless. I feel it in the nip of the air on my skin, smell it in the rotting leaves and damp earth, hear it in the silence of the watching crows. You’re coming for me again and there’s nothing I can do to stop you.
This is how it happens. One night I go to bed and everything’s fine. Everything’s under control. The story has ceased to be a story. It’s real. Solid. Unbreakable. Then I wake up and it’s changed. Cracks have appeared overnight and I realize that I’ve been fooling myself all this time, that I’ve only ever been the most fragile of constructions.
I’m the hunted. I’ll always be the hunted.
1
IT STARTS WITH A RUMOR. Whispers at the school gate.
I’m not really listening at first. I promised Dave I’d pick up the keys to the Maple Drive property and meet a client there. I don’t have time to stand around in a gossipy huddle with this group.
But then I catch sight of Debbie Barton’s face—the way her jaw’s just dropped—and my curiosity gets the better of me.
“Say that again,” she says. “I don’t believe it.”
I edge closer, as does little Ketifa’s mother, Fatima. Jake’s mother—is it Cathy?—looks from side to side before she speaks, milking her moment in the spotlight for all it’s worth.
“There’s a strong possibility that a famous child killer is living right here in Flinstead,” she says, pausing to let her words take effect. “Under a new identity, of course. She murdered a little boy when she was ten, back in the sixties. Stabbed him with a kitchen knife, right through his heart.”
There is a collective gasp. Fatima brings her hand to her chest.
“Sally McGowan,” Cathy says. “Google it when you get home.”
Sally McGowan. The name rings a bell. Probably from one of those Netflix documentaries I sometimes watch when I’ve nothing better to do. Kids Who Kill or Serial Killers I Have Known.
“Who told you this?” I ask.
Cathy takes a deep breath. “Let’s just say it’s someone who knows someone whose ex-husband used to be a cop. Well, this cop’s buddy heard him talk about her one time. She was released when she was a young woman, has been moving around since then by all accounts, trying to keep a low profile. Now she’s ended up here. It might not be true, but you know what they say, there’s no smoke without fire. And what better place to hide out than somewhere like Flinstead?”
Debbie sucks her teeth. “I think it’s disgusting that people like her get to start all over again. Where’s the justice in that?”
“You’d rather they were kept in prison their whole life?” I ask. “For a crime they committed when they were children?”
Debbie stares at me. “Adult crime, adult time, isn’t that what they say? And if they are released, don’t we have the right to know where they are?”
“What, so they can be mobbed by vigilantes?”
Now all three women are staring at me. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut, but sometimes I can’t help myself. I don’t even know why I’m listening to all this crap. I should know better.
Cathy sniffs. “It’s not fair that someone like that gets a second chance. What about the parents of the little boy who was murdered? They don’t get the luxury of starting a new life, do they?”
“Well, it probably isn’t true anyway,” Fatima says. “And if it is, there’s nothing we can do about it. It was years ago. I doubt she’s still dangerous.”
Lovely, sensible Fatima. I must suggest she drop by for coffee and a chat soon. Get to know her a little better. But not today. I’ll be late if I don’t get a move on.
* * *
—
“THANKS, JO. I really appreciate you doing this on your day off.”
Dave hands me the keys and the freshly printed property listing for 24 Maple Drive, the new Pegton’s logo emblazoned at the top.
“It’s no problem,” I say. And it isn’t. There aren’t many employers as flexible as Dave Pegton. It’s been a godsend finding a job that fits in around Alfie’s school times, and so close to home as well.
Home. I’ve got Dave to thank for that, too. The tiny two-bedroom cottage he generously described as “in need of some TLC.” You’ve got to love the jargon. What it actually needs is intensive care, but seeing as it was the only place I could afford, I ended up putting in an offer on it. New house. New job. And all because I walked into the right realtor’s office at the right time. Serendipity, isn’t that what it’s called?
Dave walks back to his desk. “Good luck with Mrs. Marchant, by the way,” he says over his shoulder.
“Why? What’s up with her?”
Dave smirks. “You’ll find out soon enough,” and before I can quiz him further, the phone rings and he’s talking to a client.
* * *
—
MAPLE DRIVE IS a mixture of 1920s and 1930s houses. Some of them are single-family, but most are two-family townhouses. It’s not the most expensive street in Flinstead—the area known as the Groves is where the seriously moneyed live—but it’s popular, especially the water end of it, which is where number 24 is situated. Dave has described it on the listing as having an “ocean view,” and it probably does if you open one of the bedroom windows, lean out, and crane your neck to the left. An ocean glimpse might be a better desc
Susan Marchant opens the door before I’ve even rung the bell. A curt nod is all I get in response to my cheery good morning. I’m expecting her to step back and usher me in, but she just stands there as if I’m one of the “cold callers” listed on the sign above the bell. The ones who aren’t welcome.
“I was hoping to have a quick scoot around on my own first,” I say. “Just so I’m familiar with the layout.”
I always find it helps if you’re prepared for what you’re about to show someone. Not everyone tidies and cleans their house prior to showings. I’ve come across all kinds of strange and unsavory things before. Dirty underwear tossed all over the floor. A large brown turd coiled in a toilet bowl like a sleeping snake. Although from what I can see beyond Susan Marchant’s shoulder, that won’t be the case here. It’s clean to the point of being clinical, the rooms half empty. Looks like she’s moved most of her stuff into storage already.
“Why?” she says, her brows knitted together. “Don’t you have the floor plan on your listing?” There’s a coldness in her eyes and voice that throws me.
“Well, yes, but…”
“Too late anyway,” she says, squinting out at the street. “That must be Anne Wilson.”
I turn to see a blue BMW pull up. A woman in a pale-green raincoat and with two-tone hair—dark blond with coppery ends—climbs out of the passenger seat, raises her hand at me, and smiles. Thank God for smiley people. Now the driver has joined her. He’s tall and distinguished-looking. Silver-gray hair. I get the feeling he’d like to have opened the door for her if only she’d given him the chance. They’re walking up the driveway toward us holding hands, so either they’re one of those rare couples still very much in love after years of marriage, or this is a new relationship. I’d put money on the latter.
It’s one of the things I love about this job—meeting new people all the time. Trying to guess from the snippets they reveal about themselves what they’re really like. And viewing clients’ properties is absolutely the best part of what I do. Tash, who’s one of my oldest friends, says it’s because I’m a nosy parker. But that’s okay, because she’s exactly the same.
Once, when she and her boyfriend were on vacation, they pretended to be interested in buying an expensive penthouse apartment, just so they could have a look inside. I suppress a smile. They had to park their dilapidated old Volvo a couple of streets away so the realtor didn’t see them get out of it. I often think of that story when I’m meeting prospective buyers. You never really know if people are genuine.
“Hi, I’m Joanna Critchley from Pegton’s. Nice to meet you.” We shake hands. Anne Wilson is an attractive woman but she’s definitely had work done on her face. Her skin has that shiny, taut look, and her lips and cheeks are plumped out with filler. I look away in case she thinks I’m staring. “And this is Susan Marchant, the owner.”
But Susan Marchant is already walking away from us toward the stairs, her heels clicking on the parquet flooring. What a rude woman. No wonder Dave was so eager for me to handle this one. And who wears high heels in their own house?
I take a deep breath. “Let’s start in the living room, shall we?”
It’s not the best of starts. Buying a new house is stressful enough as it is. A frosty homeowner can be enough to put some people off. Although maybe that’s what Susan Marchant wants to do. Maybe she’s being forced to sell the house by a philandering ex-husband desperate to get his hands on his share of the assets and is determined to put off as many buyers as she can. I can’t honestly say I wouldn’t do the same myself.
* * *
—
WHEN I GET home later that morning, I can’t help comparing my cramped little cottage and its dated décor with the lovely, spacious house I’ve just been looking at, and before long I’m scrolling through paint colors online. I promised myself I’d make a start on the decorating once Alfie was settled at school; it’s now October and I haven’t done a thing.
Then I remember what Cathy said about Sally McGowan. It’s bound to be a load of nonsense, something she’s cooked up to create a little drama, but I might as well have a quick look. Anything to distract me from thoughts of decorating.
I type the name in the search bar and up pop 109 million results, plus a grainy black-and-white photo of a child’s face. Unsmiling, defiant, but strikingly beautiful nonetheless. I’ve seen it before. I remember it now. The iconic mug shot.
According to Wikipedia, Sally McGowan was born in Dearborn, Michigan. In 1969, age ten, she stabbed five-year-old Robbie Harris to death. It was a sensational case that divided the nation. Was she a cold-blooded psychopath, or the victim of abusive parents and a long history of neglect? She insisted it was a game that went wrong, but no one believed her. Well, the public certainly didn’t. People were furious when her conviction was for manslaughter, not murder.
I check out more websites. She was released in 1981 and disappeared off the radar. Six years later, reporters tracked her down. By then she was working as a seamstress in Iowa and had a child of her own. I scroll through more images. A seventeen-year-old Sally playing pool in a juvenile detention center. There’s something provocative about the way she’s draped herself over the table, or maybe it’s just the camera angle, the composition of the shot.
Now I’m looking at a young, svelte woman in her twenties shielding her face from the cameras. I skim a few more sites. Apart from the odd piece in the tabloids about alleged sightings and the ongoing anguish of Robbie Harris’s family, nothing more has been heard of her.
I take a sip of coffee. What if she really is living in Flinstead? I mean, she’s got to be somewhere, so why not here? That ghastly client suddenly enters my head. Susan Marchant. It has to be a coincidence that her initials are the same, but even so, I can’t help superimposing Sally McGowan’s ten-year-old face on hers. The features merge.
I toss my iPad to the other end of the sofa. This is ridiculous. Listening to stupid gossip at the playground and letting my imagination run away with me. Just because Susan Marchant is a miserable bitch, it doesn’t make her a killer.
2
“I STILL REMEMBER THE BLOOD,” SAYS CHILD KILLER SALLY MCGOWAN’S FORMER FRIEND AND NEIGHBOR MARGARET COLE
By Geoff Binns
TUESDAY, AUGUST 3, 1999
DAILY NEWS
Thirty years ago today, Sally McGowan became notorious for stabbing five-year-old Robbie Harris to death in a derelict house in Dearborn, Michigan. She was ten years old.
Yesterday, her former school friend and neighbor Margaret Cole shared her memories of that time.
“It was so different back then,” said Margaret. “Another world. All of us kids played outdoors. Our mothers didn’t know where we were half the time. Whole blocks of houses were derelict. It must have been hell for our parents, but us kids, we loved it. It was one great big playground.”
Many abandoned houses were demolished in the 1960s to make way for concrete housing projects. Chronic poverty, deprivation, and unemployment—this was the world Sally McGowan grew up in.
“But that was just the way things were,” said Margaret. “We didn’t know we were poor. We were just kids. Out playing.
