Copyright © 2017 Karen Rose Hafer
The right of Karen Rose Hafer to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2017
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire
eISBN: 978 1 4722 4460 4
Cover photograph © Larry Rostant
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Praise
Also by Karen Rose
About the Author
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Praise
Praise for Every Dark Corner:
‘NOBODY’s better at dark scary suspense with a twist of romance. Fans will be thrilled’ Peterborough Telegraph
Praise for Alone In The Dark:
‘Deftly mixes a family crime saga and the horrors of human trafficking into a murder investigation . . . a gripping story’ Publishers Weekly
‘An addictive thriller that will accompany many a reader through a few winter’s nights’ CrimeSquad
Praise for Closer Than You Think:
‘A chilling, enthralling read that succeeds on every level’ Kirkus Reviews
‘Gripping, thrilling and ever so tense, this is writing at its best’ Erisea Magazine
Praise for Watch Your Back:
‘Tense, compelling and I couldn’t put it down until I finished it’ Daily Record (Glasgow)
‘Slash and cut crime at its sharpest’ Northern Echo
Praise for Did You Miss Me?:
‘She’s up there with James Patterson and Nora Roberts when it comes to sweaty-palm suspense and a twist with a sting in the tail’ Peterborough Telegraph
‘A brilliant book’ Essentials
Praise for No One Left to Tell:
‘Rose’s rich cast of characters and intricate plot layers give the story real punch. Hang on tight and remember to breathe!’ RT Book Reviews
‘Every page is action-packed’ www.theallureofbooks.com
Praise for You Belong to Me:
‘[Karen Rose’s] glossy blend of romance and crime is completely compelling . . . another enjoyable and page-turning novel from the queen of romantic suspense’ Crime and Publishing
‘Fast and furious’ Sun
Praise for Silent Scream:
‘A high-octane thrill ride that kept me on the edge of my seat and up far too late at night!’ Lisa Jackson
‘Rose packs action into every moment . . . Thriller fans will love the high-adrenaline story and robust cast of intriguing supporting characters’ Publishers Weekly
Praise for I Can See You:
‘A terrific whodunit’ Harriet Klausner
‘Rose keeps the action popping’ Publishers Weekly
Praise for Kill For Me:
‘Rose has never disappointed with her books and this newest, Kill For Me, is her scariest and best book to date’ www.iloveamysterynewsletter.com
‘Rose juggles a large cast, a huge body count and a complex plot with terrifying ease’ Publishers Weekly
Praise for Scream For Me:
‘From the first rousing chapter to the last, Scream For Me is intense, complex and unforgettable’ James Patterson
‘Word is spreading about quite how good [Rose] is’ The Bookseller
Praise for Die For Me:
‘A blend of hard-edged police procedural and romance – engaging’ Irish Independent
‘Chilling thriller with page-turning passion’ Asda Magazine
Praise for Count to Ten:
‘Takes off like a house afire. There’s action and chills galore in this nonstop thriller’ Tess Gerritsen
‘Gripping, chilling and utterly compelling, Karen Rose is a classy storyteller’ Lancashire Evening Post
Praise for You Can’t Hide:
‘Every page is as gripping as the next, fast paced with surprising twists and turns. Really hard to put down’ South Coast Register
‘Karen Rose is quickly becoming an author that readers of suspense should have on auto-buy’ www.joyfullyreviewed.com
Praise for Nothing to Fear:
‘A pulse pounding tale that has it all’ Cosmopolitan
‘Tense chilling suspense that readers will appreciate from start to finish’ www.thebestreviews.com
Praise for I’m Watching You:
‘Don’t miss this perfectly pitched chill-fest with a human edge from a rising star in the thriller market’ Scottish Daily Record
‘Another stellar thriller . . . Rose’s strength lies in her characters’ www.bookloons.com
Praise for Have You Seen Her?:
‘Rose is adept at creating believable characters and balancing murder, violence and nail biting suspense’ The Royston Crow
‘The perfect recipe for an edge-of-your-seat suspense’ www.bookloons.com
Praise for Don’t Tell:
‘Rose delivers the kind of high-wire suspense that keeps you riveted to the edge of your seat’ Lisa Gardner
‘As gripping as a cold hand on the back of one’s neck . . . this assured debut bodes well for Rose’s future books’ Publishers Weekly
By Karen Rose and available from Headline
Don’t Tell
Have You Seen Her?
I’m Watching You
Nothing to Fear
You Can’t Hide
Count to Ten
Die For Me
Scream For Me
Kill For Me
I Can See You
Silent Scream
You Belong to Me
No One Left to Tell
Did You Miss Me?
Watch Your Back
Closer Than You Think
Alone in the Dark
Every Dark Corner
Monste
r in the Closet
Novellas available in ebook only
Broken Silence
Dirty Secrets
About the Author
Karen Rose was introduced to suspense and horror at the tender age of eight when she accidentally read Poe’s The Pit and the Pendulum and was afraid to go to sleep for years. She now enjoys writing books that make other people afraid to go to sleep.
Karen lives in Florida with her family, their cat, Bella, and two dogs, Loki and Freya. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading, and her new hobby – knitting.
To my readers all over the world – thank you for loving the
characters who live in my head as much as I do. I wrote this book
as a sort of ‘Valentine’ to you.
To all the fathers who love their children without reservation,
including the stepfathers who step up to be the dads they don’t
have to be, but are. May your children treasure the blessed
gift they’ve been given.
To my sweet husband, Martin, who has always been the
most amazing dad to our daughters.
Acknowledgements
Terry Bolyard, for helping me to reconstruct my villain.
Amy Lane, for inspiring me to write something that I hadn’t planned to.
Erica Ridley and Roy Prendas, for naming Tavilla’s gang. ¡Gracias!
My lovely editors, Claire Zion and Alex Clarke, for embracing this surprise book.
Beth Miller and Caitlin Ellis for all the hours of editing and more editing.
Robin Rue, for loving it at first sight.
Sonie Lasker, for once again advising me the best way to knock a big guy on his . . . posterior section.
Geoff Symons, for generously sharing his forensic expertise, including blood spatter.
Prologue
Baltimore, Maryland,
Wednesday 22 July, 2.45 P.M.
Jazzie Jarvis slowed her steps as she struggled up the third of the four flights of stairs to their apartment. Sweat streaked her face and the weight of her backpack nearly bowed her in half. Mama had forgotten to pick her up. Again.
Most days it didn’t matter if she forgot. It was hot walking home from day camp, but Jazzie could manage that. The problem was the heat combined with her full backpack. She’d sweated all the way home.
At least the sweat hid the tears she hadn’t been able to hold back. Because Mama hadn’t just forgotten to pick her up. She’d forgotten about the art fair. And I reminded her over and over. She’d promised that she’d come. She promised.
But she hadn’t. Jazzie had stood at her table for more than an hour, eyes fastened to the door, all her projects from day camp arranged perfectly. The clay pot she’d painted and glazed and fired all by herself, the sketches she’d worked so hard to get just right. The pretty piece of rock that she’d sanded until it shone like a diamond. All of it had been there, waiting for Mama to see.
But Mama had forgotten to come and Jazzie had barely managed not to cry as all the other moms and dads walked by, smiling at her, complimenting her. Pitying her because she was the only one whose mama hadn’t come. All the other moms and dads had helped their kids pack up their stuff and carry it to waiting cars.
Fancy cars because it was a fancy day camp. Exclusive. Expensive.
Aunt Lilah, Mama’s sister, had paid for it because Jazzie’s mama didn’t have the money anymore. Not since her dad had left them. Jazzie didn’t miss him. He wouldn’t have come to see my art anyway, she thought bitterly. He’d worked all the time when he’d lived with them. They’d never really seen him. Not even on Sunday, because that had been his golf day, when he entertained clients.
It had always been Mama who’d come to school, who’d attended concert recitals and award ceremonies. But Mama hadn’t been . . . herself, not for a long time.
Not since her dad had left. Maybe even before. Her little sister Janie was too young to remember when they’d been happy. Jazzie could barely remember it herself.
So while all the moms and dads were packing up their kids’ art projects and leftover supplies, Jazzie had packed her own, keeping her chin stubbornly up. Her eyes burned, but she was not going to let anyone see her cry. Especially not the rich kids who sneered because her mama drove an old car with a crappy paint job.
Jazzie had been one of the rich kids once. Before her father left. They’d had a nice house, a nice car. Lots of clothes. Plenty of food. They still had food because Uncle Denny, her father’s brother, wouldn’t let them go hungry. That hurt Mama’s pride, but she’d allowed it, because she wouldn’t let them go hungry either. Jazzie and Janie would have school clothes, too, because of Aunt Lilah. They wouldn’t be fancy or have designer tags because Aunt Lilah was . . . What was the word again? Oh, right. Frugal.
Not cheap. Not selfish. Just careful. Which was what Mama was learning to be, because now she had to work and she didn’t make much money. Now they lived in a crappy little two-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a building with a broken elevator. An apartment they had to share with her grandma.
Jazzie’s lips curled in a sneer of her own because she did not like her father’s mama. Grandma could be hateful sometimes. She was the one who called Aunt Lilah selfish and cheap. All because Grandma was stupid. She’d borrowed too much money and lost her house. All for Jazzie’s father, who broke all his promises.
‘Asshole,’ Jazzie muttered under her breath, more than a little proud she hadn’t stuttered, even a little. ‘Ass. Hole,’ she repeated firmly, enunciating the way her speech therapist had taught her to do, because asshole had a lot of sounds that she had trouble with. She figured her therapist wouldn’t have approved of the word, but Jazzie didn’t much care. It was a damn good word, well worth practicing because it came in handy. Often. Especially when she thought about her father, which she’d done a lot in the last few months. Ever since they’d had to leave the house that had always been her home.
Mama had tried so hard to keep the house, but she couldn’t make enough money as a secretary. It wasn’t her fault. That was all on her dad, who according to Grandma could do no wrong and would be back soon to take care of them again. ‘Soon’ had stretched into almost three years.
That was a long time when you were only eleven.
Jazzie grabbed onto the banister and pulled herself up the last stair. All she wanted was to curl up on the sofa, watch cartoons, and let the A/C cool her skin.
She stopped on the landing. The front door to their tiny apartment was ajar, and Jazzie could feel it. The . . . wrongness of it. The heavy dread she could actually taste. And it tasted bad. It was . . . She wanted to cry. Toilet smells.
Not again, Mama. Not today. Jazzie was so tired, so hot, but she knew she’d have to clean Mama up. She didn’t want Janie to see their mama this way. Ever.
Her shoulders slumped, her eyes filling with new tears. Dammit, Mama. Sometimes her mother was so sad. She and Janie tried to cheer her up, but nothing they did was ever good enough. Some days Mama didn’t get out of bed at all. And some days she came home from work early and drank until she fell asleep on the sofa. Those were the days the drapes were pulled so no light could get in. Dark days, in more ways than one.
Those were the days that Jazzie gathered the empty bottles and threw them away, then cleaned her mama up, covered her with a blanket, and tried to make it look like she really was just napping and not passed out drunk. Jazzie didn’t want Janie to know about any of that. Her little sister was only five. She didn’t understand the dark days.
This was going to be one of those days.
Jazzie would see to her mama, then call Aunt Lilah to pick up Janie from day care, because Mama wouldn’t drive when she was drunk. Because Jazzie would never let her. Which meant finding her car keys and hiding them. Again.
 
; I’m running out of places to hide things. Something needed to change. But Jazzie didn’t know what that thing could be.
She carefully pushed the door open enough to slip through. It was dark in the apartment, but she’d known it would be. Still hauling her backpack, she tiptoed into the living room, not wanting to wake her mother – because drunk Mama was not very patient. She picked her way around the furniture, some of the only things they’d kept from the house. It was fancy furniture that didn’t look right in this shabby little room, but it was familiar. Mama liked to sleep on the sofa most nights, probably because she had to share a bedroom with Grandma. Jazzie figured she had it good with only having to share with Janie.
The wingback chair in the corner was Jazzie’s and always had been, even before they moved here. The chair had come with them from the old house. Cuddling deep into it made her feel protected. And behind it had always been a good hiding place when her parents had fought. She’d hidden behind the chair a lot in the old days. So maybe we weren’t so happy after all.
She stumbled as her foot hit something unfamiliar. Grabbing the arm of the sofa, she managed to stay upright, just as she heard a sound. A loud sound. Rustling and banging and thudding. And then a man’s voice, swearing.
Someone’s here. In the coat closet. Jazzie’s breath froze in her chest. What do I do? Oh God. What do I do? She opened her mouth to shout for her mama, but snapped it closed again. No. Just hide. Back away and hide.
Her eyes had grown used to the darkness, and she took a step toward her bedroom. I can hide under the bed. But more crashing sounds came from the coat closet and the door started to open. Her heart pounding, Jazzie dropped to her knees and crawled behind the chair, grateful for the darkness. She’d hidden so many times. No one could find her if the room stayed dark.
Don’t let him turn on the lights. Please.
The man in the closet began to curse again, his voice muffled. But she could hear the words. Foul, mean words. And . . .
Oh no. Oh God. She knew that voice. What was he doing here? Where’s Mama?
She concentrated on breathing silently . . . until her eyes focused on the floor in front of the sofa. A shoe. She’d tripped on a shoe.