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A young mother, blond and pretty, vanishes from her South Boston home, leaving behind only one witness-her four-year-old daughter-and one suspect-her handsome, secretive husband. From the moment Detective Sergeant D. D. Warren arrives at the Joneses' snug little bungalow, instinct tells her that something is seriously off with the wholesome image the couple has worked so hard to create. With the clock ticking on the life of a missing woman and a media firestorm building, D. D. must decide whether Jason Jones is hiding his guilt-or just trying to hide. But first she must stand between a potential killer and his next victim-an innocent child who may have seen too much.

Lisa Gardner is the New York Times bestselling author of Say Goodbye, Hide, Gone, Alone, The Killing Hour, The Survivors Club, The Next Accident, The Other Daughter, The Third Victim, and The Perfect Husband. She lives with her family in New England, where she is at work on her next suspense novel.

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Chapter One

I’ve always wondered what people felt in the final few hours of their lives. Did they know something terrible was about to occur? Sense imminent tragedy, hold their loved ones close? Or is it one of those things that simply happens? The mother of four, tucking her kids into bed, worrying about the morning car pool, the laundry she still hasn’t done, and the funny noise the furnace is making again, only to catch an eerie creak coming from down the hall. Or the teenage girl, dreaming about her Saturday shopping date with her BFF, only to open her eyes and discover she’s no longer alone in her room. Or the father, bolting awake, thinking, What the fuck? right before the hammer catches him between the eyes.

In the last six hours of the world as I know it, I feed Ree dinner. Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, topped with pieces of turkey dog. I slice up an apple. She eats the crisp white flesh, leaving behind curving half-smiles of red peel. I tell her the skin holds all the nutrients. She rolls her eyes—four going on fourteen. We already fight over clothing—she likes short skirts, her father and I prefer long dresses, she wants a bikini, we insist she wear a one-piece. I figure it’s only a matter of weeks before she demands the keys to the car.

Afterward Ree wants to go “treasure hunting” in the attic. I tell her it’s bath time. Shower, actually. We share the old claw-foot tub in the upstairs bath, as we’ve been doing since she was a baby. Ree lathers up two Barbies and one princess rubber duckie. I lather up her. By the time we’re done, we both smell like lavender and the entire black-and-white checkered bathroom is smothered with steam.

I like the post-shower ritual. We wrap up in giant towels, then make a beeline down the chilly hallway to the Big Bed in Jason’s and my room, where we lie down, side by side, arms cocooned, but toes sticking out, lightly touching. Our orange tabby cat, Mr. Smith, jumps on the bed, and peers down at us with his big golden eyes, long tail twitching.

“What was your favorite part of today?” I ask my daughter.

Ree crinkles her nose. “I don’t remember.”

Mr. Smith moves away from us, finding a nice comfy spot by the headboard, and begins to groom. He knows what’s coming next.

“My favorite part was coming home from school and getting a big hug.” I’m a teacher. It’s Wednesday. Wednesday I get home around four, Jason departs at five. Ree is used to the drill by now. Daddy is daytime, Mommy is nighttime. We didn’t want strangers raising our child and we’ve gotten our wish.

“Can I watch a movie?” Ree asks. Is always asking. She’d live with the DVD player if we let her.

“No movie,” I answer lightly. “Tell me about school.”

“A short movie,” she counters. Then offers, triumphantly, “Veggie Tales!”

“No movie,” I repeat, untucking an arm long enough to tickle her under the chin. It’s nearly eight o’clock and I know she’s tired and willful. I’d like to avoid a full tantrum this close to bedtime. “Now tell me about school. What’d you have for snack?”

She frees her own arms and tickles me under my chin. “Carrots!”

“Oh yeah?” More tickling, behind her ear. “Who brought them?”

“Heidi!”

She’s trying for my armpits. I deftly block the move. “Art or music?”

“Music!”

“Singing or instrument?”

“Guitar!”

She’s got the towel off and pounces on me, tickling anyplace she can find with fast, poky fingers, a last burst of energy before the end-of-the-day collapse. I manage to fend her off, rolling laughing off

Excerpted from The Neighbor: A Novel of Suspense by Lisa Gardner
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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The Neighbor A Detective D. D. Warren Novel

The Neighbor A Detective D. D. Warren Novel

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