An Unwanted Guest Read online

  ALSO BY SHARI LAPENA

  The Couple Next Door

  A Stranger in the House

  Copyright © 2018 1742145 Ontario Limited

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher—or in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Doubleday Canada and colophon are registered trademarks of

  Penguin Random House Canada Limited

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Lapeña, Shari, 1960-, author

  An unwanted guest / Shari Lapena.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 9780385690799 (trade paperback).—ISBN 9780385690805 (EPUB)

  I. Title.

  PS8623.A724U59 2018 C813'.6 C2018-901217-X

  C2018-901218-8

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Based on cover design by Ervin Serrano

  Cover images: (woman) Karina Vegas/Arcangel Images; (suitcase) draganab, (snow flurries) Tadeush89, (snow on ground) Oleh_Slobodeniuk, (house) blu_vanilla21, all Getty Images

  Title page image: sakkmesterke/Shutterstock.com

  Published in Canada by Doubleday Canada,

  a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Also by Shari Lapena

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  About the Author

  To Mum

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I continue to be hugely grateful that I work with some of the best people in the business. To my publishers in the U.S.—Brian Tart, Pamela Dorman, and the fantastic team at Viking Penguin—thank you, once again, for doing a terrific job. To Larry Finlay and Frankie Gray at Transworld UK and the fabulous team there—thank you—you are all outstanding. To Kristin Cochrane, Amy Black, Bhavna Chauhan, and the superb team at Doubleday Canada—thank you, again, for everything. I’m extremely fortunate to have so many truly talented, committed, and enthusiastic people behind me. I could not do this without all of you.

  Thank you, once again, to Helen Heller—I appreciate you more than I can ever say. Thank you also to everyone at the Marsh Agency for your continued excellent representation worldwide.

  Special thanks to Jane Cavolina for being a super copyeditor.

  Thanks, too, to Lieutenant Paul Pratti of the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Office for his generous assistance.

  I’d like to say that any mistakes in the manuscript are entirely mine.

  Lastly, and always, thank you to my husband, Manuel, and to our kids, Christopher and Julia—your support and enthusiasm mean the world to me.

  ONE

  Friday, 4:45 p.m.

  The road curves and twists unexpectedly as it leads higher and deeper into the Catskill Mountains, as if the farther you get from civilization, the more uncertain the path. The shadows are deepening, the weather worsening. The Hudson River is there, appearing and disappearing from view. The forest that rises on either side of the road has a lurking quality, as if it might swallow you whole; it is the forest of fairy tales. The softly falling snow, however, lends it all a certain postcard charm.

  Gwen Delaney grips the steering wheel tightly and squints through the windshield. She’s more one for grim fairy tales than picture postcards. The light is going; it will soon be dark. The snow coming down makes driving more difficult, more tiring. The flakes hit the glass in such profusion that she feels as though she’s stuck in some kind of relentless video game. And the road is definitely becoming more slippery. She’s grateful that she has good tires on her little Fiat. Everything is turning into a white blur; it’s hard to tell where the road ends and the ditch begins. She’ll be glad when they get there. She’s beginning to wish they’d chosen an inn a little less remote; this one is miles from anywhere.

  Riley Shuter is silent in the passenger seat beside her, a ball of quiet tension; it’s impossible not to pick up on it. Just being with her in the small car puts Gwen on edge. She hopes she hasn’t made a mistake bringing her up here.

  The whole point of this little escape, Gwen thinks, is to get Riley to relax a little, to take her mind off things. Gwen bites her lip and stares hard at the road ahead. She’s a city girl, born and bred; she’s not used to country driving. It gets so dark up here. She’s becoming anxious now—the drive has taken longer than planned. They shouldn’t have stopped for coffee at that cute little antique place along the way.

  She’s not sure what she expected, suggesting this weekend getaway, other than a change of scenery, a chance to spend some quiet time together, with nothing to remind Riley that her life is in ruins. Perhaps that was naive.

  Gwen has her own baggage, less recent, and she, too, carries it with her everywhere she goes. But she’s decided she’s going to put that behind her for this weekend at least. A small luxury hotel deep in the country, good food, no internet, pristine nature—it’s exactly what they both need.

  * * *

  • • •

  Riley watches nervously out of the car window, peering into the shadowy woods, trying not to imagine someone jumping in front of their car at any second, waving them down. She clenches her hands into fists inside the pockets of her down jacket. She reminds herself that she’s not in Afghanistan anymore. She’s home, safe, in New York State. Nothing bad can happen to her here.

  Her career has changed her. Seeing what she has seen, Riley is so different that she hardly recognizes herself anymore. She glances furtively at Gwen. They’d been close once. She’s not even sure why she agreed to come with her to this faraway country inn. She watches Gwen concentrating fiercely on the winding road up the slippery incline, heading into the mountains. “Are you okay?” she asks suddenly.

  “Me?” Gwen says. “Yeah, I’m fine. We should be there soon.”

  In journalism school, when they were both at NYU, Gwen had been the steady, pragmatic one. But Riley was ambitious—she wanted to be where it was happening. Gwen had no taste for adventure. She’d always preferred books, and quiet. Out of journalism school, unable to find a decent job at a newspaper, Gwen had quickly parlayed her skills into a good corporate communications position and had never seemed to regret it. But Riley had headed to the war zones. And she’d managed to keep it together for a long time.

  Why does she do this? Why does she keep thinking about it? She can feel herself starting to come apart. She tries to slow her breathing, the way she’s been taught. To stop the images from coming back, from taking over.

  * * *

  • • •

  David Paley parks his car in the shoveled parking area to the right of the hotel. He gets out of the car and stretches. The weather made the drive from New York City longer than expected, and now his muscles are stiff—a reminder that he’s not quite as young as he used to be. Before grabbing his overnight bag from the back seat of his Mercedes, he stands for a moment in the thickly falling snow, looking at Mitchell’s Inn.

  It’s a three-story, graceful-looking structure of red brick and gingerbread trim, encircled by nearby forest. The front of the small hotel is open to view, with what must be a rather grand lawn underneath all the snow. Tall evergreens and mature trees bereft of leaves but draped in white seem to encroach on the building from a short distance away. In the front, an enormous tree in the middle of the lawn extends its thick branches in every direction. All is covered in a pure, muffling white snow. It feels quiet here, peaceful, and he feels his shoulders begin to relax.

  There are large rectangular windows spaced regularly across all three floors. Wide steps lead up to a wooden porch and double front doors decorated with boughs of ever
greens. Although it is still daylight—barely—the lamps on either side of the doors are lit, and soft yellow light also spills from the windows on the ground floor, giving the building a warm, welcoming appearance. David stands still, willing the stresses of the day—and the week, and the years—to recede as the snow falls gently on his hair and tickles his lips. He feels like he’s walking into an earlier, more gracious, more innocent time.

  He will try not to think about work for an entire forty-eight hours. Everyone, no matter how busy, needs to recharge once in a while, even—perhaps especially—a top criminal attorney. It’s rare for him to be able to fit in any downtime at all, much less an entire weekend. He’s determined to enjoy it.

  Friday, 5:00 p.m.

  Lauren Day glances at the man next to her, Ian Beeton. He’s driving his car expertly in rather challenging conditions, and making it all look easy. He has a disarming smile, and he turns it on her now. She smiles back. He’s nice-looking, too, tall and spare, but it’s the smile that first attracted her to him, his laid-back charm that makes him so appealing. Lauren rummages through her handbag for her lipstick. She finds it—a nice shade of red that brightens her face—and applies it carefully while looking in the mirror on the visor in front of her. The car skids a bit and she stops what she’s doing, but Ian straightens the vehicle skillfully. The road winds more steeply now, and the car has an increasing tendency to swerve as it loses traction.

  “Getting slippery,” she says.

  “No worries. Nothing I can’t handle,” he says and grins at her. She smiles back. She likes his self-confidence too.

  “Whoa—what’s that?” she says suddenly. There’s a dark shape in front of them to the right. It’s a dull day, and with the snow falling so heavily it’s hard to see, but it looks like there’s a car in the ditch.

  She stares keenly out the window as they pass by the vehicle, and Ian looks for somewhere to stop. “I think there’s someone in that car,” she says.

  “Why don’t they have the hazard lights on?” he mutters. He pulls over slowly to the side of the road, careful not to slide off the road himself. Lauren gets out of the warmth of the car and plunges into several inches of virgin snow, which immediately falls inside her boots, stinging her ankles. She can hear Ian getting out of the car, too, slamming the door.

  “Hey!” she cries down to the motionless car. The driver’s door opens slowly.

  Lauren clambers down the incline carefully, sliding as she goes. The ground is uneven and she finds it hard to keep her balance. She reaches the car and grabs on to the door with her left hand for support as she peers into the front seat. “You okay?” she asks.

  The driver is a woman close to her own age—around thirty. She appears a bit shaken up, but the windshield isn’t cracked and she’s wearing a seat belt. Lauren looks beyond the driver to the woman in the passenger seat. Her face is pale and sweating, and she’s staring straight ahead, as if Lauren isn’t even there. She looks like she’s had a dreadful shock.

  The driver glances quickly at her companion, and then turns back to Lauren gratefully. “Yes, we’re fine. We went off the road just a few minutes ago. We were wondering what to do next. Lucky for us you came along.”

  Lauren feels Ian come up behind her and peer over her shoulder at the two women inside the car. He smiles his charming smile at them. “Looks like you’re going to need a tow.”

  “Great,” the driver says.

  “Where you headed?” Lauren asks.

  “Mitchell’s Inn,” she answers.

  “Well, isn’t that lucky,” Ian says. “That’s where we’re going too. Although I don’t think there’s much else out here. Why don’t we give you a lift, and you can arrange from the hotel for someone to come get your car out?”

  The woman smiles with relief and nods. She’s obviously glad to be rescued. Lauren doesn’t blame her. You could freeze to death out here all by yourself. But the woman with her doesn’t react. She seems to be in her own world.

  “You have any bags?” Lauren asks.

  “Yes, in the back.” The driver gets out of the car and struggles through the deep snow to the back of the vehicle. Her passenger now seems to snap out of her trance and gets out on the other side. The driver opens the hatch as the woman appears beside her. They each grab an overnight bag.

  Ian reaches down and offers all three women a hand up to the road. Even with help, it’s an awkward climb.

  “Thanks so much,” the driver says. “My name is Gwen, and this is Riley.”

  “I’m Lauren and this is Ian,” she says. “Let’s get in the car. It’s so cold.” She casts a furtive glance at the woman named Riley, who hasn’t said a word. She wonders what’s up with her. Something about her definitely seems off.

  TWO

  Friday, 5:00 p.m.

  Beverly Sullivan drops her overnight bag at her feet and lets her eyes sweep around the room. It’s perfect. Just like the one in the brochure. There’s an old-fashioned luxury here that she’s not accustomed to, and she moves about the room, touching things. The antique, king-size bed is heaped with pillows. The carved wardrobe is gorgeous, and the thick Oriental carpet must have cost a fortune. She steps up to the windows, which face out over the front of the hotel. The snowfall has made everything indescribably beautiful. New-fallen snow always makes her feel hopeful.

  She turns away from the windows and peeks into the en suite bath—a spotless oasis of white marble and fluffy white towels. She checks her appearance briefly in the elaborate mirror over the vanity and turns away. Sitting down on the bed, testing it, she begins to wonder what’s taking her husband so long. Henry had stayed down at the front desk to inquire about cross-country skis and God knows what else, and she’d come up to the room herself. He insisted that she not wait for him, although she’d been perfectly willing to sit in one of the deep-blue velvet chairs or sofas around the stone fireplace in the lobby while he fussed over the equipment. But she didn’t want to make an issue of it. She tries not to feel disappointed. It will take time for him to begin to relax. But he seems to be looking for ways to fill their weekend with activities, when all she wants is to slow down and simply be together. It’s almost as if he’s avoiding being with her, as if he doesn’t want to be here at all.

  She knows her marriage is in . . . disrepair. She wouldn’t say it’s in trouble, exactly. But it needs work. They have drifted apart, begun to take each other for granted. She’s guilty of it too. How does a modern marriage survive all the forces that converge to tear it apart? Too much familiarity, the dreariness of domesticity, of paying bills, raising children. Of having full-time jobs and always too much to do. She doesn’t know if a weekend away at a lovely and remote place in the country will make that much of a difference, but it could be a start. A start they certainly wouldn’t get if they stayed at home. They desperately need a chance to reconnect, to remember what they like about each other. Away from squabbling, sullen teenagers who demand their attention and drain their energies. She sighs and slumps inwardly; she wishes they didn’t argue so much about the kids. She’s hoping that here, they’ll be able to talk about things without being interrupted, without that constant, wearying, underlying tension.

  She wonders with a vague unease how the weekend will unfold, and if anything will be different by the time they return home.

  * * *

  • • •

  Henry Sullivan lingers near the reception desk in the lobby to the left of the grand staircase. The smell of logs burning in the fireplace reminds him of Christmases as a boy. He looks at some glossy flyers advertising local restaurants and attractions. Although “local” may be stretching it a bit. They’re pretty far away from things up here. Unfortunately, with all the snow, it looks like it might be too difficult to go anywhere anyway, but the young man at the desk said the snowplows would be running tomorrow, and the roads should be fine. Henry fingers the cell phone in his pants pocket. There’s no reception up here, which is something he hadn’t been expecting. Beverly hadn’t mentioned that. He feels a twinge of annoyance.