The Vacation: An utterly gripping thriller packed with suspense Read online

  THE VACATION

  AN UTTERLY GRIPPING THRILLER PACKED WITH SUSPENSE

  M.M. CHOUINARD

  BOOKS BY M.M. CHOUINARD

  The Vacation

  DETECTIVE JO FOURNIER NOVELS

  1. The Dancing Girls

  2. Taken to the Grave

  3. Her Daughter’s Cry

  4. The Other Mothers

  Available in audio

  DETECTIVE JO FOURNIER NOVELS

  1. The Dancing Girls (Available in the UK and the US)

  2. Taken to the Grave (Available in the UK and the US)

  3. Her Daughter’s Cry (Available in the UK and the US)

  4. The Other Mothers (Available in the UK and the US)

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  1. Now

  2. One month before

  3. One month before

  4. One month before

  5. Four days before

  6. Four days before

  7. Four days before

  8. Now

  9. Four days before

  10. Four days before

  11. Four days before

  12. Now

  13. Three days before

  14. Three days before

  15. Now

  16. Now

  17. Three days before

  18. Three days before

  19. Now

  20. Now

  21. Two days before

  22. Now

  23. Two days before

  24. Two days before

  25. Now

  26. Two days before

  27. Now

  28. Now

  29. One day before

  30. One day before

  31. One day before

  32. Now

  33. Now

  34. One day before

  35. One day before

  36. Now

  37. Now

  38. Now

  39. Now

  40. Now

  41. Now

  42. Now

  43. Now

  44. Now

  45. Now

  46. The day of the disappearance

  47. The day of the disappearance

  48. Now

  49. The day of the disappearance

  50. Now

  51. Now

  52. Now

  53. Now

  54. Now

  55. Now

  56. The day of the disappearance

  57. The day of the disappearance

  58. Now

  59. Now

  60. Now

  61. Now

  62. Now

  63. Now

  64. Now

  65. Now

  66. Now

  Epilogue

  The Dancing Girls

  Hear More from M.M. Chouinard

  A Letter from M.M. Chouinard

  Books by M.M. Chouinard

  Taken to the Grave

  Her Daughter’s Cry

  The Other Mothers

  Acknowledgments

  DEDICATION

  For the Bionic Woman

  NOW

  Rose Martin sips her drink and closes her eyes as the warm Jamaican breeze brushes her face, her legs, her bare shoulders. The humidity is lush and sensual and when the air wafts past her, carrying the scent of the distant ocean up the mountainside, every inch of her skin comes alive, transforming her into a goddess. She wants to dance, slowly and with abandon, to the steel-drum melodies coming from the villa’s Bluetooth speakers. Wants to laugh and sing, and make love long into the night.

  Finally, finally, she’s managing to relax, despite how hard the last couple of days have been. Maybe Brandon was right, maybe the vacation was just what they needed—time with family and friends in paradise. She’s been ridiculous to stress so much about it, and she really does need to get better at dealing with her anxieties. She makes a mental note to make an appointment with her therapist as soon as they get back to the States.

  “Gin,” Anabelle calls.

  Rose reopens her eyes to watch Anabelle spread her cards out on the wooden table with a single, graceful, well-manicured gesture; the moonlight glints off the pool behind Anabelle, playing up the contrast between her pink French tips and her brown skin. Rose glances down at her own pale hand—a dash of red polish might be the perfect touch for their upcoming Thanksgiving dinner.

  “Dammit,” Brandon says, and throws his cards down. “Five in a row. I give up.”

  Anabelle’s uncharacteristically sharp laugh cracks across the tiled courtyard and echoes off the three mustard-yellow houses that enclose it. “That’s because I’m the only one not drunk.”

  A chorus of half-hearted denials ring out, and Rose examines the nearly empty pitcher of rum punch as she sets her own cards down. It’s the second pitcher, but even so, is that really enough to get six adults drunk? She’s tipsy, without a doubt. Not a problem, the children are asleep, but she probably shouldn’t drink anymore regardless. Everyone has to be up early tomorrow morning, and her brother- and sister-in-law have already gone to bed.

  The thought reminds her. “I should go check on the kids. Do you want me to look in on your boys, too?”

  Anabelle starts to answer, but her husband Mateo interrupts. “Chill out, Rosie, Brandon just checked on them. You’re gonna turn into one of those—what’s it called—helicopter parents. Oh, wait—too late.”

  Rose winces at the nickname he knows she hates, and stands. “I don’t like being out of earshot for too long when they aren’t feeling well. And believe it or not, it’s been well over an hour since he checked on them. Time flies when you’re having fun.”

  Mateo throws up his hands, a wry grin on his face. “An hour, well, then! My bad.”

  Rose refuses to rise to the bait—let him vent any way he needs to—choosing instead to shake her head gently and smile. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  Sauntering toward the south-most house in the villa, she tries to refocus on the caress of the warm breeze. She steps under the gorgeous Moroccan-scrolled overhang to the door and then into the bohemian living room, all wicker furniture and bright, happy prints that make her smile. The room is stuffy—only the ceiling fans propel the warm air inside—and already she misses the intoxicating breeze. She cracks open the door to the children’s room, and peeks into Jackson’s crib. He’s sound asleep, and she smiles at the sight of his face, cherubic in the soft glow of the night light. Thank goodness he’s sleeping soundly—it’s hard enough to get him to sleep through the night even without the sniffles that have made him fussy all day.

  The door swings open the rest of the way, and the hair on Rose’s neck stands up in the breeze. Because it’s organic again, natural and flowing, not the artificial swirl of the fans. The window shouldn’t be open, but it is, curtains billowing out into the room, obscuring Lily’s bed just underneath.

  She rushes over and bats aside the curtains—the bed is flat, empty. Heart pounding in her throat, she pulls at the covers and sheets and pillows as though her daughter could be hiding underneath them, playing an impossible game of hide and seek.

  “Lily?” She frantically dives to check under the bed, kicks away the wicker chairs, pushes aside the clothes in the tiny closet. “Lily, this isn’t funny. Come out right now!”

  But she knows this isn’t a three-year-old’s prank. Lily’s not the sort of child who hides from her mother. And she’s timid, anxious even—she’d never climb out a window on her own.

  Rose clambers onto the bed and sticks her head out, glancing left and right, seeing nothing except the empty street that lea
ds past the house through John’s Hall and toward Montego Bay.

  No Lily. No anybody.

  Fueled by a last scrap of hope, she dashes back through the small house—master bedroom, kitchen, living room—calling Lily’s name, louder now, any concern for waking Jackson gone.

  No Lily.

  She hurries back to the children’s room and searches again, the bed, the closet, Jackson’s crib, behind the chairs, refusing to admit what she won’t find.

  Then, she sinks to her knees, screaming.

  ONE MONTH BEFORE

  ROSE

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you, I talked to Leo today.” Brandon froze at the entrance to the living room and smiled down at her. “You always look so beautiful when you’re in your happy place.”

  Rose glanced up from her fabric swatches, legs tucked up under her as she cuddled into the couch, and laughed. “I never thought of it that way, but I guess strolling through a new set of fabrics is my happy place, like my brain’s version of running free through Disneyland. But I also got some really excellent news today. That boutique in Boston called and said my collection is selling so well they want everything from my spring/summer collection. I’ve been riding the adrenaline rush all evening, waiting for the kids to go to sleep so I can dive into these and start planning for next fall.”

  “Congratulations, hon. Next step: New York Fashion Week.” Brandon gestured an imaginary marquee above his head.

  She rolled her eyes. “Maybe a few more steps in between. But you were saying you talked to Leo today?”

  “Right.” He set his glass of wine on a coaster, grabbed the television remote, and dropped onto the sleek black sofa. “He called and invited us for Thanksgiving.”

  Rose turned cold. “In Jamaica?”

  Brandon took a sip of the wine. “Where else?”

  “I thought they might be coming back to the States for the holidays,” she said, her design process forgotten. “He called you at work?”

  Brandon cleared his throat. “He left a message while I was in surgery. For a really jacked-up facelift, by the way—the woman’s third, because the guy who did the second one butchered her. Anyway. I called Leo back on my way home.”

  Of course Leo would try to convince Brandon first. He’d been trying to get them to visit for the last six months, and knew full well that Rose wouldn’t want to go. “That’s nice of them to invite us, but—”

  “He’s inviting Mateo and Anabelle, too, so we’ll have the gang back together. And you were just saying how you weren’t ready for another New England winter.”

  “But we were talking about Los Angeles or even Napa Valley. And sometime in January, not over Thanksgiving. My parents will have a fit.”

  “We’ll see your parents over Christmas. But this is the only way we’ll get to see my sister over the holidays.”

  Rose’s chest tightened. “But they’ll be moving back in the spring. That’s not so long, and we’ll see them then.”

  He clicked on the TV, but muted it as he surfed the channels. “That’s just it. AmericAid needs him there for at least another year. I guess the hurricanes last year slowed things down, so his part of the project won’t finish on time. And Bree has never met Jackson. They need to bond.”

  “We’ve talked about this.” Her mind raced. She slid the swatches onto the glass coffee table and grabbed her computer. She typed and clicked, then swiveled the machine to show the screen to Brandon. “Look. Travel advisory. Avoid unnecessary travel to Jamaica.”

  He flicked his wrist toward her and reached for his wine. “They always say that.”

  “That’s because it’s always true. Look here.” She pointed at the screen. “And I quote: ‘Violent crimes such as home invasions, armed robberies, sexual assaults and homicides are common. Local police lack the resources to respond effectively to serious criminal incidents.’ The kids are too young for us to take those risks.”

  “The crime isn’t against tourists, it’s outside those areas. You’re buying into alarmist stereotypes.” He settled on a twenty-four-hour news channel.

  “It says incidents happen frequently even at all-inclusive resorts, and it lists Montego Bay specifically. And it goes on to say that even government personnel are prohibited from traveling outside prescribed areas and shouldn’t use public transportation. And that you shouldn’t drive or walk at night.” She moved her pointed finger across the lines as she read the page.

  “Rose. There are plenty of places in Boston that aren’t safe to go to after dark. You find that everywhere.”

  “But we know Boston. We know where to go and where not to go.”

  He reached over and gently swatted the laptop closed. “And Leo and Bree know Jamaica. They’ve lived there for two and a half years, and other people in the organization have been there even longer. They know where it’s safe and where it isn’t. And Anabelle’s father was born and raised in the Dominican Republic. She’s spent time on every island in the Caribbean.”

  Her voice wavered as she struggled to stay calm. “I told you about that piece I saw on The Global Daily Gazette site, about the little girls getting kidnapped in Jamaica.”

  “And I told you to stop reading that gossip rag.” He gestured toward the TV with the remote. “Stick with real news. Hundreds of kids are kidnapped all over the world every day. You only clicked on that particular article because Leo and Bree are in Jamaica.”

  Rose shifted in her seat and shot a glance upward, in the direction of the children’s rooms. “Can’t they just come back here instead? We can even host Thanksgiving dinner. You’ve always wanted to barbecue a turkey.”

  Brandon followed her glance. He clicked off the TV and turned to fully face her. “Did you talk to the doctor about a new prescription?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “My body’s still readjusting from Jackson’s birth, and I don’t want to mess with that balance.”

  He tilted his head at her. “It’s been over a year.”

  The truth was she wanted to prove, mostly to herself, that she no longer needed the medication. She cleared her throat. “I’ve been fine day to day, and the doctor gave me some emergency Xanax if I have a panic attack or anything.”

  Brandon’s expression was skeptical. “Good, bring it with you. But talk to your doctor about starting a new prescription before we go, because you shouldn’t be this distressed by a possible trip to paradise. I know why you worry so much about them, but we can’t let it rule our lives. You have to get past it, your therapist even said so. You know I’d never let anything happen to you or the kids, right?”

  She nodded. She also knew that her own father never would have willingly let anything happen to her or her sister. And yet, Lillian Marie had drowned in Lake Merritt just the same.

  “Okay, then. Talk to your therapist too, she’ll help you feel better about it. But we need this trip. You’ve been working so hard between the kids and your design work, and after everything I’ve had to deal with to take over the new practice, I need a break.” He gestured toward the swatches. “Think how amazing a little island inspiration will be. We’ll come back refreshed and happy. You’ll see. Trust me.”

  Trust. She trusted him just fine. He made her feel protected and secure—his confidence and strength were the main reasons she’d fallen in love with him. But the downside of the alpha-male energy, the flip side of the confidence-and-strength coin, was he could be stubborn. He had strong opinions about the world, and when he committed to some sort of action, there wasn’t any changing his mind.

  And her therapist would say he was right about this. It was far too easy for her to slip into her safe cocoon, and that wasn’t good for her or the kids. The last thing she wanted was to pass her anxieties off on them; she knew too well how the neuroses of a parent could bleed into every aspect of a child’s life.

  So she might as well find a silver lining. “You always see those stunning resorts on the commercials. Beautiful spas and gorgeo
us restaurants, and I’m sure they’re all very secure.”

  He waved the thought away. “You can spend your entire trip in one of those resorts and never even know what island you’re on. Leo said he knows a little villa close to where he lives that we’ll love. Three houses built around a shared courtyard, tall protective wall enclosing it all, with a view of the ocean. It even has a nice big pool. Sounds amazing.”

  The fear stabbed back through her. “Doesn’t he live up in the mountains? They’re doing something with windmills up there, right, or solar panels? The travel warning says you should keep to the tourist areas.”

  “Rose. Do you really think my sister would let her husband bring us someplace that wasn’t safe? Me and you, maybe. But with the kids? She loves Lily like she’s her own, and she’ll love Jackson just the same.”

  Too much.

  The thought came unbidden, and she chastised herself for having it. She pushed it down and nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. I’m being silly.”

  He smiled and squeezed her hand, then clicked the TV back on and took a long sip of his wine.

  She pulled the swatches back into her lap and stared down, not seeing them.

  ONE MONTH BEFORE

  ANABELLE

  Anabelle turned at the door to her sons’ bedroom and gazed back at the boys. She shook her head—they always looked so sweet and harmless when they slept, nothing like the rowdy Energizer bunnies that tore through the house all day. She was barely thirty, she should be able to keep up with a five-year-old and a three-year-old, but by the end of the day she felt like she’d been training for a triathlon.

  Was the triathlon the one with swimming, or was it the one with the shooting? She couldn’t remember. Whichever one had the swimming.

  Careful to be as quiet as possible, she clicked the door closed and padded down the stairs. Mateo was hiding out in his office, surrounded by paperwork and poking fiercely at the touchpad on his laptop. She crossed to the armchair next to his desk and plopped down, running her eyes greedily over his screen and the papers in front of him.