BOOK THREE:
LET HER GO: A daughter missing, a family tragedy ending in murder, causes Lillian Dove a dangerous, exciting investigation into love gone wrong.
LET HER GO: A daughter missing, a family tragedy ending in murder, causes Lillian Dove a dangerous, exciting investigation into love gone wrong.
“Highly amusing, risqué and calamitous is a description of it, just like Lillian’s life.”
“Although Lillian's future and happiness would benefit greatly from her NOT getting involved with any more criminal investigations, I'll be wondering what she stumbles upon next!”
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"Let Her Go" is a thrilling mystery novel that delves into the tragic story of the Conrad family, where the mother has been murdered and the teenage daughter is missing. Lillian Dove, reluctantly involved in the police investigation, is convinced that the daughter holds the key to uncovering the truth about her mother's murder.
Set against the backdrop of the worst Arctic freeze in Frytown's history, the novel explores how human frailties can lead to mistaken love and murderous hate. With time running out, Lillian is determined to find the missing daughter before it's too late. In addition to the central mystery, the novel also explores the complex relationship between Lillian and Jacque Leveque, a detective of major crimes. Can Leveque overcome his antagonism towards Lillian and work with her to solve the case? And can Lillian and Leveque, along with those around them, let go of their own personal demons to uncover the truth and right the wrongs done? Award-winning author D. J. Adamson takes readers on a wild ride with "Let Her Go," featuring twisting clues, emotional ups and downs, and a surprise ending that will leave readers on the edge of their seats. This novel is a must-read for fans of gripping mystery novels. |
EXCERPT
I started back to Church Street, fuming how Leveque got away with pulling the rug out from under me. I was sure the prank was an unjustified payback for not listening to him and involving myself in his last case.
However, I helped solve the case, captured a corporate crook and trafficker, and disclosed an FBI agent. If it hadn’t been for me, he wouldn’t have pieced together what was going on. I’d made HIM look good.
Howling with rage, I turned the next corner too short, skidded on ice and snow, and almost missed someone standing at the side of the street. The man garnered my notice because it was too damn cold for a sane person to be standing outside. Also, red splotches bloomed on his white tee shirt.
“Are you all right?” I shouted, getting out of the car.
A glint of light caught my eye. He was holding a large knife.
I got back in the car.
Locked the doors.
Called Dispatch.
“Frytown Police. What can I…”
“Delores. It’s me again, Lillian.”
“Did you find your tree?”
I looked for a house number, 993 Maryland Avenue. “This doesn’t have anything to do with my tree.” I gave her the address. “A man is standing at the curb holding a knife. He’s covered in blood.”
Delores gave instructions over the radio. “I have a possible 10-31, weapon, possibly a knife, at 993 Maryland Avenue.” Whoever took the call must have asked who called the incident in because Delores was saying, “Lillian Dove. She’s there now.” She asked, “Can you give me a description?”
“Five ten, eleven. White. Age about fifty. Brown, salty hair.”
I could hear her fingers tapping keys. She came back to me, “Officers responding. Do not get out of your car.”
The man stood like someone at an airport unsure where to catch his flight.
Suddenly, he dropped to the curb. The knife popped out of his hand.
Sirens wailed across town.
I opened my car door.
This time, he glanced over. He shook his head as if trying to wake himself up.
“Call the police,” he shouted.
He tried to stand again, but he weakly fell back down. He pointed a bloody hand in the direction I’d just come from and shouted, “He’s getting away.”
“The police are coming,” I shouted. “Don’t move. Stay where you are.”
He glanced over his shoulder toward the house. “My wife, she’s hurt.” He grabbed his side where blood oozed.
What should I do?
I again yelled, “The police are coming.”
He stared at his shirt as if he just realized he was wounded. “I’ve been stabbed.”
I leaned back into the car and grabbed the sweatshirt lying on the back seat. The sweatshirt was thick and bulky, but it would do the job.
I hurried over to him. “Here, put pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding.”
“My family,” he mumbled. He lifted his shirt where a large gash showed on his stomach, streaming blood. I took his hand and helped him press the sweatshirt onto the wound. I checked for the knife he’d dropped and gave it a good kick.
“Keep pressing,” I said. “I’ll go see to the others.” I reminded him, “Don’t move.”
The front door was open. A horrid, sickening sweet stench slithered into my nose. A woman lay in a dark, bloody puddle. She was wearing a blue flannel nightgown with pink roses. Her neck had been slit open so wide it matched her gaping mouth.
I gagged.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered to her. “Who did this to you?”
A faint sound.
I knew I should wait for the police, but I also felt I needed to continue checking the house. He’d said his wife was hurt. He’d said, family. Were there others?
And he’d said, He’s getting away. Did he see the person? Did he get a good enough look to give the police a description?
Had he tried to fight the guy off? Is that how he was stabbed? Was his wife the victim of the attack or the target?
Bloody handprints marked white walls as I moved down the hallway. Acid from my stomach burned my throat. My heart beat hard and heavy.
The door to the first room stood open showing covers half-dragged off the bed. Blood streaked across the covers, carpeting. A bedside stand had been overturned.
Was this where it started? Had they been sleeping, and someone broke into their house and attacked them while they were in bed?
Did his wife somehow get out of bed and run for her life? Was she caught in the living room? Did her husband run to rescue her but didn’t get to her in time?
How had the killer escaped?
I returned to the hallway being careful where I stepped so as not to contaminate any evidence. My heart pounded as if any moment it would break through my rib cage. My lungs begged for breath.
I shook my head. My imagination flickered one image after another like a silent movie.
I listened. Sirens gurgled close by, meaning the police arrived. The wisest choice now was to go back outside and let the police finish searching the house. But I continued to the next closed door. Opened it.
A canopied bed held the center of the room with its bedcovers rumpled as if someone still lay fast asleep. A cabinet displayed dolls no longer providing playtime. This room belonged to a girl. A daughter, but older. Teenager, maybe. I moved to a desk where a book lay opened. Math. Was she doing homework for Monday’s classes?
Voices sounded but far away.
Get out of here, Lillian, said an internal voice. Yet, in having stepped into the house and finding the woman, somehow, this family had become my responsibility.
Was this a case of domestic violence? What if the husband, the man standing outside, attacked his wife? Had he caught up with her and killed her? Then his daughter woke up and saw what he had done?
Or, had his daughter slept through the incident, then found her mother as I had? Or did she cower in her room having listened to similar arguing before? Was violence a product of her childhood? Did she witness the ultimate betrayal?
You should wait for the police, my voice cautioned. Your imagination’s gone wild.
The hair stood on my neck, arms. My knees threatened to collapse. I ignored the voice of caution and moved to the next closed door. Opened it.
On the floor lay a young boy, five, six. He was wearing cowhand PJs with images of horses rearing and cowboy’s roping. I rushed over and placed two fingers on his neck. A pulse. I saw a large red mark on the side of his head. His forehead was cut and bleeding. I wanted to cradle him in my arms but didn’t move him. His leg, abnormally twisted, only allowed me to put my hand on his shoulder. “You’re going to be all right.”
I heard a rattling.
The daughter?
I hadn’t turned on the hallway light, yet the hall appeared veiled in wispy shadows. A white light showed under the last door. One more room.
I stood outside it and heard a creak in a floorboard. Slowly, I twisted the door handle.
On opening, the door squeaked. My spine shuddered a terrified quiver, sending a warning signal from my feeble knees to my brain, Stay alert.
The room was a bathroom. The shower curtain fluttered. The window above the tub was open.
“Police. Put your hands up.”
I froze. Raised my hands high above my head.
“Get down on the floor.”
I lowered myself, one knee at a time, hands still raised, fingers spread wide.
“That you, Lillian?”
I turned my head and saw Sergeant Miner.
Clear. Clear.
Other voices were close. The police were in the house.
“Miner?” A voice called.
“In here. Last room.”
“Go ahead and get up,” Sergeant Miner ordered, then asked, “What are you doing in here?”
Lieutenant Manville entered the room. He said, “I figured we’d find you in the house.”
However, I helped solve the case, captured a corporate crook and trafficker, and disclosed an FBI agent. If it hadn’t been for me, he wouldn’t have pieced together what was going on. I’d made HIM look good.
Howling with rage, I turned the next corner too short, skidded on ice and snow, and almost missed someone standing at the side of the street. The man garnered my notice because it was too damn cold for a sane person to be standing outside. Also, red splotches bloomed on his white tee shirt.
“Are you all right?” I shouted, getting out of the car.
A glint of light caught my eye. He was holding a large knife.
I got back in the car.
Locked the doors.
Called Dispatch.
“Frytown Police. What can I…”
“Delores. It’s me again, Lillian.”
“Did you find your tree?”
I looked for a house number, 993 Maryland Avenue. “This doesn’t have anything to do with my tree.” I gave her the address. “A man is standing at the curb holding a knife. He’s covered in blood.”
Delores gave instructions over the radio. “I have a possible 10-31, weapon, possibly a knife, at 993 Maryland Avenue.” Whoever took the call must have asked who called the incident in because Delores was saying, “Lillian Dove. She’s there now.” She asked, “Can you give me a description?”
“Five ten, eleven. White. Age about fifty. Brown, salty hair.”
I could hear her fingers tapping keys. She came back to me, “Officers responding. Do not get out of your car.”
The man stood like someone at an airport unsure where to catch his flight.
Suddenly, he dropped to the curb. The knife popped out of his hand.
Sirens wailed across town.
I opened my car door.
This time, he glanced over. He shook his head as if trying to wake himself up.
“Call the police,” he shouted.
He tried to stand again, but he weakly fell back down. He pointed a bloody hand in the direction I’d just come from and shouted, “He’s getting away.”
“The police are coming,” I shouted. “Don’t move. Stay where you are.”
He glanced over his shoulder toward the house. “My wife, she’s hurt.” He grabbed his side where blood oozed.
What should I do?
I again yelled, “The police are coming.”
He stared at his shirt as if he just realized he was wounded. “I’ve been stabbed.”
I leaned back into the car and grabbed the sweatshirt lying on the back seat. The sweatshirt was thick and bulky, but it would do the job.
I hurried over to him. “Here, put pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding.”
“My family,” he mumbled. He lifted his shirt where a large gash showed on his stomach, streaming blood. I took his hand and helped him press the sweatshirt onto the wound. I checked for the knife he’d dropped and gave it a good kick.
“Keep pressing,” I said. “I’ll go see to the others.” I reminded him, “Don’t move.”
The front door was open. A horrid, sickening sweet stench slithered into my nose. A woman lay in a dark, bloody puddle. She was wearing a blue flannel nightgown with pink roses. Her neck had been slit open so wide it matched her gaping mouth.
I gagged.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered to her. “Who did this to you?”
A faint sound.
I knew I should wait for the police, but I also felt I needed to continue checking the house. He’d said his wife was hurt. He’d said, family. Were there others?
And he’d said, He’s getting away. Did he see the person? Did he get a good enough look to give the police a description?
Had he tried to fight the guy off? Is that how he was stabbed? Was his wife the victim of the attack or the target?
Bloody handprints marked white walls as I moved down the hallway. Acid from my stomach burned my throat. My heart beat hard and heavy.
The door to the first room stood open showing covers half-dragged off the bed. Blood streaked across the covers, carpeting. A bedside stand had been overturned.
Was this where it started? Had they been sleeping, and someone broke into their house and attacked them while they were in bed?
Did his wife somehow get out of bed and run for her life? Was she caught in the living room? Did her husband run to rescue her but didn’t get to her in time?
How had the killer escaped?
I returned to the hallway being careful where I stepped so as not to contaminate any evidence. My heart pounded as if any moment it would break through my rib cage. My lungs begged for breath.
I shook my head. My imagination flickered one image after another like a silent movie.
I listened. Sirens gurgled close by, meaning the police arrived. The wisest choice now was to go back outside and let the police finish searching the house. But I continued to the next closed door. Opened it.
A canopied bed held the center of the room with its bedcovers rumpled as if someone still lay fast asleep. A cabinet displayed dolls no longer providing playtime. This room belonged to a girl. A daughter, but older. Teenager, maybe. I moved to a desk where a book lay opened. Math. Was she doing homework for Monday’s classes?
Voices sounded but far away.
Get out of here, Lillian, said an internal voice. Yet, in having stepped into the house and finding the woman, somehow, this family had become my responsibility.
Was this a case of domestic violence? What if the husband, the man standing outside, attacked his wife? Had he caught up with her and killed her? Then his daughter woke up and saw what he had done?
Or, had his daughter slept through the incident, then found her mother as I had? Or did she cower in her room having listened to similar arguing before? Was violence a product of her childhood? Did she witness the ultimate betrayal?
You should wait for the police, my voice cautioned. Your imagination’s gone wild.
The hair stood on my neck, arms. My knees threatened to collapse. I ignored the voice of caution and moved to the next closed door. Opened it.
On the floor lay a young boy, five, six. He was wearing cowhand PJs with images of horses rearing and cowboy’s roping. I rushed over and placed two fingers on his neck. A pulse. I saw a large red mark on the side of his head. His forehead was cut and bleeding. I wanted to cradle him in my arms but didn’t move him. His leg, abnormally twisted, only allowed me to put my hand on his shoulder. “You’re going to be all right.”
I heard a rattling.
The daughter?
I hadn’t turned on the hallway light, yet the hall appeared veiled in wispy shadows. A white light showed under the last door. One more room.
I stood outside it and heard a creak in a floorboard. Slowly, I twisted the door handle.
On opening, the door squeaked. My spine shuddered a terrified quiver, sending a warning signal from my feeble knees to my brain, Stay alert.
The room was a bathroom. The shower curtain fluttered. The window above the tub was open.
“Police. Put your hands up.”
I froze. Raised my hands high above my head.
“Get down on the floor.”
I lowered myself, one knee at a time, hands still raised, fingers spread wide.
“That you, Lillian?”
I turned my head and saw Sergeant Miner.
Clear. Clear.
Other voices were close. The police were in the house.
“Miner?” A voice called.
“In here. Last room.”
“Go ahead and get up,” Sergeant Miner ordered, then asked, “What are you doing in here?”
Lieutenant Manville entered the room. He said, “I figured we’d find you in the house.”