The Unforgiven Read online

  Praise for national bestselling author

  PATRICIA MACDONALD

  and her spellbinding novels of suspense

  “When I see a new Patricia MacDonald book on the shelf, I buy it instantly, and I am never disappointed. She is one of my all-time favorites.”

  —Linda Lael Miller, New York Times bestselling author

  “One of the best practitioners of romantic suspense.”

  —The Plain Dealer (Cleveland)

  THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

  “A gripping, multi-layered novel of love against all odds, and danger at every turn. I read it start to finish in one sitting!”

  —Carla Neggers, New York Times bestselling author

  “Building suspense with each chapter Patricia Mac-Donald’s The Girl Next Door has a devious plot.… A dark tale with an unexpected twist.”

  —The Orlando Sentinel

  “A well put-together thriller… The Girl Next Door displays [MacDonald’s] considerable writing ability along with the appealing protagonist and the requisite chills.”

  —The Plain Dealer (Cleveland)

  “MacDonald, the master of the small-town tragedy, delivers another sure winner.”

  —Booklist

  “Fans of Mary Higgins Clark will want to read The Girl Next Door.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Patricia MacDonald tells a good story.”

  —Charlotte Observer

  “Compelling suspense… enthralling.”

  —Romantic Times (Top Pick)

  STRANGER IN THE HOUSE

  “Fans of taut suspense stories will appreciate [this] thriller with a twist.”

  —Harriet Klausner

  SUSPICIOUS ORIGINS

  “I could not put this book down. Patricia MacDonald is now on my list of favorite authors.”

  —Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author

  “Moves at such a brisk pace that readers will finish the book in one sitting.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “A superb story [with] a gratifying surprise ending.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Grabs the reader.… [An] emotional and psychological ride.”

  —Old Book Barn Gazette

  NOT GUILTY

  “Absolutely intriguing! I couldn’t put the book down.”

  —Lisa Jackson, New York Times bestselling author

  “A finely honed masterpiece of psychological suspense.… Even when you think you know what will happen next, MacDonald twists the plot in a new and startling direction.”

  —Lisa Gardner, New York Times bestselling author

  “MacDonald kept me guessing and kept me on the edge of my seat.”

  —Kay Hooper, New York Times bestselling author

  “A roller coaster of the unexpected.”

  —Iris Johansen, New York Times bestselling author

  Also by Patricia MacDonald

  The Girl Next Door

  Suspicious Origin

  Stranger in the House

  Not Guilty

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

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

  A Pocket Star Book published by

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 1981 by Patricia J. MacDonald All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-2365-6

  ISBN-10: 0-7434-2365-8

  eISBN-13: 978-0-7434-3727-1

  First Pocket Books printing December 2005

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Front cover image by CORBIS

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or [email protected]

  For Beans and Carlito

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  At every turn, Jane Rotrosen, Sandi Gelles-Cole, and Jackie Schwartz provided help and encouragement. Each of them has my heartfelt thanks.

  The Unforgiven

  * * *

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter: 1

  Chapter: 2

  Chapter: 3

  Chapter: 4

  Chapter: 5

  Chapter: 6

  Chapter: 7

  Chapter: 8

  Chapter: 9

  Chapter: 10

  Chapter: 11

  Chapter: 12

  Chapter: 13

  Chapter: 14

  Chapter: 15

  Chapter: 16

  Chapter: 17

  Chapter: 18

  Chapter: 19

  Chapter: 20

  Chapter: 21

  Chapter: 22

  Chapter: 23

  Chapter: 24

  Chapter: 25

  ‘The Girl Next Door‘ Teaser

  PROLOGUE

  The chill light of the moon cast the shadow of bars across the face of the young woman lying rigid on the steel frame bunk. She could hear the steady drip of a faucet, and the uneasy noises of restless women trapped in their own nightmares, echoing through the concrete caverns of the prison. It was almost peaceful now.

  Tonight as every night, her fellow inmates lay writhing in the straitjackets of their own dreams. But knowing this brought her little comfort. With the dawn they would be released from their private fears. Ghoullike, they would glide from their cells, seeking her out. Female vampires who stalked by day. “Maggie, honey, whatsa matter? Too good for a little fun with us? Fuck you, bitch. We’ll kick your ass, bitch.” Alternately crooning and cursing, they pursued her, mocked her. She had tried to keep apart from them. That was enough to make them want to destroy her.

  A feeling of bitterness coupled with relief stole over her. Tomorrow, when they called out to her, she would not be there. By then, she would be gone. They would probably miss her. They would have to find another victim.

  Maggie slid down to the end of the bunk and then crouched beside it. She lifted up the thin mattress and groped beneath it, being careful not to rattle the webbed metal of the frame. After a minute she found what she wanted. She grasped the plastic bottle and pulled it toward her, half rolling it along the frame. When she had maneuvered it almost to the edge, she lowered the mattress on it and stood up unsteadily.

  In the corner of her cell under the narrow, barred window was a metal folding chair. She lifted up the chair and placed it so that it faced the bed. On the shelf above the sink she found her metal cup. She brought the cup over and placed it on the seat of the chair. Then she reached under the mattress again and pulled out the bottle. A harsh cough from across the tier startled her, and she froze where she was. But the sleeper cleared her throat and did not awaken.

  Maggie clasped the bottle to her chest. It had not been easy to procure. She had stolen it after supper from a cart outside the shower rooms. Soon
er or later, someone would notice it missing. She had to act quickly. Holding it up to the light of the moon, she could see the label, which read, “disinfectant.” She unscrewed the cap.

  The smell of the caustic liquid assailed her nostrils and caused her stomach to turn. Without giving herself time to think, she poured the liquid into the cup and placed the bottle beside it on the chair seat. She sat as if mesmerized, staring at it.

  The configuration of the objects on the chair seat struck an odd, long-forgotten chord in her. She was reminded of an altar, or a table prepared for the Last Supper. An anguished laugh rose to her throat. This was certainly her Last Supper, she thought. She was about to commit a mortal sin. It didn’t matter. She was damned anyway. That was what Sister Dolorita always reminded her when she came to visit.

  Her visit this morning had been unexpected, but that was not unusual. She’d brought no message from Maggie’s mother, and that, of course, was also as usual. Maggie realized that she no longer even hoped for a word from her.

  The guard had come by at the start of the lockout, as the others were filing off to the exercise yard, to tell her that the nun was waiting for her in the visitors’ room. After nearly two years of these intermittent visits, Maggie knew what to expect. She had nearly refused to go, but she had felt herself propelled to the audience by some misplaced weight of obligation. Sister Dolorita had stood throughout the interview, her black eyes like rosary beads in her pasty face, boring into Maggie’s. She ordered Maggie to confess, as she always did, and Maggie insisted wearily, as she had time and again, that she had not killed Roger. That crime was not among her sins.

  When she’d returned to her cell she’d found the journal she had been keeping lying exposed on her pillow. It was soggy. Soaked in urine. They had been busy while she was gone. The ink blotched and ran on the pages as if a million tears had been cried over it. The smell of the befouled diary was revolting.

  Maggie looked from the cup and the bottle on the chair to the sodden book, which lay in the corner of her cell. She was twenty-two years old and she had endured this hell for nearly two years. She had another ten ahead of her if she was lucky. She could not survive it. She was sure of that. The irony was that if Roger were alive, if she only knew that he was there, on the outside, and that he believed in her, she might be able to make it. Tears sprang to her eyes. She ignored them. She did not want to feel sad. She did not want to feel anything. The thought sprang to her mind that her mother would feel utterly vindicated when she heard.

  Maggie sat up straight and gazed at the chair in front of her. Then she reached down and picked up the cup. She brought it to her lips. The smell made her want to vomit, but she forced her stomach to relax. She looked away for a moment and drew in a deep breath. She held it, and then she drank, gulping down the vile liquid.

  Almost instantly, she froze. Her eyes bulged, and the cup fell from her hand, clattering to the floor near her feet. Maggie clapped her hand to her mouth, and a few dark streams ran out over her fingers. She stood halfway up and lurched forward, grabbing for the chair. Then, both she and the chair crashed to the floor. The liquid disinfectant ran from the bottle in rapid trails out through the cell and into the corridor.

  The crash of the chair reverberated through the silent tiers. In a moment the sounds of angry unrest began to stir through the cell block.

  1

  The sea gulls beat their wings in a steady rhythm that kept them floating just a few feet ahead of the prow. They led the ship through the fog toward the island that had just come into view. Alone on the deck, Maggie Fraser pulled her light raincoat tightly around her and leaned over the rail, straining to see the outline of Heron’s Neck. It looked larger than she had expected, forming in the distance like a long, charcoal smudge. It was too misty to see any buildings yet, and the only visible point was the lighthouse at one end, sticking up like a bony finger.

  The ferryboat churned through the gray-green ocean, spewing white foam to either side of the bow. Maggie narrowed her eyes and attempted to bring into focus the contours of her new home.

  Home. After twelve years the world seemed foreign to Maggie. She tried to align it in her mind with this island in the Atlantic, over an hour from the New England coast. It was the first time in her life that she would be living near the sea.

  A blast of wind blew the rain into Maggie’s face, and she shivered. For the tenth time that day she wished she had worn something warmer than her unlined raincoat. It was only October, but the air already had a bite to it. It made her feel unsettled, as if she had come in answer to an invitation, only to find she had the wrong address.

  The thought of being unprepared for the weather struck her as being a bad beginning. She had made such painstaking preparations for this arrival in every other way. She tried to remember when she had started imagining it. It seemed to her now that the idea had been conceived when she received that first, perfunctory note from the publisher over a year ago. It was only a brief word of congratulations, which came shortly after she received her college diploma in a prison ceremony. A busy man had taken time for a thoughtful gesture, meant to encourage someone like her. But between the lines she had deciphered the glimmer of a possibility for herself. Now, when she thought about it, she realized that the idea for her arrival today had come to her when she was carefully composing that first reply.

  The correspondence that began between her and William Emmett had a journalistic flavor to it. She satisfied his curiosity about prison life, while he provided details about the small newspaper he ran in his retirement. And finally, it had yielded the results she had hardly dared to hope for. Maggie reached instinctively into her coat pocket. The envelope, like a talisman, rested in its spot. Today she would assume her job on Emmett’s newspaper.

  The clang of a metal door opening interrupted her thoughts. Maggie turned and saw a man emerging from the stairwell to the lower deck, his hands grasping the calves of a pudgy child who was riding on his shoulders. The child squealed with delight and bounced up and down, her yellow slicker glistening with the spray from the sea.

  “Upsa daisy,” cried the man, hoisting the child from his neck and grabbing her around the waist. He pressed a slice of bread into her tiny hands. “Crumble it in pieces,” he ordered.

  The child did as she was told, giggling all the while, and then held up a bit of bread in her outstretched hand while her father held her aloft. “Here, sea gull,” she chirped.

  “Hold it up there,” the man instructed the child.

  “Will he come for it today?” she asked.

  “Sure he’ll come for it,” said the man.

  What a dangerous game, Maggie thought uneasily. The child could slip from his arms and fall into the sea. Maggie glanced back at the pair, the child wriggling and laughing in the man’s arms. But she loves it.

  “Are we almost there, Daddy?” asked the child.

  “Almost there,” the man assured her.

  Almost there. Despite the misting rain, Maggie’s mouth felt dry at the prospect. What would the others think of her? She smoothed out the dress she was wearing under her coat. It was apricot-colored and had looked so well on her in the store, fitting closely to her body, showing off her white skin. For years she had not been allowed to dress like a woman. She had felt a moment of lightheartedness when she had first put the dress on. It had made her look attractive. Even pretty. Now, all at once, it seemed like too much.

  The child on the deck shrieked with pleasure as a gull swooped down and picked the bread from her little fingers. She quickly held up another piece and a second gull hovered briefly, then dove for the crust. The child clapped her hands and turned, throwing her arms around her father’s neck and covering him with wet kisses. “He took it,” she crowed.

  The man held her fast, his hand gripping her chubby thigh beneath her slicker, his lips puckered to receive her kisses.

  Maggie scowled at the pair on the deck. What a reckless thing to do, she thought. She wanted to walk
over to them and cry out, Be careful, don’t do that. But she turned her back on them instead. It was none of her business what they did. She had her own concerns.

  She stared out over the water, thinking again of her dress. It’s too short. Maybe she still had time to change. She closed her eyes and tried to visualize the contents of her suitcase, but another image flashed across her mind. For a moment she could picture the face of Sister Dolorita, glaring at her, the glittering eyes full of imprecations.

  No, she thought angrily, shaking her head to dispel the unwelcome image. I’ll wear what I like. She realized sadly that even though Sister Dolorita had been dead for years now, she could not yet escape her memory. With an effort she banished the painful thoughts and tried to concentrate on what was ahead of her. She was going to a completely new life, where no one would know her and her past would be a secret she could guard against all intruders. She wondered if it would show on her, like welts after a whipping. Maggie turned the idea over, then rejected it. Even those, she reminded herself, fade without a trace. She rubbed her chilled hands together and chided herself for her expectations. Soon enough she would know.

  “Raw day for the deck,” a voice broke into her ruminations.

  Maggie turned and saw a young deckhand in a khaki rubber raincoat holding a length of rope. “I don’t mind it,” she said defensively.

  “Well,” he shrugged, “you’d better get below soon. We’re almost in.”

  Maggie looked around and realized it was true. She had been so preoccupied with her thoughts that she had hardly noticed their rapid approach to the island. She could see the dock now, a number of neat, gray-shingled houses edged in white surrounding it. The pale, chalky sand stretched away from the dock in either direction.

  As the engines died down and the boat glided toward the wharf, Maggie noticed two children playing together on its weatherbeaten boards. They crouched side by side in their matching windbreakers, the wind lifting the flaxen hair of the larger boy and tousling the black curls of the smaller. She felt an unfamiliar pang of pleasure mingled with regret at the sight of them. It had been a long time since she had enjoyed the simple sight of children playing. In truth, she had hardly ever noticed such innocent moments years ago.