Title: Stranger In The Lake
Author: Kimberly Belle
Publisher: Park Row Books
Genre: Thrillers, Psychological
Release Date: 9th June 2020
BLURB supplied by Harlequin Trade
When Charlotte married the wealthy widower Paul, it
caused a ripple of gossip in their small lakeside town. They have a charmed
life together, despite the cruel whispers about her humble past and his first
marriage. But everything starts to unravel when she discovers a young woman’s
body floating in the exact same spot where Paul’s first wife tragically
drowned.
At first, it seems like a horrific coincidence, but the stranger in the lake is no stranger. Charlotte saw Paul talking to her the day before, even though Paul tells the police he’s never met the woman. His lie exposes cracks in their fragile new marriage, cracks Charlotte is determined to keep from breaking them in two.
As Charlotte uncovers dark mysteries about the man she married, she doesn’t know what to trust—her heart, which knows Paul to be a good man, or her growing suspicion that there’s something he’s hiding in the water.
At first, it seems like a horrific coincidence, but the stranger in the lake is no stranger. Charlotte saw Paul talking to her the day before, even though Paul tells the police he’s never met the woman. His lie exposes cracks in their fragile new marriage, cracks Charlotte is determined to keep from breaking them in two.
As Charlotte uncovers dark mysteries about the man she married, she doesn’t know what to trust—her heart, which knows Paul to be a good man, or her growing suspicion that there’s something he’s hiding in the water.
PURCHASE LINKS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kimberly Belle is the USA Today and
internationally bestselling author of six novels, including the forthcoming Stranger in the Lake (June 2020). Her third novel, The Marriage Lie, was a semifinalist in the 2017 Goodreads Choice Awards for
Best Mystery & Thriller, and a #1 e-book bestseller in the UK and Italy.
She’s sold rights to her books in a dozen languages as well as film and
television options. A graduate of Agnes Scott College, Belle divides her time
between Atlanta and Amsterdam.
AUTHOR LINKS
Facebook: @KimberlyBelleBooks
Twitter: @KimberlySBelle
Instagram: @kimberlysbelle
EXCERPT
The
town of Lake Crosby isn’t much, just three square blocks and some change, but
it’s the only town in the southern Appalachians perched at the edge of the
water, which makes it a popular tourist spot. Paul’s office is at the far end
of the first block, tucked between a fudge shop and Stuart’s Craft Cocktails,
which, as far as I can tell, is just another way to say “pretentious bar.” Most
of the businesses here are pretentious, farm-to-table restaurants and specialty
boutiques selling all things overpriced and unnecessary.
For
people like Paul, town is a place to socialize and make money—in his case, by
selling custom house designs for the million-dollar lots that sit high on the
hills or line the lakeshores. My old friends serve his drinks and wait his tables—but
only the lucky ones. There are ten times more locals than there are jobs.
The
covered terrace for the cocktail lounge is quiet, a result of the off-season
and the incoming weather, the sign on the door still flipped to Closed. I’m
passing the empty hostess stand when I notice movement at the very back, a
tattered shadow peeling away from the wall. Jax—the town loon, the crazy old
man who lives in the woods. Most people turn away from him, either out of pity
or fear, but not me. For some reason I can’t put into words, I’ve never been
afraid to look him straight on.
He
takes a couple of halting steps, like he doesn’t want to be seen—and he
probably doesn’t. Jax is like a deer you come up on in a meadow, one blink and
he’s gone. But this time he doesn’t run.
His
gaze flicks around, searching the street behind me. “Where’s Paul.” A
statement, not a question.
Slowly,
so not to spook him, I point to the sleek double doors on the next building,
golden light spilling out the windows of Keller Architecture. “Did you check
inside?”
Jax
shakes his head. “I need to talk to him. It’s important.”
Like
every time he emerges from out of the woods, curiosity bubbles in my chest.
Once upon a time, Jax had everything going for him. High school prom king and
star quarterback, the golden boy with a golden future, and one of Paul’s two
best friends. Their picture still sits atop his desk in the study, Paul and Jax
and Micah, all tanned chests and straightened smiles, three teenage boys with
the world at their feet.
Now
he’s Batty Jax, the raggedy, bearded boogeyman parents use as a warning. Do
your homework, stay out of trouble, and don’t end up like Jax.
He
clings to the murky back of the terrace, sticking to the shaded spots where
it’s too dark for me to make out much more than a halo of matted hair, the
jutting edges of an oversized jacket, long, lean thighs. His face is dark, too,
the combination of a life outdoors and dirt.
“Do
you want me to give Paul a message? Or if you stay right there, I can send him
out. I know he’ll want to see you.”
Actually,
I don’t know; I only assume. Jax is the source of a slew of rumors and petty
gossip, but for Paul, he’s a painful subject, one he doesn’t like to talk
about. As far as I know, the two haven’t spoken since high school
graduation—not an easy thing to do in a town where everybody knows everybody.
Jax
glances up the street, in the direction of far-off voices floating on the icy
wind. I don’t follow his gaze, but I can tell from the way his body turns
skittish that someone is coming this way, moving closer.
“Do
you need anything? Some money, maybe?”
Good
thing those people aren’t within earshot, because they would laugh at the
absurdity of the trailer-park girl turned married-up wifey offering the son of
an insurance tycoon some cash. Not that Jax’s father didn’t disown him ages ago
or that I have more than a couple of bucks in my pocket, but still.
Jax
shakes his head again. “Tell Paul I need to talk to him. Tell him to hurry.”
Before
I can ask what for, he’s off, planting a palm on the railing and springing over
in one easy leap, his body light as a pole vaulter. He hits the cement and
takes off up the alley. I dash forward until I’m flush with the railing,
peering down the long passage between Paul’s building and the cocktail lounge,
but it’s empty. Jax is already gone.
I
push through the doors of Keller Architecture, an open space with cleared desks
and darkened computer screens. The whiteboard on the back wall has already been
wiped clean, too, one of the many tasks Paul requires his staff to do daily.
It’s nearing five, and other than his lead designer, Gwen, hunched over a
drawing at her drafting table, the office is empty.
She
nods at my desk. “Perfect timing. I just finished the Curtis Cottage drawings.”
Calling
a seven-thousand-square-foot house a “cottage” is ridiculous, as are whatever
reasons Tom Curtis and his wife, a couple well into their seventies, gave Paul
for wanting six bedrooms and two kitchens in what is essentially a weekend
home. But the Curtises are typical Keller Architecture clients—privileged,
demanding and more than a little entitled. They like Paul because he’s one of
them. Having a desk is probably ridiculous, too, since I only work twenty hours
a week, and for most of them I’m anywhere but here. My role is client
relations, which consists mainly of hauling my ass to wherever the clients are
so I can put out fires and talk them off the latest ledge. The job and the desk
are one of the many perks of being married to a Keller.
“Thanks.”
I tuck the Curtis designs under an arm and move toward the hallway to my left,
a sleek tunnel of wood and steel that ends in Paul’s glass-walled office. “I’m
here to pick up Paul. There’s something wrong with his car.”
When
he called earlier to tell me his car was dead in the lot, I thought he was
joking. Engine trouble is what happens to my ancient Civic, not Paul’s fancy
Range Rover, a brand-new supercharged machine with a dashboard that belongs in
a cockpit. More money than sense, my
mother would say about Paul if she were here, and now, I guess, about me.
Gwen
leans back in her chair, wagging a mechanical pencil between two slim fingers.
“Yeah, the dealer is sending a tow truck and a replacement car, but they just
called to say they’re delayed. He said he had a couple of errands to run.”
I
frown. “Who, the tow truck driver?”
“No,
Paul.” She swivels in her chair, reaching across the desk behind her for a
straightedge. “He should be back any sec.”
I
thank her and head for the door.
On
the sidewalk, I fire off a quick text to Paul. I’m here, where are you?
I
wait for a reply that doesn’t come. The screen goes dark, then black. I slip
the phone into my jacket pocket and start walking.
In
a town like Lake Crosby, there are only so many places Paul could be. The
market, the pharmacy, the shop where he buys his ties and socks. I pop into all
of them, but no one’s seen him since this morning. Back on the sidewalk, I pull
out my phone and give him a call. It rings once, then shoots me to voice mail.
I hit End and look up and down the mostly deserted street.
“Hey,
Charlie,” somebody calls from across the road, two single lanes separated by a
parking strip, and I whirl around, spotting Wade’s familiar face over the cars
and SUVs. One of my brother’s former classmates, a known troublemaker who
dropped out sophomore year because he was too busy cooking meth and raising
hell. He leans against the ivory siding of the bed-and-breakfast, holding what
I sincerely hope is a hand-rolled cigarette.
“It’s
Charlotte,” I say, but I don’t know why I bother.
On
my sixteenth birthday, I plunked down more than a hundred hard-earned dollars
at the courthouse to change my name. But no matter how many times I correct the
people who knew me back when—people who populate the trailer parks and shacks
along the mountain range, people like Wade and me—no matter how many times I
tell them I’m not that person anymore, to them I’ll always be Charlie.
He
flicks the cigarette butt into the gutter and tilts his head up the street. “I
just saw your old man coming out of the coffee shop.” Emphasis on the old man. “If you hurry, you can probably
catch him.”
I
mumble a thanks, then head in that direction.
Just
past the market, I spot Paul at the far end of a side street, a paper cup
clutched in his hand. He’s wearing the clothes I watched him pull on this
morning—a North Face fleece, a navy cashmere sweater, dark jeans, leather
lace-up boots, but no coat. No hat or scarf or gloves. Paul always dresses like
this, without a second thought as to the elements. That fleece might be fine
for the quick jogs from the house to his car to the office door, but with the
wind skimming up the lake, he must be freezing.
The
woman he’s talking to is more properly dressed. Boots and a black wool coat,
the big buttons fastened all the way to a neck cloaked in a double-wrapped
scarf. A knitted hat is pulled low over her ears and hair, leaving only a slice
of her face—from this angle, her profile—exposed.
“There
you are,” I say, and they both turn.
A
short but awkward silence. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he looks
surprised to see me.
“Charlotte,
hi. I was just…” He glances at the woman, then back to me. “What are you doing
here?”
“You
asked me to pick you up. Didn’t you get my text?”
With
his free hand, he wriggles his cell from his pocket and checks the screen. “Oh.
Sorry, I must have had it on Silent. I was on my way back to the office, but
then I got to talking and…well, you know how that goes.” He gives me a sheepish
smile. It’s a known fact that Paul is a talker, and like in most small towns,
there’s always someone to talk to.
But
I don’t know this woman.
I
take in her milky skin and sky blue eyes, the light smattering of freckles
across her nose and high cheekbones, and I’m positive I’ve never seen her
before. She’s the kind of pretty a person would remember, almost beautiful
even, though she’s nothing like his type. Paul likes his women curvy and
exotic, with dark hair and ambiguous coloring. This woman is bony, her skin so
pale it’s almost translucent.
I step closer, holding up my hand in a wave. “Hi, I’m Charlotte
Keller. Paul’s wife.”
The
woman gives me a polite smile, but her gaze flits to Paul. She murmurs
something, and I’m pretty sure it’s “Keller.”
The
hairs soldier on the back of my neck, even though I’ve never been the jealous
type. It’s always seemed like such a waste of energy to me, being possessive
and suspicious of a man who claims to love you. Either you believe him or you
don’t—or so I’ve always thought. Paul tells me he loves me all the time, and I
believe him.
But
this woman wouldn’t be the first around these parts to try to snag herself a
Keller.
“Are
you ready?” I say, looking at Paul. “Because I came in the boat, and we need to
get home before this weather blows in.”
The
talk of rain does the trick, and Paul snaps out of whatever I walked into here.
He gives me that smile he saves only for me, and a rush of something warm hits
me hard, right behind the knees.
People
who say Paul and I are wrong together don’t get that we’ve been waiting for
each other all our lives. His first wife’s death, my convict father and
meth-head mother, they broke us for a reason, so all these years later our
jagged edges would fit together perfectly, like two pieces of the same
fractured puzzle. The first time Paul took my hand, the world just…started
making sense.
And
now there’s a baby, a perfect little piece of Paul and me, an accidental
miracle that somehow busted through the birth control. Maybe it’s not a fluke
but a sign, the universe’s way of telling me something good is coming. A new
life. A new chance to get things right.
All of a sudden and out of nowhere I feel it, this burning in my
chest, an overwhelming, desperate fire for this baby that’s taken root in my
belly. I want it to grow and kick and thrive. I want it with everything inside
me.
“Let’s go home.” Without so much as a backward glance at the woman,
Paul takes my hand and leads me to the boat.
Excerpted
from Stranger in the Lake by Kimberly
Belle, Copyright © 2020 by Kimberle S. Belle Books, LLC. Published by Park Row
Books.
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