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Not A Sound
Heather Gudenkauf
‘Brilliant.’HeatThe Washington Post selected Not A Sound as one of ‘The Ten Best Thrillers and Mysteries of 2017’‘I’m going to die tonight. But I won’t go quietly.’Amelia Winn has a lot of regrets. She regrets the first drink after she lost her hearing. She regrets destroying her family as she spiralled into depression. Mostly, she regrets not calling Gwen Locke back.Because now Gwen is dead. And as Amelia begins to unearth the terrible secrets that led to Gwen’s naked body being dumped in the freezing water, she realises that she might be next.But how do you catch a killer when you can’t hear him coming?Bestselling author Heather Gudenkauf returns with a shocking, unputdownable thriller, perfect for fans of Jodi Picoult, Paula Hawkins and B. A. Paris.Praise for Heather Gudenkauf:‘This gripping tale will keep you up all night’ – Heat‘An action packed thriller…. Gudenkauf's best book yet!’ – Mary Kubica‘Fans of Jodi Picoult will devour this great thriller’ – Red Magazine ‘This tense tale keeps you hooked right up to the last page’ – My Weekly‘A great thriller’ – Radio Times‘A real page-turner’ – Woman’s Own‘Tension builds as family secrets tumble from the closet’ – Woman & Home‘A gripping thriller’ – Inside Soap‘Deeply moving and lyrical…it will haunt you all summer’ – Company‘A powerhouse of a debut novel’ – Tess Gerritsen‘Totally gripping’ – Marie Claire‘Heart-pounding and compelling’ – Diane Chamberlain
A shocking discovery and chilling secrets converge in this latest novel from New York Times bestselling author Heather Gudenkauf
When a tragic accident leaves nurse Amelia Winn deaf, she spirals into a depression that ultimately causes her to lose everything that matters—her job, her husband, David, and her stepdaughter, Nora. Now, two years later and with the help of her hearing dog, Stitch, she is finally getting back on her feet. But when she discovers the body of a fellow nurse in the dense bush by the river, deep in the woods near her cabin, she is plunged into a disturbing mystery that could shatter the carefully reconstructed pieces of her life all over again.
As clues begin to surface, Amelia finds herself swept into an investigation that hits all too close to home. But how much is she willing to risk in order to uncover the truth and bring a killer to justice?
New York Times bestselling author Heather Gudenkauf has been described as “masterful” and “intelligent” and compared to Lisa Scottoline and Jodi Picoult. Introducing her most compelling heroine yet, she delivers a taut and emotional thriller that proves she’s at the top of her class.
Not a Sound
Heather Gudenkauf
Praise for (#u69a603ba-3f92-530e-a628-d4b25c96beeb)
Heather Gudenkauf (#u69a603ba-3f92-530e-a628-d4b25c96beeb)
‘This gripping tale will keep you up all night’
Heat
‘An action packed thriller… Gudenkauf’s best book yet!’
Mary Kubica
‘Fans of Jodi Picoult will devour this great thriller’
Red Magazine
‘This tense tale keeps you hooked right up to the last page’
My Weekly
‘A great thriller’
Radio Times
‘A real page-turner’
Woman’s Own
‘Tension builds as family secrets tumble from the closet’
Woman & Home
‘A gripping thriller’
Inside Soap
‘Deeply moving and lyrical… it will haunt you all summer’
Company
‘A powerhouse of a debut novel’
Tess Gerritsen
‘Totally gripping’
Marie Claire
‘Heart-pounding and compelling’
Diane Chamberlain
Also by Heather Gudenkauf
Missing Pieces
The Weight of Silence
These Things Hidden
One Breath Away
Little Mercies
HEATHER GUDENKAUF is the critically acclaimed and New York Times bestselling author of The Weight of Silence, These Things Hidden, One Breath Away and Little Mercies. Her debut novel, The Weight of Silence was picked for The TV Bookclub. She lives in Iowa with her family.
Read more about Heather and her novels at www.HeatherGudenkauf.com (http://www.HeatherGudenkauf.com)
For Erika Imranyi – who knows how to make lemonade from lemon squares.
Contents
Cover (#u5ca98390-a294-5720-80a4-ca521adb0dab)
Back Cover Text (#u0c02f19f-e850-5979-8869-17510f03ddc6)
Title Page (#u02de88f0-a243-5512-b5d7-66047b587ee1)
Praise (#uec8aca9d-206b-5681-9fcd-07a8776339bc)
Booklist (#u7c8ea429-ba02-535f-bfcb-050cf5004a71)
About the Author (#u45187b08-ad62-5d30-aff7-e05e58243abd)
Dedication (#u983f80b6-4335-59e7-adce-49088397630c)
Prologue (#u3532cc5c-8d2f-5e62-8117-bc36a4aa6039)
Chapter 1 (#u306c4a2f-6ae2-5652-ac0e-7f33cef678bd)
Chapter 2 (#u47421fa7-3cd8-500b-a963-d7c3e4b76bab)
Chapter 3 (#u1e5d0eea-0735-5edb-8be2-7b1184904b4b)
Chapter 4 (#u0399d83f-a681-590c-a3b5-37f7fafe8103)
Chapter 5 (#u9c623805-4d87-58f4-89d1-5eaeedec589d)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u69a603ba-3f92-530e-a628-d4b25c96beeb)
I find her sitting all by herself in the emergency waiting room, her lovely features distorted from the swelling and bruising. Only a few patients remain, unusual for a Friday night and a full moon. Sitting across from her, an elderly woman coughs wetly into a handkerchief while her husband, arms folded across his chest and head tilted back, snores gently. Another man with no discernable ailment stares blankly up at the television mounted on the wall. Canned laughter fills the room.
I’m surprised she’s still here. We treated her hours ago. Her clothing was gathered, I examined her from head to toe, all the while explaining what I was doing step-by-step. She lay on her back while I swabbed, scraped and searched for evidence. I collected for bodily fluids and hairs that were not her own. I took pictures. Close-ups of abrasions and bruises. I stood close by while the police officer interviewed her and asked deeply personal private questions. I offered her emergency contraceptives and the phone number for a domestic abuse shelter. She didn’t cry once during the entire process. But now the tears are falling freely, dampening the clean scrubs I gave her to change into.
“Stacey?” I sit down next to her. “Is someone coming to get you?” I ask. I offered to call someone on her behalf but she refused, saying that she could take care of it. I pray to God that she didn’t call her husband, the man who did this to her. I hope that the police had already picked him up.
She shakes her head. “I have my car.”
“I don’t think you should be driving. Please let me call someone,” I urge. “Or you can change your mind and we can admit you for the night. You’ll be safe. You can get some rest.”
“No, I’m okay,” she says. But she is far from okay. I tried to clean her up as best I could but already her newly stitched lip is oozing blood, the bruises blooming purple across her skin.
“At least let me walk you to your car,” I offer. I’m eager to get home to my husband and stepdaughter but they are long asleep. A few more minutes won’t matter.
She agrees and stands, cradling her newly casted arm. We walk out into the humid August night. The full moon, wide faced and as pale as winter wheat lights our way. Katydids call back and forth to one another and white-winged moths throw themselves at the illuminated sign that reads Queen of Peace Emergency.
“Where are you staying tonight? You’re not going home, are you?”
“No,” she says but doesn’t elaborate more. “I had to park over on Birch,” she says dully. Queen of Peace’s lot has been under construction for the better part of a month so parking is a challenge. It makes me sad to think that not only did this poor woman, beaten and raped by her estranged husband, have to drive herself to the emergency room, there wasn’t even a decent place for her to park. Now there are five open parking spaces. What a difference a few hours can make in the harried, unpredictable world of emergency room care.
We walk past sawhorse barriers and orange construction cones to a quiet, residential street lined with sweetly pungent linden trees. Off in the distance a car engines roars to life, a dog barks, a siren howls. Another patient for the ER.
“My car is just up here,” Stacey says and points to a small, white four-door sedan hidden in the shadows cast by the heart-shaped leaves of the lindens. We cross the street and I wait as Stacey digs around in her purse for her keys. A mosquito buzzes past my ear and I wave it away.
I hear the scream of tires first. The high-pitched squeal of rubber on asphalt. Stacey and I turn toward the noise at the same time. Blinding high beams come barreling toward us. There is nowhere to go. If we step away from Stacey’s car we will be directly in its path. I push Stacey against her car door and press as close to her as I can, trying to make ourselves as small as possible.
I’m unable to pull my eyes away from bright light and I keep thinking that the careless driver will surely correct the steering wheel and narrowly miss us. But that doesn’t happen. There is no screech of brakes, the car does not slow and the last sound I hear is the dull, sickening thud of metal on bone.
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Two Years Later...
Nearly every day for the past year I have paddle boarded, kayaked, run or hiked around the sinuous circuit that is Five Mines River, Stitch at my side. We begin our journey each day just a dozen yards from my front door, board and oar hoisted above my head, and move cautiously down the sloping, rocky bank to the water’s edge. I lower my stand-up paddleboard, the cheapest one I could find, into the water, mindfully avoiding the jagged rocks that could damage my board. I wade out into the shallows, flinching at the bite of cold water against my skin, and steady it so Stitch can climb on. I hoist myself up onto my knees behind him and paddle out to the center of the river.
