A Stranger at the Door (A Rachel Marin Thriller) Read online

  PRAISE FOR HIDE AWAY

  “Pinter is in fine form with Hide Away. You’ll burn through the pages.”

  —David Baldacci, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Long Road to Mercy

  “Pinter has crafted a wonderful mix of a domestic family saga, a suburban thriller, and a crime novel. It’s a blend of Michael Connelly and Harlan Coben with a dash of Batman, and Rachel is a single-mother version of Bruce Wayne. Grab this and hide away somewhere until the last page is turned.”

  —Associated Press

  “Pinter does a masterful job of ramping up suspense about the Marin family’s past and the current case, spinning an absolutely riveting plot with a cast of full-bodied, fallible characters, in what seems the start of a promising series. Fans of both domestic thrillers and police procedurals should get in at the start.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Pinter’s (The Darkness) outstanding series launch is a deft combination of domestic suspense and police procedural that recalls the works of Harlan Coben and Linwood Barclay. Both an unstoppable force of nature and painfully human, Rachel is a heroine readers will not soon forget.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Pinter builds a complex plot on the dual mysteries of Constance’s murder and Rachel’s transformation from suburban mom to crack investigator and lethal street fighter . . . Pinter creates engaging characters . . . and keeps the suspense taut.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Rachel Marin, the memorable heroine of this enjoyable series launch from Pinter (the Henry Parker series), has worked hard to bury her past after a terrible event left her a widow with two children . . . Without sacrificing character development, Pinter keeps the plot moving and the suspense high all the way to the satisfying ending. Readers will look forward to Rachel’s further adventures.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Hide Away debuts Rachel Marin, tough, resourceful, remorseless, yet not lacking compassion. Pinter’s deft touch and fearless style drive the story at a cracking pace right up to the heart-in-the-mouth ending.”

  —Writers & Readers

  “Wow—I knew Pinter was good, but not this good. Hide Away kicks off what should be an amazing new series.”

  —Lee Child, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Midnight Line

  “Fasten your seat belt for a wild ride! Rachel Marin is a character you will root for, be awed by, and never want to cross. An ending as satisfying as it is unexpected.”

  —Liv Constantine, international bestselling author of The Last Mrs. Parrish

  “Some who are broken come back stronger—and ready to fight. Rachel Marin is just such a woman, and in the twisty-turny Hide Away, she faces a battle so compelling you won’t be able to look away. Rachel Marin is surely one of the most fascinating new heroines in crime fiction.”

  —Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author of I Know a Secret

  “Fast paced and brimming with dark surprises, Jason Pinter’s Hide Away is a wild ride from beginning to end. A top-rate thriller laced with intrigue, suspense, and expertly drawn characters including the complex, sympathetic, and fiercely independent Rachel Marin—a mother on a mission and my new favorite heroine.”

  —Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author of Before She Was Found

  “Absolutely addictive! Pinter’s Hide Away breaks new ground with the kind of vigilante heroine who can hunt down the bad guys, serve up some justice, then return home in time for breakfast with the kids. Bravo!”

  —Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Never Tell

  OTHER BOOKS BY JASON PINTER

  RACHEL MARIN SERIES

  Hide Away

  HENRY PARKER SERIES

  The Mark

  The Guilty

  The Stolen

  The Fury

  The Darkness

  STAND-ALONE

  The Castle

  FOR CHILDREN

  Zeke Bartholomew: Superspy!

  Miracle

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

  Text copyright © 2021 by Jason Pinter

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542005944

  ISBN-10: 1542005949

  Cover design by Micaela Alcaino

  For Dana

  Warrior. Protector. Mother. Wife.

  It begins and ends with you.

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  “Knock knock...

  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

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  “You cannot watch him all the time.

  I will take him in the end.”

  She was gone. But I said it anyway, to that great

  empty room and my son’s dreaming ears:

  “You do not know what I can do.”

  —Madeline Miller, Circe

  “Knock knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “A burglar.”

  “A burglar who?”

  “No, Mom, this isn’t a knock-knock joke. It’s a real burglar. You’re supposed to be scared.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry, sweetie. Oh no, a burglar! Whatever shall we do?”

  “I’m a mean old burglar, and I smell, and I’m going to come in and shoot you.”

  “Megan, burglars don’t shoot people. They’re cowards. They just want to steal things and run away.”

  “That’s not true, Mom. When a burglar came into our home, he had a gun and wanted to shoot you. Remember, Mommy?”

  “. . .”

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes. I remember, darling. I’ll never forget it. But he didn’t.”

  “But he could have. He coul
d have shot you. Right?”

  “Yes, Megan. But you and your brother are safe. Now and always.”

  “Are you safe?”

  “Right now I am, baby.”

  “So in my story, the burglar is like the one who came to our house. He didn’t only want to steal things. He wanted to hurt people.”

  “You shouldn’t be writing such scary things, Megan.”

  “But Sadie Scout is the hero of my books, Mom. She doesn’t get scared by bad people because she’s brave.”

  “Being brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared of the bad things. Being brave means you stay strong even though you’re scared.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. Nothing that bad is going to happen to Sadie Scout.”

  “Oh? How do you know?”

  “Because I want to write a lot of Sadie Scout books. Like a hundred. I can’t write a hundred Sadie Scout books if something really bad happens to her. It’s not like real life, where if something really bad happens, the person doesn’t come back. Like Dad.”

  “Oh, sweetie . . .”

  “I think that’s what people want, isn’t it? A happy ending?”

  “They do, baby. They do.”

  “Even if happy endings don’t always happen in real life, they’re going to happen to Sadie Scout. Because she’s a hero. She’ll always stop the bad guy. Even if that doesn’t always happen in real life.”

  “Megan?”

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “You are truly amazing.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Our last name. Marin. I know it’s not our real last name. Right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you make that name up, like out of nowhere? Did you read it in a book? Or did it come from somewhere?”

  “It came from somewhere. Or something, actually. Something that once made Mommy very happy—the happiest she’d ever been before you and your brother were born. And so I chose Marin because I thought about that time I was so happy, and I wanted our family to be happy in the same way.”

  “What was that something? The reason you chose the name Marin for our family.”

  “Oh, hon, let’s not get into that right now.”

  “Will I ever know?”

  “One day. One day I’ll show you. I promise.”

  “Mom? Do you think wherever Dad is, he’s happy?”

  “Oh, Megan, I know he is. He’s happy, and he loves you and your brother and is proud of you every second of every day.”

  “I wish he was here so he could read my Sadie Scout books. I think he’d like them.”

  “I know he would, baby. Your daddy loved a good mystery.”

  CHAPTER 1

  The day Matthew Linklater was murdered, he taught three social studies classes, caught Becca Matheson and Steve D’Agosta making out in the north stairwell, refused to loan his sister any more money on account of the fact that she’d already borrowed nearly six grand from him and there was as much chance of getting repaid as there was of finding coffee on the moon, and responded to three messages on dating apps during his lunch break.

  Though never married, Linklater had steadfastly refused to participate in the fetid swamp that was online dating, despite the sadistic urging of his (married) friends. He found no dignity in crafting a focus-group biography expected to contain a measure of wit, a soupçon of self-deprecation, a hint of worldliness, and a heap of confidence, all in support of curated, flattering photographs of himself doing exotic things like posing alongside tigers while holding a freshly caught three-hundred-pound swordfish. But Edward Li, the school’s forty-six-year-old chemistry teacher, had met his wife on one of those infernal swipey things, and as Li recalled it, they knew from the moment they met that they had “an immediate and unbreakable covalent bond.” Three cheers for chemistry humor.

  Had Linklater known the date and manner of his death, he would have tried to squeeze as much happiness into his relatively short life as possible before it was taken from him with an unimaginable amount of pain and terror.

  But once Linklater acquiesced and downloaded the dating apps, he was shocked by the opposite sex’s appetite for single, employed, reasonably put-together middle-aged men who still possessed the majority of their hair. It was addictive—that spark of excitement when he swiped right and got a notification that they, too, would at the very least consider having sex.

  Every so often he’d come across the mother of one of his students, and suddenly he would understand why Suzanne Winger or Jamal Phillips or any number of students had become sullen or angry: their parents had split up, leaving confused, bitter children in their wake. He tried to use this concealed knowledge to be more understanding, more patient, with those kids he learned were suffering, often in the midst of oblivious parents solely focused on their own miseries.

  Yet despite all the matches, his overflowing in-box, all the couplings and conversations and carnality, Matthew Linklater was selective. He was not an unhappy man and did not want a prospective partner to think he was looking for something serious when, the truth was, he was largely content. Lonely sometimes, sure. But who wasn’t? Linklater’s parents were divorced by the time he was eight, and being shuffled joylessly from home to home every other weekend had been as pleasurable as a trip to the dentist.

  So he’d drifted through life on the fringes of academia. Earned a master’s in history from Loyola, bounced around the Midwest until landing at Ashby High thirteen years ago. He’d bought a house before the market boom and had nearly paid off his thirty-year fixed-rate mortgage in less than half the time. Soon enough he would be debt-free, and every spare penny from his $68,000-a-year salary could be earmarked for retirement. Or better yet, a long-overdue vacation. He had been seeing someone on and off—an Ashby High mother, no less. It went against his rules, but there was something about Gabrielle. She stuck in his mind, and even when he’d tried to call it off, his heart had refused to call it quits. Who knew what the future held? He’d always wanted to visit Machu Picchu. Maybe he would invite Gabrielle. Maybe it could be more.

  So on the day he would experience more agony than he ever thought possible, Matthew Linklater arrived home, went for a two-point-two-mile jog around his neighborhood, and mixed himself a Moscow mule (he even had a copper mug chilling in the freezer). Then he planned to settle in, grade some papers, watch an hour of television, and prepare to repeat it all again the following day. But before he did that, he had one order of business to take care of. Something had been bothering him, but he had been unsure of how to deal with it and whom he could trust. The issue was possibly criminal, so it was not fully a school matter. But he’d read about the recent corruption at the Ashby Police Department and felt he couldn’t trust them either. He needed to tell someone smart and persistent. And, more importantly, someone who could work outside the law.

  Which was why he emailed Rachel Marin.

  He typed out an email from his personal, private account:

  Dear Ms. Marin—

  We have only met briefly at Parent/Teacher nights, but I am your son Eric’s social studies teacher at Ashby High. Before you get concerned, this note does not actually pertain to Eric, who is sharp as a tack, if a little withdrawn (as you surely must know).

  This is about something else entirely. Information has come into my possession regarding a few of our students, and their dealings with people who, to put it mildly, do not have their best interests at heart. For reasons of safety and security, I cannot go into further detail over email. I do not have proof of my suspicions, which, among other reasons, is why I have not yet gone to the police. As an admirer of your dogged pursuit of justice for the killer of Mayor Constance Wright, I would like to speak with you in order to figure out the appropriate course of action here. I care deeply about my students, and I cannot sit idly by after having learned some may be in peril. I apologize for the vagueness of this note, but hopefully all will be made clear when we speak in person.

  My phone nu
mber is below. Please call me at your earliest convenience. I abhor dramatics, but it may be a matter of life and death.

  Yours,

  Matthew Linklater

  He reviewed the email, took a deep breath, and pressed “Send.” He then poured himself another drink. Linklater had just put the cup to his lips when he heard a knock at the door. For a moment, he was unsettled. Linklater rarely had visitors, and when he did, they were meticulously scheduled in advance. But it was just a knock, he told himself, and he ignored the unease.

  Linklater looked through the peephole and immediately sighed with relief. He opened the door and said, “Is everything all right?”

  Linklater didn’t see the second person, just the flicker of a shadow. Then he heard a strange skittering sound, like tiny claws scraping against metal, and then the wrench connected with his left temple.

  He did not feel it when his head hit the floor. It was as though one moment he was standing and the next he was at ground level. He tried to blink, but his eyes refused to focus. He felt a stickiness beneath his temple. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He tried to move but could not. Fear flooded his body.

  Linklater saw his cell phone lying a few feet away. He had one thought: police.

  He reached for it, but a hand came down and picked up his phone. Linklater heard voices. They sounded far away, as if he were listening to sounds from ashore while deep, deep underwater. He tried to scream, but his body would not cooperate.

  “Phone is locked. It has facial-recognition software,” a disembodied voice said. “Good thing he still has a face. For now.”

  The last thing Matthew Linklater saw, before the wrench came down again and the light behind his eyes flickered out for the second-to-last time, was the reflection of his own bloodied face in the inky-black screen of his cell phone.

  CHAPTER 2

  She still couldn’t get used to it. The man in her bed. The way his body smelled in the morning, the way his cheeks had pillow marks when he woke up, how he always left the bathroom door open a crack while showering, as if egging her on to take a quick glimpse. She took the bait more often than not but couldn’t shake the feeling of unrest, as though she’d just eaten a five-course gourmet meal and was waiting for the crippling heartburn to set in.