The House of Secrets Read online

  About the Author

  TERRY LYNN THOMAS grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, which explains her love of foggy beaches and Gothic mysteries. When her husband promised to buy Terry a horse and the time to write if she moved to Mississippi with him, she jumped at the chance. Although she had written several novels and screenplays prior to 2006, after she relocated to the South she set out to write in earnest and has never looked back.

  Terry Lynn writes the Sarah Bennett Mysteries, set on the California coast during the 1940s, which feature a misunderstood medium in love with a spy. The Drowned Woman is a recipient of the IndieBRAG Medallion. She also writes the Cat Carlisle Mysteries, set in Britain during World War II. The first book in this series, The Silent Woman, came out in April 2018 and has since become a USA Today bestseller. When she’s not writing, you can find Terry Lynn riding her horse, walking in the woods with her dogs, or visiting old cemeteries in search of story ideas.

  Praise for Terry Lynn Thomas

  ‘Intriguing and page-turning’

  ‘I really enjoyed this fascinating historical thriller’

  ‘An absorbing novel’

  ‘A marvellous historical suspense that had me engrossed from the start’

  ‘I read it in one sitting’

  ‘A fabulous page turning, mildly paranormal whodunnit’

  ‘A good read, difficult to put down!’

  ‘Brilliant! Thoroughly enjoyable read’

  ‘I look forward to reading the next in the series’

  ‘A real page turner!’

  Also by Terry Lynn Thomas

  The Drowned Woman

  The Silent Woman

  The Family Secret

  The House of Secrets

  TERRY LYNN THOMAS

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Terry Lynn Thomas 2019

  Terry Lynn Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008328894

  Version: 2019-02-06

  For Bonnie Tombaugh. Always missed. Never forgotten.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Praise for Terry Lynn Thomas

  Also by Terry Lynn Thomas

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Turn the Page for an Extract From Terry Lynn Thomas’s Gripping The Silent Woman

  Dear Reader

  The Next Book From Terry Lynn Thomas Is Coming in 2019

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  I knew loving Zeke could be dangerous …

  Within seconds, strong arms reached around me from behind, encircling my waist. I held fast to my hat with one hand and clutched my purse with the other as the man lifted me up and slung me over his shoulder like a sack of sugar. He knocked the hat out of my hand, and I watched, unable to do anything, as it blew away on a gust of the March wind.

  The Viking hauled me to the waiting car. He opened the rear passenger door and threw me onto the smooth leather seat with such force that I slid across it and hit the door on the opposite side. The giant stayed outside the car, leaning on the car, trapping me. I sat up and pulled my skirt back down over my legs. My purse had fallen to the floor, its contents scattered everywhere.

  ‘Collect your things. Be quick about it.’

  The fat man who sat across from me expected me to obey. I almost defied him. A quick glance at the Viking, who had pushed away from the car door, changed my mind. With shaking hands, I stuffed my belongings back into my purse. I dropped my lipstick. It slid under the seat.

  ‘Bit of a klutz.’ The man who sat across from me had jowls like a bulldog and soulless eyes.

  ‘I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.’

  ‘No. I know who you are, Miss Bennett. Your boyfriend has something of mine.’

  Chapter One

  March 1943

  The weeping started when the foreman read the ‘not guilty’ verdict.

  The sobs played like background music as I sat numb, unable to fathom how my adoptive father, Jack Bennett, had got away with so many crimes. I remained in my seat as the audience in the gallery, the jury, the judge, and, finally, the attorneys filed out of the courtroom, their expressions running the gambit from pity to loathing and all the emotions in between.

  The weeping echoed off the oaken walls of the courtroom, a solemn reminder of all that I had lost. Zeke. He crept into my mind. I didn’t have the strength to push him away. I had experienced my share of auditory hallucinations since falling from the second-storey landing at Bennett House last October. The fall had killed my stepmother. By some fortuitous stroke of luck, I had survived. Dr Upton, my psychiatrist, blamed the stressful situation for my current state of mind. I didn’t tell him everything that I had seen and heard since the fall. Dr Upton had been so kind to me during the trial, I didn’t have the heart to burden him with the truth.

  In the days following the trial, I took the morphine drops that he prescribed for me, but they did little to quell the baleful tears. I tried to ignore the weeping and function as though nothing were wrong. I needed a job. I needed a place to stay. No small feat in San Francisco. Thousands of enlisted men flooded the city each day. The housing shortage had become so severe, many of these young men were forced to sleep in the lobbies of the over-booked hotels and in the seats of the theatres.

  When Miss Macky, the proprietress of the school where I studied typewriting, referred me to the Geisler Institute for a secretarial position – good pay, room and board – I jumped at the opportunity without a second thought. I knew that my presence at the school distracted the other girls, and that Miss Macky wanted to get rid of me. This job would provide me an income and a chance to remove myself from the public eye.

  As the taxi pulled up to the big house on the corner of Jackson and Laguna, I wondered what I had got myself into. We coasted to a stop just as the first rays of sun sliced through the morning fog. My driver, an old man with gaps in his smile where teeth should have been and a wad of chewing tobacco jammed behind his bottom lip, spat into a chipped coffee mug that rested on the dashb
oard. I got out of the cab, pulling my coat tight against the gust of wind that whipped around my ankles, while the driver retrieved my carryall – a scuffed Hermès leather case that had belonged to my adoptive mother – and hoisted it onto his hip with ease. I followed him as he limped up the walkway.

  Halfway towards the house I stopped and tipped my head back, taking in the well-maintained exterior, the curved corner windows, and a front door so large it could have graced a castle.

  The driver stopped by the front door. With a quick glance, he observed my unpolished shoes, shabby coat, and misshapen hat. ‘You staying here?’

  ‘Working here.’

  ‘Excuse me, Miss High and Mighty.’ He spat his tobacco on the sidewalk. ‘Ain’t this a nut house?’ He squinted at the tasteful brass placard attached to the door at eye level. The Geisler Institute, Dr Matthew Geisler, Ph.D., M.D. The driver narrowed his beady eyes into slits and stared at me. ‘I know you. You’re the girl what accused her father of murder. Jack Bennett. You his daughter, Sarah?’

  ‘I didn’t accuse him of anything—’

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, testifying against your own flesh and blood. You’ve ruined that man’s life. A daughter ain’t supposed to do that.’

  What about my life? I wanted to shout at him, never mind that Jack Bennett was not my actual flesh and blood.

  He dropped my suitcase. When it hit the ground, the lid popped open and everything I owned, including my undergarments, spilled out onto the wet walkway. He looked at my clothes – my linen underwear, my garter belts, and my last precious pair of silk stockings – as they lay scattered about then turned on his heel and walked away.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I shouted. ‘You get back here—’

  I stopped myself. I didn’t want him to come back and help me. I didn’t want him to touch my things.

  ‘Buzz off, lady. If I had known who you were, I wouldn’t have let you in my cab.’

  ‘I hope you don’t think I’m going to pay.’

  ‘I’d starve in the streets before I’d take money from the likes of you.’

  He took one final glance at the house, spat again, jumped in his taxi, and screeched off.

  I bent down and started stuffing my clothes back into my suitcase, casting a glance at the big windows on the front of the house, praying that no one watched me. The cold concrete hurt my knees. As I stood up, the snag that started at my kneecap crept up my thigh. Another stocking ruined. Soon I would be forced to forego stockings altogether and use pancake make-up on my legs. I could always switch to trousers, but I hadn’t any money for clothes. Just as the case snapped shut, the front door opened. A young woman with grey eyes framed in dark lashes welcomed me.

  ‘Miss Bennett, I presume? They’re expecting you. Won’t you follow me, please?’ She picked up my suitcase and led me into a grand foyer. Two staircases, one on each side of the room, swept up to the second floor. The vast room had floors of marble, walls of honey-coloured wood, and not one stick of furniture save a tiny desk near the front door and a grand piano tucked into a corner. ‘This way, please.’ The young woman’s voice echoed as she set my suitcase down near the desk.

  I followed her down a short corridor lined on each side with wooden doors. We stopped before one of them, and she knocked upon it twice.

  A man’s voice said, ‘Come in.’

  The young woman opened the door and I followed her into a sitting room of sorts, where a man and a woman sat on an overstuffed brocade sofa facing a fireplace filled with a sweet-smelling wood. When we entered the room, they both stood, but the woman covered the stack of papers that sat before her with a writing tablet, as if she didn’t want me to see them. A plate with crumbs and a half-eaten pastry sat on a tray on the low coffee table. At the sight of the pastry, my stomach rumbled. If either of them heard it, they gave no indication. A coffeepot with an unused mug, along with a creamer and sugar bowl, also sat on the tray.

  ‘Thank you, Chloe,’ the woman said.

  The woman stood three inches taller than the man. Her brown hair was laced with grey. It curled around her face, softening her strong jaw, prominent nose and full lips. She had the clear skin of someone who ate well and took plenty of exercise. She reached out to the man, who grabbed her hand, squeezed it, and let it go. All of this happened in an instant. I wouldn’t have noticed it at all had I not been paying attention.

  ‘Sarah Bennett.’ The man walked towards me with his hand extended. He took mine and shook it. ‘I’m Matthew Geisler. We’re so glad that you’ve come. This is my wife, Bethany.’

  ‘How do you do, Sarah? Please, sit.’

  Bethany waved at the sofa across from them. On the couch between them lay yesterday’s newspaper. A horrible picture of me coming out of the courthouse graced the front page, with a caption underneath that read Jack Bennett Found Not Guilty!

  Jack Bennett’s picture had been placed next to mine. He sat on a chair, dressed in a tweed blazer, holding his latest best seller in his hand. He smiled in that unique way of his that had disarmed everyone who had ever come in contact with him. He didn’t look like a murderer. I couldn’t argue with that sentiment, especially since the side-to-side placement of our photographs showed me in such a bad light. My pale face and gaunt cheeks accentuated the haunted look in my eyes. To the casual observer, I looked like a young woman burdened by the task of living, while Jack Bennett looked like the beloved son of the City by the Bay.

  Jack Bennett’s books continued to fly off the shelves. The murder trial had fuelled the publicity fire that raged around him, and he had been exonerated of murdering his wife and his mother-in-law. The sensational trial had garnered him notoriety and wealth beyond measure. Jack Bennett had been tried and set free. His fans had sentenced me to a lifetime of contempt and loathing. Waitresses refused to serve me. Shop girls turned their noses up at me.

  ‘Let’s not worry about that, Sarah.’ Dr Geisler turned the paper over. ‘I know what that man did to you. That is of no concern to me. I believe we can help each other.’

  Bethany Geisler poured thick, black coffee into the empty mug. ‘Cream and sugar?’

  I nodded and took the mug when she handed it to me, hoping that the milky beverage would stave off the hunger pangs. If I didn’t get this job, I would have to use the last of my money to get out of town and go somewhere where no one recognized me.

  Dr Geisler watched me as I sipped. The hair at his temples had started to turn grey. His cheeks were sharp, as if he hadn’t had enough to eat in quite some time. His dark hair came to a widow’s peak, making him look like a romantic character from a gothic novel. Bethany sat next to him, fidgeting with her wedding ring. She didn’t speak, but her gaze lay heavy upon me.

  ‘Zeke is here, Sarah.’ Dr Geisler watched me as he spoke.

  Time stopped. The mug slipped out of my hand and onto the rug. Hot coffee burned my legs. A dark stain spread on the carpet near my feet. My mind raced back to the previous October, and the circumstances that had thrown Zeke and me together. He had saved me then, and I liked to think that I had helped him in some small way. I thought we had fallen in love and that our feelings for each other were mutual.

  Zeke had been honest about himself. He had a job that he couldn’t discuss with me, a job that took him to unknown places for long periods of time. At least he had left me a note explaining why he had to leave. I, in my naivety, had accepted his conditions, thinking that I could love him and move on with my life when his mysterious job took him away to places unknown. I had been wrong. I had spent six months trying to forget him, making a practice of pushing all thoughts of him to the back of my mind. My efforts had been in vain. One mention of his name, and all the emotions came rushing back. ‘I’m sorry.’ I reached down to pick up the broken mug.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Bethany said. ‘We’ll get that cleaned up. My husband didn’t mean to startle you.’

  ‘Forgive me for being blunt, my dear,’ Dr Geisler said.

  Zeke. Her
e. Tears welled in my eyes. I wiped them away just as they threatened to spill over onto my cheeks. I cursed the desperation that drove me to be here. I needed a job. I needed Dr Geisler.

  Bethany stacked the broken pieces of porcelain on the coffee tray.

  ‘You need to know that he’s been in an accident,’ Dr Geisler said. ‘He came here to recuperate.’

  ‘What kind of an accident?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’ Dr Geisler hesitated, as if measuring his words, careful not to say too much.

  ‘He’s hurt his knee badly, and he has two broken ribs, which are healing,’ Bethany said, with a quick glance at her husband. ‘He’s got a nasty cut across his face, and another cut on his arm that may have caused some nerve damage.’

  ‘We can treat Zeke’s injuries with rest, diet, and exercise,’ Dr Geisler said. ‘He’ll be fine, Sarah. But he’s weak and tired. I don’t want you to panic when you see him.’ He picked up one of the notebooks that were stacked on the table next to him. He thumbed through it, as if looking for something important about Zeke. I knew that Dr Geisler was allowing me the time necessary to compose myself.

  After a few seconds, he set the notebook back on the table and crossed his legs. ‘I’m sure you have many questions, Sarah, and I will answer all of them, but let me tell you a little bit about the job and what I would like you to do. I am a medical doctor, a psychiatrist. My specialty is healing severe psychological shock and trauma with hypnotherapy. I endeavour to do that at this hospital, although I have some patients – such as Zeke – who simply come here for a rest cure.

  ‘I’ve written a series of textbooks that need to be typed. I understand you have had some difficulty finding a suitable position. I also discovered you were taking typewriting classes at Miss Macky’s Secretarial College and were doing quite well. Zeke suggested I hire you for the job.’