Forgive Me Read online

  Books by Daniel Palmer

  DELIRIOUS

  HELPLESS

  STOLEN

  DESPERATE

  CONSTANT FEAR

  FORGIVE ME

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  FORGIVE ME

  DANIEL PALMER

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Books by Daniel Palmer

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  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

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Copyright Page

  For Matthew, Ethan, and Luke

  Thanks for having my back all these years.

  And for the team at NCMEC and people like Nadine Jessup.

  One victim is too many.

  PROLOGUE

  She sat at her writing desk in her home’s spacious first-floor office, dreading this moment that came every year on this date. The dainty desk was a replica of a bonheur-du-jour, a piece of furniture from the eighteenth century made specifically with a woman in mind. The name, “good hour of the day,” referred to the time of day when women took pleasure from opening, reading, and writing letters. She was there for that purpose, but took no pleasure in the task.

  Gazing out a bank of windows, she saw the empty garden beds. They would blossom beautifully in springtime, as they always did. But spring was several weeks away. The grass around the beds was brown, and her mood was somber and gray as the overcast sky.

  From one of the desk’s lacquered panels, she removed her checkbook, then fished a ballpoint pen from the desk’s main compartment. Out of habit, she checked the balance in the check register—plenty of money in the account, as there always was. The simple observation summoned a familiar feeling of guilt, followed by profound sadness.

  She wrote out the check for the same amount as always. Her handwriting was impeccable. The loops, curves, and lines formed perfect, beautiful letters, properly spaced, neat and elegant, almost like calligraphy. She’d loved writing in school, and dreamed of one day writing a novel. She felt she had so much to say about love and relationships, the big questions of life. But that was a long time ago, a different lifetime, and she had since become an entirely different person.

  From the living room next to the office she could hear the television. The sound of some sporting event in progress—basketball, she thought. What did she know? Watching sports on TV was her husband’s pastime, not hers. And yet, this was her dream—a husband resting on his lazy chair; a child reared and off on her own; a fine house kept tidy and organized, thanks to her fastidious nature; gardens in need of tending—everything as it should be.

  But some dreams come at a price.

  She knew that now.

  From one of the little drawers across the back of the desk, she removed an envelope and addressed it from memory. Her tears began to fall. The words turned to smudges. She crumpled up the envelope, took another, and started anew. From the same drawer, she got a blank piece of paper and wrote With gratitude for your efforts. She signed her name and folded the paper around the check. Then, she slipped both items into the envelope and licked it closed. The glue tasted extra bitter on her tongue. She slipped the envelope into her purse. She would drive to a mailbox tonight, so it would go out first thing in the morning. She closed her eyes and took inventory of all she had, all her good fortune.

  In a whispered voice, she uttered the same phrase she spoke every year on this day, at this exact moment. “May God forgive me.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Nadine had thought about running away for years. She lived in a nice colonial house in Potomac, Maryland, but home was hell. She was supposed to be the child, so why was she the one taking care of her mother? It wasn’t fair. No, not right at all. Her mother had always loved to drink, but it was different after Dad left. Wine used to make her giddy, but now it just made her slur her words.

  Nadine had begged her father to let her come live with him, but he was too busy with work to look after her, or so he’d said. She’d be better at home with Mom, he’d said. Ha! He should come and see what Mom had become since he’d left them for that bitch.

  She tried to tell her father what it was like living with Mom. Weekends spent in bed. Often there was no food in the refrigerator, and Nadine would have to do all the shopping (driving illegally, but always carefully, on her learner’s permit) and the cooking, not to mention the cleaning. Mom walked into walls, tripped over her own feet.

  Somehow her mother still had a job. She worked for Verizon, doing something in customer service. How she got to work each day, given her evening’s alcohol consumption, was nothing short of a miracle. Her get-ready ritual involved a lot more than a shower, some makeup, and breakfast. Her mother needed half the Visine bottle to get the red out. She often turned on bathroom faucets full strength to mask the sound of retching.

  She’d come downstairs, cupping what looked like a handful of aspirin in her palm, and bark something unpleasant at Nadine. “Turn down that TV. I have a headache.”

  Of course you do, Nadine would think.

  “Is that what you’re wearing? You look like a tramp.” It never failed. Mom’s mouth would open and something cruel, something cutting, would spill out.

  “I made the honors list,” Nadine announced on the fifteenth day of March, the day she finally ran away.

  Her mother rubbed at her pounding temples as she poured a cup of coffee flavored with Kahlúa. Something to take the edge off, she would say.

  “You better, for what we pay that private school,” was her mother’s reply.

  Nadine’s chest felt heavy, throat dry, while her eyes watered. She would not give her mother the satisfaction of seeing her cry again. Her mother would pounce if a single tear leaked out.

  “Toughen up, Nadine,” she’d say. “The world is a brutal place, and you’d best have a thicker skin.”

  Her mother’s jabs always held a hint of truth, which made them hurt even more. Nadine’s school was expensive, that was a fact. But her father paid most of the tuition.
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br />   Money, it seemed, was the only thing that wasn’t a problem in Nadine’s life. Dad sent them plenty. He said he was happy to support them, but Nadine knew the truth. He was assuaging (an SAT word she’d recently learned) his guilt.

  He didn’t want her in his life. He wanted his new, young wife and no kids to hassle them. He wanted to travel and go to all the fancy restaurants he posted on his Facebook feed. One look at her dad’s profile page and it was obvious a kid didn’t fit into the picture. After the divorce, her father had moved to Philadelphia—Bryn Mawr East, to be exact—with a new executive position at an insurance company and a new woman in his life. He posted a few photos of Nadine, but those were all recent. No “Throwback Thursday” posts (#tbt in Facebook parlance) on her dad’s page. No pictures of Nadine aged infant to tween; no evidence of his former life, aka his great mistake as he’d called his marriage during an epic pre-divorce blowout.

  That was how he viewed his family. That was all Nadine was to him—a great mistake.

  Apparently her mother felt the same way.

  Nadine’s last meal at home was chicken casserole, which she prepared using a recipe she got off the Internet. Her mother downed a bottle of wine with the meal. In her drunken stupor, she failed to notice the shoes Nadine had left in front of the closet door. Her mother tripped over the shoes and fell to the floor, twisting her ankle on the way down.

  Nadine apologized. She had meant to put the shoes where they belonged, but was preoccupied with school, and dinner, and her too many responsibilities.

  Her mother was hearing none of it. She went to the couch and applied ice to the injury, then poured herself another glass of wine, allegedly because it helped with the pain.

  “Sorry again, Mom,” Nadine said. “Are you okay?”

  Her mother’s eyes were red as her nail polish. “You’re so thoughtless, Nadine,” she slurred. “How am I going to go to work now? I can’t even walk. Sometimes I wish your father would let you go live with him. I know that’s what you want.”

  That was it. That did it. Enough was enough. Her father didn’t want her. Neither did her mother. The choice was made not by her, but for her. Nobody wanted Nadine, so nobody had to have her.

  After her mother slipped into drunken sleep, Nadine took all of the money they kept in the house—$400-some dollars—and her mother’s jewelry and walked out the door with a school knapsack filled with clothes instead of books. She walked to Montgomery Mall, about four and half miles, then took a Metrobus downtown. She had plenty of money to spend, plus whatever a pawnshop would give her for the jewelry.

  Pretending to be her mother, Nadine had called in sick to school. It was that easy. Her mother would take the day off to nurse her injured ankle—she’d already sent the e-mail to her boss. She’d wake up late and hung over, and think Nadine was at school. She’d think that until five o’clock rolled around.

  Then she’d wonder. Maybe she’d call some of Nadine’s friends. It would be seven . . . and then eight . . . and then panic. Maybe panic. Or maybe not. She’d probably be happy. Relieved to be rid of Nadine once and for all.

  Nadine didn’t know what her mother was thinking. She’d been gone for three days without calling home. She’d found a motel on the far side of the city that didn’t bother to check ID, didn’t care that she was a sixteen-year-old girl out on her own.

  The question was what to do with all the time on her hands. She enjoyed school and did her homework diligently. She loved English especially, loved to escape into other people’s happy or miserable lives and forget about her own for a while. She found a used bookstore off Dupont Circle and bought several books, including the entire Testing Trilogy by Joelle Charbonneau. She devoured all three volumes in the span of two days. But something was missing. Idle time to read had in some ways diminished the pleasure.

  She was wandering aimlessly in Union Station, admiring the shops and all the things she had no money to buy, wondering how to pass the day, when a man approached.

  He was tall and good-looking for an older man, with a nicely round head sporting a buzz cut like Jason Statham’s, and a clean-shaven face. His most notable feature was a pair of piercing blue eyes. He carried a bag from Heydari Design, which Nadine knew sold women’s clothing and accessories.

  “Can I ask you something?” he said to her.

  He had a foreign accent, Nadine thought. But it was subtle. Something distinct—sophisticated was the word that came to mind—something like a count would use. He was dressed sharply in a tailored navy suit, blue oxford underneath, no tie. His shoes were polished black loafers.

  Nadine gazed at the man, unable to speak before finding her voice. “Yes,” was all she said. Why is he talking to me? What could he want? Did Mom put out a missing persons report? Does he recognize me? Am I in trouble? Will he call the police? Will they take me to jail? Worse, will they take me back home?

  “I just bought something for my daughter. She’s about your age. But after I left the store, I was hit with doubt. I could use a second opinion. She likes the color blue, if that helps any.”

  From inside the Heydari bag, he removed a twilight blue linen-blend scarf, fringed at the ends for a touch of sophistication. It was lovely, something Nadine would have bought for herself if she had money to spend on such purchases. Books and food were all she could afford to buy. Plus she needed money for her motel room. Where else was she going to sleep? There was a lot more to running away from home than she had contemplated.

  “I think she’ll love it.” Nadine meant it, too. To her surprise, her chest suddenly felt heavy. Here was a dad doing something lovely and thoughtful for his daughter. Her father gave her birthday presents, but always mailed them. It was never anything she wanted because he didn’t take the time to get to know her tastes, her color palette.

  Her father was nothing like this one, she decided.

  “Thank you. I feel a bit more confident now.”

  That accent, where was it from? European? “You’re welcome,” Nadine said.

  The man nodded his thanks, turned to leave, but stopped. He seemed to be appraising her in a way that made her feel vulnerable. “This is going to sound odd,” he said as he took out his wallet.

  Does he think I need a handout? Nadine was mortified to think she looked so bedraggled (another SAT word) that he suspected she was homeless and in need.

  To her great relief, he took out a business card instead of cash. “I run an entertainment agency, and I’m always on the lookout for new talent. If you don’t mind my saying, you have a great look. Almost like a Jennifer Lawrence type.”

  Nadine had to suppress a laugh. JLaw? Her? Come on. Nadine didn’t think herself exceptional in any way. She was average at everything—height, weight, academics, sports. Name it, and she fit smack dab in the middle, undistinguished and undistinguishable from her peers. Her hair color was brown, eyes brown, and that’s what it would say on the missing person posters if her mother bothered to file a report. Weight 118, height 5’3”. Average. Perfectly average.

  She blushed.

  “I’m not saying you look like her exactly,” the man explained. “But there’s something about you that’s very compelling. I’m not kidding. I find talent for TV, movies, reality shows. It’s a booming business these days with so many places for content.”

  Nadine shrugged. She didn’t know what to say. She looked down at the card. STEPHEN J. MACAN. MACAN ENTERTAINMENT. No address, no phone number, no website or e-mail. It felt secretive, which made the business seem more exclusive. He had to find you; you couldn’t find him.

  “Have you ever had headshots done?”

  Before Nadine could answer, the man’s cell phone rang. A smile came to his face as he answered the call. “Hi honey. I’m still at the mall shopping for Megan.” He pulled the phone away and mouthed the words my wife for Nadine’s benefit. He held up his finger, an indication he wanted her to stay.

  For some reason, she did.

  “I’ll be home soon. Wan
t me to pick up something for dinner? I could grill up salmon, if you’d like.”

  A pause while his wife said something in response.

  “Great. Oh, and I got the opinion of a girl about Megan’s age, so I think I did well with my gift. We shall see.” He gave a little laugh.

  Some inside joke about how difficult Megan could be to shop for, Nadine supposed. The joke was made with love, not malice. It was so obvious Megan’s dad adored her.

  Nadine’s heart turned. Why can’t I have the same sort of relationship with my father?

  “I’ll be home soon. Love you. Bye.” The man’s attention went back to Nadine. “So are you interested in becoming famous?” His smile was warm, genuine.

  Nadine wondered if his daughter Megan had the right look. The man, this Stephen Macan, seemed so certain Nadine did.

  He wouldn’t lie about something like this.

  It was all happening too fast for her to process. A little tickle in the gut told her to be cautious. She handed the man back his card. “I don’t think so.”

  The man looked resigned and a little disappointed, but offered no hard sell. “Just so you know, there’s no second chances. This business is too hard for any self-doubters. We look for people who think they were meant for something more. I thought I had it right with you.” He shrugged. “Maybe all this shopping has dulled my instincts. Anyway, I wish you the best of luck.” He stuck out his hand.

  As soon as she shook it, Nadine felt numb all over her body. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling. Ashamed? Disappointed in herself? What were his words exactly?

  People who think they were meant for something more.

  That struck a chord. Despite her parents, she thought she was worth something more. She could make something out of her life and show them all. That’s right. Become somebody and get on Ellen or Good Morning America and have a tear-filled reunion on live TV while her parents apologized to their celebrity daughter for years of mistreatment. Wouldn’t that show them!