Lost You
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Neville Singular Limited
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crown, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
crownpublishing.com
CROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Beck, Haylen, author.
Title: Lost you : a novel / Haylen Beck.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Crown, [2019]
Identifiers: LCCN 2018051121 (print) | LCCN 2018052931 (ebook) | ISBN 9781524759605 (ebook) | ISBN 9781524759582 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781524759599 (trade pbk.)
Subjects: LCSH: Mothers—Fiction. | Custody of children—Fiction. Psychological fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6114.E943 (ebook) | LCC PR6114.E943 L67 2019 (print) | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018051121
ISBN 9781524759582
Ebook ISBN 9781524759605
Book design by Lauren Dong, adapted for ebook
Cover design: Josh Smith
Cover photograph: Avalon_Studio/iStock/Getty Images (butterfly)
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
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
Author’s Note
Dedication
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Excerpt from Here and Gone
1
NOW
SHE CLIMBS UP ONTO THE low wall that borders the roof, even as the police officers yell at her to stop. The brickwork scrapes her knees, but she doesn’t care. Ethan squirms in her arms as she gets to her feet, her soles raw from running. The weight of him almost takes her balance. Her toes curl over the edge. She hoists Ethan up, wraps her arms tight around him.
“It’s okay, baby,” she says.
He cries, wrestles in her grasp, his feet kicking against her thighs, his small hands grabbing at her clothes.
“Look,” she says. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
The moon is reflected on the black mirror of the Gulf of Mexico. Between the terrace and the sea, the infinity pool surrounded by palm trees, its water calm and glassy. She imagines it now, the cool of it swallowing her whole. The calm soaking into her.
“You want to go swimming?” she asks.
He becomes still in her arms.
“You wanna?”
He nods, his head moving against her shoulder. “Yeah, go swimming,” he says, his voice so small and soft it brings heat to her eyes, a thickness to her throat.
“We’ll go swimming,” she says. “I promise. Just you and me.”
The police officers have stopped shouting. She hears them approaching all around, their feet on the loose stones that cover the hotel’s roof. Somewhere far away, she hears a woman weep and call the child’s name.
Below, someone catches sight of her. A cry of alarm, a rising clamor of voices, chairs and tables scraping on the tiled terrace, audible above the easy music of the lounge band that plays there every night. More voices join the choir. The band’s singer falters then stops the song, his gasp amplified through the microphone, Dios mío! The music stutters and halts.
She looks down for the first time.
Seven stories.
The people below back away as they stare up at her. Their voices bounce between the walls and balconies. A tray of drinks slips from a waiter’s hand, glass shattering, liquor spilling in firework patterns.
She imagines her body there, sprawled, casting her own red fireworks across the tiles.
And Ethan’s.
Someone says her name. She doesn’t turn her head to see him, but she hears his voice, soft and easy, like the world isn’t about to end.
“Listen,” he says, taking slow steps, drawing closer. “Just wait and talk to me. Whatever you’re going through, whatever’s driven you to this, it can be fixed. I promise you. Will you talk to me?”
She spares him a glance. It’s the security guard from downstairs.
“I didn’t mean it,” she says.
“You didn’t mean what?” the security guard asks.
“To end this way.”
“It’s not the end,” the security guard says. “Not if you don’t want it to be. Why does it have to be the end?”
“Because I did a terrible thing and I can’t take it back.”
The security guard comes closer, slow, creeping. She sees him in her peripheral vision, turns her head to see him better. He has light-brown skin and kind eyes, gray in his hair.
“Maybe you can’t take it back,” he says. “That doesn’t mean you can’t put it right. My mother always told me, there’s nothing ever been broken that can’t be fixed.”
She looks away, back toward the sea, the glittering blackness of it.
“I know what you’re doing,” she says.
“What am I doing?”
“You’re trying to get me talking, to make me come down.”
“Ma’am, I’m not trying to do anything. Sure, that’s what the police negotiators will do when they get here, but I ain’t that smart. I’m just talking. Just having a conversation, that’s all. Like people do every day. Just talking.”
“Don�
�t come any closer.”
She hears the brittle edge of her own voice, and it frightens her.
“I’m not crazy,” she says, and she wonders if anyone who ever spoke those words aloud spoke them truthfully.
“No, you’re not,” the security guard says, keeping his distance. “You are a sane and rational person, right? I know this isn’t you, not really. Just like I know you won’t hurt that little boy.”
“He’s my son.”
“That’s right. He’s your own flesh and blood.”
“Stay back,” she says.
The security guard is a little more than an arm’s length away. Too close. She edges farther along the brickwork. It bites at her soles.
“I’m staying right here,” he says. “I’m not moving, all right? You know, I have a little girl around your boy’s age, maybe a bit older.”
He waits for a response, but she won’t offer one.
“She’s a real firecracker, like her mother. You should see her. Half Hispanic and half Irish. I swear, she’s only four, and I aged ten years since she was born. Where was your boy born?”
“Pennsylvania,” she says.
“Where in Pennsylvania? Pittsburgh? Philly?”
She doesn’t answer. Everything is quiet. She gives him another glance. His face is loose, the kindness of his eyes tempered with sharp regret. He knows he asked the wrong question. He knows he’s lost her. Defeat makes him desperate.
“Give me the boy,” he says, the words quivering. “I swear to God I won’t touch you. Just let me take him.”
“I can’t,” she says.
“Sure you can,” he says, but there is nothing sure in his voice.
“I can’t. I won’t give him back. Not now.”
“It’s not fair,” he says. “Don’t take him with you. Please.”
“No,” she says, the finality clear.
The security guard is right. It’s not fair. She knows this. But it doesn’t make any difference.
She kisses Ethan’s damp cheek and says, “I love you.”
The breeze comes in off the ocean, warm and salty.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Please forgive me.”
She sees the security guard from the corner of her eye, reaching, reaching, reaching.
“God forgive me,” she says, and puts one foot in front of the other.
Screaming, everywhere.
2
THEN
THE VACATION HAD NOT BEEN Libby’s idea. It was her literary agent, Donna, who emailed her the link to the resort’s website. Casa Rosa in Naples, on Florida’s Gulf Coast, seven swimming pools across eighteen acres of gardens and palm trees. For a modest upcharge, she could get a room with an unobstructed sea view.
I’m not sure I can afford it, Libby had written in the reply email. Maybe I should wait until I get the on-delivery money.
Nonsense, Donna had written back. The deal’s done. Go on, live a little. Treat you and your boy to a few days in the sun.
Libby remembered looking up from her laptop to the window. The trees had browned already, and mild fall had begun its surrender to winter’s bite. The rain had turned to icy needles, the wind sharp and cutting. The first snowfall couldn’t be far away.
The edits on her first novel were due in the next week or so, and she had a second book that she needed to make a start on. It was going to be a busy winter. A vacation on the other side would be something to keep her looking ahead.
“All right,” she had said aloud, feeling proud of herself for making the decision, as if she had resolved some onerous problem, not chosen to enjoy a trip to Florida.
Her birthday fell in early March. She clicked the Book Now button and selected the dates. The price wasn’t as steep as she’d expected. A couple of weeks earlier, over Valentine’s or Presidents’ Day, it was almost double, but this wasn’t so bad.
One adult. One child.
Ethan had never been on a plane before. She wondered how he would cope. Was she going to be one of those parents who wants to be swallowed by their seat while their child squeals for three hours? Maybe she could load her iPad up with episodes of Paw Patrol, keep him glued to that for the duration. She didn’t let him watch much TV, but she could make an exception for a long flight.
Libby found her purse, her MasterCard tucked away inside, and got it done. There. Five nights, standard rate. Maybe one night she could splurge on a hotel babysitter, hit the bar, possibly flirt with a handsome man or two. Dance, even.
God, it had been so long.
Mason had left when Ethan was six months old. Said he couldn’t handle it. He couldn’t be a part of their lives anymore. After all they’d been through to have this child, he ran away. Give a man some responsibility and see who he really is, her mother had once told her. Libby had thought Mason was many things, but a coward was not one of them.
But still, she missed him. In spite of his walking away from their son, she felt that void in her life, the cold, empty space in her bed. But she would not take him back, not even if he came crawling, begging her forgiveness. She wouldn’t even take his money. Her few friends had urged to her to go after him, get the child support she was entitled to. But she didn’t want anything from him. She had a good job with a decent salary, and she could manage by herself, thank you. When he came to visit their son twice a year, they were cordial with each other, but nothing remained of what they’d once had.
Besides, Ethan was a good kid. An easy baby, her friend Nadine had said with palpable envy. He had slept right through the night from almost the very start, he rarely fussed, was a good feeder. He had grown into a robust, healthy little boy, not long turned three. He’d be three and a half by the time the vacation came around. She pictured him in the water, wearing his float vest, little chunky legs kicking as she held his hands. He loved to go swimming. She took him whenever she could. More often since the book deal and the first part of the advance had come through, allowing her to cut her hours in the day job by half. It wasn’t a Major Deal by Publishers Weekly’s measure, nor a Significant one, but what they called a Very Nice Deal. Not quit-your-job money, but at least pay-a-chunk-off-your-credit-cards money. Yes, she’d been managing since Mason fled, but this was the first time since he’d gone that she hadn’t been worried about her bank balance.
She had never had the nerve to show him any of her writing. Not that there’d been much to show while they were together. It had always been scraps, a page here, a chapter there. One or two short stories. It wasn’t until he left that she decided to take writing seriously. And it had been a useful pressure valve when Ethan was smaller. A way to balance her mind during those short spells of quiet between feeds and diaper changes.
The novel had taken shape over a year or so. Nothing terribly original, she had thought at the time. Mainstream fiction she had supposed, but her agent, Donna, told her different. With some minor tweaks it could be a psychological thriller, and a saleable one at that. All right, Libby thought, so I wrote a thriller. She still remembered and relished the way her heart galloped when Donna called with news of an offer from a publisher.
So maybe I deserve this, she thought.
The hotel’s website said there were seven pools. They could spend all day swimming, go to a different one each morning, and still not see all of them. And, my goodness, they had a day-care center. If the guilt didn’t sting too much, she could leave Ethan with them and have an hour or two to lie in the sun by herself, to swim on her back, the warmth on her face, the world muted by blue water that kissed her cheeks.
Libby snapped herself out of the daydream. All that was wonderful, yes, but she needed to get there. Flights, flights, flights…
She realized then that she should have checked availability—and Christ, what was the nearest airport to the resort?—before she booked the hotel. She cursed to herself and set
about searching. Thirty minutes later it was all done and paid for, and instead of worrying about her word count for the day she was worrying about suitcases and swimwear, and God, could she lose twelve pounds in three months, what with Christmas right in the middle?
She lost fourteen, but put seven back on again between December 25 and January 1. The first month of the year flew by like a racehorse while she completed another round of edits on her debut novel, and the second book’s word count barely rose. Then it was February, she was flying with her son to Florida in three weeks, and she didn’t have a damn thing ready for the trip.
She chatted about it on Facebook with her old friend Shannon, fretting about whether she’d fit in there, if she’d look ridiculous in her swimsuit, if she’d burn in the sun. Shannon, as always, reassured her. You’ll be fine, she said, just go have fun. She was a good friend, and was the only reason Libby had a Facebook account, and a private one at that, so they could stay in touch more easily after Shannon had moved away to Europe.
Next thing Libby knew, she was walking along a gangway with Ethan’s hand in hers, boarding passes clutched in the other. In that moment, she felt more complete and in control and, yes, goddammit, happy, than at any other point in her life. Not even when Mason had slipped the gold band onto her finger. Not even when she first held her son in her arms. Not even when Donna called and told her the offer was for a two-book deal, seventy-five thousand dollars’ advance.