Praise for
STILL HERE
“A powerful, atmospheric, perfectly plotted thriller.… An outstanding read.”
Samantha M. Bailey, #1 bestselling author of Woman on the Edge
Praise for
STILL WATER
“Still Water brings back the same characters in a new setting and proves that Stuart is no one-book author.… Even better than her debut.”
The Globe and Mail
“Riveting, twisty, and full of tangled secrets.… A stay-up-all-night read. Impossible to put down!”
Karma Brown, bestselling author of Recipe for a Perfect Wife
“Complex characters with gut-wrenching backstories propel this twisty mystery toward its shocking conclusion. I was engrossed!”
Robyn Harding, bestselling author of The Swap
“Utterly compelling and intriguing.… Warn your families before you pick up this book.”
Liz Nugent, bestselling author of Lying in Wait and Little Cruelties
“Her prose is rich and descriptive, building suspense and creating a moody atmosphere.”
Quill & Quire
“Instantly captivating, mysterious, and relevant.”
Marissa Stapley, author of The Last Resort
“As swift, intense, and vengeful as the river it describes, this book is a must-read.”
Roz Nay, bestselling author of Our Little Secret and Hurry Home
Praise for
STILL MINE
“An impressive debut, rooted in character rather than trope, in fundamental understanding rather than rote puzzle-solving.”
The Globe and Mail
“Stuart is a sensitive writer who has given Clare a painful past and just enough backbone to bear it.”
The New York Times
“A gripping page-turner, with a plot that takes hold of you and drags you through the story at breakneck speed. The characters are compelling, the setting chilling, and the suspense ever-present. Add to that, Stuart has an ability to tap into the dark psychology behind addiction and abuse, and to bring these complex struggles to life in a way that stays with you for days.”
Toronto Star
“Haunting and compelling.”
Vancouver Sun
“Still Mine [has hoisted] Stuart into an exciting new generation of Canadian thriller writers that includes Shari Lapena, Ausma Zehanat Khan, Iain Reid, and Elizabeth de Mariaffi.”
Quill & Quire
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For my sisters, Bridget Flynn and Katie Flynn,
and my sister-in-law, Beth Boyden:
I aim to write strong, resilient women,
and I draw the best parts of them from you.
SATURDAY
Clare blinks and pats at the back of her head. Warmth. She looks down at her fingertips, red with her own blood.
Strange, she thinks. I feel no pain.
The room takes shape. She sits in an empty bathtub, clothes on. The bathtub is in the center of the room. This bathroom: airy, too big, everything white, an open shower. The window over the vanity looks out to a sharp blue sky. Too bright. Clare shifts her position and cranes to check behind her. The pain comes, her skull throbbing.
Yes, Clare thinks. This place. Of course. I know where I am.
The bathroom door is closed. Clare leans back against the tub and closes her eyes to stave off the dizzy spell. She remembers. It was a strike to the head.
Voices outside the bathroom door. Clare can’t decipher how many. She works to pull herself up so she is sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Two. A man and a woman. The man’s voice is so acutely familiar that it brings a stabbing pain to Clare’s chest. He is here. Of course he is here. Of course they are here together. A small laugh escapes her. This is what you get, Clare thinks. After everything that’s happened, everything you’ve done, this is how it ends.
The bathroom door cracks open. Clare stands, still in the bathtub. She must steady herself. She must hold straight.
Clare, he says, pressing through the half-open door. Clare?
Clare squeezes her eyes closed, then pops them open to regain her focus. He is smiling too kindly. He holds a gun loose in one hand.
Are you hurt? he asks. I didn’t mean to hurt you.
Does he look different? He’s grown a beard, put on some weight. There’s a deadness in his gaze. He steps forward and reaches out to take her by the arm. When Clare recoils, he frowns playfully.
Don’t do that, Clare. You’ve got nowhere to go. This is finally over. I’m here.
It comes back to Clare now. This morning, dawn. She was alone. And then he was there.
Oh wow, he says, reaching this time for her hair. You’re still bleeding.
Don’t touch me, Clare says, a hiss.
Come on, he says. This doesn’t have to end terribly, does it?
Who else is here? Clare asks. Who’s here with you?
But she need not ask. She knows. The blood drips from her hair and travels in a stream down her spine. It takes all her effort not to sway. Clare closes her eyes again. She must find a way out.
You owe me the truth, he says. Don’t I deserve the truth?
The truth? Clare doesn’t answer him. She knows she is in danger. They will not let her out of here alive. She needs to focus. Focus. But she is dizzy. Her thoughts churn too quickly. The truth. He smiles at her expectantly. Anger roils in her instead of fear. Anger that she didn’t grasp the lies she was told, for trusting those she should never have trusted. Anger at herself for opening that door when she did.
TUESDAY
four days earlier
Clare is the first to descend from the bus. At once she can sense the ocean nearby, the cool saltiness in the air. She checks her phone. 7:00 p.m. The sky is already a deep pink, these early September days shorter. The bus driver tugs her bag from the undercarriage and drops it at her feet.
“Which way to the ocean?” Clare asks him.
“Way down the hill.”
Lune Bay. A coastal enclave within commuting distance of two cities, this bus depot on its outskirts. On the last stretch of the drive, Clare had been struck by the inclines, the highway zigzagging, the brakes on the bus squealing with the effort to maintain its speed. The earth here feels tilted, the landscape pouring into an ocean she can’t yet see. A beautiful spot, Detective Somers had called it, as if Clare were arriving here on vacation and not to search for a man disappeared.
The bus station is crowded with lone travelers. A fierce stench greets Clare when she opens the door to the women’s bathroom. In the tight stall Clare hangs her backpack on the back of the door and straddles her duffel bag. She struggles out of her clothes and into a clean shirt and jeans. She emerges from the stall to see an older woman leaning into the sink, eyes wildly meeting her own reflection. The woman is empty-handed, no purse or bag in sight, and dressed in a parka far too warm even for this cooler weather. Her gaze darts to Clare.