Favourite Daughter

From the USA TODAY bestselling author of Best Day Ever comes a gripping novel of psychological suspense for fans of B. A. Paris and Shari Lapena.

The perfect home. The perfect family. The perfect lie.

Jane Harris lives in a sparkling home in an oceanfront gated community in Orange County. It’s a place that seems too beautiful to be touched by sadness. But exactly one year ago, Jane’s eldest daughter, Mary, died in a tragic accident, and Jane has been grief-stricken ever since. Lost in a haze of antidepressants, she’s barely even left the house...until now.

As Jane reemerges into the world, it’s clear she’s missed a lot in the last year. Her husband has been working long days—and nights—at the office. Her daughter Betsy seems distant, even secretive. And then Jane receives a note warning her that Mary’s death wasn’t an accident. What really happened on the day Mary died? And who is lying to whom in this family?

The bonds between mothers and daughters, husbands and wives should never be broken. But you never know how far someone will go to keep a family together...

KAIRA ROUDA is a bestselling, multiple-award-winning author of contemporary fiction. Her work has won numerous awards, including the Indie Excellence Award and Reader’s Choice Award.

She lives in Southern California with her family and you can connect with her on Facebook at Kaira Rouda Books, and on Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram: @kairarouda.

For more, visit Kaira’s website, www.kairarouda.com.

Also by Kaira Rouda

Best Day Ever

Favorite Daughter

Kaira Rouda

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Kaira Rouda 2019

Kaira Rouda 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.

Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9781474064699

Years ago, just after my family and I moved to the West Coast, I was lucky to become friends with an amazing woman, Malibu City Council member and clinical psychologist Laura Rosenthal. As you may have guessed, Laura is the inspiration for the doctor character in THE FAVORITE DAUGHTER. One evening Laura joined us for dinner on a night my husband and I were discussing the baffling character traits of someone we knew. We just couldn’t figure this person out.

“Well, that sounds like a classic narcissist,” Laura said.

At that, the light bulb turned on and it has been shining brightly in both my imagination, and in real life, ever since.

Maybe you’re more aware of this than I was, but narcissists are everywhere in our society. Some estimate narcissists comprise 10 percent of the population and experts believe access to social media is creating more: Selfies are a narcissist’s best friend.

Although it may seem terrifying to some that I enjoy getting inside the heads of these types of people in my most recent novels, to me, it’s cathartic. Since first learning about narcissists from Laura all those years ago, I’ve somehow become blessed with a superpower: I can spot a narcissist. I’m not sure it’s a gift or a curse, but it’s true.

I also enjoy writing stories with unreliable narrators, and Jane Harris, like Paul Strom in BEST DAY EVER, is at her core a very unreliable person, among other things. These characters are obsessed with perception. Everything they show to the world is carefully calculated to portray perfection, even in their marriages, even when their lives may be falling apart. Narcissists suffer from a self-esteem problem coupled with low empathy. Failure is unacceptable, especially with their family, where they expect unflinching loyalty and subservience. Grandiose self-worth, vanity and entitlement are the foundation of the disorder. When any of this is challenged, rage is the result.

A special, terrifying subset of narcissist are those called “malignant narcissists.” Erich Fromm first coined the term in 1964 to describe the “quintessence of evil.” Some of the most difficult narcissists to spot are malignant narcissists who are mothers. She often gets away with her abuse because she is unseen to all but those she controls, her children, and no one wants to imagine a mother could be the monster in her own home.

No one wants to imagine that, except as a starting point for a novel, perhaps.

I asked my friend Laura if therapy works with narcissists. Her answer: It’s a pretty tough one to fix because they cannot see themselves for who they are and cannot take responsibility. When things go wrong they blame other people, so therapy is tough. They aren’t motivated to change. They like themselves just the way they are.

I hope you enjoyed Jane’s story. She wants you to believe she is the perfect mother, a loving wife, a connected and compassionate member of her community. Did she convince you? And who is her favorite daughter?

Thanks for reading,

Kaira

To my perfectly imperfect family.

And especially to my favorites: Trace, Avery, Shea and Dylan.

I love you all so much!

Nature, the gentlest mother,Impatient of no child,The feeblest or the waywardest—Her admonition mild

Emily Dickinson, 1893

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

DEAR READER LETTER

Dedication

Quote

SUNDAY

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

MONDAY

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

TUESDAY

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

WEDNESDAY

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

THURSDAY

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

READER’S GROUP DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

Extract

About the Publisher

SUNDAY

FOUR DAYS UNTIL GRADUATION

1

6:30 p.m.

I glance at my creation and smile: behold the dining room table. It is critical to create the proper atmosphere when entertaining, the illusion of perfection. As one of the most important hostesses in The Cove, I can assure you I pull together elegant dinners without a second thought. I know all the key ingredients: arrangements from the best florist in town, tonight white hydrangeas nestled in between succulents, and linens from the exclusive small boutique where everyone must shop to purchase ridiculously expensive tablecloths and napkins, in this case, brushed silk, off-white.

I’ve outdone myself with this table. This will go down in the record books as a crowning achievement in my life.

I’m kidding, of course. I don’t care a smidgen about entertaining. And typically, if I’m going to spend time adorning something, it’s going to be myself. Truth be told, the crystal and china pieces on the table were wedding gifts from long-forgotten friends, rarely used. I dug them out from the back of the cupboard. Perhaps I am trying a bit too hard, but tonight is special. It’s my coming-out party, so to speak.

After a year of grieving, it’s time to step back into my family, or what remains of it, and that’s precisely my plan. I’m reclaiming the throne, like a queen who has been in exile but returns with pomp and circumstance. I shake my head as I look around my castle. I used to be so proud of this home, something so expensive and so uppity that my mother would never be comfortable stepping foot inside. Good old Mom. She taught me everything she knew about how to put yourself first in life. She was ruthless, delighting in bringing others down, including her own daughter. But look around: I’m winning, Mom. I touch the diamond-encrusted heart pendant hanging between my surgically enhanced, perfect breasts. All gifts from my husband in happier times.

My husband, David, will be so surprised when he arrives home tonight, and he deserves it. He’s been full of surprises this year. In fact, I discovered another little secret when a piece of mail arrived at our house last week. Typically, he has his mail sent to his office, says it’s easier to pay bills that way. This particular notice from the bank must have just slipped through the cracks. I’m playing along. For now.

The letter congratulated David on the purchase of a new home. I must admit, the thought of a fresh start made my heart flutter. I know it will be even bigger, more expensive than this home. I mean, this home was fine when the kids were growing up, but now we need something grander. More fitting of our station in life. We deserve it after all we’ve been through.

Maybe he’ll tell me all about it tonight? That would be wonderful. I’m planning our reconnection dinner and he will announce his surprise. I glance at my platinum watch, enjoying the sparkles of the diamond-encrusted face, until my heart thumps at the time. It’s getting late and I have so much more to do. I can’t believe I’ve lost a year in my haze of grief. Sure, some of the haze can be blamed on all of the antidepressants the doctors made me take. They were both a relief and a distraction. While I was stuck in bed, at home, my family members have made the most of their time, both so busy, in fact, I’ve had trouble keeping up.

But not any longer. I’m back, drug-free, and better than ever. I grab the final crystal wineglass from the kitchen counter and walk to the table, glancing out the window as the bright orange sun drops into the deep blue Pacific Ocean. In an instant, the glass topples from my hand and seems to tumble in slow motion as it falls and shatters on the stone floor, sending sound waves echoing through our lifeless house like an earthquake. Shards of glass sprinkle the tops of my bare feet and dot the floor around me while a large chunk of the stem rests under the dining room table, glistening like the blade of a knife.

I fold my arms across my chest for comfort and can’t help but admire my ribs poking into my hands, a reminder of how much weight I’ve lost the last year. Grief is good for the figure. You and I already know thin women get attention, respect in our society. On the few excursions I’ve made out of the house lately, when I’ve taken care to dress and apply makeup, I’ve noticed an uptick in appreciative glances from men. That’s nothing new. My whole life I’ve enjoyed the admiration of the opposite sex.

For months, I’ve been secretly working out in the garage when David is at work and Betsy at school. Just me and the handsome P90X instructors. My mom would be impressed by my fitness commitment. She never missed a chance to remind me being skinny was the key to our future. And then she’d take my dinner away. She’s long gone, died when I was fourteen in a tragic car accident, but she still haunts me. That’s the power of the bond between mothers and daughters. It can never be broken, even in death.

But glass can. I stare at my almost-perfect table setting—I even nestled votive candles in crystal holders around the centerpiece and in front of each place setting. Just call me Martha Stewart.

I wonder what I should wear tonight? Here, in the land of expensive designer purses and shoes, most women blend in, their monochromatic coolness anchored by jeans, topped by their perfectly smooth, porcelain faces. I remember my first dinner party at The Cove: me from the South, them from Southern California. I’d worn a yellow silk cocktail dress, my biggest pearls and wrapped a white cashmere pashmina around my shoulders. I was as out of place as a Twinkie at a Weight Watchers meeting. But you know what? All the husbands approved, tired of the sameness they endured in their wives. Back then, David was proud to have me on his arm, proud I stood out like a beautiful flower in a meadow of boring grass. It’s ironic, really: I gave up my dreams to move here, to become the perfect Orange County housewife. I could have been so much more.

This ocean view is why we bought this home all those years ago, scraping together every last dime and tapping into David’s trust fund to move into The Cove, the best community in Southern California. We were young parents, and so madly in love. The ocean was romantic, beautiful then. Not deadly and dark and cold.

I feel the rush of heat as my hands clench into fists. Anger and loss, did you ever notice how those emotions mix together? It’s a toxic combination. I swallow. I need to focus on the table, the first step of my coming-out party. All that’s missing from this perfect setting is the fourth wineglass. I have another one, of course. It’s almost symbolic. It was Mary’s spot at the table, Mary’s wineglass that fell to the floor.

Mary who dropped into the sea. I shake my head to quiet the voice.

My therapist, Dr. Rosenthal, assured me at our last session that it would be a step forward to eat together as a family in the dining room. She wants us to reconnect, and I most always do whatever she says. At our next session I’ll happily tell the doctor all about tonight. I am committed to reenergizing my life, reconnecting with my family. I tell her what I want her to know, what she wants to hear. Sure, she’s the one with the PhD, but I’m the one with life experience. I’m the heart of this family. That’s a mom’s place.

Perhaps I won’t mention the broken glass during our session, although it is emblematic of all that has happened this year since Mary left us. Nothing is right. My husband has thrown his energy into work, he tells me. He’s gone all the time these days. Betsy is focused on graduating high school in four short days. I swallow. I push away the silly fear, the nagging sound of my mom’s voice telling me Betsy will leave me. It’s nonsense. Betsy loves me, would never leave me. I mean, it’s not like she’s brilliant like Mary was, or smart like Mary was. No, Betsy is average. She’ll be dependent on me forever, and that’s just fine. And David, well, he’s buying us a new home. Everyone is getting in line.

The hair at the back of my neck tingles on alert. Someone is watching me. I look out the window and see the five-year-old cherub next door, his round face pushing through a partially open window, his eyes bright and curious. He’s up too high. He must have climbed onto a chair. Where is the nanny? Twenty children under the age of eleven die each year because of falls from windows, and another five thousand are critically injured.

Tragic accidents happen all the time. That’s why I watched my daughters every moment of their lives, never letting them out of my sight, one way or another, ever. They were like extensions of my arms, a hand for each of them. My little mini-mes.

I glance at the boy next door and then to the ground two stories below. There is nothing to break his fall if he topples out, just a thin strip of cement between his house and ours. I shudder at the thought. We pay astronomical prices to live on top of each other at the coast. Proximity and privilege means it’s hard to keep secrets here. Turns out it’s also hard to keep friends, and family.

The child is waving at me. I try to help him, pointing and mouthing the word down like I’m commanding a dog. I know all of the tragic things that can happen to him. Children who land on a hard surface, such as concrete, are twice as likely to suffer head injuries.

I can’t witness this tragedy. Glass or no glass, I tiptoe away from the table, waiting for the sharp sensation of a shard slicing through my foot. I’m almost out of the minefield of glass when I realize I have company.

“What are you doing?” Enter stage right: my handsome husband, David, thick brown hair, blue eyes, dimpled—a model WASP—is in the kitchen and assessing the scene. He could have been an actor, he’s perfectly typecast as the successful businessman, 1950s to today.

“I made a mess of things,” I say before covering my face with my hands. I can’t resist leaving a small space between my fingers to peek at him. His smile fades as he drops his briefcase on the kitchen counter. Poor dear.

“Is that broken glass on the dining room floor?”

“Dropped a glass. An accident.” I mumble my response from behind my hands.

“Are you hurt?” He takes a few steps, shoes crunching on glass, and he’s beside me.

“I think I’m fine, but can you call the people next door?” I drop my hands from my face and point out the window.

“The Johnsons?”

“Yes, their child is about to die.”

I watch David push his thick dark hair off his forehead, a nervous habit he’s acquired in the past year. “What? Stop talking like that. It’s creepy.”

I sort of scare him these days. I’m not sure why exactly. Perhaps it is my seemingly unshakable grief? Is he afraid it will envelop him, too?

He steps closer and looks out the window. I do, too. The child has disappeared, hopefully safe in his nanny’s arms. Or he’s died from the fall. My mind jumps to terrible conclusions these days, but unfortunately, my mind is often correct. Feminine intuition, you really can’t beat it. Mine is superbly tuned.

“There’s no one there, Jane.”

“I can see that. He was there just a minute ago.” I hate it when he doesn’t believe me and it’s been happening more and more these days. I don’t like it. That’s one of the reasons I stopped taking the pills. I mean, your husband should love you and worship the ground you walk on. He doesn’t just now, I know, but he will again. I’m back. He’ll see. I take a deep breath. I need to make my husband treasure me again. I will provide him with that opportunity starting tonight. He has been avoiding me. Like I carry a disease. I’m not contagious. Of course, there are other things holding his interest these days. He thinks I don’t know about that. Silly man. I force a smile to my lips, blink my eyes.

“Are you hurt?” Now he attempts kindness. What’s the old saying: a day late and a dollar short?

“Don’t think so.” I shrug as he takes my hand. As we touch I wish it was electric like in the long-ago days, but it’s not. Of course, all relationships change over time, and we’ve been married for more than two decades. Back in the early days, that first year together, he would have scooped me into his arms and carried me to a chair. Now that we’re a longtime married couple, he escorts me old-lady style to the kitchen and pulls out a bar stool. I slide onto the cold, hard wooden seat.

David checks my feet for glass while I stare at the top of his head. He’s blessed with thick dark brown hair, without a streak of gray. Mary had the same glorious mane of hair. In fact, Mary looks a lot like David, despite the fact she was adopted. Isn’t that funny? Two daughters, one who looks just like my husband, the other, Betsy, our biological daughter, who looks like a watered-down version of me. Perfect, isn’t it?

“You’re not cut. I’ll sweep up the glass. Why don’t you go put socks on? Your feet are freezing.”

I slide off the bar stool. “Thanks for coming to my rescue, handsome.” I bat my eyes at him and slowly lick my bottom lip. I should win a domestic Golden Globe. Oh, come on. You know as well as I do that men love to be flattered. David’s no exception. Tell a man he’s handsome, smart, strong or, the doozy, the best you’ve ever had in bed, and, well, they’ll love you at least in that moment. I just need to win him back, make him love me again. And I know I can do it. He loved me once, and deep down, he still does. For now, I’ll just kill him with kindness. It’s the Southern belle in me. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

See. David flashes a smile, a crack in the armor, pats my shoulder. I used to have him so well trained. Husbands. You let up just a little and they regress. And then he’s back to business. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’re not overdoing it, are you?”

“I love this, this entertaining, you know that.” I never did, actually, and I’m not fine. I’m angry, but I smile. I glance at David, my eyes taking in his cool demeanor, his practiced professional air. We speak in a stilted language now, tiptoeing around each other like we’re both surrounded by broken glass. This year has been hard on our marriage in so many different ways. I’m committed to fixing things, to getting us back on track. I know this happens in every relationship. We’re just in a down cycle. I’m sure you’ve been there, too. I’m afraid we’re running out of time. Betsy will graduate soon. She needs to see us, her parents, in love. All kids want is happy parents. While she’s at community college going to class, she should imagine us here, at home, waiting to share dinner together each evening, a model of marital bliss.

I hope we can present a united front for her this week. It’s always best to hang on to the one you know, at least until you find something better, that’s what my mom told me. And we were so good together, David and I. Meant to be.

“You set the table for four. That’s just creepy. Are you trying to upset us?” he asks, his voice thick with emotion. Is it anger, too? I don’t know.

“No, I’m trying to have a family dinner. Dr. Rosenthal told me to. I’m sorry, I must have made a mistake. Subconscious. I miss her so much.” I look out the window. It’s safe now because it’s dark outside and the ocean is invisible. All I see is my reflection. Tight, formfitting white T-shirt, sparkling heart. I do look good.