The House of Secrets

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

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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 dashboard. 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. Here. 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.’

‘You know an awful lot about me.’ Irritation crept into my voice.

‘It should come as no surprise that Zeke made arrangements for someone to watch over you during his absence. He read the newspapers during the course of the trial, but his hands were tied. For myriad reasons, he couldn’t come forward to help you. Although he couldn’t testify against Mr Bennett, he did want to see to your wellbeing.’

A woman slipped into the room, shutting the door behind her. She had thick, snow-white hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore an ankle-length black dress, a relic from a bygone era.

‘Excuse me. Miss Bethany, the nurse asked me to fetch you. Mr Collins thinks there’s an intruder and he’s become quite agitated.’

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Bethany said. ‘Sarah, I hope to see you later.’

She rushed out of the room with the white-haired woman, leaving me alone with Dr Geisler. He smiled at me. ‘I’m sure we can come to an understanding about your salary—’

‘Dr Geisler, I saw you at the trial. You were there every day, in the front row of the gallery. Not only did you watch my every move, you also took copious notes the entire time. While I appreciate the job offer – God knows I need it –I feel like you’re not telling me the whole truth. Why am I here?’

The room grew cold. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. The soft touch of invisible fingers caressed my cheek.

‘I know a secret.’ The voice came in hushed tones, an ephemeral vibration no one but I could hear. I tried to put it out of my mind and focus on Dr Geisler, but the room was icy. I shivered.

In one fluid movement, Dr Geisler had moved to my side. ‘What is it?’

Too close.

I recoiled, embarrassed at my spontaneous response. That’s when I heard the laughter.

My mind went to my pocket book where the glass bottle that held the opium tincture waited for me, the panacea for situations such as this. Two drops in eight ounces of water, and whatever I heard, whomever I saw, would disappear.

‘Are you cold?’ Dr Geisler grabbed my hand, a look of burning desperation in his eyes, as though he longed for something I did not want to give him. I realized then that Dr Geisler knew all about me. He knew what happened last October, when I encountered the spirit of my dead mother, Grace Kensington.

I jumped up, clutched my pocketbook, and walked with firm deliberation towards the door.

‘Sarah, please wait. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

I ignored him. When I reached the door, I grabbed the knob, driven by the desire to get away.

‘There’s nothing wrong with you. I believe you are sane.’

I opened the door, ready to flee the Geisler Institute, the chance for employment, and even Zeke, until he said the words that stopped me in my tracks.

‘I can help you with your visions.’

I stood for a moment with my back to him, swallowing my tears. They came anyway, flowing out of my eyes, running in a salty trail down my cheeks. I wiped them away with the sleeve of my sweater before I turned back around.

‘Come sit with me, Sarah. We have much to talk about.’ Dr Geisler had moved back to his seat and gestured for me to return to mine. ‘Forgive my eagerness, but I do want to help you get your life back.’

Clutching my purse to my chest as if it were a shield, I returned and perched on the edge of the sofa.

‘I followed your case when you were at the asylum. I knew full well that you didn’t push your mother – Jessica Bennett – down those stairs. I am also certain she didn’t fall. Jack Bennett tried several times to have you declared insane and get you committed. He used his guile to convince my colleagues that you were insane. I am familiar with you because I am on the board at The Laurels. It was I who convinced my colleagues that Jack Bennett was sorely mistaken. Despite the horrible time you had on the witness stand, I don’t believe for one minute that you attempted to hurt yourself, ever. I don’t know what happened to you at Bennett House last October, but I would like to find out.’

My well-honed defences locked into place. The events at Bennett House were in the past. There they would stay. Nothing would ever induce me to revisit that fateful night last October.

‘Not now, my dear. Not today. Not until you are ready. Are you familiar with hypnosis?’

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

‘I’ve an idea why you see things. I’ve an idea what you see. After all you’ve been through, you don’t trust people. I don’t blame you. The people who you loved and trusted, the very people who should have cared for you, tricked you into the asylum. You had no business being there, of that I am certain. I give you my word that no harm will come to you here.’

‘How can you help me with my visions?’

‘I don’t think they are visions,’ Dr Geisler said. ‘I think you see through the veil.’ He paused, and watched me, gauging my reaction. ‘Ghosts. I think you see them. And if you do, there are things you need to learn so you can have a normal life. You must learn to keep the spirits at bay. They want to be heard, for whatever reason, and if they discover that you can see them, they will never give you a moment’s peace.’