All the Dark Places

Terri Parlato

TERRI PARLATO

ALL THE D∀RK PLACES

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER 1 - Molly
CHAPTER 2 - Rita
CHAPTER 3 - Molly
CHAPTER 4 - Rita
CHAPTER 5 - Molly
CHAPTER 6 - Rita
CHAPTER 7 - Molly
CHAPTER 8 - Rita
CHAPTER 9 - Molly
CHAPTER 10 - Rita
CHAPTER 11 - Molly
CHAPTER 12 - Rita
CHAPTER 13 - Molly
CHAPTER 14 - Rita
CHAPTER 15 - Molly
CHAPTER 16 - Rita
CHAPTER 17 - Molly
CHAPTER 18 - Rita
CHAPTER 19 - Molly
CHAPTER 20 - Molly
CHAPTER 21 - Rita
CHAPTER 22 - Molly
CHAPTER 23 - Rita
CHAPTER 24 - Rita
CHAPTER 25 - Molly
CHAPTER 26 - Molly
CHAPTER 27 - Rita
CHAPTER 28 - Molly
CHAPTER 29 - Rita
CHAPTER 30 - Molly
CHAPTER 31 - Molly
CHAPTER 32 - Rita
CHAPTER 33 - Molly
CHAPTER 34 - Rita
CHAPTER 35 - Molly
CHAPTER 36 - Rita
CHAPTER 37 - Molly
CHAPTER 38 - Molly
CHAPTER 39 - Rita
CHAPTER 40 - Molly
CHAPTER 41 - Molly
CHAPTER 42 - Rita
CHAPTER 43 - Molly
CHAPTER 44 - Rita
CHAPTER 45 - Molly
CHAPTER 46 - Rita
CHAPTER 47 - Molly
CHAPTER 48 - Rita
CHAPTER 49 - Molly
CHAPTER 50 - Rita
CHAPTER 51 - Molly
CHAPTER 52 - Rita
CHAPTER 53 - Molly
CHAPTER 54 - Rita
CHAPTER 55 - Molly
CHAPTER 56 - Rita
CHAPTER 57 - Molly
CHAPTER 58 - Rita
CHAPTER 59 - Molly
CHAPTER 60 - Rita
CHAPTER 61 - Molly
CHAPTER 62 - Rita
CHAPTER 63 - Rita
CHAPTER 64 - Molly
CHAPTER 65 - Rita
CHAPTER 66 - Molly
CHAPTER 67 - Rita
CHAPTER 68 - Molly
CHAPTER 69 - Rita
CHAPTER 70 - Molly
CHAPTER 71 - Rita
CHAPTER 72 - Molly
CHAPTER 73 - Rita
CHAPTER 74 - Molly
CHAPTER 75 - Rita
CHAPTER 76 - Molly
CHAPTER 77 - Rita
CHAPTER 78 - Molly

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, 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.

To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018

The K with book logo Reg US Pat. & TM Off.

Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2022943485

ISBN: 978-1-4967-3856-1

First Kensington Hardcover Edition: January 2023

ISBN: 978-1-4967-3858-5 (ebook)

For my husband and children with all my love.

Acknowledgments

I am so grateful for all the people who helped bring All the Dark Places to life. To my writers group members, Tacey Derenzy, R. H. Buffington and Sandra Erni, thank you for your hard work, insight, and encouragement. Your contributions to my story are boundless. I hope I have satisfied your calls for “more Rita.” And Sandra, thank you for the twenty-five plus years of writing, reading and laughter!

And to Charlotte Smallwood, thank you for your eagerness to read more. Readers like you push me to do my best every day and I hope that I live up to your expectations.

To my wonderful editor, John Scognamiglio, a huge thank-you for saying yes to my manuscript and your enthusiasm for this story. Your suggestions made my novel so much better than I could have hoped. And thank-you to all the amazing people at Kensington who did such great work on this book.

To my incredible agent, Marlene Stringer, thank you so much for taking a chance on me. Among a million other things, you deftly handle my anxiety when it rears its ugly head. I can’t thank you enough.

A heartfelt thank-you to my children, Brittany, Becca and Nick. You are amazing people, and I am so proud of you. You inspire me to always follow my dreams. And your support means the world to me. And lastly, thank you to my husband, Fred, for not batting an eyelash when I told you I wanted to quit my teaching job to write full-time. I never could have gotten to this place without your steadfast support and hard work to ensure that the household stayed afloat. I am forever grateful for you and our beautiful family.

CHAPTER 1

Molly

SOMETIMES I WANT TO CAPTURE A HAPPY MOMENT TO KEEP FOREVER. Not like a picture or a video, but a feeling. A feeling that I want to relive for the rest of my life. (Why is it that nightmares insist on the same treatment?) I shudder and move away from the dark hallway and into the light of the living room, where my husband stands in front of the blazing fireplace while he relates a funny story to our friends. They’ve gathered for his birthday celebration and laugh with honest mirth. Everyone loves Jay. No one more than me.

The first week in January isn’t a great time to have a birthday, but since we have no choice in the matter, I’ve done my best to make everything light and festive. Jay’s fortieth is going to be one to remember if I can help it. The Christmas tree still shimmers in the corner, and white candles glow across the mantel, setting the photos there alight. Jay and I smiling and posing, the pictures illustrating our happy three-year marriage.

There’s a sharp contrast between inside and out. Dark falls early in New England in the winter. It’s been as black as coal dust outside the windows for over an hour. Only the glow of a single streetlight across the road illuminates our snow-shrouded neighborhood. We’ve been in the house not quite a year, yet it feels like home. It’s an older place, almost historic, and the nooks and crannies and gleaming woodwork appealed to me right away. Inside, the house is bright, alive with friends and my perfect husband. I feel safe here.

The cake is a work of art and sits boxed in the fridge, hidden until the big moment. Jay didn’t want a huge bash, just our best friends, good wine, and food. It should be a wonderful night. Should being the operative word. I’m praying I don’t spoil it.

I stand at the granite counter, arrange the finger foods I’d ordered from our favorite café on the square. Everything looks delicious, if only I had an appetite. Instead, I pick up my wine, a rich Malbec we picked up on a trip to California last summer, and take a sip. Jay comes up behind me and wraps me in his arms, rests his chin on the top of my head. I love his touch, his strong arms that make me feel safe and grounded, the smell of his woodsy cologne. I sigh, and a tear escapes and runs down my cheek.

“Hey.” He turns me to face him and wipes it away with his thumb. “None of that, okay? We’ve got this.”

I nod, sniff. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He crushes me in his arms and skims his lips half on my mouth, half on my chin, a light reassuring kiss. “Everything’s going to be fine, Molly.”

At six-thirty, our friends started arriving, bringing winter air and a few stray snowflakes with them through the front door. There were hugs and kisses, presents, although I told everyone Jay didn’t want any.

Kim, my best friend since second grade, and her husband, Josh, an old friend of Jay’s, sit on the sofa. We introduced them shortly after Jay and I started dating. Kim is petite, dark-haired, with big brown eyes, a former cheerleader. She’s as extroverted as I am quiet, but we complement one another.

Cal, Jay’s hockey buddy, and his wife, Laken, a tall, beautiful blonde, sit in dining room chairs carried in to provide more seating. Laken owns a day spa in town, and at the door, she’d pressed a thick, cream-colored envelope into Jay’s hand. A massage gift certificate, no doubt. Laken and I’ve gotten to be good friends too.

And Elise and Scott. Dr. Elise Westmore is Jay’s partner in a family therapy practice, and they round out our group. The Westmores are older than we are, both in their early fifties. Jay met Elise in grad school, and they hit it off. He calls her the big sister he never had.

“Who wants what?” Jay asks, the Malbec bottle in his hand. Glasses are raised, and he pours, then slips behind the bar for a second bottle. “Cal, you want a beer instead? I just made a Trillium run.”

Cal smiles and stands. “You know me, my friend. I’ll get it.” He turns to Scott, who sits next to Elise like an elder statesman. “You want a beer?”

“That would be great,” Scott replies.

There’s an easy rapport among the eight of us, and I smile as I carry a tray of mushroom and Gruyère crostini and place it on the coffee table. I refill my glass and try to enjoy the wine and the focus on Jay. I admire his total comfort with people. I guess that’s why he’s such a good psychologist. People trust him, know that they can. His easy smile and kind green eyes don’t hurt either.

We’ve had a few drinks, eaten through half the food. The conversation has moved past the “What’s new?” phase when Laken leans back in her chair, her long legs extending to the edge of the coffee table.

“So, Jay, how’s the book coming?”

He takes a deep breath. “It’s coming, slowly.” His gaze shifts to the fireplace, where the flames snap and flare.

Jay’s writing a book based on one of his grad-school papers. He doesn’t talk about it, or his work, much really. That’s all part of his boring, stuffy side, he says.

“Isn’t it about some pretty creepy stuff? Abnormal psychology and gruesome crimes?” Laken asks.

Jay grimaces. “Some of it’s pretty intense.”

Elise straightens in her chair, eyes on Laken. “Abnormal psychology encompasses a wide range of behaviors, not all of them violent or particularly disturbing.” A momentary tension crackles in the room. Barely there, but I feel it as I look from face to face. Kim leans forward and fills the silence.

“I had an aunt,” she says, swallowing a sip of her drink, “who kept the fur she brushed out of all her dogs in a bag in the hall closet. My brother and I found it when we were kids. Scared the shit out of us. It had been there for like thirty years. Six dogs worth.”

That makes Jay laugh. Kim is good at that. “The mind is a curious thing,” he says and stands, picks up the nearly empty tray. “We need more food!” Something in Jay’s voice has me on alert again. Something’s been on his mind all week, but whenever I asked him about it, he brushed me off with a smile and said he was fine. I follow him into the kitchen, wander to the door, and look out across the backyard.

“The light’s on in your office,” I say, gazing at the old structure. The detached garage sits in the snow at the end of the driveway. No cars inside, just Jay’s desk, a space heater, and other things he needs to furnish his home office.

“Must’ve left it on when I was working earlier.” He uncorks another bottle of red. “I’ll get it later. I might do a little more work after everyone leaves,” he says, eyes on the wine as he refills his glass.

“Tonight?”

“For a little bit. I was in the middle of something when I had to come in and get ready for the party. Shouldn’t take me long.”

I move over to the counter, put a steadying hand on the edge. I finish my wine and hold out my glass to Jay. His eyes meet mine, and I smile, reassure him. “I’m fine, really.”

He fills my glass, sets it on the table, and wraps his arms around me. “I have everything I need right here,” he says.

Cal and Josh walk into the kitchen. Josh raises his empty glass. “What’s the holdup?” He laughs. “Can’t keep their hands off each other,” he says to Cal.

“Do you blame me?” Jay says, brushing my long hair back over my shoulder.

I pull myself free and walk to the fridge. “Time for this, birthday boy.” I set the box on the counter, lift the cake out. It’s a canvas of sky-blue fondant with a garden of glistening orange and yellow flowers.

“Whoa. That’s incredible. Be a shame to cut it,” Jay says.

“They do a great job at André’s,” I say, removing a knife from the cutlery drawer.

“Chocolate or vanilla?” Cal asks.

Laken walks into the room. “God, Cal. It’s Jay. Chocolate!”

Cal shrugs. “Maybe he got adventurous.” The kitchen fills up with the rest of our friends, and I reach for the birthday candles.

Jay grabs my hand. “It would be a shame to ruin that beautiful cake with those!” But he’s smiling. “What the hell? You only turn forty once, right?”

* * *

I know there is something wrong when I open my eyes and don’t smell coffee. Jay isn’t beside me in our king-size bed. He usually wakes before I do, but there’s always the aroma of his favorite drink permeating the house. Jay’s one of those people who sleeps only four or five hours a night. An inveterate coffee drinker, he downs five or six cups a day, enough to give most people a serious case of the jitters, but he thrives on it. I’ve gotten conditioned to that morning scent filling the house and my lids popping open, like clockwork.

The kitchen is cold, coffeepot sitting on the counter, empty and untouched.

“Jay?” I call, my voice echoing through the house. My heartbeat kicks up. I walk to the back door, peer outside. The door to Jay’s office is wide open. I fly down the porch steps and across the yard, my bare feet churning through the snow.

I stumble across the threshold. He isn’t here.

“Jay?”

No answer. I move farther into the room, past the desk and space heater. Then I see him, lying on the floor, blood spattered on the wall and in a pool around his head. I drop to my knees, grab his hand. “Jay!”

But it’s no use. He can’t hear me. He’s cold, lifeless. His neck gapes open beneath his stubbled chin. He’s still dressed in the clothes he was wearing last night. His eyes are half-shut, and his dark hair is soaked in the puddle surrounding him. I fall back against the filing cabinet, screams erupting from someplace deep in my soul.

All the Dark Places

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