Her Last Breath
PRAISE FOR HILARY DAVIDSON
HER LAST BREATH
“A black sheep family drama becomes a deliciously paranoid psychological thriller from the always-thrilling Hilary Davidson. Brilliant!”
—Adrian McKinty, New York Times bestselling author
“One part thriller, one part domestic suspense, and one part family drama result in a fantastic story of love and betrayal, loss and redemption. Tightly written, compulsively readable, with flawed characters I both rooted for and feared for. I loved this book.”
—Allison Brennan, New York Times bestselling author
“Hilary Davidson brings her A game in this stand-alone thriller about a woman’s search to find her sister’s killer. With a twisty Agatha Christie plot, complex psychological threads, and deep, dark family secrets, Her Last Breath is a genre-bending page-turner!”
—Wendy Walker, bestselling author of Don’t Look for Me
“Before you start Her Last Breath, be sure to take a deep one. Davidson starts her tale at full speed and rarely comes up for air.”
—Linwood Barclay, New York Times bestselling author
“Absorbing, complex, and satisfyingly twisty, Her Last Breath is an addictive page-turner. Hilary Davidson knows how to hook readers and keep them hooked.”
—Meg Gardiner, author of the UNSUB series
DON’T LOOK DOWN
“A blackmail plot produces complications upon complications in a story of sex trafficking, class wars, and stolen identities. [A] satisfying page-turner.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Davidson keeps the reader guessing to the satisfying conclusion. Crime fiction fans will welcome this tale of family, secrets, resilience, and revenge.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Davidson’s wildly intense murder mystery grabs the listener from the beginning . . . The age-old themes of survival, class, ambition, greed, revenge, love, and deceit all come into play.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Don’t Look Down will keep the reader guessing. Davidson has created some truly memorable characters . . . This is the type of creative finesse that makes a reader keep coming back for more.”
—New York Journal of Books
“Don’t Look Down, by Hilary Davidson, is a fast-paced, twisty, classic city crime thriller that leaves one fully satisfied.”
—Criminal Element
“Don’t Look Down, the second novel in a series featuring NYPD police Sheryn Sterling and Rafael Mendoza, is a stunning trip through the Big Apple. It’s also a deftly plotted mystery that begins with blackmail and revenge. An excellent book with good characters and a fantastic plot, but what I loved were Davidson’s descriptions of New York.”
—The Globe and Mail
ONE SMALL SACRIFICE
“Fans of Karin Slaughter, Tana French, and Lisa Gardner will devour this new police procedural, which boasts a strong female detective and an intriguing antagonist. Sheryn will draw in readers, and Davidson’s complex storytelling will keep them wanting more.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“A thoughtfully plotted and skillfully characterized procedural mystery . . . It’s easy to get drawn deeply into the various motives and secrets of each character because it’s so perfectly human for all of us to keep things hidden, even from those we love.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“[A] taut series launch . . . Davidson’s ability to maintain the suspense bodes well for future installments.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The story line veers between alternate points of view . . . [while] perspectives on the same information provide different results. Writing the novel in this fashion amps up the suspense while also giving the narrative a complex and compelling flair. In addition, Davidson does an admirable job of making a complicated issue such as PTSD relatable. With an unpredictable ending and evidence that this is the start of a series, One Small Sacrifice is a book you should definitely check out.”
—Associated Press
“One Small Sacrifice is a complex and engaging psychological thriller with fully realized characters. The plot throws light on the darker areas of human nature, of the fallibility of memory, and leaves the reader guessing until the very end.”
—Authorlink
“A thriller, of the filled-with-dread-but-I-have-to-finish-it variety.”
—New York Journal of Books
“In a story told from multiple points of view, Davidson has crafted a compelling police procedural.”
—Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel
“This thriller, told from alternating points of view, will keep readers glued to their seats.”
—National Examiner
“Davidson’s stealthily plotted, rapidly deployed, multistranded mystery encompasses the most intimate of brutalities—including domestic abuse and postbattlefield PTSD, a solid handful of dodgy characters, and, in the most humane of touches, a dog named Sid.”
—Seattle Review of Books
“Davidson’s plotting is tight and complex, a slow build of twists and reversals that keeps characters and readers guessing until the final pages. The resolution is well supported and natural, while simultaneously surprising.”
—Quill & Quire
“One Small Sacrifice is an intense page-turner with twists to the very end.”
—Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine (5 stars)
“Davidson’s latest novel is her best work yet. One Small Sacrifice is a fast-paced winner. Highly recommended.”
—Harlan Coben, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Run Away
“Davidson has crafted a tightly woven mystery. Each thread of the intricate plot draws you toward one surprising revelation after another.”
—Sandra Brown, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Tailspin
“Hilary Davidson’s One Small Sacrifice is both a heart-pounding procedural and a rich, mesmerizing tale of the weight of trauma and the elusive nature of memory. Twisty, absorbing, and deeply humane, it’s a thriller you won’t want to miss.”
—Megan Abbott, New York Times bestselling author of Give Me Your Hand
“Packed with secrets, lies, and surprises, One Small Sacrifice kept me guessing to the very end. A gritty kaleidoscope of a thriller.”
—Riley Sager, New York Times bestselling author of Final Girls
“A taut, compelling narrative with a nerve-tingling climax. Davidson turns clichés of the contemporary novel on their heads to create a wholly believable cast of characters. I hope we’ll see more of Detective Sheryn Sterling.”
—Sara Paretsky, New York Times bestselling author of Shell Game
“One Small Sacrifice is a terrific thriller with a big heart. A smart, compelling examination of guilt, blame, and responsibility that will keep you turning the pages. Hilary Davidson is a rising star of suspense.”
—Jeff Abbott, New York Times bestselling author of The Three Beths
“Hilary Davidson is one of the best crime writers on the planet. This novel is a dazzling work by a master operating at the height of her abilities. Dark, twisty, and psychologically complex, One Small Sacrifice kept me guessing and gasping until the final page. I couldn’t put it down, even though I didn’t want it to end.”
—Chris Holm, Anthony Award–winning author of The Killing Kind
“One Small Sacrifice hooked me hard. Hilary Davidson has written a riveting and beautifully layered thriller that satisfies on every level. The characters surprise, the plot twists, and the pages turn themselves.”
—Lou Berney, Edgar Award–winning author of November Road
“I tore through this book! Hilary Davidson is at the top of her game with this masterful and twisty new novel that’s jam-packed with suspense. Filled with wonderfully diverse characters, breakneck pacing, and surprises at every turn, this modern mystery will thrill even the most old-school crime fiction lovers. This book satisfied me on so many levels.”
—Jennifer Hillier, author of Jar of Hearts
OTHER TITLES BY HILARY DAVIDSON
Don’t Look Down
One Small Sacrifice
Blood Always Tells
The Black Widow Club
Evil in All Its Disguises
The Next One to Fall
The Damage Done
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2021 by Hilary Davidson
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542028691 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1542028698 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781542028707 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1542028701 (paperback)
Cover design by Faceout Studio, Lindy Martin
First edition
DEDICATION
For Eli, Zoë, and Sage
With love always
PART ONE
PART ONE
Everyone sees what you appear to be, few really know what you are.
—Niccolò Machiavelli
CHAPTER 1 DEIRDRE
CHAPTER 1
DEIRDRE
I didn’t know what to wear to the funeral. Any other day, I would’ve called my sister for advice, because Caro always knew the right way to do things. But she was dead, and I’d never hear her soft, husky voice again.
After pulling every piece of clothing I owned—all of it black—out of the tiny alcove I used as a closet, I put on a tunic that could pass for a dress. Then I added tights and a cardigan that hid the tattoos on my arms. My feet went into a pair of expensive, impractical heels that could only have been a gift from my sister. Climbing the stairs out of my basement apartment in Queens, I felt queasy. But it wasn’t until I took the subway into Manhattan and stood in front of the church that I felt like an imposter.
“Your name and invitation?” demanded a uniformed security guard.
“Deirdre Crawley. I’m Caroline Thraxton’s sister.”
The guard said something I didn’t catch because I was staring at the facade of the church, awash in déjà vu. Catholic churches with elaborate stone scenes of the Resurrection or Judgment Day were a dime a dozen. This one had the Crucifixion front and center, rendered with a grim intensity that hollowed out my chest.
“St. Vincent Ferrer,” I murmured. This was the church where my sister had gotten married four years earlier.
“What was the number on the back of your invitation?” the guard asked, clearly unsure whether he needed to be polite to me.
I blinked, trying to picture it. Some Thraxton minion had couriered the invitation over at six o’clock Monday evening. Remembering Caroline Anne Thraxton, it read, stark black type embossed on thick ivory stock. Please join us for a memorial service and luncheon. It had chilled me, the elegantly thorny black vines winding around her name, ready to choke it.
“It started with a seven.” There had been six digits on the back, but only one came to mind. I’d thrown the invitation onto my bookcase and hadn’t glanced at it again.
“You need that code,” the guard said. “You can’t get in without it.”
At that moment, a switch flipped in my brain. I’d barely slept the night before; the truth was I’d barely slept since my sister had died. I’d made it to the church on autopilot, aware of my own steps as a zombie. But this callous creep was the first obstacle I’d encountered, and all my grief suddenly spiraled into rage.
“My sister is dead, and you’re not keeping me out of her funeral.” My voice was razor edged.
As if sensing that I wanted to hit him, the guard pulled his head back sharply. I pushed past him and stormed up the steps.
Inside, white roses bloomed like a pox on the dark wood of every pew. Guests in couture laughed and gossiped. There were white ribbons and tulle wrapped around towering bouquets at the end of every aisle. The church looked exactly as it had at Caro’s wedding, and I felt as out of place as I had that day.
It would’ve made me cry if the guard hadn’t been breathing down my neck.
“She doesn’t have an invitation,” he said to whoever was listening. “She doesn’t belong here.”
I tried to walk away, but he grabbed my wrist. I took a deep breath. Caro, please forgive me for clocking a guy at your funeral.
“She’s aggressive. She shoved me out of the way,” the guard was whining as I turned, balling up my right fist.
“Did she really?” answered a sly voice. “Consider yourself fired.”
I unclenched my fist as if disposing of evidence. There was Juliet Thraxton, broad shouldered and big boned, in a curve-hugging black suit with a pair of diamond pins in one lapel. Her platinum-blonde hair was rolled up in a chignon and tucked under a feathered black hat with a short veil. It looked like a prop from an old movie, worn by a widow who’d paid some mope to shoot her husband.
Her plump scarlet mouth was still moving. “Do I look like I’m kidding?” she asked the guard. “I’m not. Get out.”
His face was bright red. “But she—”
“Pushed you out of the way. I heard you.” She flicked her hand at him as if he were a mosquito. “Thraxtons don’t employ losers. Go.”
He retreated, muttering furiously.
“Thanks,” I said cautiously. Caro always said firing people gave her sister-in-law, Juliet, a purpose in life.
“Trust you to liven up a funeral.” She gave me a thorough once-over and raised an eyebrow as if I’d failed to meet expectations again. Juliet was the queen of barbed quips, and for a moment I thought she was about to strike. Instead, she sighed. “You probably want to see Teddy,” she said. “He’s up front with his nanny.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s having a tough time. Poor kid.” She started to turn away. “Don’t go looking for trouble. It finds you without any help,” she added cryptically before gliding off.
I wasn’t sure if that was a dig about the guard she’d fired, or a reference to my father. I scanned the crowd but couldn’t spot him. He had to be lurking in the shadows with the other monsters. I felt conspicuous, parading up the center aisle of the church. People turned to glance at me, but I wasn’t important enough to speak to. My sister’s casket sat in front of the altar, but I wasn’t ready for that. Instead, I looked for my nephew. Teddy was wearing the world’s tiniest, sharpest black suit, complete with a white boutonniere. He stood on the pew to hug me.
“Auntie Dee,” Teddy sighed into my neck.
What could I say to a three-and-a-half-year-old whose mother had died suddenly? Everyone who knew Caroline was still reeling from the shock. If it was hard for me to comprehend, it had to be impossible for her son. I had no idea what his father had told him.
“You’re a tough guy, aren’t you?” Tough was the biggest compliment my family offered. Nice was fine, smart was good, but tough was what we aimed for.
“Yep,” he answered proudly.
Gloria Rivera, his nanny, got to her feet. She was anywhere between thirty and fifty—it was impossible to tell—petite and raven haired, her face round and her eyes brimming with sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Deirdre.”
“Thanks.” She was the only person in that church who’d said those words to me.
When Teddy finally let go, I drifted toward my sister’s casket, pulled along by some invisible cord. The upper portion was open, so you could see Caro’s perfect, unblemished face. My sister looked like nothing so much as Sleeping Beauty, golden blonde and rosy cheeked. I could almost imagine her sitting up suddenly, smiling as if this were all one big stunt to reunite our fractured family.
“I didn’t know I could miss anyone this much,” I whispered.
For a moment, in spite of the chattering crowd behind us, it felt like we were alone in that cavernous church. And then the spell was broken as a hand brandishing a gold claddagh ring touched down on the polished wood of the casket. I recognized my father before I saw his face. This was the moment I’d been dreading. My sister, in life, had run interference, keeping my father and me segregated in our respective corners on those rare occasions when we were forced into the same room—at Caro’s own wedding, our mother’s funeral, and Teddy’s christening.
We stared at each other for a moment. His blue eyes were hard and cold. The air around us was poisoned. Nothing had changed. He opened his mouth to speak, but I turned and stepped away before he had the chance.
The minor chords of the pipe organ underscored the ugliness of the moment. I stumbled back down the aisle. Was it my imagination, or were people staring? At the wedding, I’d heard someone say, Can you believe Theo married her? There’d been no end of comments about what a lucky girl my sister was. One bejeweled, bouffant-haired guest even said to Caro, You must feel like Cinderella. My impossibly elegant sister couldn’t come up with a better response than a shell-shocked smile. At her funeral, the mood wasn’t any different, even if the lucky girl was now lying in a casket.
I needed fresh air. There was a lump in my throat I couldn’t swallow. My mind tripped over what my mother would’ve thought of the scene. Her eldest daughter dead, her husband and younger daughter at daggers. My mother had always seemed sad when I was growing up—no matter what good thing was on the horizon, there was a dark shadow trailing behind it. If I was honest, she hadn’t been wrong.
As I exited the church, the guards shot me a curious glance, but the one who’d hassled me was gone. I clattered down the steps. It was a sunny day, for April. I stayed upwind of a forlorn clump of smokers. On the sidewalk stood a creep with a camera, and he pointed the lens at me. I turned away, pulling out my phone. I needed a distraction before I exploded.
That was the moment I first saw the email. You have a private message from Caroline Crawley.
My sister had been Caroline Thraxton since her wedding day. The sight of her birth name made the message seem like something out of time, a digital relic of a person who’d vanished four years ago.
When I clicked on it, the screen turned parchment yellow. Osiris’s Vault keeps all your data safe and secure, read the text at the top of the screen. Caroline Crawley wants you to read this letter.
There was an image of Osiris, the green-faced Egyptian god who was hacked to bits by his brother and reassembled by his sister. Mythology had been my thing as a kid, and I still loved it. Caro liked to tease me about the tattoo of an ankh—the Egyptian key of life—on my shoulder. Was this a sick joke? I scrolled down.
Written above a text box were the words Caroline’s message to you. I took a breath.
Deirdre,
I keep thinking of Mom, and how you never believe you’re going to end up like one of your parents, until you do.
If you’re reading this, I’m already dead. No matter what it looks like, my death won’t be an accident. Theo killed his first wife and got away with it. Bring him to justice, no matter what you have to do.
I love you, Dodo. Always.
Caro
CHAPTER 2 DEIRDRE
CHAPTER 2
DEIRDRE
The words on the screen bled and swirled together. I shut my eyes, unsure what trick was being played on me. But when I looked again, Caro’s message was still there. It was my head that was spinning.
“You’re Caroline’s sister, aren’t you?”
The woman speaking was about the same age as me, but she wore a pink suit that looked expensive and matronly. She was skinny and coiffed like a weather girl, and she wore so much shiny makeup that her face glittered like a disco ball as the sun peeped out behind a cloud.
“It’s Deirdre, right? Caroline’s death must be such a terrible shock to your family.” Her pink mouth moved fast.
“Yes.”
“I’m Abby Morel, from the Globe. I knew your sister.”
She oozed a sickly-sweet gardenia scent that made my dizziness intense. I wanted to get away from her but felt rooted in place. “Where from?”
“We used to freelance for some of the same outlets.”
I weighed the likelihood of that. Caro had been a journalist before she turned to the dark side—that was how she referred to publicity.
“I know Caroline’s death was a tragedy, but what do you think happened to your sister?”
“She had an undiagnosed heart condition,” I said, repeating what a cop had told me.
“That never came up in her life? Nothing about it when you were growing up?”
“That’s what undiagnosed means.”
“Could drugs have been involved?”
I was too shattered to lock horns with her. Instead, I dashed up the steps of the church and sank into a pew at the back. The temperature inside the church had somehow dropped ten degrees, and I wrapped my arms around myself for warmth.
I couldn’t see straight during the service. My brain shuffled back in time, replaying bits of conversation with my sister. I knew she wasn’t in a happy marriage—the way Caro skittered off the topic whenever I asked about Theo told me everything she wouldn’t say. But the idea her husband wanted her dead—and that he had killed before—seemed screwy. For a split second, I wondered if that shady reporter had a point—maybe Caro had popped a pill that delivered delusions? But that thought lasted for only a minute before guilt struck me with the force of a slap. I was ashamed of my disloyalty to my sister.
Theo didn’t kill her, I told myself. Caro had a condition no one knew about.
She’d been out running early in the morning when her heart failed. It could’ve happened to anyone, the cop had told me. Plenty of people didn’t know they had a condition.
No matter what it looks like, my death won’t be an accident.
That jolted me, and I gasped so loudly even the priest glared at me. He was going through the motions with the martyred expression of a man used to dealing with heathens. I sat mutely while Caro’s best friend, Jude Lazare, read a passage from the Book of Wisdom. “The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them. In the sight of the unwise they seemed to die: and their departure is taken for misery, and their going from us to be utter destruction. But they are in peace.”
I tried to dwell on that while Jude continued reading. Caro’s at peace, I told myself. The cop said she died quickly. She wouldn’t have felt pain.
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