Cover

Praise for The Request

“Fast-paced and thrilling, with twists at every turn, The Request kept me guessing until its satisfying conclusion.”

—Catherine McKenzie, author of I’ll Never Tell

“David Bell more than delivers on the shocking premise of The Request, which is a gripping exploration of guilt, loyalty, and desperation. [It] combines complex characters, social commentary, and expertly meted-out plot twists that will keep readers guessing—and gasping—until the final page. Bell is a master.”

—Robyn Harding, international bestselling author of The Party

More praise for the work of David Bell

“[Bell is] a bang-up storyteller, armed with enough detours and surprises to keep the pages turning.”

—The Cleveland Plain Dealer

“David Bell is a definite natural storyteller and a first-class writer.”

—Suspense Magazine

“Filled with twists and turns. . . . Bell is a master of suspense with well-fleshed-out characters.”

—Midwest Book Review

“[A] twisty, realistic thriller. . . . [Bell] is a skilled storyteller.”

—Houston Chronicle

“A tale straight out of the psychological thriller territory blazed by the likes of Harlan Coben and Lisa Gardner.”

—The Providence Journal

ALSO BY DAVID BELL

Cemetery Girl

The Hiding Place

Never Come Back

The Forgotten Girl

Somebody I Used to Know

Since She Went Away

Bring Her Home

Somebody’s Daughter

Layover

Dedication

For Molly

PROLOGUE

Of all the things I never thought I’d say about my life, there is this—I have a blackmailer.

The blackmail started for a simple reason—I was guilty.

And over the years the guilt has taken a strong hold of me. Like a giant iron fist.

I used to do things differently. Before the blackmailing started.

I used to hand over the money voluntarily. And on my own schedule. I would head to my bank branch and withdraw a couple hundred dollars from the savings account Amanda and I share. Once, after I received a one-thousand-dollar bonus at the PR firm where I worked, I handed the entire amount over. I always placed the crisp stack of cash in a manila envelope. I wrapped the envelope with tape, making sure it was secure and tight, and I drove thirty minutes away from my home and arrived in another town, where I traced the familiar path to a modest two-story house in an old subdivision.

Sometimes I arrived before daylight, telling Amanda I had an early meeting in my office. Other times I rolled up to the house late at night, headlights off, radio silent, claiming a social obligation from work or having made some other plausible excuse.

In those days, before everything else happened, Amanda never questioned me. She believed what I told her.

I always found the house dark, the porch light extinguished. I quickly pulled open the mailbox that sat at the end of the driveway, felt the coolness of the morning or night air against my face, slipped the envelope inside, closed the mailbox tight, and drove off. I’d mastered the smooth transaction, accomplishing my task in mere seconds.