On Sale Date: June 9, 2020
9780778309819, 0778309819
Trade Paperback
$17.99 USD, $22.99 CAD
Fiction / Thrillers / Psychological
352 pages
When Charlotte married the wealthy widower Paul, it caused a
ripple of gossip in their small lakeside town. They have a charmed life
together, despite the cruel whispers about her humble past and his first
marriage. But everything starts to unravel when she discovers a young woman’s
body floating in the exact same spot where Paul’s first wife tragically
drowned.
At first, it seems like a horrific coincidence, but the stranger in the lake is no stranger. Charlotte saw Paul talking to her the day before, even though Paul tells the police he’s never met the woman. His lie exposes cracks in their fragile new marriage, cracks Charlotte is determined to keep from breaking them in two.
As Charlotte uncovers dark mysteries about the man she married, she doesn’t know what to trust—her heart, which knows Paul to be a good man, or her growing suspicion that there’s something he’s hiding in the water.
At first, it seems like a horrific coincidence, but the stranger in the lake is no stranger. Charlotte saw Paul talking to her the day before, even though Paul tells the police he’s never met the woman. His lie exposes cracks in their fragile new marriage, cracks Charlotte is determined to keep from breaking them in two.
As Charlotte uncovers dark mysteries about the man she married, she doesn’t know what to trust—her heart, which knows Paul to be a good man, or her growing suspicion that there’s something he’s hiding in the water.
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The town of Lake Crosby isn’t much, just three square blocks
and some change, but it’s the only town in the southern Appalachians perched at
the edge of the water, which makes it a popular tourist spot. Paul’s office is
at the far end of the first block, tucked between a fudge shop and Stuart’s
Craft Cocktails, which, as far as I can tell, is just another way to say
“pretentious bar.” Most of the businesses here are pretentious, farm-to-table
restaurants and specialty boutiques selling all things overpriced and
unnecessary.
For people like Paul, town is a place to socialize and make
money—in his case, by selling custom house designs for the million-dollar lots
that sit high on the hills or line the lakeshores. My old friends serve his
drinks and wait his tables—but only the lucky ones. There are ten times more
locals than there are jobs.
The covered terrace for the cocktail lounge is quiet, a
result of the off-season and the incoming weather, the sign on the door still
flipped to Closed. I’m passing the empty hostess stand when I notice movement
at the very back, a tattered shadow peeling away from the wall. Jax—the town
loon, the crazy old man who lives in the woods. Most people turn away from him,
either out of pity or fear, but not me. For some reason I can’t put into words,
I’ve never been afraid to look him straight on.
He takes a couple of halting steps, like he doesn’t want to
be seen—and he probably doesn’t. Jax is like a deer you come up on in a meadow,
one blink and he’s gone. But this time he doesn’t run.
His gaze flicks around, searching the street behind me.
“Where’s Paul.” A statement, not a question.
Slowly, so not to spook him, I point to the sleek double
doors on the next building, golden light spilling out the windows of Keller
Architecture. “Did you check inside?”
Jax shakes his head. “I need to talk to him. It’s important.”
Like every time he emerges from out of the woods, curiosity
bubbles in my chest. Once upon a time, Jax had everything going for him. High
school prom king and star quarterback, the golden boy with a golden future, and
one of Paul’s two best friends. Their picture still sits atop his desk in the
study, Paul and Jax and Micah, all tanned chests and straightened smiles, three
teenage boys with the world at their feet.
Now he’s Batty Jax, the raggedy, bearded boogeyman parents
use as a warning. Do your homework, stay out of trouble, and don’t end up like
Jax.
He clings to the murky back of the terrace, sticking to the
shaded spots where it’s too dark for me to make out much more than a halo of
matted hair, the jutting edges of an oversized jacket, long, lean thighs. His
face is dark, too, the combination of a life outdoors and dirt.
“Do you want me to give Paul a message? Or if you stay right
there, I can send him out. I know he’ll want to see you.”
Actually, I don’t know; I only assume. Jax is the source of
a slew of rumors and petty gossip, but for Paul, he’s a painful subject, one he
doesn’t like to talk about. As far as I know, the two haven’t spoken since high
school graduation—not an easy thing to do in a town where everybody knows
everybody.
Jax glances up the street, in the direction of far-off
voices floating on the icy wind. I don’t follow his gaze, but I can tell from
the way his body turns skittish that someone is coming this way, moving closer.
“Do you need anything? Some money, maybe?”
Good thing those people aren’t within earshot, because they
would laugh at the absurdity of the trailer-park girl turned married-up wifey
offering the son of an insurance tycoon some cash. Not that Jax’s father didn’t
disown him ages ago or that I have more than a couple of bucks in my pocket,
but still.
Jax shakes his head again. “Tell Paul I need to talk to him.
Tell him to hurry.”
Before I can ask what for, he’s off, planting a palm on the
railing and springing over in one easy leap, his body light as a pole vaulter.
He hits the cement and takes off up the alley. I dash forward until I’m flush
with the railing, peering down the long passage between Paul’s building and the
cocktail lounge, but it’s empty. Jax is already gone.
I push through the doors of Keller Architecture, an open
space with cleared desks and darkened computer screens. The whiteboard on the
back wall has already been wiped clean, too, one of the many tasks Paul
requires his staff to do daily. It’s nearing five, and other than his lead
designer, Gwen, hunched over a drawing at her drafting table, the office is
empty.
She nods at my desk. “Perfect timing. I just finished the
Curtis Cottage drawings.”
Calling a seven-thousand-square-foot house a “cottage” is
ridiculous, as are whatever reasons Tom Curtis and his wife, a couple well into
their seventies, gave Paul for wanting six bedrooms and two kitchens in what is
essentially a weekend home. But the Curtises are typical Keller Architecture
clients—privileged, demanding and more than a little entitled. They like Paul
because he’s one of them. Having a desk is probably ridiculous, too, since I
only work twenty hours a week, and for most of them I’m anywhere but here. My
role is client relations, which consists mainly of hauling my ass to wherever
the clients are so I can put out fires and talk them off the latest ledge. The
job and the desk are one of the many perks of being married to a Keller.
“Thanks.” I tuck the Curtis designs under an arm and move
toward the hallway to my left, a sleek tunnel of wood and steel that ends in
Paul’s glass-walled office. “I’m here to pick up Paul. There’s something wrong
with his car.”
When he called earlier to tell me his car was dead in the lot,
I thought he was joking. Engine trouble is what happens to my ancient Civic,
not Paul’s fancy Range Rover, a brand-new supercharged machine with a dashboard
that belongs in a cockpit. More money than sense, my mother would say
about Paul if she were here, and now, I guess, about me.
Gwen leans back in her chair, wagging a mechanical pencil
between two slim fingers. “Yeah, the dealer is sending a tow truck and a
replacement car, but they just called to say they’re delayed. He said he had a
couple of errands to run.”
I frown. “Who, the tow truck driver?”
“No, Paul.” She swivels in her chair, reaching across the
desk behind her for a straightedge. “He should be back any sec.”
I thank her and head for the door.
On the sidewalk, I fire off a quick text to Paul. I’m here,
where are you?
I wait for a reply that doesn’t come. The screen goes dark,
then black. I slip the phone into my jacket pocket and start walking.
In a town like Lake Crosby, there are only so many places
Paul could be. The market, the pharmacy, the shop where he buys his ties and
socks. I pop into all of them, but no one’s seen him since this morning. Back
on the sidewalk, I pull out my phone and give him a call. It rings once, then
shoots me to voice mail. I hit End and look up and down the mostly deserted
street.
“Hey, Charlie,” somebody calls from across the road, two
single lanes separated by a parking strip, and I whirl around, spotting Wade’s
familiar face over the cars and SUVs. One of my brother’s former classmates, a
known troublemaker who dropped out sophomore year because he was too busy
cooking meth and raising hell. He leans against the ivory siding of the
bed-and-breakfast, holding what I sincerely hope is a hand-rolled cigarette.
“It’s Charlotte,” I say, but I don’t know why I bother.
On my sixteenth birthday, I plunked down more than a hundred
hard-earned dollars at the courthouse to change my name. But no matter how many
times I correct the people who knew me back when—people who populate the
trailer parks and shacks along the mountain range, people like Wade and me—no
matter how many times I tell them I’m not that person anymore, to them I’ll
always be Charlie.
He flicks the cigarette butt into the gutter and tilts his
head up the street. “I just saw your old man coming out of the coffee shop.”
Emphasis on the old man. “If you hurry, you can probably catch him.”
I mumble a thanks, then head in that direction.
Just past the market, I spot Paul at the far end of a side
street, a paper cup clutched in his hand. He’s wearing the clothes I watched
him pull on this morning—a North Face fleece, a navy cashmere sweater, dark
jeans, leather lace-up boots, but no coat. No hat or scarf or gloves. Paul
always dresses like this, without a second thought as to the elements. That
fleece might be fine for the quick jogs from the house to his car to the office
door, but with the wind skimming up the lake, he must be freezing.
The woman he’s talking to is more properly dressed. Boots
and a black wool coat, the big buttons fastened all the way to a neck cloaked
in a double-wrapped scarf. A knitted hat is pulled low over her ears and hair,
leaving only a slice of her face—from this angle, her profile—exposed.
“There you are,” I say, and they both turn.
A short but awkward silence. If I didn’t know better, I’d
think he looks surprised to see me.
“Charlotte, hi. I was just…” He glances at the woman, then
back to me. “What are you doing here?”
“You asked me to pick you up. Didn’t you get my text?”
With his free hand, he wriggles his cell from his pocket and
checks the screen. “Oh. Sorry, I must have had it on Silent. I was on my way
back to the office, but then I got to talking and…well, you know how that
goes.” He gives me a sheepish smile. It’s a known fact that Paul is a talker,
and like in most small towns, there’s always someone to talk to.
But I don’t know this woman.
I take in her milky skin and sky blue eyes, the light
smattering of freckles across her nose and high cheekbones, and I’m positive
I’ve never seen her before. She’s the kind of pretty a person would remember,
almost beautiful even, though she’s nothing like his type. Paul likes his women
curvy and exotic, with dark hair and ambiguous coloring. This woman is bony,
her skin so pale it’s almost translucent.
I step closer, holding up my hand in a wave. “Hi, I’m
Charlotte Keller. Paul’s wife.”
The woman gives me a polite smile, but her gaze flits to
Paul. She murmurs something, and I’m pretty sure it’s “Keller.”
The hairs soldier on the back of my neck, even though I’ve
never been the jealous type. It’s always seemed like such a waste of energy to
me, being possessive and suspicious of a man who claims to love you. Either you
believe him or you don’t—or so I’ve always thought. Paul tells me he loves me
all the time, and I believe him.
But this woman wouldn’t be the first around these parts to
try to snag herself a Keller.
“Are you ready?” I say, looking at Paul. “Because I came in
the boat, and we need to get home before this weather blows in.”
The talk of rain does the trick, and Paul snaps out of
whatever I walked into here. He gives me that smile he saves only for me, and a
rush of something warm hits me hard, right behind the knees.
People who say Paul and I are wrong together don’t get that
we’ve been waiting for each other all our lives. His first wife’s death, my
convict father and meth-head mother, they broke us for a reason, so all these
years later our jagged edges would fit together perfectly, like two pieces of
the same fractured puzzle. The first time Paul took my hand, the world
just…started making sense.
And now there’s a baby, a perfect little piece of Paul and
me, an accidental miracle that somehow busted through the birth control. Maybe
it’s not a fluke but a sign, the universe’s way of telling me something good is
coming. A new life. A new chance to get things right.
All of a sudden and out of nowhere I feel it, this burning
in my chest, an overwhelming, desperate fire for this baby that’s taken root in
my belly. I want it to grow and kick and thrive. I want it with everything
inside me.
“Let’s go home.” Without so much as a backward glance at the
woman, Paul takes my hand and leads me to the boat.
Excerpted from Stranger in the Lake by Kimberly
Belle, Copyright © 2020 by Kimberle S. Belle Books, LLC. Published by Park Row
Books.
About the Author:
Kimberly Belle is the USA Today and internationally
bestselling author of six novels, including the forthcoming Stranger in the
Lake (June 2020). Her third novel, The Marriage Lie, was a
semifinalist in the 2017 Goodreads Choice Awards for Best Mystery &
Thriller, and a #1 e-book bestseller in the UK and Italy. She’s sold rights to
her books in a dozen languages as well as film and television options. A
graduate of Agnes Scott College, Belle divides her time between Atlanta and
Amsterdam.
Social Links:
Author website: https://www.kimberlybellebooks.com/
Facebook: @KimberlyBelleBooks
Twitter: @KimberlySBelle
Instagram: @kimberlysbelle
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/kimberlybelle
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