Friday 18 August 2017

I Know Where She Is || Blog Tour

An explosive, gripping thriller for fans of Karin Slaughter, Linwood Barclay and Karen Dionne, don’t miss this heart-stopping debut. 

 On the tenth anniversary of her daughter Autumn's abduction, Francine receives an anonymous note containing just five words: I KNOW WHERE SHE IS

 When a young woman approaches her the next day claiming to have sent the letter Francine wants to dismiss it as a cruel, twisted joke.

 But the stranger knows things that only Autumn would know.

 It soon becomes clear that Francine must go to dark places in order to learn the truth about her child’s kidnapping.

 She will discover that danger comes from unexpected sources. She will do things she never imagined herself capable of.

 But will Francine get her daughter back – or is it too late


Light flooded the car as Will pulled into the parking lot. She opened the door to get out but saw that he was one step ahead, jogging over to her passenger side. She unlocked it for him and he got in, wiping his hands on his chinos.
‘How are you?’ he asked without looking at her. His words, unguarded by his keeper, were already noticeably lighter. He’d grown a neat beard and his hair was longer. He was wearing glasses too, but she suspected his vision was just fine. Perhaps he was going for a Steve Jobs look; probably one of Sheila’s bright ideas.
‘I’m fine. And you?’
‘Yes, busy. September is always a busy time of year for us.’
‘How’s Sheila?’
‘She’s fine,’ he answered quickly. ‘We’re both fine. So … what was it you wanted to talk about?’
Francine turned on the interior light and handed him the letter. He removed the piece of paper, read it, then glanced up at her. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Someone put that through my door tonight.’
‘I don’t know. They must’ve delivered it and left. It wasn’t there when I came home from work.’
He handed the letter back to her. ‘That’s it? That’s what you’ve called me out for?’
I know where she is. They’re talking about Autumn.’
‘It’s a prank.’ He shrugged. ‘I mean, I’m assuming there’s nothing more?’
‘No. It was just this letter. But it’s clearly about Autumn. What if the person who wrote this is telling the truth?’
He inhaled and released an exasperated breath. ‘Francine, you’re chasing shadows. Look at the writing. It’s like some four-year-old scribbled it. It’s nonsense.’
She’d anticipated this response. His role within their dynamic had always been that of resident sceptic. She was the one who sought the counsel of mediums and researched the alternative meditation techniques that might allow her to create a psychic link to Autumn. She would try anything, no matter how ridiculous it seemed or how crazy it made her appear for contemplating it. It had to be better than ignoring the whole thing, training your mind to forget that Autumn had ever existed in order to cope with the pain. That was the weak thing to do and a large brooding part of her hated him for it.
‘I haven’t had any pranks since I’ve lived in Morning House. Nobody’s tried to reach out to me about the case and my number isn’t listed. I don’t think this is a prank, Will. I know that sounds stupid and you think I’m just grasping at straws, but this could really be something. Don’t you think so?’
He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. ‘It’s going to be ten years in December. There might be things on the news, articles in the paper. I’m scheduled to appear on breakfast TV for a small segment about it myself. They’re going to have a reconstruction of what she might look like now.’
‘And you didn’t want to tell me this?’
‘It’s a five-minute thing,’ he said irritably. ‘I’m not exactly relishing the idea of seeing what our daughter might look like as a young woman, Francine, but if it brings anything up in the public eye, I’m willing to do it. I didn’t mention it to you because I knew it would be too much for you.’
She snorted. ‘Too much for me? What are you talking about? You don’t have any idea.’
‘Look, the whole point of the segment is to bring Autumn back into the minds of the public, to refresh their memories. If you go on there and have a breakdown on live TV then that’s all they’ll report about. They’ll forget Autumn, they’ll ignore what we’re trying to achieve.’
She leaned back into the seat and gripped the steering wheel to occupy her hands. ‘I’ve done all the crying I’m likely to do. I’m all dried out. But I want to be kept in the loop with these things, Will. I mean that. You don’t get to dictate what I can and can’t be involved in when it comes to our daughter. I don’t care what kind of media training you’ve had. Just don’t shut me out.’
‘Point taken. If anything comes up in the next couple of months, I’ll let you know. Now, is there anything else we need to go over?’
‘Well, I haven’t finished going over this,’ she said, holding the letter up. ‘You think it’s all bullshit, that’s fine. But shouldn’t we at least check it out? We could take it to the police station and have it tested for prints …’
‘Stop, stop, stop.’ He waved his hands. ‘Francine, just get a grip, will you. Listen to what you’re saying. You want to take a piece of paper to the police station to dust it for prints? This is madness.’
‘But what if, Will?’
He shook his head. ‘May I?’ He held out his hand. She passed him the letter again. ‘Let’s assume this is from someone who knows where Autumn is. Let’s just put aside the fact that they’ve taken almost ten years to get in contact. And let us also assume that the purpose of sending you this message was to help you find her. Am I thinking along the same lines as you so far?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ she replied stubbornly.
‘You’re right. It’s highly improbable, of course, but it is a possibility. So this person wants you to know that they know where Autumn is after all these years,’ he pinched the envelope at the corners and held it up like an exhibit of evidence, ‘yet they leave no way for you to contact them. Of course, they could’ve just tried knocking on the door, but why go to the trouble? So the envelope,: there’s no phone number, no email address and no stamp. It makes you wonder why they bothered getting an envelope at all, doesn’t it? And then we have the handwriting. I’m obviously no forensic expert, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that whoever wrote this was either a child or mentally … impaired. I’m guessing a child, who probably giggled the whole time they wrote this crap. Or maybe they used their left hand to disguise the handwriting. In any case, it’s stupid, Francine. You’re projecting something on to it that isn’t there.’
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