The Disappearance of Stephanie Mailer: A gripping new thriller with a killer twist by Joël Dicker (ebook reader play store .txt) 📕

clear about this: if you fall down again, or if you are again arrested in possession of drugs, you won’t be treated with such leniency. Your case will be dealt with in a state court. That means that if you offend again, you’ll go straight to prison for several years.”

Carolina promised and threw herself into her parents’ arms. They went back to the Lake Palace. Carolina was exhausted and fell asleep as soon as she sat down on the couch in their suite. Eden drew Cynthia out onto the balcony to talk in peace.

“How about you stay with us? We could spend the time together, as a family.”

“You heard the judge, Jerry, it’s you and Carolina.”

“There’s nothing to stop you staying with us.”

Cynthia shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. We can’t spend the time together as a family. Right now I don’t have the feeling we are a family anymore. I . . . I don’t have the strength. I don’t have the energy. For years now, you let me handle everything. Oh, sure, you pay for it all, Jerry, and I’m truly grateful, don’t think I’m not. But when was the last time you did anything for this family, apart from the financial aspect? All these years you’ve left me alone to handle everything and make sure the family functions properly. All you did was go to work. And not once, Jerry, not once did you ask me how I was. How I was getting along. Not once, Jerry, did you ask me if I was happy. You assumed happiness, you assumed that in St Barts or in an apartment with a view of Central Park we must be happy. Not once, Jerry, did you ask me that fucking question.”

“Did you ever ask me if I was happy?” Jerry said. “This fucking work of mine, which you and Carolina hate so much—did you ever ask me if I hated it, too?”

“What stopped you from resigning?”

“The only reason I did all that, Cynthia, was to offer you a dream life. Which the two of you don’t seem to want, when it comes down to it.”

“Oh, really, Jerry? Are you going to tell me you preferred that little boarding house to our house by the ocean?”

“Maybe,” Eden said.

“I don’t believe you!”

Cynthia contemplated her husband in silence for a moment. Then she said in a choked voice:

“I need you to repair our family, Jerry. You heard the judge. Next time it’ll be prison for Carolina. How are you going to make sure there isn’t a next time, Jerry? How are you going to protect our daughter from herself and stop her ending up in jail?”

“Cynthia, I—”

She would not let him speak. “I’m going back to the city, Jerry. I’m leaving you here with the mission of repairing our daughter’s life. This is an ultimatum. Save Carolina. Save her, or I’m leaving you. I can’t live like this anymore.”

* * *

“Here it is, Jesse,” Derek said, pointing to the run-down gas station right at the end of Penfield Road.

I turned off, drove across the concrete forecourt and pulled up outside the lighted store. It was 11.15. There was nobody at the pumps, and the place seemed deserted.

Outside, the air was stifling in spite of the late hour. Inside, the air-conditioning made the atmosphere icy. We advanced along the aisles of magazines, drinks, and potato chips until we came to the counter, behind which, hidden by a display rack of chocolate bars, a white-haired man sat watching T.V. He greeted me without taking his eyes off the screen.

“Which pump?” he said.

“I’m not here for gas,” I said, showing him my badge.

He immediately switched off the T.V. and got to his feet. “What’s this about?”

“Are you Marty Connors?”

“Yes, that’s me. Why are you here?”

“We’re investigating the death of Mayor Gordon, Mr Connors.”

“Mayor Gordon? But that was years ago.”

“According to my information, you witnessed something that evening.”

“Yes, that’s right. I told the police about it at the time, and they told me it was nothing.”

“I need to know what you saw.”

“A black vehicle driving at high speed from Penfield Road and going straight ahead in the direction of Sutton Street. It drove right past here. I was at the pump, I just had time to see it go past.”

“Did you recognize the model?”

“Of course. A Ford E-150 van, with a strange design at the back.”

Derek and I looked at each other. Tennenbaum drove a Ford E-150 van.

“Did you see who was driving?” I asked.

“No, I didn’t. At the time I thought it was just kids playing around.”

“And what time was this exactly?”

“Around 7.00, but I can’t tell you the exact time. It might have been 7.00, it might have been 7.10. You know, it happened in a fraction of a second, and I didn’t really pay attention. It was only later, when I found out what had happened to the mayor and his family, that I thought there might be a connection. That’s when I contacted the police.”

“Who did you talk to? Do you remember the name of the officer?”

“Yes, of course, it was the chief himself who came to question me. Chief Hayward.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“The same thing I just told you. He said it was nothing to do with the case.”

Lena Bellamy had seen Tennenbaum’s van outside Mayor Gordon’s house in 1994. Now Marty Connors, who had spotted the same vehicle coming from Penfield Road, had confirmed that. Why had Hayward hidden it from us?

Leaving the store, we sat in the car for a while. Derek unfolded a map of the town and we studied the route the van had taken, according to Marty Connors.

“The van went down Sutton Street,” Derek said, moving his finger across the map, “and Sutton Street leads to the top of Main Street.”

“If you remember, on the opening night of the festival, Main Street was blocked off apart from a section at the top to allow vehicles with permission to get to the Grand Theater.”

“You mean like