The Spires Read online

  PRAISE FOR KATE MORETTI

  The Vanishing Year

  “A woman’s perilous past and her affluent present converge in Kate Moretti’s latest jaw-dropping thriller. Replete with unsavory characters, buried secrets, and a bounty of unexpected twists and turns, The Vanishing Year is a stunner. A perfectly compulsive read that’s impossible to put down.”

  —Mary Kubica, New York Times bestselling author of Don’t You Cry

  “The Vanishing Year is a chilling, powerful tale of nerve-shattering suspense. Kate Moretti pieces together a stunning, up-all-night thriller with a throat-gripping twist that will leave the reader reeling.”

  —Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author of Missing Pieces

  “Great pacing and true surprises make this an exciting read. Fans of twisted thrillers featuring complex female characters will devour Moretti’s latest.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “Moretti maintains a fast pace . . . chillingly satisfying.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Fans of S. J. Watson, Lisa Unger, and Sophie Hannah will enjoy this fast-paced psychological suspense novel.”

  —Booklist

  “The Vanishing Year is dark, twisty, edge-of-your-seat suspense. I read it in a single sitting and enjoyed every word. I highly recommend it!”

  —Karen Robards, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Time I Saw Her

  “The tantalizing plot twists layered atop the juxtaposition of the protagonist’s troubled past and the opulence of her current life not only are intriguing but will keep you reading The Vanishing Year far into the night. Well done, Ms. Moretti, well done!”

  —Lesley Kagen, New York Times bestselling author of Whistling in the Dark and The Resurrection of Tess Blessing

  “The Vanishing Year is more than an engaging tale of utter betrayal. It’s an intricate dance of realities, full of twists and turns you won’t see coming. Kate Moretti has outdone herself. You’ll miss your bedtime, guaranteed.”

  —J. T. Ellison, New York Times bestselling author of No One Knows

  The Blackbird Season

  “Crime fiction adores girls in trouble. Moretti’s latest nail-biter is no exception, but it is exceptional . . . Though Moretti’s emotionally astute tale can be heartrending, readers won’t be able to look away. As slow, creeping dread sets in, so does the inevitability of the terrible situation the town finds itself in, offering a deliciously sinister glimpse into the duplicity of small-town lives and the ease with which people turn on each other when tragedy comes calling. Moretti’s tale of jealousy and obsession is nothing less than dark magic. Witchery indeed.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “A powerful story about a missing girl and an accused suspect that takes a haunting look into the characters and relationships you think you know. The Blackbird Season explores the fine line between guilt and innocence, truth and perception, the moments that break people apart—and those that bring them together. Riveting and insightful, this is a book that lingers long after you turn the final page.”

  —Megan Miranda, New York Times bestselling author of All the Missing Girls

  “This cautionary tale keeps the reader guessing to the end.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The tale’s suspenseful core should catch and hold most readers, especially Gone Girl fans.”

  —Booklist

  “Kate Moretti’s insightful, starkly human mystery about a girl they call ‘witch’ has that sit-down, gotta-cry eloquence readers long for. Mean-girl alliances and small-town loyalties collapse in unison on the day the blackbirds fall. This story will hold you tight to its pages well past your bedtime. The Blackbird Season is Moretti’s best yet.”

  —Lisa Turner, Edgar Award–finalist and author of The Gone Dead Train and Devil Sent the Rain

  “The Blackbird Season pulls off a very difficult thing: it’s nail biting and thought provoking all at once. It’s rare that a book can make you turn pages like your life depends on it but also give you food for thought because the characters are so perfectly drawn. A stunning achievement from an extremely talented writer.”

  —Gilly Macmillan, New York Times bestselling author of What She Knew

  “Moretti spins a tale of suspicion, deceit, and dreams that die as suddenly as a flock of starlings falling from the sky. A thrilling morality tale of the highest order, The Blackbird Season will make you question the lines between right and wrong, victim and criminal, and the unknowable intentions that form our innocence and guilt.”

  —Mindy Mejia, author of Everything You Want Me to Be

  “A skillful blend of family drama and domestic suspense . . . it kept me turning the pages and was resolved to my satisfaction at the end. Highly recommended.”

  —Eileen Goudge, New York Times bestselling author of Garden of Lies

  “Moretti begins The Blackbird Season with a sinister premise—a cloud of birds falls from the sky on the same day a teenage girl people call ‘the witch’ goes missing. A spellbinding tale of long-held secrets and small-town scandal, The Blackbird Season is one of those stories that sneaks up on you, each chapter building steadily to an ending that will haunt you long after you turn the last page.”

  —Kimberly Belle, bestselling author of The Marriage Lie

  In Her Bones

  “Morbid . . . Moretti pulls some tricky tricks when she sends Edie on the run, where she slips in and out of some neat disguises and suffers just enough to satisfy the most judgmental reader.”

  —New York Times book review

  “Heightened language takes In Her Bones to a higher level than the standard thriller. Readers will enjoy this book for the suspense and plot twists but love it for the skill and mastery Moretti has for her craft.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  “Captivating . . . Fans of twisty psychological thrillers will find plenty to like.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Kate Moretti is incredibly talented! In Her Bones is at once chilling and compelling, frightening and insightful—and truly, madly, deeply satisfying. You’ll gasp at every twist, and you’ll turn these hauntingly sinister pages as fast as you can.”

  —Hank Phillippi Ryan, nationally bestselling author of Trust Me

  “Kate Moretti’s In Her Bones is a suspenseful, whirling spiral of mysteries within mysteries, plot twists you won’t see coming, and characters linked by deadly fates that stretch across the years. Moretti’s prose is crisp and masterful, her people rich and real. Don’t miss this haunting, wild thrill ride.”

  —David Bell, author of Somebody’s Daughter

  “Reading In Her Bones is like watching a true-crime documentary . . . And you seriously won’t be able to put it down.”

  —HelloGiggles

  “A masterfully crafted, multilayered novel . . . Kate Moretti manages to cover all the angles, making the story deep and dynamic . . . In Her Bones is complex, honest, and heartbreaking. It is much more than merely a mystery and is well worth reading.”

  —Bookreporter

  “Sensational—a stunning psychological thriller that kept me riveted from the first page to the last. A dark and compelling exploration of what it’s like to grow up with someone who just may be the worst mother in the world, Moretti’s chilling and insightful novel answers the question: If your mother is a serial killer and you’re obsessed with her victims, what does that make you?”

  —Karen Dionne, internationally bestselling author of The Marsh King’s Daughter

  “Suspense at its best: a chilling voice, an unlikely heroine, a haunting story. In Her Bones is Kate Moretti at the top of her game.”

  —Jessica Strawser, author of Not That I Could Tell

  “We
dived headfirst into In Her Bones, its riveting twists and turns keeping us up well past our bedtime. Moretti has meticulously crafted this gripping mystery, which begs the question: Is it possible to escape our own fate? Another stellar contribution to the suspense genre.”

  —Liz Fenton and Lisa Steinke, authors of The Good Widow

  OTHER TITLES BY KATE MORETTI

  The Girls of Brackenhill

  Thought I Knew You

  Binds That Tie

  While You Were Gone (a Thought I Knew You novella)

  The Vanishing Year

  The Blackbird Season

  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.

  Text copyright © 2021 by Kate Moretti

  All rights reserved.

  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

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542021715

  ISBN-10: 1542021715

  Cover design by Christopher Lin

  To Sarah and BethAnn: We shared the “pinnacle of our lives,” had our own language, fought and laughed and cried and drank and still never managed to burn the whole place down. Also, I finally worked in the calendar thing, you fatalistic little weirdo.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  The handwritten letter came in the summer, the dead heat of July (or maybe August—hard to remember after working to put it out of her mind), and made her head spin when she read it. It arrived in a postmarked plain white envelope without a return address. Is this a joke? Penelope had thought.

  Darling Pip, Coming up on twenty years, dear girl. I miss you like crazy. I miss all of you. I hear they’re finally tearing the old place down. What would you say to a Spires reunion? Get the band back together? Clear the air, bury all the hatchets. Could give us all some closure (you were always big on that). I’ll be in touch soon, think about it. Think about me. Ha, I knew you’d like that. Love you madly, Jack.

  Right after she’d read it, she’d run to the bathroom and vomited. Then she buried it in her sock drawer and tried very hard to forget it had ever existed.

  She very nearly had.

  CHAPTER TWO

  February 12, 2020

  “Pip.”

  It was a single syllable, formed by lips painted red and stretched across a too-white smile. Penelope noticed her teeth first: the snaggletooth canine straightened, the sheen bright and unnatural. Then, faint creases in her skin, around her mouth and eyes, caked with makeup. The raised topography of her cheek, the furious pink scar screaming from her left ear to the sharp angle of her chin (this was also new; the Willa she knew had a gentle swell, a pad of fat under each cheek, the wholesome grin of a cheerleader). Then the bright blue of Willa’s eyes, framed by spidery fake eyelashes, familiar and blinking. Happy to see her old friend Pip.

  Penelope’s knees buckled underneath her. Almost gave entirely away, and she gripped the doorjamb and, despite being a long-lapsed Catholic, mentally crossed herself in thanks that Brett was still at yoga, and Linc, their son, was at a friend’s house, and Tara, their daughter, was at school late (for what, she couldn’t remember). It was a miracle Penelope was home at all, seeing how it was barely four thirty on a Wednesday.

  No one had called her Pip in twenty years.

  The nickname had come about in a deliberate way, unlike most nicknames that were bestowed accidentally, haphazardly. They’d been sitting around the common room, Jack on Bree’s beanbag, a joint pinched between his fingertips, the smoke sweetly curling. They all had short, perfunctory names: Bree, Jack, Flynn, Willa (sometimes just Will). Penelope had always been Penelope, a mouthful as a child, stiff and too proper for a college student. Too much to say when your tongue was thick with vodka and weed. Jack had a laptop—gray, space-age looking and clunky, and he’d googled “nicknames for Penelope,” and the fledgling internet had churned out Pippa. Long before the Middletons made the name household common, Penelope was anointed Pippa, and they had all screamed with laughter. A dog’s name, Bree had protested half-heartedly, which only made things worse, thereby cementing it as fact. Penelope, with her white oxford shirts and sensible flats, was as far from a Pip as possible, and she’d spent the whole year pretending to be annoyed by it, hating how everyone orbited around Jack and even hating herself a little when she felt her head dip coyly, her cheeks warm, and her mouth betray her in a smile when he said Pip singsong from the common room, always beckoning to all of them the way mermaids sang to sailors.

  And now, here was a reminder of her old self back on her doorstep. Pip. A single word, uttered and dropped in front of her like a steaming pile of dog shit in a bag left on her porch in an adolescent joke. She swallowed back the sick in her throat, felt the sharp twitch of a muscle in her bicep, her fingertips curled that tightly against the wood. If she had asked Brett, her husband of eighteen years (let’s not even get into the timeline, how quickly she had married after the fire), or her children who Pip was, they would have laughed and said, Who?

  It felt like an eternity before she said, “Willa.”

  “I had nowhere else to go. I’m . . . sorry to drop in on you like this.” Her voice had retained its youthfulness, soft and high, a slight southern twang betraying her Louisiana roots. She had shoots of gray at her temples now, blended expertly in with the blonde.

  Penelope stood dumbfounded longer than was considered polite, her mind unable to remember basic manners, human decency. She studied her old friend-turned-stranger for signs of recognition, her memory handing her snapshots of a younger girl, fresh and too happy, too eager to please, a yes, ma’am slipping out when she got too drunk, her eyelids drooping shut, and Jack carrying her up to bed.

  There was only a small trace of this girl in the woman before her. Then, instantly, this new version of Willa and the Willa in her memories snapped together to form a singular person.

  An expensive black sweater, no coat, even thoug
h it was February. Dark fitted jeans tucked into black boots. A heavy gold chain around her neck.

  And then: faint blue imprints, round like marbles, underneath foundation a shade too dark, dotted along her collarbone.

  Penelope knew, instantly, how Willa came to be standing here. Some women, she thought ungenerously, gravitated toward a certain kind of man, seeking protection, and only realized later, when it was too late, when they’d already let themselves become property. Willa, with her easy smile, her puppy dog geniality, her long-gone father and alcoholic mother, aching to fill a hole, would have accepted a love like that in a way Penelope would never have.

  Only then did Penelope step aside, hold the door open, and let her old friend in, a faint smell of woodsmoke trailing behind her. That might have been Penelope’s imagination, and she fought back an intense nausea. She thought of it then: that creased letter hidden in her sock drawer. Why was it always twenty years later when the past came back? What was so special about that number—just enough time to make a full grown-up kind of life? To feel, with certainty, the moment your old decisions crept back.

  Willa stood in the hall—gazing up at the chandelier (it hadn’t been dusted in probably years, and stupidly, Penelope searched for something to say to distract her)—Willa’s eyes then flicking to the expansive staircase, the formal sitting room to the right that they never used, the sofa as plump and firm as the day it was delivered, and finally settling on Penelope’s face, the understanding dawning between the women as to why Willa had to come here, and only here. What happened to the others? Penelope had spent two whole decades avoiding the answer to this question. She’d always assumed they’d all kept in touch. At least, at first, they did try to reach out to her. After the fire.

  Which was why it made a cosmic sort of sense: why Penelope’s house was the perfect place to hide out (later Willa would plead only for a few days, I promise) and why no one would ever find her. Penelope had deliberately cut herself off from them.

  No one in Willa’s life had ever heard of Penelope Ritter Cox. Penelope would have given anything to have it stay that way.

  CHAPTER THREE