Daddy Soda (A New Hampshire Mystery Book 1) Read online

  DADDY SODA

  Mira Gibson

  ALSO BY MIRA GIBSON:

  The New Hampshire Mysteries

  DADDY SODA

  ROCK SPIDER

  TAR HEART

  The Kensington Killers

  COLD DARK FEAR (Prequel to The Kensington Killers Series)

  LUNATIC

  CRANK

  MANIAC

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  More Books by Mira Gibson

  Author Biography

  Teaser Chapter from Rock Spider (A New Hampshire Mystery)

  Prologue

  Spinning tires kicking up dust in a cloud that stung her eyes was the last thing Candice saw before the van, engine growling, tore down the dirt path and disappeared into the dark forest. The slam of the van’s door was still ringing in her ears, competing with her own sobs, her gasps for air, the incredible quaking panic that roiled through her, distracting her from the sting of dirt embedded in her kneecaps, her palms, every part of her that had landed hard against the earth.

  Dust settled in her watery eyes and the more she blinked the harder it was to see. She made an honest effort to spit dirt from her mouth, but when she straightened up, got to her feet, her mouth was sandpaper.

  She heard crickets, late in the year for them to be singing out here, though with the lake not far all kinds of creatures refused to die, burrowing in its warm mud, clinging to a summer long since past.

  The pounding in her chest quieted, but her breathing was still apparent. She turned for the trail, started down it, one shoe coming off at the heel, the other nowhere to be found. That’s how hard she’d fought to keep her mother from getting yanked into the back of that van.

  A crisp gust of wind blew at her sideways, causing her hair - long, stringy strands, to stick to her cheek damp with tears and sweat and sheer panic that had seeped out of her. As the wind died down, rattling the dead leaves that clung to branches overhead, a low growl emanated in the distance and gradually grew stronger.

  The van had turned around.

  No headlights. They were too smart for that. Tires crunched over gravel, twigs, as the invisible vehicle crept through trees and shadows towards Candice. She scanned for it, heart punching out of her chest worse than before, but it had yet to lunge into view.

  Maybe her mother had fought them. Maybe she’d seized the van, wanted to find her baby, put Candice in her room, tuck her in, and that's why the van was returning.

  But in her gut, she knew that wasn’t the case.

  With a jolt, she dug deep and started running along the trail. To her left, the trees were thin, the dirt path just beyond them. They’d see her as soon as they pulled along side, but if she veered right the ground would be soggy with lake water. She wouldn’t be able to keep her footing, pound on, escape. She had no choice but to keep on along this thin strip of forest.

  She pumped her arms. The brush at her feet threatened to trip her with every stride, but she tore through as fast as her legs would carry her. As whip-thin branches smacked her, stinging her cheeks, arms, stomach, she had a flashing memory of track practice. Keep on the balls of your feet, she heard her coach say, keep your arms tight and your gaze locked ahead.

  But ahead was a sea of darkness, kissed by a razor's edge of moonlight. Every stride was a guess at best.

  The engine roar surged up beside her. The van swerved into the forest, bucking in front of her then veering back when a tree stood in its way. She shrieked when it surged at her again. The trees were thickening, slowing her pace. Her legs were rubber, turning stiff and weak at once. She stumbled, heaved for air when the van cut a hard left back onto the path. If it had gotten ahead of her, Candice would’ve doubled back, but they hadn’t been so eager as to make a mistake.

  Suddenly her socks sunk into muck. Had she lost her other shoe? This was where the lake met the dirt path. She recognized it. She had no choice but to cross over, risk full exposure or fall into the lake's murky depths.

  She didn’t so much run to the path as spill across it, shoulder stinging as she slid over dirt, her hair catching against the gravel, pulling at her scalp. The van screeched to a skidding halt, as she rolled, the momentum of her hard landing unrelenting. When she finally stopped, legs splayed and an arm hooked over her eyes, she heard the van door click open.

  Boots hit earth sending her heart up her throat. The sound of a jacket faintly brushing over the steering wheel told her she might have time, but in the same breath the headlights blared over her. If she was being hunted, the game was now even less in her favor.

  She knew she had to keep fighting, keep running. Playing possum would get her taken just like her mom, but when her gaze locked onto her right hand and she saw blood Candice turned petrified.

  Get up, she ordered herself, keep fighting.

  Soon the sight of it was a terrible motivator. Without thought, without a second's consideration, Candice was on her feet sprinting harder and faster than she ever had in her life, wet socks pounding the solid earth, balls smarting soon aching as she tore down the dirt path. She didn’t look back to see if she was being chased. Her heart punched through her chest, rang in her ears so loud she had no concept if the van grumbled after her. She just kept going.

  When she reached the dilapidated house, all sinking rot wood and glowing windows, she cried out a smiling shriek, terror and hope a war inside her.

  She spilled through the door then braced her back to it, fighting to catch her breath.

  “Mary.” She thought she'd screamed, but it wasn’t even a word.

  Her sister was standing with her back to her, a canned beer between her thumb and forefinger all resting on the counter, as she worked the burnt bits out of a casserole with a spatula, humming to herself.

  “Where the hell is she?” Mary didn’t have to glance over her shoulder to know Candice was back, but the fact that their mother wasn’t with her sent a fresh wave of frustration through her, not the first that day and certainly wouldn't be the last, though it was well past nine, not so many hours left in the night.

  It was then that the impact of what had happened hit Candice like a fist to her gut. She collapsed, knees cracking against the wooden floor then her head slammed down as she fell sideways.

  Seeing her sister, Mary breathed shit, rushed over, tried to make sense of her state, but logic refused to take hold.

  Candice's blond hair looked brown there was so much dirt encrusted in it and her hands were stained, sticky with what? Mary's stomach dropped. It looked like blood. And where the hell were her shoes?

  “Jesus Christ, girl.” It’d been a half hour since she’d ordered Candice out the door to fetch their mother. Kendra was supposed to have been on the dock getting some air. What the hell could’
ve possibly happened in thirty minutes?

  Candice groaned then whimpered when Mary muscled her into her arms and carried her to the sofa that was more sunken in than their front porch. Her arms burned as she stepped back and looked down at her sister, dirty and bloody, and Goddamn it that Mary had drank a few beers. It was impossible to process this.

  Forcing herself to be quick witted, she rushed to the sink, held a dishcloth under the faucet and told herself to call the police. But after stroking away the blood on her sister’s hands, and checking every inch of her to confirm it hadn’t been Candice’s blood, she opted to grab her father’s gun, the nearest one to be precise. It was stowed behind the liquor in the top cabinet above the kitchen sink, a nine round GLOCK 27 that had just enough dust on it that Mary could be certain her dad hadn’t messed with it.

  She shoved it down the back of her pants then locked the front door. Where the hell was her father, anyway?

  When she returned to Candice, her sister’s eyes cracked open and her face scrunched into a pinch that told Mary she was disoriented.

  “Are you hurt?” Mary demanded. “Broken bones?”

  Every inch of her sister seemed to wince, which sank Mary’s heart, but Candice groaned, “No.”

  Relief dropped Mary beside her sister on the sofa, not that there was room enough for the two of them. She stroked Candice’s hair behind her ear.

  “What happened?”

  Suddenly, Candice scrambled up, knees to chin, on guard like a wild animal, eyes wide, breath quickening, zero to sixty in such a flash Mary feared she’d start hyperventilating.

  “Shit, Candice. Come on, you got to tell me. What happened?” she demanded, so afraid to hear the truth that her forehead ached with a rash of knits and furrows.

  Candice lifted her eyes, locked her gaze tight with Mary’s, but all she said was, “She’s gone.”

  Chapter One

  Hannah wished she hadn’t worn this blouse. The number of things she regretted in life was low enough to count on her right hand - making out with Cody McAlister beneath the bleachers during prom twelve years back, growing up in Sanbornton, New Hampshire, which technically she’d had no control over, and this blouse. It was silky and loose and got caught on just about every item on her desk.

  Her phone rang and when she reached for it, the sleeve, like a net sweeping the sea for tuna, knocked over her mug of pens and pencils, writing utensils clattering to the linoleum before she could even announce the town and precinct she worked for. Embarrassment flared hot across her skin at the fumble, making her sweat, giving the blouse another chance to thwart her.

  At least no one on her floor noticed the clumsy move. But they'd noticed others, all morning in fact, mainly because she was wildly overdressed, damned blouse and a pencil skirt, though the skirt seemed to be less of a culprit.

  “Gilford Precinct, Homicide,” she said absentmindedly into the receiver as she collected pens off the floor. Her greeting must’ve sounded guttural, strained. Well, the pencil skirt was catching up, she supposed. Lunch had been a real feat, silk and polyester cotton digging into her waist. She’d been dying to unzip, but she’d made her bed.

  When a nervous woman came through the line requesting Detective Barnes, Hannah placed her on a brief hold and transferred the call, being sure to alert Barnes the woman was following up on her court date. Barnes grumbled a sigh into the receiver and reminded Hannah to direct these types of calls to the District Attorney.

  Hannah knew that. She blamed her oversight on the blouse, but only in her head then got off the phone fast.

  It wasn’t that she was trying to prove anything to the department by showing up dressed fancy. Lord knew she wasn’t fancy in the first place. But as a twenty-six year old receptionist she felt the twinge of her life’s failings on a daily basis and that morning, like a fool, she’d thought looking a bit nicer might ease the sting. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Hannah kept her head down as she rolled her chair backwards to the fax machine, the spit of its wheels having alerted her to a report coming through. She said a silent prayer that she wouldn’t have to walk it through the entire department and hand it to the Chief. Every walk through the office in this outfit, the heels of which were the cherry on top of her misfortune, felt like a walk of shame, the worst kind of insult considering it’d been ages since she’d gotten it on. She cringed at the thought then cringed harder when she saw the intended recipient in bold lettering across the top: Chief Holder.

  Her desk phone’s blaring ring saved her at least for a few minutes.

  “Gilford Precinct, Homicide,” she said on autopilot.

  There was breathing on the other end, light and feathery, but not panicked, which was good. She hated when someone in crisis called the station instead of 911.

  “Hi,” a female voice came through, apprehensive. “Is this Hannah Cole?”

  Hearing her name spoken was the force that shed pretense from her tone, as she responded. “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  Wind over the receiver, as the caller exhaled.

  “Look, if you’re calling for personal reasons then make it quick. The station is a madhouse today and my feet hurt too much to put up with any nonsense.”

  “It’s Mary,” she interrupted.

  Hannah stiffened in her chair. The phone felt suddenly heavy in her grip and then an overwhelming sense of loss washed over her.

  “How've you been?” Mary asked, but dryly, an edge of subtle resentment in her tone.

  She had nothing to say if not an outpouring of apologies, and she didn’t dare break that dam, so she stated, “Good,” as clinically as possible.

  “Not sure if you’re keeping up with what happened,” Mary started, tone even, responsible sounding, not at all like her fifteen years. “It didn’t exactly make headlines. We’re not rich enough for that, I guess.” Hannah felt the prick of it like she’d felt every year of her life growing up in Sanbornton. It wasn’t merely that the Cole’s weren’t rich. They were dirt poor, poorer than sin which made them all the more likely to commit it.

  “What didn’t make headlines?” Hannah asked, resting her elbows on her desk in a hunch of secrecy. Her stomach clenched.

  “Mom.” The solitary word gripped Hannah's gut, but her ears were wide open. “She disappeared a month back.”

  Disappeared? A month ago? And no one had contacted her?

  “No one knows what the fuck happened. Candice came home covered in blood. Now the town’s done looking.”

  It was too much to process in a moment.

  “Wait. What? Start over,” she ordered, though kindly. “Mom disappeared a month ago and Candice came home covered in blood?”

  “Yeah.” Mary sounded exhausted. “There was a search party and the town kept at it for a few weeks then gave up. Look, I thought you knew all this-”

  “You thought I knew about this and I was sitting in Gilford on my high horse?” She shouldn't have snapped so she quickly offered, “I honest to God hadn’t heard.”

  “Fine. The point is...” Mary’s sharp tongue lost its edge and she softened. “Candice is doing really bad.”

  “Was she hurt? I mean what happened? She was attacked?”

  “Would you listen?”

  Hannah didn’t even breathe she was so poised to listen.

  “Dale’s been drinking a lot ever since. He’s in a bad way, Hannah.” Mary took a moment to swallow her pride. That much was clear when she’d used his name instead of referring to Dale as her father. That’s what he was, after all, Mary and Candice’s dad, and nothing more than a stepfather to Hannah. “I need help over here.”

  “Hey, whoa, I’d love to help, but on my salary-”

  “Not money.” Again, there was a pause on the line, a fresh billow of tension between them. “I need real help.”

  ***

  Hannah was sure to put on a pair of soft, worn out jeans, which still fit her tightly enough that she wouldn’t feel shabby then started off on the half ho
ur drive from Gilford to Sanbornton. Her sweater was thin, but warm, and the coat she’d decided on, though plagued with more tears sprouting cotton insulation than she cared to admit, kept her bundled well against the late October chill.

  She didn’t dare venture to speculate on the terrible circumstances surrounding her mother’s disappearance, nor the harrowing tone in Mary’s voice as she’d hinted at how truly grisly life had become in Kendra’s absence. She hadn’t needed to explain. Hannah knew first hand. Dale’s insertion into the family had been the reason she’d left. In so many ways her stepfather had been a glaring cliché, but Hannah focused on the brilliant foliage beyond her windshield, rather than get sucked into dark memories. They'd catch up with her soon enough.

  She’d opted to take the back roads rather than hop on the highway. Deep down she wasn’t about to lie to herself as to why that was. She knew. She could accept it. She needed to prolong her arrival, favoring the half hour route over a fifteen minute one. Her childhood home was close, too close, but there was a lot of land in-between. She needed to see as much of it as she could, let the picturesque scenery wash over her and give her some semblance of strength. And it was picturesque. It was so God damn beautiful she could almost forget her family lived in it. Almost.

  A thick forest of luscious maples lined the winding road her Taurus sailed over. The leaves were fiery shades of red and orange and subdued yellow, no different than the trees in Gilford, but things felt different here, like childhood, like home. That was the conflict brewing inside her. You always thought your childhood was great, until you grew out of it, and that was the problem. She had. She wondered if Mary was caught in the purgatory of having realized things at home were rotten, but still too young to escape.

  Beyond the flaming trees sat the mountains, a blue sky burning brightly overhead. Hannah rolled her windows down, all four, and drank in the scent of it. Fresh air, crisp and ever so slightly damp, filled her lungs. It brought her to her senses.

  Breathing deeply, she reveled the moment, shining as it was, suspended from time, the Gilford precinct behind her for the weekend to come, her family, as broken as they must be, waiting for her in the near future, but in this moment it was just Hannah and the road, Hannah and the revitalizing air. If only this could last.