Nightingale House Read online

  About the Author

  STEVE FRECH lives in Los Angeles. In addition to writing, he produces and hosts the Random Awesomeness Podcast, an improv-comedy quiz show that has been performed at Upright Citizens Brigade, The Improv, iO West, and Nerdist.

  Also by Steve Frech

  Dark Hollows

  Praise for Steve Frech

  ‘I absolutely LOVED this book … An unputdownable page turner of a read’

  ‘This book just pulls you right in … I couldn’t put it down!’

  ‘One of the best thrillers I’ve read this year’

  ‘So gripping I just could not stop reading’

  ‘Like riding a rollercoaster … Should be on everyone’s reading list’

  ‘I burned through this’

  ‘I was hooked from page one’

  Nightingale House

  STEVE FRECH

  ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

  Copyright © Steve Frech 2020

  Steve Frech asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008372187

  Version: 2020-06-02

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Also by Steve Frech

  Praise for Steve Frech

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  Thank you, Deborah.

  Nightingale House was not born with secrets, but they were made here.

  They were sealed into the walls and buried beneath the floorboards.

  Most of us don’t know what happened in the rooms we live in before we arrived. We never hear of the tragedies that occurred in the room where we sleep or the unspeakable acts that took place years ago in the basement.

  And while the secrets of most houses are eventually forgotten, Nightingale House won’t allow that.

  Its secrets remain, hiding in the shadows at the top of the stairs, in the whispers at the end of the hall, and in the sound of a little girl crying on the other side of a door to a room that’s empty.

  They are still here, waiting …

  1

  With one hand, I reach up and press my fingers to my chest, feeling the ring that’s hanging from my neck, under my shirt. With my other hand, I reach out to my eight-year-old daughter, Caitlyn, who is standing by my side. Gusts of wind kick and swirl around us.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  She takes a deep breath and grasps my hand. “Ready.”

  The Queen Anne-styled Nightingale House, sitting on the shore of Willow Lake, stands before us.

  “Let’s do it,” I say.

  We begin slowly walking up the stone path. The gables of the house, with its Turret Room, loom above as we approach. The wind does its best to knock us off course, but we eventually reach the wrap-around porch step up to the heavy, oak door.

  I fish the key out of my pocket and offer it to Caitlyn.

  “Care to do the honors?”

  She stares up at me with those big, blue eyes. She looks so much like Nicole it hurts. I know Caitlyn is missing her mother right now just as much as I am.

  “Okay.”

  She takes the key and attempts to slide it into the lock, but her hands are shaking.

  “You want some help?” I ask.

  “No,” she stubbornly sighs.

  I smile. She’s so much like Nicole.

  She finally gets the key into the lock.

  “There. See? I did it,” she says, giving it a twist. She pushes down on the handle and leans against the door. The hinges sweetly groan as it swings open.

  We step inside out of the wind and are greeted by the smell of polish from the gleaming hardwood floors. To the left is the living room. The sofa and coffee table are surrounded by unpacked boxes. Directly in front of us are the stairs to the second floor. The door to our right leads to the study.

  No.

  I forgot.

  We were going to call it my “Writing Room”. It’s where I’m going to write the sequel to In the Shadows of Justice.

  *

  A couple years ago, I was a struggling writer, working as a substitute teacher, trying desperately to support a wife and child. We were living in a cramped, two-bedroom apartment in Portsmouth, New Hampshire with this dream that one day, my little stories would become best-sellers. So far, all I had to show for it were two books that hadn’t gone anywhere. I felt like this third one, a political thriller, was my last shot.

  Nicole and I had a routine; I would get up at four in the morning and start writing. Nicole would get up at six and get Caitlyn ready for school. Then, over a cup of coffee, Nicole and I would sit at our thrift-store-purchased kitchen table and I’d read to her what I had written. I loved it. I knew that if by some miracle, my political thriller became a best-seller, this would always be my favorite part; just me and Nicole, sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes widening as the story unfolded. She was my best critic, cheerleader, and editor. I’ll never forget the day we were sitting at the kitchen table, rain beating against the window, and I read the words ‘the end’. I looked up from the page and she had tears in her eyes. Nicole took my face in her hands, kissed me, and said, “This is it.”

  We got an agent, there was a bidding war, and we were off to the races. And I keep saying ‘we’ because I mean ‘we’. No Nicole? No book.

  Fourteen months later, after a year of editing, tweaking, and finally, publication day, came ‘the call’.

  The book had been out for two months and sales were strong. The reviews were great. My publisher had already offered a two-book extension to my contract along with a handsome advance. Nicole and I tried not to talk about it too much, out of fear that we would jinx it.

&n
bsp; Then, one morning while we were getting Caitlyn ready for school, my agent, Lana Gifton, called.

  “Have you seen the New York Times best-seller list this morning?” she asked.

  It took me a second or two, but I gradually grasped her meaning.

  “… no way.”

  “I really think you should,” she said, and hung up.

  I flew from my chair and raced for the computer. I pulled it up on the browser because, of course, I had it bookmarked.

  My heart stopped.

  “Nicole!” I yelled.

  She ran over and stood behind me.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  I pointed at the screen.

  8. In the Shadows of Justice – Daniel Price

  “Oh my God!” she screamed.

  I leaped up and we held each other as we both started crying.

  “Mom? Dad? What’s wrong?” Caitlyn asked from the doorway.

  I ran over and gave her a fierce hug.

  “Oomph …”

  “Pumpkin, how would you like not to go to school today?”

  She eyed me suspiciously. “What would we do?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  We spent the rest of the day bowling, going to the movies, and eating ice cream.

  That night, after Caitlyn passed out in her bed from exhaustion, Nicole and I went to our room and made love more passionately than we had in years. It was a celebration of everything we had worked for.

  Afterwards, we lay side by side, sweating, and in total bliss.

  “Hey, Shakespeare?” she whispered. It was her favorite pet name for me.

  “Yeah?”

  “I think it’s time we start looking for some new digs.”

  “Way ahead of you.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yep. What were you thinking?”

  She playfully bit her lip. “Hmm … anything?”

  “Well, we may have to skip the helipad and twenty-car garage, but other than that, name it.”

  “I want to live on the water. Doesn’t have to be the ocean but maybe a lake.”

  “Done.” I nodded.

  She laughed. “I like this little fantasy.”

  I took her hand. “It’s not a fantasy anymore.”

  I think that was the first time we both realized that it was finally happening. No more dreaming to take our minds off our desperate situation. No more trying to hide how broke we were from Caitlyn.

  “I want to live in an old house,” Nicole said, before quickly adding, “Not ancient, but something with character.”

  “Perfect.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Me?”

  She nodded.

  “I want round two.”

  She laughed as I pulled her to me.

  *

  It took Nicole all of thirty-six hours to find the Nightingale House.

  I was in love from the moment she showed me the pictures online and told me the house had a name. It was also within our price range, only an hour away in the town of Kingsbrook, Maine, and we had four hours until Caitlyn would be home from school.

  “Let’s go!” she said, grabbing my wrist.

  The excitement on the drive up Highway 16 was too much for conversation. The house. The town. It was all too perfect.

  We exited at Kingsbrook/Willow Lake and drove down Main Street, which was lined with stately homes, all of them at least a hundred years old. The town square was rimmed with coffeeshops, antique stores, and cafés.

  The directions took us into the outlying forests. It was autumn and the trees were splashes of red, orange, and yellow. One last turn and Willow Lake came into view. The road, which ran parallel to the shore, was dotted with houses, the last one being the Nightingale House.

  The pictures hadn’t done it justice. They couldn’t have. To see the porch, the gables, and the Turret Room looking out over the lake on a computer screen was one thing, but to be standing in front of it was something different, entirely.

  Walking up the stone path, Nicole appeared to be in some sort of trance. A realtor with a spindly frame and glasses that required him to constantly push them up the bridge of his nose greeted us on the porch.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Price?” he asked.

  “That’s us,” I replied, since Nicole was incapable of speech.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Mark Stelowski.”

  I shook it and he made a grand, sweeping gesture towards the house.

  “Well, here she is. Built in 1893 by—”

  “Uh, Mr … uh …?” I interrupted.

  “Stelowski.”

  “Stelowski, great. I’m going to need you to do me a favor.”

  “Uh … of course.”

  “I’m gonna need you to sit this one out.”

  He blinked. “Oh … um … sure, okay.”

  “Thank you.”

  Nicole and I stepped inside.

  It was my turn to be speechless but she suddenly came out of her trance.

  She glanced into the room on our right, which contained a large bookcase built into the wall. “That’s your study.” She was about to go into the living room but stopped. “No! Correction. That’s your Writing Room.”

  “Love it,” I replied.

  She quickly resumed her path into the living room. “Couch, recliner, television,” she said, pointing around the room.

  “Awesome.”

  I followed her into the dining room. A large window offered a stunning view of the lake. A wooden pier jutted out into the water.

  “We’re eating dinner here, every night,” she said.

  “I’ll cook!” I offered.

  She grimaced. “Eh … we’ll see.”

  We moved into the kitchen. A back door led to a deck and the backyard. While the house had kept its old charm, the kitchen had all the modern conveniences with updated appliances and an island counter. There was a small alcove with a window overlooking the lake.

  “Coffee, right there, every morning,” I said.

  “While you read to me,” she added.

  Nicole went over to a small wooden door and opened it.

  “Pantry?” I asked.

  “… No.”

  She went through and I heard her footsteps descend creaky wooden stairs. I crossed the kitchen and followed her into the darkness. I kept my hand against the cool stone wall to my right for balance. Once we reached the bottom of the stairs, Nicole went to the middle of the room and pulled the chain of a small, bare lightbulb that was barely visible in the darkness, hanging from the ceiling. The lightbulb had to be decades old and weakly glowed, barely illuminating the space.

  “And … the basement …” she said.

  “Yeah,” I weakly offered.

  There wasn’t much to say beyond that. Wooden shelves rested against the walls and planked floors.

  “Upstairs?” I asked.

  “Upstairs,” Nicole confirmed and snapped off the light.

  We bounded back up the steps and hurried through the house like children having a race.

  “Almost done!” I called out through the open front door to the realtor as we passed. He had to think that we were crazy as we charged up the stairs to the second floor.

  At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched out before us. To the right was the Turret Room. The windows offered an almost panoramic view of the lake. The ceiling vaulted to a point and a closet was near the door.

  “Caitlyn’s room?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. You think it might be too much of a change for her?”

  I shrugged. “We’ll ask her.”

  “We’re gonna spoil that kid.”

  “Damn right, we are.”

  We went into the blue guestroom across the hall from the Turret Room. I stood behind Nicole in the doorway.

  “Guestroom?”

  “Until we give Caitlyn a sibling,” Nicole replied.

  I wrapped my arm around her waist, playfully
growled, and nibbled her neck.

  She laughed and spun away from me. “We’re not done yet!”

  We went down the hall to the master suite.

  I opened the door and we both gasped. The walls were paneled in rich, rose-stained wood. A fireplace was nestled into the far wall and a door in the corner led to the bathroom.

  “Our bedroom would have a fireplace?” Nicole whispered.

  “Our bedroom would have a fireplace.”

  We walked back downstairs in a daze. It didn’t seem possible that this house could be ours. We stopped in the living room and faced one another.

  “Do you want to live here?” I asked.

  “I know it sounds weird but, I feel like I’m supposed to be here … Do you want to live here?”

  I nodded.

  We kissed and held one another with our foreheads pressed together.

  “Nicole … we’re home.”

  We kissed one more time and then I called towards the front door.

  “Mr. Kowalski?”

  “It’s ‘Stelowski’,” Nicole corrected me with a giggle.

  “Sir!” I yelled, playing it safe.

  The realtor stepped inside and stopped at the image of Nicole and I holding one another in the living room.

  “So, um … do you have any—”

  “We’ll take it,” Nicole said.

  *

  Two months later, once the papers had been signed, we brought Caitlyn to the Nightingale House.

  Nicole was still unsure if Caitlyn would go for the Turret Room, but I never doubted it for a second. She walked through the bedroom door and fell in love. We had a hard time pulling her away from the windows as she looked out over the lake. Her bedroom in Portsmouth didn’t have a closet, so she even viewed that as a luxury. She ran into the middle of the room, stared up at the ceiling overhead, and began spinning around.

  Then we showed her the blue guestroom and the master suite. She dutifully paid attention but I could tell her heart was still in the Turret Room. We went back down the hall and stopped in between the doors to the Turret Room and blue guestroom.

  “Are we really going to live here?” Caitlyn asked.

  “Yep,” Nicole said. “And you can have your pick. You can have the blue room or the other—”

  Caitlyn dashed into the Turret Room.