The good girl

Mary Kubica

Book - 2014

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FICTION/Kubica, Mary
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Subjects
Genres
Psychological fiction
Suspense fiction
Published
Don Mills, Ontario, Canada : Harlequin MIRA [2014]
Language
English
Main Author
Mary Kubica (author)
Physical Description
350 pages ; 25 cm
ISBN
9780778317760
9780778316558
Contents unavailable.
Review by Booklist Review

In this tale of a kidnapping gone wrong, Mia, the black-sheep daughter of prominent Chicago judge James Dennett, impulsively decides to go home with Colin, a young man she meets in a bar. The one-night stand quickly turns into a nightmare when Colin forces her into his car in the middle of the night, and Mia learns he's been sent to abduct her for ransom. But just before the drop-off point, Colin, for reasons unknown, decides not to hand her over to the man who has hired him and instead takes her to a remote cabin in Minnesota. Back at home, Mia's mother, Eve, cannot understand why James doesn't seem to take the news of his daughter's disappearance as seriously as she does. Gabe, the detective assigned to the case, wonders the same thing. The narrative unfolds in four different perspectives from Mia, Eve, Gabe, and Colin, in alternating chapters which are also structured as before and after. The organization can prove puzzling, but Kubica's debut thriller builds suspense steadily and will have readers guessing what's really going on until the final pages.--Vnuk, Rebecca Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

At the outset of Kubica's powerful debut, free-spirited 24-year-old Mia Dennett, an art teacher at an alternative high school and a member of a well-heeled, well-connected Chicago family, goes missing. As puzzling as Mia's presumed kidnapping initially appears, things turn infinitely stranger after her eventual return, seemingly with no memory of what happened to her or, indeed, of her identity as Mia. Key characters share the narrative in chapters labeled either "Before" or "After," allowing the reader to join shattered mother Eve and sympathetic Det. Gabe Hoffman on their treacherous journey to solve the mystery and truly save Mia. Almost nothing turns out as expected, which, along with the novel's structure and deep Midwestern roots, will encourage comparisons to Gone Girl. Unlike that dazzling duel between what prove to be a pair of sociopaths, this Girl has heart-which makes it all the more devastating when the author breaks it. Agent: Rachael Dillon Fried, Greenburger Associates. (Aug.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review

Mia, the daughter of a prominent judge, has vanished. Her mother and a detective, working together, do everything possible to find her. When she is eventually recovered, Mia remembers little of what happened to her. She calls herself Chloe instead of Mia. Is she suffering amnesia as a result of post--traumatic stress disorder? So, what did happen? Three main characters narrate their versions of the story, from before and after. One narrator, the kidnapper who was hired to seize Mia as part of an extortion plot, justifies his actions in hiding Mia as protecting her. -Kubica's carefully constructed, character-driven plot propels the reader through a kidnapping, a recovery, and some difficult family dynamics. VERDICT Similar in tone to William Landay's acclaimed Defending Jacob, this excellent debut is compulsively readable and highly recommended for anyone who loves a mystery, a suspense tale, or a psychological puzzle. This could also be recommended for those who enjoy suspense, but don't care for graphic depictions of violence or sexual intimacy: these elements are mentioned, but not detailed. [Previewed in Kristi -Chadwick's Mystery Spotlight feature, "Pushing Boundaries," LJ 4/15/14.-Ed.]-Elizabeth Masterson, Mecklenburg Cty. Jail Lib., Charlotte, NC (c) Copyright 2014. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

Kubicas psychological thriller centers on the abduction of a young teacher.Mia Dennett comes from massive wealth, and that made her a juicy target. Chicago Police Detective Gabe Hoffman is assigned to lead the official search and finds himself increasingly attracted to Mias mother, a beautiful British woman in her early 60s. The story alternates between the past and present and is told through the voices of three of the participants: Mias mother, Eve; her abductor, Colin; and Gabe, the detective. Mia, who was freed after months of living in the Minnesota woods with her captor, has a type of amnesia that, her psychiatrist says, allows her to block out parts of what happened to her. Gabe is still trying to track down the truth about her captivity, while Eve is working to regain the daughter she believes is underneath Mias apparent apathy and confusion. Meanwhile, readers follow along with the abduction itself in Colins words and discover an odd but burgeoning bond developing between captor and captive in the harsh and unforgiving climate. Although Kubica has chosen to recount her tale in the present tense, which adds an odd stiffness to her otherwise very readable prose, she makes the characters engaging and moves the story along at a good clip. If the novel lacks credibility in any one area, its that the Chicago PD, one of the busiest law enforcement agencies in the world, would have the luxury of assigning one detective to a single case for months on end, even if the abductee was the daughter of an influential member of the judiciary.The proliferation of older characters like Eve will be a pleasant and unexpected find for the many readers who understand that life over 55 can still be interesting. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

EVE BEFORE I'm sitting at the breakfast nook sipping from a mug of cocoa when the phone rings. I'm lost in thought, staring out the back window at the lawn that now, in the throes of an early fall, abounds with leaves. They're dead mostly, some still clinging lifelessly to the trees. It's late afternoon. The sky is overcast, the temperatures doing a nosedive into the forties and fifties. I'm not ready for this, I think, wondering where in the world the time has gone. Seems like just yesterday we were welcoming spring and then, moments later, summer. The phone startles me and I'm certain it's a telemarketer, so I don't initially bother to rise from my perch. I relish the last few hours of silence I have before James comes thundering through the front doors and intrudes upon my world, and the last thing I want to do is waste precious minutes on some telemarketer's sales pitch that I'm certain to refuse. The irritating noise of the phone stops and then starts again. I answer it for no other reason than to make it stop. "Hello?" I ask in a vexed tone, standing now in the center of the kitchen, one hip pressed against the island. "Mrs. Dennett?" the woman asks. I consider for a moment telling her that she's got the wrong number, or ending her pitch right there with a simple not interested. "This is she." "Mrs. Dennett, this is Ayanna Jackson." I've heard the name before. I've never met her, but she's been a constant in Mia's life for over a year now. How many times have I heard Mia say her name: Ayanna and I did this…Ayanna and I did that…. She is explaining how she knows Mia, how the two of them teach together at the alternative high school in the city. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything," she says. I catch my breath. "Oh, no, Ayanna, I just walked in the door," I lie. Mia will be twenty-five in just a month: October 31st. She was born on Halloween and so I assume Ayanna has called about this. She wants to plan a party--a surprise party?--for my daughter. "Mrs. Dennett, Mia didn't show up for work today," she says. This isn't what I expect to hear. It takes a moment to regroup. "Well, she must be sick," I respond. My first thought is to cover for my daughter; she must have a viable explanation why she didn't go to work or call in her absence. My daughter is a free spirit, yes, but also reliable. "You haven't heard from her?" "No," I say, but this isn't unusual. We go days, sometimes weeks, without speaking. Since the invention of email, our best form of communication has become passing along trivial forwards. "I tried calling her at home but there's no answer." "Did you leave a message?" "Several." "And she hasn't called back?" "No." I'm listening only halfheartedly to the woman on the other end of the line. I stare out the window, watching the neighbors' children shake a flimsy tree so that the remaining leaves fall down upon them. The children are my clock; when they appear in the backyard I know that it's late afternoon, school is through. When they disappear inside again it's time to start dinner. "Her cell phone?" "It goes straight to voice mail." "Did you--" "I left a message." "You're certain she didn't call in today?" "Administration never heard from her." I'm worried that Mia will get in trouble. I'm worried that she will be fired. The fact that she might already be in trouble has yet to cross my mind. "I hope this hasn't caused too much of a problem." Ayanna explains that Mia's first-period students didn't inform anyone of the teacher's absence and it wasn't until second period that word finally leaked out: Ms. Dennett wasn't here today and there wasn't a sub. The principal went down to keep order until a substitute could be called in; he found gang graffiti scribbled across the walls with Mia's overpriced art supplies, the ones she bought herself when the administration said no. "Mrs. Dennett, don't you think it's odd?" she asks. "This isn't like Mia." "Oh, Ayanna, I'm certain she has a good excuse." "Such as?" she asks. "I'll call the hospitals. There's a number in her area--" "I've done that." "Then her friends," I say, but I don't know any of Mia's friends. I've heard names in passing, such as Ayanna and Lauren and I know there's a Zimbabwean on a student visa who's about to be sent back and Mia thinks it's completely unfair. But I don't know them, and last names or contact information are hard to find. "I've done that." "She'll show up, Ayanna. This is all just a misunderstanding. There could be a million reasons for this." "Mrs. Dennett," Ayanna says and it's then that it hits me: something is wrong. It hits me in the stomach and the first thought I have is myself seven or eight months pregnant with Mia and her stalwart limbs kicking and punching so hard that tiny feet and hands emerge in shapes through my skin. I pull out a barstool and sit at the kitchen island and think to myself that before I know it, Mia will be twenty-five and I haven't so much as thought of a gift. I haven't proposed a party or suggested that all of us, James and Grace and Mia and me, make reservations for an elegant dinner in the city. "What do you suggest we do, then?" I ask. There's a sigh on the other end of the line. "I was hoping you'd tell me Mia was with you," she says. GABE BEFORE It's dark by the time I pull up to the house. Light pours from the windows of the English Tudor home and onto the tree-lined street. I can see a collection of people hovering inside, waiting for me. There's the judge, pacing, and Mrs. Dennett perched on the edge of an upholstered seat, sipping from a glass of something that appears to be alcoholic. There are uniformed officers and another woman, a brunette, who peers out the front window as I come to a sluggish halt in the street, delaying my grand entrance. The Dennetts are like any other family along Chicago's North Shore, a string of suburbs that lines Lake Michigan to the north of the city. They're filthy rich. It's no wonder that I'm procrastinating in the front seat of my car when I should be making my way up to the massive home with the clout I've been led to believe I carry. I think of the sergeant's words before assigning the case to me: Don't fuck this one up. I eye the stately home from the safety and warmth of my dilapidated car. From the outside it's not as colossal as I envision the interior to be. It has all the old-world charm an English Tudor has to offer: half-timbering and narrow windows and a steep sloping roof. It reminds me of a medieval castle. Though I've been strictly warned to keep it under wraps, I'm supposed to feel privileged that the sergeant assigned this high-profile case to me. And yet, for some reason, I don't. I make my way up to the front door, cutting across the lawn to the sidewalk that leads me up two steps, and knock. It's cold. I thrust my hands into my pockets to keep them warm while I wait. I feel ridiculously underdressed in my street clothes--khaki pants and a polo shirt that I've hidden beneath a leather jacket--when I'm greeted by one of the most influential justices of the peace in the county. "Judge Dennett," I say, allowing myself inside. I conduct myself with more authority than I feel I have, displaying traces of self-confidence that I must keep stored somewhere safe for moments like this. Judge Dennett is a considerable man in size and power. Screw this one up and I'll be out of a job, best-case scenario. Mrs. Dennett rises from the chair. I tell her in my most refined voice, "Please, sit," and the other woman, Grace Dennett, I assume, from my preliminary research--a younger woman, likely in her twenties or early thirties--meets Judge Dennett and me in the place where the foyer ends and the living room begins. "Detective Gabe Hoffman," I say, without the pleasantries an introduction might expect. I don't smile; I don't offer to shake hands. The girl says that she is in fact Grace, whom I know from my earlier legwork to be a senior associate at the law firm of Dalton & Meyers. But it takes nothing more than intuition to know from the get-go that I don't like her; there's an air of superiority that surrounds her, a looking down on my blue-collar clothing and a cynicism in her voice that gives me the willies. Mrs. Dennett speaks, her voice still carrying a strong British accent, though I know, from my previous fact-finding expedition, that she's been in the United States since she was eighteen. She seems panicked. That's my first inclination. Her voice is high-pitched, her fingers fidgeting with anything that comes within reach. "My daughter is missing, Detective," she sputters. "Her friends haven't seen her. Haven't spoken to her. I've been calling her cell phone, leaving messages." She chokes on her words, trying desperately not to cry. "I went to her apartment to see if she was there," she says, then admits, "I drove all the way there and the landlord wouldn't let me in." Mrs. Dennett is a breathtaking woman. I can't help but stare at the way her long blond hair falls clumsily over the conspicuous hint of cleavage that pokes through her blouse, where she's left the top button undone. I've seen pictures before of Mrs. Dennett, standing beside her husband on the courthouse steps. But the photos do nothing compared to seeing Eve Dennett in the flesh. "When is the last time you spoke to her?" I ask. "Last week," the judge says. "Not last week, James," Eve says. She pauses, aware of the annoyed look on her husband's face because of the interruption, before continuing. "The week before. Maybe even the one before that. That's the way our relationship is with Mia--we go for weeks sometimes without speaking." "So this isn't unusual then?" I ask. "To not hear from her for a while?" "No," Mrs. Dennett concedes. "And what about you, Grace?" "We spoke last week. Just a quick call. Wednesday, I believe. Maybe Thursday. Yes, it was Thursday because she called as I was walking into the courthouse for a hearing on a motion to suppress." She throws that in, just so I know she's an attorney, as if the pin-striped blazer and leather briefcase beside her feet didn't already give that away. "Anything out of the ordinary?" "Just Mia being Mia." "And that means?" "Gabe," the judge interrupts. "Detective Hoffman," I assert authoritatively. If I have to call him Judge he can certainly call me Detective. "Mia is very independent. She moves to the beat of her own drum, so to speak." "So hypothetically your daughter has been gone since Thursday?" "A friend spoke to her yesterday, saw her at work." "What time?" "I don't know… 3:00 p.m." I glance at my watch. "So, she's been missing for twenty-seven hours?" "Is it true that she's not considered missing until she's been gone for forty-eight hours?" Mrs. Dennett asks. "Of course not, Eve," her husband replies in a degrading tone. "No, ma'am," I say. I try to be extracordial. I don't like the way her husband demeans her. "In fact, the first forty-eight hours are often the most critical in missing-persons cases." The judge jumps in. "My daughter is not a missing person. She's misplaced. She's doing something rash and negligent, something irresponsible. But she's not missing" "Your Honor, who was the last one to see your daughter then, before she was--" I'm a smart-ass and so I have to say it " -- misplaced?" It's Mrs. Dennett who responds. "A woman named Ayanna Jackson. She and Mia are co-workers." "Do you have a contact number?" "On a sheet of paper. In the kitchen." I nod toward one of the officers, who heads into the kitchen to get it. "Is this something Mia has done before?" "No, absolutely not." But the body language ofJudge and Grace Dennett says otherwise. "That's not true, Mom," Grace chides. I watch her expectantly. Lawyers just love to hear themselves speak. "On five or six different occasions Mia disappeared from the house. Spent the night doing God knows what with God knows whom." Yes, I think to myself, Grace Dennett is a bitch. Grace has dark hair like her dad's. She's got her mother's height and her father's shape. Not a good mix. Some people might call it an hourglass figure; I probably would, too, if I liked her. But instead, I call it plump. "That's completely different. She was in high school. She was a little naive and mischievous, but." "Eve, don't read more into this than there is," Judge Dennett says. "Does Mia drink?" I ask. "Not much," Mrs. Dennett says. "How do you know what Mia does, Eve? You two rarely speak." She puts her hand to her face to blot a runny nose and for a moment I am so taken aback by the size of the rock on her finger that I don't hear James Dennett rambling on about how his wife had put in the call to Eddie--mind you, I'm struck here by the fact that not only is the judge on a firstname basis with my boss, but he's also on a nickname basis--before he got home. Judge Dennett seems convinced that his daughter is out for a good time, and that there's no need for any official involvement. "You don't think this is a case for the police?" I ask. "Absolutely not. This is an issue for the family to handle." "How is Mia's work ethic?" "Excuse me?" the judge retorts as wrinkles form across his forehead and he rubs them away with an aggravated hand. "Her work ethic. Does she have a good employment history? Has she ever skipped work before? Does she call in often, claim she's sick when she's not?" "I don't know. She has a job. She gets paid. She supports herself. I don't ask questions." "Mrs. Dennett?" "She loves her job. She just loves it. Teaching is what she always wanted to do." Mia is an art teacher. High school. I jot this down in my notes as a reminder. The judge wants to know if I think that's important. "Might be," I respond. "And why's that?" "Your Honor, I'm just trying to understand your daughter. Understand who she is. That's all." Mrs. Dennett is now on the verge of tears. Her blue eyes begin to swell and redden as she pathetically attempts to suppress the tiny drips. "You think something has happened to Mia?" I'm thinking to myself: isn't that why you called me here? You think something has happened to Mia, but instead I say, "I think we act now and thank God later when this all turns out to be a big misunderstanding. I'm certain she's fine, I am, but I'd hate to overlook this whole thing without at least looking into it." I'd kick myself if-- if- --it turned out everything wasn't fine. "How long has Mia been living on her own?" I ask. "It'll be seven years in thirty days," Mrs. Dennett states point-blank. Excerpted from The Good Girl by Mary Kubica All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.