Page 1 of The Vanished

PROLOGUE

The sky was strewn with stars, the waning moon shining as brightly as an electric bulb. Golden light spilled from the windows, and the strains of lively music drifted on the chill wind. Someone opened one of the French doors, and a woman’s throaty laughter followed a murmured suggestion made by a nameless man. A cork popped and crystal glasses clinked in the crowded room, but outside there was only the thin, metallic scraping of wheels against the icy ground.

As they moved farther from the house, the sounds of gaiety faded, replaced by the crunch of leather soles on crusted snow and the deep stillness of the winter night. The pain had abated, the freezing cold had rendered her bare limbs completely numb, and for a moment she thought she was soaring towards the night sky instead of lying in a rusty wheelbarrow. When the stark branches of the birch trees loomed above her, realization struck, and she crashed back to earth, her heart thudding with animal terror. No one was coming to rescue her, and she did not have the strength to fight.

Was her life truly to end so soon after it had begun? And could the very person she had trusted with her heart really be the instrument of her destruction?

The wheels gave a final squeal and the barrow came to a stop. Her bare calves scraped against the hard metal edge as she was lifted aloft, her silk sheath flapping against her bare thighs. She gazed up at the indifferent stars and the faceless moon, knowing this was the last thing she would ever see.

‘Help me, please,’ she whispered. But no one heard her desperate plea.

ONE

SEPTEMBER 2023

London

Quinn breathed a sigh of relief when she heard the car doors slam shut and watched the Rover pull out into morning traffic. She loved Gabe and the children to bits, but she also cherished this time of day, when the chaos of the weekday morning was replaced by blessed silence. The four of them could drive the sanest person to utter madness when getting ready for school and work. And no exit was ever final. Someone always came running back to collect a forgotten textbook, their school project or PE kit, or, in Gabe’s case, his phone.

Once the car had disappeared around the corner, Quinn walked into the kitchen, filled Rufus’s bowl, then popped two slices of bread into the toaster, and was about to make a well-deserved cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. It couldn’t be Gabe or the kids, so most likely an Amazon delivery person. Something was always on order, and parcels big and small showed up almost daily. Quinn set the mug on the worktop and went to see who was at the door, the dog trotting at her heels. She was surprised to find Rhys, who carried a cardboard tray that held two coffee cups and a paper bag that gave off a wonderful cinnamony aroma.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” he said as he walked into the foyer and set the bag and the tray on the console table. Rufus didn’t get excited about Rhys anymore, and returned to his breakfast.

Rhys shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the banister with a practiced motion. Even though he technically had a home of his own, he routinely turned up at the Russells’ house, since he’d long since become one of the family.

“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” Quinn joked.

“Oh, come on,” Rhys said and grinned. “I’m hardly the enemy.”

“No, but the only time you show up with pastries is when you have a proposal and don’t want to ring or text me for fear that I will brush you off.”

“Guilty as charged,” Rhys said and carried the offerings through to the kitchen. “Is that plain toast I see? Looks like I’m just in time.”

He set down the coffees, took out two small plates, and set a frosted cinnamon roll on each. “I tried these while in New York, and I swear I will never be the same,” he proclaimed.

He was obsessed with baked goods, but somehow, despite his love of all things sweet and doughy and his Russian-born wife, who made rich, calorie-laden meals that always seemed to involve sour cream, Rhys was as trim as ever and had hardly aged since Quinn had first met him more than a decade ago. He’d recently taken up rowing, but he’d have to row to Norway and back to burn off half the calories he consumed on a daily basis.

Rhys sat down at the kitchen table, took a sip of his coffee, and looked at Quinn, who was leaning against the worktop expectantly. “Aren’t you going to join me? This cinnamon roll is not going to eat itself, you know.”

“I’m not sure,” Quinn demurred. “Are you here to badger me about the Christmas special?”

“Darling, you know perfectly well that it’s too late for that. Even if it was all systems go, we’d never get an episode on air by mid-December, but I must warn you that, if we’re going to resurrect Echoes from the Past, it’s now or never.”

Quinn sighed and nodded. She knew precisely what Rhys was referring to and had to acknowledge the truth of his pronouncement. Several months ago, someone had anonymously outed her psychic ability on X. The statement had been taken as gospel and the post had taken on a life of its own. Fans of the program had defended Quinn against allegations of fraud and had argued that her psychic gift combined with her professional experience enhanced her credibility. But there were those who had called her terrible names, demanded that her degree and grants be revoked, and petitioned the BBC to pull past episodes of Echoes from the Past from iPlayer.

Quinn had been secretly relieved that the truth was finally out and she no longer had to hide her ability to see into the past, but that didn’t mean the comments hadn’t hurt. She had never expected the degree of vitriol that had been spilled on the internet, and the more people had vented their outrage the longer Quinngate had continued. Too emotionally overwrought to deal with the fallout, Quinn and Gabe had taken the children on a device-free holiday to get them away from the noise, and then, once the school term ended, they had delivered the children to Quinn’s parents in Marbella and had taken off on a month-long archeological dig in Turkey, which had done wonders for Quinn’s frayed spirit. The time alone had been like a second honeymoon, and they had come back feeling rejuvenated and reconnected. But now that they were back, Quinn had to either publicly acknowledge her gift or deny her psychic ability and pretend that the post had been nothing but a malicious attempt at character assassination.

“Go on, then. Tell me what you have in mind,” she said as she sat across from Rhys and reached for the cinnamon roll. She would hate for it to go to waste.

Rhys grinned as if he had already won, and said, “Do you remember Lynn Michaels?”

“The woman who branded herself as a lifestyle guru?”

“The one and only.” He broke off a piece of his own roll, popped it in his mouth, and licked his sticky fingers.

“What about her?”

Quinn had never been a fan and had not given the woman another thought since her program had gone off the air, but her mum used to watch At Home with Lynn religiously. The show had enjoyed nine series, during which Lynn Michaels had redecorated historic homes, designed holiday cottages, and prepared scrumptious meals with the help of guest chefs. Every Wednesday Lynn had hosted a popular author, and on Fridays she’d showcased musical guests.