The One Night Stand
CARISSA ANN LYNCH
One More Chapter
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Copyright © Carissa Ann Lynch 2020
Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Carissa Ann Lynch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of 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.
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Source ISBN: 9780008362669
Ebook Edition © March 2020 ISBN: 9780008362652
Version: 2020-02-10
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1: NOW
Chapter 2: NOW
Chapter 3: BEFORE
Chapter 4: BEFORE
Chapter 5: NOW
Chapter 6: BEFORE
Chapter 7: BEFORE
Chapter 8: Now
Chapter 9: 1993 – Andrea
Chapter 10: BEFORE
Chapter 11: BEFORE
Chapter 12: 1993 - Andrea
Chapter 13: NOW
Chapter 14: BEFORE
Chapter 15: BEFORE
Chapter 16: BEFORE
Chapter 17: 1993 - Andrea
Chapter 18: NOW
Chapter 19: BEFORE
Chapter 20: 1993 - Andrea
Chapter 21: NOW
Chapter 22: BEFORE
Chapter 23: 1993 - Andrea
Chapter 24: NOW
Chapter 25: BEFORE
Chapter 26: 1993 - Andrea
Chapter 27: NOW
Chapter 28: BEFORE
Chapter 29: 1994 - Andrea
Chapter 30: NOW
Chapter 31: BEFORE
Chapter 32: BEFORE
Chapter 33: NOW
Chapter 34: BEFORE
Chapter 35: NOW
Chapter 36: BEFORE
Chapter 37: NOW
Chapter 38: BEFORE
Chapter 39: BEFORE
Chapter 40: NOW
Epilogue: 1 year later
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Carissa Ann Lynch
About the Publisher
To all the single mothers without a village
“We stopped looking for monsters under the bed when we realized they were inside us.”
– Charles Darwin
Chapter 1
NOW
When I think about Delaney, I think about Dillan.
Three pounds, two ounces. The delivery nurse held her out to me in the palm of her hand, like a baby bird in its mother’s nest. And right on cue, my tiny fowl opened her eyes and mouth, changing my life forever.
She’s alive. Delaney is going to live, I’d thought.
But in those beady black eyes, those chirpy pink lips … I still saw the son who didn’t make it: Dillan.
There’s Delaney, but no Dillan.
A painful dichotomy of intense love and exceptional grief arose and gave birth to me that day.
“Only one twin survived.” The doctor was soft-spoken and honey blonde; I’ll never forget the contours of her face. And those words … her words would haunt me for the next fifteen years, probably longer. There was a name for my tragedy: twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome. In layman’s terms, she had described it as one twin donating blood to the other. But the way she described it was almost morbid – one twin sucking up all the nutrients, sucking the life right out of its roommate …
My beautiful Delaney was headstrong and iron-willed, and it didn’t surprise me that she was the stronger of the two.
So, when I woke up to find my fifteen-year-old daughter standing over me, her eyes like shiny black marbles glowing in the moonlit shadows of my room, the first thing I thought about was Dillan.
Even now, Dillan is still one of my first thoughts each morning. I wonder what he would have looked like, as a teenager. Maybe just like Delaney, with black feathery hair and deep brown eyes. If you take away the lashes, and the girlish curve of her jaw … I can almost see what my son would have been …
“Mom!” Delaney hissed, tugging the blankets from my chest. It was the hiss that did it – a warning sign, that Delaney was about to scream, or in the very least, get angry and throw a few things.
“W-What is it, honey? What time is it?”
My eyes fought to stay open, my contact lenses that I wasn’t supposed to sleep in at night, sticking to the backs of my eyelids.
Delaney stood up straight, her skin so pasty and pale that it was almost translucent in the low-lit room. She had this funny look on her face.
I know that look.
Not anger, which was her go-to emotion these days … not sadness, which was probably the runner-up. No, not either of those.
Delaney is scared, I realized with a start, sitting up too fast, my head swimming as I reached for her.
“What’s wrong, Laney?”
But Delaney’s eyes refused to meet mine; they were trained on something else beside me …
“There’s a stranger in your bed.” Her words were like shivery little whispers in the dark.
My scalp prickled with fear and I leapt from the bed, nearly knocking her backwards. I stared at the shape of a man lying on the usually empty side of my bed.
He had long legs, so long they were hanging over the end of the bed. Hairy toes poked out from beneath the blankets.
I took a small step closer, holding my breath.
He was buried beneath the sheets, except for his gangly toes and a few blond pokes of hair pricking out from the top …
My brain tried to play catch up with what my eyes were seeing, but Delaney cut in, “Who the hell is he?” She took the words straight out of my mouth.
No longer was she that scared little girl I remembered from her youth – she had transitioned back into her usual mood: angry at times, and don’t-give-a-fuck mostly.
“I have no idea, Laney.”
It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. I had no recollection of inviting anyone over, but it wasn’t the first strange man I’d had in my bed this month …
“Nice, Mom. Real nice,” Delaney groaned.
My mind raced, thoughts trickling back to the last thing I remembered … I’d been online again, that stupid dating site. I hadn’t wanted a profile in the first place, but Pam and Jerry, my two friends from work, had set the whole thing up for me.
Did I invite one of the guys I met online to come over to the house last night? Was I drinking again? Is that why I can’t remember?
Suddenly, it was starting to make sense: I rarely drank alcohol, not until recently, and not since my early twenties. If I’d had a few beers last night, or even a little wine, then maybe … maybe I had blacked out completely.
But a quick scan of the room revealed no empty cans or bottles. No evidence that I’d been drinking at all.
How could I be so irresponsible? What the hell was I thinking, inviting a man over with my teenage daughter across the hall?
“Go back to bed. I’ll wake him up and ask him to leave.”
When Delaney didn’t budge, I raised my voice a few octaves: “You have school in the morning. Now, go!”
The hurt expression on her face came and went so quickly, I almost wondered if I’d imagined it. A flutter of guilt rose up. Delaney wasn’t a child anymore; I often had to remind myself of that. I shouldn’t scold her so harshly; rather, I should try to talk to her like an equal, I thought, regretfully.
“Screw you,” she huffed, then turned and marched out of the room. The door to my bedroom slammed bitterly behind her.
My eyes drifted back to the lumpy man. I’d been expecting him to wake up after Laney’s outburst, but he was still sleeping peacefully.
In the silence of my bedroom, I crept over to the window and sat down on my favorite reading bench that overlooked our suburban street. My head felt groggy and strange, and I waited for the details of last night to come into focus …
I pressed my head against the windowpane and sighed. It was almost morning, the dark mountain ridges in the distance tipped with dusty browns and burgundy reds.
How long has it been since I watched the sun rise?
When Delaney was young, she’d loved the outdoors. But I had still been with her father then, Michael. Most of my memories of her early years were corrupted by memories of fights with Michael and sleepless nights as I grieved over Dillan.
Here’s the thing: when you bring a baby home from the hospital, you’re supposed to be happy. “It’s a miracle that even one of the twins survived,” the doctor had told me. “At least you have Delaney,” my friends had told me.
But having a beautiful baby girl didn’t make me any less sad about the son I’d lost, the room with blue borders I’d never use, the drawers of blankets and the onesies I’d picked out specifically for him … They were all still waiting for me when I came back home from the hospital. Some things couldn’t be forgotten, even if I did love Delaney with all my heart.
Michael left us when Delaney was five. Unfortunately, he didn’t go far.
Less than two miles from here, he lived with his new wife, Samantha, and baby sons, Braxton and Brock, in a Victorian mansion they had restored. Delaney had a room there – she loved that room – and she visited them every weekend.
Apparently, Michael’s not verbally abusive with his new family, and he gave up drinking years ago … How convenient for them.
The drinking and the dating – I’d only started that recently, with the nudging insistence of my two best friends. It seemed good for me – healthy, even – but incidents like this couldn’t happen.
Meeting up with strange men, bringing them to my home … not a good example for Delaney. And probably not safe either.
I had no recollection of what had happened last night, or who this strange man was. This went way beyond normal socializing – I’d obviously blacked out completely.
I moved to another window, this one front-facing, and peered out through the blinds at the street in front of our house.
My Dodge minivan was parked at the curb, crooked as usual. But tonight, there was a navy-blue Camaro parked behind it, and I knew it didn’t belong to my neighbor. It has to be his, I thought, glancing back at the hairy set of toes.
Well, at least this mystery man drives a nice car. I’ve dated worse …
If only I could remember who he was or what we did last night …
“Excuse me.” I tiptoed over to the bed.
I poked his shoulder area, and when he didn’t budge, I pushed the blankets away from his face. His face was smooth, eyes closed. He looked downright peaceful.
Damn, I wish I slept that soundly.
“I need you to go. I don’t mean to be rude, but I think I had too much to drink last night. I don’t usually let guys stay overnight. And my daughter … well, she has school in the morning. So, can you please head home?”
But the strange man didn’t respond. No breathy snores, not even a slight twitch. No movement, whatsoever …
“Excuse me!” I knew I was being a bitch, but I didn’t care. My daughter had just discovered a strange man in my bed. My daughter who was already having enough troubles lately …
Since joining the dating site, I’d invited a couple men over, but only when Delaney was at her dad’s. Inviting a stranger from the internet to my house on a school night while Delaney was home … well, that was totally out of character for me.
But lately, I hadn’t been acting like myself at all.
I need this man out of my bed … Right now.
I placed both hands on his chest and gave him a sturdy shake. “Wake up, please.”
When he still didn’t react, I grew frustrated. Gripping the plain white sheet in my left fist, I tugged it the rest of the way off.
“Jesus!”
I leapt back from the bed, shaky hands covering my mouth and nose.
The mystery man was completely naked, but that wasn’t the shocking part. It was the dark purple stain in the center of his abdomen.
And beneath him …
“Oh. Oh …” The floor beneath my feet became watery and strange, the walls spinning like a tilt-o-whirl. My backside made sharp contact with the dresser behind me and a picture fell to the floor with a sickening thud.
Holding my mouth so I wouldn’t scream and alert Delaney, I tiptoed like a demented ballerina, back over to the edge of the bed.
I pulled on the light string, lighting up the room to see him better.
I bit down on my fingers, muffling the terror that threatened to burst from within me …
The stranger’s face looked peaceful enough: eyes and mouth closed; hands flat at his sides. But he was rigid, too rigid … almost like he was laying inside a casket instead of my bed.
It might as well be a casket …
Because he’s dead as fuck, I realized in horror.
I bit down harder, my body trembling in fear.
I moved in as close as I dared, nervously studying his wound. It was a hole above his belly button, jagged and red, with a dry purple stain blooming out like a flower around it. Dry streaks of blood stained both sides of his waist from where he’d bled out in the bed beside me.
The sheet beneath him was stained dark red with blood, so red it was almost purple.
So much blood!
It had probably soaked all the way through the mattress and box springs. There was blood on my side too. Realization sinking in, I looked down at my own blue nightdress.
No way would I have let a man see me in this old, worn-out gown. So, why am I wearing it? Nothing about this makes sense.
How the hell did he get here? And who the fuck is he?!
Tentatively, I dabbed at a big, crusty stain on the side of my gown. The color of the gown was too dark to tell, but I knew without a doubt it was blood.
His blood.
He’d been bleeding in the bed beside me … and I’d had no idea.
Vomit tickled the back of my throat, hot and acrid.
How the hell did he get here in the first place?
And, most importantly, how did he wind up dead?
Chapter 2
NOW
Delaney had no idea that there was a dead man in my bed – not just dead, murdered. I’d changed my clothes, locked my bedroom door behind me, and gone to the bathroom to take a quick shower.
And when Delaney woke up at 7am for school, I was standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in my hands, a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of orange juice sitting on the table for her.
Most mornings were chaotic, me getting ready for work, both of us rushing out the door at the same time. But everything about today was different.
I have a feeling life will be very different from now on.
“I take it you’re not going to work?” Delaney said, shuffling into the kitchen. She had on a thick black hoodie and fashionably ripped jeans, even though it was supposed to be a warm day for fall. I fought the impulse to ask her to go change. She wasn’t ten anymore – I couldn’t pick out her clothing, as much as I would have liked to.
“I’m going in late today because I have an important meeting in the afternoon. So, my schedule is a little different.” The lie flowed from my tongue like honey.
I wasn’t scheduled to work late; in fact, I’d left a shaky message for my boss telling him I had a stomach virus, which isn’t completely a lie.
Finding a murdered man in your bed does have the tendency to make you a little queasy …
But I’d already missed a couple days recently; not only could I not afford another day off, but my job could be on the line.
“Right. So, ya gonna tell me who he is, or not?” Delaney demanded, globs of oatmeal swishing around her mouth as she talked. She lifted her cup of juice to her stained red lips, glanced down into the cup with a look of disgust, then slammed it back down.
I wonder what they serve for breakfast at Michael’s house, I thought, drearily. Probably crepes and chocolate-chip waffles … made from scratch by Wife #2, of course.
I took a seat in the chair across from her. “He’s just a friend, honey.”
My voice was so calm, so smooth … I almost didn’t recognize it.
“What—the fuck—ever.” Delaney pushed the chair back with a caw-like screech, and I winced.
“Please don’t talk to me that way. I’m a grown woman and I’m allowed to date if I want to. Your father has certainly moved on.”
Instantly, I regretted bringing Michael and Samantha into this.
Delaney left the kitchen without another word.
I heard the jangling of her backpack slipping over her shoulders in the hall, and seconds later, the screen door thumped shut behind her. There were days when the closest I came to understanding my daughter was trying to interpret the shuffle of her feet and the velocity with which she closed her bedroom door.
I remained at the table, clutching my cup of coffee. I heard the squeaky air brakes of the bus pulling up outside. I closed my eyes, waiting for the bus to get all the way to the end of the road before I moved.
When I couldn’t hear it anymore, I stood up.
Finally, I could allow myself to be shaky and afraid.
How could I be so stupid? And what am I going to do?
Obviously, I hadn’t killed the man. I didn’t have a violent bone in my body.
But that hasn’t always been the case, has it? I scolded myself.
Is it possible? Could I have blacked out and hurt someone?
But that red-rose hole in his stomach … It looked like a knife wound, a deep one that took a lot of strength. And anger.
I shuddered.
And if he were mentally unstable, why would he choose to take his own life in a strange woman’s bed after sex, and why would he do it that way …?
And I hadn’t seen a weapon … If he’d done it to himself, there would be a weapon …
“Holy shit. What am I going to do?” I said aloud, the fear in my voice finally matching the terror inside me.
I carried the mug over to the kitchen sink and washed it, nearly dropping it a dozen times. Out the window above the sink, I could see my neighbor, Fran, in the street. She was fetching her mail, one arm in a cast. I waved but she didn’t see me.
She had stopped, mail-in-hand, and she was staring at something. I followed her line of sight … she was looking at the sporty blue car parked behind mine. She turned her head and looked straight at me, eyes narrowing.
“Shit, shit, shit …”
I waited for her to turn around with her mail and wobbled back inside her own house.
The house was eerily quiet with Delaney gone, almost like a mausoleum. I wasn’t used to being here during the day, and it felt wrong somehow, seeing the early morning shadows reflecting off the dusty bookshelves and cheap Ikea furniture.
Well, I guess it kind of is like a crypt, considering there’s a dead man locked up in my bedroom …
Every time I closed my eyes, each blink, each second, I could see his moon-white face, the rosy red stain on his abdomen … the congealed blood staining my mattress and sheets.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, startling me more than it should have. I yelped, then took it out, hands quivering as I opened a new text message.
I was expecting a reply from my boss. I’d left a hoarse, whispery message for him, thankful at the time that he hadn’t answered. But sooner or later, I’d have to talk to him …
But the message was from Delaney.
I think I’ll stay at Dad’s again tonight. Sam and I are going to finish the library mural.
Plus, this will give you and your new friend more time together!
I could imagine her glaring out the bus window, jaw flexing in anger, her phone clutched like a weapon in her hand. Was she being nice or sarcastic?
Definitely the latter, I decided.
Every single word was like a dagger … and I had no doubt that was her intention. She’d been angry with me every day for the past year, sometimes for a reason, but mostly not. Teenagers are supposed to be angry, right? I had just assumed this was normal, a part of the growing process … but I was wrong about that. Delaney was going through a lot more than the average teen.
It was a weekday – not her dad’s night to take her.
Would she explain to him why she wanted to stay with him again? What will he think about the man in my bed …?
And every time she called her stepmom Sam, I tasted bile in the back of my throat.
But none of this really matters right now, does it? Because I have a bigger crisis to tend to.
I knew Delaney was expecting a big reaction, for me to put up a fight …
Okay, honey. Have fun.
I typed back. I almost considered writing, ‘Send Sam my love’, but I knew Delaney would see right through it.
She gets her snarky humor from me, I guess.
For a split second, I could almost believe it was a normal Tuesday – dealing with Delaney’s attitude and my own bitterness over Michael – but nothing about this day was normal: a murdered man was in my room.
In my bed.
Slowly, I made my way down the short, skinny hallway, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. I stopped in front of the bathroom door. On my tiptoes, my fingers reached for the slim, gold key that I kept on the ledge of the door frame; a master key to all the rooms in the house.
I gripped the key so tight in my right palm that it burned.
Finally, I used it to unlock my bedroom door and I stepped inside.
There was a part of me, a silly, stupid part, that hoped—prayed—that the body in my bed would no longer be there.
