Blood Will Tell

A Novel

Heather Chavez

• Publisher: William Morrow
• Year: 2022
• eBook ISBN:
  9780062936226
• Print ISBN:
  9780062936219
• Subtopic: Literature General

“Blood Will Tell is a fierce novel of suspense, secrets, and family drama. Chavez brilliantly intertwines story and tension into a captivating novel.” — Samantha Downing, internationally bestselling author of My Lovely Wife and For Your Own Good

From the author of the acclaimed debut No Bad Deed, a twisty novel about the bond between two sisters—and the crimes one covers up to protect the other. For fans of Lisa Gardner and Harlan Coben.

Schoolteacher and single mom Frankie Barrera has always been fiercely protective of her younger sister Izzy—whether Izzy wants her to be or not. But over the years, Izzy’s risky choices have tested Frankie’s loyalty. Never so much as on a night five years ago, when a frantic phone call led Frankie to the scene of a car accident—and a drunk and disoriented Izzy who couldn’t remember a thing.

Though six friends partied on the outskirts of town that night, one girl was never seen again . . . 

Now, an AMBER alert puts Frankie in the sights of the local police. Her truck has been described as the one used in the abduction of a girl from a neighboring town. And the only other person with access to Frankie’s truck is Izzy.

This time around, Frankie will have to decide what lengths she’s willing to go to in order to protect Izzy—what lies she’s willing to tell, and what secrets she’s willing to keep—because the dangerous game that six friends once played on a warm summer night isn’t over yet . . .

1

For several months after the accident, I awoke with the same two questions: What would go wrong that day? And would my sister, Izzy, be the cause of it? During those first months, I bit my nails to nubs and bought my antacid in multipacks.

But by that morning in late June, it had been five years. Now I awoke with a different set of questions. Had I signed Julian’s permission slip for the field trip to the library? Did we have cereal? Milk?

So when Izzy’s boyfriend, Mark, called much too early asking to meet, I didn’t worry. Not like I should have.

The first clue that I should’ve worried more was the couple in the matching San Francisco Giants hats. I had just pulled into the Chevron on South Cloverdale Boulevard and climbed out of my truck when a car stopped behind me. Summers in Northern Sonoma County are hot and dry, and that day temperatures were predicted to hit triple digits by midafternoon. Even though the car’s windows were rolled up and its engine was off, the couple stayed in the cab.

Through the sedan’s untinted windshield, I could see both of their faces. The man’s graying hair curled beneath the bill of his hat and wrapped like an invasive weed around protruding ears. Sallow skin stretched over the sharp bones of his face. He seemed to be studying the screen of his phone. Then he glanced up, his eyes widening and narrowing in nearly the same instant.

The woman sat next to him, her gaze even more intense than his. Her lips were pressed so tightly that they disappeared into her face as if she’d swallowed them.

As a woman in my late twenties, I was accustomed to a certain level of unwanted attention. But this felt different. I unglued my ponytail from the nape of my neck and coiled it into a knot, grabbing one of Izzy’s tortoiseshell barrettes from the cup holder to secure it. It did little to stop my sweating. My eyes locked with the woman’s, and I tilted my chin in defiance. Who was she to make me look away? When I was a teenager, I would’ve backed down immediately. Back then, I gravitated toward stillness. Toward being that quiet brunette in the background whose name no one could quite remember. The nerdy girl in advanced calculus. It was exhausting. It’s not as easy as you would think, being forgettable.

The woman’s eyes released mine as she brought her phone to her ear. I turned away and pushed the button on the pump to select the cheapest grade of fuel. Almost immediately I again felt her attention as heat on my back. The man’s too. Even in my modest shorts and T-shirt, I felt abruptly too exposed.

As I positioned the nozzle in the tank of my F-150, I pricked my ears. Raising a four-year-old had made me an expert at listening—for glass breaking, doors squeaking, guilty pauses. Behind me, the silence seemed to be thick with hostility. The strangers—whom I was certain I had never seen before—both buzzed with it. Why?

While my tank filled, the warmth on my back spread to my neck, causing the hairs there to stand on end. When, finally, the car door slammed, I inhaled sharply. Fumes burned my nose. I heard the shuffle of feet on concrete and a soft whispering. They had gotten out of their car. I glanced over my shoulder, toward the couple in the matching hats who for some reason didn’t like me.

After a moment, the man had returned to the car, but the woman stood staring, one hand in her pocket, the other wrapped around her phone. I studied her face. Briefly I considered whether I did indeed know this woman. Perhaps I had given her child a failing grade? Was she the new neighbor I had yet to meet, upset that my lemon tree blocked the sun she needed to grow her tomatoes? But the intensity of her gaze suggested something more than an F in middle school math or withered vegetables.

I squared my shoulders and called to her: “Do I know you?”

The woman scowled as if the question offended her. She retreated to stand near her car’s rear bumper and began pumping her own gas. Every thirty seconds or so, her glance darted in my direction.

I wiped the sweat from my neck and swore under my breath. What was wrong with me? It had been years since I had been this jumpy. But maybe it wasn’t just the strangers who unnerved me. Maybe the idea of meeting Mark left me more anxious than I had originally realized.

That morning on the phone, Mark had been calm enough. We need to talk about Izzy. But those words always set me on edge.

Is everything okay? I’d asked.

I just need some advice.

In the moment, I had allowed myself to believe it might be about a ring—my parents and I knew Mark was on the verge of proposing. Or maybe he and Izzy had fought. He often joked that I was an Izzy whisperer, the only one who could make sense of her complicated moods. I doubted that was true anymore. Not after what had happened. Years later, I could still feel her breath, hot and sour on my face, on that last night she had really trusted me.

The nozzle clicked, snapping me out of my memories. I didn’t want to linger with them anyway.

I replaced the nozzle in its holder and grabbed my purse. Even before Mark had called, it hadn’t been the smoothest of mornings. I had misplaced my keys, and I’d had to add water to the milk so there would be enough for Julian’s Cheerios. The banana I had intended to eat had gone brown, and I was late dropping Julian off at preschool. Later I would hit the grocery store, but for now I needed something quick and plastic-wrapped to get me through the morning.

Before heading into the convenience store, I glanced again toward the strangers in the Giants hats. They both stood next to the pump, though they seemed more interested in my truck’s bumper than filling their tank.

I shook off my disquiet. I’d spent too much time thinking about the past that morning. That’s all. Even Julian had felt it, eating his cereal in silence. Rare for any four-year-old, but especially for Julian.

The door to the store was propped open with an orange construction cone. Already, artificially cooled air blasted across the threshold. Inside, snacks were loaded on shelves and carousels, beer and energy drinks stacked along walls and in refrigerated cases, a counter dedicated to dark-roast carafes and a cappuccino machine. I grabbed a bottle of water and a cranberry-orange muffin and headed to the register.

“Hey, Frankie,” the cashier greeted me.

“Morning, Lucy.” Near the register, rubber bugs—green centipedes, black spiders, yellow bees—were piled in a basket in colorful heaps. Julian had recently developed a fascination with bugs, whether it be the roly-polies he hunted in our backyard or the spider that spun its webs in the corner of our living room. I grabbed a centipede and placed it on the counter next to the water and muffin.

Lucy smiled. “Julian’ll love that.”

I returned the smile, but my stomach churned. Too many times, I’d ignored my instincts. That hadn’t gone well. So as Lucy scanned the items, I glanced out the window toward the couple. My shoulders tensed. The woman had taken a few steps closer to my truck, her head bowed.

What was she staring at?

When Lucy looked up, I gestured toward the couple. “Do you know those two?”

She nodded. “Sure. The man’s Bill, I think. Or Phil? His wife’s Amy. They’re regulars. Why?”

I thought of the way they had looked at me—as if they were judging me. “They give me the creeps.”

She leaned in to whisper, “Honestly? Amy gives most people the creeps.” Lucy wrinkled her nose. “She’s a bit of a racist, and nosy as hell. But they’re both harmless enough.”

I bristled on the word “harmless.” And a bit of a racist? Was that like being a bit dead?

I slid my debit card through the reader and grabbed my items, mumbling a thanks as I hurried toward the front of the store. But in the doorway I stopped, frozen by an unreasonable urge to check in with Julian’s preschool. Chilled air blasted my neck while gas-fumed heat flushed my cheeks, and I juggled the water and muffin as I fumbled for my phone. I found it at the same moment I sensed movement near my truck. When I looked up, Bill or Phil or whatever the hell his name was had cupped his hands against the windshield.

Phone temporarily forgotten, I shouted: “What are you doing?”

The man turned, crossed his arms, but it was the woman who charged me, finger wagging. “Where the hell’s the kid?” Her words a challenge.

I thought of Julian, and my stomach knotted. Instinct pushed my attention to my phone. No missed calls. Just a missed alert. Relief came, warm and quick. Then I read the notification more carefully, and suddenly I understood.

Mill Valley, CA AMBER Alert: White Ford F-150. It included a partial license plate number: 7RO. The number and two letters matched my own plate.

That didn’t make any sense.

I slipped the rubber centipede in my shorts pocket and transferred my bottled water and muffin to my left hand, using my right to unlock my phone. I selected the preset number for Julian’s preschool. There must be some confusion on their end. A new teacher not paying attention. An overly cautious parent.

One ring. Two. Three. At five rings, I hung up.

Certain I had misdialed, I tried again. This time, I didn’t hang up until I saw the police cruiser pull up alongside my truck.

Table of contents

• Dedication
• Contents
• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4
• 5
• Five Years Before
• 6
• 7
• 8
• 9
• 10
• 11
• 12
• 13
• Five Years Before
• 14
• 15
• 16
• 17
• 18
• Five Years Before
• 19
• 20
• 21
• 22
• 23
• 24
• 25
• 26
• Five Years Before
• 27
• 28
• 29
• 30
• 31
• 32
• 33
• 34
• 35
• 36
• 37
• Five Years Before
• 38
• 39
• 40
• Five Years Before
• 41
• 42
• 43
• Five Years Before
• 44
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Also by Heather Chavez
• Copyright
• About the Publisher