Review
“In this rare standalone, the prolific Gardner has come up with one of the most original characters in recent crime fiction, a woman readers can care about even while not being entirely sure of what to make of her.”--Washington Post
"This book, the best-selling author’s first stand-alone novel in 20-years, is a sharply-written, tension-filled yarn full of twists readers are unlikely to see coming. The most compelling element, however, is the character of Frankie, a recovering alcoholic whose obsession with the missing is a penance of sorts for the burden of guilt and grief she carries over a past trauma that took the life of a man she loves.”--Associated Press
Named one of 2021's Most Anticipated Books by "Good Morning America," PopSugar, Bookpage, CrimeReads, and Mystery Tribune
"A masterpiece of post-modern noir....A riveting stunner of a tale where the rare appearance of the sun shines down on what is certain to be one of the best thrillers of 2021.”--Providence Journal
“[An] outstanding crime novel…. Gardner pulls no punches in this socially conscious standalone.”--Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Fans of this incredible author, police procedurals, timely immigrant stories, strong determined women, and tales that are not tied up with a pretty bow at the end will not be able to get enough of this intense page-turner.”--Library Journal (starred review)
“It’s hard to tag just one stand-out element here, between the multidimensional portrayal of Mattapan’s Haitian expat community, Frankie’s humanizing demons and straightforward investigative technique, and a page-turning plot with all its ends tucked in unpredictably tight. Tense and immersive, Gardner’s latest…is a sure bet both for readers drawn to gritty gumshoe fiction and for the growing legion of true- crime podcast fans.”--Booklist (starred review)
“Gardner is a pro at writing tough-as-nails, wiseass, broken-yet-steely female characters, and Frankie does not disappoint…Fans of Gardner’s Tessa Leoni, D.D. Warren, and Flora Dane will embrace her new heroine's grit and empathy.”--Kirkus Reviews
"The pace of Before She Disappeared makes it a faster read than the number of pages would suggest. For me, it fell into 'couldn’t put it down' territory, and of all Gardner’s books that I’ve read, I think this was the best.”--St. Louis Post-Dispatch
"Lisa Gardner delves deeply into her protagonist’s psyche in this tough, street-level, socially conscious thriller.”--Florida Times-Union
“Before She Disappeared introduces what may be the most powerful sleuth of the decade, an “ordinary” woman driven to uncover the truth at any personal cost. There’s only one thing to ask for by the time the book ends: please, please, a sequel and a series.”--New York Journal of Books
“As Frankie’s investigation progresses, it offers an up-close look into some of the issues that plague American society today—racism, antipathy toward immigrants and the trafficking of young women—while providing a blistering narrative and sympathetic characters…Before She Disappeared is billed as a standalone, but I’m thinking it would be the perfect setup for a terrific series.”--Bookpage
"A propulsive mystery, one with enough twists and turns to keep even the most seasoned readers of the genre guessing until the end. But it’s also --- perhaps more importantly --- a fascinating character study, as Frankie wrestles with her own demons even as she grows closer to her goal.”--Bookreporter.com
“Smart, suspenseful, and socially conscious, this novel knows how to concoct a thriller out of current affairs without cheapening the subject or deriding any of the people involved. Frankie is a troubled, complicated woman determined to do the right thing while also recognizing that she doesn’t have all the answers and is in no place to dictate the affairs of others. She’s a wonderful heroine for our turbulent times."--Criminal Element
"Think Jack Reacher with a specific mission and a driving purpose…Socially conscious and deeply researched…this thriller will keep devoted thriller and suspense readers on their toes. Plus, Gardner knows how to write honest, believable female leads.”--BookTrib
“Before She Disappeared is a first-class crime novel by a master of the thriller genre. I highly recommend it.” – David Baldacci
“To read Lisa Gardner is to put yourself in the hands of a master storyteller. In Before She Disappeared, she gives us a crackling mystery, gritty atmosphere and an unforgettable heroine. I loved the damaged, determined Frankie Elkin. You will, too.”— Riley Sager, bestselling author of Home Before Dark
“Before She Disappearedhas a gutsy heroine, a timely, fascinating storyline, and a real sense of anticipation that kept me turning the pages.” – Tami Hoag
“This time Gardner truly hits it out of the park. Frankie Elkins is a heroine for the ages.” – Tess Gerritsen
“Nuanced and complex, Before She Disappeared proves once more Lisa Gardner knows how to set a hook better than anyone. It’s a ‘just one more chapter’ thriller that will have you reading into the night. I loved it.”--Gregg Olsen, bestselling author of Water's Edge
“An exceptional amateur sleuth thriller…a very recommendable read.”--Mystery and Suspense
"The case is intriguing and travels in refreshingly unexpected directions. . . . You're highly likely to enjoy this." —The Booklist Queen
"Fascinating . . . A page-turner about the search for a missing teenage girl in Boston and the mysterious woman obsessed with finding her." —The Big Thrill
"Hang on to some of the best moments in story telling by the master herself Lisa Gardner. Before She Disappeared may just be one of her best . . . and that is saying a lot." —Fresh Fiction
About the Author
Lisa Gardner is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of twenty suspense novels, including The Neighbor, which won Thriller of the Year from the International Thriller Writers. An avid hiker, traveler and cribbage player, she lives in the mountains of New Hampshire with her family.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
The water feels like a cold caress against my face. I kick deeper down into the gloom, my long hair trailing behind me like a dark eel. I’m wearing clothes. Jeans, tennis shoes, a t-shirt topped with an open windbreaker that wings out and slows my descent. My clothing grows heavier and heavier till I can barely flutter my legs, work my arms.
Why am I in clothes?
Wet suit.
Oxygen tanks.
Thoughts drift through my mind but I can’t quite grab them.
I must reach the bottom of the lake. Where the sunlight no longer penetrates and sinuous creatures lurk. I must find… I must do…
My lungs are now as heavy as my legs. A feeling of pressure builds in my chest.
An old Chevy truck. Dented, battered, with a cab roof sun-bleached the color of a barely lit sky.
This image appears in my mind and I seize it tightly. That’s why I’m here, that’s what I’m looking for. A sliver of silver in the lake’s muck.
I started with sonar. Another random thought, but as I sink lower in the watery abyss, I can picture that, too. Me, piloting a small boat that I’d rented with my own money. Conducting long sweeps across the lake for two days straight, which was all I could afford, working a theory everyone else had dismissed. Until…
Where is my wet suit? My oxygen tank? Something’s wrong. I need… I must…
I can’t hold the thought. My lungs are burning. I feel them collapsing in my chest and the desire to inhale is overwhelming. A single gasp of dark, cloudy water. No longer fighting the lake, but becoming one with it. Then I won’t have to swim anymore. I will plummet to the bottom, and if my theory is right, I will join my target as yet another lost soul never to be seen again.
Old truck. Cab roof sun-bleached the color of a barely lit sky. Remember. Focus. Find it.
Is that a glimpse of silver I see over there, partially hidden by a dense wall of waving grasses?
I try to head in that direction but get tangled in my flapping windbreaker. I pause, treading my legs frantically while trying to free my arms from my jacket’s clinging grip.
Chest, constricting tighter.
Didn’t I have an oxygen tank?
Wasn’t I wearing a wet suit?
Something is so very wrong. I need to hold the thought, but the lake is winning and my chest hurts and my limbs have grown tired.
The water is soft against my cheek. It calls to me, and I feel myself answer.
My legs slow. My arms drift up. I succumb to the weight of my clothes, the lead in my chest. I start to sink faster. Down, down, down.
I close my eyes and let go.
Paul always said I fought too much. I made things too hard. Even his love for me. But of course, I didn’t listen.
Now, a curious warmth fills my veins. The lake isn’t dark and gloomy after all. It’s a sanctuary, embracing me like a lover and promising to never let go.
Then…
Not a spot of silver. Not the roof of an old, battered truck that was already a hundred thousand miles beyond its best days. Instead, I spy a gouge of black appearing, then disappearing amid a field of murky green. I wait for the lake grasses to ripple left, then I see it again, a dark stripe, then another, and another. Four identical shapes resting at the bottom of the lake.
Tires. I’m looking at four tires. If I wasn’t so damn tired, I’d giggle hysterically.
The sonar had told the truth. It had sent back a grainy image of an object of approximately the right size and shape resting at the bottom of the deep lake. It just hadn’t occurred to me that the said object might be upside down.
Pushing through my lethargy now, urgency sparking one last surge of determination. They’d told me I was wrong. They’d scoffed, the locals coming out to watch with rolling eyes as I’d awkwardly unloaded a boat I had no idea how to captain. They called me crazy to my face, probably muttered worse behind my back. But now…
Move. Find. Swim. Before the lake wins the battle.
Wet suit. The words flutter through the back of my mind. Oxygen tank. This is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. But in my befuddled state, I can’t make it right.
I push myself forward, fighting the water, fighting oxygen deprivation. They’re right: I am crazy. And wild and stubborn and reckless.
But I’m not broken. At least, not yet.
I reach the first tire. Grab onto the slimy rubber to get my bearings. Quick now, not much time left. Rear tire. I crab my way along the algae-covered frame till I finally reach the front cab.
Then I simply stare.
Lani Whitehorse. Twenty-two years old. Waitress, daughter, mother of a three-year old. A woman with an already long history of bad taste in men.
She’d disappeared eighteen months ago. Runaway, the locals decided. Never, her mother declared.
And now she was found, trapped at the bottom of the lake that loomed next to the hairpin turn she drove each night after the end of her 2 a.m. bartending shift. Just as I had theorized while pouring over months of interviews, maps, and extremely thin police reports.
Had Lani misjudged the corner she’d driven so many times before? Startled at a crossing deer? Or simply nodded off at the wheel, exhausted by a life that took too much out of her?
I can’t answer all the questions.
But I can give her mother, her daughter, this.
Lani dangles upside down, her face lost inside the floating halo of her jet-black hair, her body still belted into the cab she’d climbed into eighteen months ago.
My lungs are no longer burning. My clothes are no longer heavy. I feel only reverence as I curl my fingers around the door handle and pull.
The door opens easily.
Except…doors can’t open under water. Wet suit. Oxygen tank. What is wrong, what is wrong… My brain belatedly sounds the alarm: danger! Think, think, think! Except I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
I am inhaling now. Breathing in the lake. Welcoming it inside my lungs. I have become one with it, or it has become one with me.
As Lani Whitehorse turns her head.
She stares at me with her empty eye sockets, gaping mouth, gleaming white skull.
“Too late,” she tells me. “Too late.”
Then her bony arm thrusts out, snatches my wrist.
I kick, try to pull back. But I’ve lost my grip on the door handle. I have no leverage. My air is gone and I’m nothing but lake water and weedy grasses.
She pulls me into the truck cab with unbelievable strength.
One last scream. I watch it emerge as an air bubble that floats up, up, up. All that is left of me.
Lani Whitehorse slams the door shut.
And I join her forever in the gloom.
Rumble. Screech. A sudden booming announcement: “South Station, next stop!”
I jerk awake as the train lurches to a halt, blinking my eyes and looking down at my perfectly dry clothes.
A dream. Nightmare. Something. Not the first nor the last in my line of work. It leaves me with a film of dread as I grab my single bag and belatedly follow the rest of the passengers off the train.
So many think we must share the same beliefs to get along. In my experience, sharing the same fear is a far more effective strategy.Highlighted by 444 Kindle readers
