Somebody's Home Read online

  PRAISE FOR KAIRA ROUDA

  Somebody’s Home

  “Somebody’s Home kept me riveted from the first page to the last. A gripping psychological thriller you don’t want to miss!”

  — Lucinda Berry, bestselling author of The Perfect Child

  “Somebody’s Home starts like a hurricane out at sea: some wind, some waves, a sense of approaching danger. But the story moves fast, gains velocity, and suddenly you are turning the pages, unable to stop, heart in your throat, knowing that something terrible is going to happen and nothing will stop it. The threats come from all sides, and it’s so hard to know who to trust. The characters are wonderful and complex; the setting feels like the house next door, which makes it all the more terrifying; and the ending nearly killed me. Kaira Rouda has written a terrific, gripping thriller.”

  —Luanne Rice, bestselling author of The Shadow Box

  “Taut with foreboding from the first page, Kaira Rouda’s Somebody’s Home is an unsettling portrait of an antisocial man, a master of the universe, and the women caught between them. The rotating points of view and incisive, clear writing are sure to keep you flipping the pages until you reach the shocking conclusion!”

  —Katherine St. John, author of The Siren

  “Trust your instincts and grab a copy of Kaira Rouda’s Somebody’s Home. In Rouda’s latest thriller, a mother trusts her instincts when she knows the person on her property is threatening her family. But what if the threat is coming at her from all sides and more than one person is hiding a dark secret? A compulsive, fast read, Somebody’s Home reveals what people will do to protect not only their homes but the families within those four walls. A captivating read.”

  — Georgina Cross, bestselling author of The Stepdaughter

  The Next Wife

  “Rouda hits the ground running and never stops . . . [The Next Wife] is so much fun that you’ll be sorry to see it end with a final pair of zingers. The guiltiest of guilty pleasures.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “This gripping psychological thriller from Rouda (The Favorite Daughter) offers a refreshing setup . . . Rouda keeps the reader guessing as the plot takes plenty of twists and turns. Suspense fans will get their money’s worth.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “In The Next Wife, two women go ruthlessly head-to-head. Kaira Rouda knows how to create the perfect diabolical characters that we love to hate. Equally smart and savage, this is a lightning-fast read.”

  —Mary Kubica, New York Times bestselling author of The Other Mrs.

  “Rouda’s talent for making readers question everything and everyone shines through on every page of her propulsive new thriller, The Next Wife. Her narrators are sharp and unpredictable, each one with a tangle of secrets to unravel. The Next Wife will leave you tense and gasping, with a chilling twist you won’t see coming.”

  —Julie Clark, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Flight

  “One of the most insidious, compulsive books I’ve read recently. Kaira Rouda has a way of drawing you in with great characters, fast-paced writing, and a story that won’t let you go. Brilliant, dark, and dazzling.”

  —Samantha Downing, USA Today bestselling author of My Lovely Wife and He Started It

  “One man. Two wives. Kaira Rouda has masterfully created cunning twists and sharp narration that take you on an unexpected and delicious journey and will leave you with a gasp. Devious and fun, The Next Wife should be the next book you read!”

  —Wendy Walker, bestselling author of Don’t Look for Me

  “I absolutely inhaled The Next Wife. Nail-biting suspense, dark humor, and family intrigue. I savored every page and now have the worst book hangover. Loved it!”

  —Michele Campbell, internationally bestselling author of The Wife Who Knew Too Much

  “No one writes deliciously devious narcissists like Kaira Rouda. The Next Wife showcases her remarkable talent for making unlikable characters alluring. With twisted egos, lavish wealth, and three women vying for power, this compelling, compulsive thriller is sharp, fun, and shocking. I was riveted by every word.”

  —Samantha M. Bailey, USA Today and #1 national bestselling author of Woman on the Edge

  “Kaira Rouda has a gift for writing characters we love . . . to hate. Dark and devious, The Next Wife is a fast-paced, twisty thriller that will have you laughing, shaking your head, and gasping out loud right until the end. A perfect one-sitting read.”

  —Hannah Mary McKinnon, bestselling author of Sister Dear and You Will Remember Me

  The Favorite Daughter

  “Kaira Rouda’s husband, Harley, may have recently been elected to Congress, but she isn’t looking to make a name for herself just as a politician’s wife . . . The Gone Girl–style domestic-suspense novel follows Jane, a narcissistic perfectionist dealing with the death of her daughter.”

  —Washington Post

  “[An] exceptional psychological thriller . . . Suspense fans will be amply rewarded.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Will hit you right in the heart.”

  —Bustle

  “Rouda delivers a wickedly perfect thriller with The Favorite Daughter.”

  —Good Life Family Magazine

  “Delightfully wicked fun!”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Involving psychological suspense that reveals the cracks in what seems like a perfect life.”

  —Booklist

  “B. A. Paris and Shari Lapena fans will fall head over heels for this suspenseful psychological thriller set in an upscale Southern California community.”

  —POPSUGAR

  “Intense, creepy, and classic Rouda. A chilling story, told so well. Don’t miss it!”

  —J.T. Ellison, New York Times bestselling author

  “Leaves you wanting more.”

  —Liv Constantine, bestselling author of The Last Mrs. Parrish

  “A smart, wickedly plotted psychological thriller brimming with dark surprises.”

  —Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author

  “Compulsively readable and deeply satisfying psychological suspense.”

  —Cristina Alger, USA Today bestselling author of The Banker’s Wife

  “Alfred Hitchcock meets Patricia Highsmith in this masterful novel of psychological suspense. Quietly horrifying, tightly wound, and diabolical, The Favorite Daughter is a stunning page-turner.”

  —A. J. Banner, USA Today, Publishers Weekly, and #1 Amazon bestselling author

  “Crafty, unsparing, and gloriously Hitchcockian—a masterful glimpse into a world of privilege and appearance with a nasty edge.”

  —Emily Carpenter, bestselling author of Burying the Honeysuckle Girls and Every Single Secret

  “Both compelling and addictive, The Favorite Daughter is a roller coaster of a ride that will have you twisting and turning.”

  —Liz Fenton and Lisa Steinke, bestselling authors of Girls’ Night Out

  Best Day Ever

  “A tensely written, shocking book that will hold readers on the edge of their seats to the very last page.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “This latest psychological thriller from bestselling Rouda is destined to fly off the shelves, enticing readers to ride along as this multifaceted day in the life of the Stroms unfolds.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Darkly funny, scandalous, and utterly satisfying.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  OTHER TITLES BY KAIRA ROUDA

  Suspense

  All the Difference

  Best Day Ever

  The Favorite Daughter

  The Next Wife

  Women’s Fiction

  Here, Home, Hope
br />   A Mother’s Day: A Short Story

  In the Mirror

  The Goodbye Year

  Romance

  The Indigo Island Series

  Weekend with the Tycoon

  Her Forbidden Love

  The Trouble with Christmas

  The Billionaire’s Bid

  Nonfiction

  Real You Incorporated: 8 Essentials for Women Entrepreneurs

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2022 by Kaira Sturdivant Rouda

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542026116

  ISBN-10: 1542026113

  Cover design by Damon Freeman

  To Andrea Peskind Katz, with love

  Thank you for your insights, encouragement, and friendship

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  FRIDAY TWO DAYS BEFORE

  CHAPTER 2 TOM

  CHAPTER 3 JULIE

  CHAPTER 4 JESS

  CHAPTER 5 TOM

  CHAPTER 6 ROGER

  CHAPTER 7 JULIE

  CHAPTER 8 SANDI

  CHAPTER 9 JESS

  CHAPTER 10 ROGER

  CHAPTER 11 TOM

  CHAPTER 12 JULIE

  CHAPTER 13 JESS

  CHAPTER 14 SANDI

  CHAPTER 15 ROGER

  CHAPTER 16 TOM

  CHAPTER 17 JULIE

  CHAPTER 18 JESS

  SATURDAY ONE DAY BEFORE

  CHAPTER 19 TOM

  CHAPTER 20 SANDI

  CHAPTER 21 ROGER

  CHAPTER 22 JULIE

  CHAPTER 23 TOM

  CHAPTER 24 JESS

  CHAPTER 25 SANDI

  CHAPTER 26 ROGER

  CHAPTER 27 JULIE

  CHAPTER 28 TOM

  CHAPTER 29 SANDI

  CHAPTER 30 ROGER

  CHAPTER 31 JULIE

  CHAPTER 32 JESS

  CHAPTER 33 SANDI

  CHAPTER 34 ROGER

  SUNDAY THE DAY

  CHAPTER 35 JULIE

  CHAPTER 36 JESS

  CHAPTER 37 TOM

  CHAPTER 38 SANDI

  CHAPTER 39 ROGER

  CHAPTER 40 JULIE

  CHAPTER 41 JESS

  CHAPTER 42 TOM

  CHAPTER 43 ROGER

  CHAPTER 44 JESS

  CHAPTER 45 SANDI

  CHAPTER 46 JULIE

  CHAPTER 47 TOM

  CHAPTER 48 JULIE

  ONE MONTH LATER

  CHAPTER 49 SANDI

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Somebody is in my home.

  I don’t know what to do.

  As I watch from the street, I see activity, movement in the kitchen—only for an instant, and the next second the house is as still as before.

  I pull out my phone. Do I call her, or 911?

  The car parked out front is familiar, but nothing else makes sense. Something is wrong. I know it.

  He’s in there.

  I must do something. There’s no time to wait for the police.

  I swallow and push the car door open, stepping quietly onto the empty street.

  I know the truth before I see the lanky shadow move across the kitchen window.

  Somebody’s home, and he isn’t supposed to be there.

  I crouch down as I run up to the front door of my house. I left it unlocked on purpose, in case she came home and didn’t have her keys.

  I know now that was a big mistake.

  All this is my fault.

  I clamp my hand over my own mouth to muffle my scream as I turn the handle and step inside.

  FRIDAY

  TWO DAYS BEFORE

  CHAPTER 2

  TOM

  A bolt of lightning illuminates the sky, and raindrops the size of river rocks pelt my windshield. Today is unusual. It never rains in Southern California. Not in October. October is for fires and destruction, for Santa Ana winds and red-flag warnings. The rain doesn’t make sense. Nothing about my life makes sense.

  I’ve just spent a week in the desert with my buddies, shooting guns, drinking beer, partying. I loved it, every minute of it, but now it’s over. I have no choice. I’m back home, but it’s not my home anymore. I’m parked across the street, contemplating my options. Staying dry and practicing controlling my anger all at the same time. I have anger issues. Just ask my folks. I came this way. But it was one of the things my friends and I talked about as we each imagined the target of our anger on the beer can as we shot. Anger causes mistakes. When you’re angry, the guy who owns the land told us, your actions are sharper, you sweat, your heart races. You’re jumpy. Like now. I wipe my hands on my jeans and take a deep breath to calm down. He taught us that, too, out there in the desert. Meditation, or whatever they call it. It’s harder to do now that I’m back. It’s always been hard for me to relax, to breathe.

  I look out the window again as the windshield wipers smack the rain away. That’s my house, the only place I’ve ever lived. I know every floorboard squeak, especially on the stairs. But I won’t climb them anymore. My so-called parents and the new owners have made certain of it. Sure, I knew my dad was moving to take another job. And I guess I knew they’d need to buy a house out in Timbuktu.

  But why do I have to leave?

  No one gave me a chance to have a say. Two weeks ago I received what was basically a verbal eviction notice from my own parents. A “Dear Tom, we’re moving. Sorry. The new owners need the carriage house for themselves” talk from my lovely stepmom. I didn’t even know the house was on the market. They never put a For Sale sign up in the front yard. Sandi told me it was a private transaction—the perfect buyer had simply appeared. God’s will, she said. Is that God’s will or yours, Sandi? Just bam, we’re out of here and you are, too. Too bad, Tom.

  Sure, because she felt bad, my lame stepmother said, “You, of course, are welcome to move in with us in our new home in Temecula, just until you can find a place of your own.” Oh, thanks, Sandi. Your new place is just for the four of you—you and Dad and your real boys. Three bedrooms. That’s it. Got it. She didn’t say that part, but she should have. Since then, I’ve been to their new place, with and without them, scoping it out. There is no room for me.

  Actions are louder than words. We talked about that in the desert this week, too. Actually, I suppose I learned that when I watched my real mom drive away all those years ago. People say you can’t remember things from when you’re six years old. But that’s a lie. When you look out the window and watch your mom back out of the driveway, when you watch your dad spit at her car window, when you see the fear in her eyes, the hate in his—well, you remember. No matter how young you are.

  I push away the memories of seventeen years ago and stare through the pouring rain at the same driveway. I suppose it’s good I went to the desert this week. I made friends, real friends, guys who think the way I do, guys who know how the world works and what’s wrong with it these days. I got out of my rut. But I’m back from the desert now, and sitting in my car in a freak rainstorm staring at a house that’s no longer mine starting on Sunday, two days from now. Sandi said it was a gracious concession by the new owner to give me time to pack up since I was gone all week.

  Two days to try to get a new place to live just doesn’t seem very gracious, if you ask me. But they didn’t. They think I’ll just go along with the plan, do
what they expect, move out.

  That’s what they all think. I pound my hands on the steering wheel, release a bunch of tension, and stare out the car window again.

  I don’t want them here. This is my house. Mine.

  Sandi said, “The new owners are lovely.” Bullshit. She doesn’t know if they are lovely, she doesn’t know anything about them. In the desert, hanging out by our campsite at night, we talked about how to profile people, how to watch them, figure them out without them even knowing it. I’ll use that new skill to figure out who these owners are, what they are. Whoever they are, they move in today, in this pouring rain. Serves them right.

  I can’t believe this all happened behind my back. A private transaction. I was in the dark until one of the boys let it slip that they were going to have horses at the new house. We were hanging out, the little kids and I, two weeks ago before Sunday dinner, and Davis let it slip.

  Their new house was a done deal. I wasn’t invited.

  I did think it was odd that Sandi’d had some people over to the house. She’s a loner usually, just fiddling around in her garden, cooking in the kitchen. I should have figured out the lady with the big jewelry and G-wagen Mercedes was a real estate agent. I blame myself for that miss. I never did see the “lovely” buyers. I must have been at work at the bar or something.

  I had simmered with the information of their new house all the rest of the day. That night, at Sunday dinner, after prayer, I told my dad and stepmom that I knew about the new house. The little boys’ eyes were huge, like I was getting them in big trouble. I hoped I would. I felt my dad’s rage then, directed toward them for once.

  My stepmom—Simple Sandi, as I think of her—blinked, her big brown eyes full of water about to overflow. “Of course there’s room for you there, son. Always. We love you.”

  “Stop being so dramatic, Tom. It’s time for you to grow up, get a real job, your own apartment. Take care of yourself,” Dad said, his blue eyes alight with self-righteousness, his anger focused on his favorite target. Me.

  I needed Sandi to stop crying, tears dropping onto her meal. It was gross. And an act. She wasn’t sad for me. She was just embarrassed she got caught.

  My parents are so self-centered. They should have given this house to me, or at least let me rent from them, pay them monthly until I could buy it outright. My birthright, sort of. I grew up here. This town is all I know. I told them I’d work hard, handle the upkeep. Why the rush to leave anyway? Dad says his new job came with a pay bump, and part of the deal is he must live in the community. But I’m not sure I believe him. Who leaves a big coastal megachurch for an inland congregation? No one. Ever.