What She Doesn’t Know
Jaime Rush (November 21, 2011)
A flirtatious on-line relationship plunges Rita Brooks into the heart of New Orleans Mardi Gras, where no one is what they seem, and evil is only a whisper away.
What She Does Know Can Hurt Her.
On the brink of falling for a man she met on the Internet, Dr. Rita Brooks naively assumes Brian LaPort is everything he says he is…and all that she’s hoped for. But before she can come face to face with him, Rita is nearly killed in a horrific accident. Or was it an accident at all?
What She Doesn’t Know…
Emerging at last from a disturbing, vision-plagued coma, Rita is confronted by a stranger who is convinced she knows more than she’s telling about her own past-and his brother’s. Cryptic e-mail records have led Christopher LaPorte to Rita while Brian lies near death in New Orleans from a suicide attempt. Or was it?
Can Kill Her.
Desperate to unlock her own muddled memories as well as Brian’s secrets, Rita returns with Christopher to New Orleans. There, amidst the chaotic revelry of Mardi Gras, she is plunged into a bizarre masquerade where elaborate masks cleverly conceal familiar faces-as well as murderous intent…
Note: This book is currently only available in digital format. It has been previously published under the name Tina Wainscott.
What She Doesn’t Know
St. Martin's Paperbacks (August 5, 2004)
Contact Jaime if you'd like to buy an original paperback.
Read an Excerpt
Dr. Rita Brooks was thinking about falling in love. Considering it, the way one would consider buying a car or a house; the pros and cons, risks, comfort levels. It had been a long time since she’d let herself entertain such a thought. That the man in question lived 1500 miles away in New Orleans actually made things easier. That they’d never met wasn’t important.
As a side hobby, she scrounged through flea markets for things she could sell at on-line auctions. Brian LaPorte had emailed her about a dagger, and soon they were writing back and forth. They had eased right past easy camaraderie and flirting and moved to a deeper relationship.
She ran through the cold rain to her car, her Chinese take out in a brown paper bag. For a second, the air froze in her throat. A shadow shifted behind her car. She blinked, and it was gone. She glanced in the back seat, just to make sure, before sliding into her Volvo S40. She locked the doors, turned the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot. A car two spots away did the same and fell into place behind her. That was probably the shadow she’d seen; someone else getting into their car.
Heat slowly emerged from the vents. Her cheeks stung from the cold, and she aimed one of the vents at her face. The dark, blotchy sky dumped down slushy rain that glowed in the street lights. The Montreal Express was in full tilt, the northern wind crushing Boston in its winter grip.
She’d been putting off Brian’s request for a photo exchange with excuses about finding the right picture. Truthfully, she had this fantasy of him based on the poetic way he spoke and didn’t want to spoil it. It was time, though. She’d gone through boxes of photos last night and found a decent shot where her light blue eyes weren’t washed out and her wavy hair wasn’t a brown cloud. Tonight she’d scan it and surprise him.
The next step would be face to face. What harm could come from that? A safe, public meeting of course, in case she’d misjudged him. But she doubted it. She was trained in judging people after all. They’d take it slow. And maybe, just maybe, this would go somewhere. Her heart spun with possibilities.
The car that had followed her out of the parking lot was still behind her as she navigated the icy highway. Right behind her. Its headlights blinded her in the rearview mirror. She pushed down on the gas but lifted her foot again. “I’m not going any faster, jerk. You want to kill yourself on these roads, go around me.”
The car did start to pass her. She glanced over, expecting to see it full of teenagers. Her heart jumped at the sight of an inhuman face. Before she could make any sense of it, the car slammed into her.
The wheel pulled out of her hands. She grabbed it as her car swerved toward a concrete barrier. She had no time to scream or pray. Only to realize that in her haste, she hadn’t put on her seat belt.
Rita, what’s wrong with you?
First the words resounded through her mind in her mother’s voice, a rail-thin woman glaring at the sloppy job a nine-year-old Rita had done making macaroni and cheese.
Rita, what’s wrong with you?
Then it was her father Charlie’s voice chastising her for daring to intrude into his sacred office to bother him over a broken finger.
Rita, what’s wrong with you?
Bill’s voice now, as she made the passage from one place to another, all in the dark recesses of her mind. When the voices and sounds from the outside world faded, when her friend Marty’s voice wasn’t commanding her to “Wake up from that damned coma! You know how I hate hospitals!”, when Rita didn’t feel the prick of a needle or anything else to remind her she was still alive, that’s when she made the journey.
At first she felt herself swimming beneath the sea, the surface becoming a muted reflection of the life that went on around her. Everything was dark and liquid, and she became liquid with it as she tried to swim free. The thickening liquid held her arms and legs immobile. She imagined herself a piece of fruit suspended in a dark blue ring of Jell-O.
That’s when the voices would come, snatches of words and memories. She didn’t know what was real anymore. Was she a little girl again, wishing her mother would come home from the bar she tended…dreading it at the same time? Was she a teenager, wearing an outlandish outfit in hopes that her father might notice her? It seemed odd that she should see the scenes, hear the words, and not feel the pain. Maybe this was the place between life and the hereafter, where one came to terms with their grief, shortcomings and fears.
She never had enough time to contemplate it thoroughly, for soon she would pass into the gray place. It seemed to go on forever, shimmering waves of gray. When she’d first come, she thought it must be where your sins were called up, where you watched every mean, selfish thing you ever did and begged for forgiveness.
There were others in this place. No one spoke or smiled or even looked at her. The gauzy texture of the air made it hard to make eye contact. This was where she went when no one pulled her back to reality. The strangest part, she thought, was that it didn’t seem strange at all. She and everyone else were supposed to be there, together, yet locked in their own worlds. A sense of waiting permeated her whenever she came here. Waiting to go back; waiting to go on.
On this journey into the gray, she felt a throbbing pain in her head, an overwhelming fatigue in a body she had not felt at all for so long. She wasn’t supposed to feel pain here in the gray place. It had followed her, as did some of the other sounds from the world: blips and humming noises, voices. The others were there, as always, though they seemed gauzier than usual.
Except for the man. He moved through the people, his journey purposeful somehow when everyone else moved lethargically. He came to a stop in front of her. He was handsome, with blond hair and blue eyes filled with urgency and clarity. His presence infused her with warmth. Had he come to lead her onward?
She wasn’t afraid. But when he reached for her, set his hands on her shoulders, violence shattered the peace. A barrage of images flashed through her mind, so fast she couldn’t hold onto any of them. She could feel them, though, shock and pain and fear, especially fear at the end. Then she was falling, her arms flailing, a scream caught in her throat. A scream that was her name. Before she hit the ground, she felt a gust of air rush through her body.
When she came to, she hardly had a chance to register shock that she’d been in a coma for four days. And that her mother, whom she hadn’t seen in three years, had played doting mom for the first time in Rita’s life. She could hardly register the humility of being an inconvenience to everyone. She could vaguely remember the place of bad memories. There was something else, too. Something important. But she couldn’t quite remember.
Praise & Reviews
“Tina Wainscott always delivers … I love to curl up with anything she writes.”
— New York Times Bestselling author Heather Graham
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“The move to harder-edged suspense has certainly paid off for the multitalented Wainscott. She has joined the ranks of top-notch purveyors of gripping and intense suspense.”
— RT Book Reviews, 4.5 Stars, TOP PICK!
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“WHAT SHE DOESN’T KNOW is suspenseful, tense drama of intrigue and deception. Ms. Wainscott does a wonderful job of keeping you in suspense about the true identity of the killer. With surprising twists and turns, this reviewer wasn’t disappointed.”
— A Romance Review