"Sometimes family secrets can be deadly."
Reviewed by Lynn Cunningham
Posted December 15, 2013
Suspense
Elizabeth Hampton is still in the process of figuring out
her life. She has a plan that she's following pretty much to
the letter and is rather satisfied with how things are
progressing. The thing that Elizabeth doesn't foresee is
that someone would murder her mother, leaving her with the
responsibility of caring for her adult brother, Ronnie, who
has Down's syndrome. Worse yet, the police believe that
Ronnie is the one who killed their mother.
Elizabeth knows that this cannot possibly be true and she
sets about to prove that Ronnie did not strangle their
mother to death. What she does discover in the process is
much worse than she could ever have imagined, however.
Opening up the Pandora's Box of secrets that seem to
suddenly abound in her family also puts Elizabeth in a kind
of danger that she never would have thought she would face.
I discovered author David Bell through reading Cemetery
Girl, another of his books. He instantly became one of my
new favorite writers so I was excited to read NEVER COME
BACK. I wasn't disappointed. He had me hooked from the very
first page and then carried me right along with Elizabeth as
she conducted her own investigation into who had killed her
mother. There's a feeling of being right there in the middle
of things that I loved.
David Bell creates an atmosphere of suspense while showing
that families aren't perfect. For example, Elizabeth loves
her brother but she had never wanted to be responsible for
his care because she had her own life to live. That doesn't
make her a bad person; just an honest one. It turns out that
there's plenty of honesty to go around as the book
progresses.
While NEVER COME BACK offers a great deal of suspense and
made me anticipate each new page, it carries a lot of
realism as well. Many readers may find parts of themselves
in the characters depicted and will easily relate with
Elizabeth's dilemma as well as her quest to find answers.
David Bell offers a book in NEVER COME BACK that should be
read by anyone that enjoys being caught up in a story to the
extinct that it becomes a part of them.
SUMMARY
Elizabeth Hampton is consumed by grief when her mother dies
unexpectedly. Leslie Hampton cared for Elizabeth’s troubled
brother Ronnie’s special needs, assuming Elizabeth would
take him in when the time came. But Leslie’s sudden death
propels Elizabeth into a world of danger and double lives
that undoes everything she thought she knew.... When police discover that Leslie was strangled, they
immediately suspect that one of Ronnie’s outbursts took a
tragic turn. Elizabeth can’t believe that her brother is
capable of murder, but who else could have had a motive to
kill their quiet, retired mother? More questions arise when a stranger is named in Leslie’s
will: a woman also named Elizabeth. As the family’s secrets
unravel, a man from Leslie’s past who claims to have all the
answers shows up, but those answers might put Elizabeth and
those she loves the most in mortal danger.
ExcerptChapter OneI saw people in uniform first--two cops, two paramedics.
They were standing in the living room of my mom's small
house, their thumbs hooked into their belts, muttering to
one another. Small talk and jokes. One of them, a cop about
my age, laughed about something, then looked up and saw me
in the doorway. "Ma'am?" he said. A question. It meant: Do you have any
business here? The other cop nodded. He understood who I was and what I was
doing there. "Are you . . . ?" he said. "I'm Elizabeth Hampton," I said. "This is my mother's house." "Of course," the second cop said. He held up his index
finger. "Just one moment." "My mom," I said. "I got a call from a detective. He said--" I didn't feel well. My body felt liquid and loose, as if my
joints were made of rubber and water. Everything shook. I
was scared. I leaned against the doorjamb, trying not to
collapse.
The cop left, went down the hallway toward the bedrooms. One
of the paramedics, a thick, barrel-chested guy, his arms
bulging against his short sleeves, came over and steadied me. "Here," he said. "Sit down." I didn't move of my own volition. He moved me. Gently. And
then I was sitting on the familiar couch, the one my mother
had owned for close to fifteen years, more than half my life.
"Is that better?" the paramedic said. "A detective called," I said. "He said my mom . . . He said
there was a problem, and I needed to get over here right away." "Just sit back," the paramedic said. "Is she okay?" "The police will talk to you." But I knew. I knew. They didn't call you to the scene. They
didn't stand around talking--laughing even. They didn't do
those things unless there was nothing else to do.
Unless someone was dead. I said the words to myself: Mom is dead. I looked around the small, familiar living room. I grew up
in that house, lived there until I was eighteen and left
Ohio for college. Everything was neat and orderly as always.
Vacuumed and dusted. No clutter on the entertainment center.
It never changed. Next to Mom's chair sat one book of her
crossword puzzles, a pen, reading glasses. Next to the chair
a shelf with family pictures. My dad when he was alive. A
wedding photo of the two of them, looking both nervous and
happy. Also a photo of me and my brother. "Shit," I said. "My brother. Ronnie. Is he here? He must be
here." "He's fine," the paramedic said. "He's in his room with one
of the officers." "Is he okay?" "He's doing fine." A man and a woman emerged from the hallway. The man was
middle-aged, almost bald, fit, and quite tall. He wore a
suit coat over a polo shirt, and his movements seemed
nervous and imprecise. His head turned from side to side,
checking out everything in the room, the people and the
objects. He was birdlike, an intelligent but edgy bird. The
woman looked young, not much older than me. She was black
with a short afro. She wore pants and a button-down lavender
shirt. She wasn't very tall, and even though she walked with
confidence, she stayed a pace behind the man and let him do
the talking. Next to him, she looked centered and calm. Even. "Are you Elizabeth Hampton?" the man asked. He didn't meet
my eye. When he spoke, his hands moved through the air,
turning over and over as though trying to crank something to
life. "Yes. I want to know what happened to my mother." "I'm Detective Richland," the man said. "This is Detective
Post." He made a gesture that pointed somewhere in the
direction of his partner. "I'm the one who called you earlier." "Is my mother dead?" I asked. "When's the last time you spoke to her?" Richland asked. He
seemed more focused when he asked me that question. His eyes
landed and held on mine for a moment. "Is she dead?" I asked. I heard the edge in my voice, the
sharpness. I reached for that tone with my students when I
needed to. I doubted it would work with cops, but I tried
anyway. "I just want to know what happened and why I've been
called here. Is my mother dead?" Richland took a moment to answer. Then he nodded his head.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he said. His words sounded
practiced and routine. Did he stand in front of a mirror and
run through them? But I'd known all along. Even still, hearing the words from
a stranger brought it home. A gasp escaped from my mouth, an
exhalation of disbelief. I felt as if I were sinking into
the couch. I stared at the floor, then at those glasses next
to her chair. The glasses, such a simple object, so
representative of her, suddenly seemed unmoored and cut off
from the rest of the world. They looked like an artifact
from another time. She was gone. Mom is dead. "Can I get you some water, Ms. Hampton?" Post asked. I couldn't answer. I didn't say anything. I kept staring at
the glasses, then the photo of my dad. He was gone. She was
gone. She's gone. Like magic, Post was at my side, handing me a glass of
water, one of Mom's familiar, dated orange glasses. I took a
long gulp. It helped. I gulped some more, then took two deep
breaths.
Richland moved closer to me. He stood over me, his head
almost reaching the ceiling. He must have been close to six
feet eight inches tall. Could a cop be that size and still
do his job? "I'm sorry, Ms. Hampton," he said. "But we need
to ask you some questions." He still sounded robotic. Programmed. "Did she have a stroke?" I asked. "She had high blood
pressure, but she always took her medicine." "When is the last time you talked to her?" Richland asked again. I held my water glass tight. I sensed Richland's
anticipation. An easy enough question, but I couldn't answer it. I stumbled over my words. "I don't . . . I'm not sure . . . it's been . . ." "How long?" Richland asked, his voice flat. "Just a rough
guess." "I guess . . ." I took another sip. "We had an argument." I looked up at the two detectives, hoping for sympathy,
maybe even a reprieve from the questions. They both looked
back at me, impassive, endlessly patient. "It's probably been about . . . six weeks," I said. Their faces remained the same, but Richland asked, "Six
weeks since you've seen your mother?" His hands fluttered.
"Or six weeks since you've talked to her?" "Both," I said. "And you live here in Dover, right?" Post asked. I liked her better. She seemed calming, encouraging. She
seemed to understand that my mother had just died. "Yes, I do. I grew up here. Then I came back last year to go
to graduate school." "You go to Dalton U?" Post asked. "Here in town?" "Yes. I'm studying history." "I went there too," Post said. She looked at Richland. "We
both did, didn't we, Ted?" There was a pause. He ignored her attempt to make a
connection, or else he just didn't pick up on her cue.
Richland then asked, "Do you mind explaining the nature of
this argument you had with your mother?" "Why are you asking me these questions?" I asked. "You say
my mother is dead. She's sixty-nine years old. She lived
like a monk. She didn't go anywhere. She didn't do anything
except take care of my brother. Why are you saying these
things? What happened to her?" Richland and Post exchanged looks then. Something unspoken
passed between them, and Richland nodded, as though giving
his approval to a task they needed to do. He looked at me again. His eyes settled on mine and didn't
waver. It made me think all of it--the fluttering hands, the
nervous gestures--was some kind of act, something to keep
the people he spoke to off balance. Because his voice
sounded steady and sure as he delivered the next piece of
news to me. "We're treating your mother's death as a possible homicide,"
he said. "That's why we need to ask you these questions." The glass slipped out of my hand and hit the carpet with a
dull thunk. Chapter Two "The paramedics who responded to the 911 call noticed some
irregular bruising on your mother's body." Richland
continued to speak in a flat, even tone, as though he were
telling me what the weather was like or relaying the score
of an unimportant sporting event. His hands fluttered less.
"They contacted us to perform a preliminary investigation." His words flew past me like flung rubber bands. Post came in
from the kitchen with a paper towel and dabbed at the water
by my feet. "I can clean that up," I said. "It's fine," Post said. "You've had a shock." "What kind of bruises?" I asked. "Was she beat up? Did
someone beat her to death?" "I really can't talk about that--" "She's an older woman. A mom. Who would hurt her like that?" "We haven't confirmed a cause of death yet," Post said.
"We're not even sure it's a homicide."
"Homicide," I said. The word sounded offensive to my ears,
brutal and nasty. I wasn't ready to associate it with my mother. "It's early still," Richland said. "Give us time to sort
things out." He did something with his mouth. His lips
moved, and some of his teeth showed. I think he was trying
to smile at me. "Let's all be patient." "I want to see my brother," I said. "I need to see him, to
make sure he's okay." Post stood up, the limp towel in her hand. Richland nodded, the smile-thing still on his face. "He's in
his room." "And I want to see Mom. I want to see her before they take
her away." "I'll take you to your brother," Richland said. He waited for me to stand up. Detective Richland led me to the door of Ronnie's bedroom
and stepped aside. But before he did, he said, "We're going
to have to do some additional processing of the house. We
started before you arrived, but we have some more to do." "Processing?" I asked. "Photographs of the scene. Fingerprints." "Okay," I said, although I wasn't sure what I was even
referring to. Ronnie was twenty-seven, just one year older than me. He was
a high-functioning adult with Down syndrome. Before I went
in there, I looked to the end of the hall, to my mother's
bedroom. I saw the back of someone wearing a Harris County
Medical Examiner Windbreaker. I couldn't see anything else. Ronnie kept his room immaculate with a militarylike
efficiency. His bed was always made, his clothes and things
always put away and out of sight. Part of this came from my
mother and her lifelong quest for order and cleanliness in
her house, but part of it came from Ronnie's dedication to
routine, his determination to master any task handed to him.
He controlled his living space. It was his entirely. Ronnie sat on the side of the made bed, his hands folded in
his lap. Down syndrome kept him shorter than me--only about
five foot three--and he possessed the characteristic short
neck and flattened facial features common to those who have
the condition. He also had the dark brown hair and dark
brown eyes that could only have come from our father, who
Ronnie resembled a great deal. He looked up when he saw me,
his face expectant. "Oh, Ronnie," I said. He didn't move from his spot until I sat down next to him on
the bed. Then he let me fold him into my arms. He pressed
his face into my neck, and I pulled him tight. "Mom's gone," he said. "I know." We sat like that for a long time. Then he said, "They won't
tell me anything. They won't tell me what went wrong." "Me either." Ronnie could hold a conversation with just about anybody,
despite having a slight impairment that forced him to wear
hearing aids in both ears. He worked a part-time job at a
local store, bagging groceries and stocking shelves. He
managed to get himself there every day by riding the bus or
walking when the weather was nice. But he still lived with
Mom, which was more her choice than his. She protected
him--hovered over him, really. I knew her death would hit
him harder than I could imagine. He didn't like disruptions
to his routine. He didn't respond well to emergencies or
sudden changes. I had no idea what would come of him. I waited as long as I could before I asked another question.
"What happened, Ronnie?" I said. "Did she collapse? Did she
say anything?" He didn't answer. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it yet." "I found her on the floor in her room," he said. "She was unconscious?" "I wasn't home," he said. "I came home and she was on the
floor." I looked at the large digital clock next to Ronnie's bed.
Ten forty-five p.m. The police had called me about twenty
minutes earlier, which meant-- "You weren't home? Where were you? Were you at work?" He sat up and shook his head. He used his thick fingers to
reach into his pants pocket and draw out a neatly folded
handkerchief. He wiped his nose and eyes. "I was at Mrs.
Morgan's house." Mrs. Morgan was the elderly--very elderly--widow who lived
two doors down. She sometimes "watched" Ronnie when Mom had
things to do, although Ronnie was perfectly capable of being
left on his own for long stretches of time. "Why were you there?" I asked. "Did Mom go somewhere?" Ronnie shrugged, still holding the handkerchief. "I don't
know. She told me to go to Mrs. Morgan's house around six
o'clock. She didn't call for me, and Mrs. Morgan fell
asleep. So I walked home . . ." His voice trailed off. "And you came in and found Mom?" He nodded. "I called 911 like I was supposed to. I did it
right away." "Of course," I said. "You did the right thing." Before I could dwell too long on the horror my brother must
have felt when he found our mom unresponsive on the floor,
Detective Post stepped into the doorway of Ronnie's room.
"Ms. Hampton?" she said. "Could I speak with you?" I looked at Ronnie. He seemed withdrawn. Sad. "Sure," I said. I hugged Ronnie, pulling him close to me again. His body
felt stiff under my embrace. I let him go and stood up. I
followed Post into the hallway, and again my eyes tracked to
Mom's bedroom. Someone had closed the door. "We're ready to remove your mother's body from the house,"
Detective Post said. "I wondered if maybe you wanted to
close the door to your brother's room or take him out of the
house while we do it." "I want to see her before you take her away." Post pursed her lips. "Are you sure about that?" "Is she damaged in some way?" I asked. "I thought you said
she wasn't beaten." "There are bruises, but they're not consistent with a
beating," Post said. "It's just . . . it can be upsetting."
She looked me in the eye and I didn't waver. "But if you
want to, I think you should." The detective walked down the hallway to the door of Mom's
bedroom and knocked lightly. She looked back at me. "Would
you like me to sit with your brother?" "He's fine," I said. "He's not a child." Someone opened the door of Mom's room, and Post stuck her
head in. She said something, then stepped back, leaving the
door open. "Okay," she said. "They're finished in there. You can go on in."
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