It's One of Us: A Novel of Suspense


 
 
 
 Praise for It’s One of Us
 “J.T. Ellison is one of my favorite authors. I eagerly await everything she writes. And in It’s One of Us she is at the very top of her formidable game. Don’t miss this layered, emotional, and twisting thrill ride.”
 —Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of Secluded Cabin Sleeps Six
 “One of the most compelling psychological suspense stories I’ve read in years.”
 —Jacquelyn Mitchard, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Deep End of the Ocean
 “It’s One of Us sets a stunning new gold standard in psychological suspense. At once an extraordinary, unpredictable, absolutely riveting thriller and a fiercely insightful, emotional journey, this is psychological suspense at its most enthralling and intense.”
 —Jayne Ann Krentz
 “Ellison takes her trademark gripping, breathless thriller, adds an incredibly unique premise and delivers a novel that’s also a deeply poignant story about our deepest desire for love, family and happiness. Brimming with tension and raw emotion, it’s the perfect book club pick. I’ll be thinking about this book for a very long time.”
 —Hannah Mary McKinnon, internationally bestselling author of Never Coming Home
 “Secrets and lies abound, relationships are tested, and the twists keep coming. A signature thriller told from multiple points of view with an added layer of emotional depth that held me captive until the end. This is a must read.”
 —Kerry Lonsdale, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post and Amazon Charts bestselling author
 
 
 It’s One of Us
 J.T. Ellison
 
 
 
 J.T. Ellison is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than twenty-five novels, and the Emmy® Award–winning cohost of the literary TV show A Word on Words. With millions of books in print, her work has won critical acclaim and prestigious awards. Her titles have been optioned for television and published in twenty-eight countries. J.T. lives with her husband and twin kittens in Nashville, where she is hard at work on her next novel.
 www.JTEllison.com
 
 
 For our starlight fireflies.
 And for Randy, who was there for it all.
 
 
 Contents
 Prologue
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24
 Chapter 25
 Chapter 26
 Chapter 27
 Chapter 28
 Chapter 29
 Chapter 30
 Chapter 31
 Chapter 32
 Chapter 33
 Chapter 34
 Chapter 35
 Chapter 36
 Chapter 37
 Chapter 38
 Chapter 39
 Chapter 40
 Chapter 41
 Chapter 42
 Chapter 43
 Chapter 44
 Chapter 45
 Chapter 46
 Chapter 47
 Chapter 48
 Epilogue
 The Man With Many Faces: Documentary Script (Draft)
 Author’s Note
 Acknowledgments
 
 
 PROLOGUE
 A STORY
 A woman is missing.
 Unbeknownst to those who love her, a placid lake holds her deep in its clutches. Its inhabitants watch her drift and dance in tune to gentle currents. They sneak little bites of her flesh, becoming one with this intrusion until they are no longer startled by her. They coexist. They play. They nestle deep in her hair and build ecosystems in the crevasses of her body. She gives of herself; she becomes their home. Generations are born that never knew a time without her. She is as much a part of their lives as the water around them, as familiar to the decomposed effluvia as the fallen trees and the limestone lake bed.
 When the sun shines at just the right angle, and a small breeze ruffles the water, those magic days after heavy rains when the algae blooms disappear to the edges of the bank, the shadow of her can be seen from the surface. A ghostly flicker; here, then gone.
 She exists for them now.
 
 A woman—missing, or otherwise—is best viewed in parts. It takes away her power. It eliminates her strength. If she is broken into pieces, dehumanized, depersonalized, she is no longer a threat. She is only eyes. Breasts. Hips. The number on the tag in the back of her jeans. The color of her hair, especially when enhanced. Bejeweled, adorned, shaved, plucked, contoured. Acceptable only when twisted into someone else’s ideal.
 A woman is told so many things. Cross the street when you feel uncomfortable. Smile, you’re so much prettier when you smile. Don’t wear that ponytail. Learn to defend yourself. Here, drink this. You said yes. He didn’t mean it.
 A woman feels so many things. More than emotions. The hand on the shoulder, knuckles grazing a breast. The accidental nudge from behind when bent over. The laughs, the whistles, the fumbled passes, the never-ending worry, the dirty jokes. The stares.
 Yes, when viewed in parts, a woman no longer matters.
 And sometimes, as now, this kills her.
 She cannot rise with a boot on her chest. She cannot move when her body is straddled by an immense weight. She cannot breathe when large, rough hands encircle her delicate throat and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.
 A woman always knows when the end has come. She has always known it would end this way. Scrabbling in the dirt with a beast larger, bigger, more determined. Be it man or psyche, disease or time, she fights to live because she must.
 Breathe. Live. Survive.
 Women are, at birth and death, closest to their basest instincts.
 Women begin, and end. Alive, they are a compilation of moments. But when they’re dead, if there’s something in between, something good, or something bad, or something left behind, ultimately, it doesn’t matter.
 
 This particular missing woman, this compilation, this aggregate of body and hair and smile and sweet and brains and misconstrued affirmations, a sum of her parts, is no longer.
 And near her, a man despairs.
 He’s never been this close to someone dead before.
 He can’t look at her, not directly, not without remembering everything, so he looks at her in parts.
 Feet, bare, toenails painted a