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Where Helen Lies — Rae Foley
THE SILENT SCREAM
There it is again…the nightmare that takes her down endless halls, running, running for her life…the scarred sightless face that stares up at her, only a silent scream from the truth.
Who is she? The letter in the tacky straw handbag she carries says H. Carter. Helen? Helen. The spectacular diamond rings says Rich. The ill-fitting wedding ban says Married. And the voice ringing in her head says “Run!”
WHERE HELEN LIES -- a stunning novel of romance, intrigue and cliff-hanging suspense!
In her nightmares she would be running down endless corridors, trying to escape from a blazing fire, or fleeing down dark halls from something even more terrifying than the roaring flames. And there was always the dead woman with a scarred face, staring up at her with sightless eyes.
When the girl awoke in her drab little hotel room, all she could remember of her past was leaning against the side of a building, trembling and clutching a cheap straw bag. Before that there was nothing. The straw bag held a money clip with a few bills, a newspaper clipping of a want ad for a research assistant, and an empty envelope addressed to H. Carter at an address on West 91st Street in New York. She must be H. Carter, the girl decided, Mrs. Carter, because she wore a wedding band as well as a ring with a huge diamond.
The address on the envelope took her to a fire-gutted wreck of a hotel. Now all she had was time and the want ad clipping -- Richardson Research. She would go there.
There it is again…the nightmare that takes her down endless halls, running, running for her life…the scarred sightless face that stares up at her, only a silent scream from the truth.
Who is she? The letter in the tacky straw handbag she carries says H. Carter. Helen? Helen. The spectacular diamond rings says Rich. The ill-fitting wedding ban says Married. And the voice ringing in her head says “Run!”
WHERE HELEN LIES -- a stunning novel of romance, intrigue and cliff-hanging suspense!
In her nightmares she would be running down endless corridors, trying to escape from a blazing fire, or fleeing down dark halls from something even more terrifying than the roaring flames. And there was always the dead woman with a scarred face, staring up at her with sightless eyes.
When the girl awoke in her drab little hotel room, all she could remember of her past was leaning against the side of a building, trembling and clutching a cheap straw bag. Before that there was nothing. The straw bag held a money clip with a few bills, a newspaper clipping of a want ad for a research assistant, and an empty envelope addressed to H. Carter at an address on West 91st Street in New York. She must be H. Carter, the girl decided, Mrs. Carter, because she wore a wedding band as well as a ring with a huge diamond.
The address on the envelope took her to a fire-gutted wreck of a hotel. Now all she had was time and the want ad clipping -- Richardson Research. She would go there.
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