SEE NO MORE
A Novel
by
W.B. Dineen
See No More
By Whitney Dineen writing as W.B. Dineen
http://whitneydineen.com/newsletter/
33 Partners Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. Names, character, locales, and situations are purely the work of the author’s imagination via the voices in her head. Any resemblance to people, events, places, is purely coincidental, honest.
Copyright © Whitney Dineen in 2019. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, or scanned, photographed, put on social media, or distributed or printed in electronic form without express permission from the author. But let’s face it, if you loved it, she’s probably going to let you tweet small portions. You still have to check with her first.
Made in the United States of America
July 2019
Print Edition ISBN-13: 9781009330032
Early Praise for See No More
“Dineen writes in a sharp, lively prose that is equally comfortable rendering emotional domestic moments, flashy action sequences, and humorous observations. The premise is wonderfully mysterious and immediately gripping. An expansive thriller that satisfies every absent-father fantasy.”—Kirkus Reviews
“This is a beautiful story that explores themes of family, parenthood, friendship, political intrigue, and the fight between good and evil. See No More is simply awesome and Whitney Dineen’s writing is impeccable, keeping it real and engrossing.” —Readers Favorite, 5/5 stars
“One of the year's best thrillers, See No More is a near-perfect blend of sci-fi and spy fiction. Credit author W.B. Dineen with creating a powerful novel about personal identity wrapped within a breathtaking thriller. Sure to please fans of both Douglas E. Richards and Daniel Silva.” —BestThrillers.com
“See No More takes you on an emotional journey stretching boundaries of belief. You can’t help but wonder if there is a seed of truth in the conspiracies Dineen writes about. The idea chills your blood and makes you see the world through different eyes. A must read for Dan Brown fans!” —USA Today Bestselling Author, Diana Orgain
“The good thing about science is that it's true whether or not you believe in it.”
— Neil deGrasse Tyson
This book is dedicated to Reiner Bohlen, a man who taught me to reach for the stars and believe in the unbelievable.
Thanks for showing me how to dream big, Dad. I look forward to more wonderful conversations in the next life.
Table of 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 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
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
I was raised on the angst-driven music of female singers from the nineties. Paula Cole, Shawn Colvin, and Sarah McLachlan constantly crooned through the speakers of the living room stereo, making our little bungalow in Pasadena, California, the very epicenter of female yearning. In 1997, my mom was a thirty-three-year-old single mother of two who was desperately on the lookout for her own happy ending. The only reason it took her so long to find it was that she was looking for it in a man, not from within. The summer before seventh grade, I came to hate Paula Cole’s song, “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?” with the burning passion of a thousand suns.
I was twelve and already convinced men were not, nor should they ever be, the source of a woman’s happiness. Case in point, my own dad who disappeared when I was eight and never looked back. We never knew why he left or what happened to him. His note just said he was leaving and that was it, no more Dad. My mom cried for what seemed like three years straight before she divorced him and began a painstaking search for another knight in shining armor.
While my mom eventually moved on with her life, I never fully could. The dad I knew loved his family and would do anything for us. He wasn’t the kind of person who could walk away. Even though I was a little kid when he left, I knew this with my whole heart. I always wondered what happened to him, and as much as I try to deny it, I still do.
I used to make up wild stories about why my father had gone, like he’d been kidnapped by pirates or he was on an adventure to unearth buried treasure. By the time I was a teenager, I widened my scope to include the possibility of another woman. I also briefly flirted with the idea of alien abduction, but none of these reasons explained the letter he left behind.
After my mom filed for divorce, she went to work as a cashier at a grocery store across from Huntington Hospital. I guess she figured she had a better chance of finding a potential mate and surrogate father for her children in a location single men needed to frequent for survival.
ther.
I’m currently the age my mom was during the summer of Paula Cole. I’m single, and I’ve never been married. Unlike Bethanie, I went on to graduate school before making my career my life. I’ve developed a music therapy program for children with autism, and travel around the country implementing it in different schools. I want to help kids who have the odds stacked against them, because God knows childhood can be hard, even if you have everything going for you.
Why am I telling you all this? Because my childhood shaped my life. I’m the woman I am today because of choices other people made. My father abandoned us, and mom gave up on him. I’ve tried not to. Even though, somewhere along the line, my love and hurt turned into anger and resolve. I still look for my dad everywhere I go: the grocery store, airports, movie theaters, the gym. I’m convinced that one day he’s going to walk back into my life with a good explanation for why he left.
CHAPTER 1
My sister, Jenny, and I are sitting on the couch watching Doris Day and Rock Hudson in Pillow Talk. We’ve already seen this film at least twenty times, but we laugh and giggle like every time is the first. The costumes, the colors, the double entendres—we love them all!
Jen grabs a cracker. “Pass the strawberry jam.” Our mom and Chuck go to Oxnard every June and pick more strawberries than all the farm workers in the adjacent fields combined. They pick for hours, and when they’re done, they drive home to Pasadena and make jam. It’s their thing.
I smear a gooey strawberry on a salted cracker. “Don’t tell Mom, but I think this is their best batch yet.”
Jen laughs. “Your secret’s safe with me.” She pushes my feet off her lap and eyes my new drapes. “I know I’ve told you this a million times, but I love your house.”
I Vanna-White my arms around the room, spokesmodeling it for her. “The main reason I bought this place is because it’s mid-century modern and exactly the style of house I bet Doris lived in during her heyday.”
“Makes perfect sense,” she responds, supporting my questionable admission. Buying a house because you can imagine your favorite old-time movie star living there is hardly sound reasoning for such a hefty investment.
The main reason I love Doris Day movies so much is because she always played the part of a modern working woman. In the 1960s, that was no small feat. Her characters never sat back and expected someone else to make things right. I like to think of myself as her modern-day counterpart. I alone am responsible for my life. If things don’t go according to plan, I only have myself to blame. And believe me, I’m not about to let myself down.
Jen breaks my train of thought by screwing the lid back on the jam. “Let’s not fill up on crackers. Our dinner should be arriving any time now.” We’ve ordered sweet and sour chicken and broccoli beef from our local hang out. I drool in a Pavlovian response.
As I pop a final bite into my mouth, my phone blares out the creepy Twilight Zone ringtone I’ve programmed into it for unknown numbers. I pick it up with every intention of sending it straight to voicemail, but for some inexplicable reason, when I see the 541 area code I answer. “Hello, this Kate Randolph.”
The voice on the other end of the line is deep, masculine, and slightly tentative. It hits a nerve that causes my arms to erupt in goosebumps. “Miss Randolph, my name’s Jake Sorenson. I’m a good friend of your father’s. I’m calling with some news.”
Fingers of dread and excitement crawl up my neck. I don’t want to be interested in news about my dad, even though I obviously am. Yet, now that the moment I’ve waited decades for has finally arrived, I’m not sure I can handle it. I try to backpedal before sinking into the quicksand of my escalating emotions.
Trying to act tough, I reply, “Look, Jake (I say his name like it’s an alias), I’m pretty sure you don’t have anything to tell me about Jeffrey Randolph that I have any interest in hearing.” Liar!
Before I can hang up, he declares, “Jeff died yesterday. He asked that I call you personally to let you know when that happened.”
I don’t know what I thought the news would be, but I sure didn’t expect that. And while I know I just said I don’t care about my dad, the tears filling my eyes belie that confession. I clear my throat and after a moment reply, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
A bit choked up, he replies, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Regaining some of my innate fire, I square my shoulders and wipe my tears. “As far as I’m concerned, it was Jeffrey’s loss. He could have had his children by his side when he passed, if he’d ever bothered to form a relationship with us—had he not abandoned us.”
Jen catches my eye in interest. Clearly, she’s deduced our real dad is dead, but unlike me, the news doesn’t seem to be rattling her too much. She was only two when he left and grew up thinking of Chuck as her dad.
The stranger clears his throat. “I have some papers for you, and there are some legal matters to attend to, so it would be helpful if you could come up to the Willamette Valley sometime soon to deal with the estate. Friday would be ideal. The funeral is on Saturday.”
I want to go to Oregon about as much as I want to marry an Elvis impersonator in Vegas, which is to say, not at all. How this man can expect me to attend my father’s funeral is beyond me. What kind of scene would that be anyway? Me and room full of people who actually knew him. It has bad made for TV movie written all over it and trust me, starring in that kind of drivel is not in my life’s script.
“Listen, Jake (again said as though his name is really Aristotle or Xander—anything but what he claims it is), I have zero intention of attending the funeral for a man I hardly knew.” Then, before I can say anything else, the last ounce of composure seeps out of my body. I crumple like a tissue in an angry fist.
Jenny grabs the phone. “This is Kate’s friend. (I’m sure she doesn’t say ‘sister,’ because she doesn’t want to get into a conversation with this man.) Why don’t I give you her email address and you can send her all the pertinent details?” She recites it, and before I know it, she’s off the phone and enfolding me in a big hug.
Life is a journey that just when you think you know what the plan is, it pulls the rug straight out from under you. I’ve witnessed it time and again. I’ve always watched people like a scientist trying to uncover the secrets of the universe. I’m observant by nature, always have been. I think that’s largely due to the fact that starting at a young age, I was acutely aware I needed complete control over my destiny. If I could figure out where other people went wrong, maybe I could save myself additional heartache.
Jenny hugs me tightly. “Oh, Kate, I’m so sorry. I know how much our dad meant to you. I know you never gave up hope of seeing him again.”
Abandonment is a strong glue. Jen doesn’t feel it as keenly as I do, but part of the reason we bonded as intensely as we did was due to our father’s absence. She was so young when he left, she didn’t really know him. She didn’t know the little things, like how he always chewed two sticks of gum instead of one, and that he preferred cinnamon to peppermint. She didn’t know the only dill pickles he ate were the ones in the refrigerator section, or that he loved beets—particularly in borscht or beet hummus.
Jen didn’t know how much Dad loved to swing and that he would push me so high I knew one day I’d fly over the top of the trees. She didn’t know he liked to go for bike rides. She didn’t remember him reading us books at night or singing lullabies. Jen didn’t remember that Dad vaguely smelled of pine needles, and he gave the best hugs in the whole wide world.
My sister’s never missed our father. I’ve never stopped.
CHAPTER 2
I call the office and ask my assistant, Brittany, to reschedule my week. While I haven’t decided whether I’m going to the funeral, I do know I’d be worthless at work. I need to think and try to sort out my emotions. How do I begin to process the information that I’ll never see my father again? And why in the world did I ever think I would?
Over the years, I’ve done enou
gh Google searches on Jeffrey to beat the band. I’ve scoured data bases, real estate holdings, and even prison rosters, but have come up dry every time. I’ve searched university websites, in case he kept teaching physics, like he did at Caltech, in Pasadena, California. I’ve even gone so far as to hire two different private investigators to look into his disappearance. As far as the world is concerned, Jeffrey Randolph ceased to exist the moment he walked out on my family twenty-five years ago. I refused to accept he was no more.
Now, I find out my instincts were right all along. He was alive and well and living in Oregon up until two days ago, which I can’t imagine. What set of circumstances made him move to the state right next to ours and never even try to get in touch with us?
I spend the morning doing laundry and long neglected ironing. I clean the garage and reorganize the kitchen cabinets. I scrub the grout in the bathroom until it sparkles and even wash out the inside of all the garbage cans. Grief has turned me into Howard Hughes. I can’t seem to get things clean enough. I’m sure a mental health practitioner would have some ideas about why that is, but even I know enough to realize I’m trying to bring order to chaos.
By the time I pull my shoes out of the bedroom closet, I realize I’ve decided to go to Oregon. Even though it’s only Wednesday and the funeral isn’t until Saturday, I need to walk on the ground my dad walked on. I need to try to understand why he chose to leave us.
I pick up the phone and punch in my sister’s number. “Jenny, it’s me.” I take a beat before declaring, “I’m going.”
“You should,” she answers. “It’ll help you deal with your loss.”
The breath I release sounds like a hiss, as though my lungs are filled with a bottomless supply of stagnant air. “I take it that means you’re not coming with me.”
“Oh, Kate, why would I? Jeffrey was your dad. I don’t even remember him.” I knew she wouldn’t come, but I’m still distraught to hear it. I toss out a few meaningless words before disconnecting.