A Girl Named Anna Read online

  If your whole life is a lie, who can you trust?

  Raised in a quiet rural community, Anna has always been taught that her mamma’s rules are the only path to follow. But, on her eighteenth birthday, she defies her mamma for the first time in her life and goes to Astroland. She’s never been allowed to visit Florida’s biggest theme park, so why, when she arrives, does everything about it seem so familiar? And is there a connection to the mysterious letter she receives that same day—a letter addressing her by a different name?

  Rosie has grown up in the shadow of the missing sister she barely remembers, her family fractured by years of searching without leads. Now, on the fifteenth anniversary of her sister’s disappearance, the media circus resumes as the funds dedicated to the search dry up, and Rosie vows to uncover the truth herself. But can she find the answer before it tears her family apart?

  Winner of the Daily Mail First Novel Competition, A Girl Named Anna is a psychologically riveting read that introduces Lizzy Barber as an outstanding new voice in suspense fiction.

  Praise for A Girl Named Anna

  “A dark, addictive read, with a real heart at its core. I loved it.”

  —Amy Lloyd, bestselling author of The Innocent Wife

  “As convincing as it was gripping, a fabulous debut thriller.”

  —Sunday Mirror

  “A compelling read that’s itching to be made into a TV two-parter.”

  —RED

  “Dark, disturbing and powerful, the gripping plot is full of twists, turns and suspense. You will not want to put it down.”

  —Candis

  “One of those thrillers in which it is almost impossible not to flick ahead.”

  —Alison Flood, The Observer

  “Provides a clever, unexpected solution, by way of some fine writing.”

  —The Times

  “Skillfully-plotted...the journey to the truth is one of high tension.”

  —Sunday Times Crime Club

  “It’s the big emotions this book evokes that make you keep reading.”

  —Good Housekeeping

  “Barber has created characters with sufficient appeal to fuel real suspense.”

  —The Guardian

  “With well-judged interweaving narratives and plenty of rich description, this is an absorbing and promising debut.”

  —Spectator

  “A gripping story about loss, memory and love.”

  —Best

  “Compelling, emotional and haunting in ways beyond your imagination, this story is everything I hoped it would be and more. A must-read for 2019.”

  —Books of All Kinds

  “If you like compulsive psychological dramas with emotionally complex characters, make this your next read.”

  —CultureFly

  “A gripping one-sitting read... This is a deft and assured debut novel from Lizzy Barber.”

  —Shots Magazine

  “I ripped through it in no time at all and thought the writing was wonderful and the storyline gripping.”

  —Lesley Kara, author of The Rumour

  “You won’t put it down until you finish it!”

  —Prima

  A Girl Named Anna

  A novel

  Lizzy Barber

  For Mummy: for the children’s encyclopedias, and for being my A–Z.

  Contents

  EPIGRAPH

  INTRODUCTION

  ANNA

  ROSIE

  ANNA

  ROSIE

  ANNA

  ROSIE

  ANNA

  ROSIE

  ANNA

  ROSIE

  ANNA

  ROSIE

  ANNA

  ROSIE

  ANNA

  ROSIE

  ANNA

  ROSIE

  ANNA

  ROSIE

  ANNA

  ROSIE

  ANNA

  ROSIE

  ANNA

  ROSIE

  ANNA

  ROSIE

  ANNA

  ROSIE

  CONCLUSION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I felt a cleavage in my mind

  As if my brain had split;

  I tried to match it, seam by seam,

  But could not make them fit.

  —Emily Dickinson

  He watches the silhouette of her body slicing through the dawn, until the horizon claims her completely. With the pads of his fingers touching, poised as if about to make the sign of the cross, he draws an errant gray hair away from his temple, smooths the waist of his white linen suit.

  Behind him: chaos.

  He can hear their moans, their undignified clamoring for help; praying for him, for his guidance, his command.

  But he, at least, is immaculate.

  As he turns his chin to the light, he allows a smile to illuminate his lips, as if echoing the sun on its rise. Because he cannot be sullied so easily.

  Wherever she has gone, he will find her. Wherever she is, she will remember him.

  ANNA

  Dirt has a way of falling through the smallest of cracks. You may think there is nothing there, but it will always be found eventually.

  I raise my fingers through the cooling bathwater and check my nails, looking for the invisible fragments of dust I always fail to spot but Mamma homes in on with such definite aim. In my head, I rehearse the words I have whispered to myself so many times I see them written across my lids when I close my eyes.

  Today is my eighteenth birthday and, for the first time, I am lying to my mother.

  I sought out the comfort of the bath, hoping it would ease the tension. But even here I cannot shut out the remnants of my fractured sleep. The ghost of my dream floats on the water’s clouded surface; the dream that has come before, that has grown more frequent as my anxiety has mounted, its creeping fingers reaching for me in the strangest of moments. A dream that feels so real I swear it isn’t a dream at all.

  It taps me on the shoulder now, revolving and gyrating just out of reach. A whirl of bright colors. Laughter, music. A face, the features blurred. And a voice, calling. I know it’s me they’re seeking, but something isn’t right: the name they’re calling isn’t mine.

  I pull the plug and the water begins to swirl around me, milky with the residue of peach-scented foam. My voice penetrates the silence of the bathroom, although I’m not sure if it’s real or in my mind. “No. My name is Anna.”

  The bathwater drains, but the dream lingers.

  * * *

  In the bedroom, I situate myself. Take in the calico curtains that remain always drawn; a hermetic seal against the outside world. The pinewood dresser whose contents are neither numerous nor elaborate. The crucifix on the wall, under whose watchful limbs I say my nightly prayers. The bed. The chair. These things—these petty, everyday things—are the items that make me feel safe. These are the sights that tell me I am home, and happy, when my memory tries to convince me otherwise.

  That name.

  I peek through the curtains and turn my chin to the daylight, allowing it to wash away the last of the disquieting night. It’s another beautiful morning in Alachua County. I’m reminded of my favorite hymn, “Morning Has Broken,” and hum the opening notes as I tidy the bed and fold my nightdress under the pillow, making everything neat, precise. When not a speck remains out of place, I pull on the denim blue dress I know Mamma likes best, and release my hair from the knot that has been holding it, damp around the edges from where the bathwater has licke
d it.

  “Happy birthday,” I tell the girl in the mirror as I rake a comb through the tangles. “Today is your eighteenth birthday.” She smiles back, curious, uncertain, and I ask her, not for the first time, if I am pretty.

  I asked Mamma once, but she shook her head and gave me a little laugh. Not cruel, just dismissive. “Pride is a sin, Anna. We are all pretty, because we are all gifts from God.” I never asked her again.

  I suppose I consider myself pretty enough. My face, though I always find it a little round, is free from marks or blemishes. I’ve never needed braces, which is good, because Mamma despises the dentist. My eyes are clear, and a soft brown like maple syrup, although not Mamma’s enviable sparkling blue. My hair is the color of wet sand, but it picks up blond streaks in the summer, and falls to my shoulders in a thick curtain. Some of the girls at school, the so-called popular kids whose names all blur into one, have theirs dyed bleached-blond and cut into sharp layers, but I know that even if I should have such an inclination, there is no way Mamma would allow it.

  Mamma says we should be happy with what God gave us.

  Dressed, I make my way down the stairs, mentally skimming through that string of words one final time: We’re driving to Ocala National Forest; we’re going hiking; we’re having a picnic. My throat constricts—I swallow sharply. Forest. Hiking. Picnic. Nothing else.

  Mamma’s voice rises out of the kitchen as I go to greet her. She’s singing, which means she’s in a good mood. She loves to sing, even though her voice is a little thin and can come across a tad flat. But I’d take a chorus of tone-deaf, happy Mammas than one single, silent alternative.

  The kitchen is my favorite room in the house. It has big French windows overlooking the backyard, the only ones that aren’t suffocated by curtains, so that daylight streams right in. The big farmhouse table always has a vase of fresh flowers on it, grown by Mamma’s own green-fingered hands. Today they’re tulips, pink and red and yellow, their tight-lipped petals on the verge of spilling their secrets. On the far wall, next to the stern grandfather clock that stopped working years ago but that neither of us knows how to fix, are the little pencil scratchings that mark how I’ve grown, right back from when I was nigh on three years old and we first moved here, until last year: five foot four, and not likely to have much growing left in me. Mamma is taller; she must hit five-eight, five-nine, in bare feet, but she always seems to stoop, as if worried her height makes her conspicuous.

  “Good morning, Mamma!” I call, hopeful that I have judged her mood correctly. She turns to me, gives me her best attempt at a smile—the one she saves for the really good days—and I am thankful that I’m right.

  She opens herself out to me. “Good morning, Anna dear.” I step toward her, breathe in her familiar scent of lavender soap and Lysol. A clean home and a clean body are the first steps to a clean soul. I could pick Mamma out across a crowded room with my eyes closed, through just that scent. I want to throw my arms around her and kiss her cheek, like I’ve seen other girls do. But I know that wouldn’t do.

  Instead, Mamma holds me at arm’s length, and I feel her taking me in, assessing me; her eyes searching me over for any sign of sin or contamination. She lets go with a satisfied nod. My arms drop to my sides. I’ve passed the test. “Happy birthday, dear heart. May the Lord bless you and keep you well.” When she’s content like this, all is right with the world.

  She points to the vitamins laid out on the sideboard and I duly take them, wash them down with the waiting glass of water, and then she pulls out one of the chairs from around the kitchen table, motions for me to sit down. I obey, hearing the ping of the toaster and knowing it must be frozen waffles again. Mamma hates to cook, but she sure has a sweet tooth.

  She sets a plate down before me bearing a dense, rectangular slab, a pat of butter and a drizzle of maple syrup slowly melting into each rectangular depression. Sometimes it feels as if Mamma would like to keep me frozen too, forever her little girl. “Thank you, Mamma,” I say quickly, and raise a hand to pick up my cutlery.

  “Anna.”

  My fork freezes in midair. I set it down, the waffle untouched, realizing my mistake. Eighteenth birthdays aren’t exempt from grace. I clasp my hands together and bow my head as Mamma takes a seat opposite, relieved as she starts to speak.

  “Lord, we thank You for all that You give—for the food we see before us, and the home over our heads. Help us to live our lives with thanks and grace, and to always remember that, as long as we have You in our hearts and live pure lives, You will show us the way. Amen.”

  “Amen,” I mumble into my hands, chastened as always, then open one eye a peek. Hers are squeezed shut, as I know they will be: continuing the secret, silent prayer she always adds on for herself, lips pursed in a thin, pious line. I’ve never asked what it is; never dared.

  Before we eat we each pick up a fork, hold it to the light and then rub it carefully with our napkins. We do the same with the knife, scouring it for any speck of contamination. As always, Mamma leads, I follow. Before I even set the edge of my cutlery against the plate, I wait for the telltale sign: a slight tilt of her head, the barely audible “hmm.” When her knife touches the rim of the plate, I can begin.

  I’m so worked up I can barely manage to eat a quarter of my meal. My stomach twists and untwists itself as the acidic orange juice Mamma pours us from a carton bubbles against the waffle batter. I do my best to finish the whole thing, knowing how Mamma feels about wasting food, feeling the crunch of sugar against my teeth with each bite. She spies me agitating a piece around the plate and I quickly swallow it down in a swirl of syrup and butter.

  “Delicious. Thank you, Mamma.”

  “Good.”

  To prove it, I reach across the table for the jug of maple syrup and drown the remaining mouthfuls. The syrup soaks through the batter and is so sickly sweet I almost wince, but it helps the food slip down my throat with more ease.

  When only crumbs remain on our plates, Mamma surprises me by setting a package down in front of me, wrapped neatly and simply in plain blue paper. I eye it casually, but Mamma gives me an encouraging nod. “Go on.”

  She’s not usually one to fuss over birthdays.

  The package is soft to the touch. I unstick the Scotch tape neatly, cautious of Mamma’s watchful eye, and take in the cream burlap that begins to reveal itself. It’s a cushion, a perfect square I know has been sewn by Mamma. Across its front is her distinct, careful stitching: I prayed for this child, and the Lord answered my prayer. 1 Samuel 1:27.

  “Oh Mamma,” I breathe, turning the cushion in my hands. “Thank you.”

  “I thank the Lord for you, Anna.” She turns to look at the picture hanging on the wall, one of the few we have in the house: my parents on their wedding day. “And I know your father would too.” I follow her head toward the picture I have studied so many times I no longer really see it. Mamma in a plain satin dress, a spray of calla lilies resting over the crook of her arm. My father next to her, his stiff gray suit a little too close-fitting, looking younger than his twenty-five years. I was only two years old when he died. A car crash—piled into by some drunken teenagers on their way home from a game. It was after that we moved here: a fresh start. Mamma always said she had no family to speak to, no ties to hold her, no reason to stay.

  It’s hard for me to get a clear picture of him, this shadowy figure who is more of an idea than a reality. Like Mamma, he’s no stranger to height; there must’ve been a short ancestor in the distant past whose unlucky genes I was handed down. And he’s clean-shaven; although somewhere, somehow, I see him with a beard. A whisper of my baby hands reaching out for the coarse hairs on his chin, and then it’s gone. From the picture, it’s hard to tell what features of his are mine. I want to ask Mamma what he was like, what he would think of me, what traits of mine are his. But whenever I ask questions like these, she clams up, keeping her pearls to hersel
f.

  “Let’s clean up.” She severs the mood as quickly as she created it, moving across my vision and breaking my contact with the picture.

  The sound of the doorbell wakes us both from our own private thoughts as we stack plates and wash dishes. We both step into the hallway and I can make out William’s shape through the glass on the front door. His arrival makes this all seem alarmingly real, and I feel my breathing quicken, the center of my palms moisten even as I chide myself to calm down. Just a few more minutes and we’re in the clear.

  Mamma goes to greet him, and his lanky frame slinks into the house, ducking to pass under the Tiffany chandelier—most definitely a relic of before Mamma’s time here—threatening to upset the colored glass and prompt rainbow shadows to ricochet off the walls.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Montgomery. Good morning, Anna.” He nods deferentially at my mother, a wisp of hair escaping onto his forehead, and then pulls a bright bouquet of wildflowers from behind his back. “Happy birthday, Anna.”

  “Oh William. They’re beautiful.” I take them from him shyly, feeling the tops of my ears burn pink. “I’ll put them in water right away.”

  He leans forward as if to kiss me on the cheek, but at the same time he eyes Mamma, pulls back and nods politely at me instead.

  William and I have been dating for nearly a year. He’s older than me, already in college, and Mamma only permits it because he’s the son of Pastor Timothy, and therefore she couldn’t bring herself to deny it. We met in the church choir when his daddy took over our local parish, and we’ve been seeing as much of each other as possible since then. Nothing fancy, just trips to the movies, bike rides on Saturday afternoons, helping out with church fund-raisers—our time together carefully meted out by Mamma’s exacting direction. We’ve talked, loosely, about getting married when he graduates next spring, but this isn’t exactly a conversation I have shared with Mamma.