Hush Little Baby by Suzanne Redfearn
Read sample
Customer reviews

Hush Little Baby

4.5

-

8,466 ratings


If I stay, he will kill me. If I leave, he'll destroy Addie and Drew.Jillian Kane appears to have it all - a successful career, a gorgeous home, a loving husband, and two wonderful children. The reality behind closed doors is something else entirely. For nine years, she has hid the bruises and the truth of her abusive marriage in order to protect Addie and Drew, knowing that if she left, Gordon would destroy her and destroy them.When she flees in an act of desperation, her worst nightmare is realized and she finds herself on the run with her two young children, no money, and no plan. With Gordon in hot pursuit, there is only one inescapable certainty: No matter where she goes, he will find her. Kill her. And take her children.A riveting page-turner, HUSH LITTLE BABY exposes the shame and terror of domestic violence as well as the disturbing role manipulation and sabotage can play in the high-stakes game of child custody. Suspenseful and unforgettably moving, it's a novel about the unbreakable bonds of family and the astounding, terrifying devotion of a mother's love.

Kindle

$0.00

or $9.99 to buy

Audiobook

$0.00

with membership trial

Paperback

$14.99

Buy Now

Ships from

Amazon.com

Payment

Secure transaction

ISBN-10

1706810644

ISBN-13

978-1706810643

Print length

248 pages

Language

English

Publisher

Independently published

Publication date

December 02, 2019

Dimensions

6 x 0.62 x 9 inches

Item weight

13.1 ounces


Popular highlights in this book

  • Once you become a man, Paul says, your future is not the fault of your childhood.

    Highlighted by 238 Kindle readers

  • Itā€™s because fear paralyzes. It replaces logic with numbing inability to alter your destiny.

    Highlighted by 133 Kindle readers

  • Until you have kids, you donā€™t realize that their worlds and ideas wonā€™t necessarily reflect yours and that their paths will be their own.

    Highlighted by 130 Kindle readers


Product details

ASIN :

B0829DLWMS

File size :

1216 KB

Text-to-speech :

Enabled

Screen reader :

Supported

Enhanced typesetting :

Enabled

X-Ray :

Enabled

Word wise :

Enabled


Editorial reviews

"This snappily paced, cinematic novel about the dysfunctional modern American family from architect and first-time author Redfearn contains heavy doses of violence, danger, and fear. Events hurtle along with great urgency to a rousing climax. A smart, suspenseful debut." "Publishers Weekly""

"A compelling tale ofthe deceit, violation and anguish that undergird the myth of suburbia.Redfearn's debut ratchets up the tension page by page, as husband and wife tryto inflict the most damage on each other without harming the kids. Every characterhides something, and each surprising revelation torques the plot further. Theemotional and physical injuries mount, driving inexorably toward a surprisingclimax." "Kirkus Reviews""

"Having recently read Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn and Lie Still by Julie Heaberlin, I was thinking that the chance of finding another book that would have me sitting on the edge of my seat, practically holding my breath, was pretty close to nil. I am pleased to say I was wrong. Hush Little Baby is the type of book that you don't put down. " "BookBinge.com""

"Chillingly realistic and pulsating with suspense, this deftly told story will leave you breathless." "Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author of The Weight of Silence""

"Top Pick! 4 1/2Stars! With clear, efficient dialogue and authentic scenes, this story ringsuniversal. Equal parts suspenseful and moving, Redfearn's skillfully told,candid story flows easily within a well-defined plot, making this novel astunning and captivating read." "RT Book Reviews""

Read more


Sample

1

The priest stands to the side waiting for the piano to quiet, then walks to the pulpit. I always marvel at his height and wonder if he gave up an NBA career for the cloth, or if perhaps he heard the calling because he was a foot closer to God than most mortals.

I sit between my childrenā€”Addie, four, on my right, her white-stockinged legs sticking straight out on the pew, her patent leather Mary Janes swishing like windshield wipers; and Drew, eight, on my left, dressed in his pressed khaki pants, his psalm book on his lap. My husband, Gordon, sits beside him, his eyes intensely focused on the altar, devoutly waiting for the gospel to begin.

We look like the perfect family, and Iā€™m happy to pretend.

Father Kimball looks down at his parish. ā€œWelcome my brothers and sisters in Christ, beloved children of Godā€¦ā€

Beside me, Drew squirms. Gordonā€™s firm squeeze of his knee stops the squiggling. I take Drewā€™s hand in mine to keep him still. No one in our small clan has an iron bladder. I slide my eyes in a sidelong glance at Gordon. His jaw is set tight. He wonā€™t be happy if Drew gets up in the middle of the sermon. Of course, heā€™ll be even less happy if Drew wets himself.

ā€œDuring the first reading from the Book of Isaiah, we heard that the Lord God said, ā€˜Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old.ā€™ When the Lord God spoke these sacred words, He was commanding His children to set aside the past in order to open the door to a better futureā€¦ā€

I sigh. I donā€™t want to hear about forgiveness, not today.

On the cross behind Father Kimball, Jesus poses in His final moment of martyrdom. On His right, St. Catherine, namesake of the church, angelically smiles down on us, chiseled of marble and more beautiful and flawless than she ever could have been in life.

I smile at her as I have just about every Sunday for most of my life. She died almost a decade younger than I am now, but her legacy has lived almost a millennium, an impressive achievement for a fourteenth-century peasant.

Catherine was the twenty-fifth of twenty-six children born into a poor family in Siena. At seven, she claimed to have had a vision of God and, because of the experience, consecrated her virginity to him. She spent the next dozen years in a nine-foot-by-three-foot cell praying, fasting, and scourging herself three times a day until Christ visited her and placed a ring on her finger (visible only to her), and she was told to end her years of solitude and enter into the service of God.

The Dominicans at Rome still treasure her body in the Minerva Church, and her head is enshrined in St. Dominicā€™s Church in Siena.

Below Catherineā€™s image is an engraving of her writings: If you will wreak vengeance and justice, inflict them on me, poor wretch, and assign me any pain and torment that may please you, even death. I believe that through the foulness of my iniquities many evils have occurred, and many misfortunes and discords. On me then, your poor daughter, take any vengeance that you will. Ah me, father, I die of grief and cannot die!

I stare at the holy face gleaming down on me and think, Today you would be diagnosed as a delusional bipolar narcissist with a masochistic streak who probably became that way because you were the twenty-fifth child and your parents were exhausted, and therefore, you didnā€™t get enough love or attention, and you would still be given a cell in which to pray and starve yourself, but it would have padded walls.

This is what happens with all the unlikely stories of the Bibleā€”my over-rational brain dissects and reassembles them until they make sense and hold no magic or mysticism at allā€”the walls of Jericho tumbled down because of an earthquake; Jesus was actually walking on a patch of floating ice common in the Sea of Galilee; Mary was naughty and didnā€™t want to confess.

Yet, even with that much cynicism, I believe. I clasp my hands tight and pray for guidance and mercy. When I see the ocean, I attribute it to God. I aspire to create in His vein, trying feebly to emulate His perfection. He haunts my decisions, and the rules of His church guide me. And I have faith He will help me.

Drewā€™s hand moves from mine back to his lap. His legs are crossed, his knees knocking together.

Father Kimball is still going strong with no sign of slowing. The rancor of the audience rising with his words, each amen growing in fervor until the parish almost sounds Baptist.

ā€œGo,ā€ I whisper in Drewā€™s ear.

Gordonā€™s eyes shift. Drew looks from me to his father, and his fidgeting stops.

I sneer at St. Catherine.

Maybe she wasnā€™t insane. Maybe she was brilliant. A master manipulator and con artist who, recognizing her lowly status in life, realized at a young age the perfect escape, and preying on the superstitions and fears of her brethren, masterfully elevated her lowly stature as the twenty-fifth child of a peasant to that of a saint.

I return to my churchgoing poseā€”eyes on the pulpit, lips moving in sync with the audienceā€”while inside I think of Drew holding tight beside me and pray for the sermon to end.

ā€œā€¦I am He who blots out your transgressions for my own sake, and I will not remember your sins. Amen.ā€

A glorified united ā€œAmenā€ from the audience and the pews begin to empty into the day. Drew runs ahead of the throng and into the anteroom before everyone else. I gather Drewā€™s sweater and trail behind Gordon and Addie.

St. Catherineā€™s is set into the hills of Laguna and overlooks the Pacific. The morning is quintessential Southern Californiaā€“spring gorgeousā€”the ocean stretched to a seam of blue sky, a light breeze gently swirling magnolia and jasmine in the air.

Gordon herds us to the car. He needs to sleep. He works tonight and Drew has a Little League game this afternoon, which only allows Gordon a couple hours to rest.

Frozen smiles, polite nods, a few princess waves and weā€™re in the car and on our way.

A beautiful day. A beautiful family.

Iā€™m happy to pretend.

2

Gordonā€™s home.

Like a silent alarm, I jolt awake, alerted by a presence I donā€™t see or hear. Nine years have honed my senses, so Iā€™m aware of him even before he pulls onto our street or into the garage.

The door to our room, left unlatched so he wonā€™t wake me, pushes open, and the smell of beer and something feminine thatā€™s not me haunts his almost silent footsteps, a scent thatā€™s wafted in our room a few times a week for over a month now. I peer through slits to see the numbers on the clockā€”six, five, eight.

His shift ended an hour ago. The drive takes twenty minutes. Familiar disappointment and hurt well behind my veil of feigned sleep. I struggle to keep my breath even so I wonā€™t feel compelled by pride to confront him or humiliated by shame when I donā€™t. Though the shame decimates me just the same.

The safe opens, and his gun and holster clunk softly as theyā€™re laid inside, then the dial clicks secure. His watch, wallet, and badge are placed on the bureau. Thereā€™s a sigh as he sits in the chair beside the dresser and removes his Bates boots. My eyelids glow with soft light as the closet door opens and the boots are placed in the precise row of shoes beneath his hanging clothes. The toes are pointed out and the tips aligned. Across the spread of carpet, my shoes mirror his, aligned just as preciselyā€”menā€™s shoes and womenā€™s shoes faced off in perfect ranks, prepared to advance against each other in an epic battle.

His trousers and shirt slide down the dry cleaning chute, his undershirt, boxers, and socks down the laundry chute. The door closes, and despite my efforts, my heart pounds. If the drawer opens to retrieve his pajamas, it will be okay.

Naked footfalls on the carpet. I canā€™t tell which way they travel.

The sheet pulls open, and as the draft whips across my skin, my mind races as I wonder what has happened.

I need to decide whether to resist. Itā€™s a complicated question. One for which there isnā€™t time. Resisting makes it worse. Not resisting feels like Iā€™ve given up.

He grunts more than speaks his disapproval at my grotesqueness, and already, tears fill my eyes. Then, before I can blink them away, his hands grab beneath my arms and Iā€™m half carried, half dragged, from the bed and dropped to the floor.

ā€œGordon please,ā€ I say as I land on my knees and palms.

The air goes out of me when I fall flat as he wrenches my pajamas bottoms from my hips. With one hand, he rips them from my ankles, with the other, he rolls me to my back. I blink rapidly to see him looming over me. He is on his knees, his beard, blonder than his rusty hair, breaks the smooth line of his jaw, and his mouth is set in a sneer.

I wince at his hatred, his eyes dilated and dark as they scan my body, his rage rising. ā€œGordon,ā€ I croak as my hands fly to cover my face.

Theyā€™re too slow, and heat rises in the spot where the sting of his palm was a second before. I bite back the next protest and the hurt and every sound in between as he enters me, his erection at half-mastā€”the alcohol, my repulsiveness, and the fact he performed minutes earlier with someone else making the encore challenging.

ā€œFuck with me and you get fucked,ā€ he says as he pounds against me.

My mind spins to figure out the digression that caused this. For three months, heā€™s been good; weā€™ve been good. Iā€™ve been so careful.

It hurts.

He wedges his hands beneath my butt and grabs the excess skin so hard I cry out, and I grasp at him to dislodge his grip, my left hand latching on to his shoulder as my right reaches for his chest, the nail of my forefinger scratching his cheek. The reaction causes him to pinch harder, turning the flesh in his clamped fist.

I remove my hands, bite back the next cry, and pray for it to end.

He slips out, and fear pools in my throat. I reach to reinsert him, but itā€™s too late.

ā€œFucking, disgusting cow.ā€ The blow to my ribs is much harder than the one delivered to my face, which is how I know he realizes what heā€™s doing. A bruise beneath my shirt wonā€™t be seen.

I roll and try to curl, but his left hand cuffs my wrists above my head and his right clamps down on my neck. I gag and my eyes bulge, and the memory of a year ago returns with sheer terror. He grimaces more than smiles, lightens his grip slightly so air whistles into my lungs, and with renewed strength, thrusts violently back into me to finish the job.

I lay gasping for air, but otherwise unmoving.

When heā€™s done, he removes himself, delivers a brutal departing kick to my thigh, and stumbles toward the bathroom. A second before the door closes, something light and hard is thrown beside me, the corner nicking my ear.

ā€œLie to me again and Iā€™ll fucking kill you,ā€ he says. The latch clicks, and the shower starts.

Tears and semen drip as I push my trembling body up to sit.

The thin morning sun through the shades allows just enough light for me to understand. Beside me on the floor is an empty tampon box.

The box had been hidden in the toiletries bag of my workout duffel. It had concealed three doses of Next Choice, otherwise known as the morning-after pill. Itā€™s the contraceptive Iā€™ve used for the past six months. Unlike birth control pills, I can get it over the counter, and thereā€™s no record of it for Gordon to find.

He wants more. I canā€™t handle what I have.

I stumble from the room, lock myself in the guest bathroom, and try to wash the past half hour from my body. The red bruises on my ribs and thigh and the finger streaks on my butt canā€™t be washed away, but the other evidenceā€”my tears and his seedā€”I scrub until the skin is raw.

The metallic tang of blood touches my tongue, and I realize my lip is bleeding. I press a tissue to the wound to staunch the flow.

Gordonā€™s shower stops, and I squat in the corner, stare at the door, and wait. I rock, hugging my knees to my chestā€”scared, nauseous, exultantā€”grateful Iā€™m alive. I obsess on my beating heart, the blood pulsing in my veins, the oxygen filling my lungs.

Until youā€™ve almost died, you donā€™t appreciate the tenuous tether you have to life, but when you come within a breath of your mortality, suddenly you become very aware of its precariousness. And as insane as it is, and I acknowledge itā€™s insane, Iā€™m never so grateful for my life than the moment I realize Gordon didnā€™t kill me.

My ribs throb, and Iā€™m cold. I wrap a towel around my bare bottom and continue to wait.

Fear does a strange thing to timeā€”a minute or an hour, I canā€™t be sureā€”but a door different from the one Iā€™m listening for opens, and I leap from my huddle and dash into the hallway.

ā€œMommyā€¦ā€

My hand slaps over Addieā€™s mouth so hard my towel disengages and drops to the floor, and instantly, my baby starts to cry. My hand muffles the noise, and I pray Gordon doesnā€™t hear. I carry Addie back to her room and mule-kick the door closed. I run to the far corner where her stuffed animals crowd on a beanbag and set her down, pulling her to me to calm her.

ā€œShhh,ā€ I soothe, as I pray she wonā€™t begin to wail. Her eyes are wide with hurt and fear.

ā€œIā€™m sorry, sweetie,ā€ I say, and stroke her red curls.

She whimpers, and my heart breaks.

ā€œWhyā€™d you do that?ā€ she asks.

I shake my head, unsure if the gesture is because I canā€™t explain, or because Iā€™m too ashamed to explain, or because the explanation is too burdensome for a four-year-old.

ā€œI didnā€™t want you to wake Daddy,ā€ I answer honestly.

Her head tilts slightly, then rights itself, satisfied with the explanation. ā€œI need to go potty.ā€ Her tears have stopped, and she seems to have already moved past the moment.

I take her hand and lead her silently back to the bathroom, retrieving my towel as we go.

I sit beside her as she does her deed.

She looks sleepily at my face. ā€œWhy you bleeding?ā€ she asks, her shoulders sloped in boredom as she waits for her bladder to remember why it woke her.

A question with no answer.

Read more


About the authors

Suzanne Redfearn

Suzanne Redfearn

Suzanne Redfearn is the award-winning and bestselling author of six novels. Her newest novel, "Where Butterflies Wander" is about an unexpected journey of healing after a horrible family tragedy.

"In an Instant" published in 2020 was an Amazon #1 bestseller as well as a Goodreads Choice Awards Finalist. It was named Best New Fiction from Best Book Awards and has been translated into twenty-four different languages.

Her work has also been recognized by RT Reviews, Target Recommends, Publisherā€™s Marketplace, and Kirkus Reviews.

A former architect, Suzanne lives in Laguna Beach, California, where she and her husband own two restaurants: Lumberyard and Slice Pizza & Beer.

Read more


Reviews

Customer reviews

4.5 out of 5

8,466 global ratings

Debra

Debra

5

Kept me at the edge of my seat

Reviewed in the United States on July 11, 2024

Verified Purchase

Was a intriguing book.. Kept me interested and at the edge of my seat.. It had a surprise ending of it was an ending I wasn't expecting.. A great read and highly recommend..

Jahaira Ortiz

Jahaira Ortiz

5

Great read!!!

Reviewed in the United States on July 8, 2024

Verified Purchase

I recommend this book! It is a great summer read. Thrilling and suspenseful. It will not disappoint you if you like this genre! Happy reading šŸ“•

Rosa

Rosa

5

An Amazing read

Reviewed in the United States on July 4, 2024

Verified Purchase

This book was a really great one! It was short and realistic. I absolutely recommend this book if you need a quick read.

More reviews