The Happiness Thief

  Praise for

  THE HAPPINESS THIEF

  “So, so smart, and as downright dangerous a read as the edge of a razor, Bokat’s book is a masterful study of memory, family, and the lies that derail us. Don’t even dare to think you’ll get any sleep once you start reading.”

  —Caroline Leavitt, New York Times best-selling author of Pictures of You and With or Without You

  “Sharp, quick-witted, with twists you can’t foresee, Bokat’s smart new thriller casts a sharp eye on a family’s buried secret. In this riveting story of gaslighting, murder, and betrayal, a woman seeking to unlock her past mistakenly trusts one she should not. Some people are like cyanide pills wrapped in chocolate truffle—dangerous, but irresistible. The Happiness Thief will swallow you whole.”

  —Tess Callahan, author of April and Oliver

  “Nicole Bokat has the rare and precious gift of being both a master storyteller and an elegant poet. Each and every sentence dazzles in this intelligent and fiery tale about family, loss, and what it means to feel happy, whole.”

  —Judy Batalion, author of The Light of Days: The Untold Story of Women Resistance Fighters in Hitler’s Ghettos and White Walls

  “The Happiness Thief is a beautifully written, heart-thundering page-turner. I tore through it, desperate to discover answers. The novel’s characters are as rich and complex as you and I.”

  —Aspen Matis, #1 Amazon best-selling author of Your Blue Is Not My Blue and Girl in the Woods

  The

  HAPPINESS

  THIEF

  Copyright © 2021 Nicole Bokat

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2021

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-64742-057-4

  E-ISBN: 978-1-64742-058-1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020917549

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  Book design by Stacey Aaronson

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE

  HAPPINESS

  THIEF

  prologue

  —

  Winter

  I THINK I KILLED MY MOTHER.

  Jeremy had asked Natalie what made her unique. That was the most straightforward answer. She didn’t dare say it aloud, certainly not on a first date with someone she was beginning to like, someone she wasn’t sure she deserved.

  Instead, she told Jeremy about how she’d been in a car crash when she was young, and how it left her with a brain injury, which wiped out much of her memory of that time. When she admitted she felt guilty, he asked if she’d been driving and they laughed because, of course, she’d been thirteen, much too young. He has no idea what I’m capable of, she’d thought.

  Hours after their date had ended, and Natalie was alone, unable to sleep, she felt the air in her room thin out. She switched on the lamp on her side of the bed, the comforter tangled in her feet. Panic was like a fistful of knuckles to the chest. She heard her breaths coming fast: huh, huh, huh. She rubbed the skin under the rim of her pajama pants where a rash was certain to flare. When she opened the drawer of her nightstand, she shuffled through the ear plugs and coins. She touched the small, silver flashlight she’d shoved to the back, a taunt, a reminder of who she was.

  This wasn’t the plastic purple flashlight that had been confiscated by the police, slipped into a plastic bag. Or maybe they hadn’t even bothered holding onto it as evidence. They’d noted it in their report but wouldn’t have used something that looked like a toy against her, a girl who’d been reading in the passenger seat on a dark night. Supposedly, she’d confessed to her stepfamily that it was her fault, that she’d shone the light into her mother’s eyes. She could only remember that she didn’t want to go where they were headed. She’d sobbed in her hospital bed, concussed and in shock, willing herself to forget; and even now, so many years later, the details were out of reach long after the physical damage had healed. Had there been another vehicle behind them on the road? She couldn’t be certain.

  What she did recall was that flash piercing the bone black sky and her mother’s scream, “The light’s blinding me. For Christ’s sake, what’s going on?” She could smell the vinyl seats, the coffee with Sweet & Low, her mom’s scent—lemon and flowers and mint. The Dunkin’ Donuts mug shook in the holder.

  Their station wagon had careened, and Natalie tried to brace herself, arms hurled everywhere, nothing to hold onto. Her head was thrown backward, then forward, a snap as if her neck was torn from its socket. She felt an awful thrust, then the whirling stopped. Blankness. She struggled to wake, stuck at the murky bottom, lungs bursting, until her eyes popped open. The windshield on the passenger’s side had cracked to form a web. Yet the glass had stayed firmly in place. The silence was profound. The last thing she’d seen before she passed out was her mother’s head smashed against the steering wheel, blood seeping down her hair like a red waterfall.

  Natalie’s hand found the container of pills. She untwisted the top and popped one into her palm. Pretty in pink, friendly as a child’s teacup. The water glass was lukewarm; she only needed a sip. The tablet winked at her, as if promising all problems would be washed away. Down the hatch.

  What kind of monster are you?

  one

  —

  The Previous Fall

  THE ANNUAL HAPPINESS CONFERENCE WAS PACKED TO CAPACITY, with almost five hundred therapists, spiritual leaders, life coaches, and guests—including Natalie, who had no idea what happiness was anymore. The room was dotted with small, linen-covered tables. Each held a slim silver vase with one white lily, the petals of the flowers draped around the pistils like elegant wrap dresses. The waitstaff zigzagged through the crowd with trays of hors d’oeuvres.

  Natalie regarded her stepsister, Isabel, from across the room, Oh, I wish I were you competing with I’m so proud in her gut. Admirers swarmed around Isabel, touching her with wonder like children at a petting zoo. Even though Natalie was distracted, the woman next to her didn’t seem to notice and crooned about the dharma of “self-actualization and intention,” gesturing in her ankle-length cape, a giant bird with a sparkly purple wingspan. Not wanting to laugh, Natalie covered her mouth with a paper napkin.

  One of the speakers approached her, emitting a strong patchouli and sandalwood aroma. “I’m a colleague of your sister’s,” she said, grasping Natalie’s elbow so that multiple bracelets jangled together. “Danika Singh. Isabel pointed you out to me.”

  Natalie recognized the woman’s tawny complexion with the beauty mark above her lip, the deep-set eyes, from posters at the conference. “Do you work with her?”

  “I live in Sydney. I catch her at conferences a couple of times a year.”

  “Sorry I missed your talk. What was it, again?”

  “I’m the founder of The Mindfulness Museum in Melbourne
. It was about our mission.”

  What kind of exhibits you got: open spaces, nothing on the walls, very expensive air?

  “Sounds intriguing,” Natalie said.

  “I heard about your father’s death.” Danika’s grip on Natalie’s elbow grew tighter. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks. He wasn’t technically my father; he was married to my mother.”

  Danika nodded. “I hadn’t expected Isabel to show. She’s a real trooper to honor her commitments.”

  “That’s what she’s like.”

  It was. Isabel was worried about finishing the second book on schedule and, now, with Garrick’s death, she was grieving in her hidden heart. Yet, in the lexicon of their cobbled together family, Isabel was the powerhouse and bulwark, while Natalie was the sensitive one, sadness coating her like oil. Over the years, she’d tried talk and behavioral therapy, peach pills and baby blue ones. And the ever-handy pink ones. This time, after Natalie’s husband deserted her, Isabel had insisted: why don’t you let me help you?

  Danika gazed above Natalie’s head. “I’m sorry, I have to speak with someone before he leaves. I’ll circle back.”

  She scurried away. The “self-actualizer” was gone, as well. Natalie listened to the air humming with whispers and coughs, murmurs and laughs, the scraping of chairs and clinking of glasses. Three days of being bombarded by positive thinkers, thrivers, meditators, and yogis, and this was the final event. When a server passed by, Natalie nabbed a coconut shrimp on a skewer and a glass of sparkling water.

  A middle-aged man sidled up. “Are you a patient or practitioner?” He was bald, with a starfish-shaped rash on one cheek.

  Natalie shook her head. “Neither.”

  “You’re not wearing your name tag. Very mysterious.”

  “And you are?” She glimpsed at his label, then felt a cool hand on her bare skin and flinched.

  “It’s just me,” Isabel said, rubbing the tight spot where Natalie’s neck met her shoulder. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Dr. Walker,” the man exclaimed, thumping his hand to his chest. “I heard your lecture yesterday. You were wonderful, and Get Happy Now, I just devoured it in one sitting!”

  “Thank you so much,” Isabel said. Natalie could see the weariness in her smile.

  “I’d love to discuss in more detail.”

  “Of course. I have a few minutes now and, if you’d like, we can exchange contact information.”

  While they chatted, Natalie eavesdropped on another conversation nearby.

  “I was brainstorming.” This was a female with an Irish accent. “Rolfing is okay, and acupuncture. But she’s not keen on Crystal Reiki.”

  “Releasing energy blocks?” This accent was harder to place, maybe Dutch or German.

  Natalie took out her phone and texted her teenage daughter, Hadley: What is rolfing?

  “Ready to go?” Isabel whispered in her ear. “I’m tired.”

  “You must be exhausted.”

  “It’s been good for me.”

  When they stepped out into the sapphire night, the lapping sound of the Caribbean Sea called out. Natalie asked, “A quick walk on the beach?”

  “I’m too beat. Let’s go back to the resort.”

  Natalie had offered to drive so that Isabel could celebrate with her flute of Blanc de Blanc, refilled more than once. But navigating on the left side in this British-ruled island was tricky, especially once she hit the more desolate streets, the night sky a swatch of chalky black. She followed the crooked arrow, the sign for curve.

  “Did you have fun?” Isabel asked. “Pick up any good tips from the lectures?”

  “I can feel myself blooming with optimism.”

  “C’mon, Nat! You have to give the ideas a chance.”

  “I am, I am.”

  In her rearview mirror, she saw another car, maybe thirty feet behind her. “I thought your talk was great, best one.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  Natalie had peered up while Isabel gave a lecture on the podium. Her beauty was a mixture of Nordic features and tiny bones, as if there were East Asian ancestors hiding in the corners of her European lineage. Her skin was so naturally light it was nearly translucent, the vein in her forehead slightly more prominent each year. Natalie had erased that imperfection in the book jacket photo, as well as the rosy tips of her ears. She’d been so pleased with herself: her one professional portrait. But, Isabel! Her words soared. Some attendees used their cameras or iPhones to record while she spoke. Others scribbled notes in the Moleskine journals sold in the wellness bookstore. Natalie caught it too, that frisson of excitement: maybe this will work.

  Suddenly, her vision was filled with a blare of white light. As she slowed down, the car veered. There was a thunk against her bumper.

  She slammed on the brakes causing the car to buck. “What the hell?”

  “Shit!” Isabel cried out next to her.

  Natalie fumbled with the seat belt cutting into her middle. Her hands felt big and clumsy as if they were swollen. Yet the door opened without resistance. “That idiot behind us was flashing his brights. I couldn’t see where I was going.”

  “Of course not,” Isabel said.

  Standing on the pavement, Natalie’s legs trembled. There was a slight breeze. The heat had relented after a day in which the sun had throbbed like an angry heart. She watched her stepsister reach over to switch on the high beams and then rush out, her tight blond ponytail swinging.

  There was nothing, no one there. Just a long slash of street and the moon, a silver rowboat tipped on its side. In a palm tree a few feet ahead of them, Natalie saw a hooded iguana crouching. Behind them, the other car idled, the headlights turned off.

  “I was being careful,” Natalie said. “What was that driver doing?”

  “I’ll find out,” Isabel said. “You stay here.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Take deep breaths,” Isabel said. She counted, slowly, until they were both inhaling and exhaling in even segments. “Go sit down. Let me deal with this.”

  Natalie slid into the passenger seat this time. She felt as if she were a teenager again, nearly three decades ago now, her mom shouting.

  Stop it. This isn’t Mom’s car. You’re safe.

  Her thumb pressed against her neck’s pulse, charting its rat-a-tat like rainfall against the window. She placed one hand on her belly and the other on her breastbone, repeating a yoga technique to regulate her oxygen. She noted 11:06 p.m. on the dashboard and then shut her eyes.

  VISUALIZE A SAFE PLACE! One of the speakers at a seminar she’d attended had given that command. Her mind offered up the lawn of her childhood home. She’d been four years old and Isabel seven when their parents married. After the ceremony, there’d been a small reception in the backyard. Natalie had watched Isabel cartwheeling between the rows of tables once the guests had left, her sleek body spinning through the air, backward, forward. Natalie had stared at this lithe creature, with hair like a cream-colored pony’s, who’d coached her to try as well. “I’ll spot you,” Isabel had said. “Nothing bad will happen to you.”

  Natalie reached both hands out to ground herself in the present. The glove compartment was warm from the Caribbean weather, and she anchored her weight against it. She looked at the clock. 11:12 p.m.

  Had she lost track of time again?

  She opened the door and leaned out. A tall man stood next to her stepsister.

  Natalie said sharply, “What’s going on? You had your brights on.”

  “I’m so sorry about that,” he said in an English accent. “It was only for a moment. I couldn’t see anything out here.”

  Natalie rose slowly and walked to the front of their rental. The man was holding a flashlight, which illuminated a few streaks of blood on the bumper and dark stains on the road. Her nerves sparked. “Jesus!”

  Isabel rushed to her side, “Don’t worry, Nat.”

  “Whatever it was ran away.” The man gestured to the
patch of greenery, a few trees among it. “I think it was a dog.”

  “Think? Could it have been a person?” Natalie’s voice quivered.

  The man shook his head. “It was on four legs and small.”

  “We have to help.”

  When she nearly stumbled forward, Isabel grabbed her. “Whoa. You’re not going after anything, sweetie.”

  “Let me try.”

  “It’s dark as hell in those bushes.”

  “I’ll do it,” the man said, holding the flashlight vertically so it shone on his face and upper body. His eyes were a surprising Delft blue. “This was my fault; it’s the least I can do.”

  “Thank you,” Isabel said.

  Once he walked into the thickets of shrubs and the slender thatch palms, Natalie said, “I’ll be okay.”

  Isabel relinquished her grasp. “I didn’t want you running off on some goose chase now.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  Was I?

  The man returned quickly. He shrugged. “Nothing there.”

  “We can’t just leave,” Natalie said. “We can’t abandon it to suffer. We should keep searching.”

  “Whatever it was will be all right. It can’t be too injured if it ran off,” Isabel said. “Let’s get back to the hotel.”

  He asked, “You’re staying at the Grand Reef, aren’t you?”

  Isabel clicked her middle finger with her thumb and asked, “How did you know?”

  “I’ve seen you. I’m staying there, as well.”

  “Ah, makes sense.” To Natalie, she said, “Let’s go, kiddo.”

  “Okay, but we have to call someone, animal rescue, or the police, when we get back to our room.”

  “Of course, I’ll do it.” Isabel sounded her usual self: composed, certain.

  Suddenly, Natalie remembered that feeling of confidence, that assurance that the world would work in her favor. The hours in the darkroom with her mom, the time her mother gave her first camera and taught her how an image could lie—a wrinkle or blemish could be airbrushed away—but a good photographer captured the soul. The next day, Natalie had gazed at the ice rink after the Zamboni machine had smoothed it to a perfect gleam. It was like a camera, she thought, fixing the image. Every Saturday in winter she had glided onto that surface with her mother, steady on her feet. Not for a moment did she fear a fall.