LAKE HOUSE KILLER

FALLON BAXTER FBI MYSTERY SERIES

BOOK 3

ADDISON MOORE

Copyright © 2024 by Addison Moore

Edited by Paige Maroney Smith

Cover by Gaffey Media

This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. It is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.

All Rights Reserved.

This eBook is for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright © 2024 by Addison Moore

BOOK DESCRIPTION

A tranquil cabin by the lake, a gruesome murder spree.

In the serene setting of Sugar Pine Lake, a writers’ retreat turns deadly when two bodies are discovered, one writer is left injured, and another is missing.

Clean language and heart-stopping twists that keep you glued to the edge of your seat until the very last page.

In the quiet of the woods, death waits patiently.

FBI agents Fallon Baxter and Jack Stone are called to untangle a web of jealousy, betrayal, and dark secrets. As they navigate a list of suspects, they must uncover the truth before the killer strikes again.

In a place where every page hides a secret, can they stop a story written in blood before it reaches its final, deadly chapter?

A brand new FBI Mystery Series by New York Times, USA TODAY, and Wall Street Journal bestseller Addison Moore.

1

Evil

They say you can never truly know the heart of a killer—what they’re thinking, the dark, unknowable beast that resides within them—but perhaps the same could be said for the victim. Perhaps they are the dark, unknowable beast in question. Maybe it is they who harbor the darker secrets, the more monstrous truths. And maybe, just maybe, that’s precisely why they find themselves at death’s door.

Nightfall cloaks Sugar Pine Lake as I stand in the shadows, hidden in the woods like a silent predator observing the cabin before me that exudes a deceptive warmth.

The lights are still on, illuminating the luxury cabin like a jack-o’-lantern on Halloween night. It looks warm and inviting indeed, but I’m sure Hell looks that way to the outside observer, too.

Boots are lined up outside on the front porch, real men’s boots, a pair of well-worn Timberlands and a pair of old sneakers, both encrusted with an inch of mud from the latent fishing adventure a couple of them ventured off to earlier in the day. They hiked to the old creek, about two miles up from the lake, and were hoping to cut the trout off at the pass but had no such luck.

I heard them moaning to their wives about the ones that got away. And I also watched as their wives rolled their eyes and laughed that dinner was probably better because of it—steaks grilled rare, along with corn on the cob wrapped tightly in foil that shimmered on the grill just as long.

The wives henpecked their husbands into making sure their steaks weren’t still mooing when they landed on their plates. And the husbands roared back that they liked them bloody.

I’ll admit, it brought a smile to my face. Tonight might be a lot of things, but bloody isn’t one of them. I might be bringing a gun along for the ride, but it’s for show more than it is to land a bullet in anyone’s heart.

But I wouldn’t object if things went awry. Things have already gone terribly awry if you ask one of us. This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t the agenda. But this is my way of putting the world on notice. I’m in charge. This is my agenda. I make the rules. You live with them.

I trek over to the evergreen next to me and slip into its shadow. The darkness is comforting, a cloak that hides my intentions as well as my identity.

They think they’re safe inside that cozy cabin of theirs. I can hear them enjoying their night as a bout of laughter emits every now and again, accompanied by the clink of glasses, unaware that horror is about to descend upon them.

I glance out at the lake for a moment and take in the glittering expanse.

At night, Sugar Pine Lake transforms into a postcard of serenity as the woods ensconce this idyllic cozy community.

It’s a tourist trap for the most part and the residents can appreciate that, as much as they can profit off of it. It’s also a popular destination for second homes—the expanded edition of the American dream that includes a cabin on the lake.

The earthy scent of pine mingles with the fresh, clean scent of cool water. The air is crisp and carries a musky hint of damp earth as the late-night mist rises from the lake’s surface. It looks hauntingly beautiful, and yet something out of a horror movie, too. That’s fitting, considering what’s about to transpire is like something out of a horror movie as well.

The soft hoot of an owl echoes through the trees as the pine needles rustle in the gentle breeze. The last vestiges of summer have passed and fall is all but here.

Splashes emit from the distal end of the lake, punctuated with laughter. Teenagers most likely. But they’re far enough away for me not to worry about them.

I glance back at the cabin and a smile curves on my lips.

They’ve always wanted a secluded cabin and that’s exactly what they got. Although tonight they might be wishing they were a little closer to civilization.

The windows are open downstairs. I highly doubt the doors will be locked, but then, I’m ready for each and every scenario. The crowbar in my trunk can attest to that.

I pull on my gloves as my breathing picks up pace. I have to do this right. This is a one-shot deal. I’ve rehearsed it again and again in my mind.

I get in, head to the primary bedroom and deal with the problem, get the hell out, and take my charge to her brand new home.

Nothing will go wrong.

Nothing can go wrong.

I hold the bullets. I hold the power.

My shoes are double-knotted, firm on my feet, ready to carry me through what comes next. My heart begins to drum as my adrenaline kicks in.

In one quick motion I secure the ski mask over my face, a knit barrier between the world and the fury churning inside me.

The trunk of my car is open behind me. The zip ties are in my pocket, coiled like serpents, ready to bind wrists or ankles. My taser is fully charged with the promise to subdue my victim. And then there’s my gun. I cradle it in my hand and it’s still cold right through my gloves.

It feels heavy tonight as the finality of what’s about to happen hits me. But there’s no turning back. Some wrongs can only be righted with irreversible actions. Some people need to learn their lessons the hard way, and that’s exactly what’s going to happen here. There will be no death.

Death is too easy, too cowardly, too much of a dream for the snakes that lie in wait.

Tonight, I am simply an avenger in the shadow set to balance the scales. They’ve wronged me in ways they barely comprehend, in ways that have left scars deep within me. And with each step I take this evening, it’s a step toward rectifying a past rife with betrayal.

I glance back at the cabin, its windows spilling light into the darkness. It’s almost time. I trek over to the next evergreen as my footsteps are swallowed by the whispering pines around me.

I’m ready for what the night will bring. I’m not only armed with weapons, but with a righteous fury that has simmered for far too long.

I edge closer to the cabin as the sounds of their carefree existence fuel my resolve. They won’t see me coming. Come to think of it, they never saw me at all, not really.

But tonight, they will know I am here, and they will feel the weight of their missteps and the weight of my fury.

The lake reflects the moon like a silent witness to what’s about to unfold.

I move forward once again as my retribution is set to begin. My heart races in my chest as the lights go out one by one. It’s time for all occupants of that cabin to lull themselves to sleep.

Tonight, the past will meet the present, and they will understand the true cost of their actions.

The final light goes out from the upstairs window.

And a malevolent smile curves on my lips as I wait a little bit more.

2

Cynthia Beck

Darkness envelops the room as I flick off the light on the bedside table, and now it’s just the glow of the moon seeping through the window to illuminate my unease.

Cornwall lies next to me, snoring away at top volume. It’s a wonder he doesn’t wake himself up. It’s a wonder anyone in this cabin will get any sleep because of it.

He left his breathing machine at home. Last year, I made him have a sleep study done where, lo and behold, they affirmed what I already knew. The man stops breathing regularly in the night. And once they issued him the CPAP machine, both of us have been sleeping better because of it.

We should have turned the car around once we discovered it was missing. But at that point, we were over halfway here, and that alone was a two-hour drive. Plus, we were too eager to catch up with old friends, to meet new friends, and readers next week at the book signing.

Cornwall figured he’d gone fifty-six years without that breathing machine, one lousy week wouldn’t kill him. Not that I was factored into that equation—and believe me, a week without sleep might just be the end of me.

His snoring isn’t the only thing keeping me awake. I’ve never been comfortable sleeping in someone else’s bed. My hand pats the unfamiliar quilt over my stomach and I sigh.

To make matters worse, this isn’t the bedroom situation I was envisioning when we accepted the offer to stay here. I wish Damien and Lydia had offered us the guest bedroom where Cornwall and I belong. Instead, they insisted we take the primary.

Cornwall and I put in a weak effort to deflect, but they kept coming at us with the selling points. It has its very own bathroom. A tub large enough to throw a pool party in. The bed is a California king. Cornwall will fall right out of the full bed in the guest room. That part was probably true. Not to mention the view of the lake is stunning from dawn to dusk from the private balcony—also true, come to find out. We’ve just been here for two nights so far, but the view is enough to make me want to move in permanently.

Back in Clover Ridge, our home overlooks a barren field. We had bought acres thinking we would have a working ranch, but as we quickly discovered, a working ranch is a heck of a lot of work and neither Cornwall nor I wanted to fund the endeavor by hiring hands to care for it all. So we’re left with an eyesore of dry and dusty property in the summer and a pristine blanket of snow to look at in the winter. We should sell the place and move next to a body of water. Here at Sugar Pines Lake would be nice.

Hey? Maybe I’ll check the local real estate listings and see what the inventory is like. I bet we could squeeze a second property out of our retirement fund. What else have we been working toward for all these years? Our kids moved out a decade ago and they hardly come around at all. We could relocate to Mars and they’d be fine with it.

Sleep. I need to find it asap. If I keep this up, I’ll be a zombie in the morning.

I try to force myself into thinking of nothing, but my brain is too unsettled for that. Instead, I lift an eyelid and examine the space around me, Damien and Lydia’s bedroom. Sure, it’s their second home, but still. I can’t shake the feeling I’m intruding on their lives simply by taking up space here.

That conversation I had with Lydia earlier comes back to me and I shudder.

The evening started out on such a good note. Steaks grilled to perfection. The corn was undercooked, but I didn’t complain. Dessert was a bowl of ice cream for each of us and each of us had seconds; some of us had thirds.

We played cards for hours, laughing and screaming like teenagers, just having a good time.

Writing is such a lonely task, that when we do get together with people—especially other writers—it feels good to cut loose.

Then afterward, we shared our works in progress, critiquing ideas, throwing the proverbial spaghetti at the wall, offering one another the final puzzle pieces that we ourselves couldn’t figure out.

It all felt like such a relief. We really should do this more often.

Cornwall and I don’t attend many writers’ retreats, mostly because when two writers live together they are a writers’ retreat in and of themselves, a permanent one, but still. Although these past few nights prove that we need new blood to get recharged, and that’s exactly what this has been, a proverbial refilling of the well.

But as the night wore on, Lydia cornered me in the den and began to prattle on about their lives in Briarwood and the horrible fights they’ve been in with their psychotic neighbor.

She went on and on about the horrors that man has inflicted on them, detailing a series of encounters ranging from savagely vandalizing their flowerbeds to disputes over property lines and noise complaints. He sounds like the neighbor from hell. And when I said so, Lydia laughed and said that hell was what Damien was putting her through. That’s when she let the darkness seep from her mouth and aired out the dirty laundry I never wanted to know.

She was obviously buoyed by one too many glasses of wine. Now her words claw at my consciousness, refusing to be stilled. She spoke of tensions, of betrayals festering beneath the surface of her marriage, and then the darker details that have tattooed themselves onto my gray matter without permission. And even though her revelations may have been given in a private, intimate conversation, I’ll forever be burdened with the unwanted knowledge.

The hour wears on and I do my best to wrestle with sleep, but it’s clear I’m not winning that war any time soon. Instead of resting up for another day of my restful retreat, I’m ruminating over Cynthia’s words as if they were a monologue I have to recite.

Now what? It’s clear we can’t stay here.

The lodge that’s hosting the book signing still has vacancies. Cornwall and I will make up an excuse in the morning. Maybe we’ll say his back is killing him? Maybe it will be my back. Nonetheless, I need an escape from the accidental confessional that took place.

I’m pretty sure Cynthia will be embarrassed once she realizes what transpired. That is, if she remembers it at all. She was pretty blasted. The amount of ethanol emitting from her breath was enough to power the space station.

Yes, tomorrow, we will find a way to leave. But for now, I’m wide awake, pondering the cost of secrets too heavy for me to hold.

Cornwall’s snoring hits a crescendo that seems to vibrate through the cabin’s darkened walls and my mind drifts toward the upcoming Sugar Pine Thriller Fest.

I look forward to that author signing every year. It’s essentially a chance to step into the limelight, however briefly. Although my presence at these things has always been a little lackluster. There are always newer authors, younger authors, far more charming authors scattered about the ballroom, luring readers to their tables by way of free water bottles, stickers, and ridiculous slap-on bracelets. Stickers, for Pete’s sake.

This is a thriller convention, not a third grade trip to the library. But then, that’s what nabbed the masses last year.

That and the fact that younger, shinier authors all looked so hip, so Goth, so decked out like the villain from one of their books. I wore a plum-colored pantsuit and had my roots touched up for the occasion. I’ve brought the same pantsuit along in navy this year and once again touched up my roots, but I’m suddenly feeling as if I’ve left a few important items off the list.

Maybe I should run into town and get my nails done? The signing isn’t until next week. A moody color, maybe black. I could probably find something snazzy to wear in one of the boutiques that lines the lake. Something leather.

This year things should be different. It’ll be a new me. An edgier me. Maybe I’ll be the one in black from head to toe. I’ll pick up some edgy jewelry to go along with it. A few statement pieces.

Last year one of the authors had a necklace in the shape of a silver snake that sat with its tongue dipping between her boobs. Maybe I’ll find something like that.

I’ll stand out, not just blend into the background like part of the furniture.

A dull laugh pumps from me, then a light cough.

I should get some water and try to convince the sandman to visit once again.

My feet swing over the edge of the bed as I make my way to the door as quiet as can be.

Maybe I should decorate my signing table a bit more as well? I could buy some fake skulls and maybe a few black candles.

How’s that for edgy?

Maybe next year those young bucks will lose a night of sleep trying to come up with a way to out-edge me.

I step into the hallway. The wooden steps creak softly underfoot as I head downstairs, and the nightlight glowing in the kitchen is there to guide me the rest of the way.

The cabin is immaculate, glorious in every way. I had no doubt it would be, considering the combined income of Damien and Lydia must be nearing seven figures. They both outsell Cornwall and me.

But then, maybe this year, at Sugar Pine Thriller Fest, I’ll finally capture the attention my work deserves.

The cabin feels different at night as if it’s a living, breathing being with a life of its own. Slumbering and snoring as the hum of the refrigerator whirls quietly.

Just before I reach the kitchen, I pause to glance out the window into the black expanse and a shiver runs through me.

It’s so eerie out here. So very quiet. There’s not another cabin around that the eye can see, just the four of us and every woodland creature that calls this place home.

Something stirs in the woods and I squint that way. I could swear on my life that I just saw a shadow traipse by. It could be a coyote but seemed bigger than that. It could be a bear. It’s early fall; they’re still doing their thing. Or it could be a person.

It could be a killer.

This could be my last night on Earth—for all of us.

I shake the thought out of my head.

A breeze pushes in through the window and I drink it down, trying my best to let all of my anxieties float right out of me.

It’s clear that the two-hour plotting session we just endured is getting to me. It’s just the aftereffects of the thousands of twisted mystery plots we dissected and rebuilt tonight.

The stories always find a way to linger in the corners of my mind, more so in the solitude of night. I’ve never been good at letting my characters, and the dark situations I put them in, rest. Cornwall is built different. I’m too much of a chicken when it comes to all the death and murder I spend hours crafting in my story worlds. That’s exactly why I sleep with a nightlight back home. And probably why I can’t sleep here.

It’s dark as a coffin in that room. Okay, so there was a sliver of moonlight, but still, that was just enough to fuel more fodder in my twisted mind.

I do my best to shake off the unease, head to the kitchen, and fill a glass of water before making my way back to where I came from.

I sneak into the room where Cornwall’s snoring hits an all new octave, land the glass of water next to me, and tuck myself back under the covers without so much as taking a sip.

So much for that.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, and feel myself slipping in and out of consciousness. The secrets will have to wait until morning and so will my escape plan.

I’m just about to nod off when the sharp creak of a floorboard pulls me back from the edge and my eyes snap open in the darkness.

I hold my breath and strain my ears. Sure enough, the sound of footsteps can be heard creeping along the stairs, slow and deliberate. It’s probably just Damien or Lydia.

Maybe they’re having a hard time sleeping as well?

Although it’s probably not Lydia. For starters, she doesn’t weigh enough to make the stairs or anything else squeak, and the way she was drinking tonight, I don’t expect to see her until two in the afternoon tomorrow.

A small part of me breathes a sigh of relief that I hadn’t bumped into either of them during my midnight water run. Given the unsavory revelations that were spilled my way, the last thing I want is a face-to-face with either of them—especially in the dark.

The footsteps draw nearer and a whole new sense of unease washes over me.

Why are they walking so slowly?

They seem too careful, too quiet.

My heart starts to pound well into my ears.

The door to our room creaks open and a breath catches in my throat.

“I think you got the wrong room,” I say playfully, just above a whisper and a silhouette pauses in the doorway.

They take another step inside and I can hear the sound of their breathing picking up.

“No mistakes here,” they say back, just a touch louder.

An explosion shatters the silence and a scream gets locked in my throat.

Cornwall and I sit up at the same time.

“What the hell?” he shouts, but no sooner does he get the words out than another blast goes off and nails him in the chest.

Cornwall grunts before slumping onto me and a scream drills from my throat before three more shots are fired and my body bucks twice in response.

White-hot pain shoots through my arm and my chest. I try to draw my next breath, but I can’t seem to do it.

Warmth pools around my midsection and my hands dip down and fill with liquid.

No.

The sound of voices emits from the hall, and I look that way, only to find the silhouette gone.

I have to get up. I have to call for help.

My phone. Where did I leave my phone?

My legs swing over the side of the bed and I crumple to the floor.

Adrenaline surges through me as I try to get on my feet, but I can’t move another muscle.

This isn’t just a nightmare unfolding. It’s a calculated attack.

Someone doesn’t just want to scare us—they’re here to silence us, forever.

The room begins to sway and I begin to lose consciousness.

It wasn’t the sandman who showed up.

It was the Grim Reaper.

3

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

It’s a little after three in the afternoon as Jack, Buddy, and I pull into the parking lot of the FBI field office in Denver.

Summer is giving way to fall and the Colorado air feels crisp, as if it, too, were bracing itself for the day’s events.

Nikki beat us to the lot by minutes. The three of us were enjoying a pizza on my back porch when Hale sent the text. Special Agent Jack Stone and Special Agent Nikki Knight are the shiny new coworkers I acquired when I moved back to Colorado from Nevada.

I was born and raised in Pine Ridge Falls, a cozy little town with a waterfall in the heart of it that’s about a twenty-minute drive from Denver. But when my family blew apart and my younger sister, Erin, decided to do a disappearing act in the aftermath, I thought I’d ditch my job as a criminal analyst for a security firm and head to Quantico. I did a two-year stint at the field office in Reno before asking to be transferred to Denver.

The urge to be closer to my mother and my older sister, Riley, was too strong to fight. And I’m glad I didn’t. I’m glad I joined this very field office because earlier today Jack and Nikki gave me a new direction in which to look for my sister and the name of someone she was seen with as well.

“Come on, Buddy.” Jack whistles and the yellow lab trots out of his truck, joining us as we catch up with Nikki on the steps to the building. All in all, Buddy is pretty great and was worth the trip back to Colorado all on his own.

Buddy is my newly acquired dog. We’re still feeling out our boundaries, but for the most part, I give him the run of my cabin and bring him along with me wherever I can. We might be breeding a codependent relationship at this point, but neither of us is complaining.

And on the professional front—Jack, Nikki, and I aren’t complaining about our relationships either. We’re on the same team and we’ve already put two cases to bed.

Jack and Nikki are pretty great, too.

Jack Stone is somewhere in his late thirties, tall with dark hair, dark facial scruff, bright blue eyes, a muscular frame, and he seems considerate enough as well.

He checks off all the right boxes where the women are concerned, and as much as I don’t like to admit it, he’s had my ovaries sit up at attention one too many times.

I’m starting to feel things, things I don’t want to feel about anyone right now, and I don’t care much for that.

My sole focus is on hunting down my sister so I can slap her a good one, and then maybe hug her before I haul her back to Pine Ridge Falls. I realize she’s an adult, just a year younger than me, late twenties, and miles smarter according to her IQ, but I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care that it’s perfectly legal for her to be a nomad for the rest of her life, or to cut her family out of her everyday existence.

We’re worried sick. This isn’t like Erin. It was as if after my father died, she died along with him.

That violent night filled with bullets and bloodshed comes to mind and I quickly push it right back out.

“Give him to me,” Nikki says, taking the leash from Jack. “We all know Buddy should have been mine,” she teases as we head into the building and flash our badges before clearing security.

Nikki Knight is a touch older than me if I had to guess, shorter by three inches, with pale skin that burns in the shade and crimson locks that she often wears piled haphazardly on top of her head.

She lives in yoga wear, eats an inhuman amount of pizza and donuts—mostly because Jack keeps plying us with it—and she can hack her way into the Kremlin with nothing more than a flick of her fingers.

Nikki worked in cybersecurity before she made her way to the FBI. And Jack was a detective before he took the federal plunge.

We make our way directly to the situation room, a stark, clinically white space dominated by a long, slender table surrounded by high-backed chairs. At the far end, our SAC, Special Agent in Charge, Grant Hale stands with his back to us, studying the large screens already lit up with a display of various data points and maps.

“You made it.” He turns around with a frown. Hale is tall with a paunch belly and bald with a fair amount of gray stubble on his cheeks. He has a serious demeanor and a dry sense of humor and has been nothing but welcoming to me.

Buddy’s nails click-clack on the tiled floor as he takes a seat along with us and he manages to garner a half-amused smile from Hale.

“Again with the dog, Baxter?” Hale tips his head as he repositions his laptop screen so he can better see it as he stands at the helm of the table. “Do we need to get him a badge at this point?”

“Might as well,” Jack says, giving Buddy a quick pat on the head. “He’s probably sniffed out more leads than half the rookies.”

“Aww,” Nikki coos. “Just make sure his badge is as shiny as his coat.”

“How about a weapon?” Jack teases.

“Please,” I say as I pull out my laptop, as do Nikki and Jack, ready and set to take notes if need be. “I sleep with the guy. Believe me when I say, his body is already weaponized.”

“That’s because of what you’re feeding him.” Jack shakes his head at the thought. “You need to let me buy his food.”

“Says the man who just fed him a slice of pizza,” I counter.

“He likes pizza.” Jack gives a little wink my way as he says it and my stomach cinches.

There go my hormones misfiring again and I do not approve one bit.

I turn to Hale. “How many dead, how many kidnapped?” The message he sent said two dead, one injured, one missing from the scene. “Any updates?”

“All right, let’s get down to business,” Hale begins as he shifts to a more serious demeanor. “We’ve got a complicated situation out at Sugar Pine Lake. Early this morning, local law enforcement received a distress call from a cabin—two dead, one injured, and one missing.” He nods my way. “We’re still keeping tabs, Baxter. Thank you for caring.”

Jack shoots me a half-smile. And seeing that Jack Stone’s smiles are very hard won, I consider it a win indeed.

“The cabin belongs to Damien and Lydia Cole.” Hale points to the screen where a drone image of a secluded cabin surrounded by dense forest is displayed. “He’s a known thriller writer, and his wife is a writer as well. Not sure what genre. No children between them. Word is, they were hosting another couple that was in the area for the Sugar Pine Thriller Fest which starts next week. Damien woke up this morning after sustaining some sort of head trauma. He found his friends dead and his wife missing. He also sustained a gunshot wound to his hand.”

“Brutal,” Nikki growls at the thought.

“Brutal indeed.” Hale sighs. “The deceased are Cornwall and Cynthia Beck. Both are mystery writers as well. Their adult children were notified. All are out of state. As for our victims, I’m guessing all four have significant digital footprints we can delve into.”

Jack grunts, “Any leads on the missing wife or the motive?”

Hale switches to another slide, which shows a photo of the scene and a list of initial findings.

“Not much to go on yet. The scene was chaotic with signs of a struggle but no clear forensic leads. The local sheriff’s department has secured the area, and CSI and forensics are at the scene. The coroner’s office is taking its time with this one, so my guess is the bodies will still be on site if we leave now. We’re coordinating with the sheriff’s department for a deep dive.”

I glance over at Nikki, who’s already busy jotting down notes.

“We need to look into their backgrounds, any recent threats or unusual interactions they’ve had,” I say.

“Agree, and already going there,” she says as her fingers click away at the keyboard.

“Exactly.” Hale taps his keyboard lightly. “Baxter, Stone, I want you to get to Sugar Pine Lake. Start with talking to the neighbors and any family members you can reach. Nikki, dig into their digital footprints, see what the Coles and their guests have been up to these past few months. Whoever did this had a mission. You don’t take a captive on a whim.”

The briefing wraps up and we quickly gather our things.

Jack nods toward Buddy, who’s already up on all fours with his tail wagging. “Think he’s ready for field duty? Maybe he should lead the investigation?” he says as he picks up the leash.

“Only if he promises not to eat the evidence,” I shoot back, giving Buddy a quick scratch behind the ears.

Nikki shakes her head. “Or maybe he should be in charge of interrogations. We don’t have to tell anyone he’s all bark, no bite.”

“Very funny,” Hale flatlines. “If that dog sniffs out the kidnapper before you do, I’m giving him your badges.”

“Deal,” Jack says. “But if he solves the case, I think he should get your office.”

“Not with my view, he isn’t.” Hale lifts a brow. “I want reports from all of you within a few hours.”

“I’ll be up in forensics,” Nikki says. “I’ll have their digital footprints cracked and laid bare before you get back.”

“I know you will,” I say with a nod.

Jack and I speed our way out of the room with Buddy trotting alongside of us, proud to be the center of attention.

We head out into the harsh light of day, ready to tackle whatever waits for us.

And whatever waits for us is evil incarnate.

4

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

An early evening mist glides over the water of Sugar Pine Lake as Jack and I pull up to the secluded cabin tucked in the woods.

The scene is already bustling with activity as the sheriff’s department, CSI, and forensics team bustle about. There’s an underlying tension in the air that always seems to accompany a crime scene.

Jack and I hop out, leaving the windows down for Buddy, who promptly curls up in a ball in the back seat, resigned to the fact he’s not coming along for the murderous fun.

It’s icy out and the sky is morphing into a pale shade of lavender. The sharp scent of pine mingles with the sharper odors from the police vehicles and the faint scent of forensic chemicals.

The cabin itself looks like something out of a wilderness magazine, tall and slightly rustic, comprised of dark logs and some brickwork. But whatever charm it may hold is now overshadowed by the yellow crime scene tape that lays over the dewy grass like a warning. The wooden structure stands solemn and foreboding against the backdrop of towering pines as it stares out at the misty lake below.

Jack glances back at the water and shakes his head. “Well, at least the view is nice. It’s a shame about the company.”

“Agree. Next time we head out this way, it should be for a picnic.”

“It’s a date.” He nods my way and my mouth falls open.

“I was not inviting you out on a date.”

“You sort of were,” he says as he leads the way.

Men and women in blue jackets with the letters CSI emblazoned on them move about around the perimeter, meticulously snapping photos and collecting samples. Near the front porch, a small team of forensics experts huddles over what I’m hoping is a series of footprints.

The coroner’s van is parked cockeyed in the driveway. I have no doubt they’re huddled over the bodies, doing their thing as well, and soon enough we’ll be right there with them.

We spot the sheriff speaking to a few deputies before they disperse and Jack and I make our way over to him, flashing our badges at the man simultaneously.

“Agents”—he nods our way—“Sheriff Hansen.”

He’s a stocky man with a weather-beaten face that tells of years in the field and his brows are furrowed with concern. “Glad you could make it. We’ve got a hell of a situation here. Two dead, one wounded, one missing. I spoke with the owner before they hauled him off to Sugar Pine General. His name is Damien Cole, the big writer?”

“We’re aware,” Jack says as we both nod.

“He says someone broke in last night”—the sheriff continues—“he heard gunshots and both he and his wife jumped out of bed. He confronted an intruder in the hall and they swung something at his arm and it jolted him. He says that’s the last thing he remembers. EMTs saw signs of bruising around his temple. He was shot in the hand as well. He woke up this morning and couldn’t find his wife. What he did find was two of his friends shot dead. He said he has no clue who could have done this or why.” He gestures toward the cabin. “We’ve secured the area best we can. No sign of forced entry, but the windows on the ground floor were open. What do you think?”

Jack nods my way as if he’d like to know my thoughts on the matter.

“I think the attack was targeted, given the fact one of the victims is missing. You mind if we comb through the place?” I ask.

“Knock yourselves out,” the sheriff says. “I’ll be here if you need me. We’re hoping your team can help make sense of this mess and quickly.”

We press past him, stepping into the chaos of bodies buzzing to and fro. We get to the top of the porch and turn to inspect the arteries of entry that lead to the cabin.

The lake’s surface looks like a boiling cauldron with the seeping fog and yet there’s an eerie calm about it.

I blow out a breath. “At this time yesterday, there was a killer preparing for their big moment, hoping they’d get away with it.”

“They won’t,” Jack says as he presses his hand to the small of my back and lets me step into the cabin first.

Inside, the air hangs heavy with the residue of tragedy as Jack and I methodically survey the living room. The coffee table is turned on its side and a few pictures have been knocked off the mantel. There’s a trail of blood tracking across the light pine floors from the stairs to what looks to be the kitchen.

The cabin feels frozen in time, a dark snapshot of the night’s horrors.

“Cell phone,” Jack says, pointing to a phone discarded next to the fireplace, already cordoned off and marked.

“As soon as they release it, we’re going in,” I say. It could take hours or days before forensics releases it, and once they do, we’ll pick it clean for all of the clues it can give us.

Jack leads the way upstairs and we bypass a veritable army on the way. We find a few men wearing jackets from the coroner’s office inside one of the bedrooms, photographing the scene from every angle.

Jack flashes his badge and the men let us have at it as they step away and begin to chat amongst themselves.

The room is spacious and smells of must along with the metallic scent of blood.

The bed is a pool of crimson, and that’s where we find an older man slumped to his side with his eyes still opened as he gazes off into nothingness.

Jack and I make our way around to the side where the coroner’s office was documenting something on the floor, and that’s where we find our female victim. Blonde, lying on her back, eyes opened, the front of her pale gown caked in blood.

“No struggle,” he mutters, scanning the room for any disturbance. “They were taken by surprise. She took two shots,” he says, scratching his neck. “One in the shoulder, one in the upper chest.”

I glance back at the man on the bed.

“Two chest shots? Do you think our killer knows their way around a gun?”

“If they were smart, they honed up on the skill. Although they did get the owner in the hand.”

“He’s the one that heard the gunshots. That means the killer came here first. Damien was a moving target.”

“Yes, but they incapacitated him pretty quickly.”

“With what?” I shake my head. “EMTs said he had a blow to the head, but the sheriff didn’t say he mentioned it.”

“Whatever they struck him with got him good. Hale said he woke up that way. We’ll catch up with the guy at the hospital. What about the wife? Why take her after making this mess?”

“My guess is she was the prize to begin with,” I say. “That’s pretty brazen, though. There were a lot of people in this house. There has got to be a better way to kidnap a person.”

“Maybe our killer isn’t so smart after all.”

“They never are.”

5

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

We snap dozens of pictures of the scene before leaving the room, inspecting the rest of the cabin, and then stepping back outside.

Jack and I make our way down the porch and past the driveway when we’re stopped by the sheriff. He’s standing by his cruiser, flanked by two older women who seem out of place among the flashing lights and buzz of law enforcement. It’s a tall stocky blonde and a rail-thin redhead with sharp birdlike features.

“My guess is neighbors,” I whisper to Jack.

“My guess is a little more sinister, but that’s because I’d like to close the case before we dive in with both feet.”

We come upon them and offer up amicable nods their way.

“Agents.” The sheriff gestures toward the women before glancing at his notes. “I’d like you to meet Jewel Barrett and Adrienne Sinclair. They just arrived and are pretty concerned about what’s happened here. You mind taking over? I’ve got lookie-loos streaming in from all sides. I need to help secure the perimeter.” He takes off without waiting for a response.

It’s getting dark fast, and the breeze picking up is a chilly reminder that our warm summer nights are over.

“We’re not lookie-loos,” the blonde assures us. She’s donned a heavily wrinkled long-sleeve dress that sits on her like a tent and she looks piqued as she observes the horror. “I’m Jewel.”

“I’m Agent Stone.” Jack gives a slight bow. “And this is Agent Baxter. What can we do for you ladies?”

“I’m Adrienne.” The redhead quickly extends a hand to Jack. She looks somewhere north of sixty, very pretty, very nervous, wearing a knit floral dress with her sleeves pushed up.

“Nice to meet you.” He gives her hand a shake, and I note a long red scar running up her right hand. The blood is dry, but I can tell it’s fresh.

She shakes my hand as well, but I’m not as nice as Jack, generally. “What happened to your arm? Looks like a nasty cut.”

“Oh.” She gasps as she sees it and quickly tugs down her sleeves. Her eyes flit to the blonde and her jaw redefines itself. “I must have scraped it. The two of us were just at the community center.” She cranes her neck past us at the cabin. “That’s where they’re hosting the thriller festival. I own the bookshop here in town. And I volunteer at the convention every year.” Her bottom lip quivers. “What’s going on? Is everything okay? We heard there were bodies.” She brings her fingers to her lips as if to seal them.

Makes me wonder if she’s trying to calm herself or stop from making a confession.

Stranger things have happened.

“Yes, there were bodies,” Jack tells her. “Friends of the couple that owns the place. I’m afraid I can’t divulge their names.”

The blonde’s mouth falls open. “Oh wow. That was”—she snaps her fingers as if trying to summon a thought—“Cindy and Cornwall.”

A slight scream evicts from the redhead.

Jewel closes her eyes for a moment. “I’m so sorry to hear it. I actually work for the Coles. I’ve known them for years. Lydia and I are very close. In fact, that’s how I got the job. I’ve worked as an assistant to the two of them for almost just as long as I’ve known them.” She takes a ragged breath as she looks at the cabin. “I was at the community center with Adrienne when we heard there was trouble out this way.” She shrugs at the two of us. “I was pulling their books from the makeshift stockroom. Authors from all over the country come out for this event, and each one ships dozens of novels. It’s so disorganized there, it’s like a warehouse depository. I spent three hours looking and just found one box for Lydia.” She glances past us once again and her lips turn down. “Is she here?”

“No,” I say. “She’s not here. She’s missing.”

Both women gasp and their eyes widen with fright.

Jack nods. “A bullet hit Damien in the hand, but from the sound of it, he should be okay. He’s at the hospital getting taken care of. Has either Damien or Lydia been distressed lately? Any disagreements with anyone?”

“Stalkers?” I add. “They’re public figures. It happens.”

“No.” Adrienne shakes her head frenetically. “Nothing was mentioned to me. Damien was set to do a signing at my shop the day before the convention. I just saw him y-yesterday.” Her eyes widen the size of dinner plates and her breathing grows erratic. “I don’t know what’s happening here, but I’m not feeling so well. I’m sorry, I have to go.” She starts to take off and I step forward.

“What’s the name of your shop?” I ask. “In case we need to speak again.”

“Sugar Pines Book Nook,” she says, holding herself as she shivers.

“Here’s my card,” I say, stuffing one in her hand and doing the same with Jewel.

“Thank you.” Adrienne looks at it as if I had branded her flesh before taking off in the night.

“Boy, she was nervous.” Jewel gives a little laugh. “She’s mostly harmless.” She closes her eyes as she shakes her head. “Anyway, I guess if Damien is okay, he’ll be released soon.” Her lips press white. “He and Lydia live in Briarwood. It’s about a forty-five-minute drive.” Her hand cups her mouth. “Oh my goodness, I just thought of something. They did have a disagreement with someone.” She shakes her head while looking out at the woods. “They’ve had a dispute with their neighbor back in Briarwood for the past few years. Things have really been ratcheting up. It all started over some silly property line misunderstanding. You know, where exactly the boundary between their properties begins and his ends. There’s no fence, so it’s hard to tell. It seems small, but things only escalated from there. Their neighbor, Owen, he’s very particular about his space and privacy. He accused Damien and Lydia of encroaching on his land when they planted a row of fruit trees as a natural fence. He said he didn’t want rat candy on his lawn.” She pauses and her expression darkens. “It didn’t stop there. Owen claimed their new garden shed was a few feet onto his property. He was furious about it. He threatened legal action, and there were some very heated exchanges. Last summer, things took a turn when he started complaining about noise whenever they had guests over, even calling the police a couple of times. I know there were other things, but Lydia eventually stopped talking about it. She said she couldn’t process it. And, of course, I didn’t want to push it. It’s been tense, to say the least.”

“What was his name?” Jack pulls out his phone, ready to jot it down.

“Owen, um, Owen Marcus, that’s it. I’ve heard them say it enough times, I practically hear it in my sleep.” She glances at the cabin. “It’s more of a nightmare, I guess.” The wind picks up and Jewel begins to shiver and her eyes glaze over. “If you hear anything about Lydia, I’d appreciate it if you let me know,” she says before taking off abruptly into the night.

“Well?” I take a deep breath and take in the earthy scent of pine as we make our way to Jack’s truck.

“It looks to me as if we’ve got a suspect on our hands. We’ll do a little digging on Owen Marcus this evening.” He checks his watch. “We still have time. We can head over to Sugar Pine General for now. If Damien is fit enough, they’ll probably release him in the morning. You up for heading over?”

“I don’t see why not,” I say. “Let’s shake him down while this horror is still fresh in his mind.”

6

Special Agent Jack Stone

“We’re going to owe Buddy a steak dinner after tonight,” I say as Fallon and I head into Sugar Pine General Hospital. The fluorescent lights feel as if they’re taking an X-ray of my soul with their unnatural brightness as they bear down on us.

“After tonight?” She gives a quick laugh. “Try in about two hours. That cute pooch hasn’t missed a meal yet and he’s not starting now.”

“Duly noted,” I say. “We can have the steaks grilled to perfection—then delivered to your place. We’ll be working late.”

“What about your place?” She actually manages to sound indignant about it.

Jet comes to mind and I shake my head.

Both Fallon and I happen to live in Pine Ridge Falls, in an enclave of cabins called Whispering Woods. My view of the lake might be better than hers, but my derelict of a brother happens to live with me. Although I’ve got to give it to him. He’s on one hell of a dry streak.

“Buddy prefers your place.” Come to think of it, so do I.

The sterile white corridors echo with the shuffle of visitors as they meander into patients’ rooms. A cluster of nurses passes us by and three out of four widen their eyes my way.

“Looks like someone’s getting noticed,” Fallon quips as we keep it moving.

“Yeah, well, I’m not noticing anyone back.”

“Ah, I see. I almost forgot. You prefer your women spinning around a pole, not flicking a needle at you.”

“I don’t know.” I swallow down a laugh. “I’ve had a little fun with needles back in the day.”

We come upon the room number we were given at the front desk and I give a little knock before poking my head inside.

“Hello?” I call out before entering.

We find Damien propped up in bed, his right hand bandaged and resting on top of a pillow. His face is pale and his eyes rimmed with the redness of fatigue and perhaps stress.

He looks up as we enter, forcing a weak smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks to be pushing sixty, with thinning gray salt and pepper hair and sculpted features.

Fallon straightens a notch at the sight of him, and something tells me she’s bracing for lies.

I am, too.

After all, the man is at the center of a violent crime, with his wife missing and his friends dead. He practically came away unscathed. It’s not a good look.

“Good evening,” I say as we press in until we’re standing next to his bed. “I’m Special Agent Stone and this is Special Agent Baxter. We’re with the FBI.” We do a quick obligatory flash of our badges and any trace of a polite smile disappears from his face.

“I didn’t expect the FBI to visit,” his voice is hoarse as he says it. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

He doesn’t look too thrilled.

I pull up a chair beside his bed while Fallon remains standing with her phone ready.

“We’re here to find out what happened, Damien. Your friends are dead, and your wife is missing,” I say, cutting straight to the chase. “You can imagine we have a lot of questions.”

Damien swallows hard as his gaze wanders toward the window before settling back on us. “Of course, I’ll help however I can.” He clears his throat as he attempts to sit up a notch.

I’m not sure why, but I’d swear there was a hint of reluctance in his voice. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt for now. The man is grieving, confused, and most likely drugged to the hilt.

Fallon steps forward and her perfume precedes her. Always clean, never sweet. Her dark hair runs down her shoulders and those hazel eyes of hers glow as if they were backlit. I try not to notice how stunning my new partner is, but it’s an impossible feat.

“Let’s start with the evening before the shooting,” she says. “Can you walk us through what happened?”

Damien blows out a breath as he picks at the edge of his blanket. “We were getting settled for the night. We had a good dinner.” His bushy brows furrow. “We played a card game for a few hours.”

“Which one?” I look up as I ask. “My mother loved card games.” I shed a short-lived smile.

It’s true. My mother loved card games. That stack of fifty-two diversions was all we had to entertain ourselves for the most part. Then soon enough, my mother found other ways to entertain herself—turning tricks for money. But I can hardly fault her. Someone needed to keep the lights on, and as my dad learned the hard way, heroin doesn’t pay the bills. In fact, quite the opposite.

“Sevens?” Damien shakes his head. “Something Lydia came across recently. It was new to us. And then we talked shop.” His voice cracks at the right time, and his eyes gloss over. “Cornwall and Cindy were—they were wonderful people, but they were great authors, too.” He takes a moment to wipe his eyes with his free hand. “I guess I won’t be writing anytime soon.” He lifts his bandaged hand a notch. “I like to write out my first drafts long hand. I’m an old blowhard that way.” He shakes his head as he stares past us grimly. “And then that was it. We went to bed.”

“Did you fall right asleep?” Fallon asks sweetly as if she were trying to lull him to sleep right now with the soft cadence of her voice. But she’s not. She’s trying to gauge his mental state before the bullets hit the fan, or the bodies for that matter.

“Actually, no.” He closes his eyes a moment. “The bed was too small. It’s a full size. We gave the master suite to our friends. We’ve been meaning to get another mattress up there, but never got around to it. We couldn’t expect them to be uncomfortable for a week, so Lydia and I took it.”

Fallon and I exchange a quick glance because suddenly we’re left to wonder who the bullets were meant for.

“We were hosting a little writing retreat with our friends,” he goes on. “They usually stay at the lodge next door to the community center for the event. The convention has been running for years now. That’s actually why Lydia and I bought the cabin a few years back. But this year”—he slaps the back of his neck and stares at his hospital-issued socks in a daze—“we invited them to stay with us. We thought we could use the company.”

Fallon nods, and I know she’s thinking it.

Why now? Did Damien and Lydia need a buffer? Was the marriage in trouble? Suffice it to say, marital ties don’t mean much as far as garnering any mercy from us.

If anything, the opposite is true.

“Cards, talking shop, bedtime,” I repeat, studying him, noting the careful way he avoids mentioning any specifics that might lead us to question his narrative further. “What happened after that?”

“We went to bed.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “I had a tough time falling asleep, but I drifted off eventually. We woke up to a bang and then more shots were fired. Both my wife and I jumped out of bed and ran into the hall. I don’t know what I was expecting to find. I thought maybe a bullet flew through the wall. I wasn’t expecting to find an intruder. I tried to apprehend them, but another shot was fired.” He holds up his hand. “I’m not sure if that’s when this happened. But something sent a jolt up my shoulder and I fell to the ground. I saw—I saw them attack Lydia. She fell to the ground and it looked like they put something over her head.” His lips clamp shut and he shakes his head as his eyes swell with tears. “That’s all.”

Fallon leans in. “We met a couple of women who showed up at the scene. Jewel and Adrienne, they were concerned about you.”

His eyes widen and he freezes a moment.

Something is up with this guy, but yet again I can’t discount his meds either.

“Yes.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “They’re working the convention. I’m sure the news traveled fast.”

“We let them know you were recovering from your wounds,” I tell him. “We asked them a few questions and Jewel mentioned that you’ve been having trouble with one of your neighbors.”

The man’s chest widens a foot with his next breath, and I lurch forward, ready to call a nurse.

“Owen,” he growls out the name as if he were about to murder the man, and Fallon and I glance at one another.

If it takes less than a nanosecond to react to something, then it’s a visceral response and that’s exactly what Owen Marcus just drew from Damien.

“He’s my neighbor, back in Briarwood,” he begins to pant. “Good grief, the man is psychotic. Please, go there now and arrest him. He’s taken things way too far this time.” His good hand begins to claw at his bed sheets and the monitor attached to his arm beeps and whistles in response.

Within seconds, a trio of nurses are tending to him and threatening him with more medication to help him relax.

I land my card on his bedside table and offer a meager smile.

“We’ll talk again. Rest up,” I say. We’re not done here, not by a long shot. “If you can think of anything else that can help, don’t hesitate to call.”

Fallon nods his way. “We’ll be in touch.”

He offers a hardened look our way. “I don’t know what the heck happened last night or why, but I will not be surprised if Owen Marcus is behind this. He’s vowed to make our lives miserable, and we’ve got witnesses who can attest to it. We’ve filed numerous reports with the sheriff’s department. Look into it. I want an arrest, and I want it now,” he growls so loud the metal frame of his bed vibrates.

“You’ll be hearing from us,” I say as Fallon and I leave the room. “Well?” I whisper her way as we make a beeline for the elevator.

“He didn’t ask about his wife.”

“Not once,” I say as we head downstairs and make our way to the parking lot.

All the way back to Pine Ridge Falls, I wonder what could go so wrong in a marriage that you wouldn’t be bothered to ask if your wife was still missing.

The possibilities are endless. My imagination can run forever.

But whoever did this won’t be running for very long.

We’re going to hunt them down just like they did Cornwall and Cynthia Beck.

7

Special Agent Jack Stone

The morning light filters through the clouds as Fallon, Buddy, and I head to Bea’s Diner for a late breakfast.

The drive down Main Street affords a view of the majestic falls that rush down the mountain just north of the lake, and it never gets old.

That’s the reason I moved to this one-cow town. I needed slow, safe, and boring, but that waterfall wiped all three of those descriptions right off the table.

Pine Ridge Falls is magic compared to the armpit I grew up in. And Whispering Woods called to me like a siren song when it came to picking out a neighborhood, with a view of both the lake and a hint of the falls from the back of my cabin as well.

It was win-win, a no-brainer, and now with Fallon living around the bend from me, I wonder if it was fate. I’ve never thought about fate before, but then Fallon has my thoughts shooting in all sorts of different directions that I would never have suspected just a few months ago.

The two of us are still processing the mountain of information we dug through last night at her place. Fallon and I, with Buddy sprawled out between us, scoured every piece of digital life belonging to our four victims.

We were in contact with Nikki all night as well. It was a deep dive into the lives the Coles and the Becks led online, sifting through their social media for anything that might give us a lead. Nothing groundbreaking popped up—Cornwall’s DUI was the only smudge in a sea of clean records.

The pieces of this puzzle may be scattered, but I have a feeling they’re about to come together, revealing a truth more twisted than we’re prepared for.

Owen Marcus comes to mind. We did a deep dive on him, too. He’s the neighbor with a penchant for trouble who seems to thrive on chaos.

His list of grievances isn’t just extensive, it’s practically a playbook of petty neighborhood tyranny. Noise complaints filed against anyone who dared host a barbecue, multiple disputes over property lines, and several tense altercations regarding unsightly yard decorations that supposedly lowered property values.

His presence looms large over this case, and it might just be a potential catalyst for something far more sinister than simple neighborly disagreements. The guy’s got a temper, and whoever massacred that couple, shot Damien, then kidnapped Lydia has one hell of a temper, too.

We park in front and step into Bea’s Diner and the familiar clash of black and white checkered floors greets us. Fallon’s mother owns this place and she makes it feel like an extension of home.

The place is busy enough, easy-listening music plays overhead, and the scent of bacon makes my stomach rumble ten times harder than it already is.

A long counter sits next to the open kitchen that’s already bustling with morning activity. It’s pretty much the landmark of this local eatery, while the red Naugahyde chairs and booths enliven the landscape with splashes of color. It’s safe to say this place drips with more than its fair share of nostalgia.

And judging by all the red and yellow leafy garlands strung around the place, it’s clear the season has changed. Autumn decorations are in full swing here. Each table has a small pumpkin dotting the center of it, and fall leaves are strewn about every which way. There’s a scarecrow propped up near the door, and even he seems to welcome us with a silent nod to the season.

Down by the kitchen, I spot Jet bussing tables—a sight that irks me more than I care to admit. I frown his way just as Fallon’s sister, Riley, comes over.

“Riley!” Fallon pulls her sister in for a hearty embrace.

Riley is Fallon’s older sister, a blonde who stands a few inches shorter than Fallon. And she happens to own a junk hauling business called Pick It Clean. But for today, it looks as if she’s donned an apron.

“Morning, Jack, Fallon,” Riley greets us before making a fuss over Buddy who wags his tail in response. “Mom’s short-staffed today, so I’m pinch-hitting. Come on, I’ve got a great spot for you.”

She leads us to a booth near the light-filled window, which has the perfect view of the falls, and lands a couple of menus down with a smile.

“Let me know if you want the usual, or maybe try something pumpkin-spiced. We’re all about fall flavors right now,” she says while patting Buddy once more before sucking in a quick breath. “Hey, did you hear about that couple that was slaughtered out in Sugar Pine?”

Fallon nods. “The case is ours.”

“Wow.” Riley takes a seat on Fallon’s side of the booth and Buddy happily pops up between them. “So who did it? I heard there was another couple there. A man and a woman. The man was shot in the foot and the woman took off. I bet she’s guilty.”

“The man was shot in the hand,” I tell her. “And we’re going off the premise the woman was kidnapped, although the thought of her taking off isn’t off the table either.”

“Don’t worry.” Fallon sighs at her sister. “Things are coming together pretty quickly for us in that area. So where’s Mom?” She cranes her head toward the kitchen and my gaze drifts to her neck.

Fallon Baxter has the perfect neck. It’s an odd thought, I know, but I’ve made my way around my fair share of necks and she’s got a good one. And a good everything else to go along with it.

I frown at the thought.

“At the bank,” Riley says. “And then I think she mentioned she has an appointment.” She looks my way. “Between her beauty and doctors’ appointments, she’s got a full-time job. It’s a wonder she shows up at this place at all.”

“Good.” Fallon turns to face her fully. “There’s something I want to tell you, but I don’t want you to say anything to Mom. I don’t want to get her hopes up just yet.”

“Is this about Erin?” Riley’s expression quickly turns somber at the mention of their missing sister.

Erin Baxter was a child prodigy with an IQ that could rival Einstein’s. She was close to her family, loving, and looking to make her way in this world when it all up and unraveled out-of-the-blue. But I have a feeling Fallon knows exactly what that out-of-the-blue event was.

I’m not sure why she’s not sharing it with Nikki or me, but that’s her business. I know all too well how complicated families can be. I am certainly not judging anyone else because of it.

“It is about Erin,” Fallon says, dropping her voice an octave.

Riley slaps a hand on the table and leans toward her sister. “Tell me everything.”

Fallon and I exchange a glance.

We both know too much knowledge can be a dangerous thing.

8

Special Agent Jack Stone

“Nikki and Jack did some digging for me,” Fallon tells her sister as we sit at a booth near the window in their mother’s diner. “After that cult disbanded, she took off toward Clearwater Springs. She was spotted in a grocery store with an older man. They caught them on the security footage in a parking lot where he was giving her money. They scanned his features. The guy is linked to the mob.”

Riley’s face goes white.

The man’s name is Marco Rossi. He’s a known heavy for the Moretti crime family that has a hub right here in Denver.

Smart on Fallon’s part for leaving out the details. The last thing we need is her sister going off unhinged, trying to chase down the bad guys herself. The best way to protect her from herself is to limit what she knows.

I glance up just as Jet appears looming over us. Jet is my older brother, older by a year, and has turned going off unhinged into an all-out sport. He’s lanky and far too pale for most to believe that he has any blood pumping through him.

He’s an alcoholic, who by the world’s standards seems to be on the road to recovery, but by mine, he’s one second away from finding the nearest bottle of hairspray and shooting it into his mouth, simply for the alcohol content. He’s done it before.

“Fallon, nice to see you.” He sheds a toothy grin, showing off some discolored and a few missing teeth in the process. But I’ll admit, it’s nice to see him smile. “Jack.” He swats me on the back. “What’s going on?”

Riley ticks her head to the side. “My sister thinks she can pull a fast one on me by leaving out critical information about my missing sister.”

Fallon scoffs at the thought. “I just gave you critical information.”

“Oh yeah?” Riley’s voice is laced with attitude. “So what’s this guy’s name? The one Erin was seen with? The one with the mob ties?”

“This just got good.” Jet takes a seat next to me and I grunt.

“Do not do it,” I say, shaking my head at Fallon.

Riley’s eyes all but launch out of her head before she turns to her sister.

“Are you going to let some dude tell you what you can and can’t say? Just FYI, that is one of the many reasons I dumped Ryan.”

Now it’s Fallon’s eyes bugging out. “You dumped Ryan? When? How? I guess I know why.” She shakes her head at her sister. “Okay, look, the guy’s name is Marco Rossi.”

Another audible groan escapes me, and Fallon averts her eyes.

“Marco Rossi.” Riley nods with a look on her face that lets me know she’s taking mental notes. “And what mob family does this guy work for?”

I shoot Fallon a look that screams say it and regret it. We could be opening a whole new Pandora’s box with this one.

“It’s the Moretti family,” Jet says without missing a beat, and now it’s my eyes that are about to leap from my head.

“Geez.” I shake my head. “Do I want to know how you knew that?”

“Probably not.” He gives a dark chuckle as he says it, and now I definitely don’t want to know.

The bell chimes on the door to the entry and Riley glances up.

“Ooh, a crowd just walked in. I’d better get moving. Thanks for the hot tip on where to find Erin,” she says, jumping to her feet. “I’ll get your order in first. The usual, right?”

We give a couple of reluctant nods her way.

“I’d better get moving, too,” Jet says, following her lead. “And don’t worry”—he says, wrapping an arm around Riley’s waist like he owns the real estate there, and both Fallon and I take note of it—“I know exactly where to find this guy.”

“What?” Fallon gags on the words trying to make their way out of her throat. “Don’t you dare,” she calls out after them, but it’s too late. They’ve disappeared into the bustle of the diner.

“Good move,” I say.

“You be quiet.” She folds her arms tight. “I’ve never held anything back from Riley. I guess I need to rethink my position on the level of secrecy between the two of us.”

“Judging by the way my brother just mildly assaulted your sister, I’d say they’re both keeping something from us.”

Her mouth falls open.

“Okay.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “I can’t deal with either of my sisters right now. Let’s just focus on the case. Nikki mentioned she found a few things. We should meet up with her.”

“Agree. But first, I’d like to take a drive out to Briarwood and maybe knock on Owen’s door.”

“You sure about that? Rumor has it, he doesn’t take too kindly to trespassers.”

“Good thing I’m packing heat. Plus, we’ll have Buddy. Who doesn’t like a dog?”

“With a face like this?” She gives him a hearty scratch. “You’d have to be insane.”

Whoever caused all that carnage up at Sugar Pine Lake is definitely off the rails.

But then, Fallon and I did sign up for crazy.

Speaking of which, Owen Marcus, here we come.

9

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

Once Jack and I finish up at the diner, we head toward Briarwood, and yet my mind is still reeling with regret.

Mentioning Marco Rossi was a colossal mistake.

The thought of Riley or Jet getting tangled up in this mess creates a knot in my stomach the size of the Rocky Mountains. My fingers keep twitching to reach for my phone and shoot Riley a text, warning her not to go off half-cocked, but I stop myself. I know her well enough to understand that caution isn’t her default mode.

On an up note, my sister promised not to say a word to our mother, who just so happened to show up as we were leaving. And since the morning rush was over, Riley asked to take Buddy to the dog park for me.

Buddy was so pumped just hearing the words dog park, he practically handed Riley the leash himself. If I’ve learned anything about Buddy in the short time I’ve had him, it’s that he likes running loose on fresh-cut grass as much as he enjoys wolfing down a pizza—and you can add eggs and bacon to that list, too. Come to think of it, just about any food will do. He’s not that picky when it comes to his meals. He has a lot in common with Jack in that respect.

Outside the windows, Colorado in fall is a showstopper. The road unfurls before us like a ribbon through colorful landscapes where the aspens are ablaze with gold and red, their leaves fluttering in the breeze like miniature flames.

Briarwood begins to materialize ahead, with its pristine, manicured lawns and sprawling estates, and it’s a stark contrast to the rugged, natural beauty that surrounds it. The town is lined with mammoth houses perched on high, overseeing valleys that roll out beneath them.

Briarwood is ritzy. And seeing that I don’t fall into a tax bracket anywhere near its residents explains the fact why I’ve never been here.

An entire slew of luxury cars glides along the streets, and every polished nook and cranny projects exclusivity and wealth. The air feels different, too—crisper, somehow more refined, as if even the atmosphere is aware of its affluent residents. But despite the beauty of the season, my mind strays to the potential dangers regardless of the mask of Briarwood’s opulent façade.

Jack turns down the radio as we get closer to the Coles’ neighborhood.

“Are you done kicking yourself?”

I glance over at him and frown. “How did you know I was kicking myself?”

He shrugs. “You’re too quiet. And the fact you kept scowling and shaking your head was a dead giveaway, too.”

“Okay, Mr. FBI Behavioral Analyst, let’s put you to work on what Owen Marcus is thinking.” I click into the notes I took last night on my phone. “Fifty-eight. Divorced. No kids. Owns High Spirits, a successful THC-infused beverage brand.”

“I’m getting thirsty just thinking about it.” He chuckles to himself. “Kidding. Mostly.”

“Very funny,” I say as we slip into a meticulously manicured neighborhood where the tract houses are cookie cutters of one another, but what a luxurious cookie it is. “There it is, the Cole residence,” I say, pointing to the white house with black trim. “That’s the address, and that’s what we saw on Google Street View last night. That tan wonder next to it belongs to Owen.”

No sooner do I get the words out than a truck backs out of Owen’s driveway and Jack quickly pulls over to keep out of sight.

“Black SUV,” I say it low as if Owen himself could hear me. “That’s our man.”

“But is it our killer?” Jack drums his fingers over the steering wheel as Owen’s truck leaves the track. “I say we follow him.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Let’s hope we don’t end up in Canada or Mexico.”

“You never know, he could be hunting down another victim.”

Follow him we do. And I’ll admit, Jack is pretty good at staying behind and staying off the guy’s radar. We follow Owen Marcus down to the main thoroughfare for about twenty minutes before he pulls right into a Cost Club Box Store.

“Looks as if all Owen Marcus will be hunting down this afternoon is a few bargains to fill his fridge with,” I say.

“Ah, well, when in Rome.” Jack pulls out his wallet and quickly wags his Cost Club card at me. “I’ve got an empty fridge of my own. What a coincidence. You up for a little shopping?”

I reach for the door. “May as well watch you clean the place out of frozen pizza and donuts.”

“Hey, I resemble that remark,” he teases as we head for the entrance.

It will be interesting to see what Owen Marcus fills his cart with.

Makes me wonder if he’s recently acquired another mouth to feed.

10

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

The interior of Cost Club is a vast expanse of Goliath shelves and wide aisles teeming with shoppers.

Bright fluorescent lights illuminate the space, casting a stark glow over everything from towering stacks of canned goods to the miles of refrigerated sections in the back brimming with fresh produce and dairy.

The place is packed to the hilt, but it’s relatively quiet with each shopper minding their own carts as they drift from gigantic aisle to aisle.

“Organized chaos at its finest,” I say as families and individuals alike navigate their carts like seasoned pilots in pursuit of the best bulk deals. “I’ve been a few times, but I’m not a member.”

“Feel free to throw a few things into the cart.” Jack doesn’t hesitate to do the same as we stride by a wall of new sale items and he picks up a three-pack of men’s deodorant.

“Thank you for that. And thank you for the offer as well.” I give a satisfied smile at the tiny dig and he scowls my way.

We spot Owen up ahead and make our way in that direction, staying far enough behind for him to not suspect a thing.

In the meantime, groups of women, from young moms to seasoned shoppers, shoot glances at Jack, whispering and smirking among themselves as if he were the object of the latest gossip. More like the object of their desire. Come to find out, it’s not an uncommon occurrence and I can’t really blame the women.

Jack is handsome to a fault. I might have even done a double take had I run across him in the wild prior to working with him.

It’s clear the women of the world find the tall, fit agent with his crooked smile and sharp blue eyes more intriguing than the latest sale on organic blueberries.

We push our cart down the bustling aisles, trailing well behind Owen Marcus, who seems more focused on his grocery list than on any potential stalkers.

And interestingly enough, Owen doesn’t seem to want to miss a thing, as evidenced by his prolonged detour through housewares.

I’ll admit, the trio of large baskets for less than twenty bucks garnered my attention.

We finally make it to the produce where I spot a bag of lemons, and once I see the price, I stop cold.

“Five bucks for five pounds?” I pick up a bag and admire the almost too-perfect- to-be-true yellow wonders. “I’m starting to think going to the local grocery store is a rip-off. I squeeze one of these babies in my water every day.”

“Get it.” Jack motions for me to fling it into the cart.

“No, that’s okay. This is a lot of lemons to have on hand despite the fact.”

“We can split it,” he says, picking up a bag and landing it in the cart. “In fact, I’d be more than happy to split anything you want. Half the time I don’t have enough room to store the stuff.”

“Deal,” I say, and soon we’re scooping up oranges, apples, chocolate and blueberry muffins—still far too many despite the fact we’ll be dividing them up between us.

We follow Owen over to the meat department where Jack and I each buy our own rotisserie chickens, a block of Irish organic cheese, and a trio of lunch meats, along with minimally proceeded turkey breast that looks slow-roasted to perfection.

“Ooh,” I say, reaching over and grabbing a box of spinach quiche, three pies deep.

“Spinach pie?” He lifts a brow my way as if he’s questioning my sanity.

“It’s a quiche,” I correct him. “And this one happens to boast being made with Gruyere cheese. That’s an insane combination if you ask me.”

“It sounds insane, all right.”

“My mother used to make them all the time. It’s basically high-end comfort food. I’ll make it soon, and when I do, Buddy and I will invite you over. Sort of a reward for letting me mooch off your membership.”

“Sounds more like a punishment.”

We move along and Jack tosses a family-sized bag of frozen pizza into our cart with a triumphant grin.

“Planning to feed an army, or just prepping for a lonely agent’s weekend?” I ask, watching him eye a package of frozen burger patties as long as my arm.

“An FBI agent’s gotta eat,” he retorts. “And I prefer to think of it as stocking up on essential food groups. Bread, cheese, more bread.”

A laugh strums from me as we turn down the next aisle.

Owen is just a few feet ahead, inspecting labels on canned goods with the intensity of a man on a mission.

“Looks like our suspect has a thing for organic beans,” I whisper. “Should we be concerned?”

Jack shakes his head, adding a two-pack of peanut butter to our growing collection. “Only if he starts hurling them at us. Keep your eyes peeled for that.”

We continue our leisurely pursuit of blending in with the other shoppers and scouring the deals. Every so often, Jack makes a show of debating the merits of various snacks before tossing them into the cart. And considering that most of those snacks are laden with chocolate, I can’t wait to get my fair share of them. We reach the pet section and Jack pauses in front of the dog food, his expression suddenly serious.

“I think Buddy would appreciate some gourmet kibble,” he says, genuinely contemplating the options.

“Hey, the kibble I give him is gourmet,” I say, lacking any confidence to back up my claim. All I know is that the dog pictured on the bag looks happy to be salivating in front of a bowl filled with the award-winning nuggets.

“Hate to break it to you, but it’s sawdust repackaged,” he says, landing the forty-pound bag on the rungs under the basket. “Besides, he’s been such a good sport for putting up with our crazy hours. And you know he works just as hard as we do.”

“Harder, some might argue.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m throwing in a bed for him,” he says, picking up a sherpa lined circular dog bed large enough for me to curl up in and it eats up most of the real estate of our cart.

“That’s really nice of you,” I say. “But he sleeps in bed with me at night. I hardly think that’s going to change. And besides my bed, he prefers the couch. He’s not even going to know what that thing is.”

“Are you kidding? He knows everything. The dog is practically a Rhodes Scholar.”

“I’m not shipping him to Oxford.”

“It’s tough when your own mother won’t support your scholarly dreams. But not to worry, Buddy. I’ve got your back.” He pats the overgrown pillow. “He still deserves his own space. Think of this as his fluffy little man cave. Besides, you never know, you might find three’s a crowd and want to give Buddy the boot.”

“Three’s a crowd?” I muse.

“Yeah, you know, in case I land in it one day. I may not want Buddy kicking me in the night.”

“You are not landing in my bed,” I inform him with a laugh. “And if you did, it would be me kicking you—as in kicking you out.”

His brows dip in the middle and, I’ll admit, it’s a stunning look, but I’m far from sharing a pillow with him.

“You’d let me in if we were going undercover,” he teases back. Good grief, I hope he’s teasing. “And I do mean undercover.”

“Not true,” I say without hesitation.

“You wouldn’t kiss me if we had to pose as a couple?”

“Maybe,” I say, thinking about it. “But only if it was do or die, and it would totally be one of those make-believe Hollywood kisses.”

“And what’s that?”

“You know, lips hardly touching, bodies hardly touching, and for goodness’ sake, no tongue.”

“Make-believe Hollywood kisses.” He shakes his head as he mutters. “What movies have you been watching? Because Hollywood really knows how to lay it on. There’s nothing but soft porn out there.”

“I am definitely not watching the same things you are.”

Owen picks up the pace, and before we know it, he’s meandering down the coffee aisle, pausing in front of the whole bean selection.

“Hang back,” I whisper as I speed ahead.

I walk just to the left of our suspect, under the guise of inspecting some specialty java placed strategically near him. I lean forward, pretending to read the labels, but my eyes are scanning his cart—a random assortment of high-end meats and some organic vegetables.

He eats well.

“Excuse me,” I say as my arm crosses in front of him, reaching out to grab a bag.

“Not a problem,” he says, sounding like the perfect gentleman, and I can feel him sizing me up.

“Would you look at that?” He gives a playful chuckle. Owen is tall, built like a refrigerator, baby-faced, but with reddish-brown facial scruff that matches his short hair. He’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and I can practically see the cologne radiating off of him like fumes. “Couldn’t help but notice we seem to have picked up the same coffee,” he says with a touch of pride. “You must have excellent taste.”

I force a laugh. Coming across as friendly isn’t exactly my strong suit.

“Or maybe it’s you who has excellent taste,” I reply, keeping the conversation light while I take a quick inventory of his cart’s contents once again. Nothing out of the ordinary, or at least not yet, just a bachelor’s diet by the looks of it. But I’m sure Lydia wouldn’t protest eating any of that stuff if need be.

“Maybe I could show you a few other selections you might like?” Owen says, edging a bit closer and growing miles bolder.

“Maybe another time,” I say. “I’m actually here with someone.” I nod down the aisle in the event he was wondering. My badge is growing hot and heavy in my purse and I’m tempted to pull it.

He glances back to see Jack inspecting a jug of chocolate-flavored powder that promises to transform a glass of milk into a chocolaty wonder. I drank it by the gallon in third grade.

And into the cart, it goes.

“Ah, I see.” Owen ticks his head wistfully. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were with your husband.”

“Oh, he’s not my husband,” I say a little too quickly for me to mitigate the words coming from my mouth. “I’m very much single.” Something tells me I’ll need to be to get anywhere with this guy.

His lips curve with a greasy smile. “Well, good news, so am I. In fact, I’m not sure if you’re busy later, but there’s a bar called the Oasis in Denver. They’re hosting a speed dating thing there tonight. I’m actually the sponsor.”

“Really?” I hike a brow, amused.

“Yup, tonight at eight. If you stop by, I’ll be there. Of course, I’m participating, too. It goes with the territory on my end. I sell beverages for a living.” He wrinkles his nose without extrapolating.

Way to keep the mystery alive.

“You might just see me there.”

“I hope I do.” He waggles his brows before pushing his cart right out of the aisle, and Jack pushes our cart this way, looking vexed.

“Why did you have to tell him you were single?” he growls as if he took personal offense to my relationship status.

“Because it’s not a lie,” I tell him, dropping the gourmet coffee beans into the cart.

Jack nods, resigned to the fact. “So tonight at eight?”

“It’s a date and I won’t be late.”

“You won’t be alone either,” he says. “I’m coming with you.”

11

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

Not only did Jack accompany me this evening, but Nikki has joined in on the fun as well.

After I fed Buddy a bowl of his brand new kibble, along with a can of wet food, Jack and I drove out to the FBI field office where we met with Nikki. Since she lives about a half hour from us, we thought this might be the best way to meet up. And according to our research, the Oasis has a notoriously bad parking situation, so the carpool worked on many levels.

The neon glow of the Oasis sign flickers above us, casting a green electric haze over the bustling crowd as we push through the heavy glass doors. The scent of musk and high-octane cocktails mingles in the air, and it’s a lively combination that’s both inviting and slightly overwhelming. The floors are dark, matching the tables and chairs, the music is loud, the lighting is spotty, and it all makes me feel as if we’ve just fallen into a mosh pit.

The music hums with a pulsating beat that seems to throb in rhythm with the collective bodies swimming in the room.

“Welcome to the madhouse,” I mutter, scanning the scene. It’s an eclectic mix of hipsters in vintage tees to business types looking to unwind. The energy is alive with anticipation, and I’m betting a misdemeanor or two. Each person here seems to be buzzing with the possibility of a love connection—or in the least a one-night stand.

Jack leans in, and the warmth of his spiced cologne surrounds me. He’s dressed business casual with a tweed jacket and pale blue dress shirt underneath that brings out his eyes.

I noticed.

More than once.

And yet, I hate that I noticed at all.

“You think this is how our suspect lures his victims?” His voice is low, competing with the bass of the background music. “Promises of love and THC?"

Nikki laughs as we make our way to the registration table decked out with name tags and color-coded wristbands.

“If his beverages are as strong as his seduction game, we might need to watch out,” she says.

“Do not fall under this guy’s spell,” I say firmly and only slightly teasing. I may not have known Nikki all too long, but one thing has become painfully obvious—she has exceptionally bad taste in men.

“Hey, I’m here looking for a love connection just like everyone else,” she chirps while adjusting the little red number she’s squeezed herself into. And with her crimson locks and matching lipstick, she’s a trifecta of trouble for just about anyone tonight—mostly herself.

I’ve squeezed myself into my go-to little black dress, my Glock sitting comfortably in my purse. And seeing that Nikki neither has a purse nor a jacket to conceal her weapon, it’s clear Jack and I are going to have to cover her.

We approach the registration table, and a woman with a clipboard and a too-bright smile greets us. She’s blonde and beautiful and looks impossibly young. Do they let teenagers into places like this? Probably.

“First time speed dating?” She giggles as she eyes the three of us and her gaze decides to settle on Jack.

Figures.

“You know what they say,” I mutter. “There’s a first time for everything,” I shoot back, trying to match her enthusiasm, lest my skepticism shows.

“What’s this?” Jack picks up a blue wristband and twirls it. “Do I get a prize if I make it through the night without cringing?"

“It’s your singles band,” the woman shouts over the music and budding chaos. “Blue means you’re on the market. Green means it’s complicated.” She licks her lips right at him. “So what color are we sporting this evening?”

“Blue all around,” I answer for him and the girl lights up as if she were the one who won a prize. And if she’s lucky, she just might. According to Jack’s history, he’s quite the ladies’ man.

“This is more his speed.” Nikki grabs a green band and winks at Jack. “Guess the two of you aren’t in the mood for the truth.”

My mouth opens and I gape at her for even suggesting it.

I take a blue band and fasten it around my wrist, the tiny snap echoing louder in my ears than it should. We ante up, and soon we move toward the bar as the scent of French fries and beer becomes more pronounced.

“So, what’s the strategy?” Nikki bounces in her heels as if she can hardly contain herself. “Flirt our way to the truth?”

Jack tips his head. “He seems to have taken a particular liking to Baxter. I’m pretty sure she could coax anything she wants out of him.”

Nikki shrugs. “Yeah, but she’s got boundaries.” She winks at me and it makes me want to swat her. “I’m willing to give one hundred percent. You know, in the name of justice.”

Jack leans my way. “If you’re wondering, she’s slept with a man named Justice, too.”

“Now that was just a fun coincidence.” She wags her finger at him. “And look at all the mileage you’ve gotten out of it? Don’t ever say I’m not a giver.”

I have a feeling Nikki has given her mother a headache or two as well.

Jack nods toward the bartender mixing a drink. “I’d say the first round is on me, but I’m driving.”

“I’m driving.” Nikki scowls at the thought just before they both look my way.

“What?” I ask. “Don’t tell me I need to get loaded in the name of justice.”

“How about in the name of research?” Nikki lifts a brow as if trying to entice me.

“How about we conduct research the old-fashioned way? By way of a suspect,” I tell her as I motion to the bodies filling this place to capacity.

As we edge closer to the heart of the crowd, the din of conversations becomes a backdrop to our mission. But amidst the noise and the chaos, there’s a thrill, too—a chase of sorts, and for me, that chase just so happens to involve tracking down a killer.

Although for as much as I’m here to keep an eye on Owen, a part of me can’t help but get caught up in the excitement of the night. There’s a heck of a lot of pheromones going off right now, and with or without my permission, some of them are mine.

12

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

The singles mingle event kicks off with the ring of a bell, echoing over the chatter like a starting gun at a race.

The Oasis in Denver is filled with prospects for the opposite sex tonight, and with the energy in this room, there’s no doubt a love connection will be made. Whether or not it lasts more than one night is to be seen.

We spot Owen and watch as he slips into the fray with his charm dialed all the way up, flashing a grin at every potential suitor. Nikki, ever the fearless agent, is already planted at his table with a wicked glint in her eye.

I lean over to Jack. “Looks like she’s diving right into enemy territory.”

Jack smirks, watching as a blonde with a too-tight dress licks her lips at him despite my proximity.

“Nikki does have a knack for getting close to the action.” He frowns as he says it. “Let’s hope it’s just her interrogation techniques that are hands-on tonight.”

The organizers set a timer for three minutes per interaction, a digital clock that slowly ticks down the moments as I find myself shuffled in front of a series of hopefuls.

Each so-called date starts with an all too happy grin (on their part) and a clumsy introduction (that would be mine).

The air is thick with desperation and cheap cologne.

Across from me, I catch a glimpse of Jack as a woman in a sequined top gushes about her yoga routine. I confess, I’m listening in.

The timer goes off and my next date sits down—a man in a suit and a sales pitch instead of a personality.

Before I can answer another question from his rapid-fire interrogation, the bell rings again, mercifully on my part. I scan the room for Nikki and she’s with our suspect once again, laughing at something Owen has said. I shake my head slightly. That settles it, she is determined to sleep with every man that crops up on our suspect list.

The evening blurs into a cycle of faces and names, the bell marking the end of each encounter like the world’s most relentless snooze button. As the rotations continue, I find myself back at Jack’s side, both of us a little worse for wear.

He leans in, bedroom eyeing me, most likely because he can’t seem to find the off switch.

“How’s your heart?” he asks, lackluster. “Still intact after all that?"

“Still beating. And trying to drum its way out of my chest in search of the exit,” I quip, watching as Owen wraps up his session with Nikki yet again and moves on to a bubbly brunette. “But I’m more interested in what Nikki’s drumming up.”

Jack chuckles. “Let’s hope it’s more than just his favorite drink recipes. Though, from the looks of it, she might just charm the truth out of him one way or another. You know what they say—if dinner doesn’t work, there’s always breakfast.”

“Nobody says that.”

The bell goes off again and lucky me is next at bat with our potential perpetrator.

“Wish me luck,” I say as we both rise from our seats.

“Remember the rules. Legs closed, mind opened, heart on the line.”

I shake my head at him in horror as Owen and I find ourselves at the same table.

“Finally,” he says, looking at me mesmerized. “The one I’ve waited for all night.”

The bell goes off, the clock is ticking, and my number one suspect is eyeing me like I’ve just morphed into a juicy steak.

Owen leans in and lands his hands on the table just shy of my fingers. “I’m glad you came. The second I saw you walk through the door, I couldn’t wait to have a chance to speak with you. So tell me, are you looking for a love connection tonight, or maybe something a little more exciting?”

“Maybe I’m just looking for a few interesting stories.” I play along, tilting my head, trying my best to give him a smile that suggests there could be more. “People are full of them, aren’t they?” And I have a feeling he’s full of something, too. “What about you, Owen? What’s your story? Don’t leave out a single detail.”

Especially not the homicidal ones.

His chest thumps with a silent laugh. “My story could fill a book, maybe several. Born and raised here in Colorado, made a name for myself in the beverage industry. You might have heard of High Spirits? That’s my baby—craft THC-infused drinks for those looking to unwind without the hangover.”

He drones on and on, and his hand gestures grow more animated by the minute. It’s clear he’s passionate about his work, but there’s a rehearsed quality to his spiel. Most likely because he’s just recited these very words to about thirty different women.

“And outside of work?” I probe, leaning forward as if I were captivated. He wishes. “What does Owen do to unwind, especially if he’s already selling relaxation in a bottle?”

He laughs again, this time a bit more genuinely. “Well, I’m a bit of an adrenaline junkie. Skydiving, rock climbing—you name it, I’ve probably jumped off it or climbed it.” His eyes sink to my neckline as if that roll call included women as well, and I have no doubt it does.

Three rounds go off, and we’re still talking—or rather, he’s still attempting to charm me and I’m still attempting to pin a felony on him. I can tell he’s used to being the center of attention, and I’m definitely planning on using this to my advantage.

The final bell goes off and an instant chatter explodes in the room at a far higher decibel level than it was before. Bodies begin to stir around us, but we don’t move a muscle.

“You’re easy to talk to, Fallon.” Owen reaches over and picks up my hand. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in continuing this conversation over dinner? Somewhere far less occupied?” He lands a kiss on the back of my hand, his eyes staying trained on mine. “We can go back to my place. Or if you’re in a hurry, I know of an office upstairs.” He eyes my mouth, and within seconds his face is coming in hot.

But before he can hit paydirt, or I can reach for my Glock, a badge is thrown in his face.

“FBI,” Jack growls at the man. “Get on your feet. You’re coming with me.”

13

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

Jack hustles Owen Marcus out of the bar and away from the crowds gathered at the entry until we’re standing in front of the cannabis dispensary next door and it seems fitting.

The air is biting cold and the smell of cigarettes infiltrates the area.

“What the hell?” Owen lifts his hands as he takes a few steps back before looking over at Nikki and me. “I’m sorry, ladies, but you should probably head back in. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure to get both of your numbers before the night is through.”

Nikki and I flash our badges at him and his face loses all color.

“Geez, you, too?” He looks from Nikki to me and we nod. “What is this, an ambush?”

“More like a meet and greet,” Jack tells him. “Just like we had inside, except we have all the time in the world. We’re going to ask a few questions, and you’re going to give us straight answers because if we find out you’re not telling the truth, I’ll make sure they ratchet up the prison term with no hope of parole.”

Owen lifts his chin as if Jack had struck him. And judging by the way Jack is vibrating with anger, I’m getting the feeling it’s still on the table.

“All right, what’s going on?” Owen quickly resigns to the fact this little meet and greet isn’t going away. And I’m glad about it, too. Less friction equals more answers. Whether or not they’ll be truthful is another story.

“What do you know about Damien and Lydia Cole?” Jack starts with a prelude rather than the beginning.

Owen’s countenance softens a notch. “Oh yeah, that was sick. I came home from the grocery store this afternoon and he told me all about it.”

“Damien told you?” Nikki looks perplexed at the thought.

“That’s right,” he says. “He came charging at me, demanding that I admit what I did.” He shakes his head dismissively. “The guy accused me of slaughtering a couple of his friends. Says Lydia is gone. I don’t know what happened. I went inside and it was all over the internet. Before I took off to come here, a few news crews set up shop in the neighborhood.”

“What was your relationship like with the Coles?” Jack asks, getting one step closer to home.

“Tenuous. They’re lousy neighbors. No sooner did I move in than Lydia complimented me on my bright red curtains. The very next day I had the HOA riding my hump because they didn’t like the color. It didn’t take long to connect the dots. Things only escalated from there.

“I planted a row of trees to act as a boundary between us and they accused me of putting them on their property a good two feet. I let them know I hired the people from the nursery to do the job. It wasn’t anything malicious on my part. Then I rehired another set of gardeners to move the trees, and this time they burst one of the pipes from the Coles’ sprinkler system. So I had a plumber come out and fix it. And did I get a thank you? No. I got a bill for two hundred and thirty bucks to replace a border garden I supposedly dug up in the process. It never existed. But I paid up—in a pile of nickels I left on his driveway.”

“Nice work,” Nikki mutters and I shoot her a look.

She would think so.

“Owen,” I start. “Have you ever heard the Coles arguing with one another before? How did their relationship seem to you?”

“I don’t know.” He blows out a breath and it crystallizes—it’s that cold out. “I never heard them arguing, but I did see something a few weeks back that made me look twice. I was about to head to my truck when I realized I had forgot something in the house. By the time I came back, the two of them were in their driveway. I have a clear shot of it from mine. We had just had another tussle, so I thought I’d hang back until they got in their cars, but they were having a conversation. It looked tense. They were talking fast and pressured, but their voices were low. I heard Lydia say, ‘That’s the last time you’ll do that to me’ and started to take off for her car, and that’s when I saw him grab her.”

“Grab her?” There’s a rough edge to Jack’s voice. “How did he grab her?”

“By the elbow. He plucked her back, and I’m not talking about a simple, hey, don’t go. The guy jerked her back pretty violently. Lydia almost toppled over. Then he grabbed her and he shook her, real hard. It was over just as fast it as it began, but still. Believe me, I thought about interceding. And if it got any worse, I would have. But she said something else to him. I’m not sure what, and then they went their separate ways.”

Nikki leans in. “Did you know the Becks? Cornwall and Cynthia? They were their friends. They’re the couple that was killed.”

“No,” he says. “The Coles and I weren’t on friendly terms. And they rarely had people at the house except for that blonde woman. She came around like clockwork just about every single day. Julie, I think her name is.” He closes his eyes. “Or Jewels, something like that. I met her once. She said she did some work for them. She was friendly enough. But too friendly if you ask me. It’s as if she was trying to overcompensate because her bosses were a couple of jerks. Anyway, she was always there.”

“Was anyone else coming around?” I ask. “Did you ever notice any suspicious cars? Any fans? Any other friends?”

His chest expands as he thinks about it. “Lydia walks in the morning with another neighbor, Nora Archer. She lives four doors down. They seemed pretty close. The two of them were always chatting from the minute they took off until the second they came back. But that’s it.”

Nora Archer. I make a mental note of it.

“All right,” Jack says. “One last thing. There was an incident about a week and a half ago. You verbally threatened to harm Damien. I read the police report, but I’d like to hear it from you. What happened?”

Owen’s face contorts in something this side of rage. “That row of trees I told you about?” His jaw redefines itself. “They torched it. They freaking dumped kerosene on the ground and the entire row went up like Roman candles. He could have burned my house down. I know it was him. He kept saying they were getting too tall and blocking his view of the lake. I told him I’d get a tree trimmer out when I could. A couple of months went by and the guy took care of it himself. The man is violent. And judging by the way he manhandled his wife, he’s got a temper, too. The guy’s a nutjob. And the funny thing is, he’s got the entire neighborhood believing that the nutjob is me.” His phone buzzes and he glances at the screen. “Are we done here? I’ve got a product to promote inside, and I paid a lot of money to do it.”

“What about the night of the incident?” Jack presses on. “Where were you?”

Owen shakes his head with a look of disbelief in his eyes. “I was at a charity event sponsored by High Spirits. Wagon Wheel Bar and Grill. I have dozens of witnesses. I stayed late.”

It doesn’t mean much, considering we have no clear time yet on when the shootings took place, but Owen seems confident his alibi will pan out.

“You got any properties other than your home?” I go on, uninterested in how much money he may be losing.

“I’ve got a warehouse in Elmwood. I share the space with a few other liquor startups on the corner of Grand and Livingston. You’re welcome to check the place out any time, no warrant needed. Just show up. I’m never there, but someone always is.”

That dovetails with what we discovered last night when we put his name in the database. Property records indicate as much, but we still can’t rule out that he’s holing Lydia away somewhere.

Jack nods as he hands him a card. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

Owen takes it reluctantly and shoots Nikki and me a forlorn smile. “So does that mean we’re off the table?”

I give him a nod and Nikki shrugs.

“It all depends on whether or not I arrest you,” she tells him and both Jack and I groan.

Owen takes off and Nikki looks at the two of us.

“What?” she says. “I was just telling the truth.”

My phone pings and I glance at the screen. “Good grief.”

“What is it?” Jack looks as if he’s already angry about whatever has cropped up, and he should be.

“It’s Riley. She and Jet are at the Velvet Lounge Gentlemen’s Club right here in Denver.”

“That’s a strip club,” Jack says as if he has firsthand knowledge of the place, and I have no doubt he does. “What the heck are they doing there?”

“Do you really have to ask?” Nikki scoffs. “They’re looking at strippers.”

“They’re not there for the strippers,” I say with a sigh. “They tracked down Marco Rossi.”

14

Lydia Cole

Head hurts.

Body hurts.

A deep moan escapes from me.

“What’s happening?” My voice croaks as I try my hardest to rouse myself from this heavy sedation I’ve been struggling with for hours, or maybe it’s days—weeks. It could be months for all I know.

My head feels clouded, all fogged up with no sense of time or what could have possibly happened to me.

My lids flutter open, only to find a pressing darkness wrapped around me like a shroud. The air is damp and frozen, filled with the musty scent of old wood and something metallic I can’t quite place.

My fingers run across the floor I’m lying on and a layer of dirt covers them. It feels like wood beneath me, but this is definitely not a home. A barn, maybe?

I feel for a leash or a tether, but my hands and feet are free of any confinement.

Snatches of the other night come back to me in jags. I was drinking wine, lots and lots of wine. Too much wine apparently.

I was talking to Cindy.

A hard moan evicts from me. That card game comes back to me. Then hours of poring over our latest works in progress. More liquor. I distinctly remember telling her about Damien’s latest escapade. The look on her face was pure horror.

Is that what this is about?

Cynthia?

No. Cornwall, now he could be grumpy, but⁠—

Then it comes back. The loud bang. Damien and I rousing from a dead sleep.

Damien shouted something about gunshots and sprang out of bed and, of course, I followed him.

Two more shots were fired and I felt that blast ricochet right through my bones.

The next thing I knew we were in the hallway. A dark figure came at me and something powerful jolted through my chest, then again over my shoulder.

I run my hand over my clothes. I’m still in the sweats I fell into bed with. My fingers tap over my skin and feel just above my heart where my skin feels sensitive to the touch. Was I grazed by a bullet? It feels like a burn. Whatever it was, they got me good with it.

Now what?

“Help.” My voice is hoarse, more of a croak than the scream I intended. “Is anyone there?”

My voice echoes slightly as silence greets me.

“DAMIEN,” I shout, hoping my husband is nearby, hoping he’s looking for me. But there’s no response, just the oppressive darkness.

Who would do this?

Why?

Why me?

Maybe they want money?

Maybe there’s a ransom?

Damien will pay it.

People must know I’m missing, right? Damien knows. Doesn’t he? Unless, of course, he’s dead.

Tears come and I can’t stop them.

Yes, I hated him at times. Most of the time as of late, but we’re not done. That man does not get to die on my watch. I don’t care who this psychopath is that did this. They don’t get to take him down.

That’s my job.

I strain to hear any sound that might mean rescue—a footstep, a voice, anything. But there’s only the low, eerie creak of wood, perhaps the structure settling, It’s hard to tell what’s happening in this sensory void where time and space seem to lose all meaning.

Tears well up, hot and desperate.

“Please”—I whisper in the darkness—“please let someone find me.”

This fear is real. It’s a living thing that’s penetrated me completely. I need to stay calm, need to think. But every worst-case scenario plays in my mind at warp speed.

This is where they leave me.

This is where I die.

This is where I rot.

My time on this planet has come and gone, and the judge and jury who decided it would be so is hoping to get away with it. And they just might.

“Damien, please,” I murmur again, and my voice feels like a friend in the dark. “Come find me.”

But deep down, a small part of me wonders if he had something to do with this. The thought is a viper in my mind, but it’s one I can’t quite silence as the darkness pulsates around me like a beast.

Wait a minute…

My hands pat the vicinity as I get up on my hands and knees and crawl around a few feet in either direction. The familiar scent of pine and earth mingle with the faint scent of gasoline as they infiltrate my senses and then it hits me.

I know what this is.

I know exactly where I am.

And I scream at the top of my lungs because of it.

15

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

The Velvet Lounge Gentlemen’s Club pulses with life as we step inside, the dim lighting casting everything it touches in shades of crimson and gold.

Loud music thumps through the crowded space. A deep bass that you feel more than hear vibrates right through the soles of your shoes. Strobe lights flicker, catching on the shimmering dresses of the dancers as they move and groove on the main stage. Their bodies sway with a greed that practically sucks the dollar bills right out of the wallets of the poor fools rushing the stage.

A waitress, wearing nothing more than a couple of neon pasties and a G string to match, walks by with a platter full of nachos.

“I’ll admit, the nachos look good,” I say.

“Were there nachos?” Jack teases, or not.

“Down, boy,” I say. “We’re on a mission. Or at least I am.”

“It does involve my brother. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” He scans the crowd. “There they are.” He nods to the corner and, sure enough, I see Riley and Jet huddled over a platter of nachos, surrounded by a couple of fruity cocktails as well, and we make a beeline in their direction.

Riley looks up and pauses from shoveling in a bite of tortilla covered in orange goo. “Oh good, you’re here,” she says, jumping over a notch in the booth to make room for me.

Her hair is curled and teased every which way, à la an ode to the eighties, and she’s donned an electric blue dress that enlivens her best features.

I’m not sure I care for the fact Riley has decided to enliven any part of her while out with Jack’s brother. I’ll have to get her alone later and ask what the heck she’s thinking. I mean, she did dump Ryan, so technically she’s single but still. Jet?

I land next to her and Jack lands next to Jet—who also looks impeccably put together. And I can’t help but frown because of it.

“Glad to see you’re enjoying yourselves.” Jack doesn’t look amused. “What the heck were you thinking coming out here, tracking down a mobster?”

“A henchman,” I correct. “Although same difference,” I say sharply to my older, not wiser, sister. “This man is dangerous, Riley. He’s a seasoned pro at making people disappear. Do you really think our mother needs two daughters that are MIA?”

She clams up because she knows I’m right.

Jack eyes those glowing cocktails with more than a modicum of suspicion.

“Don’t worry,” Riley is quick to tell him. “They’re virgins. Probably the only virgins in this place.”

Jet sputters out a laugh and Riley joins him.

“Okay.” Jack steals a nacho. “So what’s happening here? Either the two of you have no idea how much danger you’re putting yourselves in, and possibly Erin, or you think you’re suddenly Nancy Drew.”

“Hey, I’m no Nancy.” Jet is quick to protest. “I’m a Hardy Boy.”

“You’re a boy, all right,” Jack growls before indulging in his food.

“Where is this guy?” I ask, casting a quick look around. “Where’s Marco?”

Jet leans my way. “He’s a part owner of the club. He comes here all the time. He’s wearing a navy pinstriped suit and he keeps his post behind the bar.”

I glance to the bar and see no sign of him.

“Thank you,” I say to Jet. “The two of you can leave now. We’ll take it from here.”

Riley inches back. “We’re not leaving. I’ve never been to a strip club before.” She winks my way because we both know it’s not true. Ryan used to drag her to all sorts of unsavory places. “This is fun. There’s dancing. I like to dance.”

I pull back to get a better look at my sister. I’d say that Erin got all of the brain cells that should have gone to Riley, but Erin isn’t acting so smart as of late either.

“Riley, these are strippers. You’re not stripping tonight, or ever.”

She makes a face as she looks in the direction of the stage. “Yeah, but look at the tips.”

“So did you find that missing woman?” Jet asks and he seems genuinely interested in the case. A shocker since there are bare-breasted women in the vicinity.

Even Jack seems unable to keep his focus. I’m starting to think Jet has all the brain cells in that family even if they do skew to the darker side of life.

“No,” Jack growls. “But we’re gathering intel.” His eyes meet with mine and I can tell he’s pleading with me not to let any details fly.

I nod his way because I agree. Knowing these two, they’ll be hunting down our next suspect before we can get to them. And that suspect would be Jewel Barrett. That blonde is as close to the nucleus of the Cole family as you can get. She must know something.

Jet shrugs as he takes a sip of his fruity drink. “I bet you’ll find her somewhere obvious. That’s usually how those things work out in books.”

“Are we back to the Hardy Boys?” Jack doesn’t seem amused, but his attention is quickly diverted by something to his right. He hitches his head that way covertly before glancing my way and I look over to see a heavy-set man in a navy pinstripe suit. “Never mind.” Jack yanks a wad of ones from his pocket at least two inches thick and quickly hands a swath to both Riley and Jet. “Why don’t the two of you head for the stage? Riley, you dance all you want. Jet knock your sick socks off by stuffing some panties.”

“Ooh, thanks.” Riley practically hurdles over me, and within seconds, both she and Jet are bellied up to the stage and following Jack’s instructions to a T.

“What’s going on here?” I ask as I nod at the bills left in his hand. “Have ones will travel?”

He takes a moment to frown at me. “I thought I might need to pitch for drinks back at the Oasis.”

“For the entire bar?”

“For you, sweetheart.” He sheds a short-lived smile. “I had a sneaking suspicion you’d drink like a fish.”

I shake my head. “You knew about Marco.”

“Okay, so I knew.” He slides half his stack my way and I take it. I’m no fool. “Feel free to make it rain.”

“As long as it’s on your dime,” I say. “And I don’t see why not. It’s not like I’ll be coming back. But I have a feeling you will.”

He shoots me a look. “Let’s go before we lose him.”

Jack leads the way as we thread our way through the bodies—mostly women, mostly nude. Jack pauses a moment as he looks toward the stage and I follow his gaze to see Riley rocking out and Jet right there with her, shaking his hips to the funky beat pulsating through the speakers. He’s basically putting on a strip tease of his own and Riley seems more than entertained. They’re causing such a scene even the dancers on stage are flocking their way.

“His moves are really good,” I say. “Why is that?” On second thought, I probably don’t want to know.

“It’s not his first rodeo.”

“It’s not hers either.”

He nods to the man in the pinstriped suit. “Let’s go rope that steer.”

“Let’s.”

16

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

We make our way to the bar and take a seat on the far end, here at the Velvet Lounge Gentlemen’s Club in downtown Denver.

The bartender comes by and we order a couple of gin and tonics.

“Stone?” I say as the bartender slides them over and Jack antes up along with a generous tip.

“I’m not touching it,” he says.

I’m not one to micromanage my partner’s drinking habits, but if he’s on a sobriety streak I’ll make sure to point it out to him.

Jack waves at the man in the pinstripe suit and he makes his way over.

It’s interesting to see him in 3D after studying him on that security footage for so long. A part of me feels as if I’m seeing a celebrity, or in this case a cartoon character come to life.

He’s tall, wide as a door, and built for destruction. He looks somewhere in his late forties, with heavily tanned skin, a large thick dark mustache taking up half his face, and a mean look in his eyes that lets you know he’s not afraid to break a neck in a dark alley—or a house of worship.

“How may I help you?” Marco sheds a forced grin and either a silver or gold tooth glints in the light. It’s too dim in here to tell. But my money is on gold.

“I’m going to cut to the chase,” Jack says, pulling out his phone and flashing a picture of Erin and Marco huddled in the parking lot of that grocery store during their cash exchange. “Where can we find her?”

The smile melts off the man’s face as he takes us both in.

“What’s it to you?”

I pull out my badge and covertly flash it at him so as to not cause a scene. With a mob like this, we could have a stampede for the door and I’d hate for any boob in this place to get injured, both literally and figuratively.

“Even better.” Marco leans in and there’s a newfound defiance in his eyes. “I know exactly where you can find her.”

“Where?” I practically spit in his face as I get the word out as fast as I can.

A dark laugh rumbles through him, but he never takes his eyes off mine. “I’ll tell you. But not unless you offer up your services. I work for the Morettis. I’m sure you’re aware of who they are.”

Both Jack and I offer up a sober nod.

“Good,” he says. “Manny Moretti is running the Denver syndicate. But your men—and women already know that. Let’s just say we’ve been in touch.” His shoulders jump.

“Where is my sister?” I growl and the man’s face brightens a notch.

“Sister?” He cocks his head, looking genuinely amused, and I quickly realize I’ve made a grave mistake. “Well now, I didn’t realize this was personal. That changes things, doesn’t it? What are you willing to give?”

I hold up that wad of ones and Marco shakes his head at the offer.

Didn’t think so.

“Save it for the girls,” he says. “I know where Erin is.”

My adrenaline spikes instantly.

We never said her name.

He knows exactly who she is. And I have a feeling he’s not bluffing. He could lead me to my sister tonight.

“What do you want?” I’ll give him anything. And right about now, I think he knows it all too well.

“The Morettis have a need,” he says, his expression growing sober. “They need a dirty cop.” He shrugs. “A dirty fed is even better. If I deliver you on a silver platter, I get a bonus. In other words, you’re my winning ticket out of this place.”

“What’s wrong with this place?” Jack asks as a pair of boobs bounce by, and I shoot him a dirty look for going there. “What? It’s practically paradise compared to any other jobs the Morettis could have him doing.”

“He’s right.” Marco shrugs again, and at this point, I’m likening it to a tick. “But that, too, is a payday I can’t refuse. So what do you say? You want Erin? I want you.” He nods to me specifically. “I’ll give you some time to think about it. I’m here most nights. I’ll give you a week to decide. If don’t see you, I’m tipping her off that you’re after her.”

“She’s aware,” I say.

“I meant I’ll make her disappear.” He gives a curt nod and a chill rides through me. That could mean so many things, all of them potentially life-ending for my sister. “You come on board and all we ask is three favors at the discretion of the Morettis. When and where is up to them.”

“Just three?” Jack muses.

“They like to work in threes. It’s a holy number. They figure it’s fair.”

Jack turns my way. “Nice way to square things up with the man upstairs.”

I can’t tell if he’s teasing or not or what his thoughts on the matter are, mostly because the lights are flickering like mad, the music has turned up ten decibels, and my head is spinning with all sorts of dark thoughts. Not to mention the words dirty fed are playing on repeat in my brain.

“A week,” I say as I slide off the stool. “We’ll see.”

Jack and I take off back into the crowd. “Let’s collect the goofballs we’re related to and get out of here,” he shouts over the music.

We head to the front, only to find Riley and Jet have migrated their way onto the stage and are busy collecting their own wad of ones.

The music switches to some throwback song from the eighties and Jack gives a Cheshire Cat smile. The entire club is on its feet swaying to the beat and even my own body begs to move despite the trauma that just ensued.

“Come on.” He pulls me in and begins to sway to the music. “Let’s forget about everything for two minutes,” he says it low enough for me to have to read his lips.

Soon, Jack is swaying his hips with the best of them and it feels as if I’ve got my very own erotic dancer using me as a pole, as a willing victim to his ceaseless good looks and wicked charm.

And then I become one.

With the lights flashing on and off in shots of pink and blue, it all feels surreal, like a bad dream, a nightmare I can’t seem to claw my way out of.

I wrap my arms around Jack, close my eyes, and dance the night away. And in a fit of lunacy, I thrust that wad of bills he gave me into the air and make it rain all over us.

I don’t see why not. It’s already raining misery.

Either I become a dirty fed or Erin winds up dead.

I’ve inadvertently put a price on my sister’s head in an effort to bring her home safely.

I’ve always said I’d do anything to bring her back. And now the rubber meets the road.

Jack comes at me with a lusty look in his eyes as he cradles the back of my head.

He’s coming in for the kill, I can feel it.

What’s one more sidestep from my good senses?

He comes in close and I turn my head away at the last second.

Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

I’m barreling down the path to becoming a pawn in the mob’s pocket.

I wonder if I’ll turn my head away.

I wonder if I can.

17

Evil

The icy night air feels invigorating, and with each breath pluming from my lips, it’s a reminder of the control I have, firmly within my grasp.

A smile curls on my lips as the fate of both Damien and Lydia comes to mind, with each scenario more satisfying than the last.

Damien, with his hollow charm, and Lydia so blissfully unaware of the true nature of the beast she had fed by her side.

Or maybe she was aware?

Maybe she was on the cusp of figuring it all out.

Oh, to think of the pleasure I would have derived to see their perfect blessed union shatter to pieces. She knew he was a monster, but I don’t believe for a second that she knew how deep those waters ran.

Who am I kidding?

They’re both monsters, cut from the same cloth. He just wields his horns a little more prominently. Lydia knows enough about his schemes to be culpable in a court of law. But since the legal wheels churn slowly, I’m more than glad to take things into my own hands.

I’m more than competent to right the wrongs they’ve dealt me. They believed they could tread on lives like mine without consequence, weaving their deceit and manipulation into the fabric of my daily existence. But no longer. The scales are about to tip, and justice, my justice, will be grand, and perfect, and right.

I make my way to the shelter where I have that wicked witch holed up, and my thoughts turn to the plans I’ve laid out for Damien.

He will suffer, of course, but his punishment must be more intricate, far more drawn out. He thinks he knows how this ends. And he’s about to learn he’s dead wrong.

Lydia’s fate was meant to be nothing more than a warning to him. But that couple that got in the way?

As soon as that man sat up in bed I realized it wasn’t Damien. I’ve memorized Damien’s frame, his every nuanced movement, the sound of his voice. Without giving it a thought, I pumped him with a bullet. Then his wife had to rouse herself—so she needed to go, too.

Switching bedrooms.

I shake my head.

That was something I hadn’t planned on.

I knew they were there. I figured I’d hobble them in the hall at best. I wanted to hobble Damien in that bed. The plan was to shoot low, aim for his lower torso. Something he could survive. Then stun him with the taser.

Tase Lydia. Throw a pillowcase over her head, fling her over my shoulder, and flee.

The Becks would have been cowering, calling for help while I slinked out and drove off with the loot.

But plans changed. Death was an option I had to explore. Deep down, I knew it would be. I didn’t want to go in thinking I was a killer. But I knew it all along. The Becks just so happened to prove me right.

I had to shoot my way out of that cabin. I had to.

I imagine the future, the moment when they realize who has been orchestrating their downfall. I picture Damien’s face, contorted with the agony mirroring the anguish he once inflicted upon me. And Lydia with her broken spirit, finally understanding the cost of her blind loyalty to a man unworthy of it.

But what of my own future?

Once the deed is done, once Damien and Lydia have paid their dues, where will I stand?

A shiver of anticipation runs through me. I’ll finally be free from the horror of my past, able to move forward without the heavy chains of their treachery weighing me down.

The path before me is clear as if it’s lit by the moon’s pale glow.

I will emerge from this not as a victim, but as a victor, reshaped and hardened by the fire of my vengeance.

I am the architect of my fate, and both Damien and Lydia know that no deed—no matter how deeply buried—remains unpunished.

This new season marks the beginning of the end for Damien and Lydia Cole. But as for me, it is not an end but a glorious beginning, the first page of a new chapter written in the ink of my retribution. I am the darkness in their world, and I have come to reclaim the light they stole from me.

The night stills around me as I move toward the small, dimly lit space that holds Lydia Cole.

My heart beats with both fury and satisfaction.

“I hope you’re hungry,” I say it low, my voice hardly audible over the crunch of gravel under my feet.

I clutch the bag of cat food tightly as I ready to remove the board from the small window that sits above the door. I delivered a box crate next to the door the day I broke out that window, knowing full well what I would need it for. The window itself is less than a foot tall and wide, but it’s far too tall over the frame of the door without me having the crate to stand on.

Yes, the window doesn’t have any glass. I’ve thought maybe Lydia could crawl out of it if she tried, but I don’t think she’d make it. It’s too narrow.

Although it would be comical for me to find her dead from an attempt to crawl her way to freedom. Stuck halfway between freedom and captivity, and dying on the spot. But then, someone would inevitably hear her and that’s why I’ve boarded it up.

I don my ski mask, climb onto the crate, and carefully twist the nails securing the small board in place. The bag full of cat kibble is about to slip from my hands before I make the drop, then I think better of it.

Why make it easy? Instead, I dump the contents from the bag and listen as it rains down cat food, eliciting a scream from my captive.

I can’t help but laugh as I land the board back in place.

No light for you, Lydia.

No help, no freedom.

You’ve written your last story. And now it’s time for me to write mine.

“What do you want from me?” Lydia’s voice is hoarse and weak, although I can still sense a note of defiance in there. She will never learn.

“You know exactly what I want,” I growl it out with a hiss in an effort to cloak my voice. “You and Damien have taken everything from me. And it’s all coming back to you now.” I pause, giving her a minute to drink down my words. “Eat up,” I snap. “You’ll need your strength.”

“Please, I don’t understand why you’re doing this. We never meant to hurt anyone.”

A laugh trembles in my chest.

Oh, but they did hurt someone. They hurt me. And now, they’re going to pay for everything.

“Enjoy your meal,” I whisper, trying to maintain my composure. It would be so easy to yank open the door and knock the life out of her with a shovel. “I’ll be back soon enough, and we’ll discuss just how you’re going to make amends.”

Lydia’s fearful sobs echo in my skull as I make my way back up the trail.

Her pleas for mercy fall on deaf ears.

They never offered me an ounce of mercy when they shattered my world.

And now it’s time for me to return the favor.

Come night one of Thriller Fest, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

18

Special Agent Jack Stone

The Pinecone Perk sits over Sugar Pine Lake with enough rustic charm to shake out the chill from the morning air.

“Ooh, I’m having the pumpkin spice latte,” Fallon is quick to tell me as the thick scent of coffee envelops us.

“I’m having something dark and brooding,” I grunt as I take in the explosion of fall decorations, more pumpkins than a pumpkin patch, and there are even a few spiderwebs stretched out over the menu board as a precursor to spooky season.

It’s the morning after the debacle at the strip club, where Fallon actually contemplated selling her soul to the devils who run the underground in Denver.

I’ll admit, I lost a little sleep last night because of it. I didn’t dare tell her that under no circumstances was she to do any such thing. A part of me is afraid that might just give her a push in the wrong direction.

I haven’t quite figured out how to handle this one.

I frown over at her. I haven’t quite figured out how to handle Fallon. She’s fiercer than any other woman I’ve been with. Not that I’ve been with Fallon. But I want to. And suddenly, I want far more than that.

She leans my way. “You know how they say dog owners look like their pooches?” She gives Buddy’s head a quick scratch as she says it. “I think you emulate your choice of java perfectly, dark and brooding.”

I openly frown at her once again. “All right, Pumpkin Spice, what’s the game plan?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You walked into it.”

She averts her eyes. “The plan is for you to turn up your charm. Flirt with her a little. I don’t know. I’ll buy her a cinnamon roll.”

I contacted Jewel Barrett this morning and she agreed to meet with Fallon and me here in Sugar Pine Lake where she’s still busy with the book convention just days away. Nikki opted out. She’s knee-deep in the forensics lab and Fallon and I are planning on meeting up with her soon.

We step in line as the warm scent of cinnamon rolls and coffee comes at us strong, mingling with the faint crackle of a fireplace tucked away in the corner.

It’s cozy. Most women eat this stuff up. It relaxes them. Puts them in a better mood. And that’s exactly what I’m hoping it’ll do to Jewel.

The windows offer a panoramic view of the lake as a gentle mist rolls over the water, giving this place all the appeal of a horror movie.

Inside, the café buzzes with the low hum of morning chatter and far too loud jazz music blaring overhead.

The entire place holds the warmth of a lakeside cabin with exposed wooden beams and lots of river stones riding up the walls.

Buddy walks my way and wags his tail expectantly. I checked ahead, and since dogs were welcome, I figured we’d bring him along for the outing.

“See that? He’s happy,” I say, giving him a hearty pat. “That means he likes the new food.”

“He does like it,” Fallon admits with a scowl. “But right now, I think he’s hoping to score one of those cinnamon rolls.”

“It’s as good as his.”

Buddy, ever the socialite, finds quick friends among the patrons, and his tail wags twice as fast at anyone who spares him a glance.

“Let me guess”—Fallon hikes a brow my way, and something about that look on her face sends me to indecent places—“you’re having a cinnamon roll, too?”

“What can I say? I’m a growing boy. Besides, I need to make sure it’s quality stuff before I land one in front of him.”

We step forward and Fallon places her order, the pumpkin spice disaster and a couple of extra cinnamon rolls. My guess is she’s included herself and Jewel in the sticky equation. I put in my order as well and ante up for the both of us.

Fallon pulls one of the cinnamon rolls close as they arrive.

“What can I say?” She shrugs my way. “I’m a growing girl. And I should probably make sure they’re decent for the both of us.”

“You’re funny,” I flatline as we collect our goods.

We make our way to a table near the window just as Jewel arrives. The ample blonde looks well put together in a cranberry dress that drapes her body without hugging her form. She grabs her coffee and Fallon waves her over to us.

“I grabbed you a cinnamon roll,” Fallon says. “And they’re divine.”

And now it’s time to grab us a divine clue or two, and maybe a killer.

19

Special Agent Jack Stone

“Oh, these cinnamon rolls are to die for,” Jewel Barrett sings as she lands in a seat and gives Buddy a quick pat right here at the Pinecone Perk. “Hey there, good lookin’.” She laughs as she scratches his underbelly and he all but drools. “Thank you for this.” She glances at the sweet treat. “It’s been a favorite of mine each time I come here. Honestly, I think they bake these just to bait customers. The scent goes clear down Main Street and everyone at the community center can’t stop craving them.” She gives a quick honk of a laugh.

The staff at the café brings over a small bowl of water and one of their homemade dog treats which Buddy accepts with a polite, if far too eager, enthusiasm. We should really work on that with him.

He’s an honorary fed now. He should learn to keep his cool.

I glance at Fallon and that scene from the club last night flits through my mind.

I did not keep my cool. In fact, I almost lost it and forced my lips on hers. I don’t know what I was thinking.

I don’t know what she was thinking resisting my efforts.

I’ll admit, it’s a first on my part.

“Thank you for meeting with us.” Fallon leans forward and her blouse dips open just below her neck and I train my eyes on hers, pretending not to notice. “So Jewel, we’re trying to piece together the dynamics between everyone at the retreat. How would you describe the relationship between the Becks and the Coles?”

Jewel stirs her coffee, her eyes drifting toward the lake. “Cornwall and Cynthia were close with Lydia, always supportive. But with Damien, it was more professional, you know? Writing was the glue there. But then, Damien has always been more black and white about things. His genius is off the charts. But his emotional intelligence? Not so much.”

“And between Damien and Lydia?” I probe, keeping my gaze steady on the woman. “Any tensions we should be aware of?”

She hesitates a moment before setting down her cup. “Well, there were rumors. Lydia is my friend, and she’s been through a lot. But Damien? Let’s just say he has his fair share of distractions.” Jewel’s voice trails off and she crimps her lips as if she’s said too much already.

“Distractions?” I nod her way in hopes of keeping up the momentum.

“Other women?” Fallon cuts to the chase.

That’s what I like about her. There’s no beating around the bush. Fallon simply takes a chainsaw and cuts that bush off at the base.

A smile curls in the corner of Jewel’s lips. She reaches over and breaks off a piece of the cinnamon roll before landing it on her napkin.

“Now I didn’t say that,” she chides playfully. “Besides, don’t the two of you have enough ammo on that nutter that lives next door to the Coles?” Her demeanor grows serious. “He’s on record for making verbal threats.”

“We’ve seen them,” I say. “And we’ve spoken to Mr. Marcus as well. We’re just trying to round out the investigation before we make an arrest.”

“An arrest?” Her eyes widen. “Wow. You’re really ahead of the game. I mean, she’s been missing for days, but I would think this investigation is still in its infancy.” Her cheeks redden a moment as she stares at her food. “Okay. I want this done and over as much as the next person.” She leans in and casts a careful glance around the establishment. “I didn’t want to say anything, but there is someone who’s been arousing some suspicion on my part. But nothing nefarious, nothing to do with that tragedy that happened.” She’s quick to wave the thought away. “It’s something that’s been going on now for a while, and I found it unsettling.”

“Go on,” Fallon tells the woman without sugarcoating her need to know.

“Um, you know that woman that happened to show up with me the night of the murder?” She waits expectantly for us to answer.

“The redhead?” I ask.

“Yes, that’s Adrienne. You met her. She’s the one who owns that bookstore up here. Well, ever since the Coles bought their cabin, they’ve been coming up a lot. You know, stealing a weekend here, a weekend there. Anyway, she started setting up book signings for Damien at her shop. She never once offered to set one up for Lydia. I thought that was strange. Lydia even mentioned it to me once. Of course, she was so nice she blew it off. And if her thoughts were darker in that arena, she certainly didn’t share them with me. But well, my mind tends to wander.” She makes a face. “I thought about confronting the woman, but it’s not really my place. Anyway, since I’m the assistant, I’m usually front and center at stuff like that—the signings. But Damien asked me not to go. He said I wasn’t needed, that Adrienne and her team took care of it all. Well, come to find out, she doesn’t have a team. She’s a one-woman show. So one night I stopped by a signing. I came late, everyone was gone, and I saw the two of them locked in an embrace. And this wasn’t some thank you for hosting me hug either.” She dips her chin, expecting us to fill in the blanks. “I didn’t bother going inside. I was sick just seeing it.”

“So you think they’re having an affair?” Fallon’s voice is softer. She always seems to know when to pull back. It’s one of her gifts.

“I know they are.” Jewel pushes away the remnants of her cinnamon roll. “Any time the Coles had me come up to the lake, I’d drive by her bookshop late at night and his car was always out front—even if there wasn’t a book signing. I’d send Lydia a quick text, you know, thanking them both for a great day, have a good night, mundane stuff just to see if she was home, and every time she’d say Damien went out to grab something at the store or something like that but that she’d extend the message. He was out grabbing something, all right. One night I ran into the deli across the street from the bookshop and grabbed a sandwich. By the time I came out, I saw Damien rushing to his car, tucking in his shirt as he ran. It was disgusting.”

Fallon and I exchange a look.

I drum my fingers over my coffee cup. “Owen mentioned that there was a friend Lydia may have confided in. A neighbor she walked with in the mornings, a woman named Nora. I’ll be curious to see if Lydia mentioned anything about the potential affair to her.”

“Agree,” Fallon says. “Anything else you’d like to share?” she asks the woman.

“Just one thing,” she says. “When they catch the monster who did this to the Becks and to Lydia, I want to know why they let Damien off so easy. It doesn’t make sense.”

“None of it does,” Fallon tells her.

We finish up and thank the woman for her time. She takes off, leaving Fallon and me to stare at one another for a moment too long.

I knock back the rest of my coffee. “Thoughts?”

Fallon settles her gaze out on the water. “I suddenly have a hankering to curl up with a nice good book.”

“Same,” I say. “I hear there’s a killer thriller at the local bookstore.”

She nods. “And I suspect it’s about to have a killer twist.”

20

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

Jack and I pull up to the Sugar Pines Book Nook just down the street from the coffee shop where we spoke with Jewel Barrett.

The air here in Sugar Pine Lake is perfectly crisp, the skies are dark and sooted, and the orange leaves of the oaks and maples that line our path glow with the fire of fall.

The Sugar Pines Book Nook is as charming as can be, nestled between a quaint café and a rustic antique shop. Its window display shows off an array of colorful autumn leaves and pumpkins, and scattered in the coziness of it all is a plethora of new releases and classic horror novels.

The wooden sign above the door creaks gently as we enter, and the scent of old paper mixed with cinnamon from a nearby candle fills the air.

It’s cozy with walls painted a deep shade of forest green. There are four tables set out front with books stacked over them, and to the right, there are rows of bookshelves, both lining the walls and taking up the real estate in the middle.

There’s a smattering of bodies meandering about. But what garners my attention first is a large, fluffy orange cat adorned with a festive scarf sitting in a cushy cat bed with a sign next to it that reads, Mr. Darcy welcomes you! Pet at your own peril.

I glance back at Jack and grab a tight hold of Buddy’s leash.

“Nothing’s happening,” Jack says as if coaxing me into not causing something to happen by way of my own sense of panic. He motions for me to give him the leash and I gladly do. If Buddy is about to knock over every bookshelf in this place, I’d much rather that Jack take the fall for it.

Buddy sniffs in Mr. Darcy’s direction and Mr. Darcy yowls our way before his eyes close for what looks like a much-needed nap and that’s pretty much it.

“I just love happy endings,” I tease as I look to Jack, and not missing a single dirty beat, Jack waggles his brows because of it. “Is that all you think about? Wait, don’t answer that. You’re such a boy.”

“Technically, I’m a man, but I’ll admit to boyish pursuits once in a while.” He strides over and picks up what looks to be a middle-grade book with a picture of a dragon in flight. “I read every one of these growing up, case in point.”

I spot a far spicery book at the table next to it and promptly pick it up. “And I loved these,” I say, wagging the dark cover with a pink feather on it his way.

“Did we just circle back to happy endings? Why do I get the feeling you’re not as innocent as you look?”

I’m about to answer, when to my surprise Damien Cole strides toward the exit and does a double take once he spots me.

“Special Agent Baxter?” His expression sobers up until he spots Jack in the wild as well. “Agent Stone. You’re both here.” He frowns a moment. His right hand is still bandaged but has been downgraded from enough gauze to wrap around my 4Runner to a simple Ace bandage. “What’s going on? Everything okay? Have they found Lydia?”

It’s nice that he finally gets around to inquiring about his wife. Even if it is days after the fact.

“No,” I say, waving the book at him. “We’re just running in to poke around.”

“Well, that’s good. You should read,” he says. “It’s always been my best escape. And come to think of it, my best vacation.” He scans Jack then Buddy and offers Buddy a quick pat. “I was just running in to let the owner know I want extra copies of Lydia’s books on hand at the convention. I’ll be doing a special tribute. I want to draw as many eyes to the case as possible. I’m offering to meet every single person who purchases one of Lydia’s books and sign a copy for them as well. And I’m going to charge them all with the task of going out there and finding my wife.” He glances to the back of the store where the registers sit.

“You’re still doing the signing?” Jack asks. “I think that’s a good idea. If whoever did this wanted to send you another message, then I have no doubt they’ll be at the convention. If you don’t mind, Special Agent Baxter and I would like to be present as well.”

“Please do,” he says firmly before cocking his head. “If you catch that killer and bring my wife back, I might just give you both a signed book on the house,” he teases. “Ah heck, I’ll give it to you regardless. See you then. Good day.” He takes off with a slight spring in his step and I make a note of how quickly he flip-flopped from anger to walking on air.

I’m no expert on grief, but my guess is he’s not experiencing a whole lot of it right now.

“Can I help you?” a female voice chimes from behind and both Jack and I turn to find our next suspect staring us right in the face.

“I hope so,” I say, shedding a crocodile smile.

I hope so indeed.

21

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

“Isee you’ve met Mr. Darcy.” Adrienne Sinclair laughs and her crow’s feet give away her age and maybe add ten years because of it. Her red locks are pulled back into a stylish chignon and she looks cozy in a red and white checkered shirt with jeans. “He’s quite the charmer, isn’t he?” she says, gesturing toward the cat, who by now has decided to grace us with his presence by weaving between our legs. And thankfully, Buddy doesn’t bother to protest.

“Seems as if he’s the real owner here,” I tease, bending down to give Mr. Darcy a gentle scratch behind the ears. He purrs in approval and it’s clear he’s accustomed to the attention.

“Oh, that he is.” Adrienne titters. “Not only does he own it, I think he makes the place a little more homier.” Her voice carries a note of pride as she waves an arm around the place.

The bookstore is indeed a haven, with shelves lined with books of every genre. The walls are adorned with what looks to be local art, and there’s a small fireplace in the back where a few patrons are engrossed in their novels.

“So what brings you here?” She offers a tight smile. “Any news on Lydia yet?” She cringes a little. “I’m guessing not, since Damien left so quickly after bumping into you.”

“No, not yet,” Jack offers. “We spoke with him briefly, and we spoke with his neighbor Owen Marcus. But we’ll circle back to Damien, along with another woman who lived close to the Coles.”

“Oh?” Her brows meet in the middle. “Who’s that, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A woman by the name of Nora Archer,” I tell her. “Apparently, she was good friends with Lydia.”

She thinks about it for a moment. “Oh, yes. You know, I think I’ve met her. Older brunette, really perky. Lydia came in with her once last summer.” She looks out the window as if reliving a memory, and judging by the scowl that’s taken over, it’s not a good one. “Yes, they seemed like good friends.”

“That’s what we’re counting on,” Jack says, stuffing his hands into his pockets as much as Buddy’s leash will allow. “Damien mentioned the signing. I can only imagine how busy you must be. Would you happen to have a minute?”

“For the two of you?” A silent laugh pulsates through her. “I’ve got all afternoon. What do you want to know?”

“Your thoughts,” I say, point-blank. “Let’s start with the books. You’re the expert. Can you walk us through what the Becks and the Coles specialize in?”

“Oh yes.” She gives a frenetic nod as if she were relieved by the topic. “Cornwall wrote political thrillers—very intense, very detail-oriented. His books have a decent following, especially among those who like a bit of international espionage in their reading.” She grimaces. “Cynthia, his wife, ventured into psychological thrillers. They weren’t as popular as Cornwall’s, but they were critically acclaimed for their clever twists.”

“How about Damien?” I ask. “What’s his work like?”

According to Jewel, this woman is familiar with his work in the bedroom.

“Damien”—she clears her throat—“he writes great crime fiction. It’s gritty, and raw, and quite popular.” She perks up when she says it. “He has a knack for creating characters that feel real—flawed, broken, but incredibly human. His books sell the best out of the four, probably because they strike a chord with a wider audience.”

“And Lydia?” Jack asks softly, but Adrienne’s face hardens regardless.

She hesitates for a moment. “Lydia’s work is different. She writes historical mysteries. Her readership is pretty dedicated, but it’s not as large as Damien’s. There’s a quiet elegance to her writing. That’s very rare.” She sniffs hard while looking at the floor. “It’s a tragedy what’s happened. We’re a pretty close-knit group here at the lake. I’d venture to say we’re a lot like family.”

“I have no doubt,” I tell her.

A very dysfunctional family at that.

“What else do you know about the Coles and the Becks?” Jack asks. “Outside of their occupations.”

Her lips twist for a moment.

“Come here,” she says, leading us toward a cozy corner lined with velvet armchairs that look out over the lake, and Buddy sits between us on the floor. The woman’s expression turns somber as she takes a moment to stare the two of us down. “It’s been shocking for all of us. Damien and Lydia, Cornwall and Cynthia—they were more than just acquaintances from the book signings and festivals. They were friends.” Her fingers trace over Buddy’s ear absentmindedly before she gives him a quick scratch.

“We heard there might have been some complications,” I say it low, trying to tread lightly. “Between Damien and Lydia. We’ve heard rumors of an affair.”

Her eyes widen before drifting to the lake. “Yes, I’ve heard them, too.” She shakes her head. “It’s a shame. But then, he’s a handsome man. Marriages fall apart. I should know. Happened to mine.” She gives a nervous laugh. “But Damien and Lydia are still together, so whoever that woman was, she couldn’t have meant that much to him.” She slices another glance out the window, sharper this time, like a warning shot.

“Do you have any idea who this woman might be?” Jack asks just above a whisper as if not wanting to break the spell.

“Nope,” Adrienne answers far too quickly as she tosses up her hands. “But I guess that neighbor might,” she says that last bit under her breath. “And, well, knowing the way a cheater’s mind works, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if there were more women involved than one. Or if it were all fodder for the rumor mill. I certainly wouldn’t go believing everything you hear. It’s basically nothing but gossip around these parts anyway.” She swallows hard just before a bell goes off. “That’s the register, and I’m running the shop on my own today. Will I see you at the book signing? We’ve got over fifty authors coming down for the convention. I just know you’re going to find something great there to read. The best part of these events is always discovering a brand new author.”

“We’ll be there,” I say as she scurries off with a wave. “Let’s go,” I say to Jack as we rise out of our seats.

“Don’t you want to stock up on some of those naughty books you had your eye on?” He lifts his brows and I glower at him.

“I prefer to read on my phone these days. It reduces the carbon footprint.”

He nods. “And it’s easier to hide the porn. I get it.”

I make a face. “I’m sure you do.”

We get outside and our phones go off simultaneously. It’s a group text from Nikki.

“Look as if our trip to forensics is out,” I say.

The message says that the phone found at the crime scene won’t be released to us until at least tomorrow.

Jack sighs at his screen. “And she’s got a hot date with Owen. How worried should we be about this development?”

“On a scale of mild concern to serial killer?” A groan works its way up my throat. “Very.”

We take Buddy to the lake and watch the mist ripple over the water in waves.

It very much feels like I’m on a hot date myself.

And I don’t like it one bit.

22

Nora Archer

The sun is starting to set as I tug on my gardening gloves with a determined sigh, surveying the small but bountiful garden in the dwindling light of a Briarwood evening.

The fall air is sharp with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, and it’s a reminder that another season is upon us. My favorite season, fall. My spring garden is quickly coming to a close, but the zucchini plants are still stubbornly producing.

A dry laugh exudes at the thought as I glance around the yard.

It’s peaceful here in this small oasis I have nurtured for the last thirty years. The woods that border my property are overgrown with evergreens. I keep meaning to hire someone to thin the herd, but truthfully, no one has thinned those woods since Randall died.

Forty years of marriage, he’s only been gone three years, and how I wish he were still here for me to nag. I’d like to think he’d like to be here for that, too.

I glance back at the garden and shake my head.

“I swear, these zucchini are trying to take over the world,” I say with a laugh while plucking yet another plump green vegetable from the vine. The basket at my feet is already brimming with so many that they’re practically spilling over the edges. “Looks like it’s zucchini bread for the neighborhood. Again.” I practically sing the words.

That zucchini bread might be distributed far and wide, but baking it is just as much for me as it is them. Baking, gardening, and losing myself in just about anything has been how I’ve busied myself to help with the grief. But still, those never-ending waves tend to sneak up on me when I least expect them.

I get back to finishing up my work before I lose any more light.

Tomorrow, I have a full day that starts with my volunteer work at the hospital. I’m closing in on ten thousand hours, and I’m determined to get those numbers on my badge before the end of the year. That’s almost ten years at twenty-plus hours a week.

I’ve made it. Those show-offs who have twice as many hours will balk and turn their nose up at me, but then if I spend the rest of my life at the place, I’ll be able to be just as uppity to someone else someday.

Not that I would. I don’t have it in me. But I do have it in me to wear that badge with pride.

Randall would have taken me to dinner to celebrate if he were still alive.

Going to the hospital is a routine I cherish, and it gives me time to chat with patients and staff. I like to think that I’m offering them both smiles and conversation where they’re most needed.

Then Friday it’s off to the animal shelter. There’s a big adoption fair coming up in two weeks and there’s still so much to do in preparation. Not to mention I get to cuddle with all the new rescues. How I love those furry darlings.

“I should probably pick up some more cat food on the way there,” I think out loud. Something I’m more prone to do now that Randall is gone. The thinking out loud part, although the buying of the cat food isn’t too far behind. “And maybe I’ll pick up some of those treats the dogs love, too?” Can’t leave the pooches out of the fun or out of my pocketbook.

“That’s it,” I say as I pat the dirt around the garden as far as I can reach before standing and stretching my back.

It’s so quiet here now in the neighborhood. It’s a stillness that’s a little too silent for my liking. We need some young blood in this neighborhood, some true-blue children who scream from sun up ’til sun down.

But even the usual sounds of cars passing by are conspicuously absent at the moment. It’s as if all of time has stood still.

A flicker of unease passes through me, but I’m quick to dismiss it.

“You’re getting jumpy in your old age, Nora,” I happily scold myself.

Randall used to laugh and agree with me when I said things like that, and call me crazy. Now I’m just crazy.

I glance back to the woods as the shadows begin to elongate in the early evening.

Damien and Lydia come to mind.

“Poor, poor Lydia.” I shake my head.

I didn’t know that other couple but how awful for them, too. Murdered in cold blood. And then Damien trying to chase the bad guy like some superhero. He’s lucky all he got was a knock to the noggin and a bullet through his hand.

But where is Lydia? Poor thing was probably so frightened she took off in the night. She may have fallen and hit her head and some animal may have finished her off for all we know. And we may never know.

Oh dear. She was such a good friend, too. A best friend. I haven’t had one of those in years. She’s been my anchor since Randall died. She let me prattle on for hours during our walks about how much I missed him. No one else wants to even hear his name.

You’d think I was conducting a séance the way people get spooked if I dare bring him up. But not Lydia. She genuinely cared.

Of course, I returned the favor. I listened for hours about her troubles, too.

And oh my, did she have them.

If the world only knew what Damien was putting her through. What he was capable of and with whom. Well, the world wouldn’t be too happy with him. It would hurt him financially. Lydia said it would be a career killer. I told her to forget about his career and cater to her own sanity.

She didn’t deserve any of those things he was doing to her.

The man is a monster.

I’d never say this out loud, but I wish Lydia was the one shot in the hand and Damien was missing. Now that would be a bit of poetic justice. It’s cruel of me to say. So I won’t. But I can think it.

“The world’s turned upside down since you left, Randall.”

I’m about to collect my gardening tools when a shadow passes by the trees nearby and I startle.

That can’t be right. Regardless, it’s started my heart racing.

It could be a bear.

My muscles freeze as I strain my ears for any sound. The slight rustle of leaves and the soft tread of footsteps can be heard and I gasp.

It could be a hiker. We’ve had them trespass without knowing it, of course. Or it could be a neighbor looking for a lost pet. We’ve had that, too. Although they don’t seem rushed. Whoever it is feels as if they’re being sneaky.

“Who’s there?” I call out as the sky grows murkier, quickly losing its light.

No answer comes, just another series of footsteps growing louder, more deliberate, the crunch of leaves giving them away.

I’m about to gather my tools, but the crunching sound from the nearby trees grows louder.

Forget the tools.

I’m about to turn for the house when I see a dark shadow not more than twenty feet in front of me. I squint into the thicket, but the shadow is quickly lost in the darkness.

Maybe it’s my imagination.

I’m about to leave when a figure emerges from the woods. It moves this way against the backdrop of dark pines, moving at an unsettling pace toward me.

I’m frozen. I can’t breathe. I’ve never been so frightened in all my life.

Then I see them for who they are.

“What are you doing here?” I call out. My heart races as I try to catch my breath. “You don’t belong here.” My eyes narrow as they quickly approach. Their movements are deliberate, almost predatory the way they’re coming at me.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I demand, taking a tentative step forward as if to show them whose property they’re trespassing on.

A thought occurs to me and my mind begins to race.

“Wait a minute. Has Lydia been found?” I ask as hope rises in my voice.

There’s no response, just a chilling silence that fills the space between us.

I take another bold step forward because I can’t find it in me to retreat. Randall warned me that my stubborn streak would get the better of me someday.

“Well? What do you want?” I try again with my voice louder this time.

The figure lunges toward me and something in their hand jabs in my direction. Instinctively, I try to grab it from them and my fingernails dig into their arm as I scrape their flesh.

They pull back before thrusting something just shy of my shoulder, and before I can react, a sharp crackle splits the air. Pain explodes through my body as an electrical jolt runs through me, sending me collapsing to the ground. I land flat on my back in the middle of my beloved plants.

The figure stands over me, here in my sweet, serene garden, and now it’s the scene of my own personal nightmare.

Fear grips me in a whole new manner and my vision begins to blur. The garden feels as if it’s spinning as I try to scream but can’t seem to do it.

The figure approaches again, this time kneeling by my side.

“Help,” I croak with all my might. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

A cold hand grips my arm, and they poke something sharp into my arm and another jolt rides through me. This time more severe than the last.

“Just a little more to help you relax,” they murmur into the night.

“No.” My voice is faint. I try to move, but my limbs are heavy, my thoughts quickly muddled by the rapid onset of whatever is coursing through my veins.

I feel faint. I’m so terrified, can’t breathe.

The last thing I see before the world goes dark is another silhouette taking shape just beyond the wickedness before me. A new face, a happy smile just for me as they hold their hand out my way.

“Randall.” His name leaves my lips one last time.

The shadowy figure stands and blocks his light as they pick up one of the bricks from my border garden. They lift it over my head and the last thing I see is it coming down at an alarming speed.

A hard slap of pain ignites in me as this world fades to nothing and a new one shines bright.

23

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

It’s evening when Jack and I land back in Pine Ridge Falls. It’s dark and icy out and we’re both hungry so we decide to stop off at my mother’s diner.

Buddy gives a happy bark once we get out of the truck.

“He seems to be in agreement with our decision,” I say.

“That’s because he knows they feed him well here.” Jack pats his belly as he says it. “Same here, big guy.” He gives Buddy’s head a quick pat, too. “I don’t know whether to start with dinner or dessert.”

We head inside and Riley is behind the register once again. It’s warm, the fall garlands hanging over the counters and along the windows look perfectly cozy, but it’s the pumpkins sitting on every free surface that brings a smile to my face.

I can’t help it. I’ve always been a sucker for those happy little globes.

As soon as Riley finishes ringing up a customer, she heads our way.

“I take it Mom is short-staffed again?” I ask, giving her a quick embrace.

“Wrong,” she sings. “Jet and I did a thing.”

Jack and I cut a quick glance at one another.

“What thing?” I growl.

Marriage comes to mind. I’m not sure why. After the disaster that was our parents’ marriage, the Baxter girls have been wary of the state of that particular union.

“Come on.” She takes Buddy’s leash from me. “I’ll show you.” She leads the way down the main aisle of the diner and out the back exit which is usually sealed off to patrons. It’s where my mother typically stores whatever junk she can’t fit inside, nothing worth stealing but not quite trash.

The cool fall air greets us as we step onto what looks to be a newly revamped patio where a plethora of customers are already seated and enjoying their meals. Tables and chairs are set out across the spacious expanse. Hundreds of twinkle lights weave through the air up above and cast a warm glow over the space.

Several fire pits crackle with life, throwing flickers of light onto the faces of the patrons huddled around them. And just about everyone sitting around one of those fire pits has spears of marshmallows that are turning luscious shades of golden brown as they puff up against the flames.

“Jet and I thought this would be a perfect spot for people to relax, especially with the view of the falls,” she tells us with a goofy grin that sends another set of alarms off in me.

We glance over and, true enough, this space affords the perfect view of the falls as they cascade down the mountain in the distance, glowing an otherworldly shade of blue as the spotlights that shine over them every night make their presence known even in the dark. Their rumbling is a soft backdrop to the laughter and chatter around us.

“Wow,” I say. “The setup with heaters and the fire pits makes the patio a cozy refuge. It looks as if you and Jet had a great idea.”

Jack moans, “My brother rarely has a great idea.” He eyes the space suspiciously. “But I have to give it to you. The two of you knocked it out of the park.”

“Well take a seat. You know the menus. What can I get for you?” Riley is more than happy to land us at a table with a fire pit in the middle. “I’ll bring out some s’mores kits, too. I just added them to the menu. They cost a mint, but we’re already getting low on inventory.”

“Mom is lucky to have you,” I tell her as we get settled and Buddy hops in the seat between Jack and me as he gives a bark of delight at the flickering flames.

“Speaking of Mom.” Riley winces just as my mother herself pops up behind her.

“There you are,” Mom says, landing in a chair across from us. Her dark hair has been mostly taken over with gray, and the way she has it spun up over her head it looks like blue cotton candy.

Mom has deep-set eyes outlined with copious amounts of blue eyeshadow and her lips are always as red as cherries. She originally hails from Tennessee and her accent has never quite left her.

“What in the hell is going on?” Mom gruffs. “When were you going to tell me your sister is running around with some hairy scary mobsters? Don’t make me dig that gun out of your purse and shoot up whatever strip club they’ve got my baby girl working at. I’m not above a homicide or two.” She punctuates her tirade with a sharp look right at me and that fiasco with our father comes back in snatches.

The Glock, the blood, my dad dead.

“I’m aware of what you’re capable of,” I tell her before shaking my head at my sister. “I thought we weren’t going to tell her?”

“Why in the heck wouldn’t ya tell me?” Mom spouts off again, getting more country-fried by the second.

That’s pretty much the direction her lexicon sails in when she’s this upset.

“This is why,” I say above a whisper as heads begin to turn this way. “You’re not only threatening a felony, you’re causing a scene.”

“You would be, too, if it was your daughter,” she shoots back.

“It’s my sister,” I say, trying to sound reasonably calm. “And I’m handling it.”

Mom slices a dark look over at Jack. “Is that true, Hot Buns?”

“Hot Buns?” I sink in my seat a notch.

“You mind your own beeswax.” She’s quick to reprimand me. “I’m talking to him. What’s going on? I know you’ll tell me the truth.”

“As opposed to me?” I muse and I’m quickly hushed.

Jack nods my way as if he’s got this. “I can assure you, Bea. We’re doing everything we can to bring your daughter home safe.”

“Now that sounds like a crock pot full of baloney.” Mom is quick to put him in his place.

“It sort of did sound like baloney,” I tell him.

“It’s not baloney,” he says it firmly as he looks at the both of us. “Nobody here is going to go off half-cocked with a Glock and rushing at the mob. Got it?”

Both Mom and I give a reluctant nod.

“Would you look at that?” Mom fans herself with her fingers. “I do believe Hot Buns just ratcheted up the temperature out here by fifty degrees. Have you bagged this boy yet?” she asks with zero regard to my dignity.

“Please stop,” I practically spit the words out. “Jack and I are coworkers. We’re professionals. We work for the federal government, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Sorry, hon.” She makes a face at Jack. “This one can be as stubborn as a mule with a nail in its hoof. But don’t you worry, Hot Shot. There are plenty of women in Pine Ridge Falls who would be happy to keep you up all night.”

“Mother,” I growl.

“Oh, quit your witchin’.” She stands mercifully. “What can I get you? I’ve got clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl as the special of the night.”

“That,” I tell her. I would have opted for just about anything she offered just to send her back inside as fast as I can.

Jack nods. “Steak, rare, with a loaded potato for me.”

“Got it,” she says, giving Buddy a hearty scratch behind the ears. “And don’t think I’m leaving you out of the fold, handsome. I’ll bring you a treat you won’t forget. You’re gonna need one if you’re living with cranky.”

My eyes close a moment too long, and when I open them, my mother has vanished.

I look over at Jack. “I’d apologize, but I don’t know where to begin.”

Riley chuckles as she continues to hover above us and I shoot her a warning look.

“Don’t fall into the fire.” She winks at me before she takes off.

Dinner arrives and it’s as good as it looks.

“I can already tell the sourdough bread bowl will be my go-to all through winter,” I say.

“Buddy is glad to hear it,” Jack says. “Mostly because you fed him half your bowl.”

“I don’t know, he seemed to enjoy that steak my mother gave him.”

“Heck, I enjoyed that steak your mother gave me. The caramel apple pie with a mountain of whipped was a winner, too. What’s next?” Jack pins his gaze on mine and it feels as if he’s searing himself over me in far more intimate ways.

I’m not sure why, but with Jack it feels as if I’ve already fallen into the fire.

Our phones go off simultaneously and my stomach pinches because as of late it’s never a good sign.

Jack glances at his screen. “There’s another body.”

24

Special Agent Jack Stone

As soon as Fallon and I got the message, we jumped into my truck and headed out to Denver.

Riley offered to keep Buddy for us. And before we left, I gave Jet a savage threat about going after any more mobsters or their henchmen. He assured me that he understood.

Fallon and I didn’t say much on the drive over, with the exception of wondering why Nikki wasn’t answering her messages. She could either be driving or perhaps sleeping with one of our suspects.

Nikki knows the protocol: to answer as soon as you can. Our communication is critical and we’ve never wavered from that.

Fallon and I arrive in record time and speed into the building as if we were racing against a bomb. The bomb in question would be the coroner’s bedtime. We both know he doesn’t keep vampire hours.

The coroner’s office has that all-too-familiar clinical chill. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, no voices, no music. There’s an unearthly stillness that reminds you that the primary focus here is on the dead. And as it stands, the dead don’t make a whole lot of noise.

Fallon and I make our way through the stark, sterile corridors with the smell of antiseptic strong in the air. We head straight for the Examination Room and find not only the coroner waiting for us, but also Special Agent in Charge Hale.

Hale’s expression is grim and he looks more than slightly irritated. “Where’s Nikki?” he grunts in lieu of hello.

“With Owen Marcus.” Fallon’s lips press tight once she says it as if she regrets the decision.

“She’s following up on some leads.” I don’t hesitate to say it because it’s partially true. That aside, Hale wouldn’t take too kindly to the fact Nikki is entertaining Owen for social purposes. I don’t take too kindly to it either, but I’ve never been able to stop her.

Hale’s frown deepens. “We need her here,” he mutters, more to himself than to us.

The coroner clears his throat. “Good evening.”

Miller Thompson is a big man with a frame big enough to fill a doorway. He’s knowledgeable, affable, and all-around a good guy. And despite the late hour, his energy seems undiminished. I’m guessing it’s a testament to the coffee he has access to.

“Agent Stone, Agent Baxter.” He nods to us. “I’m glad you could make it. Hale tells me this woman is connected to the case.”

“Who is it?” The words speed from Fallon and I’m equally curious.

He leads us over to a body lying on a steel bed with a sheet drawn over her.

“Her name is Nora Archer.” He does the unveiling and both Fallon and I groan.

“We were about to speak with her next,” Fallon laments.

I nod as we take in the pale woman. Dark hair, older, fairly fit, naked as a jaybird with a gash over her left temple. Dried blood dominates that side of her head.

I’ll admit, the sight is jarring. No matter how many times you see the aftermath of violence, it never gets easier.

Nora looks at peace, but the reality of her death is anything but.

“Check this out.” Miller dons a pair of latex gloves and touches the woman just shy of the right shoulder where two red marks are clearly delineated. “Stun gun, I’m guessing. The brick to her forehead finished her off.”

Hale looks from Fallon to me.

“I bet that’s what happened to Damien,” I say.

“And that may be how they subdued Lydia,” Fallon adds. “Damien mentioned she was hit and crumpled to the ground. The taser would disorient her enough to make it easy to hoist her off to wherever. But that’s still speculation.” She nods to the deceased. “How did you find the body?”

Hale ticks his head wistfully. “Neighbor called it in. Said they heard her shouting at someone. They went to check on her about an hour later. Her car was in the driveway, but she didn’t answer the door so they went out back and that’s where they found her.”

“What neighbor?” I’m quick to ask.

“Connie Pickman. She lives directly to the victim’s right, street facing,” Hale says. “She left a statement with the sheriff who showed up at the scene. Said she didn’t see or hear anyone else. No suspicious vehicles either. Although she did mention that a couple of her neighbors had a tragedy unfold at Sugar Pine Lake.”

Fallon sighs hard. “We are well aware. I’m sorry we didn’t get to her first.”

“Who else knew you were going to speak with the woman?” Hale asks sharply and suddenly it feels like a reprimand, as it probably should at this point.

Fallon and I exchange a glance.

“Everyone,” I say.

“Sophomoric blunder.” Hale doesn’t hesitate to call it like it is. “Don’t let it happen again.”

“We won’t.” Fallon leans in a little as she inspects the victim’s hand. “She’s got a little blood on her fingertips.”

“Her head is full of it,” Hale points out.

“True,” Fallon says. “But she doesn’t have that much on her fingers. I’m wondering if it’s the killer’s blood.”

“I already plan on scaping her nails and sending it to forensics,” Miller is quick to say.

I nod to Hale. “We’ll go door-to-door and see if any security cameras caught anything.”

“She was good friends with Lydia,” Fallon tells him. “Owen Marcus let us know that they walked together in the mornings. And we mentioned to both Jewel Berrett and Adrienne Sinclair that we would be speaking to Nora.”

“Do you think she was silenced?” Hale asks, and I’m not sure if it’s a rhetorical question at this point.

“I know she was.” I glance down at the woman and my heart breaks for her.

“Agents,” Hale calls us to attention once more. “If we don’t find Lydia Cole soon, we might be staring at her corpse next. I still think she’s alive. But she won’t be for long.”

“Why take Lydia?” I mutter mostly to myself.

“Get her out of the way,” Fallon says. “If Damien is sleeping with Adrienne, that eliminates an obstacle.”

“Geez.” Miller tosses up a hand. “Don’t people know that divorce is still an option?”

“Too expensive,” Hale says it as if he knows firsthand. “But we’re not ruling out the nutty neighbor.”

Fallon shoots me a look because Nikki isn’t ruling him out at all.

“How long has this woman been dead?” she asks Miller.

“Four—five hours, max.”

I glance at my watch. “It’s almost eleven. Depending on when Nikki showed up for Owen, she could be his alibi.”

We thank Miller for his time, let Hale know we’ll be in touch as soon as we glean anything new, and take off.

“I’m calling Nikki,” Fallon says as we jump into my truck, but Nikki doesn’t pick up. Fallon sends her a series of texts but no answer. “What do you want to do?”

“Go home. That’s what I always do when Nikki is dancing with her demons.”

Although we both know she’s doing a heck of a lot more than dancing.

We pick up Buddy from Riley’s and head back to Whispering Woods.

Nora Archer is dead and she took all of Lydia Cole’s secrets with her.

25

Special Agent Jack Stone

In the morning, Fallon and I head to Briarwood and go door-to-door looking at any and every security camera footage that the neighbors will allow.

We brought Buddy along and he schmoozes his way into every heart of every person we come across. Most people freeze up when the feds come knocking, but not today. Buddy was treated like a superstar. And as an honorary agent, he’s all but earned his cape and his badge.

The manicured lawns and expansive properties exude a quiet affluence. I’ve always had a beef against neighborhoods like this. Most likely because I didn’t grow up in one. The tranquility here seems at odds with the reason for our visit, but that doesn’t stop us from doing our best to suss out any traces of evil.

We make digital copies of the footage we managed to procure, rolling the clock back to a twenty-four-hour period. But there doesn’t seem to be a single hair out of place. No strangers in the neighborhood, not a single soul approaching Nora’s home, or so much as looking crooked at the place.

We meet Nora’s helpful next-door neighbor, Connie Pickman, who called in the homicide last night. She’s a sweet old lady with a head full of gray curls, a severe case of kyphosis, and a lilt to her voice that she let us know she garnered while growing up in Ireland.

She came bearing doggy biscuits for Buddy, and neither Fallon nor I could deny him.

Connie offers to get the hide-a-key and lets us into Nora’s home with ease. We don’t protest.

There’s no sign of a struggle, which makes sense since the body was found in the garden. Poor thing was laid out among an array of gardening supplies and a basket full of zucchini.

No sign of any theft in the house. The back door is unlocked, but it doesn’t look as if anyone came in. If they did, there’s not much to prove it.

We head into the backyard and sweep over it as if we lost a diamond. According to CSI, no discernable footprints were found. What I’m guessing was once a grassy area has been filled in with woodchips, and most of those are missing. The yard butts up to the woods, no fencing anywhere in sight.

The three of us walk back around to the front of the house with no more answers than we came with.

We thank Connie for her help and assure her we’ll bring Nora’s killer to justice.

She wishes us luck, kisses Buddy on the mouth, and waddles back down the street.

That dog just had more action than I’ve had in months.

Fallon and I stand outside of Nora Archer’s immaculate two-story home, glaring at it as if it refused to give up what it knows.

“They came in from the woods,” Fallon says, never taking her eyes off the place.

“Agree. They knew the area, they knew her, and whoever they are—I bet they have Lydia.”

“Hey,” someone calls out from behind and we turn to find Owen Marcus stomping this way. He’s dressed in a flannel and jeans, far more dressed down than he was the other night, and it looks as if he belongs in a frat house. “I heard what happened. It’s like we’ve got a pox on the neighborhood. Rumor has it, she was buried alive in her garden. Is it true?”

Fallon averts her eyes. “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t believe rumors. It was a brick to the head. Did you see anything suspicious yesterday?” She hitches a brow his way and her face clearly suggests he’s the suspicious one.

I’d tell her she needs to work on her poker face, but I’m a little afraid of the woman.

“I was down at the Oasis,” he says. “I’m running a two-week promo, still trying to get my brand off the ground.”

It doesn’t mean much. It’s about a twenty-minute drive. He could have gone, come back, killed the woman, and still made it in time for his date with Nikki.

“Have you heard from Special Agent Knight?” I ask. I don’t care how intimate the two of them might be, I’m not giving him the privilege to use her first name.

He shakes his head. “Not today.”

“How about yesterday?” Fallon shoots him a look that lets him know we’re aware of their private meet and greet.

“She showed up at eight, left around ten. I stayed until closing.” He shrugs and a marked look of disappointment crosses his face.

“So she left on her own?” Fallon asks.

He nods. “I asked her to stay, but I guess she had enough.”

He didn’t get lucky. I don’t bother hiding my smile.

Good for Nikki for having some standards for once. And I mean once.

“She left around ten?” Fallon blinks at the guy in disbelief.

I know what she’s thinking. Nikki should have answered our messages by now.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say. “Thanks, Owen. I’m sure we’ll be speaking again.”

We take off for my truck.

“Hey,” he shouts. “Ask her to call me.”

I hope to heaven she can call anyone.

26

Special Agent Jack Stone

Nikki lives on the other side of the falls in a small town called Silver Peak.

Fallon and I drive straight to her place, a small condo that faces the falls. Nice view. Nice neighborhood. Nice little town. But all of the nice will be wiped right off this place if Nikki isn’t in it.

“Her driveway is empty,” I say as we jump out of my truck. “She could have parked in the garage.”

Buddy traipses by our side as we head to the front. A wreath comprised of oak leaves sits on the door. I give a violent knock, sending that wreath to the ground.

Fallon moves it to the side and Buddy sniffs it as if wagering whether or not he should take a bite out of it.

We ring the doorbell, text once again, and call—but nothing.

“She’s not answering.” Fallon gives the doorknob a jiggle. “I say we go in the old-fashioned way.” She pulls back and kicks the lock right off its base and the door opens up with ease. “Nikki?” she calls out as we step inside. “I owe you a new door!”

The place is quiet as a tomb as Fallon and I race from room to room.

Buddy does the same while sniffing away and giving a soft woof every now and again as if even he, too, senses something is off.

The place is sparsely furnished, girly, with lots of flower prints. I’ve been here a time or two. Nothing looks out of place.

We head up to her bedroom.

“Bed is still made,” Fallon points out. “I’m getting the feeling she didn’t come home last night.” She looks my way. “Let’s check the garage.”

We race downstairs and enter the garage through the kitchen door.

“Empty,” I growl. “Let’s get back in the truck. We’re going to Denver.”

I speed us all the way to the Oasis and we circle that dive bar twice.

No sign of her car.

“The night we were here”—Fallon lifts a hand as if the thought were still forming—“parking was a bear. We weren’t anywhere near the club.”

“I bet it was the same last night,” I say as we widen our search, one block, two blocks, then three blocks out.

“Right there,” Fallon calls out as she points to a red sedan sitting next to a dumpster in the back of a beauty parlor.

We get out of my truck and look in the windows.

“It’s hers,” I say, nodding to the holster wadded up on her backseat.

“She keeps her gun in her purse,” Fallon says. “That’s there in case she decides otherwise.” She shrugs. “I do the same.” She tries the door handle and it opens right up. “Whoa. Rule number one—when in a rough neighborhood, lock your doors.”

“Unless she was close enough to unlock it,” I say, looking around.

There’s nothing but overgrown trees across the way and a row of businesses on this side. I scan the rooflines for any trace of a security camera. There’s one on the corner pointed straight down to the back door of what looks like a liquor store.

Buddy heads over to the dumpster and starts sniffing beneath it.

“Good boy,” Fallon tells him as she heads in his direction. “What’s this?” She gasps as she comes up with a phone neatly tucked in a rugged black case, same case, same phone that we have. Government-issued equipment.

“It’s hers,” Fallon says with a twinge of disbelief. “This is Nikki’s phone.”

I jump past her and throw open the lid to the dumpster, but it’s virtually empty.

Nikki’s not there.

Nikki’s not anywhere.

She’s missing.

27

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

Asense of urgency like never before fills the neighborhood where Nikki’s car was found.

Patrol cars from the sheriff’s department slide into place within the three-block radius of the Oasis, the last place where anyone saw Nikki last night. And along with the sheriff’s department just about every field agent has boots on the ground as well.

Jack and I just scoured the vicinity where we tracked down her sedan and head for the Oasis to grill the staff. We’re about thirty feet from the entry when I spot a trio of bloodhounds pulling on a leash as they drag the officer who holds the reins.

“You called out the cadaver dogs?” I pant as we pick up our pace.

“I had to. Buddy’s not exactly trained in that department.”

Buddy barks back at us as if he took umbrage to the fact. Buddy seems to want to find Nikki as bad as we do. He’s been just as anxious ever since we discovered her phone.

A crowd of agents gathers near the mouth of the entrance to the bar and grill.

“Check every security camera, speak with every witness—don’t miss a beat. She could be anywhere.” Jack’s voice cuts through the murmurs, sharp and commanding, as he coordinates the city-wide search for Nikki.

My heart hammers hard and it feels as if a malfunction is in order. I just finished running door-to-door speaking to local shop owners, demanding any and all security footage. Thankfully, no one gave me any grief.

This isn’t just another case—it’s personal.

It’s late afternoon as Jack and I head back into the Oasis, and it all feels familiar sans the wall-to-wall bodies that were here the other night. A few agents are already scattered about, speaking to the waitstaff, to a few patrons, and I see one flashing a picture of Nikki on his phone to the bartender.

“Nine o’clock,” Jack growls, and I look that way to see Owen Marcus heading our way.

His face looks pale, shell-shocked no doubt by the security presence as he makes a beeline our way.

“Some fed just asked if I’ve seen Nikki?” he says, sounding genuinely surprised. “What the hell? Don’t tell me she’s dead.”

“She’s not,” Jack insists.

“We don’t know,” I counter, and Owen’s eyes enlarge.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but I didn’t have anything to do with it.” His expression quickly grows suspicious. “Is this some kind of sick joke? Is this another one of Damien’s efforts to one-up me? Because if it is, he’s gone too far.”

“Maybe you’re trying to one-up him?” Jack offers and Owen staggers back.

“This is a freaking nightmare,” he says, mostly to himself. “Whatever you want.” He points a finger hard at us. “Whatever you need. I’m going to help you nail that bastard to a wall.”

Hale walks this way, along with a bartender, a blonde that I remember seeing the night we were here. He’s glaring at Owen as if the guy stole his lunch money or his Special Agent.

“Is this the guy?” Hale cuts the air with his voice and it sounds like a threat.

“Yes,” the bartender says, looking a little angry at the moment. “That’s him.”

Hale steps toward Owen and his chest expands. “You want to tell me why this woman says she saw you leaving the premises with my agent last night?”

I inch back. “I thought you said she left on her own?”

Owen lifts his chin and his eyes close a moment too long.

Caught red-handed.

“Speak or I’m ending you.” I pull back my blazer to reveal my gun.

Hale frowns my way before reverting his attention to our shiny new perp.

“All right. I walked her outside and we”—he scratches the back of his neck—“we went around to the side of the building. Let’s just say things got amorous.”

“Amorous?” Hale’s face turns purple. “I highly doubt Agent Knight was a consenting party. That’s hardly her MO.”

Jack winces. “That’s a little of her MO.” He nods to the right. “This place is surrounded by security cameras. If you’re telling the truth, we’ll be able to see it.” He glances at Hale. “The place she was parked is a desert as far as security goes. I think we have enough. Let’s head back to the office.” He reverts his attention back to Nikki’s latest conquest, or her killer—maybe both.

Although not a part of me believes that Nikki is dead. At least not yet.

“Don’t worry”—Owen raises his hands—“I’m not going anywhere.”

“We’ll be holding you to that.” Jack’s voice is an ice-cold threat.

Outside, the evening grows heavy as Hale keeps in step with us.

“This is a complete mess,” he spits out, and his frustration is palpable in the chilly night air. “If we lose an agent...” His voice trails off. He doesn’t dare finish it. “We’re going to find Knight. I’ll meet you at the office.”

Jack and I head to where we left his truck, and Buddy sniffs at everything along the way. I don’t resist his efforts. If it wasn’t for Buddy, we wouldn’t have found her phone. Or at least it would have taken a bit longer.

“We’re not stopping,” I say it low. Adrenaline sharpens my focus to a razor’s edge. “We’ll tear this city apart if we have to.”

Jack nods, but his expression is grim. “We’re bringing Nikki back,” he says flatly, although the promise is alive in his eyes. “And hell itself won’t stop us.”

“Whatever it takes,” I whisper as the city grows dark.

I mean every word like a silent vow in this unforgiving world.

Nikki Knight is out there and we’re going to find her.

And then that monster who did this to her is going to pay. I’ll make sure of it myself.

Sometimes justice by way of the government can take a little too long. And let’s just say my gun is anxious to misfire in the most convenient way.

If he did this, Owen is a dead man.

28

Lydia Cole

It’s cramped in here.

Dark.

I can hardly breathe as I press my back against the cold wall of the shed. My breath plumes white in the frozen air.

“Hey,” I say to the girl lying on her side.

I don’t know who she is, but late last night she was shoved through the door in haste. She dropped to the ground, flat on her face, and lay as still as a corpse for almost twenty-four hours as far as I can tell.

When they shoved her inside, the board used to cover the small window over the door dislodged just enough to let in a seam of light once the sun came out. And now that the moon is full, the entire shed glows an eerie shade of blue.

I’m weak.

No water for days will do that, right before it kills you.

These beads I’ve been sucking on taste like sawdust mixed with something acrid. It took me a good while to figure out it’s kibble of some sort.

Damien and I weren’t big on pets. We traveled so much for our work, and for research purposes, too.

I’m not too familiar with pet food.

I guess I’m making up for lost time.

I guess I’m the pet.

The night chill seeps through the thin walls, and I shudder, pulling my knees closer to my chest. Every small noise startles me, from the scurrying of a rat to the distant howl of wind. It’s been days now, or maybe it’s been hours?

Time blurs when you’re waiting for a nightmare to end. And it will end, even if it’s the end of me.

But there’s been a new development—a plot twist if you will.

A girl, younger than me, but old enough to be one of Damien’s tramps, I suppose. And even if she is—was, I feel sorry for her.

The girl looks pretty.

She has red hair, lots of it. It’s a color I would have died for—or dyed for. But I was never brave enough to go in that direction. I’ve always played it safe. That’s one thing I’m determined to change. No more playing it safe, if I ever manage to get out alive.

A soft moan breaks the silence, and I scoot her way.

“It’s okay.” My voice comes from me in a threadbare whisper. And even that manages to strangle me.

I haven’t heard a voice in days, not even my own.

“Come on,” I whisper. “You can do it. Wake up. You’ve got a nasty gash on your head. Whatever you do, don’t die on me.”

I also saw that her hands were cuffed behind her back. I tried to remove them. Not sure why I’m not cuffed. I should probably be insulted.

But I don’t have the heart to tell the girl exactly how dire the situation is. She’ll figure it out soon enough. That is, if her brain hasn’t been scrambled.

She stirs as she lifts her head a notch, her body still cocooned on its side.

I move in front of her so she can see me in the dim light—if she can manage to open her eyes.

And then her lids flutter and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Confusion and pain quickly etch across her face.

“Who—who are you?” Her voice is raspy and just barely above a whisper as she tries to orient herself in the gloom.

“My name is Lydia,” I whisper back without meaning to, but at the moment this is top volume for me. “Lydia Cole. Are you okay?”

She squints in the dim light and groans as she struggles to sit up.

“Lydia Cole?” she repeats and her words slur as she manages to land on her bottom. “I’ve been looking for you.” She pants out a sad laugh. “I guess I found you after all,” she grunts as she tries to free her hands.

“You’re cuffed,” I say. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I think so. My head is pounding.”

“Sorry about that.” I lean in. “What do you mean, you’ve been looking for me?” I ask, mostly because my curiosity is piqued. “Did I make the news? What’s happening? Are Cornwall and Cynthia okay? What about Damien?” His name comes from me with a growl. I’m not so sure I care to know. My mind has run rampant with theories and he has propagated all of them.

“Your friends are dead.” She takes a deep breath as if trying to keep from passing out. And now I feel like passing out as well.

“No.” It comes from me in a whimper. “No, please, tell me that’s not true.”

“I’m sorry.” She sniffs hard. “Your husband is fine. He sustained a minor head wound and a bullet through his hand. He’s been released from the hospital. He’s cooperating with the authorities.” She jangles her cuffs and it sounds like music. “I’m Special Agent Nikki Knight. I’m sorry we’re meeting under such hellish circumstances. Do you know who took you? Have you seen their face? Heard their voice?”

“None of the above. But boy, am I glad to meet you. How did you end up here?”

“Walking back to my car, dark alley, jumped from behind. I don’t know what happened or who hit me. My guess is Owen Marcus.”

“Owen is behind this?” I choke on the thought. “That man is psychotic. I wouldn’t put this past him.”

“He’s not your first choice?” She sounds surprised by this.

“He’s on the short list. I’ll admit, I didn’t pin him to the top. I have no idea who’s behind this.” The voice I heard the other night was raspy, heavily disguised. It could have been anyone.

Am I still protecting him? Even now?

Or maybe I’m too weak to care. Ironic because being too weak to care most likely landed me in this predicament.

“It doesn’t matter much who did it,” Nikki says. “Because they just messed with the wrong woman.” She wiggles and hops and soon her arms are in front of her body. “We’re going to get out here.” She moans hard one more time. “That is, when the room stops spinning. Any idea where we’re being held?”

“I know exactly where we are.” I glance at the door that refuses to budge. “We’re in Sugar Pine Lake, in the shed below my cabin.”

29

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

We headed straight for the field office.

No donuts.

No pizza.

Just work.

The fact that Jack didn’t even mention food is enough to relay the dire straits we’ve found ourselves in.

I fed Buddy a bounty of kibble and a can of wet food from the stash I keep in the truck, Jack’s truck. That says a lot about how at home I feel with him. But he considers Buddy half his, so there’s that. And once we land in the office, I give Buddy a fresh bowl of water to wash it all down.

The office is a beehive of activity with agents huddled around laptops as we scour through ceaseless hours of security footage from just about every business in the area around the Oasis.

The overhead fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over our makeshift war room. We burn past midnight and into the wee hours of the morning without coming up for air.

Coffee cups litter the table, alongside strewn papers and laptops aglow with streams of data. My eyes burn from the relentless scrutiny of surveillance footage, but the urgency of finding Nikki propels us forward.

Hale sits at the head of the table with a grim expression as he pours over the reports regarding the Becks and the Coles.

He taps a pen against his notepad with anger marking the rhythm. “I’ve combed through everything at least six times. Where the hell are Lydia and Nikki?” he growls at Jack and me. “How could you let her go out with that guy? He could have chopped her up, put her in a suitcase, and shipped her to China for all we know.”

“Ever the optimist,” Jack grumbles with his eyes still glued to his screen.

I shake my head at my laptop. “I think I’ve got something.” I gesture to my screen as the two of them come this way and I rewind the footage from a security camera near where Nikki’s car was found. “Watch this.”

Jack leans in close and his breathing is ragged. He’s been riding on adrenaline for the last twelve hours; we both have. The crash is going to come, and it might just take us out.

The grainy video plays, showing a deserted street bathed in the orange glow of streetlights. Then a silver sedan appears as it moves slowly, almost hesitating.

“There.” I point as the sedan stops briefly next to Nikki’s car, or at least the scant portion of it that the video affords us. Nikki parked perfectly out of reach of modern technology.

The driver’s side is obscured by shadows, making it impossible to identify anyone.

“That could be our link.” Jack blows out a breath. “Can we enhance that?”

“I’ll send it to tech,” I say, already drafting the email.

“Good work, Fallon.” Hale rubs his temples as the weight of this nightmare etches deep into his features. “Keep pushing on that angle. We need something solid, something actionable.”

The sun begins to rise and it feels as if our exhaustion is waging a war against the urgency of the situation. The office is quiet for the most part, save for the soft clicking of keyboards and the occasional shuffle of papers. Every so often, one of us gets up to refill a coffee mug or stretch our legs, but our focus never wavers.

My phone buzzes next to me. It’s a message from the tech team and my heart hammers at the sight of it.

“Got something,” I announce, pulling up an enhanced image of the sedan’s license plate. And it’s clear and readable against the night’s backdrop.

Jack and Hale gather around as I run the plate through our database.

The anticipation is at its zenith as we wait for the screen to load.

“It’s registered to an address in Briarwood,” I say as a surge of adrenaline cuts through my fatigue. “It’s registered to Lydia Cole.”

Hale’s eyes narrow. “Get a team ready. We might just have our break. Let’s bring our agent home.”

The shift from stagnation to action electrifies everyone in the room. We gather our things and, of course, Buddy as we head out the door.

My muscles ache, and with every step, it feels as if I’m walking underwater. But the thought of finding Nikki alive and ending this nightmare fuels my every step.

Hale tasks Jack and me to head to Briarwood asap. If we can locate Lydia’s silver sedan, he’s going to have a tow truck come out and haul it here to the forensics facility.

If Damien is innocent, or simply psychotic, he won’t care where we haul it. If he’s guilty, he might ask for a warrant. And we’ll get that to him, but it will buy him time.

“Owen’s story still doesn’t sit right with me,” I say as we head out on the road. “Every time we think we’re getting a straight answer, he spins it off in another direction. He lied about how Nikki left the bar.”

Jack nods, his gaze fixed on the passing lights. “He might have been trying to cover for what happened between the two of them. I don’t know. But he’s still squarely on top of my suspect list. Right along with Damien.”

“And it was Damien’s assistant, Jewel, who let it slip about his supposed affair. If Damien and Adrienne are sleeping together, that’s a motive staring us right in the face.”

“Why take Nikki?”

“To make Owen look guilty?”

“Unless Owen is guilty.”

“And let’s not rule out Adrienne,” I say. “If she’s underhanded enough to sleep with another woman’s husband, she’s capable of anything in my book. The woman has no moral compass.”

“She could be a sociopath,” he says. “I don’t care what statistics say regarding gender in that arena. Someone caught Nikki off guard.”

“Or they gave her a good whack over the head,” I say, and Buddy whimpers from the back.

It’s our turn to catch someone off guard.

And that’s exactly what we’re about to do.

30

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

The road stretches out before us like a ribbon of possibilities, all of them dire. The fog comes over us in billows, and this end of Colorado looks as if it’s blinking in and out of existence like a dream. Like a nightmare.

We land in Briarwood in record time and the lights are glowing in Damien Cole’s home at this early hour.

We give a brisk knock and Damien comes to the door with hair askew and a coffee cup in his hand, his right hand still bandaged.

“Agents.” He straightens. “You found her? You found Lydia?”

“No,” Jack says sharply before filling him in on Nikki and why we’re here.

Damien shakes his head. “I don’t know what’s happening, but there must be some mistake. I’m sorry about your colleague, but I don’t have her.” He pins us both with a dark look. “Take the car. Do as you wish with it. I’m leaving in a few hours for Sugar Pine Lake. The convention starts at six, but there’s an event beforehand I need to attend. Like I said, I’m going to task everyone there with the sole mission to find my wife. It seems the two of you are incapable of doing so.” He disappears briefly before shoving a set of keys in my hand. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be taking a shower now.” He closes the door to the house and the garage door opens with a yawn. A silver sedan reveals itself, nestled next to a black SUV.

Jack and I pull on a pair of gloves and head that way.

Typically, we’d let forensics have the honor, but if Nikki is somehow in there, then we need to act quickly.

I unlock the door, doing my best not to touch a thing. The trunk pops open, and soon we’re looking at an empty space lined with dark carpet. There could be blood, sweat, and tears embedded into it and we wouldn’t be aware of it. I’m half-tempted to spray it down with luminal right now. But if I botch anything up that could have led to a conviction, I’ll never forgive myself.

Jack sends Hale a message to call the tow truck and the two of us offer to wait.

We settle back in his truck, out of the icy mist that’s blanketed the neighborhood.

Buddy snores audibly in the back as we stare at both Damien’s home and Owen’s for what feels like an unsettling amount of time.

“One of them could be our monster,” I say.

“Maybe they’re working together.” He blows out a breath. “I’ve seen stranger things. Speaking of stranger things, what are we going to do with Marco Rossi?”

“You’re not going to do anything,” I tell him. “My sister, my problem.”

“My partner, my problem,” he counters with his gaze searing into mine. “I’m not letting you go at this alone.”

“I don’t want to think about it right now.”

“Hey.” He taps his hand over mine. “I’m here for you. I mean it.”

“I know. Thank you,” I say before leaning over and offering him a spontaneous embrace.

I’m not your touchy-feely type. I am definitely not your happy-go-lucky type. But if you offer to help my family in any way, you warm my very soul. And that’s what Jack has done.

I pull back just enough, our arms still clamped around one another.

“You’ve been a very good friend to me,” I whisper.

“I feel like I should apologize,” he half-teases.

A small laugh escapes me. “Maybe you should.”

Jack’s eyes bore into mine and the temperature spikes in his truck from the tension rising between us.

Those eyes, so blue—aquamarine is more like it.

He glowers a bit before leaning in with his mouth poised toward mine.

My lips part as if I’m about to say something, to protest, or not⁠—

But before any of the above happens, a sharp knock explodes against the driver’s side window and we jump apart like a couple of teenagers.

We look up to see Hale growling at us before waving the tow truck in this direction.

This day is already off to a bad start.

31

Evil

Ihadn’t set out down this road on purpose.

I’ve spent my life trying to fit in, trying to follow the rules, trying to be appreciated for who I am.

I’ve built something. A life. I worked hard to be seen—to be needed, wanted.

I don’t like feeling humiliated, second rate, second best.

He did this to me.

I pace the congested woods behind the shed as my thoughts spiral in all sorts of directions.

Dusk creeps in, cloaking Sugar Pine Lake in shadows that match the darkness swelling in my heart. I have them both now—Lydia and that meddling gnat from the FBI.

I can set fire to this place and end them.

Two birds, one stone.

The flames will be poetry in motion.

The smell of gasoline stops up my nostrils as I pour a line outside of the vicinity. I won’t initiate anything until well into the night. Even better? Early morning.

By the time the fire department arrives, it will be too late for the victims. But I have another party to tend to first—the one at the community center.

I have my weapon of choice set for that good time as well.

There will be victims.

Although my weapon of choice is what it’s truly been all along. Revenge.

All I need to do is plant one more seed to finish the setup. The final piece in this twisted puzzle.

The fire will come last.

The FBI will move in. They will think they have it all figured out. I’ll laud them on a job well done. And then I’ll walk away with a smile on my face. So very satisfied.

A whispered conversation erupts from inside the shed and it sends a shiver of excitement through me.

Speak now or forever hold your peace. In a few short hours, they’ll be holding their peace for all eternity.

An expletive-filled tirade flies from inside the room and I know it’s intended for me.

Fury boils in my veins because I was forced to do this.

My hands were tied.

I had no other choice.

They made me do this, and now everyone has to pay.

They underestimated me. They thought they could dismiss me.

But soon, very soon, they’ll understand the gravity of their oversight.

The sound of soft sobbing filters through the walls and I pause for a moment.

It’s almost a shame it has to end this way for Lydia, but collateral damage is inevitable in any great undertaking. And that FBI agent, stumbling right into my hands?

At this point, she’s a bonus I hadn’t dared hope for.

“I hope you two are comfortable,” I call out with mock concern.

No reply, not even the sound of movement.

Good. Fear should keep them in line.

I empty out two gasoline cans and toss them to the side. I won’t need them anymore. They’ve met their purpose. Just like the women behind those walls.

It’s time to unleash a little hell.

I head back up the trail as evening falls hard, embracing the darkness. It suits me.

After all, by the time morning rolls around, Sugar Pine Lake will awaken to a nightmare it will never forget.

32

Special Agent Jack Stone

Welcome to Sugar Pine Lake Thriller Fest! Uncover the mystery! But beware—the plot thickens with every turn.

Below that a smaller sign boasts of over fifty authors at tonight’s signing.

Hundreds of people have shown up for the event, if not a thousand.

“Buddy would have loved this,” I say to Fallon after we ante up at the ticket counter and head inside.

“Buddy would have tried to eat all the books,” she says, looking a bit like a naughty librarian with her hair pulled back into a bun, dressed in a navy pantsuit, and a pair of dark-rimmed glasses on.

I’ve only ever seen her wear them when she’s bearing down on her laptop.

“I fed him,” she says. “Then set him up with the TV and some more of that new kibble in case he feels the need for a snack.”

“I told you he’d love that kibble.” I nod to her specks. “Since when do you wear glasses?”

“They’re my readers. I prefer them in environments like this. My eyes have gotten so used to them I can’t read without them. And don’t you dare make a remark about my age. I’m still younger than you.”

I raise my arms. “I may not look smart, but I’m not dumb either.”

The community center is buzzing with deafening chatter as bodies bustle every which way. Women and men alike, an even split, rush in every direction with a marked enthusiasm as if they were about to meet their heroes and I’m guessing a lot of them are.

But it’s the thick, sweet scent of books that takes me back to my scholastic days.

A hive of crime and mystery enthusiasts swarms the grand hall, decked out in every trope and cliché the genre has to offer.

Cobwebbed corners with faux crime scenes, bookstands stacked with tales of murder, and posters of book covers are blown up and scattered about like billboards. The entire community center is an altar to the macabre tonight, lit by dim, atmospheric lighting that casts long shadows across the faces of attendees.

Rows and rows of authors sit at expansive tables, and next to each of them are stacks of shiny new novels. And each one of those authors seems to have a line of more than eager fans waiting to garner an autographed novel.

Fallon’s lips curl as she takes it all in. “If I wasn’t on duty, I think I’d call a hiatus on my paperback ban.”

“Carbon footprint be darned,” I say with a wistful tick of the head. “I think I’d be right there with you. Which reminds me, are you reading to Buddy? I hear it’s really good for his development.”

“No.” She frowns my way and my eyes zero in on those crimson lips of hers. “And I think you’re confusing him with a child.”

“He’s basically a child.”

“He’s more of an adult than you are. Besides, we both prefer audiobooks anyway.”

A group of women comes sailing in this direction, about my age and on up to fifty or sixty. They’re cackling up a storm, having a good time as they bop along. The blonde on the end shoots me a look as if she wants to make a meal out of me.

“Excuse me.” She giggles to herself as she sways in front of me. “I want to read what you’ve got cookin’ between the pages,” she says before her friend pulls her back.

A light laugh strums from me as I raise my hands in polite surrender. “Sorry, ladies, I’m not one of the authors. Just here enjoying the show.”

They take off and Fallon shoots me the stink eye.

“What?” I inch back. “It’s an honest mistake. I have a scholarly appeal about me.”

She lifts a brow. “Two minutes ago you said you didn’t look all that smart.”

“Two minutes ago I wasn’t mistaken as an author.”

“I guess that means you can be wrong.” Her lips curl with a smile that she’s too stubborn to give.

“I never said that. How about we focus on something other than my intellect? Like Nikki.” I scowl out at the venue as I see it in a whole new light.

I’m about to suggest we pull out that road map they handed out at the registration table and figure out where Damien is seated, but before I can suggest it, a dishwater blonde spots us.

Jewel Barrett comes at us with a cranberry velvet dress that dusts the floor and a stack of books tucked in her arms.

“I’m so glad you came,” she says as she nods our way. “I’m supposed to be helping at Damien’s table tonight, but they’re short so I’m running around like a chicken with my head cut off.” She squawks out a laugh. “So what do you think?” She waves a hand at the scene. “It’s organized chaos at its finest.”

“I love it,” Fallon tells her. “I’m a big reader and I love thrillers, so this is essentially my dream.”

“Well, you’re going home with some books, young lady.” Jewel points a finger at her at the peril of almost dropping her own books. “I’ll make sure of it. And hey”—she looks my way—“they’ve got me moderating a panel, can you believe it? Damien will be on the panel. You should come. It’s in the auditorium in the back, in an hour.”

“We won’t miss it,” I say. “I’m not sure if you heard, but one of our agents is missing.”

She cringes. “Damien mentioned it. He said it happened at a bar Owen was working at.” She closes her eyes before stepping in close. “The guy is trouble. I mean, Damien isn’t exactly the easygoing author everyone thinks he is either. But who’s perfect?” She glances over her shoulder. “I guess you should probably know that he threatened to make life difficult for Owen unless he moved. He even hinted he’d use his connections to get Owen’s business audited.”

I glance at Fallon. The guy is dripping with motives at this point.

“We read pages of reports on the fallout between the two of them.” I offer a meager smile. “Hopefully, they can put their differences past them.”

Her lips purse as she tracks someone with her eyes as they walk on by.

Fallon and I glance that way as well.

“Adrienne Sinclair,” Fallon says as the redhead makes her way over to one of the tables nearby and begins chatting with a couple of women. “We spoke with her. I guess this is her domain.”

“She thinks everything is her domain.” Jewel nods our way. “Damien is in the next aisle over, dead middle. You can’t miss him.” She frowns in that direction. “See you at the panel.”

She takes off just as Adrienne finishes up her conversation and we nearly bump into her as she turns to walk away.

Her auburn locks are tucked under her chin and she’s wearing a floral dress that’s as frilly as can be.

“Ms. Sinclair,” I say with an affable smile. “This is quite the show.”

“This is quite the circus.” She chortles before looking to the left and right of us near the floor. “Buddy couldn’t make it?”

“I’m afraid not,” Fallon says. “Probably for the same reasons Mr. Darcy couldn’t be here. They’d be the stars of the show.”

And she’s funny. I shoot her a short-lived grin and she glowers at me.

She’s feisty, too. And I do like to be punished. I’m pretty sure that’s the draw here.

Heck, Fallon is smart, funny, beautiful, and fierce. And I’m betting she has a bullet with my name on it.

She’s the entire package.

“Well?” Adrienne laughs as she leans my way. “What do you think?”

“I’m sorry, I missed the question.” I touch my ear. “The acoustics are terrible here.”

“Don’t I know it.” She rolls her eyes. “I was just asking if you were going to the panel on suspense in modern thrillers. Damien will be there.” Her cheeks pinch pink. A visceral response is typically reserved for moments of embarrassment or arousal. I’m guessing it’s a fair combination of both.

“You seem especially interested in him,” Fallon runs with it. “Has Damien Cole ever been inappropriate with you?”

The woman opens her mouth and gags. “What? I—I’m not sure. I don’t think so.” She gives a series of rapid blinks. “I mean”—her hand rides to her neck and her fingers tremble like mad.

“His wife is missing.” Fallon doesn’t let up. “She’s out there somewhere and so is our colleague. The Becks are dead. Nora Archer is dead. Whoever did this to those people is looking at life behind bars. What do you know about Damien? Is he the kind of man who would betray the trust of his wife? Is his moral compass pointed on the straight and narrow? Or is the man a monster?”

A sickly moan comes from the woman as she traipses over to a small waste bin and promptly vomits in it.

“Good work,” I muse. “You got something out of her.”

“That I did.” She nods past me. “Well, look who the devil dragged in.”

I turn that way and my adrenaline kicks in.

33

Special Agent Nikki Knight

The dim light of the shed casts shadows across Lydia’s face as she shares the heartaches her husband has put her through. Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“I’m so sorry to hear it,” I say, my own voice growing weaker by the second.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she teases with a sigh. “Damien was never faithful. He was a philanderer through and through. I just never wanted to admit it.”

“I can understand that.”

Honestly, I can’t. I would have had his cookies on a platter and served them to him for breakfast. That would have taken care of his urge to warm another woman’s bed.

I nod, processing each confession Lydia Cole has offered up as if I were a priest. However, it’s not her sins that need absolving.

It’s a sordid puzzle, one that paints Damien not just as unfaithful, but as a man who might kill to keep his secrets.

And amidst the heavy silence that follows her rather sad soliloquy, a faint yet acrid scent tickles my nostrils.

I sniff again, inviting the biting cold air into my lungs.

I know that scent all too well.

Gasoline.

My heart begins to drum as my thoughts go wild. But I manage to mask my alarm, not wanting to spiral poor Lydia into a panic. Instead, I get on my feet and begin feeling around in the dark for anything that might aid in our escape.

“There has got to be a way out of here,” I pant. “I’ve got news for whoever has us holed up in here. We’re not going to sit and wait for whatever comes next.”

The words strum from me, mostly to bolster my own courage more than anything else. But then, I’ve always believed the words that come from my mouth, even if they’re not true.

“This place is virtually empty,” she says. “We were getting ready to tear it down. It’s a fire hazard mostly.”

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. But I don’t dare say that out loud.

In the corner, my fingers brush against a dusty tarp, and half-buried beneath is⁠—

“Bingo,” I say, practically singing the words. “I’ve got something,” I say, feeling the long wooden handle that leads to a triangulated metal finish. “It’s a shovel or a spade, I think.”

Its weight is a comfort to me as I grasp it firmly.

Something solid in this constant darkness.

“Stay back,” I instruct Lydia, as the moonlight pours over the newfound weapon in my hands.

My wrists are still tethered together with my own cuffs, but it’s not nearly the obstacle my captor was hoping it’d be.

I make my way to the door, allowing the sliver of light pouring in from the partially boarded window to guide me.

“I’m guessing it’s nailed shut or something is butted up against it,” I say. “Either way, we’re busting out of this place.”

Positioning myself at the door, I wedge the shovel’s edge into the frame and leverage my weight against the aged wood. The old hinges groan under the force as if protesting each push and pull as I work the shovel like a makeshift crowbar.

Lydia’s breathing grows shallow as she inches her way over. “You’re really doing it,” she pants with awe.

With a final determined yank, the spade snaps right off the handle and sends splinters flying. Sparks go off, and within seconds a wall of flames lights up the window above.

We watch in horror as every wall in this small wooden cage glows from the outside a horrific shade of red.

The entire shed is going up in flames with a roar.

I shake my head at the horror. “What in the fresh hell?”

That’s exactly what I was afraid of.

“All right, Lydia,” I pant as I back up from the door. “It’s do or die. And we are not dying. But I most certainly fit to kill.”

I charge the door and kick at it as if my life depends on it.

It does.

So does Lydia’s.

34

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

“Owen,” I say as the tall wall of muscles approaches us here in the heart of Thriller Fest. He certainly has enough muscles to kidnap Lydia, kidnap Nikki, and smash Nora Archer’s head in with a brick.

“Agent Baxter, Agent Stone.” He nods our way.

Owen Marcus is dressed to the nines in a dark gray suit, matching tie, and shoes so shiny you can see your reflection in them. The scent of spiced cologne emanates from him, a touch too strong, and he looks as if he’s headed out on a business meeting rather than a leisurely stroll through a hall full of thriller authors.

He leans in and any hint of a smile evaporates. “Any word on Nikki?”

“None,” Jack says sharply. “Care to offer up any clues?”

“I would if I had them.” Owen blows out a breath. “I just had a meeting with a few bar owners in the area, thought I’d stop by.”

I figured as much.

“Here to see Damien?” Jack asks, amused.

“No, actually.” Owen frowns at the mention of the man. “I’m here to see George Graham, author of the Thomas Mann series. I’ve been a long-time reader. Came out last year to see him as well.” His eyes slice to the right, in the exact direction where Damien sits. “I saw him, though. Damien. He has a nice tribute to Lydia. And a little tribute to the Becks as well. That was nice of him. I didn’t stop by. I didn’t want to cause a scene. I’m not exactly his fan anyway. His secretary seemed happy to see me. Which is a first. The woman could be just as snippy as Damien, if not more.”

“Jewel?” I ask, surprised to hear it. “I guess she knows which side her bread is buttered on.”

“Oh, she definitely knows that.” He gives a dark laugh. “So what are you doing here?” He’s back to frowning. “Why aren’t you out there, scouring the land for your friend?” He stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels.

He’s exerting confidence, and I’m curious as to why.

Is he confident that we won’t find her?

I beg to differ.

In fact, I’d wager to bet we find her tonight.

We’ve got a plethora of suspects all under one roof.

Jack and I are going to make the rounds until one of them cracks, or they all puke. Adrienne was a trendsetter in that regard.

“We’re here to appreciate the fine art of the thriller,” Jack says, shedding a cocky grin that lasts less than a blink. “We’ve been meaning to catch up on some reading as well. We’re starting with the Becks’ work, then Lydia’s, and Damien’s.”

Not true. We scoured their websites, studied their book catalogs as if we were about to become state-certified in the effort, then bought and downloaded just about every novel they’ve written. We’ve been scanning over their books for days.

Lydia is a forerunner as my favorite. I never knew I’d have such an interest in historical suspense, but put a killer in 1920s New Orleans and I’m intrigued. Cynthia’s psychological thrillers were actually a touch more my speed. The twists in her books reminded me that the human mind can be the most dangerous weapon of all.

“Good on you,” Owen says. “I’ll leave the two of you to do your thing. And whenever you find Nikki, I want you to give me a call. I really want to know that she’s safe.” He sheds a little smile before taking off and it’s unsettling.

“What do you think?” Jack asks as he leads us to the right where a whole new row of authors opens up to us, one of them being Damien himself.

“I think he’s cocky. And yet, I think he’s genuine.”

“Genuinely cocky.” Jack nods. “I’m coming to the same conclusion.” We take a few steps into the crowd and pause. “Speaking of which.”

Damien Cole stalks this way with a briefcase in his left hand, his right still wrapped up like a mummy.

His eyes widen a notch and there’s a hint of horror in them. “What’s happened? Did you find her? Is she alive?”

I shake my head. “We haven’t found either of them,” I say, gently reminding him that Nikki is missing as well. “We’re here to make sure you’re safe.”

He grunts at the thought. He’s wearing a tweed jacket, dark shirt, corduroys, and looks relatively put together, but he looks frazzled a touch as well.

“I’m due for a panel in five minutes. My assistant left me high and dry and took off without me. She’s heading it up. I guess they’re short-staffed here today.” He shifts his gaze from Jack to me. “Well, are you coming? You’re here to keep an eye on me, aren’t you?” He doesn’t bother beating around the bush, and he doesn’t bother showing his irritation either. He’s had a hell of a week, so I can hardly blame him.

He leads the charge and we follow him all the way to the auditorium in the back, already brimming with hundreds of bodies in the audience.

The stage is set with Jewel standing to one side while about five authors are already seated at the elongated table next to her.

He lifts his chin as he looks at the panel and his eyes harden.

“I just remembered something.” He turns our way. “You asked if I had taken the car out the other night. I didn’t. But someone else may have.”

He takes off and we stare up at the stage as the lights in the room flicker.

35

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

“All right, folks.” Jewel Barrett’s voice crackles over the speakers. “It’s showtime.”

Jack and I garner a set of seats, third row from the front, dead middle. As far as seating at any venue goes, it’s my least favorite. Church, ballgames, and recitals of any nature, I’m an end-of-the-row kind of girl. You landlock me between a mile of knees in either direction and I start to get twitchy. Not even Quantico could have cured me of that.

The lights dim as the stage lights illuminate the panelists, their faces offering an unearthly glow as the room turns its focus in their direction.

Jack leans in and places his mouth directly over my ear, breathing softly, warmly over my flesh for a moment before speaking. It sends chills through me. Most likely for the wrong reasons. I hate how weak my flesh can be.

“Jewel Barrett,” he whispers it hot, directly into my ear, and it feels like a lullaby, a love song.

I shake my head as all sorts of thoughts come at me rapid-fire.

“I’d like to welcome you all to the Suspense in Thrillers panel for the night.” Jewel’s voice booms across the room like a gong. “We’ve got six wonderful bestselling authors here tonight who will to take you on a tour of their demented and twisted minds, and they’re willing to answer just about any questions you may have.” She proceeds to make the introductions and saves Damien for last. “And last, but certainly not least,” Jewel announces, turning to the spot where Damien Cole sits. His appearance is met with a smattering of polite applause and a few enthusiastic whoops piercing the mild reception.

Damien’s smile is tight and forced as he nods in acknowledgment. His eyes briefly meet mine, and there’s a flicker of something—guilt, fear, maybe both—that skirts across his features before he composes himself.

Jewel clears her throat. “Damien’s recent work has explored the darker aspects of human nature, something that seems to resonate with many of us here today.”

The irony of her words isn’t lost on any of us. But if only the audience knew just how close to home those themes really hit for Damien. I’m beginning to wonder if I know how deep and dark they hit as well.

Jewel dives right in asking each author to describe their perfect writing environment, questions about the way they craft their stories, and questions about what they’re working on next.

A half hour drifts by, but I can’t seem to pay attention. Instead, I lose myself in watching the way Damien threads a pen through the fingers of his left hand.

A thought comes to me and I pull out my phone. I punch in Damien Cole and the words author signing before pages of images come up.

Jack leans in and we see it at the same time.

Damien is left-handed.

We exchange a glance. He made a pretty big to-do about being handicapped with his right hand out of commission. And now it all feels like a show.

I spot Adrienne seated near the front to our right, glaring up at Damien as if he slaughtered Mr. Darcy. Something the woman said to us that day at her bookstore comes back to me. She said, Knowing the way a cheater’s mind works, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if there were more women involved than one.

“More than one woman,” I practically mouth the words as I look at Jewel.

Owen’s words come back to me as well in regard to the woman. I had said, I guess she knows which side her bread is buttered on, and he replied, Oh, she definitely knows that.

A hard groan evicts from me as I look to Jack and he nods as if he was one step ahead.

My phone buzzes and so does Jack’s, and we pull them out to find a text from Hale.

Strands of medium-length red hair were found in the back of Lydia’s sedan along with a blood type that matches Nikki’s.

Jack and I lift our eyes to one another, then to the stage.

“That’s it,” he says just above a whisper. “That’s all we need.”

Jack and I stand and make our way to the front just as the audience bursts into applause at something one of the panelists said. We’re about to head to the exit and man our posts while making sure our suspect doesn’t leave the room once the panel is dismissed.

“Thank you so much,” Jewel tells the panelists. “Now we’re going to open the floor to questions from our audience.” She looks down and spots me just as a man steps in my path and lands a microphone in my face. “Oh wow.” Jewel looks stymied. “I guess you’ve got the first question.” Her lips quiver a bit. “Please, by all means, ask away.”

I glance at Jack and he tips his head as if daring me to go ahead with it.

There’s something about that look on his face that makes me want to do it.

“Ms. Barrett, this question is for you,” I say with a nod. “Did you take Lydia Cole’s sedan for a drive two nights ago?”

The room breaks out into dark murmurs as if Lydia’s name were verboten at the event. I can see why it would make them uncomfortable.

Jewel’s face burns a bright shade of crimson as she glares down at Jack and me.

She pulls the microphone down to her chest before uttering something unintelligible to Damien, but I catch the last two words, your involvement.

Judging by the expressions of the other panelists, it looks as if it was a nasty remark from beginning to end.

Damien’s eyes widen her way and there’s a note of fear in them. He looks caught off-guard, uncertain of what to do next. He jumps to his feet and the table hitches onto his waist before tipping this way, sending the books that were sitting on it scattering to the floor.

The room breaks out into gasps.

Damien bolts to the right side of the stage and disappears behind the curtain.

Jewel grabs the tote bag on the seat behind her and disappears behind the curtain as well just before a gunshot rings out.

36

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

Screams erupt as the audience scrambles in a desperate rush toward the exits. Chairs topple and people stumble over each other in their haste to escape immediate danger, right here in the auditorium behind the community center.

Jack heads for the stairs leading up to the stage, but I manage to leap onto it straight from the ground level. I dart to the right and find a door gaping open that leads to the dark night outside.

Jewel can be seen chasing a dark figure across a dirt field and it looks as if they’re headed toward the lake.

I run as fast as my legs can carry me, the cold air burning my lungs, and each breath is sharper than the last. The ground beneath my feet is uneven as dirt kicks up as I push myself harder.

Just up ahead, Jewel’s figure becomes clearer, her movements desperate and erratic as she chases Damien toward the shimmering surface of the lake.

The moonlight casts a soft glow across the field and I pull out my gun as we get close to the water’s edge. I can hear Jack’s footfalls gaining ground behind me. My heart pounds in my ears as adrenaline courses through my veins like a wildfire.

“Stop, FBI,” I shout just as another gunshot goes off and I see Damien’s body buck in the darkness before he crumples to the ground.

I go to tackle Jewel from behind, but my foot catches on a root and I land sideways onto a bed of rocks, hitting my head as my gun jumps from my hand and scatters to the right.

In one monstrous move, Jewel swoops in and drags me to my feet, and soon the barrel of her gun is pressed hard against my temple.

“Jewel, drop the gun.” Jack’s command is forceful as his voice echoes across the expanse, his own gun poised in this direction

“We know you took Nikki. We have all the evidence we need,” I pant.

“Shut up,” she screams so loud my bones shake. “And you had better drop your weapon, mister,” she growls at Jack. “Because I am not afraid to die, and I’m not afraid to take your friend along with me.”

Jack gives a sober nod before lowering his weapon and landing it at his feet.

My eyes close because it’s the last thing I wanted to see.

“Is Damien dead?” Jewel thunders as she glances at the lake. “Because he did this. This was his doing you know. He wanted me to kidnap Lydia. He wanted me to take that girl, too. It was all his doing. He orchestrated all of it. He even had me set up his neighbor. It was Damien who set fire to the hedges a few months back. He blamed Owen in hopes of getting him to move. He’s an intimidator. A manipulator. He makes people do things. He wanted Nora silenced.”

“Is that why you killed her?” Jack asks. “The neighbor, Connie Pickman, said she heard two women in the yard the day Nora died. That was you, wasn’t it?”

That couldn’t be further from the truth. Connie Pickman said no such thing. But good move on Jack’s part if it works in our favor.

“Yes.” Jewel’s entire body shivers as she says it. “It’s true. He made me do it. He made me do everything. He wanted Lydia dead, too, and for the blame to fall on Owen.”

Jack’s forefinger on his left hand twitches as if pointing up. His eyes dart left for less than a microsecond.

I try to glance that way as far as I’m allowed without moving my head, but I don’t see anything. And aside from Jewel’s ragged breaths, I can’t tell if anyone is moving behind me either.

Jack’s finger lifts one more time and I brace myself, slowly moving my right foot back, ready to hook one of Jewel’s ankles with it to take her down. My elbow is ready to rise and knock the gun right out of her hand, hopefully before she fires it.

Jewel’s right arm is yanked back sharply and the gun bounces from her hand as a body pounces over her from behind, taking both of us down.

“Nobody move,” Jack shouts. The next thing I know, he’s pulling me to my feet, the gun is back in his hand, and I look down to see a redhead with a ratted mane of hair squirming on top of Jewel.

Hale runs this way with his weapon trained on the ground before he knocks the redhead off and quickly cuffs our suspect.

“Forensics just came back on that blood found under Nora Archer’s nails,” he grunts. “It didn’t belong to Nora.” He nods to Jewel. “That’s going to cement a conviction.”

“Nikki?” I shout as the redhead turns this way and gives a thumbs-up. Soon, Jack hoists her up and quickly unlocks the cuffs that bind her wrists.

“I’m all right,” she pants. “I made it out of that hellhole.”

A herd of footfalls thunder this way as the entire area is swarmed with every agent at the field office, along with the sheriff’s department, the fire department, and a couple of ambulances that pulled up to the scene.

“Are you okay?” Jack asks me firmly as all-out chaos ensues around us.

“I’m fine,” I say, ignoring the fact my head is blazing as if a sickle just sliced through it.

We help Nikki toward the cluster of ambulances, down where Damien is being tended to by a couple of medics. His shoulder looks as if it were grazed. But he’ll live.

“Excuse me.” Nikki breaks free and steps away into the crowd.

“I didn’t do this,” Damien calls our way. “I didn’t—” He stops cold as he looks to my left and his face loses all color even in this dim light.

We turn around to see Nikki ushering over a disheveled brunette. Her face is dirty and she’s wearing a nightgown that looks covered in soot.

“Lydia?” Damien gasps at the sight of her.

“That’s right,” Nikki sings with an edge to her voice. “She told me everything. How you were cheating on her with not one but two women. How she asked for a divorce and how you begged her to wait until after the conference. I guess you had a little something you needed to do first. Like promise your assistant, who you were also having an affair with, that you would marry her as soon as she cleared up a few things. You promised her everything in exchange for doing your dirty work.”

“It’s true,” Jewel howls from across the way as one of the sheriff’s deputies does his best to hold her back. “He gave me the gun, and he gave me the taser. He helped me load Lydia into my trunk. Then he shot himself in the hand.”

“That’s not true,” Damien shouts. “That’s not true. She’s turning on me. She shot me in the hand. I didn’t have anything to do with any of this,” he riots as spittle runs down his face.

“It’s true as gospel,” Jewel shoots back. “The only thing that you were unaware of was the timing.” She turns my way. “He wanted me to take her after the conference and kidnap her straight from the house. He wanted Owen set up to the hilt.” She bleeds a black smile his way. “You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. We’re playing by my rules now. And my rules say you’re guilty and I’ll make sure I prove it.”

“I’m innocent,” he thunders her way before shedding a dark smile of his own. “She set fire to those bushes. She was the one trying to set Owen up, not me.”

Jack and I exchange a glance.

“Get her to an ambulance,” Hale bellows. “Knight and Baxter, I want you checked out as well.”

“What the hell happened?” I ask Nikki as I lunge at her for a quick embrace.

“She took me to a shed behind the Coles’ cabin. She set it on fire,” she pants. “We kicked out the door.”

“She kicked out the door,” Lydia says, and her voice is painfully hoarse. “The shed was ablaze. An entire wall came down. We broke into the cabin and she called for help.” She nods to Hale. “Nikki insisted we stop here first.”

Hale nods. “That’s when the call came to head this way.” He shakes his head at Jack and me. “Good job, agents. Now let’s wrap this up.”

He helps Nikki and Lydia as they make their way to the EMTs gathered near the community center and Hale follows suit.

Jack pulls me in hard, his heart hammers over mine as he runs his facial scruff over my cheek.

“I should have done better,” he says, pinning me with his eyes.

“I’m the one who took the lead,” I say. “Next time I’ll let you take the lead and trip over the shrubbery.”

“I’m sorry you hit your head.”

“I’m in agreement it’s your fault. I also lost my glasses. I’ll send you the bill.”

“You’re impossible,” he growls. “I’m trying to have a serious moment.”

“What? I can’t be serious when I say it’s all your fault?”

“You know, you could have been killed.” His voice rises an octave as he growls at me. “You’re lucky you’re alive.”

“You’re lucky you’re alive,” I growl right back.

“You know I should—” He grunts with frustration, not knowing where to take the argument next. “I should—” He frowns hard before diving in and stealing a kiss right off my lips and my heart detonates in my chest like dynamite.

Traitor.

He pulls back, looking just as ticked as he was before he did the deed.

“Not so fast,” I snip before pulling him in by the back of the neck and forcing our lips together once more.

It starts out rough before we open up and I let him in and soon we’re all teeth and tongues as we exchange one of the roughest, messiest, and quite possibly best kisses of my life.

My heart pounds ten times as hard as it was to begin with, far faster than the threat of a bullet could ever prompt it to.

Jack and I kiss under the cover of night, under the supervision of a silver moon, and perhaps the entire field team of the Denver office.

But we don’t care.

It’s not make-believe by a long shot.

This is happening, and this is real.

But something tells me the aftermath is going to be a real killer.

37

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

Both Nikki and Lydia were taken to the local hospital for observation overnight and treated for dehydration.

Owen Marcus sent a case of his High Spirts drinks to the field office in Denver. I heard it was a hit. The entire crew ended the day on a high note. I didn’t want any.

Damien lawyered up, and Jewel swore she’d take a polygraph to prove that he was in on it from the get-go. And even though a polygraph is about as admissible in a court of law as tarot cards, she did show us a hand she’s kept close to the vest. She recorded the events from the night of the shootings on her phone.

And yet, that phone we kept waiting for forensics to release yielded nothing. It belonged to Cynthia and all we found were a few messages to her adult children that preceded the night of the murder. And that’s exactly who we returned the phone to.

It turns out, the Becks were collateral damage.

Jewel didn’t know about the room switch, and she was spooked. Shots were fired, and that was that. Damien was caught verbally barking out orders to her after Lydia was hit with the stun gun. After he helped load her into the car, he could be heard saying give me the gun and running back into the house and shooting himself in the hand. There was a scuffle, and some light expletives before Jewel took off. Damien was never hit with a taser.

Jack and I drove back to Pine Ridge Falls, back to Whispering Woods that night in virtual silence. We were stunned by how it all ended like watching a set of dominos knock into one another.

I don’t know about him, but that kiss keeps playing out in my mind on a loop. I’m still not sure what to make of it.

It’s been three days. He’s tried calling, but I let it go to voicemail. We talked in the group chat with Nikki, but other than that I think he’s giving me my space. And I appreciate it.

After feeding Buddy a decent dinner, lots of his new kibble, which he apparently can’t get enough of, and a can of his favorite wet food, I get dressed and the two of us jump into my 4Runner and head out to Denver.

I’ve got a deadline to meet with a certain mob henchman. And if anything, I’m punctual.

The Velvet Lounge is dimly lit as hot pink spotlights swirl over the scantily clad beauties up on the main stage. It smells of booze, grocery store patchouli, and fries.

A few of the waitresses coo at Buddy and bend over to give him a quick scratch and I look away as their boobs swing like pendulums.

I’m not here to see them; I’m here to see a genuine boob, Marco Rossi.

And to my surprise and delight, I spot the big guy behind the bar laughing it up with a couple of greasy-looking men.

His hair is slicked back, and that dark suit he’s squeezed himself into looks as if it’s ready to rip at the seams. Marco doesn’t miss many meals, but apparently, he’s latent in getting to the tailor.

I make a beeline his way and he squints right at me before excusing himself from his present company and leading me to the edge of the bar where it’s vacant.

“We’ve got a strict no dogs allowed policy,” he says, holding up a seltzer water and I nod as he serves it up over ice.

“Tell it to the dogs bellying up to the stage,” I say, toasting him with the drink before taking a sip. “I’ve thought about your offer.”

“You got me there.” He chuckles. “So what’s going on? You don’t like the deal I cut with your sister?”

The hair on the back of my neck prickles at the thought of being one degree of separation from Erin. I can hardly contain the need to shake this elephant of a man, let alone shove my Glock down his pants and threaten to shoot.

He knows where Erin is. He holds the secret. I could be reunited with her within twenty minutes if I could only get this buffoon to speak.

“What deal?” A dull laugh pumps from me at the thought of him doing any fair trade with my poor sister. I don’t doubt for a minute that she’s in over her head. And there is nothing that could convince me otherwise. Sort of the way I’m in over my head right about now.

Never in a thousand years could anyone have told me that I’d be lining up to work with the mob. That I’d be defying the trajectory of my career, defying my core principles by playing dirty and risking my entire existence.

I could kill Erin for putting me in this position, and I have not taken that option off the table just yet either.

“Look, it’s nothing that concerns you at this point,” he says before placing a small dish on the floor filled with fresh water for Buddy, and Buddy laps it right up. For all I know, the man could have roofied my dog and me. I’m not taking another sip. “She came by yesterday and we worked out a deal. She does her little cleanup business wherever we send her. Don’t worry, we’re not talking blood and gore. We’ve got other things that need to disappear. This way we keep our hands clean, and she gets to keep the junk she wants. Even though she’s not getting paid in cash, she’s getting paid in other ways. Info.”

My mouth opens as I try to digest this.

He’s not talking about Erin. He’s talking about Riley.

Riley is the sister who came by yesterday. Sounds as if she struck a deal. She offers them her services via Pick-It-Clean and they give her⁠—

“I wanted to hear the terms from you,” I say with an air of confidence I shouldn’t have access to. The bottom line is, I should be terrified for both of my sisters at this point. Neither of them is thinking clearly.

Marco frowns as he shoots a quick glance around.

“All right”—he leans in once more—“instead of the three-and-you’re-out deal I wanted you in at, she’s offered her services in exchange for intel on Erin. Unlimited cleanups,” he states flatly. “Cleaning up whatever we need. No questions asked.”

My stomach churns at the implications.

Riley tangled up with the mob? Offering to clean up their messes? Covering up evidence? Taking evidence home with her unwittingly?

The audacity of her actions makes my head spin.

“You need to reconsider this deal,” I say, trying my best to disguise my fury.

Marco laughs and it’s a dry and humorless sound. “It’s too late for that, hon. She’s in, and there’s no stepping back now.”

A breath hitches in my throat, and all I’m able to do is glare at the man for taking advantage of Riley that way. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. My sister is caught in a web of her own making, and it’s possibly beyond my reach to save her.

Unlimited work for the mob? When does it end? Most likely when they land a bullet between her eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he growls, his own eyes unblinking. “She saved your badge and your honor. You’re not a dirty cop. She and her boyfriend were adamant about keeping you out of it.”

Her boyfriend?

I lift a brow because I have a feeling I know exactly which boyfriend that would be. It’s not Ryan because clearly, that ship has sailed.

“Okay,” I say, closing my eyes a moment too long. “We can work out all the kinks later. Right now, I just need to know where Erin is.”

“There are no kinks to work out.” His voice is sharp. “My deal is with her, not you. So if you’d like, you’re welcome to enjoy the show. Otherwise, you don’t have any business with me.” He starts to take off and I hold a hand his way.

“Whoa,” I say, patting the bar in an attempt to make him stay. “At least tell me if you told her where to find Erin.”

He nods as he examines my face for a moment. “Riley knows everything to land her at Erin’s feet. But it’s like I told her—move slowly, deliberately. That woman is like a squirrel with its tail on fire. She gets wind of this, she’s taking off. I’m not making any guarantees.”

He walks away and disappears into a back room.

Squirrel with its tail on fire.

It turns out, he really does know my sister.

Buddy and I get up and head for the exit, but before we get halfway there, we bump into an all too familiar face.

“Well, well,” I say. “Look who the pussy cats dragged in.”

38

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

Jack Stone stands before me right here in the Velvet Lounge Gentlemen’s Club, dark jacket, hair slicked back, facial scruff a little out of control, and his blue eyes blaring my way like sirens.

“By all means, don’t let me stop you,” I say, stepping to the side.

A crooked smile takes over as he shakes his head.

“Hey, Buddy.” He gives the pooch a hearty scratch over the head before straightening and pinning his eyes to mine again. “I happened to have left Whispering Woods right after you did. I was heading to the diner. I thought you might be, too. Then you took a turn out of town. I’ll admit, you had my curiosity piqued.”

“So you followed me,” I say with a laugh caught in my throat.

“You have my dog.” He tips his head and that cocky grin of his ticks over his cheeks for a second. “I needed to make sure Buddy was safe.”

I’d contest whose dog he is, but at this point, Buddy feels as if he belongs to the both of us.

“Keep walking,” I say as we thread our way out of the Velvet Lounge and into the crisp autumn night as downtown Denver glitters all around us.

“What happened with Marco?”

“My sister and your brother happened.” I quickly give him the breakdown and his chest expands the size of a wall.

“Geez,” he spits it out, just as annoyed as I am.

“It’s refreshing to see someone share in my level of irritation. Thank you for that,” I tell him.

He shakes his head. “Leave it to my brother to land me in front of a mobster’s bullet.”

“Leave it to my sister to do the same—to me,” I say, incensed. “I was all set to play the part of the dirty fed.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Is that your way of admitting I’m right?” That lopsided grin rises on his face again.

“That’s my way of admitting I have two idiots for siblings.”

“We’re even on that level, too.”

Buddy sniffs and whimpers as he looks up at Jack.

“You know I don’t leave the house without treats.” Jack pulls a doggy biscuit in the shape of a bone out of his pocket and tosses it to him. “Go on.” He nods my way. “You know you want to say it.”

“I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole.” I hold my hands up as if to punctuate the point.

The smile glides off Jack’s face as the two of us stare one another down as if we were having a standoff, and at this point, that’s exactly what it feels like.

Jack Stone.

I shake my head at him.

This was not the plan.

The plan was to come home and track down my escape artist of a sister. It never once entered my mind to fall into a puddle of lust with another agent. But then, I hadn’t counted on Jack Stone.

Whether I like it or not, he’s a force to be reckoned with. And judging by the way my body is pulsating with a heartbeat of its own, I would very much like to reckon with him. Most likely something quick and dirty. But a part of me is craving something more.

“How about touching this?” His hand runs down my arm before he pulls me in and lands a soft kiss on my lips.

Buddy lets out a sharp bark and the two of us bite back a laugh.

“He doesn’t seem to be a fan of you touching me that way.” My teeth graze over my lip as I tamp the laughter down once more.

“He’s a dog. What does he know?”

“I thought you said he was comparable to a Rhodes Scholar?”

“So now you believe in his scholastic abilities.” He inches in close and wraps his arms around me. “I say we train Special Agent Buddy on how to stand guard while his fellow agents exchange some intimate intel.”

“Intimate intel?” I ask as my own arms find themselves around his back.

“It’s the best I can do on the fly. Did you know I have a very hard time thinking when you’re around?”

“That does explain a lot.”

He frowns as he lands another kiss to my lips, but he doesn’t linger. Instead, he leaves me wanting more.

He hitches his head toward the parking lot. “How about we go back to your place?”

“Slow down, cowboy. You’re not getting anywhere near my bed,” I tell him.

“I was thinking about the hot tub.”

“That does sound good.”

He comes in for the kill again, or the kiss as it were, and no sooner do we dive into a whole other world than our phones buzz simultaneously.

We give a hard groan as we pull them out.

“It’s Hale,” I say before reading out loud. “Two college girls found dead at the Grand Meadows Hotel. The bodies had markings on them that resembled the same markings a couple of prostitutes had on them when they were killed last month. We got the official invite to the case.”

Jack and I take off for the parking lot.

Another night, another murder, and perhaps a serial killer on the loose.

Not to mention, Erin is out there somewhere just out of reach.

But justice is never out of reach.

It might be delayed, but we are bringing it home.

The End.

*

72 Hours From Now…

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

“Cover me,” Jack pants as the three of us hug the wall with our backs as we speed up to the second story of the rundown motel in downtown Elmwood. Our guns are drawn, our adrenaline hitting its zenith.

The thing with Elmwood is that every nook and cranny qualifies as the crappy downtown corridor, and this no-tell roach motel is no exception.

“Where do you think he went?” Nikki says, nearly out of breath.

Our sprint through three city blocks while chasing our suspect has made us well aware we should lay off the donuts for a while. Will we? Probably not. But lessons like this usually need to be learned the hard way.

The lights flicker as we make it to the second floor and are met with three orange doors, each sealed shut. Shouting comes from the far end and Jack hitches his head in that direction as the sounds of women’s voices rise into the night, and they sound wildly agitated.

Jack steps toward the door before glancing back at us.

Both Nikki and I nod his way.

We’re ready.

My heart riots in my chest so hard, my skull vibrates from the effort.

This is it. We could kill or be killed.

Who knows what we’ll find behind that door. It could be our perp. And I can guarantee you it could very well be Erin. My sister. My totally insane genius of a sister who I have half a mind to run her head through a wall.

How I would give anything to see her again.

And now in just moments, I could do just that.

The impossible finally possible.

Jack turns and in one swift motion busts the door open with his foot before jumping inside.

“FBI, everybody freeze,” he thunders.

Nikki and I jump in, flanking him on either side. But we don’t see our suspect. Instead, we see an older woman with a shag of white hair, pale, and thin as a skeleton with about seven teeth in total staring back at us with her mouth agape.

The thin tan girl next to her looks equally surprised—dark hair, black eyes, pocked skin, about mid-thirties in age. Her arms rise to the air, but the skeleton with hair continues to gasp in our direction.

The room is small, the kitchenette is loaded with old fast food bags, and the smell of stale air and cigarettes lingers in the air.

I move past the peanut gallery and make a beeline for the door to the right and find an empty bathroom the size of a thimble, and the sink is molded with orange slime.

“All clear,” I say with my weapon still poised as I move to the opened window to the left of the sofa. “That’s where he went.”

“Everybody out,” Jack growls, and the woman with pocked skin runs past us and out the door as if she were an apparition. “I said everybody out,” he growls once again and Nikki and I exchange puzzled looks.

“Is he talking to us?” Nikki asks, sounding about as confused as I’m feeling.

“Get out.” He cuts the air with his angst as he continues to glare at the skeletal woman, the barrel of his gun starting to lose its trajectory in her direction.

“I think he is talking to us,” I say, stymied. “Bad news, Stone. I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes cut to mine, and there’s a glint of something in them—fear, frenzy, fury, all of the above, and I don’t get it.

“Out,” he roars right at me.

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A NOTE FROM ADDISON

Thank you so much for reading Lake House Killer (Fallon Baxter FBI Mystery Series Book 3)! I hope you had a thrill ride that took you to the very last page! Things heated up a bit between Fallon and Jack, and strides were made toward tracking down Erin. Of course, Buddy stole the show once again. Spoiler—he always will!

These books are really fun for me to write. I love the darker, straight forward, guns blazing world—and I hope to spend more time in it! If you enjoyed this book or the other books in the series, please consider leaving a review. That lets me know you’re interested in more books! Thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving this series a try!

If you’d like to be in the know on upcoming releases, please be sure to follow me at Bookbub and Amazon, and sign up for my newsletter.

A special thank you to my betas Amy Barber, Kaila Eileen Turingan-Ramos, Jodie Tarleton and Margaret Lapointe for looking after the book.

A mighty BIG thank you to my editor, Paige Maroney Smith for her eagle eyes.

And last, but never least, thank you to Him who sits on the throne. Worthy is the Lamb! Glory and honor and power are yours. I owe you everything, Jesus.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Addison Moore is a New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author who writes contemporary and paranormal romance. Her work has been featured in Cosmopolitan Magazine. Previously she worked as a therapist on a locked psychiatric unit for nearly a decade. She resides on the West Coast with her husband, four wonderful children, and two cats where she eats too much chocolate and stays up way too late. When she's not writing, she's reading. Addison’s Celestra Series has been optioned for film by 20th Century Fox.

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