Time of Death
Beverly Barton

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in the U.S.A by Kensington Publishing Corp. New York, NY, 2010

TIME OF DEATH. Copyright © Beverly Barton 2010. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

Beverly Barton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847561404

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2011 ISBN: 9780007412228

vERSION: 2018-07-09

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

There it was again, that odd sound. It must be…

Chapter 1

Lorie Hammonds slept until nearly eleven and woke with a…

Chapter 2

Derek Lawrence arrived late. He wouldn’t have even considered attending…

Chapter 3

Barbara Jean met the potential client at the front door,…

Chapter 4

He exited the small commuter airplane, hoisted his vinyl carryall…

Chapter 5

“I want to assure you that the sheriff’s department will…

Chapter 6

Derek parked his Vette in the driveway, got out, locked…

Chapter 7

After locking the door and securing it so that no…

Chapter 8

Maleah and Derek had agreed to split the day guarding…

Chapter 9

Lorie walked Paul Babcock to the door. “I’m glad you…

Chapter 10

The Powell jet landed shortly before noon, Eastern Standard Time.

Chapter 11

He was dying. His doctor had delivered his death sentence…

Chapter 12

The sun heated their naked skin as they played together…

Chapter 13

“Buddy!” Mike bellowed the deputy’s name.

Chapter 14

After the unsettling night before, Lorie had decided not to…

Chapter 15

On Saturday morning, Special Agent Hicks Wainwright held a press…

Chapter 16

When he had phoned Abby and explained the situation, she…

Chapter 17

Mike called her at 10:05 P.M. “We need to talk.”

Chapter 18

Mike Birkett dropped his kids off at school and headed…

Chapter 19

Jeff Misner rammed into his wife, his upper thighs slapping…

Chapter 20

Lorie had almost forgotten the sound of her mother’s voice.

Chapter 21

Ransom Owens lived alone in the brick house built by…

Chapter 22

Deputy Buddy Pounders lived a quarter of a mile from…

Chapter 23

Lorie wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not that…

Chapter 24

When Nicole Powell woke, she found herself alone in bed.

Chapter 25

Casey used his friend Jason’s cell phone to make the…

Chapter 26

During the past couple of weeks, Lorie and Mike had…

Chapter 27

He had three days to make it happen. Three days…

Chapter 28

Lorie had just stepped out of the shower and wrapped…

Chapter 29

He stood in the woods, darkness surrounding him, as the…

Chapter 30

“There’s a problem with Mrs. Owens,” Ashley White said as she…

Chapter 31

Puff Raven had been and still was an extremely sexy…

Chapter 32

At 8:15 on the last Friday morning in April, Lila…

Chapter 33

Carrying a newspaper under his arm and with the straps…

Chapter 34

“What are you doing here?” Tyler Owens stared in total…

Chapter 35

The Powell Agency wrapped up their investigation into the Midnight…

Chapter 36

When Lorie walked out of the sheriff’s office the morning…

Epilogue

Lorie had tried to convince Mike that they should have…

Read on for an exclusive chapter of Beverly Barton’s new novel, If Looks Could Kill

About the Author

Other Books by Beverly Barton

About the Publisher

Prologue

There it was again, that odd sound. It must be the wind. What else could it be? Possibly a wild animal, a raccoon or possum or even a stray dog. Bears are in hibernation this time of year.

Get hold of yourself. You’re imagining things. Nobody’s out there. Nobody is going to show up here in the middle of the woods in the dead of winter just to frighten you.

Dean’s bone-thin hands trembled as he pulled back the gingham curtain from the dirty window and peered out into the darkness. The quarter-moon winked mockingly at him through a thin veil of clouds, as if it knew something he didn’t. The cold wind whispered menacingly. Was it issuing him a warning?

Releasing the curtain, he rubbed his hands together, as much to warm them as to control the quivering. He sure as hell could use a drink about now. Or something stronger, quicker. But he had learned to settle for strong coffee. A caffeine fix was better than no fix at all. He had been clean and sober for three years and he had no intention of allowing a few stupid letters to destroy his hard-won freedom from drugs and alcohol.

Forget the damn letters. They’re just somebody’s idea of a sick joke.

There were things he should be doing—stoking the fire he’d built in the fireplace, checking supplies, preparing the coffeemaker for morning coffee, bringing in more firewood, putting fresh linens on the twin beds. Dean wanted everything to be in order before his brother got here. Jared, who was driving in from Knoxville where he taught biology at the University of Tennessee, would arrive sometime in the morning, and if all went as planned, they’d spend the weekend here. This was the first time they’d been together at their family’s cabin in the Smoky Mountains since they were teenagers.

God, that had been a lifetime ago. Jared was forty-eight now, widowed, the father to two adult sons. His brother was successful in a way he would never be. Jared lived a normal life, always had and always would. Dean was a failure. Always had been and probably always would be. He’d been married and divorced four times. But he’d done one thing right—to his knowledge he had never fathered a child.

As he lifted the poker from where it was propped against the rock wall surrounding the fireplace, he glanced at the old mantel clock that had belonged to his grandparents. Eleven forty-seven. He should be sleepy, but he wasn’t. He had flown in from LA earlier today and had rented a car at the airport.

Jared had sent him the airline ticket. His brother didn’t trust him enough to send him the money. In the past, he would have used the money to buy drugs. He couldn’t blame Jared. Dean had done nothing to earn anybody’s trust. He might be clean and sober, but even he knew that it wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge. If something happened, something he couldn’t handle, he just might take the easy way out. He always had in the past.

Was receiving death threats something he couldn’t handle?

Dean stoked the fire and replaced the poker, then headed toward the kitchen to prepare the coffeemaker. Halfway across the cabin’s great room, he heard that pesky noise again. It sounded like footsteps crunching over dried leaves. He stopped dead still and listened.

Silence.

With his heart racing, his palms perspiration-damp and a shiver of uncertainty rippling along his nerve endings, he wondered if he should get his granddad’s shotgun out of the closet. His dad had always kept a box of shells on the overhead shelf in the closet, well out of reach, when he and Jared had been kids. But what were the odds that he’d actually find an old box of shells?

He should have gone to the police after he received that first letter, but he’d waited, telling himself that each letter would be the last one. Over the past few months, he had received a total of four succinct typed notes. Each one had begun the same way. Midnight is coming.

What the hell did that mean? Midnight came every twenty-four hours, didn’t it?

Dean went into the larger of the two bedrooms, the room his parents had shared on their visits here, turned on the overhead light, and opened the closet door. The closet was empty except for a few wire clothes hangers; and there in the very far left corner was his granddad’s shotgun. He reached out and grabbed it. Just holding the weapon made him feel safe.

Idiot. The thing’s not loaded.

To make sure, he snapped it open and checked. Empty. No shells. He raked his hand across the narrow shelf at the top of the closet and found nothing except dust. Had he really expected to find a box of shells?

Dean sighed. But he took the shotgun with him when he returned to the great room and laid it on the kitchen table. He rinsed out the coffeepot, filled it with fresh water, and emptied the water into the reservoir. After measuring the ground coffee into the filter, he set the timer for seven o’clock.

He still needed to bring in more firewood and put clean sheets on the beds. When he’d set his suitcase down on the floor in the second bedroom, the one he and Jared had always shared, he had noticed that the mattresses were bare. He had found the pillows and blankets in the hall linen closet, along with a stack of bed linens. He dreaded the thought of going outside, of getting chilled to the bone and facing his own fears. What if it wasn’t an animal walking around out there?

Wait until morning to bring in the firewood.

But was there enough wood to keep the fire going all night?

“There are a couple of kerosene heaters in the shed out back,” Jared had told him. “Just don’t use them at night. It’s safer to keep a fire going in the fireplace.”

“Why haven’t you put in some other kind of heat?” Dean had asked him.

“Because we hardly ever use the place in the winter. Besides, the boys and I enjoy roughing it, just like you and I did with Dad.”

Dad. Dean didn’t think about his father all that often. Remembering how completely he had disappointed his father wasn’t a pleasant memory. His parents had loved him, had given him every advantage, and he had screwed up time and time again.

Dean put on his heavy winter coat—the one he had bought for a little of nothing at the Salvation Army thrift store. It was foolish of him to be afraid of the dark, scared to face a raccoon or a possum, or to think that whoever had written those crazy letters had actually followed him from California to Tennessee and was waiting outside the cabin to kill him.

Dean grunted.

Don’t be such a wuss.

He flipped on the porch light and grasped the doorknob. The moment he opened the cabin door, the frigid wind hit him in the face and sent a shiver through his body. He closed the door behind him and headed toward the firewood stacked neatly on the north side of the front porch. Working quickly, he filled his arms to overflowing.

Dean turned and headed for the front door, then realized he’d have to shuffle his load in order to open the door. But before he could accomplish the task, he heard what sounded a lot like footsteps. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His heartbeat accelerated. He glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Get a grip, man!

Just as he managed to free one hand and grab hold of the doorknob, he heard the sound again. Closer. As if someone was walking in the leaves that covered the rock walkway from the gravel drive to the porch.

Dean took a deep breath, garnered his courage, and turned all the way around to confront the intruder. Suddenly, he burst into laughter. A possum scurried across the dead leaves not more than a foot from the porch steps.

“Son of a bitch,” he said aloud as relief flooded his senses.

Still chuckling to himself, he turned back around, opened the front door, and carried the firewood into the cabin, leaving the front door open behind him. He dumped the firewood into the wood box on the hearth and stood up straight. Feeling the cold air sweeping into the house through the open door, he faced forward, intending to walk across the room and close the door. Instead, he froze to the spot. There, standing just inside the doorway, was someone—male or female, he couldn’t tell—wearing a heavy winter coat, boots, gloves, and an oddly familiar mask.

“What the hell! Who are you?”

Dean tried to rationalize what he saw, but as fast as his mind was working, it didn’t work fast enough to make sense of the bizarre sight. Before he could say or do anything else, the person in the mask pulled something from his—or her—coat pocket and aimed it at Dean.

A gun?

The person fired.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Dean reeled as the first bullet pierced his shoulder, and then dropped to his knees when the second bullet ripped into his leg. When the third bullet entered his chest, he heard two things simultaneously—the clock on the mantel striking the hour and the sound of his killer’s voice.

“Dead by midnight,” the masked murderer said.

Those were the last words Dean Wilson ever heard.

Chapter 1

Lorie Hammonds slept until nearly eleven and woke with a mild hangover from having drunk too much champagne at Cathy and Jack’s wedding. The moment her feet hit the wooden floor, she moaned. It was too damn cold for mid-March. As she reached down to the footboard of her bed to retrieve her robe, she danced her toes over the floor searching for her house shoes. Her big toe encountered one of the satin slippers. She slid her foot inside the soft warmth and glanced down to see if she could locate its mate. Only after getting out of bed and bending over to look under the bed did she find her other shoe. As she rounded the end of the bed, her hip accidentally made contact with the edge of the antique, gold metal storage bench.

Cursing softly under her breath, she realized this was probably not going to be a good day. After peeing, washing her hands, and splashing cool water on her face, she avoided glancing in the mirror and went straight down the hall to the kitchen. She checked the coffeemaker to see if she had remembered to prepare it last night. She hadn’t. Great. That meant she’d have to wait for her morning pick-me-up. Working hurriedly, she ground the coffee beans, ran tap water through the faucet filter, and got everything ready.

While the coffee brewed, she tried to focus on her usual Sunday-morning routine. Not being a churchgoer, she saved the first day of the week for leisure. Reading the morning newspaper from cover to cover, giving herself a manicure and a pedicure, spending the afternoon lounging in her easy chair with a good book, going to the movies, having dinner out with a friend.

But her best friend—her only true friend in Dunmore—was off on her honeymoon and would be gone two weeks. She didn’t begrudge Cathy her happiness, her fourteen glorious days of uninterrupted lovemaking with her new husband. But Cathy’s romantic dreams finally coming true only reminded Lorie of the impossibility of that ever happening for her.

Padding through the house to the front door of her 1920s clapboard bungalow located just outside the city limits of downtown Dunmore, Lorie sighed. Romantic dreams didn’t come true for women like her. She’d had her one chance at happily ever after and she’d blown it big-time. Just because Cathy had gotten a second chance didn’t mean she would.

She opened the front door, scanned the porch, sidewalk, and front yard, and located the Sunday paper hanging precariously between two small azalea bushes. Damn! It was raining like crazy, had probably set in for the day, and the cold March breeze felt more like a February wind. She shivered as she rushed down the steps, grasped the cellophane-wrapped paper, and ran back into the house.

She could smell the delicious coffee brewing. By the time she peeled off her wet housecoat and gown and put on something warm and dry, the coffee would be ready. After taking a couple of tentative steps down the hall, she stopped, said damn, and then turned and went back to the front door. She had forgotten to get Saturday’s mail out of the box at the end of her driveway. She might as well do that now while she was already soaked.

After retrieving the mail and getting drenched to the skin, Lorie tossed the small stack of envelopes and the Sunday newspaper down on the half-moon table in her tiny foyer before she headed for the bedroom.

Ten minutes later, drinking her first cup of morning coffee, dressed in lightweight fleece lounge pants and a matching pullover, Lorie slipped the newspaper out of its protective cellophane sleeve and took the paper and her unopened mail into the living room. She relaxed in her plush easy chair, placed her feet on the matching ottoman, and scanned the morning headlines. The Life section of the paper was what interested her today. A color wedding photo of her best friend, Catherine Cantrell—no, she was Catherine Perdue now—stared up at her from the wedding announcements page. Cathy had never looked more beautiful.

Tears threatened, reaching Lorie’s throat and lodging there. She swallowed hard. Be happy, Cathy. Be happy. You so deserve it.

And maybe that was the reason she would never be truly happy. Lorie Hammonds didn’t deserve to be happy.

She folded back the page and laid the newspaper aside. She would cut out Cathy’s picture and then look through the rest of the paper later. As a general rule, Saturday’s mail was light, even at Treasures of the Past, the antique shop she co-owned with Cathy, but better to go through it now and toss out everything except the bills. She picked up one envelope after another, discarding half a dozen requests from various charities. If she regularly donated to each of these organizations, she would quickly give away her entire paycheck. She laid the one bill—her credit card statement—on the end table. She would write a check tomorrow and mail it off. Sooner or later, she would have to move into the twenty-first century and pay all her bills electronically.

One envelope remained in her lap. She picked it up and looked at it. Her breath caught in her throat.

No, it can’t be. Please, don’t let it be another one.

Don’t jump to conclusions. Just because it looks like the other one doesn’t mean it’s from the same person.

She flipped over the envelope a couple of times, studying both sides carefully. Her name and address had been printed on a white mailing label. No return name or address.

Just like the other letter.

And just like the first one, it had been mailed from Tennessee, but this one was postmarked Memphis instead of Knoxville.

Lorie ripped open one end of the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of white paper. Her hands trembled as she unfolded the letter. For a half second, her vision blurred as she looked down at the message. Her heartbeat accelerated.

Midnight is coming. Say your prayers. Ask for forgiveness. Get your affairs in order. You’re on the list. Be prepared. You don’t know when it will be your turn. Will you be the next to die?

Lorie sat there staring at the letter until the words on the page began to run together into an unfocused blur. Her fingers tightened, crunching the edge of the letter. Closing her eyes, she tried to calm her erratic heartbeat.

This letter was identical to the first one she had received a month ago. The original letter had worried her, but she’d been in the midst of preparing for Cathy’s bridal showers and upcoming wedding. She had decided it was nothing more than a crank letter from some nut who had nothing better to do with his time. After all, why would anyone want to kill her? It wasn’t as if she was rich or famous. And as far as she knew she didn’t have any enemies who would go so far as to threaten to kill her.

But here it was—a second letter. A second death threat. Could she simply ignore this one and toss it in the trash as she had the first one?

One really could have been a silly prank.

But two could mean that someone out there wanted, at the very least, to frighten her.

Or did they actually want to kill her?

Mike Birkett poured cereal into three bowls, added milk and blueberries, and set the bowls on the table. His nine-year-old daughter, Hannah, picked up her spoon and dug in while his eleven-year-old son, M.J., curled up his nose as he eyed the berries with disdain.

“Do I have to eat those?” M.J. asked, a slight whine in his voice.

“Yeah,” Mike told him. “At least some of them. Okay? Blueberries are good for you.”

“Who says?”

“I’ll bet it was Ms. Sherman,” Hannah said. “I’ve heard her talking about what she eats—stuff like protein shakes and tofu and soy milk and all kinds of yucky things like that.”

“Figures,” M.J. mumbled under his breath.

Mike knew that neither of his children especially liked Abby Sherman, the woman he’d been dating the past few months. And he really didn’t understand why. Abby had gone out of her way to try to make the kids like her, and she’d been very understanding when they had been rude to her on more than one occasion. What really puzzled him about their attitude was the fact that Abby actually reminded him of his late wife, Molly. It was one of the reasons he’d thought the kids would automatically accept her. Abby had the same cute look that Molly had, with her blue eyes and strawberry-blond hair. She was slender, athletic, and wholesome.

Abby was the sort of person he needed in his life, the type of woman who would make a good wife and mother.

Mike hurriedly wolfed down his cereal and forced himself to eat the blueberries he’d sprinkled on top. When he finished the last bite, he took a sip of his third cup of coffee and found it lukewarm.

“You two hurry up,” he told his children. “Sunday school starts in less than an hour. If we’re late again this Sunday, Grams will give us all a good scolding.”

Since Molly’s death nearly four years ago, his mother had stepped in and helped him. He didn’t know what he would have done without her. His kids lived with him and he usually managed to get them off to school every morning. But his mother picked them up in the afternoons and looked after them until he came home from work. And whenever his duties as the county sheriff called him away at odd hours, all he had to do was phone his mom. She’d been a lifesaver.

After being up late last night, dancing at his best friend’s wedding, he would have liked nothing better than to have slept in this morning and let his mom pick the kids up for Sunday school. But as a single parent, he always tried to set a good example for his son and daughter, going so far as to eat blueberries.

Mike dumped the remainder of his cool coffee into the sink, rinsed out the cup, and left it in the sink along with his bowl and spoon. Glancing out the window, he groaned quietly. He wished the rain had held off for another day. Not only did they have Sunday school and church services this morning, but they were taking Abby out to lunch and then to an afternoon matinee in Decatur.

“I ate all the cereal and some of the blueberries,” M.J. said as he dumped a few drops of leftover milk and three-fourths of the blueberries into the garbage.

Mike nodded and smiled. Whenever he looked at his son, he saw Molly. He had her red-blond hair, blue eyes, and freckles. Hannah, on the other hand, resembled him. Same wide mouth, square jaw, dark hair, and blue eyes. But Hannah had Molly’s sweet, easygoing disposition and his son nah had Molly’s sweet, easy going disposition and his son definitely showed the potential to be the hell-raiser Mike had been as a teenager.

When Hannah placed her empty bowl in the sink, she looked at Mike and asked, “May I wear the dress I wore to Jack and Cathy’s wedding to church this morning?”

“It’s a little fancy for church, isn’t it?” Mike knew little to nothing about young girls’ clothes, but the floor-length green dress his mother had chosen for her to wear to the wedding wasn’t something he thought appropriate for Sunday school.

“I like it a lot, Daddy. It’s so pretty. It’s the same color as Miss Lorie’s maid of honor dress.”

Mike groaned again. Lorie Hammonds was the last woman on earth he wanted his daughter to emulate.

“Wear that little blue dress with the white collar,” Mike told Hannah.

“I wore that last Sunday.”

“Then pick out something else. But you cannot wear the green dress you wore to the wedding.”

“Oh, all right.”

“Go on now. Brush your teeth and get dressed.” Mike tapped the face of his wristwatch. “I want you two ready to go in twenty minutes. You can recite your Bible verses to me on the way there.”

Mike left the kitchen as it was. He could load the dishwasher and wipe off the table and countertops later. He needed a quick shower and a shave.

As he walked through the house, heading for his bathroom, he tried his damnedest not to think about Lorie. He had spent more time with her this past week than he had in all the years since she returned to Dunmore. Usually, he avoided her like the plague. But they had been thrown together constantly the past few days because he had been Jack’s best man and she had been Cathy’s maid of honor. Now that the wedding was over, there was no reason for him to see her again, which suited him just fine.

Mike turned on the shower, stripped out of his pajama bottoms and T-shirt, and stepped under the warm water. Okay, so he had a hard-on just thinking about Lorie. So what? She was a beautiful, desirable woman and he was a normal guy whose body reacted in a normal way when he thought about someone he found attractive. Lorie was extremely desirable, but she was all wrong for him and his kids. Thoughts of Abby Sherman might not cause an instant arousal, but Abby was a lady, someone he could be proud of, someone suitable as a stepmother for his children.

Lorie Hammonds was a slut!

The weather fit her mood to perfection. Dark, dreary, and dismal. Maleah Perdue stood at the kitchen window and watched the morning rainfall, the heavy downpour veiling the backyard in a watery mist. She had spent her first night alone in her childhood home, the place that held many happy memories from the first seven years of her life. And a place that inspired nightmares if she allowed herself to think of the other eleven years she had lived here. Eleven years under the tyrannical rule of her cruel, abusive stepfather.

Shaking her head slightly to dislodge the unpleasant memories, she turned away from the window and picked up her coffee mug from the counter. She wasn’t a breakfast eater. A piece of fruit or a glass of juice usually held her until midday, but she couldn’t make it without at least half a pot of coffee. She was addicted to caffeine.

Carrying the half-full mug with her as she wandered leisurely from the kitchen to the small den at the back of the house, she wondered if the newlyweds had arrived in the Bahamas yet. Her older brother, Jack, and his bride, Cathy, had gotten married yesterday. She had been a bridesmaid.

Maleah groaned. God, she hated weddings. But she loved Jack and thought the world of Cathy, so she had agreed to be in the wedding party. The idea of a happy marriage was an alien concept to her. Jack remembered her parents being happy, back when the four of them had been your normal, average American family. But she’d been in the first grade when her father had died in a car accident and her memories of him were at best sketchy. What she remembered was her mother’s marriage to Nolan Reaves.

By the time she was old enough to date, she had known that she would never get married. She would never be able to trust a man enough to pledge until death do us part.

When she sat down and curled up on the lush leather sofa, one hand holding her mug, she reached out for the TV remote. She surfed through the channels until she found a local station’s early morning news program. Keeping the sound muted, she lifted the mug to her lips and sipped on the strong, sweet coffee. Black, heavy on the sugar, or rather the sugar substitute. A girl had to watch her figure, and in Maleah’s case, being only five-four and curvy, keeping trim was a constant battle. Just as she settled back and relaxed, her phone rang. When she’d come downstairs half an hour ago, she had slipped her phone into the pocket of her cotton knit sweater. Four years as an agent for the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency, based in Knoxville, had taught her to never be without her iPhone.

Checking caller ID, she smiled and placed her mug atop a coaster on the end table. “Morning,” she said. “What’s up?”

Nicole Powell, Maleah’s boss and close friend, laughed. It was good to hear Nic laughing again. She’d had a rough year. For a while, Maleah had wondered if Nic and Griff’s marriage could survive, but recently they seemed to have worked through their problems. And even though Maleah knew that Griff still kept secrets from Nic, it wasn’t her place to interfere in her best friend’s marriage.

“I wanted to let you know that Griff and I are going away for a week, just the two of us. Sort of a second honeymoon. And I have no idea where we’re going. Griff’s keeping it top secret to surprise me.”

What is it suddenly with all these honeymoons?

Only two honeymoons, she reminded herself. Just because you’re allergic to marriage and all the trimmings doesn’t mean other people don’t have the right to take a chance on happily ever after.

“That’s great. It sounds so romantic.”

“If for any reason you need something while I’m gone, you’ll have to go through Sanders,” Nic said. “Naturally, Griff’s leaving him in charge.”

“I can’t imagine why I’d need anything Powell Agency related. I’m on vacation. Well, sort of. House-sitting and keeping tabs on my nephew, even though Seth is actually staying with his grandparents, isn’t exactly a vacation.”

“How’s that going—staying in your childhood home?”

“The old home place isn’t the same. Jack and Cathy completely renovated and updated the whole house. Except for the bare bones, the interior is like an entirely different house. And they had the exterior painted in colors true to the time period, very similar to the way this old Victorian looked when it was built.”

“So staying there isn’t reviving bad memories?” Nic asked.

“A few, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“Good.” Nic paused, then said, “Think positive thoughts for me—for us—will you? Griff and I love each other and our marriage is important to us, but we realize we have some fundamental problems. We’re hoping we can work through a lot of things while we’re away.”

“Good luck. And I’ll send tons of positive thoughts your way.”

“Thanks. Talk to you when I get back. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Maleah slipped her iPhone into her sweater pocket.

She truly wished Nic and Griff the best. In the beginning of their marriage, they had seemed happy, seemed perfect for each other. Maleah would have laid odds that if any couple had a chance to make it work, Nic and Griff did.

Maleah had never been tempted to marry, even though she had received two proposals. As soon as a guy got serious, she broke it off and ran in the opposite direction. Both of her former serious relationships had been with wonderful men, either a real catch. She’d heard that Brad Douglas was now married and had twin daughters. She and Brad had enjoyed a two-year relationship and had even lived together for a while.

Back in college, she had lost her virginity to Noah Laborde. She had been in love for the first time. Noah had been handsome, intelligent, and every girl’s dream come true. A week after graduation, he had popped the question. She had taken one look at the diamond solitaire he held in his hand and had broken out in a cold sweat. He’d been ready for marriage. She hadn’t been, never would be. Less than a year later, a mutual friend had called to tell her that Noah was dead. Murdered. Even now, after ten years, it broke her heart to think that Noah never got the chance to live a full, complete life. It was so unfair. But then, she had learned at her mother’s knee that life was seldom fair.

Lorie drove by Mike’s house three times, trying to build up enough courage to stop, ring the doorbell, and tell the county sheriff that she had received her second death threat. He would ask to see both letters. She’d tell him she threw the first one in the trash. He’d look over the second letter, all the while wondering if she had written it to herself as an excuse to draw him into her life. Damn him! Did he honestly think she was that desperate?

And if he believed her, what would he do? Tell her to come down to the office in the morning and fill out a report? He certainly wouldn’t take a personal interest. He’d hand her problem over to one of his deputies and that would be the end of it.

There had been a time when Mike Birkett would have gone to hell and back for her. But that had been when he had loved her, when he had thought she was going to be his wife and the mother of his children. That had been before she had gotten on a plane and flown to California to become a famous movie star. Seventeen years and a million heartbreaks ago.

Lorie slowed her Ford Edge SUV at the stop sign, glanced down at her wristwatch—2:46 P.M.—and wondered what the hell she was going to do. Who could she turn to for help?

Not Mike.

And not the Dunmore police. Even if they took the threat on her life seriously, what could they actually do?

What she needed was a private detective, someone who could find out the identity of the person who had sent her the threatening letters.

Lorie suddenly had a lightbulb moment and knew exactly who she could go to for help.

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the driveway at 121 West Fourth Street, parked her SUV, got out, and walked up and onto the front porch. She rang the doorbell and waited.

Maleah Perdue, Jack’s younger, all-American, blond sister, opened the door and smiled. “Hi there. What brings you out on a day like this that’s not fit for anybody or anything, except maybe ducks?”

“Are you busy?” Lorie asked. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“You’re interrupting my game of solitaire on my laptop.” Maleah laughed.

Lorie forced a tight smile. “I … uh … have a problem that I was hoping you could help me with.”

“Well, come on in and tell me about it,” Maleah said.

Lorie entered the large two-story foyer.

“Come on back in the den.”

Lorie followed her best friend’s sister-in-law. When they reached the small, cozy room, Maleah asked, “Want some hot tea or coffee?”

“No, thanks. Nothing for me.”

“Have a seat.”

Lorie nodded, but didn’t sit down. “I want to hire you. I don’t know how much you charge, but I need a professional.”

Maleah stared at Lorie, then asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I received a death threat in a letter about a month ago. I convinced myself that it was just a prank and threw the letter away and almost forgot about it. But I received a second letter identical to the first. It arrived in yesterday’s mail, but I didn’t open the mail until today.”

“Did you bring the letter with you?”

Lorie dug in her purse, pulled out the envelope, and handed it to Maleah.

“Do you think you could get any fingerprints off the envelope or letter?” Lorie asked.

“Yeah, yours, the mail carrier’s, and anybody else who might have touched it. But my guess is whoever wrote it made sure he or she didn’t leave any prints.”

Maleah removed the letter from the envelope and read it aloud. “Do you know anyone who might want to kill you?”

“No. No one.”

“Does anything in the letter ring a bell? Any of the phrases sound familiar?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea what he—or maybe she—means by ‘midnight is coming’?”

“No, not really,” Lorie said. “Do you think this is for real, that someone is actually threatening to kill me?”

“I don’t know, but you’d be a fool to ignore a second letter,” Maleah told her. “I’m glad you’ve come to me. We’ll get in touch with Mike Birkett and—”

“No!” When Maleah looked at her quizzically, Lorie explained. “I could have gone to Mike, but I didn’t. He’s not going to take this seriously. As you know, we … uh … we share some ancient history. I don’t want to involve local law enforcement, especially not Mike. Not yet. Not until we know for sure that this is for real.”

“Want my opinion?”

Lorie nodded.

“It’s for real.”

“Then you think somebody wants to kill me?”

“Possibly. At the very least, somebody wants to scare the shit out of you.”

Had they all received the most recent letter? He could have mailed them from anywhere, but it seemed only appropriate for the letters to have a Memphis postmark, so he’d made a quick one-day trip back to Memphis. In the future, he’d mail the letters before leaving town. He liked to imagine each person’s reaction when they opened the envelope, how they must have prayed that it wasn’t another dire warning.

Smiling, he ran the tips of his fingers over his closed laptop where the letter was stored. There would be no need to write a new message each time after this, not when the original said it all so perfectly.

He could only surmise that each of them was puzzled by the letter, wondering who had sent it and why. Stupid fools!

Sooner or later, somebody, probably a smart FBI agent, would figure it out, but by then it would be too late. They would all be dead, the guilty punished, and a cruel, ugly part of the past erased. And the best part was that no one would ever suspect him.

He picked up the glass of chardonnay he had poured only moments ago and sat down in his favorite chair. As he sipped the wine, he lifted the remote control with his other hand and hit the Play button to start the DVD.

He owned dozens of copies of this particular movie, both on DVD and on video. If he could have purchased every copy ever made, he would have. And he would have destroyed all of them.

Chapter 2

Derek Lawrence arrived late. He wouldn’t have even considered attending if this wasn’t his mother’s sixty-fifth birthday bash. As a general rule, he deliberately avoided spending time with the woman who had given birth to him. But not being a total bastard, he had felt compelled to put in an appearance this Sunday afternoon at the party hosted by his sister, a party for family and a few close friends. He had known that to Diana a few close friends meant there would be no less than a hundred in attendance. His baby sister loved nothing better than to host a social event so that she could show off her fifteen-million-dollar estate on the outskirts of Nashville. Unlike their mother, who had come from a middle-class background, Diana had been born into money and had married money. He loved the girl, but the older she got, the more like their mother she became. God help her.

The house was buzzing with activity. In one glance, he counted thirty people milling about in the massive foyer and adjoining living room. A small band filled the place with music befitting the Queen Bee’s birthday. Nothing common and vulgar. Classical and semi-classical only.

When a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes passed him, Derek grabbed a glass. He meandered through the crowd, nodding and smiling at those who glanced his way. Some he knew. Some he didn’t. Others looked vaguely familiar. And then he spotted her—the most beautiful woman in the room. Alexa Daugherty. Too bad she was his first cousin. Derek chuckled to himself. Even if they weren’t related, he would never take on Alexa. The lady was too high maintenance for his tastes. As a child, she had epitomized the saying “poor little rich girl.” As a woman, she brought another catchphrase to mind—“rich bitch.” His darling cousin had a reputation for chewing up men and spitting them out in little pieces.

The moment she saw him, she smiled and motioned for him to come to her. He made his way through the celebrators and when he reached Alexa, he leaned over and kissed her flawless cheek.

“I haven’t seen you in ages,” she said. “You’re not still working for the FBI, are you? I believe Aunt Happy mentioned that you were an associate of Griffin Powell’s. Is that right?”

Happy was Derek’s mother. He had never heard anyone call her anything else. He wasn’t sure where the nickname had come from or who had given it to her, but it certainly didn’t suit the snooty, social-climbing woman he had known and hated for most of his life.

Before Derek could reply, a man he didn’t know—mid-fifties, trim, well dressed—injected himself into the conversation. “We were just talking about this shocking murder case over in Memphis, and Alexa mentioned you used to be with the FBI, a profiler, I believe.”

Derek nodded. His sister’s crowd always found it fascinating that he had chosen to work in a field usually reserved for those not in their social circle—law enforcement.

Alexa slipped her arm through his, but she looked directly at the other man. “You simply must tell Derek all about it. The killer is still at large and the Memphis police have no idea who did it.”

“Ward Dandridge.” The man stuck out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, silly me.” Alexa giggled. Even her giggles sounded sexy. “I forgot that you two didn’t know each other. Sorry about that.”

Alexa was not an airheaded bimbo, despite appearances to the contrary. His guess was that she’d had one glass of champagne too many. Alexa was a brilliant woman with an IQ that bordered on genius. And he knew for a fact that she was a shrewd businesswoman who had recently taken over as CEO of her father’s empire. The old man still maintained his position as chairman of the board, but he happily left the day-to-day running of Daugherty, Inc. to his only child.

“Do you know Tagg Chambless?” Dandridge asked.

“The former NFL halfback?”

“That’s the one. Tagg and I are business associates. We both have an interest in one of the Tunica casinos.” Dandridge downed the remainder of his champagne and motioned to one of the waiters, who quickly exchanged his empty glass for a full one.

“Didn’t you date Chambless for a few months?” Derek winked at Alexa.

She gave him the evil eye, a look for which she had become notorious. Grown men had been brought to their knees in submission by that look alone.

When Ward Dandridge stared questioningly at Alexa, Derek laughed. “No, his name wasn’t Chambless, was it? But the fellow was a football player, wasn’t he? Not Chambless, though. If I recall, he was a big, burly brute with—what did you say at the time? Oh yes, that he had more muscles than brains.”

“You’re mistaken. That’s not my type,” Alexa said coolly. “But we’re getting off subject. Ward did so want your thoughts on the murder case.”

“And just what does Tagg Chambless have to do with the murder case?” Derek asked.

“Oh, the victim was Tagg’s wife,” Ward said. “Gorgeous woman, even if she was little more than a plastic doll. She’d had all sorts of cosmetic surgery. Everything from breast implants to rhinoplasty.”

Derek wished he could think of a diplomatic way to escape. It had become apparent that Ward Dandridge loved gossip, and discussing other people’s private lives bored Derek.

“I’d love to hear more,” Derek lied. “Maybe later. I really should find Mother and wish her a happy birthday.”

Alexa tightened her hold on Derek’s arm, leaned close and whispered, “Stay. Please. Ward’s a friend of Daddy’s and I simply can’t be rude to him.”

“I’ll make this quick,” Dandridge said, apparently determined to drag an opinion out of Derek. “Mrs. Chambless, Tagg’s wife, had quite a reputation. The lady used to be an actress of sorts. She starred in several”—he cleared his throat—“adult films and was a Playboy centerfold about ten or eleven years ago.

“The woman was shot numerous times, killed right there in her own home.” Dandridge lowered his voice. “The police never released certain information, but Tagg shared a few things with me. Seems when the maid found her, she was naked and was wearing a mask of some sort. Odd, don’t you think?”

“Yes, quite odd,” Derek agreed.

“You would assume that she was raped, considering the fact she was naked, but Tagg said she wasn’t. Raped, that is.”

“Hmm …” Derek wasn’t sure what Dandridge wanted him to say. Did the man honestly think he could come up with a profile of the killer with no more information than that?

“Oh God, who invited him?” Alexa asked with utter disdain in her voice.

“Who?” Dandridge inquired as he glanced right and left.

Derek followed his cousin’s cold glare, which was aimed directly at a man Derek knew, liked, and respected.

“Camden Hendrix.” Alexa spoke his name as if she were saying Attila the Hun. “The man is a barbarian.”

Derek grinned when Cam looked his way and immediately came over to speak to him.

To break the sudden uneasy silence, Derek introduced the two men, who apparently knew each other by reputation. “And of course, you know Cam, don’t you, Alexa.”

“We’ve met.” Icicles hung on her words.

“Looking as lovely as ever,” Cam said, but did little more than glance briefly at Alexa before he turned back to Derek. “Good to see a friendly face. I thought maybe Nic and Griff would be here. I haven’t seen them in a couple of months.”

“I believe they’re off on a second honeymoon,” Derek said. “Something spur of the moment.” As a Powell Agency employee, he had received the text message sent out that morning to inform everyone that Sanders was in charge while the agency’s owners were away.

“Is that how you finagled an invitation to Aunt Happy’s birthday party—because you’re Griffin Powell’s lawyer?” Alexa asked, knowing full well how rude her question was.

Cam chuckled. “Actually, your cousin Diana invited me. My firm is representing her husband’s brother in his divorce case.”

“I say, Hendrix, have you heard about Tagg Chambless’s wife’s murder over in Memphis?” Ward Dandridge asked, apparently interested in little else. “I had just cornered Derek to get his opinion about her unsolved murder.”

Cam’s mouth tilted in a smirking grin and it was obvious that he had barely managed not to laugh.

“We’ll talk later,” Derek said as he pulled away from the group. “I want to check with Mother and make sure she received her present yesterday.” He glanced from Dandridge to Cam. “Why don’t you tell Cam about the case? After all, he’s famous for defending accused murderers.” Derek kissed Alexa on the cheek and whispered, “Behave yourself, cousin.”

Several minutes later, he found his mother surrounded by her country club girlfriends, women in her age group whose husbands’ wealth afforded them a lifestyle only dreamed about by most.

Happy Lawrence Vickers Adams—married three times, widowed once and divorced twice—was still an attractive woman, thanks to great genes and a talented cosmetic surgeon. Tall, slender, elegant. No one would ever guess that Happy wasn’t “to the manor born.”

Their gazes met as he approached her and she quickly plastered a fake smile on her unwrinkled face. Derek couldn’t remember the last time his mother had been genuinely glad to see him. When he reached her, she leaned close, offering him her cheek to kiss. He did as he was expected to do.

“Happy birthday, Mother.”

“Thank you, dear. And thank you for the lovely jade bracelet. I’m sure I will enjoy wearing it occasionally.”

With the necessary pleasantries out of the way, Happy turned her full attention back to her friends. Derek walked away, went through the kitchen and out the back door without searching for his sister to say hello or good-bye. He motioned for the valet to bring around his car, and within five minutes, he sped off down the long, winding drive and out onto the highway.

If he was lucky, he shouldn’t have to make a command appearance again until Happy’s seventieth birthday.

Lorie answered, as truthfully as she could, all of Maleah’s questions about her past and present boyfriends and other relationships.

“I honestly can’t think of anyone who would want to kill me,” Lorie said, feeling more frustrated by the minute. “It just doesn’t make any sense. I live as low-key a life as possible. I haven’t had a date in months. I do my level best not to piss off anybody here in Dunmore. I just want to live my life without any major complications.”

“A death threat is a major complication.” Maleah shifted on the sofa, turning halfway to directly face Lorie. “You haven’t noticed anyone following you or skulking around your house or your antique shop?”

“No. Not really. I mean, men sometimes look at me and I know they’re mentally undressing me. Occasionally someone makes a crude comment. And at odd times, I feel like somebody’s watching me, but I’ve never actually seen anyone, so I assumed it was just my imagination.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Maleah said. “Have you recently received any peculiar phone calls?”

“Are you talking about heavy breathing? Then no. And no one has called to talk dirty to me since the first year I moved back to Dunmore.”

“What about online—any weird e-mails?”

“Nope. And I don’t have a blog or anything like that. Just a Web site for Treasures. And I don’t Twitter.”

Maleah shook her head, the action inadvertently bouncing her long, blond ponytail. Today, with no makeup on and wearing jeans and an oversized cotton sweater, she looked more like a fresh-faced teenager than an experienced bodyguard and investigator.

“I wish you had kept that first letter,” Maleah said. “We have no proof you actually received the letter, only your word that you got it.”

“Are you saying you don’t believe me, that you think I’m lying?”

“No, of course not. I believe you, but when we go to the sheriff, he’ll want proof.”

“I told you that I prefer not to involve local law enforcement, not until we know for sure this isn’t someone’s idea of a sick joke.”

“Look, I’m ninety percent sure that when I contact the Powell Agency for an okay to take your case, I’m going to be told that although we’ll do an independent investigation, the sheriff needs to be notified.”

Lorie groaned.

“Do I need to know more about you and Mike Birkett?” Maleah asked. “I was just a kid, twelve or thirteen, when you two dated and that’s all I remember—that you two dated, were sort of pre-engaged and you broke it off and left town. But that was what—sixteen or seventeen years ago? Is there something going on with the two of you now?”

“God, no!” Only in my dreams. “You know the rest of my story, don’t you? Everybody in town knows about how I disgraced my family, ruined my reputation, and made a complete and utter fool of myself after I left Dunmore. I jilted Mike and broke his heart. Now he can’t stand the sight of me.”

Maleah glanced away as if it bothered her to see the sadness that Lorie knew she couldn’t hide. Her feelings were written plainly on her face.

“I’ll have to talk to Mike,” Maleah told her. “But I’ll ask him to assign one of his deputies to your case. That’s what he’d do anyway.”

Lorie nodded, reluctantly agreeing. “So, what do I do now?”

“Do you have a security system at home?”

“Yes.”

“Use it. Be aware of your surroundings at all times and take no chances with your personal safety. Do you carry a gun or Mace or—?”

“I have a small pistol that I keep in my nightstand,” Lorie said. “And I carry Mace in my purse and I’ve taken a couple of self-defense classes.”

“Put my number into your home phone speed dial and your cell phone so you can contact me instantly if you need me. At this point, I think providing twenty-four/seven private security would be premature.”

“Yeah, I think it would be.”

“If you get another letter, a phone call, sense someone following you or anything that raises a red flag in your mind, get in touch with me immediately,” Maleah told her. “In the meantime, I’ll ask for an okay from Powell’s to work on your case and then I’ll call Mike.”

Lorie stood. “Thanks, Maleah. I appreciate your doing this for me. I guess I’m lucky that you decided to stay in Dunmore for a while.”

Maleah got up and walked Lorie to the front door. She patted Lorie on the back. “Be careful, okay? But don’t worry any more than you can help. At this point we have no idea what we’re dealing with, whether the person who sent you the letters is some goofball who thinks this is funny or some nut job who gets his cookies off scaring women with threats or if we have the real thing on our hands.”

Lorie opened the front door and then paused for a moment. “The real thing being someone who is going to kill me.”

“Someone who plans to kill you,” Maleah corrected. “We won’t let that happen—you and me, the Powell Agency, and the sheriff’s department.”

After Sunday evening church services, Mike sent his kids to take their baths and get ready for bed. Tomorrow was a school day, the first day back following their spring break, which had come early this year. He’d probably have a couple of hours of alone time after he tucked his kids in, time to kick back and watch a little TV or read a few chapters in the latest David Baldacci novel. For now, he needed to load the dishwasher and set it to start in the middle of the night. Later, he’d put out plates, bowls, cups, and silverware on the kitchen table for breakfast and afterward he’d gather the clothes he needed to drop off at the cleaners in the morning.

Just as he headed for the kitchen, the doorbell rang. Who the hell? It was nearly nine o’clock. When he opened the front door, he was surprised to find Jack’s kid sister, Maleah, standing on his porch.

“Hi, Mike. Got a few minutes?” she asked.

“Sure, come on in.”

He escorted her to the living room. “Is there a problem? Something with Seth or—”

“Nothing personal. I’m fine. My nephew is fine,” Maleah told him. “I’m here on business.”

Frowning in confusion, Mike stared at her. “Explain.”

“May I sit down?”

“Sure. Please sit. Believe me, my mama taught me good manners. I just forget them sometimes.”

Maleah sat on the sofa. Mike eased down onto the wingback chair directly across from her.

“You know Lorie Hammonds, I believe,” Maleah said.

Mike nodded. His gut tightened.

“She has hired me, as a representative of the Powell Agency, to investigate two threats made on her life.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, I’m quite serious.”

“Don’t tell me the Women for Christian Morality folks are after her again. Believe me, those ladies are harmless.”

“I’m not familiar with that group, but I doubt they’re involved in this situation. Lorie has received two letters, one a month ago and a second this weekend. Both letters were identical, both were death threats.”

“Did you see the letters?”

Maleah nodded. “Yes, one of them, the most recent. Unfortunately, she threw the first one away thinking it was a crank letter.”

“Hmm … I wouldn’t take anything Ms. Hammonds says too seriously. She tends to be melodramatic sometimes. Actually, I wouldn’t put it past her to have written the letter herself in order to get attention.”

“To get whose attention—yours, Mike?”

His gut knotted painfully. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Do you think she’s that desperate to have you pay attention to her that she’d fake death threats?”

Would she? Did he really believe she would go to that extreme just to draw him into her life? “I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Hey, I realize you two were an item when you were teenagers and she broke your heart when she went off to Hollywood hoping to become a movie star. But that was a long time ago. Don’t you think it’s way past time to let bygones be bygones? I don’t know Lorie all that well, but then neither do you. You knew the teenage Lorie. She’s not the same person.”

“You can say that again.”

“I’m really not concerned about your personal issues with her. But I do need to know that, as the county sheriff, you will treat these death threats as seriously as you would if any other woman in your jurisdiction had received them.”

“You have my word on it. Ask Ms. Hammonds to come to the office tomorrow and give a statement. I’ll assign one of our deputies to question her.”

“Thanks, Mike. I knew I could count on you.” Maleah stood.

“Daddy,” Hannah called out from down the hall. “I’m ready for my good-night kiss.”

“Go on,” Maleah told him. “I’ll see myself out.”

Lorie sat alone in her semi-dark bedroom, the only light coming from the adjustable floor lamp behind her lounge chair. Oddly enough, the silence was comforting, the familiar a safe haven. The security system was armed. Her handgun was nearby in the nightstand. She was safe, at least for now. And it was possible that she wasn’t in any real danger, that whoever had written the two threatening letters would not follow through and actually try to kill her.

She had halfway expected to hear from Mike. Perhaps Maleah hadn’t contacted him; perhaps she was waiting until morning. But Lorie knew that eventually, Mike would confront her. He wasn’t likely to take the situation seriously. He’d think she concocted the whole thing in order to get his attention.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

It had taken her nearly four years—ever since Molly Birkett had died and Lorie had hoped Mike would turn to her for comfort—to accept that Mike truly hated her and would never forgive her.

Lorie gently ran her fingertips over the open book in her lap—the Dunmore High yearbook from Mike’s senior year. She had been a sophomore, only sixteen, and madly in love with Mike. Their first date had been for his senior prom.

She slammed the yearbook closed and dropped it to the floor beside the cream and gold damask chaise longue.

An odd idea came to mind. The corners of her mouth lifted into a sarcastic smile. The only person she could think of who might want to kill her was Mike. Of course, not literally kill her. But he would like nothing better than to make her disappear, to erase her and pretend she’d never existed.

As she considered possible suspects from her life, past and present, she couldn’t think of anyone who had ever truly hated her except Mike.

Her parents disapproved of her and were disappointed in her. Her father still wouldn’t speak to her and although her mother would talk to her briefly over the phone, she refused to see her.

When she had lived in California and had been trying to break into show business, she had made a few friends and possibly a few enemies. But no one who would want to kill her, certainly not after all these years.

What about Dean?

She hadn’t thought about Dean Wilson in ages. The last time she saw him was the day she’d caught a bus home to Alabama. He had followed her to the terminal and pleaded with her not to leave him. He’d been high as a kite. She supposed that, in a way, she had loved Dean. He’d been good-looking and exciting and charming. But in the end, he had been her undoing. And for that, she could thank him. After all, if he hadn’t gotten her a small part in one of his movies, it might have taken her longer to realize how close she had come to hitting rock bottom. That final degradation had forced her to admit the truth to herself. She had failed miserably. She might have been pretty, had a small amount of talent and a great deal of ambition, but after nearly six years of trying to get a big break, she had gone from starry-eyed beauty pageant winner to a bit player in a porno movie.

Was it possible that Dean had sent the letters? The last thing he’d said to her had been a threat.

“Go ahead and leave me, bitch. But one of these days when you least expect it, I’ll show up and make you sorry you were ever born.”

At the time, she hadn’t paid much attention to his drug-induced ravings. But … What if …

Damn it, Lorie, why would Dean send you death threats now?

Chapter 3

Barbara Jean met the potential client at the front door, introduced herself as Sanders’s assistant, and showed him down the hall to Griff’s study. The door stood wide open and Sanders sat behind the antique desk, a somber expression on his face. She knew Sanders for the kind-hearted, caring man he was. She knew that he liked his tea without lemon, cream, or sugar, that he preferred to sleep on the right side of the bed, that he had a dour sense of humor and that he enjoyed classical music. His favorite color was yellow, his favorite snack was Cheetos, and his favorite season was summer. However, even now, after being this man’s lover for nearly three years, she knew very little about the mysterious past he shared with his best friend and employer, Griffin Powell, and with the alluringly beautiful Dr. Yvette Meng. And that secretive past had made him the man he was today. Although they were on intimate terms, friends as well as lovers, she thought of him as Sanders, his surname the one used by all who knew him, even Griff and Yvette. In their private moments, she occasionally called him Damar, but in reality, Damar was a man she didn’t know, a man who belonged to a past that she could never share. A past that belonged to a dead wife and child.

Unlike Griff’s wife, Nicole, her dear friend, she accepted the fact that Sanders had secrets he chose not to share with her. But where she managed to curb her curiosity about the man she loved, about the years he had spent with Griff and Yvette, the three of them captives of a madman, Nic probed relentlessly into the past. Nic needed to know; Barbara Jean did not. It was enough for her that Sanders loved her now, and that he was loyal to the commitment they had made to each other. Perhaps it was because she had known from the very beginning that she was not the great love of Sanders’s life.

When she paused her wheelchair at the door, their guest waiting with her, Sanders rose from behind the desk. “Please come in, Mr. Chambless.”

The tall, broad-shouldered biracial athlete resembled his photographs, a handsome man with a toned body. But where in every picture Barbara Jean had seen of him, he’d been smiling, today he looked as if he might never smile again. Grief hung on his shoulders like a heavy shroud. The man had lost his wife only a month ago.

When Tagg Chambless entered the study and strode across the room, Sanders came out from behind the desk and met him, his hand extended. Sanders was much shorter than the six-five former NFL star, but equally impressive in his own way. The first time she saw Sanders, she had thought he looked like Yul Brynner, the exotically handsome actor who had risen to stardom in the mid-twentieth century portraying the king of Siam in the Broadway production and later in the movie, The King and I. Same bald head. Same hot, dark eyes. Same regal, commanding manner.

“My lawyer, Robert Talbot, told me that the Powell Agency is the best money can buy,” Tagg said as he shook hands with Sanders. “Seems Bobby and your agency’s lawyer are old buddies.”

“Yes, that is my understanding,” Sanders said. “Camden Hendrix called me personally Saturday to set up this appointment today.”

“Yeah. And you might as well know up front that I wanted to talk to Griffin Powell himself about this and was told he was unavailable.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Powell are away on vacation.”

Tagg nodded. “So I get the number-two man instead.” He glanced back at Barbara Jean, who remained in the doorway. “What about Ms. Hughes?”

“Come on in, Barbara Jean.” Sanders motioned to her and then focused his gaze on Tagg. “Just as I am Mr. Powell’s associate and second in command when he and his wife are not available, Ms. Hughes is my associate and privy to everything that goes on at the Powell Agency.” When Tagg made no comment, Sanders indicated a chair near the fireplace. “Please, sit down.”

After Tagg took his seat, Sanders sat in the chair across from him. Barbara Jean entered the room and eased her wheelchair behind Sanders.

“I think Mr. Hendrix explained what I want,” Tagg said.

“He gave me the basic details—that your wife was murdered approximately one month ago, the police have done all they can and have no suspects in the case, and you want to hire the Powell Agency to do an independent investigation.”

Tagg leaned over, his shoulders slouching with weariness, and sank his large, clasped hands between his spread knees. With his gaze directed to the floor, he breathed in heavily and released a deep, tortured sigh.

“You have no idea what it’s like to see your wife’s dead body lying in her own blood … to know that she suffered.” Tagg choked with emotion.

Barbara Jean’s gaze locked with Sanders’s and without saying a word she conveyed her concern. He closed his eyes for just for a second and she understood exactly what he was reliving in that dark moment and how the other man’s words had touched a sharp, painful chord in Sanders’s very private memories.

Sanders cleared his throat. “I’ll oversee the case personally, but I’ll put one of our top agents in charge of the investigation. His name is Holt Keinan. I called him in from Knoxville last night and he’s ready to return to Memphis with you today to handle things in the field. He will need your full cooperation. Do you understand?”

“He’ll have it,” Tagg assured Sanders.

“Whatever you share with us will go no further, even if you’ve been involved with anything illegal. But in order for us to do our job, we have to know about anything that might have the slightest bearing on your wife’s murder.”

“No one I’m associated with killed her. I’m sure of that. Nobody was out to get me through Hilary.”

“Nevertheless, we will be digging into your and your wife’s personal lives, past and present.”

Tagg clenched his teeth and nodded.

“The more you can tell us, the more time we can save investigating and having to find out things you could have told us.” Sanders paused, giving Tagg a chance to inject information into their conversation. He didn’t. Sanders continued. “You seem to think there’s no one in your life who posed a threat to you or your wife—what about someone in your wife’s life? Somebody from her past? Or someone—?”

“It’s no secret that for a while, when she was in her early twenties, Hilary went from being a Las Vegas showgirl to a star in several low-budget adult movies.”

“By adult you mean pornographic movies?”

“Yeah. Hilary was a beautiful woman. She had a great body. And she loved showing it off. She loved life … loved sex. When we met, she gave up the movie business and her agent was none too happy. This guy wore two hats, one as an agent and another as a producer of porno flicks. He told Hilary that she’d regret leaving him to marry me, that she’d miss the business and come back to him the first time she caught me in bed with another woman.”

“Did she?” Sanders asked.

When Tagg looked him in the eye, his gaze questioning, Sanders clarified. “Did she ever catch you with another woman?”

“From the day we married, there was never anyone else for either of us. It’s been that way for the past seven years.”

“Who was this guy, the agent-cum-producer?”

“Travis Dillard.”

“Did your wife have any contact with him over the past seven years or perhaps only recently?”

“No, none, not over the years or recently.”

“We will check into it, find out if there is any reason to think he might be involved.” Sanders glanced at Barbara Jean. “See if Holt is free to join us and then have coffee prepared and served in approximately twenty minutes.”

“Certainly.” Barbara Jean wheeled out of the room and headed straight for the kitchen. Holt would be there having a late breakfast. She had spoken to him less than fifteen minutes before Tagg Chambless’s arrival.

The moment Cam Hendrix had contacted Sanders to tell him about Hilary Chambless’s murder, she had known Sanders would agree to take the case. He identified with any man who had lost his wife in such a brutal way. And each time he became involved in a case such as this, he relived his own wife’s death at the hands of a monster.

Charles Wong placed the letter back in the envelope, tore the envelope into several pieces, and dumped the pieces into the kitchen wastebasket.

“We’re off,” his wife Lily called to him from the living room. “Don’t forget that you’re picking the girls up from school today.”

“I won’t forget,” he told her. “I’ll be there on time. Three o’clock sharp.”

“Oh, and Charlie, call me after the interview, okay? Good luck, babe.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

When he heard the front door slam, he released a loud huff as he poured himself another cup of coffee and opened the caramel crunch breakfast bar he had laid out on the counter after he had cleared the kids’ cereal bowls from the table. Right now, Lily was supporting the four of them—herself, him, and her twin daughters, Jenny and Jessy. Since he’d been laid off shortly before Christmas, more than three months ago, he had signed up for unemployment and become a househusband. He had gone on numerous job interviews; today’s interview was number twelve. Unfortunately, he wasn’t qualified for much. His last job had been at a local plant where he’d been a janitor. Today’s interview was for a job as a bagger at the grocery store two blocks from their duplex apartment.

When he’d met Lily three years ago, he had been on the verge of giving up, of taking an overdose or jumping off the nearest bridge. They had met at an AA meeting. He had never known anyone like her. For him, it had been love at first sight. She had survived a teenage pregnancy, a boyfriend who abused her, parents who abandoned her, and a drinking problem that had almost cost her custody of her girls. But she had turned her life around and had helped him do the same.

They had been married for a year, had a decent apartment, managed to survive on one paycheck, and were doing their best to be good parents. He adored Jenny and Jessy. Who wouldn’t? They were seven-year-old replicas of their mom. And they were calling him Daddy now. Their own father never had been a part of their lives.

Charlie sat down at the small kitchen table, ripped open the breakfast bar, took a bite, and then washed it down with coffee. When he had lost his job in December, he had believed that was the worst thing that could happen to him, but he’d been wrong. In early January, he had received the first letter. He had dismissed it as nothing more than a stupid prank and threw the letter away. Then the second letter, identical to the first, had arrived in February, right before Valentine’s Day. Even though that one had unnerved him, he had torn it up and tossed it in the garbage. As far as he knew, he didn’t have any enemies who hated him enough to want to see him dead.

Then Saturday, the third letter had arrived, another word-for-word replica of letter number two. He knew the message by heart.

Midnight is coming. Say your prayers. Ask for forgiveness. Get your affairs in order. You’re on the list. Be prepared. You don’t know when it will be your turn. Will you be the next to die?

For the past couple of days, he’d been thinking about what he should do. Lily had enough on her mind with her job as a waitress, the two girls, and their barely having enough money to make ends meet. The last thing she needed was to find out that someone was sending her husband death threats. If he went to the police, what could they do? Not a damn thing. And what could he do? He had no idea who had sent the letters. Even when he had ended up in the gutter—literally—a few years back, he hadn’t encountered anyone who’d want to kill him. All he could do was watch his back, be careful, and not take any chances. And as far as he knew, Lily and the girls were safe. The letters had not mentioned his wife and kids, so he hoped that meant that only he was in danger. But from whom? And why?

Maleah would have preferred dealing directly with Nic, but that wasn’t an option right now and she needed permission to take Lorie Hammonds’s case and use the Powell Agency’s resources to investigate. That meant contacting Sanders in order to get his approval. When she had called Griffin’s Rest earlier today, she had spoken to Barbara Jean.

“He’s in a meeting with a potential client. I’ll have him call you as soon as possible.”

That had been two and a half hours ago. If Nic had been there, she wouldn’t have kept Maleah waiting. But she and Sanders were not close friends, simply coworkers at the agency. It wasn’t that she disliked Sanders. Quite the contrary was true. She liked and respected Griff’s right-hand man, but she found his formal manners and his military bearing if not exactly intimidating then at the very least forbidding. From the first time she had taken her turn as head of security at Griffin’s Rest, a position that routinely rotated among agents, she had thought it odd and at the same time rather endearing that the solemn, austere Sanders and the sweet, gregarious Barbara Jean were a couple. It was obvious to everyone that she adored him and that he, in his own way, cared deeply for her.

It wasn’t until she and Nic had become close friends that Nic told her Sanders had, years ago, lost his wife and child. If Nic had known the particulars of the tragedy, she had not seen fit to share the information with Maleah. Sanders himself was as secretive about his past, if not more so, than Griff was; but Barbara Jean was an open book. Everyone who knew her knew she had been paralyzed in a devastating car accident and after many surgeries and years of physical therapy, she had been left a paraplegic. She considered herself lucky to have survived and found joy in her life every day. The topic she chose not to discuss, but that everyone at Powell’s was aware of, was the fact that her younger sister had been one of the many victims of the Beauty Queen Killer, who had also murdered the first wife of one of Griff’s best friends, Judd Walker.

Maleah was deep in thought—remembering the last time she had seen the Walkers, Judd and his new wife and their two young daughters—when the phone rang. She recognized the number immediately. Griffin’s Rest.

“Hello.”

“I received your message,” Sanders said.

“Then you know that I called to get your okay to take on a new client.”

“Lorie Hammonds is a friend of your brother’s wife. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Lorie and Cathy are best friends.”

“And Ms. Hammonds has received two letters threatening her life?”

“Yes.”

“Have you notified the local authorities?”

“I have. I personally spoke to Sheriff Mike Birkett last night.”

“And you believe that the situation warrants the Powell Agency becoming involved.”

“Yes. Pro bono. Ms. Hammonds is not a rich woman.”

“I see.”

Maleah could tell by the tone of Sanders’s voice that he was actually considering denying her request. “Look, I’m on vacation, but if you’ll give me an okay to take Lorie on as a client, I’ll work without pay for the duration of my time off from the agency.”

Silence.

Damn it, say something. But when he remained silent, she knew he was thinking about her proposition.

“Agreed,” Sanders told her. “You took time off to stay in Dunmore for two weeks, on a paid vacation. Use that time to begin the investigation, and if when your vacation comes to an end you have found evidence that Ms. Hammonds’s life is in danger, then Powell’s will pick up the tab for continuing the investigation.”

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Thank you. I assume this means that the agency’s resources are at my disposal?”

“Certainly. However, unless you can show me the necessity of additional agents becoming involved—”

“I don’t think Lorie needs a personal bodyguard at this point, but if she does, I’ll handle it.”

“Then feel free to proceed. And if while Griffin and Nicole are away, you require anything else, simply let me know.”

“Yes, thanks. I will.”

“Good day, Maleah,” Sanders said, ever the courteous if somewhat stern gentleman.

Lorie had changed clothes four times that morning. The routine of bathing, doing her hair, applying makeup, and dressing usually took about an hour, less if she hurried. But today it had taken her two hours. When she had put on the first outfit and checked herself in the mirror, all she had seen was how large her breasts looked in the clingy yellow cashmere sweater, a Christmas present from Cathy and Jack this past year. She certainly didn’t want Mike to accuse her of using her sexuality to gain attention or, God forbid, to entice any of his deputies. The second outfit had gone too far in the opposite direction, the long-sleeved, mid-calf-hemmed dress making her look as if she were trying to downplay her attractiveness. Her third attempt had been jeans, the legs tucked into black boots, and a hooded black rhinestone sweatshirt. Too youthful. Mike would think she was trying to look like a teenager. Finally, she had chosen a pair of charcoal dress slacks, a silvery gray silk blouse, and a simple black sweater.

When she walked into the sheriff’s department, all eyes turned toward her. What was wrong with these people? But she knew that, to a person, all of Mike’s employees either knew firsthand or had heard through local gossip about Mike and her, about their past relationship and the fact that Mike now despised her.

Her heart raced and moisture coated the palms of her hands. She was so nervous that you’d think she was a criminal who had been caught red-handed. Instead, she was the victim or at the very least, the potential victim.

A middle-aged female deputy, her brown hair cut short and styled in choppy disarray, approached Lorie, a noncommittal expression on her face, neither smiling nor frowning.

“Good morning, Ms. Hammonds. I’m Deputy Ladner. The sheriff has assigned me to take your statement.”

Lorie nodded and offered the woman a hesitant smile, which was not reciprocated. Instead the deputy said, “Come with me, please.”

As instructed, Lorie followed the woman to what she assumed was the deputy’s workstation. She pulled out a chair for Lorie and motioned for her to sit. Deputy Ladner sat behind her metal desk, picked up a pen and paper, and interrogated Lorie. Or at least that was how Lorie felt, as if she were being given the third degree. Five minutes later, apparently finished, the deputy handed the pen and file form to Lorie.

“If you’ll sign”—she tapped her finger on the dotted line—“right here, please.”

Lorie hurriedly read over the form, then signed it and laid it and the pen on the desk. She looked directly at the deputy. “Thank you.”

When she rose to her feet, the deputy did the same. “You’ll let us know if you receive another letter or a phone call or—”

“Yes, of course,” Lorie said. For all the good it will do me. This woman doesn’t believe a word I’ve said. She thinks I made the whole thing up. No doubt Mike told her to do her duty, but warned her not to take me seriously.

“Is Sheriff Birkett in his office?” Lorie asked.

“Uh … yes, I believe he is,” Deputy Ladner replied, “but … er … I’m sure he’s busy. Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms. Hammonds?”

Without replying, Lorie turned and walked away hurriedly, every step taking her closer to Mike’s closed office door. Just as she reached the half-glass door and could plainly see Mike sitting behind his desk, a cup of coffee in his hand, Deputy Ladner grasped Lorie’s arm.

She turned and glared at the other woman, who loosened her hold and then dropped her hand away.

“You can’t see the sheriff right now,” the deputy said.

Lorie glanced around the room and noted that to a person, everyone in the sheriff’s department was staring at the two of them. She smiled. “Why not? It’s obvious he isn’t busy.”

Before Deputy Ladner could do little more than clear her throat, Lorie watched while Mike put down his cup, stood up, and walked to the door.

When he opened the door, the deputy jumped back. “Sir, I told Ms. Hammonds that you were unavailable.”

“It’s all right, Lana. Ms. Hammonds doesn’t like to follow the rules. You may go now. I’ll handle this.”

Lana Ladner? The name certainly didn’t suit the plump, plain female deputy. The name was far too fancy for such an ordinary-looking woman.

When Lana walked away, Lorie flashed Mike with a lavish smile. Totally fake, of course.

“I take it that I’m what you intend to handle,” Lorie said.

Mike grabbed her arm and dragged her into his office, then closed the door behind him. “You wanted to see me. Here I am.”

“You’re really pissed about this, aren’t you?” When he cocked an eyebrow as if saying I-don’t-know-what-you-mean, she elaborated. “You don’t like my invading your territory, even with a valid complaint.”

Mike snorted.

“I know you don’t believe that I’m in any danger. You think I concocted those two death threats, don’t you?”

“One letter,” Mike corrected. “Maleah explained that you threw the first one away … if there was a first one.”

“You egotistical son of a bitch. You actually think that I’m so determined to get back into your life that I’d fake death threats.” She punched her index fingertip into his chest. “Get this straight.” She repeated the punching motion again and again as she said, “I got the message loud and clear. You don’t want me. You wish I had never come back to Dunmore. You think I’m poison. Fine. Now, listen up—I’m over you. Finally. I wouldn’t have you if you were served to me on a silver platter with a gold apple in your mouth.”

He stood there and stared at her, his blue-black eyes wide with surprise.

She lifted her finger from his chest and balled her hand into a tight fist. “Someone has sent me two letters telling me that I’m going to die. It may be somebody’s idea of a sick joke or it could be that out there somewhere there’s a crazy person who intends to kill me. So, do your job, Sheriff. I’m a tax-paying citizen of your county.”

Lorie turned and left his office, ignored the wide-eyed department personnel, and marched straight out the front door.

Chapter 4

He exited the small commuter airplane, hoisted his vinyl carryall over his shoulder, and went directly to the car rental kiosk. If anyone remembered seeing him, they would describe him as a gray-haired man with a mustache and goatee. They might add that he wore sunglasses and dressed in wrinkled khakis and a plaid shirt. And if the airline passenger list were ever checked, his real name wouldn’t appear, only the name on his phony ID.

He was a smart man. He had covered all his bases.

Within twenty minutes, he was behind the wheel of a low-mileage Ford Taurus and halfway across town. Charles Wong, aka Charlie Hung, lived in a duplex on Rider Avenue. The adjoining apartment had been recently vacated and was For Rent. Charlie now had a wife and a couple of stepkids, and was presently unemployed. It was amazing how much you could find out about a person by simply using the Internet.

He turned off the main street that went straight through Blythe, Arizona, population ten thousand, a quiet little border town southeast of Yuma. From what he could tell, the town was overrun with Mexicans and he figured half of them were illegals.

He slowed down as he drove past Charlie’s apartment, but he didn’t see anybody, not even a stray dog. His first stop would be at the Blythe City Diner, where Charlie’s wife was employed. He had called earlier and found out she was working the evening shift. If he was lucky, she’d be the talkative type. All he needed to know was what night he could kill Charlie, a night when neither she nor her daughters would be at home. If necessary, he could wait for just the right moment, and in the meantime, he’d simply choose the next person on his list and come back for Charlie later.

Tagg Chambless stared at the two envelopes he held in his hand, both neatly sliced open, probably with Hilary’s pearl-handled letter opener. He held them up, showing them to the Powell agent who had accompanied him home to Memphis a few days ago.

“I found these this morning,” Tagg said. “In one of her lingerie drawers. They were hidden beneath the scented lining. I guess when the police searched our bedroom, they somehow overlooked these.”

Holt Keinan glanced from Tagg’s haggard face to the nondescript white envelopes he clutched tightly in his closed fist. “What are they?” He sure as hell hoped they weren’t love letters some other guy had written to the man’s now deceased wife.

“Death threats,” Tagg replied, a catch in his deep voice.

Holt focused on the envelopes. “Mind if I take a look?”

Tagg handed the letters over to Holt, who laid one down on a nearby end table in the den and then slipped the single page from the other envelope, unfolded it, and read aloud. “‘Midnight is coming. Say your prayers. Ask for forgiveness. Get your affairs in order. You’re on the list. Be prepared. You don’t know when it will be your turn. Will you be the next to die?’”

“Why didn’t she show me these letters?” Tagg asked. “Why did she hide them from me?”

Holt inspected the envelopes. Typewritten. No return address. One was postmarked Knoxville, Tennessee, and the postmark on the other was smudged, making it illegible. The messages were identical.

“Any idea who might have sent these to your wife?”

Tagg shook his head. “I’m certain she didn’t know anybody from Knoxville.”

“Where the letters were mailed may or may not be important. But the message is important. You’re right—these are definitely death threats.”

“You think the person who murdered Hilary is the one who sent her these letters?”

“I think it’s a good possibility.”

“Is there any way to find out who—?”

“Probably not,” Holt said. “But I’ll overnight these to our lab.”

“Shouldn’t I show them to the police?”

“Let me handle that. Our lab will get to the letters immediately. With the police, it could take weeks … or longer.”

Tagg sucked in a deep breath. “Yeah, you’re right. The police have gotten nowhere. I’m pretty sure they think that I’m involved with some unscrupulous business partners and one of them had my wife killed. They’re wrong. I’ve tried to tell them that, but they won’t believe me. I’m putting my trust in the Powell Agency. I expect you to uncover the truth and find out who killed Hilary.”

“The only promise we can make is that we will use every resource available to us to find your wife’s killer and we won’t stop looking until we either find the person responsible or you tell us to stop.”

“Understood.”

Sanders sipped on the cup of hot tea that Barbara Jean had, only moments ago, brought to him there in Griffin’s study. During the past few years, he had come to rely on her as a friend, a lover, and an assistant. She meant more to him than she would ever know. His love for her was deep and sincere. He would willingly lay down his life and die for her. Barbara Jean possessed a sweet, gentle nature and a warm, friendly personality, where on the other hand, he was quiet, stern, and very much an introvert. He preferred his own company to the company of others.

After his wife’s death so long ago, he had believed that he would never be able to love another woman. And there had been no one of importance in his life until Griffin brought Barbara Jean to Griffin’s Rest three years ago. She had been the only witness who could possibly identify her sister’s killer, and thus her life had been in danger. They had kept her under twenty-four-hour-a-day protection until the killer was finally caught. By that time, she had become a member of the household and had accepted a position with the Powell Agency. And little by little, as time had passed, he had grown to love her.

As Sanders drank the tea, he thought about Holt Keinan’s recent phone call concerning the Hilary Chambless murder case. He had sent Holt to Memphis with Tagg Chambless on Monday to begin the private investigation, and this morning new evidence had shown up. Tagg had discovered two threatening letters that had been sent to his wife before her death. The question was—why had she hidden the letters instead of showing them to him?

“I’m overnighting the letters to our lab,” Holt had said. “I doubt anything will show up that will help us, but it needs to be done and we can get to it a lot quicker than the police.”

Sanders wished that Griffin was here. Griffin was much better at dealing with the authorities than he was. And someone would have to explain to the Memphis PD why those letters hadn’t been turned over to them immediately. Maybe the explanations could wait until Griffin returned from the island retreat where he’d taken Nicole for a second honeymoon.

His years as a career soldier made it more difficult for Sanders to rebel against authority, to ignore rules and regulations. Even when he had lived under Malcolm York’s domination, little more than a slave, he had been a good soldier, obeying commands, always doing what he was told. Griffin was a different type, a rebel, a risk taker, a nonconformist. Griffin made his own rules. And Sanders would follow Griffin anywhere, even through the gates of hell.

And why not? They had already been there and back together. And they had survived.

Even if his wife and child had not.

A soft rap on the outer door of Griffin’s private study alerted Sanders that Barbara Jean had returned, probably bringing him a second cup of tea and a snack. She had no doubt noticed how little he had eaten at lunch. The responsibility of being in charge of the Powell Agency weighed heavily on his shoulders.

“Come in,” Sanders said.

Barbara Jean eased open the door, but didn’t enter the study. “Mr. Wilson just arrived. He’s waiting in the living room.”

“I am ready to see him.”

“All right.” She looked directly at Sanders. “Promise me that after your meeting with Mr. Wilson, you will come to the kitchen for an afternoon snack.”

The corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly. He almost smiled. Sweet Barbara Jean. A mother hen if ever there was one. She was the type of woman who should have had half a dozen children to smother with love and attention. But she would never have a child. Nor would he.

“I promise,” he replied. “Now, send in Mr. Wilson.”

She nodded, then turned and wheeled down the hallway.

Within minutes, a tall, slender man wearing a dark blue suit and a burgundy and blue striped tie stood in the open doorway. As Sanders came out from behind the desk, he inspected his visitor from the top of his gray streaked dark hair to his leather shoes. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties and from his demeanor, Sanders would have surmised that he was a confident, successful man. Of course, the background check on Mr. Wilson had given him that information. Jared Wilson was a professor at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. He and Griffin were both alumni of the school and had known each other for years, so when he had contacted the Powell Agency, he had immediately been given an appointment with Sanders.

“I am sorry that Griffin is unavailable,” Sanders said as he held out his hand to his visitor. “He and Nicole are on a second honeymoon. But I can assure you that I and the Powell Agency will assist you in any way possible.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sanders.” Jared exchanged a firm handshake with Sanders. “Griffin knows about my brother’s murder. He was kind enough to send flowers and he and Nicole attended the funeral.”

“Is your brother’s murder the reason you’re here?” Sanders indicated with a sweep of his hand for the other man to sit. When Jared took one of the two chairs flanking the fireplace, Sanders took the other one.

“Yes.” Jared rubbed his hands together. “The Sevier County sheriff’s department has no suspects, and although they say the case is still open, I think they’ve marked it off as unsolvable.”

“I see.”

Jared’s gaze met Sanders’s calm, cool stare. “I want to hire the Powell Agency to do a private investigation. I want to know who killed my brother and why.”

“I am sure that Griffin is familiar with the particulars of your brother’s death, but I am not. I wish I did not have to ask you to go over the details for me, but—”

“I’ll do whatever I need to do. Don’t be concerned about upsetting me.”

“All I need today are the basic details,” Sanders told him. “Just enough to give me an idea of where to start. All of the agency’s resources will be utilized and I will put two of our best agents on the case immediately. You will be dealing directly with them, but you may contact me at any time with questions or complaints.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Jared said.

“Ben Corbett and Michelle Allen are two of our best investigators. They will start tomorrow morning.”

“Do I work out the arrangement for payments with you or a secretary or—”

“When Griffin returns, the two of you can discuss that.” Sanders sat ramrod straight and looked squarely at Jared. “How was your brother killed? When and where? And who discovered the body?”

Jared took a deep breath. “He was killed in January at our family’s cabin in the mountains outside of Gatlinburg. He and I were planning to spend a few days together. It was to be a reunion of sorts. We hadn’t been close, not since we were teenagers. We took different paths in life.”

Sanders could hear the regret in the man’s voice and noted the sheen of moisture in his eyes. He would like to give comfort, but he simply did not know how. It was not in his nature. “Then you are the one who discovered his body?”

Jared swallowed hard. “Yes. I found him.” He paused for a few seconds. “He was naked and lying on the floor in the middle of the living room. He had been shot several times. I’m told the fatal bullet hit his heart.” He swallowed again. “It was the damnedest thing.”

“What was?” Sanders asked.

“Whoever killed him had not only stripped him naked, but they had put a mask on his face.”

“A mask? What sort of mask?”

“An elaborate mask, the kind you’d see at Mardi Gras or some fancy masquerade ball.”

“I see.” Was it simply an odd coincidence that both Jared Wilson’s brother and Tagg Chambless’s wife had been shot several times, stripped naked, and adorned with a fancy mask? “Do you know if your brother had received any death threats? Had someone sent him any letters warning him that he was in danger?”

“Not that I know of, but Dean lived in Los Angeles and we hadn’t seen each other in years. He wouldn’t have confided in me, especially not over the phone. Why do you ask?”

Sanders shook his head. “I was curious if perhaps your brother had been threatened in any way before he was killed.”

“I really have no idea. Is there anything else you need from me today, Mr. Sanders?”

Sanders stood. “No, thank you, Mr. Wilson. I think I have all I need for the time being. Our agents will contact you in the morning.”

After he saw Powell’s newest client to the door, Sanders considered the possibilities. Two similar murders did not mean they were connected. But what were the odds that the MO of two separate murderers now being investigated by Powell’s would be identical?

He entered the diner, searched and found Lily Wong serving behind the counter, and quickly took a seat on one of the padded stools. While waiting for her to notice she had a new customer, he pulled the plastic-coated menu from the rack that also held a variety of condiments. She came over, set a glass of water in front of him, and asked if he had decided what he wanted.

“Today’s special sounds good,” he replied and casually glanced at her.

She smiled at him. Lily was a pretty young woman with a mass of rich dark hair neatly confined in a ponytail, large silvery blue eyes, and full, pink lips. He stared at her name tag. “And a cup of coffee, please, Lily.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll place your order and then bring your coffee.”

He nodded and returned her pleasant smile, a smile he believed was genuine.

I’m sorry that I have to kill your husband, Lily. But he must die, just as the others must die. I know you won’t ever understand the reason his death is necessary and I’m sorry for that, too.

She set the filled coffee mug in front of him. “Cream or sugar?”

“Just sugar,” he replied.

She pointed to the small bowl that held individual packets of sugar and artificial sweeteners. A customer at the end of the counter called her name and requested more coffee.

He watched her as she made the rounds up and down the counter, making sure every customer was well taken care of with fresh coffee, tea, cola, and water. And when she brought his plate, she laid down extra napkins beside it.

“You seem to be very adept at your job,” he said.

“Thank you. I try my best.”

Before he could advance their conversation, she glanced down at her apron pocket. “Excuse me. I need to take this call.”

Undoubtedly she kept her phone set on vibrate instead of ring while she was at work.

She moved away from him to the end of the counter where no one was sitting, pulled her phone from her apron pocket, and said, “Hi, honey.”

He pretended to be engrossed in the chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes smothered in gravy, and the green beans on his plate. While eating, he listened carefully to every word Lily Wong said.

“Oh, Charlie, that’s wonderful. When do you start?” she asked. “Monday?”

Apparently Charles Wong had found a new job.

“We should celebrate this weekend, maybe Saturday night,” Lily said. “We can’t tomorrow night. Remember I’m doing that mother-daughter campout thing with Jenny and Jessica’s Brownie troop.” She lowered her voice to a soft whisper. He strained to hear what she said. “We’ll be home by ten Saturday morning and I promise that I’ll get a babysitter for the girls so that you and I can have our own private celebration.”

As soon as she returned her phone to her pocket, she walked over to him and asked, “Is everything all right? Do you need more rolls or coffee?”

“No, thanks, I’m fine.” He offered her a big, friendly smile.

If Lily and her daughters wouldn’t be at home tomorrow night and Charlie would be, then tomorrow evening at midnight would be the perfect time to kill him.

The minute Maleah hung up the phone after her conversation with Sanders, she brought up Mike Birkett’s number from her list of contacts. When she had agreed to take Lorie Hammonds’s case, she had thought it a good idea to include both the sheriff’s private number as well as the department’s number.

During the four days she had been on the job, she had spent most of that time digging into Lorie’s past and present acquaintances. When she had lived in the LA area, Lorie had encountered a few unsavory characters and had even lived with one, a guy named Dean Wilson, who, under the stage name of Woody Wilson, had starred in a string of low-budget porno movies.

And as fate would have it, just that morning, she had received information via Powell’s investigative research department that Dean Wilson was dead. He had been murdered in January and his killer was still at large. His brother had discovered Dean’s body at the family mountain cabin outside Gatlinburg, a short drive from Knoxville.

She remembered that Lorie had mentioned the first threatening letter she received had been postmarked Knoxville. Before talking to Sanders, Maleah had thought perhaps it was nothing more than an odd coincidence that Lorie’s old lover had been murdered only a couple of months ago.

“These two murders—Dean Wilson and Hilary Finch Chambless—cannot be a mere coincidence,” Sanders had said. “Both were shot several times, both were stripped naked, both were wearing fancy masks. Add to that the fact they were both porno stars and had worked together in numerous films and you pretty much erase the possibility of coincidence.”

“What about threatening letters?” Maleah had asked. “Did Dean Wilson and Hilary Chambless receive letters?”

“Jared Wilson did not know anything about his brother receiving threatening letters. But Hilary Chambless received two letters, the wording identical on both and the same as the ones Lorie Hammonds received.”

“We have to take these threats seriously. Lorie told me that she made one porno movie, just a bit part, but the stars of that movie were Hilary Finch—better known then as Dewey Flowers—and Dean ‘Woody’ Wilson.”

“Notify the local authorities, as well as Ms. Hammonds,” Sanders had instructed her. “And I will call Derek Lawrence. He should arrive in Dunmore tomorrow. You will work together on this case and the two of you will share all information with Holt Keinan and with Ben Corbett and Michelle Allen. Holt is in charge of the Chambless case. Ben and Michelle start work on the Wilson case tomorrow. Since it is obvious the three cases overlap, this will be a joint effort, as of now.”

Maleah groaned silently. The last person on earth she wanted to work with was Derek Lawrence. The man was a cocky, egotistical know-it-all. He’d been an FBI profiler and now worked as a consultant for the Powell Agency. In the course of various cases, their paths had often crossed, but whenever possible, she avoided the man as if he was the bubonic plague.

Maleah tapped Mike Birkett’s private number when it appeared on the iPhone screen and waited for him to answer. Whether the man liked it or not, he was going to have to take Lorie’s death threats seriously. Unless she missed her guess, there was a serial killer out there somewhere.

Lorie took the one-serving freezer packet out of the refrigerator, opened it, and slid it onto a microwavable plate. She had prepared the lasagna two weeks ago and divided it into six servings, eaten one, and frozen the rest for future meals. Today had been a long and tiring day at Treasures. Not only did they sell antiques, their store had a home décor and gift section. With Easter just around the corner, quite a few customers were taking advantage of the pre-Easter sale that would run from today until the Saturday before Easter. With Cathy away on her honeymoon, Lorie was in charge of the shop. Unfortunately, their two part-time clerks had been unavailable today. One, a student at UAH (the University of Alabama in Huntsville), had Thursday classes and the other, a stay-at-home mom, had a sick child she couldn’t leave.

While the lasagna plate rotated inside the microwave, Lorie kicked off her heels—she wore heels almost all the time in order to add a few inches to her petite five-one height—and reached into an upper cupboard for a glass. Just as she picked up the wine bottle from the counter, she heard the doorbell ring. Checking the microwave clock, she noted it was six thirty-nine.

She padded through the house and to the front door in her bare feet. She hated panty hose and seldom if ever wore any. She looked through one of three small panes of glass in her front door and saw Mike Birkett and Maleah Perdue standing on her porch. With jittery fingers, she unlocked the door, opened it, and unlatched the storm door.

“What’s wrong?” Lorie asked. “Why are y’all here?”

“May we come in?” Maleah asked.

Lorie nodded and stepped back to give them room to enter. Once they were inside, she closed and locked the door.

“Come on in.” Lorie indicated the living room to the left of the small foyer.

With all three of them standing, Lorie glanced from Maleah to Mike, who lowered his gaze and refused to look directly at her.

“The news isn’t good,” Maleah told her.

Lorie’s heartbeat went wild. “The letters … the death threats … they aren’t a hoax, are they?”

“I’m afraid not,” Maleah replied. “It seems that, more than likely, whoever sent you those letters has already killed two other people.”

Chapter 5

“I want to assure you that the sheriff’s department will cooperate fully with the Powell Agency and do everything we possibly can to keep you safe,” Mike Birkett said, his voice calm and even, showing absolutely no emotion.

“We have every reason to believe that you’re in danger,” Maleah said. “It’s imperative, now more than ever, for you to be extremely careful. I’m suggesting that you stay with me at Jack and Cathy’s, at least until they return from their honeymoon.”

“You think I need a bodyguard?”

“I believe it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“What led you to the conclusion that the person who is threatening me has already killed twice?”

“It seems that the brother of one victim and the husband of another have hired the Powell Agency to investigate their loved ones’ deaths. When Sanders—who is Griffin Powell’s assistant—discovered the similarity in the two murders, it was not a giant leap to connect them. And only today, the husband discovered two letters that his wife had kept hidden. The wording in those letters is identical to the wording in your letter,” Maleah explained. “And it really wasn’t a surprise to find out that the victims knew each other and they had worked together years ago.”

Lorie’s mind whirled with thoughts of how she might be connected to the other victims. Focusing her attention on Maleah, she ignored Mike completely. He was here only because he had to be, because he was the sheriff. She didn’t kid herself, didn’t for one minute think he gave a damn if she lived or died.

“Who were these people?” Lorie asked.

“The woman was Tagg Chambless’s wife,” Maleah said. “Hilary Chambless. She was the second victim.”

The name didn’t sound familiar to Lorie. “I don’t know a Hilary Chambless.”

Maleah nodded. “The first victim, at least as far as we know, was a guy named Dean Wilson.”

Lorie gasped. Her stomach flip-flopped. “Dean Wilson? In his late forties? Lived in LA? Was originally from Tennessee? That Dean Wilson?”

“Yeah, that seems to fit the info his brother gave Sanders. You knew him, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Her gaze zipped toward Mike. “I knew Dean Wilson. We were … uh … friends when I lived in LA. How …? Why …?”

“He was shot several times,” Maleah said.

“Poor Dean.” Years ago, she had loved him.

Mike looked at her, studied her face, and for a split second, she saw genuine concern in his eyes. But he glanced away hurriedly, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. Why did he have to act this way? Even if they could never be friends again, did he have to go on hating her forever?

“But you say you didn’t know Hilary Chambless. Is that right?” Maleah asked.

“No, I didn’t—Oh my God! Was her maiden name Finch?”

“That’s right. And she had a stage name, too. Dewey Flowers.”

Lorie wished that Mike wasn’t here, that he was not involved in this, that she didn’t have to talk about her sordid past in front of him. But what did it matter really? It wasn’t as if her past was a secret. He knew what she had done, who she had been, how she had lived those last few years in California.

“I knew Dean and Hilary,” Lorie admitted. “Hilary was just an acquaintance. Dean and I were …” She cleared her throat. “We lived together for a while.”

“Then you know they made several porno movies together,” Maleah said.

“Yes, of course I know. I told you that I had a bit part in one of those movies.” Lorie glared at Mike, who lifted his gaze from the floor and glared at her.

“When was the last time you saw either of them?” Mike asked.

“Not since I left LA and came home to Dunmore.”

“Heard from either of them since then?”

“No.”

“You’ve had no communication of any kind with either of them?” Maleah asked.

“None.”

“Do you know of anyone from the time y’all worked together who might have wanted to kill them?”

“No. I have absolutely no idea why anyone would want to kill either of them or kill me. And my only connection to either of them is in the past, nearly ten years ago.”

“I figured you’d have no idea who the killer might be,” Maleah said. “It could be something as crazy as an unbalanced fan who for some reason has decided to kill the actors from his favorite films.”

“Great. I had a bit a part in one adult movie ten years ago and now I’m targeted by some nut job who happened to like that stupid movie.”

“Karma’s a bitch,” Mike said, his voice a low grumble.

Lorie and Maleah snapped around and stared at him.

“That was a damn cruel thing to say,” Maleah told him.

A red tinge crept up Mike’s neck and quickly darkened his face. “You’re right.” He looked at Lorie. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” she said.

He snorted and then looked at Maleah. “I’ll have a patrol car drive by Jack and Cathy’s every hour once Lorie’s staying with you and by Treasures when Lorie’s at work. If I had the manpower, I’d assign someone to her, but she’s got you so she really won’t need police protection on a twenty-four/seven basis.”

“Thanks.” Maleah grabbed Mike’s arm. “Let me walk you out, Sheriff.” She shot Lorie a quick glance. “I’ll be right back. Why don’t you go pack a bag?”

Lorie hated the thought of being forced to leave her home. But what if the person who had killed Dean and Hilary really did intend to kill her? Her best chance of survival could well be having Maleah Perdue as her bodyguard.

Maleah gave Mike a well-deserved tongue-lashing, reminding him that his actions toward Lorie Hammonds were completely unprofessional and most decidedly uncalled for.

“I don’t believe you’re naturally a cruel or vindictive man,” she said. “But you’ve treated Lorie as if she doesn’t deserve even common courtesy. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you enjoyed hurting her and that you don’t give a rat’s ass if somebody does kill her.”

“That’s not true. At least the part about my not caring if somebody kills her. I don’t wish Lorie dead.”

“Are you saying that you enjoy hurting her?”

“Yes. No.” He shook his head. “Damn, I don’t know.”

“What’s the matter with you? That woman in there”—she pointed to the front door—“is in danger. Some unknown person out there somewhere has targeted her as one of his victims. And what do you do? You act like a vindictive ex-lover. You know what that tells me?” When he didn’t respond, she elaborated. “It tells me that you still have some very strong feelings for Lorie, that whether you want to or not, you still care about her.”

“That’s a damn lie! I hate her.” Crap! He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. But Maleah had pushed the wrong buttons. Or maybe she had pushed all the right buttons to force him to admit his true feelings.

“I don’t have to deal directly with you from here on out,” Maleah told him. “When Jack gets back from his honeymoon, assign him to this case. Or go ahead and put one of your other detectives in charge. It’ll be better for everyone involved that way.”

“Good idea. You and Jack should work well together. But as the sheriff, I need to stay involved if one of our citizens is being threatened by a serial killer.”

“Fine by me as long as you can keep your personal feelings under control. I’ll report to you until Jack comes home.”

“Okay.” Mike stepped off the porch, but paused and glanced back at her. “By the way, how often does a serial killer forewarn his victims?”

“I have no idea,” she admitted. “But the Powell Agency is sending in a profiler first thing tomorrow, and I’m sure he’ll have all the answers.”

“Derek Lawrence?”

“That would be the man.”

“Good. I got to know Derek last year when he helped us out on the Fire and Brimstone case. He and Jack got pretty buddy-buddy.”

“Yes, I believe they did.” She barely got the words out through her partially clenched teeth. “God knows why my brother took a liking to such an egotistical SOB.”

“Watch out, Ms. Perdue, now your unprofessional attitude is showing.”

Grinning, Mike walked off and didn’t look back. He got in his car and drove away, doing his best not to examine too closely his feelings for Lorie Hammonds.

Derek Lawrence had worked with Holt Keinan a couple of times in the past few years. He liked and respected the Powell agent who was a former sharpshooter for the Birmingham SWAT unit. Although they had little in common, their backgrounds as different as night and day, they had hit it off the first time they met.

When he saw Holt halfway across the bar at Logan’s Roadhouse, he held up his hand to acknowledge he’d seen Holt motioning to him. At seven-thirty on a Thursday evening, the bar wasn’t terribly crowded. He figured most of the customers were waiting to be seated in the restaurant.

He shook hands with Holt, then took the bar stool beside him.

“What’ll you have?”

Derek eyed the other man’s bottle of Guinness. “Same as you.”

Holt placed the order with the bartender, then turned back to Derek. “Our table should be ready in about ten minutes or less.”

“Sounds good.” The bartender handed Derek his drink. He turned up the bottle and swigged down several large gulps before setting the bottle on the bar. “I interviewed Jared Wilson, the other victim’s brother, this afternoon and the Sevier County sheriff’s office sent me copies of Dean Wilson’s case file. I thought we could go over whatever you’ve got on the Hilary Chambless case after dinner tonight and then compare the two cases. In the morning, I’ll head out for Dunmore, Alabama, where Perdue is working on a case that involves a potential victim.”

Holt grinned. “Perdue? You two still locking horns?”

Derek chuckled. “No doubt she’s told everyone that I actually do have horns and a tail and carry a pitchfork as well as breathe fire and eat live rattlesnakes.”

Holt almost choked on his beer. Instead he spewed it into his hand, then wiped his hand off on a cocktail napkin. “Damn it, man, warn a guy next time, will you? Whatever you did to her, it must have really pissed her off. As long as I’ve known Maleah, I’ve never seen her react to anybody the way she does you.”

“Maybe I remind her of somebody,” Derek said. “To my knowledge, I’ve never done anything to the lady. Perdue stays as far away from me as she possibly can.”

“Hmm … Who knows? She’s a woman and there’s no use trying to figure out how a woman’s mind works. But you know, you might ease the tension between you two a little if you’d start calling her Maleah instead of Perdue.”

“Nope. She’s Perdue to me. And I’m that cocky, know-it-all SOB as far as she’s concerned.”

“Whoa there. Did she actually call you that—to your face?”

Derek took another swig from his bottle. “Not to my face. I happened to overhear her a few months back when she was talking to Nic Powell about me.”

The buzzer Holt had laid on the bar went off, red lights blinking and the black disk vibrating. “That’s us. Our table’s ready.”

An hour later, with steaks, baked potatoes, and half a dozen yeast rolls consumed, Derek and Griff compared notes over after-dinner coffee. The loud shit-kicking music and the din of customers provided audio camouflage for their conversation, but they were both careful about mentioning any names in such a public place.

“The murders are too similar to be a mere coincidence,” Derek said. “If we knew for sure the mountain cabin victim had received threatening letters, it would erase any doubts I might have. But the truth of the matter is the bodies being nude and their having been shot several times wouldn’t link them, but the fancy masks being placed on their faces tells a different story.”

“The nudity and the masks are part of the killer’s MO, right?”

Derek grinned. “Went through the training course at Quantico, huh?”

“Yep. When I was with the Birmingham PD.”

“Then you know two murders don’t make a serial killer,” Derek said. “But the fact that the UNSUB has threatened a third person—one connected to the other two victims by past association, if nothing else—indicates this guy has the potential and if he isn’t stopped, he’ll go on killing.”

“Seems he definitely has a hard-on for former porno stars. No pun intended.” Holt grinned.

“Yeah, seems so. But my gut tells me that there’s more to it than that.”

“Like what?”

“Not sure yet.”

“This Hammonds woman in Dunmore—seems she’s Maleah’s new sister-in-law’s best friend, so the case is going to get personal, at least for Maleah.”

Derek nodded. “If I were Sanders, I’d take Maleah off the case and assign an impartial agent. But I’m an easygoing kind of guy and not prone to rocking the boat by questioning the captain’s orders.”

“I know Sanders,” Holt said. “If Maleah can’t do her job, he’ll replace her.”

“Any chance you could persuade him to do that before I arrive in Dunmore tomorrow? It would save me a hell of a lot of trouble if I didn’t have to deal with her.”

Holt chuckled. “Something tells me that if there’s a man alive who can handle Maleah Perdue, it just might be you.”

Mike kissed Hannah’s forehead, said good night, and closed her bedroom door. He moved to the next room, peeked in, and grinned when he saw that M.J. was already asleep, his long-legged little body sprawled across the rumpled covers. He tiptoed across the floor, lifted M.J. just enough to grab the covers with one hand, and pulled them up and over his son.

As he headed toward his small home office, an eight-by-eight space that had once been a walk-in-pantry, he thought about what a lucky man he was to have two great kids, a loving and helpful mother, and a job he truly liked. If Molly were still alive, his life would be damn near perfect.

Even after four years, he still missed her as if she’d left them only a few months ago. His sweet Molly. She had been everything a man could ask for in a wife. They’d had a good life. They’d been happy.

He knew that when Lorie Hammonds had come back to town, Molly had worried about how he would react, but she had never brought up the subject. At least not to him. He might never have known about her insecurities where Lorie was concerned if his mother hadn’t come to him.

“You need to make it perfectly clear to your wife that Lorie Hammonds is your past and that she and the kids are your present and future,” his mother had told him.

He’d been dumbfounded that Molly had felt Lorie could pose a threat to their marriage.

“I’ll tell her that she has nothing to worry about,” Mike had assured his mother. “The only feelings I have for Lorie now are loathing and disgust.”

“I’d keep that to myself. Those are powerfully strong feelings. It’s best if Molly doesn’t see how much Lorie still affects you.”

“She doesn’t—”

“You forget who you’re talking to, boy. I was around when Lorie left you high and dry. You loved that girl with everything in you. Those kinds of feelings don’t die. You just bury them deep and hope and pray you can keep them buried.”

He had denied that beneath his seething animosity for Lorie the love he had once felt for her still existed. And he’d kept on denying it all these years.

I don’t love her. She means nothing to me. Less than nothing.

Then stop thinking about her, you dope.

He walked into the office, flipped on a light, and pulled out his swivel chair. After plopping down in the Office Depot special—on sale for $99.99—he glanced at the shelves above his computer desk. A row of photos spread across one shelf, school pictures of Hannah and M.J., various photos of him and his kids. And one photo of his family, taken two years before Molly died.

I loved you, Molly. You were the best thing that ever happened to me.

His gaze traveled over the books and magazines stored on the shelves and settled on his old yearbooks. He hadn’t looked through them in years. In fact, right after Lorie dumped him, he had tossed all four yearbooks in the trash. His mother had retrieved them and kept them for him.

Half standing, he reached up and yanked his senior yearbook off the shelf. As he settled back into his chair, he opened the book and flipped through it. Dust particles flicked off the pages and danced in the air, their images appearing in the iridescent light from the overhead fixture. He smelled a hint of mustiness.

And then he stopped flipping through the pages and opened the book at the sophomore photographs. A sixteen-year-old Lorie Hammonds smiled up at him, her dark eyes sultry even then. His body tightened with desire. It had been that way since the first time he’d noticed her. That much between them hadn’t changed. As desperately as he wanted to deny it, he had to admit that he still wanted Lorie.

They had been in lust long before they fell in love. From the get-go, sex between them had been explosive. She’d been a virgin. He hadn’t. Being a good-looking jock, he’d had his pick of easy lays from the time he was fifteen. But Lorie had been different. She had been his, only his, the girl he wanted to marry and make the mother of his children.

Mike slammed the yearbook closed and tossed it on the floor.

“Damn you, Lorie! Damn you to hell.”

Chapter 6

Derek parked his Vette in the driveway, got out, locked it, and stretched his long arms over his head. He had driven in from Memphis this morning, a good three-and-a-half-hour drive, and hadn’t made any stops as he’d crossed the entire state of Mississippi. The farther east he had traveled, the hillier the landscape, going from flatland through the Magnolia State to the tentacles of the Appalachian Mountains that spread into the northern and eastern sections of Alabama. After retrieving his suitcase from the trunk, he glanced around, taking in the beauty of the renovated Victorian house and the peaceful street lined with large, mature trees beginning to come to life in the early days of spring. Dunmore was an old town, seeped in Southern traditions that grounded it in the past. And yet when he had spent quite a bit of time here last year, he had seen glimpses of change, of people looking to the future.

When the Powell Agency had sent him there last summer, he had gotten to know Perdue’s older brother, Jack, a local deputy, rather well. He had liked Jack as instantly as he had disliked Jack’s sister. Odd thing about the vibes you picked up from people. He figured Jack for a combination of hardened soldier and good old boy, a man’s man as well as a ladies’ man. But Jack’s days of carousing were over. Less than a week ago, Derek had attended Jack and Cathy’s wedding. The following morning, he’d left his motel room and driven straight to the Nashville area, to his mother’s birthday celebration.

Now here he was back in Dunmore and doomed to work with Perdue on a new and rather intriguing case. He figured the best way to handle their precarious partnership was not to take the woman seriously. She was big-time uptight, at least around him. He had told her more than once that what she needed was to lighten up, and a good start would be to go out and get herself laid. She hadn’t taken his suggestion in the spirit in which it had been given, which was only with the best intentions, of course.

Chuckling to himself, Derek headed up the walk that led to the front porch. Bet Perdue couldn’t wait to see him.

When he rang the doorbell, he didn’t expect to see a tall, lanky teenage boy open the door and invite him in.

“Aunt Maleah’s on the phone,” Seth Cantrell told him. “She’s talking to somebody at the Powell Agency, getting some information about the case y’all are working on. She’ll be with you in a minute.”

Seth was Jack and Cathy’s son, although Jack and Seth had met for the first time last year. Jack, a former Army Ranger, had been MIA during the Gulf War back in the early nineties. A pregnant Cathy had married another man who had raised Seth as his own. When Jack had come home to Dunmore last year, he had not only discovered that his long-lost love was a widow, but that he was her sixteen-year-old son’s biological father.

As Seth led Derek out of the foyer and down the hall, he asked, “Have you had breakfast?”

“Nope, sure haven’t,” Derek replied.

“We’ve got leftovers,” Seth told him. “A stack of pancakes, some sausage links, and I just put on a fresh pot of coffee.”

“Sounds good. I’ll take it all, starting with the coffee.”

By the time Maleah joined them, a good ten minutes later, Derek had finished off the pancakes and sausage and was downing his second cup of coffee. Seth had explained that even though he was staying with his grandparents while his parents were off on their honeymoon, he had stopped by for breakfast with his aunt since he had only a half day at school today.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home.” Perdue glanced from his empty plate to his suitcase resting against the table leg at his side. “You aren’t planning on staying here, are you?”

“As a matter of fact—”

“There are two perfectly good motels here in Dunmore. Take your pick.”

“Now, Perdue, don’t be that way. You’ve got more than enough room here in this big old house to put me up.”

“He’s got you there,” Seth said.

Perdue gave her nephew an eat-dirt-and-die glare.

Derek laughed. “Think of it as an adventure. The two of us working side by side, living under the same roof, getting to know each other.”

She huffed loudly, not even trying to hide her aggravation.

He hated to even think it, hated to resort to an old cliché, but damn if Perdue wasn’t downright pretty when she was pissed. You’re beautiful when you’re angry. He could think it, but God help him if he said it.

For all her faults and shortcomings, being unattractive wasn’t one of them. Maleah Perdue was what had once been referred to as an all-American beauty. Five-four, a trim hourglass figure, blue eyes and golden blond hair. She looked like the kind of girl men used to dream about taking home to meet their mamas.

Seth broke the uneasy silence in the room when he cleared his throat and then said, “I hate to eat and run, but I’m supposed to meet some of the guys at ten.”

“Are we still on for lunch and a movie Sunday?” Perdue asked.

“Sure are.” He glanced at Derek. “Good to see you again, Mr. Lawrence.”

“Same here, kid.”

The minute Seth exited the back door, Perdue sat down at the kitchen table, taking the chair directly across from Derek.

“You’re not staying here,” she told him.

“I’ll bet if Jack were here—”

“He’s not.”

“What are you afraid of, Perdue? Afraid you’ll succumb to my many charms?”

She groaned, and then burst into laughter.

He didn’t know whether to be insulted or just laugh along with her. He chose the latter.

Chuckling, he looked her right in the eye. “I’m glad to see you have a sense of humor.”

Her laughter died away, but the smile remained.

“We’re both grown-ups, both professionals,” he said. “We’re going to be working together for as long as it takes to find our killer and put him behind bars. That could be weeks or even months. You’re going to have to find a way to put aside your personal feelings for me and—”

“I have no personal feelings for you. None.”

“Prove it.”

She huffed again as she narrowed her gaze and glowered at him. “Dare I ask how?”

“Let me stay here.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “Separate bedrooms, of course.”

Her big blue eyes widened for a split second and then she grinned. “Were you always like this, even as a kid? God, if you were, I don’t know how your mother put up with you.”

“I was. And she didn’t. I’ll have you know that I’m a trust-fund baby. I was reared by a series of highly trained nannies and first-class private schools.”

“Of course you were. Pardon my ignorance.”

“And you grew up in this house, didn’t you, you and Jack?”

Her smile vanished and a storm-cloud frown darkened her expression. Instead of replying to his question, she shoved back her chair and stood. “Come on. I’ll show you to one of the guest bedrooms. You can unpack and then we can discuss the new information that just came in at the agency.”

“What sort of information?”

“Several things, but the most interesting is the title of the only movie that my client, Lorie Hammonds, ever made. The stars of that film were Dean Wilson and Hilary Chambless, aka Woody Wilson and Dewey Flowers.”

“Some stage names, huh? So, what was the title of the movie the three of them made together?”

“Midnight Masquerade,” Perdue said.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Lorie and Cathy usually closed up shop at six on Friday and Saturday nights, but with Easter fast approaching, Lorie had extended the closing until seven for both nights. Three lingering, undecided customers, who wound up buying nothing, had pushed closing time to seven fifteen. Just as she waved good-bye to the last to leave—Paul Babcock, one of their regulars—and was in the process of closing and locking the front door, she saw Mike Birkett park his truck directly in front of Treasures.

What the hell was he doing here?

She stood in the open doorway and waited for him to emerge from his Ford F-150 pickup. He got out and walked toward her. Her heart skipped a beat. Why did he have to be so damn good-looking? And why, dear God, why did she still want him more than she’d ever wanted any other man?

“Closing up?” he asked as he approached.

She nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Got a few minutes?”

“Sure. Come on in.”

After he entered Treasures, she locked the door and placed the CLOSED sign in the window. When she turned around, she almost bumped into him. He stood so close to her that only a few inches separated her body from his. She sucked in a startled breath and eased backward, intentionally putting some space between them.

“I won’t keep you long,” he said.

“That’s all right. I’m in no hurry.”

“I just thought that maybe you … Well, it is Friday night, and—”

“I don’t have a date.”

“Good.” His cheeks blotched with embarrassment. He coughed and then cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean it’s good that you don’t have a date. I meant it’s good that I’m not keeping you from anything important.”

“I knew what you meant.”

He nodded. “You didn’t move in with Maleah last night.” He worded it as a statement of fact, not a question.

“No, she actually spent the night at my house and left early this morning. She was expecting Seth over for breakfast. And Derek Lawrence was supposed to arrive sometime this morning to assist her with my case.”

“Is she staying with you again tonight?”

“No, I’m going home this evening, packing a few things, and moving in with Maleah until further notice.” Lorie wished Mike would stop looking right at her. His intense scrutiny unnerved her. “What is it? Do I have dirt on my face? A black hair growing out of my chin?”

“Huh?”

“You’re staring at me as if I’ve suddenly grown an extra head or something.”

“Sorry. I … uh … Why don’t I follow you home and then escort you over to Maleah’s after you pack a bag.”

Had she heard him correctly? Was Sheriff Birkett, the man who thought she was only one step above pond scum, actually worried about her?

“Why?” she asked.

“Why what?”

“Why the pretense of being concerned about my welfare?”

“I’m the sheriff. You’re a citizen of my county whose life has been threatened. I’m just doing my civic duty.”

“Bull. You could have sent a deputy to check on me.”

“You’ve been monitored all day today,” he told her. “Between my men and Chief Ballard’s police force, somebody’s been by here every hour since you arrived at Treasures this morning.”

“So to what do I owe the honor of your visit this evening? Why put yourself out for little old me?”

“Damn it, Lorie, that smart mouth of yours—” Grimacing, he clenched his teeth together and snorted. “I came by here to apologize.”

“What?”

Their gazes met and locked. For a split second, she thought she saw something achingly familiar in the way he looked at her. But the expression vanished so quickly that she realized she had probably imagined it.

“I let my personal feelings get in the way of doing my job,” he admitted. “I had no right to assume you were lying about being threatened and to dismiss your concerns as if they were nothing. I’m sorry.”

To say she was stunned was a gross understatement. She never thought she would live to see the day that Mike would ever again apologize to her for anything.

“I’m sorry, too,” she told him. “I’m sorry that I gave you reasons to believe I’d do anything to get back into your good graces. I should have accepted the fact, years ago, that you didn’t want to have anything to do with me … and with good reason.”

He shuffled uncomfortably. “Yeah, sure. Apology accepted. So, what about you?”

She forced a fragile smile. “Apology accepted.”

“Good. Why don’t I help you close up shop and then I’ll follow you home.”

“There’s nothing to do except turn out the lights, get my purse, and lock the back door on my way out.”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he said. “You’re parked in back, right?”

“Right.”

She glanced at him briefly. He smiled. Her nerves tingled with awareness. This was the first time since her return to Dunmore that Mike had smiled at her.

Don’t make too much of it. He’s just doing his best to be civil, to do his job, to prove to you and Maleah—and probably to Jack and Cathy—that he won’t allow his personal feelings to interfere with doing his duty.

Mike loaded Lorie’s suitcase into her Edge SUV and closed the hatch. “All set?”

“Yes, but it’s really not necessary for you to escort me to Maleah’s. I’m sure you’d rather be home having dinner with your children.”

“Hannah and M.J. are visiting Molly’s parents over in Muscle Shoals this weekend. Carl and Gail picked them up right after school today. They stay with them on average one weekend a month and they go over for a couple of weeks every summer.”

“I know your wife’s parents appreciate your being so generous with the kids.”

“It’s what Molly would have wanted.”

Lorie smiled and nodded before moving away from him and grasping the driver’s side door handle. “I’m ready to go.”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

As soon as she pulled out of her driveway, he started the truck’s engine and fell in behind her. He really wasn’t sure why he was doing this.

Paying penance, maybe.

His feelings for Lorie hadn’t changed. He still hated her, still wished she would leave Dunmore and never come back, still wanted to drag her off to the nearest bed and fuck her like crazy.

But he owed her the common courtesy of showing her that the sheriff’s department intended to do everything possible to keep her safe. He might despise Lorie, but he couldn’t bear the thought of someone killing her. She might deserve some of the bad things that had happened to her, but she didn’t deserve to die.

You’re an idiot, Birkett. A damn idiot.

Lorie didn’t deserve any of the bad things that had happened to her. Just because she’d left him high and dry, had broken his heart and nearly destroyed him didn’t mean she should be punished forever for wanting a life he couldn’t be a part of. She had begged him to go to LA with her.

“Oh, Mike, it’ll be so much fun,” she had said. “We can both get jobs. You can go to school at night until you get your degree and I can sign with an agent and get small parts in TV at first. And later on, when you’re a big-time LA detective and I’m a movie star, we’ll be the envy of every other couple in Hollywood. Just think how romantic that is—the detective and the actress.”

Those had been her dreams, not his. She had wanted a glamorous life surrounded by the rich and famous. All he’d ever wanted was to finish college, work for local law enforcement, get married, and raise a family. He was a simple man with simple wants and needs. Lorie had been—and probably still was—a complicated woman with the kind of wants and needs he could never fulfill.

It had been his choice to stay in Dunmore and not follow her to LA. At first, she had called him every day, then every week and then every month. He would never forget the last time she’d called and the things they had said to each other.

“Honey, forget all that fame and fortune bullshit and come home where you belong.”

“Oh, Mike, why can’t you understand? I just got a speaking part on a Law and Order episode. I want you to be happy for me. I want you to fly out here and—”

“I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“Yeah, okay. I won’t. I don’t belong out there and neither do you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not going to live and die in Dunmore, Alabama, and waste the talent the Good Lord gave me. I’ve got a good singing voice and I’m taking acting lessons and my teacher says I’m a natural. And I’m told I have the kind of looks that will help me go far in the business.”

“You do what you have to do,” he’d said. “And I’ll do what I have to do.”

“What you have to do doesn’t include me anymore, does it? You’ve stopped loving me … if you ever really did.”

“How can you say that? I love you so damn much it hurts,” he had told her. “And I miss you something awful. It’s you who doesn’t love me. If you did, you’d come home and we’d get married the way we planned. In a few years, we could save up enough for a house and our first baby.”

“I don’t want a baby! Not now. Not for years and years.”

In the end, Mike had been forced to accept the fact that Lorie would never come back to him, that he had lost her forever.

It had taken him years to get over her, to move on with his life, and he could thank Molly for that. She had been his salvation. All the dreams he’d once had that included Lorie, all the plans the two of them had made together, he had fulfilled with another woman, with Molly. Thinking about his children, he knew that was the way things were meant to be.

He wasn’t the kind of man who wasted his time looking back and wondering what if? or wished for things that he couldn’t have.

Yeah, sure, he could have Lorie, could have had her when she first came back to Dunmore, could have had her before and after Molly died. He could probably still have her. But the Lorie he had known and loved no longer existed. His Lorie was as dead to him as Molly was. The Lorie who had come to him a sixteen-year-old virgin, the girl who had been his and only his. The teenager who had planned her future around him and the family they would one day have.

The Lorie Hammonds who had returned to Dunmore nine years ago was a bruised and battered, used and discarded whore. God only knew how many men she’d had sex with, not just in that sleazy porno movie she’d made, but during the years she had been trying to get her big break. Just about every man in Dunmore had seen her in that film. He had seen the movie once, and the sight of her and what she’d been doing had made him sick.

Why she had ever thought when she returned to Dunmore, her reputation in tatters and her life worthless, that he would forgive her, that they could be friends again, he’d never know.

Mike had been so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed Jack and Cathy’s driveway and had to slam on his brakes and back up a few yards. Lorie parked her SUV, got out, and opened the back hatch. He pulled his truck up behind her vehicle, killed the motor, and got out.

He rushed over to her, grabbed her suitcase, and said, “Here, let me get that for you.”

She released the suitcase without protest and started walking toward the porch. He kept in step alongside her. When they reached the front door, she rang the doorbell and they waited together.

“I appreciate the escort, Sheriff,” she said in a soft, sexy voice that caressed every nerve in his body.

“You’re welcome, Ms. Hammonds. Just doing my job.”

When the door opened, Derek Lawrence stood in the doorway. “Hello, Lorie.” He reached out, grasped her hand, and pulled her over the threshold. He glanced around her and spotted Mike. “Hello, Sheriff. Nice of you to see Lorie here all safe and sound.” He held out his hand. “Here, let me take her suitcase.”

Reluctantly, Mike handed over the suitcase. “Where’s Maleah?”

“On the phone at the moment,” he said. “Seems the newlyweds called to check on Seth and on the old homestead.”

“She isn’t going to tell them about me, is she? I don’t want them worrying while they’re on their honeymoon,” Lorie said.

Derek put his arm around Lorie’s shoulders and ushered her inside the foyer. “I’m sure she won’t say a word. And there’s no reason for anyone to worry about your safety. You have two Powell Agency employees acting as your bodyguards. And may I say what a pleasure this job is for me.”

Mike cleared his throat. Derek glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, are you staying for dinner? Perdue didn’t say. I set the table for three, but I can add another—”

“No thanks.” Mike had the sudden urge to punch Derek Lawrence. “I’ve got other plans.” When Lorie looked at him, he said, “If you need me, I’m just a phone call away.”

“I’m sure she won’t need you,” Derek told him.

With that said, Mike nodded, turned and tromped off the porch. Cursing under his breath, he got in his truck, backed out of the driveway, and couldn’t get away fast enough from the image of Derek Lawrence’s arm draped around Lorie’s shoulders.

Chapter 7

After locking the door and securing it so that no one with a key could enter, he took the laptop from his suitcase and carried it with him to the desk in his motel room. He retrieved the DVD from the pouch on the laptop case, flipped open the plastic case, and carefully removed the disk. With steady fingers, he inserted the disk into the side slot on the computer and waited for the movie to load. He reached over to the far side of the desk, upended a glass, and quickly added ice from the ice bucket that he had filled earlier. As the film credits played, he poured a cola into the glass. He didn’t need to read the credits. He knew them by heart.

Midnight Masquerade. Written by Casey Lloyd and Laura Lou Roberts. Directed by Grant Leroy. Produced by Travis Dillard.

He kicked back in the chair and turned sideways to prop his feet up on the edge of the bed.

Dewey Flowers and Woody Wilson were the stars, the main players in this piece of filth.

Dewey and Woody would never make another sinful movie such as this. They had been punished for their wickedness, for polluting the minds and hearts of everyone who saw this movie; punished for their parts in destroying the lives of the innocent who were adversely affected by the pornography industry, this sickeningly vulgar movie in particular. There was an ironic form of justice in the fact that he was the one who was righting the wrongs they had committed. He supposed that he had known for years that it was his fate to someday seek retribution.

And not only for himself alone.

His gaze settled on the screen. Watching the depraved acts that had been captured on film no longer nauseated him the way it once had. Over the years, he had become immune to the disgusting obscenity, the bestial perversions.

Well-endowed men and big-breasted women frolicked about at a costume ball, but their only costumes were beautiful masks covering their faces. They kissed and licked and sucked one another, their bodies entwining in an orgy of carnal acts. Two men, one wearing a devil mask and the other an intricate court jester/joker mask, laid a voluptuous black woman on the floor and while one penetrated her, the other one toyed with her silicone-enhanced tits.

The two men were Charlie Hung, a strikingly handsome man of Asian descent, and a big, rugged blond—Sonny Shag. The dark-skinned beauty, whose red sequined mask had fallen off and lay on the floor beside her, was Ebony O.

In the background the two stars danced, their bodies rubbing seductively against each other. Woody placed his hands on Dewey’s waist and lifted her high into the air, then let her slide down the front of his body until she was on her knees, his erect penis directly in front of her face.

In the background three young women—a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead—held hands and danced in a circle, the long, colorful ribbons on their masks floating around their shoulders and caressing their naked breasts.

Puff Raven, the tall, elegant brunette.

Cherry Sweets, the exotically beautiful redhead.

And Candy Ruff, the sex-kitten blonde.

Their stage names were ridiculous, of course, but the suggestive pseudonyms were simply part of the fantasy. Other movies produced by the one and only Travis Dillard had starred some of these same actors, and in each film the credits had read like a who’s who of stupid suggestive names.

He had lost count of how many times he had watched Midnight Masquerade. Hundreds of times. Maybe thousands of times.

He knew the dialogue—what little there was—by heart. And he could mimic every grunt, groan, moan, and scream of delight.

He saw the women’s faces—and God help him, their naked bodies, too—in his dreams. One particular face in particular. The woman he loved. The woman he hated. The woman who had ruined his life. The woman who had made him the man he was today.

As much as Lorie appreciated being guarded by Maleah and Derek, she resented the fact that some lunatic’s actions had run her out of her own home. Whoever this guy was, she hoped the police caught him before he killed again.

For the life of her, she couldn’t think of anyone she’d ever known who might want to kill her.

She placed her suitcase at the foot of the ebonized Federal-style double bed that dominated this guest room on the second floor of Jack and Cathy’s home. Crisp, black-edged, white Schweitzer linens lent a modern elegance to a room filled with antiques. The Bijou linens were handmade in Italy from pure Egyptian cotton. Lorie and Cathy used this type of luxury linens when decorating the homes of clients who didn’t mind paying a little more for the very best. On occasion, she had personally splurged on less expensive items, things like Chanel perfume and a thirty-fifth birthday present for herself—a little white Brahman shoulder bag she had eyed at Belk department store for weeks. These were the only types of luxuries she could afford on her income. And oddly enough, the girl who had once thought fame and fortune would make her happy was perfectly content being an antique shop owner in a small town and living on a modest budget.

“Hey, there,” Maleah said as she walked up to the open door and stopped. “Sorry I had to send Derek to meet you and show you to your room. I was on the phone with Powell headquarters.” Maleah’s gaze surveyed the exquisitely decorated bedroom. “I hope this room is okay. You can take a look at the other two guest bedrooms and use either of them, if you prefer.”

“This room is fine. As a matter of fact, this is the bedroom that I helped Cathy design and decorate.”

“Is it really?” Maleah laughed. “I suppose I should confess that I told Derek to show you upstairs to one of the rooms. I didn’t specify which one. He chose this room for you.”

“Mr. Lawrence is a former FBI profiler, isn’t he? That probably means he has a certain sixth sense when it comes to people.”

Maleah snorted. “Don’t tell him that. His ego is oversized as it is. The last thing he needs is flattery from a pretty woman.”

Lorie saw Derek Lawrence approaching about the same time Maleah apparently heard him. Groaning, Maleah made a snarling face, letting Lorie know how she felt about Derek.

“Perdue, did you say something about a certain part of me being oversized?” Derek winked at Lorie.

Smiling, Lorie winked back at him just as Maleah turned around and said, “I was referring to your ego.” When he opened his mouth, no doubt with a stinging retort on the tip of his tongue, Maleah warned him, “Do not say another word. I’m in no mood for it. Do you hear me?”

Clicking his heels together in military fashion, he saluted her. “Yes, sir. Uh, I mean ma’am.”

Turning back to Lorie after effectively silencing Derek, at least temporarily, Maleah said, “I had requested a list of everyone associated with the movie you made, Midnight Masquerade, the actors, writers, director, producer, et cetera. The office e-mailed me the list of the credits and I just got off the phone with my boss’s former associate, FBI Special Agent Josh Freidman. I wanted to fill him in on what we think we’re dealing with to see if he thinks the situation warrants FBI involvement. It’s quite possible that you’re not the only other person associated with that movie who has received threatening letters.”

“If I know Freidman and his superiors, they aren’t going to jump in with both feet until they’re sure there’s a serial killer on the loose.” Derek slipped around Maleah’s left side and entered the bedroom so that he stood between Lorie and her.

Maleah shot him a disapproving glare, but other than that, pretty much ignored him. “I thought that after dinner this evening, we might go over the list and see if you recall anything that sends up a red flag. A disgruntled coworker. Any affairs gone wrong. Disputes, arguments, fights. Someone who for any reason might still hold a grudge.”

“All right,” Lorie said. “I can’t think of anything right offhand, but once we start talking more about the film, I might remember something. To be honest, I’ve spent the past ten years doing my level best to forget I ever did something so monumentally stupid.”

“We all make mistakes,” Derek said. “Especially when we’re very young and eager to make our mark on the world.”

Lorie heaved a deep, regretful sigh. “Some mark on the world, huh? Parading around buck naked and having sex on film.”

Silence. No one said another word for at least a full minute.

“Sandwiches for supper in about fifteen minutes,” Maleah said. “Why don’t you settle in and come to the kitchen when you’re ready.”

“All right.” Lorie plastered a phony half smile on her face. “If you’d like, I can help you with dinner, and not just tonight. I’m actually a fairly decent cook.”

“Thank goodness.” Derek chuckled. “I was afraid that during my stay here, I’d wind up eating cereal and sandwiches seven days a week.”

“Oh, cry me a river.” Maleah rolled her eyes. “What’s wrong with your doing the cooking or your picking up takeout? It’s bad enough that I have to put up with your staying here. I certainly don’t intend to go out of my way to pamper your spoiled ass.”

“I’ll have you know that my ass is not spoiled.”

Maleah grabbed his arm by the shirtsleeve and dragged him out of Lorie’s room. As they walked down the hall toward the staircase, Lorie could hear them continuing their verbal sparring match. She couldn’t help wondering what the problem was between those two.

Putting everything else from her mind, including her curiosity about Maleah and Derek, as well as her past misdemeanors and her present predicament, Lorie opened her suitcase. She had brought only two changes of clothes and underwear and the bare necessities, including a condensed version of her usual toiletry items. When she needed more clothes, she’d simply go home and pick them up. The best-case scenario would be the police catching the killer before he struck again; then she’d be able to go home before Cathy and Jack returned from their honeymoon. The worst-case scenario—the killer would come after her before he was apprehended.

Thank God she had gone to Maleah with the second letter instead of tossing it in the trash as she had the first one. And thank God Maleah had taken her seriously and had believed her immediately.

Mike believes you now.

She placed her underwear in an empty top drawer of the mahogany highboy, positioned as if it were a three-sided piece, in the corner near the adjoining bathroom.

Mike had been civil to her this evening. Actually, he’d been more than civil. He had been almost kind to her. She had seen a fleeting glimpse of the old Mike, the man who had once loved her.

She removed two outfits encased in clear plastic garment bags from her suitcase and hung them in the Habersham armoire. Her fingertips caressed the armoire’s distressed wood, a part of the item’s fine craftsmanship, and lingered over the delicate artwork that decorated the surface.

Mike was simply doing his job. She shouldn’t read more into him apologizing to her for not believing her life was in danger than what it was—a simple apology. Nothing more. Nothing less.

She couldn’t allow herself to continue hoping for the impossible. She doubted that Mike would ever be willing to be friends again, let alone lovers.

The full-face joker mask—constructed of papier-mâché, glue, floated whitening and acrylic colors—lay on the motel room bed staring up at him, mocking him, reminding him of her degradation. Charlie Hung had worn this mask in every scene in which he had ravaged the female actors. It was only fitting that it would be his death mask.

He carefully slipped the mask into the black plastic bag and then turned his attention to the Beretta, an Italian import, 9mm with a ten-shot magazine. When he had purchased the pistol, he had made sure it could never be traced back to him. For the right price, a guy could buy just about anything and remain anonymous.

Money talked.

Hell, money screamed.

He placed the gun in the bottom of the small tote, then wrapped the mask in tissue paper and laid it over the pistol before zipping up the 14" x 16" black vinyl bag. After checking the time on the digital bedside clock—6:08 P.M.—he carried the tote to the closet and set it on the floor.

He went back to the bed, pulled two pillows from beneath the comforter, and stacked one on top of the other. Then he lay down, stretched out, and closed his eyes. Step by step, he went over his plan. Parking the rental car a couple of blocks away and walking to Charles Wong’s home. Ringing the doorbell. Introducing himself. The disguise he’d be wearing would prevent anyone who might see him entering or leaving the Wong house from giving the police an accurate ID. Tonight, he would wear a black wig and mustache, a gold earring and a wash-off neck tattoo, along with fake leather pants and jacket. A costume that could be easily disposed of in the motel’s Dumpster.

In less than six hours, he would kill Charlie Hung and leave Mrs. Charles Wong a grieving widow.

Payback could be deadly!

Lorie carried her glass of wine from the kitchen into the adjoining family room, which boasted a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and two sets of French doors that led outside onto the old-fashioned screened porch. She loved everything that Cathy had done when she decorated this house, although she would have preferred dark wood in the kitchen. Cathy preferred white cabinets and appliances, and had accented the clean, bright white with touches of a dark-stained wood in the flooring, the island top, and an overlay on the massive range hood. Both the kitchen and family room combined elements of the old with the new, retaining the integrity of the Victorian with the convenience of the modern.

While Lorie chose one of the two gold chenille armchairs separated by a walnut Sheraton table, Derek sat across from her on the moss green, camelback sofa. He smiled at her before taking another sip of his wine. During dinner, she had found herself liking Derek Lawrence more and more and was puzzled as to why Maleah seemed to dislike him so intensely. He had been charming and funny, and had put her at ease. Although she didn’t really know him, she sensed that he was the type of man who didn’t judge others harshly or by standards few people could live up to. Not the way Mike did.

Damn it, she had to stop comparing every man she met to Michael Birkett.

“So, how long have your worked for Powell’s?” Lorie asked.

“Hmm … almost five years. I was sort of at loose ends when I left the Bureau, and as luck would have it, Griff called and offered me a consulting job and put me on a retainer I could hardly refuse.”

Maleah snorted as she joined them. They glanced up at her. She shrugged. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.”

“Something tells me that Perdue doesn’t approve of independently wealthy men actually working for a living,” Derek said.

“Oh, are you independently wealthy, Mr. Lawrence?” Maleah asked mockingly. “Then the rumors about the men in your family having squandered most of their fortunes on wine, women, and song must have been vastly exaggerated.”

A quick flash of annoyance passed over Derek’s handsome face before he grinned and then laughed. “That was hitting below the belt. Keep that up and Lorie will think you don’t like me.”

“I don’t like you,” Maleah told him and returned his insincere smile.

Lorie cleared her throat. “I thought that after dinner, we were going to discuss the cast members of Midnight Masquerade.”

“We were,” Maleah said. “We are. I’ve got the file folder with the computer printouts on the kitchen counter.” She set her glass on a decorative coaster on the table between the armchairs and hurried back into the kitchen.

“Let me clear up the matter of my economic status, not that it’s anyone’s business,” Derek said, his voice loud enough for Maleah to hear him in the adjoining room. “Although there’s a great deal of truth to the rumors about the men in my family, they didn’t actually squander the entire fortune. And my very wise and very frugal paternal grandmother set up sizable trust funds for each of her three grandchildren.”

Before Lorie could think of a proper response, Maleah sailed back into the room, the file folder in her hand. She completely ignored both Derek and his confirmation of being a trust-fund baby.

“Here we are.” Maleah plopped down on the huge mushroom-shaped ottoman draped in a green and gold silk material. She opened the folder and handed several printouts to Lorie. “This is a list of actors who starred in the movie, along with the names of the producer, writers, director, and so on.”

Lorie clutched the papers in her hand and focused on the top sheet, reading over the names slowly, doing her best to remember each person and anything of importance she could recall about them.

“Just take your time,” Maleah said. “If it’ll help, I’ll go over each name with you.”

In her peripheral vision, Lorie noticed that Derek had relaxed as he sipped on the wine and had closed his eyes. Was he napping? Or just thinking?

“Let’s start with Hilary Finch and Dean Wilson,” Maleah suggested. “What do you remember about them?”

“Not much about Hilary. I didn’t really know her. She wasn’t overly friendly with her female costars. Not hateful to us or condescending. She mostly ignored us. What I do remember is that she looked like a Barbie doll, all plastic perfection. And at the time, rumor had it that she and Travis Dillard were having a hot affair.”

“And Travis Dillard was the producer, right?”

“Uh-huh. The producer of Midnight Masquerade and quite a few other porno movies. And he was also an agent for numerous wannabe stars, most of whom wound up in his movies. Me included.”

“Dillard was your agent?”

“That’s right.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Well enough not to like him or trust him,” Lorie said. “But I learned that lesson the hard way.”

“I hate to ask this, but did you ever have a sexual relationship with Dillard?”

“No, but not for his lack of trying. He had a reputation for having laid every single one of his female clients. I figure that sooner or later, he would’ve cut me loose if I hadn’t put out, but at the time, I was living with his major star—Dean Wilson—and he didn’t want to do anything to antagonize Dean.”

“You and Dean Wilson lived together?”

“Yes. For nearly a year. I thought I loved him and I believed he loved me. It was one of the most miserable years of my life. I finally realized that my big dreams of fame and fortune would never come true. I was living in a seedy apartment with a guy who was addicted to drugs and alcohol and who had introduced me to a life I hated. Dean’s the one who talked me into doing a bit part in Midnight Masquerade.”

“When was the last time you saw Dean Wilson?” Derek’s question momentarily startled her.

Lorie’s gaze connected with Derek’s and she saw only kindness and compassion in his dark brown eyes. “Nine years ago when I left LA to come back home to Dunmore. He followed me to the bus station and tried to stop me from leaving. He actually threatened me.”

“But he didn’t follow through with his threats, did he?” Derek asked.

“No, he didn’t.”

“And you never saw him again?” Maleah asked. “Or heard from him? No phone calls? Letters? E-mails?”

“No. We had no communication whatsoever. Not since the day I left him and that god-awful life behind me.”

“Have you seen or heard from anyone connected to the movie since your return to Dunmore?” Derek set his empty glass on the sharp-edged 1940s-era coffee table, the top shining with a high-gloss black lacquer finish.

“No,” Lorie replied. “But other than Dean, I really didn’t know anyone else. We were just acquaintances, not friends.”

“Did you have a problem with anyone, other than Travis Dillard?” Derek inquired.

“By problem, do you mean did any of the other men hit on me?”

“That, or did you know if any of the women didn’t especially like you or didn’t like one another?”

“Grant Leroy, the director, propositioned me, but didn’t seem offended when I turned him down. I think he and Terri Owens, aka Candy Ruff, wound up having a short-lived affair. And several of the other guys made passes at me, but that’s as far as it went.

“Like I said, Hilary Finch pretty much ignored all her female costars. The rest of us got along okay. Outside of work, I seldom saw any of them.”

“Why don’t you keep the list,” Maleah said. “Think about what went on during the filming of that particular movie and if anything, even something you think is insignificant, comes to mind, let me know.”

“Let us know,” Derek added.

Maleah shot him an are-you-still-here? glare and then turned back to Lorie. “You look beat. Why don’t you go on up to bed?”

“I don’t want to leave you with the dirty dishes and pots and pans.”

“Go on,” Derek told her. “I’ll help Perdue clean up the kitchen.”

Maleah groaned, making her displeasure known to anyone within earshot.

Charles Wong roused slowly, at first uncertain what had awakened him. And then the doorbell rang again and again, loud enough to be heard over the racket coming from the television. Someone was at his front door. But who the hell could it be? He glanced around the room and realized that he had fallen asleep in the living room, on the sofa, while watching the late-night newscast. With Lily and the girls gone on the overnight Brownies camping trip, he had snacked for supper, then fixed himself a bowl of popcorn and settled in to watch TV. He missed his wife and stepdaughters. Being with them reminded him of how lucky he was and that working at being a better human every day had its rewards.

The doorbell kept ringing.

“All right, I’m coming,” he called loudly. “Be right there.”

Barefoot and wearing a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and a T-shirt, he got up, glanced at the time on the DVD player—11:52—and padded across the room. When he reached the front door, he paused before opening it.

“Yeah, who’s there?” he asked.

“Hey, man, it’s me. Let me in. I got a six-pack and some of the good stuff.”

Charlie didn’t recognize the man’s voice. He probably had the wrong house. Charlie unlocked the door and, leaving the chain latch on, eased the door open a couple of inches.

“Come on, man, let me in. I need to pee real bad.”

The guy didn’t look familiar. Black hair, black mustache, dressed in cheap leather and sporting a sizable tattoo on his neck, he looked like some of the guys Charlie had known in his past.

“Look, buddy, I think you’ve got the wrong house.”

“You’re Charles Wong, right? You’re married to my cousin Lily, right? Didn’t she tell you I was in town and she offered to put me up a couple of nights?”

Lily’s cousin? “No, she didn’t mention you.”

“Hey, sorry about that. I guess she forgot. Probably too busy with plans for that overnight camping trip with the girls’ Brownie troop.”

Charlie breathed a bit easier. Apparently his midnight visitor really was Lily’s cousin. Otherwise, how would he know about the Brownie troop’s camping trip?

Charlie removed the safety latch and opened the front door. “Come on in. I’m afraid you’ll have to bunk on the sofa. We don’t have a guest bedroom.”

“No problem. I’m grateful you’ll put me up a couple of nights while I’m in town.” He entered the living room and closed the door behind him.

Charlie noticed the small tote bag in his hand. “You’re traveling light, aren’t you?”

“Just a change of underwear and my shaving kit.” He set the bag on the floor.

Charlie turned around and walked back toward the sofa. When he heard an odd noise behind him, he glanced over his shoulder. His eyes widened in shock when he saw the weird mask the man now wore. Charlie’s mind whirled with questions, but suddenly he recognized the mask at the same time he noticed the gun in his night visitor’s hand.

“What the hell?” Charlie got out before the guy aimed and fired.

The bullet hit Charlie’s left leg, just below the knee.

He stared at his shooter with total disbelief as he went down to the floor, his hands gripping his bleeding leg.

“Who are you? What’s going on?”

The man fired the pistol a second time, the bullet piercing Charlie’s shoulder. This man was going to kill him. He had opened the door and let some crazy person into his home. Thank God Lily and the girls weren’t here.

“Don’t do this,” Charlie said when the man hovered over him.

He aimed the gun directly at Charlie’s head and said, “Dead by midnight.”

Then he fired the fatal shot.

Chapter 8

Maleah and Derek had agreed to split the day guarding Lorie, even though Derek wasn’t officially a Powell agent. At this point, neither of them believed Lorie was in imminent danger since both of the other known victims had been killed at night, probably sometime around midnight. Derek had driven to Treasures with Lorie that morning and promised to stay in the background as much as possible so as not to arouse her customers’ curiosity.

“Gossip is one of the favorite pastimes in small towns,” Lorie had told them. “And since the first day I returned to Dunmore, I’ve headed the list of favorite gossip topics. I don’t want to give the busybodies, especially the WCM ladies, anything to speculate about. And tongues are bound to wag when they see you hanging around the shop all morning.”

Even though it wasn’t quite one o’clock and she wasn’t due to relieve Derek until two, Maleah scooped up her shoulder holster, wallet, Powell ID badge, and car keys from the top of the dresser in her bedroom. Plans had changed.

After racing down the back staircase, she set the alarm, exited through the back door, and locked it behind her. Once settled into her GMC Yukon Denali and headed downtown to Main Street, she slipped on the Bluetooth earpiece and hit Mike Birkett’s number. He answered on the fourth ring.

“Maleah?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“What’s up? Is Lorie all right?”

“Lorie’s fine and I want to keep her that way.”

“Something’s happened.”

“Oh, yeah, you could say that.” She kept her gaze glued to the view through the windshield. Too many wrecks occurred when people were distracted by talking on their cell phones. She didn’t want to become another statistic. “I just got off the phone with Sanders, Griff Powell’s number-two man. The agency has been keeping close tabs on any reports of foul play involving the list of people involved with making the one and only adult film Lorie was in. It seems that another cast member has been murdered.”

“Does Lorie know?”

“I’m on my way to Treasures as we speak to give her the bad news. Sanders received the information about fifteen minutes ago and contacted me immediately. A guy by the name of Charles Wong was found shot several times, the fatal bullet right to the head. Sanders personally called the police chief in Blythe, Arizona, the little border town where Wong lived, and managed to get some info that wasn’t released to the press. It seems that Wong had been stripped naked and was wearing a mask.”

“Son of a bitch. It has to be the same perp. It’s the same MO.”

“I agree. That makes three victims that we know of, three actors who appeared in Midnight Masquerade, one killed each month since the first of the year. Sanders is going to contact Nicole Powell’s old friend, Special Agent Josh Freidman, at the Bureau and share what info we have. We seem to definitely have a serial killer on our hands and we’re going to need all the help we can get to find and stop him before he kills again.”

“Before he gets to Lorie,” Mike said.

“Yeah, before he gets to Lorie.”

“Is Derek with you?” Mike asked.

“He’s at Treasures with Lorie.”

“I’ll meet y’all there. See you in about ten minutes.”

Shontee Thomas twirled around and around on the podium, the full skirt of the satin bridal gown she wore swishing against the tulle netting beneath. She had never been this happy in her entire thirty years on earth. At long last, everything was coming together in the best way possible. In exactly two months, she would marry the most wonderful man in the whole world, Anthony Trice Johnson. They had met a year ago, introduced by mutual friends at the Atlanta nightclub Tony owned. Their relationship had started off on the fast track from the first date, which had ended at Tony’s apartment, in his bedroom, in his bed. At the time, she had been working as a waitress six days a week at a local restaurant and taking night classes to become a masseuse. A real ladies’ and gentlemen’s spa masseuse, not a hooker using the term “masseuse” as a cover for her real occupation.

In the beginning, Shontee had hoped Tony would never have to know about her past as a porn star. She had made half a dozen films in her late teens and early twenties before quitting the business and undergoing antibiotic treatment for an unpleasant venereal disease. When she, along with three more of Travis Dillard’s clients, had tested positive for gonorrhea, her agent and producer had been forced to close down production on his latest movie. But after she and Tony had been dating for about three months, he had come right out and asked her if she’d made some porno movies using the name Ebony O.

She had wanted to deny it, to lie to him, to tell him he’d gotten her mixed up with some other woman. But instead, she had told him the truth, the whole truth, about her life before and after she’d made those movies for Travis Dillard’s Starlight Productions. She’d thought for sure Tony would turn tail and run. But he hadn’t.

“I’m not especially proud of a lot of things I’ve done to get where I am today,” he’d told her. “I’m no saint myself. Why should I expect my woman to be? I love you. What you did when you were just a kid doesn’t matter to me. The only thing that matters is that you love me and treat me right.”

“Oh, Tony, I do love you and I swear I’ll always treat you right.”

She was one damn lucky sister and she knew it. She was going to be Mrs. Anthony Trice Johnson and live in a big fancy house with hot and cold running servants. She was already driving a cute little Mercedes convertible and wearing a three-carat diamond. Life didn’t get any better than this.

“You look like a dream,” Tony said from where he stood in the doorway watching her. “A wet dream.” He winked at the gasping saleslady.

“Behave yourself,” Shontee scolded him.

“Aren’t you going to wear a veil?” he asked.

“I don’t want a veil,” she said. “I want to wear a tiara. Diamonds and pearls. Something glittery and classy at the same time.”

“Diamonds and pearls! Woman, do you think I’m made of money?” he teased.

“We have some lovely rhinestone and freshwater pearl tiaras,” the saleslady informed them.

Tony chuckled as he walked across the room and held open his arms. Shontee didn’t hesitate to sail off the podium and straight into his arms. He caught her around the waist, his big hands clasping her securely, and then set her on her feet. After he kissed her soundly, he glanced at the saleslady, a wide, toothy smile spreading from ear to ear.

“If my fiancée wants diamonds and pearls, that’s what she’ll get. The genuine articles. No fake stuff for her.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, Mr. Johnson.”

Everybody knew who Anthony Trice Johnson was and showed him the proper respect, always calling him Mr. Johnson. Tony was a fucking multimillionaire, that’s who he was. A guy who had grown up in the projects and made something of himself. He owned a string of nightclubs in six major cities: Atlanta, Nashville, Memphis, Louisville, Birmingham, and Tallahassee. And little Shontee Rachelle Thomas from Greenville, South Carolina, a bastard child born to a fourteen-year-old girl who had been raped by her own cousin, was going to be Mrs. Somebody Important.

It doesn’t matter where you came from or who your mama was or how you got born. All that matters is who you are now. Tony Johnson’s fiancée, soon to be his wife and the mother of his children.

Shontee’s hand instinctively went to her belly at the thought of one day giving Tony a son. Thank God, those two abortions she’d had more than ten years ago and that bout with gonorrhea hadn’t screwed up anything inside her. She’d talked to her doctor right after Tony proposed, just to make sure her body was functioning like it should, that there was no reason why she couldn’t get pregnant.

Thank you, Sweet Jesus, thank you. I might not deserve so much happiness, but I sure do thank you for it.

Lorie knew the moment Maleah walked into Treasures that something was wrong. She wasn’t due to relieve Derek for another hour.

Doing her best to concentrate on ringing up Mrs. Hightower’s order, Lorie tried to dismiss the thought that there might have been another murder. “Will there be anything else? You know we’ve marked all our Easter items twenty percent off this weekend.”

“Nothing else today. But I’ll be back next weekend when you mark the Easter stuff down a little more.”

Lorie forced a smile. Eloise Hightower was one of her best customers, a lady who loved to decorate and to collect. Lowering her voice to a whisper, Lorie leaned toward Mrs. Hightower and said, “Next weekend, we’ll mark down to twenty-five percent off, but that’s as low as it will go until after Easter, then we’ll have a fifty-percent-off sale.”

Eloise grinned as if she’d just been awarded a prize. She whispered, “I won’t tell a soul.”

Lorie hurriedly wrapped the breakable items and placed them carefully in three separate small plastic sacks before putting all of Eloise’s purchases in a large heavyweight paper bag with handles.

Glancing across the room, she watched while Maleah approached Derek, who had been sitting at an antique writing desk working crossword puzzles in a puzzle book he’d brought with him. Lorie’s heartbeat accelerated.

It’s bad news. I know it is.

After handing the bag to Eloise and thanking her for her business, Lorie slipped from behind the counter. The chime over the front door jangled as Eloise left, and less than a minute later, it jangled again, alerting her that a new customer had just entered the store. Pausing for a second, she glanced toward the entrance. Mike Birkett, wearing jeans, sneakers, and a seen-better-days Roll Tide sweatshirt, looked right at her.

Butterflies danced in her stomach.

Would the day ever come when she could look at him and not want him?

Mike had always been good-looking. Tall at six-two, and muscular, with wide shoulders and a broad chest. His hair was that deep black that glistened with navy blue highlights, and he wore it long enough so that it curled just above his collar. But it was his eyes that were so remarkable. At a distance, they appeared black, but on closer inspection, they glistened a dark indigo blue.

Mike moved his gaze away from her and scanned the shop until he saw Maleah and Derek. As he headed toward them, Lorie rushed to catch up with him, but was waylaid by another customer.

“Do you have any more of those pastel lights, the kind I can use to decorate my Easter egg tree?” Carol Greene asked. “I can’t find the ones I bought last year and I’ve looked high and low.”

“I’ve sold out of them,” Lorie told her. “But I’m expecting more in a new shipment that should arrive by Wednesday.”

“Oh, good. Would you put back a couple of strands for me?”

“I’ll be more than happy to. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“That was it. The kids would be so disappointed if I didn’t decorate that little weeping willow we’ve got in the front yard.”

As soon as Carol walked off, Lorie made her way straight to where Maleah, Derek, and Mike were involved in a hushed conversation. She glanced around the shop and noticed that there were two customers still rummaging around. One customer, Paul Babcock, was shuffling through the assortment of antique postcards, the display arranged on top of one of the various glass cases in the store. Paul could spend hours searching for just the right card to add to his collection. She didn’t recognize the other customer, a young woman who seemed to be simply browsing.

As she approached them, Maleah, Derek, and Mike stopped talking and turned to face her. She ran her gaze from Maleah to Derek and then to Mike. Their somber expressions concerned her.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Is there any way we can talk in private?” Maleah asked. “Don’t you have somebody who comes in to help on weekends?”

“One of my part-time workers has a stomach virus. The other, who wasn’t supposed to work today, went out of town for the weekend.”

“Could you close the shop for, say, thirty minutes?” Derek asked.

“I could, but I still have two—” The doorbell chime jangled. Lorie looked over her shoulder. The lone remaining female customer—the one she didn’t recognize—walked out onto the sidewalk as the shop door closed behind her.

“Paul Babcock is deaf in one ear, but he refuses to wear a hearing aid,” Mike said. “He was in a hunting accident a few years back. I think we can feel certain he won’t overhear anything from where he’s standing over there.”

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