A cold case is reopened, placing a witness in the crosshairs—and a bodyguard by her side…

Charlie Winters has caught security expert Mike Strong’s attention. A member of his self-defense class, she seems to need to know more than just how to protect herself. After a little digging, Mike discovers that the cute redhead has a reason to worry—she may have witnessed a murder. Using all of his connections, Mike tries to solve the cold case. But as Charlie’s memories from the past begin to resurface, her future seems marked for death. Offering up his skills as a bodyguard, Mike promises not to leave her side. And Charlie’s obvious relief at not having to fight alone convinces him there’s much more to this mystery he has yet to uncover.

“If you have any specific questions about how to protect yourself, you can always ask.”

“If I do, I will,” she said, not sure she meant it. He was giving off all the vibes of a man who was suspicious of her motives as it was. The last thing she needed to do was pique his curiosity.

“So, I’ll see you this afternoon in the intermediate course?” Mike glanced at her, his expression suggesting he wasn’t sure she’d say yes.

But he wanted her to say yes, she realized. The question was, why?

“Yes,” she said finally. “I’ll be there.”

“Can you stick around for the rest of the class?”

“I get to be the damsel in distress?”

He shook his head slowly. “The one thing I’m pretty sure you’ve never been, Charlie, is the damsel in distress.”

The Girl Who Cried Murder

Paula Graves

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PAULA GRAVES, an Alabama native, wrote her first book at the age of six. A voracious reader, Paula loves books that pair tantalizing mystery with compelling romance. When she’s not reading or writing, she works as a creative director for a Birmingham advertising agency and spends time with her family and friends. Paula invites readers to visit her website, paulagraves.com.

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CAST OF CHARACTERS

Charlie Winters—Ten years ago, her best friend died in a hit-and-run accident. Charlie remembers little of the night, but she’s convinced Alice’s death was no accident. But will her decision to uncover the truth put her own life in danger?

Mike Strong—The Campbell Cove Academy instructor quickly realizes Charlie has an ulterior motive for taking his self-defense course. At first, he sees her as a puzzle to be solved, but when someone makes an attempt on her life, he makes her safety his number one priority.

Alice Bearden—She was keeping a secret from Charlie the night she died. What was it? Did it lead to her death?

Maddox Heller—One of Mike’s bosses, Heller thinks Charlie’s case is a good chance for Mike to hone his investigative skills.

Craig Bearden—Alice’s father has made his daughter’s death a driving reason for his run for political office. How will he react if it turns out her death wasn’t what he thought?

Diana Bearden—Alice’s mother has focused her life on her husband’s political career. Is it a way to cope with the loss of her daughter? Or does she have her own secrets she wants to keep hidden?

Archer Trask—The police detective has never forgotten Alice’s death. It was his first case as a detective, and he’s never been convinced it was just an accident.

Randall Feeney—Craig Bearden’s right-hand man will do anything to protect his boss. Does that include murder?

For Jenn and her mad brainstorming skills.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Mike Strong scanned the gymnasium for trouble, as he did every time he walked into a room. Fifteen years in the Marine Corps, in war zones from Africa to Central Asia, had taught him the wisdom of being alert and being prepared. All that training hadn’t gone out the window when he’d left the Marines for life as a security consultant.

Especially at a company like Campbell Cove Security Services, where preparation for any threat was the company’s mission statement.

The new 6:00 a.m. class was amateur hour—otherwise unschooled civilians coming in for an hour of self-defense and situational awareness training before heading off to their jobs at the factory or the grocery store or the local burger joint. In all likelihood, none of them would ever have to draw on their training in any meaningful way.

But all it took was once.

His later classes were more advanced, designed to give law enforcement officers and others with previous defense training new tactics to deal with the ever more complicated task of defending the US homeland. He’d come into this job thinking those classes would be more challenging.

But if the newest arrival was any indication, he might have been wrong about that.

She was tall, red-haired, pretty in a girl-next-door sort of way. Pert nose, a scattering of freckles in her pale complexion, big hazel-green eyes darting around the room with the same “looking for trouble” alertness he’d displayed a moment earlier. Beneath her loose-fitting T-shirt and snug-fitting yoga pants, she appeared lean and toned. A hint of coltish energy vibrated through her as she began a series of muscle stretches while her eyes continued their scan of the room.

What was she afraid of? And why did she expect to find it here?

Trying to ignore his sudden surge of adrenaline, he started with roll call, putting names to faces. There were only twelve students in the early-morning class, eight men and four women. The redhead, Charlie Winters, was the youngest of the group. The fittest, too.

Most of the others appeared to be fairly average citizens—slightly overweight, on the soft side both mentally and physically. Nice, good-hearted, but spoiled by living in a prosperous, free country where, until recent years, the idea of being the target of ruthless, fanatical predators had seemed as likely as winning the lottery.

“Welcome to Campbell Cove Academy’s Basics of Self-Defense class,” he said aloud, quieting down the murmurs of conversation in the group. “Let’s get started.”

He followed Charlie Winters’s earlier example and took the group through a series of stretching exercises. “I want you to get in the habit of doing these exercises every day when you get up,” he told them. “Because you won’t have time to do it when danger arises.”

“How will stretching help us if some guy blows himself up in front of us?” one of the men grumbled as he winced his way through a set of triceps stretches. Mike searched his memory and came up with the name to go with the face. Clyde Morris.

“It won’t, Clyde,” he answered bluntly. “But it might help give you the strength and mobility to get the hell out of Dodge before your terrorist can trigger the detonator.”

He didn’t miss the quirk of Charlie Winters’s eyebrows.

Did she disagree? Or did she have an agenda here that had nothing to do with preparing for terrorist threats?

Nothing wrong with that. There were plenty of reasons in a free society for a person to be ready for action.

But he found himself watching Charlie closely as they finished their stretches and he settled them on the mats scattered around the gymnasium floor. “Here’s the thing you need to know about defending yourselves. Nothing I teach you here is a guarantee that you’ll come out of a confrontation alive. So the first rule of self-defense is to avoid confrontations.”

“That’s heroic,” Clyde Morris muttered.

“This class isn’t about making heroes out of you. It’s about keeping you alive so you can report trouble to people who have the training and weapons to deal with the situation. And then return home alive and well to the people who love you.”

He let his gaze wander back to Charlie Winters’s face as he spoke. Her gaze held his until the last sentence, when her brow furrowed and her lips took a slight downward quirk as she lowered her gaze to her lap, where her restless fingers twined and released, then twined again.

Hmm, he thought, but he didn’t let his curiosity distract him further.

“I guess I should take a step backward here,” he said. “Because there’s actually something that comes before avoiding confrontation, and that’s staying alert. Show of hands—how many of you have cell phones?”

Every person raised a hand.

“How many of you check your cell phone while walking down the street or entering a building? What about when you’re riding in an elevator?”

All the hands went up again.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he said. “How can you be alert to your surroundings if your face is buried in your phone?”

The hands crept down, the students exchanging sheepish looks.

“Look, we’re fortunate to live in the time we do. Technology can be a priceless tool in a crisis. Photographs and videos of incidents can be invaluable to investigators. Cell phones can bring help even when you’re trapped and isolated. You can download apps that turn your phone into a flashlight. Your phone’s signal can be used to find you when you’re lost.”

“Thank goodness. I was afraid you were going to tell us we had to lose our iPhones,” one of the students joked.

“No, but I am suggesting you start thinking of it as a tool in your arsenal rather than a toy to distract and entertain you.”

Again, he couldn’t seem to stop his gaze from sliding toward Charlie’s face. She met his gaze with solemn eyes, but her expression gave nothing else away. Still, he had a feeling that most of what he was telling the class were things she already knew.

So what was she doing here, taking this class?

Swallowing his frustration, he pushed to his feet and retrieved the rolling chalkboard he’d borrowed from one of the other instructors. “So, revised rule one—stay alert.” He jotted the words on the board. “And now, let’s talk about avoiding confrontations.”

* * *

MIKE DISMISSED CLASS at seven. One or two students lingered, asking questions about some of the points he’d covered in class or what points he’d be covering in their class two days later. He answered succinctly, hiding his impatience. But it was with relief that the last student left and he hurried to his small office off the gymnasium. It was little more than a ten-by-ten box, but it had a desk, a phone and a window looking out on the parking lot.

He caught sight of Charlie Winters walking across the wet parking lot. She’d donned a well-worn leather jacket over her T-shirt and baggy sweatpants over her yoga pants, but there was no way to miss her dark red hair dancing in the cold wind blowing down the mountain or the coltish energy propelling her rapidly across the parking lot.

She stopped behind a small blue Toyota that had seen better days. But she didn’t get into the car immediately. First, she walked all the way around the vehicle, examining the tires, peering through the windows, even dropping to the ground on her back and looking beneath the chassis.

Finally, she seemed to be satisfied by whatever she saw—or didn’t see—and pushed back to her feet, dusting herself off before she got in the Toyota and started the engine.

As she drove away, Mike turned from the window, picked up the phone on the desk and punched in Maddox Heller’s number. Heller answered on the second ring.

“It’s Strong,” Mike said. “You said to let you know if I had any concerns about the new class.”

“And you do?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Concern may be too strong a word. At this point, I’d call it...curiosity.”

“Close enough,” Heller said. “So, you want a background check on someone?”

“Yes,” Mike said after another moment of thought. “I do.”

* * *

CHARLIE KEPT AN eye on the rearview mirror as she drove home as fast as she dared. She’d like to get a shower before her early-morning phone conference, and she was already going to be cutting it close. Could she really keep this up two days a week, given her boss’s delight in scheduling early meetings?

Besides, after this morning’s class, she wasn’t even sure it was worth her time. All that stretching and they didn’t do anything but go over the basic tenets of self-defense. On a chalkboard. Hell, she’d already covered those basics with a one-hour search of the internet. She didn’t need an academic journey through the philosophy of protecting oneself.

She needed practical tools, damn it. Now. And she didn’t want to spend the next few weeks twiddling her thumbs until Mr. Big Buff Badass deigned to detach himself from his chalkboard and teach them something they could actually use.

Channeling her frustration into her foot on the accelerator, she made it back to her little rental house on Sycamore Road with almost a half hour to spare. As had become habit, she waited at the front door for a few seconds, just listening.

There was a faint thump coming from inside, but she had two cats. Thumps didn’t exactly come as a surprise.

Taking a deep breath, she tried the door. Still locked.

That was a good sign, wasn’t it?

She unlocked the door and entered as quietly as she could, standing just inside the door and listening again.

There was a soft prrrrup sound as His Highness, her slightly cross-eyed Siamese rescue cat, slinked into the living room to greet her. He gave her a quizzical look before rubbing his body against her legs.

“Did you hold down the fort for me like I asked?” She bent to scratch his ears, still looking around for any sign of intrusion. But everything was exactly as she’d left it, as far as she could tell.

Maybe she was being paranoid. She couldn’t actually prove that someone had been following her, could she?

There hadn’t been a particular incident, just a slowly growing sense that she was being watched. But even that sensation had coincided with the first of the dreams, which meant maybe she was imagining it.

That could be possible, couldn’t it?

She went from room to room, checking for any sign of an intruder. In her office, her other cat, Nellie, watched warily from her perch atop the bookshelf by her desk. If there had been an intruder, the nervous tortoiseshell cat would still be hidden under Charlie’s bed. So, nobody had been in the house since she left that morning.

Beginning to relax, she took a quick shower and changed the litter box before she settled at her computer and joined the office conference call.

Because she worked for a government contractor, Ordnance Solutions, most of her conference calls consisted of a whole lot of officious blather and only a few nuggets of important information. This call was no different. But she wrote down those notes with admirable conscientiousness, if she did say so herself, especially with His Highness sitting on her desk and methodically knocking every loose piece of office equipment onto the floor.

She hammered out the project her bosses had given her during the conference call, a page-one revision of the latest operational protocols for disposal of obsolete ordnance from a recent spate of military base closures. Most of the changes had come after a close reading by the company’s technical experts. Charlie was used to working her way through multiple revisions, especially if the experts couldn’t come to an agreement on specific protocols.

Which happened several times a project.

Nellie, the cockeyed tortie, ventured into her office and hopped onto the chair next to her desk. She let Charlie give her a couple of ear scratches before contorting into a knot to start cleaning herself.

“Am I going crazy, Nellie?” Charlie asked.

Nellie angled one green eye at her before returning to her wash.

The problem was, Charlie didn’t have a sounding board. Her family was a disaster—her father had died in a mining accident nearly twenty years ago, and her mother had moved to Arkansas with her latest husband a couple of years back. Two brothers in jail, two up in South Dakota trying to take advantage of the shale oil boom while it lasted, and her only sister had moved to California, where she was dancing at a club in Encino while waiting for her big break.

None of them were really bad people, not even the two in jail. But none of them understood Charlie and her dreams. Never had, never would.

And they sure as hell wouldn’t understand why she had suddenly decided to dig up decade-old bones.

And as for friends? Well, she’d turned self-imposed isolation into an art form.

She attached the revised ordnance disposal protocols to an email and sent it off to her supervisor, then checked her email for any other assignments that might have come through while she was working on the changes. The inbox was empty of anything besides unsolicited advertisements. She dumped those messages into the trash folder.

Then she opened her word processor program and took a deep breath.

It was now or never. If she was going to give up on the quest, this was the time. Before she made another trip to Campbell Cove Security Services and spent another dime on listening to Mr. Big Buff Badass lecture her on the importance of looking both ways before she crossed the street.

Pinching her lower lip between her teeth, she opened a new file, the cursor blinking on the blank page.

Settling her trembling hands on the keyboard, she began to type.

Two days before Christmas, nearly ten years ago, my friend Alice Bearden died. The police said it was an accident. Her parents believe the same. She had been drinking that night, cocktails aptly named Trouble Makers. Strawberries and cucumbers muddled and shaken with vodka, a French aperitif called Bonal, lime juice and simple syrup. I looked up the recipe on the internet later.

I drank light beer. Just the one, as far as I remember. And that’s the problem. For a long time, those three sips of beer were all I remembered about the night Alice died.

Then, a few weeks ago, the nightmares started.

I tried to ignore them. I tried to tell myself that they were just symptoms of the stress I’ve been under working this new job.

But that doesn’t explain some of the images I see in my head when I close my eyes to sleep. It doesn’t explain why I hear Alice whispering in my ear while the world is black around me.

“I’m sorry, Charlie,” she whispers. “But I have to do the rest of this by myself.”

What did she mean? What was she doing?

It was supposed to be a girls’ night out, a chance to let down our hair before our last semester of high school sent us on a headlong hurdle toward college and responsibility. She was Ivy League bound. I’d earned a scholarship to James Mercer College, ten minutes from home.

I guess, in a way, it was also supposed to be the beginning of our big goodbye. We swore we’d keep in touch. But we all know how best intentions go.

I should have known Alice was up to something. She always was. She’d lived a charmed life—beautiful, sweet, the apple of her very wealthy daddy’s eye. She was heading for Harvard, had her life planned out. Harvard for undergrad, Yale Law, then an exciting career in the FBI.

She wanted to be a detective. And for a golden girl like Alice Bearden, the local police force would never do.

She had been full of anticipation that night. Almost jittery with it. We’d chosen a place where nobody knew who we were. We tried out the fake IDs Alice had procured from somewhere—“Don’t ask, Charlie,” she’d said with that infectious grin that could make me lose my head and follow her into all sorts of scrapes.

For a brief, exciting moment, I felt as if my life was finally going to start.

And then, nothing. No thoughts. Almost no memories. Just that whisper of Alice’s voice in my ear, and the haunting sensation that there was something I knew about that night that I just couldn’t remember.

I tried to talk to Mr. Bearden a few days ago. I called his office, left my name, told him it was about Alice.

He never called me back.

But the very next day, I had a strong sensation of being watched.

* * *

MIKE WRAPPED UP his third training session of the day, this time an internal refresher course for new recruits to the agency, around five that afternoon. He headed for the showers, washed off the day’s sweat and changed into jeans and a long-sleeved polo. Civvies, he thought with a quirk of his lips that wasn’t quite a smile. Because the thought of being a civilian again wasn’t exactly a cause for rejoicing.

He’d planned on a career in the Marine Corps. Put in thirty or forty years or more, climbing the ranks, then retire while he was still young enough to enjoy it.

Things hadn’t gone the way he planned.

There was a message light on his office phone. Maddox Heller’s deep drawl on his voice mail. “Stop by my office on your way out. I may have something for you.”

He crossed the breezeway between the gym and the main office building, shivering as the frigid wind bit at every exposed inch of his skin. He’d experienced much colder temperatures, but there was something about the damp mountain air that chilled a man to the bone.

Heller was on the phone when Mike stuck his head into the office. Heller waved him in, gesturing toward one of the two chairs that sat in front of his desk.

Mike sat, enjoying the comforting warmth of the place. And not just the heat pouring through the vents. There was a personal warmth in the space, despite its masculine simplicity. A scattering of photos that took up most of the empty surfaces in the office, from Heller’s broad walnut desk to the low credenza against the wall. Family photos of Heller’s pretty wife, Iris, and his two ridiculously cute kids, Daisy and Jacob.

Even leathernecks could be tamed, it seemed.

Maddox hung up the phone and shot Mike a look of apology. “Sorry. Daisy won a spelling bee today and had to spell all the words for me.”

Mike smiled. “How far the mighty warrior has fallen.”

Heller just grinned as he picked up a folder lying in front of him. “One day it’ll be you, and then you’ll figure it out yourself.”

“Figure out what?” he asked, taking the folder Heller handed him.

“That family just makes you stronger.” Heller nodded at the folder. “Take a look at what our background check division came up with.”

“That was quick.” Mike opened the folder. Staring up at him was an eight-by-ten glossy photo of a dark-haired young woman. Teenager, he amended after a closer look. Sophisticated looking, but definitely young. She didn’t look familiar. “This isn’t the woman from my class.”

“I know. Her name was Alice Bearden.”

Mike looked up sharply. “Was?”

“She died about ten years ago. Two days before Christmas in a hit-and-run accident. The driver was never found.”

Mike grimaced. So young. And so close to Christmas. “Bearden,” he said. “Any relation to that Bearden guy whose face is plastered on every other billboard from here to Paducah?”

“Craig Bearden. Candidate for US Senate.” Heller nodded toward the folder in Mike’s lap. “Keep reading.”

Mike flipped through the rest of the documents in the file. They were mostly printouts of online newspaper articles about the accident and a few stories about Craig Bearden’s run for the Senate. “Bearden turned his daughter’s death into a political platform. Charming.”

“His eighteen-year-old daughter obtained a fake ID so she could purchase alcohol in a bar. The bartender may have been fooled by the fake ID, but that doesn’t excuse him from serving so much alcohol she was apparently too drunk to walk straight. And maybe her inebriation was what led her to wander into the street in front of a moving vehicle, but whoever hit her didn’t stop to call for help.”

“And he’s now crusading against what exactly?”

“All of the above? The bartender was never charged, and the bar apparently still exists today, so I guess if he sued, he lost. Maybe this is his way of feeling he got some sort of justice for his daughter.”

Mike looked at the photo of Alice Bearden again. A tragedy that her life was snuffed out, certainly. But he hadn’t asked Heller to look into Alice Bearden’s background.

“What does this have to do with Charlie Winters?” he asked.

“Read the final page.”

Mike scanned the last page. It was earliest of the articles on the accident, he realized. The dateline was December 26, three days after the accident. He scanned the article, stopping short at the fourth paragraph.

Miss Bearden was last seen at the Headhunter Bar on Middleburg Road close to midnight,

accompanied by another teenager, Charlotte Winters of Bagwell.

“Charlie Winters was with Alice when she died?”

“That seems to be the big question,” Heller answered. “Nobody seems to know what happened between the time they left the bar and when Alice’s body was found in the middle of the road a couple of hours later.”

Mike’s gaze narrowed. “Charlie refused to talk?”

“Worse,” Heller answered. “I talked to the lead investigator interviewed in the article. He’s still with the county sheriff’s department and remembers the case well. According to him, Charlotte Winters claims to have no memory of leaving the bar at all. As far as she’s concerned, almost the whole night is one big blank.”

“And what does he think?”

“He thinks Charlie Winters might have gotten away with murder.”

Chapter Two

Making four copies was overkill, wasn’t it?

Charlie looked at the flash drive buried at the bottom of the gym bag’s inner pocket. Were four copies a sign of paranoia?

“I wonder if Mike is married.” The voice was female, conspiratorial and close by.

Charlie looked up to find one of her fellow students applying lipstick using a small compact mirror. Midthirties, decent shape, softly pretty. Kim, Charlie thought, matching the name from Monday’s roll call to the face. She’d tried to memorize all the names and faces from the class. Partly as a game to relieve her boredom, but partly because the knowledge might come in handy someday.

Like during the zombie apocalypse?

Oh man. She was paranoid, wasn’t she?

“I didn’t expect him to be so hot,” Kim said, punctuating the statement with the snap of her compact closing. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like to wear it when he’s engaging in self-defense activities.” Charlie grimaced at her lame response. Kim was clearly trying to be friendly, seeking to engage Charlie with a topic they might both find intriguing. And her response was to cut her off at the knees?

“Maybe.” Kim’s smile faded. “Probably. A guy that good-looking is either married by this age or gay.”

“Or commitment-phobic,” Charlie added.

“Honey, that can sometimes be a feature, not a bug.” Kim finger-combed her honey-blond hair and smiled. “You ready?”

“Sure.” Charlie walked with Kim out of the locker room into the gymnasium, where about half the number of their Monday classmates were already waiting. Today, the gymnasium floor was covered nearly wall-to-wall with padded floor mats. Apparently they were going to do more than just take notes today.

Thank goodness.

Mike Strong stood against the front wall, flipping through papers secured on a clipboard, his brow furrowed with concentration. The light slanting in from the east-facing windows bathed him in golden warmth.

Beside Charlie, Kim released a gusty sigh. “Lord have mercy.”

Mike put the clipboard on the floor beside him and looked up at the students gathering in front of him. His gaze settled on Charlie for a moment, and he smiled at her. To her surprise, her stomach turned an unexpected flip.

“Oh, wow,” Kim murmured. “Probably not gay, then.”

“This is crazy,” Charlie muttered, as much to herself as to Kim.

Mike checked his watch, the movement flexing his biceps and sending her stomach on another tumble. “It’s time to get started. Everybody remember the stretches?”

Charlie’s heart was beating far more quickly than her exertion level warranted. She forced herself to keep her gaze averted from Mike Strong’s lean body and focused instead on maximizing the flex of her muscles.

But when she looked up again, Mike was walking slowly through the small clump of students, observing their efforts. He stopped in front of her and crouched, his voice lowering to a rumble. “You’ve done this before.”

“High school gym,” she answered, trying not to meet his gaze.

“Not college?”

Her gaze flicked up despite her intentions. “College, too. Core requirement.”

His lips curved. “So I hear.”

“You didn’t have phys ed classes in college?”

“I went straight from high school to Parris Island,” he said with a smile. “Lots and lots of phys ed, you could say.”

She dropped her gaze again, but it was too late. Now she was picturing him in fatigues, out in the hot South Carolina sun, sweat gleaming on his sculpted muscles and darkening the front of his olive drab T-shirt...

When she risked another peek, he’d moved on, walking from student to student, offering suggestions to improve their stretches. She let go of her breath, realizing her exhalation sounded suspiciously like the gusty sigh Kim had released earlier as they entered the gym.

“All right,” Mike said a few minutes later, “I’m going to pair you up and we’re going to talk about some of the basic escape moves. This really shouldn’t be the first thing we do, but I can tell by the low attendance today that maybe you want a little less talk and a lot more action.”

A few laughs greeted Mike’s words, along with a few murmurs of agreement. Then everybody fell silent, watching with interest as Mike paired them up.

He left Charlie for last. There was nobody left to pair up with, she realized with a flutter of dismay. It was fifth-grade kickball all over again.

“You’re with me,” Mike said bluntly, nodding toward the front of the pack. She followed him with reluctance, revising her earlier thought. It wasn’t kickball. It was Public Speaking 101, and it was Charlie’s turn at the front of the class.

Heat flooded her cheeks, no doubt turning her pale skin bright red. Her hands trembled so hard she shoved them in the pockets of her sweatpants and tried not to meet the gaze of anyone else in the gym.

“If you’ve read any books or watched any movies or TV shows, you’ve probably heard of the vulnerable spots on an assailant and some of the ways to target them. Knee to the groin. Foot to the instep or the knee. Fingers to the eyes or heel of the hand to the cartilage of the nose.” There were soft groans at the images those words invoked. “Those are all vulnerable targets on an attacker, true. But how easy is it for a small person to do damage to a larger person, even targeting those areas? That’s what we’re going to experiment with today.”

Charlie realized he’d paired people up by size, small with large. At the moment, most of the larger people in the pairings were looking around with alarm.

Mike nodded toward the side of the room, where a man stood in the doorway next to what looked like a large laundry bin. “This is Eric Brannon. He’s a doctor. I thought y’all might want him to stick around for this.”

Eric grinned. Charlie’s classmates didn’t.

“He’s also got some equipment to hand out.”

Eric reached into the bin and pulled out something that looked like a cross between a life jacket and a catcher’s chest guard. He handed it to the man standing closest to him and continued through the other students, passing out padding to the larger of each pair.

Eric stopped before giving anything to Mike. Charlie looked up at the instructor, one eyebrow arched.

Mike grinned back at her, then turned to the class. “We’re going to start with the first thing you need to know how to deal with—someone grabbing you.”

Without warning, he reached out and wrapped his arm around Charlie’s shoulders, pulling her back hard against his chest.

She gasped, caught entirely flat-footed, and began struggling on instinct. His grip tightened and he lifted her off her feet.

Her vision seemed to darken around the edges, sight becoming a single pinpoint of light as anger fought with panic.

Damn it, Charlie. Do something!

She was back in a darkened alley outside the Headhunter Bar. The world was tilted and spinning, like she was stuck on a merry-go-round twirling at an impossible rate of speed. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

She kicked her heel backward, hitting his shin with a glancing blow that didn’t even elicit a grunt. His grip tightened. Clawing at his rock-hard arms with her fingers had no effect at all. She stamped her heel down on his foot, but his boots were hard and her foot glanced off, which was probably the only thing that saved her from a broken foot of her own.

I’m sorry, Charlie, but I have to do the rest of this by myself. Alice’s whispered words rang in her ears, clarity in a world of insanity.

She stopped struggling, and the grip on her shoulders loosened. The world seeped back in brilliant light and color, and panic won over anger. She dropped her whole weight downward, slipping from his grip, and rolled as hard as she could into his knee. The move sent Mike sprawling to the mat, and Charlie scrambled to her feet and ran for the door, her whole body rattling with the need to escape at all costs.

Eric Brannon caught her arm, pulling her to a jerky halt. She was about to fight when she realized he was smiling at her.

She made herself stop running. It was just a class. Just a game, really.

No dark alley. No woozy world. No whispers in her ear.

“Nice job,” Eric murmured, his blue eyes bright with amusement.

She looked at Mike, who was back on his feet. Unlike Eric, he wasn’t smiling. Instead, he was watching her with a knowing wariness that made her stomach twist. After a moment, however, his expression cleared and he motioned her over. “That was actually a pretty good example of one of the things we’re going to talk about today,” he said as she walked with reluctance to his side. “What Charlie did was to use deception to change her circumstances. The more she struggled, the tighter I held her. When she seemed to give up, to stop struggling, I loosened my grip. It’s a natural response—assailants can tire of the struggle as well, even if they’re considerably stronger and larger than their targets.”

Charlie slanted him a skeptical look. He didn’t look as if he’d tired at all. She was pretty sure he could have held her in check a whole lot longer than he had.

He met her gaze, his smile seemingly warm. But he was smiling only with his mouth. His green eyes were narrowed and still wary.

“The other thing she did is what I’d like to address today,” he added. “As soon as she was in the position to do so, Charlie bowled me over. She used her full weight to catch me off balance and send me to the ground. And yet I outweigh her by at least eighty pounds. Probably more. Which goes to show, even if your assailant is larger than you, you have more leverage than you think.”

Charlie wrapped her arms around her, feeling exposed and vulnerable. She edged back toward the wall as Mike Strong walked the rest of the students through an attacker’s vulnerable points and how to strike back at those areas more effectively.

“Put your weight into everything you do. If you can hurt them, you’re that much closer to knocking them down and getting away. Now, I want the bigger partners to suit up and play the part of the attacker. Smaller partners, go after the pressure points. For now, avoid the nose and face. What I want you to practice is putting your full weight into everything you do. Turn your body into a weapon.”

The rest of the group got started. There was a lot of noise, most of it self-conscious laughter. Charlie watched the others for a moment, until she felt Mike’s gaze on her.

She looked at him. He was studying her as if she were some scientific experiment on display. Her cheeks, which had finally started to cool off, went hot again.

She half expected him to ask her what the hell had happened when he grabbed her. Surely he’d seen that her panic had been real.

But when he spoke, he asked, “Have you had any self-defense training before?”

“I was a skinny freckled redhead in public school,” she answered, going for levity. “I had twelve years of self-defense training.”

He smiled faintly. “Formal training?”

“I’ve read a lot. Watched a lot of videos on the ’net.”

“So you’ve done the mental work. Just not the physical.”

“Something like that.”

“I have an intermediate class that meets Tuesday and Thursday afternoons at four. Do you think you could make that class?”

He thought she should go into an intermediate class? Why? She hadn’t exactly covered herself in glory so far.

“I have a flexible work schedule,” she said finally, wondering just what an intermediate self-defense class would entail. “But I’m really just a beginner,” she added quickly. “I just got lucky earlier.”

“That wasn’t luck. That was your instincts kicking in. You’ve internalized the lessons in your head. Now your body needs to learn how to do the things your brain has already processed. But there’s no need for you to start from the beginning when you’d be learning a lot more in an advanced class.”

Charlie narrowed her eyes, not sure she trusted Mike Strong’s motives for wanting to move her out of the beginner class. She’d seen the wariness in his eyes earlier. And even now, there was a hint of tension in his jaw when he spoke, as if he was trying to hide his real thoughts.

“You think I could keep up?” she asked.

“I think so. If you feel differently after a class or two, you can always come back to this class.”

“And is self-defense the only thing you learn in the intermediate class?” she asked before she thought the question through.

His brow creased. “What else would you be looking to learn?”

She cleared her throat. “I just meant—there’s more to protecting yourself than just being able to get out of physical situations, isn’t there?”

Mike looked at her for a long moment, then jerked his attention away, his gaze shifting across the gymnasium, as if he’d just remembered that he was supposed to be supervising the class. “Darryl, the padding doesn’t mean you can be a brute. This is our first time out. Try not to break Melanie’s neck, how about it?”

Charlie watched the rest of the class giggle and grunt their way through the exercises while Mike went through the group, offering suggestions and gentle correction. Right about now, she’d give anything to be one of them, one of the group instead of standing here like a flagpole in the middle of the desert, visible from every direction.

Mike finally wandered back to where she stood. “The intermediate class is mainly about physical self-defense,” he finally answered in response to her earlier question. “But if you have any specific questions about how to protect yourself, you can always ask.”

“If I do, I will,” she said, not sure she meant it. He was giving off all the vibes of a man who was suspicious of her motives, and considering her little freak-out a few minutes ago, she couldn’t really blame him.

The last thing she needed to do was pique his curiosity.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon in the intermediate course?” Mike glanced at her, his expression suggesting he wasn’t sure she’d say yes.

But he wanted her to say yes, she realized.

The question was, why?

“Yes,” she said finally. “I’ll be there.”

“Can you stick around for the rest of the class?”

The twinkle in his eyes gave her pause, but she made herself smile. “Should I say no?”

He laughed. “There are still a few moves I need to show the class. And since you’re here...”

“I get to be the damsel in distress?”

He shook his head slowly. “The one thing I’m pretty sure you’ve never been, Charlie, is the damsel in distress.”

* * *

“SO, WHAT DO you think?”

Mike turned his head away from the window, dragging his gaze from Charlie’s little blue Toyota. She hadn’t emerged from the gymnasium yet; when he’d left, she’d been talking to a couple of the other students.

He met Maddox Heller’s gaze. “I don’t know. She’s hard to read.”

“In what way?”

He thought about her reaction to being called to the front of the class that morning. “She can be shy. And then turn around and be assertive. But there was something that happened today—I’m not sure how to describe it.”

“Give it a shot.”

“I was demonstrating how quickly an assailant could strike. Partly as an example, but also because I wanted to know how she’d react. I expected her to fight.”

“And she didn’t?”

“No, she fought. But there was something about the way she did it. It was as if she was somewhere else. Seeing something else.”

Heller’s expression was thoughtful. “Post-traumatic stress?”

“Maybe. She was able to keep herself together enough to escape my grasp, though. And she did it pretty well. Bowled me over.”

“There wasn’t a lot in the background check other than what I told you. The sheriff’s department never liked her story that she could remember nothing. But I don’t know if that’s because of who she is. Or, more to the point, who her family is.”

“Who are they?”

“The Winters, according to my source with the local law, are one of those families that just spell trouble. Two of her brothers are in jail. Daddy died in a mining accident when they were young, and apparently Mama tried and failed to replace him with a series of men who all brought their own brand of trouble to the family.”

“Does Charlie have a record?”

“Nothing as an adult. If she had any record as a juvenile, it’s sealed.”

“I’ve moved her up to my intermediate class,” Mike said. “The beginner class will just bore her. She might quit.”

“And you don’t want that?”

He didn’t. “Something strange is going on with that woman. I don’t know what yet. But I think it’s in our interests to find out what it is.”

He turned back to the window. Charlie was out there now, unlocking the driver’s door of the Toyota. She slid behind the steering wheel and pulled out of the parking lot, heading onto Poplar Road.

Mike’s gaze started to follow the car up the road, but something in the parking space she’d just vacated snagged his attention. There was a wet spot on the pavement beneath where the Toyota had been parked.

Right about the place where her brake line should be.

He muttered a curse and strode past Heller, already running as he hit the exit. He skidded to a stop at the empty parking place and crouched to look at the fluid on the ground.

Definitely brake fluid.

He gazed at the road, spotting the Corolla just as it started the climb up the mountain.

Without a pause for thought, he pulled his keys from his pocket and sprinted toward his truck.

* * *

THE TOYOTA HAD to be on its last legs. Fifteen years old, well-used before she’d ever bought it, the little blue Corolla had put up with a lot in the five years since she’d bought it with cash from a small used car lot over in Mercerville. The heating and air were starting to falter—never good in the dead of winter or the dog days of summer. And as she crested the mountain and started down the other side, she realized her brakes felt unresponsive, spongy beneath her foot.

That was not good.

She dropped the Corolla to a lower gear, and the vehicle’s speed slowed, but only a little. She thought about putting it in Neutral, but in the back of her mind, she had a fuzzy memory that doing so wasn’t the answer.

Damn. Why hadn’t she read that road safety brochure her insurance company had sent out last month?

Fortunately, there wasn’t much in the way of traffic on the two-lane road, but she was fast approaching a four-way stop at the bottom of the hill. There were a handful of cars clustered at the intersection, far enough away now that they looked more like specks than vehicles.

But that was changing quickly.

She dropped to an even lower gear and gave her brakes a few quick, desperate pumps. They were entirely unresponsive now.

Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic...

The roar of an engine approaching behind her took her eyes off the road to check the rearview mirror. There was a large pickup truck coming up fast behind her. Suddenly, it swung left, around her, and whipped into the lane in front of her.

What the hell was that idiot doing?

The truck slowed as it moved in front of her, and on instinct, she stamped on her useless brakes. The front of her car bumped hard into the back bumper of the truck, bounced and hit a second time. A third time, then a fourth, each bounce less jarring until her front bumper settled against the back of the truck.

The pickup slowed to a stop, bringing her Corolla to a stop, as well. She turned on her hazard lights and put her car in Park, setting the parking brake to make sure it didn’t move any farther downhill.

The driver’s door of the pickup opened, and a tall, lean-muscled figure got out and turned to face her with a grim smile.

Mike Strong.

What the hell was going on?

Chapter Three

“The brake line’s been cut.” Bill Hardy, the mechanic at Mercerville Motors, who’d taken a look at the Corolla’s brake system, showed Charlie the laceration in the line.

Charlie stared at it in horrified fascination, trying not to relive those scary moments as she’d struggled to bring her car under control on the downhill stretch of Poplar Road. If Mike Strong hadn’t pulled his driving trick to bring her car to a stop—

Don’t think about it.

“How could that have happened?” she asked Bill.

“Well, maybe you could have kicked up a sharp rock or a piece of metal in the road,” Bill said doubtfully.

“But you don’t think so?”

“Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d think this was a deliberate cut.” He gave her a sidelong look. “You haven’t made any enemies lately, have you, Charlie?”

Had she?

She glanced toward the tiny waiting area, where Mike Strong sat in one of the steel-and-plastic chairs pushed up against the wall across from the vending machine. She’d told him he needn’t wait for her, but he’d insisted. And given that he’d more or less saved her life this morning, she could hardly quibble.

“No, no new enemies,” she said.

Except, she supposed, whoever had killed Alice.

She turned her head to look at Mike again and found him standing in the open doorway between the waiting area and the garage. “Any news?”

“Brake line’s cut,” Bill said shortly before Charlie could stop him.

Mike’s eyebrows came together over his nose. “On purpose?”

“Hard to say with certainty, but it’s possible.” Bill looked at Charlie. “What do you want me to do? You’ve got a little body work needs doing on the front now, and the brake line needs replacing—”

“Can I have the damaged brake line?” Mike asked.

Charlie frowned at him. “Why?”

Mike’s green eyes met hers. “Evidence.”

Bill’s brown eyes darted from Charlie’s face to Mike’s and back again. “Should I call the cops?”

“No,” Charlie and Mike said in unison.

“Okay, then.” Bill licked his lips, looking confused.

“Fix the body damage and replace the brake line,” Charlie said. “And preserve the brake line in case we need to let someone examine it to establish whether or not the cut was intentional.”

“Will do,” Bill said with a nod. “Listen, it’s probably going to take me a few days to get this done. You gonna have a way to get around?”

“I’ll figure out something.” Charlie nibbled her lip, wondering if she could make do with her bike for a few days. She didn’t have any meetings scheduled at work for the next couple of weeks, so she didn’t have to worry about a commute. There was a small grocery store a half mile from her house, so she and the cats wouldn’t starve. Even Campbell Cove Academy was within a mile’s ride. It would be good exercise.

“I can give you a ride home, at least,” Mike said.

“Thanks.”

“What are you going to do for wheels?” Mike asked as they walked to his truck.

“I have a bike.”

He slanted a look at her as he unlocked the passenger door of the truck. “What if it rains?”

There was no what-if; rain fell practically every week in the mountains, and often multiple days a week. She hadn’t really thought about rain, but that was what raincoats were for, right? “I’ll deal.”

He waited for her to fasten her seat belt before he started the engine. The dashboard clock read 11:35 and, to her chagrin, her stomach gave a little growl in response. Breakfast had been a long time ago.

“I could go for an early lunch,” he murmured, sounding amused. “You wanna come?”

She looked at him through the corner of her eye, trying to assess his motives. “To lunch? With you?”

His sunglasses had mirror lenses, so she couldn’t be sure his smile made it all the way to his eyes. “I suppose we could sit apart, if you like. Though that seems like a waste of a table.”

Mayfair Diner was little more than a hole-in-the-wall, one of three storefronts that filled the one-story brick building on the corner of Mayfair Lane and Sycamore Road. Charlie ate there often, since her house was just a short drive down Sycamore. By now, everybody who worked there knew her by name and called out greetings when they entered.

“What’s good here?” Mike asked as they headed for the counter.

“Depends on how much weight you want to gain.”

He smiled at her blunt answer and looked up at the big menu board. “How are the omelets?”

“I like them,” she answered with a little shrug. “The cheese-and-bacon ones are particularly good.”

“I bet.”

The counter waitress, a plump, pretty woman in her forties named Jean, smiled as she approached to take their order. “Hey, Charlie, what can I get for you and your friend today?”

“I’ll have a grilled cheese with chips and a pickle, and iced coffee with cream and sugar,” Charlie said.

“And you, hon?” Jean looked at Mike, her voice instantly flirtatious.

“I’ll have a veggie omelet and a small fresh fruit cup,” he ordered. “And water to drink.”

Disgustingly healthy, Charlie thought. Would explain his smokin’-hot body, though.

“Find yourself a seat, and I’ll send someone out with your orders in a few minutes,” Jean said with one last flirtatious smile at Mike before she turned to clip their orders to the chef’s order wheel.

Charlie and Mike settled in a corner booth. He took the bench seat that faced the door, she noticed. Always on the lookout for trouble?

An uncomfortable silence lingered between them for a moment before Mike broke it in a gravelly murmur. “You didn’t seem that surprised when the guy at the garage thought your brake line had been cut.”

She looked up sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “If someone told me my brake line had been cut...”

“You’d start with your self-defense class roster?” She flashed him a cheeky grin to hide her own sense of unease with his question.

He grinned back. “Probably.”

What she didn’t want to admit, even to herself, was that there might be someone out there who wanted her dead. For most of her life she’d been fairly invisible, by design. Her ne’er-do-well brothers had brought more than their share of ignominy to the family name. Better not to draw any attention at all than the kind her brothers had managed to elicit.

A smiling teenage girl came over with their orders on a large tray, saving Charlie from having to find something else to say to break the silence. The girl eyed Mike with starstruck shyness, giggling a little as he smiled his thanks. Charlie wasn’t sure the girl even realized there was a second person at the table.

“Does that happen often?” she asked, taking a sip of her iced coffee.

Mike looked up from his plate. “Does what happen?”

Charlie nodded toward the waitress who was still darting quick looks toward their table as she talked with another server. “Googly-eyed females growing tongue-tied in your presence.”

He frowned. “Never noticed.”

Of course he hadn’t. She changed the subject back to the topic of the hour. “How on earth did you even notice that brake fluid in the parking lot?”

“I happened to be looking out the window when you drove away. There was a big puddle of fluid underneath the car, so I thought I should check it out. When I realized it was brake fluid—”

“You hopped in your truck and raced to my rescue?”

“Seemed like the thing to do.”

“When you first whipped around in front of me, I thought you were a maniac.” She shook her head. “That was kind of a crazy thing to do.”

“Blame the academy. Crisis driving is one of the things we’re trained to do, you know.”

“Does the Campbell Cove Academy teach those skills to civilians, too?”

“Only to professional security personnel at the moment,” he said with a shake of his head. “It’s an intense and expensive course, and most civilians won’t have any need to learn the skills.”

“Not sure I agree with that,” she said wryly.

He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. “You really have no idea who might have tampered with your car?”

“Why would I?”

“You just started taking a self-defense course, and now your vehicle is sabotaged. I have to wonder if there’s a correlation.”

She pretended not to understand. “You think someone messed with my car because I’m taking a self-defense course?”

He frowned. “Don’t be obtuse. I’m asking if the reason you’re taking a self-defense course has anything to do with why someone might tamper with your brakes. Have you been threatened? A stalker or a disgruntled ex?”

“Nobody’s threatened me.”

He sat back, studying her through narrowed eyes. “I’m not sure you can say that with a straight face after today. Assuming your mechanic is right about how the brake line was cut.”

“I don’t know who would want to hurt me,” she said firmly.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? She didn’t know who would want to hurt her any more than she knew who would have hurt Alice. But someone had. She was more convinced of that fact than ever.

“Okay,” Mike said after a long silence. “But I think you should be careful anyway. Maybe this morning was a warning shot.”

“I’m planning to be careful.”

“You still planning on trying to get around by bike?”

“Or on foot. I work from home, and most of the places I go on any given day I can reach by walking.”

“Not sure that’s a good idea.”

“It’s not like my track record in a car is exactly stellar after this morning,” she joked.

He didn’t smile. “Are you going to be at my class tomorrow afternoon?”

She shook her head. “The academy is a little too far away for a bike ride. Maybe I can pick up the class the next time you offer it.”

“You’ll have your car back soon. I can give you a ride to the class until then. Just be ready about a half hour early and I’ll swing by to pick you up.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why? Why would you do that?”

“Because I think you need it. It’s not like it’s a big problem for me to give you a ride.”

She nibbled her lower lip, considering his offer. He was right about one thing—she’d like to know how to protect herself in a pinch. Wasn’t that why she’d picked up the self-defense class in the first place?

But Mike Strong was taking a peculiar amount of personal interest in her well-being, and she had a feeling it wasn’t a matter of altruism. He had seemed suspicious of her the very first class, hadn’t he?

A new thought occurred to her. Could Mike have been the person who’d tampered with her brakes?

“What is it?” he asked, looking suddenly concerned.

She schooled her own features, trying to hide her doubts. “Nothing. I was just remembering this morning. Can’t seem to shake it.”

“That’s natural,” he assured her with an easy smile. “That had to be a pretty terrifying few minutes.”

“Definitely.” She forced a smile. “And you’re right. I should be back in my car in a week, so there’s no real reason not to try to keep up with the self-defense courses.”

His concerned expression had cleared completely, now that he’d gotten his way. “So I’ll pick you up about thirty minutes before class starts? I like to get there early and do some prep work, if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine,” she assured him, smiling again. “Do I need to bring anything besides me and my sparkling personality?”

He grinned. “That should be all you need. We’ll supply the rest.”

At her insistence, Mike let her pay for lunch. But he insisted on coming into her house with her instead of just dropping her off.

“You didn’t think someone was going to cut your brake line, either,” he argued when she told him he was being paranoid. “I’d like to be sure you’re not about to walk in on an intruder alone.”

Grimacing, Charlie gave in, hoping she hadn’t left the place in too much of a mess that morning. Fortunately, neither of her cats had pulled one of their insane stunts, such as trailing toilet paper around the house or dumping over all the potted plants.

The house was silent and still when they entered. No sign of intruders. And thanks to Mike’s presence, no sign of the cats, either, save for His Highness’s well-worn catnip mouse sitting in the middle of the living room floor.

“You have a pet?” Mike asked, picking up the toy.

“Two. Cats. Currently in hiding, since you’re here.”

He gave a nod of understanding.

A quick walk-through seemed to satisfy his need to play protector, and Charlie walked him to the door. “Thanks for your help this morning.”

“I’m glad I was able to help.” He looked up and down the street behind him, as if he expected trouble. But the street was as quiet and normal as the house. “See you tomorrow afternoon?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“Lock the door behind me.” He started down the porch steps and crossed to his truck, turning as he reached the vehicle. “Lock the door, Charlie,” he repeated, nodding toward her.

She closed the door and engaged the lock as he asked.

But as the sound of the truck’s engine faded to silence, she realized she didn’t feel any safer.

* * *

MIKE PULLED OFF the road onto the gravel-paved scenic overlook and got out of the truck, pacing with restless energy to the steel railing that kept visitors from stepping off the edge of the bluff. He curled his fists around the top rail, ignoring the burn of the cold steel against his bare palms. If anything, the discomfort helped him focus his scattered thoughts.

Lunch with Charlie Winters hadn’t gone the way he’d expected. He’d figured her obvious shakiness after the near disaster with her car might have made her drop her guard. He could use her rattled state to coax a few secrets out of her, and then he’d have a better idea what her real agenda might be.

Instead, not only had she managed to keep all her secrets, he was now convinced she was hiding even more than he’d suspected.

And instead of probing her story, trying to break through her wall of protection, he’d just sat back and listened. Because he liked to hear her talk. He liked the soft twang of her Kentucky accent, the way her lips quirked when she shot him a quizzical smile. He liked the twinkle in her eyes when he said something she found amusing. He liked the way she smelled—clean and crisp, like a garden kissed by the morning sun.

And the fact that he could come up with a description as ridiculous as “a garden kissed by the morning sun” was why he felt as if he’d just walked into a booby trap and all that was left for him to do was curl up in a ball and wait for the explosion.

He took several deep breaths and gazed across the hazy blue mountains that stretched out for miles before the first sign of a town showed up in the distance. Maybe he was just making too much of the way Charlie was making him feel. It had been a while since he’d really let himself think about a woman as anything other than a fellow soldier or one of the faceless, nameless civilians his orders had required him to protect from the enemy.

After his career as a Marine had ended and he’d entered the civilian force, it had taken a while just to get back into the swing of a life that didn’t include gunfire, explosions and endless miles of dirt and sand. He hadn’t wanted to look within the walls of the academy for a woman to share his bed and he’d been so focused on his job that he hadn’t really looked outside the academy walls, either.

What he needed was a real date. A woman, a nice dinner, maybe some dancing or a movie. Ease into a love life again. No strings, no pressure. No bright hazel eyes making his stomach feel as if it were turning inside out.

Maybe Heller’s wife had a friend he could meet. Weren’t women always trying to fix up their husbands’ single friends?

He pulled out his phone to record a reminder to feel Iris Heller out about her single friends the next time he ran into her, but he saw there was a “missed call” message. It was from someone named Randall Feeney.

For a moment, he thought it must have been a wrong number. Then he remembered the phone call he’d made before he’d set out on his search for Charlie Winters. He took a chance and called Feeney back.

“Randall Feeney,” a man answered. In the background, Mike heard the low hum of voices and the ringing of phones—the sounds of a busy office.

“Mr. Feeney, this is Mike Strong from Campbell Cove Security Services. You just called my cell phone.”

“Right, because you called the campaign office wanting to talk to someone about Alice Bearden.” The man’s voice lowered a notch. “May I ask the reason for your interest?”

Mike had already prepared his answer, but he’d really hoped to talk to Craig Bearden himself. “I’d rather discuss it with Mr. Bearden.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Feeney said firmly. “However, I’m Mr. Bearden’s executive aide and a longtime friend of the family. If you have any questions about Alice or the tragedy of her death, I may be able to help you. But I’d prefer to meet in person. Can you be at the campaign headquarters in Mercerville tomorrow afternoon? Say, around three?”

“I’m sorry, I’ll be busy then. What about later today? Maybe around six?”

There was a brief pause before Feeney agreed. “Six is doable. I’ll meet you here at the campaign headquarters. Do you know where that is?”

“I do.” He’d looked up the address before he’d made the first call.

“I have to admit, however, I’m a little puzzled why someone from your company would have any interest in what happened to Alice,” Feeney added, sounding wary.

“It may have some bearing on a case we’re helping to investigate,” Mike said, keeping his tone noncommittal. “I’ll know more when we speak.”

“Very well, then. See you at six.” Feeney hung up without any further goodbye.

Mike pocketed his phone, feeling a little less rattled than before, now that he had a mission. He’d go talk to Randall Feeney, hear the story of Alice Bearden’s death from someone who, as Feeney had proclaimed, was close to the family. If anyone would know what role Charlie Winters might have had in the death of Alice, it would be Craig Bearden’s personal assistant.

Maybe Feeney could shed some much-needed light on what Charlie Winters really wanted from her self-defense classes at Campbell Cove Academy.

Then Mike could put the confounding woman out of his head for good.

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