A new neighbor...

or a stranger next door?

Under-the-radar FBI agent Deacon Ross is on a mission of vengeance. He is in Winchester, Tennessee, to get it. After years away from home, Cecelia Winters is back to find her father’s killer. She’s faced with a hostile town fraught with danger—then she meets her new neighbor, Deacon. With two cases colliding and desire blindsiding them, will the search for the truth cost Cece and Deacon more than a future together?

DEBRA WEBB is the award-winning USA TODAY bestselling author of more than one hundred novels, including those in reader-favourite series Faces of Evil, the Colby Agency and the Shades of Death. With more than four million books sold in numerous languages and countries, Debra has a love of storytelling that goes back to childhood on a farm in Alabama. Visit Debra at www.debrawebb.com

Also by Debra Webb

In Self Defence

The Dark Woods

Finding the Edge

Sin and Bone

Body of Evidence

Dark Whispers

Still Waters

Bridal Armour

Ready, Aim…I Do!

Colby Law

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

The Stranger Next Door

Debra Webb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09418-4

THE STRANGER NEXT DOOR

© 2019 Debra Webb

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, 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 publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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This one is for Paula Morrison, who believes like

I do that if one schlep bag is a great idea, then let’s

make a dozen. Thanks for making Quilting by the

Border quilt club so fun.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

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

About the Publisher

Chapter One
Winchester, TennesseeFriday, August 2

Murderer. Cecelia Winters stared at the ugly word scrawled in red paint across the white front door. She glanced back at the taxi that was already speeding away down the dusty road. She sighed, dropped her backpack onto the porch.

Her brother Levi was supposed to have picked her up at the prison when she was released. Evidently something had held him up. She went up on her tiptoes but still could not reach the ledge above the door. Surveying the porch, she decided a chair would work for what she needed. The two ladder-back chairs and the swing had been a part of her grandmother’s front porch for as long as Cecelia could remember. The wicker plant stand that stood between the chairs was empty and in serious need of painting. Tiny flakes of faded white paint lay on the floor around it.

“Falling apart like everything else around here,” she grumbled as she dragged the chair to the door and climbed atop it.

The key lay on the dusty ledge just as it always had. It would be a flat-out miracle if the house hadn’t been vandalized and cleaned out of anything worth taking. But Cece, as she had always been called, wasn’t complaining. Her grandmother had left her this old house with the ten acres that surrounded it. The walls were still standing and the roof appeared in reasonably good condition. Anything over and above that would be icing on the cake. Cece was enormously thankful to have a place to stay at all. What was left of her family had turned their backs on her a long time ago.

Except for her grandmother, her momma’s momma. She had never believed the lies. And Cece’s little brother—at least, she had thought her brother had not turned on her. He had not shown up to pick her up when she was released so she could not be certain. Last month he had visited her at the prison. He had seemed fine and, frankly, over the moon that she would soon be free.

No one was happier about that than Cece. She had served her time.

She stared at the red letters of the word painted on the door once more before opening it and stepping inside. No matter that it was barely two in the afternoon, gloom filled the house that had always been Cece’s refuge growing up. The shades, she realized. Moving from window to window, she tugged gently on the old roller-style shades, causing each one to slide upward and allowing sunlight into the house. Dust floated in the air, filtering through the rays of light like a thousand miniscule snowflakes in an old snow globe with yellowed glass.

Emily Broward had died one year ago. The house had sat empty, awaiting its new owner’s release from prison. Levi had sworn he had checked in on things from time to time but Cece could not be sure he had done so. The house was neat and clean—other than the dust—so she supposed he had dropped by on occasion. Her grandmother had been an immaculate housekeeper, so the neatness wasn’t surprising and likely had nothing to do with Levi’s drive-bys.

The house was small. A living room, eat-in kitchen, two bedrooms and a bath. There was an attic and a tiny brick-walled and stone-floored basement that was more a root cellar than anything else. The house was plenty roomy enough, her grandmother had always said. The furniture was the same as Cece remembered from her childhood. Emily Broward had been far too frugal to spend money on new furniture when what she had remained serviceable.

Which, Cece imagined, was how she had hung on to what was left of this small family farm for nearly half a century. Emily’s one and only child, a daughter and Cece’s mother, had died more than twenty years ago. So the place now belonged to Cece. In truth, if not for this house, she would never have come back to the Winchester area. She had sworn she wouldn’t be back. Ever.

But here she was.

Really, what else could she do? She had nothing but the clothes on her back and the backpack she’d had with her when she’d been arrested nearly nine years ago. She had nothing. No money. No job. No family—unless you counted her no-show younger brother, the sole sibling who hadn’t disowned her.

Still, there was the matter of the truth. No matter that she had told herself a thousand times that she did not care, she did. Somewhere in this town, someone knew the truth and she wanted to find it. To prove she was not a cold-blooded murderer. To show whoever cared that she was the good girl her grandmother Emily always believed her to be.

Pushing away the overwhelming and painful thoughts, Cece decided what she needed at this moment was paint. Didn’t matter what color. Anything to smear over the ugly word slashed across the front door.

Paint and tools were in the old smokehouse. Her grandmother had stopped using the smokehouse for its original purpose years ago, after Cece’s grandfather passed away. She had turned it into a gardening shed. Flower and vegetable gardening had been Emily’s favorite thing in the world.

Cece headed out the back door. The smaller rear porch was a little less stable than the front. South facing, it weathered the harshest elements. She would need to have a closer look at its condition soon. Her grandmother had been one of those women who refused to be helpless in any way. She had learned how to wield a hammer and a shotgun with equal skill. Cece would just have to do the same since she had no resources.

But first, she would need a job.

She opened the door to the smokehouse and peered into the dark interior. She shuddered, wondered if her grandmother’s shotgun was still in the same place. Probably in her closet or under the bed. Deep breath. She stepped inside, reaching overhead for the string that would turn on the light. Her fingers found it and she pulled. The bare bulb glared to life, spilling light over the dusty, cobweb-infested space.

It took some doing but she found an old bucket of white paint. When she had opened it, removed a hard skin from over the top and vigorously stirred the contents, it appeared to be enough for her purposes. Hopefully.

With a serviceable brush rounded up, she turned off the light and closed up the smokehouse. There was a good deal of cleanup she needed to do. Someone had been keeping the yard cut, which was a really good thing. Augusts were generally as hot as Hades and rain was typically scarce. Snakes would be actively searching for water sources. About the only thing she disliked more than snakes were spiders. Banishing the idea of creepy, crawly things, Cece scrubbed a coat of paint over the graffiti. It would take several coats to cover the red, or maybe she would have to pick up a stain-blocking product to help make the glaring reality go away.

You need money for that, Cece.

After cleaning the brush and pressing the lid back onto the paint can, she decided to have a look in the bedroom she had used before ending up in prison. She left the front door ajar with its wet paint and headed that way. Her father had kicked her out of the house when she was sixteen. At the time she had been only too happy to go. She wouldn’t have stayed that long if not for her younger sister. She had worried about Sierra, who was four years younger, but she had learned the hard way that her little sister was quite capable of taking care of herself.

Her grandmother had warned her, but Cece had not wanted to see it. Sierra had turned into a selfish, belligerent teenager. As a little kid she had looked up to Cece. Hung onto her hand every chance she got. Crawled into bed with her when she was scared. They had both been so young when their mother died, but especially Sierra. She had only been two years old. Cece had tried to be more than just a big sister. Fat lot of good it had done her.

Sierra and Marcus, their older brother, were fanatical just like their father had been. According to Levi, Marcus had taken over her father’s church—cult was a better description. And Sierra was his right hand.

Another reason Cece would rather have been anywhere than here.

Regardless of how she pretended, she could not leave. Not until she found the truth. In the final letter she had received from her grandmother before Emily passed away, she had told Cece that her trusted attorney, Clarence Frasier, had hired a private investigator to help find the truth.

Unfortunately Frasier had died two months ago without passing along any new developments in the investigation. His partner had sent her a letter saying he would not be able to pursue her case or represent her. Her file was available for pickup should she choose to do so. Additionally, in his letter, he had confirmed her fears about the private investigator’s inability to find anything new.

Probably she would pick up the files in a day or two. For now, she just wanted to be alone and enjoy being outside those gray prison walls. A nice hot bath or shower in private was very high on her list. Planning her own menu and picking out what she would wear. No one realized how important all those little decisions were until the right to make them was taken away.

The clothes she had owned before she was arrested still hung in the closet. Underthings and pajamas were neatly folded in drawers—her grandmother’s doing, no doubt. Cece had never been that organized. Her heart squeezed at the memory of how she had begged to be allowed to visit her grandmother in the hospital those final days of her life and, when Emily was gone, to be able to attend her funeral. Cece’s persistence had landed her in isolation for a week.

She would visit the cemetery soon. Take flowers, as soon as she had money to purchase something nice.

At the dresser, she hesitated before turning away. A framed photo of her mother and her grandmother from twenty-five years ago captured her attention. Cece had the same curly red hair as her mother and her grandmother. She was the only one in the family to inherit the red hair and green eyes. Marcus and Levi had dark brown hair with brown eyes, like their father. Sierra’s hair was even darker, as were her eyes. Her coloring was a fact Cece’s father had held against her. He had sworn her red hair was the mark of the devil. She remembered him telling her mother the same thing. Her mother had died when Cece was six years old but she remembered those cruel words.

Her father had been a mean man, and harsh, hurtful words and actions were the only memories Cece had of him. She hoped he was burning in hell.

Her grandmother would pat her on the hand and assure her he was, indeed, roasting in hell. She had hated Mason Winters. Her daughter’s—her only child’s—marriage to him had broken her heart.

Cece shook off the painful memories. There was a lot she needed to do. Starting with stocking the kitchen. Though food wasn’t exactly a priority for her, she had to eat. The attorney had said in his letter that a credit of five hundred dollars awaited her at the market in town. Frasier’s doing, no doubt. He had felt sorry for Cece and had adored her grandmother. Cece had often wondered if he had been in love with her grandmother. He had certainly seemed to be. He had been a widower, she a widow, but to Cece’s knowledge their relationship had never been anything other than friendship.

Cece closed the front door and locked it. She tucked the key into the pocket of her jeans and went to the kitchen to see if her grandmother had still kept her truck keys in the drawer by the back door. She pulled the drawer open and there they were. She snatched up the keys and headed out to the side of the barn her grandparents had used as a garage. She raised the crossbar and the double doors swung open. She climbed into the blue truck that was twice as old as she was and inserted the key.

She said a quick prayer in hopes that Levi had done as he had promised and kept the truck in running order. Her grandparents had maintained it in immaculate condition, but after Emily’s death the battery would have died if the truck wasn’t started regularly, driven around a bit. Levi had promised to drive it once a week until Cece came home.

Holding her breath, she turned the key and pumped the accelerator.

The engine purred to life as if she had just driven the vehicle off the showroom floor.

Relieved, she slid the gearshift into Reverse and backed out of the garage. Her grandmother had taught her to close the garage doors whenever she took the truck anywhere. No one who passed would realize she was gone as long as those doors were closed. Even in a small town, run-of-the-mill thieves could be found.

Far worse could be found, as well. The really bad ones just knew how to hide better than the others.

* * *

THE DRIVE TO Ollie’s in Winchester took scarcely twenty minutes. The first few miles were easy. Driving was like riding a bike, her grandmother had said in her letters. You won’t forget how whether you haven’t driven for eight years or eighty. She had been right about that part.

But the traffic—even in a small town—had Cece’s heart pounding, her fingers gripping the steering wheel and sweat beading on her forehead. The fact that it was ninety-five degrees did not help. The old truck didn’t have any climate control features. Her grandfather had insisted the windows were control enough. You either let the climate in or you do not, he would say.

All the noise—from the many different sounds blowing in through her window to the other vehicles on the road—had Cece on edge, as well. Not that she was complaining. It would just take some getting used to.

Cece did not breathe easy until she had braked to a stop in the lot at the market and thrust the gearshift into Park. For good measure, she engaged the emergency brake before climbing out. She pocketed the keys but didn’t bother locking the doors since there was nothing in the truck worth stealing. The bench seat was a little on the worn side and the rubber-coated floorboards had never been covered with mats as far as she recalled. Just a plain old truck. No rust or dents but very basic. The automatic transmission was the one upgrade, and that had been added only because her grandmother pitched a fit about it back when her grandfather decided to buy a truck.

The asphalt steamed as she crossed to the store entrance. With only a handful of cars in the lot, she was hopeful that she wouldn’t run into anyone who remembered her. Eight years was a long time. If she were lucky most folks would have forgotten her by now.

Yeah, right. Like people forgot when a girl was charged with murdering her father.

She would never live that down—no matter that she was innocent.

Her fingers curled around the handle of the shopping cart and she started with the aisle closest to the entrance. The store looked different now. At some point over the years it had been remodeled and she had no clue where anything was anymore, but she would leave empty-handed before she asked for help and drew attention to herself.

Mostly she only needed the basics. Bread, milk, cheese, eggs. Maybe some peanut butter and crackers. The fruit department spread out before her and she decided fruit would be nice, as well. She grabbed apples, berries, oranges and bananas before stopping to think that she had no idea how much this stuff cost anymore. Since she only had a limited amount of credit, she had to be careful.

Keeping the apples and bananas, she put the berries and oranges back and moved on. Next time she would have those. When she reached the coffee aisle, she realized she could not live without a caffeine fix every morning. Since her grandmother had preferred hot tea and only bought instant coffee for guests, there was no coffee maker. Cece grabbed a jar of instant and moved on. Resisting the snack aisle, she strolled on to the dairy department. When she had mentally checked off the items on her list and deposited each one into her cart, she headed for the checkout counter.

Fortunately, the cashier was young, maybe seventeen or eighteen. She wouldn’t know Cece.

When she had rung up the final item, she looked at Cece. “That’ll be sixty-two fifty-eight.”

Uncertainty seared through her. How did she explain the credit? “Is there a manager on duty?”

The girl stared at Cece, impatience written all over her face. “Sure.” She called for the manager over the loudspeaker.

Cece ignored the people who glanced at the register and her. What if the manager on duty had no idea about the credit? Her stomach twisted into a thousand knots. She should have called the attorney’s office before coming here.

“She has a question,” the cashier said, yanking Cece’s attention to the man who approached the checkout.

He was older, fifty or so, and looked vaguely familiar. Tension banded around her chest making a breath near impossible. When he frowned, her anxiety escalated.

“Cece?”

She nodded, the move jerky.

A smile propped up the corners of his mouth. “Make a note of the amount,” he said to the cashier. “The lady has a credit that will take care of the total.” To Cece he said, “Whenever you come in, just have them write the total and my name on the back of the receipt and tuck it into the till.”

Cece searched her memory banks but his name was lost to her.

“Thanks, Mr. Holland,” the cashier said, saving Cece from having to ask.

She nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

Holland sent her an answering nod and returned to whatever he had been doing before the cashier had summoned him to the front.

By the time the cashier had written Holland on the back of the receipt and deposited it into the till, a short line had formed behind Cece. She had her bags in her cart and was ready to run a good five seconds before the girl glanced at her and said the words that would allow her to feel comfortable making her exit, “Thanks. Come again.”

Cece was almost to the door when a female voice called out behind her, “Aren’t you that girl who killed her daddy?”

Cece did not look back, just kept going. Her focus narrowed to the old blue truck waiting for her in the parking lot. All she had to do was reach that truck, load her stuff into the passenger seat and drive away. When she had money of her own, she would go to Tullahoma or some other nearby town where people were less likely to know her. Then again, even if she had had money, the fear of her driving skills being too rusty would have kept her close to home today.

She remembered well how it was here—the way it was in most small towns—news of her return would rush along the gossip grapevine like a fire devouring dry leaves. Passenger-side door open, she placed her bags in the seat and floorboard. With the task complete, she ordered herself to breathe.

Slow, deep breath. She was okay. She would be in the truck and on her way in a minute. This first foray into public was nearly over.

For a second she considered leaving the shopping cart sitting in the middle of the lot, but the manager had been nice to her, and she shouldn’t repay him by leaving the cart where it might hit a parked vehicle or roll out onto the street and cause an accident. Besides, the cart corral was only a few steps away. The clash of metal as she slid the cart into the line of others already in there made her cringe. She wasn’t sure when the fear that someone would attack her would diminish. Learning to be on guard at all times was necessary to survival in prison. Many things had been necessary to survival—things she wanted to forget.

“Murderer!”

Cece turned around to face the woman who shouted at her...a different one from the voice that had called out to her in the store.

This woman wasn’t alone.

Cece’s heart stuttered. Three women and four—no, five—men spread out between Cece and her truck. She didn’t know any of them, but she recognized the clothes they wore. Plain, overly modest, drab in color. Salvation Survivalists. Members of her father’s following. She refused to call it a church. These people had nothing to do with God.

“We shall purge this evil from our midst!” one of the men shouted.

Cece stood perfectly still. If she ran they would only chase her. If she called out for help she would be wasting her time since there was no one to hear her.

The woman who had spoken first drew back her right arm and flung something at Cece. It struck her in the side, making her flinch at the sharp pain, before bouncing onto the asphalt.

Rock?

Memories of rocks being thrown at a helpless woman whispered through her mind.

Another rock flew at her. Hit her shoulder.

She backed up, bumped into the line of carts.

“Stone her for her grievous sin!” one of the men shouted.

Cece turned to run. She had no choice. Stones hit her back, her legs, her shoulder. When one hit her on the head, she bit her lip to prevent crying out.

Before she could take off running, a man blocked her path. Tall, dark hair...dark eyes.

She opened her mouth to scream.

He grabbed her and pulled her behind him.

“Back off,” he growled at the mob. “The police are on the way. Unless one or all of you wants to be arrested, you had better get the hell out of here.”

Cece dared to peek beyond one broad shoulder. The stones had stopped flying but the group still stood there lurking like something from a bad horror movie.

“We’re not finished,” the woman who had spoken first said, her hate-filled gaze on Cece.

The siren in the distance had the group dispersing.

Cece watched as they climbed into two SUVs and sped away. The woman—the one who appeared to be in charge—stared at Cece as they drove away.

The woman’s face didn’t trigger any memories, but she certainly knew Cece.

The idea that they had all come together suggested that the attack against her had been planned. Anger, hurt and frustration twisted inside her.

“You all right?”

Cece looked at the man who had come to her rescue and nodded. She wanted to ask his name. She wanted to ask why he had come to her aid. But she couldn’t seem to put the words together and force them beyond her lips.

The Winchester Police Department cruiser came to a rocking stop a few feet away and Cece was grateful the stranger took the initiative and explained the incident to the officer. By this time Mr. Holland had come out to the parking lot.

“Are you okay?” he asked Cece.

“Yes.” She relaxed the tiniest bit.

The police officer approached her then. “Miss Winters, would you like to come to the station and fill out a report?”

Cece shook her head. “I just want to go home, please.”

Holland turned to the officer. “I think that’s a good idea. She’s had enough excitement for today.”

The officer nodded. “I’ll let Chief Brannigan know you’re home, Miss Winters. He’ll check in on you. Be sure to let us know if you have any more trouble. The chief doesn’t tolerate nonsense like this.”

Cece found the wherewithal to thank him.

“I’ll follow her home. Make sure she gets unloaded without any trouble.”

She stared at the stranger. Why would a man she had never met go out of his way?

“Good idea, Ross,” the officer said. He turned to Cece. “Miss Winters, Mr. Ross lives just down the road from you. He bought the old Wilburn place.”

The Wilburns. She remembered them. “I’m sure I’ll be okay now, Mr. Ross.” She met the stranger’s gaze. “Thank you for your help.”

All she wanted to do was get into her truck and drive away. Before anyone could attempt to change her mind, she rushed to her truck and climbed in. She left without looking back. She made it all the way to the city limits before the tears defeated her. She swiped at her eyes, frustrated and angry...mostly at herself.

She was back, and by God she was not going to be run out of this damned town until she had the truth.

Chapter Two

Deacon Ross stood at the edge of the woods, watching the house. Cecelia Winters had carried in her supplies a couple of bags at a time. She had not purchased all that much. Her funds were limited. He suspected the attorney—Frasier—had made some sort of arrangements before his untimely death.

It seemed that no matter how guilty most folks in the town thought Cecelia was, there were a few who wanted to look out for her best interests. The attorney he could understand—that was his job and he had been an old friend of her grandmother’s. The chief of police and the county sheriff going out of their way to keep her safe infuriated Deacon, but, like the attorney, that was their job.

Chief of Police Brannigan and Sheriff Tanner had taken extraordinary measures to ensure no one learned the date she was coming home. If it had not been for Deacon putting the word out, she would have reappeared in Winchester with no fanfare at all.

He could not allow that to happen.

Fury fired through him. Made him flinch with its intensity.

The murder of her old man wasn’t the only crime Cecelia Winters had committed. Another man, a man who meant a great deal to Deacon, had disappeared around the time of that murder. It had taken years to narrow down the possibilities, but a year ago Deacon had discovered reason to believe Cece was involved. He had been digging into her past and her family since. If it was the last thing he accomplished in this life, he intended to find out what she knew about his friend’s disappearance. As the date for her release from prison neared he had reached an important conclusion: the only way to find the facts he needed was to get close to her.

Eight years, seven months and nineteen days had passed since her arrest and she had not once changed her story. She was innocent, she claimed. She had not killed her father. When her appeals were exhausted, she quietly served out her time. Due to the circumstances surrounding her childhood, the judge had been lenient in his sentencing. The crime that should have earned her twenty years had garnered her only eight.

But the disappearance—probable murder—of Deacon’s partner would be a different story. If she had played any role in his death, he intended to see that she was charged, found guilty and sentenced to the fullest extent allowed for that heartless crime. More of that fury ignited deep in his gut.

Jack Kemp had been a good man. A good man as well as Deacon’s mentor and partner. Deacon blamed himself in part for not being here to provide backup for Jack. But the Bureau had wanted one of them to stay on the case in Gallatin. The investigation there had been on the verge of busting wide open. In the end, half a dozen people had died in Gallatin—all part of the extreme survivalist cult known as Resurrection. Since he disappeared, Jack had not been able to prove it but he’d believed the survivalists in Gallatin were connected to the ones in the Winchester area. The church—more a cult than a church—the Salvation Survivalists, was somehow serving as a liaison between the two branches.

All those years ago, Jack’s investigation had been buried under a mountain of red tape. The powers that be hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that Resurrection’s reach was so wide and deep. The information had been suppressed for years. Deacon wondered if the truth would have ever come to light if he had not pushed so hard for so long. Jack’s family had a right to know what happened to him. Deacon intended to see that he or his body was found and the mystery surrounding his disappearance was solved.

The death of Mason Winters nearly nine years ago had caused the group to close ranks even tighter. In all this time, no one had gotten close to infiltrating the group and several had tried. Despite the Bureau’s attempt to conceal what went wrong with Jack and his investigation, they continued to tap any resource that could be found. Except, in Deacon’s opinion, they were looking in all the wrong places.

Now he had a loose thread at ground zero—Cecelia Winters. He would learn all her secrets as quickly as possible. Time was not on his side. If she knew things, as he suspected she did, someone would tie up that loose end. Soon.

She knew what had really happened. He was certain of it. She was a part of the family Jack had been investigating. She was the only one who had the proper motivation to tell the truth. Her family had turned on her, which gave her every reason to no longer have any loyalty to them. Deacon would find the truth before he was finished here, no matter how long it took and no matter what he had to do to make it happen.

Everything had been set in motion. All he had to do now was watch and take advantage of the opportunities to get close to her. The people in this community who despised her would take care of the rest. Cecelia Winters had no idea how much her father’s followers hated her. She had killed their messiah, their leader. Those who rose to power after his death were even more heinous—particularly her brother Marcus.

Before this was over she would wish a thousand times she had stayed in that hellhole of a prison. She would want to run—to get away from the past that haunted her. But she wasn’t going anywhere until Deacon had what he’d come for.

He turned away from her and walked back through the stretch of woods that separated the place he had bought from the one she had inherited. He’d set up a stand of trees near her house so that he could watch her. Anyone who stumbled upon it would believe it was a hunter’s blind. Hunting season was still a way off but hard-core hunters started prepping early.

When he reached the clearing in front of his house, he hesitated. A truck had pulled into his driveway. A moment or so later, the driver emerged. He crossed the yard and climbed the porch steps.

Sheriff Colt Tanner.

Deacon skirted the rear yard and headed for the back door. He had no idea why Tanner would visit him. Maybe to follow up on the incident in the Ollie’s parking lot. Deacon had given a statement. He didn’t see the need for additional questioning. But the sheriff had been somewhat skeptical of him since his move to the Winchester area. No surprise there. The man had good instincts.

Following the disappearance of his partner, Deacon had been ordered to stay away from the investigation. He had been forced to do his digging quietly and under the radar of his superiors. The decision made no sense to him. He should have been the one ferreting out the facts about Jack. The Bureau had not seen it that way. Too personal, they had argued. Deacon was ordered to leave Winchester and to keep his nose out of the investigation. He had done as he was told—until one year ago. When the case had been closed, his partner legally declared dead.

Deacon had started his own off-the-record investigation. In Winchester, Logan Wilburn had gotten himself murdered and his property had gone on the market. Deacon had bought it sight unseen only because the closest neighbor was the mini farm Cecelia had inherited.

With those steps in place, Deacon had taken a leave of absence from the Bureau and moved here to set up his cover. He had learned who was who, burrowed into the community, and then he had waited. But Colt Tanner had kept a wary eye on him.

He imagined that was what this visit was about, more so than the nasty mob at Ollie’s.

As Deacon moved through the house, a firm knock echoed in the living room, most likely the second one since the sheriff’s arrival. Deacon tossed his hat onto the side table near the door, unlocked and opened it.

“Sheriff,” he said by way of a greeting.

“Ross,” Tanner replied. “You have a few minutes?”

“Sure. Come on in.” Deacon opened the door wide and waited for the other man to step inside.

Tanner paused in the center of the living room and removed his hat. “You’ve done a lot of work around this old place.”

Deacon closed the door and faced him. “Not so much.” He glanced around. “Paint mostly. Some maintenance that had gone by the wayside.”

“Looks good.”

Most of what Deacon had done around the place had been merely a part of building his cover. A necessary phase in establishing credibility. “I’m sure you didn’t drop by to check out my DIY skills. How can I help you, sheriff?”

“First, I want to reiterate how much Chief Brannigan and I appreciate you stepping in to help Miss Winters today.”

Brannigan had already said as much. Deacon was fairly confident this visit wasn’t just so Tanner could pass along his appreciation in person, as well. “It was the neighborly thing to do.”

Tanner held his white hat in his hands. Like the rest of the men in power around here, he sported a cowboy hat, boots and well-worn jeans. Deacon had chosen the same sort of attire, not because he actually considered himself a cowboy but because he wanted to fit in with the majority of the other “good” guys around the Winchester area. When Cecelia looked at him, he wanted her to see an image that reminded her of the sheriff or the chief. Someone she could trust.

Psychology 101. Play the part.

“Those folks were part of her dead daddy’s church,” Tanner said. “The whole group is up in arms. I don’t know what part of the Bible they think makes it a Christian thing to do—going after a woman like that. I spoke to the leader, Marcus Winters, who is also Cece’s brother. He’s assured me there will be no more trouble but I don’t trust him to follow through with that promise.”

Deacon was well aware of who the people were. He was also thoroughly acquainted, if only secondhand, with the older brother. The man had stepped into his dead daddy’s shoes as if he had planned the event. It was possible he and Cecelia had plotted the old man’s murder together. Then again, the fact that Marcus and the younger sister, Sierra, had basically disowned Cecelia seemed to indicate otherwise.

Then there was the wild card, the younger brother, Levi. He had visited his sister in prison on a regular basis but then he had not picked her up when she was released. Had not dropped by since she arrived home.

“I’ll do what I can to keep an eye out around here,” Deacon said. Though he wasn’t convinced the sheriff had paid him this visit to elicit his help in providing backup where the Winters woman was concerned.

“Do you know Cece’s younger brother, Levi?”

The question surprised Deacon. “I know the name,” he admitted. “I don’t actually know him or any other member of her family.” He shrugged. “I suppose I’ve seen him around.”

“Strange,” Tanner said. “About three weeks ago Levi caught me at home and went on and on about how he thought you might represent some threat to his sister. I asked him for details but he seemed reluctant to provide any.”

Well, well. Levi had been watching him. Deacon had thought he’d spotted the man once but he hadn’t been sure. Now he knew. Deacon shook his head. “I can’t imagine where he got an idea like that, sheriff. I don’t know his sister or him, beyond the rumors I’ve heard.”

Tanner shifted his weight ever so slightly. “I took the liberty of running a background search on you, Ross. I hope you don’t mind.”

Deacon chuckled. “’Course not. I have nothing to hide. I’m new in town. You have an obligation to the citizens of your county to look into potential trouble.”

Tanner didn’t comment on his reaction, apparently wasn’t impressed or relieved. “You’re an FBI agent. From Nashville. Not married. No family. What brought you to Winchester?”

“Real estate prices,” Deacon said without hesitation. “Property in the Nashville area is crazy expensive. I was looking for a place to retire.”

The sheriff was far from convinced. “You’re thirty-five years old. Seems kind of young to be planning your retirement.”

Deacon shook his head. “According to my investment counselor you’re never too young to start preparing.”

Tanner nodded. “Well, I guess there’s some truth to that.” He placed his hat on his head. “I suppose you’ll be returning to Nashville eventually, considering that’s where you’re assigned. You must have had a hell of a lot of vacation days accrued.”

Apparently the sheriff wasn’t going to be happy with Deacon’s glossed-over responses. “I requested a leave of absence. I’m not sure if I’ll be returning to field duty.”

Tanner studied him from beneath the brim of that white hat. “Is that right?”

“I hit a wall, sheriff. I’m certain you can understand how that can happen. I’m just not sure of what I want to do moving forward. Peace and quiet, for sure. Beyond that, I can’t say.” That was as close to the truth as he was going. But the basic story was accurate. Accurate enough to get him through this, he hoped.

“Law enforcement can take a toll. I hope you’ll feel free to look me up if you need anything.” Tanner chuckled. “Keep in mind, we’re always on the lookout for experienced lawmen in the sheriff’s department. If you’re interested in coming on board, drop by and we’ll talk.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sheriff. Thank you. As for Levi Winters, if he still feels I represent some threat, I’m happy to meet with the two of you and hash out the issue.”

Tanner nodded. “If I find him, I’ll tell him. It’s the strangest thing.”

Deacon braced for whatever the sheriff intended to say next.

“I haven’t been able to find him since that day. According to the warden at the prison no one showed up to give Cece a ride home. I recall that Levi said he would be picking her up. I’m surprised he didn’t. He’s the only one in her family who didn’t turn on her during the trial.”

“Have you spoken to Miss Winters to see if she’s heard from him?”

“I was about to head over there now. A tech from the phone company is coming to turn on the landline. I called in a request as soon as I heard she was being released. I don’t want her out here with no way to call for help. I doubt she has a cell phone yet.”

“The service out here is not that great anyway,” Deacon pointed out.

“All the more reason to go with a landline,” Tanner agreed.

“Hold on, sheriff.” Deacon rounded up a notepad and a pen. He scribbled his cell number on the top sheet, tore it off and passed it to the other man. “This is my cell number—for what it’s worth. If she needs to call someone in the middle of the night, I’m closer than anyone else. I haven’t bothered with a landline. Maybe I should.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that, Ross.” Tanner folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket.

He headed for the door. When he reached for the knob, Deacon added, “I was serious when I said if her brother wants to talk I’m more than willing. Just give me a call.”

“Will do.”

Tanner left and Deacon watched from the window as he loaded into his truck and drove away. The sheriff was friendly enough, but he wasn’t completely satisfied with what he knew or what his instincts were telling him about Deacon. At the moment he had no reason to pursue the issue, but he would be watching and maybe doing a little more digging. Deacon wasn’t concerned. The Bureau would not turn over information regarding an agent to anyone just to satisfy his curiosity. The only aspect of Deacon’s past or present that could in any way be related to his being here was his former partner’s disappearance, which had occurred a long time ago, and Deacon had not even been a part of that investigation.

Everything else he had told the sheriff could be confirmed with his direct supervisor if Tanner decided to push it that far.

Deacon waited a half hour or so, then he made his way back through the woods, a path he knew well now, and watched her house. Tanner had gone inside and the technician from the telephone company had arrived and begun his work. For the next half hour or so the man went through the steps of running a line to the house and doing the necessary installation on the inside. Ten minutes after he left, Tanner did the same. Deacon walked back to his house and got into his truck. He backed out onto the road and drove the short distance to his neighbor’s home.

He parked only a few yards from the porch steps. By the time he reached those steps she had already peeked through the curtain to identify her newest visitor. He pretended not to notice, walked to the door and knocked.

The sound of the locks disengaging and then the creak of the door echoed before her face appeared. “Yes?”

She recognized him; he saw it in her green eyes. Not to mention he doubted she would have opened the door if she hadn’t.

“I’m your neighbor,” he said, choosing to go that route rather than bring up what happened in the parking lot. “Deacon Ross.”

She nodded. “Thank you for doing what you did today. I’m reasonably certain no one else would have.”

“You don’t need to thank me, Miss Winters. I did what needed to be done.”

“I’m grateful.” She glanced beyond him, then managed an uncertain smile. “I put your number on the wall by the phone. I hope I won’t have to call you, but I’ll rest easier knowing there’s someone I can.” She shrugged. “I grew up here but I don’t have any friends or...or family, none that still own me, anyway.”

“I understand.”

“I’m sorry.” She backed up a couple of steps, opened the door wider. “I guess my manners are rusty. Would you like to come in?”

He had hoped she would make the offer. “Sure.”

He stepped inside and she closed the door, though it was obvious she wasn’t entirely comfortable doing so.

“If you prefer to leave the door open, feel free.”

She looked up, blushed, her cheeks nearly matching her fiery red hair. “Am I that obvious?”

He smiled, forced a load of kindness he in no way felt into the expression. “Afraid so.”

“I’ll work on my presentation.”

“I couldn’t help noticing as I drove up, there’s a couple of places on the roof that need some attention. You’ll probably want to consider getting someone to do some caulking and painting around the windows and doors before winter, too. I’ve been doing a lot of that next door.”

She nodded, her expression more worried than uncertain. “I can probably take care of those things myself.”

“Maybe, but I can help if you’d like. I’m no expert but I’m reasonably handy.”

She bit her lower lip for a second before she responded to his announcement. “I’m afraid this house has gone downhill since I saw it last. My brother—Levi—said he kept an eye on things but I’m not sure how much he would know about home maintenance. And, to be honest, my grandmother always took care of things. She was a firecracker. I might have learned a lot more from her if I hadn’t gone away.” She stared at the floor a moment before meeting his gaze once more. “But I learn quickly. I can probably do most of it myself with some amount of instruction.”

He nodded to the paint can and brush next to the front door. “Looks like you already have a start on things.”

She tried to smile but didn’t manage the feat. “Yeah. Some things can’t wait.”

She had painted over the unpleasant reminder of what she was labeled by some, but the vicious word still showed through her efforts.

“Is there anything I can help you with before I go?” He didn’t want to overstay his welcome or push too far today. Slow, steady progress was the best plan.

She moistened the lip she had been chewing. “Well, I did notice that the stove won’t turn on.” She hitched a thumb behind her. “I was going to heat some water for coffee.”

“I can have a look.”

“That would be great. Thank you.”

She led the way into the kitchen, not that he needed her to show him where it was. He had been through every inch of this house at least three times. She had a number of surprises waiting for her.

In the kitchen she gestured to the stove.

He turned a knob for a top burner, then the oven. Pretended to ponder the possibilities, then he said, “I should check your electrical panel.”

She frowned. “The fuse box?”

He nodded. “If it was never upgraded to a breaker box then that would be it.”

She shrugged. “I have no idea. My grandmother called it a fuse box.”

“Let’s have a look.”

She guided him to what had once been a back porch but was later converted to a laundry room. A new, smaller back porch had been added. She gestured to the wall next to the door they had exited. “Right there.”

The electrical panel in the house had been upgraded. Again, he took some time to look over the situation, then flipped a breaker—the one he had flipped to the off position a week ago. While he was at it, he took care of the one for the water heater, as well. That one, he supposed, had been turned off by whoever closed up the house after the grandmother passed away.

“I turned on the water heater, too.” He tapped the breaker he meant. “If for some reason it doesn’t work, flip it back to the off position and let me know. Let’s see if that did the trick for the stove.”

Back in the kitchen, he turned the knob that controlled the burner beneath the kettle and the light next to it flared red.

She smiled. “Thank you. I would not have made it through the morning tomorrow without coffee.”

“If you need anything else, just let me know.” He turned and strode back toward the front door. She followed. At the door he looked back to her. “Call if you hear or see anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. I’m a minute away.”

“Thank you again.” She frowned. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but why are you doing this?”

He searched her eyes, wondered what she would say if he told her the truth.

“I don’t know what happened to you, but you seem like a person who needs a break.”

He left before she could say more. No need to risk allowing her to see the truth in his eyes.

She watched from the door as he backed up and turned around. When he stopped at the road to see that it was clear, he glanced in his rearview mirror to find her still watching.

The lady was lonely and afraid. Good.

That was exactly the way he wanted her.

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