“Can we talk about the rules for a minute?” he asked.

“Rules?”

He waved his hand. “Expectations. Firm expectations. We remain in visual contact at all times. That means you don’t even step outside for a quick breath of fresh air without me. If you have to go to the bathroom, I’ll check it first and then stand outside the door.”

“I know we’re supposed to be newlyweds, but won’t people think that’s just a little over the top?”

“I’ll do it in a way that people won’t even notice.” She thought he perhaps underestimated that every woman’s eyes in the place would follow him. He was just so darn handsome, so darn male. “Got it. Visual contact. At all times. It’s just that I’m a little disappointed.”

“Why?” He looked very concerned.

She lowered her lashes. “Well, Detective Hollister. That wasn’t the only kind of contact I was hoping for tonight.”

Hidden Witness
Beverly Long

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BEVERLY LONG enjoys the opportunity to write her own stories. She has both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in business and more than twenty years of experience as a human resources director. She considers her books to be a great success if they compel the reader to stay up way past their bedtime. Beverly loves to hear from readers. Visit www.beverlylong.com, or like her at facebook.com/beverlylong.romance.

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For Kate, Nick and Lydia,

who have a wonderful new home in Missouri.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

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

Chase Hollister heard his cell phone ring and used his forearm to pull the pillow that he slept half-on and half-under closer around his ears. It rang four times and clicked over to voice mail. Thirty seconds later, it started ringing again.

“Damn,” he muttered, tossing off the pillow. He glanced at the number, saw that it was his brother and reached for the phone.

He pushed a button. “I have not had any sleep for twenty-eight hours,” Chase said. “This better be good.”

“Brick is dead,” Bray said.

Chase sat up in bed. He hadn’t heard the man’s name in over eight years. Hadn’t spoken it himself for much longer. “How?”

“Car accident. His sister was with him. They had a double funeral two days ago.”

Chase had met his stepfather’s older sister once, maybe twice. He recalled that even as a teenager, he’d known there was something odd about her. That family had a bad gene pool.

“Anybody else get hurt?” Chase asked.

“Nope. One car. Only Brick and Adelle in it. They were on their way to Brick’s doctor’s appointment.”

He lay back down. He didn’t care about the details. “I’m going back to bed.”

“I got a call from Mom’s attorney,” Bray said. “The house is ours.”

In one smooth movement, Chase swung his body out of bed. His bare feet hit the soft rug first, then the polished hardwood. He walked down the short hallway and into his kitchen. The blinds were up and he was naked. He didn’t care. He needed coffee. “That doesn’t make sense. Brick had a son. I assume the man is still alive.”

“I’m not sure but it’s a moot point. When Mom died eight years ago, the house was in a trust for us. Brick had been granted lifetime use. The attorney said that we should have been made aware of that upon Mom’s death but it was a slipup.”

The irony was not lost on Chase. They could have fought the lifetime-use thing and booted him out of there. He’d have been on the outside looking in, kind of like Chase had been whenever Brick got a wild hair and locked him out.

He dumped some coffee in a filter, poured water in the coffeepot and flipped the start button. He didn’t put the pot on the burner. Instead, he held a cup directly under the streaming coffee.

“You’ve got to go there and see what we need to do to get rid of the place,” Bray said.

Chase jiggled the cup and hot liquid burned his hand. “No way,” he said. “You go, you’re the oldest.”

“I would if I could. I’m three weeks into a new assignment. I can’t pull out now.”

“Cal will have to do it. We’re older, we can make him.” Chase added the familiar taunt, knowing there was nothing easy or familiar about his relationship with Cal.

“He’s out of the country.”

Cal had spent most of the past eight years out of the country. That was what navy SEALs did. For the past six months, following his discharge, he’d been working as a contractor. That was what his business card said. Chase supposed it could be true if the new breed of contractor was trained to blow up the bad guys, disarm bombs and generally screw with the enemy. “Well, I don’t care if he’s on the moon. I’m busy, too, you know. I’ve only been back for a week.”

“How is the leg?”

Functional. Still not up to full strength. “Fine,” Chase said.

“I thought you were going to be out for six weeks,” Bray prodded. “You went back at four.”

“We’re short staffed.”

“Aren’t we all? I was especially impressed when your name popped up on one of my search engines. Then, when I dug a little deeper, I realized you were busy being a hero on your second day back.”

Chase didn’t answer. He’d hated the photo, the article, the attention. Hadn’t considered that it went beyond the print edition.

“‘Detective Chase Hollister, one of St. Louis’s finest, keeping the streets safe for the rest of us,’” Bray recited.

His brother did his own part to keep the streets safe. Working undercover for the DEA wasn’t easy. He would have hated the attention, too. But now he was picking a fight in hopes that Chase, wanting to end the conversation, would agree to take care of things. It wasn’t going to work.

“Listen, Bray. It’s simple. I’m not going back. The house can rot for all I care,” he said. Chase hung up and tossed his cell phone onto the granite countertop. The noise echoed through the quiet apartment. Then he stood in his stainless-steel kitchen and sipped his coffee, burning his tongue in the process.

Ravesville, Missouri. Two hours southwest of St. Louis. A little town in the middle of the country, undisturbed by major highways and big box stores. A place where everybody knew their neighbor, talked about them freely and dropped everything when they needed a hand. It was the kind of place where a kid got on his bike at eight o’clock on a summer morning and didn’t come home until dinner. The kind of place where there were community-wide chili dinners and pancake breakfasts and people stuck around to clear the tables and wash the dirty dishes. It had been home. And he’d been a happy enough kid.

And then everything had changed the summer his dad died. Chase had been fourteen, just about to enter high school. And as bad as his dying had been, it had gotten worse two years later when his mother had remarried and Brick had become his stepfather.

There probably wasn’t a meaner man in the entire state. Why he’d married a woman with three teenage boys when he didn’t appear to like kids was a mystery. He was estranged from his own son, who was quite a bit older than the Hollister boys. Chase could only remember meeting him once.

When the phone rang again less than five minutes later, he picked it up, ready to give his brother an earful. At the last second, he realized it was his partner’s number. The man should have been sleeping, too. He’d been awake the same twenty-eight hours.

“Yeah,” Chase said.

“The boss called. He just heard from the chief,” Dawson said. “Somebody used the Florida witness in the Malone case for target practice.”

He and Dawson hadn’t worked the Malone case but the man was suspected of murdering three Missouri women about a year ago, one of whom was the chief’s godchild. Harry Malone was currently locked up in the county jail awaiting trial and everybody in the St. Louis Police Department, from the janitor up, had an interest in the case. “That doesn’t make sense. That woman should have been sealed up tighter than your wallet.”

“Funny.”

“Was she injured?”

“No. Lorraine Taylor got lucky.”

Then, it was the second time she’d gotten lucky. He wasn’t sure of the details but through the grapevine he’d heard that she’d somehow managed to get away from Harry Malone. She’d told the cops about the pictures of the dead women that Harry Malone had proudly shown her and the admission Malone had made about killing the women. She’d been able to lead them back to the apartment where she’d been held. Unfortunately, by that time, Harry and his pictures were gone. But her DNA had been in several places in the apartment and she’d had injuries consistent with her story.

But Harry had been careful and there was no physical evidence linking him to the Missouri murders because there were no bodies.

Even so, based on the information that Lorraine Taylor had provided, Harry Malone had been picked up and charged with kidnapping and assorted other crimes and three counts of murder. Lorraine Taylor had likely assumed that she’d done her civic duty by leading the police to the man and that she could get on with her life.

However, she’d no doubt quickly reevaluated those plans six weeks later after almost being killed by a hit-and-run as she walked to work. Witnesses had substantiated that the attack was deliberate. That was where it got complicated. Following her escape from Malone, Lorraine Taylor’s identity had been closely guarded and her name had never made the newspapers.

Unfortunately, in the information age, that didn’t mean much. Cops in both Florida and St. Louis knew her name. Then there were the people in the prosecuting attorney’s office and the judge’s office. Harry Malone certainly knew who she was, and jail might impede communication with the outside world but it certainly didn’t stop it.

The cops considered whether the attack on Taylor could have been unrelated to her potential testimony against Malone. But even if that was true, it didn’t really matter. Any attack, for whatever reason, had the potential of robbing the State of Missouri of their prime witness.

They’d decided to put her in a safe house. That was the last that Chase had heard.

Now somebody had shot at her. That was going to make a lot of people nervous, people who were counting on the fact that Lorraine Taylor was going to be an excellent witness.

She was going to have to be. Harry Malone, a rich, second-generation hedge-fund trader from New York, wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t talking and he’d retained a very good defense attorney. He’d been deemed a flight risk and denied bail so his attorney was working expeditiously to get the trial under way.

Plus, the scuttlebutt was that Malone was confident that he was going to walk free.

Was it possible that he wasn’t as confident as he wanted others to believe and he’d decided to ensure his freedom by getting rid of Lorraine Taylor?

“The chief wants her moved to St. Louis,” Dawson said.

The chief was a known control freak and, given his personal interest in this case, there was probably no talking him out of it. But Chase understood. They needed Lorraine Taylor.

“He told the boss that he wants us to start working on it,” Dawson said.

“Why us?” They weren’t the most senior detectives on the force. He’d barely spoken ten words to the chief and he figured it was the same for Dawson. He didn’t care; brown-nosing his way to the top wasn’t his style. Besides, who knew how long he was going to stick around? Maybe there was a better job around the corner.

“According to the boss, the chief said that we did a hell of a job in the Brodger case.”

Hamas Brodger had been a drug dealer who had executed three teenage boys who’d tried to screw him out of a couple hundred dollars.

A fourth boy had managed to get away. Chase and Dawson had babysat him, twelve-on, twelve-off, for six weeks. It hadn’t been a good assignment. The kid didn’t bathe regularly and had forgotten all the manners he’d learned in kindergarten. And he hadn’t been able to keep his fingers away from social media and had led the bad guys to their door. Chase had taken a bullet in the leg as a result but had managed to get his own shot off.

The kid had testified and Brodger was going to call the state penitentiary home for a long time.

“I think you maybe should have let the guy shoot him,” Dawson said. “The way it turned out, it’s just getting us more work.”

“Maybe next time,” Chase said. “But listen, I may need to take a day off pretty soon. I’ve...uh...I’ve got something I need to take care of. Family business.”

“Your brothers okay?” Dawson asked, his tone serious.

“Yeah. They’re fine. My stepfather just died.”

Dawson didn’t offer the normal platitudes. He didn’t know everything but he knew enough. “Can I help?” he asked.

“Nope. Just got to take care of a house. The lieutenant doesn’t expect us back in, does he?”

“He said tomorrow was soon enough. Lorraine Taylor will be here then. The question is, what are we going to do with her?”

* * *

RANEY TAYLOR WAS FURIOUS. The nightmare that had started the evening Harry Malone had wandered into Next Steps and volunteered to help was never going to end.

Wasn’t it enough that she was going to have to testify and relive every awful moment of the fifty-four hours that she spent with him? As horrible as that would be, she knew she had to do it. The man had to be stopped.

Once he’d been arrested, it had never occurred to her that she would still be in danger. She’d gone back to work, brushed aside the comments from coworkers that she really should take more time off and hoped that someday, she’d be able to trust again. And each day had gotten a little easier. But six weeks later, when a dark SUV had tried to run her down three blocks from her house, she’d realized that things were about to get a lot harder.

The police had promised that they could keep her safe. Don’t worry, they’d said, handing her the keys to the two-bedroom house in the modest Miami neighborhood. We keep witnesses here all the time. Nothing ever happens. Now they were going to have to change their sales pitch because last night, eleven days after moving in, someone had taken a shot at her as she took the garbage to the curb.

If she hadn’t bent down to chase a wayward napkin, she’d be dead right now.

She’d assumed she’d be moved to another place. She hadn’t expected them to announce that she needed to pack quickly because she was getting on a plane. And going to St. Louis.

She’d known that at some point she’d have to travel to the Midwestern city. Harry Malone’s trial was taking place there because his three other victims had all resided in Missouri.

She’d never met the other victims but she knew them. Could easily imagine the terror they’d lived through. After her escape, she hadn’t been able to keep from looking up the news stories. Had wanted to see the women as people, had wanted to know they had lives and that they’d been loved. Had needed to replace the images she carried in her head with something else.

She did not want to be in the same city with Malone. She’d made a terrible mistake in trusting him. And had almost paid the ultimate price.

She rubbed her ribs. He’d cracked three of them with a well-placed kick after he’d dumped her blindfolded on the floor of his squalid apartment. The doctor had told her that the bones would knit back together quickly but it might take months for the bruising to heal. Every night when she rolled over in bed, it woke her up.

Not that she was sleeping a whole lot anyway.

Maybe that would change in St. Louis. Maybe she could sleep away the next month until she had to testify at the trial. Leaving her job pained her more than anything. She loved her work.

Her clients, most of whom came from disadvantaged circumstances, wanted to work but for one reason or another had trouble securing employment. The assistance she provided took many forms. She taught basic communication skills to some. Took others shopping so that they understood what to wear to work. She’d helped with table manners, organizational skills and conflict management.

It made her day when a client showed up with his or her first paycheck. It made her week when they were still working at that same job three months later. She was over the moon when they celebrated their first anniversary.

Now Harry Malone had taken that away from her. That and more.

She jumped when there was a light tap at the door. “Ready, Ms. Taylor?” the officer asked. Luis had been with her since day one of her captivity and he’d been unfailingly polite.

“I don’t understand why I have to go to St. Louis,” she said for the twentieth time. “This is a big city, a big state. Surely you have other safe houses.”

The older man shrugged. “All I know is that you need to be on the nine-fifteen flight to St. Louis. Maybe it won’t be as hot there.”

In late September, Miami was still stifling hot. Not that she’d been outside much lately. It would be wonderful if they stashed her someplace where she had access to a balcony or a porch.

“Fine. Let’s just get this over with,” she said.

* * *

CHASE MET DAWSON in the front lobby of police headquarters and they rode the elevator in silence. “How’s Mary?” Chase asked as the doors opened.

“She said her ankles have swelled to the size of cantaloupes and her back feels as if a small army of angry men with sharp knives have taken residence.”

“Damn. Want to stay at my place for a few days?”

Dawson shook his head. “I’d have to stay thirty-six days, and if I did that, I don’t think I’d have a happy home to return to once the little princess is born.”

Chase pulled open the heavy door that led them to the interior office. “I don’t like coming here,” he whispered.

Dawson shrugged. “Then, quit doing crazy things that get you noticed by the top brass.”

“I don’t do crazy things,” he denied.

“Five weeks ago, you took a bullet in your thigh and still managed to return fire. You pushed your recovery, got the doc to release you early and came back to work last week. A day later, you walked through a wall of fire. And it was all caught on a cell phone. The newspaper called you a hero and the video played on the evening news—both the six o’clock and the ten o’clock,” he said. “And you hadn’t even clocked in for the day,” he added, sounding exasperated.

It had been early and the two young men had been drag racing on their way to work. He’d just gotten the first guy out of his car when the second car had exploded, potentially trapping the young driver. “You wouldn’t have left that kid to die.”

Dawson smiled at the young woman behind the desk. “Detectives Roy and Hollister here to see Chief Bates.” When she picked up the phone, he turned to Chase. “I wouldn’t have wanted to,” he said, his tone serious. “But I’m not sure I’d have had the guts to do what you did,” he added. “You had to have been concerned that your leg might not hold up.”

He’d considered the possibility. Then ignored it. Those kids were going to have a future. That was what mattered.

The chief only made them wait ten minutes. When they were ushered into his office, Chase was again reminded that Chief Bates was one tough dude. While he was close to sixty, he was six-five, with a barrel chest and a handshake that could bring a man to his knees.

He extended his arm to Dawson. “Detective Roy,” he said. “Good to see you.” He turned toward Chase. “Detective Hollister. How’s the leg?”

“Fine.”

The chief nodded. “Saw you on the news the other day. Nice work.”

Behind the chief, Dawson made a big deal out of rolling his eyes. Chase ignored him.

“Sit, please,” the chief said, pointing to the leather chairs in front of his big cherry desk. “You know what our situation is?”

Chase nodded. “There was a second attempt on Lorraine Taylor’s life.”

“Yes. Malone has access to considerable resources. It’s possible that he managed to organize a hit on her before the Florida police got him picked up. It’s also possible that he did it from jail.”

The words lingered in the air. Good cops hated that there were dirty cops but it was a fact of life. Palms got greased and instructions often made it over the prison wall. Or maybe it had been a visitor who carried messages back and forth. The possibilities really were endless.

Chase leaned forward in his chair. “Could Malone have had an accomplice? Somebody who knew Lorraine Taylor. Knew her because it wasn’t an accident that she was the victim. Maybe she was cherry-picked and when things went badly for Malone and he was picked up, the accomplice slipped into action?”

“It’s possible. But Taylor didn’t see anybody else while she was with Malone or hear him refer to anyone.”

But Malone was smart—nobody was disputing that. He’d managed to kill three women and hide their bodies.

The chief steepled his big fingers together. “It’s even possible that we’ve got some crackpot who somehow managed to find out Taylor’s identity and he or she has decided to finish what Malone started.”

Chase nodded. “I guess the only thing we really know for sure is that we need to keep Lorraine Taylor alive to testify at Harry Malone’s trial.”

“Alive and unintimidated,” the chief corrected. “I’m worried that she’s not going to be a good witness if she’s frightened that her life is in danger. We need her confident. Relaxed,” he added, then had the wherewithal to look a little sheepish. “As much as one can be at a murder trial.”

“What can we do to help, sir?” Dawson asked.

The chief looked at his watch. “Lorraine Taylor’s plane should be touching down in forty-five minutes and nobody has given me an option that I’m happy with.”

Chase took a sideways glance at Dawson. There were a number of safe houses that they used in the city, even a few in West County. Those were the ones he knew about. The chief probably knew of others.

“Her location was compromised in Miami,” Chief Bates said. “I can’t have that happen here. She’s already not happy about coming to the same city where Malone is sitting in jail. I’m thinking of stashing her downstate, maybe Springfield.”

Chase could see the concern on Dawson’s face. He would not want to be hours away from his wife if the baby decided to come early. He waited to see if Dawson would say something. But he didn’t. Chase understood. Turning down an assignment that the chief personally handed you was career suicide.

Chase leaned forward in his chair. He was going to regret this. “My brothers and I own a house in Ravesville. It’s sitting empty right now. It’s a mile and a half outside of town. Only a couple neighbors on the same road. Brick...uh, my stepfather just died.”

The chief’s eyes lit up. “Did you grow up there?”

Chase nodded.

“When did you move away?”

He’d left the day Calvin had turned eighteen, when both of them were legal to be on their own. He’d been twenty-one. “Thirteen years ago, sir. I went back once, about eight years ago.”

The chief tapped his middle finger on the wood desk. He stared at it. Finally, he looked up. “I like it. We’ll have your file reflect that you’re on personal leave. If anybody asks,” he said, looking at Dawson, “Detective Hollister is dealing with family stuff. Nobody besides the two of you and the few people that I personally involve will have any knowledge of the truth. Nobody else.”

He switched his laser-sharp gaze to Chase. “Congratulations, Detective Hollister. You just got married. Lorraine Taylor can pose as your wife.”

Chapter Two

By the time the plane had landed and Luis was hustling her through the airport, Raney had a headache that wouldn’t quit. They exited into a wall of very warm, humid air.

“I thought the Midwest was cooler than Florida,” she said.

Luis didn’t respond. He was busy looking at his phone. Then he signaled for a cab.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, sounding irritated. “I just got a text with a street address from my contact.”

“That makes me feel very secure,” she said drily. Sweat was gathering between her breasts and the hot sun made her feel sick to her stomach. “You’d think they’d at least spring for a car,” she said grumpily.

Again Luis did not respond, which surprised her. In Florida he’d been polite, almost chatty. He’d been quiet on the plane. Now he seemed edgy. It made her feel off balance.

The cab drove for about thirty minutes before finally pulling into an empty spot behind a brown UPS truck. The driver was out of the vehicle, stacking boxes high on a cart.

It dawned on her that she was just another kind of package. She’d been wrapped up and sent halfway across the country, to be handed off into someone else’s care. And they were going to cart her somewhere else and put her on a shelf for a month.

She looked at the sign in the nearest store window. It was a frozen yogurt shop. At least things were looking up. “Is this it?”

Luis didn’t answer. He was watching the street closely. They got out of the cab and hadn’t walked more than three feet before a big man, probably close to the age her father would have been, fell into step next to them. He had a plastic bag looped over one hand.

He nodded at her and spoke quietly to Luis. Luis extended his hand and the men shook. Luis turned to her. “This is police chief Bates. He’ll take over from here.”

“Great,” she said.

“We’re happy to have you in St. Louis,” the man said. “Thank you, Officer Vincenze.”

Luis nodded at the chief and looked at her. “Good luck,” he said before turning quickly away. He got back into the same cab they’d arrived in. Chief Bates waited until the cab had pulled away from the curb before turning toward her.

“Rest assured that we’re going to keep you perfectly safe,” he said. “Right now we need to get a few things taken care of.”

“What things?” she asked.

“I’ll answer all your questions,” he said. They walked past the frozen yogurt shop. Turned a corner. Walked another block. Turned another corner. Second store in, he stopped. “But first, let’s just step inside here.” He opened the door to what appeared to be a hair salon. The lights inside were dimmed and there were no customers. Just a woman standing behind the high counter.

“Morning, Marvin,” the woman said.

“Ms. Taylor, this is my sister, Sandy. Work your magic, honey,” the chief said to the woman.

The day was getting stranger by the minute.

An hour later, Raney’s shoulder-length brown hair had been chopped off and she was a platinum blonde. Without the heavy weight, her hair had a natural wave that surprised her. She liked that she could tuck the wispy strands behind her ears. She also had to admit that the new hair color made her light blue eyes pop in a way that eye shadow had never managed. It was a startling change and she had trouble taking it all in.

“She’s done,” Sandy said. They were the first words she’d spoken since she explained that she was going to lighten up and trim her hair. Sandy was clearly a master of understatement.

The chief, who had looked ridiculous perched on one of the small chairs in the waiting area, stood up. “Everybody else should be here soon.”

He was right if “everybody” was three men. She could see them through the glass window. One was in his midfifties with a camera around his neck, carrying what appeared to be a big bag of dry cleaning. The second was a handsome black man dressed in a nice gray suit. The third man, and the one who held her attention, was in a tux and carried a small suitcase with him. He was tall.

If Sandy planned to trim him up, she didn’t have much to work with. His dark brown hair was already cut short, maybe not military short but pretty close. It showed off his chiseled good looks.

The chief opened the door and locked it behind them. The room was suddenly filled with testosterone. Raney, who was still sitting in the stylist’s chair, felt at a disadvantage. She stood up quickly, tried to take a step, got the heel of her sandal caught in the lower rung of the chair and pitched forward.

Tuxedo Guy caught her before she landed on her face. His grip on her bare upper arms was secure but light. He gently pushed her upright and she passed within inches of his body.

He smelled delicious, an earthy citrus that evoked images of a tropical rainforest.

“Okay?” he asked, his voice low, sexy. His skin was very tan and his eyes were an odd shade of brown, almost amber.

“Ah, sure,” she managed. She’d been off balance since leaving Florida and the past fifteen seconds hadn’t helped. Who was this man?

“Ms. Taylor,” Chief Bates said. “You need to get changed.”

Huh?

The man with the camera extended his dry cleaning in her direction. She automatically reached out, noting the bag was heavier than it looked.

Sandy pointed to a door. Raney stood her ground. “Maybe you’re thinking that someone has explained to me what’s going on, but nobody has. And I don’t think I’m changing my clothes or anything else until somebody does.”

The black man looked at Chief Bates. Tuxedo Guy was staring at her, and she thought she caught a glimpse of appreciation in his eyes.

“Of course,” the chief said. “I apologize. I’m just anxious to get you to a safe place. This is Officer Henderson. He’s a photographer for the police department. This is Detective Roy and Detective Hollister.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Why do I need new clothes? I have my own,” she said, inclining her head toward her suitcase, which was still sitting near the front door.

“There’s a wedding dress in there,” the chief said. “You need to put it on and Officer Henderson is going to snap a few pictures of you and Detective Hollister as the happy bride and groom. He’s assured me that he’s managed to manipulate the date on his camera so if anyone digs into the pictures, they’ll believe they were taken several weeks ago, on August 15. We’ve filed a license with the county clerk’s office dated that same day in case someone bothers to check. Under a different name, of course.”

She felt her face grow hot. What was this guy smoking? Wedding dress? Marriage license? Different name? “I’m not getting married,” she said. She’d been married. It hadn’t gone well.

Chief Bates looked as if he wasn’t used to people disagreeing with his plans. Detective Roy stepped forward. “Of course not,” he said. “Your cover for the next month while we await Harry Malone’s trial will be as Detective Hollister’s wife. You’ll be living at Chase’s parents’ home in rural Missouri, about two hours from here.”

Her head, maybe feeling light because she’d lost a lot of hair or maybe because she was in an alternate universe, swiveled on her neck. She stared at Tuxedo Guy. “We’re going to be married,” she repeated. “Actually, we’re already married, if the wedding was August 15,” she said, rather stupidly she thought, the minute the words were out of her mouth.

“I guess that’s right,” he said.

“And we’re going to live with your parents?”

He shook his head. “They’re dead. The house is empty.”

She rubbed her forehead. “What’s my new name?” she asked.

Chief Bates stepped forward. “In these types of situations, it’s better if we can keep your first name the same. Less confusion for you. In the event of an emergency, you’ll react to it better. We’ll list your maiden name on the wedding certificate as Lorraine Smith. It’s common enough. Then, of course, you’ll be Lorraine Hollister for the duration of this assignment.”

“Somewhere in Missouri,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Chief Bates said.

She clutched her wedding dress tighter. “I swear to God, if I ever get a chance at Harry Malone, I’m going to kill him myself.”

* * *

THE BLOND HAIR had set him back because it was such a dramatic difference from the picture he’d studied on the way over to the hair salon. In the photo, her brown hair had hung past her shoulders, her face had been pale and her eyes had been dark with fatigue. It had likely been taken the morning that she’d first been interviewed by the Miami police after her ordeal with Harry Malone had ended.

Today, she looked amazing. The hair was sexy, her skin was clear and fresh and her blue eyes were gorgeous. She would make a pretty bride.

Once Chief Bates had determined the plan, they’d swung into action. The chief had left to intercept Lorraine Taylor. Chase had been dispatched home to pack a suitcase and then to the mall to get a tux. He had met Dawson back at the police station and they’d picked up Gavin Henderson, who’d been busy in his own right. He’d been sent home to get his daughter’s recently cleaned wedding dress. All of them, including the chief, had been at her wedding five weeks earlier.

Dawson had managed to pull him aside before they’d piled into the car. “I know why you offered up the house in Ravesville,” he’d said. “And I appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem,” Chase had replied, lying. He hated the idea.

“Newlyweds?” Dawson had needled. “You going to be okay with that?”

Dawson was well aware that Chase wasn’t interested in marriage. Even so, because he was besotted with his own bride, Dawson had a tendency to overencourage Chase to commit and ragged his tail when Chase easily dismissed the idea. It had gotten to the point that Chase had stopped telling him about his occasional dates because the man made too damn big a deal out of them.

That, of course, had led Dawson to worry that Chase was becoming a monk. “You’re not getting any younger,” he said. “You might want to catch one while you’re still in your prime.”

He sure as hell wasn’t going to admit to Dawson that his leg now ached as though he was ninety.

The next month was going to suck but he’d make the best of it. He was pretty confident Lorraine Taylor felt the same way. When she’d said Missouri, it had sounded an awful lot like misery. She hadn’t slammed the door when she’d gone to change into the wedding dress but she’d surely looked as if she wanted to.

But as much as he hated the idea, he had to admit, it wasn’t a terrible plan. No one would question his presence at the house. After all, he and his brothers had lived there for many years and it would be common knowledge in the small community that Brick had recently died. People there would be expecting somebody from the family to come back and take care of the property.

Now, courtesy of some just-in-time photography, Dawson was going to upload the wedding photos onto a couple social media sites, publicizing that he’d recently done best-man honors for Chase and his happy bride. That way if anyone bothered to search for Chase Hollister, the cover story would hold. Chief Bates had instructed that if anyone at the department happened across the photos and asked, Dawson was to hold tight to the cover story. Once the trial was over, Chase could tell people the truth.

It had the potential to be a win-win. He’d be there to watch over Lorraine. He’d also be able to get the house ready for sale, and the State of Missouri would preserve their witness in what was likely to be one of the biggest trials of the year.

He and Lorraine simply needed to act the part of happy newlyweds. He heard the door open and in a rustle of silk and lace, Lorraine stepped out into the hallway, wearing the wedding dress. She was blushing.

“I’m going to need some help with the zipper,” she said.

None of the men moved. Chase was pretty sure he’d stopped breathing.

Finally, Sandy got behind her and Chase heard the gentle rasp of a zipper. With every inch, Chase felt his mouth get drier. She was beautiful. Once the zipper was up, the dress hugged her curves and the cut showed a generous portion of her pretty breasts that, quite frankly, hadn’t been all that visible in the T-shirt that she had been wearing.

Dawson looked at him, his dark eyes wide with speculation. Chase ignored him.

“Let’s get this over with,” Chief Bates instructed. He bent down, opened the plastic sack at his feet and proved that he hadn’t wasted time while waiting for Lorraine’s plane to land. He pulled out two items. The first one was flowers. They were wrapped in clear plastic and Chase recognized them as the kind you could buy for fifteen bucks at the grocery store. The chief thrust them toward Lorraine.

She didn’t move, just stared at them.

“Hang on,” Sandy said. She opened a drawer, pulled out a pair of scissors and efficiently cut off the plastic wrap, then trimmed off the long stems. When she finished, it was a very presentable bouquet.

The second item in Chief Bates’s bag was a birthday cake. With pink and yellow balloons on it. “This was all they had,” he apologized.

Chase thought he caught the glimpse of a smile on Lorraine’s face.

“I can make it work,” Gavin said. “Chase and Lorraine, I need you to stand in front of this wall.”

Chase moved to where Gavin pointed. After a second of hesitation, Lorraine did the same. Up close, he realized that he was probably about eight inches taller than her, which gave him a truly excellent view down the front of her dress.

He felt his whole body get warm.

He jerked his head up and stared at Gavin, who had his camera out. The man looked up, irritation on his face. “I can add a church background with Photoshop but I can’t make the two of you look happy. Come on. Work with me.”

Chase licked his lips and sucked in a deep breath. Then he wrapped his arm around Lorraine’s shoulders. He bent his head, looked into her eyes and gave her his best smile.

He thought she might tell him to go to hell. But after a long minute of staring into his eyes, she pasted on her own smile.

And for the next fifteen minutes, he and Lorraine Taylor responded like trained seals. Gavin snapped pictures of them facing one another, side by side and even feeding each other pieces of cake off plastic plates that Sandy had found in the bottom drawer of her desk. Snap, snap, snap. Finally, Gavin instructed him to move out of the frame and for Lorraine to give the camera her back. “Pretend you’re just about to throw your bouquet,” he said.

She did. Snap, snap, snap. Then he said, “Okay. I’ve got enough.”

Lorraine let the flowers sail. Without thinking, Chase reached out to catch them. When she turned, her blue eyes were big.

“Congratulations, Detective,” she said. “I guess a real wedding is in your future.”

Chase let the flowers fall to the ground. Everyone in the room stared at them.

Gavin coughed loudly. “Let’s finish up with the groom kissing the bride.”

Chase felt his racing heart skip a beat. He looked at Lorraine. He no longer felt like a trained seal but rather a fish out of water.

“Ready?” he said.

“Ready,” she whispered.

He walked close and bent his head, intending to merely brush her lips.

“Make it look good,” Gavin said.

She opened her mouth and he felt himself settle in. She tasted like chocolate cake and her mouth was warm and wet, and it had been a long time since a kiss had made his knees weak.

But when it was over, he had to admit that this one had done just that.

But he sure as hell wasn’t going to give Dawson the satisfaction of seeing it. “Is that a wrap?” he asked, making sure that his tone was nonchalant.

He ignored the soft hiss he heard from Lorraine.

“We need to hit the road,” he said. “I want to get to Ravesville before dark.”

* * *

DETECTIVE HOLLISTER WAS an amazing kisser. His lips had been warm, his breath sweet and his hands confident as they’d cupped her face. It was as if someone had hit a switch, kicking off an electrical charge that had started in her toes and rapidly spread through her body.

She’d felt alive.

And she’d been stupid enough to think that it had affected him the same way. Of course it hadn’t. And she suspected she should be grateful that he’d been an ass about it afterward because she had been about thirty seconds away from crawling up his body.

That would have been a real photo opportunity.

There weren’t going to be any more kisses. Not that Chase was probably inclined. He might have played the role of besotted groom, but she could tell that he hadn’t been thrilled to be participating in the farcical marriage. After their ceremony, he had quickly changed into jeans and a T-shirt and, if possible, had looked even hotter. But his attitude didn’t match.

He was polite. Definitely. But she’d sensed his irritation when they’d had to kill thirty minutes at the salon. She’d looked through the tattered magazines spread about the various tables and he’d focused on his smart phone.

Chief Bates had been insistent that they wait while the photographer ran a quick errand. He’d come back with a driver’s license for Lorraine Hollister that in every way looked real. She suspected they probably had a back room at the police station where credentials were fabricated on a routine basis.

She’d looked at her picture. Who was this woman? This blonde Raney. She’d tossed it into her purse and they’d left without further delay.

Chase had continued to be polite. Had carried her suitcase and opened the car door for her. Waited until she was buckled in before he took off. “Cool enough?” he’d asked ten minutes into the journey, nodding at the air-conditioning controls.

Other than that, he hadn’t said a word.

Which maybe worked okay for him, but it wasn’t helping her acclimate to her new life.

“I can’t imagine that you’re any happier about this than I am,” she said finally.

He shrugged, never taking his eyes off the road. “It’s important to keep you safe. I can do that,” he added confidently.

“What’s the plan once we get to Ravesville? Should I be mentally preparing myself for a big wedding reception?” she asked, trying for humor.

He turned to look at her. “Have you ever lived in a small town?”

She shook her head. “I’m a city girl.”

He looked back at the road. “Here’s how it works in small towns. On our way to the house, we’ll stop for dinner at the local café. Not sure of the name of it any longer but for as long as I was in Ravesville, there was always a café on the corner of Main Street and Highway 20. I’m sure it’s still there. I’ll casually mention my name and that I’m back in town to take care of the old house and that I’ve brought along my new wife. By the time we get to dessert, the story will have reached half the community and by morning, the other half will have heard.”

“Fascinating,” she said.

“Not really, just the way it is. After that, Lorraine, I hope that you’ll spend most of your time at the house, where it will be easier to provide protection.”

“Raney,” she said. “I go by Raney. Not Lorraine.”

He seemed to consider that. “What did Harry Malone know you as?”

“He called me Lorraine. That was what was on my name tag. And because he was only at Next Steps a couple times before...well, before, he probably didn’t hear anybody refer to me differently.”

There was a significant pause and she could hear the tires on the rough highway. Finally, he turned to her and said, “Raney it is.”

She was relieved that he hadn’t pushed for more details. Even though she’d told the story several times, it still made her sick to talk about her time with Harry Malone. Pushing that image aside, she closed her eyes and focused on the way her name had sounded on his lips. Raney.

As if he knew her. Which of course he didn’t. No more than she knew him. This was simply his job.

And given that somebody had tried twice to kill her, she sure as hell hoped he was good at it. He’d sounded confident when he’d said he could keep her safe. “So how long have you been on the job?” she asked.

He glanced her way, surprise in his eyes. “You know a lot of cops?”

She shrugged. “A few. Why?”

“Because when most people ask that question, they ask, ‘How long have you been a police officer?’ It’s a subtle difference but one that a cop notices.”

She waited. She wasn’t ready yet to tell him about her work at Next Steps, about some of the people whom she’d helped, some of the people who had needed a hand. She’d virtually stooped, cupped her hands and given them a foothold. She was proud of her work, knew the impact she’d had.

“I’ve been a cop for thirteen years,” he said. “Covered a beat for eight of those before I became a detective. I mostly work homicides.”

“But you’ve done witness protection work before?” she asked.

“I have. I know what I’m doing,” he said. She could tell that she’d offended him.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that...”

“I know,” he said, his tone gentler.

“So you live in St. Louis?”

“Yes.”

They drove a few more miles. The silence in the SUV was oppressive. “In a house?” Lately she’d had houses on the brain.

He shook his head. “A thirty-year mortgage isn’t my style,” he said. “I’ve got a six-month lease on an apartment in the Central West End.”

“What happens after six months?”

He shrugged. “I sign another lease. Or I don’t.”

“How long have you lived there?”

“Five years.”

That was weird. He’d been on the job for thirteen years and lived in the same apartment for five years but he was still only interested in a six-month lease. Maybe that was how things were done in the Central West End.

She had no idea where that was but assumed it was likely sort of upscale, like Chase. He wore a nice watch, good leather shoes, had nice manners and he’d looked very comfortable in a tux.

“I’ve been saving for a house,” she admitted. “I love my apartment building and my neighbors but lately, I’ve been thinking that it’s time for me to get a house. But now...I’m not sure. Maybe the security of having neighbors close by is what I need.”

He took his eyes off the road in order to look at her again. “You’ve had a tough couple of months. Don’t make any big decisions right now. Sit back, consider, then act when you’re ready.”

Others had given her the same advice, although not in those exact words. She let out the breath she’d been holding. Maybe in Ravesville, she could do that. Just relax.

She felt the ever-present knot in her stomach release just a little. Now the quiet was no longer oppressive. It felt safe. Nice. She closed her eyes and didn’t open them again until she felt someone lightly shaking her shoulder.

“We’re here,” he said.

She was surprised to see that it was getting dark. She looked at the clock on the dash. Twenty minutes after six. Her stomach rumbled and she pressed the palm of her hand against it.

“I imagine you’re hungry,” he said.

She’d had toast for breakfast, nothing for lunch and a bite of cake that he’d popped into her mouth. “Yes,” she said, turning her neck slowly to get the kinks out. “So this is it?”

It was a wide street, lined with freshly painted perpendicular parking spaces. The buildings were mostly old, lots of red brick, nothing over three stories. There were a few flower boxes with brightly colored mums below the windows and some more pots scattered down the sidewalk. There was an empty bike rack at the end of the block.

He’d been right about the restaurant. The Wright Here, Wright Now Café had its lights on and there were a few cars parked in front of the two-story brick building. Other than that, the only other cars were three or four gathered together at the end of the next block. “What’s down there?” she asked, pointing. “Besides the edge of town?”

“A bar. Everything else closes up tight in the evenings.”

She’d grown up in Manhattan and moved to Miami when she was sixteen, after her mom got a new job as the general counsel for an insurance company. Her dad had been a writer and had worked from home. They’d been killed by a drunk driver four years later. She’d stayed in Florida, hadn’t really had anyplace else to go. While not Manhattan, Miami was still a large city where they didn’t roll up the streets at half past six.

“I hope the food is good,” she said, almost under her breath.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he said. “But we need to eat. I’m not confident that there will be anything at the house.”

They got out of the car. When Chase crossed in front of the hood, she thought she saw just a hint of a limp. She hadn’t noticed it before. “Did you hurt your leg?” she asked.

He waved it off. “Stiff from driving,” he said.

“So how did your stepfather die?” she asked as they walked down the sidewalk toward the restaurant.

“Car accident.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Was it a big funeral?”

He didn’t answer. But he did hold the door open for her. She walked into the restaurant. It was brightly lit. There were three tables with customers. On the nine other available tables, there were tan paper placemats and silverware wrapped in white paper napkins.

A woman, maybe midthirties, with gorgeous long red hair to her waist pulled back into a low ponytail, walked through the swinging door at the rear of the restaurant. She carried plates in both hands. She gave them a quick smile, but when her gaze settled on Chase, it faded.

She set her plates down with a thud, startling the older couple at the table, who also turned to stare at the two of them.

“Damn you, Chase Hollister,” she said. “You just cost me ten bucks. I bet that you wouldn’t come back.”

Chapter Three

She watched as Chase reached into his pocket, pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to the woman. “Now we’re even.”

The woman threw her head back and laughed. “How’s your good-for-nothing brother?” she asked.

“Still thinks he’s the boss of me,” Chase said.

She laughed again. “Nobody was ever the boss of you, that’s for sure. People round here still talk about some of the stuff you pulled.”

Hmm... Was it possible that there was more to Detective Hollister than his professional attitude let on?

Chase turned toward her. “This is my wife, Raney,” he said smoothly, as if it were really true and he’d been introducing her for a long time as his wife. “Raney, this is Trish Wright.”

“Wright-Roper,” the woman corrected.

“Didn’t realize you were married,” Chase said.

“Widowed,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Chase apologized, sounding as if he meant it.

The pretty woman shrugged but Raney could tell that the pain was still there. But she lifted her chin and extended a hand in Raney’s direction.

There was a history between Chase and Trish but Raney couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Not lovers. But something. She shook the woman’s hand.

“Been to the old place yet?” Trish asked.

“Nope. Just got into town.”

“You’ll have your work cut out for you,” she said. “It’s gone downhill in the past few years.”

Chase shrugged as if the news didn’t bother him. But Raney saw him swallow hard. “Not planning on staying there long,” he said.

“Well, don’t be a stranger while you’re here,” she said. “I know Summer would like to see you. She works the day shift.” Trish grabbed two menus from the counter and led them to a table in the corner of the café. Raney noticed that Chase didn’t make eye contact with anyone else in the room.

They sat down. “Old friend?” Raney murmured, opening her menu.

He nodded. “I’ve known Trish since I was a kid. My older brother, Bray, dated Summer, Trish’s sister. I always thought they might get married someday but he enlisted in the marines right out of high school and she married some other guy.”

“How long since you’ve been in Ravesville?”

“I came back once, about eight years ago, when my mother died. Other than that, thirteen years,” he said. “What are you having for dinner?” he asked, quickly changing the subject.

So he hadn’t come for his stepfather’s funeral. That was why he hadn’t known whether it was big or small. But he clearly didn’t want to talk about it. She tried to tell herself that she didn’t care. She didn’t need his life story. She just needed a place to stay where she’d be safe. Someplace in the middle of Missouri was as good as any.

When Trish returned, pen in hand, Raney closed her menu. “I’ll take a salad with grilled...” She caught a glimpse of her reflection and almost jerked back in surprise. The change was almost too much to take in. If Sandy had been more forthcoming about the intended results, she’d have probably bolted from the chair.

But she was glad that she hadn’t. She liked the new look. Had never considered going blond but now she might never go back.

One thing she could thank Harry Malone for.

“Actually,” she said. “No salad. I’ll take a bacon cheeseburger. With fries.”

Chase ordered the meat loaf. Once Trish had walked away, he looked at her. “Salad just wasn’t going to cut it?” he asked, obviously trying to think of something to say.

She was going to shrug it off but then decided that if they were going to live together for the next month as husband and wife, she needed to be honest with him. “That would have been BHM. Before Harry Malone. Now I pretty much treat myself to whatever I want, when I want it.”

Come to think of it, maybe that was why she was digging the new haircut and look. It fit the new Raney Taylor. The Raney Taylor that she was molding.

He studied her, then spoke quietly but with conviction. “If it’s any consolidation, the son of a bitch is going to pay. He’s going to go to prison and, trust me on this, there will be somebody there that will make his life a living hell.”

She was counting on that.

When Trish delivered their food, it looked delicious. She picked up her burger, squished the bun so that it would fit in her mouth and took a bite. A bit of sauce leaked out and she licked her lips. And then swallowed too quickly when she realized that he was watching her.

“Ouch,” she said, pressing on her esophagus.

“Careful,” he said.

She always used to be. And look where it had gotten her. “So what did you do to earn your reputation as the town bad boy?” she asked.

He scratched his head. “A little of this, a lot of that.”

“And you became a cop to redeem yourself?”

“I became a cop because the St. Louis Police Department was hiring and I needed a way to support myself and my younger brother. Fortunately for me, it was a good fit. Maybe because of my troublemaking youth.”

She took another bite, smaller this time. “There wasn’t much you hadn’t seen or done.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Trust me on this. I might have made some people talk here in Ravesville but what I was doing was kid’s play in comparison to what I saw my first six months on the street.”

“So you were just naughty enough to cause your parents some angst.”

His very nice amber eyes clouded over. “Something like that.”

They ate in silence. Trish swung by and picked up their dirty plates and left a check. Chase pulled some bills out of his pocket and tossed them on the table.

“Ready?” he asked.

* * *

WHEN HIS WIFE nodded that she was good to go, he almost said, Hell no, let’s have some cheesecake. Anything to delay a trip back down memory lane.

But he wasn’t going to make it any better by putting it off. He led her back to the car and drove a mile and half farther on the highway before taking a right on Mahogany Lane. The road turned to gravel and he slowed his SUV. He passed the Fitzlers’ house and noticed that there were lights on. Was it possible that Old Man Fitzler and his wife still lived there? Or maybe they’d moved on to one of those assisted-living centers and one of their daughters had moved in.

Damn, he’d envied those girls.

He didn’t think Mr. Fitzler had ever even raised his voice, let alone his hand.

He slowed the vehicle even more and turned into the driveway. His lights picked up the details of the old house.

Over a hundred years old, the two-story white farmhouse looked sturdy enough. It had been the traditional four rooms down, kitchen, dining room, living room and bath, and four rooms up, three bedrooms and a bath, until sometime in the mid-1960s. The owner had pushed out the back wall and added to the downstairs, putting in another large bedroom and private bathroom. They’d done a nice job with the construction and the addition seemed to fit nicely with the rest of the house.

When Chase’s parents had looked at the home some ten years later, it had seemed perfect to the young couple who were anxious to have a family. Chase always figured that once three boys had come along, his mother had been eternally grateful that she could ship them upstairs.

There were a few changes, Chase noted dispassionately. Brick had added green shutters at some point in the past eight years. They hadn’t been there when Chase and his brothers had come home for his mother’s funeral.

The wide wraparound porch looked the same, down to the hammock that was strung in the corner. He’d slept in that more than a few times. Nights when it was warm and he chose to. Nights when it was cold and Brick had banished him from the house. Those were the nights when he’d wanted to keep walking, to wake up somewhere else, but he would not do that to his mother, to Cal.

The bushes near the foundation were wildly overgrown and as he pulled closer, he could see that the paint on the house was peeling and the front steps looked as if they were rotting away in places.

He chanced a glance at Raney. Her eyes were moving, taking it in.

She was probably getting ready to bolt from the car. “Hopefully, it’s better inside.”

She shrugged. “It’s got good bones,” she said. “I love the porch and all the big windows.”

Brick had pushed Calvin’s hand through one of those windows one winter night. That was when Chase and the man had come to a deal of sorts.

He turned off the car and killed the lights. It made him realize how dark the yard was. “Watch your step,” he said when she opened her door.

They each grabbed their own suitcase and picked their way across the patchy grass. When they reached the long sidewalk that led to the house, he stopped. Bray had sent him a text letting him know that the attorney was putting a key in the mailbox. Chase flipped down the rusted aluminum door and sure enough, it was there.

He led the way up the sidewalk and stairs and onto the porch. “Be careful,” he warned again. He unlocked the door, pushed it open, listened for a minute but didn’t hear anything. He reached his hand around to feel for the light switch and, he had to admit, felt better when light flooded the area.

To the right was the living room with a couch and two chairs that he didn’t recognize and to the left, the dining room with his mother’s big wooden table. He glanced down the hallway. In the back of the house, still in darkness, would be the big kitchen. It had a window over the sink and his mother had loved to stand there and watch the deer and the wild turkeys wander through the backyard.

At some point Brick had painted the dark brown woodwork white, but it must have been a poor grade of paint because it was peeling in multiple places. There were cracks in the plaster walls and multiple brown patches on the ceiling, suggesting that rain had leaked into the second floor all the way to the first floor. That wasn’t a good sign.

He flipped on additional lights as they walked. When they entered the kitchen, the first thing he saw was the open newspaper on the table, along with a half-drank cup of tea with the bag still in it. Out of habit, he felt the cup. It was stone cold.

There was a dirty plate in the sink. Brick had had eggs for his last meal.

He opened the refrigerator. Not full by any means, but there were small packages of cheese and lunchmeat, some half-used bottles of salad dressing and ketchup, and a quart of milk. Something, he wasn’t sure what, had spilled at some point on the top shelf and dripped down, leaving remains all the way to the bottom. It smelled sweet.

Brick had gotten sloppy in his old age. Or maybe he’d always been a pig and Sally Hollister had managed to cover up for him.

He turned, realizing that Raney had ventured off into the direction of the downstairs bedroom. He followed her, his chest feeling tighter with each step. He didn’t want to look at Brick’s bedroom, didn’t want to have that intimate of a connection to the man.

Raney stopped in the doorway. Chase stood behind her. There was a regular-size bed, made up with an ugly shiny green bedspread. The matching drapes were drawn tight, giving the room an eerie feel. The gold paint on the walls made the room look dirty. The door to the bathroom was open. With its dated green fixtures, it looked exactly like he remembered.

He sure as hell wasn’t sleeping down here. “Let’s take a look upstairs,” he said.

The wooden steps creaked as they made their way upstairs. He saw Raney flick her hand over her hair and realized she’d disturbed a large cobweb. The carpet in the hallway was threadbare and all the doors were closed.

“I don’t think your stepfather was up here much,” Raney said.

He nodded and opened the first door. This had been Bray’s room. He felt for the light switch and flipped it up. The room was completely empty.

He walked down the hall a few steps toward his old room. He turned the handle of the door, expecting it to open, but it didn’t.

The door was locked. And for some crazy reason, that irritated the hell out of him. Without conscious thought, Chase lifted his good leg and kicked the damn door. It flew back, breaking the top hinge. He heard Raney’s gasp but he ignored it. He felt for the light switch, flipped it and, when nothing happened, he stepped back so that light from the hallway could filter in.

The room was completely empty. He looked up at the ceiling light fixture. Even the lightbulb had been removed.

“Do you think perhaps there’s an air mattress somewhere?” Raney asked, her tone light.

There was only one bedroom left to try. Cal’s. The door swung open and the light worked. In the middle of the room was a queen-size mattress, still with its plastic wrapper, without any bedding or even a bed frame. The mattress and box spring sat directly on the wood floor. There was a bedside table with a lamp. There was no other furniture in the room.

Why the hell had Brick bought a new mattress and put it upstairs in Cal’s old room? And never put sheets or a blanket on it? Based on the layer of dust on the plastic, the mattress had been up here for some time. It wasn’t as if Brick had done it recently and just hadn’t finished the project.

Well, whatever the reason, it wasn’t great but it was better than sleeping on the wood floor. “You can sleep in here,” he said. He pulled a pocketknife out of his jeans, sliced open the plastic and ripped it off the mattress. Dust flew into the air and she sneezed.

“Sorry,” he said. “We can get some sheets tomorrow.”

She sat down on the edge of the mattress. “Where will you sleep?” she asked.

“Downstairs. On the couch. There’s no reason to believe that anybody knows that Lorraine Taylor is in this house. But if anything scares you, just yell. I’m a light sleeper. I’ll hear you.”

She looked around the room. She sighed a little dramatically. “All these years and I never ever envisioned my wedding night would go exactly like this.”

For the first time since Chief Bates had announced that he and Lorraine Taylor were posing as husband and wife, he felt like smiling. She was being a good sport. Her last safe house had no doubt been better.

He wanted to promise that everything would look better in the light of day but based on what he’d seen tonight, he thought the opposite was probably true. He would not have volunteered to bring her to Ravesville if he’d known the house was in this bad of shape.

“Good night,” he said.

He stuck his head into the bathroom that was across the hall. Ran the water in the faucet until it turned clear and flushed the toilet a couple times. There was toilet paper but it was covered with a layer of dust. He unrolled several sheets, ripped them off, and threw them in the small empty garbage can. There were no towels so he ran downstairs, got several clean ones from the cupboard in the downstairs bathroom and took them back upstairs.

It wasn’t camping but it was close.

Finally, he went back downstairs and, still fully dressed, stretched out on the couch. It was too short for him and his feet hung over the edge. He was so damn tired. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d told his brother that he’d been awake for more than a day. He had managed to grab some sleep after he’d talked to Dawson but the knowledge that the chief was counting on them had weighed heavily on his mind.

Now, even though his body craved rest, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind trying to wrap itself around the fact that he was back in Ravesville, back in the house that he’d left thirteen years ago, swearing that he’d never return.

On the drive here, he’d wondered if he’d feel Brick in the house. Or even his mother. But the house just felt empty, so empty it seemed as if there had never been life here.

But that wasn’t true. There had been life and love when Jack Hollister had been alive. His father would have despised Brick, would have hated what had become of the family.

As odd as it seemed, he could feel his father in the house. He hadn’t been able to do that when Brick was alive and living here. But now it felt very different. It was almost as if he could see him standing in front of the big windows, waving at him and his brothers to come in for dinner. Could see him walking through the house, a fishing pole in one hand and sack lunches in the other, yelling for his sons to hurry up, that the trout were biting.

As if he’d conjured up old spirits, he heard a noise. Something soft. Outside. He eased off the couch, used a finger to pull back the heavy drapes and watched the yard.

Nothing moved in the darkness. He waited, continuing to watch. Five minutes later, a dark shape, low to the ground, crossed the gravel.

A groundhog. He let out the breath he’d been holding. He’d been spooked by an animal.

He lay back down, rubbed his sore thigh and closed his eyes. Upstairs, he heard a door open and close, then the sound of water running through the pipes as Raney turned on the shower. She’d had a hell of a day but had seemed to handle it well. She’d been shot at yesterday, hustled out of Florida this morning, pushed into a fake marriage and had ended up here, in a house of neglect.

He’d clean up the place tomorrow, at least get the top layer of dust off. Then he would pitch everything in the refrigerator and make a quick trip to town for food. If the dinner Raney had eaten tonight was any indication, she had a good appetite. Which was surprising considering she was pretty slim.

But the curves were there. He’d seen that firsthand in the wedding dress. That image had stayed with him the entire drive from St. Louis to Ravesville. That and the memory of the feel of her mouth.

He heard the water shut off. Let himself have the guilty pleasure of imaging Raney’s wet body stepping over the edge of the old tub. Of her drying off on the threadbare towel.

He heard the door open and the floor creak as she crossed the hall. He wondered if she’d brought pajamas or if she slept naked.

He let out a breath, happy to let that image rest on his brain.

* * *

WHEN HE WOKE UP, the sun was low in the sky. He checked the time. A little past seven. He sat up, stretched and went in search of coffee.

There was no coffeepot on the counter. He opened cupboards. Not even a jar of instant. It was another reason to despise Brick.

He walked up the stairs and muscle memory kicked in, making it easy for him to avoid the same squeaky boards that had been there thirteen years ago. Raney’s bedroom door was closed. He considered knocking but decided against it.

She probably needed her sleep.

He opened the door and stopped. The woman knew how to take up a bed. She slept on her stomach with her head at ten o’clock and her feet at four o’clock. She wasn’t naked but her sweet little body was plenty sexy in her lime green shorts and white-and-green-striped T-shirt. She was breathing deeply.

She’d tossed the clothes that she’d been wearing the night before into a pile. On top was her bra and panties, a silky pale yellow with lots of lace.

His face felt warm and when she stirred, he thought maybe he’d moaned.

Dawson was right. He needed to get more regular sex.

He took a step back, carefully closing the door. He could run into town, pick up some coffees and pastries from the bakery and be back before she ever woke up. Maybe that would make up for stashing her in this dump.

He left the house, making sure that he locked the door behind him. The drive to town took just minutes and when he walked into the bakery, the first thing he saw was the cakes in the display case.

It made him remember how the birthday/wedding cake had amused Raney. He debated buying another one just to see her reaction but instead got six doughnuts and a coffee cake along with two extralarge coffees.

He sipped his coffee on the way home. When he pulled into the yard, he did not notice anything amiss. Which was why, when he opened the door and looked down the hallway into the kitchen, he got caught short.

He saw the man. Catalogued his dirty blue jeans and dark sweatshirt and the greasy hair that hung to his shoulders.

Saw all that but what Chase focused on was the knife that the man held. It had a shiny six-inch blade and was raised and pointed.

At Raney.

Still in her pajamas, she had her back pressed up against the sink. Her face was pale and her eyes were big.

The man leaped toward her. Chase pulled his gun but knew that he was going to be too late.

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