She’ll risk everything to uncover her past

The first thrilling Covert Operatives tale

An infant is believed to have been murdered thirty years ago—but investigative journalist Dana Lang is convinced she’s that baby. Now someone’s willing to kill to stop her investigation. And only secretive deputy Quinn Dawson, whose grandfather may have faked Dana’s death to protect her, can keep her safe. But a killer’s dead set on burying the past—and them—for good.

VIRGINIA VAUGHAN is a born-and-raised Mississippi girl. She is blessed to come from a large Southern family, and her fondest memories include listening to stories recounted around the dinner table. She was a lover of books from a young age, devouring tales of romance, danger and love. She soon started writing them herself. You can connect with Virginia through her website, virginiavaughanonline.com, or through the publisher.

Also by Virginia Vaughan

Covert Operatives

Cold Case Cover-Up

Rangers Under Fire

Yuletide Abduction

Reunion Mission

Ranch Refuge

Mistletoe Reunion Threat

Mission Undercover

Mission: Memory Recall

No Safe Haven

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Cold Case Cover-Up

Virginia Vaughan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08562-5

COLD CASE COVER-UP

© 2018 Virginia Vaughan

Published in Great Britain 2018

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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“Get down!” Quinn hollered as a shot rang out, hitting the back of his truck’s bed.

He grabbed hold of Dana and pushed her to the seat.

“Who are they?” she shouted.

Gripping the steering wheel, Quinn kicked in to survival mode, swerving on the road to make them more difficult to hit. He glanced out the mirror at the pursuing car and saw both the driver and passenger were wearing masks. “I wish I knew.”

Another shot sounded, this one shattering the back window. Dana covered her head with her hands as she crouched by the seat as best she could.

A third shot hit the tire. Quinn heard the pop of the rubber blow, then the truck veered sharply to the right, sending them spinning. He turned into the spin, doing his best to right the vehicle, but the truck was going too fast.

“Hang on,” he managed to shout before the truck smashed into the guardrail and tilted into the air. His seat belt locked as he was thrown forward, and he heard Dana scream as the truck plummeted down the embankment, rolling with each sickening second.

Dear Reader,

Is there anything more fun than finding a new series to delve into? It’s the same for writers!

I’m so thankful to have the opportunity to start this new series, Covert Operatives, with Quinn and Dana’s story. These were two such independent characters that at times they were difficult for even me to understand. But they both needed the same thing we all do—love and family. Coming from a rather large family myself, I sometimes wish I had the freedom to pick up and go and do my own thing without having to worry about family obligations, but when I delve into a story like this one and remember there are so many people out there like Dana—possibly even some of my readers—who are searching for the very thing I often take for granted, I’m humbled and thankful.

I hope you enjoyed this story and will continue with me on this journey into this new series.

I love hearing from my readers! You can connect with me online through my website virginiavaughanonline.com and at Facebook.com/ginvaughanbooks.

Sincerely,

Virginia Vaughan

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.

—Jeremiah 29:11

To Jon Michael and Carter.

You’ve given my life new meaning. I love you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dear Reader

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

Extract

About the Publisher

ONE

Someone was watching her.

The hairs on her neck prickled a warning. Dana Lang glanced around the coffee shop but saw no one looking her way or appearing fixated on her. Still, her instincts were never wrong. As a television investigative journalist, she was used to people recognizing her, but this felt different. This felt like daggers in her back.

She tried to shake off the feeling and tell herself she was being silly. No one in this sleepy little town of West Bend, Missouri, knew her. She glanced at the television mounted to the wall while she waited for her coffee to be ready. The news channels were still reporting about the embassy attack six weeks earlier and the heroic eight-man team of CIA-contracted security operatives who’d rescued eighteen Americans trapped inside. Five people had died in all, including two of the operatives involved in the rescue.

She accepted her drink as her own interview with one of the contractors replayed in her mind. She’d stumbled upon a gold mine when Michael “Rizzo” Ricardo had contacted her wanting to tell his story about the night of the attack and how the US government had ordered the operatives to stand down. They’d defied orders instead and become national heroes in the process. He’d felt betrayed by his government’s response to the attack and wanted to let the world know it. Until his interview, only the names of the two operatives who had died—Tommy Woods and Mike Piven—had been released.

Dana ignored the reminder that she needed to be back in Chicago—or anywhere but West Bend—digging in to Rizzo’s life and trying to uncover the identities of his teammates to corroborate his story. So far, Rizzo was the only one to come forward to tell the tale of being abandoned by their country during the attack.

But she resisted the urge to pack up and leave. Every reporter in the nation was vying for that story, and while uncovering the names of the other operatives would be a monumental boost to her career, the case she was focusing on now would impact her life so much more. Five days ago, the night before her interview with Rizzo, she’d discovered a box in her late mother’s belongings that had shattered her world and sent her on this quest to West Bend to uncover the truth about her lineage.

The box she’d found had contained adoption papers. Dana had never even known she’d been adopted. But the surprises hadn’t ended there. She’d also discovered a newspaper article about the murders of Rene Renfield and her infant daughter, Alicia, along with a photograph that looked suspiciously like one of Dana’s own baby photos. There was also a letter from the preacher who’d arranged her adoption that explained to her parents how she’d been left at the church, which had been considered a safe haven, by someone he trusted who’d insisted the child was in danger and needed to be believed dead. And there was a short note from the person who’d abandoned her. She didn’t know if her parents had ever discovered anything solid in their questioning, if they’d taken the preacher’s word and decided not to rock the boat, or if her father’s death in a car wreck when Dana was eleven had ended their search for answers. Regardless, now that she knew, she was determined to finish their investigation and uncover the truth. Was she Alicia Renfield? And, if she was, who murdered her birth mother and left her for dead?

Dana exited the coffee shop and headed back to her hotel. As she walked, she noticed the stares and curious glances of the townspeople. She’d heard small towns were notorious for their gossip grapevines, but she’d only arrived yesterday. Did these people know she was here to investigate a thirty-year-old murder, or had they recognized her from her job as a TV cold case reporter on Newswatch? For all she knew, they could be staring because she was an unfamiliar face in a town where everybody knew everybody else.

But these stares didn’t feel sinister, not like the one she’d felt in the coffee shop. Her friends had tried to warn her that she wouldn’t be accepted into a small town as a stranger poking her nose into the town’s business, but it was her business, too. This terrible crime had left West Bend in a state of shock, but it may have also forever changed her path. She’d try to confirm her suspicions, and if they were true, find out who killed her mother and why.

As she walked, she checked off her itinerary in her head. She’d already been to the local library and made friends with Lila, the librarian, who’d told her all their newspaper archives from thirty years earlier were still on microfiche. Their digital records only went back twenty years. Tomorrow, she would make a day of checking out the old newspaper articles on the murder. This evening, she was heading to the sheriff’s office to have a closer look at the police files for the case. The records clerk, a lovely woman named Beverly Shorter, had been pleasant enough on the phone and offered to help her in any way possible, but when Dana had mentioned the Renfield murders, she’d insisted the records were not available for public access since it was still an open case. Dana was confident she could change Beverly’s mind. She’d built a successful career by breaking news stories and you didn’t do that by accepting no for an answer.

She stopped suddenly and turned, that prickling sensation rushing through her again. She glanced at the people on the street but saw nothing suspicious—no one was focusing excessively on her. But how would she even recognize something out of the ordinary here? She didn’t know these people. And who would have a reason to follow her?

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and checked the caller ID. It was her producer, Mason Sheffield. She sent the call to voice mail. She didn’t want to talk to him right now. He’d agreed to give her this time off even though he wanted her on the embassy-bombing story and following up on Rizzo’s colleagues. But as big as that story was, this one would impact her life forever. She’d interviewed countless families of victims of crime and listened to them talking about their loved ones and their longing to see justice done. She realized she wanted that, too. Besides, the Ricardo case was stalled until more members of the secret CIA security detail came forward or were outed as operatives. She knew there were other reporters following leads to their whereabouts, but she couldn’t think about that now. This case, proving her identity and finding out who murdered her birth mother and who left her abandoned and alone as an infant, was her main focus now. She’d been alone for too long. It was time to discover who she was once and for all.

She walked into the hotel and nodded at the desk clerk who’d checked her in the previous evening. He was a humorous man and had recognized her from her show. Had he tipped off everyone in town that she was staying at his hotel? Could that explain her eerie feeling of being followed?

She got into the elevator and willed it to close before anyone jumped in with her. No one did and she breathed a sigh of relief when the doors slid shut. She rode it to the third floor then got off. Her room was at the end of the hall, but she stopped after only a few steps. The hairs on her neck stood on end again as she saw the door to her room was open. The elevator closed behind her and dinged, startling her. She took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. She could call hotel security or the police, but how silly would she feel if it was only housekeeping refreshing the towels? No, she was allowing her imagination to run wild and that sense of being watched to control her. Still, as she moved down the hallway, bracing to confront whoever was there, she wished she had something to defend herself with. Her iced coffee wasn’t going to stop anyone. Why hadn’t she ordered it hot? She inched toward the open doorway and heard noise coming from inside.

Someone was definitely in her room!

She pushed open the door and spotted a figure clad in black digging through her suitcase.

“Who are you?” she called.

The intruder turned her way, his face covered by a mask. Before she could move, he ran toward her, shouldered past her and knocked her backward into the wall. She screamed as she fell, her coffee spraying into the air. She pulled herself up in time to see the intruder burst through the door to the stairwell, then he was gone.

She quickly crawled to her feet, scooped up her cell phone and dialed 911. When the operator came on asking for her emergency, Dana replied, “Someone broke into my hotel room.”

“What’s the address, ma’am?”

She walked into her room, ready to give the address of the hotel, when something else grabbed her attention. On the wall, she’d pinned up her notes about the case, the newspaper article she’d found in her mother’s belongings, the letter from the preacher and the note left with her when she was abandoned as a baby. Plastered on the wall beneath that in big, black, spray-painted letters were the words Go Home.

“Ma’am, are you still there? I need to know where you are.”

She rattled off the name of the hotel then, before hanging up, whispered, “Please hurry.”

* * *

I’m not ready for this.

Quinn Dawson parked his cruiser in front of the hotel and got out. He was tired, emotionally and physically. He’d often moonlighted as a reserve deputy for his father whenever he wasn’t on assignment overseas providing covert security for the CIA as part of the Security Operations Abroad, or SOA as they referred to the company, and his father thought doing so now would be good for him, but Quinn wasn’t so sure. He was still reeling from the attack on the embassy and the grief of losing his best friend in the fight that ensued. He wasn’t sure he was up for battling crime in his own hometown.

He entered the hotel lobby and was greeted by Milo Sherman, the night clerk, who handed him a room key and pointed to a woman sitting in a chair at one side of the small lobby. He sized her up as he headed her way. Even if she hadn’t been staying in the hotel, he’d have known she wasn’t a local because of the high-end heels she wore. And if he’d seen those long legs before, he would have remembered.

She sat with her head down and her long blond hair hanging over her face, but the sight of her when she glanced up at him nearly sent him falling backward and hightailing it out of the hotel. He checked that response and maintained his cool, recognizing her long thin face, soft brown eyes and the subtle curve of her lips.

Dana Lang.

He’d never met her before, but he knew her. She was the reporter who’d interviewed one of his teammates, Rizzo, and plastered his name and face all over the world. When a frenzied mob bent on destruction and murder had attacked an embassy compound in Libya six weeks ago, Quinn, Rizzo and the rest of their group had orchestrated a counterattack and rescued eighteen Americans. Unfortunately, five people had died in the incident, including two operatives, one of them Quinn’s best friend, Tommy Woods. The encounter itself had stirred up a storm of controversy, reignited by Rizzo Ricardo’s proclamation that he’d been there and participated in the rescue, and that his government had left them all to die. The press, led by Dana Lang, had jumped on his story and catapulted him to stardom in a matter of days. They’d also pressured him to name his other teammates. So far, Rizzo had held out, but Quinn suspected it was only a matter of time before his own name became associated with the incident as well. And being outed as a former Delta operator and current SOA member would not only put his life in danger, but could also end his career. Now, this reporter was here in his hometown. Had Rizzo given up his name already? He took in a sharp breath and braced himself for the barrage of questions he was certain was about to blast him.

However, when she stood and pulled back her hair, he saw the redness in her eyes and the way her hands shook as she held one out to him. Was it possible this wasn’t a ploy to draw him here after all?

“Thank you for coming, Deputy. My name is—”

“Dana Lang. I know who you are.”

She gave him a gracious smile he was certain she used for fans of her show. He’d never said he was a fan.

He nodded, deciding it was better not to draw attention to himself in case she hadn’t yet realized who he was. She couldn’t have known tonight was the night he’d finally conceded to his father’s urgings and decided to work. “Can you tell me what happened?”

She nodded and took a deep breath, and as she began talking, he could see her hands quiver. She was shaken up. That couldn’t be faked. “I was returning to my room when I noticed the door open. When I entered, someone was in there going through my belongings. I said something and he turned to look at me, then pushed past me and ran down the hall into the stairwell. He knocked me down as he fled.” She motioned to her stained blouse. “That’s how I spilled iced coffee all over me.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No, and I didn’t get a good look at him. He was tall and thin, but his face was hidden by a ski mask. And when he ran toward me, I was too startled to really get a good look.”

“What was missing from your room?”

“Nothing.”

“He didn’t take anything?” That surprised him. Most break-ins were burglaries. Had she interrupted him before he could find anything of value?

“Not that I can tell. My belongings were scattered, but I don’t think anything was missing. I had my cell phone and wallet with me and I didn’t bring anything valuable, so there wasn’t much for him to take. But he did leave something. A threatening message spray-painted on the wall.”

He jotted down notes, then asked her to follow him upstairs. Now that she had the benefit of time and someone else with her, perhaps she would notice something else that could help pinpoint who’d done this deed.

She walked with him to the elevator, her arms curled over her chest and her head low, and stepped inside with hesitation.

“No one’s going to hurt you,” he assured her. “I’m here with you.” He touched her elbow, trying to reassure her, but instantly regretted it as a spark raced up his hand. He had no business noticing how dainty and soft her arm was or breathing in the sweet scent of her shampoo. This woman could ruin his life with one story. He had to remain on his guard around her at all times.

He cleared his throat as he tried to regain his composure and act professionally. “How long have you been in town?”

“I arrived last night,” she told him.

Welcome to West Bend, he thought, hating that this would forever be the image she’d take from his hometown.

The elevator doors slid open and she hesitated a moment before getting out, then let him take the lead as they walked down the hall.

He unlocked her door with the key Milo had given him and pushed it open. Clothes were scattered from a suitcase onto the bed. Drawers were open. Someone had been searching for something, and by the look of the room, he’d been here a while. If he hadn’t stolen anything, it was either because he hadn’t found anything of value, or else that wasn’t the reason he’d come.

He turned and saw a display on the wall of photos and notes, along with the threatening graffiti Dana had mentioned. It looked like she was making an evidence board. He glanced at the date on an Associated Press article about a murder in his hometown and realized it was referencing the Renfield murders, a thirty-year-old cold case.

“Is this all for an upcoming show?” he asked her.

“Sort of. It’s a case that’s recently caught my interest. What do you know about the murders?”

He let his gaze fall back to the wall of what seemed to him random information. Was it possible this was the reason she was in town and it had nothing to do with him? Please, God, please. “Just what I’ve heard throughout the years. Rumors, gossip, folklore, that’s all.”

“Do you think he killed her? Paul Renfield? The article says he killed his wife and child. Do you think he did it?”

He shrugged. “That’s what they say.”

“Did they ever find him? I have the AP article that got picked up, but the local newspaper’s files aren’t online so I don’t really know what happened after the initial report. I had planned on spending this evening digging into the files at the sheriff’s office, but after this, I think I’ll stay in tonight instead.”

He remembered hearing about this case when he was a kid. His grandfather had been the sheriff at the time of the murders and Quinn knew the murder of that mother and little girl had haunted him until his dying day. It was a case he’d never been able to solve. “It was a long time ago.”

He wasn’t really in to having this conversation with her. All he wanted was to take her statement and get out before her radar zeroed in on him. It was too coincidental that she was in his town when Rizzo’s story was splashed all over the news. “It was before my time. I didn’t know any of these people so I can’t really say.”

But as he scanned the wall again, his gaze landed on one of the handwritten notes and he realized he recognized that writing. He pulled it from the wall and read the short missive.

Please take care of this child. She just became an orphan.

“What is it?” she asked him, suddenly alert and beside him, her face anxious with curiosity.

“It looks like my grandfather’s handwriting. He was the sheriff back when the murders happened, so it’s not odd to see his handwriting. I guess it caught me off guard.” He pinned the paper back to the wall.

She stepped closer to him and glanced at the sheet of paper he’d held. “You recognize this handwriting as your grandfather’s? Are you certain? And your grandfather was the sheriff at the time of murders? Sheriff Bill Mackey?”

“That’s right. Why?”

“This note, the one with his handwriting, was left with a child at a church sixty miles from here just days after the murders took place. It was the only clue pointing to who left her, since the preacher didn’t tell the adoptive parents.”

He frowned. What was she talking about? “I’ve never heard that.”

“Few people have.” She locked eyes with him. They were now on fire with excitement. “I don’t think Alicia Renfield died that night at all. I think she was found alive and your grandfather not only knew it, he hid her away and faked her death.”

She was crazy. Or was she so hungry for a story that she would resort to making up nonsense? He shook his head and backed away from her, anger biting at him. His grandfather had been a hero in this town and to him. His death two years ago had rocked Quinn. Her accusations were unthinkable. He grimaced and locked eyes with her, his body now on alert. “Watch what you say about my grandfather. He was a good man. He would never be involved in what you’re accusing him of.”

“You said yourself the handwriting matched.”

He grimaced, then tried to backtrack. “Maybe I was wrong. It could belong to anyone.” He shouldered past her and started to walk out, but he stopped. She was back in town to investigate this murder and it seemed as if she intended to drag his grandfather’s good name through the mud to get her story. “He was a good sheriff, and he was a good man.”

“I’m trying to find out the truth about what happened that night.”

“And you don’t care who you hurt in the process, do you?”

Her eyes widened in surprise at his accusation. “I’m only trying to uncover the truth. My goal isn’t to harm anyone.”

“It doesn’t matter that he’s not here to defend himself anymore?”

She sighed. “Look, I’m not trying to say Sheriff Mackey committed the murders. I only want to find out what he covered up and why. I have a letter from the preacher of the church that says whoever left the child with him believed she was in danger. He died six years ago, so I can’t question him. Besides, your grandfather may be dead, but someone obviously doesn’t want me looking into this.” She pointed at the graffiti on the wall to confirm her words.

She was right. Someone had broken into her room. And this wasn’t a random burglary, either. Whoever it was hadn’t stolen anything, which meant they had either been interrupted before finding what they were looking for, or they just wanted to see what she was investigating and what evidence she had. And they’d come paint-in-hand to warn her off.

She jutted out her chin stubbornly, but he could see the fear reflected in her brown eyes. “I’ll admit I was a little rattled by this, but I won’t be scared off so easily.”

He shouldn’t be allowing her to get under his skin, but he found himself admiring the way she tried to show him a strong front when she was so obviously frightened of what had happened here tonight. It made him want to find who did this, but he knew that was unlikely. “I’ll make a report, but it’s doubtful we’ll catch them. It won’t do much good to run prints since this is a hotel room and we wouldn’t be able to exclude anyone.”

“I understand.” She pulled at the collar of her shirt, a nervous gesture that belied the calm she was trying to show him. “Thank you for coming, Deputy...”

“Dawson,” he said. “Quinn Dawson.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Any relation to Sheriff Dawson?”

He nodded. She’d done her homework. “My father.”

“I see. Law enforcement in this town must be a family matter.”

“My brother, Rich, is also on the force full-time. I’m only a reserve deputy. I fill in whenever I’m in town.”

“Oh, what do you do the rest of the time?”

He grimaced. Why had he said that? He strived to be as vague as possible with his response. The last thing he wanted was to direct her radar his way if she really wasn’t on to him. “Private security.” He put away his notebook and handed her a card with the sheriff department’s information. “If you have any further issues or need any more information, call this number.”

“Thank you. I’ve already spoken to Beverly in your records department. I’m hoping to get a look at the case file, but she assures me it’s an open case and the records aren’t available to the public. Any tips on getting her to change her mind?”

“Beverly won’t release anything without my father’s approval.”

“How cooperative do you think your father will be about releasing that information?”

He knew. Zero cooperation. “I hope you have a plan B,” he told her before walking out.

* * *

The next morning, Dana was met with opposition at the sheriff’s office just as Quinn had predicted.

“The Renfield murders are still technically an open case and we don’t comment to the press on open cases.” Sheriff John Dawson was sharp and clear in his tone. He apparently didn’t care for Dana sticking her nose into his town’s business and he wasn’t going to help her do it.

She wondered if Quinn had told his father that she’d come to town to drag his grandfather’s—Sheriff Dawson’s father-in-law’s—name through the mud. That wasn’t her intention. She wished Quinn believed that, but then why did she care what he thought? The truth was she was touched by the way he’d stood up for his grandfather. He had a family here and he was looking out for them. She liked that. Her own family had disintegrated when her father was killed. Her mother had lost herself in her grief and work and had eventually sent Dana away to boarding school. They had never regained their connection before her mother’s death last month, but Dana still remembered the times when they’d been a family. When she’d broken up with her boyfriend, Jason, several months ago, she was left wondering if she would ever have family of her own again. She’d been looking forward to marriage and one day soon having children. Jason had shattered those dreams when he’d run off with his physical therapist, and her mother’s death had left her completely alone in the world.

She sighed. No use swooning over the ruggedly handsome Quinn Dawson. She imagined he was looking forward to one day having a wife and four or five kids and living the small-town family dream. She wasn’t really suited for that kind of life. She glanced around the room at Rich Dawson. He’d already moved up in ranks and she figured he would one day follow in his father and grandfather’s footsteps and become sheriff. Did Quinn have those same ambitions? By his own admission, he’d taken a job outside of his family’s chosen profession. Was there some reason he hadn’t climbed on board the law enforcement career train?

She felt herself flush. He was right about her. She was always questioning things. Asking too many questions and allowing her thought process to go off in a million different directions. But she was a reporter and that was her job.

She locked eyes with Sheriff Dawson. “Is this case being actively investigated?”

“Not at this time. It’s been a while since we’ve had any leads.”

“Can you tell me when it was last actively investigated.”

He stood, promptly ending the conversation. “I appreciate your position, but as I said, we don’t release information on open cases.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d gotten flak from local authorities not wanting to share their records, but she was a little surprised that she wasn’t able to convince Sheriff Dawson to change his mind. Her charm and notoriety almost always worked.

“Sheriff, the case is thirty years old. Surely, you can make an exception given the age of the investigation. This may very well be a case where fresh eyes can make a difference.”

“My father-in-law was the sheriff at the time of these murders. I was friends with Paul and Rene Renfield. This town was shaken to its core by this incident. Believe me, Miss Lang, the case has been thoroughly investigated. Two people died that night, a woman and child, but this entire town was affected by it.”

She stood, too, realizing she wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. He wasn’t open to fresh eyes. But how would he feel if she presented him with evidence that Alicia Renfield didn’t die that night after all? Would he even believe the note had been written in his own father-in-law’s hand?

She thanked him, then walked out of his office without mentioning the note. If Quinn wanted to tell him, then so be it, but she wasn’t going to share her information if they weren’t willing to do the same.

* * *

Quinn heard the commotion in his dad’s office when he entered the deputies’ bullpen. All eyes were on the scene going on inside that office. From the best he could see, Dana Lang was standing up to his father without fear or hesitation. It took a strong person not to be intimidated by his angry glare. John Dawson had certainly been elected as sheriff based on his name and family connections because his curt personality left something to be desired. Quinn turned his gaze to his brother. Rich would be a successful sheriff one day. He had both the investigative skills and the personality to win people over, as well as a wife and kids everyone in town loved. He also had good ideas for the department, but first he had to wait out his father’s retirement or election defeat by another opponent, neither of which seemed would happen anytime soon.

The door opened and Dana walked out. Quinn set down his coffee as she headed his way, waving and flashing him a grateful smile. “Good morning. Well, you were right. He wouldn’t release them.”

He gave an easy shrug, noticing how much more put together she seemed today. The coffee stains were gone and her hair and makeup were perfect, but he didn’t miss the puffiness that remained around her eyes—evidence of her ordeal. She was certainly beautiful but he liked her more relaxed look from last night. This morning, she could have just stepped out of the hair-and-makeup department of her television show. “Can’t say I’m surprised. How was everything last night? Any other incidents?”

“None. Milo offered to transfer me to another room and I took him up on it. I don’t think I would have been able to sleep with those words glaring down on me all night.”

“I’m glad Milo took care of you.”

“How about you? Anything else exciting happen in town last night?”

He gave a slow shake of his head. His shifts were usually free from a lot of drama, but last night had been a snooze fest after he’d left her. “Nope, nothing. Besides your incident, it was all quiet everywhere else, too.”

“Good, that’s good. Well, it was nice to see you again, Quinn. I’d better be going. I have an appointment at the library with a microfiche machine.”

“You take care, Miss Lang. And be careful. Whoever wrote that threat knows what case you’re working on and obviously doesn’t like it.”

She gave him a smile, but he could see she didn’t need to be reminded that someone had targeted her. She’d probably spent most of the night unable to sleep from listening to noises outside and worrying that whoever had broken into her room would return with more than a paint can. “Thanks for the concern, but I’ll be fine. It’s not the first time someone has tried to convince me to stop investigating. I’ll be careful, though. And, please, call me Dana.”

He watched her walk out and realized he admired her tenacity. She was a tough lady and was determined to see this case through. He knew his grandfather wasn’t involved in the murders, but the image of that note kept running through his mind. If he’d written it, then he had been complicit in abandoning a child and possibly faking her death. Quinn had nearly convinced himself that he’d been wrong about the handwriting and it wasn’t his grandfather’s, but he’d been so sure when he’d first seen it.

“What are you doing here, Quinn?” Rich asked, coming up behind him, his voice holding a tinge of irritation. Quinn already knew the reason his brother was on edge. She was walking out the door. “Do you have any idea who that woman is?”

Quinn scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I know. I recognized her. Dana Lang. I got called in last night for a break-in at her hotel room. She says she’s working on a story about the Renfield murders.”

Rich was one of the few people who knew about Quinn’s involvement in the embassy attack. He’d shared what had happened with his brother and although he knew Rich wouldn’t have blabbed it, the rest of the family, or even those in town, could easily put it all together. They all knew he’d been gone at the same time as the attack, and they knew his background in Special Forces. Two plus two still equaled four in West Bend.

Rich shook his head. “But you just know she’s here sniffing out a story and who’s a bigger story right now than you? You should leave before it’s too late and don’t come back into town until she’s gone.”

“Great, I’ll be exiled from my own hometown.”

Rich touched his shoulder, pulling Quinn’s attention to him. “It’s better than having your face splashed all over every television in America.”

Quinn thought again about Rizzo and the press he was generating these days. His brother was right. He needed to stay as far away from Dana Lang as he could.

* * *

Dana walked to the library, where her journey here had started. She’d made friends with the head librarian, Lila, a wiry, bespectacled woman in her fifties and the first friendly face she’d encountered in town and, if yesterday’s events were any indication, the only friendly face she would see besides Quinn Dawson. But she wouldn’t be dissuaded. She’d faced opposition before on cases she’d investigated and she’d persevered. This would be no different.

Lila’s face lit up when Dana entered the library. She hurried around the main desk and pulled Dana into a hug. “I heard what happened to you last night,” she said. “Did you get hurt?”

She was a little shocked that the news had spread so fast, but then remembered small towns were notorious for everyone knowing everyone else’s business. “I’m fine. He didn’t take anything. Just spray-painted a nasty note on my hotel wall.”

“I feel responsible since I’m the one who recommended that hotel. It’s normally a perfectly safe place.”

She glanced at Lila and realized she was the only person besides the hotel clerk and the sheriff’s office who knew Dana was in town investigating this case. “Did you tell anyone where I was staying or what I was looking in to?”

Lila’s face reddened and she began stammering. “I might have mentioned it to a few folks when I was getting coffee yesterday afternoon. I’m sorry, Dana. I was excited to have a big-time television star in our town. I guess I was bragging. It felt good to have people think I was helping you.”

Dana sighed as she realized Lila probably hadn’t meant for anything bad to happen to her. But someone had heard what she was up to and decided to take matters into their own hands.

“Do you remember who was at the coffee shop yesterday?”

“Not really. Why?”

“Well, someone heard you. If I can figure out who, I might be able to track down the person who broke into my room.”

Lila’s face flushed. “Oh, well, then I suppose you’d also have to have the names of everyone at the grocery store and the beauty shop and everyone who came into the library yesterday. I might have mentioned it more than I let on.”

Dana smiled past her annoyance and tried to reassure her. “That’s okay. So basically, anyone could have heard about it.” You had to love the small-town grapevine. She tried another tactic. “Did anyone seem overly concerned about me being in town? Maybe someone asked a lot of questions about what I was working on?”

“Everyone was curious, of course, but I can’t think of anyone who would want to do you harm.”

She could see this was a dead end. It didn’t matter who had heard the news—she imagined by this point everyone in town knew it.

“Did you locate the microfiche I asked for?”

“I did. I’ll show you where they’re at.” Lila crossed the main floor and Dana followed her. Microfiche wasn’t used much anymore but Dana was surprised when Lila led her through the side door and up a flight of stairs. She’d expected it to be in an out-of-the-way place, like the basement.

She shot Lila a questioning glance.

“We had it downstairs until a pipe burst last year and flooded the basement. We moved the machine upstairs to a storage closet behind the stacks. It’s a little dark but it’s private. No one should bother you.”

She followed Lila through rows of shelves lined with books until they reached a door on the far wall. Lila unlocked the door and Dana stepped inside. The room was filled with boxes and supplies. In the corner was the microfiche machine with a chair pushed up to it. A fluorescent light flickered overhead, threatening to go out at any moment. Lila was right about it being private. Few people would venture here except by accident. But she’d faced worse circumstances and she wasn’t going to complain. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, Lila.”

She motioned to a box of microfiche next to the machine. “I pulled everything I could find on the murders for you. And the machine is set up to print to the circulation-desk printer downstairs. I’ll be around if you need anything.”

Lila disappeared into the stacks while Dana set down her purse and got to work. She pulled out the first microfiche film and placed it into the machine. She scrolled through the newspaper dates until she came to the front-page headline on the day after the murders: Double Murder Stuns West Bend.

The article went on to describe how the local volunteer fire department had responded to the fire at the Renfield home. One body had been discovered, that of Mrs. Rene Renfield. Police were being tight-lipped about how she died, but it was rumored that she was already deceased when the fire was started. The whereabouts of Paul Renfield and the couple’s one-year-old daughter, Alicia, had yet to be determined.

Dana knew from the article in her mom’s belongings, dated six days later, that the child’s body would not be found for two more days, when it was discovered beneath rubble of the house by fireman Jay Englin, but she doubted the veracity of that report, believing the local authorities, namely Sheriff Mackey, had covered up the fact that Alicia—that Dana—was alive. Was she found in the rubble of the house two days after the fire as this article stated? It seemed unlikely. She would have been severely dehydrated and suffering smoke inhalation at the least, and been taken immediately to the hospital, where several people would have seen her, making a cover-up unlikely. How then, and more importantly when, did Jay Englin find her?

She wished she could track him down, but so far, she hadn’t been able to find a current address or online presence for him. He was the one person still living who could confirm that a child’s body had actually been discovered. She thought about asking Lila if she had any information on Jay’s whereabouts. She wasn’t giving up on talking to him and would continue trying to locate him.

She printed out several articles that mentioned the murders and jotted down every piece of information she could find about the details of the case, hoping the reporters who’d written for the paper back then had better access to the police files than she did. Perhaps she could even track down one of them for an interview. She glanced at the bylines and realized most of the articles were written by two people, Jerry Foster and Jane Shaw. She added their names to her list of people she wanted to interview. It would be nice to speak to them to discover if there was anything in their notes that hadn’t made it into the articles.

She took out her phone and looked up the paper online, only to discover it had folded back in the late nineties, when the digital age began to make papers around the country flounder. It was no surprise that a small-town paper couldn’t make it. There was, however, a webpage that seemed active. She clicked the link and discovered Jerry Foster still operated an online blog. She skimmed through the archives and found no mention of the murder, but if he was still writing then perhaps he would remember the case. She quickly pulled up her email and shot him a message asking to meet.

Suddenly, the room went dark. The machine shut down, and only the light from her phone illuminated the room. The machine was old and probably hadn’t been used in a while. Perhaps it had blown a fuse. She opened the door and found the lights were off in the stacks as well, and it was dark as night as she made her way toward the light she saw filtering in through the windows in the main area.

She cleared the stacks and looked around. No one was here, but the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly raised and Dana swore she felt eyes on her, watching her. She glanced around and saw no one, yet she couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that she wasn’t alone. She pressed the button for the elevator, then realized it wasn’t working, either.

Rubbing her arms, that feeling of being watched was strong. Someone was up here with her, but why weren’t they showing themselves? “Hello?” she called, watching for movement and feeling silly for the uneasiness washing over her. It was probably Lila or one of the other librarians reshelving or straightening books. Sure they were. In the dark. “Hello?” she called again.

No one responded.

A door slammed and she jumped and spun around. Someone had just left through the side door that led downstairs. But why hadn’t they answered when she’d called?

She hurried over and pushed open the door, “Who’s there?” she called, her voice echoing through the stairwell. “I know someone was just here. Who is it?”

She started down the steps. The lights were out here, too, but if someone was trying to frighten her they’d have to do a better job than spying on her at the library or cutting power to the microfiche. She wasn’t going to be intimidated.

In the darkness, she felt a hand on her back, shoving her. She went tumbling down the concrete steps, pain shooting through her with every bump. She hit the bottom, jamming her shoulder into the concrete floor. Her head spun, but she forced herself to glance up, pain shooting through her as she did. All she saw was darkness above her. A figure moved at the top of the stairs but she couldn’t make it out. Man or woman? Young or old? She couldn’t tell. Then the darkness pulled her away and she didn’t know anything else.

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