TRUSTING THE WRONG PERSON CAN BE DEADLY...

Lillie Beaumont’s dark past has just turned up on her porch—fatally wounded. The dying words of the man imprisoned for killing Lillie’s mother suggest hidden secrets. Criminal Investigations Division special agent Dawson Timmons agrees. He has his own motive for seeking the truth, and it gives Lillie every reason to doubt him. But even as they reluctantly begin to face painful secrets together, Dawson fears that a murderer is waiting to strike again. And this time, Lillie is right in the line of fire....

Sirens sounded in the distance.

“Lillie, the police are coming. You don’t want them to find you here.”

Reason tangled through her fear.

“I’m going to let you go. Leave the room. Take the back road. Meet me at the truck stop one exit north on the highway.” His hand eased up ever so slightly. “Do you understand?”

She nodded.

He drew away from her and stood.

Scampering to her feet, Lillie raced for the door and threw it open. Light filtered into the darkness. She turned, seeing the special agent bend down and pick up something from the rug.

Dawson Timmons was a fool to think she would meet him anywhere except at the military police headquarters on post.

“You dropped something, Lillie.” The key dangled from his hand.

The sirens screamed in the distance. Not much time to get away.

DEBBY GIUSTI

is a medical technologist who loves working with test tubes and petri dishes almost as much as she loves to write. Growing up as an army brat, Debby met and married her husband—then a captain in the army—at Fort Knox, Kentucky. Together they traveled the world, raised three wonderful army brats of their own and have now settled in Atlanta, Georgia, where Debby spins tales of suspense that touch the heart and soul. Contact Debby through her website, www.debbygiusti.com, email debby@debbygiusti.com, or write c/o Love Inspired Suspense, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

The General’s Secretary

Debby Giusti

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Cast your cares on the Lord and He will sustain you;

He will never let the righteous be shaken.

—Psalm 55:22

This story is dedicated to

our brave men and women in uniform.

May the Lord protect them from harm.

To my wonderful husband and beautiful family.

Thank you for your love and support.

To the Seekers who make the journey so much fun.

To my critique partner Anna Adams.

To Emily Rodmell, my editor,

and Deidre Knight, my agent.

Thank you!

Contents

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

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

ONE

Lillie Beaumont gasped for air and fought her way through the dream that came too often. Her heart pounded a warning as she blinked open her eyes, allowing the dark outline of her bedroom to sweep into focus. She lifted her head off the pillow and anticipated the distant thunder before the sound reached her ears.

Low. Rumbling. Menacing, like cannon fire at nearby Fort Rickman, Georgia.

Weeding her fingers through the sheets, she grasped for anything that would calm her spinning stomach and racing pulse.

Another rumble, this time closer.

Then another and another in rapid succession, each encroaching on her space, her air, her life.

The thunder escalated, its cadence steady like the giant footfalls of an evil predator, stalking an unsuspecting prey. Only Lillie wasn’t oblivious to its approach. She knew the storm, felt it in her inner being, breathed it into her soul where she battled the terror and torment of a thousand deaths.

Another volley. Her airway constricted. She touched her throat, yearning to be free of the stranglehold of fear that wrapped around her neck.

Don’t cower. Face your phobia. The words of reason echoed in her head.

“Something happened before she came to us,” her foster parents had told concerned friends after taking Lillie into their home when she was a child. “Our little girl is terrified of storms.”

She wanted to laugh at the understatement. Instead, tears trickled from the corners of her eyes.

The musky scent of wet earth and damp air seeped through the partially open window and filled her nostrils, like the cloying odor of that night so long ago. Eyes wide, she stared into the darkness, anticipating the next bright burst of lightning.

A blast of thunder rocked her world, hurling her from the bed. She ran, as she always did, her footfalls echoing on the hardwood floor. No matter how much she longed to ignore the gathering storm, she had no control over the memories that made her relive the terror of that night so long ago.

In her mind’s eye, she was once again four years old.

“Mama,” young Lillie had cried, longing to be swooped into her mother’s outstretched arms.

Instead, he had opened the bedroom door.

“Go back to bed, child.”

The door had closed, leaving Lillie alone in the hallway, huddled in a ball, shivering with fear, tears streaking her face and trembling body.

Another round of thunder, followed by a kaleidoscope of light that blinded her eyes and made the past fade and the present come back into focus.

Finding the corner, the twenty-nine-year-old Lillie crouched, knees to her chest, heart on a marathon race as thunder continued to bellow. Rain pummeled her copper roof, the incessant pings reminding her of the gossip of the townspeople after her mother’s remains had been found fifteen years ago.

Murdered. Sealed in a steel drum. Buried beneath the earth.

“Mama,” she whimpered, trying to be strong enough to fight off the memories.

Outside, the storm raged as if good and evil battled for her soul, only she was too weak, too crazed, to fight off the attacks.

A pounding.

Close, persistent. Rap, rap, rap.

“Lillie?”

Someone called her name.

“Lillie, open the door.”

“Mama?”

She ran to the front of the house, undid the lock and flung open the door. Frigid rain stung her face, soaking her pajamas and mixing with her tears.

“Help me, Lillie.”

A man she knew only from newspaper photos stood before her. Mid-fifties, with gray, rumpled hair and weather-worn skin stretched across a bruised and bloodied face. Doleful eyes, swollen, suffering, seemingly entreated her to forget the past and think only of his need. “They...they found me...beat me.”

His hand stretched to hers. A small metal key dropped into her palm.

“I uncovered information. The...the answers I’ve been looking for,” he said.

She took a step back.

“I never—” He shook his head. “Your mother—”

A shot rang out.

He gasped, his face awash with pain. “Free us...” He reached for her. “Free us from the past.”

Slipping through her fingers, he collapsed onto the rain-drenched step. She screamed, seeing not only her own bloodied hands but also the battered body of her mother’s killer.

* * *

The phone call dragged Dawson Timmons from a dead sleep. Flipping on the bedside lamp, he rubbed his hand over his face and raised the receiver. “Special Agent Timmons.”

“Sorry to wake you, sir.” Corporal Raynard Otis from the Criminal Investigation Division.

“What’s the problem, Ray?”

“Agent Steele is on duty tonight, sir, but he’s tied up, handling a possible overdose, and we’re short-staffed since Agents Patterson and McQueen were transferred.”

With the recent reduction in force, the whole army was short-staffed. “I’m aware of the situation, Ray. Plus, the chief’s on leave until Monday.”

“Yes, sir. That’s why Agent Steele asked that I contact you.” The corporal’s voice was strained. “The Freemont police just notified us about a shooting.”

“Military personnel?”

“Negative, sir. But the location has bearing.”

“Fort Rickman?”

“No, sir. Freemont.”

“What’s the tie-in?”

“The house where the shooting took place belongs to the general’s secretary.”

Dawson groaned inwardly, dropped his feet to the floor and stood. “General Cameron’s secretary? The commanding general?”

“Yes, sir. The deceased pounded on the secretary’s door in the middle of the storm. She answered the knock just before the victim was shot.”

“A drive-by shooting?”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“We’re talking about Lillie Beaumont?”

“Affirmative.”

“Was she hurt?”

“Negative, sir.”

“The victim...” Dawson swallowed, hoping to keep his voice level and free of inflection. “Do you have a positive ID?”

“Granger Ford. The guy was serving time for the murder of Ms. Beaumont’s mother. Fifteen years ago he was tried and found guilty. His case was recently reviewed, and new DNA testing exonerated him. Ten days have passed since he got out of prison in Atlanta. Now he’s dead.”

Dawson hung his head. Ringing filled his ears. His stomach soured, and for an instant, his world went dark. Granger had called him three nights ago. Not that Dawson had expected or wanted the phone call from his past.

“Shall I notify the staff duty officer at post headquarters?” Ray asked.

“Let headquarters know, and call General Cameron’s aide as well. Tell him I’ll check out the situation and report back to the general when I return to post.”

Dawson would tell the commanding general what the Freemont police had determined about the shooting and Lillie Beaumont’s involvement in the case. He wouldn’t reveal the truth about Granger Ford and the child he had fathered thirty-one years ago. A little boy raised by an unwed mother who had hardened her son’s heart to his drifter dad.

Dawson could forgive his mother’s bitterness, but he never forgave his father’s rejection. Now, with his death, the truth would come out. The last thing Dawson wanted was for the military to know his father was a murderer.

* * *

The storm had subsided by the time Dawson climbed behind the wheel of his Camry. Twigs and leaves cluttered the roadway as he left post and headed to the far side of Freemont, where Lillie lived. Turning his headlights to high beam, he pressed down on the accelerator and reached for his cell phone.

“I’m on my way into town,” Dawson said when Jamison Steele answered. Working together, the two agents had formed a strong friendship. Trust ran deep, and just days earlier Dawson had told Jamison about his past and the father he had never met.

“Otis said you agreed to handle the shooting.” Jamison let out a breath. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened and that you have to be the one to handle the case.”

“It’s not like Granger and I had a relationship. The last thing he wanted was a kid. My mother said he hightailed it out of town as soon as she told him she was pregnant. I never met him.”

“Still, it puts you in a difficult spot. I’ll explain the situation to Chief Wilson when he gets back to work on Monday.”

Dawson pursed his lips. “No need. I can fight my own battles. Besides, tonight should be fairly straightforward. I’ll ensure the Freemont cops handle the case appropriately. Once I share the information with General Cameron concerning his secretary, I’ll file my report and move on to the next case.”

“It’s Friday, Dawson. I’m hoping the weekend is crime-free.”

“Which might be wishful thinking.”

Jamison hesitated. “Have...have you told anyone else about your dad?”

“I didn’t see the need.” Dawson stared into the roadway ahead. “Of course, his death changes everything.”

“We’ll talk at the office.”

“Roger that.”

Dawson disconnected and shook his head with frustration. Granger had made a huge mistake visiting the daughter of the woman he was supposed to have murdered. From what Dawson had pieced together about his wayward father, Granger’s life had been as littered as the pavement with a series of wrong places, wrong times. Exactly what tonight felt like—a wrong turn that could end up detouring Dawson off the straight course he had chosen for his career in the army.

When he saw the secretary’s house in the distance, his gut tightened. Police lights flashed from the driveway. The crime-scene crew hovered around the front porch, where a man’s body lay spotlighted in the rain. Maybe this homicide wouldn’t be as cut-and-dried as he had first imagined.

Pulling to a stop, Dawson sucked in a deep breath before he stepped into the wet night. His left leg ached. More than a year had passed since he’d taken a bullet, but the pain remained and grew more insistent with the cold weather.

He rubbed his hands together and grabbed the keys from the ignition, his mouth dry. Steeling himself against any unwanted rush of emotion, he approached the crime-scene tape and held up his identification to the closest cop.

“CID, from Fort Rickman. Who’s in charge?”

The guy pointed to the house. “Head through the kitchen. Sergeant Ron Pritchard’s inside with Ms. Beaumont.”

“Is she a suspect?”

The cop shrugged. “All I know is that we found her huddled in the hallway, crying like a baby.”

Dawson hesitated for a moment and then glanced down at the victim’s twisted body. Regret washed over him. This wasn’t the way life should end. Granger had been shot in the back, probably with a forty-five caliber hollow point from the appearance of the wound.

In stark contrast to the grisly death scene, beds of yellow pansies edged the small front stoop. Ignoring the flowers, Dawson circled the house, picking his way through the wet grass. The back porch, trimmed in white latticework, was graced with more winter blooms that danced in the wind, oblivious to the crime that had recently been committed.

Stepping into the kitchen, he opened his navy windbreaker and wiped his shoes on the small entry rug. The smell of the wet outdoors followed him inside and mixed with the homey scent of pumpkin and spice. A large melon-colored candle sat on the counter near a bouquet of yellow mums and a plaque that read, God bless this home and all those who enter.

The irony wasn’t lost on Dawson, yet surely death hadn’t been Granger’s just reward. The estranged son might have argued the point before the phone call, before Granger had asked forgiveness. Something Dawson hadn’t been able to give. Now he wasn’t sure how he felt. A little numb, a bit confused, even angry. Long ago, he had realized it was better not to feel anything than to feel too much.

Entering the living area, he signaled to the officer in charge, held up his badge and nodded as the local cop continued to question the woman huddled on the couch.

Lillie’s life had been inexplicably intertwined with Dawson’s, although he doubted she was aware her mother’s killer had a son. They’d never been introduced, but Dawson had seen her on post. It was hard not to notice the tall and slender secretary. Usually she was stylishly dressed and perfectly coiffed. Tonight wild, honey-brown tresses fell across the collar of what appeared to be flannel pajamas. Even from where he stood, Dawson noticed the blood spatters on the thick fabric.

She turned, hearing him behind her.

He hadn’t expected her eyes to be so green or so lucid. She wore her pain in the knit of her brow, in the downward tug on her full lips, in the tear-streaked eyes whose sadness wrapped around his heart. His breath hitched, and time stood still for one long moment.

Pritchard asked another question. She turned back to the lead cop, leaving Dawson dangling. He straightened his neck, trying to work his way back to reality.

Long ago, Dawson had learned to weigh everything, never to take a chance. He put his faith in what he could do and affect and impact, not on emotions that left him hanging in thin air.

“The middle of a stormy night.” Pritchard restated the last question. “Yet you opened your door when Mr. Ford knocked?”

“I...ah...” She searched for an answer.

“Do you always open your door to strangers, Ms. Beaumont?” Pritchard pressed.

She shook her head. “Of course not, but—”

Once again, she glanced at Dawson, as if asking him to clear the confusion written on her oval face.

“Had you been asleep?” Dawson knew better than to prompt a witness, yet the question sprang from his lips before he could weigh the consequences.

She nodded, her brow raised and lips upturned for the briefest of moments. “I was dreaming. The knock sounded. Before I realized what I was doing, I was staring at him through the open doorway.”

Pritchard cleared his throat and jotted her answer in a notebook. After recording the statement, he glared at Dawson. “I’m finished questioning Ms. Beaumont. If there’s anything you want to ask her, go right ahead. I’ll be outside.”

Dawson read between the lines. Pritchard didn’t want his interrogation compromised by a newcomer from post. A subtle reprimand, perhaps? Not that Dawson would be intimidated by a small-town cop.

As Pritchard left through the kitchen, Dawson took a seat on the chair next to Lillie and held up his identification.

“Special Agent Dawson Timmons, ma’am. I’m with the Criminal Investigation Division at Fort Rickman. The Freemont Police Department is handling the murder investigation, but the CID was called in because you work on post. I’m here as a liaison between the local police and the military.”

“Does...does General Cameron know what happened?” Lillie asked.

“He’s being notified.”

“I don’t want anything to—”

“To jeopardize your job? I don’t see how that could happen. Unless your position as the general’s secretary has a bearing on this crime.”

“No, no.” She held up her hand. “This has nothing to do with General Cameron.”

“What does it involve, Ms. Beaumont?” He leaned closer. “May I call you Lillie?”

She nodded. “You’re not from around here?”

“Georgia born and raised, but my home’s in Cotton Grove, close to the Florida border.”

She swallowed, the tendons in her graceful neck tight. “I don’t know where to start.”

“How ’bout at the beginning.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was born in Atlanta and moved to Freemont with my mother when I was a baby. We lived in a remote area, not far from the highway.”

Dawson pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket.

“My...my mother disappeared when I was four.” Lillie’s voice was weak. She cleared her throat. “Most folks thought she had abandoned me and returned to Atlanta with a man.” She shrugged. “Her lover. Sugar daddy. Whatever you want to call him.”

“Granger Ford?”

“No. The man she was seeing at the time.”

“How can you be sure it wasn’t Granger?”

“There was a storm the night she disappeared. The thunder awakened me. I was frightened and ran to my mother’s bedroom.”

Dawson’s could envision young Lillie, green eyes wide with fear, golden-brown hair tumbling around her sweet face, scurrying down a darkened hallway.

“The door opened and he...he told me to go back to bed.”

“Who was he, Lillie? Do you know his name?”

She shook her head. “But the memory of that night still haunts me, especially when it storms.”

“Can you still see his face?”

“Enough to know it wasn’t the man who died on my doorstep tonight.”

Dawson did the math. “It’s been twenty-five years. Appearances change.”

She straightened her shoulders. “I know what I saw. The man that night was someone else.”

Dawson made a notation on his tablet. “Who raised you after your mother disappeared?”

“Sarah and Walter McKinney took me in. They were an older couple and didn’t have children of their own.”

“Good people?”

She nodded. The gloom lifted for an instant, revealing her love for her foster parents.

“They wanted to adopt me, but I...” Once again, her eyes sought his. “Maybe it was foolish, but I kept thinking my mother would come back for me.”

A nail to Dawson’s heart. Did all kids give wayward parents the benefit of the doubt? Must go with the territory. Children wanted to be loved. Hope provided comfort during the dark times. When hope gave out, the reality of life had to be accepted, although some people never made the transition and spent a lifetime looking for the love they never received as a child.

“But your mother didn’t come back,” Dawson prompted.

Lillie licked her lips as if gathering courage to continue. “When I was fourteen, the river flooded. Not long afterwards, a steel drum was found close to the water, on Fort Rickman property.”

Dawson knew about the raging waters that had washed the drum downriver. Dental records confirmed the decomposed body found within was Irene Beaumont, who had gone missing ten years earlier.

“The last time you saw your mother was that stormy night?” He repeated what he already knew to gauge her response.

“That’s correct. The night she disappeared.”

“You were four years old?”

She nodded.

“Ten years later, your mother’s remains were uncovered in a steel drum.”

“And found along the river, although I’ve never visited the actual site. Someday...” Her voice was wistful. “Someday I hope to be strong enough to do just that.”

Dawson made another notation on his tablet. “At the time of her disappearance, the townspeople thought your mother had run off to Atlanta with her boyfriend.”

“That’s...that’s what I thought too.”

“Finding her remains must have changed local opinions.”

“The folks in town started to realize my mother had probably been killed the night she disappeared.”

“What did you think, Lillie?”

“I didn’t know what to believe.”

Dawson heard the confusion in her voice. “What happened next?”

She hesitated before she spoke. “Granger Ford worked for Nelson Construction at the time. The police were investigating the employees and found a picture of my mother under his mattress in the motel where he was staying. They accused him of murder. He was found guilty and sent to jail.”

Dawson tapped his pencil against his notepad. “Did you testify at the trial?”

“Supposedly, the case was open and shut. They didn’t need to place me on the stand.”

Hearing Lillie’s response ignited a fire deep within Dawson’s belly. From what he had read about the trial, the prosecution had deemed the case open and shut because Granger was a drifter who worked construction when he needed money. Personnel records at Nelson Construction verified the laborer had been on the payroll at the time of Irene Beaumont’s disappearance and again when the steel drum, bearing the Nelson Construction name and logo, had been found.

“Do you know anything about the case?” Pritchard stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Dawson hadn’t heard him come back inside.

“I did an internet search before I got here.” Dawson pocketed his notebook. “Easy enough to access news stories about Granger’s release from prison. The article included information about Irene Beaumont’s murder.”

“The article probably didn’t mention that they found the T-shirt she must have been wearing in the drum along with her decomposed body.” Pritchard sniffed, unaware of the pained expression on Lillie’s face. “Two blood types were identified on the fabric. A-positive, which was Irene Beaumont’s blood type, and B-negative. That matched Granger Ford’s type.”

Anger welled up within Dawson. He had read the transcript of the trial and knew Granger had denied, under oath, ever seeing the bloodied T-shirt or having known the victim.

Dawson made sure his voice was even, his gaze level, before he spoke again. “Yet Mr. Ford was recently released from prison?”

The cocky cop nodded. “Law students from the University of Georgia got wind of the case. They probably hoped to make a name for themselves.”

“And the outcome?” Dawson knew too well what the determination had been.

Pritchard pursed his lips. “Something about the blood type being incorrect.”

Granger’s blood had proved to be a rare “Du”-positive, which would appear negative on an initial rapid-slide test. More definitive blood typing had not been run prior to his trial, and the jury found Granger guilty because of a bloodied T-shirt and an inaccurate blood type. In addition, DNA testing had not been done, and as Lillie had mentioned, a photo of the deceased had been found under the mattress in Granger’s motel room, which anyone on the housekeeping or janitorial staffs could have accessed.

“An open-and-shut case, eh?” Dawson couldn’t resist the barb that went over Pritchard’s head.

“Recent DNA testing verified the B-negative blood on the T-shirt wasn’t Granger’s. He was released from prison ten days ago, but we’re not sure when he arrived in Freemont.”

At least seventy-two hours earlier, judging from the phone call Dawson had received when Granger got to town. He kept the information to himself. Pritchard could do his own investigation.

A second cop opened the back door. “Sarge, we’re ready to transport the body.” Pritchard followed him outside.

Once they were alone, Dawson turned back to Lillie. “What did Granger say when you opened the door tonight?”

“That someone had found him and beat him. I heard the shot. He fell forward.” She stared at her hands. “I...I tried to catch him.”

“Did he mention who had found him or did he say anything about your mother?”

She shook her head, but something about her expression told Dawson the secretary knew more than she had revealed.

“Do you think Granger killed your mother?”

She chewed her lip. “I...I don’t know.”

“Don’t know or won’t say?”

She hesitated.

“Did Granger contact you after he was released from prison?”

“He called me and wanted to meet. I refused. He said he had information about my mother’s death.”

“Yet you turned him down?”

“Part of me didn’t believe him. The other part wanted to keep the past locked away.”

She lowered her gaze and picked at her sleeve.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Dawson asked.

“I know it sounds crazy after a man has died, but...” She pulled in a nervous breath. “I’m worried about what this will do to military and civilian relations in the local area.”

“Meaning?”

“You’ve heard about the new Fort Rickman Museum scheduled to be built on post?”

Dawson narrowed his gaze, trying to make the connection. With construction ready to commence, the huge, multistoried structure promised to be state of the art, with an extensive collection of historical memorabilia and artifacts. In addition, a grand ballroom, auditorium and banquet facilities would attract large-scale events and needed revenue to this part of Georgia.

“I know the museum will be a boon to the local economy,” Dawson said, “but I don’t see how one man’s death could adversely affect the project.”

“Funding is the problem.” She sighed. “Which sounds so inconsequential compared to the taking of a human life.”

“But—”

“That’s why I didn’t want to meet Granger when he called a few days ago. I knew if anything about my mother’s death was brought to light, the construction project could be affected.”

Dawson rubbed his hand over his jaw and let out a frustrated breath. “I still don’t get the tie-in.”

“You’re not from around here so you probably don’t know Karl Nelson.”

“Only by name. Didn’t the stolen barrel your mother’s body was found in belong to his company?”

“That’s right. Nelson Construction Company was the low bid on the museum. Mr. Nelson has been more than generous keeping the projected costs at a minimum.”

“He also owns a number of businesses in town?”

“And is known for his charitable contributions. Over the years, he and his father before him have done a lot for the local area. Mr. Nelson has also donated heavily to the museum building fund and has been working with General Cameron to attract more donors. They’re hosting a special ceremony on Wednesday to secure the remaining pledges.”

Dawson was aware of the event. “The CID, along with the military police on post, will be providing security for the high-profile guests.”

Lillie nodded. “General Cameron wants everything to go without a glitch. Mr. Nelson personally assured the donors that Freemont and Fort Rickman are exemplary communities that will showcase the best in Georgia living and draw new businesses and attractions to this part of the state.”

“You’re afraid the murder investigation could cause the donors to change their minds?”

She nodded slowly, as if struggling to find the words to express her feelings. When she finally spoke, she splayed her hands. “I work in General Cameron’s office and am the contact person for those attending the ceremony. A pending murder investigation that involves the company, especially since Granger was killed on my property, could shed the wrong kind of light on Freemont and the project, maybe even on General Cameron. Especially if information leaks out about my mother’s murder.”

After everything that had happened, Lillie wasn’t thinking rationally, but Dawson understood her concern. The museum project had been the talk of the post for months and everyone was eager for construction to commence. Small-town gossip could get out of hand, and with an abundance of charities needing funding, negative publicity could sway donors into changing their minds about supporting the building project.

Before Dawson could offer her reassurance, Pritchard stepped back inside.

“We’re ready to wrap things up.” He glanced at Lillie. “The front step is sealed off. Some of my men will return in the morning to go over the crime scene again. Use the kitchen entrance until I give you the all clear, and stay in the area in case we have more questions.”

“I’m not planning to leave town.”

Dawson stood and pulled two business cards from his pocket. He gave one to Pritchard. “The CID office phone number and my personal cell are under my name.”

Retrieving the pen from his pocket, Dawson jotted down an additional number on the back of the card he handed Lillie. “I live in the bachelor officers’ quarters on post. The handwritten digits are for the direct line to my apartment at the BOQ.”

A uniformed cop approached Pritchard. “We found some numbers scratched on a scrap of paper tucked in the victim’s jacket.”

Pressure pushed on Dawson’s chest as Pritchard read from the paper. “Nine-seven-one-four.”

Lillie stared at Dawson’s business card and silently mouthed the last four digits of his BOQ phone number. Nine-seven-one-four. The same numbers found in Granger’s jacket.

She glanced up at Dawson. Her forehead furrowed.

Oblivious to her questioning gaze, Pritchard pulled out his cell. “Might be a portion of a phone number. I’ll add the local prefix and see what we get.”

Pritchard tapped in the digits and then shook his head as he disconnected. “The number’s not in service.”

Dawson needed to leave the little house in the woods before the Freemont cop tried the unique prefix for Fort Rickman phone lines.

He turned to Lillie, who continued to stare at him. “Don’t hesitate to call me, ma’am, if you think of anything else that might have bearing on this case.”

One of her finely arched brows rose ever so slightly. “Shall I use your cell phone or your BOQ number?”

The muscle in Dawson’s neck twitched. “My cell.”

Lillie knew he was withholding information from Pritchard. Just as she was.

Maybe they could trade secrets.

TWO

The CID agent climbed into his car as Pritchard and his men prepared to leave the area. Instead of returning to Fort Rickman, Dawson turned right out of the driveway and sped along the rain-washed road that headed north toward the interstate. Rounding a bend, he passed under a train trestle and spied the lights from the Hi-Way Motel in the distance.

The triangle of red, green and blue neon pointed toward the one-story brick building that offered small rooms at a modest rate for those who couldn’t afford the larger chain motels closer to Freemont. Vacancy, the sign flashed, begging for business.

Pulling into the drive, Dawson cut his lights and circled to the rear of the complex. He parked under an oak tree away from the handful of cars in the back lot.

Grabbing a pair of latex gloves from his console, Dawson hustled toward the last room on the far end of the building, the room where his father had said he was staying when he called three days ago. Dawson slipped his hands into the gloves and tried the knob, relieved when it turned.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness. The bed was rumpled, pillows and comforter strewn over the nearby throw rug. Two dresser drawers hung open. An unzipped duffel bag sat on the floor next to a small desk and overturned lamp.

Either a scuffle had ensued or someone had ransacked the room. Maybe both.

Using his cell phone for light, Dawson checked the duffel, finding only underwear and socks. He opened the remaining dresser drawers. Empty except for a hardcover Bible. Standard toilet articles in the bathroom. Two shirts and a pair of jeans hung in the closet.

A car pulled to a stop outside. Footsteps approached on the walkway that edged the rooms. Dawson’s pulse kicked up a notch, realizing, too late, he had failed to flip the latch.

Rap, rap, rap.

He glanced at the bathroom that offered no place to hide. The closet hung open. Small, dark, confining. Exactly where he didn’t want to go.

A key scratched against the lock. The knob turned.

Sweat pooled around his neck. He didn’t have a choice and slipped into the closet’s confining darkness. His heart skittered in his chest. He left the door ajar and peered through the crack.

Someone stepped into the room.

Five-seven and slender with shoulder-length hair and big eyes that took in the room with one glance.

Lillie?

* * *

The last place Lillie wanted to be was Granger Ford’s motel room, but she had thought the key would unlock the door and lead to information about her mother’s death.

Three nights ago, Granger had phoned and asked her to meet him here. In hindsight and despite her concern about the museum project, she should have accepted his invitation.

He’d claimed to have answers, which she took to mean information about what had happened on that stormy night so long ago. Obviously, from the disarray, someone had searched the motel room, looking for the information that must have played into Granger’s death.

Lillie pulled in a deep breath to calm her runaway pulse. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she stepped toward the duffel bag. After rifling through the contents, she opened the dresser drawers. Her fingers rested briefly on the Gideon Bible. Lord, let me find the truth.

Granger claimed he had never known her mother and had had nothing to do with her death. Not that Lillie was sure she believed him. Easy enough to beg forgiveness after the fact.

“Go back to bed, child.”

Yet Granger’s voice wasn’t the one she heard in her dreams. Nor was his face the one that returned to haunt her with each passing storm.

Knowing it was only a matter of time before the Freemont police or the muscular CID agent from Fort Rickman found where Granger had been staying, she tugged on the closet door.

A man stood shadowed in the recesses.

Her heart exploded in her chest. She screamed.

Turning to flee, her foot caught on the leg of the bed. She lost her balance.

“Lillie.”

Hands reached for her, easing the fall. He took the brunt of the blow as they both crashed to the floor.

She kicked, heard him groan and kicked again.

He pinned her down, the weight of his legs impeding her movement. “I won’t hurt you.”

She screamed again.

He covered her mouth with his hand. His breath warmed her cheek.

“Lillie, stop.” His voice was low, insistent.

She bit his hand.

“Augh,” he groaned. “Listen.”

Sirens sounded in the distance.

“The police are coming. You don’t want them to find you here.”

Reason tangled through her fear as she recognized Dawson’s voice.

“I’m going to let you go. Leave the room. Take the back road out of the motel. Meet me at the truck stop one exit north on the highway. We need to talk.” His hand eased up ever so slightly. “Do you understand?”

She nodded.

He drew away from her and stood.

Scampering to her feet, Lillie raced for the door and threw it open. Light filtered into the darkness. She turned, seeing the special agent bend down and pick up something from the rug.

Dawson Timmons was a fool to think she would meet him anywhere except at military police headquarters on post.

“You dropped something.” The key dangled from his hand.

The sirens screamed in the distance. Not much time to get away.

“Meet me at the truck stop,” he said again. “We can share information.”

The police would never understand how she had known about the motel room and why she had been there with the CID agent. Leaving the parking lot, she headed out the back way.

On the phone, Granger had said he’d been framed. At the time, she hadn’t wanted his excuses to buy her sympathy. Now she wasn’t sure about anything or anyone, especially the special agent who seemed to be one step ahead of her.

General Cameron had spoken highly of the Criminal Investigation Division on post. A number of big cases had been solved over the past few years because of their hard work. That’s why she had felt comfortable sharing her story tonight with the special agent.

Now she wondered if she could trust him. How had he known about the motel room? Could he have been one of the people Granger claimed had framed him? If so, Dawson was the last person Lillie should meet. Yet, he now had the key that might unlock information about her mother’s disappearance.

Lillie needed to be smart and careful, which meant having something to hold over Dawson’s head if things got ugly. Grabbing her phone, she dialed her private line at work that hooked into the voice mail she checked each morning as soon as she arrived at her desk.

If something happened to her, General Cameron’s aide would eventually review the messages. “This is Lillie Beaumont,” she said once the call transferred to voice mail.

She glanced at the clock on her dash. “It’s four-thirty a.m. I’m on my way to the truck stop at the exit north of town to meet CID Special Agent Dawson Timmons concerning Granger Ford’s death. If something should happen to me, question Agent Timmons.”

Years earlier her mother had disappeared on a stormy night. She glanced at the leaves and branches strewn across the road. Meeting Dawson could put her own life in danger.

A shiver slipped down her spine. Lillie had to ensure that she wouldn’t disappear on this stormy night like her mother.

THREE

Dawson parked on the far side of the truck stop where his car wouldn’t be seen from the interstate. Quickly pulling out the wax kit he kept in his glove compartment, he made a mold of Lillie’s key. Later, if need be, he could make a duplicate.

Leaving his car, he rounded to the front of the one-story stucco building and glanced at the few cars driving along the highway, their lights cutting through the darkness. The rain had stopped, but a wind blew from the west. He rubbed his bare hands together as he approached the all-night diner and peered through the large windows. Standing behind the counter, a waitress poured coffee for two husky guys in parkas.

Dawson wiped his feet on the doormat, frustrated by the damp cold that gnawed at the old gunshot wound to his leg. He thought of the investigation that had left him injured, hating the ever-present limp and accompanying pain.

Stepping inside, Dawson unsnapped his windbreaker and nodded to the waitress, who raised a pot of coffee. He held up two fingers and pointed to the booth where Lillie sat. She watched him approach the table and slide into the seat across from her.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he said, adding a smile to counter her frosty glare.

“You have something that belongs to me,” she said in lieu of a greeting.

The waitress approached with two mugs she quickly filled. “You folks want breakfast?”

“Coffee’s fine.” Lillie dumped a packet of sweetener and a significant amount of cream into her mug.

“Two eggs over easy, hash browns, sausage and biscuits.” Dawson eyed Lillie. “You like grits?”

“Of course, but—”

“Make that two orders with grits.”

The waitress scurried back to the kitchen.

Lillie raised her brow. “I don’t need breakfast.”

“Maybe not, but it’s been a long night.” He glanced at the men at the nearby counter and lowered his voice. “I’m glad you decided to meet me.”

She wrapped her fingers around the chunky mug. “Did I have a choice?”

“You could have gone home.”

“I need my key.”

She held out her hand, palm up, which he ignored.

“You tried the key at the motel,” Dawson said, “thinking it would open the door. Evidently Granger didn’t tell you what it unlocked when he called you.”

She tilted her head and braced her shoulders before she leaned across the table, her voice low. “When did he call nine-seven-one-four, the number on your business card?”

Touché. Ms. Beaumont had a mind and wasn’t afraid to use it. He stretched back in the booth. “You’ve developed a bit of an attitude since you left your house, Lillie. What happened?”

“I realized you may be more of a problem than an asset.”

“Which means?”

“I thought I could trust you.”

He shrugged. “I’m working for Uncle Sam. I’m trustworthy.”

“Really, Dawson?” She raised a brow and stared at him across the table.

He almost smiled at the cute way her nose turned up and the handful of freckles that dotted her cheeks, neither of which he had noticed earlier. “Let’s make a trade. Okay? You go first.”

She shook her head. “I’ve already told you everything.”

“Why did Granger pick tonight to stop by your house?”

“He was on the run. As I mentioned, someone found him and beat him.”

“But why?”

“Because he was trying to uncover the truth about what happened to my mother.” Lillie glanced at the waitress then back at Dawson. “I overheard the prosecuting attorney talking to my foster parents before Granger’s trial began. The lawyer was worried the evidence wouldn’t be enough to find him guilty. Everyone wanted to pin the crime on someone. Granger was the logical choice.”

Dawson’s muscles tensed. “Do you know that for sure?”

She leaned in closer. “All I know is someone wanted my mother dead, only I never knew who. At the time, it was easier to believe Granger was guilty.”

“And now?”

“Now I want everything to go back to the way it was before Granger knocked on my door.” She sighed. “Only there’s no going back.”

“Why would someone want to kill your mother?”

“I thought it was because of me. That I had done something wrong.”

“Which doesn’t make sense, Lillie.”

“Not to an adult, but children always believe they’re at fault when something bad happens.”

Dawson thought of his own childhood. For too long, he had blamed himself for his absentee father.

Lillie pointed a slender finger at him. “Now it’s your turn, Mr. CID Agent. How are you involved?”

“I’m representing the military in the investigation.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

She was right, but Dawson wasn’t ready to reveal anything else.

His cell rang. He pulled the mobile phone from his pocket. “Timmons.”

“Pritchard here. Thought you might be interested in the latest.”

“Hold on a second.” Dawson glanced at Lillie. “I need to take this call.”

Without waiting for her response, he slid from the booth and hustled outside. The chilly night air swirled around him. He pushed the phone to his ear. “Go ahead.”

“The victim rented a room at the Hi-Way Motel. We’re there now.”

“Did you find anything that has bearing on his death?” Dawson asked.

“A photo cut from the local newspaper of a guy named Billy Everett was hidden in the motel Bible.”

The one place Dawson hadn’t looked.

“Everett got into trouble a few years back,” the cop continued. “The news photo was taken when we hauled him in for questioning. We didn’t have enough evidence and eventually had to release him.”

“Had he been arrested before?”

“For possession. Did some time. Claimed he had cleaned up his life, but the guy’s got problems. Not too smart, and years of abusing drugs haven’t helped.”

“So why would Granger have his picture?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Do me a favor,” Dawson said. “Fax me a copy of the photo.”

“Will do.”

“Any indication Everett was involved in tonight’s shooting?”

“A lamp was overturned, and the bedding was disheveled. Looks like there could have been a scuffle.”

Or someone was looking for something, such as a key, which Dawson didn’t mention. He raked his hands across his face, needing the coffee he hadn’t had a chance to drink.

“If they had argued—” Dawson went along with Pritchard’s theory “—why would Granger go to Lillie’s house?”

“The guilty always return to the scene of the crime. Irene Beaumont’s house burned down years ago, but her daughter was still in town. If Granger killed Irene, he might want her daughter to know about his release from prison.”

“Lillie was only four years old when her mother disappeared.”

“She heard a man’s voice that night,” Pritchard said. “Irene Beaumont had a Fulton County license plate on her car when she arrived in Freemont. Initially, folks thought she had gone back to Atlanta with her lover. No mention of a husband. Most people presumed she had never married.”

“And left her child home alone?”

“No one said she was the best of mothers.”

Small towns were all alike. Similar talk had lived on in Cotton Grove. Hard for a kid who heard what people said behind his mother’s back.

Pritchard sniffed. “Of course, all that changed when they found her body.”

“Did the motel manager know anything about what happened today?” Dawson asked.

“He saw a guy who matched Everett’s description. Red hair and a scar on his right cheek. Hard to miss. Highway Patrol’s on the lookout for him. I’ll keep you posted.”

Dawson disconnected and pocketed his phone as he returned to the booth.

“That was the police, wasn’t it?” Lillie wrapped her arms defensively across her chest. “Did they find anything at the motel?”

“A photograph of a guy named Billy Everett was tucked in the Bible. Red hair. Scar on his right cheek. Do you know him?”

She shook her head.

“Pritchard thought there had been a scuffle.”

Lillie shrugged. “Granger’s face was bloodied, but I got the impression someone had searched the room.”

She thought for a moment. Her face clouded. “You were there when I arrived.”

Dawson pointed a finger back at his own chest. “You think I messed up the place?”

“You didn’t tell Pritchard about the motel room.” She held his gaze. “Granger had your BOQ phone number in his pocket. You didn’t reveal that either.”

“And you failed to mention the key.”

“Which belongs to me.” Once again, she held out her hand.

Disregarding her request, Dawson stared into her pretty eyes. “Granger knew he had been set up. The case was open and shut, as you mentioned, only because they had a fall guy, a transient construction worker who came to town when he needed money. A guy who didn’t have resources to defend himself.”

“The court appointed an attorney.”

Dawson laughed ruefully. “A lawyer who should have retired years earlier. You probably didn’t follow the local news when you were a kid. Not long after the trial, the lawyer was diagnosed with dementia and was placed in a nursing home where he died a bit too soon thereafter.”

“If you grew up in Cotton Grove, why were you interested in a murder that took place in Freemont?”

Her question caught Dawson off guard. He looked down at his mug, weighing his response. “I planned on making the army a career. My local library carried the Freemont papers as well as information about Fort Rickman.”

Lillie shook her head. “My mother’s death had nothing to do with the military. What aren’t you telling me?”

He ignored her question. “I still don’t understand why Granger would return to Freemont and jeopardize his new-found freedom?”

“He wanted to clear his name, to make good on the past. At least that’s what he told me over the phone. He said he’d made mistakes. He’d abandoned someone and wanted to make it up to him.”

A muscle in Dawson’s neck twitched. “Him?”

“His son.”

Inwardly, Dawson groaned. “A son was never mentioned in the news reports. Maybe Granger was lying to get on your good side.”

“It’s possible.” Her bravado faltered. She rubbed her forehead. “Actually, I don’t know what to believe. I boxed up all the memories of long ago, hoping I could hide the past. Granger’s death forces everything out into the open.”

Maybe Lillie understood how he felt growing up as the kid without a dad. Dawson had put the snippets of gossip together. Some people never forgot the drifter who had left his mother pregnant. No name on his birth certificate meant legally Dawson didn’t have a father. It didn’t mean he didn’t know who his father was.

Just as Lillie had indicated, Granger’s death forced everything into the open. It was time for the truth.

“You said Granger mentioned having a son.” Dawson let out a lungful of pent-up air. “He was talking about me. Granger Ford was my dad.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

“Because I buried the past just like you did.”

“I don’t believe you.” She grabbed her purse and slid from the booth.

He stood and reached for her wrist. “Don’t leave, Lillie.”

She jerked free of his hold. “You used me to get information.”

“I did no such thing.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. Throwing it on the table, he turned to find the two truckers glaring at him.

The waitress came around the counter. “Is there a problem?”

“The lady’s not feeling well.”

Dawson hurried after Lillie, but when he stepped outside, all he could see were the taillights of her Honda Civic racing away in the distance.

Climbing behind the wheel of his own car, Dawson pulled out of the lot and backtracked along the winding road. The temperature had warmed somewhat, and a thick fog rose from the wet earth, clouding his view of the roadway.

Lillie said the past had found her. It had found Dawson as well, but the past wasn’t the issue. The present was the problem. For a father who never claimed him as his son, Granger’s death was liable to change Dawson’s life forever—and not for the better.

* * *

Lillie drove too fast along the narrow road, wanting to get away from Dawson Timmons. If not for the key, which he still had, she never would have stopped at the diner.

He had hidden the truth from the Freemont police and from her, pretending he had her best interest at heart. All the while, he was gathering information about his father.

She didn’t understand anything, including her mixed feelings about the determined CID agent whose eyes were rimmed with sorrow. On one hand, she didn’t want to reveal anything to him, then she found herself opening up and saying more than she should.

Coming around the bend, she slowed her speed. Headlights approached, faster than the limit allowed on the twisted back road. She pulled her Honda to the right, hoping to give the speeding vehicle more room.

The glare blinded her for an instant. When her vision cleared, she saw an SUV had crossed the line and was headed straight for her.

Her heart stopped.

She turned the wheel and swerved off the road, narrowly missing a head-on collision.

Her car hit the shoulder and skidded in the wet grass. She lifted her foot from the accelerator and pumped the brakes. Keeping the wheels in line took all her strength.

The engine died, and the Honda rolled to a stop. Heart in her throat, she gasped for air and glanced in her rearview mirror.

A tingle of ice ran down her spine. The SUV that had almost run her off the road had turned around and was racing toward her.

Lord, protect me.

She turned the key in the ignition, relieved when the engine purred back to life, but when she accelerated, the wheels dug into the rain-soft earth. The tires spun over and over again.

“Oh, God, please.”

In a flash of motion, the large sport-utility vehicle passed by and then braked to a stop just ahead of where she was stuck in the mud.

A door slammed.

A figure cut through the fog.

Opening her door, she sprang into the wet night and started to run.

Footsteps sounded behind her.

Her heart thumped a warning.

She pushed forward.

Another set of headlights cut through the darkness.

The man behind her swore. He skidded to a halt and ran back to his car.

She flailed her arms, needing to flag down the approaching motorist. The vehicle stopped and someone stepped onto the pavement. A big, burly blond.

Lillie might have made a mistake.

The man who ran her off the road was someone to fear, but the man walking toward her might be as well. How could she trust a man whose father had killed her mother long ago?

FOUR

Dawson saw Lillie spotlighted in the headlights. Fear strained her face. She glanced quickly over her shoulder at the fleeing man and then back at Dawson. She hesitated, as if unsure whether to approach him.

“Lillie.” He softened his voice and opened his arms to reassure her. “I’m not a threat. You’re safe with me.”

Her eyes filled with confusion. Then, as if the fog had lifted, she stepped into his embrace.

Her trembling body molded to him. He drew her closer, touched by her need. As strong as she tried to appear, beneath the facade was a woman who longed to trust someone. Hopefully, to trust him.

Her head nestled into his shoulder. Tears streamed from her eyes as if an emotional dam had given way. Dawson drew her to himself, a desire to keep her safe surging within him. The warmth of her closeness and the silky softness of her hair sent confusing signals to his heart.

He had never experienced anything like this dealing with other investigations. Usually he remained uninvolved and in control, but at the moment, his professional side was playing Russian roulette with his emotions.

His eyes watched the light-colored SUV—maybe an Expedition or Suburban—drive off, wheels screeching in the night as the taillights were enveloped by the fog. The license plate was obscured, but he saw a reflective army decal on the rear bumper. As fast as the maniac was driving, Dawson wouldn’t be able to catch up to him, so he kept his arms around Lillie.

“Shhhhh,” he soothed, smelling the heady scent of her perfume, a floral mix that made him think of springtime and sunshine—so the opposite of the dark night and heavy fog that surrounded them now. “You’re safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Except someone wanted to do her harm. Someone who had gunned down Granger because of what he had uncovered. The killer probably thought the ex-con had passed information on to Lillie, information the killer—or killers—didn’t want revealed.

Anger bubbled up within Dawson. He wanted to slam his fist into the gut of anyone who tried to hurt Lillie. He had to keep her safe, not just because she worked on post and had a very important boss, but because his own father had put her in danger.

She pulled back and turned her puffy but pretty face toward him. “I...I’m sorry. Usually I’m not this emotional.”

“Fear has a way of changing everything, Lillie.” He wanted to reassure her. “You were scared. Once the danger passes, the natural response is to release emotion. Tears can be cathartic.”

She tried to smile as she wiped her eyes.

He dug his right hand in his back pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, which he held out to her.

“Thanks.” She patted the cloth against her cheeks and sniffed again as she attempted to laugh. “I feel silly.”

“Don’t.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward her car. “Let’s see if we can get you back on the road. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“The SUV came around the curve too fast. I swerved to avoid a collision.”

“The same guy who chased after you?”

She nodded. “When he made a U-turn, I knew he was coming for me. If...if you hadn’t stopped...”

She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Both of them realized how vulnerable she had been on the back road in the early-morning hours with the heavy veil of fog closing in around her.

“Did you see his face?”

She shook her head. “All I could think about was getting away.”

Dawson hadn’t recognized the man or his vehicle and would be hard-pressed to provide a description other than a large SUV, either white or beige. He hadn’t been able to read the license plate, and the only thing he had seen was the decal.

Keeping his arm around Lillie, he guided her to a safe spot just a short distance from her Honda. Sliding behind the wheel, Dawson started the ignition and eased down on the accelerator, giving the engine enough gas to move the car forward and free of the trough the wheels had dug earlier.

After steering onto the blacktop, he put the gear in Park and opened the door. “Looks like you’re good to go. What time do you have to be at your office?”

“Eight o’clock, but I’m usually there by seven-thirty.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to change before I head to post.”

“I’ll follow you.”

“I hate to hold you up.”

“Not a problem.”

“Thank you.” She attempted to smile.

“I won’t let you out of my sight.”

The drive to her house was uneventful, and soon both cars were parked in her driveway. Ignoring the front entrance, still draped with crime-scene tape, they walked around the house and entered through the kitchen.

Lillie made a pot of coffee, which Dawson sipped as he looked around her living area. The house was nicely furnished with a contemporary couch and love seat and a mix of antique wooden pieces, including an oak sideboard and carved bookshelves.

The inlaid wood and the fine lines of the detailed ornamentation verified the pieces were works of art, which Dawson admired. Ironic that, since Lillie didn’t have a family history of her own, she decorated with treasures from someone else’s past.

Side tables topped with marble—exquisite rock that added beauty to the room—sat on each side of the couch. A few knickknacks were scattered about, and two framed photographs rested atop the mantel. One showed a beautiful woman with a small child in her arms.

Glancing closer, Dawson recognized Lillie’s sweet face and curly honey-brown hair. The other picture was of an older couple. An adolescent Lillie stood with her arms around both of them. Probably the McKinneys, the foster parents with the big hearts and willingness to open their home to a small child who had no one.

Dawson instantly knew he liked both of them. His gaze returned to the other photo. Although the picture had faded, he could see the resemblance between Lillie and the woman holding her, no doubt Irene Beaumont.

Had his father killed her? Dawson’s gut tightened. Turning away from the mantel, he headed for the kitchen and refilled his mug.

Outside, the fog had lifted, and as he sipped the coffee, the sun colored the horizon.

“I need to apologize for my actions at the diner.”

Dawson turned at the sound of Lillie’s voice. She had combed her hair and changed into a stylish dress that hugged her curves and made his breath jam in his throat.

“I...I was only thinking of myself and my job and what’s happening at Fort Rickman.” Her pretty eyes were filled with compassion. “Your father died this morning. I’m...I’m sorry.”

He placed his mug in the sink. “I never knew him. Never talked to him until he called a few nights ago. He...he wanted to meet.”

Dawson pulled in a breath. “My father had rejected me all my life, so I rejected him. Only now—” He shrugged, unable to find the words to express the way he felt.

She took a step closer. “Granger wanted to make it up to you. He didn’t want his son to be ashamed of him.”

Since the trial, Dawson had blocked his father out of his life. He hadn’t talked about him or acknowledged him or allowed him into his heart. It was easier to deny him than to accept who his father had been—a convict, a criminal, a killer.

“I went into law enforcement to right the wrongs my father had committed. Now I find out he may not have been the man I thought he was. That’s hard to get my mind around.”

Dawson glanced out the window, wondering what the new day would bring. If he had made a mistake about his father, maybe there were other things he needed to reconsider, but he couldn’t share his feelings with Lillie. Not now. Not when they were involved in a murder investigation. Even if the victim was his dad.

* * *

As Lillie watched the confusion play over Dawson’s face, the memories from her own childhood bubbled up within her. “After my mother disappeared, I cried myself to sleep night after night. More than anything, I wanted a normal life, someone to love me, to tuck me in when I went to bed and help me get dressed in the morning.”

She pulled in a fragile breath. “I was fortunate the McKinneys took me in. They were patient and loving, but at four years old, I wanted my own mother to wrap me in her arms.”

With a rueful smile, she added, “Sometimes I think I never stopped mourning her loss, and as much as I wanted to block out everything that had happened, I feared the McKinneys would be taken from me as well.”

Understanding mellowed Dawson’s gaze and made her question why she told him things she had never told anyone else. She reached for her purse, trying to shield herself from what she saw in Dawson’s eyes.

“I can’t be late for work.”

He grabbed her hand. “Lillie.”

She stopped and looked up, her breath stalled by his closeness.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She tried to smile. “Life can be a tough place for kids, but I...I shouldn’t have mentioned my own problems, Dawson. You have enough of your own.”

“You don’t have to hide anything from me.” His voice was gentle, like the morning mist.

As much as she wanted to believe him, she had spent her whole life covering up the pain of being a child left behind. She couldn’t admit the way she really felt to anyone. Especially not to a man whose crystal-blue eyes could see into her heart.

She dug her keys out of her purse and tilted her head, trying to lighten her tone and her expression. “I don’t want to keep General Cameron waiting.”

Dawson nodded and followed her outside. “You lead. I’ll take up the rear.”

“Once we get to post, I’ll be fine.”

He opened her car door. “I’ll follow you to your office.”

She climbed behind the wheel. He closed the door and gazed through the car window. “Lock your doors,” he mouthed.

So like a cop, but she complied with his request, feeling oddly relieved that someone was concerned about her well-being. Dawson was probably just doing his job. No reason for her to jump to any other conclusion, which she continued to tell herself as they entered Fort Rickman and drove toward post headquarters.

Lillie parked close to the building and met up with him on the sidewalk. “Thank you.”

His hand touched her back. “I’ll follow you inside.”

Her cheeks flushed as they hurried along the walkway and climbed the steps. Dawson held the door for her, and her heels clicked along the tile floor.

She stopped in front of the elevator.

“Let’s take the stairs,” he suggested.

The elevator door opened and she stepped inside. “This will be faster.”

He hesitated before joining her. As the door closed, Lillie could tell something was wrong. Dawson’s face paled. He licked his lips and clenched his fist until the doors opened on the second floor.

She stepped onto the landing. “I take it you don’t like elevators.”

“Actually, the problem is confined spaces.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” She pointed him toward the general’s suite, located at the far end of the hallway.

Dawson studied the long corridor, probably assessing her safety. Leaving him to do his job, she entered the office and nodded to the general’s aide.

“Morning, Mark.”

Medium height with broad shoulders and a military haircut, Captain Mark Banks stood near her desk, holding a phone to his ear. Hopefully he hadn’t retrieved the message concerning Dawson.

“I was worried, Lillie.” He held her gaze longer than necessary.

As much as the aide wanted to be part of her life, Lillie had rejected his advances. She didn’t need a relationship with someone with whom she shared an office or worked with on a daily basis.

“The CID called.” His brow creased with concern. “They said you were involved in a shooting.”

Dawson had evidently completed his hallway security check because, at that moment, he entered the outer office and glanced from Lillie to the general’s aide.

Mark squared his shoulders. “You’re from the CID?”

“That’s right. Special Agent Dawson Timmons.” He flashed his identification.

“Lillie’s not in trouble, is she?” the aide asked.

“Of course not.” She let out a frustrated sigh. Suddenly her life had gotten complicated. “A man was shot. He died. No one knows why he chose my front porch.”

As if doubting her overly simplistic explanation, the aide puffed out his chest. “Surely Mr. Timmons has some idea of what happened.”

Ignoring the aide’s sarcasm, Dawson nodded. “We’re working with the Freemont police. At this point, nothing significant has come to light.”

Lillie had hoped coming to work today would ease her anxiety. Standing between two men playing a game of one-upmanship made her wish she had called in sick.

The best way to rectify the situation was to send Dawson on his way. “Thank you, Agent Timmons, for all your help. I’ll be fine from now on.”

He glanced at his watch. “I want to update General Cameron on what happened. I’ll stick around until he arrives.”

Mark raised his brow. “I thought you didn’t have additional information?”

What was it about men? They were always in competition.

Edging away from Mark, she rounded her desk and dropped her purse in the bottom drawer. “The general’s tied up this morning, Dawson, but I can pencil you in later.”

At that moment, the outer door opened and General Cameron stepped into the office. Mark and Dawson came to attention.

Lillie smiled. “Good morning, sir.”

In his early fifties with a square face and receding hairline, the general nodded to the two men and then softened his stern expression as he turned to Lillie. “The staff duty officer called me at home and told me there had been a shooting at your house. You’re all right?”

“I was never in danger, besides...” She extended her hand toward Dawson. “Special Agent Timmons arrived shortly after the shooting. He followed me to post to ensure I arrived safely.”

The general extended his hand. “Thank you for helping Lillie.”

Dawson accepted the handshake. “The Freemont police are handling the investigation, sir. I’ll be working with them.”

“Any leads?”

“Not at this time.”

“Keep me abreast of the situation.”

“Will do, sir.”

The general nodded to his aide. “Morning, Mark.” He then headed through another door that led to his inner office suite.

Lillie pulled out her desk chair. Before she sat down, the outer door opened again, and Karl Nelson hustled into the office. Forty-something and slightly out of breath, the head of Nelson Construction smacked of small-town wealth in his hand-tailored suit, starched white shirt and red tie.

“I’m early for my appointment with the general, Lillie.” Five-ten and wearing twenty extra pounds, Karl approached her desk. “I heard about the shooting. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Mr. Nelson, but I wish I could say the same for Granger Ford.”

Karl harrumphed. “The man was a murderer. He never should have been released from prison. In my opinion, he received his due.”

Dawson flinched. “I beg to differ, sir.”

Lillie’s stomach tightened. If only Dawson could shrug off the comment and not let the contractor get under his skin.

“What’s that?” Karl turned, as if only now realizing the CID agent was in the room.

“Granger Ford was recently released from prison, Mr. Nelson, because of new DNA testing that proved the trial was a mockery of justice.”

So much for hoping everyone would get along. Glancing from Dawson to Nelson, Lillie felt like a drop of water on a hot iron.

Dawson pointed his finger at the contractor. “People in this town stood by and allowed an innocent man to go to jail.”

Nelson’s eyes narrowed. Before he could respond, the door to the inner office suite opened.

General Cameron stood in the doorway, his hand outstretched. “Glad you stopped by early, Karl. We’ll have more time to go over the plans for the new museum.”

The construction company owner shrugged off his displeasure with Dawson, returned the handshake and followed the general into his inner office.

Once the door closed behind them, Lillie looked at Dawson, willing him to understand she needed to get to work. “You’d better go.”

Digging in his pocket, he pulled out Granger’s key and dropped it into her hand. “I’ll stop by later this afternoon and follow you home after work.”

Before she could object, he was gone, leaving her stomach in knots and her nerves stretched thin. She glanced through the window as he hurried along the sidewalk to his car.

Handsome though he was, Lillie needed to realize the special agent was trouble, and right now, she had more than enough to last a lifetime.

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