Some things you can’t forget.

A body hanging from the infamous History Tree unraveled their teenage love. Now Maura Antrim is again tangled up with Brock McGovern. Twelve years later, they’re back where that murder occurred—where Brock had been arrested and then released, where Maura had run, too scared to stand by his side. But with two women missing, and Brock now an FBI agent, Maura is determined to help. Together, they’ll have to confront a threat that never died and see if their passion has withstood the test of time.

New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author HEATHER GRAHAM has written more than a hundred novels. She’s a winner of the Romance Writers of America’s Lifetime Achievement Award, a Thriller Writers’ Silver Bullet and, in 2016, the Thriller Master Award from ITS. She is an active member of the International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America, and is the founder of The Slush Pile Players, an author band and theatrical group. An avid scuba diver, ballroom dancer and mother of five, she still enjoys her South Florida home, but also loves to travel.

For more information, check out Heather’s website, theoriginalheathergraham.com or find her on Facebook.

Also by Heather Graham

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Tangled Threat

Heather Graham

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ISBN: 978-1-474-09427-6

TANGLED THREAT

© 2019 Heather Graham Pozzessere

Published in Great Britain 2019

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

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For Roberta Young Peacock,

a true Florida girl, with lots of love

and best wishes.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Prologue
The History Tree

“They see her...the beautiful Gyselle, when the moon is high in the sky. She walks these oak-lined trails and sometimes pauses to touch the soft moss that drips from the great branches, as if she reaches out for them to touch what is real. In life she was kind and generous. She was beloved by so many. And yet, when brought so cruelly to her brutal and unjust death at the infamous History Tree, she cast a curse on those around her. Those involved would die bitter deaths as well, choking on their own blood, breath stolen from them as it had been from her,” Maura Antrim said dramatically.

The campfire in the pit burned bright yellow and gold, snapping and crackling softly. All around them, great oaks and pines rose, moss swaying in the light breeze. The moon overhead was full and bright that night, but cloud cover drifted past now and then, creating eerie shadows everywhere.

It was a perfect summer night, and perfect for storytelling. She was glad to be there, glad to be the storyteller and glad of the response from her audience.

Maura’s group from the resort—teenagers and adults alike—looked at her, wide-eyed.

She refused to smile—she wanted to remain grave—though she was delighted by the fascination of the guests assembled around her. She had been grateful and pleased to be upgraded to her position of storyteller for the Frampton Ranch and Resort, an enterprise in North Central Florida that was becoming more renowned daily as a destination. The property had been bought about five years back by billionaire hotelier Donald Glass, and he had wisely left the firepit and the old riding trails as they were, the History Tree right where it grew, the ruins of the old plantation just as they lay—and amped up the history first, and then the legends that went along with the area.

Maura wasn’t supposed to be on tonight—she shared the position with Francine Renault, a longtime employee of Donald Glass’s hotel corporation, probably second in command only to the main resort manager, Fred Bentley. The two of them were known to argue—but Francine stayed right where she was, doing what she wanted. Despite any arguments, Donald Glass refused to fire either Francine or Fred, who, despite his stocky bulk, moved around the resort like a bat out of hell, always getting things done.

Fred Bentley had watched Maura at the start of the evening; she thought that he was smiling benignly—that he approved of her abilities as a social hostess and storyteller.

It was hard to blame him for fighting with Francine. She was...a difficult personality type at best.

And sharing any job with Francine wasn’t easy; the woman had an air of superiority about her and a way of treating those she considered to be “lesser” employees very badly. Francine was in her midthirties—and was a beauty, really, a platinum blonde, dark-eyed piece of perfection—and while Maura had turned eighteen, Francine considered all of Donald Glass’s summer help annoying, ignorant children.

The young adults—or “camper” summer help—were fond of gossiping. It was rumored that Francine once had an affair with Donald Glass, and that was how she held on to her position—and her superiority.

Glass was married. Maybe Francine was blackmailing him, telling him that if she wasn’t given a certain power, she’d tell his wife, Marie, and Marie—or so rumor had it—could be jealous and very threatening when she chose to be. Hard to believe—in public Marie was always the model of decorum, slim and regal, slightly younger than Donald but certainly older than Francine.

Teens and young adults loved to speculate. At Maura’s age, the thought of any of the older staff together—all seeming so much older than she was at the time—was simply gross.

Tonight, by not being there, Francine had put herself in a bad position.

She hadn’t shown up for work. A no-show without a call was grounds for dismissal, though Maura seriously doubted that Francine would be fired.

Maura looked around, gravely and silently surveying her group before beginning again.

She didn’t get a chance—someone spoke up. A young teenager.

“They should call it the Torture Tree or the Hangman’s Tree...or something besides the History Tree,” he said.

The boy’s name was Mark Hartford, Maura thought. She’d supervised a game at the pool one day when he had been playing. He was a nice kid, curious and, maybe because he was an adolescent boy, boisterous. He also had an older brother, Nils—in college already. Mark’s brother wasn’t quite as nice; he knew that many of the workers were his own age or younger, and he liked to lord his status as a guest over them. He was bearable, however.

“The Torture Tree! Oh, lord, you little...heathen!”

Nils had a girlfriend. Rachel Lawrence. She was nicer than Nils, unless Nils was around. Then she behaved with a great deal of superiority, as well. But, Maura realized, Nils and Rachel were at the campfire that night—they had just joined quietly.

Quietly—which was amazing in itself. Nils liked to make an entrance most of the time, making sure that everyone saw him.

Rachel had her hands set upon Mark’s shoulders—even as she called him a heathen. She looked scared, or nervous maybe, Maura thought. Maybe it was for effect; Nils set his arm around her shoulders, as a good, protective boyfriend should. They made a cute family picture, a young adult male with his chosen mate and a young one under their wings.

Maura was surprised they were on the tour. Nils had said something the other day about the fact that they were too mature for campfire ghost stories.

“Torture Tree—yes, that would be better!” Mark said. He wasn’t arguing with Rachel, he was determined that he was right. “Poor Gyselle—she was really tortured there, right?”

Mark and the other young teens were wide-eyed. Teenagers that age liked the sensational—and they liked it grisly.

“She was dragged there and hanged, so yes, I’m sure it was torture,” Maura said. “But it was the History Tree long before a plantation was built here, years and years ago,” Maura said. “That was the Native American name for it—the Timucua were here years before the Spanish came. They called it the History Tree, because even back then, the old oak had grown together with a palm, and it’s been that way since. Anyway, we’ll be seeing the History Tree soon enough,” she said softly. “The tree that first welcomed terror when the beautiful Gyselle was tormented and hanged from the tree until dead. And where, so they say, the hauntings and horrors of the History Tree began.”

Maura saw more than one of her audience members glance back over the area of sweeping, manicured lawn and toward the ranch, as if assuring themselves that more than the night and the spooky, draped trees existed, that there was light and safety not far away.

The new buildings Donald Glass had erected were elegant and beautiful. With St. Augustine just an hour and a half in one direction and Disney and Universal and other theme parks just an hour and half to the south—not to mention a nice proximity to the beaches and racetrack at Daytona and the wonder of Cape Kennedy being an hour or so away, as well—Frampton Ranch and Resort was becoming a must-see location.

Still, the ranch had become renowned for offering Campfire Ghost Histories. Not stories, but histories—everything said was history and fact...to a point.

The listeners could hear what people claimed to have happened, and they could believe—or not. And then they’d walk the trails where history had occurred.

“You see, Gyselle had been a lovely lost waif, raised by the Seminole tribe after they found her wandering near the battlefield at the end of the Second Seminole War. She was ‘rescued’ by Spanish missionaries at the beginning of the Third Seminole War, though, at that point, she probably didn’t want or need rescuing, having been with a Seminole family for years. But ‘saved’ and then set adrift, she found work at the old Frampton plantation, and there she caught the eye of the heir, and despite his arranged marriage to socialite Julie LeBlanc, the young Richard Frampton fell head over heels in love with Gyselle. They were known to escape into the woods where they both professed their love, despite all the odds against them—and Richard’s wife, Julie. Knowing of her husband’s infidelity, Julie LeBlanc arranged to poison her father-in-law—and let the blame fall on Gyselle. Gyselle was hunted down as a murderous witch, supposedly practicing a shaman’s magic or a form of voodoo—it was easy to blame it on traditions the plantation workers didn’t really understand—and she was hanged there, from what was once a lover’s tree where she had met with Richard, her love, who had promised to protect her...”

She let her voice trail. Then she finished.

“Here, in these woods, Gyselle loved, not wisely, but deeply. And here she died. And so they say, when the moon has risen high and full in the night sky—as it is now—those who walk the trails by night can hear her singing softly ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ with a lovely Irish lilt to her voice.”

“What about the curse?” a boy cried out.

“Yeah, the curse! That she spoke before she died—swearing that her tormenters would choke on their own blood! You just said that she cursed everyone, and there are more stories, right?” Mark—never one to be silent long—asked eagerly.

Maura felt—rather than saw—Brock McGovern at her side. He was amused. Barely eighteen, he’d nevertheless been given the position of stage manager for events such as the campfire history tour. He’d been standing to one side just behind her as she told her tale with just the right dramatic emphasis—or so she believed.

He stepped forward, just a shade closer, nearly touching her.

“Choking on their own blood? Kind of a standard curse, huh?” he teased softly and for her ears alone.

Maura ignored him, trying not to smile, and still, even here, now, felt the rush she always did when Brock was around.

Brock was always ready to tease—but also to encourage and support whatever she was doing. He had that ability and the amazing tendency to exude an easy confidence that stretched far beyond his years. But he was that sure of himself. He was about to leave for the service, and when he returned, he planned to go to college to study criminology. Barely an adult, he knew what he wanted in life. She was sure he was going to work hard during basic training; he’d work hard through the college or university of his choice. And then he’d make up his mind just where he wanted to serve—FBI, US Marshals, perhaps even Homeland Security or the Secret Service.

He shook his head, smiling at her with his unusual eyes—a shade so dark that they didn’t appear brown at times, but rather black. His shaggy hair—soon to become a buzz cut—was as dark as his eyes, and it framed a face that was, in Maura’s mind, pure enchantment. He had already had a fine, steady chin—the kind most often seen on more mature men. His cheekbones were broad, and his skin was continually bronzed. He was, in her mind, beautiful.

He’d often told the tales himself, and he did so very well. He had a deep, rich voice that could rise and fall at just the right moments—a voice that, on its own, could awaken every sense in Maura’s body. They had known each other for three years now, laughed and joked together, ridden old trails, worked together...always flirting, nearly touching at first, but always aware that, when summer ended, he would head back down to Key West and she would return to West Palm Beach—about 233 miles apart, just a little too far for a high school romance.

But this summer...

Things had changed.

She had liked him from the time she had met him; she had compared any other young man she met to him, and in her mind, all others fell short. He’d been given a management job that summer, probably because he was always willing to pitch in himself, whether it came to working in the restaurant when tables needed bussing or hauling in boxes when deliveries arrived. He’d gained a lean and muscular physique from hard work as much as from time in the gym, and he had a quick mind and a quicker wit, cared for people, was generous with his time, and was just...

Perfect. She’d never find anyone so perfect in life again, Maura was certain, even though she knew that her mother and father smiled indulgently when she talked about him in glowing terms—she was, after all, just eighteen, with college days and so much more ahead of her.

This summer they’d become a true couple. In every way.

A very passionate couple.

They’d had sex, in her mind, the most amazing sex ever, more meaningful than any sex had ever been before.

Just the thought brought a rush of blood to her face.

But...she believed that they would go on even through their separation, no matter the distance, no matter what. People would think, of course, that she was just a teenager, that she couldn’t be as madly in love as she believed she was. So she was determined that no one would really realize just how insanely fully she did love him.

She turned to Brock. He was smiling at her. Something of a secret smile, charming, sexy...a smile that seemed to hint that they always shared something unique, something special.

She grinned in return.

Yep. He had become her world.

“Take it away,” she told him.

“The curse!” he said, stepping in with a tremor in his voice. “It’s true that while being dragged to the tree—which you’ll see soon on our walk—the poor woman cried out that she was innocent of any cruel deed, innocent of murder. And she said that those who so viciously killed her would die in agony and despair. The very woods here would be haunted for eternity, and the evil they perpetrated on her would live forever. They had brought the devil into the woods, and there he would abide.”

He smiled, innately charming when he spoke to a group, and continued, “I think that storytellers have added in the choking-on-blood part. Very dramatic and compelling, but...there are records of the occasion of the poor woman’s demise available at the resort library.” He set his flashlight beneath his chin, creating an eerie look.

“And,” Maura said, “what is also documented is that bad things continued to happen on the ranch—under the same tree, the condemned killer, Marston Riggs, tortured and killed his victims in the early 1900s, and as late as 1970, the man known as the Red Tie Killer made use of the tree as well, killing five men and women at the History Tree and leaving their bones to fall to the ground. But, of course, we don’t believe in curses. The History Tree and the ranch are perfectly safe nowadays...” She looked at Brock. “Shall we?” she asked.

“Indeed, we shall,” he said, and the sound of his voice and the look that he gave her made her long for it to be later, when they had completed the nighttime forest tour—and were alone together.

They walked by the grove, where there was a charming little pond rumored to invigorate life—a handsomely written plaque commemorating the Spaniard Reynaldo Montenegro and his exploration of Florida.

Brock said to the tour group, “Here we are at the famous grove where Reynaldo Montenegro claimed to have found the Pond of Eternal Youth.”

It was as great tour; even the adolescents continued to ask questions as they walked.

“I’m happy to have been the tour guide tonight,” Maura murmured to Brock. “But I can’t believe that Francine just didn’t show up.”

“If I know Francine, she’ll make a grand entrance somewhere along the line, with a perfect reason for not being on time. She’ll have some mammoth surprise for everyone—something way more important than speaking to the guests. Hey, what do you want to bet that we see her somewhere before this tour is over? Here, folks,” Brock announced, “you’ll see the plaque—an inquisition did come to the New World!”

The copse, illuminated only by the sparkling lights that lit the trail, offered a sadder message—that of tortures carried out by an invading society on the native population it encountered.

They passed the ruins of an old Spanish farm and then they neared the tree.

The infamous History Tree.

The tree—or trees—older than anyone could remember, stood dead center in the small clearing, as if nothing else would dare to grow near. Gnarled and twisted together, palm and oak suggested a mess of human limbs, coiled together in agony.

Maura stopped dead, hearing a long, terrified scream, then realizing that she’d made the sound herself.

From one large oaken branch, a body was hanging, swaying just slightly in the night breeze.

She didn’t need to wonder why Francine Renault had been derelict in her duty.

She was there...part of the tour, just not as she should have been.

Head askew, neck broken. She was hanging there, in the place where others had been hanged through the years, again and again, where they had decayed, where their bones had dotted the earth beneath them.

Brock had been right.

Francine Renault had indeed shown up before the tour was over.

* * *

THE POLICE FLOODED the ranch with personnel, the medical examiner and crime scene technicians.

The rich forest of pines and oaks and ferns and earth became alive with artificial light, and still, where the moss sagged low, the bright beams just made the night and the macabre situation eerier.

Detective Michael Flannery had been put in charge of the case. Employees and guests had been separated and then separated again, and eventually, Maura sat at the edge of the parking lot, shivering although it wasn’t cold, waiting for the officer who would speak with her.

When he got there, he wanted to know the last time she had seen Francine. She told him it had been the night before.

Where she had been all day? In the office, in the yard with the older teen boys and at the campfire.

Had she heard anyone threaten Francine?

At least half of the resort’s employees. In aggravation or jest.

The night seemed to wear on forever.

When she was released at last, she was sent back to her own room and ordered to stay there until morning.

When morning came, her parents were there, ready to take her home.

She desperately wanted to see Brock.

Her parents were quiet and then they looked at each other. Her father shook his head slightly, and her mother said softly, “Maura, you can’t see Brock.”

“What?” she demanded. “Why not? Mom, Dad—I’m about to leave home. Go to college, really be on my own. I love you. I’m going to come home. But...I’m almost eighteen. I won’t go without seeing Brock.”

Her father, a gentle giant with broad shoulders and a mane of white hair, spoke to her softly. “Sweetheart, we didn’t say that we wouldn’t let you see Brock. We’re saying that you can’t see Brock.” He hesitated, looking over at her mother, and then he continued with, “I’m so sorry. Brock was arrested last night. He was charged with the murder of Francine Renault.”

And with those words, it seemed that her world fell apart, that what she had known, that what she had believed in, all just exploded into a sea of red and then disappeared into smoke and fog.

Chapter One

“I’m assigned to go back to Florida. To stay at the Frampton Ranch and Resort—and investigate what we believe to be three kidnappings and a murder. And the kidnappings may have nothing to do with the resort, nor may the murder?” Brock McGovern asked, a small note of incredulity slipping into his voice, which was surprising to him—he was always careful to keep an even tone.

FBI Assistant Director Richard Egan had brought him into his office, and Brock had known he was going on assignment—he just hadn’t expected this.

“Yes, not what you’d want, but, hey, maybe it’ll be good for you—and perhaps necessary now, when time is of the essence and there is no one out there who could know the place or the circumstances with the same scope and experience you have,” Egan told him. “Three young women have disappeared from the area. Two of them were guests of the Frampton Ranch and Resort shortly before their disappearances—the third had left St. Augustine and was on her way there. The Florida Department of Law Enforcement has naturally been there already. They asked for federal help on this. Shades of the past haunt them—they don’t want any more unsolved murders—and everyone is hoping against hope that Lily Sylvester, Amy Bonham and Lydia Merkel might be found.”

“These are Florida missing persons cases,” Brock said. “And it’s sad but true that young people go to Florida and get caught up in the beach life and the club scene. And regrettable but true once again—there’s a drug and alcohol culture that does exist and people get caught up in it. Not just in Florida, of course, but...everywhere.” He smiled grimly. “I go where I’m told, but I’m curious—how is this an FBI affair? And forgive me, but FBI out of New York?”

“Not out of New York. FDLE asked for you. Specifically.”

“I see.”

Egan didn’t often dwell on the emotional or psychological, but the assistant director hesitated and then said, “You could put your past to rest.”

Brock shrugged. “You know, one of the cooks committed suicide not long after the murder. Peter Moore. He stabbed himself with a butcher knife. He’d had a lot of fights with Francine Renault—the victim found at the tree. They suspected he might have killed himself out of remorse.”

Egan offered him a dry grimace. “I know about the cook, of course. You know me—I knew everything about you on paper before I took you into this unit. I’m not sure anyone would have made a case against him in court. That’s all beside the point—the past may well be the past. But there’s the now, as well. They’re afraid of a serial killer, Brock,” Egan said. And he continued with, “The badly decomposed remains—mostly bones—of another young woman who went missing several months ago were recently found in a bizarre way—they were dumped in with sheets from several hotels and resorts at an industrial laundry that accepted linens from dozens of places—Frampton Ranch and Resort being one of them.”

“I see,” Brock said.

He didn’t really see.

That didn’t matter; Egan would be thorough.

“Yes, this may be a bit hard on you, but you’re the one in the know. To come close to a knowledge of the area and people that you already have might take someone else hours or days that may cost a life... You’re the best man for this. Especially because you were once falsely accused. And, I believe, you may just solve something of the mystery of the past. And quit hating your own home.”

“I don’t hate my own home. Ah, come on, sir, I don’t want to play any cure-me psychological games with this,” Brock said.

Egan shook his head and leaned forward, his eyes narrowed—indicating a rise in his temper, something always kept in check. “If I thought you needed to be cured, you wouldn’t be in my unit. Women are missing. They might be dead already,” he said curtly. “And then again, they might have a chance. You’re the agent with a real sense for the place, the people and the surrounding landscape. And you’re a good agent, period. I trust in your ability to get this sorted.”

Brock greatly admired Egan. He had a nose for sending the right agent or agents in for a job. Usually.

But Brock was sitting across from Egan in Egan’s office—in New York City. He, Brock, was an NYC agent.

And while Brock really didn’t dislike where he came from—he still loved Florida, especially his family home in the Keys—he had opted to apply to the New York office of the Bureau specifically because it was far, far away from the state of his birth.

The New York City office didn’t usually handle events in Florida, unless a criminal had traveled from New York down to the southern state. Florida had several field offices—including a multimillion-dollar state-of-the-art facility in Broward County. That was south—but Orlando had an exceptional office, close enough to the Frampton place. And there were more offices, as well.

Even if the Frampton Ranch and Resort was in a relatively isolated part of the state, a problem there would generally be handled by a more local office.

“Frampton Ranch and Resort,” he heard himself say. And this time, years of training and experience kicked in—his voice was perfectly level and emotionless.

It was true: he sure as hell knew it and the area. The resort was just a bit off from—or maybe part of—what people considered to be the northern Ocala region, where prime acreage was still available at reasonable prices, where horse ranches were common upon the ever-so-slightly rolling hills and life tended to be slow and easy.

There were vast tracts of grazing ground and great live-oak forests and trails laden with pines where the sun seemed to drip down through great strands of weeping moss that hung from many a branch. It could be considered horse country, farm country and ranch county. There were marshes and forests, sinkholes and all manner of places where a body might just disappear.

The Frampton ranch was north of Ocala, east of Gainesville and about forty-five minutes south of Olustee, Florida, where every year, a battle reenactment took place, drawing tourists and historians from near and far. The Battle of Olustee, won by forces in the state; the war had been heading toward its final inevitable conclusion, and then time proved that victory had been necessary for human rights and the strength and growth of the fledgling nation, however purposeless the sad loss of lives always seemed.

Reenactors and historians arrived in good numbers, and those who loved bringing history to life also loved bringing in crowds and many came for the campgrounds. The reenactment took place in February, when temperatures in the state tended to be beautiful and mosquito repellent wasn’t as much a requirement as usual. During the winter season—often spring break for other regions—the area was exceptionally popular.

The area was beautiful.

And the large areas of isolation, which included the Frampton property, could conceal any number of dark deeds.

He’d just never thought he’d go back to it.

Certainly, time—and the path he had chosen to take in life—had helped erase the horror of the night they had come upon the body of Francine Renault hanging from the History Tree and his own subsequent arrest. He’d been so young then, so assured that truth spoke for itself. In the end, his parents—bless them—had leaped to the fore, flying into action, and their attorney had made quick work of getting him out of jail after only one night and seeing that his record was returned to spotless. It was ludicrous that they had arrested him; he’d been able to prove that it would have been impossible for him to have carried out the deed. Dozens of witnesses had attested to the fact that he couldn’t have been the killer, he’d been seen by so many people during the hours in which the murder must have taken place. He could remember, though, sitting in the cell—cold, stark, barren—and wondering why in God’s name they had arrested him.

He discovered that there had been an anonymous call to the station—someone stating that they had seen him dragging Francine Renault into the woods. The tipster had sworn that he would appear at a trial as a witness for the prosecution, but the witness had not come to the station. Others had signed formal protests, and the McGoverns’ attorney had taken over.

So many people had come forward, indignant, furious over his arrest.

But not Maura. She had been gone. Just gone. He couldn’t think of the Frampton Ranch and Resort without a twinge of pain. He had never been sure which had broken him more at the time—the arrest or the fact that Maura had disappeared as cleanly from his life as any hint of daylight once night had fallen.

They had been so young. It had been natural that her parents whisked her away, and maybe even natural that neither had since tried to reach the other.

But there were times when he could still close his eyes and see her smile and be certain that he breathed in the subtle scent of her. Twelve years had gone by; he wasn’t even the same person.

Egan was unaware of his reflections.

“Detective Michael Flannery is lead investigator now. He was on the case when you were arrested for the crime, but he wasn’t lead.”

“I know Flannery. We’ve communicated through the years, believe it or not. I almost feel bad—he suffered a lot of guilt about jumping the gun with me.”

“He’s with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement now, with some seniority and juice, so it seems,” Egan informed him. “Years ago, when the murder took place, the federal government wasn’t involved. Flannery doesn’t want this crime going unsolved. He knows you’re in this office now. His commander told me that he keeps in touch with you.” Egan paused. “It doesn’t sound as if you have a problem with him—you don’t, right?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

Even as a stunned kid—what he had been back then—Brock had never hated Detective Flannery for being one of the men who had come and arrested him.

Flannery had been just as quick to listen to the arguments that eventually cleared Brock completely of any wrongdoing. While Brock knew that Flannery was furious that he had been taken and certain that there had been an underlying and devious conspiracy to lead him and his superiors so thoroughly in the wrong direction, he had to agree that, at the time, Brock had appeared to be a ready suspect.

He’d had a fight with Francine that day, and it had been witnessed by many people. He hadn’t gotten physical in any way, but his poor opinion of her, and his anger with her, had probably been more than evident—enough for him to be brought in for questioning and to be held for twenty-four hours at any rate.

“I’m curious how something that happened so long ago can relate to the cases happening now,” Brock said.

“It may not. The remains of the dead girl found in the laundry might have been the work of one crazed individual or an acquaintance seeking vengeance, acting out of jealousy—a solitary motive. It might be coincidence the way she was found—or maybe a killer was trying to throw suspicion upon a particular place or person. But...a lot of the same individuals are still there now who were there when Francine Renault was killed.”

“Donald Glass—he’s around a lot, though he does spend time at his other properties. Fred Bentley—I imagine he’s still running the works. Who else is still there?” Brock asked.

Egan handed him a pile of folders. “All this is coming to your email, as well. There you have those who are in residence—and dossiers on the victims. Yes, Glass and Bentley are still on the property. There are other staff members who never left—Millie Cranston, head of Housekeeping. Vinnie Marshall, upgraded to chef—after Peter Moore’s death, I might add. And then...” He paused, tapping the folders. “You have some old guests who are now employees.”

“Who?”

“Mark and Nils Hartford,” Egan told him. “Both of them report directly to Fred Bentley. Mark has taken over as the social director. Nils is managing the restaurants—the sit-down Ranch Roost and the Java Bar.”

Brock hadn’t known that the Hartford brothers—who’d seemed so above the working class when they’d been guests—were now employed at the very place where they had once loved to make hell for others.

“Flannery said this is something he hadn’t mentioned to you. One of your old friends—or acquaintances—Rachel Lawrence is now with FDLE. She’s been working the murder and the disappearances with him.”

“Rachel? Became...a cop?” Brock shook his head, not sure if he was angry or amused. Rachel had never wanted to break a nail. She’d been pretty and delicate and... She’d also been a constant accessory of Nils Hartford.

“I guess your old friend Flannery was afraid to tell you.”

“I don’t know why he would be. I’m just a little surprised—she seemed more likely to be on one of those shows about rich housewives in a big city, but I never had a problem with her. That the Hartford brothers both became employees—that’s also a surprise. They made me think of Dirty Dancing. They were the rich kids—we were the menial labor. But the world changes. People change.”

“Flannery’s point, so it appears, is that a number of the same players are in the area—may mean something and may not. There have been, give or take, approximately a thousand murders in the state per year in the last years. But that’s only about four percent per the population. Still, anything could have happened. Violent crime may have to do with many factors—often family related, gang related, drug related, well...you know all the drills. But if we do have a serial situation down there—relating to or not relating to the past—everyone needs to move quickly. Not only do you know the area and the terrain, you know people and you know the ropes of getting around many of the people and places who might be integral to the situation.”

“Yes. And any agent would want to put a halt to this—put an end to a serial killer. Or find the girls—alive, one can pray—or stop future abductions and killings.”

Egan nodded grimly and tossed a small pile of photos down before him. Brock could see three young, hopeful faces looking back at him. All three were attractive, and more grippingly, all three seemed to smile with life and all that lay before someone at that tender age.

“The missing,” Egan said. He had big hands and long fingers. He used them to slide the first three photographs over.

The last was a divided sheet. On one side was the likeness of a beautiful young woman, probably in her early twenties. Her hair had been thick and dark and curly; her eyes had been sky blue. Her smile had been engaging.

“Maureen Rodriguez,” Egan said. He added softly, “Then and now.”

On the other side of the divided sheet was a crime scene photo—an image of bones, scattered in dirt in a pile of sheets. In the center of the broken and fragmented bones was a skull.

The skull retained bits of flesh.

“According to the investigation, she was on her way to Frampton Ranch and Resort,” Egan said.

Brock nodded slowly and rose. “As am I,” he said. “When do I leave?”

“Your plane is in two hours—down to Jacksonville. You’ve a rental car in your name when you arrive. I’m sure you know the way to the property. Detective Flannery will be waiting to hear from you. He’ll go over all the particulars.”

Brock was surprised to see that Egan was still studying him. “You are good, right?” he asked Brock.

“Hey, everyone wants to head to Florida for the winter, don’t they?” he asked. “I’m good,” he said seriously. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we can put the past to rest after all.”

* * *

“I LOVE IT—just love it, love it, love it! Love it all!” Angie Parsons said enthusiastically. She offered Maura one of her biggest, happiest smiles.

She was staring at the History Tree, her smile brilliant and her enthusiasm for her project showing in the brightness of her eyes and her every movement. “I mean, people say Florida has no history—just because it’s not New England and there were no pilgrims. But, hey, St. Augustine is—what?—the oldest settlement continually...settled...by Europeans in the country, right? I mean, way back, the Spaniards were here. No, no, the state wasn’t one of the original thirteen colonies. No, no Puritans here. But! There’s so much! And this tree... No one knows how old the frigging oak is or when the palm tree grew in it or through it or with it or whatever.”

Angie Parsons was cute, friendly, bright and sometimes, but just sometimes, too much. At five feet two inches, she exuded enough energy for a giant. She had just turned thirty—and done brilliantly for her years. She had written one of the one most successful nonfiction book series on the market. And all because she got as excited as she did about objects and places and things—such as the History Tree.

The main tree was a black oak; no one knew quite how old it was, but several hundred years at least. That type of oak was known to live over five hundred years.

A palm tree had—at some time—managed to grow at the same place, through the outstretched roots of the oak and twirling up around the trunk and through the branches. It was bizarre, beautiful, and so unusual that it naturally inspired all manner of legends, some of those legends based on truth.

And, of course, the History Tree held just the kind of legend that made Angie as successful as she was.

Angie’s being incredibly successful didn’t hurt Maura any.

But being here... Yes, it hurt. At least...it was incredibly uncomfortable. On the one hand it was wonderful seeing people she had worked with once upon a time in another life.

On the other hand it was bizarre. Like visiting a mirror dimension made up of things she remembered. The Hartford brothers were working there now. Nils was managing the restaurants—he’d arrived at the table she and Angie had shared last night to welcome them and pick up their dinner check. Of course, Nils had become management. No lowly posts for him. He seemed to have an excellent working relationship with Fred Bentley, who was still the manager of the resort. Bentley had come down when they’d checked in—he’d greeted Maura with a serious hug. She was tall, granted, and in heels, and he was on the short side for a man—about five-ten—but it still seemed that his hug allowed for him to rest his head against her breasts a moment too long.

But still, he’d apparently been delighted to see her.

And Mark Hartford had come to see her, too, grown-up, cute and charming now—and just as happy as his brother to see her. It was thanks to her, he had told her, and her ability to tell the campfire histories, that had made him long to someday do the same.

The past didn’t seem like any kind of a boulder around his neck. Certainly he remembered the night that Francine had been murdered.

The night that had turned her life upside down had been over twelve years ago.

Like all else in the past, it was now history.

Time had marched on, apparently, for them—and her.

She’d just turned eighteen the last time she had been here. When that autumn had come around, she’d done what she’d been meant to do, headed to the University of Central Florida, an amazing place to study performance of any kind and directing and film—with so many aspects thrown into the complete education.

She’d spent every waking minute in classes—taking elective upon elective to stay busy. She was now CEO of her own company, providing short videos to promote writers, artists, musicians and anyone wanting video content, including attorneys and accountants.

Not quite thirty, she could be proud of her professional accomplishments—she had garnered a great reputation.

She enjoyed working with Angie. The writer was fun, and there was good reason for her success. She loved the bizarre and spooky that drew human curiosity. Even those who claimed they didn’t believe in anything even remotely paranormal seemed to love Angie’s books.

Most of the time, yes, Maura did truly enjoy working with Angie, and since Angie had tried doing her own videos without much success, she was equally happy to be working with Maura. They’d done great bits down in Key West at the cemetery there—where Maura’s favorite tomb was engraved with the words I told you I was sick!—and at the East Martello Museum with Robert the Doll. They had filmed on the west coast at the old summer estates that had belonged to Henry Ford and Thomas Edison. And they’d worked together in St. Augustine, where they’d created twenty little video bits for social media that had pleased Angie to no end—and garnered hundreds of thousands of hits.

Last night, even Marie Glass—Donald’s reserved and elegant wife—had come by their dinner table to welcome them and tell them just how much she enjoyed all the videos that Maura had done for and with Angie, telling great legends and wild tales that were bizarrely wonderful—and true.

Maybe naturally, since they were working in Florida, Angie had determined that they had to stay at Frampton Ranch and Resort and film at the History Tree.

Maura had suggested other places that would make great content for a book on the bizarre: sinkholes, a road where cars slid uphill instead of downhill—hell, she would have done her best to make a giant ball of twine sound fascinating. There were lots of other places in the state with strange stories—lord! They could go back to Key West and film a piece on Carl Tanzler, who had slept with the corpse of his beloved, Elena de Hoyos, for seven years.

But Angie was dead set on seeing the History Tree, and when they’d gotten to the clearing she had started spinning around like a delighted child.

She stopped suddenly, staring at Maura.

“You really are uncomfortable here, aren’t you? Scared? You know, I’ve told you—you can hire an assistant. Maybe a strapping fellow, tall, dark and handsome—or blond and handsome—and muscle-bound. Someone to protect us if the bogeyman is around at any of our strange sites.” Angie paused, grinning. She liked men and didn’t apologize for it. In her own words, if you didn’t kiss a bunch of frogs, you were never going to find a prince.

“Angie, I like doing my own work—and editing it and assuring that I like what I’ve done. I promise you, if we turn something into any kind of a feature film, we’ll hire dozens of people.”

Angie sighed. “Well, so much for tall, dark—or blond—and handsome. Your loss, my dear friend. Anyway. You do amazing work for me. You’re a one-woman godsend.”

“Thanks,” Maura told her. She inhaled a deep breath.

“Could you try not to look quite so miserable?”

“Oh, Angie. I’m sorry. It’s just...”

“The legend. The legend about the tree—oh, yes. And the murder victims found here. I’m sorry, Maura, but... I mean, I film these places because they have legends attached to them.” Angie seemed to be perplexed. She sighed. “Of course, the one murder was just twelve years ago. Does that bother you?” Staring at Maura, she gasped suddenly. “You’re close to this somehow, right? Oh, my God! Were you one of the kids working here that summer? I mean, I’d have had no idea... You’re from West Palm Beach. There’s so much stuff down there. Ah!” It seemed that Angie didn’t really need answers. “You wound up going to the University of Central Florida. You were near here...”

“Yes, I was here working that summer,” Maura said flatly.

“Your name was never in the paper?”

“That’s right. The police were careful to keep the employees away from the media. And since we are so isolated on the ranch, news reporters didn’t get wind of anything until the next day. My parents had me out of here by then, and Donald Glass was emphatic about the press leaving his young staff alone.”

“But a kid was arrested—”

“And released. And honestly, Angie, I am a little worried. Even if it has nothing to do with the past, there’s something not good going on now. Haven’t you watched the news? They found the remains of a young woman not far from here.”

“Not far from here, but not here,” Angie said. “Hey,” she said again, frowning with concern. “That can’t have anything to do with anything—the Frampton ranch killer committed suicide, I thought.”

“One of the cooks killed himself,” Maura said. “Yes, but... I mean, he never had his day in court. Most people believed he killed Francine—he hated her. But a lot of people disliked her.”

“But he killed himself.”

“Yes. I wasn’t here then. I did hear about it, of course.”

Angie was pensive for a moment, and then she asked, “Maura, you don’t think that the tree is...evil, do you?”

“Trees—a palm laced in with an oak. And no. I’m quite accustomed to the spooky and creepy, and we both know that places don’t become evil, nor do things. But people can be wicked as hell—and they can feed off legends. I don’t like being out here—not alone. There will be a campfire tonight with the history and ghost stories and the walk—we’ll join that. I have waivers for whoever attends tonight.”

“What if someone doesn’t want to be filmed?” Angie asked anxiously. “You tell the story just as well as anyone else, right? And the camera loves you—a perfect, slinky blonde beauty with those enormous gray eyes of yours. Come on, you’ve told a few of the stories before. You can—”

“I cannot do a good video for you as a selfie,” Maura said patiently.

“Right. I can film you telling the story,” Angie said. “Just that part. And I can do it now—I think you said that the stories were told by the campfire, and then the historic walk began. I’ll get you—right here and now—doing the story part of it. Oh, and you can include... Oh, God!” Angie said, her eyes widening. “You weren’t just here—you saw the dead woman! The murdered woman...I mean, from this century. Francine Renault. And they arrested a kid, Brock McGovern, but he was innocent, and it was proved almost immediately, but then... Well, then, if the cook didn’t do it, they never caught the killer!”

Maura kept her face impassive. Angie always wrote about old crimes that were unsolved—and why a place was naturally haunted after ghastly deeds had occurred there.

She did her homework, however. Angie probably knew more than Maura remembered.

She had loved the sad legend of the beautiful Gyselle, who had died so tragically for love. But, of course, she would have delved as deeply as possible into every event that had occurred at the ranch.

“Do they—do they tell that story at the campfire?” Angie asked.

Maura sighed. “Angie, I haven’t been here since the night it happened. I was still young. My parents dragged me home immediately.”

She was here now—and she could remember that night all too clearly. Coming to the tree, then realizing while denying it that a real body was hanging from it. That it was Francine Renault. That she had been hanged from a heavy branch, hanged by the neck, and that she dangled far above the ground, tongue bulging, face grotesque.

She remembered screaming...

And she remembered the police and how they had taken Brock away, frowning and massively confused, still tall and straight and almost regally dignified.

And she could remember that there were still those who speculated on his guilt or innocence—until dozens of people had spoken out, having seen him through the time when Francine might have been taken and killed. His arrest had really been ludicrous—a detective’s desperate bid to silence the horror and outrage that was beginning to spread.

Brock’s life had changed, and thus her life had changed.

Everything had changed.

Except for this spot.

She could even imagine that she was a kid again, that she could see Francine Renault, so macabre in death, barely believable, yet so real and tragic and terrifying as she dangled from the thick limb.

“Oh,” Angie groaned, the one word drawn out long enough to be a sentence. “Now I know why you were against doing a video here!”

Angie had wanted the History Tree. And when she had started to grow curious regarding Maura’s reluctance to head to the Frampton Ranch and Resort—especially since the resort was supposedly great and the expense of rooms went on Angie’s bill—Maura had decided it was time to cave.

She hadn’t wanted to give any explanations.

“Angie, it’s in your book, and you sell great and your video channel is doing great, as well. It’s fine. Really. But because they did recently find what seems to be the remains of a murder victim near here, I do think we need to be careful. As in, stay out of these woods after dark.”

“There is a big bad wolf. Was a big bad wolf... But seriously, I’m not a criminologist of any kind, but I’d say the killer back then was making a point. Maybe the bones they found belonged to someone who died of natural causes.”

Angie wasn’t stupid, but Maura was sure that the look she gave her tiny friend at that moment implied that she thought she was.

“Maybe,” Angie said defensively.

“Angie, you don’t rot in the dirt on purpose and then wind up with your bones in a cache of hotel laundry,” Maura said.

“No, but, hey—there could be another explanation. Like a car accident. And whoever hit her was terrified and ran—and then, sadly, she just rotted.”

“And wound up in hotel sheets?”

Maura asked incredulously. Angie couldn’t be serious.

“Okay, so that’s a bit far-fetched.”

“Angie, it’s been reported that the remains were found of a murder victim. Last I saw, they were still seeking her identity, but they said that she was killed.”

“Well, they found bones, from what I understand. Anyway,” Angie said, dusting her hands on her skirt and speaking softly and with dignity and compassion, “I wish you would have just said that you were here when it happened. Let’s get out of here. I’m sorry I made you do this.”

“You didn’t make me do it. If I had been determined not to come back here, I wouldn’t have done so. But it’s going to get dark soon. Let me shoot a bit of you doing your speech by the tree while I still have good light.”

Maura lifted her camera, looked at the tree and then up at the sky.

They wouldn’t have the light much longer.

“Angie, come on—let’s film you.”

“Please—you know the stories so well. Let me film you this time.”

“They’re your books.”

“But you’ll give me a great authenticity. I’ll interview you—and you were here when the last crime occurred. I’m surprised they haven’t hacked this sucker to the ground, really,” Angie said, looking at the tree. “Or at the very least, they should have video surveillance out here.”

“Now, that would be the right idea. They have video surveillance in the lobby, the elevators—and other areas. But for now, please?”

They were never going to be able to leave.

“All right, all right!” Maura said. She adjusted the camera on its lightweight tripod and looked at the image on the camera’s viewing screen. “I’ve got it lined up already. I’ll go right there. You need to get it rolling. The mic is on already, and you can see what you’re filming.”

“Hey, I’ve used it before—not a lot, but I kind of know what I’m doing,” Angie reminded her.

Maura stepped away from the camera and headed over to the tree. Angie had paid attention to her. She lifted her fingers and said, “In three...” and then went silent, counting down the rest by hand.

Maura was amazed at how quickly it all came back to her. She told the tale of the beautiful Gyselle and then went into the later crimes.

Ending, of course, with the murder of Francine Renault.

“A false lead caused the arrest of an innocent young man. But this is America, and we all know that any man is innocent until proved guilty, and this young man was quickly proved innocent. He was only under arrest for a night, because eyewitness reports confirmed he was with several other people—busy at work—when the crime took place. Still, it was a travesty, shattering a great deal of the promise of the young man’s life. He was, however, as I said, quickly released—and until this day, the crime goes unsolved.”

She finished speaking and saw that Angie was still running the camera, looking past her, appearing perplexed—and pleased—by something that she saw.

“Hello there! Are you with Frampton Ranch and Resort? You aren’t, by any chance, the host for the campfire stories tonight, are you?”

Angie was smiling sweetly—having shifted into her flirtatious mode.

Curious, Maura turned around and started toward the path.

If a jaw could actually drop, hers did.

She quickly closed her mouth, but perhaps her eyes were bulging, as well. It seemed almost as if someone had physically knocked the breath from her.

Brock McGovern was standing there.

Different.

The same.

A bit taller than he’d been at eighteen; his shoulders had filled out and he appeared to have acquired a great deal more solid muscle. He filled out a dark blue suit and tailored shirt exceptionally well.

His face was the same...

Different.

There was something hard about him now that hadn’t been there before. His features were leaner, his eyes...

Still deep brown. But they were harder now, too, or appeared to be harder, as if there was a shield of glass on them. He’d always walked and moved with purpose, confident in what he wanted and where he was going.

Now, just standing still, he was an imposing presence.

And though Angie had spoken, he was looking at Maura.

“Wow,” Angie said softly. “Did I dream up the perfect assistant for you—tall, dark and to die for? Who the hell... The storyteller guy is wickedly cute, but this guy...”

He couldn’t have heard her words; he wasn’t close enough.

And he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at Maura.

“That was great,” he said smoothly. “However, I don’t consider my life to have been shattered. I mean—I hope I have fulfilled a few of the promises I made to myself.”

Maura wanted to speak. Her mouth wouldn’t work.

Angie, however, had no problem.

“Oh, my God!” Angie cried.

Every once in a while, her Valley girl came out.

“You—you’re Brock McGovern?” she asked.

“I am,” he said, but he still wasn’t looking at Angie. He was locked on Maura. Then he smiled. A rueful smile, dry and maybe even a little bitter.

“Here—in Florida,” Angie said. “I mean—at the History Tree.”

He turned at last to face Angie. “I’m here for an investigation now. I’m going to suggest that you two head back to the resort and don’t wander off alone. A woman’s remains were found at a laundry facility not far from here, and there are three young women who have gone missing recently. Best to stay in the main areas—with plenty of people around.”

“Oh!” Angie went into damsel-in-distress mode then. “Is it really dangerous, do you think? I’m so glad that you’re here, if there is danger. I mean, we’ve seen the news...heard things, but seriously, bad things aren’t necessarily happening here, right? It’s just a tree. Florida is far from crime-free, but... Anyway, thank God that you’re here. We didn’t really think we needed to be afraid, but now you’re here...and thank God! Right, Maura?”

Maura didn’t reply. She’d heard Angie speaking as if she’d been far, far away. Then she found her voice. Or, at least, a whisper of it.

“Brock,” she murmured.

“Maura,” he returned casually. “Good to see you. Well, surprised to see you—but good to see you.”

“Investigation,” she said, grasping for something to say. She seemed to be able to manage one word at a time.

“I just told you—they found a woman’s remains, and three young women who have been reported missing had a connection to the Frampton Ranch and Resort. The FDLE has asked for Bureau help,” he explained politely.

“Yes, we were just talking about the young woman’s remains—and the missing girls. I, uh, I think I’d heard that you did go into the FBI,” she said. “And they sent you...here.” There. She had spoken in complete sentences. More or less. She’d been almost comprehensible.

“Yes, pretty much followed my original plans. Navy, college, the academy—FBI. And yes, I’m back here. Nothing like sending in an agent who knows the terrain,” he said. “Shall we head back? I am serious. You shouldn’t be in the woods alone when...well, when no one has any idea of what is really going on. We’re not trying to incite fear. We’re just trying to get a grip on what is happening, but I do suggest caution. Shall we head back?”

He was the same.

He was different.

And she was afraid to come too close to him. Afraid that the emotions of a teenager would erupt within her again, as if the years meant nothing...

If she got too close, she would either want to beat upon him, slamming her fists against his chest, demanding to know why he had never called, never tried to reach her and how it had been so easy to forget her.

Either that, or she would throw herself into his arms and sob and do anything just to touch him again.

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