by Karen Rose
Megan’s eyes filled. “I said terrible things to her.”
“She understood.”
His daughter blinked, sending a stream of tears down her face. “I’m sorry.”
“She’d understand that, too.”
“When she wakes up, I’ll try . . . I really will.”
Christopher hugged her hard. “I’d appreciate it, Punkin.”
“Are you coming home tonight?”
“No, baby. I want you to go home with Debbie’s mom. I’ll call you when she wakes up.” Please wake up, Em. Please. He walked Megan to where Debbie’s mother waited. Kissed her on the forehead and watched her walk away. At the end of the hall Megan turned and ran back, throwing her arms around his neck. “I love you, Dad.”
Christopher held on, rocking her, overwhelmed once again by what might have happened, so grateful it had not. So grateful that his child was unharmed. Untouched. Wanting to make that bastard Andrews pay for laying a single finger on his daughter. Wanting to kill him for what he had planned to do to Megan. The very thought made his blood run cold. Christopher laid his head on top of Megan’s head. His baby was safe. “I love you, too, Megan. I love you, too.” With difficulty he let her go and met Debbie’s mother’s understanding eyes.
“I’ll check on her every hour, Christopher,” she murmured. “Come on, Megan. Debbie’s waiting out by the candy machine with a roll of quarters. She said she was getting enough chocolate for you two to make yourself sick on the way home.” She put her arm around Megan’s shoulders and walked her out.
“She’ll be okay, Walker.”
Christopher turned to find Harris leaning against the wall. “I know.” He had to believe that. It was the only thing to keep him going. “So Andrews is awake?”
“He is. We’re going to transfer him up to Tampa General when he’s stable. I don’t want you to have to risk running into him as Dr. Townsend goes through her recovery.”
“Thanks. Do you know why he did this?”
“It’s what you thought, Professor. Andrews’s company had a lot riding on the construction up north. Two condos, a medical center.” He lifted a shaggy brow. “They didn’t own the land, but they’d lose the building contract if the soil contamination became known. His business was nearly bankrupt. He needed the money from the medical center to keep himself afloat. He convinced one of the chemists at Seymour and Elliot to falsify the records.”
“When will you arrest the chemist?”
“We won’t. He died in a car accident six months ago.” Again the shaggy brows went up. “Dry day, no tire wear, and the guy’s car skids off the road and into a tree.”
“Andrews?”
“I’m going to try to prove it, but it’ll be tough.”
“I don’t understand. This would have come out sooner or later. Who was Andrews trying to fool?”
“I think he was buying time. If he could keep it quiet until the medical center was built, he’d still get paid. When you guys started taking samples, he panicked. I’m guessing he talked your friend Grayson into helping him figure out how much you knew. That’s why Grayson got involved with Tanya.”
Christopher felt light-headed. “I still can’t believe Jerry killed Darrell and Tanya.”
“I found several transfers into Grayson’s bank account. I’ll trace them back to Andrews if it’s the last thing I do. Grayson had paid money out to a local bookie.”
“He gambled? I never knew he gambled. How could I not know this?”
“He bet the ponies. He still had a lot of Andrews’s money in his account, though.”
Christopher closed his eyes. “He said he had rainy day money set aside. He offered to give it to Darrell’s mother. Sonofabitch.”
Harris’s chuckle was mirthless. “I don’t know if it was guilt or chutzpah. I imagine a bit of both. Professor, you look beat. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”
“No, I want to be here when Emma wakes up.”
“She’s a strong lady. Tell her I said so.”
Christopher walked to Emma’s room and sank into the chair at her side. “Emma, I’m back.” She didn’t move, didn’t flicker an eyelash. “Harris said to tell you you’re a strong lady.” He settled into the chair. “Remember back in high school? Remember Elton Jacobs, the kid that everybody said would either be a garbage collector or a politician? Well, he’s a TV news reporter so I guess that puts him somewhere in between. He heard about this and remembered us and wants to interview you. So you have to wake up. I also got a call from Kate. She’ll be flying down later this morning.” He leaned forward and took her hand. And prepared himself to talk until his voice gave out. She could hear him, he was sure of it. And he wasn’t letting her go.
* * *
Friday, March 5, 1:00 p.m.
The bed was hard. And her head hurt. Her body hurt. It felt like she’d been knocked flat by a Mack truck. Cognition slowly returned and Emma was convinced there might be one toe on her right foot that didn’t hurt. She was cold. Except for her left hand. It was warm.
Because Christopher held it. She blinked, trying in vain to bring him in focus. Someone had removed her contacts and everything was a blur. He sat next to her bed, his clothes rumpled, his face dark with a new beard. That’s no five o’clock shadow, she thought. I’ve been here awhile. Tenderness clutched her heart. So has he.
“Christopher.” Her voice sounded like a stranger’s, raspy and croaky. His eyes flew open and he was on his knees beside the bed before she could blink again. “Don’t move so fast. You’ll make me sick.”
“You’re awake.”
She tried to smile. “So it would seem. Megan?”
Tears filled his eyes. “She’s fine.”
Emma breathed again. “I’m glad.”
“How can I ever thank you, Em? Megan told me what you did.”
“You would have done the same for me,” she murmured, tired already. “How long have I been here?”
“Two days, give or take.”
“You stayed with me.”
“I told you, Emma, I waited for you seventeen years. I’m not about to lose you now.”
“When can I go home?”
“The doctor says you can’t fly for a few weeks at least. You’ll have to stay with me.”
Her lips curved. “That’s what I meant.”
He smiled back. “Good, because I hadn’t planned to let you go anyway.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Thank you.”
“You said that already.”
“You heard me?”
“Snippets. I remember you reading me letters.”
He grimaced. “Poems.”
“You read me poems you wrote yourself?”
“I did, but only because the circumstances were extreme. I’d run out of things to say and you wouldn’t wake up. Now the poems go back in the vault.” He brushed a kiss against her lips. “Welcome back, Em. Don’t ever leave me again.”
“I won’t. You’re stuck with me.”
“And glad to be.”
Epilogue
Friday, August 6, 6:30 p.m.
Emma slid the glass door closed, shuddering as she blocked the sound of seven squealing fourteen-year-old girls. Christopher sat outside in a chaise lounge with a cold beer in his hand and a smirk on his face.
“I told you to only let her invite three girls,” he said. “But you said, no, a girl only turns fourteen once. So you get to deal with them all.”
“I was insane, obviously,” Emma said dryly and sat down on the edge of his lounge, making him scoot over. “I’ll remember this when she’s fifteen.”
“Uh-huh.” He sounded unconvinced. “You spoil her.”
She kissed his nose. “I didn’t have anybody to spoil for so long. I’m catching up.”
“So what are they doing in there?”
“Watching a horror movie and seeing who can scream the loudest. I say we stay out here until it’s over.”
“I say you’re right.” He scooted a little lower in the lounge, looking at the new boat tied to their dock. “I like my birthday present, by the way.”
Emma grinned down at him. “Which one?” They’d celebrated his birthday the month before, with a sail on his new boat and a sail in his bed later that night.
He chuckled and pinched her butt. “The boat’s nice, too. Seems to me you have a birthday coming up.”
She grimaced. Her own birthday was less than two months away. “Don’t remind me. Thirty-five is a milestone, then it’s downhill to forty.” But she had to admit that thirty-five was looking pretty damn good. She was happy again. She’d just finished writing Bite-Sized II and no longer did she feel like a hypocrite, running from her own grief. She’d met it, dealt with it. And a few days out of every month shared her experiences with auditoriums full of others. But each time she came back to Christopher. Each time he met her at the airport with a bouquet of wildflowers to welcome her home.
“You’ll look as beautiful at forty as you did when you were seventeen,” Christopher said and she had to kiss him for being so sweet. One kiss became two, then three and when she pulled away they were both breathing hard.
“No fair turning me on with guests in your house.” She was still technically a guest herself. After getting out of the hospital, she’d slowed their relationship down a bit. She’d needed a place of her own, and despite Megan’s turnaround, the girl had needed time to get used to the idea of another woman in her father’s life. So Emma had leased a condo on St. Pete Beach, less than a mile from where they’d first kissed that first night. That particular patch of sand held fond memories and they’d returned to it often.
Things had settled down after her release from the hospital, five months ago now. Christopher had grieved Darrell and Tanya. And Jerry. Despite everything Jerry had done, he’d been Christopher’s friend. Andrews was in prison, awaiting trial and Emma hoped he had suffered the same fate he’d planned for Megan. There were nights she woke from the nightmare where Megan hadn’t gotten away. But it was just a dream.
She’d returned to Cincinnati a month after “that day” to find Kate had reboxed all of Will’s things and given them away. Emma had walked around the empty house and felt peace, knowing that Will would have wanted her to go on, to be happy. So she’d sold the house and put the proceeds of the sale in a fund for Darrell Roberts’s mother and brothers. Properly invested, the money would support the Roberts family for years to come. Will would have wanted that, too.
Megan had come around. Months of counseling had helped her to sleep at night. Helped her to accept Emma as a part of her father’s life. Helped her realize Emma could never take the place of her own mother, nor did Emma plan to try. Mona had breezed in for Jerry’s funeral, then was gone once again, leaving Megan with the too-adult understanding of the kind of woman her mother really was.
Another loud round of squeals from inside the house made Emma wince, but Christopher seemed oblivious to the sound. He hadn’t moved his gaze from her face and her pulse kicked up a few beats. His blue eyes flashed, surprising her with their sudden intensity. “Make this your house, too, Emma. Move in with me. Us.”
She drew a careful breath. “Christopher—” He put a finger over her lips.
“We said you would move in when we were sure this was going to last.”
She couldn’t look away from his eyes. So it would be tonight then. The question that had been so long in the making. “That’s true.”
His mouth didn’t smile. “So are you sure?”
She’d been examining that same question with great frequency over the last five months, and came up with the same response each time. “Yes.”
He reached blindly to the table beside him, then opened his hand before her eyes. On his palm lay a ring. “Then marry me, Emma.”
She’d been anticipating this question as well and once again, the response was always the same. “Yes.”
Again his eyes flashed, more intensely than before. With hands that were absolutely steady he slid the ring on her finger. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” They’d grown into it, this love of theirs. It was so much more than an attempt to recapture their youth. True, it was inextricably connected to their past, but it was grounded in their present and it was, quite simply, their future.
He tilted her face up, covered her lips with his. Kissed her thoroughly, making her wish they were alone in her condo instead of a glass door away from seven squealing teenaged girls. “You’ll stay with me tonight?” he murmured, his voice husky.
She smiled at him. “Nope. I’m sleeping in a bag on the floor with the girls. Megan’s friends promised to give me a pedicure if I make French toast in the morning.”
His lips twitched. “I’ll give you a pedicure.”
“No you won’t. You always say you will, then you get distracted by other parts.”
“I like your other parts.”
“You can like them tomorrow night.” She rested her forehead against his. “So we’re getting married. Kate will finally stop asking me if you’ve proposed yet.”
He leaned back, his grin very satisfied. “Yep. And it’s no fake high school health project either. I get true husbandly privileges unlike that poor sap that you got paired up with back then. Skip Loomis can just eat his heart out.”
She lifted one corner of her mouth. “You get those privileges now.”
His grin faded, his eyes sobering. “I’m not talking about sex, Emma. I want to wake up with you every morning. Hold you every night. And I don’t want any fake dolls like we had in that high school project. I want a real baby with you. Maybe two.”
The thought of Christopher holding their babies made her eyes sting. “At least. We’ll have to get started soon. I’m ticking, you know.”
“You could sneak out and meet me on the boat later tonight. I’ll play our song and we can dance,” he added slyly and she laughed.
“Tomorrow, Christopher.” She leaned down and kissed him softly. “And every night after that. For the
rest of your life.”
Dear Reader,
I hope you’ve enjoyed Dirty Secrets.
It’s a novella I wrote years ago, actually before I had started my current series set in Baltimore. When I sat down to write my upcoming release, Watch Your Back (available in February 2014), I realized the characters in Dirty Secrets were going to play a big role in it. So I thought it would be fun to let everyone see where they came from by offering the novella as a stand-alone eBook for the first time. (It was originally published as part of an anthology called Hot Pursuit).
If you like this world, you also might want to check out my recently published novella Broken Silence (available as an eBook in October 2013). That features the hero and heroine from Did You Miss Me? in an adventure that takes place just after that novel ends—and just before Watch Your Back takes place.
They’re all in the same world of Baltimore cops and prosecutors that are featured in my novels You Belong To Me (2011), No One Left To Tell (2012) and Did You Miss Me? (2013). If you’d like a sneak peek at their world, read on!
Best,
Karen Rose
Keep reading for a sneak peek at Karen Rose’s new novel
WATCH YOUR BACK
Available from Signet February 2014
Eight years earlier
Baltimore, Maryland, Thursday, March 15, 5:45 p.m.
I can’t. I can’t do this.
The words thundered in John Hudson’s mind, drowning out the beep of the cash register at the front of the convenience store. The customer at the counter paid for her purchases, then left, oblivious to the fact that the guy standing in front of the motor oil was a cold-blooded killer.
<
br /> But I’m not a killer. Not yet.
But you will be. In less than five minutes, you will be. Desperation grabbed his throat, churned his gut. Made his heart beat too hard and too fast. I can’t. God help me, I cannot do this.
You have to. The small print on the back of the bottle of motor oil he pretended to study blurred as his eyes filled with hot tears. He knew what he had to do.
John put the bottle back on the shelf, his hand trembling. He closed his eyes, felt the burn as the tears streaked down his wind-chapped cheeks. He swiped a knuckle under his eyes, the wool of his gloves scraping his skin. Blindly he chose another bottle, conscious of the seconds ticking by. Conscious of the risk, of the cost if he followed through. And if he did not.
The text had come that morning. There had been no words. None had been needed. The photo attached had been more than sufficient.
Sam. My boy.
His son was no longer a boy. John knew that. At twenty-two his son was a man. But John also knew he’d lost the best years of his son’s life because he couldn’t recall much from that time. He’d spent them snorting and shooting up, filling his body with what he couldn’t live without. Even now, standing here, he was high. Just enough to be borderline functional, but not enough to dull the horror of what he was about to do.
His addiction had nearly killed him too many times to count. Now it was killing Sam.
This is my fault. All my fault.
His son had pulled himself out of the neighborhood, kept himself clean. Straight. Sam had a future. Or he would, if John did what he was supposed to do.
God. How can I? His hand trembling, John flipped his phone open to the photo that had been texted to him that day—his son bound, unconscious, a thin line of blood trickling from his mouth. Tied to a chair, his head lolling to the side. A gloved hand holding a gun to his head.
How can I? How can I not?
The assignment had originally come via text yesterday morning from a number John had hoped he’d never see. He’d made a desperate deal with the devil and payment had come due. His target had been identified, the time and place specified.