ALSO BY MELINDA LEIGH
MORGAN DANE NOVELS
Say You’re Sorry
Her Last Goodbye
SCARLET FALLS NOVELS
Hour of Need
Minutes to Kill
Seconds to Live
SHE CAN SERIES
She Can Run
She Can Tell
She Can Scream
She Can Hide
“He Can Fall” (A Short Story)
She Can Kill
MIDNIGHT NOVELS
Midnight Exposure
Midnight Sacrifice
Midnight Betrayal
Midnight Obsession
THE ROGUE SERIES NOVELLAS
Gone to Her Grave (Rogue River)
Walking on Her Grave (Rogue River)
Tracks of Her Tears (Rogue Winter)
Burned by Her Devotion (Rogue Vows)
Twisted Truth (Rogue Justice)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2018 by Melinda Leigh
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542049863
ISBN-10: 1542049865
Cover design by Eileen Carey
To Rayna for ten years of pep talks, pats on the back, kicks in the butt, and plot hole fixes
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
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
August 10, 1994
Bangs and muffled screams sounded from inside the trunk of the Buick. Standing in the weeds next to the vehicle, he stared at the closed lid.
Still alive.
Oh, well. A minor miscalculation. Didn’t matter. This would all be over soon.
“Let me out. Help!”
He scanned his surroundings. No one in sight. Inky black in the darkness, the murky water of Grey Lake stretched out for miles. The crescent moon cast a pale light on its rippling surface. Thick forest fringed its banks. There were no buildings nearby. But there was always a chance of someone camping in the forest. His gaze swept the bank of the lake, but he saw no flicker of campfires, no brightly colored tents. No sign of human activity.
The public park, beaches, and boat ramp were two miles to the south. The wilder north end of the lake saw little activity.
A mosquito landed on his arm, and he swatted it away. Three more took its place.
The warm August day had cooled in the evening, but the summer stickiness remained. Frogs croaked, and something small splashed. The tall grasses around the lake buzzed with insects. To the billion gnats and mosquitoes that lived here, his warm body was a free meal.
“You can’t do this!”
The pleas for help triggered no guilt. No remorse for the series of events that had led him to this moment. His only regrets were the risk and inconvenience he’d brought upon himself.
But then, his lack of a conscience was one of the reasons he was here in the middle of the night.
He’d done things tonight he couldn’t undo. Things that would ruin his life if anyone knew. His only option was to clean up the mess.
Besides, he’d be lying if he denied that killing a person wasn’t exciting. He wasn’t planning on doing it again. But there was a thrill, deep in his veins, over the control, the sense of power that came from extinguishing another human life.
More banging from the inside of the trunk. The vehicle creaked as weight shifted. Something metal struck the underside of the lid. Tire iron? Like that would do anything.
“Please. I’ll do anything. Please let me out.”
The plea was desperate.
Panicked.
And for good reason.
He ignored the cries, opening the driver’s side door and sliding behind the wheel. He started the engine, lowered the window, and stared at the lake ahead. The bank fell away on a steep grade. He knew the lake’s bottom sloped to match the rapid descent. The water grew deep quickly. Farther out, a tiny sliver of moon reflected on the surface.
The Buick idled, its ten-year-old engine knocking and pinging. With the car door still open, he hesitated, his foot on the brake.
He eyed the brick on the floor. It would hold the gas pedal down when he was ready.
Was he really going to do this?
This was another indelible moment, one that would leave a permanent mark, one from which there could be no return. Unlike his impulsive action earlier this evening, this decision was born of careful thought and consideration. This was a conscious act.
This was cold.
Calculated.
Murder.
But what were his options? Admit his guilt? Go to prison? Ruin his entire life?
Hell, no.
He had plans.
Which meant he really had no options at all.
Bending forward, he positioned the brick on the gas pedal, then sat up and shifted into “Drive.” When he eased his foot off the brake, the car rolled down the slope toward the lake. But the Buick wasn’t going fast enough for momentum to carry it fully into the water. He pressed on the brick with the ball of his foot, and the car leaped forward.
A muffled scream sounded from the trunk.
He pushed himself from the moving vehicle. As soon as his shoulders hit the damp ground, he rolled. Thick grass cushioned his impact. He tumbled over a few times and slid over a rock, a quick jolt of pain zinging through his elbow. He came to a stop, sat up, and took stock by moving his arms and legs. All good. He’d get through this night with no more than a few bruises.
Ahead, the Buick struck the water with a broad splash. Momentum carried the car a few yards into the lake. Then it appeared to float for a minute, bobbing on the waves of its own making.
The weight of the engine pulled the front end down. The car began to sink, diving into deeper water nose first, its ass in the air.
Once the interior filled with water, the car sank faster. He wasn’t sure if he actually heard more cries for help or if he imagined them. He was probably too far away. But they gave him a power-tripping hard-on all the same.
He climbed to his feet on the bank, watching. Water rose over the rear window, then the trunk. Finally, the rear bumper disappeared beneath the surface. He checked his watch and then brushed some dirt from his arms while he waited.
Ten minutes passed.
All was quiet, except for the sounds of the lake and forest. Frogs, bugs, owls. No human sounds at all.
It was over.
The aftermath felt anticlimactic in its silence. The only sign that the event had happened was a path of crushed weeds leading into the lake. Those would spring back up in no time. One good thunderstorm would wipe away any trace of tonight’s deed.
He turned away from the lake and hiked up the slope toward the road, a football field away. When he reached the top of the embankment, he paused to catch his breath. Despite the comfortable evening temperature, sweat gathered under his arms. It had been a night of errors, scrambling to cover mistakes, and discovery of his dark side.
Something he’d have to work to control. He couldn’t repeat tonight’s disaster. He’d been lucky in too many ways.
But now it was done. He took a deep breath, the first he’d managed in hours. The scents of summer night, pine, and lake water filled his lungs, cool, damp, and refreshing.
He turned back toward the lake.
The surface was smooth again, the ripples faded, with no sign of the earlier disturbance. No sign of what was hidden beneath the murky water.
Chapter Two
Twenty-three years later
Some secrets were better left hidden.
Lincoln Sharp stood on the shoulder of the road overlooking Grey Lake. He sucked in a hiss of air. The bitter cold pricked his lungs like a thousand icy pins. It was only the middle of November, but winter had hit New York State like a frozen sledgehammer.
Fifty feet from the shoreline, a sheriff’s department dive team boat bobbed on the quiet water. Around the vessel, the lake’s smooth surface reflected the leaden sky like a mirror, hiding everything within its murky depths.
The answer to a decades-old question lay just ahead of him, yet Sharp’s boots remained rooted in the snow-dusted weeds.
What was wrong with him? He’d been waiting for a break in this case for more than twenty years. Now that it was here, he almost wished it would sink back beneath the water and stay there forever.
The ripples of this discovery would spread in ever-widening circles, stirring up waters that had long ago stilled.
Waking voices time had silenced.
Disturbing lives that had finally found peace.
Unease stirred in his belly.
But there was nothing he could do to prevent the fallout. Maybe, just maybe, everything would work out, the case would be solved, and the family given closure. He exhaled, his breath pluming like smoke.
The high-pitched squeal of metal on metal carried across the open space, the harsh sound pricking his eardrums and lifting the hairs on the back of his neck. Sharp turned toward the activity on the shore. The winch on the back of a tow truck hauled the rusted carcass of a sedan farther up the bank, leaving a drag trail through the tall reeds. A group of law enforcement personnel swarmed the vehicle as soon as it stopped.
Sharp’s breath froze in his chest.
A mid-1980s Buick Century sedan.
The same make and model car Victor Kruger had been driving twenty-three years ago when he went out for groceries and vanished, leaving a wife and ten-year-old son behind. Sharp, then a detective for the Scarlet Falls PD, had been the lead investigator. He’d worked and reworked the case right up until he’d retired from the police force five years ago and opened his own private investigation firm. There had been no sign of Victor.
Until today.
Sharp trudged past a pair of news vans. Just outside the ribbon of crime scene tape strung around a handful of isolated pine trees, two reporters talked into microphones. The sheriff’s department activity behind them provided a dramatic backdrop for their stories.
A young deputy stood as sentinel.
“Lincoln Sharp,” Sharp said. “I need to talk to the sheriff.”
The deputy shook his head. “The sheriff said not to let anyone through.”
“He’s going to want to talk to me.” Sharp crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn’t budging. This case was too important. “I’ll wait here.”
The deputy thought about it for a second, then walked back to talk to his boss.
Sheriff Paul King stood literally head and shoulders above the rest of the men, and his charcoal-gray cowboy hat added some height to his six-foot, three-inch stature. He bowed his head to listen to the shorter deputy, then the sheriff’s gaze snapped around to focus on Sharp. The sheriff frowned, irritation dragging his face down like the jowls on a bad-tempered basset hound.
The deputy trudged back to his post. He cleared his throat. “The sheriff said you can go on through, but don’t fuck up his scene.”
No doubt the last few words were a direct quote.
“Thanks.” Sharp ducked under the yellow tape and walked through the thick weeds.
Thin patches of ice and snow crunched under his boots. He approached the recovered vehicle. Rust coated the surfaces it hadn’t eaten. Although heavily corroded, the Buick was in surprisingly good condition considering how long it had likely been sitting at the bottom of the lake.
The sheriff leveled an accusatory look at him. “Who called you, Sharp?”
“Word is out all over town.” Sharp nodded toward the reporters, implying that’s where he’d gotten the information rather than outright lying. He wasn’t giving up his buddy in the sheriff’s department who’d called him with the news. Twenty-five years on the force had given Sharp loyal contacts in every law enforcement agency within a twenty-mile radius.
“Did you call your partner?” The sheriff turned back to the Buick.
“Working on it.” Sharp glanced at his phone, but his young partner, Lance Kruger, hadn’t replied to his message.
“So he doesn’t know we found his father’s car?”
Where are you, Lance?
“No.” Sharp scanned the clearing. He didn’t want Lance to see this story on the news. “How did you verify it’s Victor Kruger’s car?”
“The diver brought up a license plate before we even pulled the car out.” The sheriff pointed to the license plate on the ground next to the rusted car, the letters and numbers still legible on the corroded metal. “I recognized the name and looked up the case. Wasn’t surprised to see you listed as lead detective. It wasn’t the sheriff department’s investigation, but I vaguely remember when it happened.” The sheriff had been chief deputy at the time.
“Not so much crime around here back then.”
“No, there wasn’t.” The sheriff straightened. “How old was Lance when his father disappeared?”
“Ten.”
Lance’s mother, Jenny, had suffered from mental illnesses exacerbated by her husband’s disappearance. When the missing person case had gone glacier cold, and it had become clear that Jenny Kruger couldn’t cope, Sharp hadn’t been able to walk away from the kid. He hadn’t found Victor. The least he could do was look after his boy, who’d had no one else in his life capable of doing the job. No doubt affected by Sharp’s mentoring, Lance had become a cop with the SFPD. After being shot in the line of duty the previous summer, he’d left the force and joined Sharp Investigations.
“Some cases stick with you,” Sharp said.
A deputy to his right gave him a solemn nod. Every cop had at least one case that burrowed deep into his soul. A crime—and its victims—that stayed with him forever. For Sharp, Victor’s disappearance was that case.
Sharp turned back to the Buick. “Who found the car?”
“The state police SAR team was testing out their new sonar equipment. When they spotted the vehicle, they called us, and we brought the divers in.” The sheriff pointed to the boat bobbing out on the water. “I’ll request the official file from the Scarlet Falls PD, but since you’re here, what do you remember about the case?”
Every. Damned. Thing.
Sharp shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “At approximately nine p.m. on Wednesday, August 10, 1994, thirty-five-year-old Victor Kruger, known as Vic to his friends, left his house to go to the grocery store. He never came home.”
“Signs of foul play?”
“None.” Sharp had never even found a solid lead. The man had truly vanished into the thick summer air.
“Suicide?” The sheriff pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and put them on.
“No evidence of depression or other mental illness,” Sharp said.
Not with Victor, anyway. Lance’s mother was a different story.
The sheriff walked around the front of the vehicle and scanned the hood and bumper. “Any chance he was having an affair or was just fed up with his life and split?”
“I don’t think so. According to everyone we interviewed, Victor was a family man who wouldn’t have abandoned his wife and kid.” Sharp moved closer to the vehicle. The sheriff didn’t complain.
“If there’s one thing this job teaches you, it’s that everybody has secrets,” the sheriff said.
As much as Sharp knew that was true, he hadn’t uncovered any skeletons in Victor Kruger’s closet.
Sharp leaned over to peer into the passenger seat. The interior was full of mud, weeds, and other lake debris. He spotted a plastic Coke bottle on the floor of the back seat.
But what Sharp didn’t see were bones.
“Any sign of remains?” he asked.
Freshwater didn’t waste any time reducing a body to bones, especially in the summer heat. Victor Kruger had disappeared in August. The water had been warm. Bacteria, aquatic insects, and other lake inhabitants would have gone to work on the flesh.
Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane Book 3) Page 1