Hidden

by Laura Griffin

  PRAISE FOR LAURA GRIFFIN AND HER NOVELS

  “Gritty, imaginative, sexy! You must read Laura Griffin.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Cindy Gerard

  “Top-notch romantic suspense! Fast pace, tight plotting, terrific mystery, sharp dialogue, fabulous characters.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Allison Brennan

  “A gripping, white-knuckle read. You won’t be able to put it down.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Brenda Novak

  “An emotional, exciting page-turner. Griffin deftly balances the mystery and the love story.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Griffin never disappoints with her exciting, well-researched, fast-paced romantic thrillers.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “A high-adrenaline thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat. . . . Griffin is a master.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Titles by Laura Griffin

  FAR GONE

  The Tracers Series

  UNTRACEABLE

  UNSPEAKABLE

  UNSTOPPABLE

  UNFORGIVABLE

  SNAPPED

  TWISTED

  SCORCHED

  EXPOSED

  BEYOND LIMITS

  SHADOW FALL

  DEEP DARK

  AT CLOSE RANGE

  TOUCH OF RED

  STONE COLD HEART

  The Wolfe Security Series

  DESPERATE GIRLS

  HER DEADLY SECRETS

  The Alpha Crew Series

  AT THE EDGE

  EDGE OF SURRENDER

  COVER OF NIGHT

  TOTAL CONTROL

  ALPHA CREW:

  THE MISSION BEGINS

  The Glass Sisters Series

  THREAD OF FEAR

  WHISPER OF WARNING

  The Borderline Series

  ONE LAST BREATH

  ONE WRONG STEP

  The Moreno & Hart Mysteries, with Allison Brennan

  CRASH AND BURN

  HIT AND RUN

  FROSTED

  LOST AND FOUND

  The Texas Murder Files

  HIDDEN

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Laura Griffin

  Excerpt from Flight copyright © 2020 by Laura Griffin

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780593197332

  First Edition: August 2020

  Cover design by Rita Frangie

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Laura Griffin

  Titles by Laura Griffin

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Excerpt from FLIGHT

  About the Author

  For Kevan

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  DANA WAS IN love with a complete stranger. She could admit it. Or she could have admitted it, if she’d had anyone to admit it to.

  She eyed him in the parking lot as she leaned against the lamppost and stretched her quads. Tall, wide shoulders, strong runner’s legs. He had shaggy brown hair that Dana would have once considered sloppy but now seemed sexy beyond belief. She imagined combing her fingers through it, imagined it would feel thick and silky.

  The main attraction wasn’t his looks, though. It was his commitment. He was here every day at six a.m. sharp. You could set a watch by it.

  He closed the door of his dusty black Jeep—one of the old ones that clearly had lots of miles on it. Not a fancy car, and he probably didn’t have a fancy job, either, but Dana didn’t care about that. She’d dated men with money before. They’d burned her life beyond recognition, and she’d made a vow to herself: never again.

  It was one of the many vows she’d made over the last year.

  He set off on the hike-and-bike trail, and Dana waited a moment to give him a head start. She zipped her phone into the pouch clipped around her waist and then stepped onto the path, taking a deep breath as the soles of her shoes hit gravel. Setting a brisk pace, she felt her muscles start to loosen and warm.

  She looked ahead at Blue. That was the name she’d given him the day he glanced up from the drinking fountain and his turquoise eyes hit her like a sucker punch. She’d been so mesmerized she’d hardly noticed the water’s rusty taste as she gulped down a sip and watched him walk away.

  Blue was way ahead of her now, and he would stay way ahead of her for the entire six-mile loop. If she was lucky, she’d pass him beside the fountains, and they’d trade nods before she set off on the rest of her morning.

  Or maybe not. Maybe this would be the day she summoned the courage to strike up a conversation.

  The morning air was already thick with humidity as the sky went from indigo to lavender over the treetops. The trail was almost empty, which was how she liked it. Just the die-hard runners and some power walkers. Dana settled into her rhythm as she passed the boat docks where long red kayaks still were racked and chained. She smelled fresh dew on the reeds by the lake, along with the faint scent of rotting vegetation, which would grow more pungent as the sun climbed higher in the sky. It would hit triple digits today. Again. Dana still wasn’t accustomed to the Texas heat or the way the weather here could turn on a dime.

  “On your left,” a voice growled.

  Dana’s heart lurched as a cyclist whisked past her. She muttered a curse at him. The guy swerved, barely missing a jogging stroller coming around the bend, pushed by a flush-cheeked woman in yoga pants.

  Of everyone on the trail, the manic stroll
er moms bugged Dana the most, especially at this hour. She couldn’t imagine rousting a child from sleep and driving to the lakefront, then shoving a sippy cup into pudgy little hands to serve as a distraction while Mom squeezed in a workout. Passing the stroller, Dana caught a glimpse of a cherubic toddler with brown curls, not much older than Jillian.

  Just thinking of Jillian made Dana’s heart swell. It was something she’d never expected when she’d first taken the nanny job. How could you truly love someone else’s kid? But it turned out you could. Dana would have jumped in front of a bus for that child. Maybe it was human instinct. Protect the innocent. Or maybe it was something else, some deep-rooted impulse that hinted at future motherhood. When Dana had first identified the feeling, she’d felt relieved. It told her she was okay. Mostly. It told her that despite the ugly things she’d seen and done, her moral compass was still intact.

  The trail narrowed and wended through the cypress trees. Most people hung a left onto the pedestrian bridge at this point, but not Blue. He did the full loop and crossed the lake at the dam, predictable as clockwork. At first when Dana began shadowing him it had been a struggle, and she’d ended each workout feeling dizzy and depleted. But now she was stronger. Her thighs still ached, and her lungs still burned, but she pushed through, and the heady rush at the end of each run was her reward.

  The trail narrowed again, and the woods became thicker. Dana heard the faint crunch of gravel. Her senses perked up, and she glanced over her shoulder.

  Her blood chilled.

  A man jogged behind her, maybe twenty yards back, and she’d seen him before. Dana focused on the path ahead, listening to the rhythm of his footsteps. Her pulse started to thrum. Where had she seen him? Her brain kicked into gear, retracing her steps over the past twenty-four hours. She’d been to work, the grocery store, home. She tried to recall the faces in the checkout line, or anyone she’d passed in the lobby of her apartment building. She pictured the man without looking back: tall, buzz cut, heavy eyebrows. Where had she seen him before?

  You’re being paranoid.

  You’re being paranoid.

  You’re being paranoid.

  The words echoed through her mind as she pounded down the trail. She peered ahead, searching for Blue on the path, but she couldn’t see him anymore, couldn’t see anyone. This section was practically deserted.

  The footfalls came faster, and panic spurted through her. Why had he changed his pace?

  Dana changed hers, too, trying to catch up to Blue—or anyone, at this point. The slap of shoes behind her sounded closer now.

  Sweat streamed down her back. She visualized where she was on the trail. About a quarter mile ahead was a nature center. To her right, through a patch of trees and bushes, was a parking lot. Would someone be there now? It wasn’t even six thirty.

  Dana’s breath grew ragged. Her skin prickled, and her blood turned icy. With every footfall she knew that the years and the miles and the lies had finally caught up to her. There would be no more running.

  And there would be no mercy.

  With a trembling hand, she unzipped her pouch and took out her phone. She thumbed in the passcode. Should she really do this? Maybe she was overreacting.

  But no. She wasn’t.

  She darted another glance over her shoulder.

  Eye contact. And Dana knew.

  She bolted into the woods, plowing through bushes and darting around trees. Behind her, she heard the distant but unmistakable swish-swish of her pursuer moving through the brush. Dana’s heart thundered as she pressed the contact number. Every swish-swish ratcheted up her terror. Finally, the call connected.

  “Tabby, it’s me. It’s happening!” Just saying the words made her stomach clench. “It’s happening!”

  Dana hurled the phone into the bushes and cast a frantic glance behind her. She couldn’t see him anymore, but she knew he was back there, felt it in her core. Every nerve ending burned with the certainty of being chased.

  Where was the damn parking lot? Through the trees, she glimpsed a patch of asphalt and the red hood of a car. She ran faster, swiping at the branches. Thorns snagged her clothes and sliced her arms, but she clawed through the bushes as fast as she could, sprinting for the red.

  A tall figure stepped into her path. Dana gave a squeak and stopped short.

  The man moved closer. His eyes bored into hers, and she knew she’d been right. Not paranoid at all, but right.

  He took another step forward, and Dana’s gaze landed on the knife in his hand. A silent weapon. Of course.

  Terror pierced her heart as he stepped nearer. Tears stung her eyes.

  “Please,” she rasped. “I’ll do anything.”

  Another step, and she could smell the sweat on his skin now. He was that close. Her heart jackhammered and she knew this was it. Fight-or-flight time.

  “Please.”

  She let the tears leak out. Let him think he’d won.

  “Please . . .”

  The man smiled slightly.

  Dana turned and ran.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  BAILEY RHOADS WATCHED the parking lot through the veil of rain. It poured off the overhang, splashing the sidewalk in front of her and soaking the cuffs of her jeans. She pressed her phone to her ear as a police car pulled into the lot and slid into the handicapped space beside the door.

  “Metro desk.”

  “Hey, it’s me,” Bailey said as the officer got out. Skip Shepherd. That figured. He pretended not to see her as he ducked through the sheet of water and jerked open the door to the convenience store, letting out a waft of cold air.

  “Tell me something good, Rhoads.”

  “Sorry, can’t do it.”

  “Crap.”

  “This is a bust,” she said. “A couple teens boosted some beer from the stock room, ran out the back. Clerk chased them and a patrol car pulled up.”

  Her editor muttered something either to himself or someone else in the newsroom.

  “I’ll write up a brief, but I’d give it two grafs, max,” she said.

  “They minors?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then don’t bother. Listen, where are you?”

  “In my car,” Bailey said, pulling the hood of her sweatshirt over her head before ducking through the water. She jogged across the lot to her white Toyota that had been in desperate need of a bath until this afternoon. “Why? What’s up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  But something in Max’s voice made her pulse quicken. She slid into her car, dripping water all over the seats as she kicked off her flip-flops.

  “Some chatter on the scanner,” Max said. “Lance heard something about a code thirty-seven.”

  “What’s Lance doing in on a Saturday?”

  “Some drama with one of the councilmen. Long story. Listen, you know what a thirty-seven is?”

  “A shooting,” she said, starting up her car. “Where is this?”

  “The lake, I think.”

  “Lady Bird Lake?”

  “Yeah. But this could be nothing. Scanner’s been quiet since.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  “Text me if it’s anything,” Max said. “And do it soon. I’m trying to get out of here.”

  “Got it.”

  She dropped her phone onto the seat beside her, along with the damp spiral notebook where she’d jotted the details of the convenience store holdup that wasn’t. Would this be another dud? Probably, given her pattern lately. For the last three weeks she’d been chasing down court filings and scanner chatter and only netted a few short briefs.

  Saturday traffic was light, but the afternoon downpour had thrown everyone for a loop, and she passed two fender-benders before reaching Barton Springs Road, which took her straight into Austin’s biggest park. On a typical
sunny weekend, the place was busy. Several weeks a year it wasn’t just busy, but packed, with traffic choking the streets and the soccer fields crammed with festivalgoers. Today, the fields were empty except for a few clusters of people sheltering from the drizzle under sprawling oak trees. Bailey parked in the lot near the pedestrian bridge, noting the conspicuous lack of police vehicles. This was probably another non-event.

  It was time for Bailey to get creative. It had been a slow month, and rumor had it the newsroom was in for another round of layoffs. She should spend her Sunday brainstorming feature ideas. Something about local law enforcement that wouldn’t be interchangeable with a story pulled off the wire. Maybe an innovative new forensic technique. Or budget overruns. Or official corruption. She had to dig up something. For months she’d been hanging on to this job by her fingernails. Her industry was shrinking, and she was in a constant battle to prove her worth relative to more seasoned reporters who fed at a bottomless trough of news tips.

  Bailey shed her wet hoodie and grabbed a blue zip-up jacket from the back seat. She stuffed her notebook into the pocket and looked around. It was unusually empty for a Saturday evening—just a few wet dog walkers and a guy strapping a paddleboard to the roof of his Volkswagen. She zipped her jacket and ran her fingers through her wet brown curls. With this weather, she probably looked like Medusa, but it was pointless to fight her hair. It did what it wanted.

  Bailey hurried across the parking lot, hopscotching around potholes as she made her way to the pedestrian bridge. The six-lane highway overhead provided cover, along with a roar of traffic noise as she crossed the lake, which was narrow here.

  She reached the trail marker on the opposite side and glanced around. Normally, this area was bustling with cyclists and pedestrians, but this evening it was empty except for a pair of shirtless runners in burnt-orange shorts. UT track and field, if she had to guess. They didn’t spare her a glance as they blew past her.

  Looking up the trail, Bailey noticed the orange barricade positioned in the center of the path, along with a sign: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. Bailey had been here three mornings this week and that sign was new. She walked up the path, skirting around the barrier. The trail curved into some leafy trees, and Bailey’s pulse picked up as she noticed the swag of yellow crime scene tape.