A Secret to Die For

by Lisa Harris

  © 2018 by Lisa Harris

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-1514-4

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

  Published in association with Joyce Hart of the Hartline Literary Agency, LLC.

  Praise for A Secret to Die For

  “Lisa Harris has done it again! A Secret to Die For is a fast-paced romantic thriller packed with twists and turns. High-tension action and well-paced romance—everything you want in a romantic suspense—Harris delivers!

  Elizabeth Goddard, award-winning author of the Coldwater Bay Intrigue series

  Praise for The Nikki Boyd Files

  “Christy Award–winning and bestselling author Lisa Harris puts readers right into the action in this fast-paced thriller that will have them turning pages long into the night.”

  Fresh Fiction on Missing

  “A thrill ride from start to finish, the first book in Harris’s Nikki Boyd Files series is filled with twists and surprises. This is exactly the kind of suspense novel that readers are looking for—one to keep them involved and intrigued throughout.”

  RT Book Reviews, Top Pick on Vendetta

  “Readers will try to figure out who’s behind the crimes as they get to know Nikki and root for her to heal from her painful past and open herself to love.”

  Booklist on Vendetta

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Endorsements

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  Sneak Peek of Lisa’s Next Story

  About the Author

  Other Books by Lisa Harris

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  1

  A sharp clatter jerked Grace Callahan out of the novel she was reading. She dropped the paperback onto the empty side of the queen-sized bed, then sat up, trying to determine if the noise had come from inside the house, or outside. More than likely it was her neighbor’s dog again, knocking something over. Or maybe she’d simply imagined it.

  She glanced at the book’s ominous cover. Next time she should stick to reading something less . . . intense when trying to go to sleep.

  Not that it would matter.

  Nighttime had become the hardest, especially this time of year. Seconds stretched into minutes that eventually stretched into hours. But morning never came soon enough. And then when it did come, most of the time she was still exhausted. She’d tried every natural sleeping remedy she could find, yet most of the time the middle of the night found her wide awake and unable to sleep.

  Like tonight.

  She heard the noise again. This time she knew she hadn’t imagined it. She reached for the subcompact Glock she kept stashed in her nightstand drawer. It was one of the fallouts of living alone. She was now the one ultimately responsible for taking care of the broken garage door opener, filing taxes, and keeping the gutters cleared.

  And making sure there wasn’t an intruder in the house.

  Her mind started through a mental checklist as she made her way across the hardwood floor. Living alone made security automatic. Before she’d gone to bed, she’d made sure the front and back doors were locked, set the alarm, and turned on the night-light in the living room . . .

  Everything Kevin used to do.

  Shoving aside the thought, she opened her bedroom door and stepped out onto the upstairs landing, then paused to listen. The old clock that had been her grandmother’s ticked off seconds from the living room. The air conditioner pumped cool air out of the duct above her. Water dripped from the faucet in the guest bathroom.

  Nothing sounded out of the ordinary.

  She took a deep breath in an attempt to suppress the wave of anxiety. She of all people should know how to deal with stress, and yet she’d still let reminders of today’s date and the grief it always brought completely engulf her.

  She started down the stairs for a final reassurance that she was alone in the house, then froze as the white beam of a flashlight coming from the kitchen caught her attention.

  Oh God, show me a way out of this. Please.

  Her finger felt for the trigger of her Glock, but even with the weapons training her father had insisted on, the last thing she wanted was a confrontation with the intruder. She needed to get out of the house.

  She slipped back into her room and silently locked the door behind her. She figured she had very little time before whoever was inside the house made their way upstairs. Which meant she had two choices. Lock herself in her closet until the police showed up, or escape.

  Thanks to her father’s insistence, she’d already played the scenario in her mind, making the decision easy. Grabbing her Bluetooth from the nightstand, she dialed 911, then pocketed her car keys and phone and headed for the window with the under-bed ladder her father had bought her. She’d assumed she’d use it in the case of a fire. Never running from an intruder.

  Seconds later, the operator answered.

  “911, what is your emergency?”

  Grace slid open the window and felt a rush of air enter the room, warm even for November. “My name’s Grace Callahan and someone’s just broken into my house.”

  She gave the operator her address as she hooked the ladder onto the windowsill.

  “Where is the intruder?”

  “On the first floor the last time I saw him. I’m getting out my bedroom window on the second floor.”

  “Grace, I want you to stay on the phone with me. I have officers responding to the call now who should be at your location within three or four minutes.”

  Four minutes.

  She didn’t have four minutes. Which meant she was going to have to handle this on her own. She drew in a deep breath and tried to settle her nerves. All she had to do was get down the ladder and out of her yard, all while avoiding whoever had broken into her house.

  You can do this, Grace.

  The doorknob to her room rattled behind her. Adrenaline surged.

  “He’s at my bedroom door now,” she whispered, trying not to panic. “I’ve got to get down the ladder now.”

  She slipped the Glock into one of her pajama pants’ pockets, then started down the ladder. The humid night air filled her lungs.

  “Grace . . . are you still there?”

  “Yeah . . . I’m outside.” A small measure of relief filled her as she put both feet on the ground.

  “I want you to go to a neighbor’
s house, but stay on the line so I know where you are.”

  She wiped sweaty hands on her pants and gripped her weapon. “Okay.”

  Her neighbor to the left was an eighty-five-year-old woman who still lived alone. Across the street was a football coach who worked for the local school district. Definitely her best bet. She headed toward the backyard gate that led to her front yard.

  A shadow moved to her right, just inside her peripheral vision. She swung around and aimed the gun at the armed intruder, who now stood outside the open back door of her house, a gun pointed back at her. Her mind raced for an explanation. Why had the intruder come after her when he now had an empty house to himself? She had no idea what he wanted, but she wasn’t going down without a fight.

  “If I go down, you’re going down with me,” she said, keeping her weapon steady despite the panic rising inside her.

  She stepped to the left, closer to the corner of the house and the gate, and tried to memorize his features that were partially illuminated by the back-porch light. A large, burly man, well over six feet tall, dark hair, thin nose, and a tattoo on his right wrist.

  “Where is the key?” he asked.

  “What key?”

  “Stephen Shaw gave you a key, and I want it.”

  Stephen? Her client?

  Her mind fought to process the man’s words. This was about Stephen and a key? She had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  She’d thought whoever had broken into her house had been nothing more than a burglar, but clearly she was wrong. And Stephen’s paranoia . . . Had she been completely wrong about that as well? Stephen had never given her any real proof that anyone was after him. He had spoken only of shadows, and ghosts he couldn’t catch. She’d told him she believed he was simply suffering from paranoia and tried to help him deal with the symptoms. He’d never given her anything.

  “I don’t have time for games,” he said. “Tell me where it is.”

  She took another step to the left, forcing him to re-aim. “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “And I know you’re lying.”

  She weighed her options. If he was determined to murder her, she’d already be dead. Which meant the information he believed she had was keeping her alive. But while he probably hadn’t expected her to be armed, even if she were to shoot him, there were no guarantees he wouldn’t shoot her back. Or that a bullet would stop him. Neither did she want to risk becoming a hostage. And she wasn’t sure if she had time to wait for the authorities to arrive. She was less than fifteen feet from the gate that led to the front yard.

  She needed to run.

  Sirens wailed in the distance, distracting him for a split second and giving her the opportunity she needed. Praying the darkness would shield her, she sprinted around the corner toward the gate as a bullet pinged off the side of the house.

  Her heart felt as if it were about to burst out of her chest. She glanced behind her as she slipped through the gate in her bare feet. He was behind her. She could hear him cursing as he followed her. She cut across her neighbor’s front yard, trying to outrun him.

  What she really needed was a place to hide.

  Moving into the shadows, she dashed across another driveway, then through five or six more yards. The sirens were getting louder. All she needed to stay safe was another sixty seconds. She crossed another driveway and threw a quick look over her shoulder. He was now two houses behind her and slowing down.

  She crouched behind a row of neatly manicured shrubs in front of one of her neighbors’ houses, and tried to catch her breath. Someone called her name. She’d forgotten the 911 operator—her headset had fallen next to her foot when she’d hunkered down behind the last bush.

  “Grace.”

  She picked the Bluetooth up off the ground and put it over her ear again. “I’m here,” she whispered.

  “I heard you talking to the intruder. Are you okay?”

  The man had stopped in the middle of a driveway, trying to determine which way she’d gone.

  “Where are you now?”

  “About seven . . . maybe eight houses north of my house. He’s armed, but I found cover behind a row of bushes.”

  “Do you know the man who’s after you?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I want you to stay on the line with me. Officers are thirty seconds out.”

  Thirty seconds.

  Just stay hidden, Grace, and you’ll be fine.

  “Can you give me a description of the suspect and his weapon?” the operator asked.

  She glanced through the foliage, searching for him as she answered the woman’s question, but the figure had vanished into the darkness.

  2

  Dawn had just started to lighten the horizon when Detective Nathaniel Quinn ducked under the crime scene tape. The crime scene unit and the first responding officers to the 911 call had already arrived on the scene that spread out beside the vacant strip mall. He’d used to love it when the carnival came to town. Every summer his parents would take him, letting him go on rides until his tickets ran out and he was so full of junk food he felt as if he were going to explode. But today the empty rides and deserted walkways felt eerie without the noise of excited children and the smell of popcorn and hotdogs. As if the apocalypse had come unannounced during the night.

  He stepped onto the platform of the carousel where Detective Paige Morgan, his new partner, was already examining the body. They’d worked a number of cases together over the past four years he’d been in the department. She was focused and extremely good at what she did.

  She was also a reminder of what had happened to his last partner.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Nate said. “Traffic’s at a standstill on 35.”

  Dallas’s traffic was the one thing that made him miss the small Oklahoma town he grew up in.

  Paige stepped away from the body. “It’s good to have you back, Detective. You look a lot better than the last time I saw you.”

  “Thanks. It’s good to be back on the job.”

  Nate knew what she was thinking. But the last thing he wanted was extra attention, or sympathy for that matter. Everyone told him he was lucky to have made it out alive. But sometimes that was the hardest part. The Hyde Hotel bombing had killed eighteen: twelve civilians and six officers. And made the scars on the back of his hands and forearms a constant reminder. Still, he’d somehow managed to convince his psychologist—and himself—that he was ready to be back. He just had to keep convincing himself it was true. Because healing the scars people couldn’t see had proven to be a lot harder than healing the scars they could see.

  “So how does it feel to be back?” Paige tightened the band holding her dark hair in a ponytail and caught his gaze.

  Nate frowned at the question, wondering if he was going to have this conversation with everyone. It would be easier if people would just ignore that he’d been gone for three months and leave it at that. “We lost some of the best people I’ve ever worked with that day. It’s hard to forget.”

  “It was a hard-hitting reminder for all of us,” she said.

  An unfortunate risk of the job, his psychologist kept telling him. But while that might be true, it didn’t come close to erasing the grief.

  “I know it must be tough,” she said. “I just want to be supportive.”

  “I know, and I appreciate it. Really, I do. But I’m fine. And ready to put the last few months behind me.”

  He’d done everything the department had required and had finally been approved for active duty again. But that didn’t mean he was back to normal yet. Or ever would be. He was still dealing with the nightmares and triggers.

  Nate shifted his attention away from his new partner to the body lying slumped over the carousel bench. Appearing to be in his midthirties, the victim was wearing navy chinos and a striped collared shirt. A 9mm Colt Defender lay on the ground, inches from the man’s right hand.


  “Preliminary glance shows no marks on him other than the gunshot wound to the head,” Paige said.

  “Which makes it look like a suicide.” Nate stopped next to one of the carousel horses. “Though this seems like a strange place to end your life.”

  “I agree. Then again, it’s pretty isolated, especially at night. Maybe he had some kind of clown fetish or a thing for carousels. I don’t know, but on top of that, he still had his wallet with credit cards and some cash, as well as his phone.”

  “So we’re not looking at a robbery.” Nate glanced at one of the first responders. “Officer . . .”

  “Bailey.” The uniformed officer stepped forward.

  “Who is he?” Nate asked.

  The officer glanced down at his notes. “According to his driver’s license, his name is Stephen Shaw. He’s thirty-two years old and lives about ten miles from here.”

  Nate glanced back toward the exit. “What about a car?”

  “Found it on the other side of the lot with a couple suitcases in the trunk. CSU is going through it right now.”

  “Sounds like he might have been either on his way out of town or maybe on his way home from a trip,” Paige said.

  “And he stops en route to kill himself?” Nate shook his head. The scenario didn’t make sense. They were missing something. “Who found the body?”

  “The security guard.” Officer Bailey stepped onto the platform. “Said he found him about an hour ago. Realized the man was dead and called 911.”

  “Wait a minute. Didn’t the guard see or hear anything?” Nate asked the officer. “I mean, this place is pretty spread out, but if nothing else, he should have heard the gunshot.”

  “Says he didn’t hear anything.”

  Nate turned back to the body. “So why would this guy show up at a traveling carnival in the middle of the night, with a trunk full of luggage, and then shoot himself?”

  The lights from the carousel flashed above him. Music blared as the platform jolted forward. Nate grabbed on to the pole next to him. His heart rate escalated. Paige shouted for someone to turn the ride off. A row of sweat beaded on Nate’s forehead. Someone else shouted over the warped music. The department psychologist had worked with him to fight the negative thoughts. Thoughts that sometimes brought on panic attacks because he was afraid he couldn’t escape.