by Sandra Brown
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.
Copyright © 2020 by Sandra Brown Management, Ltd.
Jacket copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
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First Edition: August 2020
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LCCN: 2020938337
ISBNs: 978-1-5387-5194-7 (hardcover), 978-1-5387-5191-6 (ebook), 978-1-5387-1898-8 (large print)
E3-20200630-DA-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
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Prologue
That night in 2000
Talking about it is the surefire way to get caught.”
He let the statement settle, then looked each of his three companions straight in the eye one at a time, using the deliberation rather than additional words to serve as a warning.
The huddled quartet was coming down from an adrenaline high. It hadn’t been a crash landing but a gradual descent. Now that they were no longer in immediate danger of being caught red-handed, their heartbeats remained stronger than normal, but had slowed to a manageable rhythm. Breaths gusting into the humid air were just as hot, though not as rapid as they’d been.
However, what hadn’t let up, not by a single degree, was the tension among them.
They couldn’t risk being seen together tonight, but before going their separate ways, they must forge an understanding. If, during the process of creating that bond, a threat was implied, so much the better. It would discourage any one of them from breaking the pact to keep their mouths shut. One stuck to the vow of silence, or else.
“Do not talk about it.” The speaker’s hair was a paprika-colored thatch that grew straight up out of a sidewall. A freckled scalp showed through the bristle. “Don’t tell any-damn-body.” He made five stabbing motions toward the ground to emphasize each word.
Somewhat impatiently, the oldest of the group said, “Of course not.”
The one vigorously gnawing his fingernails spat out a paring while bobbing his head in assent.
The fourth, the youngest of them, had maintained an air of cool detachment and remarkable calm throughout the evening’s endeavor. A laconic shrug conveyed his unspoken Goes without saying.
“One of us boasts about it, or drops a hint, even joking, it’ll have a domino effect that could—”
“You can stop going on about it,” the oldest interrupted. “We got it the first time, and didn’t need a lesson from you to start with.”
The ditch in which they were hunkered was choked with weeds, some thriving, some lying dead in the mud, having drowned during the last hard rain. The ravine was four feet deep and made for an ugly scar that cut between the narrow road and a listing barbed-wire fence demarcating a cow pasture that reeked of manure. Without a breeze to disperse the odor, the sultry atmosphere kept it ripe.
At the center of the circle formed by the four was the cause of the resented lecture: a canvas bag stuffed with stolen cash.
It was a hell of a lot bigger haul than they had anticipated, and that unexpected bonus had been both exhilarating and sobering. It made the stakes seem higher, which wound the tension tighter.
Following the rebuke about unnecessary lessons, no one moved or said anything until the young, aloof one reached up and ground a mosquito against the side of his neck, leaving a smear of blood. “Nobody’ll hear about it from me. I don’t cotton to the idea of jail. Already been there.”
“Juvie,” the redhead said.
“Still counts.”
The older one said, “Only a fool would blab about it. I’m no fool.”
The redhead thought it over, then nodded as though reassured. “All right, then. Another thing. We see each other on the street, we act the same as always. We don’t go out of our way to avoid each other, but we don’t get chummier, either. We recognize each other on sight, maybe we’re well enough acquainted to speak, but that’s it. That’s why this will work. The only thing we have in common is this.” He nudged the canvas bag with the steel-tipped toe of his boot.
The other pair of cowboy boots in the circle weren’t silver-toed. They weren’t worn for show but lived in. This wasn’t the first time they’d been caked with mud.
The pair of brown wingtips had sported a shine before sliding down into the ditch.
The navy blue trainers had some mileage on them.
“Six months is a long time to wait to divide it up,” the eldest said, eyeing the carrot-top. “In the meanwhile, why do you get to keep the money? We didn’t vote on that.”
“Don’t you trust me with it?”
“What do you think?”
If the one with the gingery thatch took offense, he didn’t show it. “Well, look at it this way. I’m the one taking all the risks. Despite our pledge not to talk it up, if one of you lets something slip, and somebody who wears a badge gets wind of it and starts snooping, I’m the one holding the bag.”
The other three hadn’t missed the emphasis he placed on that certain word. They exchanged glances of patent mistrust toward the self-appointed banker, but no one argued with him. The youngest gave another one-shouldered shrug, which the redhead took as consensus.
“Once you get your share,” he said, “you
can’t go spending cash like crazy. No new cars, nothing flashy, nothing—”
The older one cut him off again, testier than before. “You know, I could well do without these instructions of yours.”
“No call to get touchy. Anything I tell you is a reminder to myself, too.” The redhead fashioned a placating smile, but it wasn’t in keeping with his eyes, which reflected the meager moonlight like twin straight razors. He then turned to the nail-biter, who was running out of fingers on which to chew. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Then stop with the nervous fidgeting. It’ll single you out like a red neon arrow.”
The older seconded that. “He’s right. If you come across as nervous, you had just as well confess.”
The nail-biter lowered his hand from his mouth. “I’ll be okay.” His Adam’s apple forced down a hard swallow. “It’s just…you know.” He looked down at the bag. “I still can’t believe we actually did it.”
“Well, we did,” the redhead said. “And when you report for work on Monday morning and are informed that the safe was cleared out over the weekend, you’ve got to pretend to be as shocked as everybody else. But don’t overreact,” he said, raising his index finger to underscore the point.
“Just a soft ‘holy shit’ will do. Something like that to show disbelief, then keep your trap shut. Don’t do anything to call attention to yourself, especially if detectives start interviewing all the store employees, which it’s certain they will. When your turn comes, you stay ignorant and innocent. Got that?”
“Yeah.”
“Got that?” demanded the older.
“Sure. I know what to do.” But even as he acknowledged his responsibility, he dried his palms by running them up and down his pants legs, a gesture that didn’t inspire confidence among the other three.
The older sighed, “Jesus.”
The nervous one was quick to reassure the other three. “Look, don’t worry about me. I’ve done my part, and I’ll continue to. I’m just jumpy, is all. Out here in the open like this.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm that encompassed the pasture and deserted stretch of country road. “Why’d we stop out here, anyway?”
“I thought we should come to an understanding,” the redhead said.
“And now we have.” The oldest one started up the embankment and gave the nervous one a warning glare. “You had better not screw this up.”
“I won’t. By Monday I’ll be okay.” He wet his lips and formed a shaky grin. “And six months from now, we’ll all be rolling in clover.”
As a group, they climbed out of the ditch, but the adjourning optimistic prediction didn’t pan out.
By morning, their plan had been shot to hell.
One of them was in the hospital.
One was in jail.
One was in the morgue.
And one had gotten away with the haul.
Chapter 1
Present day
Lord, Arden. I had counted on it being run-down, but…”
Lisa expressed her dismay with a shudder as she stepped through the back door into the kitchen and surveyed the conditions in which Arden had been living for the past five months.
Arden trailed her sister inside and pulled a chair from beneath the dining table. As she took her seat, she noticed that the tabletop had defied the recent polishing she’d given it. Before yesterday, she had fretted over those nicks and scratches. Today, she couldn’t see what possible difference they made.
Lisa was rattling on. Arden tuned back in. “Have you had that stove checked for a gas leak? It could be a safety hazard. Is there a functioning smoke or fire alarm?”
“They’re called Braxton Hicks. Think of them as practice contractions. But it’ll be a month or so before you start to experience them. And when you do, they’re no cause for alarm.”
That’s what the OB had told her on her last prenatal checkup.
But yesterday’s contractions weren’t Braxton Hicks. They’d turned out not to be a rehearsal, and they’d caused a great deal of alarm in the produce section of the supermarket.
She forced her thoughts away from that and back to Lisa, who stood in the center of the kitchen, elbows tucked into her sides as though afraid she might accidentally make contact with a contaminated surface.
“You told me you were occupying only a few of the downstairs rooms. What about in here?”
Lisa went over to the open doorway and looked in at the formal dining room and, beyond it, the living room. Two decades ago, they’d been emptied of all furnishings except for the upright piano that stood where it always had. Arden had been surprised to find it still here, but she supposed that it had remained for the same reason Lisa hadn’t taken it with them when they vacated. How does one cart off something that large?
“I suppose the rooms upstairs are as empty as these,” Lisa remarked. “Doesn’t appear as though you’ve been in here at all.” She gave the staircase a sweeping glance, then turned back into the kitchen. “Where are you sleeping?”
Arden nodded toward the room off the kitchen. Lisa gave the partially open door a push with the knuckle of her index finger.
It was a square and featureless space with a square and featureless window. Their mother, Marjorie, had used it as a catch-all to store Christmas decorations, castoff clothing bound for Goodwill, their dad’s rarely used golf clubs, a portable sewing machine, and such.
When Arden moved in, she’d decided to set up a temporary bedroom in here rather than use her old room upstairs, saving herself from having to go up and down the stairs as her pregnancy advanced and she grew more ungainly.
That was no longer an issue.
When the first pain gripped her, Arden dropped the apple she’d been testing and splayed her hands over her distended abdomen. Although the sharp and unexpected contraction robbed her of breath, she gave a cry of fright.
“What’s the matter, honey?”
She turned toward a voice filled with concern. She registered a pleasant face framed by gray hair, a blue-and-white-striped blouse, and kindly eyes. Then another pain seized her, meaner than the one before. Her knees buckled.
“Oh, goodness. Your water broke. You’re going into labor.”
“No! I can’t be. It’s too early.”
“How far along are you?”
“It’s too early!” Her voice went shrill with panic. “Call 911. Please.”
Lisa was commenting on her drab, makeshift bedroom. “I simply don’t understand why you chose to come back here and live like this.”
Arden had furnished the room with a twin bed, a nightstand and lamp, and a chest of drawers that she had assembled herself over the course of two days. She remembered feeling a great sense of accomplishment and had imagined herself assembling a crib soon.
The mirror that Arden had mounted on the wall above the chest reflected Lisa’s dismay as she came back around, shaking her head slowly and regarding Arden as she would an indecipherable ancient transcript.
“Is there anything to drink?”
Without waiting for an answer, Lisa returned to the kitchen and checked inside the refrigerator. “Good. Diet Coke. Or would you rather have something else? Does the ice maker work?”
Arden tried to keep up with Lisa’s brisk thought processes, but her mind was fettered by vivid recollections.
“You’ll be all right. Lie back. Take deep breaths.”
A young woman in yoga attire had responded to the older lady’s shout for help. She eased Arden down until she was reclining in the supporting arms of another stranger who’d taken up position behind her. Kneeling at her side, the young woman continued to speak to her in a calm and soothing manner. But nothing she’d said helped, not with the pain that assailed her, not with the despair that was equally intense.
Desperate, she shoved her hands between her thighs in an effort to hold inside the life that her body was prematurely trying to expel.
Lisa located the drinking gla
sses in the cabinet in which they’d always been and poured them each a drink. Bringing them to the table with her, she sat down across from Arden.
She sipped from her glass, then reached out and covered Arden’s hand with her own. “Baby sister.”
Lisa whispered the endearment with affection, caring, and concern. All of which Arden knew to be genuine. Lisa was as baffled by her life choices as she was annoyed.
She said, “From the moment you called me yesterday, I’ve been in a tizzy. I don’t know how much you remember of last evening, but when I got to the hospital, you were in hysterics one minute and near catatonic the next. I was beside myself. Then this morning, trying to get you out of there…”
“What’s your name?”
At her side and bending over her, the EMT had replaced the yoga-clad woman. He was young and fresh-faced.
“Arden Maxwell.”
“Arden, we’re going to take care of you, okay? How far along are you?”
“Twenty-two weeks.”
His partner, who looked like a career bodybuilder, was taking her vitals. They asked everyone who’d congregated around her to move aside, then lifted her onto the gurney, and rolled her out of the store.
The midday sun was directly overhead. It was blinding. Her vision turned watery.
She blotted tears from her eyes now.
Lisa must have noticed, because she stopped enumerating the aggravations associated with being discharged from the hospital. “What I’m leading up to is that this is the first chance I’ve had to tell you how sorry I am. Truly, truly sorry, Arden.” She stroked Arden’s hand.
Fresh tears welled up in Arden’s eyes. She looked into her untouched glass of Coke where bubbles rose in a rush to the surface, only to burst upon reaching it. Something vital and alive, extinguished faster than a blink.
In the ambulance, her jeans were cut away. She was draped. When the young-looking medic examined her, his smooth brow wrinkled.
She struggled to angle herself up in order to see what had caused his consternation, but the bodybuilder kept her pressed down, a hand on each of her shoulders, not unkindly, but firmly.
“My baby will be all right, won’t she?” Arden sobbed. “Please. Tell me she’ll be okay.”