by Lisa Regan
Connor emerged from inside the bungalow, shirtless and beautifully tanned, a margarita in his hand. She tried to think of ways her life could be better in that moment, but there were none. He handed her the drink and sat in the chaise lounge beside hers. Leaning in for a kiss, she caught a whiff of his sunscreen. She’d have to take the bottle home with her when they returned to reality. That way, when things got stressful, she could smell it and remember this. Paradise.
“Tell me again how much you paid for this place?” she said.
Connor laughed. “I’d really rather not.” He reached over and took her hand. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. I promised you tiki huts.”
“Indeed, you did.”
“We should have come sooner.”
“No,” Claire said. “This is the perfect time.”
She didn’t say it, because she didn’t want to talk about any of it—not here—but he had needed time to help Stryker wrap up the Soccer Mom Strangler investigation so that his office could turn the file over to the district attorney. Since D.J. North hadn’t died of his injuries and had pled not guilty to the many counts of murder and attempted murder levied against him, there would be a trial, but that was a year or two away. Claire was happy to finally be away from it. The case was still on the news almost daily. Once Leah Holloway’s and Rachel Irving’s associations with the case had come out, the press had gone crazy. The sordid details had made national headlines. Rachel Irving’s husband had taken their twins and left her. Jim Holloway had refused to keep baby Tyler. Rachel hadn’t wanted him either—at least, not until D.J.’s father swooped in to take custody of him. Sebastian North had retired and moved to Sacramento to be close to D.J. as he built his defense. Word was that Sebastian had remortgaged his house to pay for a high-powered lawyer for his son. Claire and Connor had noticed that each time the press showed Sebastian coming and going from the courthouse, Rachel was in tow, looking miserable with baby Tyler in her arms. Claire wondered if she was really trying to give the life she’d left behind another try, or if she simply had nowhere else to go and had latched on to Sebastian. Obviously, the older man was the forgiving type. Connor had told her that the district attorney had declined to press obstruction of justice charges against Rachel. They couldn’t prove beyond a reasonable doubt that she had known that D.J. was the Soccer Mom Strangler. Besides, Connor had reasoned, karma had taken care of Rachel Irving.
The whole thing was terribly sad to Claire, but mouthwatering to the press.
“Did you email Brianna today?” Connor asked, drawing Claire out of her reverie.
They didn’t get great cell service, which Claire found to be a blessing, but the Wi-Fi was fairly reliable. She’d made sure to check in with her sister by email. Brianna had recovered well from her head injury. When she wasn’t studying for the bar exam, she was grilling Claire for every detail about her relationship with Connor. She’d asked for daily updates from Bora Bora.
“Yes,” Claire assured him. “When I got up this morning. My responsibilities for the day are finished.”
“Oh, they’re not finished,” Connor said.
“Really?”
He stood, pulling her with him, toward the steps that curved from the deck down to the azure water. “You promised me a swim, remember?”
Claire grinned. “That I did.”
She followed Connor to the bottom of the steps and watched him dive into the water. Then she plunged in after him.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, I must thank my readers for your relentless passion and enthusiasm. You keep me going, and, as I’ve said in the past, I am so grateful for every message, email, Facebook post, and tweet. As always, thank you to my wonderful husband, Fred, and my lovely, inspiring daughter, Morgan, who gave up so many hours of time with me so that I could write this book. I love you both, and I am eternally grateful for your patience. Every day you make me want to be a better person and a better author. I would never be able to write a word without the following folks in my corner, encouraging me and supporting me every step of the way. These people were instrumental in helping me along my journey this time around, always ready to beta read, answer questions, or just offer the words I needed to keep writing: Nancy S. Thompson, Michael Infinito Jr., Dana Mason, Katie Mettner, Carrie Butler, Jeff O’Handley, Donna House, Joyce Regan, William Regan, Rusty House, Melissia McKittrick, MK Harkins, Ava McKittrick, Jean and Dennis Regan, Torese Hummel, Cat Skinner, and my Frostbite and Entrada beta readers. Thank you to my many, many friends and family members who are constantly spreading the word about my books and leaving me Facebook messages asking why I’m on Facebook and not writing my next book. I love you. You are the best! Thank you to Sue Herwig—if you hadn’t stayed on me, I would never have finished this! Thank you to Amy Z. Quinn for the wealth of information with respect to journalism. Thank you especially to Sgt. Jason Jay for answering in great detail my endless stream of questions at all hours of the day and night with infinite patience. I can never thank you enough for all of your input and your willingness to help me get things right—or as close to right as fiction allows. Thank you to Jessica Tribble for taking a chance on me. Thank you to David Downing for helping me get to the really good stuff. Thank you to Scott Calamar for helping me work out the kinks. Finally, thank you to the entire team at Thomas & Mercer for making this book shine!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2015 Jessie Mae Kanagie Photography
Lisa Regan, the author of Finding Claire Fletcher, is a bestselling suspense novelist and a member of Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and International Thriller Writers. She has a bachelor’s degree in English and a master’s degree in education from Bloomsburg University, works full-time as a paralegal, and lives with her husband and daughter in Philadelphia, where she writes books while waiting in line at the post office. Readers can learn more about her work at www.lisaregan.com.