The Girl Who Cried Murder

by Paula Graves

  Diana swung the pistol toward the cat. Hizzy stood his ground, growling.

  It was the distraction Charlie needed. She pitched her shoulder into Diana’s chest, slamming hard against her sternum. A grunt of pain erupted from the woman’s throat, and she tumbled into the wall, her head cracking against the door frame.

  As her gun hand hit the ground, Charlie stomped on her wrist with her full weight, feeling the bones beneath her feet crack. The gun fell loose from Diana’s fingers as she howled in pain. Charlie kicked it away and straddled Diana’s waist, pinning her to the floor with both hands.

  “You were in the car!” she cried, adrenaline pumping through her like venom. “You hit Alice with your car, on purpose! You let her die. You let me think it was all my fault! How could you do that to your daughter?”

  Diana tried to fight free of Charlie’s grasp, but her broken wrist was useless, and Charlie was bigger and stronger, now that there wasn’t a pistol to equalize things between them.

  “Why?” Charlie wailed, tears burning a path down her cheeks. “Why did you do that to Alice?”

  “Because she knew!” Diana screamed. “She knew and she was going to tell Craig what we were doing.”

  The light in the cinder block building behind the Headhunter Bar, Charlie realized. The voices she’d heard when she entered the alley had been coming from there. From the old Bearden campaign headquarters.

  “Alice was looking for you that night. That’s why she’d talked me into going to that bar. She knew it was the best place to watch the old campaign office. Because she knew you were meeting someone there when Mr. Bearden was out of town. Didn’t she?”

  Diana just stared at her a moment, then bucked her hips, trying to knock Charlie off her.

  Charlie pressed hard on Diana’s broken wrist, and she screamed.

  “You were afraid she’d tell Craig. It would ruin everything. Craig’s political career would fall apart. Your dreams of being a senator’s wife would be down the toilet. And Feeney would lose his cushy little job as a toady if Craig knew. You couldn’t let that happen. Alice—” Her voice faltered, but she gritted her teeth and forced the words out of her aching throat. “Your daughter, your only child, was acceptable collateral damage. Was that it?”

  The sound of a key in the lock drew her attention away from Diana’s baleful glare. The older woman made one last attempt at escape, shoving the heel of her hand into Charlie’s chin, snapping her head back.

  Charlie’s grip on Diana faltered, and Diana shoved her off, sending her reeling into the wall. Charlie scrambled after the other woman as she bolted for the end of the hall, where the gun had landed in the middle of the kitchen floor.

  She tackled Diana by the legs and scrambled forward over her back, jerking Diana’s left hand away as her fingers brushed against the butt of the pistol.

  She heard heavy footfalls coming up behind her. “I’ve got her, Charlie.” Mike’s voice, low and reassuring, sent a little shudder darting down her spine.

  She leaned forward and shoved the gun sideways. It skittered farther into the kitchen, landing under the kitchen table. Then she scrambled forward, off Diana, and turned to look at Mike.

  He spared her a quick, intense look that made her stomach turn inside out before he holstered his gun, reached down and hauled Diana Bearden to her feet.

  Maddox Heller entered the hall behind Mike and Diana, pistol in hand. He skidded to a stop, taking in the whole tableau. His shoulders relaxed, and he dropped the pistol to his side. “You good here?”

  “We’re good,” Mike said, his gaze locking with Charlie’s again. “And you can take Charlie off my self-defense course roster when you get back to the academy.”

  Heller put his pistol back in the holster under his jacket. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  Mike shot Charlie a lopsided grin. “Because she already passed.”

  * * *

  “FEENEY PUT MOST of it on Diana Bearden,” Trask told Mike and Charlie a few hours later. “But we caught him red-handed trying to blow up Charlie’s house, so he’s not getting away with anything.”

  “Did he admit to drugging Mike?” Charlie asked.

  “He said Diana blackmailed him into it. Apparently he’s been skimming money from Bearden’s campaign coffers, and he thought Diana was covering it up for him. But apparently she was smart enough to make sure all the stink would fall on him once it came to light.”

  “Do you believe him?” Mike asked.

  “Yeah, I think he’s realized the truth is about the only defense he has.”

  “Did he say why he drugged me? What was he going to do?” Mike asked.

  Trask glanced at Charlie. “I think we both know what he was going to do.”

  Next to Mike, Charlie shivered. He put his arm around her, pulling her closer.

  “How did Diana know Charlie was at my house? She’d already sent Feeney to blow up her house.”

  “She’s not talking, but Feeney told us Diana was beginning to suspect we were onto Feeney. So we think when Charlie called out of the blue and left that message about remembering things, Diana thought it might be a setup.” Trask’s smile looked like a grimace. “She called you, learned quickly that you weren’t where you were supposed to be and figured out you were alone.”

  “So she made her move.” Charlie sighed. “I used to wish my mother was just like Mrs. Bearden.”

  Mike tightened his arm around her. “I’m glad she’s not.”

  Charlie looked up at Archer Trask. “Are we done here?”

  “For now. We’ll probably have more questions soon, but I think we’re good for today.”

  Outside, a cold, misty rain had begun to fall. Mike hurried Charlie to his truck and helped her into the passenger seat. Once he took his place behind the wheel, he turned the heat up. “Better?”

  She flashed him a sheepish smile. “I’m not that cold, but I can’t seem to stop shaking.”

  “That’s delayed reaction. But I have a prescription for that.” He shot her a quick smile.

  “Oh?” She turned to look at him. “What’s that, Dr. Strong?”

  “Well, it starts with a big cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream. Then there’s a roaring fire and a blanket big enough for two—”

  “I’m sold,” she said with a big grin that made his insides sizzle. “How fast can we get there?”

  * * *

  BY THE TIME the local news moved on to another story besides the scandalous tale of adultery, betrayal and murder among the rich and famous, a week had passed. Hizzy’s stitches had been removed and the cone of shame relegated to the trash bin, Charlie’s insurance money had paid for new furniture and a state-of-the-art security system, and Mike’s mother had reluctantly returned home to Black Rock, North Carolina, with a promise from Mike and Charlie to visit for Christmas.

  Mike finished pushing Charlie’s sofa into place near the fireplace and dusted his hands on his jeans. “Happy now?”

  She walked over to where he stood near the hearth, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Delirious.”

  He grinned down at her, enfolding her in a tight embrace. “Good. I intend to keep you that way. Delirious Charlie is my favorite flavor.” He bent to kiss her, his tongue sliding over her lips as if sampling her taste. “Yup, definitely my favorite.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she warned, gently extricating herself from his embrace. “We have one more thing to add before the room will be complete.”

  Mike groaned. “Don’t tell me you bought a second sofa.”

  She gave his arm a light tug. “No, just something that would make that corner look absolutely perfect.” She led him into the mudroom, where she’d stashed her newest purchase.

  Mike stared at the little fir tree leaning against the window in the small
room. “A tree.”

  “A Christmas tree,” she corrected, picking up the new plastic bin she’d bought earlier that day for all the ornaments she’d purchased during her buying spree. She carried the box into the living room, leaving Mike to haul the tree and its stand.

  Together, they set up the tree in the corner and arranged the red velvet tree skirt at the bottom. “It already looks lovely,” she said with a happy sigh.

  “So, a Christmas fan,” Mike said, smiling at her. “I’ll add that to my list of important things to know about Charlie.”

  Unexpected tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them back as she opened the plastic bin and pulled out a new packet of silver garland. “I wasn’t, you know. Not for a long time.” She ran the strands of silver tinsel through her fingers. “Not after Alice died. It was so close to Christmas, I could never seem to muster up the mood.”

  Mike took the garland from her hands and pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry. I know this can’t be easy for you, especially now.”

  She leaned her head against his chest, taking comfort from the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. She thought about the pages she’d written about Alice, about her own memories of that night. She had hoped by writing everything down, she could make sense of what had happened.

  But there was no sense in what happened. Only sadness and bittersweet release. It was time to close that file and write something new. Something brighter. Something full of hope and meaning.

  “I know now,” she said. “I know what happened to her and why. It makes me so sad for her. And grateful that she never knew how her mother betrayed her. But knowing means I can finally let it go. Alice wouldn’t have wanted me to mourn her forever.”

  “No, from the way you’ve described her, I don’t think she’d have been happy about that at all.”

  She drew her head back to look at him. “She’d have liked you. Big, strong, badass. She might have fought me for you. Might have even won.”

  He bent his head and kissed her nose. “Not a chance, Charlie. Not a chance in this world.”

  “Are we finally having that talk about us we kept threatening to have?” she asked, cuddling closer.

  “I guess we are. So I’ll go first. I’m all in, Charlie. You’re it for me. I think I knew it from the first time you stepped into my class that day, all spitfire and trouble.”

  She grinned. “You make me sound so interesting.”

  “You are. The most interesting woman I’ve ever known.”

  “And that,” she said with a light pat on his backside, “is why you’re it for me, Mike Strong. Because you’re apparently blind and a little on the dim side, so I can always keep you believing I’m fabulous.”

  He laughed, the sound rumbling through her like distant thunder on a warm summer night.

  “And because you’re the best man I know,” she added, letting the truth shine in her eyes for the first time in as long as she could remember. “A man who, for some strange reason, really does believe in me.”

  He bent for another kiss. “Always, Charlie. Always.”

  * * * * *

  Look for more books in

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  CAMPBELL COVE ACADEMY, in 2017.

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  Keep reading for an excerpt from CHRISTMAS KIDNAPPING by Cindi Myers.

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  Christmas Kidnapping

  by Cindi Myers

  Chapter One

  Experience had taught Andrea McNeil to trust her first impressions of a man. She had learned to read temperament and tendencies in the set of his shoulders and the shadows in his eyes. Whether they were heroes or the perpetrators of heinous crimes, they all revealed themselves to her as much by their silences as by what they said.

  The man who stood before her now radiated both strength and anxiety in the stubborn set of his broad shoulders and the tight line of his square jaw. He wore his blond hair short and neat, his face clean shaven, his posture military straight, though he was dressed in jeans, hiking boots and a button-down shirt and not a uniform. He moved with the raw sensuality of a hunter, muscular shoulders sliding beneath the soft cotton of his shirt, and when his hazel eyes met hers, she saw pride and courage and deep grief.

  “All I want you to do is help me remember the face of the man who killed my friend,” he said, before she had even invited him to sit on the sofa across from her chair in her small office just off the main street of Durango, Colorado.

  She didn’t allow her face to betray alarm at his statement. This certainly wasn’t the worst thing she had heard from the people who came to her for help. “Please sit down, Agent Prescott, and I’ll tell you a little more about how I work.”

  FBI special agent Jack Prescott lowered himself gingerly onto the sofa. He grimaced as he shifted his weight. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  She kept her gaze steady on him, letting him know she wasn’t buying this statement.

  He shifted again. “I took a couple of bullets in a firefight a couple of months back,” he said. “The cold bothers me a little.”

  The window behind him showed a gentle snowfall, the remnants from the latest winter storm. A man who had been shot—twice—and was still on medical leave probably ought to be home recuperating, but she might as well have told a man like Jack Prescott that he needed to take up knitting and mah-jongg. She didn’t have to read the information sheet he had filled out to know that much about him. Even sitting still across from her, he looked poised to leap into action. She would have bet next month’s rent that he was armed at the moment and that he had called into his office at least once a day every day of his enforced time off.

  Her husband, Preston, had been the same way. All his devotion to duty and reckless courage had gotten him in the end was killed.

  She focused on Agent Prescott’s paperwork to force the memories back into the locked box where they belonged. Jack Prescott was single, thirty-four years old and a graduate of Columbia with a major in electrical engineering and robotics. Twelve years with the FBI. A letter of commendation. He was in Durango on special assignment and currently
on medical leave. He took no medications beyond the antibiotics prescribed for his gunshot wounds, and he had no known allergies. “Tell me about this firefight,” she said. “The one in which you were injured.”

  He sat on the edge of the sofa cushion, gripping his knees. “What happened to me doesn’t matter,” he said. “But my friend Gus Mathers was killed in that fight. I saw it happen. I saw who killed him.”

  “That would be traumatic for anyone,” she said.

  “You don’t understand. I saw the man who killed Gus, but I can’t remember his face.”

  “What you’re talking about is upsetting, but it’s not unusual,” she said. “The mind often blocks out the memory of traumatic events as a means of protection.”

  He leaned forward, his gaze boring into her, his expression fierce. “You don’t understand. I don’t forget faces. It’s what I do, the way some people remember numbers or have perfect pitch.”

  She set aside the clipboard with the paperwork and leaned toward him, letting him know she was focused completely on him. “I’m not sure I understand,” she said.

  “I’m what they call a super-recognizer. If I look at someone for even a few seconds, I remember them. I remember supermarket clerks and bus drivers and people I pass on the street. Yet I can’t remember the man who murdered my best friend.”

  “Your talent for remembering faces doesn’t exempt you from the usual responses to trauma,” she said. “Your memory of the events may come back with time, or it may never return.”

  He set his jaw, the look of a man who was used to forcing the outcome he desired. “The cop who referred me to you said you could hypnotize me—that that might be a way to get the memory to return.”

  “I do sometimes use hypnosis in my therapy, but in your case, I don’t believe it would work.”

  “Why not?”

  Because there are some things even a will as strong as yours can’t make happen, she thought. “Hypnosis requires the subject to relax and surrender to the process,” she said. “In order for me to hypnotize you, you would have to trust me and be willing to surrender control of the situation. You aren’t a man who is used to surrendering, and you haven’t known me long enough to trust me.”