Silent Night Suspect

by Sharee Stover

  Suspected of a crime she knows she didn’t commit...

  All she wants for Christmas is to remember.

  Blood on her blouse. A gun in her hand. A cartel leader’s dead body in front of her. Widow Asia Stratton can’t remember what happened—just that she’s been framed. The only way to prove her innocence is to work with her ex-sweetheart, Nebraska state trooper Slade Jackson. But can they clear her name before this Christmas turns even deadlier?

  “If they run us off the road, we’re dead!”

  Slade accelerated, hoping to outrun the pursuers, but the truck stayed close behind.

  Another slam propelled them sideways.

  Slade jerked the wheel, and his response had the car deviating through the ice-covered median as he battled the velocity forcing them out of control.

  Heart jackhammering against his ribs, Slade pumped the brakes, but the car seemed to have a mind of its own and continued to speed up.

  Asia screamed, and he jerked the wheel, avoiding a mile-marker pole by inches.

  “I don’t have brakes!” He slammed his foot repeatedly against the pedal, but it was useless.

  “Slade, do something!”

  But he couldn’t stop.

  Desperate, Slade yanked the wheel. The overcorrection sent the car careening into the ditch. “Hang on!”

  They slammed on the driver’s side, went airborne, then smashed down again. The impact shook every part of his body.

  Each horrific recurring tug of gravity imprisoned them on a nightmare amusement park ride...

  Sharee Stover is a Colorado native transplanted to Nebraska, where she lives with her husband, three children and two dogs. Her mother instilled in her the love of books before Sharee could read, along with the promise “If you can read, you can do anything.” When she’s not writing, she enjoys time with her family, long walks with her obnoxiously lovable German shepherd and crocheting. Find her at shareestover.com or on Twitter, @shareestover.

  Books by Sharee Stover

  Love Inspired Suspense

  Secret Past

  Silent Night Suspect

  Silent Night Suspect

  Sharee Stover

  What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.

  —Psalm 56:3

  To my Lord and Savior, Jesus. All glory and honor belong to You. And for Jim, Tawny, Cody and Andi because you see the best in me, even when I can’t.

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve heard it said it takes a village to raise a child, and I think that’s applicable to writing a book, as well. I am beyond grateful for the incredible group of people who support and encourage me through every sentence.

  Many thanks to:

  My editor, Emily Rodmell, for sticking with me as this story evolved and for your wisdom in its development.

  Tina Radcliffe for seeing past the dry bones and helping me to revive and breathe life back into this book.

  Connie, Jackie, Rhonda, Sherrinda and all of the Writing Sisters. You all are precious.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  DEAR READER

  EXCERPT FROM FATAL FLASHBACK BY KELLIE VANHORN

  ONE

  Asia Stratton’s gaze remained transfixed on the lifeless eyes staring back at her. Dark pools—so black they appeared to be bottomless holes—silently demanded an explanation for the single bullet wound to the center of the man’s forehead.

  An explanation she couldn’t provide.

  “Asia, drop the gun. Put your hands up,” a male voice ordered.

  She jerked at the mention of her name and squinted against the blinding light veiling the stranger in the doorway. Darkness had fallen, and Nebraska’s icy winter wind blasted through the unfamiliar living room.

  The dead man’s silent inquisition beckoned, and Asia reverted her attention to him.

  “I said, drop the gun,” the intruder repeated.

  His words trickled through the fog in her brain and she gasped at the Glock gripped in her palm. Asia released her hold, and the weapon toppled from her shaking hands onto the dirty carpet. She lifted her arms in obedience, sending a jolt of pain radiating up her shoulder. She cried out, then caught sight of the crimson stain marring her white blouse.

  “Keep your hands up! Don’t make any sudden moves.” In her peripheral, she saw the man enter, taking cautious, steady steps, gun trained on her. His familiar uniform publicized his law enforcement authority. “Don’t move,” he repeated, then kicked the door closed behind him, sending another wave of cold air her way.

  She winced and shivered, keeping her arms raised as high as she could tolerate. The flickering glow from the muted television, combined with the officer’s flashlight beam bouncing off the walls, rivaled the intense headache pounding in Asia’s skull. Dizziness swirled, and nausea overwhelmed her senses.

  The trooper stepped between her and the dead stranger opposite her. “Whose blood is on your blouse? Yours or his?” He turned off the flashlight, then used it to gesture at her.

  Asia swallowed. “Mine. I think?”

  “Lower your hands slowly, keeping them where I can see them.”

  Her gaze traveled up the barrel of the officer’s gun until she focused on his face. Fear morphed into confusion, only to be replaced by annoyance. Of all the cops in the world, it had to be him. Nebraska state trooper Slade Jackson. Her deceased husband’s ex-partner—and her backstabbing former high school boyfriend.

  “Very slowly, extend your hands toward me.”

  An argument lingered on her lips, but the murkiness in her brain had her complying. She momentarily broke her gaze from the dead man. “I don’t—”

  Slade encircled her wrists with cold metal, startling her. “This is necessary for your safety and mine. Protocol.” The click of handcuffs stabbed her with irritation. “I’m supposed to secure your arms behind your back, but with your shoulder injury...”

  He was justifying handcuffing her? She stared at him, hoping to mask her fear. “Are you kidding me? Handcuffs? You’ve known me since kindergarten.”

  Her words had no effect on him. Of course not. Slade was always the rule follower. Procedure Boy. Even when it meant destroying other people’s lives.

  Slade stepped to her side and kicked the Glock out of reach. “Is there anyone else here?” His gaze bounced between Asia and the small hallway behind her. The questions etched on his face no doubt mirrored her own bewilderment.

  “I don’t... I didn’t...” She gulped, trying to form an intelligent sentence. How could she answer him when she had no answers? She surveyed the unfamiliar compact living room. Where was she, and how had she gotten here?

  He pressed a cloth against her shoulder. “It’ll be a little tough with the handcuffs but keep pressure on the wound.”

  She held the fabric against her chest, which tightened with each breath.

  He knelt and pushed his fingers against the deceased’s neck. Asia rolled her eyes. Surely he needed to check off a rules-for-finding-a-dead-body box somewhere.

  “Why are you here with Nevil Quenten?” Wide-eyed, Slade spoke in a hushed tone and pointed at the dead guy.

  “That’s Nevil Quenten? The Colombian drug cartel leader?” Asia squeaked, her gaze ricochetin
g between Slade and the man. “Zander talked about him, but somehow I envisioned him...more evil looking.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but this is Quenten.” Slade held his service weapon in one hand and offered to help her stand with the other. He tilted his head as if to say trust me.

  No way. She gave the proffered hand a cursory glance as she shifted. The pin-prickling sensation made her yelp. “My legs are asleep. Give me a second.”

  He stepped back, granting her space, but never lowered his weapon. Asia attempted to get to her feet again, surrendering to Slade’s outstretched palm as he pulled her upright. At five feet ten inches, she stood nose to nose with Slade. The quick change of position had her teetering off balance on her tingling legs. His steadying contact stabilized her. Grounded her. Like he’d done when they were kids.

  Slade remained silent, helping her to the closest of the three green-and-white lawn chairs that passed for living room furniture.

  She paused.

  “Don’t be difficult,” he cautioned.

  Asia bristled against his touch and shifted away from his hold with a huff. “I’m not being difficult. For your information, I’m worried the chair might fall apart.” She nodded at the frayed material.

  “It’ll be fine,” he assured her.

  She frowned and dropped onto the seat without comment, hoping the fabric would rip and prove him wrong.

  “Stay put.”

  “You’re leaving me alone? With him?” She shivered and shrank back, as if the dead man would rise and attack her.

  “He’s not going anywhere. Just wait here.” Slade pressed down on her uninjured shoulder, emphasizing the instructions before moving into the hallway.

  Asia studied Nevil Quenten, torn between terror and curiosity. The man’s tidy appearance complete with a gray suit and navy tie reminded her of a bank manager. But he was an unmerciful drug cartel leader who had destroyed her deceased husband, Zander.

  And now Nevil Quenten was dead. In the same room as her.

  She shifted farther to the side and racked her brain. The dissipating haze brought no great revelations. Why couldn’t she remember anything? The abyss in her mind explained nothing about her present conditions, and the strain exaggerated the headache clawing its way across her temples.

  She scanned the foreign space with its worn brown carpet and plastic walls. Not drywall? What kind of house had plastic walls? A mobile, trailer or prefabricated home? She had no friends or acquaintances who lived in any houses like those. Why can’t I remember anything?

  The rancid scent of urine and rotting food added to her queasiness. Lawn chairs half circled the dated nineteen-inch television. Empty blue-and-white pizza boxes stacked in a haphazard tower decorated the floor beside the yellow refrigerator in the tiny kitchenette to her left. A pathetic string of silver garland hung from the broken window blinds in uneven loops, and chipped red Christmas ornaments tugged the tinsel downward. The display provided a sad attempt at sprucing the place up with holiday spirit.

  Where was she? Anxiety ratcheted, twisting her stomach into knots.

  Slade returned and slipped his service weapon into the holster. “The house is clear.”

  “What about the outside?”

  He quirked an eyebrow, annoyance tainting his tone. “I checked the perimeter before entering this place. It’s protocol.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why did you text me to meet you here? To show me you killed him?”

  That got her attention. “I didn’t kill anyone, and I never sent you a text! I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She might not be able to explain how she’d gotten here, but murder wasn’t in her DNA. And texting her ex-boyfriend ranked among the top five on her not-in-this-lifetime list.

  He walked toward the kitchenette and flipped on the switch, illuminating the space. She regarded his solid build outlined in the starched navy blue uniform with Ginsu-knife creases. Not a dark hair out of place in his meticulous, close-cropped style. Zander had been the perfect state trooper too. Might’ve still been if he’d gotten the help he needed before—

  “What’s going on here?” Slade probed, facing her in the classic feet-shoulder-width-apart power stance.

  Asia contemplated her answer. They’d written the Miranda warning for occasions such as this, but that applied to real criminals. You have the right to remain silent...starting now. She had nothing to hide, since she had no memory of whatever she should be hiding, anyway.

  “I came to just before you walked in. I have no idea how long I was unconscious, and your knock on the door jarred me into this bizarre scene. I don’t remember anything beyond being in my apartment getting ready for bed.”

  Slade’s frown conveyed his skepticism.

  “You wanted the truth and I’m telling you,” Asia continued, her words tumbling out faster. “When I caught sight of the dead guy—” She tried to point to Nevil’s body, but the handcuffs restricted her movement and the bloodied cloth tumbled to the floor. “I reacted. Just grabbed the thing off my lap and then you walked in.” She nodded toward the Glock. “I didn’t even realize it was a gun.”

  “You don’t seriously expect me to believe that.” Slade stooped, lifted the cloth and reapplied it to her shoulder before moving to the TV and shutting it off. Silence hovered between them like an invisible shield of disbelief. “I need you to tell me what happened before I got here. I can’t hold off calling this in to dispatch any longer.” His caramel-brown eyes pleaded with her to respond, though he remained in his defensive posture.

  Their history should eliminate the caution he maintained. They’d grown up together, had dated through most of high school, had basically known each other forever. Surely those memories counted for something. Asia’s gaze jerked from Slade to Nevil’s body, then to the weapon on the floor. Please, Lord, make my memory return. Give me wisdom in what to say.

  “Was it self-defense?”

  She met Slade’s penetrating look. All they were missing was a spotlight and metal table for the way his interrogation was going. “Nice try, but I didn’t kill him.”

  “I saw you holding the gun.”

  The allegation stung, raising her defenses. “Are you listening at all? I told you, I went to bed early. In my apartment. Next thing I know, I’m waking up here. Wherever ‘here’ is.”

  “Can anyone corroborate your story?”

  Asia sat up straighter and lifted her chin. “No, because I was alone. And it’s not a story. It’s the truth.”

  “Fine. If you refuse to cooperate, we’ll stick to procedures and I’ll treat you like any other murder suspect.” Slade depressed the button on his portable shoulder mic. “Request assistance and ambulance. One injured suspect, one dead, possibly more people unknown and unaccounted for.”

  “Ten-four, twenty-two fifty,” the dispatcher confirmed.

  Asia jumped to her feet, unable to breathe past the vise squeezing her chest. Ten fifty at night. How long had she been here? “What day is it?”

  Slade tilted his head. “Don’t even try the helpless damsel thing.”

  She clamped a hand onto his forearm clumsily and demanded, “Tell me what day it is.”

  He plucked away her fingers then led her back to the chair. “You have to sit down. We don’t need you losing more blood.”

  “The date?” Asia insisted, searching his eyes.

  He cocked his head to the side and blew out a breath. “December twenty-second.”

  “Are you sure?” The room swayed, and Asia’s hands fell heavy in her lap.

  “Of course I’m sure.” Slade adjusted his mic wire, clearly frustrated. Well, he wasn’t the only one.

  “No. That’s not possible,” Asia mumbled. “It can’t be.” Her thoughts traveled to her color-coded salon appointment book. Pink for haircuts, blue for pedicures—and December twentieth in bold print at the top of th
e page. Horrified, she doubled over, pressing her bound wrists against her stomach.

  “Hey, are you okay?” The warmth of Slade’s hand on her shoulder kept her fixed in the moment, though she longed to escape.

  “I don’t... How can it be December twenty-second?” She sat up. “How did I lose two days of my life?”

  He shook his head. “Asia, stop messing around. I’ve gotta start this report before backup arrives.”

  She blasted him with her best death glare. “Slade, I’d love to spout the answers you want, but let me clue you in. I was in my apartment on December twentieth. It was payday, and I was trying to figure out how to make my rent. One of the many joys of being a widow whose drug-addicted husband took everything and sold it to supply his habit.”

  Doubt marked his frown, and he knelt beside the Glock, surveying but not touching the weapon. “Still doesn’t explain why you were pointing a gun at Quenten.”

  Asia bit her lip, scanning the room again, and landed on Slade’s unbelieving frown. “I’m trying to help you, but you can see how this will sound to the district attorney.”

  She stiffened. “I am being honest, and no, thanks—I’ve seen your idea of help.”

  The verbal slap tightened Slade’s jaw and irritation flashed in his eyes, but his tone remained unwavering. “Asia, I’ll never be able to tell you how sorry I am that Zander is gone. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about him. He was my friend, my partner.”

  “Wow, beautiful. Is that the same little speech you told Sergeant Oliver before you betrayed Zander?” She pinned him with a glower. Slade was a traitor, and he’d destroyed her life.

  They held their wordless staredown until Slade glanced out the window, watching for backup. “Zander made his own choices and put us both in an impossible situation, including backing me against the wall. Turning him in was my duty. I had no other options.” He spun to face her.

  Asia looked away. Choices. There was no disputing the facts. Zander had chosen drugs, a plethora of other women and repeated binges. The combination proved to be the catalyst for their separation a year before his death had made her a widow at thirty-four. He’d walked a dangerous path, leading a double life as a trooper and working for Quenten. Eventually, it was bound to catch up to him. Asia had warned him repeatedly to get help and talk to Sergeant Oliver. In the end, Zander’s murder hadn’t been a surprise. He’d played too long with a dangerous, consuming fire.