by Alice Sharpe
Chelsea didn’t say a word. What could she say?
“So, my mom made an appointment to talk to the chief,” Adam continued. “You know, to elicit his help. Whip got wind of this and decided to steal her diary while she was at the appointment, but she was running late and surprised him by being home. Panicked, he killed her and searched for the diary, but couldn’t find where she’d hidden it. Dad learned all this later.”
“Good grief. Whip killed your mother.”
Adam nodded. “Yeah, and then hinted to me that Dad had done it.”
“Oh, Adam.”
“Dad felt guilty about not supporting Mom, by letting her down before her death...about everything. Then he found her diary and read it. Apparently, after she talked to Whip about her student, he started showing up the same places she was. She felt threatened. If she told Dad this part, he was too drunk to remember it and that just fed his guilt. He talked to Whip, hoping he was wrong, but Whip admitted everything I told you before. He said the chief would never believe a drunk, not when Whip had a different story. That’s when my father put all their old love letters and the diary and these two little pieces of paper into a box and hid it under the house. I don’t think I’ll ever know if he killed himself or just died from guilt.”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” Chelsea said gently.
“He could have shown the chief the diary. He could have fought Whip and ultimately saved who knows how many other kids. But he didn’t. He was a coward.”
“But you’re not,” Chelsea said. “And maybe now you can find some peace with the past. You’re going to need it with Mariana and your own child to raise.”
“I know.” He stared at the box and then looked down at her, melting her with his gray gaze. “I’ll look at the rest later, then I’ll figure out what to do with it.”
She nestled against him. “That sounds like a good idea.”
“I have an even better idea,” he told her as he tipped her chin and claimed her lips.
* * *
Look for more books from Alice Sharpe
later in 2019!
Keep reading for an excerpt from The Girl Who Couldn’t Forget by Cassie Miles.
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The Girl Who Couldn't Forget
by Cassie Miles
Chapter One
The petunias were dead. That was the first thing Brooke Josephson noticed when she parked at the curb. Two months ago when she’d planted the flowers, her intention was to brighten up this dull brick building and make it into a more welcoming place for Franny. Instead, the yard had become a petunia graveyard with the tortured faces of faded purple, yellow and pink blooms staring helplessly. Withered leaves reached out in silent entreaty. All they’d needed was a splash of water. August in Denver could be hot and dry, but this wasn’t the blazing Sahara.
Brooke leaped from her SUV and hurried along the sidewalk. The dead petunias were a bad omen—not enough to push her into a panic attack, but close. She had the symptoms: labored breathing, tremors, accelerated pulse and more. She paused. Slow down. Shake it off. At a more controlled pace, she proceeded toward the front door of her friend’s one-bedroom at the end of a one-story, L-shaped apartment complex.
She never should have expected Franny to take care of the plants. Her friend’s life was a wild, erratic whirl, and she’d never change. Why should she? If she was happy with chaos, so be it. Brooke loved her crazy friend like the little sister she’d never had. They even resembled each other. Of course we look alike. He chose us for our black hair and blue eyes.
It had been twelve years, but she remembered every detail. Her past was inescapable.
As she stepped onto the concrete stoop, she checked her precision quartz wristwatch. Twenty-seven minutes ago, she’d gotten Franny’s call and had responded ASAP. She’d logged off her computer, dashed to her car, checked her GPS and adjusted her route to avoid the traffic slowdown for repairs on Alameda.
And here she stood, worried and scared. But ready to save the day if need be.
She punched the doorbell and called out, “Franny, it’s me. Open up.”
Most likely, this was a lot of fuss about nothing. If so, she’d bite her tongue and wouldn’t scold. Extra caution was better than ignoring potential signs of danger, even though Brooke hated to waste time with unnecessary disruptions. Sometimes she could go a full week without leaving her house. Some people—including FBI Agent George Gimbel and her therapist—thought her behavior was borderline agoraphobic, but they didn’t understand the importance of organization. There was no such thing as being too efficient.
From inside the apartment, she heard her friend chattering in a high-pitched jumble of words. She was answered by a man’s rumbling voice. That wasn’t right! Franny didn’t date. She had no male relatives.
Brooke whipped her phone from the pocket of her khaki shorts and hit the emergency call button. Better safe than sorry. She unzipped her fanny pack and wrapped her fingers around the palm-size canister of pepper spray. “Franny, are you okay?”
She heard someone moving across the hardwood floor inside the apartment with a heavy tread; it must be the man. He was coming toward her. The pepper spray trembled in her hand. I can handle this. She had to. Nobody else would protect her and the people she loved. With the screen door open, she balanced on the balls of her feet—ready for action and glad that she’d worn sneakers instead of sandals. She braced herself. The first move would be hers.
The green-painted door was opened by a tall, dark-haired man in a suit.
Her phone squawked as the 911 operator answered, “Hello, what is your emergency?”
“You called the police,” the man said.
Though law enforcement had failed her many times, Brooke needed backup. She shouted Franny’s address at the phone and added, “We need help. Hurry.”
“That’s not necessary,” he said.
“Where’s my friend? What have you done to Franny?”
“Take it easy.” He slid his hand inside his jacket. “Everything is fine.”
Really? Then why are you reaching for a gun? She sprayed a blast of pepper spray. He dodged and threw up his arm for protection, but she knew that she’d scored a partial hit. While he winced and squinted, she darted into the apartment and positioned herself for another, more devastating blow.
“Brooke, stop!” Franny rushed from the back of the apartment. “What are you doing?”
“Taking care of this creep
,” she said.
She fired a karate kick at his knee and missed. Her next attempt aimed at his groin.
Her foot shot toward him. Before it connected, he grabbed her ankle and held on. It was all she could do not to lose her balance.
He held a wallet with his credentials toward her. “FBI.”
“Let go of my leg!”
“Are you going to kick at me again?”
“Not if I don’t need to.” She brandished her pepper spray. “Don’t try anything.”
He dropped her ankle. “I ought to arrest you for assaulting a federal officer.”
“Everybody please settle down,” Franny said as she stepped between them. “Agent Sloan, you’re not going to arrest anybody. Brooke, don’t be a brat.”
Oh, this was rich. The wildly irresponsible Franny Hennessey was telling her not to misbehave. As far as Brooke knew, that badge was a fake. If he was really a fed, he should have showed his credentials the minute he opened the door. Okay, maybe that was what he tried to do. Maybe this was as much her fault as his. Still, she said, “I’m not going to apologize.”
“Don’t care.”
He glared at her through his right eye. The left squeezed shut, though the redness that came in reaction to the spray spread across his throat and stopped at his cheekbone. The blotch looked painful. “If you please,” she said, “I’d like a closer look at that badge.”
Without relinquishing his grasp on his wallet, he held his ID inches away from her nose. The documents appeared to be official. She read his name: Special Agent Justin Sloan.
She didn’t usually make mistakes like this. Assaulting a fed? She placed her hand on her chest and felt the drumming of her heartbeat. Her adrenaline was running high, which wasn’t a bad feeling, but not a good one, either. If she’d been home right now, she’d be opening mail and eating her midafternoon snack of fruit and crackers. Instead, everything was up in the air.
She turned to her friend. “Why is he here?”
“I contacted him.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “I was trying to get ahold of Agent Gimbel. Remember him? The guy who handled our case?”
“Of course I remember.” He was a kind man who had taken a genuine interest. She hoped nothing bad had happened to him. “Why couldn’t he come?”
“Gimbel retired. The FBI office sent Sloan instead.”
He pointed to Brooke’s phone, which was still connected to an emergency operator asking questions. “Are you going to talk to her?”
This situation just got worse and worse. She’d requested emergency assistance, and she knew from past experience that nothing would divert the officers from coming to her aid. Rather than wasting time with long explanations to the dispatcher, she disconnected the call. Another rule broken.
Sloan asked, “Franny, do you have milk?”
Her ingenuous blue eyes opened wide. “Are you thirsty?”
“He wants milk to counteract the sting of the capsaicin in the pepper spray,” Brooke explained as she snapped the cover onto the small canister and returned it to her fanny pack, where she also kept a supply of medicated wipes to use in case the pepper spray got onto her fingers. She opened the package, took out a wipe and handed it to Sloan before using one on her own hands. “Water is ineffective in washing off the oil-based propylene glycol.”
“About that milk,” Sloan repeated.
“Come with me,” Franny said as she scampered barefoot toward the arched doorway leading to the kitchen. “I always have milk for the cats. Don’t worry, I don’t give them much. It’s not healthy, you know. But they do love it.”
Brooke trailed behind Special Agent Sloan and Franny, whose curly black hair bounced around her elfin face. For some unfathomable reason, she was wearing a purple sequin tiara. In her paisley-patterned yoga shorts and pink T-shirt with a sparkly unicorn on the front, she looked childlike and vulnerable. Actually, she was only four years younger than Brooke, who was twenty-six but felt like she’d already lived three lifetimes. No tiaras for her. She kept her long hair slicked back in a no-nonsense ponytail, which she twisted into a bun.
Her attention shifted to Sloan. He was tall, approximately seven inches over her five and a half feet, and he appeared to be in good physical condition. His gray suit jacket fit neatly across the wide expanse of his shoulders. There was something disturbing about the way he moved. Athletic and masculine, he seemed to exude confidence. Or was it arrogance? Either way, his presence unnerved her.
When she looked away from him, her gaze ricocheted around Franny’s small apartment, where the decor was based on clutter, half-finished projects and more clutter. Brooke counted no fewer than four cats. The table in the dining area was covered with stacks of unopened mail, multicolored scraps of fabric and a sparkling array of beaded jewelry. Beside the table was a wicker basket of unfolded laundry that a fat gray-and-white cat was using as a bed. A teetering tower of books lurked in the corner. Instead of a curtain, Tibetan prayer flags draped across the dining room window, offering an alarmingly clear view of the sidewalk outside. Any passerby could easily see into the house. The security here was even worse than her last place.
In the kitchen, dirty dishes filled one side of the double sink. Half-eaten meals were scattered across the counter. Brooke couldn’t help herself. She started washing the dishes.
“What are you doing?” Franny asked.
They’d had this conversation a hundred times before. “Left-out food attracts mice. I’ll have this cleaned up in a sec.”
“Don’t bother.” Franny laughed and pointed to a black cat and a calico. “My mousers will protect me from varmints.”
“Do any of these cats actually belong to you?”
“I don’t own them, if that’s what you mean.”
As soon as Franny moved into a neighborhood, she made a point of befriending the local feline population. Brooke never knew from whence the cats came or where they went or why they liked to hang out with her friend. Maybe they recognized a kindred spirit.
“If you’re looking for something to do, take care of him.” Franny pointed to Agent Sloan, who had found a carton of milk in the fridge. “You broke him. You should fix him.”
There was a certain amount of logic in what she said. If Franny is making sense, I must be losing my mind. Brooke directed Agent Sloan toward a straight-back chair beside a table where pots, pans and a basket full of green glass baubles took up most of the space. She took the carton from him, searched the cabinets for a clean bowl and poured the milk. While trying to find a fresh dish towel in the drawers, she said, “Take off your jacket, and be careful where you touch. The left sleeve probably has pepper spray on it.”
He removed the holster clipped to his belt and placed his gun on the table next to the baubles. Then he peeled off his jacket and folded it into a neat package, which he stuck into a paper grocery bag that Franny handed him. The striptease didn’t end there. He loosened his necktie. “I should probably take off my shirt, too.”
Her already-speeding pulse jolted into high gear. “By all means, take off the shirt. Your collar might be...compromised.”
Being careful to avoid handling the collar, he removed the short-sleeved cotton shirt. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath. His nicely muscled chest showed off his tan.
Her fingers itched with an unexpected urge to rake though his black chest hair and slide over those taut pecs. Snap out of it! True, it had been a long time since she’d been this close to a half-naked man, but she wasn’t the type to get all hot and bothered. Self-control was her middle name. With the bowl of milk and dish towel in hand, she approached the chair where he had taken a seat.
“Tilt your head up and to the right,” she said.
His gaze connected with hers and...her heart stopped. Held in suspended animation, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Her ears were
ringing. This wasn’t a panic attack; it was something different, something she’d never experienced before. She blinked until her vision was clear and she found herself staring into the most fascinating eyes. They were deep set and gray with glittering facets of silver and green. His angular cheekbones matched a square jaw. His face was saved from severity by an ironic twist of his mouth. He had the kind of lips that were meant for kissing. Not that she was an expert. Her social life was only slightly more interesting than Franny’s.
Her friend spoke up. “I’ll see if I can find something for Sloan to wear.”
“Excellent idea,” Brooke said.
In an uncharacteristically clumsy manner, she swabbed the milk on the red blotches near his left ear. Excess from the dish towel dripped down his chest. She reached out with her bare hand to wipe it away. As soon as her fingers touched his flesh, a jolt of electricity traveled up her hand to her arm, then across her shoulder and down her chest, where it zapped her heart like a cardiovascular defibrillator. She jumped back. The milk spilled.
Breathlessly, she said, “No use crying over that.”
He took the bowl from her. “Maybe I should do this myself.”
“Yes, that would be easier.” Aware that they were alone in the kitchen, she stepped back. This federal agent was a clear and present danger to her mental stability. “Have you spoken to Franny about why she called the FBI?”
“I have.”
“Would you care to share that information?”
“She was trying to contact your mutual friend Layla and couldn’t reach her.” He dabbed at his cheek with the milk. “The text messages to her weren’t answered. The phone calls went straight to voice mail.”