PRAISE FOR HIDDEN
“Hidden launches the Texas Murder Files with a bang, proving that Laura Griffin is the master of the romantic thriller. Intense, suspenseful, sexy, with an intriguing mystery and characters to root for. Griffin is at the top of her game.”
—New York Times bestselling author Allison Brennan
“Hidden reminded me why Laura Griffin is an auto-buy author for me. The first book in her new Texas Murder Files series, Hidden is a stunning page-turner with the perfect balance of romance and suspense and a relentless pace that will keep you glued to its pages long into the night. You won’t be able to put this book down!”
—Melinda Leigh, #1 Wall Street Journal bestselling author of Cross Her Heart
“Hidden has Laura Griffin’s trademark strengths: a fast-paced twisting plot and characters you want to know in real life.”
—Kendra Elliot, Wall Street Journal bestselling author of The Last Sister
PRAISE FOR LAURA GRIFFIN AND HER NOVELS
“Gritty, imaginative, sexy! You must read Laura Griffin.”
—New York Times bestselling author Cindy Gerard
“Griffin never fails to put me on the edge of my seat.”
—USA Today
“A gripping, white-knuckle read. You won’t be able to put it down.”
—New York Times bestselling author Brenda Novak
“An emotional, exciting page-turner. Griffin deftly balances the mystery and the love story.”
—The Washington Post
“Griffin never disappoints with her exciting, well-researched, fast-paced romantic thrillers.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A high-adrenaline thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat. . . . Griffin is a master.”
—Fresh Fiction
Titles by Laura Griffin
FAR GONE
The Tracers Series
UNTRACEABLE
UNSPEAKABLE
UNSTOPPABLE
UNFORGIVABLE
SNAPPED
TWISTED
SCORCHED
EXPOSED
BEYOND LIMITS
SHADOW FALL
DEEP DARK
AT CLOSE RANGE
TOUCH OF RED
STONE COLD HEART
The Wolfe Security Series
DESPERATE GIRLS
HER DEADLY SECRETS
The Alpha Crew Series
AT THE EDGE
EDGE OF SURRENDER
COVER OF NIGHT
TOTAL CONTROL
ALPHA CREW: THE MISSION BEGINS
The Glass Sisters Series
THREAD OF FEAR
WHISPER OF WARNING
The Borderline Series
ONE LAST BREATH
ONE WRONG STEP
The Moreno & Hart Mysteries,
with Allison Brennan
CRASH AND BURN
HIT AND RUN
FROSTED
LOST AND FOUND
The Texas Murder Files
HIDDEN
FLIGHT
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2021 by Laura Griffin
Excerpt from Last Seen Alone copyright © 2021 by Laura Griffin
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780593197356
First Edition: March 2021
Cover design by Rita Frangie
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Cover
Praise for Laura Griffin
Titles by Laura Griffin
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Excerpt from Last Seen Alone
About the Author
For Doug
CHAPTER
ONE
The light was perfect, but she didn’t have long.
Miranda Rhoads dipped the paddle and glided smoothly through the water as she composed the shot. Cattails in the foreground, the tall lighthouse a distant spire. In between, the bay was a vast mirror that reflected the pinkening sky.
She lowered the blade of her paddle again, this time pushing off the spongy bottom to maneuver around a clump of reeds. This was it. She balanced the paddle on her thighs and adjusted the strap around her neck. Anticipation thrummed through her as she lifted the camera. Conditions were exactly what she’d hoped for when she saw the weather report last night and remembered one of her father’s sayings: Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.
Miranda took a deep breath and waited. Seconds and minutes slipped by, and she let her mind drift like the kayak. The humid air settled around her. She listened to the hum of insects in the marshes behind her, a trilling chorus that swelled and subsided with the breeze. She took another deep breath and for a perfect, endless moment she felt truly okay. Her thoughts were clear and crisp. The sunlight-saturated air seemed to vibrate around her. The day was still new, limitless, and she gave in to the notion that she was going to be all right.
Movement in the corner of her eye.
She remained utterly still as a great blue heron stepped from the reeds, tall and elegant on his spindly legs. Another step. Miranda held her breath and brushed her fingertip over the shutter button. If he sensed her watching, he didn’t show it.
She waited for the shot. It was instinct now. Like a hunter. Another deep breath and a long respiratory pause as she stayed motionless.
Click.
He stepped closer and dipped his head down. Then he lifted his head and turned toward her, regarding her with a regal look. Posing?
His silhouette was black and perfect against the fiery sky. Miranda’s heart hammered.
Click. Click.
This w
as why she’d come here. This was why she put up with lukewarm showers and rusty water and a bleating alarm clock at four thirty a.m. This was why she schlepped her kayak to the dock all alone, slapping at mosquitoes before her first sip of coffee. Photography was all about light, and mornings offered the best chance of getting something useful. Not a guarantee but a chance, and it paid to play the odds. She couldn’t sell what she didn’t have.
Click.
Another careful step. Click, click.
The heron turned and took wing. She lowered the camera and watched him soar over the marsh, then swoop down into another clump of reeds.
Miranda sighed. Not bad for a day that had barely begun.
She shifted the camera under her arm and picked up the paddle, scanning the wetlands for new possibilities. She had thirty minutes left. More, if the distant line of storm clouds lingered off the coast.
Her paddle snagged on something. She spotted a slim yellow cord stretched taut across the reeds. She paddled closer and spied something green tucked among the cattails. A canoe.
An explosion of feathers nearby made her heart lurch as a trio of white ibis flapped away. Behind her, something thrashed in the water. A fish? A cottonmouth?
Her attention snapped back to the boat. Her heart was thudding now as she drifted closer. The air felt charged, and all her senses went on high alert. Habits kicked in. She noted the direction of the wind. She noted the height of the sun. She noted the air, damp and pungent, pressing around her. Her stomach clenched tightly as she took a slow, shallow stroke, careful not to bump the canoe with her kayak as she peered over the side.
They looked peaceful, with their long limbs intertwined. His arm around her was protective. Tender.
Obscene.
Miranda’s vision blurred. Her brain recoiled from the sight in front of her, but she couldn’t turn away, couldn’t stop from registering every detail.
The man’s head was nestled on the woman’s shoulder just beneath her chin, and their pale skin looked rosy in the morning glow. An inch of water filled the bottom of the canoe. The woman’s dark braid drifted there like a snake.
She stared unblinking at the morning sky.
* * *
* * *
Detective Joel Breda pulled into the marina parking lot and slid his truck into a space beside a dusty police cruiser. He scanned the boats bobbing in their slips before turning his attention to the caliche lot. He recognized most of the vehicles, including the hulking old Suburban that belonged to the Lost Beach police chief.
Joel surveyed the two-story building as he got out. The marina occupied the first level, and a seafood restaurant with sweeping views of Laguna Madre occupied the top. Neither was open yet, but the weathered wooden bait shop near the docks would have been busy since sunrise. The shop owner stood beside his hut now, smoking a cigarette and watching a cluster of boats about a hundred yards offshore.
“Thought you were in Corpus.”
Joel turned to see Nicole Lawson trudging toward him. She wore a blue Lost Beach PD golf shirt and black rubber waders that were covered in muck.
“Not anymore,” Joel said. “Who’s here?”
“McDeere got here first. Then the chief. Still no sign of the ME.” Nicole turned toward the water, and Joel followed her gaze to the boats. An LBPD speedboat and several small skiffs blocked his view of the crime scene.
“What do we know?” Joel asked.
“So far, not much. Two victims, both shot in the gut. Randy called it in.”
Joel cast a glance at the bait shop owner as he flicked his cigarette to the ground. Randy chain-smoked when he was nervous. He’d probably gone through half a pack by now.
Nicole turned to face him. Her long auburn hair was tied in a messy bun instead of her usual braid, which made Joel think she’d been called out of bed.
“Male and female?” he asked.
“Yep. And they’re young, too. Maybe early twenties.”
Something in her tone caught his attention. He eased closer and lowered his voice. “What is it?”
She shook her head. “Nothing, just . . . freaky crime scene.”
She’d been out there already, and Joel felt a stab of regret that he’d been off island when he got the call. He lived less than a mile away from here and should have been the first one on scene.
He studied Nicole’s tense expression. “Does it look like a murder? A murder-suicide? A suicide pact?”
“Don’t know.” She wiped her brow with the back of her forearm. “Could be any of those. I didn’t see a weapon aboard, though. Course, I didn’t touch anything.”
“Good.” Joel stepped around her and reached into the bed of his truck to unlock the chrome toolbox.
“Don’t bother with waders,” she told him. “With the storm coming, they’re bringing everything in.”
He glanced at the sky. Given the angry gray clouds rolling in, it wasn’t a bad call. He shoved his waders aside and grabbed his binoculars.
“Sure you want in on this?” she asked. “Technically, you’re on vacation till Thursday.”
“I’m sure.” The department had only three full-time detectives—himself, Emmet, and Owen. Nicole was good, but she was still in training.
“I’m just saying,” she went on. “You could probably let Emmet take the lead on this one.”
Joel slammed the toolbox shut, not bothering to argue about it. “Fill me in as we walk.”
She fell into step beside him, and her waders made little squeaking sounds. “So. How was the wedding?”
“Fine.”
She cut a look at him. “Really?”
“Yeah. Anyone call the sheriff’s office?” he asked. The last thing he wanted to talk about was the wedding he’d just attended.
“The chief called them. They’re sending down one of their CSIs.”
“Who?”
“Bollinger, I think.”
Joel winced.
“You don’t like him?”
“No.”
“Well, he should be here soon.” She checked her watch. “We called them forty-five minutes ago.”
“He’ll be late, count on it.” Yet another reason the chief had probably decided to tow the canoe in. Joel passed a row of fishing rigs and catamarans, all neatly covered and secured in their slips. He reached the end of the dock and lifted the binoculars.
The distant crime scene snapped into focus. Chief Brady stood at the helm of the police boat as Emmet and Owen attached a line to the bow of the canoe. Joel studied the long green boat. It didn’t look like a rental from one of the island’s rec shops.
The police boat got moving, and the bow of the canoe tipped up. Joel muttered a curse as he imagined the canoe’s contents shifting to the stern.
“We don’t have much choice with the rain coming,” Nicole said, clearly picking up on his concern.
“Tell me they got pictures.”
“Emmet had the camera.”
“Who found them?”
“Some woman in a kayak. She paddled to the marina to report it.”
Joel lowered the binoculars. “Why didn’t she call it in herself?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is she now?”
“Um . . .” She turned around and scanned the parking lot. “McDeere was getting her statement. I’m sure she didn’t leave yet. There she is. Just past the boat trailers.”
“Black Jeep, red kayak?”
“That’s her. Here, let me use your binocs while you talk to her.”
Joel handed them over and returned to the parking lot, watching the woman as he approached. She stood on the running board of the Jeep, struggling with a bungee cord as she secured her kayak to the roll bar.
“Need a hand?” Joel asked.
“I’m good.” The woman didn’t lo
ok up. She had honey-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore stretchy black pants that clung to her curves and a loose white top over a black sports bra. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion, but the pissed-off look on her face warned Joel not to intervene as she wrestled with the final hook. After getting it attached, she stepped down.
“I’m Joel Breda, Lost Beach PD.”
She gazed up at him and dusted her hands on her pants. “Miranda Rhoads.” Her gaze dropped to the detective’s shield clipped to his belt. When she looked up again, her caramel-colored eyes were wary.
“I already gave a detailed statement to Officer McDeere,” she said. “And I talked to someone named Lawson.”
“I understand, ma’am. I just have some follow-ups.”
She blew out a breath and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “All right.”
“Care to sit down?” He nodded at a picnic table not far from the bait shop.
“No, thanks. One second.” She eased past him and opened the door of her Jeep, then reached across the seat and popped open the glove compartment. She pulled out a small red zipper pouch. “I just need to clean this,” she said, propping her foot on the running board.
She wore silver flip-flops, and Joel saw a gash on the side of her little toe. The cut was bleeding. He hadn’t noticed, probably because he’d been distracted by the rest of her.
“What’d you do there?” he asked.
She tore open a sterile wipe and dabbed at the cut. “I got out of my kayak to look at the canoe and stepped on a board covered in barnacles.”
“You had a tetanus shot recently?”
She laughed. “Uh, yeah.”
Joel looked at her. “Why is that funny?”
Her smile disappeared. “It’s not.”
She reached into the Jeep again to get rid of the wet wipe and tossed the pouch on the seat. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders.
“Sorry. Okay. What were your questions?”
Joel looked her over, puzzled by her brisk attitude. Typically, innocent witnesses were pretty deferential with cops. Then again, she’d had a rough morning and people handled stress in different ways.
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