When Noonday Ends: A Southern Romantic-Suspense Novel - Nantahala - Book Two

by Carmen DeSousa

  It’s never ‘The End’ because there’s always one more story to tell.

  Until next time, happy reading, my friends.

  Carmen

  Sneak Peek 1

  Here’s a glimpse at the book that started my career.

  She Belongs to Me

  Southern Romantic Suspense

  Charlotte ~ Book One

  Three Days Ago…

  A loud crack startled Jordan from his sleep. His hand flew to his pounding head as he looked around the room for the source of the noise.

  It sounded like a gunshot, or perhaps he was just having another nightmare. Sometimes he couldn’t tell the difference.

  Years in the military and working as a cop had unquestionably done a number on his psyche, so he always investigated. Often it was his dog chasing a squirrel in his sleep or the cat moving through the wood shutters as she stalked a lizard from behind her prison of glass and brick. These sounds he knew. A gunshot, though also familiar, didn’t encroach on his daily routine anymore. Nowadays, most of his police work comprised of slaving behind a desk.

  The room was pitch-black, and his alarm hadn’t gone off, so it was still early. He patted his wife’s side of the bed. Empty. Though, that wasn’t unusual. She’d been staying up later than he did, using studying as an excuse, and had been falling asleep on the sofa for weeks. He didn’t buy it. Things between them hadn’t been the same for months.

  But tonight he thought they’d resolved whatever her problem was. He was willing to take some of the blame. But as she’d pointed out with the age-old ‘it wasn’t him, it was her’ line, she’d admitted something was wrong, just not what that something was.

  Fuming, he disentangled himself from the blankets that had already twisted around his feet as he thought about their conversation earlier. He’d given her an ultimatum when he came home. He didn’t understand what was happening, but things had to change. Dejectedly, he’d informed her if she wanted to leave, fine, just do it and get it over with so he could move on with his life. She hadn’t accepted his offer; instead, she started kissing him.

  She hadn’t come near him in almost two months. Every time he broached the subject, she complained about her school deadlines or she didn’t feel well. Tonight was different; she was different. The old passion was there as if it had never left, which it hadn’t for him. She was the one who had withdrawn. She was the one who didn’t want to be close to him. God how he missed her.

  Jordan now wondered if everything earlier had been a performance to distract him. Had she wanted to leave, but wasn’t prepared? She would graduate within a few months, something she’d been focusing on the last five years of their marriage. Would she not need him anymore? He hated feeling this way, but what else could explain her aloof manner lately?

  His anger almost at the brink, he rolled out of bed, pulling on his boxers and a t-shirt. If she’d fallen asleep on the sofa again, he’d wake her and demand answers. He wouldn’t let her sidetrack him by acting as if she wanted him. He loved her, but he couldn’t continue like this. He wouldn’t. It was too painful.

  As he stood, the pounding in his head from the excessive amount of alcohol he’d consumed earlier nearly sent him to his knees. Tonight was the first time in years he’d drank, one of the reasons it’d been so easy for her to persuade him that she wanted him too.

  Jordan felt his way out of their master bedroom, opening the door without a sound, unsure if he really wanted to argue in the middle of the night. He shot a quick glance at the clock radio’s glowing-red numbers: just shy of midnight. It hadn’t even been an hour since he’d fallen asleep.

  She must have gotten up almost immediately after they’d made love. No, he amended, after they’d had sex as that was all it must have meant to her. He must have been sleeping deeply to already be dreaming of gun battles. His posttraumatic stress disorder rarely allowed him a night without nightmares.

  No lights were on in their office, so he padded his way into the hallway and down the staircase to the kitchen and family room.

  Sometimes when she left their bed, she’d feign insomnia and go downstairs to watch TV. But he didn’t hear any chatter or see the familiar flickering light; in fact, the house was eerily quiet.

  Remembering the ill-omened sound that had awakened him, his heart started racing in his chest, and his stomach felt like an empty pit as he entered their family room.

  A greenish glow from the electronic equipment cast eerie shadows across the living area, and as his vision adjusted, he could see she wasn’t on the sofa either.

  Had she left their house in the middle of the night? Had his friends been right? Was Jaynee having an affair? Resentment welled in his heart that she would do that to him after all these years, after everything he’d provided.

  A breeze emanated from the back porch. He squinted, realizing the patio door stood wide open. She must have left, but why would she leave without closing the door?

  Jordan made his way to the French doors and attempted to pull the door shut, but something blocked its track. He switched on the overhead light, and she was there…

  He dropped to his knees, his hands fluttering to her face in horror. “Oh, my God…Jaynee…What have you done?” He barely recognized the peal of words that had escaped his throat.

  Blood dripped off his wife’s forehead and pooled onto the planks of their wood deck. Her arm draped across the threshold. Beside her lay the .38 caliber revolver he’d given her for protection when they first married.

  Jordan’s first instinct was disbelief, and he wanted to inspect the gun to ensure it was hers. But his police training snapped into gear. Instead, he knelt over her to confirm she was still breathing. Thank God, she was, but it was faint, and she was unconscious.

  Scrambling to his feet, his vision blurred by tears, he searched for the cordless phone. Jaynee never kept the phone in the same place, and she never kept the ringer on. Hunting from room to room, he finally found it in the spare bathroom.

  Punching in the three numbers, Jordan staggered back to his fading wife.

  “Emergency!” he answered the automated question, waiting until a woman’s voice came on the line. “My wife has been shot! She’s breathing, but barely. I need an ambulance!” His voice emerged hysterical, a combination of pain and pleading, but he knew he needed to remain composed so she’d understand him.

  The dispatcher asked a torrent of questions to keep him talking.

  “Listen, ma’am,” Jordan interrupted the woman’s queries, racing to the front of the house, “I’m a cop. I know crime-scene protocol. I’ll leave the front entrance open for the officers and medics. My wife is unconscious from a gunshot wound to the head. The firearm is beside her. I need to get back to her.”

  Jordan disconnected the phone as he returned to Jaynee, slumping down next to her, hoping she could still hear him.

  “Jaynee, can you hear me? I love you. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean those terrible words. Please don’t leave me like this. Please come back…I don’t want you to leave. I promise whatever is going on, we’ll work it out, but please don’t leave me.”

  Inhaling a mouthful of air, he positioned his fingers against her carotid artery to confirm she was still breathing. She was, but her pulse felt weak. He needed her to comprehend how much his life counted on her survival.

  “Jaynee, you need to fight. You’ve always been a fighter, so I want you to fight to live. Fight for us,” he commanded, his tone beseeching and demanding. Once again, tears fell unrestricted down his face. He never cried, not before tonight. But at this moment, he knew more than ever how much his wife meant to him and how he could never subsist without her.

  “Dear God,” Jordan pleaded in a quiet prayer. “Please save her. Give me another opportunity. I don’t want anything without her. Please, take everything from me, but not Jaynee.”

  The wail of a siren snatched him from his invocations, but he didn’t move; he couldn’t leave her.

  After a few minutes,
the telltale sound of an officer’s heavy boots indicated that the police had arrived.

  “Stand up slowly with your hands up, and step away from the gun,” the officer commanded in a loud authoritative tone. The bellow of the officer’s voice sounded hollow in Jordan’s ears as if he were still in his nightmare. “Hands where I can see them!” he repeated.

  Jordan didn’t want to leave Jaynee’s side, but lifting his arms, he backed away from his wife. He understood procedure, knew they needed to cordon off the area, but he couldn’t fathom the suggestion of leaving her side.

  The officer focused his eyes on Jordan while he kept both hands gripped on his unholstered gun. “You made the 911 call? You’re a cop?”

  “Yeah. Charlotte-Meck.” Jordan glanced down at Jaynee. “She’s my wife; her name is Jaynee. I was sleeping when I heard the gunshot. I came down to look for her and found her like this. She’s still breathing, but it’s labored.” Jordan glanced over the officer’s shoulder toward the entry. “Where’s the ambulance?” he asked, uninterested in anything but saving his wife.

  “They’re just a couple of minutes away,” the cop muttered, tone distracted, obvious concern penetrating his voice. The man knelt near Jaynee’s head, checked her pulse, then stood up, his eyes grave.

  No matter what the situation, cops didn’t like to see other cops in peril. The officer’s chin pressed against the mouthpiece clipped to his shoulder strap, spewing words into the radio, all the while keeping his eyes and gun trained on Jordan, though.

  Jordan’s mind was a fog, only deciphering fragments of what the officer muttered, something about the house being secure. Of course, he realized after a few seconds; paramedics would confirm it was safe before entering the house of a gunshot victim. The cop obviously thought that he could have shot his wife.

  Domestic disturbances were one of the most perilous of all police calls. Scorned lovers were notorious for turning the gun on others and then themselves after realizing they’d murdered their loved ones in a moment of distraught passion.

  Finally, the ambulance arrived.

  Jordan watched as two medics poured through the door and rushed over to his dying wife. The older of the two shouted orders to the younger while a third and fourth paramedic carried a stretcher into the room. Jordan backed out of their way, knowing he could do nothing but watch as they struggled to save her life.

  ***

  Outside, hidden in the vegetation at the back of the property, he watched in frustration.

  He should have made his escape when her husband found her. He hated seeing him with her, but couldn’t bear to leave. So he waited and watched, questioning her intentions, wondering why she had a gun.

  Now he would have to stay and watch, sit by as her husband wept over her. As if he cared about her. Her so-called husband could never love her the way he could. He wasn’t supposed to be her husband. It was all a mistake. A mistake he intended on rectifying as soon as possible.

  He would wait now, as he had for years. He had plenty of practice with waiting. She would survive, of course she would. She belonged to him, forever.

  ***

  The gun had been unexpected, why did she have a gun? Was she still alive? If so, would she remember the conversation? Would the police suspect foul play? And if so, would there be any evidence to suggest the shooting as anything other than her attempted suicide?

  These and a hundred other questions swarmed unabatedly as the vehicle crawled down the gravel road, the driver watching carefully so as not to be recognized by the officers or paramedics.

  ***

  Jordan followed the ambulance in his wife’s Altima. He understood they wouldn’t permit him in the back with Jaynee, and he would be helpless in the front. He knew he could maintain their speed, probably even arrive at the hospital faster than they could.

  As a patrolman, he’d always been the first on a crime scene. He decided to stay behind the ambulance, attempting to remain collected.

  His heart pounded in his chest as his mind agonized over the ‘what ifs’. What if he hadn’t gotten drunk? What if he hadn’t fallen asleep? What if he hadn’t accepted her reassurances that everything was okay? He should have insisted she tell him the truth.

  But why would Jaynee attempt to commit suicide?

  She’d been struggling to finish college for five years and was now within a few months of graduating. They’d repeatedly discussed having children afterward. She intended on working out of their residence, so it would have been perfect. It was what she’d said she wanted.

  Had he pushed her to extremes? Maybe he only thought she wanted what he wanted.

  She’d always been adept at suppressing unpleasant situations. Hadn’t she done that her entire life? Jaynee had seemed content when she moved here after they got married five years ago. Jordan thought he’d shown her the love she needed to forget her past. Now he wondered if he ever understood her.

  He promised himself he would—he wouldn’t assume everything was okay any longer. He’d find out what was wrong. But for now, he’d do whatever necessary to get her healthy again. She was going to survive. She was a fighter.

  Tears stung his eyes as he realized she’d now have to fight for her life. He wiped them away as he pulled into the parking area for the hospital emergency room. Jaynee needed him. She needed to hear his voice, understand he was here for her, comprehend that he still loved her…that he would always love her.

  Racing through the entrance of the ER to the receptionist, Jordan introduced himself as Caycee Jaynee Monroe’s husband.

  The crotchety older woman told him to have a seat. Someone would attend to him. Her personality was cold, as the hospital itself.

  Jordan couldn’t sit. He paced the hard tile floor, stopping and looking at the locked double-doors every few seconds.

  Fifteen minutes later, a nurse finally approached, directing him to an alcove, away from the main area. “Your wife is in surgery, Mr. Monroe.”

  “How is she?” He wanted to rush the doors and find out if Jaynee was okay, but he knew he had to stay calm.

  “I’m sorry. All I know is that she’s in surgery.”

  “But…she’s alive…so…she’ll live, right?”

  “Again, I’m sorry. I don’t have any additional information. The doctor will be with you as soon as he can.” She patted his arm, then hurried away.

  The hours passed slowly, even with officers interrogating him and finally accepting an affidavit of his account. They assured him, however, that they would return in the morning or when his wife woke up.

  When he thought he couldn’t bear the agony of waiting one second longer, a familiar person stepped into the waiting room. The older man nodded toward the locked doors, a silent request for Jordan to accompany him to a separate area. Jordan had spoken to Dr. McMullen many times over the years. He rarely came to the emergency room, though. Normally a nurse updated a loved one on the patient’s status—unless it was bad news.

  This wasn’t good; this was never an encouraging sign, but he followed obediently. The tears that had never come before this evening flowed again.

  He’d lost the only woman he ever loved. Had he done something to cause this? How would he survive without Jaynee? She was his entire life. She couldn’t be gone; he’d feel it, wouldn’t he?

  His chest felt tight, and his stomach lurched at the same time a chill traveled down his spine. He followed the doctor into his office and sat down on the sofa. His head fell into his hands; he couldn’t handle this.

  Jordan looked up as Doctor John McMullen sat beside him, his face unreadable. Although he looked like he wanted to comfort him, Jordan knew Doctor McMullen wouldn’t offer him any artificial expectations.

  McMullen had always been honest, but unlike some physicians Jordan had met in his career, he’d also been sympathetic, especially when it came to the lives of first responders—or their relatives. Jordan had witnessed his compassion for years.

  Having been the bearer of dreadful
news to countless spouses and parents after their tragic loss, Jordan had tried to emulate his demeanor. Now he was on the receiving end of McMullen’s sympathetic stare, and it wasn’t any more comforting.

  Preparing for the blow, Jordan clenched his hands into fists and pressed them against his face.

  “Caycee is in ICU now,” Dr. McMullen began. “The bullet entered the left side of her skull below her temple and exited through the frontal bone. She survived the operation...”

  Jordan dropped his hands to his side as his eyes connected with the doctor’s gaze. Thank God! Jaynee was alive. He let out the breath he’d been holding as he awaited the rest of the doctor’s summation.

  “But, Jordan,” his tone softened, “we can’t be certain she’ll make it. Even if she does, there’s no way to distinguish what damage the bullet inflicted until she awakes.”

  Jordan swallowed hard. “But she survived the surgery,” he repeated as if to hear it again.

  “Yes, she did. We have her in a drug-induced coma, and we won’t attempt to revive her until the cranial pressure decreases. She wouldn’t be able to tolerate the pain if we did.” The doctor patted Jordan’s arm. “You can see Caycee now, Jordan, and you need to talk to her. Studies indicate numerous coma patients respond to a loved one’s voice.”

  “Jaynee…” Jordan said emphatically, drawing in a breath and shaking his head in disbelief. “Please call her Jaynee. She doesn’t like Caycee, so she goes by her middle name. Please inform the nurses.” The doctor nodded, and Jordan stood. “I’d like to see my wife now.”

  Doctor McMullen led him down the hall and stopped in front of one of the ICU rooms. Jordan felt the man’s cool hands on his forearm, but couldn’t see his face through his tears. With a final squeeze of consolation, the doctor turned and left him alone.

  Jordan stepped into the cold antiseptic-scented room. His legs felt as though they’d vanished from beneath him, and he’d collapse to the floor at any moment. He couldn’t move.