ALSO BY MELINDA LEIGH
BREE TAGGERT NOVELS
Cross Her Heart
MORGAN DANE NOVELS
Say You’re Sorry
Her Last Goodbye
Bones Don’t Lie
What I’ve Done
Secrets Never Die
Save Your Breath
SCARLET FALLS NOVELS
Hour of Need
Minutes to Kill
Seconds to Live
SHE CAN SERIES
She Can Run
She Can Tell
She Can Scream
She Can Hide
“He Can Fall” (A Short Story)
She Can Kill
MIDNIGHT NOVELS
Midnight Exposure
Midnight Sacrifice
Midnight Betrayal
Midnight Obsession
THE ROGUE SERIES NOVELLAS
Gone to Her Grave (Rogue River)
Walking on Her Grave (Rogue River)
Tracks of Her Tears (Rogue Winter)
Burned by Her Devotion (Rogue Vows)
Twisted Truth (Rogue Justice)
THE WIDOW’S ISLAND NOVELLA SERIES
A Bone to Pick
Whisper of Bones
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2020 by Melinda Leigh
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542006965 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1542006961 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 9781542006989 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1542006988 (hardcover)
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
First edition
For Charlie, Annie, and Tom
CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
The scream faded, the sound muffled through the walls of the cabin. Alyssa blinked in the darkness. Outside, the March wind whistled through the trees. Inside, the quiet that hung in the air was almost as sharp as the bitter cold. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears.
An owl?
Her instincts said no. The tone had been all wrong.
There were no lights to turn on. Electricity and running water to the cabin had been shut off. But then, they were trespassing in a campground that was closed for the season. She couldn’t complain about the lack of facilities.
“Harper,” she whispered. “Did you hear that?”
No one answered.
She glanced sideways, looking for the other sleeping bag stretched out in front of the fireplace, where her friend usually slept a few feet away. Overnight, the fire had died to glowing embers, and it took a few seconds for her vision to adjust to the predawn dimness. The floor was empty. Harper’s sleeping bag was gone. So was her backpack.
Alyssa’s pulse quickened, scrambling through her veins like a mouse scurrying for its hole. She bolted upright, the sleeping bag falling away from her shoulders. The chill and a rush of adrenaline swept away her grogginess like a freezing wave. Holding her breath, she stared at the empty space on the floor and listened hard. Harper had probably gone out back to pee. She could have startled an animal. Or an animal could have startled her.
No.
She almost groaned at her own stupidity. Harper wouldn’t have taken her sleeping bag and backpack outside to pee.
She’d left.
But why? And how did she leave? Harper didn’t have a vehicle.
Shit!
Alyssa grabbed for her own backpack at her feet. She unzipped the front compartment and shoved her hand inside. Her wallet was gone. She rooted deeper in the bag, but it wasn’t there. Neither were her keys. Her wallet contained her driver’s license and her last forty-three dollars, which had to last until Friday. Today was Monday. How was she going to buy food? How was she going to get to work with no transportation?
Her stomach cramped. She’d been played. Harper had made friends with her with the sole intention of stealing her money and truck. Forty-three dollars would top off the gas tank. Harper could get pretty far away. Alyssa thought about when she’d picked up Harper from work the night before. They’d stopped at a convenience store. Harper had said she’d gotten a tip. She’d splurged on the makings for s’mores. They’d toasted marshmallows over the fire and eaten every bite.
Had the celebration been Harper’s way of saying goodbye?
Alyssa sprang out of her sleeping bag and scooped her parka off the floor. Standing, she shivered as she zipped her coat and shoved her feet into her boots. She’d worn her wool hat to bed.
She’d trusted Harper, but they’d met only the previous month at the homeless shelter. What did Alyssa really know about her?
Only what she told you. And you believed her. Because you’re naive and stupid.
Alyssa ran for the front door and flung it open. She fished a flashlight from her pocket and shone it into the trees. Her breath whooshed from her lungs when she saw her old 4Runner parked where she’d left it. Harper hadn’t taken her SUV. Alyssa sagged against the doorjamb. Snow had fallen the previous evening while she was at work, and there were no other new footprints in front of the cabin except her own. Harper hadn’t gone out the front door. Alyssa closed the door and turned around.
So, where was Harper? And where were Alyssa’s wallet and keys?
She returned to her backpack. Maybe she’d put her keys in a different pouch. She’d been tired after work. She inspected each section, then checked her coat pockets. No keys. No wallet. She took out her cell phone and turned it on. She could only charge it at work or in her car and tried to conserve the battery. Besides, she only used the phone to contact work or text Harper. When they were together, there was no reason to keep the phone on. The phone came to life, but she saw no texts or missed calls.
She shoved the phone into her pocket. She didn’t want to believe that Harper had betrayed her. It had been Harper’s idea that they travel as a pair. The whole point of stickin
g together was to have each other’s backs. It didn’t feel right that she would have left without saying a word. Alyssa replayed their last conversation in her mind. Harper had given no indication that she wanted to leave. She’d said the cabin was the best spot she’d slept in all winter. She’d gathered enough firewood to last for days. But there was no one else here who could have taken Alyssa’s things.
Teary-eyed, she repacked her bag. She needed the key to her vehicle or she was stranded. Why had Harper taken the keys but left the 4Runner?
What the actual fuck?
It made no sense. Harper was street-smart. She wouldn’t come up with such a dumb plan. Maybe the plan wasn’t the issue. Maybe she hadn’t left yet. Alyssa could possibly still catch her.
She set aside the pack and strode to the window overlooking the backyard. Fifty feet of ground separated the cabin from the surrounding woods. Alyssa squinted into the darkness at the area they’d designated as their bathroom, behind a group of fir trees. A figure moved at the edge of the trees.
Harper?
Anger blurred Alyssa’s vision. She hurried to the back door.
Think you can steal my stuff? Think again.
Opening it quietly, she slipped outside and jogged across the snow to the woods. She peered around a tree trunk, looking for the figure. She spotted the dark shape emerging from the trees near the lake.
The figure wasn’t carrying a backpack. Had Harper stashed it somewhere? What was she up to? Alyssa followed, keeping her distance, but also keeping the figure in sight. She’d walked maybe a hundred feet when the silhouette turned toward her.
The shape of the figure didn’t feel like Harper. She was thin. This shape was too large, too wide—more masculine.
Panic welled in Alyssa’s chest.
Could that be the campground owner, Phil? Someone could have seen smoke rising from the cabin’s chimney and called him. The campground was closed. No one was supposed to be there. Maybe it was Phil, coming to chase them out of the cabin. That might be the reason Harper had run.
Bitterness tasted sour in the back of her throat. If that scenario was true, then Harper had saved her own ass and left Alyssa to face Phil alone. And she’d still stolen from Alyssa.
Bitch.
Now what?
If it was Phil . . . He was in pretty good shape, but he was old. She could probably outrun him.
He retraced his steps—heading right for her.
Phil?
The man’s posture wasn’t annoyed or angry. He moved with intention.
She ducked behind the tree and waited, holding her breath. A tiny sound croaked deep in her throat, as if something had broken. Pressing her back into the tree, she prayed he hadn’t heard. The wind blew through the trees, kicking up snow dust. Where is he? Slowly, she peered around the tree trunk and froze. He was barely thirty feet away.
She withdrew. Tears ran down her cheeks, feeling as if they were freezing on her face.
Please don’t find me.
A footstep crunched in the snow. Was he closer? She risked another peek from behind the tree trunk. Two blasts sounded over the snow—and fear paralyzed her. Her mouth opened. Slapping her hand across it, she stifled the scream before it left her mouth.
For a few precious seconds, her feet felt glued in place; then she shook off the shock, whirled, and ran.
CHAPTER TWO
Sheriff Bree Taggert reached toward her nightstand and killed the ringer on her phone. Tilting the screen, she read the display. The call was from dispatch. She glanced at her eight-year-old niece, Kayla, pressed against her side, but the child hadn’t stirred. A large white-and-black pointer mix, Ladybug, lifted her head from its resting spot on Bree’s ankle. Vader, Bree’s black cat, occupied the second pillow, as far away from the dog as he could get. The sprawling child and animals left Bree with approximately eight inches of mattress. Trying not to wake Kayla, Bree half slid, half fell out of bed. Clutching her phone, she scrambled for the bathroom before it rang again.
She closed the door and answered the call in a low voice. “Sheriff Taggert.”
“We received a 911 call reporting multiple shots fired at Grey Lake Campground.” The dispatcher gave the address.
Adrenaline blasted the grogginess from Bree’s head. A few gunshots in the woods would not rate a dark o’clock phone call to the sheriff. “Casualties?”
“One victim reported, a female. The caller, also a female, was whispering and not speaking clearly.”
“Is she still on the line?” Bree knew from personal experience that 911 operators tried to stay on the phone with callers until law enforcement arrived. She suppressed that memory before it interfered with her concentration. Her compartmentalizing skills had been working overtime since her sister had been murdered back in January.
“Negative,” the dispatcher said. “She was worried the shooter would hear and hung up.”
The banished memory resurfaced and soured Bree’s empty stomach. “How many units are responding?”
“Three. ETA for the nearest car is twelve minutes.”
Too long. They must be on the other side of the county.
The graveyard shift was bare bones in the upstate New York sheriff’s department Bree had been appointed to lead just three weeks before. Day shift wasn’t staffed much better. Her deputies were spread across the huge expanse of mostly rural Randolph County.
“I’m on my way.” Bree ended the call, swigged mouthwash straight from the bottle, spit, and slipped out of the bathroom. She opened the closet. The dog watched as Bree changed from her flannel pajamas to dark-brown tactical cargo pants, a base layer tank top, and a tan uniform shirt. After tugging on wool socks, she opened the biometric gun safe she’d mounted on the top shelf. She strapped her baby Glock to her ankle, threaded her utility belt through the loops on her pants, and added her Glock 19 to its holster.
When she’d been a Philadelphia homicide detective, she’d worn only a gun and badge. As sheriff, she didn’t need the full twenty-five pounds of standard patrol gear when she wouldn’t even leave her office most days. But she carried a few small essentials in addition to her gun: handcuffs, pepper spray, an expandable baton, and a combat tourniquet.
Two months ago, she’d seen how quickly a person could bleed to death.
As Bree headed for the door, the dog jumped off the bed. The mattress shifted and dog tags jingled. Bree held her breath, but her niece continued to snore. Ladybug followed Bree downstairs. The sun was an hour from rising, but a light glowed in the kitchen. Bree smelled fresh coffee as she rushed into the room, trying not to trip over the dog, who was far too large to be underfoot.
Dana Romano, Bree’s former partner at the Philadelphia PD, now retired, sat at the table reading a cookbook and drinking coffee. An early riser, she was already dressed, and her short, gray-streaked blonde hair was fashionably tousled. She lowered her coffee cup. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s been a shooting.” Bree shoved her feet into a pair of boots sitting in the rubber tray by the back door. Ladybug pressed against Bree’s legs, nearly buckling her knees. “You could give me some space,” Bree said to the dog.
“She’s really attached to you.” Dana got to her feet.
“But why?” Two months after Bree had been masterfully manipulated into adopting the rescue, she was still disconcerted by the dog’s presence. But she was pleased that the panic had ebbed. Ladybug was nothing like Bree’s father’s dogs. The chubby rescue would never maul a child. The scars on Bree’s ankle and shoulder ached with the thirty-year-old memory. Thoughts of her father and his dogs automatically led to the night her father had shot her mother and then himself. Bree had hidden her two younger siblings under the porch. She forced the past from her mind. She was on her way to stop a shooter. She couldn’t afford to be distracted.
“Maybe she knows you need her.” Dana moved toward the fancy coffee machine she’d brought from her apartment in Philly. Bree’s best friend had dropped her whole life to mov
e to Grey’s Hollow and help raise Bree’s orphaned niece and nephew.
“No time for coffee.” Bree slipped into her winter jacket.
As usual, Dana ignored her. She poured coffee into a travel mug.
“Kayla is in my bed. If she wakes alone . . .”
Dana screwed on the lid and fished a protein bar from a drawer. “I’ll go sit with her.”
“Thank you.”
Dana handed the mug and bar to Bree and grabbed the dog’s collar. “Be careful.”
“Will do.” Bree slipped out the back door. A horse neighed from the dark barn as Bree ran along the shoveled walkway to her county-issued SUV. In upstate New York, early March was still very much winter. She slipped into the driver’s seat, shoved her coffee and protein bar into the console cup holders, and started the engine. She drove onto the main road and entered the address into the GPS. Her ETA was seven minutes. The campground wasn’t far from her house. Five minutes had passed since she’d received the call. Lights flashing, she pressed the gas pedal and cut her drive from seven minutes to six.
Bree slowed her SUV as she approached the entrance to Grey Lake Campground. She turned off the cleared main road onto the snow-covered lane that led into the campground. The lights from her vehicle swirled in red, white, and blue on the snowy ground. Beyond, the woods were dark. She saw no sign of other sheriff vehicles.
Bree was first on scene.
She reached for her radio. “Sheriff Taggert, code eleven.”
Dispatch answered, “Copy. Be advised ETA for Unit Twelve is one minute. Two additional units following in four.”
“Copy,” Bree said and let out the breath trapped in her lungs. Backup was right behind her, not that she would have waited. A possible active shooter needed to be stopped ASAP.
Her headlights illuminated tire tracks in the narrow, snow-covered lane. Did they belong to the shooter’s vehicle?
The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention, and a rush of adrenaline cranked up her pulse. Her SUV slid through a bend in the lane and fishtailed. She steered into the skid. As soon as the tires gained traction, she pressed the gas pedal again.
Wooden signs nailed to trees directed visitors to the numbered cabins. She followed the arrows for another few minutes, driving deeper into the woods, until she spotted a sign that read CABIN TWENTY. She stopped her SUV at the end of the lane and scanned the clearing for the shooter or the victim.
See Her Die Page 1
