The Little Grave
A completely heart-stopping crime thriller
Carolyn Arnold
Books by Carolyn Arnold
Detective Amanda Steele
The Little Grave
Brandon Fisher FBI series
Eleven
Silent Graves
The Defenseless
Blue Baby
Violated
Remnants
On the Count of Three
Past Deeds
Detective Madison Knight series
Ties That Bind
Justified
Sacrifice
Found innocent
Just Cause
Deadly Impulse
In the Line of Duty
Power Struggle
Shades of Justice
What We Bury
Life Sentence (prequel romantic suspense)
McKinley Mysteries
The Day Job is Murder
Vacation is Murder
Money is Murder
Politics is Murder
Family is Murder
Shopping is Murder
Christmas is Murder
Valentine’s Day is Murder
Coffee is Murder
Skiing is Murder
Halloween is Murder
Exercise is Murder
Matthew Connor Adventure series
City of Gold
The Secret of the Lost Pharaoh
The Legend of Gasparilla and His Treasure
Standalone
Assassination of a Dignitary
Pearls of Deception
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
Hear More from Carolyn
Books by Carolyn Arnold
A Letter from Carolyn
Acknowledgments
This book is dedicated to George, who always reminds me of the power and strength I possess and has been my cheerleader for over twenty years.
Prologue
Atlanta, Georgia, United States
Five and a Half Years Ago, January
Her past didn’t sit and stay like an obedient dog. It was more a wolf that stalked her every move, breathed down her neck, and inched closer with every passing second. The hundreds of miles she’d traveled or the state lines she’d crossed in the last five months didn’t matter; her hunter was there and had her constantly looking over a shoulder. She yearned to stop and catch her breath but knew the second she did her life would be over. She’d be ripped apart by the unmerciful teeth of her history.
Casey-Anne was three minutes into her set and hanging upside down on the pole when she spotted him at the back of the strip club, leaning against the bar, no drink in hand. He appeared within a haze of cigarette smoke, giving the illusion of an apparition. But he was very much real, and his gaze was fixed on her. Not in the sad, pathetic, and predictable way most men ogled her at Georgia’s Peaches, pinning her with their lascivious leers. No, he had something else on his mind.
He was there to kill her.
Her heartbeat thumped, its bass reverberating in her skull. She spun around and landed on the stage, feeling more vulnerable than she had since that night she’d run away. Performing had given her a sense of power and control. Men could look but not touch. But right now all that confidence had been stripped away. She was more exposed than ever—not because all she wore was a skimpy thong that left very little to the imagination and fine-pointed heels that added six inches to her height—but because of that man.
She carried on her routine, pretending to ignore him. She focused on her well-practiced moves and gave sultry pouts and seductive looks to every man who tossed a wadded bill at her feet. But the only thing she could think about was getting the hell out of there.
Her last song wound down and she rushed back to the dressing room. She’d have to leave the money from the stage behind. Small price if it meant her life.
Tessa, a fellow dancer who went by the stage name of Ginger and wore a wig of red curls that reached her ass, was applying mascara in a grimy, pitted mirror. “How’s the crowd?”
Casey-Anne barely spared her a glance as she grabbed everything from her locker and stuffed all of it into her duffel bag.
“Hello? Ya hard of hearing?”
“I’m getting the hell out of here.” Casey-Anne shucked the heels, slipped on a pair of blue jeans and pulled a sweater over her head. She pushed her feet into running shoes and threw on her coat.
“That bad, huh.” Tessa exchanged her mascara brush for a compact of blush.
Without another word, Casey-Anne flew past her, out the back door and past the bouncer. She’d just swing by her apartment and pick up some things before hitting the road. She wasn’t safe here anymore.
The streets were bare, and the January evening was cool for Georgia. It seeped through to her bones and turned the sheen of sweat on her body into a layer of ice.
She hustled, glancing behind her with attention on the shadows, the darkness the streetlights didn’t reach. She didn’t see anyone following her, but that didn’t mean the man wasn’t there. She could feel his eyes piercing through the night.
She picked up her speed. Her place was only a three-block walk from the club; a short distance but it always felt like a long way in the dark. Her skin pricked with goose bumps, but she couldn’t give in to panic and hysteria. Or let her mind dwell on her nightmarish past.
There was the scuffing of shoes behind her and she spun around. But no one was there.
A half block to go. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe there was no need to head out right away. She could wait until daylight. Tonight, she’d pour herself a glass of wine and take a nice, long hot shower and crawl into bed. Yes, that was a pleasant thought, and it spurred her forward. In this fantasy she could almost blink away the recollection of that man. Blank stare, hardened jaw, rigid body.
She took the stairs to her apartment building’s front door two at a time and unlocked it. Once inside, she pushed against it to ensure it shut tight and the automatic lock was back in force. It was then she caught movement outside the sidelight. She jumped back.
A man was on the other side. There was a scratching noise at the knob.
She couldn’t get herself to move towa
rd the stairwell for her third-floor apartment. Her legs weren’t responding.
The handle turned—the sound had been a key in the lock—and a man she recognized as another tenant stepped inside.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi.” She could barely squeeze out the tiny word as she rushed to push the door shut again.
He took off toward his apartment, leaving her in the small entry, heaving for breath like she’d run a marathon. She jogged to her apartment, threw the deadbolt and linked the chain, and fell against the door. Safe. For now she had escaped the wolf on her trail.
She dropped her bag and jacket on the floor and rushed to the kitchen. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon had her name all over it. She guzzled some back, assuring herself that soon all would be better, and took some wine in a glass with her down the hall.
She ran the water hot, got undressed and under the spray, closed her eyes and let her mind drift to dreams of a future that didn’t include dancing for money, and where her past was so far behind her she couldn’t recall it. A time, flashing forward, when she obtained her nursing license and had a job in a doctor’s office or a hospital.
A thud.
Her eyes shot open and she turned off the taps to listen. All was silent except for her breathing and the pounding of her heart in her ears. It had to simply be paranoia eating away at her sanity. She was, after all, in a locked apartment, in a locked building. But doubt gnawed on her. If someone were determined enough, they could find their way in. Pick a lock, come up with a ruse, or let themselves in on the heels of another tenant.
She squeezed her eyes shut, took some long breaths and calmed her nattering mind. There. All was better.
The shower curtain was ripped down, and the man from the club was standing there.
A scream curdled in her throat.
She scrambled to get around him but there was no way past. Her feet slipped on the wet surface of the tub and her arms sprang out to help her offset her balance, but he had a hold on her. He yanked her out of the tub and slammed her to the floor.
Her head smacked against the tile, and sparkles of white light danced across her vision.
He lowered himself on top of her, pinning her. “Where is it?” His breath smelled like stale cigarettes and whiskey.
“I…” Her eyes rolled back and there was brief, inviting darkness. A place where pain didn’t exist.
He slapped her across the face and clamped her jaw in his hand. “Tell me!”
She wanted to fight, to show him that she’d learned her power since she’d escaped. But her mind wasn’t working, and she didn’t have the strength to move.
He stood and pulled a gun.
She couldn’t get her mouth to work or she’d tell him where it was. That might give her a chance of survival.
“You want to die? Tell me where it is!” he roared.
Tears fell down her cheeks. “I—I—” Her mind went blank; her thoughts encased within a web of thick gauze.
“Stupid bitch!”
She barely had a chance to blink when the bullet hit, but her final thought was, The wolf caught me, and now I can stop running and rest.
One
Woodbridge, Virginia
Sunday, January 10th, 11:30 PM Eastern Time
Amanda Steele threw her legs over the side of the bed, grabbed her underwear from the floor, and stepped into them. In the dimly lit room, she followed the trail of clothing, collecting each piece as she went along.
“Where ya goin’, darlin’?” the man, whatever-his-name, said.
First rule of one-night stands: no names.
She kept moving but pinched her eyes shut. It was January tenth, the start of a new year, and, while most people were still clinging to their resolutions, she’d resumed old habits: sleeping with strangers. But she knew better than to deceive herself into thinking she’d change. There was only one adjustment she was interested in making and it was outside of her abilities. It would require a time machine. Only she’d go further back than three hours ago when she’d picked up the handsome guy drinking beer in a Woodbridge bar.
“Come on, don’t you want to stay? We can—”
“I don’t spend the night.” Rule two. She was surprised by how often she had to tell the men that. In fact, most begged her to stay. Some even tried to lure her with the promise of breakfast. Despite men being painted as philanderers, so many were desperate for a sole, meaningful relationship.
She had found everything but her T-shirt, and a bubble of panic started in her chest as she scanned the room. Think, think, think…
Her shirt had been the first thing he’d taken off her as they stumbled into the motel room. Her gaze went to the air-conditioning unit by the door and she was relieved to see her shirt in a ball on the floor next to it. She snagged the shirt and set out for the bathroom, hugging her clothing to her chest. She shut the bathroom door behind her with her foot and halted at the sight of herself in the mirror. The green of her eyes had dulled over the last five and a half years, a testament to the fact she was doing nothing more than walking through life, barely a shadow of her former self. But she’d lost everything one tragic, fateful night. Her drive, her purpose, her career aspirations about following in her father’s footsteps and becoming police chief. The hardest hit: she’d lost her family—in one swoop. Her love and husband of ten years and her six-year-old daughter, taken out by a drunk driver.
She gripped the sink, her knuckles turning white. She’d been robbed—they’d been robbed. But she’d also been taught the harsh lesson that there was no point in making grand plans for the future. Clinging to optimism was nothing but a cruel illusion. Life held nothing but pain and sorrow. And emptiness. Hopelessness.
A single tear fell, and she swiped it away, angry at herself for bringing them into her melodrama again. As if their deaths had turned her into a woman who slept with strangers and had her popping sleeping pills every night. They were not to blame, and she didn’t need to consider their feelings. They were dead. Six feet under.
Cold. Hard. Fact.
She snapped on her bra and put on her shirt. She was zipping up her jeans when the man knocked on the door.
“You sure I can’t talk you into staying? It was pretty hot.”
Every guy found it “hot.” So many of them had bigger egos than they had—
“One more go?” he implored.
She swung the door open. He was standing there naked with one arm overhead, elbow leaned against the doorframe, his other hand positioned on his upper thigh in a cocky pose that would make most women weak in the knees. He was a handsome man—and he was right, the sex had been hot—and maybe in another life they could have been something, but she’d had the love of her life. He’d been taken away. Maybe that’s why one-night stands had become her medication, her addiction, and her punishment.
The man smiled at her and moved in to kiss her.
She stepped back and held up a hand between them. “It was fun. Now it’s over.”
“I’ve got the room for the night.” Spoken as if that made a difference.
“Enjoy.”
His shoulders sagged. “Ouch, you’re cold as ice. Can’t I get your number at least? Maybe give you a call sometime?”
She laid a tender hand on his cheek. “Now, now. You’re a big boy and you know how this works.”
Rule three: keep anonymity in all respects. No names and no personal ties. That meant no exchanging phone numbers. It was also why they’d hooked up in a motel and not at her place or his. She viewed the detachment necessary to protect her emotions but also to keep them out of her personal business. None of the men needed to be privy to her past and the baggage she carried. She didn’t want to be looked upon as some damsel in distress in need of saving, and she certainly didn’t need anyone’s pity. She got all she needed from them: a few seconds to feel something and a distraction from her grief.
“Well, I’m not really sure what to say then. Thanks?” He raked a hand through h
is hair and she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“Sure.” With that she grabbed her coat and left the room.
The January night air was cool on her cheeks and nipped at her nose. Christmas lights still twinkled in the windows of the motel’s lobby; any magic spells the season tried to cast were ineffective on her. Christmas was a representation of how sad and pathetic her life had become since the accident. She used to love it, but there was no point anymore. She’d lost too much, become too hardened. The only way she’d survived this past Christmas was due to the company of her best friend Becky Tulson. They’d drunk hot apple cider, shared laughter, and watched action flicks. The rest of the world could keep their seasonal feel-good movies with their carols, gingerbread, and destined soulmates. She’d had all that, but it was gone. Just like the season and any mirage of normalcy and joy.
She got into her Honda Civic, giving a quick glance at the black Dodge Ram pickup parked in the slot next to hers. It belonged to the man she’d just slept with. She could run his plate, find out his name, but there’d be no purpose. Whatever they’d shared was over.
She cranked the heat and was rewarded with an initial blast of cold air from the vents. It still wasn’t warm by the time she pulled out of the motel parking lot.
The Little Grave: A completely heart-stopping crime thriller (Detective Amanda Steele Book 1) Page 1
