Death is in the Details

by Heather Sunseri

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  Thank you for spending time in Paynes Creek.

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  Did you know that most people discover their next novel to read by what their friends recommend?

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  And if you just can’t get enough of Heather’s style of writing (which I sincerely hope is the case), make sure you check out her other novels by scrolling to the next page or by browsing her website HERE.

  Also by Heather Sunseri

  THE IN DARKNESS SERIES

  Exposed in Darkness

  Cut in Darkness

  Covered in Darkness

  Shot in Darkness

  Desired in Darkness

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  SPECIAL IN DARKNESS STORY

  (Sequel to Cut in Darkness)

  Free to Newsletter Subscribers

  Protected in Darkness

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  THE INTERNATIONAL THIEF SERIES

  A Thief Revealed

  A Thief Consumed

  A Thief Obsessed

  A Thief Desired

  * * *

  THE MINDSPEAK SERIES

  Mindspeak

  Mindsiege

  Mindsurge

  Tracked

  Deceived

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  THE EMERGE SERIES

  Emerge

  Uprising

  Renaissance

  The Meeting (A short story)

  Acknowledgments

  Every book I write is a labor love that would not be possible without the help of many.

  To Mike: You are the love of my life, my best friend, maker of dinner when I’m two weeks past my deadline, first reader to tell me whether the story is good enough for public consumption. Thank you.

  To my children: You both are my pride and joy. You offer grace when I’m two weeks past my deadline and I’m just a little short-tempered. Thank you.

  To my brother: You’re quick to answer all of my crazy texts with legal questions, like “Hey! What would be the legal charge for a person who (fill in the blank)?” Or “Is there a way for a person convicted of double homicide to discover enough evidence that the commonwealth’s attorney wouldn’t even bother to retry the case?” Thank you. Disclaimer: If there are legal facts I got wrong in this book, they were my fault and not my brother’s. I don’t always listen and interpret correctly.

  To David Gatewood: I’ve said this so many times, but I’ll say it again. Your edits make me a better writer. (I also appreciate the extra validation when I’m losing my sanity wondering if I’ve written a good enough story.) Thank you. Disclaimer: David didn’t edit the Acknowledgments, so if there are typos, they’re my doing.

  To my parents: Death is in the Details is set in a quirky fictional town that somewhat mirrors a portion of the town I grew up in and a portion of the town where I now live. But I developed my love and knowledge of quirky and quaint small town living by being raised on a small Kentucky farm by two of the most wonderful parents in the world, including a small animal veterinarian. The knowledge you provided me during my childhood is peppered throughout Paynes Creek. And I can’t wait to explore this fictional town further in future books. Thank you.

  To my readers: You constantly encourage and inspire me to be the best writer and storyteller I can be. Thank you.

  About Heather Sunseri

  Heather Sunseri is a recovering CPA who began writing novels in order to escape the mundane life as a muggle. After twenty years in the corporate world, Heather decided to use her business savvy and curious mind to start a publishing business anchored by fictional stories. She is proof that one can be a numbers person and a creative… And that it’s never too late (or too early) to get a do over. She’s married to the love of her life, mom to two amazing kids, and caregiver to the best golden retriever and one very needy cat. When she’s not writing, she’s making homemade pizza, listening to True Crime podcasts, and drinking Kentucky bourbon.

  Connect with Heather:

  heathersunseri.com

  heather@heathersunseri.com

  Exposed in Darkness - Book Description

  In the first of an FBI thriller series that USA Today calls “sophisticated and absorbing,” the FBI has one suspect in the latest terrorist attack—Declan O’Roark. And they’ve just assigned Special Agent Brooke Fairfax to get closer to the stunning and sophisticated international mogul. Can she find the real killer while falling for FBI’s #1 suspect? Or is she falling for a man capable of mass murder?

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  Just days before the running of the biggest thoroughbred horse race in the world, an act of bioterrorism kills Kentucky’s lieutenant governor, and former FBI Special Agent Brooke Fairfax receives a video of the murder from her long-time anonymous source. When Brooke discovers domestic terrorists are actually after the governor—her late husband’s brother—and that the radicals are eyeing more targets, she heads to Kentucky to stop the threat.

  Shortly after the political assassination, the FBI zeroes in on one person: international mogul Declan O’Roark. Though Brooke has been out of the game since her husband was murdered, her former boss thinks she is the perfect candidate to connect Declan to the crime.

  Despite the FBI clearly establishing means and opportunity, Declan remains unfazed; his motives have nothing to do with murder, but with getting closer to Brooke Fairfax. And Brooke finds the case becoming even more unclear as she falls for the FBI’s number one suspect.

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  Don’t miss this page-turning thrill ride! Download and start your next favorite romantic thriller series for free.

  Exposed in Darkness - Excerpt

  Exposed in Darkness: In Darkness #1

  © Copyright 2017 Heather Sunseri

  All Rights Reserved

  One

  I ignored the first three pings—the annoying sound of emails hitting my inbox.

  My computer was across the room, I was still on my first cup of coffee, and it was only eight o’clock in the morning—way too early to deal with whatever was coming in. Sinking further into an oversized leather armchair, I pulled my grandmother’s quilt up around my neck with one hand and took a sip of creamy, perfectly sweetened, French vanilla coffee with the other. As I watched the hosts of the morning newsertainment show taste some disgusting-looking fruity dessert with shaved coconut, my computer pinged again.

  While I preferred this kind of “news”—the kind that involved the latest recipes for getting through the remaining cooler weather days—over the “real” news that favored the latest doom and gloom, I couldn’t help but keep one eye on the ticker scrolling across the bottom of the television with “Breaking News.” Out of habit, mostly.

  Once upon a time, my job had required that I stay on top of all breaking news items. Both the ones that made the national and world headlines, and the ones that were a little more… classified.

  My computer pinged again. I flinched a little this time.

  I took another sip of coffee, then reached for my phone on the side table. Nothing there, no texts. Just my wallpaper—a photograph of one of my last happy memories before my life went to shit. I switched the phone out of silent mode, but mentally reassured myself that the pings were just evidence that my email’s spam filter had stopped work
ing. Or my mother had finally resorted to hassling me via email rather than her normal incessant phone calling.

  The newsertainment team moved on to a segment on fashion—something about transitioning from winter to spring and how to layer without downgrading your fashion sense. The ticker continued to run headlines.

  Ping.

  Growing increasingly uneasy, I swallowed another sip of coffee. That’s when I saw it. His name stood out from the news ticker.

  Truman Spencer.

  I sat up a little; the quilt slid down my arms. Dressed in only a thin camisole and silk pajama shorts, I felt my goose bumps swell as air hit my skin. I set my mug aside and shifted in the chair to dig for the remote control that had fallen down beside the seat cushion. I rewound the news by sixty seconds and read the ticker again. This time out loud.

  “Lt. Governor of Kentucky Melissa Centers is dead. Kentucky State Police speculate Truman Spencer was target. Spencer will give live news conference shortly.”

  Ping.

  I pushed up from the chair, let the quilt pool at my feet, and stared across the room at both the computer and the TV. A cold sweat formed across my neck.

  Ping. Ping. Ping.

  I padded barefoot across the hardwood floor until I stood in front of the computer, the screen black. My heart sped up at what might be lurking behind the darkness.

  Draped over the back of the desk chair was Teddy’s cashmere sweater. I let the soft fabric slide through my fingers before I slid it over my head to envelop me in familiar warmth.

  I brushed my fingers across the mouse pad, waking my computer screen. My hands trembled as I typed my password, one keystroke at a time. Slowly and deliberately. Then there they were: the words behind the pings. Subject line after subject line. Every one the same, and in all caps.

  BROOKE, TIME TO GET BACK TO WORK!

  I crossed my arms, hugging the softness of Teddy’s sweater around me, and swallowed.

  Ping.

  Each of the emails had an attachment. My first instinct was to open one of the emails and the corresponding attachment, but I hesitated.

  I knew the drill. I’d been through this many times before. The attachment could disappear after I opened it, and I’d be the only one to have seen it.

  Or the attachment could give my computer a deadly virus and destroy more than just the accompanying attachment.

  I pressed my fingers into my forehead and closed my eyes. “Think, Brooke. Think.” The sender of the emails obviously intended for me to have the information. “Just like all the other times,” I whispered.

  But I was out of the game. I had left the FBI over a year ago, unable to continue in my role as an analyst. Or as a special agent, the job I’d held before that. Life had broken me, and I’d left. So why was someone sending me information now?

  It didn’t matter. I had it, and I knew I couldn’t ignore it. I opened my eyes and stared at the repeated subject lines. And as if a gun had fired to signal the start of a race, I sprang into action and let instinct take over. I dug an external drive from my desk drawer, plugged it into my computer, and made a backup of everything on my hard drive. Then I started recording my keystrokes and everything that appeared on my screen, preserving whatever I saw next.

  When I was ready, I returned to the email.

  It was empty except for the file. I double-clicked the attachment, and a video popped up.

  It was a dim room. People laughed. Men were dressed in suits. Flashes of color indicated women in dresses. It looked to be a ritzy cocktail party.

  The video was shaky, probably taken from someone’s phone based on the low quality, and the image went in and out of focus. Then the camera zoomed in on one person in particular. A woman. “Melissa Centers,” I whispered. The lieutenant governor. I’d seen her on television before, at an event with Truman.

  The people in the video raised their glasses in some sort of toast, then tipped back their beverages. Everyone cheered.

  Several seconds passed.

  The person filming the video moved closer to the lieutenant governor. The image became clearer. That’s when everything went south.

  The smile on the lieutenant governor’s face faded. Her eyes widened. She stumbled, dropped her glass, and struggled to catch a breath. Her hands clawed at her throat, then stretched out to her side, grasping for something—anything—as she collapsed to the floor.

  People screamed. Others rushed to her side.

  The video zoomed in on her face, her wide, terror-stricken eyes. She was no longer moving. A trail of foamy liquid slid from the corners of her lips.

  I slapped my hand over my mouth.

  More screams erupted, and the video went black. At least it didn’t wipe my hard drive, as I had feared.

  I grabbed my phone on my way to the kitchen. A single wine glass, stained with last night’s merlot, sat on the counter next to an empty wine bottle. I removed a clean juice glass from one cabinet and a bottle of bourbon from another. After pouring two fingers of bourbon, I turned the glass up and swallowed the amber liquid, closing my eyes and cringing through the burn. When I opened my eyes again, I eyed the glass warily, considering the image of the lieutenant governor doing exactly the same thing moments ago.

  I picked up my phone and dialed.

  “Donaldson.” Special Agent Mike Donaldson answered on the first ring.

  “I need you.”

  That was all it took. Three little words, and I was back in the game—a game I had no desire to play.

  After asking Mike to come to my house—without offering any specifics as to why—I ended the call.

  In front of me, sitting on top of a stack of mail, was a fancy piece of cream cardstock, embossed with curly script. I’d almost discarded it several times over the last week. It was an invitation to a party hosted by Kentucky’s Governor Truman Spencer, and it was scheduled for tonight.

  I let well-trained muscles click into action. I raced through my quaint Virginia house, gathering laundry, both clean and dirty, and throwing it all on my bed. I removed Teddy’s sweater and stripped off my pajama shorts. I found a pair of jeans, slid them on, and pulled a black cardigan over my camisole. I slid some short ankle boots on my feet.

  From the top of the closet, I got my suitcase and began stuffing it haphazardly with clothes from my bed, from dresser drawers, and from the closet. I darted to the bathroom and gathered an armload of toiletries.

  When I’d filled one suitcase, I carried it to my car and stuck it in the back seat of my Mini Cooper. Then I returned to my bedroom closet, tossed boots, high heels, flip-flops, and anything else I thought I might need into a canvas bag, grabbed more clothes in my arms, carried them out, and stuffed the bag and the loose clothes into the car’s tiny trunk.

  The last thing I did was grab the unopened box holding a new laptop from the top of my closet. I packed it into a computer bag, along with the drive I’d just used to back up my old computer. I loaded this into the car as well.

  Back in the living room, I flinched at the sound of a car door.

  The FBI had arrived.

  Mike stood in the doorway, the look on his face difficult to read. I hadn’t seen him in over a year. Not since Teddy’s funeral.

  He was bigger than I remembered. Taller. His dirty blond hair was longer, but still short enough to spike in the front. He rubbed his hand across a well-groomed beard—another change.

  I frowned at the gold band on his ring finger. “You got married.”

  His hand froze before he held it out in front of his face and stared at the ring, as if he’d forgotten it was there. His eyes found mine. “Yeah. Last month. We wanted to invite you…”

  I shook my head and held up a hand. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what, Brooke?” The line in his jaw went rigid. “You haven’t spoken to anyone in over a year.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. I saw people at the grocery store and places like that. And I had friends. And how would Mike know who I had or hadn’t s
poken to? “You knew where I was,” I said sheepishly.

  “Surely you didn’t call me to discuss my ability to find a missing person.”

  “No.” I backed up and gave Mike room to enter. That was definitely not why I had called him.

  His investigative gaze circled the room, profiling me in less than ten seconds. I wrapped my cardigan tighter around me and squeezed my arms across my chest. Mike spoke with his back to me. “I’m assuming you saw the morning news.”

  “I saw the headline.” I was trained not to listen to information reported by the media about a case I might be called to investigate—for risk of tainting actual evidence.

  He turned, studied me. Apparently he thought he saw something in my eyes that most certainly wasn’t there. “No.”

  “No to what?” I asked. But I knew what he was thinking.

  “No,” he said again. “The director is never going to reinstate you just because you feel guilty about Teddy. And what, now you want to save his brother?”

  “That’s not what this is.”

  “No? Then what are you up to?”

  “He found me.” I swallowed hard, keeping my gaze pinned to his and refusing to show an ounce of the vulnerability I was feeling.

  When he narrowed his eyes in question, I walked to my computer, woke it by touching the mouse, and entered my password. Staring back at us was a screen full of the same subject line repeated over and over.

  “Is it Romeo?” he asked.

  “I guess.”

  Romeo was considered a confidential human source, or CHS, on the last few cases I’d worked on with Teddy. I was an analyst with the Bureau at the time, but I was also Teddy’s backup when Mike wasn’t available. Romeo had chosen to provide me with information, and had refused to have contact with anyone but me. Other agents had named him Romeo—because of his apparent infatuation with me.