Dirty Secrets

by Karen Rose

  The target came to this store every evening on his way home from work. John just had to show up. Do the job. Make it look unplanned. Wrong place, wrong time.

  But he hadn’t been able to do it yesterday. Hadn’t been able to force himself to walk inside the store. Hadn’t been able to force himself to pull the trigger.

  So the ante had been upped, the second text sent, this time with the photo. And Sam was the pawn. Son. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

  John heard the quiet beep of the door as it opened. Please don’t let it be him. Please don’t let him stop here today. Please.

  But if it’s not him, you can’t kill him. And then Sam will die.

  “Hey, Paul.” The greeting had come from the cashier, a fifty-something African-American woman who greeted several of her customers by name. “What’s shakin’ in the hallowed halls?”

  John’s heart sank. It’s him. Make your move.

  “Same old, same old,” Paul replied, a weariness to his voice that somehow made John’s task seem even worse. “Cops put them in jail, we do our best to throw away the key. Most of the time they’re back on the street so fast, the door doesn’t even hit them in the ass.”

  “Damn defense attorneys,” the cashier muttered. “Same old, same old on the numbers, too?”

  “My mother is a creature of habit,” Paul said, his chuckle now rueful.

  “You’re a good boy to pick up her lotto tickets every day, Paul.”

  “It makes her happy,” he said simply. “She doesn’t ask for much.”

  Just do it! Before he makes you like him even more.

  He edged to the end of the aisle, closer to the cash register. Pretending to scratch his head, he reached up under his Orioles’ baseball cap to yank down the ski mask he’d hidden under it to cover his face. It could be worse. The three of them were the only ones in the store. If he had to dispose of a lot of witnesses . . . That would be much worse.

  “That’ll be ten bucks,” the cashier said. “How’s your wife, Paul? Pregnancy going okay?”

  His wife is pregnant. Don’t do this. For the love of God, do not do this.

  Ignoring the screaming in his head, John wheeled around, drawing his gun.

  “Everybody freeze,” John growled. “Hands where I can see them.”

  The cashier froze and John’s target paled, his hands lifted, palms out. “Give him what he wants, Lilah,” Paul said quietly. “Nothing in this store is worth your life.”

  “What do you want?” the cashier whispered.

  Not this. I don’t want this.

  Do it. Or Sam will die. Of this John had no doubt. The gloved hand holding the gun to his son’s head had killed before. He would kill Sam.

  Do. It.

  Hand shaking, John pointed the gun at Paul’s chest and pulled the trigger. Lilah screamed as the man went down. John caught a movement from the corner of his eye. Lilah had retrieved a gun from below the counter. Clenching his jaw, John pulled the trigger a second time and Lilah crumpled to the counter, blood pooling around the hole he had just put in her head.

  It’s done. Nausea churned in his gut. Get out of here before you throw up.

  He took a step toward the door when he froze, stunned. Paul was struggling to his knees. There was no blood on the man’s white shirt. Holes, but no blood. Understanding dawned. The man wore a vest.

  What the fucking hell? John lifted his gun, aiming at the man’s forehead.

  The shrill beep of the door opening had him glancing to the left.

  “Daddy!”

  Oh hell. A little boy. The devil had never said anything about a kid.

  Fucking hell. Now what? What do I do now?

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Karen Rose’s novel

  DID YOU MISS ME?

  Available now from Signet

  Cold. So cold.

  Ford curled into himself, instinctively trying to find some warmth. But there was none.

  Cold. The floor was cold. And hard. And dirty. Hard to breathe.

  The wind was blowing outside, rattling windows, sending jets of frigid air around his body. Over his skin. So cold. A shudder racked his body and he struggled to open his eyes. It was dark. Can’t see. Head hurts. God. He tried to get up, to push at whatever covered his eyes, but he couldn’t. Where am . . . What hap—

  Clarity returned in a rush and with it came blinding panic. He was blindfolded. Gagged. Tied, hands and feet. No. He fought wildly for a few seconds, hissing when the rope seared his skin. He slumped, fatigued, his heart racing.

  Kim. The image of her face broke through the pounding in his head. He’d been with Kim. Walking her to her car. He drew a sharp breath through his nose, the dirt he inhaled making him sneeze violently. Nausea roiled as bright lights flashed behind his eyelids.

  Alley. They’d gone through an alley. Kim had parked behind the movie theater.

  That damn foreign film. She’d had to see some French film for class. Weird theater, bad part of town. He’d insisted she not go alone. They had to go through the alley to get to her car.

  Ford tried to remember. He’d heard a noise. Felt . . . pain. Oh God. The fear in Kim’s eyes. Her scream. The shattering pain in his head, right before everything went dark.

  Kim. He threw his body forward and grunted, the exploding pain in his shoulder sending him back to the floor, where he huddled, grimacing, catching his breath. Where is she?

  He drew another breath, taking care not to inhale the dirt this time. Quieting himself, he listened for any sound— a whisper, a wheeze, a whimper. But there was none.

  She’s not here. She’s not here. He closed his eyes, fighting to control his pounding heart. Please don’t let her be here. Because if she was here, she wasn’t breathing. If she was here, she was hurt. Maybe dead. No. No. He shook his head hard, wincing when the pain spiked deep. She got away. Please let her have gotten away.

  Away . . . from what? From whom? Where is here? The panic rose in his throat, choking him. Calm down. Think. You know how to think. Thinking was what Ford Elkhart did best.

  He closed his eyes, forced himself to calm. To think. To remember. It’s cold. Which told him nothing. It was December, for God’s sake. He could be anywhere north of Florida.

  Why? Why me? He gave the ropes binding his wrists another hard yank, then swore when his frozen skin burned. Why? He knew why.

  Money. Ransom. It had to be. He wondered if they were contacting his mother or his father. He hoped his mother. Dad won’t pay a dime to get me back, he thought bitterly. Then he pictured his mother and his heart clenched.

  Mom. She’d be terrified. Out of her mind with worry. Because his mother had prosecuted enough of these cases to know what was happening to him right now.

  And what was likely to happen next.

  I’m sorry, Mom. His eyes filled. I’m so sorry. She’d warned him to be careful, urged him to let her hire a bodyguard. He’d scoffed at her fear. He hadn’t needed any bodyguard. He could take care of himself.

  Hell. He’d taken care of himself so well that he was trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Probably awaiting the same fate. He blinked hard, shook the tears off his face. Stop it, he thought. Crying won’t help you get away.

  And he had to get away. Kim needs me. So think. Breathe. He forced himself to calm, willed his mind to hear the voice of his mother’s friend Paige, who taught self-defense. He’d taken Kim to see Paige for instruction because he’d wanted to keep her safe, even when he wasn’t there to protect her.

  You were there, his mind mocked. Standing right beside her. And it didn’t make a bit of difference.

  He fought the terror that closed his throat. Please let her be all right. I’ll do anything. Please, God, just let Kim be all right. If something happened to her . . . because somebody was trying to get to me . . . He’d never be able to forgive himself.


  You might not get the chance to forgive yourself—or to save her—if you die here, so stop whining and think. He tried to remember what Paige had said, but he’d been watching Kim from the sidelines, admiring her body as she practiced the escape moves Paige had demonstrated. He’d been thinking about what they’d do when he got Kim back to his room.

  He prayed that Kim had been paying attention, because he hadn’t been.

  So pay attention now. Eventually whoever brought him here would come back, if only to kill him. You need to be ready to strike. To get away.

  Ford closed his eyes, took an inventory of his injuries. His head . . . The back of his skull hurt like hell. That’s where the bastard hit me. His right arm hurt, too, but probably wasn’t broken. His shoulder throbbed, but it had before. Rowing training last week. At least I’m in decent shape. It might give him a fighting chance.

  His legs . . . He tried to move them within the confines of the ropes. They seemed okay. Stiff from being tied, but not injured. So you can run. When you get the chance, hit with your left and run like a bat out of hell.

  To where? He could hear nothing, no sounds of the city. They were far enough out that getting back might be a challenge. It was cold and he had no coat. At least he had shoes. He might have to walk a long way. But he’d do it.

  He’d get back. He’d find Kim and they’d get back to their lives. He’d take her home, introduce her to his mother and Gran. He wished he’d done so already.

  He’d marry her, just like they’d talked about when the night was quiet and he held her in his arms. They’d have a whole life together. They would.

  But first he had to get away from here. Wherever the hell here is.

  Ford froze, straining to hear. Someone was coming. Stay calm. Pay attention to details.

  A door creaked as it opened, an icy blast rushing into the room. His teeth would have chattered had it not been for the gag in his mouth.

  He heard footsteps. Coming closer. Heavy footsteps. A man. Boots. He was wearing boots.

  The footsteps stopped close to Ford’s head and he could feel warmth from the man’s body.

  “You’re awake.”

  Gravelly. The voice was deep and harsh. Filled with . . . laughter? Yeah, laughter. Asshole’s laughing at me. Ford bit back the fury that roared through him. Focus. Pay attention.

  He heard the crack of knees and the warmth came closer. There was a scent. Aftershave. Familiar. He’d smelled it before. He was sure of it. Where? He tensed when fingers ran over his hair, then hissed a curse when a fist grabbed his hair and yanked his head up. Fight. Dammit, fight. Ford thrashed, flinging his body to one side. A heavy knee planted itself on his chest, holding him down. His head was yanked to one side, exposing his neck.

  “Honey, I’m home,” the man crooned. “Did you miss me?”

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Karen Rose’s new novella

  BROKEN SILENCE

  Available now from InterMix

  Baltimore, Monday, December 23, 11:00 a.m.

  They wouldn’t stop talking. The people came into her room and talked and talked, but Lana didn’t talk back. Because she knew what would happen if she did.

  She wasn’t sure how long she’d been here. Her head hurt. It was hard to think.

  Especially because the people were still talking. This time it was the doctor and the lady who wasn’t a nurse. The lady was nice. Her name was Heidi. She’d brushed Lana’s hair and touched her face and smiled. Like Lana’s mama used to do. Before she got sick.

  The man was a doctor. Lana knew because he had a white coat and that thing he used to listen to her heart. The stethoscope. He’d held it in front of her and said, “Steth-o-scope,” slowly, like she was too dumb to understand. But I’m not dumb. I’m not. I know things.

  Like her name. Her birthday. She’d be seven years old soon. She knew that she was in the United States. And that she was in a hospital. And her hands had gotten frozen. Lana stared at her hands, all wrapped in bandages. They still hurt, but not so much as they did before.

  Lana knew that she had a sister. And that she didn’t have a mama. Not anymore. Or a papa. Papa. Mama. Please come back. Please don’t leave me here.

  But she knew that they were never coming back. Because they were dead.

  She wanted to cry, but she didn’t dare. Nurse was here. Nurse was always here. She didn’t dress like a nurse, not like she did before. When she took care of Mama. Here she dressed like a normal lady. Not mean. Not bad. She’d fooled everyone. But not me. I know who she is.

  Nurse didn’t come into Lana’s room. Except that one time. But that once was enough.

  Now Nurse stayed out in the hall, always walking by so slowly, her finger over her lips. Sshh. Don’t tell, Lana. Don’t tell. Or you know what I’ll do.

  Lana knew what Nurse would do. She knew what Nurse had already done.

  The doctor and the lady kept talking and Lana tried to ignore them. Please leave me alone. They thought she couldn’t talk. But it wasn’t true. Lana could so talk. She wanted to beg them to help her. But she could not. Because of Nurse.

  Oh no, no. Lana’s heart started to race. She’s here again. Nurse was outside the big window in Lana’s room, carrying the baby. Lana’s sister. Her sister didn’t know that Nurse was bad. She didn’t know about Mama and Papa. She was just a little baby.

  Nurse stopped in the doorway and brushed her fingertips over the baby’s pretty blond hair. Then pressed a finger to her lips and gave Lana “the look.” Mama had thought Nurse was a good person, but Mama had been wrong.

  And now Lana didn’t know what to do. All she knew was that she couldn’t say a single word or her little sister would die. Nurse had said so and Lana believed her.

  “Sweetie?” Heidi knelt next to the bed, holding clothes.

  Pants and a top. Shoes and a new coat. My size. They’re for me.

  Where is my coat? This coat was an ugly brown color. Lana’s coat was snowy white and had real fox fur. She and Mama had picked it out before they’d left home. I want to go home now. Please, Mama. I want to go home.

  Heidi held up the top with a cheery smile. Lana nodded and Heidi pulled the hospital top off and tugged the new top on—and Lana understood. They were leaving the hospital.

  Lana’s heart began to race. Maybe Nurse won’t know I’m gone or where they take me. I can tell. I can get help.

  Then she looked up and her heart sank. Nurse was still there, standing at the window. Nurse’s eyes turned to slits and she shook her head slowly as she touched the baby’s hair.

  Lana nodded. She understood. She wouldn’t say a word.

  Award-winning, #1 international bestselling author Karen Rose earned her degree in chemical engineering from the University of Maryland. For a number of years, she worked in the engineering field, earning two patents, but she began writing novels when scenes started to fill her mind and her characters would not be silenced. Since her debut suspense novel, Don’t Tell, was released in July 2003, she has written more than a dozen novels and been translated into twenty-three languages. Her books have placed on the New York Times, the Sunday Times (UK), and Germany’s der Spiegel bestseller lists. A former chemical engineer and high school teacher, Karen lives in Florida with her family, her cat, and her dogs, Loki and Thor.