Praise for Kiss Me, Kill Me
“[A] riveting new series … Lucy continues to be a fascinating and enticing character, and her ongoing development adds depth to an already rich brew of murder and mystery. Brennan rocks!”
—RT Book Reviews
Praise for Love Me to Death
“A world-class nail-biter … Brennan is in the groove with this one.”
—New York Times bestselling author LEE CHILD
“This pulse-ratcheting romantic suspense from Brennan delivers intense action, multifaceted characters, and a truly creepy bad guy … [A] fast-paced, engrossing read.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Twists and turns in this dark drama make it creepy and compelling in the extreme!”
—RT Book Reviews (starred)
Praise for Original Sin
“Brennan shows a deft command of all things both normal and otherworldly in crafting one of the best tales of its kind since Dean Koontz and Stephen King were still writing about monsters. There is no shortage of those here and the result is a new genre classic.”
—Providence Journal
Praise for Fatal Secrets
“A master of suspense, Brennan does another outstanding job uniting horrifying action, procedural drama and the birth of a romance—a prime example of why she’s tops in the genre.”
—Top Pick, RT Book Reviews
“A fast-paced, action-packed romantic suspense.”
—Romance Junkies
Praise for Sudden Death
“Brennan knows how to deliver.”
—New York Times bestselling author LISA GARDNER
“This very satisfying read presents loads of action that keeps the pages flying—and makes one wonder how much is pure fiction and how much of it could really happen.”
—BookLoons
Praise for Tempting Evil
“Tempting Evil is an old-fashioned potboiler in all the right ways, chock-full of tried and true hallmarks of the genre.”
—The Providence Journal
If I Should Die is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Allison Brennan
Love Is Murder by Allison Brennan copyright © 2011 by Allison Brennan
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Rench Audio for permission to reprint an excerpt from “Big Branch” music by Rench, lyrics by Tomasia, performed by Gangstagrass featuring Tomasia. Available at www.renchaudio.com. Reprinted by permission.
Love is Murder was originally published as an ebook in 2011.
eISBN: 978-0-345-52042-5
Cover design by Scott Biel
Cover photograph (woman): Tom Grill/Getty Images
www.ballantinebooks.com
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue
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
Chapter Forty-Two
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Other Books by This Author
Love Is Murder
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Who’s the outlaw, quick on the draw
Cast the first stone if you don’t have a flaw
Who fills the jails, who lives above the law
White collar, black market, who’s rich, who’s poor
—“Big Branch,” Gangstagrass feat. Tomasia
PROLOGUE
Three months ago
Guilt led him down the dark, cold passage many times that winter.
The weeks of unrelenting snowfall kept most people indoors, huddled in houses with poor insulation and roofs threatening to cave under the pressure of snow and ice. TV newscasters called this an epic winter, though upstate New York had seen it all before.
Jamming his ski poles into the deep snow, he slid to a halt at the main entrance of the abandoned Kelley Mine. The sun inched over the smooth, round mountains, chiseled against the blue sky. He stared at the entrance, frozen in fear and deep pain, as the clear February morning crept up to minus twenty degrees as dawn broke.
The rock and wood barrier appeared impassable, but a hollow spot to the left—visible from only one angle—gave easy access to the mine. He removed his skis and slipped through the opening into the dark tunnel, storing his equipment in an alcove off to the right.
Numbing cold had already seeped into his bones through the many layers of clothing, but he was used to it. Trekking down the main tunnel, he hunched over to avoid hitting his head, a flashlight illuminating the area right in front of him.
The only sounds were his footfalls on the frozen ground and the blood pumping through his veins, its relentless roar an echo in his head. As the tunnel slowly led him deeper into the mountain, his anxiety fueled his imagination. She wasn’t there. She was a ghost. She would seek revenge.
He bit back a strangled sob. In life, she had been kind and smart and forgiving. Would she be different in death?
His foot slipped on the edge of a deep hole, rocks falling down the vertical exploration shaft.
“Stupid,” he whispered, as he pushed his back against the rough wall, trying to calm his racing heart. Dammit, he had known about the hole in this passage! How could he have wandered so far into the most dangerous area of the mine and missed the turn? There were a dozen exploration shafts and he knew exactly where they were because he had the only set of maps that had been updated by the last engineer, with all the added tunnels and shafts marked.
In the years since the mine closed, a half dozen people had lost their lives here. Everyone had heard the stories. Like three decades ago when Paul Swain and his pals were getting stoned in the mine, and Mike Stine fell to his death down one of these shafts. They never recovered his body. Some people didn’t believe it was an
accident, but no one dared question the Swain family. Lawson Swain had kept Spruce Lake alive until his death, when Paul took over. And even though he was in prison on drug charges, most people suspected Paul was still very much in control of criminal enterprises in Spruce Lake.
But the truth was far more terrifying.
Ten yards back he found the right tunnel. Thirty feet down, it spilled out into an open space, not much bigger than a long, narrow garage, which had long ago stored mine equipment. Two tunnels shot off the room. He didn’t know where they went. He’d never been this far into the mine, except …
He turned his flashlight toward the woman who haunted him.
She was unchanged, lying so peacefully he could almost pretend she was sleeping. His eyes burned.
He knelt at her side, reached out to touch her, then stopped himself.
“I’m so sorry.” His voice broke and he began to shake. Gutless. This should never have happened. She should never have died.
He bowed his head and prayed for forgiveness. For strength.
He prayed for survival.
He remembered not her death but her smile, her sassy mouth, her quick wit. He’d loved her.
Love? You’re a fool. You killed her.
He hadn’t killed her, but he’d let it happen.
And you think there’s a difference? Woe is the man who ignores the truth.
He remained kneeling until the cold was so bitterly unbearable that he feared he wouldn’t make it back out. Would that be so bad? To die here? Every time he came, he thought the same thing. Take a few pills, lie down next to her, sleep. The subzero temperature would take care of the rest.
But others depended on him. He had responsibilities and obligations. If he disappeared, the town he had once loved, the town that had once saved him, would be doomed.
His soul was already doomed. There would be no forgiveness, no redemption. Truly, the only thing that kept him alive was the fire of vengeance burning inside.
He pulled a limp white flower from his pocket. He didn’t know what it was called, he wasn’t much into gardening, but she had loved them. It was wilted from being frozen, then being stored in the warmth of his pocket. Before leaving, he placed it on her chest, barely able to resist touching her.
ONE
Present day
Sean Rogan watched Lucy stretch with the grace of a cat, her thick, wavy black hair falling across his bare chest. She sighed as she relaxed on top of him, her dark eyes closed, a half-smile on her face.
There was little Sean enjoyed more than early-morning sex with Lucy.
For the first time in months, they were alone—no friends, no family, no stress—sharing a secluded cabin in the middle of the Adirondacks. Just the two of them. Lucy didn’t seem to realize how much she’d needed this vacation—already, after one night, she was looking more rested than he’d seen her in months. Sean hoped their change of plans to help his brother Duke’s friend wouldn’t put a damper on their week together.
“This is perfect.” Lucy kissed his chest. “I wish it could last.”
A faint, nagging fear that such unadulterated happiness would come at a cost marred Sean’s good mood. He knew Lucy was talking about their time alone, but he couldn’t help but think she had been reflecting on their relationship.
“Luce?”
“Hmm?”
What should he say? That their vacation could last forever? Should he call her out on her skepticism? If he asked her to explain her comment, she’d overthink her response, and worse, she’d put her shields back up. He’d worked hard at getting her to put down her armor; it was these rare moments when she was entirely comfortable that he savored.
“Up for a hike this morning?” he asked instead.
Lucy didn’t sound as though she noticed his hesitation. “After breakfast. I’m starving.”
Sean laughed.
She leaned up and looked at him, her eyebrows raised. “What’s funny?”
“In the four months I’ve known you, not once have you told me you’re hungry, let alone starving.”
He grinned, then reached up and tickled her ribs. Her spontaneous laugh was genuine, such a rare sound that every time he heard it he remembered how much Lucy needed him to remind her of the good in life, and forget the evil from her past.
“This is war!” she declared. Before Sean could tighten his abs in resistance, she tickled the sensitive sides of his stomach. He tried grabbing her hands as he laughed, but she enjoyed winning far too much to make it easy for him.
“Stop. Please.”
“Say Uncle.”
“Uncle.”
She stopped, and he flipped her onto her back. “Now that you woke me up—”
“You mean you weren’t awake when we were having sex?”
“That was just a prelude, Princess.”
She tensed, and for a moment Sean thought he’d done or said something wrong. He was about to ask her what it was when she said, “Do you smell something?”
Her hair, their sweat … and something else he recognized only as she spoke. “Smoke.”
They jumped up and pulled on the clothes closest to them.
He grabbed his backpack and they ran out the door, the scent of burning wood palpable as soon as they stepped outside.
They sprinted down the shadowy trail to the main lodge. Dawn had just broken over the mountain ridge, casting a fresh but pale light all around. A growing plume of dark gray smoke rose from the trees, and as soon as the lodge came into sight Sean saw smoke pouring from an open kitchen window. Several flickers of orange flames glowed through the thick smoke, but the fire hadn’t reached the external walls.
Sean instantly took in the scene: twenty-two-year-old Adam Hendrickson at the water tank struggling with the hose attachment; his older half-brother Tim bolting across the center clearing, his face a mask of disbelief and rage; the Spruce Lake Inn manager, Annie Lynd, at his heels, her long, dark red braid trailing down her back.
There was something else—a sound in the background, growing fainter. A motor? Had the saboteur who had caused the Hendricksons’ extensive property damage over the last several months now moved up to arson?
Sean scanned the area. Partly obscured by the barn a lone figure dressed in black rode slowly away on an ATV, glancing over his shoulder at the house. When he saw that Sean had spotted him, the rider sped up and disappeared into the trees, hightailing it away from the lodge.
Sean caught up with Tim and gestured toward the fleeing arsonist. Sean said, “I need an ATV.”
“In the barn—”
“I’ll get him! Take care of the fire.” Sean sprinted toward the barn.
Lucy caught up to him as he turned the ignition in the ATV. “Be careful,” she said.
“Always.” He took his gun from his backpack and threaded his holster through the loops in his jeans. “I’ll switch my cell to radio, better to communicate short distances. I’ll keep in touch.”
Sean sped out of the barn. The arsonist had left a light trail of exhaust, the ground too moist to kick up much dirt. But Sean found the tire tracks in the soft earth and stuck with them, picking up speed, driving the ATV with as much confidence as he drove his Mustang. He lowered the face shield on the helmet and leaned forward. The bastard had picked the wrong way to escape—Sean was boldly proficient on any sort of wheels, from motorcycles to SUVs.
The Yamaha Raptor he was riding had terrific responsiveness. He reached fifty miles per hour on the straightaway leading into the woods, though he suspected he could push it faster. Any other day, he would enjoy being on this powerful mechanical beast, but today, he had a job to do.
He was at a slight disadvantage in that he didn’t know the area. Whoever was sabotaging the Hendrickson property was most likely a local, born and raised in the Adirondacks. The saboteur also had a big lead—Sean couldn’t hear the other quad over his own engine. Without a line of sight, Sean pursued on instincts alone, following the fresh dirt trail the arsonist’s AT
V left in its wake.
The trees where Sean had seen the rider disappear came quickly into view, and Sean slowed to maneuver down a trail barely wide enough for the quad. Branches cut into his bare arms and he pulled his elbows in. The cold morning air seeped into his bones, his adrenaline keeping him from shivering.
The trail wound dangerously through the trees, a foot-worn path unsuitable for ATVs. Only the newly turned soil told Sean he was heading in the right direction.
The path came to a sudden end and Sean almost drove straight into the lake. He breaked rapidly and turned ninety degrees, fishtailing. Though the drop was short, the sheer ledge led directly to the water below. Sweating, Sean leaned forward and to the left, using his weight to balance and maintain control.
If I Should Die Page 1
