While I spoke with several lawyers and law-enforcement professionals while writing the stories, I realize certain aspects are still not going to be completely true to life. I hope it doesn’t take away from your enjoyment of them.
To my family, always to my family—I thank God for you. Every day, and it’s still not enough. I love you all.
To friends who helped out along the way. Friends like Nicole, Natalie and Lime—rush jobs and crazy questions, they never faze you.
To my agent Irene, who helps keep me sane, and my editor Kate, who has been so excited about this book, even from day one.
Acknowledgments
There’s just no way I can thank everybody I need to thank, I don’t think. At least not without needing a lot more page space than my publisher can give me. But I do need to mention a few special people.
Thank God for letting me live my dream, allowing me to use it in a way that lets me provide for the family You’ve given me.
I know I’ve mentioned my editor Kate and my agent Irene and I could mention them a hundred times—it still wouldn’t fully express how much I appreciate them.
Again, thanks to Terrie T, with the American Printing House for the Blind, and Kristeen H. Your help when I was trying to build Lena’s character and lay the groundwork for this trilogy was invaluable.
The same to Detective Todd H—I’m sure he thought I was probably crazy when my husband and I showed up at his door one night and I started asking him a bunch of very strange questions.
Nicole and Lime for insight into things of a legal persuasion, and fellow writer and friend Rosemary Laurey, although I can’t really explain why and how she helped me … not yet anyway.
There are other writer friends, like Sylvia Day and Shayla Black, who routinely talk me down when I’m losing it or boost me up when I’m needing it. As well as the time Allison Brennan took to chat with me at RWA, and in various e-mails while I was having numerous freak-outs … whether or not you remember, you helped me out more than you can imagine.
Thanks to my readers as well. You are all so awesome … thanks for your support.
BY SHILOH WALKER
If You Hear Her
If You See Her
Read on for a preview
of the first two books in Shiloh Walker’s
thrilling romantic suspense trilogy!
IF YOU HEAR HER
and
IF YOU SEE HER
IF YOU HEAR HER
CHAPTER
ONE
March 2010
HER NAME WAS CARLY WATSON.
The final hours of her life were brutal.
She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know how long she’d been there. By that point, she was so wracked with pain, so desperate for escape, she barely remembered who she was.
She was twenty-three. She was going to medical school. She was bright, eager, and before she’d fallen into this hell, she had loved life. Now she just prayed for it to end.
She had been stuck in that hellish darkness for hours, days, possibly weeks.
And she knew she would die there.
She knew he was coming back—the door creaked. It was like a death knell, heralding his arrival. As the door swung open, the ancient hinges protested.
A sob bubbled up in her throat as he laid a hand on her calf and stroked up. She cringed away as much as she could, but the restraints at her wrists, waist, knees, and ankles didn’t allow for much movement.
When he cupped his hand over her sex, her scream, long and desperate, split the air.
Her kidnapper, rapist, and soon-to-be killer watched, amused … pleased with her terror. “Go ahead and scream, sweetheart. Nobody can hear you.”
“Please …” her throat was so dry and raw from how she had cried. How she had begged. How she had pleaded. She almost hated herself, for begging. For giving him that pleasure. Some part of her just wasn’t ready to accept the truth, wasn’t ready to give up.
Even though, in her heart, she knew it was useless. “Just let me go. Please let me go … I won’t tell anybody, I swear.”
He sighed. It was a sigh of long-suffering patience, the one a parent might give a child. He even patted her shoulder as he murmured, “Yes, I’m sure you won’t.”
A loud sound rasped through the air and she whimpered as she recognized it. A zipper. He was getting undressed—no, no, no …
Hysterical panic tore through her and she started to scream.
He raped her again.
Her voice gave out long before she was able to escape inside herself.
This time, though, her escape was final. She had retreated somewhere deep inside herself—somewhere where pain didn’t exist, where terror didn’t exist.
When he ended her life, she never even knew—she was already gone.
Her name was Carly Watson.
It was a lovely day, the kind of day you just didn’t get too often. The air was warm and mild, with clear sunshine beaming down. A soft breeze drifted by. Under the trees, it was just a bit cooler.
The perfect sort of day for a walk.
At least, Lena Riddle would’ve thought so. But halfway through, her dog started getting anxious. Puck didn’t do anxious. Not in the four years she’d had him. But there he was, pulling against his leash, like he was determined not to let her take their normal route through the woods.
“Come on, Puck. You wanted to go for a walk, remember?”
She tried to take another step, but the big yellow retriever sat down. He wasn’t going to move an inch.
Just then, faintly, oh so very faintly, she heard … something.
Puck growled. “Hush,” she murmured, reaching down and resting a hand on his head. He had his hackles up, his entire body braced and tensed. “Easy, boy. Just take it easy.”
Standing in the middle of the trail, with her head cocked, she listened. The faint breeze that had been blowing all day abruptly died and all those faint sounds of life she could always hear in the woods faded down to nothingness. A heartbeat passed, then another.
It was utterly silent.
Then it came again. Something … muffled. Faint. An animal? Trapped?
She scowled absently, concentrating. There it was again.
Her brow puckered as she focused, trying to lock in on the sound better.
Puck whined in his throat and tugged on his leash, demandingly. Lena turned her head, trying to follow that sound. It was gone, though. The breeze returned and all she could hear now were the leaves rustling in the breeze, the sound of a bird call, and somewhere off in the distance, a car’s motor.
Still, the faint memory of that sound, whatever it was, sent a shiver down her spine.
“You know what, Puck?” she murmured. “I think you’re right. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
She only had a few hours left before she had to go to work anyway.
* * *
“… there.…”
He stood over her, studied her hair.
The gleaming blond strands were shorn now to chin length, perfectly straight, even as could be.
Her eyes, sightless and fixed, stared overhead.
That blank look on her face irritated him, but he wasn’t surprised. He had seen this coming, after all. Something about the way she had reacted, the way she’d screamed.
The life had gone out of his girl and once that fight was gone …
Well. That was just how it was.
Carefully gathering up the hair, he selected what he wanted and then bagged up the rest, adding it to the pack he’d carry out of here. Later. Few things still that he had to handle.
He studied her body, the long slim lines of it, her limbs pale and flaccid now, the softly rounded swell of her belly. Nice, full breasts … he did like a good pair of tits on a woman. The dull gleam of gold at her throat from the necklace she wore. Strong, sleek shoulders.
Stooping down beside her, he hefted her lifeless body in his arms.
What he needed to
do now wasn’t going to be pleasant, and he wouldn’t do it here.
“So what do you think it was?”
“Hell, I don’t know.” A sigh slipped past Lena’s lips as she turned to face her best friend. Just talking to Roslyn Jennings made her feel better. And slightly silly. It had probably been nothing. Nothing … although it had bothered her dog something awful. “It sure as hell had Puck freaked out, though.”
“You sound a little freaked out, too.”
“Yeah. You could say that.”
Although, really, freaked out didn’t quite touch it.
Grimacing, Lena forced herself to focus. Should pay more attention to what she was doing or she was going to end up slicing up her fingers as well as the potatoes. It wouldn’t do the Inn’s reputation any good if word got out that the chef was adding body parts to the dishes, she thought morbidly.
For some reason, that thought sent a shiver down her spine.
“It sure doesn’t sound like Puck. I mean, that’s not like him. He loves his walks, right?”
“Yep. He does. And you’re right … this isn’t like him.” She couldn’t recall him ever acting quite like that before. He was a good dog, protective, loving … a friend.
“Let’s talk about this noise you heard. If we can figure out what it was, maybe we can figure out what had Puck so freaked out. It probably had something to do with the noise, right? I mean, it makes sense.”
“I can’t place it. Weird grunting. Kind of muffled.”
“Don’t take this wrong, but do you think maybe you heard somebody going at it?” Roslyn’s voice was a mixture of skepticism and interest.
“Going at it?” Lena asked, blankly. “Going at what?”
For about two seconds, Roz was silent. Then she burst into laughter. “Oh, sweetie, it’s been way too long since you’ve gotten laid. Sex, girl. Do you remember what sex is?”
“Yes. Vaguely.” Scowling, she went at the potatoes with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. Oh, yes, she remembered sex. It had been close to a year since she’d gotten any, and before that? It had been college.
But, yes, she remembered sex.
“So, you think maybe a couple of people were out there screwing? Although, hell, if some guy is going to talk me into stripping nekkid in the great outdoors, it had better be good sex. Bug bites. Ticks. Poison ivy.”
“Sunburn,” Lena offered helpfully. Perpetually pale, she had to slather down with SPF 60 just for a jaunt to the mailbox. Well, maybe not that bad. But still.
“Sunburned hoo-haa. Heh. Doesn’t sound like fun, does it? Although if the guy is good … but you were in the woods, right? So scratch the sunburned hoo-haa. So, what do you think … could you have just heard some private moments?”
“You’re a pervert, you know that?” Lena grinned at her best friend. Then she shrugged. “And … I don’t know. I really don’t know. The only thing I know for sure is that Puck didn’t want to be there—that’s just not like him.”
The dog at Lena’s feet shifted. She rinsed her hands and then crouched down in front of him, stroking his head. “It’s okay, pal. I understand.”
He licked her chin and she stood up.
As she turned to wash her hands again, she heard the telltale whisper of the cookie jar. Smiling, she said, “If you eat all of those, you’re out of luck until next week. I am not whipping up another batch tomorrow. You’re stuck with whatever you bought from the store. With that wedding you’ve got planned, Jake and I are going to be busy enough as it is.”
Jake was the other chef here at Running Brook. They split the week, Jake working Monday through Wednesday and Lena working Thursday through Saturday—they traded off on Sundays, but with the wedding they had going on tomorrow, they both needed to be here.
“That wedding,” Roz muttered around a mouthful of cookie. “Hell, that wedding is why I need the cookie—and store-bought isn’t going to hold me right now, sweetie. I need the real stuff. Good stuff. Shit. If I thought I could get away with it, I would have a White Russian or three to go along with the cookie.”
“No drinking on the job. Not even for the owner.” Lena smirked. “Hell, you’re the one who had to go and decide to start doing these boutique weddings. You all but have a welcome mat out … ‘Bridezillas accepted and welcomed.’ ” Shoving off the counter, she joined Roz at the island. “Gimme one of those before you eat them all.”
Roz pushed a cookie into her hand and Lena bit down. Mouth full of macadamias, white chocolate, and cranberries, she made her way to the coffeepot. “Since you can’t have a White Russian, you want some coffee?”
“No.” Roslyn sighed. “The last thing I need right now is coffee. I’m supposed to be meeting the bride and her mom in a half hour to discuss the floral arrangements.”
In the middle of getting a clean mug from the cabinet, Lena frowned. “Discuss the floral arrangements … the wedding is tomorrow.”
“Exactly. Which is why I need cookies.” She huffed out a breath. “Damn. I really do need that White Russian, you know. But I’ll have to settle for the cookies.”
Lena smiled as her friend went for another one. That emergency stash wasn’t going to last the day, much less the weekend. She thought through her schedule and decided she might try to make up another batch. She could probably find the time. It sounded like Roz would probably need it. They were all going to need it, probably.
“Does she want to change the floral arrangements or what?”
Roz groaned. There was a weird thunk, followed by her friend’s muffled voice. “I don’t know. She just wanted to discuss the flowers. She had some concerns.” There were two more thunks.
“Well, banging your head on the counter isn’t going to do much good … unless you hit it hard enough to knock yourself out. Otherwise, all it’s going to do is give you a headache.”
“I’ve already got a headache,” Roz muttered.
“Look, if she does have the idea of changing the arrangements around, explain to her that the florist here closes at noon on Fridays. Somebody will have already made sure the orders are covered, but changing the orders would just be too difficult, and it could be too chancy to try someplace outside of town. If you lay it on thick enough, she’s not going to want to risk it.”
“Hmmm. Good point.” The stool scraped against the tile floor as Roz stood up. “I knew there was a reason I hired you.”
“You hired me for my cookies,” Lena said, her voice dry.
“Another reason, then.” She took a deep breath. “Okay, no more cookies. I’m going to check on a few things before I go talk to my … client.”
“Good luck. But do me a favor … if she decides she needs a last-minute menu change? Stonewall her. I don’t care how, and I don’t care what you say. Stonewall her.”
“This woman can’t be stonewalled.” Roz sighed. “I think she might just be Stonewall. His reincarnation or something. You can’t stonewall a Stonewall, right?”
“Figure a way out.” There was no way she was doing a last-minute menu change.
IF YOU SEE HER
CHAPTER
ONE
“SHE’S A DISTURBED WOMAN, I’M AFRAID TO SAY.”
Remington Jennings pinched the bridge of his nose and tried not to think about the sad green eyes and silken brown hair of one Hope Carson. “Disturbed, how? Can you help me out any here, Detective Carson?”
On the other end of the line, the man sighed. “Well, I’m reluctant to do that. You see, I wouldn’t have a DA on the phone, asking about my wife, if there wasn’t trouble. And I don’t want to cause her trouble.”
“She’s your ex-wife and she’s already got trouble. Do you want her to get the help she needs or not?” Remy asked, his voice taking on a sharp edge. Hell, anybody with half a brain could see that woman wouldn’t hurt a fly unless she was just pushed …
“You want to help her, is that it, Jennings?” The detective laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. It was sad and bitter.
&nb
sp; “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have called. I’m not trying to lock her up and throw away the key here. Help me out, Detective.” Damn it, Carson, gimme a break.
“Help you out. You mean help you help Hope.” Once more, Joseph Carson sighed. He was Hope’s ex and a cop from out west. He was also proving to be one hell of a pain in the ass.
Faintly, Remy heard a heavy creak. “Mr. Jennings, pardon my French, but you can’t help Hope, because she doesn’t fucking want help. She’s a very troubled young woman. She … shit, this is hard, but we hadn’t been married very long when she was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. She’s manipulative, a chameleon—she can make a person believe whatever they need to believe. You might think you’re seeing a woman you can help—if she’ll just let you. But that’s not the case. You’re seeing what she wants you to see.”
Remy clenched his jaw, closed his hand around the pen so tightly it snapped.
Shit—that … no. Not right. Everything inside screeched just how wrong that was. It couldn’t be right—it just couldn’t.
But his voice was cool, collected, as he said, “Borderline personality disorder, you said? Does she have a history of violence?”
Long, tense moments of silence passed and finally, Carson said, “Yeah. There’s a history of violence. Only against herself … and me. I kept it very well hidden. I didn’t want people thinking bad things about her, and on my part … well, I was ashamed. For her, for myself, for both of us. It wasn’t until things got really bad that I couldn’t hide it anymore.”
“You’re telling me she was violent with you?” Remy knew he needed to be making notes, processing this.
But he couldn’t—couldn’t process, couldn’t even wrap his mind around it. That woman lifting her hand against somebody?
If You Know Her: A Novel of Romantic Suspense Page 32
