Dead Set
An Aspen Falls Novel
Melissa Pearl
Anna Cruise
© Copyright 2018 Melissa Pearl & Anna Cruise
www.melissapearlauthor.com
www.melissapearlauthor.com/page/anna-cruise/
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover art (copyright) by Shayne Leighton
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Contents
Acknowledgments
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
Dear reader…
Acknowledgments
This book would not have been possible without the help and support of a whole slew of people. First and foremost, my darling friend Melissa Pearl, who literally lives across the world from me. When she approached me about working on this series together, I was neck-deep in writing cozy mysteries and thrillers with my author husband, far removed from the romance world I’d lived in three years earlier. I missed writing romance, but I loved writing mysteries, too! When Melissa suggested we marry the two with a romantic suspense series, I was sold. Of course, having the chance to work with her also sealed the deal for me, as she is pretty much my most favorite lady in the writing world.
No mystery I write is possible without Jeff, my husband. He is always willing to answer my questions, brainstorm ideas, and hold my hand when writer’s block or impending deadlines make me want to curl into a fetal position. He is my rock, and I would quite simply be lost without him. (He is also the person who will end up in jail with me if NSA really is listening in on our conversations and scanning our search histories as we figure out the best way to poison someone, how to access a military base without being caught, the length of time it takes bodies to decompose…well, you get the idea.)
A huge thank you to Rachael for all her work in promoting this series. Your organization and attention to detail, along with your unending enthusiasm for these books, is more than anything I could have asked for.
Most importantly, though, a thank you to you, our readers. I know that trying a new author is sometimes a gamble, and I’m probably new to an awful lot of you. Thanks for taking a chance on me, and for allowing the characters I’ve grown to love spend a little time with you. I hope they’ve stolen a small piece of your heart, and I hope you’re as anxious as I am to dive into the next Aspen Falls story.
xx
Anna
To those who love a little mystery with their romance.
This book is for you.
Prologue
The phone was ringing.
Alaina saw the name and immediately cringed.
She didn’t want to answer it.
But there was only so many times she could ignore the caller.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and raised the phone to her ear. “Hello—”
“Alaina!” Her mother’s voice was racked with sobs.
She stiffened, her senses on high alert. “Mother?”
“Alaina!” Her name, dragged out, a half-howl, half-sob.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
She never called her “Mom.”
Not ever.
The phone clattered to the floor.
The sobs, the howls, the keening continued.
Alaina clutched the phone tighter, pressing it to her ear.
Panic gripped her.
Seized her.
“Mom!” she shouted. “Mom? What’s wrong?”
A new voice spoke into the phone. A deeper voice.
Alaina instinctively shied away from it, her body tensing as her father gruffly said, “It’s your brother.”
Noah?
What could possibly have her mother panicked over Noah? He was too good to do anything bad. He was a high school gamer, more in love with his computer than anything else. Kids like that didn’t cause their mothers to cry.
Unless…
Alaina frowned as a deep foreboding she didn’t want to acknowledge stirred in the pit of her stomach.
She swallowed. “What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
Alaina struggled to breathe. “How?”
“Suicide.”
1
Sunday, March 18th
11:20am
Alaina Dans stared at the block of granite in front of her. It was smooth and shiny, a pebbled gray and black, the way granite should look. It was St. Cloud granite, mined and crafted right here in Minnesota. Only the finest for her family.
The etched name on the surface of the stone was still clear, still easy to read.
It should’ve been.
The stone had been erected only weeks earlier.
A gust of wind howled through the bare-branch trees and the heavy limbs creaked above her. Alaina tucked her chin to her neck and pulled her coat tighter around her slender frame. The thick Columbia jacket and warm Sorrel boots she wore kept her body protected from the harsh arctic air blowing in from the north, but they did nothing for the exposed skin on her face.
She blinked, trying to stem the tears building behind her eyes. But they fell free, streaking down her cheeks, instantly freezing and sticking to her skin. Angrily, she pulled a gloved hand free from its pocket and slashed at them.
She bit her lip and forced her eyes back to the headstone. Her eyes misted again when she focused on the name.
Noah Dans.
She let out a shaky breath and dropped to her knees. The snow on the ground quickly saturated her jeans, soaking through to her skin, numbing her.
Good. Her body could feel as numb as her mind.
As numb as her heart.
She pulled off a glove and dropped it. The red of the wool fabric was a stark contrast to the pristine white of the snow. She was grateful for the storm that had dumped a few inches just two days earlier. It hid the mound of dirt in front of her, the earth that had been dug up with a backhoe, the dirt so frozen it had come out in hunks, almost like pieces of granite themselves.
She st
epped to the side, then reached out and touched the headstone. The wind stabbed at her fingers like a tiny thousand needles and she flexed them, almost as if she were reveling in the pain, the numbness. With her pointer finger, she traced the “N,” giving herself time to feel the smoothness of the stone. No, she wasn’t giving herself time. She was making herself do this, almost as if it were a form of punishment.
You will touch those letters! Every single one of them. Slowly. Pay attention!
She did this with each letter, tracing every single one of them until she had spelled out her brother’s name.
Noah Dans.
Her fingers moved to the next engraved line. The dates.
The date of his birth.
The date of his death.
She fixated on this date, her eyes locked on the seven numbers.
2.
22.
2018.
She worked the numbers over in her mind, wondering if there was a pattern to them, a message.
Of course there wasn’t.
That wouldn’t make any sense.
But neither did the fact that her younger brother was dead. He wasn’t at school, he wasn’t at home, he wasn’t with friends.
He was buried in the ground beneath her, his body forever trapped in a mahogany coffin, his grave marked with a slab of granite.
Only the finest, she thought bitterly. Only the finest.
Church bells from town rang in the distance, a steady chime that pierced the silence. She could see the people filing out of the white clapboard building, its stained-glass windows muted in the weak March sunshine, rushing to their cars to hurry from one warm enclosure to the next. Rushing home to lunch, to homework, to chores.
She closed her eyes.
Noah would never rush to anything again.
Images and thoughts flooded her mind—of Noah alive, and then of the days after his death, of the funeral and the reception afterward, where people brought her lukewarm coffee and plates of cookies, and murmured their condolences. It had taken everything she had not to scream and rage and smash her plate against the wall.
Her brother was dead.
A sob escaped her lips, a sound that was more like a howl, like a banshee, and she wondered if the churchgoers could hear her, the same way she had heard their bells just a moment ago.
It was the first time she had cried since…
Since Noah died.
Alaina forced her eyes open, forced herself to look at the name etched on the granite. She was at eye level with it now, face-to-face with the gravestone.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered brokenly. The tears flowed freely, each streak arresting midway down her cheek, freezing solid against her skin. She reached out a finger to trace them. They felt like scars and she wished they would stay, a permanent testament to her anguish.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, louder this time, her voice breaking. She took a deep breath and then coughed as the frigid air filled her lungs. Her nose burned.
She tried again. “I don’t know what happened to you. I know what they’re saying, but I don’t believe it.” She shook her head, and the strands of hair not trapped under her hat tickled her jaw. “I’m going to find out the truth, Noah.”
She leaned in and wrapped her arms around the gravestone. She laid her cheek against its frigid surface. The engraved letters and numbers scratched her skin, slicing through the frozen trail of tears. She pressed her face harder against it.
“The truth,” she whispered, closing her eyes. If she tried hard enough, could she convince herself that she was holding her brother instead of his gravestone?
She didn’t know.
She drew in a shaky breath but kept her eyes closed, her arms encasing the stone marker.
If she tried hard enough, could she convince herself that she had been a good sister? That she hadn’t ignored him? That she hadn’t forgotten about him? That she hadn’t refused his calls or his requests to see her?
A fresh sob rose inside of her.
No.
There was no way she could convince herself of that.
2
Monday, March 19th
8:45am
Lucas McGowan surveyed the scene in front of him.
It wasn’t pretty.
In fact, it was pretty much a fucking mess.
He kicked the door shut behind him, balancing his takeout coffee in one hand and the keys he was still holding in the other. He sidestepped the boxes the UPS guy had delivered last week, boxes that he hadn’t bothered to unpack yet.
He tossed his keys on the desk near the back wall, framing the only window in the room. This was his office, had been his office for months, ever since he’d set up shop as a private investigator, but he still thought of it more like a closet. The size, small; the shape, long and narrow.
And the mess. The mess was definitely reminiscent of his teenage years. Or an episode of Hoarders.
He shifted a stack of papers so he had a place to set his coffee down, then shrugged out of his jacket, yanked the gray beanie off his head, and tossed both to the floor. There wasn’t a hook to hang them on.
His gaze shot to one of the boxes stacked against the wall, a different stack than the ones delivered last week. There actually was a hook. He’d ordered one a few weeks ago. He just hadn’t unpacked it yet.
He shook his head and reached for his coffee, taking a long sip, savoring the warmth and the caffeine. A cup of coffee from Lulu’s was about as good as it got on a cold winter morning. And Rosie, the newest server there and Blaine’s girlfriend, knew just how he liked it: a generous splash of cream and a shot of vanilla.
Lucas settled in his chair and flipped open the laptop on his desk. He knew his calendar was clear for the day—he had work to do to finish up a couple of cases, but nothing that would take him out of the office—but he wanted a visual confirmation.
Double-check everything. Be a stickler for details.
He didn’t know if those were traits he’d been born with or that had developed from being on the force. Probably a little of both.
After a quick glance at the calendar, he opened a new tab and clicked through to the ad he’d placed.
Nada. Nothing. Zilch.
Irritation welled up inside of him. He picked up one of the pens scattered on the desk and began to tap it against the wood laminate surface.
He needed an assistant. He needed help.
It was a conclusion he’d reached last week. He’d been mulling it over for weeks—for months, actually: would he need help? AFPD had a healthy support staff for its police officers, and he was well aware that organization and paperwork were not areas of strength for him. Far from it. Having someone on board to help with those details would only be a good thing. It would allow him to focus on cases, to build a reputation in a new field, to turn nothing into something. To succeed.
He’d been all set to find someone right away, but reality set in pretty quickly after that first week, after he’d paid rent on his office space and tallied the receipts from all the equipment he’d purchased to start this new venture. There was no way he was going to be paying for anyone to help him out. Hell, he’d be lucky to see a paycheck himself any time soon.
And so he’d made do. Taken every case that had come his way, pouring every ounce of energy and every second of time he had into them. His business grew, at least to the point where he was no longer bleeding money, but the mess surrounding him had grown, too.
Lucas looked at the room with critical eyes. There were files stacked on a chair and on the floor, haphazard piles that threatened to topple at the slightest touch. The filing cabinet he’d purchased secondhand, a metal monstrosity that sported its fair share of rust, sat vacant and unused. And the boxes. He didn’t want to total up the number of boxes that needed to be sorted through, the items inside put away and organized.
He sighed. To do all of this, to get everything put away and to have his office looking like a professional establishment in
stead of some slacker holed up in their parents’ basement, was going to take a shit ton of time. Time he didn’t have.
There was a knock on the door and Lucas looked up, startled. Clients didn’t come to his office, for obvious reasons. He always met them somewhere else: Lulu’s, Shorty’s, the tavern in town, or their own homes or offices. Hell, he’d met people in parks and down by the river, too. People could be weird when hiring a private investigator and often wanted to keep it on the down-low. Lucas didn’t care. As long as the case was legit, he didn’t have to break (too many) laws, and there was a paycheck at the end of it, he was willing to do pretty much whatever.
The door pushed open.
“Is this McGowan & Company?” a girl asked from the doorway.
She took a step into the office and Lucas’s eyes widened as he corrected his assessment. This was not a girl but a woman, probably in her mid-twenties, who was now standing in his office. Long blonde hair peeked out of a red knit hat, and the puffy white coat she was wearing swallowed her small frame. She was holding a manila folder in her gloved hand.
“Lucas McGowan?” she asked, her blue eyes landing on him.
Lucas stood up and cleared his throat. “That’s me.”
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