Enemy Inside (Captive #1)

by Penelope Marshall

  He stood up and flattened out his black pinstriped suit, his gold diamond-encrusted pinky ring glistened in the harsh lights of the room. “I’ll be available for anything you need, just give me a holler.”

  “Mr. Crenshaw—could you by chance tell me the detective’s name?”

  “Umm, I believe it’s Detective Bidwell.”

  My face went hot; there was no way I ever met Detective Bidwell before today, if in fact I dreamt the whole two years.

  What could that mean? Did I have some sort of premonition? Or could my mother have been sending me a message from the grave, telling me who her killer was? After all, she did haunt the entire dream.

  My mind went wild with questions as I lay in bed with an IV strapped to my arm, injecting me with a liquid that made me feel all warm and relaxed inside like a good shot of scotch. But the one thing I did know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was that Zander was alive. And even though he didn’t know me past being his patient for the last four and a half hours, I felt a great relief knowing I would be able to see him without having to visit a grave.

  Epilogue

  Six months later…

  Hearing the lock disengaging on the front door, I hurried down the stairs wearing my most flattering, form-fitting mini dress. I hadn’t seen Zander in months and I wanted him to want me the minute he opened the door.

  “Zander!!” I squealed, jumping into his arms, causing him to drop his luggage and military combat boots on the hardwood floor.

  “Hey, sweetheart. I missed you so much,” Zander said, crashing his lips against mine.

  We stood there for a moment, locked in each other’s arms before I guided him toward the living room, still clinging to his arm as tightly as possible.

  “I missed you too. I can’t believe you were gone for a whole two months. I thought it would never end,” I whined into his neck, burying my face and nose to inhale the scent I had missed so much.

  “Well, when duty calls, you’re not really given much choice. Honestly, I never thought they would pull me back into active duty.”

  “Well, you’re home now and that’s all that matters,” I said, smiling from ear to ear.

  “Home—I still can’t believe I get to live in this big ol’ place with the woman of my dreams.”

  I blushed.

  “How’s everything been while I was gone? Any news since I last spoke with you?” Zander questioned as he sat down on the couch, placing me comfortably in his lap.

  “Detective Bidwell finally got him to admit he killed my parents, in exchange for a slightly reduced sentence. But really, what’s slightly reduced when you get twenty years knocked off of a hundred.”

  “Well, Bidwell has you to thank for all that. He would have never looked in Ty’s direction if you hadn’t pointed him there from the get go.”

  I didn’t reply. Instead, I looked down at the small shell colored plastic buttons on his light blue collared shirt, straightening each to match the one above it. Actually, I had my mother to thank for that. I know in my heart of hearts she orchestrated that whole dream to tell me who her killer was. I just hoped that in bringing him to justice it set her soul to rest.

  “Did he ever say why he did it?” Zander asked, caressing my cheek with his thumb, his face solemn as he awaited my response.

  “Yeah, he did. The son of a bitch wanted a bigger donation so he could pocket more money. My father found out what he was doing and Ty killed him to keep him from going to the cops. My mother just happened to be collateral damage—then there was something about self-preservation.” I shook my head. “Money!” I emphasized. “Can you believe it?”

  “What a low life, money hungry, piece of shit,” Zander shook his head as he rocked me back and forth, the sun’s rays blanketing us in its warmth as I snuggled into his embrace.

  “I’m just glad it’s all over and I’ll never have to hear Ty Crenshaw’s name again,” I whispered back.

  “I would have never taken him for a killer. But they always say that the psychos are the people you would never expect.”

  I rubbed his arms. “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore. I wanna talk about you. How was the mission?”

  He chuckled. “I don’t wanna talk about that, either. You know what I want to do?”

  “What’s that?” I asked curiously.

  “Why don’t you finally tell me about this amazing dream you had while you were passed out in the hospital.”

  After the hospital, I had decided not to discuss all the details with him, partly because I was embarrassed. “Why do you need to know? A girl needs to have some secrets, ya know.”

  He chuckled. “Okay, okay—well answer me this—did I at least make you fall in love with me?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Well, I wanna know if there’s a chance?” he replied in a smoky voice, which electrified me to my core. “Correction—I need to know if there’s a chance.”

  “Are you serious right now? Of course, you made me fall in love with you, and not just in the dream,” I professed as I twined my fingers with his.

  He smiled. “I wanna hear our love story.”

  I looked outside and thought about the dream that had felt so real to me. Would I tell him only the good parts, the parts that made me fall in love with him? Or would I tell him every dark detail? Was I ready—was he?

  I looked up at him and smiled. “Well, it all started…”

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  Acknowledgements

  I'd like to thank everyone who helped make this book possible:

  My wonderful beta readers and friends, who are willing to read anything I throw at them:

  Irma Perez, Josan Badillo, Liz Martinez, Alma Lopez, Jeanette Kelley, and Vicki Joerg, and my Dad.

  Charity Chimni, my all-around Ass Kicker and Superhero.

  About the Author

  Penelope Marshall was born in the Philippines, and raised in Southern California.

  She picked up writing in early 2016 and instantly fell in love with the craft. Her writing runs the romance gamut from sweet romantic comedies, to tough alpha male military suspense thrillers, with a little young adult, and paranormal thrown into the mix.

  A good plot twist is what drives Penelope’s writing, striving for that jaw dropping moment at the end of each book.

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