Save Your Breath

by Leigh, Melinda

  ALSO BY MELINDA LEIGH

  MORGAN DANE NOVELS

  Say You’re Sorry

  Her Last Goodbye

  Bones Don’t Lie

  What I’ve Done

  Secrets Never Die

  SCARLET FALLS NOVELS

  Hour of Need

  Minutes to Kill

  Seconds to Live

  SHE CAN SERIES

  She Can Run

  She Can Tell

  She Can Scream

  She Can Hide

  “He Can Fall” (A Short Story)

  She Can Kill

  MIDNIGHT NOVELS

  Midnight Exposure

  Midnight Sacrifice

  Midnight Betrayal

  Midnight Obsession

  THE ROGUE SERIES NOVELLAS

  Gone to Her Grave (Rogue River)

  Walking on Her Grave (Rogue River)

  Tracks of Her Tears (Rogue Winter)

  Burned by Her Devotion (Rogue Vows)

  Twisted Truth (Rogue Justice)

  THE WIDOW’S ISLAND NOVELLA SERIES

  A Bone to Pick

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Melinda Leigh

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542092838

  ISBN-10: 1542092833

  Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson

  For Charlie, Annie, and Tom—

  you are my world.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Where is she?

  Hiding in the shadows outside Olivia Cruz’s small white bungalow, he checked his watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. For the past few weeks, Olivia had left her house on Thursday evenings around five o’clock and returned by nine thirty. She should be home by now. Unless she’d changed her routine.

  He crossed his arms and tapped his chin with a forefinger.

  Maybe she wasn’t coming home at all tonight. She occasionally spent the night at her boyfriend’s house. Sometimes, the boyfriend slept here, but that hadn’t happened on a Thursday night.

  He’d give her another twenty minutes. If she didn’t show up, he’d return to his van. He’d left the vehicle at a park about a mile away and jogged to Olivia’s house. For now, he was comfortable and in a good position near her garage. A six-foot section of fencing at the front corner of the bungalow shielded the garbage can from passersby and provided him with an excellent hiding place. The September night had a pleasant snap. He peered around the wooden panel and scanned the street. The suburban neighborhood was quiet enough to hear the soft sounds of the night. A breeze rustled dead leaves on the grass, and a dog barked in the distance.

  Headlights swept across blacktop as a car turned onto the street. Excitement and nerves warmed his blood.

  Is it her?

  He took a long, deep breath of woodsmoke-scented air and controlled his heart rate. He’d studied his target and planned the night with meticulous precision. Yesterday, he’d collected the surveillance cameras he’d planted several weeks before. Designed to catch thieves stealing packages from doorsteps, they looked like landscape rocks. With sixty days of battery life and cellular transmission, the cameras had allowed him to monitor Olivia’s activity remotely. The cameras—and plenty of good old-fashioned surveillance from his van and the shed of a vacant house behind hers—had enabled him to paint an accurate picture of her daily routine.

  He would take no chances.

  The vehicle approached. A white Prius. Olivia’s car. She was home.

  It was on.

  He cracked his neck and pulled the gloves from his pocket. After tugging them on, he opened his lightweight running backpack in which he carried a roll of duct tape, a length of rope, a mask, and a knife. His fingers traced the outline of a capped syringe in the chest pocket of his jacket.

  He had everything he needed.

  He pulled the mask from his backpack and put it on. In the unlikely event he was unsuccessful, his identity had to be protected. He’d prepared for every possible what-if. Having a Plan B was just as important as a Plan A. He could not get caught.

  The garage door rolled up, and the interior brightened. The Prius turned into the driveway of Olivia’s bungalow and drove into the garage. Listening, he poised on the balls of his feet and waited.

  Timing was key.

  Inside the garage, a car door opened, then closed. Olivia’s heels clicked on the concrete. He pictured her crossing the floor to the door that led into the house and then simultaneously opening the door and reaching for the button on the wall. Mounted to the ceiling, the garage door opener clicked and hummed. A moment later, the door began to roll down. He heard the interior door close. Like most people, Olivia went inside before the garage door fully closed.

  As it lowered, he ducked and stepped over the red-eye sensor into the garage. He had no time to waste. Olivia would have disarmed her security system using her fob from the car before she entered the house. From his surveillance over the past few weeks, he knew she would go into the kitchen, set down her purse, and remove her jacket and shoes before digging the fob out of her pocket. He had at least sixty seconds to get in before she reactivated the system—with him already inside the house. Olivia sometimes woke and paced her house in the middle of the night, so he knew she didn’t use motion detectors when she was at home.

  Counting off the seconds, he strode toward the door, his running shoes silent on the floor. His fingers closed around the knob, and he gave it a gentle twist. He pushed lightly and opened the door an inch. Pressing his eye to the crack, he looked inside. The
laundry room was empty, with only dim light bleeding in from the adjoining kitchen. This was the part he hadn’t been able to plan. He’d never been inside her house before. He knew only the basic layout of the rooms from what he could see through the windows.

  Pushing the door farther, he slid through the opening, then closed it soundlessly behind him, making sure to release the knob slowly. Then he stood and listened. A doorway led from the laundry room into the kitchen. The white-paneled door between the rooms stood open. A few breaths later, a soft beep signaled the reactivation of the alarm system, and he heard Olivia moving around in the kitchen. Footsteps approached, and sweat broke out under his arms. He glanced around, looking for a place to hide. There was a closet across the room, but he wouldn’t make it in time. His heartbeat thudded in his ears as he slid behind the open laundry room door and then pressed his back to the wall.

  Then he waited.

  He could overpower her here if necessary, but that wasn’t ideal. Olivia looked like a scrapper. She’d fight him. He preferred quick and easy.

  Her shadow passed across the doorway, and her steps retreated again. He heard the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing.

  He exhaled.

  Another door opened farther back in the house. Olivia was going into her bedroom. He crossed the tile in a few strides and opened the closet door. It was full of heavy winter boots and coats. Perfect. She wouldn’t be opening it tonight.

  He slid inside to wait for the house to become quiet again.

  For Olivia to go to sleep.

  For the perfect time to execute his plan.

  Chapter Two

  Olivia Cruz stared at her open closet. She’d spent the last hour rearranging her clothes for autumn. Technically, mid-September was still summer, but the weather in upstate New York had turned cool over the past week. The leaves were changing color and beginning to fall. Last week, she’d broken out her flannel pajamas. Tonight, she’d moved her sandals to a rear shelf and lined up a few pairs of ankle boots in front.

  Now what? She could separate her blouses by color.

  This is stupid.

  Her closet was already ridiculously, ruthlessly organized.

  She had an important decision to make, and she’d been procrastinating for days. She backed out of the walk-in closet and firmly closed the door. Sleep would help. But she’d managed little of that lately, and she dreaded lying in bed, staring at the ceiling for yet another night. She rubbed a lump of indigestion behind her breastbone and padded to the bathroom in search of an antacid.

  Her weekly dinner with her family had distracted her earlier in the evening. Her mother had served frijoles negros, Olivia’s favorite traditional Cuban dish. Olivia had overindulged, and the minute she’d left her parents’ house in Albany to make the hour drive back to Scarlet Falls, her true crime research had flashed right back into her mind and unsettled her stomach.

  Chewing an antacid, she mulled over her stunning discovery. The implications of what she’d learned further stirred the black beans and rice in her belly. As a journalist, her job was to seek the truth, not play judge or jury. But should she choose to pursue and publish this truth, other people could pay the price for her revelation—possibly with their lives.

  Her new book proposal was overdue, but Olivia’s predicament felt like a no-win situation. Ignoring the truth went against all her principles. Then again, so did putting other people in danger.

  But how much risk was involved? Could she live with being responsible for even a single innocent person’s death?

  Obsessing about her research had translated into three consecutive nights of insomnia. Enough was enough. She didn’t need to make this decision alone. What she needed was outside perspective. She brought the antacids with her into the bedroom, picked up her phone from the nightstand, and checked the time. Eleven o’clock. She sent a CALL ME IF UR UP text message to Lincoln Sharp, her . . .

  The word boyfriend seemed silly at their ages. She was forty-eight. Lincoln was fifty-three. They’d been dating for several months, and they spent the night together once or twice a week. She assumed their relationship was exclusive, although they hadn’t specifically discussed it.

  Labels weren’t important to either of them, but when she saw him or he called unexpectedly, the stirrings of excitement and joy in her blood made her feel like a teenager. Beyond her attraction to him, she respected him both personally and professionally.

  So why had she been stewing over her decision instead of asking for his opinion?

  Lincoln owned and operated a private investigation firm. As a retired police detective, his practical experience with the legal system—and his knowledge of criminal behavior—exceeded hers. She valued his insight and trusted him to keep her research confidential. If she decided to pursue the story, she would hire his firm to help with the investigative legwork anyway. She may as well bring him on board now.

  She burped. Her indigestion began to burn its way up her esophagus. She chewed a second antacid, the chalky taste coating her mouth. She reached for the glass of water on her nightstand and sipped.

  A few seconds later, her phone rang, and she pressed “Answer.”

  “Is everything OK?” Lincoln asked in a worried tone. Her late-night text was unusual.

  “Yes,” Olivia assured him.

  “I’m sorry I missed dinner with your parents again,” he said. “I wrapped up my case tonight. I should be able to make dinner next week.”

  He didn’t talk much about work, which was fine. She understood his professionalism and appreciated his need to maintain client confidentiality. But he had mentioned the case had involved a great deal of evening surveillance.

  “They understand,” she said. “I called because I’m stuck in my research, and I’d like your opinion. Are you free sometime tomorrow afternoon? I can come to your office.”

  “Sure.” Interest brightened his voice. “How much time do you want me to block out?”

  “An hour should do.” She considered his associates. Lincoln’s business partner, PI Lance Kruger, and Lance’s fiancée, defense attorney Morgan Dane, could also provide useful insight on Olivia’s dilemma. Morgan’s legal advice might be particularly helpful. “I’d like Morgan’s and Lance’s thoughts as well. Could you see if they’re available?”

  “Hold on. Let me check their digital calendars.” The line went quiet for a few breaths. “Lance should be here in the afternoon. Morgan has a client meeting at nine a.m. Her calendar is clear the rest of the day. How about I put you in the one p.m. spot?”

  “Perfect.” Olivia lowered the phone and made a note in the calendar app. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  “You know, when you texted”—Sharp’s voice deepened—“I had hoped this was a booty call.”

  A little thrill rushed through her, followed by another burp. Olivia rubbed the fire behind her breastbone. “Tonight isn’t a good night. I ate way too much of my mother’s food.”

  He snorted. “That happens. She’s an incredible cook.”

  “Plus, I have to get up early to take her to the doctor.” Her mother had offered her the couch for the night, but Olivia preferred her own bed.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “She’s worried about my sister’s separation, and her blood pressure has been up. She likes me with her as an extra set of ears.”

  “Makes sense. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Get some rest and feel better.”

  “Good night.” Olivia lowered the phone.

  Satisfied he would help her make her decision, she slid into bed and picked up a book. At midnight, she still wasn’t sleepy. She set down the book and redirected her mind. Lincoln was teaching her to meditate. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on her breaths. She conjured a mental image of the beach in her mind and synced her breathing to the ebb and flow of the imaginary waves. At first she had trouble concentrating, but eventually her body felt heavy.

  Olivia jolted, her heartbeat quickenin
g, sweat dampening her T-shirt.

  What was that?

  A glance at the clock on her nightstand told her hours had passed. It felt as if she’d just closed her eyes, but she must have fallen asleep. She scanned the darkness of her bedroom. Her gaze passed over her dresser and chair. Had she heard something real, or had it been a dream?

  She concentrated, listening hard to the sounds of her house, but she heard nothing unusual. A thunk and hum signaled the heater switching on. Hot air blew out of the floor vent and moved the sheers that hung over her windows.

  The alarm hadn’t sounded. She reached for her cell phone. It was far too early to rise for the day. She double-checked the security system app on her phone. The house was secure. She needed to go back to sleep.

  She shifted her legs under the covers, closed her eyes, and tried to get comfortable.

  Something whooshed. Her eyes snapped open. A large shape rushed toward her. A heavy body landed on top of her, pinning her to the mattress. The weight and size of her attacker felt male. She flailed and tried to push him off, but her arms and legs were trapped as he straddled her. She was cocooned in her comforter like a swaddled baby. Her throat constricted. She couldn’t scream.

  Panic sprinted through her bloodstream as she stared up at the dark assailant looming over her. His face seemed distorted, his features brighter and flatter than normal. He was wearing a mask.

  With a bolt of gut-twisting horror, she recognized the character as Michael Myers from the movie Halloween.

  A flash of terror shot up her spine. She inhaled, preparing to force a scream out of her tight throat.

  He slapped her across the face. Pain, bright and sharp, sang through her cheekbone but faded in seconds as her adrenaline surged. The scream died in her chest.

  He waved a knife in front of her face and then pressed a gloved finger to the rubber lips of the mask. “Shhh.”

  Olivia stilled. Given their positions, she couldn’t move anyway, and it was unlikely a neighbor would be able to hear her scream, not with her insulated windows closed.

  Pretend to cooperate. Wait for an opportunity.

  Her instinct was to flail, but he’d disabled both her flight and her fight responses. Her pulse echoed in her ears, each beat of her heart ramming against her breastbone. Her breaths came faster, until she was nearly hyperventilating.