Love Inspired Suspense July 2015 #1 (45 page)

Meagan shook her head but didn't meet his eyes.

“Someone took a big chance coming in here when you were just riding to The Market and back.”

“Maybe he thought I was going out for the evening.”

“Or maybe his intent was to be waiting inside the house when you got home.”

Her tight jaw and the determination in her eyes told him that was something she had already considered. And was trying hard not to think about.

He stepped closer and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Tell me what you're hiding from, Meagan.”

Fear filled her eyes—just as when she had faced the reporters. And when she'd thought he might have overheard her conversation with Anna. But she didn't respond.

“Tell me what's going on.” He kept his tone soothing, nonthreatening. “Let me help you.”

Her gaze dipped to her feet, and several more moments passed. Finally, she shook her head. Whatever secrets lay in her past, she was nowhere near ready to let him in.

His chest tightened, his desire to protect her warring with her determination to hold on to her secrets. If only she would talk. If she was running from some psycho ex-boyfriend, she could have the whole Cedar Key Police Department watching out for her.

And one officer in particular staying especially close. Because those haunted green eyes weren't going to let him do otherwise.

That had to be her story—she was running from a psycho ex-boyfriend. But there was another possibility, one he didn't want to consider—that she might be running from the law. Though the thought had lodged itself somewhere in the back of his mind, it was too much at odds with what little he had seen of Meagan. She couldn't be a fugitive. She seemed too sweet. Too pure.

But so did a lot of con artists.

Ever since arriving in Cedar Key, Meagan had kept to herself. She went to and from her job at Darci's Collectibles and Gifts and, every few days, took out that little boat of hers. But any invitations to social activities she politely turned down.

Maybe it was time to get to know her, beyond occasional casual greetings. Maybe she needed his help.

But if the opposite was true, and she was running from a criminal past, he would do what he had to do. He would bring her to justice. It was his job.

No matter how sweet and innocent she seemed.

TWO

T
he air was chilly and damp, the darkness complete. Meagan felt her way along the narrow passage, palms turned outward, the stone floor cold and rough beneath the soles of her feet. Why was she barefoot? Where did she leave her shoes?

She crossed her arms over her stomach, clutching the fabric at her sides. Silk. She wasn't only barefoot, she was also dressed in her nightgown. Its thin spaghetti straps and short length offered little covering, which further amplified her sense of vulnerability.

She continued down the passageway, touching the walls only enough to stay in the center of the path. Sticky strands fell across her face and neck, and a startled shriek shot up her throat.

Spiderwebs.

She stamped and spun, clawing at her face, running her fingers through her hair and brushing her hands down her front in a frantic, spastic dance.

Spiders. There were spiders in the passageway. Something passed over her bare foot, featherlight, and another scream made its way up her throat. She stumbled forward at a half run. Spiders were everywhere—crunching beneath her feet as she ran and falling into her hair.

Suddenly, the ground dropped from beneath her and she fell, landing with a splash in a lake. The water folded over her, her momentum propelling her deeper. She was going to drown. She had escaped the spiders but was going to drown.

No.
She wasn't a six-year-old child anymore, sinking beneath the surface for the final time. She was a determined adult who had learned how to swim, who had spent months conquering her fear of the water.

With strong kicks and smooth strokes, she propelled herself upward. Moments later, she burst through the surface and sucked in huge gulps of air, eyes still squeezed shut.

A hand clamped around her throat.

Her eyes snapped open.

Edmund.

She sprang upright in bed with a gasp, nightgown drenched with perspiration and heart racing. Since escaping Edmund, she was no stranger to nightmares. But this one was the granddaddy of them all, preying on every one of her fears. Well, not
every
one. There were no snakes.

Edmund's mistake had been falling in love with an illusion. Every night, he had come alone to the restaurant where she'd worked, and she had waited on him. The waitress persona had been sweet and compliant, taking care of his every need. Unfortunately, he hadn't been able to see past the facade to the strong, determined woman beneath—a woman who had begun working at age sixteen, to help support her younger sister and give her opportunities she herself never had. Who had waitressed nights and weekends and gone to school days to improve her own lot in life.

When he realized he hadn't gotten the woman he thought he had, he'd vowed to break her.

He almost did.

Meagan climbed from bed, grabbed her robe and headed toward the door, determined to shake off the last remnants of the dream. Having someone break into her house had left her more jittery than normal. Even though Hunter had nailed a board over the broken pane, her security had been shattered along with the glass.

Running into Anna hadn't helped, either. Maybe it was coincidence, but when she'd described the “reporter” who had come in asking questions, she'd painted a perfect image of Lou, Edmund's butler.

Though Lou held the title, he wasn't a stuffy, proper Englishman walking around in a tux. He was more like a bodyguard, a tough New Yorker right out of the Bronx, with the muscles and scar to match. Whoever had created that scar had likely fared far worse than Lou had.

Meagan glanced at the clock on her way out of the room. It was only three-thirty, but her night was over, at least as far as sleep was concerned. She would be better off picking up a book.

As she reached for the light switch, her gaze fell on the window near the desk. Behind the slits in the miniblinds, a shadow passed by. She froze, arm extended. A cold knot of fear settled in her stomach. Had her intruder come back?

She dropped her hand and shut her eyes against the image that filled her mind—massive arms, a rock-hard chest, an inch-long scar marring one tanned cheek.

But Lou wouldn't hurt her. Not that he wouldn't be capable of it. He would just tell Edmund. Whatever Edmund had planned for her, he would want to carry out himself. And he would take pleasure in it.

She backed away from the switch, heart pounding out an erratic rhythm. Once she had retrieved her phone from the nightstand, she locked herself inside the bathroom and dialed 911. Then she sank to the edge of the tub. And for the five thousandth time in the past year, she wished she could somehow turn back the clock.

When she'd met Edmund, she hadn't been looking. She'd been focused on work and school and keeping her head above water. But Edmund had poured on the charm and swept her off her feet. He was so confident and powerful. Calm and in control of his emotions. The complete opposite of her abusive father.

Now she knew better. What she had seen as calm control was actually coldness at its extreme. A heart that had stopped feeling years ago.

A siren sounded in the distance, grew louder, then fell silent. Several more minutes passed before she found the nerve to step from the bathroom. When she swung open the front door, a police cruiser sat in her driveway. To her left, the beam of a flashlight shone from around the side of the house, and to her right, truck headlights moved toward her.

Moments later, Bobby appeared from the side of the house, flashlight in hand, and the truck eased to a stop. Hunter jumped out. What was
he
doing here? She cinched her robe more tightly.

Hunter's gaze swept her up and down. When his eyes locked on hers, they were filled with concern. He had offered to stay last night, to sleep on the couch. Maybe she shouldn't have been so quick to turn him down.

“I heard the siren and was afraid your intruder had come back. Are you all right?”

“I saw someone move past the window.”

Bobby interrupted their conversation. “You'd better look at this.” His expression was grim, his tone ominous.

Dread trickled over her. She hurried, barefoot, down the steps and around the side of the house, Hunter close on her heels.

“What is it?”

Instead of answering, Bobby raised the flashlight. Her heart dropped into her stomach, and her knees almost buckled. Painted in red, twelve-inch-tall capital letters was the word
MURDERER
. The letters stretched across the span of siding between her bedroom and living room windows, sloppy, painted in a hurry, but quite legible. Rivulets trailed from each letter. Like blood.

Meagan crossed her arms over her stomach, steeling herself against the nausea churning there. Her past had followed her to Cedar Key. Someone in California had found her.

Or someone in Cedar Key knew who she really was.

“Meagan?”

Hunter's voice penetrated her spinning thoughts. She lifted her gaze to his face. The tenderness that was usually there was gone. His jaw was set in a firm line, and his blue eyes held suspicion.

“What is this about?”

Even his tone was harsh. However this turned out, he wouldn't cut her any slack. No matter how gentle and caring he had seemed previously.

“I—I don't know.”

Bobby turned to go. “I'm getting my camera.”

Hunter stayed. He put his hands on his hips, his expression even more harsh, if that was possible. “Someone just painted
murderer
on your house. That's not a childish prank. Tell us what's going on.”

“I don't know.” This time she managed to put more strength behind the words. “I'm not a killer.”

Even though she'd been one of only two people in the house when Edmund's gardener was murdered. Even though her fingerprints were all over the murder weapon. Even though the blow had been delivered by someone left-handed.

The charges against her were dropped. There was no motive. And the investigators didn't believe she had the strength to do that kind of damage to Charlie's skull, even with a heavy brass candlestick.

She hadn't been able to help much with the investigation. All she knew at the time was that Charlie owed someone money. And that she didn't kill him.

Then she'd found out who had. And she'd disappeared.

Hunter took two steps toward her, his stance intimidating. “Give me one reason I should believe you. You're obviously running from something. I'd hoped it was a psycho ex-boyfriend. But this doesn't look good.”

“I've never killed anyone.”

Hunter didn't respond, just studied her for several moments. He was standing close, invading her personal space. But she refused to step back. Or squirm under his intense scrutiny.

Bobby returned with a camera and began snapping pictures while he talked. “Any idea who did this?”

She faced him, giving Hunter a stiff shoulder. Bobby was the officer on duty. She would direct her answers to him.

“I have no idea.” And that was the truth. If someone was blaming her for Charlie's death, why wait till now? There had been plenty of opportunity to threaten her earlier. After Charlie was killed, she'd spent another two months in Edmund's house.

Bobby snapped another photo, the flash blinding in the darkness. “Do you think this incident and someone breaking into your house earlier tonight are related?”

“Possibly. But I don't see the connection.”

“I'm going to look around. The grass is too thick right here, but I'd like to see if the person left behind any footprints. I'm also going to take some samples of the paint.”

A spark of hope lit the despair that had fallen over her. Maybe they would be able to tell where it came from and who'd purchased it.

Her gaze shifted back to the wall. The letters were barely visible in the dim glow of a nearby streetlight—dark, ugly stains against the white siding. “Can I wash this off as soon as you're finished?” Since it was brushed instead of spray painted, maybe it would scrub clean.

“Sure.”

Hunter followed Bobby around front, and Meagan breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he was done grilling her. Bobby came across as an investigator seeking the answers he needed to solve the case. Hunter's questions held an undertone of accusation.

Instead of leaving, he reappeared a minute later with a flashlight, ready to help Bobby with the investigation. Fine. She would go inside and leave them to their work.

A short time later there was a soft knock on her front door. Both officers stood on her porch. “We're finished now.” It was Bobby who spoke.

“Thanks. I'll get that paint washed off.”

When she bade them good-night, Bobby took the cue and left. Hunter didn't.

“Do you have a scrub brush? I'll help you clean that up.”

“Thanks, but I've got it.”

Stubbornness crept into his features. “I'm not leaving until you're locked safely back inside. So you may as well let me help you.”

As she stepped out the door with a bucket, some dish soap and a brush, relief nudged some of the annoyance aside. With a prowler on the loose, standing outside alone in the middle of the night wasn't the smartest thing to do. It was almost worth the suspicious glances and prying questions to have Hunter's protection.

But over the next ten minutes, there weren't any suspicious glances
or
prying questions. He insisted on doing the scrubbing and had her hold the hose. The paint seemed to come off well, with little, if any, tint remaining behind. The real test would be when the sun came up.

He walked her to the front door. “Keep everything locked. And call if anything at all seems off. I'll give you my cell number.”

“That's okay. If it's an emergency, I'll just call 911. I don't want to bother you.”

“It's no bother. It's my job.”

“Not when you're off duty.”

He started to turn, then hesitated. “Don't leave Cedar Key.” It wasn't a request. It was a command.

“Don't worry. I won't.” She had no choice. As much as she longed to run, that wasn't an option. Her funds were too low. The bus ticket from California had taken a good chunk of what she had squirreled away. And getting set up in the small house she rented had taken most of the rest. By the time Darci had given her the part-time job in her gift shop, Meagan hadn't been sure how she was going to eat the following week.

No, she would have to save up much more than a measly four hundred dollars before she was ready to disappear again. Until then, she was stuck. Regardless of who might be stalking her.

She watched Hunter step off the porch, then closed and locked the door. For some reason, the emptiness of the house seemed more pronounced than ever, mirroring the emptiness of her life.

Instead of returning to bed, she opened the desk drawer and removed two paperbacks she had picked up at a garage sale last weekend. A third book lay underneath. It was old—a small, thick book of classic poetry—and one of the few things she had brought with her from California. It had belonged to Charlie. She had borrowed it so many times, he had joked that he would will it to her when he died.

That day came sooner than either of them had anticipated.

But the books weren't what she was after. The drawer held one other cherished item—a five-by-seven photo. It was the only one she had. She'd left all the albums behind, with their pictures of family camping trips, picnics, her sister's roller-hockey tournaments. She'd had no choice. If one had been missing, Edmund would have known the truth.

So she had settled for a single photo, hidden years ago when a more current one was put into the frame in front of it. It was of the three of them—her mom, her sister and her. Meagan had been twelve at the time, her sister only six. Ever since their dad went to jail for the last time and their mom became both mother and father, the three of them had been inseparable. Until Edmund.

One of his first steps in taking over her life had been talking her into quitting school. Not permanently. Just one semester. A break to focus all her attention on getting her art career off the ground. If she would move into his house, she could give up her waitressing job and do nothing but paint.