Withholding Evidence (24 page)

“Probably. But worth it, I think.”

She nodded as she closed her eyes, envisioning what it would be like to share a home with Keith, hours spent reading, talking, and making love. She grinned at the mental picture and said, “I can’t wait until you organize my library.”

T
HANK YOU

T
HANK YOU FOR
reading
Withholding Evidence
. I hope you enjoyed it!

If you’d like to know when my next book is available, you can sign up for my new release e-mail list at
www.Rachel-Grant.net
. You can also follow me on Twitter at
@RachelSGrant
or like my Facebook page at
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. I’m also on Goodreads at
www.goodreads.com/RachelGrantAuthor
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A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I
’D LIKE TO
thank post-apocalyptic/thriller author and US Navy veteran Steven Konkoly for his willingness to answer even the most mundane questions about the US Navy and naval actions in the Balkans and Somalia over the last two decades. Also, thanks for providing a key piece of information at just the right moment, which helped this story take shape. The information Steven provided on UN Peacekeeping operations was correct; all inaccuracies in my fiction are entirely my fault.

Thank you to the plot bunnies, Darcy Burke, Elisabeth Naughton, and Joan Swan, who helped me kick-start the writing of this story.

Thank you to the fabulous authors who critiqued this book: Darcy Burke, Krista Hall, Erica Ridley, and Bria Quinlan. Thank you so much to my wonderful agent, Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein, for your valuable feedback and insight into the story. Huge thanks to my editor, Linda Ingmanson, for helping make this story shine.

Thanks to the NW Pixie Chicks, for another great retreat and for being the best author support group and friends any author could ask for.

To my blogmates at
KissandThrill.com
, thank you for putting up with me. Thanks also to the secret indie Facebook group, who also put up with me.

Thank you to my children, who mostly put up with me. I love you both with the power of a thousand suns times infinity.

Thank you to my husband, David Grant, who worked in the underwater archeology branch of Naval History and Heritage Command (back when it was called the Naval Historical Center). Without his insight, this book would be very different. Also I must thank him for the plotting help and for being willing to read and give feedback even though I am not as graceful at taking feedback from him as I am from others. I am so lucky to have you. I love you.

B
OOKS BY
R
ACHEL
G
RANT

C
ONCRETE
E
VIDENCE (
E
VIDENCE
S
ERIES #1)

B
ODY OF
E
VIDENCE (
E
VIDENCE
S
ERIES #2)

W
ITHHOLDING
E
VIDENCE (
E
VIDENCE
S
ERIES #3)

G
RAVE
D
ANGER

G
RAVE
D
ANGER

Read on for a sneak peek.

C
HAPTER
O
NE

July 2002

Coho, Washington

L
IBBY
M
AITLAND’S TRUCK WAS GONE
. She stood in the tiny, eight-space parking lot, gripping her keys until they dug into her palm, and wondered where the hell her truck was. The Suburban couldn’t have been towed. The lot was too small and her truck too large. Towing would have caused a commotion. It must have been stolen. A lousy end to a rotten day.

She couldn’t care less about the truck. Old, beat-up, and rusted, the beast drank fuel like a dehydrated camel, and a tank was more maneuverable. But it was the only vehicle she had, and, even worse, the excavation notes from the archaeological dig were inside. She mentally listed everything she’d loaded in the back when she left the site an hour ago: the stratigraphic drawings, the photologs, the burial notes, and the field catalog. If she didn’t get her truck back, her career as an archaeologist could take another major nosedive.

She turned around to go back inside the restaurant, planning to call the police, but she must have been their last customer for the night because the door was locked and the shades lowered. The windows vibrated with a loud bass beat she could hear through the glass. The cleaning crew had turned up the stereo. They would never hear her knock.

She fished around in her purse for her cell phone, and then remembered the phone was in the damn truck. She looked up and down the street. Who would have thought her truck would be stolen in Coho, Washington, a quaint little historic sawmill town where everyone knows everyone? Maybe this was a game the locals played: mess with the city girl who moved here only two weeks ago.

At ten p.m. on a summer night, the lengthy Pacific Northwest twilight was just starting to lose the battle with darkness, but there was enough light for her to see the police station, only a few blocks down Main Street. She headed in that direction, disconcerted to see the street was empty. Coho, a town at the edge of Discovery Bay on the lush green Olympic Peninsula, did not seem to offer an exciting nightlife.

The police station was a prime example of 1970s civic architecture: low, long, and brown. She went in the visitor’s entrance and was greeted by a series of windows reminiscent of ticket booths. Behind the first window sat a woman in uniform. Her name badge said
Eversall
. “May I help you?” she asked with the smile of someone relieved to have something to do.