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Chapter One

“You’ve been through a lot of trauma in only four months. How do you feel about that?”

I stared at the therapist on my laptop screen, trying hard not to roll my eyes. Not because I found it irritating that one side of his white button-up shirt collar was tucked under his navy-blue pullover sweater while the other was out and askew, like he’d thrown the sweater on at the last minute and hadn’t bothered to check his appearance in a mirror. Nor that his combover was so pathetic no one was buying that he had hair on top of his head, which meant he was hiding things, and poorly, which meant he was a shit therapist.

Physician, heal thyself.

No, it was his ridiculous question that was driving me insane.

Four months ago, I’d killed someone while working as a detective for the Little Rock Police Department. Consequently, I’d lost my job, my house, my money, and my reputation. My partner Keith—both personal and professional—had turned on me.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened the night of…” he said, checking his notes. His gaze popped back up. “October 17^th?”

“I’m sure it’s all there in the paperwork,” I said dryly, gesturing toward the screen. I couldn’t stop the self-deprecating smile that spread across my face. “In case you missed it on the news.”

A hint of impatience flickered in his eyes. “I’d rather hear it from you.”

And I’d rather not repeat it. I’d told this story so many times I practically had the verbiage memorized, which, I was sure, gave it an air of inauthenticity with each subsequent retelling. But if this was what it took to convince the department I wasn’t unstable and that we could amicably cut ties, then I’d do it to cut the marionette strings.

“I was investigating a murder case,” I said, sitting back in my chair. My gaze drifted involuntarily to the cabinet under my sink where I kept my bottle of Jack Daniels. “I was looking for a witness, and I was told he worked the night shift at Durango’s Liquor. When I walked up to the establishment, a teen was hanging outside. His name was Dylan Carpenter. I asked him how old he was, and he told me to fuck off. I told him not to enter the store and went inside myself.”

“Did you identify yourself as a detective?”

“No.”

“And then what happened?” he prodded.

I fought to keep reminding him that therapists were supposed to let their patients tell their stories at their own pace. Did this guy have dinner reservations after this? I had my own plans, so I didn’t mind hurrying things along.

“I noticed the witness wasn’t at the counter, and the clerk was checking someone out, so I walked around the store to see if I could locate the witness. While I was in the back, the teen came in and tried to buy a bottle of whiskey. I approached, asked him for ID, then he ran out the back with the bottle. I followed.”

I’d relived that night so many times. So many exhausting times. And I’d let myself wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t followed him. If I’d let him go. But the truth was I had followed him out into that back alley, and no amount of wishing or manifestation would change it.

I had to own up to what I’d done.

Then again, admitting to it wasn’t my problem. My problem was living with it.

“And then?” he asked, glancing down. I realized he was looking at his watch. Maybe I hadn’t been that far off in guessing he had plans.

“When I went out the back door, he had a gun trained on me. I drew my service weapon and told him to put the gun down. Instead, he took off running. I followed, telling him to stop. About twenty feet from the door, he turned and pointed his gun at me again and took a shot. I shot back. He missed. I didn’t.”

The therapist picked up a piece of paper and scanned it. “The report doesn’t mention recovering a bullet or casing from the boy’s gun.”

“They said there was no evidence he’d shot a weapon, let alone had one. That I fabricated seeing a gun and hearing the shot because my mind couldn’t cope with the guilt.”

“And do you believe that?” he asked earnestly.

Did I? I wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. One minute, I wondered if they were right, but the next, I was willing to bet money I no longer had that the Little Rock Police Department was gaslighting me, not only about the shooting, but about the three break-ins at my house that had occurred within two weeks of the shooting.

It had been suggested to me that those break-ins were imaginary too, but there was no denying someone had stolen a photo of my sister and me that had been taken shortly before her kidnapping and murder. Just like there was no denying I’d seen the back of the man who’d taken it and chased him through my backyard and down an alley before I lost him. I hadn’t imagined that.

“I don’t know,” I said, even though my gut churned at the thought of giving them what they wanted. Of admitting they’d made me start to doubt myself.

“There’s nothing wrong with that answer,” he said with a smile and a hint of triumph in his eyes. “No weapon was recovered, Harper. It’s good that you’re finally acknowledging that.”

Was it?

But I bit back the retort on the tip of my tongue because that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He wanted to hear that everything was fine. Just fine, because that was what the Little Rock Police Department needed to hear from their once exemplary detective. They needed to put this all to bed, and this session was the final nail in the coffin, my exit interview for my fourteen-year, formerly stellar law enforcement career.

“So tell me how you’re doing,” he asked.

“I’ve had my good days and my bad days,” I said softly with a small smile. I tucked my shoulder-length hair behind my right ear, making myself look slightly vulnerable. Soft, but not too soft.

This wasn’t my first therapist rodeo over the past four months, but I planned for it to be my last.

“And how do you handle the bad days?” he asked, a fake smile matching the fake concern in his eyes.

I wasn’t about to tell him that I handled it with booze. Lots of booze, preferably Jack Daniels, usually mixed with Coke. The Coke wasn’t absolutely necessary, but he definitely didn’t want to hear that.

“I journal,” I said. “And take walks. Fresh air usually helps.”

Lately, the only fresh air I got was on my way from my house to my car, and then from my car into a store and back again. And the only journaling I’d done was the occasional texts I exchanged with my friend Louise, one of the only people I’d kept in touch with from my Little Rock life. She was the police officer who’d responded to the last of my home invasions in Little Rock. Although she’d been a stranger at the time, she’d become a friend, partly because she’d believed me. She’d left the Little Rock PD too, because, according to her, something was rotten there. I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe the something rotten wasn’t me.

As far as journaling went? I hadn’t journaled since I was a teenager, when my sister was murdered.

But he didn’t want to hear about that.

I’d made the mistake of spilling my guts early in the process, and I’d discovered the hard way that the court- or work-appointed counselors were just there to sign paperwork and make sure psychopaths hiding behind a badge weren’t running around on the streets. Everything else was considered normal.

“Good, that’s good,” he said, jotting something down on a paper off-screen. “And your move to your parents’ place in…” He rifled through some papers, then looked up triumphantly. “In Jackson, Kansas. How’s that going? It’s not always easy to go home after living apart from your parents for so long.”

“That’s Jackson Creek, Arkansas,” I said, trying not to let my irritation show or he’d mark me down for anger issues. “There’ve been some bumpy parts, but overall, it’s been okay.”

By bumpy parts, I meant that my mother had barely spoken to me since I’d moved into their garage apartment two weeks ago and that I had hardly left the four hundred square foot studio since I’d moved in. “I’m actually going out tonight when we’re done with this call.” A genuine smile curved my lips. “I’m meeting a friend.”

That was probably the first true thing I’d said in the past twenty minutes. I was meeting Louise, actually. She was now working for our county’s sheriff’s department.

“That’s great, great,” he said, writing something down again. “Socializing is important.”

“It makes everything feel more normal.”

“Normal is subjective, Harper,” he chided, then looked up at me. “What do you plan on doing with your life since you’re no longer with the Little Rock Police Department.”

“That’s a good question,” I said in all sincerity but struggled hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “I’m taking some time to explore my options.”

AKA, I had no fucking clue.

“Good. Good.” His head bobbed as he smiled, probably thinking we were close to ending this call and he could shut down his laptop and get a beer. “Any more nightmares?”

I swallowed hard, my smile falling slightly. “They seem to be gone, thankfully.”

Since I’d come home, my memories of shooting the kid had been replaced with memories of my sister’s kidnapping. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

“Don’t be surprised if they resurface,” he said, studying my face. “Change can bring them back. If you feel the need for any medication—”

“Then I’ll contact a psychiatrist,” I said adamantly. “So far, I’m good.”

He glanced down again to take some notes, then looked up at me. “Well, unless there’s anything else you wish to discuss, I think this concludes your appointed therapy.”

“Thank you, Dr. Abalone. I’m eager to move on to a new chapter in my life.”

We ended the call, and I shut the laptop screen, every nerve ending in my body on fire. Without giving it another thought, I grabbed the open bottle of Jack Daniels under my sink and didn’t bother with a glass, drinking a gulp straight from the bottle. Who needed Prozac when I could self-medicate?

I screwed the lid back on the bottle, then closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Other than my trips to the liquor store up in Wolford, this would be my first time out in public since I’d come back to my hometown. In Little Rock, people either saw me as a poster child for the Thin Blue Line or a pariah. I had no idea what to expect here, but at least Louise and I were meeting at a bar.

Chapter Two

“You look like shit.”

I gave Louise a sarcastic smile as I sat down at her table in the dimly lit bar. “Hello to you too.”

Considering I didn’t know her very well, I figured I must look pretty bad.

To be fair, I hadn’t seen Louise in a few months, not since she’d shown up at my house as a Little Rock police officer to take a breaking and entering report in the dead of night. I’d been a detective with the department on paid leave after a shooting.

I’d thought I’d hit rock bottom back then.

That seemed like ages ago.

Before she’d left her position in Little Rock in favor of a job at the Lone County, Arkansas sheriff’s department, she’d told me, Even rats leave a sinking ship. We hadn’t talked about it much since, but I believed her. I wanted it to be true because it would mean I wasn’t the kind of person who imagined guns and bullets. The kind of person who killed a kid by mistake.

“Interesting place,” I said, glancing around. “Seems like an odd place for a bar this far out of town.” When she’d suggested we meet at Scooter’s Tavern, I’d been surprised but also relieved. It was ten miles outside of Jackson Creek, which would hopefully be enough to save me from running into anyone who’d recognize me.

She gave me a smug grin. “It’s next to the Grant County line.” Lifting her bottle of beer, she added, “Grant County’s dry.”

It seemed crazy that in this day and age some counties in the state still refused or had strict limitations on the sale of alcohol, but the proof was just a few miles away.

She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “How are you doing? Really.”

I’d just lied through my teeth with that therapist, but Louise was my friend.

Still, I didn’t want to acknowledge how far I’d fallen. “I’m gonna need a drink before we get into that.”

“Fair enough.” She took my order—Jack and Coke, of course—and headed up to the bar to place get us a round, giving me a chance to decompress. I’d been nervous about seeing Louise again, worried about what she’d think of me now—the disgraced ex-detective who would likely never work in law enforcement again.

She came back a few minutes later with a highball glass and a bottle of beer, and I caught a couple of men staring at her ass before she slid into her booth seat and placed the glass in front of me. Louise had always been pretty, with long dark hair that hung down her back, but she looked much more relaxed and happy than she had in Little Rock. The move to Lone County had been good for her.

Too bad I couldn’t say the same for myself.

My mouth watered at the sight of the drink, and I had a sudden desperation to slam it down to ease my anxiety.

Instead, I picked it up and took a casual sip. “Tell me about your job,” I said, eager to turn the conversation away from me.

She told me that while she loved the sheriff, some of the deputies were giving her a hard time. She was one of two female deputies in the department and some of the men had let her know they didn’t appreciate her presence. The sheriff didn’t put up with their bullshit, but he only knew about a quarter of what was going on, and she wasn’t about to tattle.

“Okay,” she said after answering my questions for ten minutes, her gaze on me. “How are you doing? Really. And not some bullshit answer. It’s me you’re talking to. The person who had your back in Little Rock when no one else did.”

I wiped condensation from the side of my nearly empty glass and gave her another sarcastic grin. “Great. What thirty-six-year-old doesn’t love living with their parents?” 

She laughed. “I offered you a place to stay.”

She had, several times, but I carried around a stink she didn’t need to be associated with her. She was already facing an uphill battle in her new department. My baggage would only weigh her down.

“It’s only temporary. Until I figure out where to go…” I shrugged. “And what to do.”

We were both silent for a moment until she said, “What those assholes did to you wasn’t right, Harper.”

My thumb slid up and down the side of the glass, focusing on it and not the anxiety racing through my body. I took another drink, finishing it off. The burn in my stomach started to relax my tight muscles.

“Yeah, well…” I let the weight of my words hang in the air. It wasn’t right, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I was lucky they’d just backed me into a corner and not a jail cell.

“Harper.” Pity tinged her voice, making me flinch. I’d had plenty of people pity me over the years, and I hated it. Anger and frustration I could deal with. But nothing was as suffocating as pity. “I believed you then, and I believe you now. You know that, right? That kid had a gun, and someone made it disappear.”

She’d told me the same thing four months ago, the night she’d shown up at my house after that final break-in, but it felt good to be reminded that someone believed me.

“I’m gonna get another drink,” I said a little too brightly, making the words sound brittle. “Want anything?”

Worry filled her eyes, but she lifted her half-empty bottle. “I’m good.”

I slid out of the booth and headed to the bar to place my order. There were more people than I would have expected for a Monday night. A few men were milling around the pool tables in the back, and some older men were hanging out at the bar. A group of young women occupied the table closest to the pool tables, their gazes drifting toward the men.

The bartender walked up to me, and his mouth ticked up in a smirk. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll take another Jack and Coke.”

He kept his gaze on me, forcing me to really look at him. Something about him rang familiar, but he was too old to be one of my former classmates. I guessed him to be in his mid-forties, but he definitely wasn’t rocking a dad bod. The muscles of his arms filled out the sleeves of his T-shirt, and his dark hair was thick and several inches long. A tattoo peeked out of the top of his collar. There were crow’s feet around his eyes, and his face was covered with stubble, giving him I can’t decide whether to shave or commit to a beard look. But his dark brown eyes unnerved me, like he could see right through me.

A shiver ran up my spine. I was in Jackson Creek to hide and lick my wounds. Not to be seen.

“Anything else?” he asked. “We serve food.”

“Nope,” I said with a false brightness, which thankfully sounded more genuine than it had with Louise. “Just the drink.”

“Haven’t seen you in here before,” he said as he grabbed a glass and filled it with ice.

I didn’t answer. Surely he didn’t know all of his customers. If the place was this busy on a Monday night, it had to be crazy on the weekends.

He finished making the drink and set it down in front of me. “You want it on a tab?”

“Sure.”

I headed back to the table, Louise’s eyes on me the entire walk back.

As I slipped into my seat, she flashed a glance at the bar, then back to me. “I see you met James Malcolm.”

I squinted at her. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Because he’s the James Malcolm. The one who helped bust that international drug ring.”

My jaw dropped, but I quickly recovered. “What?”

Amusement danced in her eyes. “I admit that I had ulterior motives for asking you to meet me here. Malcolm owns this place.”

James Malcolm had made national news three years ago for his role in a sting operation in Fenton County, about a hundred miles southwest of here, that had brought down an international crime organization. No one knew exactly what had gone down, but the FBI had made a deal with him and then rescinded it. Malcolm had been in federal prison for months before all charges were dropped, and he was released.

“What the hell is he doing here?” I asked, still in shock. I’d thought I was the most notorious person around these parts.

“Good question. He moved here soon after he was released from prison and opened this place.”

“But why here?” I repeated. I couldn’t fathom it. I knew the Arkansas state police had suspected he’d had ties to Arkansas organized crime syndicates as well, but nothing had ever stuck. 

“I know,” she said with a laugh, glancing over at the bar. “Seems like an odd choice, doesn’t it? The sheriff thinks he’s up to no good, but Malcolm’s as slippery as they come. He can’t find any evidence of wrongdoing.”

I took a long sip of my drink, relishing the burn as it slid down my throat. This was my second drink in about a half hour—my third in an hour, if I counted the one I’d knocked back before leaving my garage apartment—and I was finally finding the sweet relief only alcohol seemed to give me these days. “You can’t be dirty that long and suddenly go clean.”

“Seems to me it can happen in reverse,” she said, her gaze on me.

My face heated. Was she talking about me? After college, I’d gone straight to the police academy, then paid my dues as a beat cop until I worked my way up to detective six years ago. My record with the Little Rock police force had been spotless—exemplary—until it wasn’t.

“Not you, Harper,” she said bitterly. “Your partner. Among others.”

Keith Kemper. Asshole. Bastard. He’d turned his back on me after the shooting. Tried to get me to take the fall.

The pain of his betrayal was the worst of all. Especially since we’d shared more than a working relationship.

“I don’t want to talk about any of that,” I said with a shake of my head, then took another long drink.

Over the last four months, the life I’d painstakingly built for myself had been turned upside down. The rapidity and finality of it had shaken me to my core.

The last time that had happened was when my fourteen-year-old sister had been kidnapped in front of me. Her battered body had turned up one week later.

Andi was the reason I’d become a police detective, and when I’d lost my job, it had felt like I was failing her all over again.

Louise reached out and placed her hand over mine. “It’s gonna be okay, Harper.”

I was glad she was so certain, because I definitely wasn’t.

Chapter Three

Louise’s phone rang, and she grimaced as she answered it. “Louise Martin.” She listened for a moment, then said, “I can be there in forty minutes.” She hung up and gave me an apologetic smile. “I’ve gotta go. Rain check?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Of course. Everything okay?”

“There’s a bad accident on Highway 24, and some of the deputies are tied up with a murder north of town. They’re shorthanded, so they asked me to come in and help.”

Murder? Last I remembered, there weren’t many murders around here.

I wanted to ask about it. But I reminded myself I wasn’t a detective anymore and gave her a wave. “Go. We’ll catch up later.”

She started to get out of her seat but lowered her gaze to my half-empty glass. Her bottle was still only half-empty. “You’re not planning on leaving soon, are you? I can drive you home.”

My back bristled. “I’m good. I’ll make sure I’m sober before I drive. Besides, I have a high tolerance these days.”

She gave me a dubious look. “Harper, I know everything sucks right now, but it will get better. Okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying not to frown. “I know.”

She got out of the booth and hesitated, placing a hand on my arm. “Call me if you need to spend a night away from your parents. Or if you just need a friend.”

I glanced up at her, hating the burning in my eyes. “Thanks, Louise. That means more than you know.”

She nodded, her mouth pressed into a grim line. “I’m gonna go pay the tab for both of us. Let’s try this again soon.” She headed up the bar and settled up with a female bartender. Malcolm wasn’t in sight.

I nursed the dregs of my drink until she finished paying. She gave me one last look before heading for the door. Less than a minute later, I was up at the bar asking the bartender for another drink.

The female bartender—her name tag read Misti—shot me a sympathetic look. “Sorry. James says we have to cut you off.”

My mouth dropped open. “You can’t be serious. I’ve only had two.”

“He said if you want another drink, you have to eat something first.”

What the hell? I wasn’t even drunk. Was this some underhanded way of making customers spend more money? Fuck that.

Then another thought hit me.

Did he know who I was? The name Harper Adams was pretty infamous, too, these days. I was either a martyr or a murderer, depending on who you spoke to.

That was rich—a known criminal blackballing me.

I grabbed my purse and my jacket from the booth and headed out the door. I didn’t plan to drive yet—I was smart enough to know my blood alcohol was over the legal limit—but I didn’t plan on nursing a glass of water and a basket of fries while Misti watched me either.

I walked out into the cool February night air. Standing on the sidewalk in front of the building, I dragged in a deep breath to settle my ragged nerves.

Maybe this was a mistake. Meeting Louise. Moving into my parent’s garage apartment. Maybe I should have…

What? Taken a job at Walmart or a car wash? I’d definitely needed to leave Little Rock. I was too damn notorious, whether people approved of me or not. I had no desire to be some poster child for the discussion about bad cops.

Moving home was penance…if I only knew for what.

I heard the roar of a motorcycle round the corner of the bar. It came into sight heading for the exit, but then it abruptly turned around and stopped in front of me. The motor shut off as the rider ripped off his helmet.

I steeled my shoulders, ready to deal with whatever this asshole was about to throw at me, but I wasn’t prepared to see James Malcolm’s furious face.

His eyes narrowed. “The fuck you’re drivin’.”

I shot him a glare. “Who said I was driving?”

His brow lifted slightly, just enough for me to notice in the white neon light cast by the Scooter’s Tavern sign. “Maybe the keys in your hand.”

My grip on the keys tightened, the metal edges digging into my flesh. “I’m going to sit in my car until I’m sober, not that it’s any of your business.”

His back stiffened. “It becomes my business if you get pulled over for a DUI. Or worse, you kill some poor family.”

I hadn’t planned on driving, but his accusation was like a stab wound to the heart. He thought I was that irresponsible? Then again, he didn’t even know me, so why was I taking it personally?

“You have three choices,” he said with a challenging gleam in his eyes. “One, you go back inside and hand Misti your keys until she deems you ready to drive. Two, you call an Uber and leave your car here. Or three, I call the sheriff and tell him one of my customers is about to drive home, and she needs a breathalyzer test. Which is it?”

What the actual hell? He was going to call the sheriff on me?

God, that was rich.

It was also embarrassing as hell. “How about you trust me to judge whether I’m ready to drive or not?”

His eyes hardened. “No offense, but I don’t trust anyone, let alone a drunk. Now which is it? Option one, two, or three?”

While it wasn’t hard to pick, it was hard to spit out “One.” Because I was broke, had nothing to rush home to, and I had no idea how I’d get my car in the morning.

“Good choice,” he said, pulling his phone out of his back pocket and tapping something onto the screen. “I let Misti know you’re coming back in. She’s gonna take your keys until she says you’re ready.”

“I’m not some kid,” I snarled.

“Maybe not, but your sense of pacing while drinking is shit. Now go inside.” He pointed to the door.

“Fuck you,” I grumbled, flipping him off as I opened the door.

His response was to start his motorcycle back up and gun the motor.

I was pissed as hell, but I went back inside and sat at the bar. Misti walked over to me and held out her hand with a sympathetic look. “Boss’s orders.”

I wanted to tell her to say her boss was an asshole, but instead, I handed her my keys.

“Would you rather have nachos or fries?” she asked.

“Surprise me,” I grumbled, pulling out my phone. In all honesty, I couldn’t be mad at either of them. It was the right thing to do, which was surprising coming from James Malcolm, especially given his alleged criminal history. If anything, I was embarrassed. This person wasn’t me. The real Harper Adams had a couple of drinks a month. She didn’t wallow. She sure didn’t have bartenders monitoring her consumption of alcohol.

Misti handed me a glass of water, then headed through a door to the back.

My cheeks burned but a quick glance around the room told me that no one had watched my walk of shame back into the bar, or at least they weren’t ogling me now, which I found to be a relief. I let my gaze drift to the TV screen over the bar, watching a basketball game as I sipped my water and tried to not think about the way my life had crashed and burned.

“Here you go,” Misti said, placing a basket in front of me. “Best damn nachos in Southern Arkansas.” The basket was piled high with cheese, shredded chicken, sour cream, and guacamole.

I took a bite, then released a soft moan.

“I told you they were good,” Misti said with a big smile. “Eat those, down your water, and you’ll be right as rain in no time.” She wandered down to the end of the counter to take someone else’s order before I had a chance to say thank you.

An hour later, Misti declared me ready to go. I’d finished the nachos and two glasses of water, using the forced downtime as an opportunity to study the place. While there were a few rougher-looking characters back by the pool tables, most of the patrons looked like people you’d find hanging out at a pub in Little Rock. Louise was right. Malcolm might own the bar, but he didn’t seem to have stuffed it full of his cronies.

She handed me back my keys, giving me a sympathetic look. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on in your life, but no man’s worth it. The best revenge is to have a life worth living. Show him not only do you not need him, but that you’re a hell of a lot better without him.”

I took the keys and lifted a brow. “What makes you think a man screwed me over?”

She laughed, placing her hand on the bar and leaning closer. “Aren’t men always screwing women over?”

She had a point, and it was damn good advice. Probably the best I’d received since this nightmare began, but it wasn’t that easy. And the Little Rock police department didn’t give a shit how well I lived my life. Neither did Keith.

I pulled out my wallet to hand her some cash, but she waved me off. “Nope. On the house. Believe it or not, I was a lot like you three years ago, and someone helped me. Just paying it forward.” A warm smile lit up her eyes. “If you ever need a friend to talk to, I’m a great listener.”

Was she a criminal too? Maybe not, but I figured there was no way she didn’t know about her boss’s past. “Thanks,” I said, not adding that I doubted I’d ever be back, at least not alone.

Why would I come here when I had a perfectly good bottle of Jack Daniels back at my new apartment calling my name?

Little Girl Vanished 
Harper Adams Mystery #1 
June 20, 2023

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Maddie

“When are we gonna learn how to kick some real ass?”

I took in the blond woman with flushed cheeks and eyes bright with excitement. Oh crap.

“Yeah,” a small chorus of other women sang out.

“We want to kick some ass!” another woman shouted.

We were standing in the dining room of Deja Brew, the coffee shop where I worked most weekdays. It was early December, and in a nod to the season, Christmas lights and tinsel garland were strung around the windows. Eight stockings were taped to the counter, each bearing the name of an employee. I, my boss Petra, and co-worker Chrissy had transformed the dining room into a dojo of sorts so we could offer our first-ever women’s self-defense class. The coffee shop was still open, but the customers only had two-top tables to sit at in front of the windows overlooking Main Street. Tony, the high school junior who worked weeknights and weekends, was gaping at us like we were an invading army of Huns. As aggressive as this group of twelve women was, I wondered if he wasn’t half right.

“Well,” I said hesitantly.

“I want to break some boards,” another woman said. “When do we start that?”

I waved off her question. “This isn’t a martial arts class. It’s a self-defense class. If you want to learn martial arts, you should go to Ken’s Tae Kwon Do down the street. In fact, I plan to join myself.”

There was some grumbling from the crowd.

I did plan to join, but not in the foreseeable future. My salary at the coffee shop was barely above minimum wage, so I had no budget for incidentals. This class wasn’t helping my financial situation since Petra had convinced me to offer it for free as a community service. Chrissy, who wasn’t required to be here, had grumbled over the fact that she wasn’t getting paid. In fact, she’d told me to stand up to Petra and insist that I needed the money, which wasn’t a lie. Beyond my thirty or so hours a week at the coffee shop, my only source of income came from occasionally driving for Uber. I wasn’t exactly raking in money, particularly since so few people in Cockamamie, Tennessee’s population of twenty thousand used rideshare apps. While I never would have gotten rich off my salary as a middle-school librarian in Nashville, it had definitely paid better than this.

Still, I’d gone along with Petra’s plan willingly enough. My life had been shaped by my mother’s murder, and I knew better than anyone that learning self-defense was a necessary life skill for women. Hell, it had saved my life—twice—just a month ago. Besides, most residents of Cockamamie weren’t flush with cash, which meant half the woman in this room might not have come had we charged. If I could keep one woman safe, then it was worth it, and Petra had put up with a lot from me over the past three months that I’d worked here. I owed her.

Now I needed to convince these women to take this class seriously. “If an attacker is swinging a board at you, your first thought shouldn’t be how to break it. It should be how to dodge it. What we are going to teach you is how to protect yourself by getting away. But sometimes you have to inflict some pain to do that, which means you will learn how to flip people over your head.”

Most of the dozen women in the group let out a cheer, while a few looked more reserved. One, a young woman with black hair who appeared to be in her mid-twenties, stood at the outer edge of the group, looking downright scared.

“But you won’t be flipping anyone tonight,” I added. Which seemed self-explanatory since there weren’t any mats on the wooden floor.

A few women booed, but they’d signed up for a three-night course, and this was the first night. Honestly, I was surprised so many women had signed up—even if it was free—particularly since we were starting the first week of December. Of course, the news reports of how I’d fought off my attackers last month—not to mention the videos showing me and a Cockamamie police detective demonstrating self-defense moves at a women’s club meeting—were still fresh in their minds. Especially since I’d pretty much kicked Detective Noah Langley’s ass.

They might not be taking this seriously, but I definitely was, and the responsibility was starting to make me nervous.

Petra stood behind me. She had a habit of reading people’s emotions, so it didn’t surprise me when she said, just loudly enough for me and Chrissy to hear, “You’re doing great, Maddie.”

I swung my head to get Chrissy’s reaction, and she stared at me for a moment before turning to face the women. “Look, y’all. Do you think Maddie learned how to kick Detective Langley’s ass in one session? I mean, really?”

A grumbling acquiescence rippled through the crowd.

“This is my first class, so y’all are my guinea pigs,” I said with a warm smile. “You’re helping me figure out how to teach the basics.”

“Plus, you’re getting it for free,” Chrissy stated firmly behind me. “Don’t forget that.”

“And a five-dollar Deja Brew gift card,” Petra quickly added.

“Yeah,” Chrissy said with a sneer. “You’re basically getting paid to learn how to kick someone’s ass.”

A few heads bobbed, and almost everyone’s faces brightened. The dark-haired woman in the back still looked scared.

“Okay!” I said brightly. “So tonight, we’re going to practice fending off someone who tries to grab you from the front. Tomorrow, we’ll work on attacks from behind—which will involve flipping people over your back—”

Cheers broke out. These women were vicious.

“—and Wednesday, we’ll practice what we’ve learned before trying something new.”

I demonstrated how to break the grip of someone who grabs your arm, then had everyone pair off and practice on each other. There were a lot of giggles and halfhearted attempts while I walked around and gave tips and suggested adjustments to their stances. They all seemed to pick up on it fairly quickly. I instructed the mock attacker to reach across the attackee’s body, then taught them how to get out of that as well. Once they had that move down, I had them switch it up, so the attackee didn’t know how the mock attacker would reach for them and needed to figure out how to break free on the fly.

“You want this to be instinct, y’all,” I said. “And remember, once you get free—”

“You run like hell,” Chrissy said, her eyes dark and menacing. “You can get even later.”

I stared at her for one long second, then said, “After you get free, you call the police.”

Chrissy shrugged. “Or you can do that.” But the way she said it suggested it was the chicken shit way out.

At the end of the hour, I thanked everyone for coming and reminded them we’d be meeting tomorrow night at the same time.

As they grabbed their coats and purses to leave, the dark-haired nervous woman hung back, wringing her hands in front of her. “Excuse me,” she said in barely a whisper. “Miss Maddie?”

Something about her made me want to wrap her up in a hug. The other women were here for entertainment. I sensed she was here for very real reasons.

“It’s just Maddie,” I said. “No miss. What’s your name?” Petra had planned to get nametags, but we’d run out of time, and I’d forgotten to ask everyone to introduce themselves.

“Amy,” she said.

“How can I help you, Amy?”

Her gaze shifted to the women who were leaving, then Petra and Chrissy, who were starting to move the tables and chairs back to their usual places. “Are you going to teach us how to get out of a chokehold? You know…like you did with that police officer in the video? The one where you were on your back?”

Noah and I had demonstrated how to break free if an attacker had gotten you onto your back and was strangling you. Amy’s turtleneck sweater made me wonder if she was asking for a reason other than curiosity.

“I hadn’t planned on it,” I said. “There’s not enough time in this class, and that maneuver’s a little advanced, I think.” I held her gaze, worried that I’d scare her off, but I needed to ask anyway. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes flew wide, but I could see fear in their depths. “Of course. Sorry I asked.” She turned to snatch up her heavy sweater and purse.

“Amy,” I said, following her but keeping my voice low. “I can teach you privately.”

She turned back at that, and the hopefulness in her gaze formed a thick lump in my throat. This woman was in danger, and she was desperate for help. Maybe I could do some real good here.

“I wouldn’t want to be any trouble,” she said, but eagerly enough that I knew she’d do it if I agreed.

“It’s no trouble at all,” I said. “What’s your schedule like? When are you free?”

“Tomorrow morning? I don’t have to be at work until three.” She looked worried. “But if that’s too soon…”

I shook my head. “Nope. Not too soon at all. I just so happen to be off tomorrow.” Technically true, but I’d hoped to get in a few Uber rides. Dropping a passenger off to his murder a month ago had made me less eager to give rides, but when a girl was in need of money and had limited sources of income, she did what she had to do. Well, everything short of moonlighting at Glitter Palace, a new strip club outside of town. Besides, the can of pepper spray I kept next to me in the car made me feel a little safer.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Positively sure,” I said. “But I’m not sure where we can practice, so let’s meet here at, say, nine or ten? I should have a place figured out by then, and we can head there.”

“Ten would be best. Thank you, Maddie. Thank you.” The relief in her voice made me want to whisk her off and call the police because it was obvious she didn’t feel safe.

“You don’t have to go home tonight,” I said, lowering my voice. “If you’re in danger—”

Her eyes shuttered. “I never said I was in danger,” she stated, sounding slightly panicked.

“No, of course not,” I soothed. “I’m just saying if you ever feel like you are in danger and you don’t feel comfortable calling the police, you can always call me. Do you want to program my name and number into your phone? In fact, I can just text you where to meet tomorrow once I get it figured out. Then we can skip meeting here and get straight to work.”

Her gaze dropped to her feet. “I didn’t bring my phone. I don’t always have it with me.”

That was weird. Was she purposefully avoiding giving me her number? But I recognized that she needed to be in control of this situation and getting my number but not giving out hers was her way of maintaining it. “That’s okay,” I said. “Why don’t I give you one of my Uber business cards? It has my cell phone number on it, and you’ll have it in case something comes up. Just give me a second.”

I hurried to the breakroom in the back to grab the card from my bag. I was scared to death Amy would run off while I was gone. Frankly, I was surprised she was still in the seating area when I came back, albeit closer to the exit and wearing her winter jacket with her purse strap slung over her shoulder. The Christmas lights in the window glowed behind her, making her appear even paler. She looked like she was about to bolt at any second.

“Here you go,” I said cheerfully, handing her the card. “You can call me if you need to change the time, or if you need anything at all, okay?”

Taking the card, she looked it over, then stuffed it into the pocket of her coat, keeping her gaze down. “Thank you, Maddie.”

“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, trying to sound breezy even though I wanted to snatch her up and make her tell me what was going on.

She bolted out the doors into the cold night, and I watched her through the windows. Should I follow her and make sure she was okay? Should I call Noah and tell him about my concerns?

No, you are not calling Noah Langley.

You’d think a month would be long enough for my heart to accept that Noah Langley wanted nothing to do with me. He’d made that perfectly clear after I’d been kidnapped and shot at for the second time in a matter of days. Sure, he’d seemed concerned about my welfare, but he’d turned right around and ghosted me. We’d shared some intimate moments, even sleeping in the same bed, when he’d stayed overnight to protect me, so his behavior had hurt. A lot. And no, we hadn’t slept together. We hadn’t even kissed, but we’d shared a deep connection that was both chemistry and something else, like two lost souls who understood each other. But he’d run scared as soon as he knew I was safe.

It was for the best. I wanted a family someday, and he’d told me that he’d broken up with his last girlfriend because she wanted marriage, and he didn’t. In my thirty-four years, I’d learned that if a guy tells you something, you believe it. You don’t fool yourself into thinking you can change them. I’d learned that lesson the hard way with my last boyfriend, Steve.

So why did my heart ache for Noah?

Didn’t matter. I would not be calling Noah Langley. Besides, what would I tell him anyway? That a woman showed up at my class wearing a turtleneck and asked if I was going to teach her how to get out of a chokehold? I didn’t know anything about her other than that her name was Amy.

Then a thought hit me. I could find out her full name, email address, and phone number from the sign-up form Petra had posted.

“Petra,” I said, whipping around to face her. “Can I look through the roster for tonight’s class?”

Confusion crossed her face. “Sure. Why?”

“I want to find out more about the woman who stayed after class was over.”

She walked over to the counter and pulled out a folded piece of paper from underneath the register. “Here you go,” she said as she handed it to me.

Opening the paper as I took it, I quickly scanned the list. The first thing I noticed was that fifteen people had signed up for class, but only twelve had shown, which was actually a decent turnout, considering they hadn’t been required to pay anything to reserve a spot. But the second thing I noticed was that there was no one named Amy on the list.

“Petra, Chrissy,” I said. “Did either of you recognize that woman who stayed after to talk to me?”

They both shook their heads. “Never seen her before,” Chrissy said.

I stared at the door, my stomach flip-flopping. I was going to have to wait until tomorrow morning to find out more about her, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t be worrying.

Turned out, I had good reason to be concerned.

Blind Bake
Maddie Baker Mystery
Book One

February 22, 2022

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Chapter One
Maddie

I tapped my finger nervously on my steering wheel. Where was this guy? I knew I shouldn’t have accepted an Uber request out at the industrial park after six p.m. on a Monday night, but desperate times meant taking risks. 

I picked up my phone and sent a message to the guy who’d made the request. I’ve been here five minutes. If you’re not out here within the next sixty seconds, I’m leaving.

I’d be good and pissed if I made the trip seven miles outside of the city limits on a cold November night for nothing, but I’d seen enough horror movies to know when something was a bad idea. And this reeked of it. I was hoping he’d tell me to get lost.

A door flew open in the metal warehouse I was parked next to, and a short man hurried out, shuffling down a few concrete steps and then rushing over to my car and opening the back door. 

The first thing that hit me was the smell, and I fought the urge to gag. The older man who’d just climbed into the backseat reeked of a three-day-old egg salad sandwich and BO. I wasn’t sure the can of Febreze in my trunk was going to get that stench out of the vinyl seats.

Why hadn’t I just left? 

Forcing a smile, I glanced over my shoulder at the balding man and hesitantly asked, “Marty the Man?” Which, now that I thought about it, seemed like a pretty sketchy nickname. “Going to 1435 Walnut Street?”

“Yeah,” he grunted, looking out his side window at the warehouse. “Go already.” 

So I did.

I could hear my friend Mallory’s voice in my head. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times, Maddie, do not to pick people up from shady places, especially after five. Why would someone at an industrial park need an Uber? This man is up to trouble with a capital T.

But I was still in the midst of those desperate times, and they often called for risks with a megaphone, and truth be told, there weren’t many calls for Uber rides in Cockamamie, Tennessee, with a population of around twenty thousand. A fact that failed to impress the Middle Tennessee Teachers’ credit union the last time they called about my late car payment. 

So here I was with a rank older man who looked nervous as hell sitting in the back seat of my Ford Focus, which I was still fourteen payments away from paying off.

“Can’t this thing go any faster?” he asked, looking out the back window for the fifth or sixth time. 

“Making a fast getaway?” I half-teased as I pressed harder on the gas pedal. The industrial park had a twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit, but hardly anyone was around this late, so I pushed it up to thirty-five. Still, it was hard to believe this old fart was making any kind of getaway that didn’t relate to finding the nearest shower. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

“Ha,” he said weakly. He seemed to settle back in his seat and set a brown paper lunch bag on his lap. 

I knew it was none of my business, but I couldn’t see how he could be carrying his lunch around, knowing how badly it smelled. My Aunt Deidre had lost her sense of smell a few years ago. Maybe his was gone too. “You might want to toss out that sandwich,” I said, looking at him in my rearview mirror. “It smells like it went bad a couple of days ago.” 

His gray eyes, which were partially obscured by his drooping eyelids, met mine in the mirror. Confusion registered on his face for a few seconds, then he shot me a glare as he tightened his grip on the bag. “I ain’t payin’ you to tell me what to do. I’m payin’ you to drive. So how about you mind your own fuckin’ business?”

I gasped in shock and tried to tell myself that maybe he was lashing out because he was embarrassed. I mean, some people didn’t take well to humiliating suggestions, no matter how well-intentioned. I pressed my lips together and pulled to a stop sign at Highway 75, the two-lane highway leading back into Cockamamie. Thank God I had power windows. I used the buttons to crack all four windows in the car before pulling out. 

I turned left and noticed he was looking out the back window again. Did he think someone might be following us? I’d been sort of joking when I’d asked if he was on the run, but what if he really was making a getaway?

A man who looks like he’s in his seventies? Carrying a smelly sandwich bag? 

No, this was what my mother used to call my wild imagination. 

Still, when you put two and two together and came up with four, it didn’t hurt to pay attention. 

He leaned forward and gripped the headrest on the passenger front seat. “We need to make an extra stop.”

“Okay,” I said, “but that’ll cost you extra.”

“That’s thievery,” he grunted in disgust.

I squared my shoulders. “Hey, time is money, and extra mileage means more gas. I’m not doing this for funsies.” 

“You need to get yourself a husband,” he said, gesturing to my ringless hand on the steering wheel. “A woman your age shouldn’t be driving strange men around in the dark for money. People are gonna think you’re a hooker.” 

I nearly pointed out that he was gesturing to my right hand, but I was stuck on something more important. 

“A woman my age?” I asked in a huff, shooting him a glare in the mirror. “How old do you think I am?” 

“Over thirty,” he said. “A spinster.”

What era had this guy teleported from? Was he a time-traveling agent on the run? 

“No one has used the word spinster unironically for about a century now,” I said. There was no point arguing with him about the over thirty comment. My recent thirty-fourth birthday found me guilty as charged.

“You’re still unmarried,” he said, clutching his bag to his chest. “It ain’t right.” 

This guy was starting to piss me off. “Some of us don’t have a say in the matter,” I snapped. “In fact, if I had my way, I’d already be married, but Steve had other ideas.” 

Great. Not only was I thinking about my asshole ex-boyfriend, but I was sharing my shame with this cranky, smelly old fart. 

This car ride just kept getting worse. 

“Women are meant to be meek and mild,” he retorted, glancing out the back window again. 

“You got in the wrong car if that’s what you’re looking for,” I muttered, then asked, “Why do you keep looking behind us?” 

“I told you—none of your fucking business,” he snarled as he turned back around. “Just drive.”

I really wanted to stop the car and drop-kick this guy to the curb, but I needed the money, and although I seriously doubted he was a good tipper, or any kind of tipper, I had to start being nicer. I was oh-so-close to having enough to make my car payment and pay my minimum credit card balance. Every dollar counted at this point.

“So do you want to make that extra stop?” I asked. 

“Not if you’re gonna rob me blind.” 

Depending on how far off the route he wanted to go, I suspected his stop would have added a dollar or two at most. But I didn’t love the idea of spending more time with this guy than necessary, so I kept that to myself.

We drove in silence for several minutes, and I darted glances at the map on my phone, realizing his destination was in the Bottoms, a.k.a. the old and mostly abandoned part of downtown Cockamamie, not the newer section. If I’d realized that, I never would have accepted the job. The sun had just set, and his destination wasn’t exactly in the nicest part of town. The sooner I dropped him off and got home to Aunt Deidre, the better. 

I started to pull up to the dark doorway of 1435 Walnut, which looked to be an abandoned building sandwiched between several other abandoned buildings. Other than a run-down convenience store on the corner on the opposite side of the street, there was a whole lot of nothing around us.  

“Drive around the block,” Marty the Man said, waving his hand forward next to my head. 

His hand smelled like rotten eggs, and I tried not to gag. “This is the address.” 

“Go around the block anyway,” he said more insistently. 

“Just know that the app’s gonna charge you extra.” Especially if he kept waving his stinky hand in my face.

“Fine.” He waved his hand next to me again. 

I wanted to kick him out anyway, but if I were him, I wouldn’t want to go in there either, so I tried to breathe through my mouth and drove around the block.

Old Downtown Cockamamie had been pretty much deserted after Briny River flooded about twenty years back. I’d been in middle school at the time, and I remembered Uncle Albert, Aunt Deidre, and my mother helping build sandbag walls to save downtown. It hadn’t worked. For whatever reason, the town’s forefathers had chosen to build the town in the low area by the river, and it had been covered in six feet of water. Since it hadn’t been the first major flood and was sure not to be the last, the city council had offered incentives for businesses to move about six blocks to the east of the river bottom, an area at least twenty feet higher in elevation. A few businesses refused to make the transition, and some had managed to stay open, but whatever business they were in now was likely shady. Which meant I needed to drop off my passenger and get the heck out of here. 

Once I drove up to the curb the second time, I put the car in park, told the app the ride was done, then turned back to give my passenger a big smile. “You have a good night, Mr. Man.” 

He glanced at his phone and grunted. “That seems unlikely after you charged me an extra dollar to go around the block.”

I didn’t tell him that if I’d had my way, the app would have charged him five. 

He opened the back door and looked down both ends of the sidewalk. He hesitated and dropped his bag onto the floor of the backseat. 

“Shit,” he grumbled. “Can you turn on the light?”

“It’s already on.” But I’d be the first to admit it wasn’t very strong. 

Cursing under his breath again, he sat up with his bag clasped to his chest and got out, slamming the car door harder than necessary. He scurried across the sidewalk and stopped at the front door. I was pretty sure it had been a full glass door at one point, but now it was boarded up with graffiti-covered plywood. Uncertainty covered his face, and he looked around the block again before finally deciding to knock. 

I started to pull away from the curb when my phone dinged with a message that Mr. Smelly Pants had not only given me zero tip but had also given me a one-star review. 

Bitchy feminist who robbed me blind.

“Mother Forker!” 

I slammed on the brakes, threw the car in park, then got out of the car. 

“Are you fricking kidding me?” I shouted over the roof of the car. 

He was about twenty feet away, still on the stoop of the address he’d given me, staring at me with a look of oh shit. 

“A one-star review and no tip after I had to endure that smell and your paranoia?” I shouted, striding around the back of the car toward him, holding up my phone screen as though he could read it from that far away. In the back of my head, I knew this was the worst decision I’d made in a year, possibly several, yet I couldn’t seem to stop myself. 

“Do you have any idea how hard my life is right now?” I shouted. “Two months ago, I lived a quiet, happy life, and then boom! My whole world imploded! Do you think I like driving crabby old men with rotten-smelling brown bags around in my car? Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take me to get that smell out of my upholstery?” I flung my hands out at my sides. “Because I sure don’t!” 

“I’m going to report you!” Marty the Man hissed. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

“Go ahead and report me!” I shouted, pointing my phone at him. “But you’ll regret it!” 

It was then I noticed a man standing next to his car at the gas pumps at the convenience store across the street. He gave me a wary look as he got into his car. 

Great. Now I’d officially turned into a public spectacle. How much lower could I fall?

I mentally shouted to the universe. No. Don’t show me! The last thing I needed was a game of chicken with the cosmos. 

The door behind Mr. Smelly Pants opened slightly, the person behind it invisible, and he slipped into the darkness behind the crack. 

I usually kept all of my angst and anger bottled inside and let it stew, but all those Brene Brown podcasts I’d been listening to were helping me take control of my life, so I’d really let him have it. Too bad it hadn’t felt as cathartic as I’d hoped.

No, now I just felt like a first-class bitch. 

I sure as hell wasn’t to go inside and apologize, though, so I headed back to my car. 

“They make that deodorizer stuff in a can now,” a man said from the shadow of the building next door. He was sitting on the sidewalk with his legs extended in front of him, a large black trash bag next to him. “And if that don’t work, try baking soda.” 

He’d startled me, but then I realized it was Mr. Ernie, a homeless man I’d seen around town several times since moving back two months ago. 

From what I’d seen, most people ignored him, but I decided to make up for my bad karma and headed over to talk to him. “Thank you, Mr. Ernie. I’ll try that. Are you hungry? Can I take you somewhere in my stinky car and get you something to eat? Or maybe see if they have a bed at the Methodist Church Shelter?” 

He held up a to-go cup of coffee. “I done got me some food a short bit ago. And I don’t much like staying at Methodists’ shelter. They always steal my stuff.” 

“Who steals your stuff?” I asked in concern. 

“Some of the shifty people there.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “There are some not-so-nice people in this town, Miss…?” He looked up at me expectantly. 

“Maddie,” I said. “Maddie Baker.”

He squinted up at me. “Miss Andrea’s girl?” 

My eyes widened in surprise. “Yeah. Did you know my mother?” 

He gave me a warm smile. “That’s a story for another day.” He cast a glance at the door Mr. Smelly Pants had gone through. “You best get on out of here. There’s seedy things happening in these parts. Especially after sundown.” 

“Then why don’t you let me take you somewhere else?” I asked, reaching my hand out to him. 

He chuckled. “Don’t you go worryin’ about me, Maddie. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Go on now. Git.” 

I started to head back to my car, but then I turned around, tugging a business card out of my jeans pocket. Squatting in front of him, I handed him the card and looked into his eyes. “If you ever need a ride or food or anything,” I said, “you call me. Okay, Mr. Ernie?” 

He took the card and looked it over, then glanced up at me, giving me a wobbly smile. “Thank you, Maddie. You’re a sweet one, just like your mother. You have a good night.” 

The remainder of my mother stung, but I smiled and said, “You too.”

It All Falls Down
Rose Gardner Investigations #7

February 9, 2021

The final book of the series

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Chapter One

Your turn,” I said, reaching out blindly for Joe in the darkness. My hand connected with his elbow, and I gave him a shove as the baby’s wails grew louder.

He tugged the sheet over his head, but I still heard his muffled response. “I got up last time.”

Had he? I was so sleep deprived I couldn’t be sure, but baby Hope didn’t appreciate our debate and cried even louder.

“I’m so tired I think I might be brain dead,” I groaned as I rolled out of bed and stumbled across the hall to the nursery. Hope had worked herself up to a decibel level that would have been fitting for a fire alarm. My dog, Muffy, was giving me an anxious glare from her new bed next to the crib. The day we brought Hope home from the hospital Muffy had appointed herself my daughter’s guardian, and she rarely left her side.

“It’s okay. Momma’s here,” I said as I reached into the crib and scooped Hope up. “What’s wrong? Are you missin’ us, sweet girl? You just ate.”

Her response was to cry louder. Muffy got out of her bed and gave me a look that begged me to do something.

“Okay. Okay,” I said, soothing them both as I cuddled Hope close to my chest. I sat in the rocking chair and lifted my pajama T-shirt so I could nurse her. She latched on immediately and settled down, putting Muffy at ease. My little dog went back to her bed and resumed her guard post.

Hope nursed for less than five minutes before she dozed off. I was so tired, I leaned the back of my head against the high back of the rocking chair as I fought to stay awake. Between the two of us, Joe and I had been up at least five times tonight—thank God she took bottled breast milk from Joe—but this had become a pattern for the past several nights. Nurse for a few minutes, then fall asleep and wake up soon afterward, wanting to nurse again. We’d moved her from the bassinet next to our bed to her crib in the nursery in the hopes it would help—Joe had to wake up at a specific time for work, and it always roused her, plus he occasionally got work calls or alerts in the middle of the night—but it hadn’t helped.

My head knew she needed to learn to put herself back to sleep, but my heart couldn’t handle letting her cry. Thankfully—or not—Joe felt the same way. There was no question about Muffy’s opinion on the matter.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, Joe was leaning in front of me, his hand on my arm.

“Rose, come to bed,” he whispered.

Hope was in the crook of my arm, fast asleep.

“She’s just gonna wake up again,” I said, so tired I was close to tears. “Maybe I should stay in here.”

“Bring her to bed with us.”

“Back in the bassinet, you mean?”

He cradled my upper arm and gently pulled me out of the rocking chair. “It’ll be more of the same if you put her in there. Let her sleep in the bed tonight. It’s obvious she wants us. She barely takes any milk from either of us before dozing off. Just bring her to bed so we all can get some sleep.”

“But the experts—”

“Screw the experts,” he whispered, wrapping an arm around my back and leading me toward the door. “We need sleep, and I refuse to let her cry, thinkin’ her parents won’t be there when she needs them.”

I couldn’t argue with that, so I didn’t. I felt exactly the same way. Instead, I let him help me into bed. I was scared we would roll over and smother her, so I carefully laid her on the middle of the bed, and Joe put two narrow throw pillows on either side of her.

Muffy hopped up onto the bed, using the bench at the end as a springboard, and curled up into a ball.

 Hope started to fuss now that she wasn’t pressed against my body, so Joe lay down on his side facing her. He rested his head on his pillow and placed a hand on her chest. “Daddy’s here, Hope,” he cooed softly. “You’re safe.”

At his touch, her whimpering stopped.

I lay down on my side, facing him in the semi-darkness. My heart melted into a puddle of goo as I saw him looking down at her. His gaze lifted to mine, and I could barely make out his soft smile. “Get some sleep. I’ve got this.”

And he did. He’d been with me every step of the way over the last six weeks. He’d taken a week of vacation on top of his two-week parental leave so he could help with her nightly feedings and make sure I napped during the day. He’d gone with me to her doctor checkups, helped keep her mountain of laundry maintained, taken turns cooking and cleaning, and insisted I leave the house from time to time so I got a break. I had no idea how I would have managed without him.

He’d been back to work for nearly three weeks, and I’d missed him being around so much that I’d started back to work part-time at the landscaping business I co-owned, bringing Hope with me. My business partner, Bruce Wayne, was trying to stay on top of things, but March through June was our busiest time, which meant we were plenty behind. Especially since I wasn’t the only one being pulled in different directions. Neely Kate, my best friend and the third full-time employee in the landscaping business, had just gotten married a matter of weeks ago. Before long, she’d have her own newborn baby—she and Jed were adopting, and their baby’s birth mama was over a week overdue. Babies didn’t stay in the womb forever, though, so it was a matter of days, not weeks. I figured it was best to try to catch up while we could.

The dark and the quiet lulled me back to sleep, and I was deep under by the time a ringing phone jolted me to wakefulness.

“Simmons,” Joe answered quietly in the dark, and I felt the bed shift as he got up and left the room.

Hope whimpered again, so I placed a hand on her stomach. She settled immediately, letting me catch a snippet from Joe’s conversation.

“When was he found?” he asked, then said, “Uh-huh.”

His voice was stiff, and given the way he’d answered the phone and the dark sky beyond the curtains, I knew this was an official call. Something bad had happened in Fenton County, and Chief Deputy Joe Simmons was being called into action.

My heart sank. Other than the usual burglaries and minor assaults, the crime world had been relatively quiet since my niece and nephew’s kidnapping and Hope’s birth.

Six weeks ago, a prepper family—the Collards—had kidnapped the kids for the Hardshaw Group, a crime syndicate from Dallas that was trying to get a foothold in Fenton County. Mike had done some work for them, and they’d felt a powerful interest in keeping him quiet. We still weren’t sure what role he’d played for them and why, let alone for how long, but he’d wanted access to the county courthouse. Vera Pullman, the woman who’d brought me to my niece and nephew—at gunpoint—had told me as much. Mike had gone into hiding after the kids were taken, but he’d reemerged as soon as I found them and marched himself to the state police to tell his side of the story.

I’d gone into labor while helping the kids escape, and Hope had been born in the woods with the help of Tim Dermot, a former nurse and present crime boss. After her traumatic birth, we’d both been admitted to the hospital to recover, and Ashley and Mikey had gone to stay with Mike’s parents. Two days later, they’d disappeared again. According to Mike’s parents, they were with him, and he was in protective custody. Joe had tried to get more details from the state police, but they were tight-lipped, only assuring him that Mike and the kids were safe. No one would tell us anything.

There wasn’t a thing I could do about it, but I knew my sister was likely rolling over in her grave. She’d wanted me to get custody of her kids, which was an impossible request given their father very much wanted them and—until their kidnapping—had been a great father. She’d left me a flash drive in her will, something that would supposedly change everything, but I still didn’t know what was on it, because the sealed manila envelope that held it had been stolen from her attorney’s safe.

I might never see Violet’s kids again. The thought was even more painful because I wanted Hope to know them—and for them to know her.

Joe slipped back into the room, his phone in his hand.

“What’s goin’ on?” I asked softly.

His glance dropped to Hope as he walked around the end of the bed. “I have to go to a crime scene,” he said, stopping next to me.

“A murder?” I wasn’t out of line for asking. Not much else would drag him out before the sun rose.

He grimaced. “They found a body.” But he didn’t admit it was a murder, which meant they were still keeping it under wraps.

“Do you think it has anything to do with James or the Collards?”

While the sheriff’s department had arrested Gerard Collard and two of his sons after a standoff, his son Brox, a man who had helped me on more than one occasion, was missing, and I had a hard time believing he’d been part of their scheme. But Gerard must have a lot of money and/or assets, because he and his sons had posted bail. Then again, I knew he’d been dealing in arms.

And Hope’s biological father, James Malcolm, had been supplying them.

Joe hesitated, then said, “It’s too soon to tell.”

My chest tightened, and I sat up, struggling to draw a breath. “Joe, please be careful.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, wrapping his arms around me and holding me close. “I will,” he whispered in my ear. “I have too much to lose.”

“But James…”

“Skeeter Malcolm is many things, but stupid isn’t one of them. He’s not gonna kill me.”

“But my vision—”

He pulled back slightly. “Have another.”

I sucked in a breath.

“Have another,” he said, cupping the side of my face.

I was scared to try again. I’d had the first vision the day Hope was born…and twice since. Both repeat visions had shown me the same thing: Joe’s murder by James.

Joe pressed a soft kiss to my lips. “Knowledge is power.”

James had told me the same thing what seemed like a lifetime ago. No matter who said it, there was truth in the statement. I nodded. “Okay.”

Leaning my face into his palm, I reached up and covered his hand with mine, then closed my eyes. Does James shoot Joe?

The vision was immediate. James stood about six feet in front of me, his brown eyes full of hate. “You thought you could take what was mine, Simmons?”

“You could never deserve them, Malcolm,” I snarled in Joe’s voice.

“Maybe not, but neither do you.” Then James pulled the trigger, hitting me square in the chest. A white-hot heat spread through my body, and I fell to the ground.

The vision faded, and I found myself staring into Joe’s worried eyes, my heart pounding so hard I was surprised it didn’t burst out of my chest. “He’s gonna kill you.”

He gave me a tight smile. “No. He’s not. Did you see where we were this time?”

I shook my head as tears stung my eyes. “No. It was dark, so it must have been night, but I couldn’t tell if you were outside.”

“I have no intention of forcing a confrontation with Skeeter Malcolm, inside or out. We’ll figure out how to stop it, so try not to worry.” He gave me a lingering kiss, then stood. “I need to get dressed and head out.”

“Okay.”

He made quick work of shaving and putting on his uniform. “You gonna head into the office today?”

“Just for a few hours. Bruce Wayne’s doin’ the best he can, but he’s overwhelmed. His specialty is overseeing installments, not makin’ designs and meetin’ with clients.”

His gaze shifted to Hope.

“We’ll be careful,” I said. “I’ll lock the office door.”

“Okay…” I could tell he wanted to tell me to stay home, but he bit his tongue and trusted me to use my best judgment. He knew I’d never knowingly put our baby in danger. “Check in with me today.”

“And you let me know when you have something you can share.”

“Deal.”

He leaned over and kissed Hope on the forehead. Then he stood, gave me another kiss, and walked out the door.

Chapter Two

I couldn’t go back to sleep after Joe left. I was too worried about him and what he was investigating. So I moved Hope to her bassinet, shocked when she didn’t wake up, and coerced Muffy to come downstairs and go out to pee. Muffy shot out the back door quickly enough that no one would have guessed she’d been hit by a car a month and a half earlier. It was as if having a new purpose—guarding Hope—had given her a burst of energy. As soon as she did her business, she ran back inside and back up the stairs to the bedroom.

Deciding to take advantage of the quiet, I grabbed my laptop and headed back upstairs and into the small sunroom off my bedroom, which I’d turned into an office so I could be close to Hope while she slept. Being in there made me happy, because so many of the people I loved had worked together to make it special. Joe had made me a desk from an old wooden door he’d found at an auction, and Neely Kate had found a pretty blue rug that popped against the crisp white walls. Bruce Wayne had brought me an ergonomic office chair, and Maeve, who’d been managing the nursery since Violet’s death, had brought in several decor pieces from the shop. We’d hung some curtains and added a chair, and other than the nursery, it had become my favorite part of the house.

The sun began to rise, and the trees behind the barn at the back of my property were suffused with a soft pink glow. It was a beautiful sunrise, but I struggled to enjoy it. My vision of Joe haunted me, and I had a bad feeling the crime scene he was investigating might be the start of something ominous.

I tried to work on a backyard redesign based on the measurements and photos Bruce Wayne had taken during his consultation with the clients, but I was too distracted to focus. I needed to know what was going on, and I knew someone who might be able to tell me.

I got up and peered through the open door to my room to check on Hope. She was still sleeping, and Muffy had resumed her place on the bed. Then I sat in my office chair and tapped out a text to Tim Dermot.

Would you like a home-cooked breakfast and a chance to see your goddaughter?

It was around six, so I didn’t expect an answer for at least another hour or so, but he responded right away.

Will there be three at breakfast or four?

He was asking if Joe would be there.

I wasn’t surprised. Dermot was a big player in the criminal world, although I was still unsure exactly what he did, and I preferred to keep it that way. Plausible deniability and all. But Dermot had helped me out of more than one difficult situation, including delivering Hope under extremely harrowing conditions. I owed the man my life. Joe recognized that fact, but he was still the chief deputy sheriff, so I tried not to put him in awkward situations.

Two until Hope wakes up, which will likely be sooner than later.

Give me an hour. I’m dealing with a situation.

A situation. Did it involve whatever crime had driven Joe out of the house before dawn?

 Okay. See you then.

Work was impossible, so I headed into Hope’s room to grab her laundry basket. Although we’d moved the monitor set up to her bedroom, I wasn’t concerned about hearing her once she woke up. She had a set of lungs on her that could be heard throughout the house. I carted her laundry downstairs to the basement and put a load in the washing machine. Just as I was heading back upstairs, I paused. Something didn’t feel right, but I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. It was like something was out of place.

I glanced around the unfinished space, trying to figure out what was making me uneasy, and I realized that some of the boxes along the far wall looked like they’d been moved around. When I’d inherited the house, I’d also inherited boxes of photos and keepsakes that had been stored in the house for decades. Joe and I had been going through them, trying to determine what to keep and what to toss out. It must have been from the last time he was down here.

Feeling more at ease, I headed back upstairs to figure out what to make for breakfast. I got the impression Dermot didn’t cook for himself, so I tried to spoil him on the rare occasions when he ate with me. I decided on waffles, bacon, and fried eggs, and of course, a pot of coffee. I’d started the bacon frying, made the waffle fixings, and set the iron to heating when I heard a soft knock at the back door.

I hurried over and opened the door when I saw Dermot on the stoop. “Something smells good,” he said as he walked inside.

“It’s the bacon. Coffee’s in the pot.”

Dark semi-circles hung under his eyes, and he gave me a weary smile. “I could drink a gallon.”

“I think I’m more rested than you, which is saying something,” I said wryly. “Especially since Hope has decided sleep is for losers.”

He released a laugh and headed to the coffee pot. “I remember those days.” There was plenty of longing in his tone.

Before Hope was born, Dermot had told me that he’d had a wife and children, but he hadn’t said what had become of them, and I hadn’t asked.

“You want to get to business right away or stick to pleasantries for now?” he asked as he poured coffee into a mug I’d left on the counter.

I spread batter into the waffle iron and closed it. “I say we get the business out of the way, then we can do pleasantries when Hope wakes up.”

“Okay,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee, then turning around and leaning his butt against the counter. “I take it Joe isn’t here is because he’s dealing with the murder south of town.”

“So it was a murder?” I asked. “He only told me they found a body.”

One side of his mouth quirked up. “A bullet to the back of the head is usually due to murder.”

A chill ran down my back. “Anyone I might know?”

“It was one of Malcolm’s men, but someone he brought on after the two of you split. I doubt you’d know him.”

I nodded.

James “Skeeter” Malcolm was the king of the crime world in Fenton County, Arkansas. He had a long criminal career, but he’d bought his crown a year and a half ago with my reluctant help. I’d seen his murder in a vision. It had happened at the auction for the top dog position in the Fenton County underworld, and rather than skip the event, he’d insisted I come with him. Since I was dating the assistant district attorney at the time, I’d needed a disguise—a sexy black dress, heels, and a hat with a thick veil to hide my face.

And so the Lady in Black was born.

I’d donned that hat and veil for several months, using my visions to help James figure out who was trying to sabotage him. Although I was helping James, I wasn’t doing it for him; in exchange, he’d agreed to protect my then-boyfriend, Mason (unbeknownst to Mason). But a funny thing happened over those months—James and I had become friends, and we’d stayed friends even after Mason broke up with me, and I (temporarily, it turned out) retired my hat and veil. We continued to be friends for several months, meeting once a week behind the abandoned Sinclair gas station on the west side of town. That was how I discovered something most people didn’t realize about the man most of the county feared. James Malcolm—Skeeter to everyone else—had a good heart.

I hadn’t meant to give him mine.

Our fling had begun with clandestine meetings that were dangerous and seductive and exciting. We would meet at his secret house in the woods south of town and play a beautiful game of pretend. Because James had made it very clear he had no interest in marriage or a family, and I had always dreamed of having both. We weren’t supposed to fall in love, only we had, and it had made everything more complicated.

Then I got pregnant, despite having been careful with birth control, and everything fell apart. He’d given me an ultimatum: him or the baby, but it hadn’t been a choice at all. He’d made his decision the moment he uttered those words.

He’d told me that if I aligned myself with the criminals who were joining forces to keep the Hardshaw Group out of the county, we would be enemies.

So that had been his choice too. Because from what I’d learned, Hardshaw had infiltrated other counties like a disease, bringing in hard drugs and harder people. Having Hardshaw in Fenton County wouldn’t be good for anyone other than the few people it enriched, and I had no intention of allowing them to destroy my home. Hope’s home.

“Any idea who did it?”

“If I had to guess, Denny Carmichael.” He took a sip of his coffee, then added, “I doubt he did it personally. Probably had a goon do it.”

“Do you think Denny is about to make a play for James’ position?”

“Hard to say. It could be that Carmichael found Malcolm’s guy snoopin’ around on his property and decided to teach him a lesson. Could be things are escalating. Carmichael is none too pleased with Malcolm’s involvement with Hardshaw. Maybe he’s acting on that. Especially in light of the news that Hardshaw kidnapped the kids.”

I nodded as I took the last of the bacon out of the skillet and cracked a couple of eggs into the pan. The waffle iron beeped, and I took the first one out, pouring batter for a second.

“You know you can’t tell Simmons any of this, right?” he asked in a nonchalant tone, but there was an edge to his voice.

“I know. What we discuss is purely confidential. Always has been. Always will be.”

He gave me a tight smile. I suspected he understood how hard it was for me to keep secrets from Joe. My life had been full of secrets, and I wanted to be done with them. But I also knew sharing certain things would cause more harm than good.

“Where do you think we stand with Hardshaw’s presence in the county?” I asked.

“Two months ago, I would have said they didn’t have much of one,” he said with a sigh. “Seemed like they’d retreated with their tail between their legs. But their connection to Sonder Tech makes me think they never fully left. Are they lying low, trying to sneak in under the radar? Or are they cleaning up loose ends before they leave town for good? Given their recent troubles with the FBI in Dallas, I suspect it’s the latter. Especially with your brother-in-law turning himself in to the state police.”

Sonder Tech had come to town last fall to open up shop in Henryetta, which seemed strange since most legitimate businesses were hanging shutters and leaving town. But we’d figured out they were tied to Hardshaw, even if the manager hadn’t realized it.

“Which leaves James vulnerable,” I said. “Hence the murder of one of his men.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“But if you had to lean one way or the other…?” I gave him an expectant look.

“I’d say Malcolm best be watching his back.”

My blood turned icy with fear. I’d made my choice, and I didn’t regret it, but I still didn’t want anything to happen to James.

“Have you heard from him since he reached out before Hope’s birth?” Dermot asked.

“No.” James had told me he didn’t want anything to do with the baby, yet he’d refused to sign papers abdicating his claim to paternity…until recently. On the day of Hope’s birth, James had told me he’d sign the papers on two conditions. One, that I stop inquiring about the evidence stolen from Violet’s attorney’s office, and two, that I spend forty-eight hours with him before I gave birth, with no contact with anyone until our time was up.

That hadn’t come to pass, for obvious reasons, and I hadn’t heard from him since then. I had no idea what he’d intended, although Dermot had voiced his suspicions. None of them good.

“Did you find out if he’d tried to hire a midwife?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. But he could have been planning to take you to Louisiana.”

“Kidnapping me across state lines?” I asked, dubious.

“It wouldn’t have been kidnapping. You would have been gone ‘willingly,’ but it’s all a moot point. It didn’t happen. Still, it’s worrying that we don’t know why he wanted that time with you.”

I just nodded, because he was right, and I’d devoted plenty of worrying to it.

The waffle iron alarm went off again, and I pulled it out and put it on a plate. I added eggs and bacon to each, then brought them back to the table with some utensils.

Glancing around, he said, “Where’s Muffy? I’m surprised she’s not after the bacon.”

I released a laugh. “She’s abandoned me for the baby. She’s her guard dog now.”

He grinned at that, an approving grin, then asked, “How’s it goin’ with the horses? Any trouble with Margi?”

I’d dated Margi’s brother, Levi, briefly, what felt like a million years ago. So I’d understood why she’d been standoffish with me in the beginning, only she’d changed her tune on a dime after learning I had an unused horse barn and pasture. Then she’d treated me like her new best friend, not backing off until I agreed to board her rescue horses.

“No,” I said. “I rarely see her. She has a teenage girl come out to tend to them in the morning, and a woman in her thirties in the afternoons. Margi only comes out when one of them can’t make it.”

He gave a nod, then asked me if I’d been working, frowning when I admitted I had been putting in a few hours a day for the past couple of weeks. He told me that Hope’s birth had been traumatic and I needed to give myself time to heal, but I waved away his concerns, assuring him I was just fine.

I’d eaten half my breakfast when I heard Hope’s cries.

Dermot’s eyes lit up, and I released a laugh. “I’ll go get her.”

Muffy was standing at the edge of my bed, sending me an anxious look when I walked into the room. I scooped Hope up and took her into her room to change her diaper. She stopped crying as she stared up at me.

“Good morning, sweet baby,” I cooed. “Are you ready to see Uncle Dermot?”

She released a gurgling sound that I took for a yes.

When I finished, I picked her up and carried her downstairs with Muffy in tow.

“Look who’s up,” I said as we walked into the kitchen.

Dermot broke into a huge smile, and it struck me that I’d never seen him look so happy.

“Want to hold her?”

“Of course.”

He reached for her, then cradled her in his arms.

He’d come to see her twice since her birth. The first time Joe had insisted on being there so he could thank Dermot for saving both of our lives. They’d traded handshakes, Dermot had assured him it had been his pleasure, and Joe had taken off. I knew it was hard for him to have Dermot around. Dermot was a criminal, the very thing he was trying to clean out of the county, and now he felt beholden to him.

I took advantage of Hope being distracted and finished my breakfast, then picked up our empty plates and took them to the sink. Muffy watched Hope vigilantly, but I convinced her to eat her food even though someone other than Mommy or Daddy was holding her charge.

Dermot talked to Hope about the weather, the horses, and her personal guard dog.

He’d held her for nearly ten minutes before she remembered she hadn’t had a full meal in many hours and started to wail.

Dermot laughed and stood. “I think this is the part where you take over. Thanks for breakfast and time with Hope.”

“Of course, Dermot,” I said, getting up too. “You have a standing invitation as far as I’m concerned.”

“Thanks,” he said again with a soft smile, but there was no denying the pain in his eyes. Once again, I wondered what had happened to his family. But he didn’t give me time to ask, even if I’d been inclined. He placed Hope in my arms and walked out the back door.

Continue the rest of It All Falls Down on February 9

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Buried in Secrets
Carly Moore #4

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Print book and audiobook to come

Be careful where you dig…

Life in Drum, Tennessee has been quiet since corruption was uncovered in the sheriff’s department three months ago—too quiet. Still, Carly is shocked when she discovers one of her sweetest lunch customers at the tavern has committed murder in cold blood. 

Carly is certain the woman was fulfilling an infamous “favor” for the town patriarch, Bart Drummond, but now she has to prove it. She already knew that Drum has two sides—the side they show the world, and the seedy underbelly. Only in Drum, all things seedy lead back to two men—Bart Drummond and the local drug king, Todd Bingham. 

The deeper Carly gets, the more she begins to question everything, even her desire to have her own family. But even if she could forget Bart’s threat is hanging over her head, she can’t forget that her father is still searching for her, ready to drag her back to her own death. She needs to uncover the truth, but everything is buried in secrets.