Harlequin Romantic Suspense July 2021 Box Set Read online

  Additionally, Evangeline might not have clearly seen the man at the end of the alley, but based on her description of his height, weight and overall physical heft, the assailant she observed wasn’t a match for Davison.

  Which meant it was very possible they were dealing with someone else altogether.

  A reality that didn’t sit any better on his shoulders.

  He meant his promise to Brett. He would do whatever needed to be done. He’d never let his partner, his chief or his department down like that.

  But he’d do what needed to be done for Evangeline, too.

  He just hoped like hell those promises weren’t at odds with one another.

  * * *

  Evangeline finally quit roaming around the house about an hour after Troy left. She’d already taken a walk around the condo complex, talking for a while with her upstairs neighbor, Ella, and trying to clear her mind of the cobwebs that seemed to have settled there. She was restless and anxious, despite the exercise, but enough was enough. It was only when she’d settled on the idea to sit down with a legal pad that she’d finally felt a bit like her old self.

  With a pen and paper in hand, she was the problem solver. The strategist. And the woman who knew how to take charge and use the legal system to its full benefit. A woman who made lists, reviewed evidence, wrote briefs and understood that the truth didn’t come in waves, but as a series of revelations and approaches that got you to a successful outcome. It was how she’d argued cases for years and it was time to apply that same logic to her own life.

  With renewed energy coursing through her veins, she wrote down her first question. What did she know?

  Randall Bowe had falsified evidence in numerous cases. A situation Arielle’s office had been combing through, trying to determine where falsely imprisoned individuals needed their cases reviewed.

  She knew the DA’s side but needed Troy’s additional details there through a cop’s eyes. Best they currently understood, the disgraced CSI leader had tampered with evidence for reasons only he seemed to know and, once discovered, gone on the run. He wasn’t a killer but he’d enabled one in Len Davison.

  Which brought her to her second note. Len Davison was responsible for the murder she’d prosecuted; thanks to Bowe’s tampering with the evidence, he’d been acquitted. He’d gone on to kill again, his pattern focused on men in their fifties, out alone, walking dogs in the park. Each victim had died with a single gunshot to the chest. He’d struck three times and while Troy hadn’t said much the night before, she knew enough legal psychology to know that the third murder meant Davison had graduated to serial killer.

  Interestingly, the dogs hadn’t been harmed. Evangeline tapped the back of her pen to the paper, considering the angle. Did it mean something?

  She got up and padded to her spare room to retrieve her laptop from the small desk she maintained in there. It was only as she entered the room that she stilled. The bed was neatly made, no sign that Troy had ever been there. Unless you counted the lingering scent of him and the knowledge that his head had lain on the very pillows now propped on the bedframe. Something warm filled her stomach, suffusing out to her limbs, and she couldn’t hold back the smile.

  He’d been the soul of propriety last night, but he’d also insisted on staying. It had been sweet of him and incredibly caring. And it added one more dimension to their kiss. Was it possible he cared?

  She’d always been attracted to him, and she knew many women in the county’s legal system felt the same. Troy Colton was an attractive man, his broad shoulders and slim hips always sure to garner attention. But when you added on the competence in his work and the innate kindness in his eyes, that attraction had nowhere to go but up.

  Unwilling to let her thoughts move too closely toward her quietly held fantasies, Evangeline snagged the laptop quickly off the desk and left the room. And if those hints of sandalwood and fresh summer sunlight still lingered in the room—scents she had reveled in as she’d kissed Troy—well, she needed to shut that part of herself off.

  He’d come to help her, not date her. She’d do well to remember that.

  Back in front of her legal pad, she opened the laptop and tapped in the details of the Davison murders into a search bar. Just as she’d already known, news reports confirmed he’d killed three times, the pattern the same. All men in their fifties, all out walking dogs in the park. And in each case the pet was unharmed.

  A positive situation to be sure, but it seemed significant somehow. As if the dog was the conduit to get to the man in the park but not the object of the attack.

  She enjoyed a good thriller as much as the next person and recognized her serial-killer knowledge was heavily steeped in the books she’d read or the movies she’d watched. But there was something about animals... Many future killers escalated over time, having hurt animals as their initial targets.

  Yet Davison hadn’t touched the dogs. The beloved pets of his victims. That meant something.

  With that as her focus, she added more questions to her notepad.

  What was his motive? Why these men? And why now, after what seemed like a crime-free life? What had driven Davison to his actions?

  Hadn’t that been one of the things that made her legal argument seem so clear? Davison didn’t have a history of violence and had been considered a good, upstanding citizen. At the time of his trial, she’d had no reason to think the evidence had been tampered with because the man on trial hadn’t exhibited any bad behavior—and they hadn’t yet known of Bowe’s crimes. It didn’t excuse her role in his trial, but it was one more item in the “it doesn’t add up” column on her notepad.

  Nor did it really explain what she was personally dealing with.

  Davison might be unstable and increasingly violent, but he had a pattern. One that didn’t at all match what was happening to her.

  The ongoing sensation of being watched.

  The events that had unfolded at work.

  Even the incidents the night before felt off.

  She knew what she saw, yet there was no evidence to suggest it had ever happened. Crimes just didn’t work that way. Humans left forensic trails, no matter how hard they tried to suppress them. So did guns and ammunition. Yet despite what she’d seen, a trained K-9 and a well-honed team of CSI experts had found nothing in that alley.

  It just seemed...impossible.

  Which only led to more questions.

  Was she overtired and hallucinating? She’d slept terribly over the past few months, the situation at work all-consuming. While she took deep pride in her work ethic and willingness to give her job her all, including late nights and long weekends if necessary, was it possible she’d imagined her fears into existence?

  A dark shudder ran the length of her spine and Evangeline stood, heading to the kitchen for a glass of water. She needed to shake this off. This negative thinking that suggested she didn’t know her own mind.

  Wasn’t that the root of her parents’ difficult marriage for so many years? Her father had issues controlling his rage, so he’d lash out at the most minimal of offenses or situations. Her mother would cower and cry and he’d apologize later, telling her that his behavior wasn’t nearly as out of proportion as her reaction suggested.

  A constant game of push-pull on her mother’s emotions, suggesting she didn’t know her own mind or understand what she’d experienced. That she somehow didn’t understand Cecil Whittaker’s rage issues and their serious consequences.

  For years, Evangeline had observed the problem, helpless to make it change. Her mother protected her as best as she could, bearing the brunt of the emotional abuse and demanding Evangeline stay out of it.

  But how did you stay out of it, even as a child?

  It wasn’t a situation that could be ignored. The roiling anger that seethed beneath the surface in her home had been a steady companion throughout her chi
ldhood. It was only once Evangeline was out of the house, off to college, that Dora Whittaker had finally made a change. Had finally left, satisfied that her daughter could no longer be a pawn in a divorce settlement.

  Or worse, have to face the same consequences if she were to spend time with her father in a shared custody agreement.

  It was no way to live. And while she was grateful her mother had finally gotten out—that they both had—it didn’t change the lingering damage her first eighteen years had done.

  She took another sip of water, willing the cool liquid to ease her suddenly tight throat. The memories of her parents’ marriage always upset her and nothing good ever came of reliving that time in her life. The helpless feelings. The anger at her father, even as she continued to love him as her parent.

  It was hurtful and confusing and had left an incredibly dark mark on her life.

  The heavy knock on the door pulled her from her musings and Evangeline was grateful for the distraction. She’d go answer it and then make some lunch. She had some of her mother’s sinigang in the fridge and it would make a soothing antidote to the painful memories. The tamarind soup had always been a favorite and she was already anticipating the rich flavors that had only grown stronger as it spent a few days as a leftover in her fridge.

  The knock came again and Evangeline headed more quickly down the hall. She had no idea why whoever was out there hadn’t rung the bell but disregarded it as she swung the door open.

  And looked down to find a bloody white shirt on her front entryway.

  * * *

  Troy scrolled through the notes he’d jotted down on his phone, confirming he’d included everything in his report for Melissa. He’d already added in the notes he’d taken down in the conference room the day before as Evangeline walked him through the events she witnessed in the alley and now sat back to reread through the report one final time.

  He’d nearly finished his read-through when the knock came at his door. “Melissa.” He sat back, not surprised his cousin had found her way to his office. “Come in.”

  “I wanted to discuss the Whittaker case.”

  He’d figured as much but didn’t say it, giving her time to settle in instead. Melissa was a good chief because she innately understood the places that required more of her attention versus the cases that her team had well in hand. She shifted her attention as it was needed and was able to pivot quickly, taking in new information and feeding back theories to her team that they might not have considered yet.

  She was also engaged and planning a wedding and dealing with the department’s troubles. It was that reality that Troy couldn’t disregard. The sheer pressure on her shoulders, upholding justice for the citizens of Grave Gulch, all while trying to keep her large, extended family safe.

  “Come on in and sit down.”

  Melissa came fully into his office but she remained standing, her hands clasped behind her back as she stood in front of his desk. “You held back there in the conference room. I got the very clear sense you didn’t share all you knew.”

  “I did share all I knew. My report will support that.”

  “But?” She left the word hanging there and in that moment she was 100 percent his chief. Their common last name and family connection had zero bearing on her hunt for information.

  “But nothing. Detective Shea and I responded to a nine-one-one call last evening. We investigated the scene and were unable to find a body or any indication there’d been a violent incident.”

  “And you questioned the witness?”

  “Extensively. Her story remained unchanged from what she reported to the nine-one-one dispatcher or in her initial feedback on site to Brett and me.”

  “She’s been put on leave from work, you know.” Melissa’s vivid blue gaze was direct as she said it, that look adding to the undertones in her comment.

  “A point Ms. Whittaker and I discussed.”

  “You don’t think that’s suspicious?”

  “Suspicious how? It has no bearing on witnessing a crime.”

  “What crime? There’s no body and no evidence, Troy.”

  It was the reality he kept slamming into, no matter how much he wanted to ignore it.

  “Tell me you understand that,” Melissa pressed.

  “Of course I understand it.”

  “Good. Because I can’t afford to have you distracted off the Davison case. He’s struck twice since January, and based on his pattern, we need to stop him before he hits again soon.”

  “I know what we’re up against.”

  Melissa dropped into Troy’s guest chair, her strong, capable shoulders deflating. “I know you know. That’s what’s so tough here.”

  And just like that, he saw the Melissa he’d grown up with sitting before him across the desk. “I’m running out of answers here, Troy. The man’s in his mid-sixties and until his first murder is so squeaky clean he’s barely rated a speeding ticket. How does the death of a spouse—even if she was so beloved—make someone do this? To change course so badly? And worse, because he isn’t a criminal and presumably has never run in those circles, how has he managed to get away with it all for this long?”

  “I don’t know, Mel. I really don’t.”

  And wasn’t that the worst part of it all? They knew exactly who they were up against. They’d discovered his guilt, the assistance he’d gotten from Bowe, and they’d even built a relationship with Len’s daughter, Tatiana. Yet despite all that progress, they were no closer to getting the man in custody.

  “How’s Tatiana holding up?” Troy asked. Although they’d initially questioned how Davison’s daughter could have been unaware of her father’s actions, they’d come to learn that she was as shocked and hurt by the news as the families of the man’s victims.

  Their cousin Travis had had a fling with Tatiana, his co-CEO. They’d soon fallen in love while both were working at Colton Plastics, but her surprise pregnancy had become public around the same time she was being questioned by the police about her father.

  It was an extraordinary set of circumstances, but the Colton family had quickly closed ranks around Len’s daughter, unwilling to paint her with the same brush as they did her father.

  “As good as can be expected,” Melissa said. “Travis keeps a close eye and the two of them are busy with Colton Plastics and planning for the baby’s arrival. It’s keeping her occupied, which has to be good in this situation.”

  “Does she know this latest news? About the home invasion?”

  Melissa nodded. “I called her myself this morning. She handled it. She didn’t ask a lot of questions, but she held it together. And Travis has been a rock for her.”

  Troy thought about what his cousin and his fiancée had dealt with over the past several months and was glad they had each other. He’d always believed he could handle whatever life threw at him—and had little interest in dragging a romantic partner into the risks that came with his work—but he also recognized the power of love.

  Although he’d lost his mother when he was barely old enough to remember her, his father had always talked of the great love he shared with Amanda Colton. Geoff also spoke of how lucky he was to find a deep and lasting love with Leanne, long after he’d believed he would never find that sort of companionship and affection again. Lightening had struck twice, as it were. A special circumstance few were fortunate to experience.

  “It’s good they’re together.” Troy nearly expanded on the point when his phone went off. Evangeline’s name registered on the readout. “I’m sorry, Mel, I need to take this.”

  She waved him on, even as her gaze narrowed.

  “Evangeline. What’s—”

  “Troy! Someone was here. Outside. The shirt!”

  Just like the night before, deep panic vibrated through the phone like a living, writhing entity. “What shirt?”

 
“The white shirt. It’s a bloody mess on my front step.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Evangeline huddled on the same living room chair as last night, the air conditioning blowing through the room making it feel like a tomb. She wanted to act—wanted to do something—but no matter how often she told herself to move, all she could do was huddle on the chair.

  What was wrong with her?

  That question frittered and flowed through her mind, at moments an insistent banging and at others quiet and meandering. It was the only one she could seem to conjure, even as fragments of thought kept telling her she should wait outside or at least stand near the window, keeping an eye on that shirt.

  But the blood. It was so red. So real. And so...vicious.

  The killer must have left it on her front door, a taunting tease that not only reinforced the fear of last night, but ensured something else.

  He knew where she lived—and had been in her home, too.

  The urgent sound of sirens suddenly filled the room.

  Troy had come.

  He was close. He was here. And that meant she was safe.

  It was the only thing that could get her moving, she realized, as she stood and walked to the door. The sound of sirens was nearly overpowering as police cars pulled into the parking lot of her building. It was only when Evangeline heard the shouts through the door—and Troy’s reassuring voice—that she finally felt ready to open it again.

  The door handle was heavy in her hand and she needed to grip it with both hands to turn it. Slowly, slowly it turned and she pulled on the door.

  Only to find Troy standing across the threshold, a line of officers behind him.

  “Evangeline!” His voice sounded far away as she stared down at the front stoop of her home.

  The concrete was empty, no sign of anything even having been there. Frantically, her gaze shifted to the lawn that stretched out to either side. Had the shirt blown away? The summer air felt still around her, not a breeze in sight, but it wouldn’t take much to move a shirt, right?