Authors: Susan Sleeman
Dead Wrong (18 page)
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading Kat and Mitch’s story. I really felt convicted as I wrote their story centered around worry. Why? Because I was doing a lot of worrying before I started the book. One of the things Kat thinks early on in the book really encompassed my thoughts at the time.
Here it is:
She trusted God, she just wanted to help Him to make sure things didn’t go wrong.
Do you ever do that? Think you’re trusting God no matter the outcome, but then find yourself doing little things to help Him along when things don’t seem to be going your way? I did before writing
Dead Wrong.
But now, I’m trying to let go and let God. It’s not always easy, but when worry pops up now, I remember Kat and Mitch’s struggles and I’m able to let go much more easily. It’s my prayer that when worry assails you, you, too, can give it up and rest in God’s peace.
I love to hear from readers and you can reach me through my website,
www.susansleeman.com
, or in care of Love Inspired Books at 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.
Susan Sleeman
Questions for Discussion
Kat and Mitch both worry. Not about the little things of life, but about the big life-or-death matters. Do you worry, and if so about what?
Has worrying ever accomplished anything good in your life or do you wish you could let it go? After reading the book are there ways that you can let go of that worry?
Why do you think it took Kat so long to see how much she worried?
Kat discovers that worrying is second-guessing God and is sinful. Have you really thought about worry as being sinful before? Do you trust God with everything or are there certain things that you hold on tightly to? If so, what are they?
After losing the woman he loved, Mitch is terrified of loving again. Have you ever felt this way after a relationship ended and if so, how did you work through it?
Kat’s father was an abusive, controlling man and Kat can’t handle someone trying to control her in any way. How about you? How do you feel when someone wants to control what you do?
When Mitch’s sister comes to him for help after repeatedly hurting him with her drug use, he gives in and lets her stay at his home for the night. What would you have done in this situation?
When Mitch’s sister finally gets clean, she thinks she isn’t good enough for other people. Is there something you’re harboring in your heart that makes you think less of yourself?
Mitch goes behind Kat’s back and involves her family in a dangerous situation. Do you think what he did was justified, or should he have talked to her first?
When life got too difficult, Mitch turned away from God. We all turn away in degrees, maybe not rejecting God as Mitch did, but rejecting some of the things He would have us do in our lives. Have you ever had anything in your life that made you turn away? How did you come back from it?
Which character in the story do you relate most to and why?
In my letter, I shared a section of the book that really spoke to some issues I was facing when I wrote it. Is there a particular scene in the book that you can relate to?
After writing the first two books in The Justice Agency series, I have really come to like Cole’s no-nonsense approach to life and am now really enjoying writing his story. Do you know anyone like Cole, who can cut away all the fluff and get to the heart of a problem? Or are you a person like that and if so, how did you come to be that way?
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Love Inspired Suspense story.
You enjoy a dash of danger.
Love Inspired Suspense
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ONE
M
URDERER!
Red letters dripped like blood down the front of the freshly
painted house.
Smaller letters marched across the newly whitewashed porch
floor.
Murderer.
The painted words seemed to taunt Catherine Miller as she
trudged to the back of the old farmhouse and grabbed two nearly empty paint cans
from the dilapidated shed. Hopefully, she had enough to cover the vandalism. She
snagged a couple of paint pans, tucked paint rollers under her arm and carried
everything to the porch. Ten minutes, and she'd be done.
Good. Eileen would be finished with chemo in an hour, and
Catherine didn't want her grandmother waiting. She was too sick, too exhausted,
too frail to be left sitting in a crowded hospital waiting room. At sixty-seven,
Eileen's clock was running down, and Catherine wished desperately that she could
wind it back up again. She couldn't, so she'd purposed to spend every moment she
could making sure Eileen's last weeks and months were comfortable and
pleasant.
That meant getting rid of the vandalism before Eileen got
home.
She touched a finger to the dry red paint. Not even tacky.
Whoever had vandalized the house had done it soon after Catherine and Eileen had
left for the hospital. Some punk kid. She was sure that was what the sheriff
would say if she called.
She wouldn't.
She'd put her grandmother through enough already. She wouldn't
bring her home to vandalism or to police poring over the property. She'd cover
the paint and keep what had happened locked safely away with all the other
things she couldn't share.
The sun blazed from the blue summer sky, the breezeless air hot
and arid. Sweat trickled down her temple and neck as she poured dove-gray paint
into a pan.
Whoosh.
One letter gone.
Swish.
Another disappeared. She should have felt
satisfaction, but she felt nothing. Not anger. Not irritation. Not dismay,
disgust, horror.
Nothing.
She covered another letter and wiped sweat from her upper lip,
surveying the fresh paint. Not even a shadow of red peeked out from under the
gray. Perfect. Eileen would never know what had happened, and that was the only
thing Catherine cared about. She dipped the roller in gray again, sweeping it
over the
E
and
R,
the
silence of the old farmstead only broken by the swishing of paint on wood.
Nothing moved. Not the tall grass and weeds that pressed up against the
perimeter of the yard. Not the leaves on the trees.
The stillness ate at Catherine as she worked, nudging at the
back of her mind. Four years in the state prison had insulated her from the
world, but not from people and life. There had been little silence in her cell
block and even less time alone. Here, in the small town where she'd grown up,
she seemed to always be alone and silent. Even when she was in a crowd. Even
when Eileen was close by.
She grabbed a fresh roller, poured white paint into a clean pan
and slicked it over the red letters on the porch. Almost done. There'd be plenty
of time for the floor to dry before she picked Eileen up from chemotherapy.
Something rustled to her left, the tall weeds that edged the
property swaying. No breeze to blow them, but they moved again, twitching to the
left and right as she watched.
“Who's there?” she asked, sure a bird would fly out of the
overgrowth. Instead, soft laughter drifted from the weeds, the sound chilling
her blood.
“I said, âwho's there?'”
“Murderer!” The taunt whispered out, and Catherine
stiffened.
She'd been out of prison for two months, and in that time,
vandals had broken a window, slashed her car tires and egged the house. The
sheriff had been out three times, but he hadn't been able to track down the
perpetrators. Kids with too much time on their hands. That's what he'd said, and
Catherine had believed him, because she hadn't wanted to believe an adult was
trying to chase her out of town.
But, then, in Pine Bluff, just about anything seemed possible.
Here, the guilty wandered free and the innocent rotted in jail.
Just once,
her rational self
said.
Just you.
The weeds rustled and a tall figure stepped out. Broad and
muscular, he stood at the edge of the yard, a ski mask pulled over his face.
A kid?
Catherine didn't think so, and she tensed, setting the paint
roller in the pan without taking her eyes off the man. “Go home.”
“Go home,”
he mocked, chuckling
softly.
“I'm going to call the police,” she said, backing toward the
front door.
“I don't think so,” he responded and loped toward her.
She lunged for the door, yanking it open, terror squeezing the
breath from her lungs as an arm wrapped around her waist, a hand slapped over
her mouth.
“Let's go inside.” He pressed her toward the yawning doorway,
and she shoved back, raking her hand down his knit ski mask, slamming her elbow
into his ribs. Prison hadn't taught her much, but it
had
taught her how to fight.
He cursed, his grip loosening, and she broke free, lifting the
paint roller, swinging at his face. Paint splattered across his ski mask, and he
stumbled back.
She didn't wait. Didn't try to fight more. Just jumped off the
porch and sprinted across the yard, heading for the dirt road that connected the
homestead to its nearest neighbor.
Please, please.
Footsteps pounded behind her, closing in fast.
Please.
She turned left at the road. A quarter mile, and she'd be at
the Morris place. Empty for years but finally sold to a man that Eileen said
spent more time away than home.
Please, let him be home.
Her breath panted out, the old broken mailbox that marked the
beginning of Morris property just ahead, the curve in the road that hid the
house from view just beyond it.
Close.
She was so close.
God is smiling down on you, my sweet
girl.
The voice echoed from a past so far away that Catherine wasn't
sure it had ever been hers.
And then she was yanked back with so much force she flew. Off
balance, arms flailing, she beat at her attacker, jabbed at his eyes, tried to
pull the mask from his face, screaming, screaming. As if someone might hear. As
if rescue might be just a moment away.
His fist clipped her jaw, and she reeled, stars and darkness
dancing at the edge of her vision.
Please, please, help me.
The prayer danced, too, slipping into her muddled thoughts,
breaking her cardinal rule to never ask for help. She'd clung to her faith
through rocky times, but the past few years had been stagnant and empty of hope,
her faith shriveled and dry from lack of care.
If she could care again, would God save her?
Please!
Sun-scorched earth burned through her T-shirt.
On the ground, his hands around her neck, his breath fanning
her cheek.
“How's it feel to be on the other side, Dark Angel?” he
whispered, his grip tightening, his knee pressing into her stomach.
She gagged, clawing at his wrists, trying to break his iron
hold.
No air.
No breath.
Just hot dirt and hot sun and cold blue eyes staring into
hers.
Please!
She let go of his wrists, dug her thumbs into his eyes, air
filling her lungs as he shoved her hands away.
One more scream.
Another.
And his hands tightened on her throat again.
* * *
A scream broke the silence of Darius Osborne's first day
of vacation. Not an excited scream. Not an it's-summer-and-we're-letting-loose
scream. A terror-filled, panicked, help-me scream, that made his hair stand on
end.
Another scream followed the first, choked off at its zenith. He
dropped the paint scraper, grabbed the hammer, racing around the side of the old
farmhouse and onto the dirt road.
He stopped there. Waiting. Listening.
The hot summer day was silent again.
Not a breath, not a movement.
Nothing.
“Hello?” he called out, glancing up the road toward the distant
highway, then down it toward the curve in the road and the dead fields of the
neighboring farm.
“Help me!” A woman stumbled into view, burnished red hair
gleaming in the sunlight, welts raised on the pale column of her throat. He knew
her. Knew
of
her anyway. Everyone in Pine Bluff
did.
Catherine Miller.
The Dark Angel of Good Samaritan.
Injured, terrified.
He ran toward her, scanning the area as he slid an arm around
her waist.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Someone attacked me,” she rasped, her eyes hollow, her face
expressionless.
“Where is he?”
“He ran when you called out.” She gestured to the curve in the
road, the tall, brown grass and weeds. Anyone could be hiding there.
“Come on.” He urged her toward his house, her backbone
prominent beneath his hand, every vertebra pressing up against her shirt. Too
thin. That's what he'd thought the first time he'd seen her on the news.
Too thin, but beautiful.
Aloof.
The perfect neighbor because all she wanted was exactly what
Darius didâto be left alone.
Only, she hadn't been left alone.
The welts on her neck, the bruise on her jaw proved that.
“Who was it? Someone you know?” He opened his front door,
ushering her inside.
“I'm not sure. He was wearing a ski mask.” She shivered, and he
pulled a throw from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders,
his fingers brushing her neck.
She flinched, tugging the blanket close.
“What else was he wearing?”
“Dark pants. Long-sleeved dark shirt. He was tall. Maybe a
couple of inches shorter than you.” Her teeth chattered, but she looked him
straight in the eye, her gaze direct, her blue eyes dark and lifeless.
“I'm going to call for help, then I'll see if I can find him.”
He pulled out his cell phone, dialing 911 as he took his Glock from the gun safe
in the hall closet.
Catherine watched as he loaded it, her expression never
changing. The media had said plenty about her incarceration and release. They'd
said plenty about her, too. Interviews with supposed friends, with people she'd
worked with and with the family of the people she'd been convicted of murdering.
There'd never been an interview with her, though. Just photos and videos of her
leaving prison, her expression as empty as it was now.
“Stay here, okay?” he asked.
“I'll stay for as long as I can,” she responded, and he
frowned, hot air sweeping in as he opened the door.
“You need to stay here as long as it takes for me to make sure
you're safe.”
“My grandmother is at the hospital getting chemotherapy. I need
to be there to pick her up in less than an hour.”
“Someone tried to kill you. I think your grandmother will
understand if you're late.”
“My grandmother can't know what happened.” She touched her
neck, but it was the only indication she gave of her feelings or her fear.
“Unless she's blind, she's going to be asking a lot of
questions. How are you going to explain this?” He touched the bruise on her jaw,
and she tensed, her eyes flashing with life for the first time since he'd seen
her on the road.
“I'll tell her whatever I have to to keep her from
worrying.”
“Your choice, Catherine, but remember, you won't be able to
tell her anything if you're dead. Stay in the house. I'll be back as soon as I
can.” He stepped outside, listening to the noisy starlings fighting over rotten
food near his overflowing trash bin, waiting for a sign that the perp had
followed Catherine.
Nothing.
Not even a hint that things weren't what they should be.
Darius ran down the porch stairs and across the yard, scanning
the landscape and the sun-baked dirt road. A scuffed area just beyond the curve
in the road gave the first hint of what had happened. He crouched over it,
examining the heel digs ground into the dirt and the footprints that led into
deep cover.
He followed them into the heavy overgrowth, head-high weeds and
dried grass pressing in close, reminding him of far-off days and late-night
treks through planted fields and desert scrub. Different place, different
circumstances, but the adrenaline was the same, the skin-tightening feeling that
he wasn't alone was the same.
Sirens screamed, their warning swelling and then ending
abruptly. Help had arrived. If the perp was close by, he wouldn't be for long.
Not with the police on-site. Darius slipped through the tangled vegetation,
following a trail of broken branches and crushed grass, the Glock a comforting
weight in his hand.
He'd spent four years as a Navy SEAL working in enemy territory
in Afghanistan searching out top-ranking al Qaeda operatives, and he'd never
gotten tired of the hunt. Even now, stateside and working as a security
contractor, he loved this part of the job the most.
Cat and mouse.
Hide-and-seek.
Him against the enemy.
He followed the trail deeper into the field, then back through
sparser growth and out into Catherine's property. An old farmhouse jutted up
from the middle of an overgrown yard, its front door swinging open.
Darius approached cautiously, his senses alert, his nerves
alive with anticipation. Cans of paint sat on the porch, a gray paint roller
abandoned beside them. A red shoe print marred one whitewashed floorboard, and
letters were painted across the width of the porch floor. Someone had covered
them with a thin layer of white paint, but they were still easy to read.