One Deadly Sin, page 1
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2009 by Wylann Solomon
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Forever
Hachette Book Group
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Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing.
The Forever name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: May 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-55191-5
Contents
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Author’s Note
ACCLAIM FOR ANNIE SOLOMON’S PREVIOUS NOVELS
DEAD SHOT
“Solomon’s psychologically rich romantic thriller balances grisly imagery with tender moments and is entertaining, through and through.”
—Booklist
“Gripping… Solomon’s characters are convincing and compelling… good suspenseful fun.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A riveting and edgy romantic suspense that you’ll want to read in a single sitting.”
— BookLoons.com
“4 Stars! A creepy edge of danger threads through the story… fascinating. Solomon and suspense are a perfect match!”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Compelling… The plot is well-written, the action fast-moving, keeping the reader in suspense to the last page.”
— MyShelf.com
“Dead Shot is a thrilling romance that is full of intrigue and emotion. Once I started… I just couldn’t put it down. The characters are wonderfully written and it was a nonstop thrill ride… This is a definite must-read if you are looking for an intense read with some romantic tension.”
— RoundtableReviews.com
“An exciting romantic suspense thriller… Annie Solomon hooks her audience with the first spilled blood and never lets go until the final Dead Shot reckoning occurs.”
— TheBestReviews.com
“Will have your heart skipping beats… Filled with tension in every sentence and a plot that just keeps accelerating and getting more intense by the second.”
—Shelflife
BLACKOUT
“4 Stars! Fantastic story!… Tough, suspenseful, and we have a heroine who is even tougher than the special agent hero. Whew! Never a dull moment. Solomon has outdone herself this time, and that’s not easy to do.”
— RomanceReviewsMag.com
“Twisty and diverting, with well-written action sequences.”
—Publishers Weekly
“4½ Stars! Hooks you from the first page and never lets you go… dangerous and riveting. Rising fast to the top of the romantic suspense genre, Solomon doesn’t disappoint.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Talk about edge-of-the-seat! I have never read a book with such relentless suspense… A superb example of showing over mere telling of a story. I highly recommend Blackout.”
—Romantic Reviews Today
BLIND CURVE
“4 Stars! Riveting and emotionally intense.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“A perfect ten… nail-biting, intense drama that will leave you breathless with anticipation.”
— MyShelf.com
“Annie Solomon does such an outstanding job creating taut suspense. From the very first page… to the riveting climax, you can’t help but be glued to the story.”
— RoundTableReviews.com
“An action-packed novel… a feast for suspense fans, and the added mixture of romance… another winner for an author who clearly has a gift and is on the rise.”
— TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
TELL ME NO LIES
“Infused with raw emotion and a thirst for vengeance. Excitement and tension galore!”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Full of simmering emotions that lovers of romantic suspense will devour.”
—Rendezvous
“Another success! Miss Solomon’s latest novel is a testament to her gift for crafting intelligent, sexy novels.”
— RomanceReadersConnection.com
DEAD RINGER
“Just the ticket for those looking for excitement and romance.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“An entertaining… exceptional… emotionally taut tale… offers twists and turns that kept me enthralled to the last page.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
“Thrilling and edgy… Dead Ringer delivers excitement, suspense, and sexual tension… Highly recommended.”
— RomRevToday.com
LIKE A KNIFE
“A nail-biter through and through. Absolutely riveting.”
—Iris Johansen
“Fast-paced… exciting romantic suspense that… the audience will relish.”
—Midwest Book Review
ALSO BY ANNIE SOLOMON
Like a Knife
Dead Ringer
Tell Me No Lies
Blind Curve
Blackout
Dead Shot
To Mimi, Sundra, Lindsey, and all the rest
at Panera’s West End. Thanks for the coffee and
the warm welcome every morning.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank all who helped get this book into proper shape, particularly my agents, Kelly Harms and Christina Hogrebe, and my editor Michele Bidelspach.
As always, my appreciation goes to Agent Pat Hamblin of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation for all her help with the criminal justice system. Also to Lieutenant Doug Whitefield of the Wilson County Sherriff’s Office for his tour of the Wilson County Criminal Justice Center’s jail, including a trip in the “pickle suit.” Thanks for all you two do to keep us safe.
To Stephanie Floyd for introducing me to wildman “Panhead” Phil Hipshire, whose help with the world of motorbikes was invaluable.
To my writing pals, Trish Milburn and Beth Pattillo, who read some of the early drafts, and picked me up when I was down, thanks for being there.
Finally, to Larry and Becca, who are always along for the ride, whether it’s bumpy or smooth, I couldn’t do it without you.
1
She came at night, creeping into town like a shade. Darkness suited her. It evoked the past, that black hole of fury and mystery. Recapturing it required dark arts.
There was irony, arriving at midnight. Pulling into the cemetery at the traditional witching hour, leaving the street lights behind. She inched forward, navigating through stars, those pinpricks of light. And memory.
The stars were out that night, too, long ago when the doorbell clanged and shattered the silence into before and after. She’d heard it through her bedroom door when she should have been asleep. But who could sleep with her father accused and missing, her mother an inconsolable machine of tears?
She remembered the darkness through her window, the moon a sly smile in the sky, the black a background against which the grown-up voices rumbled below.
And then her mother’s scream.
Unhuman, animal, a throat ripped out, a universe hacked and splattered into pieces. A sound so feral the memory of it still gave her shivers.
No one screamed now. Nothing broke the silence but the hum of her wheels rolling down the winding cemetery road, a path between graves.
At last she slowed. Stopped. Turned off the engine.
And picked her way over the dead to her destination. The last thing she’d seen in this town. The last image of home. Now, it was the first thing she’d see on her return.
The black angel.
She swept a penlight over the sculpture. Remembered the gargoyle face seen with ten-year-old eyes. Twenty years later she saw the face was meant to be kind. But it was overshadowed by massive wings that spanned up and out, looming over the headstone like a vampire bat.
There had been hot arguments over that angel. Even banished to her room, she could hear her mother and her aunt fighting.
“It’s frightening. Unholy,” her aunt had said. “A mark against his name.”
“They put the mark there, not me.”
“They who?”
“I don’t know!”
“You can’t do this, Evelyn.”
“It’s done.” Her mother’s voice was harsh and strained. “It stays until the stain is gone. Until I can prove it.”
Until I can prove it.
Poor Mother.
There had been no proving. It was all too hard, too heavy. Like life itself.
She bent down, ran her fingers over the headstone. Mud had dried and caked over the words cut into the marble. She found her penknife and scraped it away, blowing to clear the residue.
Charles Swanford.
Hello, Daddy.
She traced the rest of the inscription, not needing to see it because it was incised in her memory. Beloved husband and father. And the quotation: They make haste to shed innocent blood.
Innocent blood. She rose to face the angel. They needed a black angel, her father and mother. They were weak. Unprepared for the pressure life steamrolled over them. People who retreated and hid. Ran away. Died.
But they had her now. She snapped off the light, leaving the darkness to coil around her like a shroud. Edie was back. And she’d make everything right.
2
Edie Swann.” Red McClure looked from the job application to Edie, who stood on the other side of the bar.
She held her breath, waiting to see if the name struck a chord with him. Did he recognize it? She’d debated using her real name. It wasn’t that dissimilar from the one she’d left Redbud with, so a false identity might have served her well. But using an alias picked at her. She wanted to come back as herself, right under the nose of the whole damn town, betting that the twenty years between then and now would have blurred memories. So far, she’d been right.
The look Red gave her was open, friendly. Free of shadows. It was a good round face, a plus for a bartender. One that invited small confidences.
Not that he was going to get any from her. “That’s right.”
She’d seen the help-wanted notice for Red’s in the Redbud Gazette. Wondered if the bar was named after the town or after the owner. When she got there, the thinning red thatch atop his freckled face was her answer.
He perused the application again, maybe for the third time. Edie tamped down her impatience.
“You’ve been around,” he said. “New York, Boston, Chicago, St. Louis, Nashville.”
She shrugged. “Still trying to find my Eden.” She put that out there, waited for some hint of recognition, and got none. A shiver of satisfaction ran through her. It was hot outside, deep and thick with summer humidity, and the bar was air-conditioned to the hilt. It would be great once she started working, but right now her bare shoulders in the tight leather vest were freezing.
“And you think you’ve found it in Redbud?” Doubt trickled into his voice.
“You never know.” She smiled, giving him the blazing one she showered on customers. It worked like it always did. Well, that and a few other tricks of the trade. Like putting her elbows on the bar and leaning forward so her cleavage was even more visible.
“These are good places.” He tapped the paper, referring to the list of priors that was her bar girl résumé. “I know some. Well, by reputation, of course. Though I’ve been to the Sassafrass in Nashville. Quite a scene. You won’t get that here. This is a neighborhood place, just folks relaxing.”
Neighborhood was an exaggeration, seeing as it was on the edge of town, a bare half-mile from the Hammerbilt HVAC plant. The only neighbors were the truckers offloading steel sheeting and the steady stream of shift workers without whom Red’s would be dead.
“What I’m looking for.” And to underscore her assurance, she looked around the place. A clutter of small tables, high on the outside, low in the middle, stools at the bar. All squeezed into a cave of a room, dark and cool enough for hibernating. “Someplace comfortable. I’m tired of wandering. Be thirty in a few months. Time I put down some roots.”
“And you picked Redbud?” As if no one in his right mind would choose this tiny spot on the highway to settle down. Not if he had the options she’d obviously had.
She laughed, her story already worked out in her head. “Actually, Redbud picked me. Ran into some trouble with my bike and had to shell out a handful to get it fixed. Redbud was as far as the rest of my cash could take me.”
“Well as far as bartenders go, you’ve got the pedigree.”
“What about the job?”
He pursed his lips. “Can you make, ah… one of those apple martinis?”
She paused. Didn’t think there’d be much call for mixed drinks here. “I do a killer appletini.” She vaulted over the bar. Looked for the vodka and the apple schnapps. Found the former, not the latter. She asked for it.
Red-faced, the bar owner said, “Don’t have it. Don’t get much call for it here. Just—”
“—Wanted to see if I knew what I was doing?”
He nodded.
“Okay. Give me a second.” She took the time to peruse the shelves, found some brandy, a kid’s carton of apple juice in the bar fridge, and a lemon. She mixed the drink over ice, added a dash of vodka, and poured it into an old-fashioned glass garnished with a lemon twist. Made a second drink adding ginger ale and poured it into a highball glass. “Apple blossom. Apple blossom fizz.” She pushed the drinks toward him. While he sampled, she found a bottle of crème do cacao, blew off the dust, mixed it with vodka in an ice-filled shaker and poured the drink into a martini glass. “Chocolate martini. What do you think?”
He grinned. “Yeah, but can you draw a beer?”
She gave him that smile, leaned against the bar again. “Like nobody’s business.”
They shook on it, and agreed she’d start later that night. “Got a big to-do in town,” Red said. “The guy that heads the plant is leaving to run with the big dogs at IAT—International Ambient Technologies. They own Hammerbilt.”
“Oh, yeah?” Edie faked mild interest. But anything about Hammerbilt got her attention.
“Won’t be much alcohol at the picnic, so figure there’ll be a lot of spillover here. You should stop by the park. It’ll be a big send-off. I’ll introduce you around.” He handed her a flyer with all the particulars. She saw the honoree’s name and her heart started to thud. Sometimes the gods were smiling.
“Thanks.” She pocketed the flyer. “Maybe I will.”
She needed a place to flop, and Red showed her a room above the bar. He apologized for the dust, but they worked out a deal, and once the place was cleaned up it had everything she needed. Bed, hotplate, a table that could serve as living and dining room. Not what she’d call homey, but then again, she hadn’t really known homey since she left Redbud behind.
Oh, there’d been home—Aunt Penny’s apartment with its mess of three rooms, Edie’s the one with the pullout bed. Then again it had been a long time since she’d had a yard and a tree to swing on. It wasn’t as if she’d miss it.
Not like she had at first.
But that was years ago, and this was today. And she had things to do.
