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Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author Karen Rose

Say You’re Sorry

“Fans of Lisa Gardner and J. D. Robb will enjoy this outing and be on pins and needles waiting for the next installments.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Complex, thrilling, and impossible to put down. . . . An engrossing and exciting start to a new series, and one that busts genre stereotypes along the way.”

—BookPage

“Chilling and remarkably complex, this is a thriller that, for all its length, will keep minds sharp and night-lights burning. An excellent series start.”

—Library Journal

“Rose’s Say You’re Sorry delivers on the promise of a pedal-to-the-metal thriller with plenty of developed characters and converging mysteries. . . . To call this book a page-turner is an understatement.”

—USA Today

“Jam-packed with wall-to-wall action and heart-stopping, page-turning suspense.”

—Harlequin Junkie

“Karen Rose never fails to give a fantastic, well-written thriller that is intense, always on the edge, with fantastic characters, evil villains, and a wonderful couple you care for.”

—The Reading Cafe

Monster in the Closet

“An emotionally charged thrill ride. With deep characters, an intriguing plot, and breathless action, Karen Rose’s latest book is a real page-turner!”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Lisa Jackson

“Riveting. Emotional. Karen Rose at her best.”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan

“A fast-paced, high-intensity story that’ll carry you along on an amazing journey.”

—New York Times bestselling author Lori Foster

“A wonderful rainy-day read. Suspenseful and engrossing.”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Lora Leigh

“Karen Rose has written another top-notch thriller! Grab this book. You won’t be able to put it down.”

—New York Times bestselling author Brenda Novak

“An up-all-night, unforgettable tale of secrets, lies, and taut suspense. Readers will want to grab this one!”

—New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers

Alone in the Dark

“Deftly mixes a family crime saga and the horrors of human trafficking. . . . [A] gripping story.”

—Publishers Weekly

Closer Than You Think

“[A] chilling, enthralling read that succeeds on every level.”

—Kirkus Reviews

Watch Your Back

“The plot is complex, the characterization sound, and the boundaries of the genre pushed. . . . Tremendously sexy.”

—The New York Times

Did You Miss Me?

“This is a thriller with heart.”

—Suspense Magazine

No One Left to Tell

“Action-packed. . . . [A] twisting tale.”

—The Mystery Gazette

You Belong to Me

“[A] fast-paced murder mystery that will keep you turning pages.”

—Fresh Fiction

Further praise for Karen Rose and her novels

“Karen Rose delivers the kind of high-wire suspense that keeps you riveted.”

—Lisa Gardner

“Karen Rose writes blistering, high-octane suspense that never lets up.”

—Karen Robards

“From the first rousing chapter to the last . . . intense, complex, and unforgettable.”

—James Patterson

“A high-octane thrill ride that kept me on the edge of my seat and up far too late at night!”

—Lisa Jackson

“Takes off like a house afire. There’s action and chills galore in this nonstop thriller.”

—Tess Gerritsen

Titles by Karen Rose

DIRTY SECRETS

(enovella)

Baltimore Novels

YOU BELONG TO ME

NO ONE LEFT TO TELL

DID YOU MISS ME?

BROKEN SILENCE

(enovella)

WATCH YOUR BACK

MONSTER IN THE CLOSET

DEATH IS NOT ENOUGH

Cincinnati Novels

CLOSER THAN YOU THINK

ALONE IN THE DARK

EVERY DARK CORNER

EDGE OF DARKNESS

INTO THE DARK

Sacramento Novels

SAY YOU’RE SORRY

Dedication

To Christine. I’m so glad I have you in my life.

As always, to Martin. I love you.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Erica and Penny Singleton for telling me your story. Penny, I’m so happy that your beautiful heart continues to beat. Erica, we’re all blessed because you kept a clear head and knew just what to do. Wishing you both happiness and health. You already have love.

Geoff Symon for all the forensic know-how. (Even though I sometimes have to rewrite scenes and replot clues because forensic TV shows have lied to me all these years.)

Marc Conterato for the medical assistance in all things. Thank you for never being too busy to talk to me.

My lovely Starfish for all the plotting.

Sarah Hafer for your editing expertise.

Caitlin Ellis for all the things you do to keep the biz (and me) running.

Claire Zion, Jen Doyle, and Robin Rue for all your support.

As always, all mistakes are my own.

Prologue

Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, March 9, 1:30 a.m.

Run. Don’t look back. Just run.

Michael Rowland clutched Joshua tighter and gritted his teeth against the sharp rocks and twigs digging into his feet. And he ran as fast as he could.

Blinking away tears, he focused on reaching the end of the driveway, at the bottom of the big hill.

Get to the road.

And then? He didn’t know. He’d figure it out when he got there.

He’d figure it all out when he got there.

Where is “there”?

Shut up. Shut up and run.

He fought the urge to look behind him. He wasn’t sure if he’d knocked Brewer out or not. Even if he had, the asshole could come to, and the minute he did, he’d be coming after them. Checking to see wouldn’t make a bit of difference. It would only slow them down and make it easier for Brewer to catch them.

He’ll kill me, Michael thought. Of that he had no doubt. But he’d do worse to Joshua. Joshua, who was only five. So Michael kept running.

He was approaching the cluster of trees that Joshua called the “forest.” At one time it had been an orchard. Now it was totally overgrown. Branches grew every which way and bramble bushes had nearly taken over.

Damn bramble bushes. Michael’s feet were bleeding now. It doesn’t matter. He ignored the pain, welcoming the cover of the trees. Move. Move.

He found another burst of speed, ducking under branches, grateful for the agility drills that his coach had made them do. Michael was fast—the fastest on the JV soccer team, even though he’d been the youngest. But he needed to run faster. Please let me be faster.

The flickering light that marked the end of the driveway was closer now, barely visible through the trees. He’d run about halfway. Another quarter mile to go.

He felt the yank on his foot a millisecond before he was pitching forward into the darkness. Airborne.

Joshua.

Michael tilted his body at the last moment, hitting the ground on his shoulder. A burst of pain had him swallowing a grunt, the last-minute tilt giving him enough momentum to continue rolling to his back, then around to rest his elbows on the ground, his arms still clutching Joshua tightly.

He dragged in a breath, blinking as he got his bearings. He hunched over Joshua, in case Brewer had been on their tail. But there were no kicks. No hits.

Nothing.

Michael lifted his head and looked around. No one was behind him. It hadn’t been Brewer grabbing his foot. Must have been a tree root.

Maybe he had knocked Brewer out. The thought filled him with dark satisfaction.

He glanced down at Joshua. Still asleep. Not dead. Just drugged. He wondered what had been in the syringe the bastard had been injecting him with. Michael said a small prayer of thanks for the extra soda he’d had before bed. If he hadn’t needed to pee, he wouldn’t have been awake to see Brewer plunging a needle into his brother’s arm.

He frowned at Joshua’s peaceful little face. Should I take him to the hospital? He wasn’t even sure how to do that. He’d have to figure that out, too, once he’d gotten them away from Brewer’s house.

He took another moment to watch his brother’s chest rise and fall. At least he’s not dead.

When he’d staggered down the stairs—his own sight blurry from the punch Brewer had thrown to the side of his head when he’d tried to grab the syringe—he’d seen Brewer carrying Joshua toward the front door. For a terrible minute, he’d thought Joshua was dead. He hadn’t been moving.

Michael hadn’t hesitated to find out. Whatever Brewer had planned, it wasn’t good. Leaping from the third step onto Brewer’s back, he’d knocked the man down.

Brewer had released Joshua long enough to punch Michael a second time, this time in the gut. Stumbling backward, Michael had grabbed the iron shovel from the fireplace and swung it with all his might. Brewer had been leaning down to pick up Joshua from the floor when Michael had hit him in the head with the shovel. Brewer had gone down on his knees and Michael had pushed him away from his little brother.

Who had been breathing. Thank God.

Then Michael had picked Joshua up and run.

Wincing at the pain in his shoulder, Michael pushed to his knees, gently settling Joshua on the ground so that he could do a three-sixty search.

So many times in his life he’d wished he could hear. Never so much as this moment. If Brewer was following, Michael wouldn’t be able to hear a twig breaking or the sound of labored breathing.

Brewer could be hiding anywhere. Michael didn’t trust the bastard as far as he could throw him.

Stop wasting time. Get to the road.

Drawing a deep breath, he picked Joshua up and cradled him against his good shoulder. He took a step and had to bite back a scream.

It hurts. God, it hurts. The pain was shooting from his shoulder, up his neck, to the back of his head now. He hoped he hadn’t whimpered.

Taking another look around, he started walking again, slowly. Yeah, it hurt. But he’d suck it up. He’d had worse, after all. Lots of times. Thanks to Brewer.

For a moment he wished the man was dead, then he shook his head hard. No. Not dead. Just in jail. Where other bad guys—bigger, meaner bad guys—will hurt him every day of every year for the rest of his miserable life.

That would be . . . What had his teacher called it? Oh, right. Poetic justice.

He came to the edge of the old orchard and peered into the night. He could see the flickering light at the end of the driveway again. He was glad he knew it had always flickered. Otherwise he might be worried that he had a concussion.

He took a step out of the trees, then froze. Shit. Oh shit.

He scrambled back under cover and lay down out of sight, the pain in his shoulder making his eyes tear up. He blinked the wetness away and stared at the car making its way down the driveway toward the main road. It was too dark to see the make, model, or color, but that didn’t matter, because Michael already knew it was a 2018 BMW 530i. Alpine-white exterior with a tan leather interior. Brewer was very proud of his car.

The car was moving super-slowly. Maybe five miles per hour, if that. It stopped, then crawled another few feet forward.

He’s looking for us. Oh God. What do I do? Pulse rocketing, Michael tightened his hold on his brother. He’ll kill me. And then he’ll take Joshua. To where, he had no idea. But it would be bad.

And then . . . another set of headlights pulled into the driveway from the main road. The vehicle was barely visible in the flickering light, but Michael could make out a dark SUV. Maybe black.

The SUV stopped and a man got out. A big man. A big bald man. The flickering light reflected off his head as he strode from the SUV to Brewer’s BMW, now at a complete stop.

Because the SUV had blocked its exit.

The man crossed around to Brewer’s door and yanked it open. A second later he was pulling Brewer from his car by the shirt collar and dragging him to the SUV. Once they were on the driver’s side, Michael could see that Brewer was oddly limp.

If Michael hadn’t been so scared, he would have cheered. Finally someone was bigger than Brewer and giving him a taste of his own medicine.

Michael frowned when Brewer twisted in the man’s grip, because he looked like he was moving in slo-mo. Brewer reached into his pocket, but the man threw him to the ground and grabbed something from his hand.

Oh my God. It was a gun. Brewer had brought one of his guns. He would have killed me with it.

But now Brewer’s gun was in the big man’s hand. Michael held his breath, waiting for the man to shoot the monster who’d made their lives a living hell for nearly five years—ever since the day he’d married their mother, Stella.

Who was as useless as spit.

But the man didn’t shoot Brewer. He pocketed the gun, then yanked Brewer to his feet and pinned him against the SUV. Then he put his big hands around Brewer’s throat.

Brewer struggled.

Until he didn’t anymore.

Michael’s mouth fell open as Brewer’s body went limp once again, falling to the ground in a crumpled heap. The big man took a step back, fists on his hips as he stared down, shaking his head.

Oh my God. He’d killed him. The big bald man had killed him.

Abruptly aware that he was breathing hard, Michael clenched his jaw closed so that the man wouldn’t hear him.

Luckily the man was focused on Brewer. He opened the hatch of the SUV and tossed Brewer in, as if he weighed no more than one of Joshua’s action figures.

Slamming the hatch closed, he walked to the BMW’s driver’s side and leaned in. When he straightened, he tossed something in the air and caught it one-handed.

The keys. He’d taken Brewer’s car keys.

The man then opened all four of the BMW’s doors and the trunk, searching for something. When he didn’t find it, he closed the doors, pocketed Brewer’s keys, backed the SUV to the main road, and drove away.

Michael let out a quiet breath. No keys. He didn’t know how to drive yet, but he could have figured it out. Now the car was no longer an escape option.

But now I don’t need to escape. Brewer is gone.

And Michael was so tired. His mother wasn’t home tonight. She was out partying with her friends, getting stoned again. Which was probably the reason Brewer had been so bold. He usually snuck around to do his dirty work.

But now there would be no one in the house to hurt them.

Besides, Michael knew where Brewer kept the rest of his guns, and he knew how to use them to keep his little brother safe. I’ll take Joshua home. Get some sleep. And in the morning I’ll figure out what to do next.

He’d made it back through the orchard when Joshua’s eyes blinked open. His mouth curved when he saw Michael’s face.

“Hi,” Joshua said.

Or at least that was what it looked like he’d said, and Michael was pretty good at guessing people’s speech. Especially Joshua’s. Michael had been watching his brother speak since he’d uttered his first words.

Michael smiled down at him, despite the pain in his shoulder. “You okay?” he voiced, because his arms were full and he couldn’t sign.

Joshua nodded sleepily, his eyes closing once again.

Michael shuddered with relief. They’d dodged a bullet tonight and Joshua seemed none the wiser.

And Brewer? Good riddance. I’m glad he’s dead.

Cincinnati, Ohio
Saturday, March 9, 2:15 a.m.

The river was high tonight, Cade thought as he watched the churning water flow past his vantage point above the bank. Nowhere near flood stage, but the current was still fast and deadly. Perfect for his needs.

Turning from the river, he stared down at the body in the back of his SUV, glad the miserable SOB was dead. Good riddance.

It had been close tonight. Too close. He’d assumed the asshole had been incapacitated by the Taser that he’d fired into the back of his neck, but somehow John Brewer had managed to move his arm enough to draw a weapon.

That hadn’t happened before, not in the four years that he’d been performing this service for the community.

He drew the Taser from his coat pocket and held it up to the rear hatch light, studying it. It looked okay. Maybe it hadn’t been fully charged? Or maybe it was broken. That did happen from time to time. He’d read the news stories of police being forced to shoot a suspect with their gun after the Taser didn’t work, but he’d always figured it was the cops making excuses.

He pressed it to Brewer’s chest and squeezed the trigger, causing the body to twitch.

“Well, fuck.” The Taser did function. At least some of the time. Maybe Brewer had been on something. That might account for it. However he sliced it, the man’s response had thrown him off his game.

He hadn’t planned to kill the bastard in his own driveway. He’d planned to wait. To do it here, on the riverbank, miles from the nearest neighbor, where no one would hear his screams.

He scowled at John Brewer’s handsome face. Sonofabitch got off too damn easy. Too many people had been taken in by his fake charm.

My boss included. Normally Richard was a shrewd judge of character. Me excluded, of course. Cade was pretty sure Richard wouldn’t condone his extracurricular “service” to the community, were he to find out. Although, who knew? Stranger things had happened.

He’d never considered that Richard would engage in human trafficking, but that was exactly what his boss had done earlier that evening. Brewer had been trying to win back the property title he’d lost before and Richard had allowed the slimy bastard to add his five-year-old stepson to his stake when the small stash of heroin he’d brought to the game didn’t meet the minimum table requirements.

The super-secret game that Richard hosted allowed no actual currency to be wagered. Instead, a constant flow of unique and valuable items—some legal, but most black-market—changed hands from week to week. Cade had often wondered what the winners did with some of the stuff, which had included land, luxury vehicles, stolen masterpieces, and exotic animals—live and parts.

He’d concluded that the participants often had their eye on a specific prize, and that they probably sold off the rest of what they won as quickly as possible. Usually through Richard.

In addition to running a successful gambling operation on the Ohio River, his boss was also a “procurer” for the wealthy in the Midwest and beyond. Richard knew what some people wanted and what others had. He brought them together, enabling them to trade in a civilized fashion.

Up until tonight, people had never been included among the prizes to be won. A few times there had been offers of human organs brought to the table, which had shocked Cade enough. But never people. At least not to my knowledge.

That was a troubling thought. Cade wondered how many times items had been traded under the table while he’d stood guard outside the door. He wondered if Richard had allowed Brewer to participate tonight because he’d known one of the others at the table would want the boy.

He wondered if he’d have to kill Richard, too.

It was with disgust that Cade realized Brewer had wanted his house back enough to sacrifice his own stepson. It hadn’t even been Brewer’s own house. Up until a week before the game, the property had belonged to his wife. Richard nearly hadn’t allowed it, but then Brewer had wagered something else that technically belonged to his wife—her little boy.

Richard always said that desperate men played lousy poker, and Brewer proved that true. He’d lost big and left the game shaking and pale.

The winner of tonight’s game had gleefully arranged to meet Brewer to take possession of the boy, but the exchange wasn’t going to happen, because that man was currently . . . indisposed.

Cade yanked away the blanket covering the figure lying in the back of his car. Staring back at him were eyes that were wide and full of horror. And perhaps a little defiance? If that’s what it is, I’ll get rid of it with my first slice.

He was always glad to rid the world of a pedo. Seeing the pure fear in their eyes, hearing their screams? It made his chosen crusade all the sweeter.

He smiled down at Blake Emerson, the pedophile who’d been bold enough to buy a little boy at a poker game. “Hi,” he said to the appropriately terrified man, then pointed to Brewer’s dead body lying beside his captive. “You two have already met, so I won’t bother introducing you. Not that he’ll say much, because, y’know, he’s dead. It’s true that Brewer had a less painful death than you’ll have, but that isn’t my fault.” He shrugged. “That’s sometimes how it goes. But please know that if he’d lived, I would have given you both equal torture. It doesn’t really matter at the end of the day, though. You’ll both be equally dead.”

And Brewer’s five-year-old stepson would be safe, as would other kids who might have been future victims of this particular pedophile.

On the other hand, the boy hadn’t been in Brewer’s car, so maybe the asshole hadn’t been planning to make the transfer after all. Maybe Brewer had just been intending to escape. Which didn’t matter, because he’d made the offer in the first place.

Cade frowned. Or maybe Brewer had already taken the child. Maybe he’d hidden him somewhere he could easily retrieve him. Maybe he had been on his way to retrieve the boy so that he could give him over to his new “owner.”

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