PRAISE FOR MARY BURTON

DON’T LOOK NOW

“With plenty of possible suspects, Burton’s latest will appeal to readers who want light romance and heavy suspense.”

—Library Journal

BURN YOU TWICE

“Burton does a good job balancing gentle romance with high-tension suspense.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Scorching action. The twists and turns keep the reader on the edge of their seat as they will not want to put the novel down.”

—Crimespree Magazine

HIDE AND SEEK

“Burton delivers an irresistible, tension-filled plot with plenty of twists . . . Lovers of romantic thrillers won’t be disappointed.”

—Publishers Weekly

CUT AND RUN

“Burton can always be counted on for her smart heroines and tightly woven plots.”

—For the Love of Books

“Must-read romantic suspense . . . Burton is a bona fide suspense superstar. And her books may be peppered with enough twists and turns to give you whiplash, but the simmering romance she builds makes for such a compelling, well-rounded story.”

—USA Today’s Happy Ever After

THE SHARK

“This romantic thriller is tense, sexy, and pleasingly complex.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Precise storytelling complete with strong conflict and heightened tension are the highlights of Burton’s latest. With a tough, vulnerable heroine in Riley at the story’s center, Burton’s novel is a well-crafted, suspenseful mystery with a ruthless villain who would put any reader on edge. A thrilling read.”

—RT Book Reviews (4 stars)

BEFORE SHE DIES

“Will keep readers sleeping with the lights on.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

MERCILESS

“Burton keeps getting better!”

—RT Book Reviews

YOU’RE NOT SAFE

“Burton once again demonstrates her romantic-suspense chops with this taut novel. Burton plays cat and mouse with the reader through a tight plot, credible suspects, and romantic spice keeping it real.”

—Publishers Weekly

BE AFRAID

“Mary Burton [is] the modern-day queen of romantic suspense.”

—Bookreporter

ALSO BY MARY BURTON

Don’t Look Now

Near You

Burn You Twice

Never Look Back

I See You

Hide and Seek

Cut and Run

Her Last Word

The Last Move

The Forgotten Files

The Shark

The Dollmaker

The Hangman

Morgans of Nashville

Cover Your Eyes

Be Afraid

I’ll Never Let You Go

Vulnerable

Texas Rangers

The Seventh Victim

No Escape

You’re Not Safe

Alexandria Series

Senseless

Merciless

Before She Dies

Richmond Series

I’m Watching You

Dead Ringer

Dying Scream

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT PAGE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2022 by Mary Burton

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Montlake, Seattle

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781542032636

ISBN-10: 1542032636

Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson

CONTENTS

CONTENTS

START READING

1 HIM

2 MARISA

3 MARISA

4 BRIT

5 MARISA

6 BRIT

7 MARISA

8 HIM

9 MARISA

10 MARISA

11 HIM

12 MARISA

13 MARISA

14 MARISA

15 HIM

16 MARISA

17 RICHARDS

18 MARISA

19 MARISA

20 MARISA

21 BRIT

22 MARISA

23 MARISA

24 HIM

25 MARISA

26 HIM

27 MARISA

28 MARISA

29 BRIT

30 JO-JO

31 MARISA

32 MARISA

33 MARISA

34 RICHARDS

35 JO-JO

36 HIM

37 JACK

38 MARISA

39 MARISA

40 BRIT

41 MARISA

42 HIM

43 JO-JO

44 MARISA

45 HIM

46 RICHARDS

47 MARISA

48 BRIT

49 MARISA

50 MARISA

51 MARISA

52 MARISA

53 MARISA

54 BRIT

EPILOGUE MARISA

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

START READING

Truth is the ultimate power.

When the truth comes around,

all the lies have to run and hide.

—Ice Cube

1 HIM

1

HIM

NOW

Friday, January 7, 2022

Richmond, Virginia

The dead were always watching. And they did speak to us, though we rarely noticed.

Normally, the dead didn’t bother me, but the night was cold, dark, and raining, and I was anxious as I gripped a coiled art show flyer and got out of my car. A light drizzle fell, and an uneasiness had piggybacked onto my bones with the cold. I was tempted to go home and ignore you. Sane men don’t chase the dead.

But when it comes to you, I’m not reasonable—never have been. So I returned to J.J.’s Pub, a corner, brick building with tall display windows and crimson-red front doors. Inside the vestibule, I unrolled the handbill, coiled tighter than a clock spring, and confirmed that I’d not lost my mind. You were still staring, smiling.

Your red hair swooped around your shoulders like a curtain and framed a face as pale as ivory. Once you had reminded me of an Irish sprite, plucked straight out of Dublin, but now I saw you were Persephone, back from the underworld.

Your gaze held me, reached out, and the longer I studied the ironic humor swimming in those sapphire eyes, the more I remembered our intimate history and shared losses.

A rational mind wouldn’t be lured by the dead or revisit a dangerous past. Turn, leave, and slam the door shut on yesterday.

But this pull between us transcends life and death. And this time I was not going to repeat old mistakes. The past doesn’t have to equal the future. Eyes forward.

I pushed through the bar’s doors, chased in by cold air that lingered at my heels, and shook off raindrops dripping from my jacket. The sounds of piped jazz horns mingled with warmth, laughter, and the smells of beer and french fries. I wasn’t here for the art, food, ambience, or company. Just for you. I needed to see if you were really you. Honestly, I hoped you weren’t, that it was a mistake. I’d spent too many years imagining your face, your smile, the way your eyes closed forever so long ago. I was afraid seeing a knockoff version would only taint my memories. I hoped whoever you were, you’d be ugly, fat, and easy to forget.

The bar was divided into two sections: the main room filled with round café tables and then, off to the side, a sort of annex. There was no one in the main room, but the smaller room held at least a dozen people, and laughter and conversation drifted from it.

J.J.’s Pub’s back room, the gallery tonight, was certainly not Met worthy. A lesser artist might have turned down the space and waited for a better opportunity. But not you. You wanted the world to see the images that rattled in your mind and haunted me.

Outside the room was a sign that read EXHIBIT. Your picture was not on it. Disappointed, I wondered whether the dead were playing tricks with me again. They’d done this so often that I usually recognized their trickery. I should have just left, but I was still too curious. Please be old and gray. The young and youthful version of you was enshrined in my memory, and I wanted to keep it that way.

A sane man . . .

I brushed the last of the raindrops off my coat and moved toward the room. The space was small, with a low ceiling pitted with pot lights spilling pools of light onto a black-and-white tiled floor. There were no small tables in this space, and the chairs rimmed one wall. This setup gave any visitor a clear view of two dozen black-and-white pictures hanging on the walls, ghosted by the faint impressions of artwork that had hung here before.

On a round table by the door was another flyer, featuring several more images from your show. A makeshift catalog of sorts. The photos were moody, and the shades of gray captured the jagged rocks of the James River. A fast current splashed ragged, jutting boulders, and the combined effect suggested trouble and violence.

The last memory I held of you was on that rocky shoreline, and it still warmed me. You were laughing, a bit drunk, wild eyed, and begging me to kiss you. I still dream of pressing your body against the warm hood of my car on that cold day. Your body was so responsive, eager, desperate almost.

A laugh rose above the din of conversation, and it jerked me back to now. I looked over, and I saw you standing with your back to the wall as you talked to two men. Your smile was as bright as I remembered. Your hair remained a tumble of red curls, and a hint of freckles still sprinkled your nose. A black V-neck blouse dipped between full breasts and skimmed a flat belly before vanishing into faded jeans hugging narrow hips.

I stared, wondering whether you were real. The dead are clever and can play with a man’s mind. They don’t care about feelings or the living’s need to get on with their lives. It’s jealousy, I suppose: they can’t live, so neither can you.

But as you moved among the living, it was clear they all saw you. They talked to you, laughed, smiled. You weren’t a figment of my imagination. You were very real. Perfect.

Tightness clutched my chest. I felt suddenly both thrilled and sorry I had come. My grainy memories, replayed too often, were now faded and lackluster. Suddenly they wouldn’t do anymore. Seeing you in the flesh had made them obsolete.

I’d never expected to see you again, beyond dreams and fantasies. And yet here you were, flesh and blood, twenty feet away. My system heated as my thoughts raced and collided. An overload was coming. Never a good thing. I pivoted toward the door.

Outside, I looked at the grainy image of your face. I’d thought I had never forgotten one detail about you. But now I saw time had degraded my memory. Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz had jumped from black and white to Technicolor.

2 MARISA

2

MARISA

Friday, March 11, 2022

Richmond, Virginia

7:45 p.m.

“Happy birthday to us, Clare.” The Stockton twins had hit the big three-oh. The last thirty years had been rough for me, and it was a minor miracle I was here. But it was bittersweet: I wasn’t the twin who’d been murdered thirteen years ago.

Perhaps that was why our older sister, Brit, believed celebrating our thirtieth birthday in style was imperative. Another decade bit the dust. We, or at least I, had officially grown up.

Despite several noes from me about a party, Brit had indicated that she’d already invited our high school friends, ordered our favorite cake, and chosen blue balloons—our favorite. No clowns, she swore with a smile. (We never liked clowns.) It would be fun, she said. Good to celebrate this milestone.

When Brit’s talking points didn’t sway me, she reminded me, as any good sister would, “You’re lucky to be alive.”

The comment cut deep and robbed me of a response.

“We were all worried about you after the accident in January,” she said. “Refusing is basically selfish.”

Selfish was a word Brit had aimed my way a lot over the years: I spent too much time squandering a life you never had. The truth pissed me off, and she knew it. I said yes to the party.

The party was being held at J.J.’s Pub, which was within walking distance of my apartment. J.J.’s Pub was a somebody-might-know-your-name kind of place that served killer fries and tall, cold brews. It was also owned by Jack Dutton, my high school drug buddy. We were both clean now, but back in the day . . .

My sister’s choice of venues was strategic. Not only was she tossing her high school boyfriend Jack some business, but she knew I’d always show up for J.J.’s Pub fries, even on birthdays that felt like a loss, not a win.

The restaurant’s dim light created sharp shadows, brightened only by soft pot lights and flickering table candles. The music was classic jazz piano and horns. Hard to believe I’d had an art show here two months ago. Felt like a lifetime now.

I walked up to the bar and ordered two shots of tequila. The bar was full tonight. Not a surprise on a Friday that was one of the first warmish evenings Richmond had seen this year.

The bartender, Chip, wore a light-blue collared shirt, khakis, and an eager grin. He was a prep who looked like he had driven too far east on I-64 and missed all the suburban exits.

Chip set up the shot glasses and filled each with a generous pour. He had flair—there was more than met the eye to the Boy Scout who had clearly heard about my birthday ritual. I settled on a barstool, knowing I’d have to make my way to the banquet room soon or Brit would hunt me down.

I glanced around at customers who were as prone to wearing suits and ties as they were torn jeans and graphic T-shirts. That was typical of Richmond’s Manchester district, located on the south side of the James River, across from the city’s financial district. Most of the residents were drawn by the district’s artistic urban vibe and river views.

The bar’s door opened and slammed hard.

Panic. It rushed me from out of nowhere, seizing my muscles and constricting my chest in tight strips of invisible rope. I pressed my foot on the bar’s footrest, as if pushing against my car’s accelerator, ratcheting an imaginary speedometer’s needle to nearly fifty miles an hour, a dangerous speed on the city’s narrow side streets.

Lights reflecting in the mirror behind the bar conjured headlights in my Jeep’s rearview mirror. The memory was hard to grab, but I knew my fogged brain, fragmented by adrenaline, registered that I was being chased. He’s going to kill me. I need to get away. Get help.

A man sat on the barstool near mine. New Guy glanced in my direction and unsettled my nerves more. I hadn’t hit the bars in a year, and I was out of practice. My first instinct was to simply retreat to the banquet room, but that would mean facing the buzz saw of birthday streamers and balloons.

New Guy cleared his throat, and I felt his unwavering attention. I wasn’t normally jittery, but I’d been in a single-car accident in January. Crashed my Jeep into a utility pole. I didn’t remember the accident or the days around it. A few days here or there shouldn’t have mattered in the big picture, but those lost memories felt as if they mattered a great deal. My sister said I’d been taking drugs. I didn’t believe I was, but with no memories, I couldn’t prove it.

My heartbeat kicked up as my palms grew damp—a fight-or-flight response triggered by the car accident. Pride kept me on the stool. I turned toward New Guy.

Broad shoulders filled out a gray brewery T-shirt, and he wore faded but clean jeans and scuffed hiking boots that didn’t jibe with winter-pale skin likely earned during hours behind a computer screen. He had a lean build, an angled face, deep-set eyes feathered with creases at the corners, and fading blond strands streaking chestnut hair. All suggested he loved the outdoors but paid the light bill with an office job that kept him really busy. Individually his features weren’t memorable or even attractive, but as a whole, they had an appeal. The Fifty Shades version of Jamie Dornan.

He nodded to the untouched drinks. “Waiting for someone?”

The twin glasses sat side by side, close but not touching. “No. It’s a bit of a birthday tradition.”

He looked at me, clearly trying to decode my overcoat, jeans, black V-neck sweater, Doc Martens, and shorn auburn hair. I tucked a phantom curl behind my ear, wondering whether this new short hairstyle was as attractive as Brit kept insisting.

“Your birthday?” he asked.

“The big three-oh today,” I said.

“Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you going to drink them?” He looked curious, like a man who enjoyed puzzles.

I glanced at the clear liquid. “No.”

A brow arched. “That tradition, too?”

“It is.” Or it had been for the last 365 days—I’d earned my one-year AA token at a meeting. And because I was now sober, I could keep the truth locked away.

He held out his hand. “Alan Bernard.”

A collection of silver bracelets covering tiny white scars jangled on my wrist as I accepted his hand. His palm was faintly calloused, and his grip was strong. “Marisa Stockton.”

“Do I know you?” His grasp and stare lingered, as if searching for the puzzle’s corner piece.

The worn pickup line would have rolled off my back two months ago. Now it unsettled me. Since the car accident, my memory had been sketchy, like a video uploaded on spotty Wi-Fi. Missed words, frozen screens, blurred images dispersed among the coherent and clear. “Your name isn’t familiar.”

“Neither is yours,” he admitted as he released my hand. “It’s your face.”

I smiled uneasily. “Maybe I have one of those faces.”

He leaned forward a fraction, as if to share a secret. Hints of a cigarette and the warm spring air outside clung to him. “No, yours would be hard to forget.”

The jazz piano blended with clinking glasses and conversations. My talent for small talk had never been great, and now it was rusty to the point of dilapidated. “It’s been good to meet you, Alan.”

“I’m going to be a regular here. Beer’s good and beats an empty apartment.”

“Food’s also decent. Burger and fries are great.”

“Care to join me?” He was not quick to accept a no.

“There’s a birthday party in the back room, and if I don’t show, I’ll have a very unhappy sister hunting me down.”

He didn’t look particularly rushed. “Do you live around here, Marisa?” My name rang with a familiarity, as if we’d known each other for years.

“A few blocks.”

“Me too. Maybe I’ll see you again.”

“Maybe.”

As I rose, he glanced toward the shot glasses, mulling over their pristine status.

“They’re yours if you want them,” I said.

He held up his beer. “I’m never one to challenge tradition.”

“How do you know offering the drinks to a stranger isn’t part of the routine?”

“Somehow I don’t think it is.”

“Have a good one, Alan.” Sliding my purse strap onto my shoulder, I touched him briefly on the forearm. The touch was spontaneous but reminded me of just how long it had been since I’d had human contact beyond an EMT shoving an IV in my arm or a surgeon cracking open my skull. Curling my fingers into a loose fist, I left him and the untouched drinks and made my way to the banquet room’s open double doors. Above the entrance was a silver Mylar banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

“Let the fun begin.”

3 MARISA

3

MARISA

Friday, March 11, 2022

8:00 p.m.

I had one birthday wish—no, two. Maybe three. Wish #1: Clare was alive. Wish #2: if Clare couldn’t be brought back from the dead, her killer was caught. And last and certainly least, wish #3: booze didn’t haunt all my waking hours.

But seeing as wishes didn’t come true, no matter how many candles I blew out, I didn’t bother. I crossed the bar to the private banquet space and stepped inside.

I normally wasn’t early; in fact, I’d flaked a few too many times during the last decade, and Brit wasn’t here now because she was expecting me to be late. No doubt the time she’d given me was earlier than what she gave the guests. My new self-improvement mantra—“early is better”—would never be tested enough for my sister.

“Can I help you?” A waiter entered from a side door carrying a tray of glasses.

I removed my overcoat, still coolish from the ten-minute walk from my apartment in fifty-degree weather. “My sister made reservations for dinner. Her name is Brittany Stockton.”

“Ah yes, you’re here for the birthday party.” He pointed at me. “Didn’t you have an art show here in January?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Mike. I worked that event.”

Already a lifetime separated me from January. “Great. Thanks for helping out that night.”

“It was fun.”

I searched for hints that Mike and I’d met before, but I found no traces of the encounter. Maybe I simply didn’t notice him in January. Brit told me my art show had been a hive of activity. But my exhibit, like Mike’s shift, had fallen into a ten-day window that I now called the Black Hole.

“I’m also the birthday girl.”

“Ah!” Mike said, smiling. “Happy birthday.”

Brit, like our mother, loved birthdays when we were kids and marked each with a big party. How many times had she destroyed our mother’s kitchen baking cakes for her planned parties? How many paper hats and chains had she made as a kid?

A round table surrounded by six chairs dominated the small room. Each place setting had a decorative birthday hat that appeared to be inspired by The Wizard of Oz and represented one of the story’s main characters: Dorothy, Glinda the Good Witch, the Cowardly Lion, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Wizard.

“Do you feel any older?” Mike joked as he positioned a glass at each of the six place settings.

It was a birthday party for a six-year-old. Typical Brit. She never articulated it with words, but she missed the days when Mommy and Clare were alive, and the Stocktons could pass for normal.

My mouth twitched as I imagined Brit scouring Pinterest and Etsy pages. “This year I’m feeling my age.”

His gaze skittered over my body quickly. “You’ve cut your hair since you were here last.”

My long red hair had been a casualty of the head injury and surgery, and I still missed the weight on my shoulders and the ease of a quick ponytail. Without my signature mane, I didn’t get noticed as much, but in my pre-sobriety days, I’d grabbed a lifetime’s worth of attention, and the way I saw it, the new style served a greater karmic purpose.

Glasses rattled, and I caught myself conjuring a replay of my greatest mistakes. Clearing my throat, I drew in a deep breath. I hung my coat on a peg as Mike pulled out a chair facing the door. I sat in front of the Dorothy hat, which was centered on the plate, doing my best to feel special but already dreading Brit’s plans. Any sign of a clown or a male stripper, and I was outa there.

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