Cover

Back Cover Text

There’s only one way to bury a secret…

Lisa Taylor had friends, family and a job she loved back in Cleveland. But when her husband, Jeff, lands the promotion of a lifetime, she gives it all up to stand by him. Their whirlwind move to Miami feels like an adventure, their idyllic new neighborhood the perfect place to start a family. But their dreams are shattered when a stranger breaks into their house, holding a knife to Lisa’s throat before Jeff can chase him off.

Suddenly, every sacrifice Lisa made is like a loss she’ll never recover from. But Jeff makes it clear there’s too much at stake to return to Ohio. Isolated and afraid, Lisa becomes a hostage in her own home. She can’t shake the feeling she’s being watched. And with the man she married growing increasingly unrecognizable, she’s starting to wonder whether their hasty move was to pursue a better life—or escape a chilling past that won’t be outrun.

Praise

Praise for the novels of Rick Mofina

“Well-developed characters and an intense pace add to this gripping novel. This latest from a gifted storyteller should not be missing from your reading pile.”

—Library Journal (starred review) on Missing Daughter

“Rick Mofina’s books are edge-of-your-seat thrilling. Page turners that don’t let up.”

—Louise Penny, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“A pulse-pounding nail-biter.”

—The Big Thrill on Last Seen

“Six Seconds should be Rick Mofina’s breakout thriller. It moves like a tornado.”

—James Patterson, New York Times bestselling author

“Six Seconds is a great read. Echoing Ludlum and Forsythe, author Mofina has penned a big, solid international thriller that grabs your gut—and your heart—in the opening scenes and never lets go.”

—Jeffery Deaver, New York Times bestselling author

“The Panic Zone is a headlong rush toward Armageddon. Its brisk pace and tight focus remind me of early Michael Crichton.”

—Dean Koontz, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“Rick Mofina’s tense, taut writing makes every thriller he writes an adrenaline-packed ride.”

—New York Times bestselling author Tess Gerritsen

“Mofina’s clipped prose reads like short bursts of gunfire.”

—Publishers Weekly on No Way Back

“Mofina is one of the best thriller writers in the business.”

—Library Journal (starred review) on They Disappeared

“Vengeance Road is a thriller with no speed limit! It’s a great read!”

—Michael Connelly, New York Times bestselling author

Booklist

Also by Rick Mofina and MIRA Books

MISSING DAUGHTER

LAST SEEN

FREE FALL

EVERY SECOND

FULL TILT

WHIRLWIND

INTO THE DARK

THEY DISAPPEARED

THE BURNING EDGE

IN DESPERATION

THE PANIC ZONE

VENGEANCE ROAD

SIX SECONDS

Other books by Rick Mofina

A PERFECT GRAVE

EVERY FEAR

THE DYING HOUR

BE MINE

NO WAY BACK

BLOOD OF OTHERS

COLD FEAR

IF ANGELS FALL

BEFORE SUNRISE

THE ONLY HUMAN

Dedication

This book is for Barbara

Epigraph

Can there be such a thing as a white lie, a little lie? The lie is absolute evil. There can be no small lie; who lies, lies wholly.

—Les Misérables, Victor Hugo

1

Lisa Taylor clawed through the torpid fog between sleep and consciousness, unease pinging in a corner of her mind.

What was that noise? Is someone in the house?

But by the time she’d blinked awake, she heard nothing in the stillness of her bedroom but soft, rhythmic snoring. She turned to her husband, Jeff, the obvious culprit.

She nudged him.

He shifted, grunted into silence but was still out.

Lisa closed her eyes and tried floating back to sleep, but it was futile. Jeff had resumed snoring. She fought the impulse to take a sleeping pill—a bad habit she was trying to break. The digital clock on her night table displayed 2:13 a.m.

She could wake Jeff, but he was exhausted. Sometimes he got up in the night to work in his office while she slept. So much had changed for them in the past weeks: Jeff’s big promotion and its accompanying pressure to perform, their whirlwind move, leaving her job and everyone in Cleveland. The company had wasted no time getting him rolling on a major project that involved leading a big presentation tomorrow.

Let him sleep.

Lisa propped against two pillows, reached for her book, clipped on her book light and returned to Raskolnikov’s psychological torment in Crime and Punishment. After a few pages her concentration shifted back to her own life.

Was this sudden move to Florida going to work out? She’d given up a great position and people she loved back in Ohio.

“Florida is where we’ll start the next chapter, the best chapter, of our lives,” Jeff had told her, implying that they would start a family here, something he, being ambitious and so driven to succeed, had always put off whenever she’d raised it. Still, Lisa had always envisioned that they would have children in Cleveland.

So much for the best-laid plans.

But now that she was thirty-four with her clock ticking, and having sacrificed her career for his, she expected motherhood as promised. She looked at Jeff, her hardworking snore machine.

You’d better be on board to make some babies, buddy.

Through the dim light, Lisa saw the unpacked boxes in the corner and sighed. It had been a little over three weeks since they’d taken possession of their house and they were still settling in. She was awed at the price of their huge new Spanish-style home, way more than what they’d paid for their little brick colonial in Shaker Heights. It was such a financial stretch for them.

And their new neighborhood of Palm Mirage Creek, slivered between Coral Gables and Coral Terrace, had to be one of the most beautiful in the entire country. Great weather, little crime, close to top-ranked schools—a good place to raise a family.

Now wide-awake, Lisa put her book down to get a drink of water from the fridge downstairs.

Her phone and Jeff’s were charging on their night tables. Lisa took hers, pulled on her robe over her wispy nightgown, stepped from the bedroom and switched on the hall light. She checked her phone. No new messages.

Downstairs she turned on more lights and for a moment stood in disbelief that this house was really theirs. She was thankful that Jeff’s corporation had covered most of the moving expenses—rare in his profession these days—to transfer them from the Cleveland office to the larger Miami office. His higher salary had picked up the rest of the costs.

But they still carried a lot of debt, and it made Jeff nervous that she was now earning less, even though she believed that with his increase in pay they could get it down in a few years.

On the main floor, she moved through the living room with its vaulted ceiling, the oak coffee table and the lamps. The sofa looked so old here; they really needed a new one. She paused for a moment, then walked across the tiled floor of the grand foyer and, to be safe, tested the front door.

It was locked.

All the front windows were secure.

Lisa switched on more lights, went through the kitchen with its granite countertops, gleaming stainless-steel appliances, the oversize island and walk-in pantry. The kitchen door to the side entrance and double garage was secure, too.

So were all the rear windows.

For good measure, she checked the pantry—nothing but unopened boxes from the move.

She got a glass of cold water from the fridge, feeling its icy tentacles soothing her dry throat, cooling her stomach. Satisfied, she started back to bed when she heard a faint noise and stopped.

What was that?

Holding her breath, she strained to listen. Feeling vulnerable, she considered a weapon—a bat, a cleaver, something. No guns were in the house; she and Jeff had an aversion to them.

She heard nothing more.

Lisa wished their system were in place. The company Jeff had hired was booked up and coming to install it next week. Maybe she’d ask him to call them in the morning, request they speed things up.

Calm down. All the doors and windows are locked.

She reasoned that she was still getting acquainted with their new home. The sounds could be the air-conditioning system, the hot-water tank, or even coming from outside—something to do with the pool, or a passing plane. How far were they from Miami Airport?

It could be a million things.

I’m sure it’s nothing.

On her way from the kitchen, she checked the main-floor bathroom. No one was there. Walking along the hall, she heard a sound again. It was coming from the air duct.

That’s it. The air-conditioning system likely needs a tune-up.

She sighed with relief.

Before returning to bed, she took in the great room, her favorite. She loved how it offered indoor–outdoor living space divided by a sliding glass, floor-to-ceiling door. It opened to their covered porch and in-ground pool in the backyard. The pool’s underwater night-lights made it look so serene, tranquil, inviting. On a whim, she wanted to dip her hand in the water. Maybe to confirm the pool was really theirs. She reached for the sliding door’s handle and caught her breath.

A tiny seam separated the door from the frame.

The door was unlocked.

I know I checked this door before I went to bed, and it was locked.

When she tried to lock it, it wouldn’t click shut, and something rattled. She pushed it open, stepped outside. The locking mechanism had been eviscerated. Nothing remained but torn and twisted metal.

Someone’s broken into our house!

Heart pounding, Lisa rushed back inside, heading for the stairs.

“Jeff!”

Hands shaking, she raised her phone, her fingers trembling as she trotted, pressing nine, then one, before a shadow swept over her.

Jeff Taylor’s mind swam in a semidream state, taking him back through time to one of his first days in a new grade school. He wore donated clothes: pants that were too big, a shirt still bearing a faded mustard stain. He’d come so far since those days. He’d battled shame, then pulled himself up, working nonstop and getting loans to put himself through college, vowing to do whatever it took so he would never, ever go back to having nothing again.

Never.

That’s how he’d earned his way in the world, how he got his job, won the promotion and the move to Miami. Tomorrow morning he would lead the presentation to the South American group. So much was riding on it, the pressure so intense—

Jeff stirred awake.

Wait, was that Lisa?

He opened his eyes, sitting up. She wasn’t in bed. The bathroom lights were off, the bedroom door was open, the hall light—

Lisa called for him.

He shot from bed, flew down the stairs to the main floor and stopped dead in his tracks.

Lisa’s phone, its screen fractured, lay on the floor.

Jeff moved into the next room, not believing his eyes.

A man held Lisa, her back locked to his chest, his gloved hand grappling her mouth. Jeff charged at them before a glint of steel flashed—a knife pressed against Lisa’s throat.

“Don’t move! I will cut her!”

Dressed in black, his face covered with a balaclava, the man’s eyes burned through him. Jeff stopped, held up his palms.

“Please, don’t hurt her.”

The man kept one arm pressed against Lisa’s chest and began moving, lifting her, her toes brushing the floor as he hauled her toward the open sliding-glass door. Lisa’s eyes ballooned with terror, struggling in vain as he got closer to the door.

In an instant Jeff saw the doors of the hallway storage closet yawning open to a landslide of unpacked boxes, deducing the intruder had hidden there. He eyed Lisa’s phone some distance away on the floor. So did the intruder, who was now at the door with Lisa.

“Don’t even think about it—I will stick her so fast!”

“Let her go, please!”

The intruder halted at the door, then ran his free hand over Lisa’s breasts, squeezing, and forced his masked face against hers while glaring at Jeff. Lisa fought, but he pushed the blade harder to her neck, his hand slithering down past her belly and grabbing her.

Then he dragged her into the darkness, leaving Jeff paralyzed as her screams escaped, echoing in the night.

2

The world stood still.

A lifetime passed in a heartbeat before Jeff rushed through the open door.

“Lisa!”

The blood rush hammered in his ears as he searched the blackness, scouring the pool, the shrubs, the fencing. He switched on the exterior lights. He couldn’t find his wife.

“Lisa!”

“H-here, I’m here.”

Crouched against a pool chair, she was hugging herself and shaking. Jeff flew to her, held her to keep her from coming apart. As she sobbed in his arms, he scanned their yard.

The intruder had vanished.

Breathing hard, Jeff battled to comprehend what had just happened, praying to God that it was over.

Sirens wailed.

Within ten minutes of Jeff’s call to 9-1-1, the first police units arrived. Others followed. Emergency lights splashed red and blue on the homes nearby as events unfolded in a surreal haze.

Adrenaline continued coursing through Jeff’s body. Clutching her robe, Lisa couldn’t stop trembling as the sky thudded. A Miami-Dade PD helicopter was circling overhead hunting for the suspect, its blinding searchlight probing the surrounding rooftops, yards and streets.

The first responding officers separated them. Hawkins, a woman, talked to Lisa in the living room, asking if there were firearms in the house and if Lisa was injured.

“Not physically, but he—” Lisa, her voice wavering, brushed at tears and touched parts of her body to describe the attack.

Ramon, a male officer, took Jeff into the kitchen, taking down his description of the suspect and details of the incident in his notebook. Ramon paused to speak into the shoulder microphone of his portable radio. It crackled with cross talk. A moment later, a dog barked, and another cop, this one named Brenner, arrived with a German shepherd on a leash.

Brenner huddled with Ramon and Hawkins before they approached Lisa.

“Mrs. Taylor,” Brenner started, “I hate to ask this, but my partner, Sable, needs the suspect’s scent. It would help us if you could allow her to get it from you.”

“I don’t understand,” Lisa said. “I told the officer where he climbed over the fence and the direction he ran.”

“Yes, but it would help if Sable could smell where the suspect’s body touched yours.”

“Mrs. Taylor,” Hawkins said gently, “we need you to remove your robe for the dog.”

Lisa looked at the officers and then at Jeff whose expression urged her to cooperate. She swallowed, her face reddened, then she removed her robe, allowing the dog to smell the front and back of her nightgown. The dog then led Brenner outside and over the fence on the attacker’s trail. Lisa put her robe back on and pulled it closed.

The officers resumed working with Jeff and Lisa on their preliminary statements. Then they walked them through the house for a quick check to see if anything was missing, all while more emergency units arrived. When Hawkins finished, she wanted the medical team that had arrived to examine Lisa.

“We need to be sure about what he did to you.”

“He didn’t rape me,” she said. “I already told you what happened.”

“I know, but we need to check for any trace evidence to use if we arrest him.”

“I told you what he said after he took me outside. Please, you have to arrest him.”

“We will.”

Two paramedics with a trauma kit took Lisa to her bedroom and closed the door. They made a careful assessment of her before concluding that, while she’d sustained no visible physical injuries, she was experiencing mild shock.

Jeff went with Ramon who, along with other investigators, examined the damaged locking mechanism on the sliding door where the intruder had entered their home.

“You don’t have a security system?” Ramon said to Jeff.

“We just moved in. They’re coming next week to install it.”

“Did you have a system for your previous home? Some companies will let you relocate your service.”

“No, we had no system there.”

“Place like this, I would think you’d make security a priority.”

“Yeah, well.” Embarrassed, Jeff watched the chopper probing the area. “We were told that this neighborhood has a low crime rate, so I didn’t rush it.”

“Low crime is not no crime. Just about everybody in Palm Mirage has a home system,” Ramon said. “Do you or your wife possess any firearms?”

“No. We don’t like guns,” Jeff said. “When I was a boy, my father was—” he swallowed “—killed in a hunting accident with his friend.”

Jeff and Ramon moved to the living room, where the officer responded to calls on his radio, then continued speaking with Jeff. “We’re putting out a description of the suspect and details of the incident on the neighborhood-watch alert network. It’ll go out in texts, calls, emails, online alerts to get extra eyes in the surrounding area looking for the guy.”

“Good.”

When the paramedics were done, Ramon and Hawkins then had Lisa and Jeff conduct a quick reenactment of what happened, with Hawkins making a video recording. Lisa couldn’t stop her tears. Every step was excruciating, but they forced their way through it.

Afterward, they returned to the living room, and Jeff’s attention went to the front window. Amid the flashing lights outside, another cop unreeled yellow police tape, cordoning off his property. Beyond the tape, Jeff saw people on the sidewalk, some wearing T-shirts and sweatpants, others in housecoats. Some were taking pictures with their phones or cupping hands to their faces. The tape bowed upward as a man and a woman ducked under it and approached the door.

“The detectives are here,” Ramon said. “They’ll take over.”

Jeff dragged both hands over his face.

And to think, he’d just been marveling at how far he’d come in life, how hard he’d worked and how fortunate he was. Now his wife had been assaulted, his home was a crime scene and, in some part of his gut, he felt the dawning of a distant fear.

Could this be my fault?

3

“Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, I’m Detective Camila Cruz. This is Detective Joe Reddick.”

Cruz was in her midthirties. Her brown hair, parted on the side, touched the shoulders of her blazer, which was open to provide a glimpse of the badge clipped to her belt and her holstered sidearm. She shifted the small zippered binder she held to shake hands with Jeff and Lisa.

A firm, confident grip signaled that Cruz was alert and primed.

Reddick was taller, about six feet of solid build under his polo shirt and khakis. He looked haggard, his stubbled face creased from seeing too much of what a case-hardened cop sees. His thinning dark hair was tousled, his goatee flecked with gray. Intense eyes, strong handshake.

“Before we get started, you’ll have to excuse us.” Cruz nodded to the investigators at the sliding door in the great room and unzipped her binder. “We need to consult with the officers who first responded.”

The detectives huddled where the crime-scene tech was examining the damage. Talking in soft tones, taking notes and pictures, they occasionally glanced at Jeff and Lisa, who, out of earshot, watched from the living room. Desperate to restore order, Lisa found a degree of composure in the sudden need to be a hostess. She went to them, offering to make coffee.

“No thank you, ma’am. That won’t be necessary.” Reddick smiled. “We don’t want you to disturb or touch anything. If you’ll just wait where you were, we won’t be long.”

Jeff slid his arm around Lisa’s waist. He could feel her trembling as more crime-scene people arrived. Taking direction from the others, they started working throughout the house, concentrating on the path of the attack. They took photographs, video recordings and brushed fingerprint powder everywhere.

Cruz took a moment to explain. “Our techs are going to focus on the areas where you saw the suspect,” she said. “They’ll look for prints, for anything he may have touched or left behind. We’ll also collect your fingerprints, for a set of elimination prints.”

Some fifteen minutes later, Cruz and Reddick finished their consultations, and one of the crime techs, a guy who looked to be in his early twenties, used a device resembling a laptop to laser-scan Jeff’s and Lisa’s fingerprints into their system. Then, like the officers had earlier, the detectives separated Jeff and Lisa. While the crime techs processed the house, Reddick interviewed Jeff in the living room. Cruz took Lisa upstairs to one of the empty bedrooms, directing her to a comfortable chair. Cruz sat across from her on a wooden chair, listening, taking notes and checking her recorder while Lisa detailed the incident.

“Before he let me go and ran off, he said, ‘I know everything about you. I’ll be watching you. I’m going to come back and’—” Lisa put both hands over her mouth, stifling a sob “—‘and fuck you.’”

Cruz touched her shoulder. “I’m not trying to diminish any part of what you’re going through, or suggest you let your guard down,” the detective said, “but often these guys are cowards, more frightened than you, and say things to torment and scare you.”

“You have to find him.”

“Did you get a look at his face or his eyes?”

“No, he wore one of those black ski masks and was mostly behind me.”

“Did you recognize his voice? Did he have any kind of an accent?”

Lisa shook her head. “It all happened so fast.”

“Did you notice any distinguishing marks, tattoos, scars, jewelry, or details on his clothes?”

“He wore black gloves, leather maybe.”

“Any distinct smells, cologne, body odor, shampoo, anything like that?”

“No.”

“Can you describe the knife?”

“I never saw it, but it felt like it had teeth, serrated.”

“Do you have any clue as to who he might have been?”

“No.”

“Did you post anything online about your move, pictures of the house, the location, the time frame—that sort of thing?”

“Only to family and friends in closed groups, nothing public.”

Cruz nodded reflectively and made notes. “Do you have any idea as to why someone would select your home?”

“No, we just moved here from Cleveland.”

“Why did you move?”

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