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Cover Art by Rae Monet

Chapter One

In the steamy cocoon of the shower, Colleen McDonald fingered the dimpled scar the bullet had left on her thigh, and the long, straight one where they'd repaired her femoral artery. She knew the scars were no longer a garish red, but she refused to look at them. Thankfully, the exit wound on the back of her leg was out of sight unless she worked at it. The physical pain had gone, but not the ugly reminders that screamed "failure."

She watched the sudsy water swirl down the drain, willing it to take her memories along.

Get a grip. It's over. Forget Cedar Grove. You made your choice, so get on with your life.

She declared yesterday a do-over. Hell, as long as she was changing the rules of time, the last three months had never happened. But then she'd still be a cop in Cedar Grove, Oregon, instead of a basket case in Orlando, Florida.

Wrapped in a towel, another turbaned around her head, Colleen padded into the living room of her new home, looking for the carryon suitcase she'd abandoned last night. She dragged it into the bedroom and dumped the contents onto the bed, mumbling a quick thanks to her mother's advice to pack a day's worth of essentials into her carryon.

A distant rumbling, like an approaching thunderstorm, reverberated through the room. She slid a corner of the curtain aside and peered out at a cloudless blue sky. Not a leaf or branch moved. She had a lot to learn about Florida weather.

The doorbell rang, and she grabbed her robe. Who came calling at seven in the morning? The airline delivering her luggage? That would be too much to hope for. More likely Mrs. Walters, her new landlady. Another ring, followed by a determined knock.

She wriggled into her robe. "One minute. Who's there?"

"Orange County Sheriff."

What the…?

Her pulse raced. She yanked the towel off her head, shook out her hair and went to the door. Tightening the belt on her robe, she squinted through the peephole at a man in a dark green uniform.

God, had someone on the Cedar Grove force called in a favor, asked the locals to check on her? Hey, I've got a friend who's close to the edge. Drop in, make sure she's all right. Right. As if they cared.

Take it easy. Find out what he wants.

Colleen pulled the door open enough to talk, not enough to invite him in. Tall as he was, and with his eyes obscured behind mirrored sunglasses, Colleen fought the urge to slam the door.

"What do you want, Deputy?" She heard the raspy tone of her voice and cleared her throat. Her eyes automatically sought the nametag pinned to his broad chest. Graham Harrigan.

"I'm looking for Jeffrey Walters," he said, removing his sunglasses.

Not for her. Exhaling with relief, she talked to his nametag. "I don't know any Jeffrey Walters. Only Doris Walters, my landlady, and I've never met her in person. I got here last night. Try the main house."

"I did, but there was no answer."

"Is there something wrong?" That low-pitched sound rumbled through the air again, but if the deputy heard, he gave no indication. She fixed her gaze on his chin and waited.

"His daughter said he wasn't returning her calls. Asked us to look in on him." He pulled out a small notebook and pen. "Can I have your name, ma'am?"

His voice was more bored than belligerent, but he was a man, a cop, and she wanted him gone. She paused. No need to piss him off.

"Colleen McDonald."

His tone warmed twenty degrees. "Good morning, Colleen McDonald. Scottish or Irish?" He gave her a congenial smile.

"Scottish." As if he could disarm her that easily. She pulled her robe tighter and put her hand to the doorknob. "Why don't you leave me your card, Deputy Harrigan, and I'll tell Mrs. Walters, or this Jeffrey person—if I see him—to call you. I have things to do."

He pocketed his notebook and handed her a business card. "As one Celt to another, thanks. I'm sure it's nothing."

Colleen tucked the card into the pocket of her robe. Before she closed the door, she heard the rumbling again. "Can I ask a question?"

"Sure." His expression was guarded.

"What's that noise? The one that sounds like Dorothy and Toto should be flying by?"

He grinned. "You are new around here. Roller coasters. Universal Studios runs them empty for testing every morning at seven. It'll quiet down once the park opens. You might hear screaming if the wind is right."

"Roller coasters. Screaming people. Right. Thanks." She gave him what she hoped would pass for a smile.

"Yes, ma'am." He slipped his sunglasses on and headed up the driveway.

Colleen went to get dressed, working past her nervous reaction to finding a cop giving her the once over. Harrigan was doing his job and had no reason to know anything about her past. No reason to judge her.

Yet she suspected Harrigan had been studying her with those deep blue eyes. His face appeared before her, with its dark wavy hair, straight nose, cleft chin, light bronze skin.

Holy shit, where had that come from? She snorted. She'd reacted like a cop, automatically assessing a person. Six two, broad-shouldered, early thirties. A man in uniform. Exactly what she wanted to avoid, why she'd left Cedar Grove. She'd ask Doris Walters about Jeffrey, have her call Harrigan, and be done with him.

****

Deputy Graham Harrigan sat at his computer in the Sheriff's Office substation, the normal sounds of office activity fading to white noise as he hunted and pecked his way through the report he needed to file. As he'd told himself countless times, he should take a keyboarding class so he could get through the drudgery faster. The smell of stale, burnt coffee permeated the air, and he wished he'd taken a few minutes to stop at Starbucks.

"Harrigan!"

Graham raised his head at the sound of his name and saw Jerry Clarke's midsection precede him into the room. His knee-high boots clunked as he swaggered to the coffee maker. He poured a cup and wandered to the table where Graham worked. He leaned over the screen, his aftershave even more annoying than the burnt coffee aroma.

"Check Well Being call, eh? How … exciting. Thought you'd have put in for Motors by now. Or are you afraid you can't hack it? Takes balls to handle a bike. Next opening in Criminal Investigations will be mine, Harrigan. Get used to it."

"It's not your decision," Graham snapped. "Go back to writing tickets and let me be a real cop."

He watched Clarke leave. If Clarke got the CID slot, it was unlikely another would open before Graham would have to requalify.

Once again, Clarke had unlocked that place inside where Graham kept his doubts. Graham had been promoted three years ago, qualified for CID on the last testing round, but until there was an opening in the Criminal Investigations Division, all he could do was wait.

Clarke had transferred to Motors, claiming it would give him the edge into CID. Like hell. More likely, he'd transferred because he thought the bike, slick boots, and tight pants were babe magnets. Dream on, road maggot. Not with your belly.

Patrol duties provided the variety Graham craved. Training for what he'd do when he was a detective.

He turned his attention to the screen. Finally satisfied, he hit "Save" and "Send."

Shoving thoughts of Clarke out of his mind, Graham located the number he needed and dialed the phone.

"Mrs. Simon? Deputy Graham Harrigan. I responded to your call about your father."

"What did you find?" There was an unexpected edge to her voice.

"Ma'am, there's no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Maybe he isn't checking his messages."

"I don't know why he wouldn't return my calls. Billy's eighth birthday is next month. I know Daddy promised him something special."

"I asked at the guest house, but the tenant said she didn't know your father."

"My aunt Doris lives in the guest house. She has for years, and she sure as hell knows Daddy."

"Well, Mrs. Simon, there's someone else living there now."

After a brief silence, Mrs. Simon spoke again, more quietly. "I do remember Daddy mentioned an assisted living place. Said the old witch was starting to forget things. You know, leaving the stove on, not bringing her purse to the grocery store. Maybe he decided to let her live in the main house where he could keep an eye on her."

"It was early when I stopped by. Could be they were asleep and didn't hear me. I'll try again."

Her tone regained that edge. "Well, far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, but I think you'd be wise to investigate this new tenant as well."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll do that."

"I would think so. My father could be missing, and there's a stranger living on his property. I expect to hear from you right quick."

Graham gritted his teeth before he replied. "I'll be in touch." He hung up the phone as gently as his irritation allowed. Right quick, she'd said. Like hell. If he turned this over to the detectives, it could be weeks. No foul play, nothing out of place. This would sit at the bottom of their piles. Maybe he'd see what he could do on his own first. He started clicking through databases.

The house and guest house apartment were owned by Jeffrey Walters. No mention of a Doris. Property taxes paid in full. No record, wants or warrants on either of them. Jeffrey appeared to be self-employed. A land developer, so travel wouldn't be unusual.

DMV records showed a Buick Park Avenue registered in Jeffrey Walters' name, the car he'd seen when he'd peeked in the garage window earlier. Graham bounced it around his brain for a minute or two. If the guy was missing, why was his car in the garage?

Still too many possibilities that didn't mean anything. Walters might have taken a cab to the airport, or had someone drive him. Hell, he was probably away trying to buy property so he could build a bunch of condos or timeshares. Everything hush-hush, get in before anyone figures out what he's doing, like Walt Disney had all those years ago.

Graham shook his head, told himself to keep an open mind. He'd never get assigned to the Criminal Investigations Division by jumping to conclusions. The guy was likely off for a bit of R and R with a woman, didn't want to tell his kid. They could be using her car.

Rule number one. Look for a woman.

A woman. What about Colleen McDonald? He smiled involuntarily as he thought of her, bundled in that plaid robe, standing almost at attention when she spoke to him, yet with an air of defiance. Tall, about five-eight in her bare feet. Her fair skin sported a light sprinkling of freckles, and he'd bet when her hair dried, she was a glorious redhead. A natural redhead. Especially with her bright green eyes. Making allowances for the dark circles and haunted weariness in those eyes, he'd say mid-to-late-twenties.

Graham frowned. Women usually went for the uniform, and if that wasn't enough, he'd turn on the Irish charm. He'd discovered most people tended to babble when they spoke to the cops. Colleen had given him no more than absolutely necessary. Experience with the law? He'd check her out. As he went to enter her name in the database, he realized he wouldn't have to fabricate excuses to see her. He had a name, but he hadn't bothered asking her how she spelled it. Okay, there were only two choices, but any excuse worked for him.

After another run through his patrol sector, he'd grab a quick bite at First Watch on Sand Lake, which would put him minutes away from the Walters' house. Melinda usually worked the lunch shift. But instead of Melinda's face, he saw Colleen's, with those haunted green eyes.

Laughter erupted from the room. The sound of his name, coupled with Clarke's guffaws, eradicated Colleen's image like wind-blown storm clouds. Dammit. It had been five years. He was a damn good cop, and he was going to beat Clarke into CID no matter how many times the arrogant bastard tried to dredge up his past.

****

Colleen fished through the contents of her carryon. A long-sleeved polo had seemed reasonable when she'd checked the Orlando forecast before leaving Oregon, but apparently nobody told the weather gods it was supposed to be in the sixties here, not the eighties. She flipped on the television and surfed until she landed on the Weather Channel. A perky meteorologist pointed to a brightly-colored map and talked about approaching fronts and heavy rain. Great. Hot and rainy?

She found an elastic, pony-tailed her hair and slung her hobo bag over her shoulder. Time to meet the landlady and get on with her new life.

Walking toward the main house, Colleen noticed the skies darkening. Maybe the weather gurus had it right for a change. She quickened her pace and followed the flagstones to the front door. Before her finger reached the doorbell, the door cracked open on a security chain, and a woman's face, etched with the wear and tear of sun exposure, peeped through the opening.

"You must be Colleen McDonald."

"Yes, ma'am."

The woman shut the door and Colleen heard the rattle of the chain being released.

"Come in. No point in air conditioning all of central Florida. I'm Doris Walters. I trust everything's to your liking."

Colleen stepped inside. "Well, the airline lost my luggage, and the rental car agency was out of cars, but the apartment's fine. I was hoping you could tell me where I can find a grocery store. And if there's a bus stop."

The woman gave a perfunctory head bob. Tiny, no more than five feet tall, thin as a rail, with a cottony tuft of white hair billowing around her head. A mobile Q-tip. She wore lightweight green slacks, a coordinating yellow and green polo shirt, and green canvas sneakers. She was impeccably made up, with subtle blush, pink lipstick and gray eye shadow. Her pale blue eyes, enlarged by her wire-rimmed glasses, held Colleen captive. Her cheeks heated at the obvious scrutiny, and she automatically glanced down to make sure her shoes matched and she hadn't left her zipper unfastened.

"I need to run some errands myself," Mrs. Walters said. "If you like, we can go together."

"That's great. Thanks."

"I hope we can beat the rain. I need my purse. I'll be right back." She twisted the deadbolt in the front door behind Colleen, then disappeared down the hall.

Colleen surveyed the room, noting the spare southwest décor. The earth tones were nothing like the little-old-lady green-and-yellow florals that overwhelmed her apartment.

"Here we are," Mrs. Walters chirped when she reappeared. "Follow me." She pivoted and bustled away, dangling a set of keys from her fingers.

Bemused, Colleen followed the woman through the living room, dining room, into a spacious kitchen and out a door into the garage. Mrs. Walters stood on tiptoe to press the button for the door remote, then held the keys out to Colleen. "I hope you don't mind driving. I'm waiting to get back my driving privileges. You have a couple of fender-benders when you're twenty, nobody cares. Do it when you're my age and they yank your license." She opened the passenger door of a cream-colored Buick Park Avenue and slid onto the front seat.

Colleen opened the driver's door and settled in behind the wheel, tossing her bag onto the backseat. Mrs. Walters sat with an oversized green tote perched on her lap like a cosseted pet, and Colleen backed out of the garage. The door lowered, and Mrs. Walters set the remote in the console between them.

"Okay, Mrs. Walters. Where to?"

"First, call me Doris. I was Mrs. Walters when I taught sixth grade and I'd rather forget most of that." She gestured down the road. "There's a nice little shopping center about three miles from here. Bank, market, cleaners—you name it. Turn left at the corner."

As Colleen drove, she decided there was no point in pretending this morning hadn't happened. "You know, a deputy came to my place." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Doris shift in her seat. "He said he'd knocked at your door. Something about a Jeffrey."

"I know. But nobody gets me out of bed at that hour."

"He said Jeffrey's daughter was trying to reach him. Is Jeffrey your son?"

"Nephew. That Kimberly is a nuisance. Always whining about something." She unclicked her seatbelt. "This is it. Turn right."

In the parking lot, Colleen obeyed Doris' command to park near the clock tower, glad there was a space available. Otherwise, she had the feeling Doris would expect her to create one.

"I've got eleven-fifteen," Doris said. "Meet me here at one. That should give me enough time."

Colleen compared the time on her watch, realizing she hadn't changed it to local time yet. She made the adjustment, then strode after Doris. The skies were almost black now, with silver light shining through the breaks, although it was still warm. The Christmas decorations on the light posts in the parking lot seemed incongruous with the new climate. She gave an inward chuckle. Florida or Oregon, Christmas promotions jumped onto the scene as soon as Halloween passed.

"Are you sure you don't need help with anything?" Colleen asked.

"Because some judge decided I can't drive anymore doesn't make me helpless, young lady. You do your shopping, I'll do mine. I'll see you at one."