4.7
-
33,614 ratings
The #1 New York Times-bestselling author's terrifying next thriller about one man's ice-cold malice, and one woman's fight to reclaim her life.
Former Army brat Morgan Albright has finally planted roots in a friendly neighborhood near Baltimore. Her friend and roommate Nina helps her make the mortgage payments, as does Morgan's job as a bartender. But after she and Nina host their first dinner party―attended by Luke, the flirtatious IT guy who'd been chatting her up at the bar―her carefully built world is shattered. The back door glass is broken, cash and jewelry are missing, her car is gone, and Nina lies dead on the floor.
Soon, a horrific truth emerges: It was Morgan who let the monster in. "Luke" is actually a cold-hearted con artist named Gavin who targets a particular type of woman, steals her assets and identity, and then commits his ultimate goal: murder.
What the FBI tells Morgan is beyond chilling. Nina wasn't his type. Morgan is. Nina was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. And Morgan's nightmare is just beginning. Soon she has no choice but to flee to her mother's home in Vermont. While she struggles to build something new, she meets another man, Miles Jameson. He isn't flashy or flirtatious, and his family business has deep roots in town. But Gavin is still out there hunting new victims, and he hasn't forgotten the one who got away.
Kindle
$11.99
Available instantly
Audiobook
$0.00
with membership trial
Hardcover
$11.99
Paperback
$11.98
Ships from
Amazon.com
Payment
Secure transaction
ISBN-10
1250321190
ISBN-13
978-1250321190
Print length
464 pages
Language
English
Publisher
SMP
Publication date
May 06, 2024
Dimensions
5.4 x 1.2 x 8.2 inches
Item weight
9.6 ounces
Graves and stones and words and music weren’t for the dead, but the living they left behind.
Highlighted by 321 Kindle readers
Fall’s bounty, winter’s waiting, spring’s beginning. But summer? It’s fruition.
Highlighted by 277 Kindle readers
ASIN :
B0B9KSW9JN
File size :
6737 KB
Text-to-speech :
Enabled
Screen reader :
Supported
Enhanced typesetting :
Enabled
X-Ray :
Enabled
Word wise :
Enabled
"Roberts effectively enhances the plot of her latest stellar, perfectly paced novel of suspense and romance with a superbly realized cast of characters that underscores the importance in life of family and friends." -Booklist
"You will not want to put it down." -Red Carpet Crash
"Be prepared to be enthralled." -Fresh Fiction
Chapter One
Her dreams and goals were simple and few. As a former army brat, Morgan Albright spent her childhood moving across countries and continents. Her roots, directed by her father’s work, grew short and shallow to allow for quick transplanting. From base to base, from house to house, state to state, country to country for her first fourteen years, before her parents divorced.
She’d never had a choice.
For the three years following the divorce, her mother had pulled her from place to place. A small town here, a big city there, looking for … Morgan had never been sure.
At seventeen, closing in on eighteen, she’d dug those roots up herself to plant at college. And there she’d explored those goals and dreams and choices.
She studied hard, focused in on a double major. Business and hospitality—choices that led directly to her dream.
Planting herself. Her own home, her own business.
Her own.
She studied maps, neighborhoods, climate, while narrowing her choices on just where to plant those roots once she’d earned those degrees. She wanted a neighborhood, maybe old and established, close to shops, restaurants, bars—people.
And one day she’d not only own her own home, but her own bar.
Simple goals.
With those degrees hot in her hand, she settled on a neighborhood outside of Baltimore, Maryland. Old houses with yards, and, as yet to be gentrified, so affordable.
She’d worked her way through college, waiting tables, then tending bar when she’d hit twenty-one. And she’d saved.
Her father—the Colonel—didn’t make her graduation. And though she’d graduated with honors, he sent no acknowledgment of her accomplishments.
It hadn’t surprised her, as she knew she’d simply ceased to exist for him even before his signature on the divorce papers dried.
Her mother and her maternal grandparents attended. She hadn’t known it would be the last time she’d see her grandfather. A robust seventy, an active man, a healthy man, he died the winter after her graduation. He’d slipped off a ladder. One slip. Here, then gone.
Even in her grief, it was a lesson Morgan took to heart.
He left her twenty thousand dollars and memories, as precious, of hiking the Green Mountains of Vermont on summer visits.
With the money, Morgan moved out of her tiny apartment and into a small house. Her house. One that needed work, but had a yard—that needed work.
The three small bedrooms, two tiny baths meant she could take in a housemate to offset the mortgage, help pay for that work.
And she worked two jobs. She tended bar five or six nights a week at a neighborhood bar, a happy place called the Next Round. Considering homeownership, she took a second job as office manager at a family-owned construction firm.
She met her housemate at the local garden center as she puzzled over foundation plants. Nina Ramos worked in the greenhouses and knew her stuff. Handy with a yard that needed help, Nina turned puzzlement into joy, and, in that first blooming spring in a house of her own, Nina moved in.
They enjoyed each other’s company, and knew when to give the other quiet and space.
At twenty-five, Morgan had achieved her first dream, and by her calculations would reach goal number two before her thirtieth birthday.
Her one splurge sat in her narrow driveway. The Prius would take her a few years to pay off, but it would get her to work and back dependably and economically.
In good weather, she rode her bike to her day job, but when she needed a car, she had one. Nina called the car Morgan’s subgoal.
The little house on Newberry Street boasted a pretty yard, fresh white paint, and a new front door she’d painted a soft, happy blue.
Her boss at Greenwald’s Builders helped her refinish the old hardwood floors, sold her paint at cost, and guided her along the path of repairs and maintenance.
She’d planted those roots, and felt herself blooming.
It made her smile to see daffodils playing their bright trumpets along her newly paved walkway. Late March brought changeable weather, but all those lovely signs of spring. She and Nina had planted a dogwood in the front yard the previous fall, and she could see the buds wanted to burst.
Soon, she thought as she walked her bike to its rack and locked it.
A good neighborhood, but she didn’t see the point in tempting anyone.
She unlocked the door, and, since Nina’s not-very-dependable car sat at the curb, called out.
“It’s me, running late.” She crossed the living room and, as always, thought about how much more open it would be when she took out the wall that blocked off the kitchen.
She had the money for that project earmarked, so maybe in the fall. Maybe before Christmas. Maybe.
“I’m not running late,” Nina called back. “And I’ve got a date!”
Nina always had a date. But then again, Morgan thought, she was gorgeous and vivacious and only worked one job.
She paused at the open bedroom door.
Several outfits—obviously rejects—littered the bed while Nina modeled another in front of a full-length mirror. Her raven-black hair spilled down the back of a red dress that hugged every curve on her tiny body. Dark eyes sparkled as they met Morgan’s in the glass.
“What do you think?”
“I often think I hate you. Okay, where are you going and who are you going with?”
“Sam’s taking me to Fresco’s for dinner.”
“Fancy! Yeah, the red’s a killer.”
Which she envied a little. The only genuine disappointment between the housemates came from the fact that with Morgan’s long, coltish frame and Nina’s petite, curvy one, they couldn’t trade clothes.
“Go for it. Isn’t this nearly three solid weeks of dates exclusively with the hunkified Sam?”
“Almost four.” Nina did a twirl. “So…”
“I’ll be very quiet when I get home.”
“I really like him, Morgan.”
“So do I.”
“No, I mean really.”
“Oh.” Angling her head, Morgan studied her friend. “I already know he’s in serious like and more when it comes to you. It’s all over him. If you’re heading there, I’m giving you the full friend approval.”
After flipping that gorgeous hair, Nina let out one of her dreamy sighs. “Pretty sure I’m already headed there.”
“Full approval. I’ve got to change for work.”
“From work for work. I’ve got to put all this away and clean up this room. I don’t want Sam to think I’m a slob.”
“You’re not a slob.” Chaotic, Morgan thought, but Nina kept her chaos contained to her own space.
Unlike Nina’s cheerful chaos, lavender walls, a vanity top littered with makeup, hair products, and God knew, Morgan’s space was just contained.
She used the third bedroom—closet-size—as an office, so this was sanctuary. Quiet blue walls, some art she’d bought from street artists in Baltimore, the white duvet and pillows, a small but cozy reading chair.
She took off office manager—gray pants, white shirt, navy blue blazer—put on bartender—black pants, black shirt. In the bathroom, she opened the drawer where she kept her makeup organized for easy choices. And changed day to night.
The short, angled cut of her blond hair worked fine for both jobs, but the bartender went for more drama on the eyes, deeper on the lips.
With years of practice, she finished the transition inside twenty minutes.
Since she wouldn’t be eating fancy at Fresco’s, she dashed to the kitchen, grabbed a yogurt out of the fridge. She ate standing up, imagining the wall gone, new cabinet doors and hardware, some open shelves, some—
“Amiga mia, you need to eat food.”
“Yogurt’s food.”
Nina, now in a robe, put her hands on her hips. “Something that requires a knife and fork, and chewing. You’ve got that long, slim build naturally—bitch—but if you don’t eat, it’ll turn to skinny and gaunt. Seriously, one of us has to learn to cook.” She shot up a coral-tipped finger, then pointed it at Morgan. “I nominate you.”
“Yeah, I’ll take that up in my spare time. Besides, you’re the one with a mother who cooks like a goddess.”
“You’ll come with me for Sunday dinner. Don’t say you’ve got work—your spreadsheets, or whatever. You know Mama and Papa love you. And my brother, Rick, will be there.”
With the yogurt in one, the spoon in the other, Morgan waved her hands as if erasing a board. “I am not dating your brother, no matter how cute he is. That way lies madness. I’m not losing you as a roommate because your brother and I date, have sex, break up.”
Nina held up a gold hoop at one ear, a dangle of three circles at the other. “Which?”
Morgan pointed at the dangles. “Fancier.”
“Good. And maybe you’ll date Rick, have sex, and fall in love.”
“I don’t have time. Give me two years, maybe three, then I’ll have time.”
“I like schedules, too, but not for love. Now you’ve distracted me. You have to eat.”
“I’ll get something at the bar.”
“Dinner Sunday,” Nina insisted when Morgan tossed the container, rinsed the spoon. “I’m telling Mama you’re coming, and once I tell Mama, it’s done.”
“I’d love to go, honestly. Let me get through this week. We’ve been so damn busy at Greenwald’s. Spring makes everybody think of remodeling or painting or building decks.”
She grabbed her purse and kept going. “Have a great time tonight.”
“You can take that to the bank. I’m calling Mama before I get my gorgeous on.”
“Your gorgeous is never off.”
Morgan jogged to the car. Pleased she’d already made up a little time, she drove the five-point-four miles to the town center.
The shops along what the locals called Market Mile (actually one-point-six) would close within the hour. But the restaurants and cafés would keep Market Street lit and busy well into the night.
Most of the buildings—rosy or white-painted brick—kept the retail to street level and held apartments above. The Next Round was no exception and tended to rent to patrons or employees who had no issue living above a bar.
She swung off Market, circled around the back of the bar to the parking lot. With her car secured, she crunched across the gravel to the back kitchen door and stepped into the heat and noise.
The Round ran to burgers, steamers, nachos with sides of fries, onion rings, fried pickles, and three varieties of wings.
When she opened her own tavern, she intended to spread out to a few more, hopefully surprising, choices of bar food.
And she should probably learn how to cook first, because you never knew when you’d have to pitch in.
“Hey, Frankie,” she called out to the woman working the grill as she put her jacket on a peg. “How’s it going?”
“Good enough.” With her poof of ink-black hair tucked under a white cap, Frankie flipped three fat burgers. “Roddy and his brothers are grabbing some dinner before their dart tournament. Be glad you weren’t on for happy hour. We were slammed.”
“I like slammed.”
She exchanged greetings with the two line chefs, the teenage dishwasher, and the waitress who swung in to pick up an order of loaded nachos.
Though she had ten minutes before her shift, she walked through the door and into the bar.
A different kind of noise, she thought. Not the sizzle of meat on a grill, the whack of knives, the clatter of dishes. Here voices filled the big room with its long black bar, its tables and booths. Music pumped from the juke, but not loud enough to overwhelm conversation.
She saw Roddy and his brothers—regulars—at their usual booth near the dartboard, drinking beer and chowing down on bar nuts. Coors for Roddy and his brother Mike, she thought, and Heineken for brother Ted. If their father joined them, he’d order a beer—on tap—and a bump.
She took the pass-through behind the bar where the bartenders worked.
She’d relieve Wayne, currently adding a slice of lime to a bottle of Corona.
“Got a little bit of a lull,” he told her, and gave her his full-wattage smile. “Guy at the end of the bar’s running a tab. He’s on his second vodka tonic, so keep an eye.”
He served the Corona to another stool sitter, exchanged a few words before he slipped back to Morgan.
“Waiting for his date—Match.com—first time. She’s late, he’s nervous.”
Cute, Morgan decided, on the nerdy side. She’d put down money he had a full gaming system in his living room.
“Got it.”
“I’m gonna clock out then. Have a good one.”
As always, she checked her supplies—the ice, the limes and lemons, the olives, the cherries. She filled a couple of orders for tables, and was about to work her way down to Corona when she spotted a woman of about thirty step in, look anxiously around before she approached the guy at the bar.
“Dave? I’m Tandy. I’m so sorry I’m a little late.”
He brightened right up. “Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s nice to meet you. Do you want to get a table?”
“This is fine. Is this fine?” She slid onto the stool beside him.
Morgan shifted down the bar as they smiled at each other with expressions of anxiety and hope.
“Hi. What can I get you tonight?”
“Oh. Um. Could I get a glass of Chardonnay?”
“You sure can. I love your earrings.”
“Oh.” Tandy put one hand up to her left ear. “Thanks.”
“They’re really pretty,” Dave added. “You look great.”
“Thanks. So do you.” She laughed as Morgan poured the wine. “You really just don’t know, do you? I was so nervous, I walked around the block. That’s why I’m a little late.”
“I was so nervous I got here twenty minutes early.”
Ice broken, Morgan thought as she served the wine.
And this, she admitted, was one of the reasons she loved working in a bar. You never knew what might start, might finish, might bloom or break in a friendly neighborhood bar.
By the time Roddy and his brothers plowed through their burgers, the place started filling up. The Match.com couple decided to get a table after all, and a platter of nachos.
Morgan made a mental bet on a second date there.
Vodka Tonic cashed out, left a miserly tip.
Darts thwacked against the board to cheers and catcalls of onlookers.
A man in his early thirties came in. He made her think of an incognito movie star with his dark blond hair, chiseled features, gym-fit body in jeans, boots, and a pale blue sweater—looked like cashmere. He slid onto a stool.
She stepped down to him. “Welcome to the Next Round. What’s your pleasure?”
“I’ve got a lot of them.” He grinned at her—easy, charming. “But we’ll start with a beer. Any local beer on tap?”
“Of course.” Though they had lists printed in holders on the bar, she reeled them off.
“Maybe you can pick one for me.”
“What’re you looking for?”
“Another loaded question.”
She shot him a smile. Looking for some conversation, she judged, along with the drink. And that was fine.
“In a beer.”
“Smooth, but not bland. Rich, but not overpowering. Toward the dark side.”
“Let’s try this.” She got a tasting glass, pulled a tap.
As he sampled it, he watched her over the rim. “That’ll do. Good choice.”
“That’s my job.”
Before he could speak again, one of the waitresses came up. “Girl table over there’s stuck in the nineties. Four Cosmos, Morgan.”
She carried the tray of empties into the kitchen while Morgan got to work.
“You know what you’re doing,” the new guy commented as she mixed the drinks.
“I’d better. Are you in town on business?”