2010 RITA Nominee for Best First Book as well as being nominated for Best Romantic Suspense 

Kate Brady
Author Book List

Seven years ago, Beth Dennison was attacked by a killer named Chevy Bankes. Since then, she’s created a new life for herself and her daughter, one far removed from the night that ended in tragedy. But now, Bankes is out of prison and his chilling phone calls tell Beth he’s coming for her.

Ex-FBI agent Neil Sheridan is driven to investigate a chain of murders eerily similar to the case that had cost him his career and his family. When a string of dead bodies and antique dolls leads to Beth’s doorstep, Neil finds a beautiful woman harboring dark secrets. And as the killer marches across the country and closes in on Beth, they unravel a terrifying scheme of vengeance that will push her to do the unthinkable in order to protect her daughter: face Bankes alone.

Excerpt

"Hello, doll."

The stranger’s voice came over the answering machine, low and clear. A finger of fear pressed down.

"Beth. I know you’re there. Pick up the phone."

Beth? The finger turned into a fist. She shot a worried glance toward Abby’s bedroom. No sound, no stirring of the bedcovers. Thankfully, Abby had sunk into the kind of sleep nature reserves for the very young.

"Be-heth. Don’t you want to talk to me? It’s been seven long years."

Her lungs seized. No. Please, no. It couldn’t be.

"Yes, Beth." And his voice lowered. "Surprise."

The past sputtered to life, the chilling drops of memory trickling down her spine.

"I bet you thought I’d never find you," he said. "But I’m a resourceful man. In fact, I’m so resourceful that I’ve arranged some very special gifts for you. I can’t wait until you see them." He paused, as if he knew she’d had to grab the back of the kitchen chair to stay upright, and that her world was suddenly careening into orbit.

Idiot, Beth said to herself. Of course he knew.

So don’t answer. Just ignore him and don’t pick up the—

"By the way, Beth, how’s your daughter?"

She snatched up the phone. "Bastard."

"Ah, there you are. For a moment I was beginning to worry."

Red sparks burst behind her eyes. "H-how?"

"How, what? Oh, I guess you haven’t heard. Well, it’s no wonder, of course. Why would anyone think to contact you with the news?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Freedom. Comeuppance. Getting what I’ve been denied all these years."

The room seemed to be in motion. Beth couldn’t even swear her feet were still on the floor. She closed her eyes. Think, think. Why, no, how was he calling her? "I don’t understand," she said.

"I’m sure you’ll find the whole story on the internet with just a few keystrokes. For now, suffice it to say that I’m free. I’ve been free a while now, in fact, using the time to arrange the details of our reunion."

Nausea crawled up the back of Beth’s throat, lodging there like a burr. Free? Hold on. Stay in control. If he was out of prison, there was only one reason he would contact her. And he couldn’t possibly want to dredge up the past to get it. "I’ll call the police. I’ll tell them every—"

He chuckled. "No, you won’t. You think you have everyone fooled, living your pretty life with your pretty daughter, but you’ve forgotten: I know your secrets. I know about your little gir—"

She gasped, then bit it back. Too late.

"Oh, that was nice, Beth. Do that again."

"Stop—" She spat the word but caught herself. Quiet, now. Don’t make a sound. She remembered how much he liked sounds. Scream, bitch. Cry for me.

"Let me hear your voice again, Beth," he said, and she gripped the receiver so tight cramps screamed up the tendons in her arm. "It doesn’t need to be much, not yet. Just a few small sounds to get the opus star—"

Beth hurled the phone across the room. Fear and fury coiled in her belly like snakes, and she forced herself to breathe, letting fury writhe to the top. Damn it, she had to keep her head. Even as a free man he wasn’t half the threat to her that she was to him. He was the one who should be afraid. Besides, the call hadn’t even come from this part of the country.

Area code 206…Seattle.

Reality sank to the pit of her stomach. This wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t some vile memory from the bowels of another lifetime. The calls weren’t from a prank caller with a six-pack and a phone book, who’d latched on to a number he liked and kept hitting REDIAL.

It was Chevy Bankes.

The need to see Abby kicked Beth in the chest. She raced upstairs and peered into the bedroom. Abby lay sprawled in a puddle of moonlight, a toy cat clutched against her tummy, a real dog draped over her ankles. The dog swished his tail and lolled hopefully to his back, oblivious to the chill creeping through Beth’s veins as she stood watching the rise and fall of Abby’s stomach: one breath, two breaths, three. Three was the magic number. Beth always counted three breaths in a row before she went to bed at night.

This time she counted ten.

She slipped back into the hallway, the heels of her hands bullying back tears. Don’t cry. God knows, tears had never accomplished anything. This wasn’t supposed to have happened, but she’d always known it might. Bankes wasn’t the only one with a plan.

Inhale, focus, balance. She called on years of Muay Thai to center herself, then went to the master bedroom. She dragged a rocking chair across the room and set it beside a huge Chippendale chest of drawers. It was an early New England piece with heavily carved aprons, the escutcheons all original, the patina rich and dark. Still, she hadn’t bought this dresser for its age or beauty. She’d bought it for the cornices.

She climbed onto the tottering rocker and wrenched the finial on the top right cornice of the dresser. It creaked and gaped open.

A folded piece of paper sprang out. Beth tucked it under a sweatband on her wrist and reached back into the secret compartment. Her fingers curled around the butt of a 9mm Glock, cool and powerful, neglected but never forgotten. She lifted it, straightened both elbows, and sighted the little red light on the phone across the room.

She could do it. If she had to—for Abby’s sake—she would.

She lowered the gun, climbed down, and unfolded the list of names from her wristband. Cheryl Stallings, her sister- in-law. Two attorneys, one who had authored Beth’s will and another who had a reputation for winning at any cost. Three early-American furniture dealers, each of whom had offered cash for a few of Beth’s finer pieces and would buy them, no questions asked.

Reviewing the list had a calming effect, a tangible reminder that she had a plan and the resources to achieve it. She took a deep breath. Despite the hour, she picked up the phone, then paused. The digits nine and one seemed to glow brighter than the rest.

I’ll call the police, I’ll tell them everything. But it was a bluff and Bankes knew it. She couldn’t call the police. She couldn’t do that to Abby.

Steadier now, she muttered a prayer—forgiveness, just in case there was a God after all. She cleared her throat and schooled her voice into the calm, composed tone she’d perfected years ago. Dialed the top number.

The first lie would be the hardest.

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