Home > Secrets Never Die (Morgan Dane #5)

Secrets Never Die (Morgan Dane #5)
Author: Melinda Leigh

Chapter One

Why was the house dark?

Sitting in the passenger seat of his friend’s Honda Accord, Evan checked the time on his watch. Twelve thirty a.m. His mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway. She must still be at the urgent care where she worked as a nurse. Evan’s stepfather, Paul, always left a light on for her.

But there weren’t any lights on tonight.

Every window was black. Even the lamppost at the end of the front walk was out.

Unease crept up the back of Evan’s neck. His pulse kicked up a notch. A small punch of adrenaline countered his current overall state of exhaustion like a can of Red Bull. He hadn’t slept in days, not since the last court-ordered visitation with his real—no, biological—father. A real father would care about Evan, and Kirk never had.

“Are you getting out?” Jake blew smoke out the driver’s side window.

“Yeah.” Evan opened the car door. A gust of wind almost ripped it out of his hand. He caught it and held on as he climbed out. “Thanks for the ride.”

Jake waved his cigarette. “See ya.”

Evan shut the door. Jake backed his car out of the driveway, leaving Evan alone.

He glanced up and down the suburban street. Past midnight, light from streetlamps pooled in shiny yellow circles on the blacktop. Overhead, thick clouds obscured the night sky. A storm system was on its way across upstate New York, and the air seemed charged with electricity. The weather report had warned of high winds and heavy rains, maybe even hail and tornadoes. He hoped his mom’s shift had ended so she could get home before the storm started.

A hot, humid wind lifted the hair on the back of his neck. He suddenly felt as if he were being watched. Despite the heat of the June night, a shiver shot through his bones. His gaze fell on the windshield of a dark-blue sedan parked across the street, but he saw no one behind the wheel.

Now he was being paranoid. Lack of sleep must be making him stupid. Maybe a fuse had blown. That would explain the lack of lights.

Using his flashlight app to navigate the walkway and front steps, he slid his key into the dead bolt, but there was no resistance when he turned it. Had the door been unlocked? Nah. He must have imagined it. Paul would never leave the house open.

Evan was making excuses. He just didn’t want to go inside the house and face his stepfather. Evan was two and a half hours past his curfew, he’d been a complete asshole to Paul that afternoon, and he’d ignored Paul’s concerned texts about his being late.

Not that Paul would yell or anything. Paul was cool. But he’d want to talk about Evan’s shitty behavior and the root cause. Getting grounded wasn’t a big deal, but Paul’s disapproval hurt.

Evan might as well get it over with. Better to do it now, before his mom got home. Unlike Paul, she would lose her shit, and Evan didn’t want to deal with her freak-out. He opened the front door and went inside.

He heard voices that sounded like the TV coming from the back of the house. Definitely a fuse. The den, aka the man cave, was on a different electrical circuit from the front lights. A couple of weeks ago, Paul had shown Evan how to reset the switches in the electrical box in the garage.

Evan walked down the hall, his steps slowed by dread. Paul had waited up for him even though Evan had been a complete dick. Now Evan felt twice as bad.

Why did he let Kirk get to him?

Why was some fucking judge forcing Evan to spend his Sunday nights with the asshole?

Anger curled Evan’s hands into fists.

His father didn’t just bring out the worst in him. Kirk also cultivated anger and resentment. His father played him to get even with his mom. Kirk was a pro. He found a way to get to Evan every time.

Evan was an idiot.

“I bet moving out to the sticks was his idea,” Kirk had said. “He was the one who made you move away from your friends. He probably had his eye on your mom while she was still married to me. She’s his meal ticket. He quit his job as soon as they were married, right? He’s set now.”

But Kirk had twisted the facts. Paul had retired from his job as a sheriff’s deputy months before, and he did all the stuff around the house, even cleaning, something Kirk would never do. But Kirk had gone on and on, picking at all of Evan’s scabs until he’d found one that bled. Then Evan turned around and took out his anger on Paul, just like Kirk had planned all along. Evan couldn’t wait until he turned eighteen, when he would be able to tell Kirk—and that asshole judge—to fuck off.

“Everyone makes dumbass mistakes,” Paul had said last time. “But you have to own up and apologize.”

Evan was going to make it right. He was not going to turn into his father.

He walked toward the den and stopped just short of the doorway, bracing himself for the talk his apology would initiate. But a loud pop brought him up short. What was that? His instincts said gunshot, but at the same time, his brain told him that was crazy.

Still in the corridor, he peered through the doorway. Paul lay on the floor. Blood saturated his T-shirt and spread to the carpet around his body.

So much blood.

Evan couldn’t even register the horror. What he was seeing was beyond comprehension. He couldn’t move, and he couldn’t look away. His eyes were locked on Paul, the pain and fear on his stepfather’s face.

Move! Do something! Help him!

Shaking himself out of his paralysis, he started forward. Paul saw him. His eyes widened. His head shook, almost imperceptibly, and he mouthed, “Run.”

But Evan couldn’t leave him there. His feet were rooted in place, as if the carpet had turned into ten inches of thick mud. He couldn’t do anything. Paul’s eyes shifted to the coffee table. Evan followed his line of sight to where Paul’s handgun lay next to gun-cleaning supplies set out on a newspaper. Paul’s fingers crawled along the carpet toward the table, but there was no way he’d be able to reach. He tried to roll, but the movement sent blood gushing onto the carpet, and he fell back.

Then a man walked into view and stood over Paul. He had a gun in his hand and wore a suit that didn’t seem to fit him very well. When he lifted the gun, his suit jacket opened, revealing a gold badge clipped to his belt. A cop? He pointed the gun at Paul’s face. The cop wore purple gloves that looked like the ones Evan’s mom used at work. Panic grabbed Evan by the balls as he realized what was going to happen. The man was going to shoot Paul again. And Paul was going to die. Paul’s legs twitched, almost in a running motion. He knew what was coming too, but he was too badly wounded to move anything except his feet.

And what did Evan do?

Fucking stood there, frozen, staring and shaking like a coward.

“What do you want from me?” Paul hissed, his voice weak as a breath.

“I want you to die.” The man pulled the trigger. The gunshot blasted through the room.

Evan jumped. His heart skipped a beat. Panic tightened his lungs until he couldn’t draw a breath. Paul’s legs went still, and Evan knew he was gone.

Dead.

Evan felt the choking gasp tear from his throat, yet he didn’t recognize the guttural animal sound as coming from his own mouth. His gaze was locked on the horror in the den.

Paul lay dead on the carpet, his body an island surrounded by a lake of blood.

Evan inhaled. At the rush of oxygen, his heart stuttered and kicked back into rhythm. He took one step forward, toward Paul, on reflex, before his brain put on the brakes.

But Paul was dead. Shot in the head by the man who now stood over him.

No. Not shot.

Executed.

The man turned, his eyes fixing on Evan, his gaze dumping pure terror into Evan’s bloodstream. It flowed into his veins like ice water. His bowels cramped. Gooseflesh rippled up his arms. He turned toward the back door, but the dead bolt was locked. Afraid of easy break-ins, Paul had had the turn lock replaced with a keyed dead bolt when they’d moved in. Where was the key?

He turned and ran the way he’d come. Equal parts anger and terror fueled his steps and scattered his thoughts. Evan tore into the kitchen, his feet sliding on the tiles. He slammed into the sideboard. A stack of dishes slid off and shattered. Framed wedding pictures fell from the wall, the glass breaking as they hit the floor. Evan went down on his ass. His tailbone rang with the impact on the tile, and his legs went numb for a few seconds.

“Where are you?” a voice called.

Scrambling to his feet, Evan ran toward the front door. He had to get out of the house. He was one of the fastest players on his hockey team, both on and off the ice. Once he was out in the open, he could outrun almost anybody.

“You can’t get away.” The voice was in front of him.

While Evan had been picking himself up off the kitchen floor, the killer had circled around through the dining room, beating Evan to the front door.

Evan stopped and tried to be silent. But his knees shook, and his breaths came fast and hard enough to echo in his ears. He fought to slow his breathing. The killer would be able to hear him.

He was going to die. Shot in the head like Paul.

His pulse sprinted in terror.

“You might as well give up now. I’ll make it easy on you and kill you quickly.” He was closer.

Evan backed through the kitchen. A piece of glass crunched under his foot. Sweat poured down his back. He was trapped. He needed the key to the back door.

He’s going to get me.

“Know this: no matter what you do, no matter where you go, I’m going to find you and kill you.” The sentence was delivered with the same cold-blooded calm that had been in the killer’s eyes when he’d shot Paul.

The faint squeak of a floorboard in the hall nearly made Evan’s bladder give way. He concentrated for a second until it passed. Then he stepped over the glass, easing his way back into the corridor that led to the den.

He slipped into the room. Paul’s eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. Tears and snot ran down Evan’s face as he skirted the bloodstained carpet. Standing next to Paul, he searched his pockets. Keys. He pulled them out, wrapping his fingers around them to keep them from jingling.

“Where are you?” the voice called, irritation clipping the words. “You’re just dragging this out.”

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