Tamara took one step and froze as she heard movement downstairs.
Vince tensed, too. “Wait here,” he ordered.
“Right,” she agreed, following him.
Because he’d rather have her within reach, he didn’t protest. He closed the front door and stopped, somewhat shielding her from seeing what was there.
She moved closer, squinting, needing the beam of his flashlight to see. It put her very close, too close. Standing up straight and trying to regain her composure, she shifted so she could see the words written on a piece of paper tacked to her door.
YOU BUY YOU DIE.
This time it looked like the sign maker had been in a hurry. The warning was in pencil, and whoever had made the sign had been more than angry. In five or six spots, the point of the pencil had gone right through the paper. Not only that, but the lines were in bold, dark letters.
“Another warning,” Tamara muttered.
“No,” Vince said. “This time, it’s a promise.”
PAMELA TRACY
lives in Arizona with a newly acquired husband (Yes, Pamela is somewhat a newlywed. You can be a newlywed for seven years. Next year, we’ll be oldlyweds.) and a pre-schooler (Newlymom is almost as fun as newlywed!). She was raised in Omaha, Nebraska, and started writing at age twelve (a very bad teen romance featuring David Cassidy from the Partridge Family). Later, she honed her writing skills while earning a B.A. in Journalism at Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas (and wrote a very bad science fiction novel that didn’t feature David Cassidy).
Pamela Tracy
Clandestine Cover-Up
A good name is more desirable than great riches; to be esteemed is better than silver or gold.
—Proverbs 22:1
To Sandra Lagesse, a friend extraordinaire.
Thank you for the shoulder to lean on, the hand to hold, and the ear that listens.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
YOUR NOT WANTED HERE
The words were written in dripping bloodred paint on the front door of the building Tamara Jacoby had just signed the final sale papers on. She’d been the proud owner for only twenty minutes. Her lawyer’s mind, still sharp, still observant, wanted to change the your to you’re. Her single female mind, still somewhat wounded, wanted to run to the car, jump in, lock the door and drive as far away as possible.
Wait, she’d already done that. That was how she’d arrived here in Sherman, Nebraska—far, far away from Arizona.
“It’s not blood,” she assured herself.
And William Massey is in jail, for a long, long time.
Still, to make sure, she whipped out her cell phone, dialed the 602 area code and spoke with a guard she knew at Florence Penitentiary.
Yes, William Massey is still in jail.
Which left Tamara wondering who on earth was after her now.
YOUR NOT WANTED HERE
Her sister Lisa, who lived here, called Sherman a safe little town.
Yeah, real safe.
She finally managed to control her breathing. Next, she unclenched her fingers and looked around.
A police cruiser turned the corner. The officer behind the wheel didn’t even look Tamara’s way, and she didn’t wave him down.
She’d had enough interaction with the police to last a lifetime. First, thanks to her profession—lawyer. Last, thanks to the case that drove her out of Arizona—victim.
I am not a victim, she told herself.
No, she didn’t want her first interaction with law enforcement in her new home to be a “rescue me” appeal. She wanted it to be an “I’m a force to be reckoned with” landing.
She fully intended to go back to being the kind of lawyer she’d been before William Massey fixated on her—successful, controlling and confident.
Right now, she’d settle for confident.
Tamara felt a chill. She wanted to blame the May weather, but the sudden chill had nothing to do with the rain. She’d had the chills every day for the past six months. Thoughts of William Massey had that effect on her. They had started the day he’d gone from client to deranged stalker. They’d doubled the day he’d gone from stalker to attacker.
Tamara took a tiny step forward. She had to do something. She couldn’t stand on the sidewalk all day. She had to face whatever was in front of her. Had to. Otherwise, she might never practice law again.
Threats were part of the job.
Tamara studied the warning again. Not only was the wrong spelling used, but the letters were long and in some places the paint was almost too faint to read, while in others, it globbed. The vandal was probably right-handed, based on the slant of the graffiti. Also, whoever wrote the words was most likely tall, Tamara’s height.
She looked up and blinked against the Nebraska sun, suddenly aware that she was busy assessing evidence as if preparing for trial.
She definitely didn’t want the attention that would come with reporting this crime. Nor did she have the time. Not if she planned to turn this neglected old building, a building that had started life as a farmhouse and had last been used as a church, into a law office and get back on the fast track.
Did Sherman, Nebraska, even have a fast track?
Tamara pushed open the church’s door, careful to avoid the paint, and took a step inside.
She suddenly stopped.
She’d seen dead animals before; they didn’t scare her. But something about how the tiny mouse was laid out on the floor in front of her let her know the creature hadn’t died a natural death.
It had died to prove a point.
YOUR NOT WANTED HERE.
She turned, tried to leave, and ran into something hard and unyielding.
She let out a squeal.
“Hey” came a deep voice. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Whoever blocked her way was all male. The scent of sweat combined with aftershave and heat permeated the room or at least the space directly around her. Her hand went inside her purse. Mace was at the ready, but warm, strong fingers clamped down hard on her elbow before she could snag the small tube and take aim.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Tamara,” a calm voice stated. “It’s Vince