Praise for Irene Hannon’s Books

  “Hannon is a master at character development.”

  Library Journal on In Harm’s Way

  “Nail-biting suspense.”

  Booklist on Deadly Pursuit

  “An ever-climactic mystery . . . engagingly sure-footed.”

  Publishers Weekly on In Harm’s Way

  “A love story that will melt your heart.”

  RT Book Reviews on An Eye for An Eye

  “Romantic suspense that pounds your pulse.”

  USA Today on Deceived

  “Teems with action.”

  St. Louis Post-Dispatch on Labyrinth of Lies

  “Unputdownable.”

  Write-Read-Life on Dark Ambitions

  “Hannon expertly writes characters who embody human vulnerability and strength.”

  Publishers Weekly on Tangled Webs

  BOOKS BY IRENE HANNON

  HEROES OF QUANTICO

  Against All Odds

  An Eye for an Eye

  In Harm’s Way

  GUARDIANS OF JUSTICE

  Fatal Judgment

  Deadly Pursuit

  Lethal Legacy

  PRIVATE JUSTICE

  Vanished

  Trapped

  Deceived

  MEN OF VALOR

  Buried Secrets

  Thin Ice

  Tangled Webs

  CODE OF HONOR

  Dangerous Illusions

  Hidden Peril

  Dark Ambitions

  TRIPLE THREAT

  Point of Danger

  Labyrinth of Lies

  Body of Evidence

  UNDAUNTED COURAGE

  Into the Fire

  STANDALONE NOVELS

  That Certain Summer

  One Perfect Spring

  HOPE HARBOR

  Hope Harbor

  Sea Rose Lane

  Sandpiper Cove

  Pelican Point

  Driftwood Bay

  Starfish Pier

  Blackberry Beach

  Sea Glass Cottage

  Windswept Way

  © 2023 by Irene Hannon

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2023

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-4354-3

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Baker Publishing Group publications use paper produced from sustainable forestry practices and post-consumer waste whenever possible.

  To Tom Becker,

  FBI veteran and retired police chief,

  who has been my premier law enforcement source

  since my first suspense novel was published in 2009.

  With his dual background at both the national and local levels,

  he brings a wealth of expertise and experience to the task—

  and his detailed responses to my many questions

  have put the final polish of authenticity on countless books.

  Thank you, Tom, for your generous and gracious assistance.

  I will be forever grateful.

  Contents

  Cover

  Endorsements

  Half Title Page

  Books by Irene Hannon

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Prologue

  FIRE WAS CLEANSING. SACRIFICIAL, ALMOST.

  And soon . . . very soon . . . the flames would come.

  But first, my souvenir.

  I crossed to the dresser. Flipped up the lid on the jewelry box. Poked around with my latex-covered finger.

  Frowned.

  Where was the ring?

  It had to be here. There was no way she’d let that go. Not after all she’d done to get it.

  Maybe it was tucked in one of the small drawers underneath the main display area.

  One by one, I pulled them out.

  Ah. There it was.

  I picked up the heavy ring, weighed it in my hand, and turned back to the bed.

  She was still watching me, eyes wide, waves of fear rolling off her.

  So satisfying.

  Lips flexing, I wandered back to the bed, leaned over, and ran a finger down the side of her face.

  She flinched and averted her head, whimpering behind the duct tape I’d slapped over her mouth.

  Also satisfying.

  I pinched her cheek for good measure. Hard.

  A tear spilled past her lower lashes, and she gave me a pleading look.

  Didn’t work.

  In fact . . .

  Folding my arms, I considered her. The fire would erase evidence of surface damage, including any bruises from our tussle when I’d pinned her down to mash the chloroform-soaked rag against her face. She’d put up quite a struggle during the five minutes it took for the drug to render her unconscious, but I was bigger and much, much stronger than she was. The fire would also destroy the ligature marks from the zip ties I’d used to bind her hands and feet while she was out—along with any other cuts or contusions I might choose to inflict now.

  But I wasn’t a mean person.

  I just wanted justice.

  Leaning close again, I patted her arm. “This will be over soon.”

  My reassurance didn’t seem to comfort her.

  Nevertheless, it was true. I’d scoped out her place, studied her habits. Knew she spent every Tuesday night alone in her house after she returned from her counseling session. Now that she was a widow, her social life was in the toilet. I didn’t have to rush this job.

  Yet there was no reason to linger.

  I picked up the second syringe I’d retrieved from her fridge and swiveled back toward the bed.

  Her eyes got even bigger, and a mewing sound vibrated deep in her throat. She attempted to wriggle away, but her efforts were pathetic. The first insulin injection had already kicked in. She was sweating, and her squinting and rapid blinking suggested her vision could be blurring.

  The next dose ought to give her a whopping case of hypoglycemia.

  Such a shame.

  Yet a distraught, grieving, diabetic widow could make mistakes with medication—and judgment. Like mixing up her fast-acting and basal insulin, and forgetting she’d already given herself one injection.

  Especially after downing two prescription sleeping pills. Even if she’d needed a bit of convincing to swallow them.

  My concealed carry permit had proven to be quite useful. Again.

  She began to writhe with more energy, and I straddled her legs. Yanked up the bottom of her tank top. Clamped one hand against her shoulder to hold her in place as I plunged the syringe into her abdomen and injected the insulin. Pulled out the needle.

  As she whimpered again, I stood and transferred the waste can from the other side of the bed to the front of the skirted nightstand, close to where she lay. Then I plucked a tissue from the box on the small table. Wadded it into a ball. Dropped it into the half-full can. Repeated the process over and over.

  The tissues would provide excellent kindling.

  A few other flammable items wouldn’t hurt, though. Like the magazines on the dresser.

  I gathered them up, reading the titles as I returned to the bed. Snorted. Every one was crammed with self-help psychobabble. However, they did provide more evidence she wasn’t herself, which was useful.

  After dropping three of them into the waste can, I added more tissues. Scattered the rest of the magazines on the bed.

  Now for the accelerant.

  I bent and rooted through my gym bag. Pulled out a bottle of hand sanitizer, opened it, and saturated the paper in the waste can, as well as the edge of the comforter. When the bottle was half empty, I tossed it in the trash, tucked the bottom of the table skirt into the can, and checked on Pookie.

  What a gag-worthy, insipid name.

  Her eyelids had drifted closed, and she’d stopped thrashing.

  It was possible she was already unconscious.

  After I finished the setup, I’d verify that.

  I moved to the window beside the bed, reached behind the blinds , flipped the lock, and raised the sash several inches. Nothing would seem amiss about an open window, not with the pleasant spring temperatures St. Louis had enjoyed over the past few days. After being confined during the endless, cold winter, everyone liked fresh air.

  So did fire.

  It thrived on oxygen.

  I secured the long, filmy curtain to the table drape with liquid stitch. While the breeze from the open window should be sufficient to blow it into the flames—and that would be the obvious conclusion later—why take chances?

  Next, I detoured to the foyer to get the partially unwrapped gift that had been my entrée tonight.

  Back in the bedroom, I pulled the scented pillar candle from the festive paper, set it on the bedside table, and flicked a lighter against the wick. Within a few seconds, the scent of orange blossoms began to waft through the room.

  Very pleasant.

  I ought to get one of these for my own house.

  Wadding up the wrapping paper, I angled toward the bed and assessed Pookie.

  She was limp and pale, her breathing shallow but even. Hard to fake if you were stressed.

  But just to confirm she’d slipped into a coma, I unhooked the safety pin brought for this very purpose from my shirt. Pricked her forehead.

  No response.

  I jabbed the point into her lower lip.

  Nothing.

  She was out of it.

  It was safe to remove the ties and duct tape.

  After tossing the gift wrap into the trash, I quickly dispensed with the restraints.

  Now to finish up and get out.

  I zipped the top of my gym bag, picked it up, and set the candle, on its side, in the waste can.

  For a moment, the flame flickered. Then the paper caught fire as the hand sanitizer did its job. I also held the lighter to the edge of the comforter until flames began to lick along the saturation line.

  Before I was finished with that task, the table drape was ablaze.

  Excellent.

  Everything would progress fast now, thanks to the open window, the wood and upholstered furniture, and the other combustibles in this room. But on my way out, I stopped to open the door of the double closet to help accelerate the carnage. Fabric also burned well.

  Aww. She’d kept all her husband’s clothes.

  How sweet.

  But he didn’t need them. And soon, she wouldn’t need hers, either.

  I exited the bedroom, closed the door, jogged down the hall, and slipped out the back door, into the darkness.

  No one had seen me come. No one would see me go.

  Gym bag gripped in my hand, I edged along the shadows at the back of the house and peeked around the corner.

  The street was deserted.

  Not surprising. Most people didn’t hang around outside after dark in late April. Even on balmy days, temperatures tended to dip once the sun set. And this was a quiet neighborhood, anyway, based on the drive-throughs I’d done in preparation for tonight.

  Besides, it would be difficult to spot smoke seeping from the house in the darkness, should anyone pass by or look out the window of an adjacent home.

  And once the flames were visible, it would be too late.

  At the corner of the property, I paused to give the small contemporary structure a final once-over. Nothing appeared to be amiss—yet. The bedroom was in the back, overlooking the shrub-enclosed yard. No one would be able to see the glow behind the blinds.

  The location of the room couldn’t have been better.

  I started forward again, heading toward my car in the parking lot of the neighborhood quick shop less than three short blocks away.

  It was a shame I couldn’t hang around to enjoy the show, though. There was nothing like a fire to juice a person’s adrenaline.

  But successfully pulling off a risky job produced its own high.

  At the street corner, I glanced back.

  Still no external sign of the blaze, but at this point it would be raging inside the bedroom. It wasn’t necessary to wait for visible confirmation of the inferno.

  I knew how to set fires.

  Smiling, I turned my back on the house and picked up my pace. This one had gone like clockwork, as had the others. It was time to enjoy the moment. Bask in the exhilaration.

  And think about the final release to come, when the purge would be complete.

  ONE

  FIVE MONTHS LATER

  ARSON INVESTIGATORS WEREN’T SUPPOSED to die in fires.

  Bri Tucker shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket and clenched her fists, the acrid smell of smoke prickling her nose. Up and down the quiet suburban St. Louis cul-de-sac of modest homes, flashing lights from emergency vehicles pierced the darkness as small clusters of neighbors watched the roaring flames consume Les Kavanaugh’s house.

  All at once, a dormer window on the second floor exploded. Moments later, a portion of the roof shuddered . . . buckled . . . and collapsed in a cascade of fiery sparks that rose like a swarm of demon hornets toward the inky sky.

  Collectively, the onlookers recoiled.

  From her spot in the shadows, Bri appraised them. All part of her job as the St. Louis Regional Bomb and Arson Unit investigator assigned to this fire. Bystanders could help her put the pieces together once the flames were extinguished. Determine if the fire was accidental or intentional.

  Under any other circumstances, her money would be on the former. Ninety-five percent of residential fires were due to innocent causes.

  But most didn’t take place at the home of an experienced arson investigator who knew all the fire hazards and would have taken pains to eliminate them.

  So if this blaze turned out to be deliberate, the spectators could be key.

  Because arsonists liked to stick around and enjoy the show.

  No one in the immediate vicinity raised any suspicions, however. Most were older couples, huddled close together, watching in shock as the tragedy unfolded. The few lone people were also more advanced in age, one in a bathrobe, another watching from a front porch and using a walker for support.

  If this was arson, and if the guilty party was close by, they were either an atypical suspect or hiding in the shadows.

  “How long have you been here?”

  At the question, Bri swiveled to her right. Deep creases lined Sergeant Frank Connor’s forehead.

  “A few minutes. I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” Then again, until his retirement, Les had been a fixture in the Bomb and Arson Unit. If ever her boss would show up at a fire scene, this would be the one.

  “Les and I go way back. We may have clashed on occasion, but I had tremendous respect for his skills. Everyone did.”

  “So I heard.” A gust of unseasonably cool September wind whipped past, and she shivered despite the heat emanating from the blazing house.

  “You talked to anybody yet?”

  “No bystanders, but I touched based with the captain.” She motioned toward one of the fire trucks.

  “He’s next on my list. Is there any news about Les? Was he home?”

  Sarge didn’t know.

  Bri took a breath. Gave a slow nod. “Yes. They found him in the back of the house. Too late to save.”

  A muscle tightened in Sarge’s cheek as he scanned the burning structure, and his voice hardened. “I want the ATF in on this one. They have resources we don’t. If it’s arson, let’s find out ASAP.”

  The irony of a fire investigator dying in a fire must have set off an alert for him too.

  “You think this was deliberate?”

  “It’s possible. I imagine Les made a few enemies through the years. He was like a dog with a bone while he was on the trail of a suspect, and he didn’t worry about social niceties or political correctness in his quest for truth.”

  “I heard that too.”

  One side of Sarge’s mouth flexed. “He was a character. And he never left a stone unturned in an investigation. Pardon the second trite, but apt, cliché. Nor did he hesitate to pull in people he thought could help him put a case to bed.”

  Hmm.

  Bri averted her face from the fire as a billow of heat surged toward them. “He called me yesterday morning. Asked me to meet him. I was supposed to drop by tomorrow afternoon.”

  The pleats on Sarge’s forehead deepened. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” But a ripple of unease snaked down her spine as she processed the coincidence. “I mean, he retired a month after I joined the unit, so I didn’t really get to know him. He was in wrap-up stage. I did assist once at a scene he was working, but it wasn’t like we hung out together. I was too busy learning the ropes and digging into the warehouse fire that landed on my desk a week into my job.”

 

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