In his reach, p.1
In His Reach, page 1
I N H I S R E A C H
(An Eve Hope FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 3)
K a t e B o l d
Kate Bold
Bestselling author Kate Bold is author of the ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eight books (and counting); the HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising seven books (and counting); the KAYLIE BROOKS PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); and the EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting)
An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Kate loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.kateboldauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.
Copyright © 2023 by Kate Bold. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Joeahead, used under license from Shutterstock.com.
BOOKS BY KATE BOLD
ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER
THE KILLING GAME (Book #1)
THE KILLING TIDE (Book #2)
THE KILLING HOUR (Book #3)
THE KILLING POINT (Book #4)
THE KILLING FOG (Book #5)
THE KILLING PLACE (Book #6)
ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER
LET ME GO (Book #1)
LET ME OUT (Book #2)
LET ME LIVE (Book #3)
LET ME BREATHE (Book #4)
LET ME FORGET (Book #5)
LET ME ESCAPE (Book #6)
CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER
NOT ME (Book #1)
NOT NOW (Book #2)
NOT WELL (Book #3)
NOT HER (Book #4)
NOT NORMAL (Book #5)
NOT AGAIN (Book #6)
NOT SAFE (Book #7)
NOT TODAY (Book #8)
HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER
NOWHERE SAFE (Book #1)
NOWHERE LEFT (Book #2)
NOWHERE TO RUN (Book #3)
NOWHERE LIKE THIS (Book #4)
NOWHERE GIRL (Book #5)
NOWHERE TO HIDE (Book #6)
NOWHERE CERTAIN (Book #7)
KAYLIE BROOKS PYSCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER
LAST BREATH (Book #1)
LAST CHANCE (Book #2)
LAST WISH (Book #3)
LAST SHOT (Book #4)
LAST MISTAKE (Book #5)
EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER
IN HIS BLOOD (Book #1)
IN HIS SIGHTS (Book #2)
IN HIS REACH (Book #3)
IN HIS MIND (Book #4)
IN HIS WAY (Book #5)
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Through the fog, the white eyes of a truck’s headlights suddenly blinked to life. Maya Ferndale slowed her jog and veered to the shoulder. They were off the grid of county-maintained roads way out there in the pastoral countryside, at least forty-five minutes from the nearest hospital. This was no place for accidents.
As she continued up the side of the road, she could see the truck more clearly, recognizing it as one of her neighbor’s. There were only a dozen houses in the boondock neighborhood of Twin Lakes, with about half a mile between driveways.
Despite the distance between their homes, the residents of Twin Lakes were close, polite, and neighborly. Everybody respected each other's space out here, Maya reflected, and yet they were more tightly knit than people who lived all pressed together in apartments and townhouses. She waved to Mr. Cianni as he pulled his truck to a stop in front of the community PO box.
"Buongiorno, Miss Ferndale," he called out as she jogged past, " Have a good run!"
The grey fog hung close to the ground, billowing out around the form of Maya Ferndale, and creating a wake of curling mist behind her as she ran. Maya panted in a steady rhythm, allowing her mind to shut off blissfully as her body repeated the steady motion. The road stretched out before her into seeming infinity. Quiet and unpaved, the hard-packed dirt crunched like home under her feet. It wasn’t the same countryside she’d grown up in, but jogging through it carried her home just the same.
Maya turned off the main road after another mile and a half, following a narrow footpath through the vacant field. Before the land was parceled out into rural domestic plots, it had been rolling acres of fruit orchards. Many of the old trees still stood in the residents’ yards and the common land between the lakes. Seeing the forgotten lines of the old orchards filled Maya with the deep sense of order and serenity that she'd sought and never found in city life.
The footpath carried Maya, in her endorphin-fueled state of euphoria, deep into the hilly common land. She jogged between the small lakes and away from the horseshoe of homes and towards the two-lane highway that was their nearest official road. Through the shifting shrouds of fog, she picked out the naked, skeletal fingers of an oak grove. The footpath, as she well knew, would take her right to it. When she got there, she would do a few pushups under the shelter of the grove, then turn around and jog home. This daily routine kept Maya trim and healthy, an important concern when a woman was in her fourth decade. Exercise had always been a hassle in the anxious, overcrowded city gyms. Now that she'd finally moved back out to the wide-open spaces of the country, keeping active seemed to happen as naturally as making breakfast.
As she neared the oak grove, Maya's keen eyes picked up a figure coming towards her. She slowed her pace instinctually, potting her hand on the runner's fanny pack clipped around her waist. She always carried pepper spray when she jogged alone. It was another city habit but one she'd carried over into her new life. Caution had its place, even among such scenic serenity.
The figure lurched nearer, and now Maya could see that he was a man. His gait was unsteady as if he were lost, not drunk.
"Excuse me!" the man called out through the fog. There was nobody else he could have been talking to, nobody around for at least a mile. Straining her eyes to see through the fog, Maya finally made out the details of his features. He wasn't one of her neighbors from Twin Lakes, although she thought there was something distantly familiar about his face. Maybe somebody's visiting family member she'd only seen in passing? She couldn't place it, but the familiarity lingered in her mind. Her fingers hesitated on the zipper of her fanny pack.
"Hey!" the man called again, stumbling towards her. "Hey, can you help me?"
"Are you alright, sir?" Maya asked warily. She could see he was clutching something—a somewhat dirty, crumpled piece of paper.
"Have you seen this boy?" the man blurted his question and thrusted the paper at Maya as soon as he was near enough. Maya studied the young man's face. He does look familiar, she thought, but from where? With a hesitant hand, she took the paper and looked at it. Across the top of the page, printed in bold, red letters, were the words “Have You Seen Him?” Beneath this question was a grainy photograph of a child.
"Please," the young man's voice was broken with emotion, "please, tell me you've seen this boy."
Maya gave the man another look. His face was as distraught as his voice sounded, smeared with dirt, and streaked by tears. He was pitiful in the extreme. Maya's old social worker instinct welled up from within, even though the stress of that job had been what prompted her to move out to the desolate, rural neighborhood. She wanted to help the stranger. Was it because he looked so vaguely familiar, like a face from a dream or a past life? She looked down at the paper again, studying it more carefully.
The flyer was dirty and rumpled, much like the man who’d been carrying it, stained with watermarks, and lined with creases. The large, printed photo depicted a boy of about ten years old sitting at a plain table with a very sour expression on his face. There was a Christmas present on the table in front of the boy, but he glared at the camera with pain and loathing in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Maya began, but then she brough t the paper closer to her face. It was hard to be certain of the boy’s features since the paper was so damaged and the photograph itself wasn’t very high quality, but Maya suddenly thought the boy’s face looked familiar as well. Like the man standing in front of her, she couldn’t quite place it, but there was a definite note of recognition ringing like a distant bell in her mind. Who was this boy, and who was this man looking for him?
“Well?” the man asked. “Have you seen him?” The tone of his voice had changed. He didn’t sound as distraught. When Maya looked up, she saw that he was studying her with an intensely focused gaze. It made her heart skip a beat, although she wasn’t sure why.
“I …” Maya stammered, looking at the boy on the flyer again, “I’m sorry, I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve seen him. Certainly not recently, and not around here.”
“You’re wrong,” the man said, his voice dropping to an animal growl.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you really not recognize this boy, Maya?” the man asked as he took a step closer. Maya stood her ground.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I haven’t seen him. Who are you, and why are you looking for this boy?” Maya gave the man another uneasy look-over. “Are you his father?” The ex-social worker’s instincts made her concerned for the child’s safety before her own. This man was clearly distraught, but her mind remained focused on the missing child.
“He has no father,” the man said. “He’s an orphan.”
“And he ran away?” she asked.
“Look at his face,” the man said, not answering her question, “and tell me you don’t know this boy.”
There was something in the desperate earnestness in the man’s voice that made Maya comply with his instructions. She studied the paper, holding it close to her face. She didn’t have her reading glasses with her, but her eyes were only just starting to go. Did she recognize that little boy’s bitter expression? The familiarity was eerie. She did know him—from a long, long time ago. Who was he?
“You don’t know him?” the man asked in a soft voice, almost a hiss. Maya screwed up her eyes with concentration. There was a connection nearly being made in her brain. It was right there. Who was that boy?
“You don’t remember me, do you?” the man said in the same venomous whisper.
“You?” Maya gasped and looked up to find herself staring down the stubby barrel of a revolver. She froze, her blood turning to ice, her mind utterly paralyzed. Her mouth hung open.
“Me,” he said and pulled the trigger.
A single shot rang out through the desolate countryside, spooking a murder of crows out from the grove of oaks. They were gone in a cawing whirlwind of black before the last echoes faded from the hills.
CHAPTER ONE
Eve Hope froze mid-high kick in her living room as the doorbell sounded. With her foot still hoisted aloft, her eyes found the clockface mounted on the wall. She frowned. It was only half past six. Visitors at this hour usually meant trouble.
Eve lowered her foot to the ground, annoyed that her Krav Maga workout had been interrupted, whipped the groovy purple sweatband off her head, and tossed it into her bedroom before answering the summons. She put her eye to the peephole, expecting to see either her partner or her boss standing in the hallway.
To her surprise, Eve saw her brother, Tyler, his face warped by the fisheye lens of the peephole. He glanced around the hallway, then rang the doorbell again. Eve unlocked the door and opened it.
“Tyler,” she said, “what are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?” he asked, glancing nervously over his shoulder.
“Of course,” Eve said, standing back to allow her brother to hurry into her apartment. He looked pale and tired, Eve thought as she closed the door and followed him into her living room. “Tyler, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Nothing’s happened yet.” He sat down on the sofa but stood up again a moment later and began pacing. He was clearly upset. Eve watched him for a moment, unsure of what to do. She hadn’t been close with her brother for over a decade. After her father was arrested, her whole family ran away from each other in one way or another. Her brother moved to the west coast, hoping to start a life away from the grim notoriety of being the son of the Swallowtail Killer. It wasn’t until she was injured in her last case that her brother resurfaced in her life, but that was months ago. He’d moved back to California, or so Eve had thought. Now he was tearing up the carpet of her living room like a nervous colt.
“Tyler,” Eve said, putting herself in her brother’s path and making eye contact, “calm down and talk to me.”
Tyler took a few deep breaths, collecting himself. “I got another letter,” he said.
“From Lily?” Eve asked. He sucked in his cheeks and didn’t answer right away.
When her brother resurfaced a few months ago, he’d shown her a mysterious letter he thought might be from their missing sister. Eve had tried to investigate the source of the letter, but her initial searches had yielded nothing. If there was a second letter, that meant fresh evidence. But why, then, was her brother so nervous?
“I don’t know,” he said, pulling an envelope out of his coat pocket. “I thought it was from Lily at first, or at least from the same sender. It’s like the other one, same kind of unmarked envelope, same typewritten font.”
Eve said nothing, waiting for her brother to explain his obvious hesitation. He looked solemnly at the letter in his hands.
“It’s different, though. Darker.” Tyler said. “It’s not like the other one in that regard.”
“What do you mean?” Eve asked. Something about the intonation of her brother’s voice made a chill pass down her spine.
“The first letter was sympathetic and sorry, remember?” Tyler said, thumbing the unsealed flap of the envelope.
“Right,” Eve said. “It recalled memories from your childhood, suggesting that the writer was around during that time. It talked about Dad, which is another point towards Lily being the sender. Remember, though, the whole world knows the intimate details of our family life, thanks to the public spectacle of the Swallowtail Killer trial. We can’t necessarily rule out the possibility that the first letter was written by a deranged sycophant.”
“Yeah, well, this second letter sort of makes me hope so,” Tyler said, opening the envelope at last and drawing the letter out. He unfolded it and read the typed page to himself, then shuddered violently and handed the letter over to Eve. She took it curiously. The typeset even appeared to be the same as the first letter, as if the writer were using the same machine. An expert analyst at the FBI headquarters could tell her for sure, though. She started reading the letter.
Hello again Tyler,
It’s been so long since we’ve spoken, and I can only remember your face as a youth. Can you recall mine?
Of course, your face will be carved and scarred by the knives of time, like mine. We might pass each other on the street as complete strangers. How funny would that be? Ha ha ha.
“There’s more,” Tyler said, interrupting Eve’s reading. “This came in the envelope too.”
Eve looked up from the letter. She’d been disturbed by the way the author had written out the laughter. Ha ha ha. Weird. She refocused her attention on the new item her brother was holding out to her.
It was a photograph, Eve realized as she took it from her brother’s hand. An old photograph, the photo stock creased and softened by repeated folding. She stared at it in disbelief.
“This is us,” she said at last, looking up at her brother’s face, seeing her own fear and uncertainty reflected in his expression. “All of us,” she said, returning her eyes to the picture.
It was a Hope family photo from long ago. Eve’s mother, Terra, stood on the far-left side of the shot, and her father, Howard, smiled on the right. Between them, lined up according to age, stood Tyler, Lily, Eve, and Melody. Eve remembered posing for the photo on the family road trip when she was ten years old. It had been framed once and had sat on the upright piano in the Hopes’ living room for years. Why was it resurfacing now?
