Broken promise, p.1
BROKEN PROMISE, page 1
B R O K E N P R O M I S E
(An Ivy Pane Suspense Thriller —Book 5)
L a u r a R i s e
Laura Rise
Laura Rise is author of the IVY PANE mystery series, comprising five books (and counting); of the BREE NOBLE mystery series, comprising five books (and counting); of the TORI SPARK mystery series, comprising five books (and counting); and of the RORY WOOD suspense series, comprising five books (and counting).
An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Laura loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.laurariseauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch
Copyright © 2024 by Laura Rise. 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.
BOOKS BY LAURA RISE
RORY WOOD SUSPENSE THRILLER SERIES
PRONE TO KILL (Book #1)
PRONE TO MURDER (Book #2)
PRONE TO VENGEANCE (Book #3)
PRONE TO HARM (Book #4)
PRONE TO DECEIT (Book #5)
IVY PANE SUSPENSE THRILLER SERIES
BROKEN LIFE (Book #1)
BROKEN HEART (Book #2)
BROKEN TRUST (Book #3)
BROKEN PATH (Book #4)
BROKEN PROMISE (Book #5)
BREE NOBLE SUSPENSE THRILLER SERIES
EMPTY SOUL (Book #1)
EMPTY HOUSE (Book #2)
EMPTY HEART (Book #3)
EMPTY ROAD (Book #4)
EMPTY EYES (Book #5)
TORI SPARK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER SERIES
AMIDST THE DARKNESS (Book #1)
AMIDST THE RUINS (Book #2)
AMIDST THE ASHES (Book #3)
AMIDST THE SHADOWS (Book #4)
AMIDST THE LIES (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
Claire Roberts's hand trembled slightly as she untied the knot of her apron, the white fabric heavy with the day's toil. Her movements were automatic, honed by countless nights ending in this same ritual. The back door of The White Rabbit groaned on its hinges as she slipped out into the alley, the hum of the kitchen fading into a distant buzz behind her.
The cool night air kissed the sweat on her brow, and Claire leaned against the rough bricks, her eyes closing for a moment as she exhaled deeply. It had been an exhausting day, the kind that tested her resolve, her culinary skills pushed to their limits by the relentless pace and the never-ending demands. Even now, the scents of simmering stocks and searing meats clung to her, reminders of the controlled chaos she navigated with deft hands.
As Claire straightened up, her dark eyes flickered to the shadows between the dumpsters, a prickle of unease crawling up her spine. She shrugged it off, attributing the sensation to the adrenaline that still pumped through her veins after a hectic service. With each step toward her car, parked a few streets over, the feeling gnawed at her, the sense of being watched as tangible as the chef's knife she wielded with such precision.
The familiar weight of the key fob in her palm anchored her back to reality. Once inside her modest sedan, the sensation dissipated like steam from a hot pan. She slumped back into the seat, letting the headrest cradle her weary head.
As the engine hummed to life, the rearview mirror reflected a face marked by the day's battles — petite features set in determination, framed by short black hair that was more utilitarian than stylish. Claire's thoughts drifted from the unsettling feeling in the alley to the drama that had unfolded in the kitchen. Tempers had flared, words sharper than the knives in their blocks exchanged. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in the kitchen of the White Rabbit, one of Brookside’s nicest restaurants.
Driving through the lamplit streets, the city's pulse seemed to slow, syncing with her own as she left the world of the White Rabbit behind. Yet in the stillness that settled within her car's cabin, the echoes of the day resonated, a symphony of clattering pans and confrontational exchanges.
Claire's heels clicked against the concrete as she approached her front porch, the rhythm of her steps a comforting solace after the day's chaos. The autumnal evening air nipped at her cheeks, urging her to hasten inside. She fished for the keys in her purse, the familiar jangle momentarily soothing. But there, beneath the muted glow of the porch light, an incongruous object lay on her welcome mat — an envelope, stark and foreboding against the cheerful "Home Sweet Home" message.
The skin at the back of her neck prickled as she stooped to retrieve it. It was unmarked, save for her name scrawled across the front in jagged handwriting. Claire's fingers trembled as they tore open the seal, her heart pounding a staccato rhythm that drowned out the whispering wind. The note within was curt, its message slicing through the remnants of her workday like a cleaver through bone:
You can't hide from this any longer.
The words clung to her mind with icy tendrils, squeezing until the scenes of sauté pans and spatula squabbles seemed distant and irrelevant. Her breath formed clouds in the crisp air as she exhaled, trying to steady her nerves. She drew her coat tighter, wrapping herself in its familiar embrace as if it could shield her from unseen threats.
With a swallow hard enough to hurt, Claire stepped over the threshold of her home. The door creaked closed behind her, the sound usually so reassuring now a harbinger of isolation. And then it hit her — the scent.
It was unmistakable, a ghostly echo from her past: the acrid tang of gas. Her heart lurched, skipping beats as it catapulted her back in time to another place, another terror. The kitchen at the White Rabbit, once her sanctuary, had transformed into a hellish inferno before her eyes. The memory surged, unbidden — a tidal wave of heat, flame, and the searing pain that had etched itself into her flesh.
Claire stood motionless in the foyer, her gaze locked onto the shadows that danced along the walls, cast by the flickering streetlamp outside. They reminded her of the way firelight had once capered over appliance and tile, mocking her agony. She could still feel the blistering caress of the flames, the raw panic that clawed at her throat when she realized she might not escape.
No one had died that day, but something within Claire had been irrevocably lost amidst the smoke and ruin. She bore the scars, both visible and invisible, testament to the fragility of life and the cruel randomness of fate. Her survival had granted her a second chance — yet the PTSD that shackled her soul whispered that safety was an illusion, always poised to shatter.
A sob caught in her chest as the sensation of smothering heat seemed to envelop her anew. Her hands fluttered to her face, tracing the red scar tissue where soft skin had once been. Each breath was a battle, each moment an eternity as she fought to anchor herself in the now — to remember that the danger had passed, that she was alone, alive, and whole.
Claire's heart hammered in her chest, a frenzied metronome that echoed the creaking protest of the wooden stairs. The sound cleaved through the silence — an auditory specter that shouldn't exist in the stillness of her empty home. In the space between breaths, dread unfurled like a dark bloom in her gut.
"Who's there?" Her voice, a hoarse whisper, went unanswered.
Panic clawed its way up her throat as the scent of gas hung heavy in the air, a ghostly reminder of past terror. Instinctively, her fingers fumbled for her phone, the device slick with the clammy sheen of her palm. She jabbed at the screen.
Another creak, louder, closer — a harbinger of an unseen presence lurking just out of sight. The phone clattered to the floor as Claire’s hands went numb with fear, the call to salvation severed as abruptly as it had begun. Her breath hitched, each inhalation a struggle against the invisible hand of fear tightening around her neck. Every rational thought in her racing mind was trampled by the primal urge to survive.
She bolted towards the kitchen, the sanctuary of sharp edges and familiar tools. Her chef's instincts kicked in, reaching for a weapon with the same precision she employed in selecting the perfect knife to filet a fish or julienne v
She squared her shoulders, trying to still the tremor in her bones. Every shadow seemed to pulse with potential threat, every whisper of movement a promise of danger. She clutched the knife like a talisman, a steel extension of her will to fight, to cling to the life she'd nearly lost once before. With each shallow breath, she steadied herself, preparing to face whatever, or whoever, waited beyond the dim outline of the stairwell.
"Come out!" she called, her voice slicing through the eerie quiet, a challenge flung into the darkness. Silence answered, taunting her resolve.
Claire's pulse hammered in her ears as she took the stairs two at a time, each step echoing ominously in the hush of her home. The air felt thick, heavy with dread, and every fiber of her being screamed that she was not alone. Her fingers gripped the knife handle until it felt like an extension of her own trembling flesh and bone.
The wooden steps groaned underfoot, betraying years of wear and the sudden weight of fear pressing down upon them. Claire's breath came in short, ragged bursts, misting in the cold air. She strained her senses, seeking the comfort of silence, but instead, another creak — louder, closer — shattered the fragile calm.
She spun on her heel, her heart a wild thing within her chest, threatening to burst. Standing at the foot of the stairs was a male figure, a shadow among shadows, his presence an ominous blot against the lesser darkness of the hallway. His face remained hidden, swallowed by the obscurity, leaving only the vague outline of his form visible in the scant light.
Claire's mind reeled, icy tendrils of terror clawing their way up her spine. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe; her entire world narrowed to the space between her and the advancing stranger. Time stretched thin, a taut wire ready to snap.
"Who are you?" Her voice was a whisper, a leaf in a storm, yet it carried the weight of her burgeoning panic. She raised the knife, a feeble barrier against the unknown.
The figure didn't answer. Instead, he moved with a purposeful ease that belied the danger, each step a silent testament to his intent. Claire tried to steady her shaking limbs, to ready herself for what was to come, but her body betrayed her, rooted to the spot by a primal terror she couldn't control.
Then, with the suddenness of a lightning strike, he lunged. The distance between them vanished as he surged forward, a specter born from the depths of her nightmares. The knife was a useless token against the solid reality of his approach, and Claire's resolve faltered in the face of her fear.
The scent of latex filled her nostrils, almost overpowering the stench of the gas that permeated her home. The stranger’s gloved hand muffled Claire's frantic breaths as he clamped his palm over her mouth and nose, sealing off her air with an iron-like firmness. Her lungs screamed for oxygen, her limbs flailed against his unyielding grip. She could feel the power in his hands, the controlled malice.
Her eyes flew wide open, darting up to the shadowed face above her. In the dim light, a flicker of recognition ignited, a spark that quickly combusted into terror. The contours of his features, even partly obscured, reached into the depths of her memory.
Hysteria bubbled up, a bitter taste in her throat. Her heart thundered, a drumbeat of despair, each pulse echoing the loss of hope, the loss of everything she had fought so hard to rebuild after the explosion. She thrashed beneath the weight of his body, nails scraping against leather, desperate for any purchase, any leverage that might grant her a gulp of precious air.
She tried to scream, a guttural sound stifled before it could bloom into existence. Her vision tunneled, the edges growing fuzzy and dark. The last thing she saw was his face, a mask of cold resolve, and then her world collapsed into nothingness — every fear, every dream, every moment reduced to the encroaching void.
CHAPTER ONE
Ivy Pane’s gaze was steel as she squared off against the paper enemy downrange, her left hand steady as it cradled the cool weight of her sidearm. The familiar scent of gunpowder and oil hung in the air. With each round Ivy loaded into the magazine, she could almost hear Agent Conroy's voice echoing the fundamentals: stance, grip, breath control, sight alignment, trigger squeeze.
Yesterday’s disciplinary board meeting still buzzed in her mind like a distant hum. Another day, another round of questioning about the risks she had taken in the field, her decisions during her latest murder case. It had been dangerous, no question about it, but the outcome had been invaluable; she’d gotten her man. Yet, all the board could focus on were the split-second decisions she’d made. The choice to circumvent the department’s red tape. The fact that she’d gone after Emmett Barnes, whom the press had dubbed the Shenandoah Killer, without backup.
They didn’t understand. In the field, waiting for permission could mean losing the lead. It could mean losing the case entirely. The department could second-guess her all they wanted; at the end of the day, she had gotten results. While she was being grilled about protocol, her suspect was behind bars, his confession secured.
"Focus," she muttered to herself, the word a talisman against the frustration gnawing at her edges. Her right arm hung uselessly by her side, a constant reminder of the price paid in a near-fatal encounter that had ripped away her career, her identity, and nearly her life. But Ivy wasn't one to wallow in self-pity; she had adapted, evolved. So here she was, forcing her dominant hand to comply with her will to remain idle while her left hand strived to compensate.
The safety clicked off with an almost imperceptible sound, drowned out by the cacophony of shots fired by others around her. Ivy exhaled slowly, aligning the sights with the center mass of the target fifteen meters away. Her finger curled around the trigger, the tension building before the release.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Six shots tore through the silence of her focus, each report a thunderous affirmation of her relentless spirit. Ivy's jaw set tighter with every recoil absorbed by her off hand. As the last casing clattered to the ground, she allowed herself to momentarily close her eyes, gathering her thoughts like scattered shell casings.
When she opened them again, Ivy frowned slightly at the grouping of holes punched neatly through the target's torso. They were all solidly center mass - a testament to the skills that hadn't abandoned her despite her injury. But Ivy knew the truth; the tight cluster that would have graced the target had she been using her right hand was now a wider spread, each stray millimeter a silent accusation of her body's betrayal.
She reeled in the target, examining the six wounds she’d inflicted upon the faceless adversary. There was a time when Ivy's precision was unrivaled, a time when her right hand was the instrument of justice, feared by those who lurked in society's shadows. Now, she was left chasing the ghost of her former prowess.
Not good enough. The loss of her unwavering accuracy was just another entry in the ledger of things the accident had taken from her. Still, she was not one to be undone by despair. With every bullet fired, every target hit, she clawed back a piece of herself from the jaws of desperation.
The unexpected touch on her shoulder jolted Ivy more than the recoil of her firearm. She spun around, weapon lowered to the floor, her eyes locking onto the familiar face of Sean O'Rourke. His grin was both an apology and a challenge.
"Jesus, Sean! Don't sneak up on me like that," she chided, the edge in her voice softened by years of camaraderie.
"Sorry, couldn't resist. I saw the slide lock back. You're empty," he replied with a nonchalance that only someone who had grown up with Ivy could muster.
"Doesn't mean my finger's off the trigger, or that I don't have another mag," she retorted, her words sharp as the crack of gunfire in the range. They both knew it was true; Ivy was never truly disarmed. "Gun safety 101, remember? Always assume a gun is loaded."
She unloaded the spent magazine and setting it aside with a metallic clink. The sound echoed, mingling with the sound of gunfire from other shooters.
