Final vow, p.1
Final Vow, page 1
CONTENTS
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Books by Paige Black
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
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In the misty town of Nightfall, rookie officer Eden Mercer races against time to solve a decades-old mystery and save a missing woman.
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BOOKS BY PAIGE BLACK
Eden Mercer K-9 Mystery Thrillers
In the fog-shrouded town of Nightfall, Oregon, Officer Eden Mercer confronts dark secrets and hidden dangers. As she battles her cult past and tackles chilling cases, Eden is determined to uncover the sinister truths lurking beneath the surface.
Shattered Silence
Deadly Lessons
Lethal Lines
Treacherous Depths
Twisted Pursuit
Terminal Treatment
Unsafe Haven
Fatal Bond
Corrupt Code
Final Vow
Avery Carver FBI Mystery Thrillers
FBI Agent Avery Carver hunts predators for a living. What she doesn't know is that one has been hunting her back.
Dead by Morning
PROLOGUE
The ocean breeze carries the scent of salt and roses across the lawn, tugging at the loose tendrils of hair that have already escaped Kim’s careful updo. She shields her eyes against the bright July sun and watches the florist wrestle with a garland of hydrangeas, trying to secure it to the wedding arch before another gust sends it flying.
Perfect day. Absolutely perfect. It’s what Sam deserves.
She takes a sip of her mimosa—her second, or maybe third—and the champagne bubbles tickle the back of her throat. Across the lawn, the cliff drops away to the Pacific, waves crashing against the rocks far below. Rows of white folding chairs line the manicured grass, the ceremony spot overlooking the sea. It’s framed by that arch the florist is still fussing with and the twisted branches of an ancient Sitka spruce.
Sam is going to lose her mind when she sees this. If she hasn’t already.
Kim glances back toward the mansion, at the second-story windows on the left side that belong to the bridal suite. Sheer white drapes cover the windows. No sign of the blushing bride peeking out at the setup for her ceremony.
“…and then he had the audacity to say the eggplant emoji was an accident,” Courtney says, and the other bridesmaids burst into laughter.
Kim tunes back into the conversation for long enough to smile along, but her attention is pulled again to the mansion behind them. Whitmore House. Three stories of Victorian grandeur perched on the clifftop, all bay windows and wraparound porches and that widow’s walk on the roof where she and Sam had snuck up last night to drink wine under the stars.
She casts a look at her empty wrist, then remembers she took off her watch so it wouldn’t clash with the bracelet Sam gave her. The bridesmaids’ gift. Matching for all of them, delicate gold chains with tiny pearls. Hers had a special charm, though: a gold heart engraved with “BFF.” Best friends forever. She grins. A definite upgrade to the braided ones they’d made from colorful ribbon in fifth grade and worn all summer until they literally frayed off.
She frowns as she searches the windows. How long has it been? Thirty minutes? More?
Sam had wanted some time alone to pray and gather herself before the ceremony. Kim understood. She’d squeezed her best friend’s hand and promised to keep the bridesmaids occupied and the drinks flowing. But Sam usually isn’t the type to sit still for long. Kim expected a text by now, or at least a wave from the window.
She pulls her phone from the clutch pinched under her arm and confirms. No new message from Sam. She checks the time: quarter after two.
Kim frowns. That means Sam’s been alone for almost forty minutes. That seems too long.
“Kim? You okay?” Priya, one of Sam’s college friends, asks. She’s nice enough, but Kim doesn’t know her well. None of Sam’s other bridesmaids are from childhood, and Kim feels a quiet pride in that—in being the one who’s known Sam the longest, who was there before the sorority sisters and work friends.
“Fine,” Kim says, forcing a smile. “Just keeping an eye on the time.”
“Relax.” Courtney waves her flute, sloshing champagne dangerously close to the rim. “We’ve got an hour before the ceremony.”
Kim nods, but she can’t quite settle the flutter of unease in her stomach. Sam was a little quiet this morning during hair and makeup, but who wouldn’t be? This is the biggest day of her life. It’s probably nothing. Wedding day nerves.
Still… I’d better go check on her.
“Be right back,” she says to the bridesmaids, then turns and starts across the lawn toward the big house.
One of the groomsmen crosses in front of her. He’s got his jacket off, sleeves rolled up, bow tie hanging loose around his neck. One of Benji’s college friends—Mark something? Or Matt? She’s met him twice, but the name won’t stick.
“Hey,” she says, hiking up the hem of her sage-green dress as she picks her way across the grass.
He stops, looking mildly startled to be flagged down. “Oh, hi.”
“What are you doing out here? I thought you guys were getting ready in the groom’s suite.”
The groomsman—Matt, she’s pretty sure it’s Matt—gives a little smirk. “Maryanne kicked us out. Said she wanted some quality time with her baby boy.”
Kim barely suppresses an eye roll. God, that woman. She’d been a nightmare throughout the entire engagement. “Of course she did,” Kim mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She shakes her head and hurries past him.
I hope Sam knows what she’s marrying into. Her mother-in-law is going to be a problem for the rest of her life.
The knot of worry in her gut has sharpened into something more urgent. She stumbles when her heel punctures the lawn, catches herself, and keeps going.
Kim deposits her empty mimosa flute on a passing waiter’s tray and pushes through the side door into the mansion. The air inside is cooler, tinged with the scent of white roses from the arrangements on every surface.
She passes the open doors to the ballroom, where catering staff are draping tables in white linen and setting out silver chafing dishes. Someone’s adjusting a towering centerpiece of roses and hydrangeas, and for a moment, Kim is struck by how beautiful it all is.
In the main hall, she nearly collides with the photographer. Artsy type with a shaved head and thick-framed glasses, and an expensive camera hanging from his neck. He steps back with an irritated curl of his lip.
“Sorry,” Kim says quickly. “Have you seen Sam? The bride?”
He gestures vaguely toward the bridal suite. “Haven’t seen her since the bridal party portraits.”
Then why was he just upstairs?
“Okay. Thanks.”
Kim gathers her skirt and takes the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping on the thick carpet runner. The staircase curves up to a wide landing with a tall window overlooking the yard and ocean behind it, then up again to the second floor. Her heels clack loudly on the hardwood as she strides down the hall toward the bridal suite.
She knocks.
“Sam? It’s me.”
Nothing. No footsteps, no muffled “Just a minute.”
Kim presses her ear to the wood. Only the hush of the house.
“Sam? You okay in there?”
Silence. The unease in her gut twists tighter. She tries the brass handle. It turns.
“I’m coming in, okay?”
She pushes the door open slowly, half expecting to find Sam curled up on the settee with her eyes closed, or maybe in the bathroom touching up her makeup.
The room is bright with early-afternoon sun, gauzy curtains glowing at the windows. The vanity is still cluttered with brushes and palettes, champagne sweating in an ice bucket beside a line of empty glasses—lipstick marks on the rims.
Then she spots the bed.
Is she napping? Sam’s always loved her naps. She lies on the four-poster, her white dress spread around her like wings. She’s on her back, arms splayed, perfectly still.
< br /> Her chest tightens. “Sam?”
Kim moves closer, her sharp heels sinking into the plush carpet. Sam’s not moving, just staring at the ceiling.
“Sam, what—”
She reaches the bedside and the scream tears out of her before she can stop it.
Her friend’s face is mottled purple and red, her eyes shot through with blood, the whites turned crimson. Dark bruises ring her throat, and her mouth hangs slightly open. Her skin, where it isn’t discolored, has gone disturbingly slack.
Kim grabs Sam’s shoulders and shakes her. She moves limply, her head lolling to one side. Dead. She’s dead.
Kim snaps her hands back.
“Help!”
CHAPTER 1
The porch swing creaks beneath me as I push off with my bare foot, setting Hope and me swaying in the summer warmth. Shadow, my German shepherd, lies sprawled at Rachel’s feet, his big head resting on her sandals while she scratches behind his ears. His tail thumps lazily against the worn planks.
“We should go to the beach,” my sister Hope says, tipping her head back to catch the sun. “It’s gorgeous out.”
Rachel’s face lights up. “Oh, could we?” Our youngest sister has been like this since she arrived six weeks ago—marveling at the green, the ocean, the sheer abundance of water everywhere. After fifteen years in various desert compounds, the Oregon coast probably feels like another planet. I know it did for me. I was about her age when Hope and I escaped the cult and came up here to live with our grandparents.
“It’ll be packed with tourists,” Grandma says from her wicker chair, but there’s no real complaint in her voice. She’s got her iced tea sweating in one hand, a puzzle piece in the other. We’ve been working on a thousand-piece lighthouse scene all afternoon, the box propped against the porch railing. “Then again, that does make for good people-watching.”
Hope grins. “See? Grandma’s in.”
I take a sip of my soda, the cold fizz sharp against my tongue. “I’m game. Shadow could use a run.” I glance down at my K-9, who perks up at his name, ears swiveling toward me. “But I can’t stay too long. I’ve got plans tonight.”
“Plans?” Hope draws out the word, her elbow finding my ribs. “You mean a date. With a certain detective from Astoria.”
My cheeks warm. “It’s just dinner.”
“Just dinner at that romantic Italian place on the Columbia,” Hope says to Rachel and Grandma, like she’s reporting breaking news. “The one with the view.”
Rachel grins. “The man you’re courting.” She shakes herself. “I mean dating. He is your boyfriend, correct?”
Rachel hasn’t been out of the cult for all that long, and some of the terms still trip her up. Though, honestly, navigating modern relationship terms is difficult for all of us.
“Yep. My boyfriend.” The word still feels strange in my mouth. Growing up where we did, romance wasn’t something you chose—it was something arranged for you by the elders. I was fourteen when my father announced my betrothal to an old man with six wives already. That was when Hope and I ran.
Dating Wilder is nothing like that. He’s patient and gentle. He knows my history, knows why I flinch sometimes when he reaches for my hand, even after a dozen dates, and he’s never once made me feel broken for it.
“He’s a good man,” Grandma says, and when I look over, her eyes are soft.
“He is.” Grandpa set that bar high. I wish Rachel had gotten to meet him.
Shadow suddenly lifts his head, nose twitching, and Rachel laughs as he snuffles at her bare ankle. “He tickles.”
“He likes you,” I say. And he does. Shadow’s been leaving my bedroom most nights, padding in when Rachel’s nightmares wake her. He did the same for me, back when I first got him. There’s something about his warm weight pressed against you in the dark that makes the bad dreams feel further away.
I watch my youngest sister now—this girl I’d never even met before seven months ago—and something loosens in my chest. The pink streaks Hope put in her dark hair catch the sunlight. The shoulder-length bob is such a far cry from the waist-length braid she arrived with, the one she’d worn her entire life because Father decreed that short hair on women was ungodly.
She had sat in our shared bathroom and watched the scissors flash as Hope, a talented stylist, worked. Rachel had cried, but when it was done, she couldn’t stop touching it, running her fingers through the short strands like she was meeting herself for the first time. The independence suits her.
Grandma places her puzzle piece and pushes herself up from the wicker chair, joints popping. “Well, if we’re going to the beach, I’ll make a thermos of iced coffee. Don’t know about you girls, but I could use an afternoon pick-me-up.”
Rachel opens her mouth. “Oh, I’d like to try—”
Hope and I both give her a sharp shake of the head, and she stops mid-sentence.
“We’ll grab you something from the café,” Hope whispers. “They do this amazing vanilla cold brew. You’ll love it.”
Grandma heads inside, oblivious. We love her dearly, but her coffee could strip paint.
Rachel’s learning to read the silent language that sisters speak. A small smile tugs at her mouth. “The café, then.”
I lean back into the swing, letting the motion soothe me, and try to stay here, in this moment. The warm wood beneath my bare feet. Hope’s shoulder pressed against mine. Shadow’s contented sighs. Rachel’s simple happiness.
But my mind drifts the way it has every morning when I wake and every night before I fall asleep for the last six weeks. I think of Daniel, the brother we’d helped escape alongside Rachel, only for him to be kidnapped back into the cult. What are they doing to him? Is he even—
“Eden?”
I blink. Hope is watching me, her head tilted. “You okay? You went somewhere.”
“Fine.” I force a smile.
Her expression softens. She knows exactly where my mind goes when I get quiet. She reaches over and pulls me into a hug against her side.
Rachel watches us with those big, observant eyes of hers. She doesn’t miss anything. Growing up in the compound taught her how to read a room, how to sense danger in the shift of someone’s posture. It’s a survival skill I recognize because I have it too.
“Should we get ready?” she asks, and I’m grateful for the redirect.
“Beach bags and swimsuits,” Hope announces, standing and stretching. She heads for the door.
Rachel follows, Shadow scrambling up to trot after them, his nails clicking on the porch boards.
I stay on the swing a moment longer, watching them disappear inside. The screen door bangs shut. From somewhere in the house, I hear Grandma clattering around in the kitchen, probably hunting for her ancient thermos.
It’s a sweet life, this little family we’ve cobbled together in this old Victorian with its creaky floors and drafty windows. Hope and I have been building it for fifteen years. Now Rachel is here too. Hopefully our brother will join us soon.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and my heart lifts. Probably Wilder, confirming our dinner plans. I pull it out and glance at the screen.
It’s Hanks.
I answer on the second ring. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Where are you?” My mentor’s voice is terse, all business.
“Home. Where are you?”
“On my way to get you.”
I sit up straighter, swinging both feet to the ground as I recognize the road noise in the background. “Why?”
“There’s been a murder at Whitmore House.”
The cliffside mansion hosts weddings and fancy events. I’ve driven past it a dozen times on the coast road. “The wedding venue?”
“Yep.”
“Shit.” I lurch to my feet, moving toward the door. “Who’s the victim?”
“The bride.”
The word lands like a punch. Someone murdered a woman on her wedding day.
“Hurry up, kid,” Hanks says. “I’ll be there in ten.”
“I’ll be ready.”
I hang up with the detective and push through the door. Shadow’s waiting in the hallway for me, tail wagging.
“C’mon boy.” I take the stairs two at a time, my K-9 bounding past me, and nearly collide with Hope on the landing.
“Whoa.” She steadies herself against the railing. “Where’s the fire?”
“Work.” I hurry toward my room. “I have to go in.”
