Triumph of the mountain.., p.1
Illusion of Safety: A Romance Suspense Novel (Disillusioned Book 1), page 1
ILLUSION OF SAFETY
A ROMANTIC SUSPENSE NOVEL
DISILLUSIONED BOOK 1
K INGRAHAM
Copyright © 2025 by K. Ingraham
All rights reserved.
Cover by: Pretty Indie Book Cover Design
Editing and proofreading by: Lily Edgerton
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed within are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is coincidental.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trade names, service marks, trademarks, and registered trademarks of their respective owners.
ISBN (ebook): 979-8-9995757-0-8
ISBN (paperback): 979-8-9995757-1-5
www.kingrahamauthor.com
For those who learned that family means more than sharing blood—it's about the people who choose to walk through life with you, loving and accepting every part of who you are.
Never settle for less.
CONTENTS
A Note From the Author
Content Warnings
Prologue
1. Maverick
2. Maverick
3. Maverick
4. Maverick
5. Maverick
6. Clara
7. Clara
8. Maverick
9. Clara
10. Clara
11. Maverick
12. Him
13. Clara
14. Clara
15. Him
16. Maverick
17. Clara
18. Maverick
19. Him
20. Clara
21. Maverick
22. Him
23. Clara
24. Maverick
25. Clara
26. Clara
27. Him
28. Him
29. Maverick
30. Clara
31. Maverick
32. Clara
33. Him
34. Maverick
35. Clara
36. Maverick
The Letter
37. Maverick
38. Maverick
39. Clara
40. Him
41. Clara
42. Maverick
43. Clara
44. Him
45. Maverick
46. Him
47. Maverick
48. Clara
49. Maverick
50. Maverick
51. Clara
52. Clara
53. Clara
54. Clara
55. Maverick
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Playlist
About the Author
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Everyone handles grief differently.
In Illusion of Safety, Clara is estranged from her family due to differing religious beliefs. When you have to cut someone out of your life—no matter the reason—the pain is real, and you handle that pain in whatever way gets you through the day. The way Clara deals with this particular grief is based upon my own experiences and may look very different from yours.
Similarly, everyone handles trauma differently. Two people can endure the same exact trauma, but they will never address or handle the trauma in the same way. Clara experiences significant trauma within these pages, and she handles it the best way she sees fit. It may look completely different from what you'd expect or what you've experienced. And that's okay.
Regarding cultural and investigative aspects of IOS:
Parts of my Filipino culture are weaved into this book. Some of that includes the way linking verbs are sometimes left out in Filipino English (e.g., "You need to eat" is "You eat!" and "Why did you do that?" is "Why you do that?"). If you notice that during particular scenes, know that it was intentional.
There’s a heavy focus on the criminal investigation in this book. I’m not an FBI agent, nor do I have a background in law enforcement or forensics, but I’ve done my best to research aspects of the investigation because I wanted to be as realistic as possible. At the end of the day, this is a work of fiction—liberties have been taken, however intentional or unintentional. If you happen to have background knowledge in this area and notice something completely off the rails, you are welcome to let me know (truly–that’s how I learn!) or simply pretend I’ve taken fictional liberties.
Happy reading!
xoxo, K. Ingraham
CONTENT WARNINGS
If you're the type of reader who prefers to "go in blind," feel free to skip this page!
Your mental health takes precedence over everything. If you have any questions at all, would like more information about a specific trigger, or feel that I missed something, please reach out to me at:
author@kingrahamauthor.com
Illusion of Safety is a romantic suspense novel that contains dark and mature themes meant for those who are 18+. While it is not a dark romance, Illusion of Safety deals with heavy topics that may be triggering for some readers.
This book contains explicit language and explicit sexual content. Additional content and trigger warnings include: Parental loss (past, not depicted), graphic physical violence, sexual assault (fades to black, not on page); PTSD, panic attacks (on page), familial estrangement due to religious beliefs, references to childhood neglect, abduction, stalking
PROLOGUE
My head throbs.
It feels like a heroic feat just to open my eyes. I can’t see. There’s no light; no sliver of brightness to penetrate the black depths of my surroundings.
My chest feels heavy. There doesn’t seem to be enough air, and I can feel the burn in my lungs with every inhale. Why is it so hard to breathe?
Where am I? Why can’t I remember anything before right now?
Darkness overloads my senses; the taste and smell of loam envelop me. It’s so strong, I have to fight back a gag. I can feel my heart racing against an invisible force, beating at what feels to be hundreds of miles per minute. I need to fight the panic long enough to think straight, but it’s nearly impossible.
I take a small breath to steady myself and make a concerted effort to take stock of my body. Maybe I can figure out where I am.
Restraints.
Coarse, thick rope cuts into my wrists. The skin beneath the rough fibers feels raw. I attempt to break free from the bindings, pulling my wrists apart, but it only hurts more. Nothing I do loosens the rope—no matter how I maneuver my fingers and hands, it won’t budge.
Abandoning thoughts of breaking free, I wiggle my legs. They’re untied. I kick out, my feet colliding with something hard above me. Next to me. Beneath me.
Wood. The sound of my bare feet hitting the planks is unmistakable.
It’s everywhere.
I’m trapped.
Heart quickening, I close my hands into a fist and pound whatever solid surface I can reach. The sound ricochets in the small space, causing me to wince. Dirt drifts down, settling on my face and making me cough, forcibly expelling what little breath I have left.
I still.
No, no, no.
This can’t be happening.
How long have I been down here? How much time do I have left?
Memories flash. A cloth on my face. The distinct, sweet smell of chloroform. Rough hands bruising my arms. A sharp pinprick in my neck. Then, nothingness.
Oh, god. I can’t breathe.
I know I should save my breath, but the panic doesn’t abate; it only heightens to a fever pitch until I swear my heart will give out.
I just need someone to hear me.
So I scream.
Someone help me.
Please.
CHAPTER 1
MAVERICK
THE WALL
AUGUST 27TH, MINNEAPOLIS, MN
Six.
The number of photos pinned to the evidence board spanning an entire wall in my office.
Four.
The number of state lines our unsub has crossed to find his victims. He lures them into a false sense of safety, then holds them captive for weeks at a time only to bury them alive. Sadistic bastard.
Three.
The number of commonalities between the women. Living in a state with no family nearby, working in entry-level hospitality positions, and, of course, their strikingly similar appearances—dark hair, dark eyes, relatively small stature, and each objectively beautiful.
Zero.
The number of leads we have.
Leaning back against the corner of my desk, I scrub a hand down my face and stare blankly at the map. Red pins mark the location where each victim was found; white string connects them together, creating a spider web that taunts me.
Exhaustion and frustration wear me down. I don’t remember the last time I slept more than a handful of hours, but there is no time. I need every waking moment to catch this son of a bitch.
The case was assigned to the FBI office in Minneapolis after the third victim—a 32-year-old single woman from Poplar Grove, Illinois—was found buried in the same manner as two others in St. Paul and Minnetonka. So far, the known locations appear to be anywhere from 60
To say narrowing down where he’ll strike next has been a challenge would be a severe fucking understatement. I have feelers out in every damn police department in Minnesota and its surrounding states, but it’s been five weeks since our unsub has been active.
He’s been too quiet.
That’s never a good sign, and we’re running out of time. I can feel it.
Any day now, he could take his next victim, leaving me with one more face to haunt me in my sleep.
It’s why I don’t sleep.
As the Supervisory Special Agent for the FBI Minneapolis field office, the weight of catching this serial killer and giving some semblance of peace to the families is heavy. It’s a mantle I’m not sure I want to bear much longer. I feel like a failure each time we pin something new to the evidence board.
For as long as the victims’ families exist without closure, I’m letting them down. Just like I let her down.
Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I push off my desk and stand in front of the photo of our last known victim.
“What else do we know about Sarah Rodriguez?” I aim the question at my team, the five agents seated around the conference table in the middle of my office.
“She was single, no current relationships of note. Her parents live in Sacramento, California and have been notified. They’re on their way to Chelsea and should be there within the next few days.” Arlo Grant, the rookie computer analyst, speaks as he sifts through the information he’s compiled.
Sarah Rodriguez was abducted roughly two months ago and found buried just off a rural route in Chelsea, Iowa. She was reported missing by her boss when she didn’t show up for her Sunday morning shift at Beans & Brew.
“Sarah was buried alive on a Friday.” Spencer Anderson turns on the projector and deftly connects his laptop to the device, broadcasting a calendar and timeline of the victims so far. Spencer, a former Marine and the longest standing special agent on the team, has a knack for patterns. I can always count on him to find one, even when one may not exist. If there’s a pattern to be found, Spencer will find it.
“Is this a pattern I’m sensing, Spencer?” Riley Morgan shoots a smirk his way, already anticipating his presentation.
Spencer narrows his eyes in jest at Riley before turning his attention back to the screen. The timeline marks the days and times each victim was reported missing and later found. “So far, local precincts and county medical examiners estimate that all six victims were deceased for approximately three weeks before discovery. Coupled with the missing person’s reports and dates they were last seen, our victims have all been abducted over the weekend. Likely on a Friday or Saturday.”
“So, definitely a pattern.”
Riley’s saved from Spencer’s comeback by the trill ringtone coming from the inside of my suit pocket. Lucky woman. She and Spencer love trading digs, and I could’ve used their entertainment to lighten my mood.
I hear Evie Baker and Jesse Hernandez, our resident forensic specialists, whisper to Riley—something about making sure Spencer doesn’t make her coffee—as I answer my phone.
“Rhodes.”
“It’s Cruz.” I’m instantly on alert, my body stiffening at the sound of Detective Jonathan Cruz’s voice. Cruz has worked for the Rochester, Minnesota police department for decades, and he’s been my contact for half of that. I’d trust him with my life. He wouldn’t be calling unless he had critical information.
“Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker. I’m with the team.” I turn the speaker on and place my phone down in front of me, pushing it to the middle of the table. “What do you know?”
“I need you in Rochester. You and the team.”
“Rochester?” I parrot. It’s not often I travel to Rochester unless it can’t be helped; there’s nothing I can do there that I can’t do in Minneapolis.
“Rollins Orchard, Rhodes. We found a body. We think she was buried alive,” Cruz’s voice trails off as though there’s more to the story.
I wait a few beats, then press further. “There’s more. I can hear it in your voice, Cruz.”
Silence greets my statement, so I lean forward and tap the phone screen to make sure we’re still connected. “Cruz?”
“Yeah, there’s more.” His sigh is heavy, causing wary glances from everyone in the room. “There’s been a missing person’s report. A bartender was last seen about two weeks ago on August 16th. It was called in by her friend who’s also a waitress at the bar. The original report never made it to my desk, but I happened to be in the front office when Tamara Martin—the missing woman’s friend—came storming into the precinct. She had a picture with her.”
In my periphery, I see the projector screen flash and glance that way. Spencer’s marked the date on the calendar.
August 16th.
A Friday.
Fucking patterns.
“Don’t leave us hanging, man. What about the picture?” Jesse prods. Patience is not his strong suit, which is ironic considering he’s in forensics.
“The missing woman, Clara Santos, appears to be a dead ringer for our Jane Doe. From what I’ve seen, they could be twins for how much they look alike.”
I freeze. My hands grip the armrests of my chair so tightly that it sends pinpricks through my fingers, and I hear a creak in the plastic.
“We’re on our way.” As I say the words, the team silently packs up and heads out of my office. They know what to do.
Fucking hell.
I knew our unsub had been too quiet. But now there’ll be two more photos to pin on that fucking evidence board. That’s two more faces to haunt me when I close my eyes.
Seven.
Seven women, dead.
One missing, and the clock is ticking.
CHAPTER 2
MAVERICK
DRIVE
It takes 1 hour and 30 minutes to get from Minneapolis to Rochester.
I made it in an hour.
Rollins Orchard is a sprawling property, spanning over 175 acres and peppered with trees, pumpkin and produce patches, and numerous outbuildings. Surprisingly, the orchard is only four or so miles away from downtown and has two official entry and exit points monitored by cameras.
The location Cruz gave me led to a slightly less developed area closer to the Silver Creek Reservoir. There are no cameras here, and the only lights come from perimeter lights Jesse and Evie requested Cruz’s men set up.
Gravel crunches beneath my tires as the car rolls to a stop a safe distance away from the crime scene. Naturally, I beat the rest of my team here, and the FBI forensics van is still on the way. I step out of the vehicle and take a moment to scan the cordoned-off area from afar, letting the cool breeze calm my nerves.
The calm doesn’t last long.
Though I don’t need it, I unclip the flashlight from my belt as I walk toward the police tape. I spot Cruz standing on the edge, waiting for me.
Despite the gruesome crime scene, Cruz looks as put together as ever. It’s 10 p.m., and this guy looks as though he just got ready for the day. I know him well enough to know that his put-together appearance doesn’t match the rolling storm inside him. One of the perimeter lights draws attention to his dark brown eyes, which reflect the dread and anticipation I feel.
“What do you know?” I ask Cruz as I reach his side.
“You made it in record time, Rhodes. Break any laws on the way over?”
It’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t answer.
He glances at the ambulance on the outskirts of the scene, and I follow his gaze. Paramedics attend to an older gentleman, sitting on the edge of the open truck.
“Owner’s brother was out surveying the area this afternoon and noticed a disturbance to the crop lines over there.” He points his own flashlight to the hole in the center of the barricade. “Robert,” Cruz continues with a chin nod in the ambulance’s direction, “said the crop lines should’ve been undisturbed since this area isn’t as developed. There’s never really any foot traffic out this way, especially right now. Jane Doe must’ve not been buried deep enough, or the thunderstorms over the last few nights must’ve caused a run-off. He saw an anomaly in the soil, went over to check it out. Didn’t take long for him to notice the coffin. Called it in right away, but he’s pretty shaken up.”
