Suddenly, the ground dropped from beneath her and she fell, landing with a splash in a lake. The water folded over her, her momentum propelling her deeper. She was going to drown. She had escaped the spiders but was going to drown.
No. She wasn’t a six-year-old child anymore, sinking beneath the surface for the final time. She was a determined adult who had learned how to swim, who had spent months conquering her fear of the water.
With strong kicks and smooth strokes, she propelled herself upward. Moments later, she burst through the surface and sucked in huge gulps of air, eyes still squeezed shut.
A hand clamped around her throat.
Her eyes snapped open.
Edmund.
She sprang upright in bed with a gasp, nightgown drenched with perspiration and heart racing. Since escaping Edmund, she was no stranger to nightmares. But this one was the granddaddy of them all, preying on every one of her fears. Well, not every one. There were no snakes.
Edmund’s mistake had been falling in love with an illusion. Every night, he had come alone to the restaurant where she’d worked, and she had waited on him. The waitress persona had been sweet and compliant, taking care of his every need. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to see past the facade to the strong, determined woman beneath—a woman who had begun working at age sixteen, to help support her younger sister and give her opportunities she herself never had. Who had waitressed nights and weekends and gone to school days to improve her own lot in life.
When he realized he hadn’t gotten the woman he thought he had, he’d vowed to break her.
He almost did.
Meagan climbed from bed, grabbed her robe and headed toward the door, determined to shake off the last remnants of the dream. Having someone break into her house had left her more jittery than normal. Even though Hunter had nailed a board over the broken pane, her security had been shattered along with the glass.
Running into Anna hadn’t helped, either. Maybe it was coincidence, but when she’d described the “reporter” who had come in asking questions, she’d painted a perfect image of Lou, Edmund’s butler.
Though Lou held the title, he wasn’t a stuffy, proper Englishman walking around in a tux. He was more like a bodyguard, a tough New Yorker right out of the Bronx, with the muscles and scar to match. Whoever had created that scar had likely fared far worse than Lou had.
Meagan glanced at the clock on her way out of the room. It was only three-thirty, but her night was over, at least as far as sleep was concerned. She would be better off picking up a book.
As she reached for the light switch, her gaze fell on the window near the desk. Behind the slits in the miniblinds, a shadow passed by. She froze, arm extended. A cold knot of fear settled in her stomach. Had her intruder come back?
She dropped her hand and shut her eyes against the image that filled her mind—massive arms, a rock-hard chest, an inch-long scar marring one tanned cheek.
But Lou wouldn’t hurt her. Not that he wouldn’t be capable of it. He would just tell Edmund. Whatever Edmund had planned for her, he would want to carry out himself. And he would take pleasure in it.
She backed away from the switch, heart pounding out an erratic rhythm. Once she had retrieved her phone from the nightstand, she locked herself inside the bathroom and dialed 911. Then she sank to the edge of the tub. And for the five thousandth time in the past year, she wished she could somehow turn back the clock.
When she’d met Edmund, she hadn’t been looking. She’d been focused on work and school and keeping her head above water. But Edmund had poured on the charm and swept her off her feet. He was so confident and powerful. Calm and in control of his emotions. The complete opposite of her abusive father.
Now she knew better. What she had seen as calm control was actually coldness at its extreme. A heart that had stopped feeling years ago.
A siren sounded in the distance, grew louder, then fell silent. Several more minutes passed before she found the nerve to step from the bathroom. When she swung open the front door, a police cruiser sat in her driveway. To her left, the beam of a flashlight shone from around the side of the house, and to her right, truck headlights moved toward her.
Moments later, Bobby appeared from the side of the house, flashlight in hand, and the truck eased to a stop. Hunter jumped out. What was he doing here? She cinched her robe more tightly.
Hunter’s gaze swept her up and down. When his eyes locked on hers, they were filled with concern. He had offered to stay last night, to sleep on the couch. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to turn him down.
“I heard the siren and was afraid your intruder had come back. Are you all right?”
“I saw someone move past the window.”
Bobby interrupted their conversation. “You’d better look at this.” His expression was grim, his tone ominous.
Dread trickled over her. She hurried, barefoot, down the steps and around the side of the house, Hunter close on her heels.
“What is it?”
Instead of answering, Bobby raised the flashlight. Her heart dropped into her stomach, and her knees almost buckled. Painted in red, twelve-inch-tall capital letters was the word MURDERER. The letters stretched across the span of siding between her bedroom and living room windows, sloppy, painted in a hurry, but quite legible. Rivulets trailed from each letter. Like blood.
Meagan crossed her arms over her stomach, steeling herself against the nausea churning there. Her past had followed her to Cedar Key. Someone in California had found her.
Or someone in Cedar Key knew who she really was.
“Meagan?”
Hunter’s voice penetrated her spinning thoughts. She lifted her gaze to his face. The tenderness that was usually there was gone. His jaw was set in a firm line, and his blue eyes held suspicion.
“What is this about?”
Even his tone was harsh. However this turned out, he wouldn’t cut her any slack. No matter how gentle and caring he had seemed previously.
“I—I don’t know.”
Bobby turned to go. “I’m getting my camera.”
Hunter stayed. He put his hands on his hips, his expression even more harsh, if that was possible. “Someone just painted murderer on your house. That’s not a childish prank. Tell us what’s going on.”
“I don’t know.” This time she managed to put more strength behind the words. “I’m not a killer.”
Even though she’d been one of only two people in the house when Edmund’s gardener was murdered. Even though her fingerprints were all over the murder weapon. Even though the blow had been delivered by someone left-handed.
The charges against her were dropped. There was no motive. And the investigators didn’t believe she had the strength to do that kind of damage to Charlie’s skull, even with a heavy brass candlestick.
She hadn’t been able to help much with the investigation. All she knew at the time was that Charlie owed someone money. And that she didn’t kill him.
Then she’d found out who had. And she’d disappeared.
Hunter took two steps toward her, his stance intimidating. “Give me one reason I should believe you. You’re obviously running from something. I’d hoped it was a psycho ex-boyfriend. But this doesn’t look good.”
“I’ve never killed anyone.”
Hunter didn’t respond, just studied her