BACK OFF, LADY, OR YOU’RE NEXT.
Shock and anger splintered through Cole as words in colorful crayon leaped from the piece of paper left on Margo’s door. It was signed with a gold star. The killer’s signature.
Cole’s gaze darted to Margo again. She still looked detached and unaffected—just a police officer assessing evidence. But at the base of her throat, her pulse was throbbing. “Let me help, Margo. I can do it under the radar so I don’t offend your staff.”
“Cole, we’ve been through this. This case doesn’t belong to you. Not anymore. It’s mine now.”
He expelled a frustrated blast of air. “At least admit you’re scared. Don’t pretend with me.”
His statement seemed to release a rash of goose bumps, and Margo rubbed her arms to dispel them. “Okay, I’m a little unnerved. I wouldn’t be human if I weren’t. But give up the case? No.”
He had his in. He was taking it.
LAUREN NICHOLS
From the time Waldenbooks bestselling author Lauren Nichols was able to read, there was a book in her hand—then later, in her mind. Happily, her first attempt at romantic fiction was a finalist in RWA’s Golden Heart Contest, and though she didn’t win, she’s been blessed to sell eight romantic suspense novels, and dozens of romance, mystery and science fiction short stories to national magazines. This is her first Christian romantic suspense novel for Steeple Hill Books.
When Lauren isn’t working on a project or hanging out with her family and friends, she enjoys gardening, geocaching and traveling anywhere with her very best friend, husband Mike. Lauren loves to hear from readers. You can e-mail her at [email protected] or through her Web site, www.laurennichols.com.
Marked for Murder
Lauren Nichols
Be gentle and ready to forgive; never hold grudges. Remember, the Lord forgave you so you must forgive others.
—Colossians 3:13
For Mike.
I love our life.
CONTENTS
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
EPILOGUE
LETTER TO READER
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
“Yes, I know it’ll be difficult to go back to your apartment, Ms. Cortino, but you could have information that we need. I’ve advised one of my officers that you’re on your way home now. He’ll meet you there. You have our deepest sympathies on the loss of your roommate.”
Margo McBride hung up the phone for what had to be the tenth time since their dispatcher went to the diner for takeout, then propped her elbows on her desk and massaged the tension headache over her eyebrows. She was about to reach for her cold coffee when the door to the Charity, Pennsylvania, police department opened…and an awkward, uncomfortable pall fell over the room. Her side of it, at least.
The tall, broad-shouldered man wearing jeans and a collarless white knit shirt didn’t seem uneasy at all. He was through the low, spindled gate dividing the reception area from the office proper before Margo could blink away a sting of tears.
Cole Blackburn’s wind-tossed brown hair topped rugged features and dark eyes that wanted answers.
Why today, God? Margo thought, feeling her heart break all over again. Why today, when she’d been up since 3:00 a.m. and her nerves were already raw? Then she remembered that she and God were no longer speaking, and braced herself for what was coming.
She knew why her ex-fiancé had come back.
And it wasn’t for her.
Cole crossed to the gray steel desk where she’d been scanning the old Gold Star files, and spoke grimly. “Why didn’t you tell me? I know it’s been a long time since we spoke, but you had to realize I’d want to know about this. Why did I have to hear it on the morning news?”
Events she’d prayed would never be repeated moved through his dark eyes…a time of tragic crime photos, tearful parents and two-inch-high headlines.
“The reporter was careful not to utter the words ‘serial killer,’” Cole went on, “but gold stars and strangulation tells me it’s the same freak. There was a silk scarf around her neck, wasn’t there? But it wasn’t hers.”
With a squeak of wheels, Margo rolled her swivel chair away from the desk and stood. She worked to keep her voice even and polite. “You know I can’t talk about an active investigation.”
“Yes, I do. But in a town of barely six thousand people, I only have to walk into the diner across the street or the convenience store down the block and I’ll hear everything. Gossip flows like water around here. Unfortunately, the facts would be distorted—unintentionally, but distorted just the same. I’d rather hear the truth from you.”
Maybe it was lack of sleep, or last night’s horror, or his seemingly unaffected demeanor that shoved professionalism to the side. Or maybe she just needed to remind him that he wasn’t the only one who’d been hurt eleven months ago. For whatever reason, she said softly, but pointedly, “And if I told you the truth? Today you’d believe me?”
Everything in Cole seemed to still as memories of their last day together stretched between them like a damaged bridge too fragile to cross. It all came back to Margo now…the bone-deep sorrow and futility of that day, the angry words. The love she’d tried so hard to preserve until she’d finally realized that the best thing she could do for the two of them was give back his ring.
Cole broke their eye contact first. Then he sighed, jammed his hands in his pockets and wandered a few feet away to regroup. His gaze skipped from the white floor tiles, to the filing cabinets and office machines, to the barely audible TV and wood-paneled walls. Margo knew what he saw there: more memories. The Officer Bill and D.A.R.E. posters taped to the paneling had hung there when Cole was part of their tiny police force. Then his dark gaze rested on the second desk in the room, and Margo felt that clawing hurt again. Once they’d shared that desk, some days sharing secret smiles, other days poring over files and desperately looking for anything that would lead them to a killer.
It hurt him to look at it, too. She could see it. But not because he missed those days with her. It hurt because the job wasn’t his anymore.
Ambling back to her, he broke the heavy silence. “Who was she, Margo?” he asked quietly. “Is there someone I need to see? Someone who’d expect my condolences? I made some friends while I lived here.”
Yes, he had, and she’d been one of them. His best friend, he used to say. Reluctantly, Margo walked around the desk to him. The sooner she answered his questions and he left, the sooner she could get on with the business of patching the new hole in her heart. She would not think about summer nights sitting on the tailgate of his truck, picking out constellations, or sack races at the department’s picnics, or weekends cuddled