Don't Close Your Eyes
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Christie Craig
Preview of Don’t Breathe a Word copyright © 2018 by Christie Craig
Cover design by Leason Beckford Jr.
Cover image by Julie McInnes
Cover image by Stephen Mulcahey Trevillion
Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First Edition: August 2018
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ISBN: 978-1-5387-1159-0 (mass market), 978-1-5387-1160-6 (ebook)
E3-20180712-DANF
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author
Dedication
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
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
TeaserOpener
Prologue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Christie Craig
Newsletter
Praise for New York Times bestselling author
Christie Craig
“Hold on to your Stetsons…A thrill ride of hunky heroes, hilarious high jinks, and heartwarming romance.”
—Lori Wilde, New York Times bestselling author, on Only in Texas
“A fabulously great read. I absolutely loved the characters…I can’t wait for the next one in the series.”
—NightOwlReviews.com on Only in Texas
“An entertaining tale with delightful, fully formed characters and an intriguing mystery, along with a nod to dog lovers with a likable pooch.”
—RT Book Reviews on Only in Texas
“4 stars! Hot! Craig returns to Texas and the hunky boys of the Only in Texas PI agency in this sexy, lighthearted romp centered around a sassy heroine on a mission and the gorgeous hero who falls for her. Complete with genuine characters who have heart, this story will keep you laughing as you turn the pages. A truly fun read!”
—RT Book Reviews on Blame It on Texas
“An excellent contemporary romance that will make you swoon!”
—FreshFiction.com on Blame It on Texas
“Fans of fast-paced thrillers and Craig’s other books will feel at home.”
—Publishers Weekly on Texas Hold ’Em
Here’s to my hubby, who does my laundry, makes me coffee, and brings me hot and sour soup when I have a cold. Thank you for making me laugh, for believing in me when sometimes I don’t. Thank you for being my real-life hero. Thank you for being so brave, for not letting the health hurdles you’ve faced strip you of your sense of humor, and your sharp wit. I love you.
Prologue
Thu-thump. Thu-thump.
The sounds came to Annie Lakes first. The sound of her young heart thudding in her chest. The night sounds of insects, owls, and unknown creatures scuttling around the woods at night.
The sound of…fear.
Then a panic-laced young voice echoed in the dark distance. “Faster, Annie.”
She couldn’t run faster. She couldn’t breathe.
She couldn’t…wake up.
She felt trapped in the blackness. Then the dark curtain lifted and she saw it all. The thicket of trees, the thorny brushes encroaching the dirt trail. Her pink Cinderella tennis shoes slapping against the dirt. Her small feet racing, rushing, running to someone to save her. Running away from someone who wouldn’t.
“Keep up!” The same voice, a young voice, echoed again. All Annie could see of this person was snippets of a pink nightgown appearing and disappearing between the trees ahead. Too far ahead.
Alone.
She didn’t want to be alone.
She hugged the teddy bear, once white but now sticky and red-stained.
“Don’t leave me!” Annie cried, unable to move faster. Her side pinched from running. Her leg muscles burned.
She wanted to scream.
Wanted to cry.
Wanted her daddy.
Thorns caught and snagged on the ruffle on her Smurf nightgown. The toe of her tennis shoe hit a stump.
She tripped. Went down. Hard. The bear hit the dirt before she did.
Small rocks ripped at the tender flesh on her palms. A jagged one sliced into her knee. The raw sting brought tears to her eyes. She could no longer hear the person in front of her, but the footfalls of the person chasing her grew closer. Louder.
She really wanted her daddy. Now.
Struggling to her feet, she let soft whimpers slip from her lips. She took one slow step, and someone grabbed her from behind. Grabbed her tight.
She screamed.
And screamed.
Annie’s own bloodcurdling cry echoing through her bedroom yanked her awake. No longer the frightened child, she was now a frightened woman, but she still wanted her daddy.
Swallowing air that felt solid, hand clutching her chest, she felt her heart slamming against her rib cage.
Realizing what this meant, she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. The dream, the recurring nightmare was back. And she knew why.
Brittany Talbot.
She really needed to stop watching the news.
Chapter One
Annie, sitting at her usual table, refocused on the stack of ungraded papers. The dark circles under her eyes were hidden behind darker sunglasses. Blond and fair skinned, she lacked sleep, which brought out raccoon eyes. Too bad she couldn’t wear the shades while teaching.
>
“Happy hump day.” Fred waved his cup of espresso with extra milk as he moved to his booth. For reasons unbeknownst to Annie, the elderly widower was always happier on Wednesdays. Sometimes, when the place was full, he’d even sit with her to chat.
Annie smiled. “Did you have a good night last night?”
“Sure did.” A sparkle brightened his light blue eyes. He sat down and pulled out his newspaper. Was he seeing some lady on Tuesdays? Not that it mattered, Annie liked seeing happy people.
Glancing out the window, she took in the early-morning walkers trying to get their steps in. The quaint coffee shop nestled between high-rises in downtown Anniston, Texas, was conveniently located a block from the junior college where she’d taught for the last five months. Coming here had become part of her morning ritual. Being an only child, she liked feeling as if she was part of a community. She knew the regulars. They knew her. At least most of them did.
The door swished open. Pretty sure who it was, she glanced up, without lifting her head. He always arrived between seven and seven thirty. The coffee shop was conveniently located a block from the police precinct, too.
Detective Sutton liked the dark roast and drank it black. Sometimes, he added a skinny hazelnut latte to his order. Probably for some long-legged, lucky secretary at his office.
While Annie was certain he’d never noticed her—he was one who didn’t speak or even nod—she’d noticed him.
Even before she’d seen him on television.
It wasn’t just his big-gulp size, or his big-gulp good looks. Oh, she noticed those, too—hard not to—but it was the fact that, like her, he hid behind sunglasses. Considering most of his cases involved murder and some involved children—she wondered if he wasn’t suffering from some bad nightmares, too.
He shot to the counter with his usual determined pace. Not so much rude as running late.
Today, he wore his navy Dockers and his light blue buttoned-down oxford. The shirt, creases down the sleeves, no doubt professionally cleaned, hugged his broad chest. His dark hair appeared freshly showered damp.
The customer ahead of him, an elderly grandmother—not a regular—looked antique and frail. “I know I’ve got some coins…” Her arm, lost in her big purse, fumbled for loose change.
Annie waited to see if he’d do it again. She’d seen it happen six times.
“I got her coffee,” he spoke over the woman’s gray hair to Mary, the barista.
The older woman looked back, and up. And up. “Why that’s sweet, but I’ve got…”
My good deed for the day, Annie said in her head, right before he did.
A smile curled up in her gut and gave her good-guy butterflies. She’d even borrowed his act of kindness herself.
Shamelessly, she’d considered attempting to be his good deed for the day for an introduction—and maybe more. But she’d failed at her last attempts of “more.” And considering the return of her nightmares, she needed to get her life fixed before she asked for company.
He eased up to the counter, paid for the elderly woman’s coffee, then carefully—with more patience than he normally exuded—he handed it to her.
The good-guy flutters commenced again. Annie’s phone chimed. She pulled her gaze away from the detective and glanced at the number. Her mom. She never called this early. Something had to be…
“Hello.” The soft sounds of her mom’s sobbing sent thick air rushing into Annie’s lungs, and her heart filled with empathy before even understanding.
“Mom? What’s wrong?”
* * *
Detective Mark Sutton skipped his Thursday-morning coffee run and went straight to the lake.
It was one of those perfect days for fishing. Hot, but not too damn hot. Windy, but not too damn windy. Cloudy, but not too damn cloudy.
White cotton-like clouds hung in the blue sky, appearing so picture-perfect they looked like a lie. The sunset sparkles danced on top of the water. The breeze, cooler than the air, flowed through the trees and offered relief from the Texas temperature.
But nothing ruined a good day at the lake more than when it wasn’t a fishing line in the water, but a winch connected to a wrecker. When what was being reeled in wasn’t a blue cat, or a bass, but a fifty-pound drum containing the body of a four-year-old girl.
Days like this caused a raw kind of hurt—the kind that chipped away at one’s soul.
“I’d give my left ball to be wrong about this.” Mark looked at Juan Acosta, another cold-case detective, standing beside him.
“No shit,” Juan said.
Mark, Juan, and Connor Pierce, the three-man team that made up the Anniston Cold Case Unit, had spent hours of personal time the previous week scuba diving in the lake searching for barrels.
Forget asking the local volunteer divers. Homicide had them booked. Forget having a special dive team do it. Their division didn’t have a budget.
If they needed something done, they had to do it themselves. The fact that they’d gotten cases solved shocked the shit out of the big brass. And this particular case was going to be a real pisser for their sergeant.
That was why Connor and Juan had chosen the case. Well, that and because the kid had been related to the mayor. Mark would’ve preferred a different case. One that didn’t feel so goddamn familiar. He had only so much soul left.
Exhaling a piece of that soul now, he watched Albert Stone, the medical examiner, use a crowbar to pry the top off of the drum they’d pulled from Sunshine Lake. Stone looked into the barrel, grimaced, then glanced at Mark and Juan. He didn’t say anything, or even nod. The despair in his eyes said it all.
“Damn!” Mark’s stomach muscles cramped like he’d just done fifty sit-ups.
Stone re-capped the drum and gave the motion for the forklift driver to load the evidence into the van. After taking a few seconds, he walked over.
“I won’t be able to say it’s her for a while. But there’s long brown hair.” Stone ran a hand over his face as if to wipe away the image. A move every cop who’d ever worked in homicide knew well. A damn shame it didn’t work.
“The body is submerged in concrete.” Stone’s tone came out as heavy as the barrel looked. “Weren’t they looking at the father for this?”
“Yeah, but they couldn’t prove it,” Juan said.
“Then prove it. Catch the bastard who did this.” Stone exhaled.
We will. We have to. Mark gave him a tight-lipped nod.
Catching bastards was the way to get back a tiny piece of his soul that these cases robbed from him. He never got it all back, but a little was better than nothing.
“This would make…what? Three cases you’ve solved this year?” Stone asked.
Four. But who’s counting?
Mark nodded. Juan did the same. They weren’t doing this for the notoriety. Not that it didn’t feel good every time they showed the department how wrong it’d been to discount them.
The forklift groaned as it picked up the rusty metal drum. Stone frowned. “It’s been years. How the hell did you know where to find her?”
“Johnny Cash,” Mark said.
Stone chuckled. “You been hitting the bottle early?”
“No.” Mark resented the implication, even when he didn’t resent Stone. “It was the only lead they had on the case,” Mark explained. “A day after she went missing, a homeless man, Mr. Johnny Cash, reported he saw someone pushing a barrel into the lake. Reports says he was drunk and about as credible as a rock, but being the only lead, APD sent some divers out. They found nothing. One of the divers was on record stating that due to the weather conditions earlier, visibility wasn’t really good. Between the lack of a budget and a drunk witness, they didn’t do another search.”
“Well, keep this up, and the department will be forced to move you off the shit list.”
“I hope not,” Mark said. “Shit list equals ‘no expectations.’”
Stone offered a half-assed grin. “Where’s Connor?”
“
Searching for Cash.” They watched the forklift loading the evidence.
“Is the poker game on for Saturday night?” Stone asked as if needing a mental U-turn.
“Not this Saturday, but next,” Mark answered.
“Well, I should get back…” Stone looked over Mark’s shoulder, and his expression soured. “You’re gonna get a chance to secure your place on that list. The vultures are waiting.” He waved toward the road and walked off.
Mark didn’t have to look back. He knew what vultures Stone meant.
Proving him right, someone, a feminine someone, yelled out, “Detective Sutton? Can I have a word?”
Recognition of that voice struck like a painful thump to his balls. “Fuck.”
Probably not the word the Channel 2 reporter wanted. But it was the one Judith Holt pulled out of him.
Glancing away from the police van, he looked at Juan. “Who called the press?”
“Why don’t you ask your girlfriend?” Juan’s tone said he hadn’t forgiven Mark for almost screwing up the last case. Not that Mark blamed Juan. He hadn’t forgiven himself, either.
Mark looked back. Judith stood in front of six other reporters from both newspapers and television stations. “Ex-girlfriend.”
Not that she’d really been his girlfriend, just a warm body for about a month. One he hadn’t missed. Oh, the sex had been great. But she’d been using him, and not just for fun in the sack. She wanted story leads, inside information, and she didn’t care who it hurt.
When he refused to give her anything, she’d stolen it. The leaked information had almost cost them the arrest. If he could’ve proven she’d stolen the info from him, he’d have hauled her ass in. But he couldn’t. So she became another life lesson for him to file away.
A lesson that had kept him celibate for five months.
Juan looked back. “I’m walking through the woods and will meet you by the car.”
Juan hated the press more than Mark did. Well, not the press—it was the cameras and seeing his face on the six o’clock news or on the front page.
Mark didn’t know a cop who’d served for more than ten years who didn’t have a few scars. Most of them on the inside. Juan hadn’t been that lucky.
“Keys?” Juan held out his hand.