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  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 © 2020 by Christie Craig

  Cover design and art by Jerry Todd

  Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Forever

  Hachette Book Group

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  First Edition: December 2020

  Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  ISBN: 978-1-5387-1167-5 (mass market), 978-1-5387-1165-1 (ebook)

  E3-20201005-DA-NF-ORI

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Epilogue

  Discover More

  About the Author

  Also by Christie Craig

  Praise for Christie Craig

  Looking for more romantic suspense? Forever delivers with hot, action-packed reads!

  To my dad, Cary Neal (Pete) Hunt. It’s hard being a daddy’s girl with you gone, but if you taught me anything it was to keep going, to find something to laugh about, to find a reason to be thankful. And I’m thankful I had you as a father. You taught me to work hard, to laugh hard. I always knew I was loved. I will forever carry that love in my heart. The paths I choose, the books I write, my crazy sense of humor, my whole paradigm, it is in part because of you.

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  Acknowledgments

  I need to tip my hat to a lot of people. To my editor Junessa Viloria for helping me make this book even better. To Kim Lionetti, my agent, for giving me feedback and endless support. To my husband, Steve Craig, for doing my laundry, for the late-night laughter, for finding the right shows to binge-watch, and for being a great quarantine and pancake buddy. To my daughter, Nina Makepeace, for being who she is, kind, understanding, artistically brilliant, and the greatest mom I’ve ever known to my granddaughter, Lily. To my son-in-law, Jason, who is a man of true character. I couldn’t find a more deserving man to be a part of my daughter’s and granddaughter’s lives. To my son and his wife, Steve and Sarah Craig, thank you for the grocery store runs, the gifts of chocolate and wine, and the social-distanced-front-porch visits during the coronavirus time. You two, together, make me happy. To friend and confidant Susan Muller, who, even though six feet away, listens to me whine, shares wine, and laughter. Thank you for the walks and talks that get me through the good and bad times.

  I would also like to give a nod to two other friends I lost this year. William Simon, a man so robust, so full of life, a writer who had so much to say that I was sure he would never leave us. And Nita Craft, your zest and the way you embraced life, it inspired me. I miss you. The world misses you both. Thank you for being a part of my life.

  And last but not least, my dog, Lady, who, through serious barking and herding techniques, forces me to leave the keyboard for our much-needed afternoon walks where we spot the deer and rabbits who share our neighborhood.

  Prologue

  Why do I not like this?” Detective Connor Pierce, with the Anniston Police Department’s Drug and Gang Unit, put his hand close to his weapon as he and his partner eased down the alley. Darkness and danger hung heavy. The only streetlight, about twenty-five yards down, cast a bluish hue on a parked car as they approached.

  A breeze carrying the scent of garbage from the dumpsters lining the graveled path flowed past. That smell was welcome compared to the foul smell of human urine. A few murmured voices echoed in the distance like background noise. His ears automatically tuned in to listen.

  Detective Donald Adkins froze. “Is that him?” His voice lacked the concern Connor felt.

  “Can’t tell.” Connor stared at the two figures standing at the back door of what he thought was the liquor store, wishing they were not still too far away to see clearly. Rumor had it that Carter Thompson, a small-time drug dealer, did business behind that liquor store.

  They weren’t even after Carter. They were after his cousin, a guy known as Dirt. He was a more serious and harder-to-find dealer. Dirt was suspected of selling counterfeit oxy containing fentanyl.

  There had been fifteen overdose victims and a total of eight deaths. Three of those fatalities had been teenagers. Adkins, who was ten years older than Connor, had a teenage son who went to school with one of the victims. For him, this case was personal.

  After seeing a comatose sixteen-year-old girl on a respirator yesterday, it felt pretty damn personal to Connor, too. They had to catch this guy before more people died.

  “I don’t think that’s him,” Connor said as they drew closer.

  “Too tall,” Adkins confirmed, just as they were spotted.

  “Cops!” someone screamed, and loud popping noises followed.

  “Shit!” Connor and Adkins dove behind a dumpster. Both hit hard on the gravel. Connor pulled his weapon and peered around to locate the shooter. “Two of them, behind the car.”

  When Adkins didn’t respond, Connor looked over his shoulder. His partner for the last year lay on the ground, a pool of blood collecting around his head.

  Before Connor’s knees even hit the ground, he saw white matter mixed with Adkins’s spilled blood. Then he saw his partner’s eyes.

  Open.

  Empty.

  Dead.

  “No!” Another bullet whizzed past. He grabbed his phone, hit dial, and yelled out, “Shots fired. Officer down.” The words physically hurt to say. No one could save Adkins. “Two one three Fourth Street. Alley behind Lone Star Liquor Store.”

  A car’s engine
roared to life, and it started backing out. Panic pumping through his veins, he peered around the heavy metal container and saw movement behind a pile of boxes.

  “Anniston PD, drop your weapon!” He darted out and ran to the next dumpster. “Throw down your weapon!” He’d give the bastard one chance. Then all bets were off.

  Another bullet clanked against the metal. The car sped out.

  Connor shot off three times. He heard a grunt, saw a figure fall. Racing forward, heart hammering in his chest, gun held out and ready, he cut behind the boxes. There on the gravel, bleeding from his chest, lay his shooter.

  “Shit!” Connor yelled out in both fury and horror when he saw the young shooter desperately trying to breathe. He was just a pimply-faced kid. A weapon lay beside the boy’s hand. Connor kicked it away. “Fuck! Why did you do this?”

  “Tell my mama…” Blood trickled from his lips as he took a raspy breath.

  “I’m scared,” he whimpered.

  Emotions raged in Connor’s chest as the image of his dead partner flashed through his mind. Somehow Connor found it in himself to reach for the boy’s hand. “Help’s coming.”

  The boy’s head slumped to the side and his young dark eyes went as empty as Adkins’s.

  Chapter One

  Three and a half years later.

  How had she lost him? Brie Ryan white-knuckled the steering wheel and slammed her foot on the gas pedal so hard, so fast, the Mustang’s rear end fishtailed.

  “Fudge bars!” She could lay down some trash talk that would make concrete blush, because sometimes you had to keep up with the guys to earn respect. But when really mad, she deferred to the creative cursing of the one true parental influence in her life, her manny.

  Sucking air through her teeth, she kept looking. One minute the Porsche was there then it wasn’t. She hit redial on her phone, hoping to reach Carlos Olvera, the only person who knew what she’d been up to for the last four months. The call went straight to voice mail. Again. It didn’t make sense. He never turned off his phone.

  Had something happened? No, she refused to believe that. His part in this hadn’t come with risks.

  She took the exit ramp off the freeway, hugging the wheel and praying she’d see the Porsche’s taillights.

  She didn’t see shit.

  Not even the cop car waiting on the side of the road. Well, not until she zoomed past it.

  “Nooo.” Foot off the gas, she watched her side mirror. It was after midnight. Maybe the cop was sleeping. Holding hope and her breath, she followed the road around the curve. Right before the patrol car disappeared from her sightline, blue lights filled the night behind her.

  “Mother Cracker!”

  Decision time. Drive like the devil or pull over and become a sweet-talking angel. She looked up. Four cars waited at a red light about fifty yards up the street. None of them, however, was Dillon Armand’s red Porsche.

  She. Had. Lost. Him.

  And she had a cop on her ass.

  Rationalizing that she was better at sweet-talking than outrunning and outmaneuvering a cop, she pulled to the side of the road.

  She prayed this decision didn’t get her arrested. There was a slight chance the car’s owner had left the club early, discovered his car missing, and reported it stolen. It wasn’t. She’d just borrowed it.

  Putting the car in park, knowing she had a few minutes while the officer ran her license plate, she reached across the seat into the glove compartment. Relief came as she pulled out the car’s registration and insurance card. She might have even smiled when she spotted a credit card with the name TAYLOR DUNN on it. Probably good ol’ Charlie’s wife.

  She tossed the registration and insurance card back into the glove compartment. Checking to make sure the cop was still occupied, she yanked open her purse and snatched her driver’s license and credit card from her wallet. Not that these had her real name on them either. Those had come from a job last year.

  Eyes on the rearview mirror, she stuffed the two fake cards between the seats.

  Next to her Glock.

  Then she slid Dunn’s credit card into her wallet.

  Leaning back, she outlined the story she’d pitch. Frankly, she was a better storyteller than driver.

  Her job demanded it. More times than not, her life depended on it.

  Three minutes later, the officer exited his car. She checked her mirror to make sure the red wig hadn’t slipped. In leaving the Black Diamond club, she’d snagged the wig off another girl’s station, just in case Dillon Armand spotted her following him and recognized her as one of the waitresses.

  Eyes locked on the rearview mirror, she watched the uniform officer move cautiously toward the Mustang, his right hand at his hip in case he needed his weapon.

  She waited for the big sandy-haired cop to stop at the driver’s door before she rolled down the window.

  “Ma’am.” His on-guard expression faded when he saw her. “Can you cut off your engine?”

  She turned the key and offered him her softest smile as she read his name embroidered on his shirt. “Sorry, Officer Johnston.” She let the Alabama accent she’d spent most of her life hiding roll off her tongue. “Was I speeding? This is the first time I’ve driven my mom’s Mustang and it has more power than my Smart Car.”

  “I imagine it does.” A straight pair of white teeth showed behind his lips.

  “But I know that’s not an excuse, so if you have to ticket me, I’ll understand. Thankfully, I got a new job and I can afford it.”

  “Where’s your job?”

  “Teaching at Jones Elementary off Oakwood. I love it.” Eliot, her manny-slash-bodyguard-slash-only-one-who-gave-a-damn-about-her, always said her best weapon was her ability to talk someone to death.

  “What grade?” His smile widened.

  “Kindergarten. They like to hug at that age. I was lucky Mrs. Brown is having triplets and they needed someone to finish out her year.”

  He nodded. “Can I see proof of insurance and your license?”

  “I hope Mom put her card in here. Dad’s always fussing about it.” She started to lean over then stopped. “It’s in my glove compartment. I watch police shows and they say I need to ask before reaching.”

  “Go ahead, and thanks for being conscientious. You haven’t been drinking have you?”

  “Just a glass of champagne with dinner. My best friend got engaged.” She reached over the seat and pulled out the car’s registration and insurance card. “Thank you, Daddy.” She passed him the paperwork.

  He gave them both a look. “And your license?”

  “Oh, sure.” She grabbed her purse. This was where the real acting began. Opening the wallet, she let out a big oh-my-gosh sigh. “Where…? No, no, no. I bet the bartender who waited on us at the restaurant didn’t give it back to me.” She flipped through her wallet. “And he has my credit card.” She reached for her phone in the console. “Can I call and make sure he has them?”

  “Do you have anything else with your name on it?”

  “I have another credit card. I’m Taylor Dunn.”

  She pulled out the borrowed Visa. “Do you mind if I call the restaurant?”

  He confirmed the name on the card then handed everything back. “Why don’t I just let you go, and you can drive there—slowly.” He smiled.

  “You’re a lifesaver.” The words had barely left her lips when a red Porsche eased past, as if rubbernecking. Her heart raced, screaming for her to give chase. Thankfully, the light at the end of the street turned yellow, and with a cop nearby, the car stopped. How the hell did he get behind me?

  “How long have you been in town?”

  Now he got chatty? Fracking Hades! She needed an exit strategy and fast.

  Suddenly Officer Johnston’s lapel mic went off. She couldn’t hear what was said, but his gaze shot up and she knew her exit strategy would have to involve more than sweet-talking.

  “Out of the car!” He pulled his weapon.

  D
ecision time. Her mind flashed images of her sister’s body: beaten and bloody. For four months, she’d lived with the guilt of knowing she could have saved her and hadn’t. Armand would do it again if someone didn’t stop him. Mind made up, she stepped out of her car.

  “What’s wrong?” She kept up the innocent façade.

  “Turn around,” he said, then spoke into his mic, which usually meant he was requesting backup.

  She half-turned as Eliot’s instructions played in her head. One: Knee to the groin. Two: Right hand goes for the gun. Three: Left palm hits the throat. Not everyone had an ex-Special Forces officer for a manny. He’d taught her this move before she wore a bra.

  At the wisp of the officer’s gun slipping back into his holster, and the clink of his handcuffs releasing, she swung into action.

  He groaned as her knee hit the mark. And again when she hit his throat.

  He reached for his gun. But too late. His frown deepened when he saw the muzzle of his Glock an inch from his nose. She snatched his handcuffs away and yanked his mic off.

  Now she needed to find…she spotted the light pole. Perfect.

  “This way.” She cut her eyes down the street, relieved the Porsche still sat at the red light.

  The cop half stood while measuring her up. “Don’t think about it. I’m feistier than I look.”

  His expression gave way more to fury than fear. “You don’t want to shoot—”

  “Do as I say, and you won’t get hurt. Go to the light post. Now!”

  With his arms around the pole, she cuffed his hands. No time to waste, she raced back to the Mustang, dug in her purse, and pulled out the business card—her get-out-of-jail-free card—she’d been hanging on to in case of an emergency. Detective Pierce, actually the Cold Case Unit, owed her after she’d helped them out on a case a few months ago. Of course, they hadn’t known her real identity, but…

  She hotfooted it back and stuffed the card in the officer’s shirt pocket. “Do me a favor. Find Detective Pierce. Tell him to look into the Ronan case.”

  “You know Connor?” he asked.

  She tossed his gun in the bushes. “Ronan case. Got it?”