In the Shadow of Revenge Read online

  In the Shadow of Revenge

  By Patricia Hale

  Everybody thought brilliant Cecily would leave dead-end Millers Falls for something better. But a two-decades-old tragedy locks her in place. Few understand the fierce bond that Cecily and Amelia share with Hilary, who was assaulted one summer as the two other girls watched helplessly. It’s a bond of love and guilt...and a desire for vengeance that cuts clear to the bone.

  So Assistant DA Cecily Minos waits, eager to see the guy in her courtroom. When Amelia meets a man who has the tattoo the girls remember seeing that day, they think they’ve finally caught a break. But the police refuse to reopen the case, and it’s up to Cecily and Amelia to pursue their suspect.

  Their investigation soon uncovers secrets best left buried. But the law is slow, and they’ve waited long enough for revenge...

  71,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to our July lineup of books! If I’m not on the beach somewhere while you’re reading this, there’s something wrong with life (unless you’re reading this in December—in which case, I hope I’m by a fireplace with a cup of hot cocoa in my hand). But no matter where you are while you’re reading this, I can tell you one thing: you’re in for a treat. (Sure, I say that every month, but it’s always true!) This month brings a fun mix of returning authors and debut authors, with fun, contemporary beach reads, some troublesome dragons, a few steps back in time, and characters in a race against time and a fight for their lives.

  Let’s kick off with the perfect beach read. Make sure you pick up Christi Barth’s Love at High Tide. Beach reading doesn’t get much better than this. It starts with a beach rescue, continues with a beach romance, and has sun, sand, sexual tension and two characters you will love.

  Maybe the beach isn’t your thing in the summer, but baseball is. Take a peek at Alison Packard’s The Winning Season. After hitting rock bottom, bad-boy catcher Matt Scanlon is traded to the team he’s loathed since boyhood, and he must confront a painful incident in his past before he can rebuild his life and his career. Once you’ve fallen in love with Matt, go back and read Alison’s debut romance, Love in the Afternoon.

  Continuing in the contemporary romance genre, we have party planner Tess, who can’t believe that hotel manager Jeremy could possibly be interested in her. She’s everyone’s BFF, not friends-with-benefits material. But he’s got more than friendship on his mind in Kate Davies’s Life of the Party, book three in the Girls Most Likely to... series.

  Maybe you like your romance with a side of suspense? If so, check out Anne Marie Becker’s Deadly Bonds, and Betrayed by Trust from Ana Barrons. Two romantic suspense books, four characters in fights for their lives.

  Or maybe you like your romance with a large helping of sexy times? If so, Lynda Aicher’s Bonds of Desire is the book for you. Lawyer Allison English never planned to return to The Den—despite her naughty fantasies about being bound by owner Seth Matthews. But when club guest Tyler Wysong is injured in a scene, Seth turns to Allie for help. Aroused by both men, Allie should turn the case down. But she can’t...

  Joining Lynda in the erotic romance category this month are two male/male titles. First up is His Roommate’s Pleasure by Lana McGregor. Adam had no idea that his jock roommate was gay—and into leashes, paddles, and domination. And Adam, an inexperienced virgin who’s only ever kissed one guy, is surprised to find himself curious about submitting... Then Samantha Ann King returns with the follow-up to her debut romance, Sharing Hailey. In Waiting for Ty, too many beers and four long years of denying their feelings for each other thrust two men together in a lip-lock and a night of no-holds-barred sex that forces them to confront their greatest love and their deepest fears.

  In Sky Hunter, the third and final installment of Fae Sutherland’s male/male space opera romance series, Skybound, the Crux Ansata’s brash and rebellious ship mechanic, Jeret, finds himself face-to-face with a dangerous past he never thought to revisit—and the only man he has never been able to forget.

  Looking for more books in the paranormal category? Start with Ruth A. Casie’s The Guardian’s Witch and Desperate Magic by Rebecca York. And for fans of historical romance, in Georgie Lee’s Hero’s Redemption, a widow and a war hero brought together by a scheme must learn to trust one another and accept the tragedy that links them in order to find love. Meanwhile, historical romance author Susanna Fraser, who can always be counted on to deliver a unique and unusual historical romance, returns with A Dream Defiant, in which a black British soldier marries a beautiful English war widow, but he can’t believe she wants him for himself, and not merely as her bodyguard and protector.

  This month Carina Press is pleased to announce three debut authors. Mystery author Patricia Hale will grip you by the throat with her suspenseful story of retribution, In the Shadow of Revenge. As children they witnessed horror and created a pact, as women they planned their revenge and waited.

  Also debuting this month is Reese Ryan, with Making the First Move. When ambitious HR exec Melanie Gordon falls for sweet, sexy philanthropist Raine Mason, she discovers that his selflessness is driven by a dark and tragic secret that threatens to keep them apart.

  And joining Carina Press with her Golden Heart-winning paranormal romance is debut author Lorenda Christensen. Fans of Katie MacAlister’s Aisling Grey and Light Dragons series will want to check this one out, and so will any fans of fun paranormal romances featuring dragons and heroines with a bit of backbone. In Never Deal with Dragons, the first in a new series, a human mediator bites off more than she can chew when she agrees to partner with an ex-boyfriend to stop a war between two dragon monarchs.

  I hope you enjoy all of this month’s new releases. There’s certainly a variety to choose from, to keep you occupied no matter what your summer (or winter) activity.

  We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Executive Editor, Carina Press

  www.carinapress.com

  www.twitter.com/carinapress

  www.facebook.com/carinapress

  Before you begin on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.

  —Confucius

  Dedication

  For Jenny, Jeff and Micah, for everything....

  Acknowledgements

  Much of my thanks goes to Rick, Lindsay, Ken and Renee of the Sebago Writers Group. Their advice as writers, critics and friends is at the heart of this novel. I also want to thank Amy Scheibe whose ideas opened up the story and gave it depth. Finally, Krista Stroever at Carina Press provided encouragement, insight and the gentle nudge that brought the story to its best. For that, I am extremely grateful.

  I also want to remember the late Paul Lindsay, whose kindness opened a door and boosted my confidence. Last, but in no way least, I want to thank my husband, Mike, for his close readings, his attention to detail and his willingness to eat cereal for dinner.

  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

  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

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  I was sitting in Courtroom C inside Portland Maine’s County Courthouse, half of me listening to Joe McIntire’s closing arguments, the other half deciding between microwave and take-out. Like me, McIntire was an Assistant DA. He’d requested the Juvenile team while I’d put in for Domestic Violence. As expected, our cases often overlapped. Joe was trying to impress upon the jury that the fourteen-year-old kid sitting at the table behind him had brought a knife to his middle school for protection. The boy, whose stomach he’d laced open in the bathroom, had bullied him since third grade and therefore incited the defendant’s attack. I agreed, but the bottom line is, our legal system says you can’t fight words with knives. I glanced at the jury to get a read.

  An older woman, questionably blonde, sat in the first row, crying. Beside her, an Asian twenty-something peered into a magnifying mirror, wiping lipstick off her teeth. In the second row, a man hunched behind the person in front of him and picked dirt from his fingernails. I failed to see how this represented a jury of the boy’s peers. I glanced at the judge. She checked her watch. There was a time when a crime committed by a child would hold a courtroom mesmerized by its rarity. Now we had days when the entire docket held nothing but juveniles.

  The cell phone in my pocket vibrated. I slipped it out and saw a new text message from Amelia, my best friend.

  She’s back in.

  “She” referred to Hilary, the third member of our trio. It had been just the three of us for as long as I could remember, even boyfriends were kept at arm’s length.

  Where?

  I wrote back keeping my phone between my knees. Cell phones are highly frowned upon in the courtroom and confiscated at the judge’s discretion.

  Psych/Addictions unit at Maine Medical Center. Meet me at 6?

  I told her I would and dropped the phone into my bag. That was the thing about Hilary. She always made sure we knew when she was in, but she’d be sarcastic and ungrateful, a flat-out bitch, when we went to see her. At least to me. She had her reasons. But even though the conflict could sometimes rub us raw, we were still as tight as always. Nothing kept us apart back then, or now.

  I left the courtroom before the final arguments were complete, pretty sure that I didn’t want to hear the verdict anyway, and climbed two flights of stairs to my office, a cubicle among cubicles in the DA’s office which employed forty-five Assistant DAs in all. My mission as a lawyer is to convict now, talk later. I know I’m supposed to want justice, but it’s an afterthought. Anyone who touches a kid deserves to rot. I don’t care about remorse. Each time I get a conviction and watch the perpetrator shuffle out of the courtroom in cuffs, I’m elated.

  This morning when I argued against the defense council’s request for a restraining order and convinced the judge to keep an abusive father in jail until his trial date, I smiled when he turned to me in tears. “No deals,” I told him. The truth is I requested the Domestic Violence Unit for one reason, revenge. It’s my turn to destroy some lives.

  Half-heartedly, I began leafing through the pile of paperwork on my desk and remembered that I was supposed to meet Ben at Gritty’s for their “Thank God It’s Friday” happy hour. Going to see Hilary meant I’d have to cancel and that was grounds for another fight. His beef would be that he’s never my priority. And he’s right, though my patience with Hilary’s relapses has begun to thin. When I’d read the same paragraph on the rules of child visitation for the third time, I decided to call it a day. Grabbing my briefcase, I headed for the stairs to meet Amelia and from there, to visit Hilary. The usual anxiety began to churn.

  Stress is no stranger. It burrowed under my skin at an early age and took up residence, uninvited. Saturday mornings were its gateway. My mother watched with a suspicious eye as I vacuumed my room and dropped a week’s worth of school clothes into the laundry chute. Opting for worn-out jeans, a faded T-shirt and red high-tops, I’d stuff down her obligatory bacon and eggs in a flurry to get out of the house. She’d hover over me, holding her dog-eared Bible, reminding me that I was “taunting the devil and tempting the wrath of God, serving Satan and that no good would ever come to me as long as I used it.”

  What could I say? “Yes, Ma’am, I know?” That would get me the flat of her palm against the back of my head. Or maybe I’d say, “No, Ma’am, I’m not.” That would inevitably open the door to a lecture on the evils of the Ouija board which my mother knew all too well from her own childhood and the weekly séances her mother led in a darkened living room with paying strangers. I’d heard about my Grandma Hattie’s powers for as long as I could remember and shortly after I was born, my mother saw something in me that had scared her into forbidding the Ouija board and keeping her distance. But on Saturday mornings I only knew that her lectures would make me late for my routine 10:00 a.m. appearance at Amelia’s house. So mostly, I’d just tell her we were going swimming, which often enough held some truth, and I’d pedal fast down our driveway to escape the threats she hurled through the door. But a few of them bit right in like fleas on a dog. I think it threatened her faith—that I’d get through to someone and she never would. And so, what I couldn’t tell her was that she was right about the spirits inside the board and for reasons I didn’t understand I was their conduit to the outside world.

  Hilary always said something weird happened when I laid my hands on the board. “A shift in the air,” she called it. And though I knew she was right due to the surge of heat that coursed through me whenever we played, I invariably disagreed. At eight or nine years old, I didn’t want to be different, and I certainly didn’t want spirits running around inside me.

  After breakfast I’d rinse the yellow yolk from my plate and watch it slither into the drain, slow and thick like the phlegm my father used to spit into the sink when he smoked his Lucky Strikes and gazed out the window at his newly mown backyard. That was before he left. After he’d gone, it was just Mom and me and my brother, Jarod, and the grass was always overgrown.

  I’d hop onto my bike and bounce over the rocks in our driveway then skid through the loose dirt that was our road, anxious to hit the hot top that would take me to Amelia’s. Millers Falls, Maine, isn’t a big town or a wealthy one and most of it is still unpaved. Tourists never get past the high-end discount outlets in Edgewater to know we exist. A description I read once said, “population 3000, rolling hills and green forest, a place where time slows down.” I guess that’s close enough, but it could also say that Millers Falls’ green forest was the place where time stopped dead one Satur
day for three nine-year-old girls.

  When I reached Amelia’s house, I’d knock on the wooden edge of their back door. Her mother’s silhouette would appear above me, shadowy behind the screen. “I’ll get her, Cecily,” she’d say before she disappeared. She never swung the door wide and invited me in like the mothers on TV, holding out a plate of fresh baked cookies. I’m not sure if it was my black skin or broken home that she was afraid of, but neither was acceptable to Millers Falls’ Christians.

  By the time Amelia and I arrived at the rusted-out railcar that had become our clubhouse, Hilary would have the blanket laid out. The wooden crate we used for a table would be flipped upside down and set with two purple candles that I’d stolen from the buffet drawer in our dining room. The Ouija board Amelia got for her birthday, open and ready.

  As soon as we were seated and the candles lit, we took turns asking questions. Hilary always wanted to know if her dead mother could see her and it would spell out Y-E-S. Heart fluttering and palms sweaty, I’d ask the powers within the board if any of us would ever leave. N-O, it assured me week after week and it was right. Though after that Saturday in July we did stop going to the railcar and eventually moved on to hideaways befitting high schoolers, like the islands off Portland where beer could be hidden beneath beach towels and sunscreen. But the Ouija hadn’t lied. Eighteen years later we’re still chained to that railcar, held hostage by the atrocity we witnessed inside its rusted-out walls.

  The first time I knew that the spirits were truly in me had started out like any other Saturday. We’d met just like we always did. The board was laid out when Amelia and I arrived. Hilary started and then it was my turn. I placed the tips of my fingers on the heart-shaped planchette. A jolt of electricity bit right into them, traveled through my wrists and up my arms until it snapped against my neck like a shock collar on a dog. I snatched my hands away and looked at Hilary and Amelia, my heart clanging against my chest.

  “What the hell happened?” Hilary asked.