Kansas City Secrets

Her chest puffed out, pushing the front of the sleeveless blouse she wore. “I am not your sweetheart. And don’t think I don’t remember you, Detective Krolikowski. I know you and your partner picked up my brother before he was arrested. That case is closed.”

“Maybe, but your fiancé’s murder isn’t. And we think you and your brother know something about it.”

“This is about Richard?” Her eyes widened. But when he thought she’d start that reticent eye contact thing again, she surprised him by actually taking a step closer to the edge of the porch. “Now we’re finally getting to the point, aren’t we? Are you accusing me again of poisoning him? So I’m a suspect, not a victim. And here I thought you’d shown up because—”

“Because what?” He pulled the toy with a noose around its neck from behind his back and watched her sink back into the chair. “You want to tell us what the hell is going on with you?”

Kansas City

Secrets

Julie Miller

JULIE MILLER is an award-winning USA TODAY bestselling author of breathtaking romantic suspense—with a National Readers’ Choice Award and a Daphne du Maurier Award, among other prizes. She has also earned an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award. For a complete list of her books, monthly newsletter and more, go to www.juliemiller.org.

For my mom. It was challenging to write this book amongst unforeseen events that demanded my attention. But I wouldn’t have traded your wonderful visit and recovery time for anything. I’m glad you’re feeling better. I love you.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

“Why did you kill that woman, Stephen?” Rosemary March asked, looking across the scarred-up table at her younger brother. “And don’t tell me it was to rob her for drug money. I know that isn’t who you are.”

Rosemary studied the twenty-eight-year-old man she’d done her best to raise after a small plane crash several years earlier had left them orphans. She tried to pretend there weren’t a dozen pairs of eyes on her, watching through the observation windows around them. It was easier than pretending the Missouri State Penitentiary’s tiny visitation room with its locked steel doors wasn’t making her claustrophobic.

But it was impossible to ignore the clinking of the chains and cuffs that bound Stephen March’s wrists and ankles together. “You ask me that every time you come to see me, Rosemary.”

“Because I’m not satisfied with the answers you’ve given me.” She ran her fingers beneath the collar of her floral-print blouse, telling herself it was the heat of the Missouri summer, and not any discomfiting leer from another prisoner or the unsettling mystery of why her brother would kill a woman he didn’t know, that made beads of perspiration gather against her skin. “I hate seeing you in here.”

“You need to let it go. This is where I deserve to be. Trust me, sis. I was never going to amount to much on the outside.”

“That’s not true. With your artistic talent you could have—”

“But I didn’t.” He drummed his scarred fingers together at the edge of the table. For as long as she’d known him, he’d been hyper like that—always moving, always full of energy. Their father had gotten him into running cross-country and track; their mother had put a drawing pencil in his hand. Ultimately, though, neither outlet could compete with the meth addiction that had sent his life spiraling out of control. “Losing Mom and Dad was no excuse for me going off the deep end and not helping out. Especially when your fiancé...” The drumming stopped abruptly. “Just know, I was really there for you when you needed me.”

“Needed you for what? If you had anything to do with Richard’s murder, please tell me. You know I’ll forgive you. We never used to keep secrets like this from each other. Please help me understand.”

“I kept you safe. That’s the one thing I got right, the one thing I’m proud of. Even the Colonel would have finally been proud of me,” he added, referring to their father.

“Dad loved you,” Rosemary insisted.

“Maybe. But he wasn’t real thrilled having a drug addict for a son, was he? But I took action. The way he would have.” His gaze darted around the room, as if checking for eavesdroppers, before his light brown eyes focused on her and he dropped his voice to a whisper. “For the last time, I killed that lady reporter to protect you.”

Understanding far more about tragedy and violence and not being able to protect herself and her loved ones more than she’d ever wanted to, Rosemary brushed aside the escaping wisps of her copper-red hair and leaned forward, pressing the argument. “Dad wouldn’t have wanted you to commit murder. I didn’t even know that woman. That’s what doesn’t make any sense. What kind of threat was she to me?”