Memory Of Murder

Her mouth was soft and yielding, warm against his. He felt her hand trembling slightly where it touched his waist, just above his belt, and shivers spread out from that spot and rippled across his skin.

He knew a moment of pure panic, fearing he’d lost track of time and that the kiss had already lasted much longer than it should.

But he did end it, somehow, then whispered, “Bye…call you later, okay?”

She nodded and laughed—an uneven whisper of sound.

Then he was walking away from her, jangled on adrenalin and the alarm going off inside his head. Back off! Back off!

He had made what amounted to an unforgiveable mistake—forgetting the Joe Friday mantra: Just the facts, ma’am.

Dear Reader,

All authors know, when it comes to characters and plots, that sometimes there are surprises. A relatively minor character can develop a voice and demand his or her own story. Plot twists we never expected can present themselves and give us those wonderful “lightbulb” moments. Oh, we love those moments.

One such moment occurred to me when I was writing the fourth—and what I had assumed would be the last—book in the series THE TAKEN. As Holt Kincaid was explaining to Billie how his parents had disappeared without a trace when he was only five years old, I knew—I just knew—I could not leave that mystery unsolved.

Thus began a series of “what if” that grew into a whole new love story I think you will find as compelling to read as it was to write. This is really two love stories, one long past, one present, woven together in a tapestry of love and loss, forgiveness and redemption, of families torn apart and then reunited in the midst of tragedy. Most of all, it is a story about second chances.

Enjoy,

Kathleen Creighton

has roots deep in the California soil but has relocated to South Carolina. As a child, she enjoyed listening to old timer’s tales, and her fascination with the past only deepened as she grew older. Today, she says she is interested in everything—art, music, gardening, zoology, anthropology and history, but people are at the top of her list. She also has a lifelong passion for writing, and now combines all her loves in romance novels.

For Gary,

My love forever and always.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.

FBI Files, Restricted Access, Declassified 2010 I have always known this day would come.

Las Vegas, Nevada

“I was five years old. I remember it because I’d just had my birthday party. My parents took me to a park, and there was a pony.” Holt’s smile flickered briefly. “I think that was the first and last time I was ever on a horse. Anyway, a couple of days later, my parents left me with a babysitter and went out to dinner and a movie, and never came back.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, it was a moment before it registered. Brenna did a little double take, then whispered, “What happened? Was it a car crash?”

His hand continued its idle journey up and down her arm. “Their car was found in the movie theater parking lot. My parents never were. They just…disappeared.”

She stared at him, appalled, half disbelieving. “That’s…crazy. People don’t just…disappear.”

“Actually, they do,” Holt Kincaid said. “More often than you’d suppose.”

First let me say, I am not a monster. What I did, I did for reasons I thought were very good ones, at the time.

Excerpt from the confession of Alexi K.

FBI Files, Restricted Access,

Declassified 2010

San Diego, California

Three years later

Alan Cameron’s day began, as it all too often did, with a body. Three of them, actually. They came that way sometimes, in bunches.

It was now past noon, and one of those cases, that of seventeen-year-old Juan Miguel Alviera—whose badly beaten and bullet-riddled body had been found in an alley between a couple of abandoned cars—had been turned over to the Gang Unit. The other two, Walter and Louise Marchetti—found in their own bed by a concerned neighbor, both victims of single gunshot wounds to the head—had tentatively been ruled a murder-suicide, pending the autopsy results. All that was left of that one was filling out the report, which Alan was going to have to take care of himself, since his partner, Carl Taketa, was currently enjoying the pleasures of Cancún with his new bride, Alicia.

Like most cops, Alan hated paperwork. Making this seem to him like a good time to grab some lunch.

He logged off, indulged in a quick stretch and was reaching for his jacket when he heard a soft throat-clearing followed by a hesitant, “Excuse me—are you Detective Cameron?”

He swiveled in his chair, eyebrows politely raised. “I am.”

The woman was standing a short distance away between two unoccupied cubicles, looking as though she’d rather be anywhere else but where she was. Not uncommon, in his experience, for people who came looking to speak to a homicide detective.