Shades of Truth

Kim’s expression hardened. “I was thinking about the damage that rumors of a hit-and-run by a former resident would do to the manor. I don’t expect you to understand, Ethan. You’ve only been here a day. You couldn’t possibly care about the manor’s survival the way I do.”

The woman was as loyal and compassionate as they came. How could he have suspected her of trying to protect a drug dealer?

“I’m sorry, Kim. I was out of line. Believe me, I want to help you.” More importantly, he wanted to get her out of here before the police connected her—or him—to the shooting. The last thing he needed was a cop unraveling his cover. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

In the meantime, he needed descriptions of the kids vandalizing Kim’s car, because chances were good one of them had shot Blake, or had seen who did. And Ethan needed to talk to them before the wrong cop got to them. Or Kim.

Witnesses in this case had a bad habit of showing up dead.

SHADES

of TRUTH

SANDRA ORCHARD

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The former things will not be remembered, nor will they come to mind.

—Isaiah 65:17

To Kate Weichelt, story doctor extraordinaire

and a real-life heroine, who lost her 20+ year battle with cancer this past summer. She remains a true inspiration to all who knew her.

Thanks to

My husband, Michael, for his unwavering support

and encouragement. And to my children. You’re the best!

To Beth Fahnestock, the inspiration

for my heroine’s career and the untiring answerer of all my job-related questions.

To my critiquers and brainstorming buddies,

Kate Weichelt, Vicki Talley McCollum, Wenda Dottridge and Laurie Benner for their encouragement and invaluable suggestions.

To my prayer warriors, Angie Breidenbach,

Lisa Jamieson and Patti Jo Moore.

And most importantly, thanks to my Lord Jesus

for the greatest love of all.

Taking this undercover assignment in Miller’s Bay, Ontario, was a bad idea. Too many reminders of his own screwed-up youth.

Ethan Reed trailed Darryl Corbett, the son of the detention facility’s founder, into the yard full of teenage boys. The mixed teams of staff and residents on the baseball field underscored the center’s buddylike approach to rehabilitation, but the barbed-wire perimeter glinting in the summer sun hammered home the reality.

While Darryl itemized the characteristics that set Hope Manor apart from government-run facilities, Ethan’s thoughts drifted to the reason for his secret recruitment from outside the Canadian border town’s tight-knit police force. Whoever was luring residents into becoming drug pushers had inside connections. Inside the manor. And inside the police force.

At first glance the youths looked like average kids in their saggy pants and oversize T-shirts, minus iPods dangling from their ears and ball caps askew on their heads. But Ethan didn’t miss the hand signals gang members flashed when they thought no one was watching, or the scars on their faces from fighting, or the burns on their skin from initiations.

The facility forbade wearing gang colors, but restrained rivalry was evident in their defiant swaggers and icy stare downs. They tried to look tough, but most of them were cowards who saw nothing wrong with three guys swarming a lone stray, like a pack of wolves circling their dinner.

A foul ball bounced in front of Darryl, who tossed it to the kid on the pitcher’s mound. “Basically, you’re expected to engage the residents in whatever activities interest them. If you’re any good at coaxing them to open up to you and talk out their problems, all the better.”

Ethan grunted. He’d better be good at getting the boys to talk, because whoever was recruiting these kids had neglected to mention short life expectancy in the job description.

An engine’s roar ricocheted off the brick building. Then a scream—urgent, terrified and female—pierced the air.

Ethan’s attention snapped to the perimeter, but a wall of pine trees blocked his view.

“That sounded like Kim,” Darryl said. “My sister.”

Ethan sprinted for the gate and yanked on the lock. “You got a key?”

“No!” Darryl raced for the building.

Ethan pictured the maze of locked corridors between them and the front exit and dug his fingers into the chain link. “I’ll meet you out front.” He bolted up the fifteen-foot fence, crushed the slanted barbed wire in his fist and vaulted over the top. Pine needles scratched his arms and face on the way down. He crashed through the trees, cresting the hill in three seconds flat. Not quickly enough to ID the vehicle squealing away. But soon enough to glimpse the blip of its single brake light rounding the corner. A few strides further, he spotted a woman wearing shorts and a sky-blue jogging tank crumpled in the ditch. Her muddied running shoe lay inches from a tire track carved in the dirt.

He skidded down the grassy embankment still slick from last night’s storm. A hit-and-run outside his newest undercover gig. Coincidence?