Mallory Kane - High School Reunion

“I’m taking you back to my house and locking you in.”

“Lock me in? Not a chance. In fact, I think I’ll run back over to the crime scene.”

“The hell you will. Okay fine. We’ll review the files together.”

“Good. I’m glad you finally see it my way.”

Cade shook his head. “Trust me, Gillespie. I do not see it your way. That’s not why I’m doing this.”

“It’s not? Then why are you?”

“Maybe it doesn’t mean much to you that someone’s obviously trying to harm you, but it does to me.”

That stopped her. Laurel’s eyes widened. “It does?”

“Yeah.” Feeling flayed open by his unintentional revelation, he scrambled to think of a flip answer. “Yeah. Because if anyone around here is going to shoot or strangle you, it’s going to be me.”

For my brave, heroic mother.

Mama, I miss you every day.

Mallory Kane credits her love of books to her mother, a librarian, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her grandfather and her father were steeped in the Southern tradition of oral history, and they could hold an audience spellbound with their storytelling skills. Mallory aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father. She loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and often uses her medical background to add an extra dose of intrigue to her books. Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband, their two fascinating cats, and, at current count, seven computers.

She loves to hear from readers. You can write her at mallory@mallorykane.com or care of Harlequin Books.

Cade Dupree—When his older brother died and his dad had a stroke, Dusty Springs Police Chief Cade Dupree gave up his FBI career to return home for his father’s sake.

Laurel Gillespie—A forensic criminologist with the FBI’s Division of Unsolved Mysteries in Washington, D.C.

Kathy Adler—A closet alcoholic and the leader of the Cool Girls clique in high school, Kathy has the other girls under her thumb. Did she use them to pull off the ultimate humiliation of a geeky classmate—a faked suicide that was really murder?

Mary Sue Nelson—One of the Cool Girls. Is her silly, blond-bimbo persona real, or a clever act that hides a sinister intelligence?

Debra Honeycutt—Quiet and sweet, Cool Girl Debra may have been caught up in a high-school prank gone bad. But someone thinks she knows too much.

Sheryl Posey—The fourth Cool Girl is a cagey survivor who figured out a long time ago that survival meant becoming a hired gun. Whoever can do her the most good gets her loyalty. Did she kill to protect what she knows?

Ralph Langston—A self-remade high school nerd wanted the prestigious Science Medal for himself. Was he jealous enough to commit murder and cover it up as a suicide? Or is he just an opportunist cashing in on another’s secret?

Ann Noble—The super-efficient secretary to the mayor of Dusty Springs hides a lot under her practical suits and glasses. But does she know anything about the death or is she bluffing?

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

FBI Special Agent Laurel Gillespie rang her friend’s doorbell for the third time.

“Come on, Misty,” she muttered. “Answer the door.”

She rested her hand on her Glock .23 and eyed the carved, wooden front door. No way could she break it down. But she remembered from childhood that the Wallers’ back door was half glass—one quick whack with the butt of her gun and she could be inside.

She rubbed the back of her neck. It had been prickling ever since she’d driven into Dusty Springs. She didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to run into anyone she knew from high school.

“Come on, Misty. Where are you?” Laurel knew Misty Waller as well as she knew herself. Her best friend from grade school was dependable to a fault—practically obsessive-compulsive. It wasn’t in her nature not to be where she said she’d be.

Laurel had called her as soon as she’d landed in Memphis, just like they’d agreed. But Misty hadn’t answered—not her home phone or her cell.

So Laurel had picked up her rental car and driven the forty-five miles south to Dusty Springs, Mississippi, in record time. She’d called several more times, but Misty had never answered.

Something was wrong. And that was why she’d tucked her paddle holster into her waistband at the small of her back before she’d approached the door.

She rang the doorbell one last time. The chime echoed hollowly throughout the house.

She drew her weapon and carefully turned the doorknob, expecting resistance. It turned!

Instinctively, she flattened her back against the door facing as her boss’s voice echoed in her ears. Every suspicious circumstance is a crime scene until you prove it’s not.

And right now, too many things weren’t adding up. Misty never left a door unlocked.

Carefully, she nudged the door open, cringing when the hinges creaked. She angled inside, leading with her weapon, her senses on full alert. The sight that greeted her in the foyer sent alarm thrumming through her.

Scraps of paper littered the floor, lit by the blue glow that flickered from the living room to her left.

TV with no sound. Another habit of Misty’s from high school. She’d always studied in front of the TV with the sound turned off.

But not with the lights off.

Laurel pressed her back against the wall, prepared to lead with her gun. A muffled thud sent her heart rate soaring.

“FBI,” she called. “I’m coming in. Identify yourself.”

A plaintive yowl echoed through the doorway. A cat. Of course. Misty had always had a cat.

Taking a deep breath to steady her pulse, Laurel stepped around the door facing, her Glock at the ready. The cat bumped her leg.

On the floor in front of the couch, silhouetted in the TV’s eerie glow, she saw a crumpled form. Her fingers tightened on her weapon and her heart rate doubled. “Misty? Is that you?”

No response.

She fought to keep her breathing even. Training had taught her that danger sent the pulse sky high—three-hundred beats per minute or more. But training also taught her how to control it. She had to keep her cool.

She felt for the light switch but couldn’t find it. Swinging her weapon around one more time, she squinted in the dim blue light. The living room looked like the day after a ticker-tape parade. Photos and scraps of paper were scattered everywhere. No sound reached her ears except the discordant hum of an ancient window air conditioner.

She eyed the body on the floor with growing apprehension. “Misty?”

Nothing. She crossed the room, careful to keep her back to the wall and her finger on the trigger. One glance at the woman’s pale face and hair told her it was her friend. Blood blackened the left side of her head.

She held her breath and watched Misty’s chest. There—a faint flutter.

Thank heavens. Misty was alive. Laurel hated to leave her friend lying in her own blood, but neglecting the basics could get them both killed.

So, gripping her weapon more tightly, Laurel edged her way through the dining room and into the kitchen. She quickly and efficiently cleared the house.

Whoever had attacked Misty was gone.

Back in the den, she knelt beside her friend. “Misty? Honey? Can you hear me?”