Jill Elizabeth - Shake Down

HOUSE OF SECRETS

To clear his imprisoned father’s name, Shane Gillum must find evidence hidden in a Martha’s Vineyard cottage. But he arrives to find the “vacant” property being prepped for sale by real estate agent Janice Swenson. Is she tied to the notorious owners? Or is she in over her head as the “accidents” on the property grow increasingly dangerous? And who is the saboteur targeting—Shane with his search, or Janice with her dark, hidden past? With so much at stake, trusting Janice is a huge risk...but keeping silent about the cottage’s mysteries could mire them both in a deadly scheme.

“Look out!” Janice shouted.

At a highway intersection, a midnight-blue SUV ignored a red light and roared toward her side of the lightweight car. Shane’s plunge on the accelerator plastered Janice to her seat.

His face shrouded under the bill of a wide-brimmed hat, the driver of the other vehicle laid on his horn. The blast rang in Janice’s ears as the little Ford whizzed beyond the SUV’s massive bumper.

Sucking a quavering breath into her lungs, Janice stared at Shane’s sober profile. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he kept his gaze locked on the road.

“Did you notice a license plate number?” he asked.

“I was too scared, and it happened so fast.”

She stared warily out the window at passing traffic. This was too weird. Was the whole island warning her away?

She’d left the family name and all such associations behind long ago, but did someone with a vendetta against the Morans know who she was? Unfortunately, the number of people with reason to hate the Morans—any Moran—was legion.

Did that include Shane Gillum?

JILL ELIZABETH NELSON

writes what she likes to read—faith-based tales of adventure seasoned with romance. By day she operates as housing manager for a seniors’ apartment complex. By night she turns into a wild and crazy writer who can hardly wait to jot down all the exciting things her characters are telling her, so she can share them with her readers. More about Jill and her books can be found at www.jillelizabethnelson.com. She and her husband live in rural Minnesota, surrounded by the woods and prairie and their four grown children, who have settled nearby.

Shake Down

Jill Elizabeth Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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A good name is more desirable than great riches;

To be esteemed is better than silver or gold.

—Proverbs 22:1

With prayers of compassion for the victims of crime...and for the secondary victims—the innocent families of the guilty.

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

EPILOGUE

Dear Reader,

Extract

ONE

Janice Swenson squatted on her haunches, frowning down into the ink-black hole beneath a hatch in the floor. Dank air wafted into her face and she shivered. It was too easy to imagine this whole property rotting beneath the weight of fetid family secrets.

Disposing of this cottage she’d inherited from a distant relative might prove to be more troublesome than Janice would have anticipated. At any other time in her life, she’d have sold the property, sight-unseen, and called it good riddance. But she had her reasons for coming to Martha’s Vineyard to handle the transaction personally.

If her superstitious days weren’t well behind her, Janice might be tempted to think Moran Cottage was bent on doing her in. At her first step onto the front porch, she had nearly plunged her foot through an eroded board. Then as she’d explored the walk-in kitchen pantry, a shelf let loose, tumbling expired canned goods onto her shoulders. A few aches across her back betrayed bruises forming. Now she’d wrestled open a trap door in the floor of the hallway outside the miniscule bathroom and found the cellar.

At least her decade of experience as a Realtor had prepared her to deal with little issues such as lack of power in a run-down property. Janice swiped a flashlight from her belt-loop clip, clicked it on and pointed the beam into the pit. A set of treacherously steep stairs ended in a packed-earth floor.

She frowned. If she wanted to sell this unexpected—and unwanted—inheritance, besides adding onto the bathroom and completely renovating the kitchen, she might have to invest in pouring cement down here. Those projects would eat up a lot of her budget, making it doubly important that she do as much as she could of the simpler tasks herself—basic cleaning, wall-painting, buffing and refinishing the vintage wood floors and brightening up trim and moldings.

The plank steps appeared thick and sturdy, though the pitch of the descent was almost like a ladder’s. Surely there was another entrance from outside the cottage, probably a set of those nearly flat-to-the-ground cellar doors, but why traipse through the overgrown weeds outside when access lay before her?

Janice hauled in a cleansing breath and squared her shoulders. If snakes or spiders lurked below, she might be startled for a split second, but she could thank God neither arachnophobia nor ophidiophobia numbered among her issues.

With one hand on the adjacent wall, she lowered herself and found the top step solid, though the nails emitted small creaks that echoed faintly through the darkness. She continued her descent until her head dipped below the floor then panned her flashlight around the space that yawned like a man-made cavern. Square, oaken pillars, similar to the ones that held up the porch roof, supported the floor above in strategic places. The area seemed to be as large as the entire cabin and to have no interior walls, but the flashlight beam didn’t penetrate far enough to tell.

Could she turn this space into another living area? She’d have to find a better light source to make that decision. There must be an overhead lightbulb with a string, or even a light switch, down here. It would be nice to know where it was for when the power company turned on the electricity later today—provided its staff kept their promise.

Peering intently into the shadows, hunting for that elusive bulb or light switch, Janice lowered herself onto the next step.

Crack!

The board collapsed beneath her foot, pitching her forward. A scream rent her throat and her flashlight flew away as her hands thrust out instinctively to catch her fall. She hadn’t far to go, but far enough for impact with the hard-as-cement earthen floor to rattle every bone in her body. Bright pain speared up her left arm.

Janice lay flat on her stomach, fighting breath into her lungs and groping for a coherent thought. Stupid! She’d become distracted and forgot to pay attention to the conditions in an unfamiliar environment.

Tears filled her eyes and she whimpered as she gingerly gathered herself into a sitting position. Heat banded her left wrist and she hugged the arm to her chest. Great! Now she was injured—whether a sprain or a break had yet to be determined. Either condition could incapacitate her for weeks, and she’d allowed herself only the summer to finish the work, sell the place and shake off the muck of family legacy. This time forever.