Cassie Miles - The Girl Who Couldn't Forget

SHE CAN’T STOP RELIVING THE TERRIFYING MEMORIES.

Can he protect her from a new threat?

Twelve years ago, Brooke Josephson suffered a horrifying ordeal at the hands of a brutal kidnapper. When her best friend is murdered and a chilling link between the crimes is uncovered, she will do whatever it takes to stop the killer. FBI special agent Justin Sloan can help her. The expert profiler makes Brooke feel safe...and desired. She survived before. With his love, can she put the past to rest at last?

CASSIE MILES, a USA TODAY bestselling author, lives in Colorado. After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Mills & Boon Heroes books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanic Gardens near her high-rise home.

Also by Cassie Miles

Mountain Midwife

Sovereign Sheriff

Baby Battalion

Unforgettable

Midwife Cover

Mommy Midwife

Montana Midwife

Hostage Midwife

Mountain Heiress

Snowed In

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

The Girl Who Couldn’t Forget

Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09372-9

THE GIRL WHO COULDN’T FORGET

© 2019 Kay Bergstrom

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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To all the girls who survive and thrive

in spite of tragedy.

And, as always, to Rick.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter Nineteen

About the Publisher

The petunias were dead. That was the first thing Brooke Josephson noticed when she parked at the curb. Two months ago when she’d planted the flowers, her intention was to brighten up this dull brick building and make it into a more welcoming place for Franny. Instead, the yard had become a petunia graveyard with the tortured faces of faded purple, yellow and pink blooms staring helplessly. Withered leaves reached out in silent entreaty. All they’d needed was a splash of water. August in Denver could be hot and dry, but this wasn’t the blazing Sahara.

Brooke leaped from her SUV and hurried along the sidewalk. The dead petunias were a bad omen—not enough to push her into a panic attack, but close. She had the symptoms: labored breathing, tremors, accelerated pulse and more. She paused. Slow down. Shake it off. At a more controlled pace, she proceeded toward the front door of her friend’s one-bedroom at the end of a one-story, L-shaped apartment complex.

She never should have expected Franny to take care of the plants. Her friend’s life was a wild, erratic whirl, and she’d never change. Why should she? If she was happy with chaos, so be it. Brooke loved her crazy friend like the little sister she’d never had. They even resembled each other. Of course we look alike. He chose us for our black hair and blue eyes.

It had been twelve years, but she remembered every detail. Her past was inescapable.

As she stepped onto the concrete stoop, she checked her precision quartz wristwatch. Twenty-seven minutes ago, she’d gotten Franny’s call and had responded ASAP. She’d logged off her computer, dashed to her car, checked her GPS and adjusted her route to avoid the traffic slowdown for repairs on Alameda.

And here she stood, worried and scared. But ready to save the day if need be.

She punched the doorbell and called out, “Franny, it’s me. Open up.”

Most likely, this was a lot of fuss about nothing. If so, she’d bite her tongue and wouldn’t scold. Extra caution was better than ignoring potential signs of danger, even though Brooke hated to waste time with unnecessary disruptions. Sometimes she could go a full week without leaving her house. Some people—including FBI Agent George Gimbel and her therapist—thought her behavior was borderline agoraphobic, but they didn’t understand the importance of organization. There was no such thing as being too efficient.

From inside the apartment, she heard her friend chattering in a high-pitched jumble of words. She was answered by a man’s rumbling voice. That wasn’t right! Franny didn’t date. She had no male relatives.

Brooke whipped her phone from the pocket of her khaki shorts and hit the emergency call button. Better safe than sorry. She unzipped her fanny pack and wrapped her fingers around the palm-size canister of pepper spray. “Franny, are you okay?”

She heard someone moving across the hardwood floor inside the apartment with a heavy tread; it must be the man. He was coming toward her. The pepper spray trembled in her hand. I can handle this. She had to. Nobody else would protect her and the people she loved. With the screen door open, she balanced on the balls of her feet—ready for action and glad that she’d worn sneakers instead of sandals. She braced herself. The first move would be hers.