Tracy Montoya - House Of Secrets

He hurled his weight to the right until he felt the solid connection of the wall against his shoulder. Glass-covered pictures of women holding calla lilies rattled in their frames from the impact.

Just get out. Just don’t remember. Don’t ever remember.

And then the door swung open, and Emma stood before him, haloed by the golden light of a California Indian summer afternoon.

“What are you…?” she began, taking two steps toward him with those impossibly long legs of hers. “Are you okay?”

Before he could stop himself, Joe let his forehead drop down to rest on her thin shoulder. A minute. He just needed a minute and then he could talk to her and pretend everything was normal. He breathed in the warm, peaceful scent of the shampoo she used and, just for a moment, he was himself again.

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For Roselyn Rysavy

(the real Scrabble Champion of the World)

and Jerry Rysavy, the greatest grandparents ever. Love you.

Harlequin Intrigue author Tracy Montoya is a magazine editor for a crunchy nonprofit in Washington, D.C., though at present she’s telecommuting from her house in Seoul, Korea. She lives with a psychotic cat, a lovable yet daft Lhasa apso and a husband who’s turned their home into the Island of Lost/Broken/Strange-Looking Antiques. A member of the National Association of Hispanic Journalists and the Society of Environmental Journalists, Tracy has written about everything from Booker Prizewinning poet Martín Espada to socially responsible mutual funds to soap opera summits. Her articles have appeared in a variety of publications, such as Hope, Utne Reader, Satya, YES!, Natural Home, and New York Naturally. Prior to launching her journalism career, she taught in an under-resourced school in Louisiana through the AmeriCorps Teach for America program.

Tracy holds a master’s degree in English literature from Boston College and a B.A. in the same from St. Mary’s University. When she’s not writing, she likes to scuba dive, forget to go to kickboxing class, wallow in bed with a good book or get out her new guitar with a group of friends and pretend she’s Suzanne Vega.

She loves to hear from readers—e-mail

TracyMontoya@aol.com or visit www.tracymontoya.com.

Joe Lopez—After witnessing his mother’s murder at age ten, his mind coped by erasing all memory of early childhood. But now, the man without a past is seeking answers—or maybe they’re seeking him.

Emma Jensen Reese—An English professor at St. Xavier University, Emma learns that the old Victorian home she so lovingly restored was the house where Joe spent his childhood.

Daniela and Ramon Lopez—Twenty-five years ago, they were murdered, leaving behind four children who are still searching for answers…and each other.

The Whistling Man—With a penchant for whistling Sinatra, he shadows Joe with an obvious intent to inflict harm.

Detective Daniel Rodriguez—A member of Homicide Special, the Los Angeles Police Department’s elite detective unit, Rodriguez manages to show up whenever trouble comes calling. Does he really want to help, or is the detective hiding something?

Senator Wade Allen—An extramarital affair made him the victim of blackmail. Did he order the Lopezes killed to save his political career?

Amelia Rosemont Allen—Married to Senator Allen, Amelia will do anything to support her husband.

Mavis Richards—The “other woman” in Senator Allen’s past has put the past behind her. Or has she?

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Twenty-five years ago

When the glass of her basement window shattered late one Sunday night, Daniela Lopez’s face barely registered surprise. Mainly because she didn’t feel any.

Daniela sat in the dark on the unforgiving hardwood staircase inside her Victorian home, only her eyes moving as they scanned the front door. Then the foyer. Then the inky blackness of her front hallway.

Silence.

Her thumb clicked off the safety of her off-duty Smith & Wesson—the only gun she had left after taking an extended leave of absence from work. At least she could be grateful they hadn’t sent a real professional after her. The spectacular crash the intruder had made upon entering her house gave her a small bit of comfort. Maybe she’d actually survive the night. Maybe buy herself enough time to put the last piece of the puzzle in place, to put the ones who’d murdered her husband behind bars forever. To keep the rest of her family safe.

God, she missed them. She wanted to smell the sweet baby softness of Sabrina’s hair. She wanted to scoop up both her twin boys, Patricio and Daniel, and read that ridiculous Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel book to them for the hundredth time. And, despite the fact that ten-year-old José Javier thought he was a man already, she would have held him close and sang him to sleep had he only been there beside her.

But her children were safe at her friend Jasmine’s house. And she was here. Alone in the dark.

Creak.

The unmistakable sound of pressure on the loose board at the foot of the basement stairs told her she didn’t have long to wait. She trained her gun on the doorway to the kitchen.

A few more days. Just give me a few more days. She was so close to finding out who’d ripped her family apart as if they were a chain of paper dolls. She could feel it.

She heard a soft footfall on the kitchen linoleum.

And stay away from my children, she prayed silently.

“Mama?”

She nearly dropped her gun when the tiny, boyish voice called out to her. “José?” Daniela sprang off the staircase and vaulted down the stairs to the hallway. Sure enough, there stood her oldest son, bundled in a Lakers jacket two sizes too large for him. His big, guilty eyes stared up at her under the too-long bangs of his shaggy black hair. Light from the streetlamps filtered through the slats of the window blinds, illuminating the hammer José clenched in his right fist. No doubt it was the same hammer that had smashed through glass moments before.

“Nene, what are you doing here?” she asked gently, switching on the safety of her gun. She pulled up the back of the gray LAPD T-shirt she was wearing and stuffed the Smith & Wesson in the back of her jeans.

“I don’t like you all alone here, Mama.” He crossed his arms, hammer and all, and braced his feet wide apart, his dark brown eyes all defiance. Her little man. “Not after what happened to Papi.”

Daniela’s heart clenched at the mention of her children’s father. “Corazon, I need you to go back to Jasmine’s. It’s not safe for you here.” She tugged him into the living room, where an inexpensive cordless phone lay on the end table near the terrible orange-flowered sofa the boys had picked out for her last birthday. “I’m going to call—”