Susan Peterson - Primary Suspect

The girl’s hair was long and clung close to her head, as if she had just stepped from a shower. She waved.

Kylie lifted a hand and waved back, wondering what the girl was doing alone in the dark, drafty upper halls of the resort.

“Who are you waving at?” Michael asked.

“That girl, on the top floor.” She pointed to the spot.

Michael glanced upward. “There’s no one there, Kylie. You must have seen a shadow.”

She looked up again, her eyes sweeping the length of the top floor. The windows were all empty, the small face pressed to the window moments ago, gone.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled and uneasiness rushed through her. Had she imagined the face?

“I could have sworn there was someone up there.”

“Not possible. We keep the top two floors closed off during the winter months.”

Kylie shivered. Perhaps returning to Cloudspin had been a mistake.

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For Emmitt & Odin

May you find life as sweet and joyful

as you are to your loving parents.

Have a wonderful life, little guys.

A special thanks to Ann Drobnik for

taking the great pictures of the East Village.

A devoted Star Trek fan, Susan Peterson wrote her first science-fiction novel at the age of thirteen. But unlike other Star Trek fan writers, in Susan’s novel, she made sure that Mr. Spock fell in love. Unfortunately, what she didn’t take into consideration was the fact that falling in love and pursuing a life of total logic didn’t exactly go hand in hand. In any case, it was then that she realized that she was a hopeless romantic—a person who needed the happily ever after ending. But it wasn’t until later in life, after pursuing careers in intensive-care nursing and school psychology that Susan finally found the time to pursue a career in writing. An ardent fan of psychological thrillers and suspense, Susan combined her love of romance and suspense into several manuscripts targeted to the Harlequin Intrigue line. Getting the go-ahead to write for this line was a dream come true for her.

Susan lives in a small town in northern New York with her son, Kevin, her nutball dog, Ozzie, Phoenix the cat and Lex the six-toed menace (a new kitten). Susan loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at SusanPetersonHI@aol.com or visit her Web site at www.susanpeterson.net.

Kylie McKee—All she wanted was to return to Cloudspin Lodge, pack her deceased father’s belongings and leave. But something—or someone—is determined to see that she stays. Perhaps permanently.

Michael T. Emerson—The prime suspect in a string of bizarre murders, Michael retreats to his favorite vacation spot and childhood haunt, Cloudspin Lodge. But the murders seem destined to follow him there, making him question his own sanity and the possibility that he is the killer.

Detective John Denner—A seasoned New York City detective, he’s determined to find the evidence to put Michael Emerson away for life.

Nikki Greenley—Cool, sophisticated and self-assured, Nikki isn’t shy about going after what she wants, and she wants Michael Emerson. If that means following him up to the remote lodge buried in the mountains, then so be it.

Gracie Greenley—Shy, withdrawn and reeling from the effects of a difficult childhood filled with guilt and shame, Gracie reluctantly returns to Cloudspin Lodge with her sister, Nikki.

Craig Templer—Pompous manager of Cloudspin Lodge, he isn’t happy with the invasion of unexpected guests during the lodge’s off-season, especially since Michael Emerson ultimately has plans to fire him.

Andrea Greenley—Ghost child. The victim of a tragic accident eleven years ago, Andrea haunts the grounds of the old Adirondack lodge.

Steven Howe, Reggie Dumont, Heather Barlowe and Leslie McMasters—Nikki Greenley’s faithful posse and fellow party revelers. They’ll follow her wherever she goes…even if it’s back to the place where all their lives changed.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Fog rolled in off the Hudson River, cloaking the darkened streets with a thick, choking mist of white. The limo turned onto Barrow Street and the tires hissed on the slick pavement.

Michael Emerson stared out the window, noting that the quaint buildings lining his street seemed to waver, appearing and disappearing within the grayish mist. It was an eerie effect, almost haunting.

He glanced away from the tinted windows and rested his head back against the soft leather seat. He tried to ignore the dull ache that pounded directly behind his eyes.

Heat poured through the vents, but the warmth seemed incapable of killing the chilling dampness that flooded the interior of the car.

Michael massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers, a futile attempt to relieve the pressure. But the pain and pressure remained, the intensity increasing with each passing minute.

The headache had started during cocktails and continued on through dinner. The crush of the crowd and the overly loud music at the benefit dinner hadn’t helped matters. At one point, he had excused himself from the head table and gone to the men’s room. He hadn’t wanted to take anything, willing himself to withstand the pressure. A punishment of sorts, a condemnation of his carelessness. There was no getting around the feeling that the fall while rock climbing had been a stupid mistake.

Disgusted, he shook his head. World-class climber and he’d fallen on a simple rock face he’d climbed a million times before without incident. A disastrous climb that had resulted in the death of one of his good friends. Served him right that he suffered from headaches.

But recriminations were useless and he had realized that during dinner. In the end, he had relented, downing two painkillers his physician had given him after the accident, acutely aware that he had a speech to deliver.

Unfortunately the medication had produced no noticeable change, and he had ended up losing time while in the men’s room.

Blank time. A yawning space of emptiness.

For how long, he wasn’t sure. Twenty minutes? A half hour? An hour? All he remembered was standing over the sink in the cold stark bathroom, fighting a sucking, clawing pit of pain that had seemed determined to pull him under.

When he finally returned to the table, he was relieved that no one commented on his absence. Mainly due to the fact that they were all feeling pretty good, well into their third or fourth bottle of wine.

So, he had sat down and picked up where he’d left off, thinking to himself that it was as if time had stood still for a brief second.

“Looks like trouble up ahead, sir,” his driver’s voice broke over the intercom, interrupting Michael’s thoughts.