Marta Perry - How Secrets Die

Dear Reader Dear Reader DEDICATION EPIGRAPH 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 CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE GRANDMA’S HOMEMADE NOODLES EXTRACT COPYRIGHT , I’m so glad you decided to read the final book in my Blackburn House series. I’ve especially enjoyed writing this series because I’ve been able to pick up pieces from real Pennsylvania small towns to incorporate in the stories, which makes the setting very real to me. In fact, the clock tower on the cover is actually the clock tower on Main Street in the town where I live! In How Secrets Die, police chief Mac Whiting finally meets his match in a woman who is just as stubbornly determined to do the right thing as he is. After getting to know Mac in the two earlier books, I hope you enjoy watching as he and Kate battle each other as well as the forces of wrong to find their own happily-ever-after. Please let me know how you feel about my story. I’d be happy to send you a signed bookmark and my brochure of Pennsylvania Dutch recipes. You can email me at marta@martaperry.com, visit me at www.Facebook.com/martaperrybooks or at www.martaperry.com , or write to me at HQN Books, 195 Broadway, 24th FL, New York, NY 10007. Blessings,

DEDICATION This story is dedicated to my husband, who always believes in me, with much love.

EPIGRAPH Death isn’t the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside of us while we live. —Amish proverb

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

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

GRANDMA’S HOMEMADE NOODLES

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

A CEMETERY SHOULD be a place where people were buried—not where they died. Kate Beaumont, confronted so unexpectedly with the place Jason had chosen to end his life, stopped the car in mid-traffic, earning an irritated honk from the driver behind her as he was forced to come to a halt, as well.

The driver circled her, looking annoyed but refraining from the rude gesture she anticipated. Apparently drivers were a bit more polite in a small town like Laurel Ridge, Pennsylvania, than they were in the city. Her hands were shaking, and not from the sudden stop. She pulled off the road near the stone wall that encircled the graveyard.

Ridiculous, to let just the sight of the place send her into a tailspin. She was tougher than that, wasn’t she? But while she could face down a recalcitrant politician or an irate citizen in search of a story, she couldn’t maintain that level of detachment where her younger brother’s death was concerned.

Kate took a long breath, fighting to still the tremors that shook her. She focused on the scene facing her, thinking of how she’d describe it for a newspaper article.

Laurel Ridge’s cemetery covered the top of a rounded hill at the eastern end of town. Spreading maples, their leaves already turning color, shielded gray tombstones. Some of the stones were worn and tilted, their lettering eroded, while others were new enough to make it obvious the cemetery was still in use. The whole place had a well-tended air, the grass mown, with beds of gold-and-burgundy chrysanthemums blossoming here and there.

Which was the stone Jason had leaned against when he’d taken that fatal dose of pain meds and swallowed that final mouthful of whiskey? She could find it, she supposed, since the name had shown clearly in the newspaper photo she’d scanned online. But looking at the spot wouldn’t lead her to any answers.

Movement reflected in the rearview mirror startled her, and her stomach tightened as she realized a police car had pulled up behind her. Great. All she needed was to draw official attention to herself before she’d even begun the task that brought her here.

An officer slid from the vehicle and started toward her. Taking a firm grip on her nerves, Kate planted a smile on her face and hit the button to roll down her window.

She was about to speak when a closer look at the man’s uniform gave her another shock. The lettering on his pocket read M. Whiting. McKinley Whiting, then. Chief of Police in this backwater town, and the man who’d dismissed her little brother’s death as just another druggie overdosing himself.

Kate gritted her teeth, fighting to keep her feelings from showing as she looked up at the man. Tall and lean, he had dark hair in a military-style cut and a jaw that conveyed determination. He didn’t affect the dark sunglasses so many cops did, and his brown eyes studied her, missing nothing, she felt sure.

“Are you having car trouble, ma’am?” His voice was a bass rumble.

“No, not at all. Is there a problem?”

“You can’t park here.” He nodded to the no-parking sign directly in front of her fender. “If you’re interested in the cemetery, you can turn in at the gate just ahead. You’ll find a gravel pull-off where you can park, if you want.”

“I don’t.” Kate’s tone was sharper than she intended, but she couldn’t seem to control the spurt of temper. “Can’t a visitor to your town stop to get her bearings without being harassed?”

Reading the surprise in his face, she clamped her lips shut before she could make matters worse. She’d overdone it—lost her cool and let her feelings show. The last thing she wanted was to rouse the suspicions of the local cop before she’d been in town for five minutes.

“Sorry,” she muttered before he could speak. “I didn’t mean...”

“No problem.” He said the words easily, but his brown eyes were watchful. “I wasn’t trying to harass you. If you’re lost, I’ll be glad to help you find your way, Ms....”

He left it hanging there, obviously intent on learning her name. For the first time she was glad her name wouldn’t connect her with Jason Reilley.

“Kate Beaumont.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Beaumont. I’m Mac Whiting.” She could see him stowing her name away in the filing cabinet of his mind. “Coming to visit someone here in Laurel Ridge?”

“No.” Guilt and grief were a powerful combination. She should have. If she’d come to visit Jason the summer he’d spent here, maybe he’d still be alive.

That was the danger of loving someone. It hurt too much when you let them down.

Whiting’s eyes were probing again. If she’d worn a sign, it probably wouldn’t have been more obvious that she was hiding something.

Kate swallowed hard and tried for a normal tone. “I’ve been driving for several hours. I just thought I’d find a place for lunch.”

He nodded, again with that watchful look. Protective, that was what it was. As if his town might need protecting against her. Well, maybe it did.

“Turn left just ahead, and you’ll be on Main Street. There’s a café a few blocks down on your left, across from the bed-and-breakfast.” He pointed, leaning against the car as he did so, and she had a sudden sensation of masculine power in his nearness. “The Buttercup. I can vouch for the food, and the prices are reasonable.”

She hadn’t expected that casual reference to the bed-and-breakfast, and it shook her. Would it be the same one where Jason had stayed when he came to Laurel Ridge? If so, it was going to be one of her first stops.

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