Jenness Walker - Double Take

“You’re welcome,” Cole whispered.

Kenzie didn’t answer. Until he started to rise. He wanted to stay–to make sure she stayed safe and kept breathing those slow even breaths. But he didn’t belong here with her.

“Don’t leave,” she whispered, her eyes still closed.

Cole swallowed the lump in his throat and settled back in his chair, her hand cradled carefully in his. Why hadn’t he picked up that novel sooner? If he’d just allowed himself to trust his instincts, Kenzie’s ordeal would have been shorter.

He shook his head. Kenzie would live to see another day, to light up the world with her smile. He had not been too late. That would have to be enough. Her nightmare was over.

Or was it?

JENNESS WALKER

has always loved a good story. She grew up scouting around her grandparents’ basement for something good to read. Today she doesn’t feel complete if she doesn’t have a book nearby. When she’s not reading or writing, she enjoys hanging out with her husband, playing with her part-time dog and planning trips to explore small-town America.

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Not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according to His mercy He saved us.

—Titus 3:5

To my family—Mom and Dad; my brothers,

Ben and Anthony; and my husband, Jason—

for your never-failing encouragement, support

and love. Thanks for believing in me.

I owe a big thank-you to Detective Mark Weaver, the perfect consultant. I owe you a lifetime of Coldstone Creamery gift cards. Also, I need to thank Dave, my mechanic; the nurses who made sure my heroine didn’t accidentally die of infection; and my writing buddies—Cathy, Ava and Faith.

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

If her car hadn’t died that morning, Monique might not have, either. But the car died. Monique boarded a bus. And the fight for her life began.

Cole Leighton shifted on the bench and closed Obsession to study the cover. Surely the author hadn’t given away the ending already. He’d never read a Warren Flint thriller, but this one caught his attention for some reason. Maybe because of the high praise or the blurb on the back. More likely because of the cover model. He glanced at her one more time: back pressed against a wall, delicate fingers splayed against the concrete block, slim figure silhouetted by a streetlight. But it was her face that held him. The wide eyes, the fear-laced expression partially hidden by dark hair blowing in a slight breeze. She drew him in.

Heels clicked against the sidewalk. A woman advanced toward the bus stop, gesturing with one hand while holding a phone to her ear.

“Mom, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it…” Exaggerated patience sounded in her tone. “Yes, I know this is your last day in town, but my car just gave up the ghost. I’ll be there, but I’m running late. Okay?”

So much for some quiet reading time. Cole gazed at the road, watching for the bus as she snapped her phone closed and sat down beside him.

She broke an awkward pause with a polite “How are you?”

He was in the middle of Atlanta. Smelling diesel fumes, fighting crowds and wishing for the hot Texas air. But he nodded and said, “Fine.”

Her cell phone rang again. She groaned and silenced the ring. “Ever had one of those days where everything goes wrong?” she asked.

A wry smile tugged at Cole’s lips, and he nodded. He finally turned to look her full in the face, then blinked. She looked hauntingly familiar. Where…?

She gave him a small smile.

Sucking in a breath, he tilted his head and studied her. Dark hair fell in shiny waves past her shoulders. A pale face with wide, sad eyes—

Those eyes narrowed. “Something wrong?”

Heat swept his face. Cole shook his head and looked away, down at Obsession’s cover again. She could be the model’s twin.

Weird.

“Oh, good. Here it comes.”

His bench partner pointed to a bus with orange stripes and a turquoise MARTA sign as it rounded the corner. Cole gathered his things and walked to the curb as the bus arrived. But hesitated before following her up the bus steps.

She chose a seat near the front, but, face still burning, Cole strode down the aisle. About halfway back, he dropped into an empty seat beside a James Earl Jones look-alike. His chest abnormally tight, Cole reached for the novel again.

She sat near the front and crossed her legs. One of her shoelaces dangled in the aisle, swinging like a slow pendulum as other passengers walked by. She studied the pedestrians outside the window, the way sunlight played off the apartment windows, the angle of the bus driver’s hat, the warm leather of a passenger’s jacket. She thought she should take a picture to help her remember this day for the rest of her life, every part of it.

She didn’t.

But she would remember anyway.

The bus lurched forward, and Monique braced her hand against the seat in front of her. The gray fabric itched, but she held on, leaning into a curve. When the tree-lined road wound out of the commercial area—

Cole looked up from the page and stared at the gray fabric on the seat in front of him. Maybe he shouldn’t be reading this. Not right here, right now, on a bus with the heroine’s twin sitting in the second-row aisle seat. It was kind of like watching an in-flight movie with a plane crash somewhere in its plotline.

When Cole didn’t settle back into the book, his seatmate took that as a cue to talk. “Beautiful day, ain’t it, son? Makes me glad to be alive.”

Cole followed the man’s gaze to the window as the bus rounded a corner. Rays of sunlight spread through thick tree-cover, dancing over the grass of an undeveloped area.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled.

“Reminds me of home.” A soft smile transformed the old man’s face. “Back when my wife was alive, we used to—”

The bus swerved off the main road and ground to a halt. Out of the corner of his eye, Cole caught a flash of light—the sun glinting off metal.

This could not be happening.

But it was.

“Put your hands on the seat in front of you,” a man’s voice grated out. “Everyone! Hands on the seat where I can see them.”

Cole spotted a second masked gunman just as a bullet tore through the roof of the bus. Someone screamed.