Maggie Shayne: Kill Me Again

“A tasty, tension-packed read.”

—Publishers Weekly on Thicker Than Water

“Tense…frightening…a page-turner in the best sense.”

—RT Book Reviews on Colder Than Ice

“Mystery and danger abound in Darker Than Midnight, a fast-paced, chilling thrill read that will keep readers turning the pages long after bedtime…Suspense, mystery, danger and passion—no one does them better than Maggie Shayne.”

—Romance Reviews Today on Darker Than Midnight [winner of a Perfect 10 award]

“Maggie Shayne is better than chocolate. She satisfies every wicked craving.”

—New York Times bestselling author Suzanne Forster

“Shayne’s haunting tale is intricately woven…A moving mix of high suspense and romance, this haunting Halloween thriller will propel readers to bolt their doors at night.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Gingerbread Man

“A gripping story of small-town secrets. The suspense will keep you guessing. The characters will steal your heart.”

—New York Times bestselling author Lisa Gardner on The Gingerbread Man

“[A] crackerjack novel of romantic suspense.”

—RT Book Reviews on Kiss of the Shadow Man

To Lance, my partner, my best friend, my inspiration. You understand my craziness, you weather all my storms and you are my constant, steady, calm harbor. I wrote you into countless novels, never ever realizing that one day you would step off the pages and out of my imagination to sweep me into your strong arms. But you did. You’ve fulfilled my heart’s desire and made my dreams come true. Thank you for loving me.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Today was the day Olivia Dupree was going to meet the only man on the planet who saw life the way she did—as one long series of disappointments, as a perilous journey best navigated entirely solo—for the very first time, and she didn’t have a thing to wear.

Not that what she wore really mattered. She wasn’t that sort of fan. Not only didn’t she think he would care what she looked like, but she would also be extremely disappointed if he did.

And yet she’d given in to the inner idiotic teenager that had never been her and stood on her bed, so she could gauge her appearance in the big mirror that was part of her dresser. She didn’t own a full-length mirror. She’d never thought she needed one and still held that opinion. Her ordinary style was pretty basic. For work she wore skinny, knee-length pencil skirts with matching blazers when it was cool, and sensible pumps with two-inch heels. She kept her dark hair in a tight bun and applied her makeup in the same minimalist fashion every weekday. College English students didn’t really care what their professor looked like, after all. And she wasn’t out to capture the attention of anyone who might.

On weekends, she traded the suits for jeans, the bun for a ponytail and the makeup for sunscreen.

Now she needed something in between. Something relaxed but attractive. Not seductive, just attractive. She was not a doe-eyed, adoring fan. But she’d never met Aaron Westhaven before, and she wanted to make a good impression.

Nothing more.

Freddy, her very best friend in the entire world—and the only specimen of the male gender, canine or otherwise, she trusted with her heart—tipped his massive head from one side to the other as he watched her standing somewhat unsteadily on the mattress. Standing was not what the bed was for, he seemed to be thinking.

She glanced down at him. “It’s okay, boy. I’ll get down momentarily. And standing on the bed is still verboten when it comes to you, okay?”

He heaved a giant sigh and lowered his two-hundred-pound, brindle-patterned bulk to the floor. He was only average size for an adult male English mastiff, but even she had trouble believing how big he was, and she’d had him for three years.

She hoped Mr. Westhaven didn’t have an aversion to dogs. He hadn’t written dogs into any of his novels, so she couldn’t be sure, but she suspected he would love Freddy. Because anyone with a heart would love Freddy, and Westhaven certainly had a heart.

She felt as if she knew him well. The reclusive author’s heartbreakingly tragic novels lined her shelves and spoke to her soul. They were her own guilty little secret. But they so reflected the way she felt about life and love. You really couldn’t depend on anyone but yourself. He seemed to understand that. God knew she did.

And now she was about to meet him—right here in Shadow Falls, Vermont.

She glanced at the combination she now wore, a pair of dressy black trousers and a lavender button-down blouse with a black blazer over it. Too stiff. She unbuttoned the blazer and thought she still looked too formal. Then she took it off and thought she looked too casual.

Frustrated, she threw the blazer down by her feet. Big mistake. Freddy saw that as an invitation, sprang upright and bounded onto the bed with a giant “woof” that reverberated through her chest. The mattress sank, the box springs squeaking in protest.

“I couldn’t see anything from the waist down,” she explained, as she tried to keep her balance. He bounced in response to her words, and the mattress tidal-waved beneath her. Laughing, she fell onto her butt among the rumpled covers, and Freddy moved over her, trying to lick her face as she laughed too hard to breathe. “You’re a lug. Get down!”

He obeyed immediately, then stood there waiting for her to join him. She got down, traded the trousers for a skirt, slid her feet into a pair of sandals and looked at the clock on the nightstand, then at her wristwatch. “Gee, Freddy. Mr. Westhaven is late.” She frowned as a little knot of worry tightened in her stomach.

“He’s really late.”

And she was concerned. Because though she admired him, she didn’t entirely trust him, simply because he was male. The fact that he’d agreed to be the surprise guest speaker at the English Department’s summer fundraiser had been nothing less than a stunner. She’d invited him with every expectation that he would decline, if he replied at all. The man never made public appearances. She’d been shocked—and a little bit suspicious—when he’d accepted the invitation.

But she’d chalked that up to her own man issues, and tried to count on him to show up as promised and not pull a no-show.

Maybe that had been a mistake.

Time would tell, she supposed. She brushed the dog hairs off her lavender blouse and exchanged it for a sleeveless silk shell in jade green. It would just have to do.

Samuel Overton wasn’t supposed to be driving at all without his mom in the car, much less driving a big Ford Expedition that wasn’t even theirs. But he was doing it anyway. He didn’t really know how she expected him not to. It was the Funkmaster Flex Edition, not just any SUV. And it was freakin’ sweet. Checkered flag design on the dashboard and console, unique black-and-red paint job, sound system to die for. Better yet, it had a 300 horsepower, 5.4-liter iron-block, 24-valve V-8 in it. Hell, this thing was a dream vehicle. Car-show worthy.