Deadly Deceit Read online

  Praise for Deadly Deceit

  “A delicious hero, heart-pounding suspense, and an intricate weaving of a heroine’s journey make Deadly Deceit one of my top-of-the-top favorites of the year! Natalie Walters brings it all together with an ending that will stick with you long after you close the book.”

  Jaime Jo Wright, author of The Curse of Misty Wayfair and the Christy Award–winning novel The House on Foster Hill

  Praise for Living Lies

  “Walters’s fresh new voice pulls readers into an edge-of-your-seat plot with more than a few surprises.”

  Family Fiction

  “Living Lies is a nail-biter that will make you play hooky from your day job, feed your children cereal for supper, and not stop reading until the last page. Natalie Walters’s debut novel is intriguing and enticing, with a romance that will make you believe not only in love but also that you are worth being loved. It gripped me from the first chapter and didn’t let go until the end!”

  Jaime Jo Wright, author of The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond and the Christy Award–winning novel The House on Foster Hill

  “Natalie Walters has masterfully woven an emotionally charged suspense and love story. It’s the perfect book for the avid romantic-suspense reader. Look for more novels to come from this new author!”

  DiAnn Mills, author of Burden of Proof, www.DiAnnMills.com

  “With thrilling suspense, threads of romance, and important messages about removing the stigma of mental health and depression, this book seems to have it all.”

  Military Press

  Books by Natalie Walters

  HARBORED SECRETS

  Living Lies

  Deadly Deceit

  © 2019 by Natalie Walters

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-1957-9

  ISBN 978-0-8007-3712-2 (casebound)

  Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  G.I. JOE, your unconditional love gives me the freedom to dream big with the security of knowing you’re right there beside me. Without you, this dream never would’ve happened—thank you, my love.

  Contents

  Cover

  Endorsements

  Half Title Page

  Books by Natalie Walters

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  Sneak Peek of the Thrilling Conclusion to the Harbored Secrets Series

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  one

  IN THE FACE OF SMALL-TOWN NEWS, all creativity left Vivian DeMarco.

  “And Walton Elementary will raise enough money to support Home for Heroes and end the war, bringing peace to the whole country. And everyone will find true love. Have two adorable children. A cute puppy.” Vivian stamped out the words on her keyboard with more force than necessary. “And everyone will be happy and live happily ever after. Forever. And ev—”

  Yuck. Vivian stopped typing, leaned back in her chair, and exhaled. It’s only temporary. Sitting forward, she tapped the delete key. Tap. Tap. Tap. And then held it down until she erased the last paragraph of her story on Walton Elementary’s 5K race to raise money for Home for Heroes.

  It’s only temporary.

  Those three words had become her mantra every day for the last 180 days, though lately she’d recited them to herself less frequently than she had when she first drove into town. A fact that frightened her a little bit. Those three words were her daily reminder that this was not where she belonged. It was a means to an end.

  Clackity clack clack. Clack clackity clack clack. Clackity clack. Ding.

  Vivian frowned. The vintage typewriter ringtone belonged to only one person and a quick glance at the time on her phone said it was past his bedtime.

  “Harold?”

  “Oh, good. I was hoping you were still up.” Harold’s twangy voice was barely above a whisper. “Where are you, dear?”

  “At the office.”

  “So late?”

  “Doing the final copy editing on a few of my pieces and finishing up some stories.” Vivian could hear some noise in the background. “Where are you?”

  “I just left the g—” Harold coughed. “Excuse me. I’m leaving the basketball game.”

  That explained why her boss was still awake at such a late hour. Harold was an avid sports fan, and the Anderson College men’s team had made it to state . . . or was it the division finals? That was the other reason why Harold was at the Friday night basketball game. Vivian didn’t do sports. She had always been the last one picked in PE and the first one targeted in dodgeball when that heinous sport was allowed in schools. Covering sports was the one thing she wouldn’t budge on when it came to her job at the Gazette. She’d cover the insane number of festivals, fundraisers, dedications, cook-offs, and 5K races filling the Walton community calendar, but if Harold wanted a sports story, he’d have to cover it himself. Besides, no one was going to respect a writer who didn’t know the difference between an ump and a ref.

  “Did they win?”

  “They did, but that’s not why I’m calling. Can you meet me at the house?”

  “Your house?” Vivian looked at the time. It was half past eleven. “Now?”

  Harold coughed again. “Yes, dear. I know it’s late, but I need your help.”

  A tingle of worry spread through Vivian’s chest at his ominous tone. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, yes, dear.” He cleared his throat. “They used quite a lot of pyrotechnics at the game. Some of the smoke must be bothering my throat. I’ll be at the house in ten minutes.”

  “Harold, are you sure this can’t wait until tomorrow? I’ll even stop by the Way Station Café and pick up some cinnamon rolls. Plus, since Carol’s out of town, you won’t get into trouble.”

  Harold laughed, but it came out choked. “I’ve got a marmalade dropper, and I think . . . I think it’s the story you’ve been waiting on.”

  Vivian sat forward. “Marmalade dropper”
was Harold’s unique way to tell her he had a story. A big one. But even if he hadn’t used his familiar phrase, the fact that he suggested this was her story captured her curiosity instantly.

  “Why? What’s the story?”

  “Vivi, I’ll tell you at the house. Please.”

  Her heart pulled at the sound of the nickname Harold had dubbed her with almost as soon as she began working for him—ignoring her insistence that her name was “just Vivian.” Nicknames were familiar. Familiarity meant affection. And affection was harmful. Still, she couldn’t ignore the strain in his voice.

  “Fine.” She closed her laptop and grabbed her keys. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Ford Avenue was congested with game-night traffic. Vehicles covered in cheers for the Cougars written in shoe polish on their windows honked playfully at residents young and old as they waved their red and silver banners in the air. Kids with faces painted like the school mascot rode on their dads’ shoulders or tugged their moms in the direction of Sandy’s Ice Cream Shop, which apparently had extended its hours in honor of the win. The town was alive with celebration.

  It was all a pitiful reminder of just how lame Vivian was.

  Several blocks farther down, Vivian turned into The Landing, a subdivision of stately homes with wraparound porches and wide lawns manicured to HOA standards. She parked behind Harold’s white Volvo on Marshford Avenue, the light from his living room illuminating the path up to his porch.

  Vivian knocked on the door. What kind of story was important enough for her to be standing here this late at night? She didn’t have a clue. This was Walton, Georgia, where people lived happily ever after. The words she had typed earlier came back to her. She’d been in the news industry long enough to know there was no such thing.

  Vivian knocked again, then moved to the front window and peeked in. Her heart stopped at the sight of his body crumpled on the floor.

  “Harold!” She grabbed for the doorknob and it turned. Shoving the front door open, she ran to Harold’s side. “Harold!”

  His face was red, lips blue and swollen. His chest heaved, but only shallow wheezing escaped his throat. “Harold! What’s wrong? Are you having a heart attack?”

  A subtle shake of his head and Vivian remembered. Harold had a peanut allergy. “Allergic reaction? Are you having an allergic reaction?” More wheezing, but his eyes widened a bit before closing. No, no, no. He couldn’t . . . “Stay with me, Harold.”

  She pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911. After Vivian gave the emergency operator Harold’s address, the woman directed her to find his EpiPen. Harold had made sure Vivian knew where he kept it at the office, but this was his house. She looked around, not knowing the first place to look. Her eyes swept across the living room until they landed on the familiar briefcase. It was Harold’s and she knew he’d have one in there. Vivian squeezed Harold’s hand. Please don’t die, Harold. I can’t lose you. “Hang on, Harold.”

  Vivian popped open the satchel and dug through it until her hands landed on the pen. She grabbed it and then rushed back to Harold’s side, where she removed the cap and pressed the pen to his leg and injected the medicine. The 911 operator stayed on the line to explain what should happen next—only nothing was happening. “It’s not working. He’s still struggling to breathe. Please help me!”

  “Ma’am, help is on the way.”

  “Vivi—” The strangled whisper from Harold’s lips hurt Vivian. “Help . . . her.”

  “Harold, don’t try to speak.” Her fingers trembled as they clutched his hand. “Help is coming.”

  He moved his head to the side, closing his eyes.

  “No, Harold.” Emotion ripped at her throat. “You stay with me. You made me drive all the way over here in the middle of the night because you have a story that you just had to tell me.” Vivian’s attempt at humor felt puny, until Harold’s brown eyes met hers. “That’s right. A real marmalade dropper, remember?”

  His lips parted. “Lau-ren.”

  What was he saying? Vivian leaned closer. “What?”

  “Help . . . Lau—” He gasped. “Marma . . . Lauren.”

  Vivian blinked. She leaned in closer. “What? Lauren who?” She felt guilty for making him talk, but the urgency in his eyes pulled at her.

  Whatever Harold was trying to tell her fell silent in the desperate gasp. She squeezed his hand, but it fell open. No! Panic slid cold fingers around her heart and squeezed. He was dying. Harold was leaving her, and she’d be all alone again.

  “Please!” Vivian pressed the phone to her ear. “Tell me what else I can do! Can I give him another shot?”

  The blare of sirens outside interrupted the operator’s words. Vivian dropped her phone and yelled. “Hurry! He’s in here!”

  Two EMTs ran into the house and started working on Harold. A man wearing a blue shirt with the fire unit’s number on the pocket moved her to the side. “Ma’am, are you his daughter?”

  “No.” Vivian’s eyes were fixed on Harold’s body. The paramedics opened his shirt, revealing a chest that wasn’t moving. The wheezing had grown too soft—almost silent. She watched them try to stick a tube down his throat, but it wasn’t working and her heart was shattering. Steeling her emotions, she looked into the firefighter’s concerned eyes. “No, I’m just a reporter.”

  Deputy Ryan Frost had no expectations for his first day back on duty. Okay, maybe one—easy. It was Walton, after all, and Friday nights remained relatively quiet, aside from an occasional noise complaint or juvenile shenanigans happening on the outskirts of town. Possibly a drunk driver passing through from Savannah. But not even the excitement from tonight’s basketball championship garnered much more than a few reminders to college students against disorderly conduct.

  He was beginning to wonder whether the agency recruiters were right about his skills being wasted in Walton. Then the call came in. He’d been in town less than twenty-four hours, on patrol less than eight, and he was already investigating a death. Ryan spotted the brunette sitting stiffly on a leather chair talking to Deputy Ben Wilson. According to the first responders, she was the one who found Harold Kennedy and called in the emergency.

  “Deputy Frost, we’re about done here.” Troy Bennett walked up, removing his latex gloves. He was the first EMT on the scene and a classmate from high school. “Medical examiner is on the way.” He tipped his chin in the direction of the home office. “You might want to let her know that there was nothing more she could do. Allergic reactions are unpredictable. It was just too late.”

  Ryan looked over his shoulder, his gaze meeting her blue-gray one. A sense of familiarity raced through him. Did he know her? He searched his memory, but nothing came up. “How is she?”

  “Seems fine.” Troy looked toward the ambulance where his partner was finishing up. “Pretty composed, actually.”

  “It’s not shock?”

  “She said she was shaken but okay to go home.”

  Ryan thanked him and the rest of the first responders after he verified their names for his report. He was taking some pictures of the scene when the medical examiner entered the house.

  “Hi, I’m Josie Carlisle, assistant ME for Chatham County.” The blonde was half a foot shorter than he was and looked way too young to be a medical examiner. She must have read his thoughts, because she smiled widely and gave him a wink. “Graduated high school last week.”

  Ryan flinched.

  “Just kidding.” She pulled a pair of latex gloves out of her bag. “I really wish I had a camera every time I said that.”

  “Deputy Ryan Frost.”

  “I’m told you’re the man in charge.” Her blue eyes swept up over Ryan’s shoulder. “Or would that be you?”

  Ryan turned to find Deputy Wilson’s hulking frame standing behind him, his smile bright against his dark skin.

  “You’re looking at me like I’m gonna have a problem going home tonight when my shift’s over while you stay and fill out paperwork for the chief
.” The man was roughly the size of a refrigerator and took great pleasure in intimidating Ryan. “First man on the scene is the rule, right?”

  “Guess that answers that. I’ll do the paperwork.” Ryan returned his attention to the ME. “Anything you need from me?”

  “Only to stay out of my way unless I have a question.” She pulled the blanket from Harold’s face. “Told this was an allergy-related death.”

  “Peanut allergy.”

  The medical examiner let out a whistle. “Ain’t it a shame.” She snapped her gloves on. “Okay, boys. I’ll take it from here.”

  Ryan and Wilson stepped back, giving her space to work. “What’s our caller’s connection to Mr. Kennedy?” Ryan asked.

  Wilson smirked. “You don’t know?”

  “Should I?”

  “I figured you would’ve recognized her.” Wilson pivoted, giving Ryan a full view of the woman still sitting in Harold Kennedy’s office. She was twisting a piece of dark, wavy hair around her finger. “She practically camped outside our office last year.”

  Last year?

  “And my wife thinks I’m oblivious.” Wilson handed Ryan his notes. “Check out her name.”

  Ryan did and his pulse jumped with recognition. “She’s not blonde anymore.”

  “And you ain’t scrawny anymore.” Wilson chuckled. “Change happens—even the miraculous kind.”

  “What’s she doing here?” Ryan asked, ignoring Wilson’s jab.

  “Works for Harold.”

  “Doing what?”

  Wilson held up a meaty finger. “I’ll give you one guess.”

  Right. Reporter. Really?

  “Look, I don’t know what them boys taught you up in Quantico, but gawking at the witness isn’t really professional.”

  Heat raced up his face. Ryan quickly looked down at Wilson’s notes again. He wasn’t gawking . . . he was looking. Trying to reconcile the tenacious reporter he remembered from a year ago with the one sitting twenty feet away from him.

  “I told her you might ask her some follow-up questions.”

  “Right.” He didn’t dare look at Wilson. Ryan could tell from the tone of his voice what his coworker was implying and he wasn’t going to give Wilson the satisfaction. Ryan hadn’t spent the last nine months training with the Advanced Tactical Response Task Force to get tripped up by Vivian DeMarco. “I’ll be back.”