Cold Case Secrets Read online

  Let alone forgive her.

  No, she’d worked too long and hard to build a life on her own terms to let it all be taken from her now.

  Not to mention her incredibly strong mother, and Mom’s kindhearted husband, Frank, who’d raised Grace as his own, both deserved better than to have their lives dragged through the mud.

  So she’d hiked and paddled into the woods in search of a secluded cabin where he’d claimed to have left evidence proving his innocence. It was a simple transaction. She’d publish the evidence, his lawyer and the courts would do their thing, Hal Turner would keep his mouth shut about the daughter no one knew he had and he’d disappear from her life for good.

  But she hadn’t found the cabin. Instead, a killer had found her.

  She’d been desperate. She’d been foolish. And now she was going to die.

  Cutter leaned closer, shifting some of his weight off her body. The stench of him filled her nostrils. “Don’t fight. Don’t scream. We’re just going to get in your car and take a nice ride to the American border and then I’m going to let you go.”

  No, he wouldn’t; he’d hurt her and he’d kill her, that much she knew with every fiber of her being. And she’d die fighting before she agreed to take him anywhere.

  The helicopter’s spotlight flashed above them, dragging her attention to the sky. A figure, tall and broad-shouldered, now dangled from underneath it, suspended from a rope like something out of an action movie. She blinked. Cutter looked up and swore.

  It was an unexpected distraction, but she’d take it. Her right hand dove into her jacket pocket, yanked out the stun gun, flicked it on and pressed it hard into his side. Cutter bellowed in pain. The gun fell from his hand. She kicked up, threw him off her and scooped up the gun. Then she stumbled to her feet and ran, pushing and pelting through the branches until she’d lost him in the trees.

  The helicopter light swung above her again like a searchlight, filtering through the leaves and illuminating the rock face ahead of her, and that’s when she saw the gap. It was narrow, like a slanted alley only about three feet wide. She ran for the gap in the rocks, slid her body inside and pressed herself against the wall. She heard the sound of branches breaking and a voice swearing as Cutter ran by her hiding spot. It was only then she realized her hands were shaking. Hot tears filled her eyes.

  God, if You’re even still listening to me, thank you so much that I’m still alive! Now, what do I do?

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d prayed. But somehow the fear pounding through her had poured out into the need to cry out to the God she’d long stopped talking to for help. She put her stun gun back into her jacket pocket, but kept the gun she’d taken off Cutter clutched tightly in her hand. Could she really shoot and kill a man if it came to it? If his face appeared at the entrance of her hiding place, did she really have what it took to look him in the eyes and pull the trigger?

  How much was she really her biological father’s daughter?

  No, no, she wouldn’t let herself think that way. Her father had killed for his own selfish ends, not in self-defense. She was nothing like him. She never had been and never would be.

  Her head leaned back against the rock and her eyes closed as she listened to the sounds of the helicopter in the distance, wind brushing the trees, light rain hitting the rocks around her and a river rushing somewhere nearby. Maybe if she could get up to higher ground, she could find a way to signal the helicopter. Maybe she could even spot the cabin, run there and retrieve whatever Turner had left for her. But for now, she was on her own, with a phone that hadn’t been able to get a signal in hours and a killer looking for her.

  “Grace Miranda Finch!”

  Her heart froze mid-beat as suddenly Cutter bellowed her name.

  “Senior crime reporter!” His voice grew louder. Twigs snapped and branches cracked. It sounded like he was coming back through the woods, looking for her. “Torchlight News, Queen Street, Toronto. Born April third. Age thirty-six.”

  No! She grabbed her side as if suddenly realizing she was missing an organ. He had her wallet! She hadn’t even realized it had fallen from her pocket.

  But now he had her life, her address, her identity, he had—

  “Hal Turner,” Cutter read like a man announcing a public execution, “was convicted today to two consecutive life sentences...”

  He had the news clipping she’d cut from the paper at the age of fifteen about her father’s conviction and had kept folded small in her wallet ever since as a reminder to never stop working harder, aiming higher and pushing herself to be the best possible person she could be.

  “...along with two counts of first-degree murder, drug trafficking, bribery, corruption, breach of public trust...”

  Grace tuned Cutter out. She’d obsessively read every article about Turner when he’d first been arrested, hoping with all her heart that no one would ever uncover that the dirty cop had secretly fathered a daughter he barely saw and hardly knew with a twenty-two-year-old emergency room nurse he’d met at a crime scene and never deigned to give either his heart or home to. Turner had bailed long before Grace was born. She’d always had her mother’s last name, not his, and while he’d sporadically wanted to see her growing up, had insisted his name not be listed on her birth certificate. She’d never looked like him, not in ways that anybody had noticed, with the slender build and long black hair of her beautiful Afro-Caribbean Canadian mother instead of looking anything like her overweight German Canadian father, whose pale skin was frequently flushed red with anger. No one had ever seemed to suspect she was mixed race, especially after her mom and Frank, a fellow nurse and widower, had drawn close during the pregnancy and married when Grace was two. Gossipmongers speculated that Grace must have always been Frank’s, but her mom had consistently risen above others’ idle gossip.

  But Grace had obsessively followed every moment of the trial. She watched television for hours, flipping through news channels to find his face and then hid in the computer lab when she got into journalism school, scanning the wires for his name. What had she even been looking for? Clues to what would lead a man who’d sworn an oath to protect his community to instead cut deals with drug dealers? Whether there was any credence to the story his lawyer had spun—that his partner had been the real criminal, the deaths had really been a murder suicide and that her father had set the fire in a noble attempt to protect his former partner’s name?

  She’d been fourteen when he was arrested. She’d been there, in a restaurant-chain coffee shop, wondering why the father she’d barely seen had wanted to see her. His face had been white with fear and his hands had shaken so hard he could barely pick up his coffee cup. Then suddenly six police cars had pulled up outside. He’d leaped to his feet, told her to point the cops in the wrong direction, make up some story about where he’d gone and then quickly get to his apartment, destroy his computer and burn his files. Then he ran, leaving her to watch through the window with a gawking crowd of spectators and journalists as people in uniform chased him down the block. She hadn’t talked to the cops or gone to his apartment. Instead, she’d slipped out the back and gone home, the hair prickling at the back of her neck with every step, half expecting a journalist to stop her and ask her what she had been doing with him and who she was. But no one ever had. Seemed that for whatever reason, Turner had actually kept her existence a secret. The next time she saw her father’s face was his mug shot on the news.

  She hadn’t heard from Turner again until she was twenty-eight, when her name was syndicated in newspapers across the country and he needed money.

  “Listen to me, Grace Finch, wherever you’re hiding!” Cutter shouted, “You looking for Hal Turner? ’Cause I know him. He and I broke out together, and he’s real close by. He told me that he was coming here, looking for someone. I can take you right to him. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

  Her heart st
opped. Her father had broken out of prison? Her father was here?

  The noise above her was so faint she hadn’t even realized someone else was there until the uniformed police officer dropped down into the crevice beside her. Her breath caught in her throat. Her lips parted. But before she could let out a sound, one strong hand clamped over her lips while the other grabbed her hand, closing over the gun and peeling her fingers away from the trigger. The officer pulled her to him so that her back was against his chest.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” The voice in her ear was strong, warm and compelling, with just a hint of danger, filling her with a sense of reassurance that was as unexpected as it was unfamiliar. “I’m Detective Jacob Henry of the RCMP. I’m here to rescue you, and I’ll keep you safe. Do exactly what I say, and I’ll get you out of here alive.”

  TWO

  He would, would he? Her relief at knowing she wasn’t alone and her irritation at having a man—any man—suddenly announce that he was in charge and all would be well if she just did what he said battled somewhere deep inside her core. Yes, he was a cop. Yes, there was something undeniably and extremely reassuring about the feel of him there. But she’d survived her whole entire life on her own, without ever being rescued by anyone and wasn’t about to just fall into anyone’s arms now.

  Especially not if that someone was Detective Jacob Henry.

  Her eyes closed for a moment as the background file she kept on Jacob filled her mind. He’d done more to save lives, rescue others and stop killers than anyone she’d ever known. Not that they’d ever actually met. She’d heard his voice before, usually saying no comment and telling her to get off his crime scene before he had her arrested. As for his face, she knew it had a handsome and rugged quality that was a bit rough around the edges, like a former movie star that had retired to build custom motorcycles. But right now, he was holding her too close for her to turn around and see it. She definitely had never let herself imagine what it would be like to be held like this in his arms. Well, at least not in a situation like this.

  Jacob Henry had a knack for being the primary detective on practically every major crime scene she’d raced to, especially the worst and more grisly ones. Some veteran detectives—like the immensely charming Warren Scott who’d been supremely friendly since transferring to the Toronto division a few months back—were known to toss reporters like her at least a few scraps of information before politely sending them on their way. But Jacob never had. If anything, he’d avoided even looking at her, let alone making direct eye contact, as if something about her mere existence made him uncomfortable. And maybe it did. Reporters and cops did tend to eye each other warily despite the fact that, as she saw it, they were all on the same team, wanting to see truth win out and bad guys get locked away. She didn’t want to know how much worse it would be if he knew she was the daughter of a dirty cop who’d killed a fellow officer.

  Of all the cops who could’ve dropped out of nowhere to rescue her, why oh, why did it have to be him?

  In fact, just last week, when she’d heard that her boss’s sister, Detective Chloe Brant, was getting married this weekend to Jacob’s fellow detective, and brother, Trent, she’d sent Jacob an email, hoping that one point of connection would be enough to thaw the ice between them, enough to grab a friendly and professional off-the-record coffee. Not a date. She definitely hadn’t asked him out on a date. Just to grab coffee sometime to see if they could set up a better, less adversarial mode of communication. Instead, he’d ignored her.

  Well, he could hardly ignore her now.

  And if he didn’t get his hand off her mouth pronto, she just might bite him.

  He leaned so close she could feel his breath on her face. He smelled like coffee and wood smoke. It was a scent that somehow seemed to match both the toughness and warmth of his voice.

  “Hand me the gun,” he whispered.

  She shook her head. He sighed and twisted it from her grasp so deftly that she had no choice but to let go. He slid it into his ankle holster with one hand and pulled his pant leg down over it. Then his hand was back on her wrist so quickly it almost impressed her.

  “Now I’m going to peel my hand away from your mouth,” he said. “But I need you to promise not to scream.”

  Who did this man think she was? No, of course, she wasn’t going to scream or start caterwauling with a serial killer lurking nearby. He did know about Cutter, right? That had to be why he was here. Jacob seemed to be waiting for a response, so she nodded definitively and firmly. He eased his hand from her mouth, but the other stayed firm on hers with his fingers brushing just against the inside of her wrist. Yeah, not distracting at all.

  “Now,” he whispered, “I need you to—”

  “Give me my gun back.”

  Even with her back to him, it was like she could feel his whole body blink.

  “Who are you?” His voice sharpened. “Are you law enforcement?”

  “I’m Grace Finch, lead crime reporter, Torchlight News.” She wasn’t sure what kind of reaction she was expecting. But it wasn’t the stony and awkward silence that filled the space around them. “We’ve met before. You’ve ordered me off your crime scenes and ignored my phone calls. I sent you an email about coffee just last week you never responded to.”

  Okay, so maybe that was a bit testier than she’d intended, but she’d never been one to beat around the bush.

  “So you’re not law enforcement or the military?” His whisper came back swift and sharp. “Do you have a license to carry a handgun?”

  The questions felt rhetorical.

  “No, but I’ve passed the Canadian Firearms Safety—”

  “Then it’s illegal for you to be carrying a handgun, and you’re not getting it back—”

  Like she didn’t know Canadian gun law. “There’s an escaped convict in the woods!”

  “Actually, there are three—”

  “Three?” She fought and failed to keep her whisper from rising. Did that mean Cutter hadn’t lied and her father really had escaped prison? Enough of this. She spun around and turned toward him. Jacob let her go, and then she was facing him, standing so closely she was practically pressed against his chest. She looked up at him in the dying light. His green eyes were serious. His chestnut hair was tousled and spiky with sweat. His face radiated a sense of protection that she didn’t even know how to begin to process. “Who are the three convicts?”

  “Who did you see?” He deflected her other question with one of his own.

  Fine. Sometimes a person had to give information to get information.

  “I was attacked by Barry Cutter,” she said. “The serial killer. He tried to force me to take him to my car, which is over six hours away by canoe from here. I fought him off and ran.”

  Jacob let out a long breath and stepped back as far as the narrow space would allow. His voice softened. “How did you possibly get away?”

  “I zapped him with a Taser and then took his gun.”

  He blinked. “That would be the gun I just took from you?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Where’s the Taser now?”

  “In my pocket.”

  “And did you take that off him too?” Jacob asked.

  “No, it’s mine.”

  A faint smile turned at the corner of his mouth. She wondered if he was debating pointing out it was also illegal for her to carry a stun gun.

  “He also took my wallet,” she added. “And I assume it isn’t actually his gun—”

  “No, I imagine he took it off a guard.” His face turned grim. “About four hours ago, three prisoners overpowered the prison guards who were transporting them. We don’t know how it happened yet, but they forced the van to crash and killed the guards. There’s a massive manhunt underway across Ontario to find them. I just thank God that I happened to be flying overhead when Cutter attacked you
.”

  Something about the way he said it made her think he actually believed there was a God who had helped him out.

  “Was he the only person you saw?” Jacob asked.

  “He was,” she said.

  “Where’s Cutter now?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But since you dropped down from above me somewhere, I’m guessing it’s possible to walk along the top of the rock face. I suggest we climb up, take a look around from there and hail the helicopter. Now, what can you tell me about the other escaped convicts?”

  Was Cutter telling the truth? Was her father one of them?

  Jacob turned his head away from her. “Henry here.” The shift in Jacob’s tone was so sudden that it took her a moment to realize he was talking into the shoulder microphone for his walkie-talkie. “I’ve secured the civilian. She claims to have sighted Barry Cutter. Do you have any other heat signatures in the area?” He paused. “Okay. Heard that.”

  Maybe he’d heard it, but she was still out of the loop.

  “So what’s going on? Who are you talking to?”

  “That was RCMP SAR pilot, Kevin Faust,” Jacob said, and she felt oddly thankful he hadn’t felt the need to spell out Royal Canadian Mounted Police Search and Rescue. “Now I need you to stay here and hidden. I’m going to go out there and assess the situation.”

  “There’s nothing to assess. I told you, there’s a maniac out there—”