Die for Me
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Synopsis
The first victim is found in a snow-covered Philadelphia field. Detective Vito Ciccotelli enlists the aid of archaeologist Sophie Johannsen to determine exactly what lies beneath the frozen ground.
Despite years of unearthing things long buried, nothing can prepare Sophie for the matrix of graves dug with chilling precision. The victims buried there haunt her. But while the empty graves terrify her, the killer isn’t done yet.
He is cold and calculating, the master of a twisted game. Even with Vito and Sophie hot on his trail, he will not stop. One more empty grave must be filled and one last scream must be heard: the scream of an archaeologist who is too close for comfort and too near to resist.
A Blackstone Audio production.
Release date: September 1, 2007
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 584
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Die for Me
Karen Rose
Praise for Karen Rose’s Previous Novels
COUNT TO TEN
“Kept me up all night with the doors locked . . . Karen Rose writes hold-your-breath suspense.”
—Karen Robards, New York Times bestselling author
“Takes off like a house afire . . . There’s action and chills galore in this nonstop thriller.”
—Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author
“Rose cranks up the heat in more ways than one . . . another winning mystery thriller . . . Emotional subplots, engaging characters, and a string of red herrings will keep readers hooked.”
—Publishers Weekly
YOU CAN’T HIDE
“Suspense-filled . . . [an] action-packed serial killer thriller.”
—Baryon Magazine
“This novel is, in a word, riveting.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
“A fast-paced suspense novel with many twists and turns. Rose is a great suspense writer.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Spine-tingling . . . Some writers can draw you in with the first sentence and keep you enthralled even if the house is burning down around you—and romantic suspense author Karen Rose is one of them.”
—NightsandWeekends.com
“If there’s one name synonymous with great romantic suspense writers it’s Karen Rose—she just keeps getting better and better.”
—BookLoons.com
“Ms. Rose has done it again. She is one talented writer who can draw out a suspense read to the final spine-chilling end.”
—TheBestReviews.com
“A chilling, fast-paced thriller.”
—CurledUp.com
“As always, Rose delivers a masterful story of suspense.”
—OnceWritten.com
NOTHING TO FEAR
“A pulse-pounding tale that has it all: suspense, action, and a very hunky private investigator.”
—Cosmopolitan
“Readers can always count on Rose to deliver an action-packed book, and this one is no exception.”
—Southern Pines Pilot (NC)
“Four and a half stars! Top pick! . . . Filled with heart-stopping suspense and graphic terror . . . In the pantheon of horrific killers, [this one] surely ranks near the top.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
“A tense, chilling suspense that readers will appreciate from start to finish.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Rose’s well-crafted story sets pulses pounding and pages turning.”
—BookPage
“A caring women’s advocate heroine, a determined, gritty hero, and a diabolical villain drive the plot of Rose’s riveting story.”
—Library Journal
I’M WATCHING YOU
“Action-packed . . . a thrilling police procedural romance . . . fans will enjoy this tense thriller.”
—Midwest Book Review
“TOP PICK! Terrifying and gritty.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
“The suspense unfolds right up to the last page.”
—Southern Pines Pilot (NC)
“A sensual, riveting book that kept me on the edge of my seat.”
—Rendezvous
HAVE YOU SEEN HER?
“Heart-racing thrills . . . showcases her growing talent . . . readers will . . . rush to the novel’s thrilling conclusion.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Terrifying and gripping.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
DON’T TELL
“Rose delivers the kind of high-wire suspense that keeps you riveted to the edge of your seat.”
—Lisa Gardner, New York Times bestselling author
“As gripping as a cold hand on the back of one’s neck . . . and tempered by lovable characters and a moving romance.”
—Publishers Weekly
“One of the best suspense novels [I’ve] read this summer . . . one hot author you don’t want to miss.”
—The Belles & Beaux of Romance
“Action-packed [with a] story line [that] is character driven.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A stunning tour de force that readers won’t want to miss . . . Don’t Tell belongs on the keeper shelf.”
—WordWeaving.com
“A fantastic job of telling a tale . . . touchingly narrated.”
—BookLoons.com
“A truly spectacular example of romantic suspense.”
—ARomanceReview.com
“Don’t Tell is a seat-of-your-pants tale, dragging the reader deep into the characters and wringing emotions from all concerned.”
—ScribesWorld.com
“Couldn’t put it down.”
—Bookhaunts.net
“Excellent romantic suspense . . . will keep you on the edge of your seat . . . excellent writing and storytelling by Karen Rose.”
—RoadtoRomance.ca
Prologue
Philadelphia, Saturday, January 6
The first thing that hit Warren Keyes was the smell. Ammonia, disinfectant . . . and something else. What else? Open your eyes, Keyes. He could hear his own voice echo inside his head and he struggled to lift his eyelids. Heavy. They were so heavy, but he fought until they stayed open. It was dark. No. There was a little light. Warren blinked once, then again with more force until a flickering light came into focus.
It was a torch, mounted on the wall. His heart started thudding hard in his chest. The wall was rock. I’m in a cave. His heart began to race. What the hell is this? He lunged forward and white-hot pain speared down his arms to his back. Gasping, he fell back against something flat and hard.
He was tied. Oh God. His hands and feet were tied. And he was naked. Trapped. Fear rose from his belly, clawing his insides. He twisted like a wild animal, then fell back again, panting, tasting the disinfectant as he sucked in air. Disinfectant and . . .
His breath hitched as he recognized the odor under the disinfectant. Something dead. Rotting. Something died here. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to panic. This isn’t happening. This is just a dream, a nightmare. In a minute I’ll wake up.
But he wasn’t dreaming. This, whatever it was, was real. He was stretched out on a board on a slight incline, his wrists tied together and his arms pulled up and behind his head. Why? He tried to think, to remember. There was something . . . a picture in his mind, just beyond his reach. He strained for the memory and realized his head ached—he winced as the pain sent little black spots dancing across his eyes. God, it was like a really bad hangover. But he hadn’t been drinking. Had he?
Coffee. He remembered drinking coffee, his hands closing around the cup to get warm. He’d been cold. He’d been outside. Running. Why was he running? He rotated his wrists, feeling his raw skin burn, reaching until the tips of his fingers touched rope.
“So you’re finally awake.”
The voice came from behind him and he craned his neck, trying to see. Then he remembered and the pressure on his chest lessened a fraction. It was a movie. I’m an actor and we were making a movie. A history documentary. He’d been running with . . . with what? He grimaced, focusing. A sword, that’s it. He’d been in medieval costume, a knight with a helmet and shield . . . even chain mail, for God’s sake. The entire scene came back now. He’d changed his clothes, even his underwear, for some scratchy, shapeless burlap that irritated his crotch. He’d had a sword, and he’d carried it as he ran through the woods outside Munch’s studio, yelling at the top of his lungs. He’d felt like a damn idiot, but he’d done it all because it was in the damn script.
But this—he jerked at the ropes again with no success—this was not in the script.
“Munch.” Warren’s voice was thick, grating on his dry throat. “What the hell is this?”
Ed Munch appeared to his left. “I didn’t think you’d ever wake up.”
Warren blinked as the dim light from the torch flickered across the man’s face. His heart skipped a beat. Munch had changed. Before he’d been old, shoulders stooped. White hair and a trim mustache. Warren swallowed, his breath shallow. Now Munch stood straight. His mustache was gone. So was his hair, his head shaved shiny bald.
Munch wasn’t old. Dread coiled in his gut, seething and roiling. The deal was five hundred for the documentary. Cash if he came that day. Warren had been suspicious—it was a lot of money for a history documentary they’d show on PBS if he was lucky. But he’d agreed. One odd old man was no threat.
But Munch wasn’t old. Bile rose, choking him. What have I done? Close on the heels of that question came the next, more terrifying. What will he do to me?
“Who are you?” Warren croaked out and Munch held a bottle of water to his lips. Warren pulled away, but Munch grabbed his chin with surprising strength. His dark eyes narrowed and fear made Warren freeze.
“It’s just water this time,” Munch ground out. “Drink it.”
Warren spat the mouthful of water back in the man’s face and held himself rigid when Munch raised his fist. But the fist lowered and Munch shrugged.
“You’ll drink eventually. I need your throat moist.”
Warren licked his lips. “Why?”
Munch disappeared behind him again and Warren could hear something rolling. A video camera, Warren saw when Munch rolled it past him, stopping about five feet away. The camera was pointing straight at his face. “Why?” Warren repeated, louder.
Munch peered through the lens and stepped back. “Because I need you to scream.” He lifted a brow, his expression surreally bland. “They all screamed. So will you.”
Horror bubbled up and Warren fought it back. Stay calm. Treat him nice and maybe you can talk your way out of this. He made his lips curve. “Look, Munch, let me go and we’ll call it even. You can keep the sword fight scenes I did already at no charge.”
Munch just looked at him, his expression still bland. “I never planned to pay you anyway.” He disappeared again and reappeared, pushing another video camera.
Warren remembered the coffee, remembered Munch’s insistence that he drink it. Just water this time. Rage geysered inside him, momentarily eclipsing the fear. “You drugged me,” he hissed, and he filled his lungs with air. “Somebody help me!” he yelled as loud as he could, but the hoarse sound from his throat was pathetically useless.
Munch said nothing, just set up a third camera on a boom so that it pointed down. Every movement was methodical, precise. Unhurried. Unconcerned. Unafraid.
And then Warren knew no one could hear him. The hot rage drained away, leaving only fear, cold and absolute. Warren’s voice shook. There had to be something . . . some way out. Something he could say. Do. Offer. Beg. He’d beg. “Please, Munch, I’ll do anything . . .” His words trailed away as Munch’s words replayed in his mind.
They all screamed. Ed Munch. Warren’s chest constricted, despair making it difficult to breathe. “Munch isn’t your real name. Edvard Munch, the artist.” The painting of a ghoulish figure clutching its face in agony flashed into his mind. “The Scream.”
“Actually, it’s pronounced ‘Moonk,’ not ‘Munch,’ but nobody ever gets it right. Nobody gets the details right,” he added in a disgusted voice.
Details. The man had been all about details earlier, frowning when Warren argued against the scratchy underwear. The sword had been real, too. I should have used it on the bastard when I had the chance. “Authenticity,” Warren murmured, repeating what he’d thought had been the ramblings of a crazy old man.
Munch nodded. “Now you understand.”
“What will you do?” His own voice was eerily calm.
One corner of Munch’s mouth lifted. “You’ll see soon enough.”
Warren dragged in each breath. “Please. Please, I’ll do anything. Just let me go.”
Munch said nothing. He pushed a cart with a television just beyond the camera at his feet, then checked the focus of each camera with calm precision.
“You won’t get away with this,” Warren said desperately, once again pulling at the ropes, struggling until his wrists burned and his arms strained in their sockets. The ropes were thick, the knots unyielding. He would not break free.
“That’s what all the others said. But I have, and I will continue to do so.”
Others. There had been others. The smell of death was all around, mocking him. Others had died here. He would die here, too. From somewhere deep inside him, courage rallied. He lifted his chin. “My friends will come looking for me. I told my fiancée I was meeting you.”
Finished with the cameras, Munch turned. His eyes held a contempt that said he knew it was a last, desperate bluff. “No, you didn’t. You told your fiancée you were meeting a friend to help him read lines. You told me so when we met this afternoon. You said this money would pay for a surprise for her birthday. You wanted it to stay a secret. That and your tattoo were the reasons I chose you.” He lifted one shoulder. “Plus, you fit the suit. Not everyone can wear chain mail correctly. So no one will be looking for you. And if they do, they’ll never find you. Accept it—you belong to me.”
Everything inside him went deathly still. It was true. He had told Munch the money was for a surprise for Sherry. Nobody knew where he was. Nobody would save him. He thought of Sherry, of his mom and dad, of everyone he cared about. They’d wonder where he was. A sob rose in his throat. “You bastard,” he whispered. “I hate you.”
One side of Munch’s mouth quirked, but his eyes lit up with an amusement that was more terrifying than his smile. “The others said that, too.” He shoved the water bottle at Warren’s mouth again, pinching his nose until he gasped for air. Wildly Warren fought, but Munch forced the water down. “Now, Mr. Keyes, we begin. Don’t forget to scream.”
Chapter One
Philadelphia, Sunday, January 14, 10:25 A.M.
Detective Vito Ciccotelli got out of his truck, his skin still vibrating. The beat-up old dirt road that led to the crime scene had only served to further rile his already churning stomach. He sucked in a breath and immediately regretted it. After fourteen years on the force, the odor of death still came as a putrid and unwelcome surprise.
“That shot my shocks to holy hell.” Nick Lawrence grimaced, slamming the door of his sensible sedan. “Shit.” His Carolina drawl drew the curse out to four full syllables.
Two uniforms stood staring down into a hole halfway across the snow-covered field. Handkerchiefs covered their faces. A woman was crouched down in the hole, the top of her head barely visible. “I guess CSU’s already uncovered the body,” Vito said dryly.
“Y’think?” Nick bent down and shoved the cuffs of his pants into the cowboy boots he kept polished to a spit shine. “Well, Chick, let’s get this show on the road.”
“In a minute.” Vito reached behind his seat for his snow boots, then flinched when a thorn jabbed deep into his thumb. “Dammit.” For a few seconds he sucked on the tiny wound, then with care moved the bouquet of roses out of the way to get to his boots. From the corner of his eye he could see Nick sober. But his partner said nothing.
“It’s been two years. Today,” Vito added bitterly. “How time flies.”
Nick’s voice was quiet. “It’s supposed to heal, too.”
And Nick was right. Two years had dulled the edge of Vito’s grief. But guilt . . . that was a different matter entirely. “I’m going out to the cemetery this afternoon.”
“You want me to go with you?”
“Thanks, but no.” Vito shoved his feet into his boots. “Let’s go see what they found.”
Six years as a homicide detective had taught Vito that there were no simple murders, just varying degrees of hard ones. As soon as he stopped at the edge of the grave the crime scene unit had just unearthed in the snow-covered field, he knew this would be one of the harder ones.
Neither Vito nor Nick said a word as they studied the victim, who might have remained hidden forever were it not for an elderly man and his metal detector. The roses, the cemetery, and everything else was pushed aside as Vito focused on the body in the hole. He dragged his gaze from her hands to what was left of her face.
Their Jane Doe had been small, five-two or five-three, and appeared to have been young. Short, dark hair framed a face too decomposed to be easily identifiable and Vito wondered how long she’d been here. He wondered if anyone had missed her. If anyone still waited for her to come home.
He felt the familiar surge of pity and sadness and pushed it to the edge of his mind along with all the other things he wanted to forget. For now he’d focus on the body, the evidence. Later, he and Nick would consider the woman—who she’d been and who she’d known. They’d do so as a means to catch the sick sonofabitch who’d left her nude body to rot in an unmarked grave in an open field, who’d violated her even after death. Pity shifted to outrage as Vito’s gaze returned to the victim’s hands.
“He posed her,” Nick murmured beside him and in the soft words Vito heard the same outrage he felt. “He fucking posed her.”
Indeed he had. Her hands were pressed together between her breasts, her fingertips pointing to her chin. “Permanently folded in prayer,” Vito said grimly.
“Religious murderer?” Nick mused.
“God, I hope not.” A buzz of apprehension tickled his spine. “Religious murderers tend not to stop with just one. There could be more.”
“Maybe.” Nick crouched down to peer into the grave which was about three feet deep. “How did he permanently pose her hands, Jen?”
CSU Sergeant Jen McFain looked up, her eyes covered with goggles, her nose and mouth by a mask. “Wire,” she said. “Looks like steel, but very fine. It’s wound around her fingers. You’ll be able to see it better once the ME cleans her up.”
Vito frowned. “Doesn’t seem like wire that thin would be enough to trip the sensor on a metal detector, especially under a couple feet of dirt.”
“You’re right, the wire wouldn’t have set it off. For that we can thank the rods your perp ran under the victim’s arms.” Jen traced one gloved finger along the underside of her own arm, down to her wrist. “They’re thin and bendable, but have enough mass to set off a metal detector. It’s how he kept her arms fixed in position.”
Vito shook his head. “Why?” he asked and Jen shrugged.
“Maybe we’ll get more from the body. I haven’t gotten much from the hole so far. Except . . .” She nimbly climbed from the grave. “The old man uncovered one of her arms using his garden spade. Now, he’s in pretty good shape, but even I couldn’t have dug that deep with a garden spade this time of year.”
Nick looked into the grave. “The ground must not have been frozen.”
Jen nodded. “Exactly. When he found the arm he stopped digging and called 911. When we got here, we started moving dirt to see what we had. The fill was easy to move until we got to the grave wall, then it was hard as a rock. Look at the corners. They look like they were cut using a T square. They’re frozen solid.”
Vito felt a sick tug at his gut. “He dug the grave before the ground froze. He planned this pretty far in advance.”
Nick was frowning. “And nobody noticed a gaping hole?”
“Perp might’ve covered it with something,” Jen said. “Also, I don’t think the fill dirt came from this field. I’ll run the tests to tell you for sure. That’s all I got for now. I can’t do anything more until the ME gets here.”
“Thanks, Jen,” Vito said. “Let’s talk to the property owner,” he said to Nick.
Harlan Winchester was about seventy, but his eyes were clear and sharp. He’d been waiting in the back seat of the police cruiser and got out when he saw them coming. “I suppose I’ll have to tell you detectives the same thing I told the officers.”
Vito put a little sympathy into his nod. “I’m afraid so. I’m Detective Ciccotelli and this is my partner, Detective Lawrence. Can you take us through what happened?”
“Hell, I didn’t even want that damn metal detector. It was a present from my wife. She’s worried I don’t get enough exercise since I retired.”
“So you got out this morning and walked?” Vito prompted and Winchester scowled.
“‘Harlan P. Winchester,’” he mimicked in a high, nasal voice, “‘you’ve been in that good-for-nothin’ chair for the last ten years. Get your moldy butt up and walk.’ So I did, ’cause I couldn’t stand to listen to her nag me anymore. I thought I might find something interesting to make Ginny shut up. But . . . I never dreamed I’d find a person.”
“Was the body the first object your detector picked up?” Nick asked.
“Yeah.” His mouth set grimly. “I took out my garden spade. It was then I thought about how hard the ground would be. I didn’t think I’d be able to break the surface, much less dig deep. I almost put my spade away before I started, but I’d only been gone fifteen minutes and Ginny would have nagged me some more. So I started digging.” He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, his bravado gone like so much mist. “My spade . . . it hit her arm. So I stopped digging and called 911.”
“Can you tell us a little more about this land?” Vito asked. “Who has access to it?”
“Anybody with an ATV or four-wheel drive, I guess. You can’t see this field from the highway and the little drive that connects to the main road isn’t even paved.”
Vito nodded, grateful he’d driven his truck, leaving his Mustang parked safely in his garage alongside his bike. “It’s definitely a rugged road. How do you get back here?”
“Today I walked.” He pointed to the tree line where a single set of footprints emerged. “But this was the first time I’ve been back here. We only moved in a month ago. This land was my aunt’s,” he explained. “She died and left it to me.”
“So, did your aunt come out to this field often?”
“I wouldn’t think so. She was a recluse, never left the house. That’s all I know.”
“Sir, you’ve been a big help,” Vito said. “Thank you.”
Winchester’s shoulders sagged. “Then I can go home?”
“Sure. The officers will drive you home.”
Winchester got in the cruiser and it headed out, passing a gray Volvo on its way in. The Volvo parked behind Nick’s sedan and a trim woman in her midfifties got out and started across the field. ME Katherine Bauer was here. It was time to face Jane Doe.
Vito started toward the grave, but Nick didn’t move. He was looking at Winchester’s metal detector sitting inside the CSU van. “We should check the rest of the field, Chick.”
“You think there are more.”
“I think we can’t leave until we know there aren’t.”
Another shiver of apprehension raced down Vito’s back. In his heart he already knew what they would find. “You’re right. Let’s see what else is out there.”
Sunday, January 14, 10:30 A.M.
“Everybody’s eyes closed?” Sophie Johannsen frowned at her graduate students in the darkness. “Bruce, you’re peeking,” she said.
“I’m not peeking,” he grumbled. “Besides, it’s too dark to see anything anyway.”
“Hurry up,” Marta said impatiently. “Turn on the lights.”
Sophie flicked on the lights, savoring the moment. “I give you . . . the Great Hall.”
For a moment no one said a word. Then Spandan let out a low whistle that echoed off the ceiling, twenty feet above their heads.
Bruce’s face broke into a grin. “You did it. You finally finished it.”
Marta’s jaw squared. “It’s nice.”
Sophie blinked at the younger woman’s terse tone, but before she could say a word she heard the soft whir of John’s wheelchair as he passed her to stare up at the far wall. “You did all this yourself,” he murmured, looking around in his quiet way. “Awesome.”
Sophie shook her head. “Not nearly by myself. You all helped, cleaning swords and armor and helping me plan the sword display. This was definitely a group effort.”
Last fall, all fifteen members of her Weapons and Warfare graduate seminar had been enthusiastic volunteers at the Albright Museum of History, where Sophie spent her days. Now she was down to these faithful four. They’d come every Sunday for months, giving their time. They earned class credit, but more valuable was the opportunity to touch the medieval treasures their classmates could only view through glass.
Sophie understood their fascination. She also knew that holding a fifteenth-century sword in a sterile museum was but a shadow of the thrill of unearthing that sword herself, of brushing away the dirt, exposing a treasure no eyes had seen in five hundred years. Six months ago as a field archeologist in southern France, she’d lived for that rush, waking every morning wondering what buried treasure she’d find at the dig that day. Now, as the Albright Museum’s head curator, she could only touch the treasures unearthed by others. Touching them, caring for them would have to be enough for now.
And as hard as it had been to walk away from the French dig of her dreams, every time she sat at her grandmother’s side as she lay in a nursing-home bed, Sophie knew she’d made the right choice.
Moments like this, seeing the pride on the faces of her students, made her choice easier to bear, too. With pride of her own, Sophie admired what they’d accomplished. Large enough to easily accommodate groups of thirty or more, the new Great Hall was a spectacular sight. Against the far wall, three suits of armor stood at attention under a display of one hundred swords, arranged in a woven lattice pattern. War banners hung on the left wall, and on the right wall she’d mounted the Houarneau tapestry, one of the jewels of the collection amassed by Theodore Albright I during his brilliant archeological career.
Standing in front of the tapestry, Sophie took a moment to enjoy looking at it. The twelfth-century Houarneau tapestry, like all the other treasures in the Albright collection, never failed to steal her breath away. “Wow,” she murmured.
“‘Wow?’” Bruce shook his head with a smile. “Dr. J, you should be able to think of a better word than that, in any one of a dozen languages.”
“Only ten,” she corrected and watched him roll his eyes. For Sophie, the study of language had always been a practical pleasure. Fluency in ancient languages enabled her research, but more, she loved the fluid rhythm and nuance of words themselves. She’d had few opportunities to use her skill since coming home and she missed it.
So, still admiring the tapestry, she indulged herself. “C’est incroyable.” The French flowed through her mind like a welcome melody, which was no surprise. Excepting a few short visits back to Philly, Sophie had made France her home for the last fifteen years. Other languages required more conscious effort, but still her mind skimmed easily. Greek, German, Russian . . . she picked the words like flowers from a field. “Katapliktikos. Hat was. O moy bog.”
Marta raised a brow. “And all that translated, means?”
Sophie’s lips curved. “Essentially . . . wow.” She took another satisfied look around. “It’s been a huge hit with tour groups.” Her smile dimmed. Just thinking about the tours, or more specifically the tour guides, was enough to suck the joy right out of her day.
John turned his chair so he could stare up at the swords. “You did this so fast.”
She set the unpleasant tours aside in her mind. “The trick was Bruce’s computer-generated mockup. It showed where to place the supports, and once that was done mounting the swords was easy. It looks as authentic as any display I’ve ever seen in any castle anywhere.” She aimed a smile of appreciation toward Bruce. “Thank you.”
Bruce beamed. “And the paneling? I thought you were going with painted walls.”
Once again her smile dimmed. “I was overruled on that. Ted Albright insisted that the wood would make the place look more like a true hall and not a museum.”
“He was right,” Marta said, her lips pursed tightly. “It looks better.”
“Yeah, well maybe it does, but he also cleaned out my operating budget for this year,” Sophie said, annoyed. “I had a list of new acquisitions that I now can’t afford. We couldn’t even afford to have the damn paneling installed.” She looked at her abused hands, nicked and scraped. “While you all were back home sleeping until noon and pigging out on turkey leftovers, I was here with Ted Albright every day, putting up all this paneling. God, what a nightmare. Do you know how high these walls are?”
The whole paneling debacle had been the source of yet another argument with Ted “the Third” Albright. Ted was the only grandson of the great archeologist, which unfortunately made him the sole owner of the Albright collection. He was also the owner of the museum, which unfortunately made him Sophie’s boss. She rued the day she’d ever heard of Ted Albright and his Barnum and Bailey approach to running a museum, but until a position opened up in one of the other museums, this job was it.
Marta turned to look at her, her eyes cold and . . . disappointed. “Spending two weeks alone with Ted Albright doesn’t sound like a hardship. He’s an attractive man,” she added, her tone acidic. “I’m surprised you managed to get any work done at all.”
Uncomfortable silence filled the room as Sophie stood, shocked and staring at the woman she’d mentored for four months. This can’t be happening again. But it was.
The men exchanged looks of wary confusion, but Sophie knew exactly what Marta was saying, exactly what she’d heard. The disappointment she’d seen in Marta’s eyes now made sense. Rage and denial screamed through Sophie’s mind, but she decided to address the current insinuation and leave the past covered, for now.
“Ted’s married, Marta. A
COUNT TO TEN
“Kept me up all night with the doors locked . . . Karen Rose writes hold-your-breath suspense.”
—Karen Robards, New York Times bestselling author
“Takes off like a house afire . . . There’s action and chills galore in this nonstop thriller.”
—Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author
“Rose cranks up the heat in more ways than one . . . another winning mystery thriller . . . Emotional subplots, engaging characters, and a string of red herrings will keep readers hooked.”
—Publishers Weekly
YOU CAN’T HIDE
“Suspense-filled . . . [an] action-packed serial killer thriller.”
—Baryon Magazine
“This novel is, in a word, riveting.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
“A fast-paced suspense novel with many twists and turns. Rose is a great suspense writer.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Spine-tingling . . . Some writers can draw you in with the first sentence and keep you enthralled even if the house is burning down around you—and romantic suspense author Karen Rose is one of them.”
—NightsandWeekends.com
“If there’s one name synonymous with great romantic suspense writers it’s Karen Rose—she just keeps getting better and better.”
—BookLoons.com
“Ms. Rose has done it again. She is one talented writer who can draw out a suspense read to the final spine-chilling end.”
—TheBestReviews.com
“A chilling, fast-paced thriller.”
—CurledUp.com
“As always, Rose delivers a masterful story of suspense.”
—OnceWritten.com
NOTHING TO FEAR
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“Readers can always count on Rose to deliver an action-packed book, and this one is no exception.”
—Southern Pines Pilot (NC)
“Four and a half stars! Top pick! . . . Filled with heart-stopping suspense and graphic terror . . . In the pantheon of horrific killers, [this one] surely ranks near the top.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
“A tense, chilling suspense that readers will appreciate from start to finish.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Rose’s well-crafted story sets pulses pounding and pages turning.”
—BookPage
“A caring women’s advocate heroine, a determined, gritty hero, and a diabolical villain drive the plot of Rose’s riveting story.”
—Library Journal
I’M WATCHING YOU
“Action-packed . . . a thrilling police procedural romance . . . fans will enjoy this tense thriller.”
—Midwest Book Review
“TOP PICK! Terrifying and gritty.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
“The suspense unfolds right up to the last page.”
—Southern Pines Pilot (NC)
“A sensual, riveting book that kept me on the edge of my seat.”
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HAVE YOU SEEN HER?
“Heart-racing thrills . . . showcases her growing talent . . . readers will . . . rush to the novel’s thrilling conclusion.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Terrifying and gripping.”
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DON’T TELL
“Rose delivers the kind of high-wire suspense that keeps you riveted to the edge of your seat.”
—Lisa Gardner, New York Times bestselling author
“As gripping as a cold hand on the back of one’s neck . . . and tempered by lovable characters and a moving romance.”
—Publishers Weekly
“One of the best suspense novels [I’ve] read this summer . . . one hot author you don’t want to miss.”
—The Belles & Beaux of Romance
“Action-packed [with a] story line [that] is character driven.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A stunning tour de force that readers won’t want to miss . . . Don’t Tell belongs on the keeper shelf.”
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“A fantastic job of telling a tale . . . touchingly narrated.”
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“A truly spectacular example of romantic suspense.”
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“Don’t Tell is a seat-of-your-pants tale, dragging the reader deep into the characters and wringing emotions from all concerned.”
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“Couldn’t put it down.”
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“Excellent romantic suspense . . . will keep you on the edge of your seat . . . excellent writing and storytelling by Karen Rose.”
—RoadtoRomance.ca
Prologue
Philadelphia, Saturday, January 6
The first thing that hit Warren Keyes was the smell. Ammonia, disinfectant . . . and something else. What else? Open your eyes, Keyes. He could hear his own voice echo inside his head and he struggled to lift his eyelids. Heavy. They were so heavy, but he fought until they stayed open. It was dark. No. There was a little light. Warren blinked once, then again with more force until a flickering light came into focus.
It was a torch, mounted on the wall. His heart started thudding hard in his chest. The wall was rock. I’m in a cave. His heart began to race. What the hell is this? He lunged forward and white-hot pain speared down his arms to his back. Gasping, he fell back against something flat and hard.
He was tied. Oh God. His hands and feet were tied. And he was naked. Trapped. Fear rose from his belly, clawing his insides. He twisted like a wild animal, then fell back again, panting, tasting the disinfectant as he sucked in air. Disinfectant and . . .
His breath hitched as he recognized the odor under the disinfectant. Something dead. Rotting. Something died here. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to panic. This isn’t happening. This is just a dream, a nightmare. In a minute I’ll wake up.
But he wasn’t dreaming. This, whatever it was, was real. He was stretched out on a board on a slight incline, his wrists tied together and his arms pulled up and behind his head. Why? He tried to think, to remember. There was something . . . a picture in his mind, just beyond his reach. He strained for the memory and realized his head ached—he winced as the pain sent little black spots dancing across his eyes. God, it was like a really bad hangover. But he hadn’t been drinking. Had he?
Coffee. He remembered drinking coffee, his hands closing around the cup to get warm. He’d been cold. He’d been outside. Running. Why was he running? He rotated his wrists, feeling his raw skin burn, reaching until the tips of his fingers touched rope.
“So you’re finally awake.”
The voice came from behind him and he craned his neck, trying to see. Then he remembered and the pressure on his chest lessened a fraction. It was a movie. I’m an actor and we were making a movie. A history documentary. He’d been running with . . . with what? He grimaced, focusing. A sword, that’s it. He’d been in medieval costume, a knight with a helmet and shield . . . even chain mail, for God’s sake. The entire scene came back now. He’d changed his clothes, even his underwear, for some scratchy, shapeless burlap that irritated his crotch. He’d had a sword, and he’d carried it as he ran through the woods outside Munch’s studio, yelling at the top of his lungs. He’d felt like a damn idiot, but he’d done it all because it was in the damn script.
But this—he jerked at the ropes again with no success—this was not in the script.
“Munch.” Warren’s voice was thick, grating on his dry throat. “What the hell is this?”
Ed Munch appeared to his left. “I didn’t think you’d ever wake up.”
Warren blinked as the dim light from the torch flickered across the man’s face. His heart skipped a beat. Munch had changed. Before he’d been old, shoulders stooped. White hair and a trim mustache. Warren swallowed, his breath shallow. Now Munch stood straight. His mustache was gone. So was his hair, his head shaved shiny bald.
Munch wasn’t old. Dread coiled in his gut, seething and roiling. The deal was five hundred for the documentary. Cash if he came that day. Warren had been suspicious—it was a lot of money for a history documentary they’d show on PBS if he was lucky. But he’d agreed. One odd old man was no threat.
But Munch wasn’t old. Bile rose, choking him. What have I done? Close on the heels of that question came the next, more terrifying. What will he do to me?
“Who are you?” Warren croaked out and Munch held a bottle of water to his lips. Warren pulled away, but Munch grabbed his chin with surprising strength. His dark eyes narrowed and fear made Warren freeze.
“It’s just water this time,” Munch ground out. “Drink it.”
Warren spat the mouthful of water back in the man’s face and held himself rigid when Munch raised his fist. But the fist lowered and Munch shrugged.
“You’ll drink eventually. I need your throat moist.”
Warren licked his lips. “Why?”
Munch disappeared behind him again and Warren could hear something rolling. A video camera, Warren saw when Munch rolled it past him, stopping about five feet away. The camera was pointing straight at his face. “Why?” Warren repeated, louder.
Munch peered through the lens and stepped back. “Because I need you to scream.” He lifted a brow, his expression surreally bland. “They all screamed. So will you.”
Horror bubbled up and Warren fought it back. Stay calm. Treat him nice and maybe you can talk your way out of this. He made his lips curve. “Look, Munch, let me go and we’ll call it even. You can keep the sword fight scenes I did already at no charge.”
Munch just looked at him, his expression still bland. “I never planned to pay you anyway.” He disappeared again and reappeared, pushing another video camera.
Warren remembered the coffee, remembered Munch’s insistence that he drink it. Just water this time. Rage geysered inside him, momentarily eclipsing the fear. “You drugged me,” he hissed, and he filled his lungs with air. “Somebody help me!” he yelled as loud as he could, but the hoarse sound from his throat was pathetically useless.
Munch said nothing, just set up a third camera on a boom so that it pointed down. Every movement was methodical, precise. Unhurried. Unconcerned. Unafraid.
And then Warren knew no one could hear him. The hot rage drained away, leaving only fear, cold and absolute. Warren’s voice shook. There had to be something . . . some way out. Something he could say. Do. Offer. Beg. He’d beg. “Please, Munch, I’ll do anything . . .” His words trailed away as Munch’s words replayed in his mind.
They all screamed. Ed Munch. Warren’s chest constricted, despair making it difficult to breathe. “Munch isn’t your real name. Edvard Munch, the artist.” The painting of a ghoulish figure clutching its face in agony flashed into his mind. “The Scream.”
“Actually, it’s pronounced ‘Moonk,’ not ‘Munch,’ but nobody ever gets it right. Nobody gets the details right,” he added in a disgusted voice.
Details. The man had been all about details earlier, frowning when Warren argued against the scratchy underwear. The sword had been real, too. I should have used it on the bastard when I had the chance. “Authenticity,” Warren murmured, repeating what he’d thought had been the ramblings of a crazy old man.
Munch nodded. “Now you understand.”
“What will you do?” His own voice was eerily calm.
One corner of Munch’s mouth lifted. “You’ll see soon enough.”
Warren dragged in each breath. “Please. Please, I’ll do anything. Just let me go.”
Munch said nothing. He pushed a cart with a television just beyond the camera at his feet, then checked the focus of each camera with calm precision.
“You won’t get away with this,” Warren said desperately, once again pulling at the ropes, struggling until his wrists burned and his arms strained in their sockets. The ropes were thick, the knots unyielding. He would not break free.
“That’s what all the others said. But I have, and I will continue to do so.”
Others. There had been others. The smell of death was all around, mocking him. Others had died here. He would die here, too. From somewhere deep inside him, courage rallied. He lifted his chin. “My friends will come looking for me. I told my fiancée I was meeting you.”
Finished with the cameras, Munch turned. His eyes held a contempt that said he knew it was a last, desperate bluff. “No, you didn’t. You told your fiancée you were meeting a friend to help him read lines. You told me so when we met this afternoon. You said this money would pay for a surprise for her birthday. You wanted it to stay a secret. That and your tattoo were the reasons I chose you.” He lifted one shoulder. “Plus, you fit the suit. Not everyone can wear chain mail correctly. So no one will be looking for you. And if they do, they’ll never find you. Accept it—you belong to me.”
Everything inside him went deathly still. It was true. He had told Munch the money was for a surprise for Sherry. Nobody knew where he was. Nobody would save him. He thought of Sherry, of his mom and dad, of everyone he cared about. They’d wonder where he was. A sob rose in his throat. “You bastard,” he whispered. “I hate you.”
One side of Munch’s mouth quirked, but his eyes lit up with an amusement that was more terrifying than his smile. “The others said that, too.” He shoved the water bottle at Warren’s mouth again, pinching his nose until he gasped for air. Wildly Warren fought, but Munch forced the water down. “Now, Mr. Keyes, we begin. Don’t forget to scream.”
Chapter One
Philadelphia, Sunday, January 14, 10:25 A.M.
Detective Vito Ciccotelli got out of his truck, his skin still vibrating. The beat-up old dirt road that led to the crime scene had only served to further rile his already churning stomach. He sucked in a breath and immediately regretted it. After fourteen years on the force, the odor of death still came as a putrid and unwelcome surprise.
“That shot my shocks to holy hell.” Nick Lawrence grimaced, slamming the door of his sensible sedan. “Shit.” His Carolina drawl drew the curse out to four full syllables.
Two uniforms stood staring down into a hole halfway across the snow-covered field. Handkerchiefs covered their faces. A woman was crouched down in the hole, the top of her head barely visible. “I guess CSU’s already uncovered the body,” Vito said dryly.
“Y’think?” Nick bent down and shoved the cuffs of his pants into the cowboy boots he kept polished to a spit shine. “Well, Chick, let’s get this show on the road.”
“In a minute.” Vito reached behind his seat for his snow boots, then flinched when a thorn jabbed deep into his thumb. “Dammit.” For a few seconds he sucked on the tiny wound, then with care moved the bouquet of roses out of the way to get to his boots. From the corner of his eye he could see Nick sober. But his partner said nothing.
“It’s been two years. Today,” Vito added bitterly. “How time flies.”
Nick’s voice was quiet. “It’s supposed to heal, too.”
And Nick was right. Two years had dulled the edge of Vito’s grief. But guilt . . . that was a different matter entirely. “I’m going out to the cemetery this afternoon.”
“You want me to go with you?”
“Thanks, but no.” Vito shoved his feet into his boots. “Let’s go see what they found.”
Six years as a homicide detective had taught Vito that there were no simple murders, just varying degrees of hard ones. As soon as he stopped at the edge of the grave the crime scene unit had just unearthed in the snow-covered field, he knew this would be one of the harder ones.
Neither Vito nor Nick said a word as they studied the victim, who might have remained hidden forever were it not for an elderly man and his metal detector. The roses, the cemetery, and everything else was pushed aside as Vito focused on the body in the hole. He dragged his gaze from her hands to what was left of her face.
Their Jane Doe had been small, five-two or five-three, and appeared to have been young. Short, dark hair framed a face too decomposed to be easily identifiable and Vito wondered how long she’d been here. He wondered if anyone had missed her. If anyone still waited for her to come home.
He felt the familiar surge of pity and sadness and pushed it to the edge of his mind along with all the other things he wanted to forget. For now he’d focus on the body, the evidence. Later, he and Nick would consider the woman—who she’d been and who she’d known. They’d do so as a means to catch the sick sonofabitch who’d left her nude body to rot in an unmarked grave in an open field, who’d violated her even after death. Pity shifted to outrage as Vito’s gaze returned to the victim’s hands.
“He posed her,” Nick murmured beside him and in the soft words Vito heard the same outrage he felt. “He fucking posed her.”
Indeed he had. Her hands were pressed together between her breasts, her fingertips pointing to her chin. “Permanently folded in prayer,” Vito said grimly.
“Religious murderer?” Nick mused.
“God, I hope not.” A buzz of apprehension tickled his spine. “Religious murderers tend not to stop with just one. There could be more.”
“Maybe.” Nick crouched down to peer into the grave which was about three feet deep. “How did he permanently pose her hands, Jen?”
CSU Sergeant Jen McFain looked up, her eyes covered with goggles, her nose and mouth by a mask. “Wire,” she said. “Looks like steel, but very fine. It’s wound around her fingers. You’ll be able to see it better once the ME cleans her up.”
Vito frowned. “Doesn’t seem like wire that thin would be enough to trip the sensor on a metal detector, especially under a couple feet of dirt.”
“You’re right, the wire wouldn’t have set it off. For that we can thank the rods your perp ran under the victim’s arms.” Jen traced one gloved finger along the underside of her own arm, down to her wrist. “They’re thin and bendable, but have enough mass to set off a metal detector. It’s how he kept her arms fixed in position.”
Vito shook his head. “Why?” he asked and Jen shrugged.
“Maybe we’ll get more from the body. I haven’t gotten much from the hole so far. Except . . .” She nimbly climbed from the grave. “The old man uncovered one of her arms using his garden spade. Now, he’s in pretty good shape, but even I couldn’t have dug that deep with a garden spade this time of year.”
Nick looked into the grave. “The ground must not have been frozen.”
Jen nodded. “Exactly. When he found the arm he stopped digging and called 911. When we got here, we started moving dirt to see what we had. The fill was easy to move until we got to the grave wall, then it was hard as a rock. Look at the corners. They look like they were cut using a T square. They’re frozen solid.”
Vito felt a sick tug at his gut. “He dug the grave before the ground froze. He planned this pretty far in advance.”
Nick was frowning. “And nobody noticed a gaping hole?”
“Perp might’ve covered it with something,” Jen said. “Also, I don’t think the fill dirt came from this field. I’ll run the tests to tell you for sure. That’s all I got for now. I can’t do anything more until the ME gets here.”
“Thanks, Jen,” Vito said. “Let’s talk to the property owner,” he said to Nick.
Harlan Winchester was about seventy, but his eyes were clear and sharp. He’d been waiting in the back seat of the police cruiser and got out when he saw them coming. “I suppose I’ll have to tell you detectives the same thing I told the officers.”
Vito put a little sympathy into his nod. “I’m afraid so. I’m Detective Ciccotelli and this is my partner, Detective Lawrence. Can you take us through what happened?”
“Hell, I didn’t even want that damn metal detector. It was a present from my wife. She’s worried I don’t get enough exercise since I retired.”
“So you got out this morning and walked?” Vito prompted and Winchester scowled.
“‘Harlan P. Winchester,’” he mimicked in a high, nasal voice, “‘you’ve been in that good-for-nothin’ chair for the last ten years. Get your moldy butt up and walk.’ So I did, ’cause I couldn’t stand to listen to her nag me anymore. I thought I might find something interesting to make Ginny shut up. But . . . I never dreamed I’d find a person.”
“Was the body the first object your detector picked up?” Nick asked.
“Yeah.” His mouth set grimly. “I took out my garden spade. It was then I thought about how hard the ground would be. I didn’t think I’d be able to break the surface, much less dig deep. I almost put my spade away before I started, but I’d only been gone fifteen minutes and Ginny would have nagged me some more. So I started digging.” He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, his bravado gone like so much mist. “My spade . . . it hit her arm. So I stopped digging and called 911.”
“Can you tell us a little more about this land?” Vito asked. “Who has access to it?”
“Anybody with an ATV or four-wheel drive, I guess. You can’t see this field from the highway and the little drive that connects to the main road isn’t even paved.”
Vito nodded, grateful he’d driven his truck, leaving his Mustang parked safely in his garage alongside his bike. “It’s definitely a rugged road. How do you get back here?”
“Today I walked.” He pointed to the tree line where a single set of footprints emerged. “But this was the first time I’ve been back here. We only moved in a month ago. This land was my aunt’s,” he explained. “She died and left it to me.”
“So, did your aunt come out to this field often?”
“I wouldn’t think so. She was a recluse, never left the house. That’s all I know.”
“Sir, you’ve been a big help,” Vito said. “Thank you.”
Winchester’s shoulders sagged. “Then I can go home?”
“Sure. The officers will drive you home.”
Winchester got in the cruiser and it headed out, passing a gray Volvo on its way in. The Volvo parked behind Nick’s sedan and a trim woman in her midfifties got out and started across the field. ME Katherine Bauer was here. It was time to face Jane Doe.
Vito started toward the grave, but Nick didn’t move. He was looking at Winchester’s metal detector sitting inside the CSU van. “We should check the rest of the field, Chick.”
“You think there are more.”
“I think we can’t leave until we know there aren’t.”
Another shiver of apprehension raced down Vito’s back. In his heart he already knew what they would find. “You’re right. Let’s see what else is out there.”
Sunday, January 14, 10:30 A.M.
“Everybody’s eyes closed?” Sophie Johannsen frowned at her graduate students in the darkness. “Bruce, you’re peeking,” she said.
“I’m not peeking,” he grumbled. “Besides, it’s too dark to see anything anyway.”
“Hurry up,” Marta said impatiently. “Turn on the lights.”
Sophie flicked on the lights, savoring the moment. “I give you . . . the Great Hall.”
For a moment no one said a word. Then Spandan let out a low whistle that echoed off the ceiling, twenty feet above their heads.
Bruce’s face broke into a grin. “You did it. You finally finished it.”
Marta’s jaw squared. “It’s nice.”
Sophie blinked at the younger woman’s terse tone, but before she could say a word she heard the soft whir of John’s wheelchair as he passed her to stare up at the far wall. “You did all this yourself,” he murmured, looking around in his quiet way. “Awesome.”
Sophie shook her head. “Not nearly by myself. You all helped, cleaning swords and armor and helping me plan the sword display. This was definitely a group effort.”
Last fall, all fifteen members of her Weapons and Warfare graduate seminar had been enthusiastic volunteers at the Albright Museum of History, where Sophie spent her days. Now she was down to these faithful four. They’d come every Sunday for months, giving their time. They earned class credit, but more valuable was the opportunity to touch the medieval treasures their classmates could only view through glass.
Sophie understood their fascination. She also knew that holding a fifteenth-century sword in a sterile museum was but a shadow of the thrill of unearthing that sword herself, of brushing away the dirt, exposing a treasure no eyes had seen in five hundred years. Six months ago as a field archeologist in southern France, she’d lived for that rush, waking every morning wondering what buried treasure she’d find at the dig that day. Now, as the Albright Museum’s head curator, she could only touch the treasures unearthed by others. Touching them, caring for them would have to be enough for now.
And as hard as it had been to walk away from the French dig of her dreams, every time she sat at her grandmother’s side as she lay in a nursing-home bed, Sophie knew she’d made the right choice.
Moments like this, seeing the pride on the faces of her students, made her choice easier to bear, too. With pride of her own, Sophie admired what they’d accomplished. Large enough to easily accommodate groups of thirty or more, the new Great Hall was a spectacular sight. Against the far wall, three suits of armor stood at attention under a display of one hundred swords, arranged in a woven lattice pattern. War banners hung on the left wall, and on the right wall she’d mounted the Houarneau tapestry, one of the jewels of the collection amassed by Theodore Albright I during his brilliant archeological career.
Standing in front of the tapestry, Sophie took a moment to enjoy looking at it. The twelfth-century Houarneau tapestry, like all the other treasures in the Albright collection, never failed to steal her breath away. “Wow,” she murmured.
“‘Wow?’” Bruce shook his head with a smile. “Dr. J, you should be able to think of a better word than that, in any one of a dozen languages.”
“Only ten,” she corrected and watched him roll his eyes. For Sophie, the study of language had always been a practical pleasure. Fluency in ancient languages enabled her research, but more, she loved the fluid rhythm and nuance of words themselves. She’d had few opportunities to use her skill since coming home and she missed it.
So, still admiring the tapestry, she indulged herself. “C’est incroyable.” The French flowed through her mind like a welcome melody, which was no surprise. Excepting a few short visits back to Philly, Sophie had made France her home for the last fifteen years. Other languages required more conscious effort, but still her mind skimmed easily. Greek, German, Russian . . . she picked the words like flowers from a field. “Katapliktikos. Hat was. O moy bog.”
Marta raised a brow. “And all that translated, means?”
Sophie’s lips curved. “Essentially . . . wow.” She took another satisfied look around. “It’s been a huge hit with tour groups.” Her smile dimmed. Just thinking about the tours, or more specifically the tour guides, was enough to suck the joy right out of her day.
John turned his chair so he could stare up at the swords. “You did this so fast.”
She set the unpleasant tours aside in her mind. “The trick was Bruce’s computer-generated mockup. It showed where to place the supports, and once that was done mounting the swords was easy. It looks as authentic as any display I’ve ever seen in any castle anywhere.” She aimed a smile of appreciation toward Bruce. “Thank you.”
Bruce beamed. “And the paneling? I thought you were going with painted walls.”
Once again her smile dimmed. “I was overruled on that. Ted Albright insisted that the wood would make the place look more like a true hall and not a museum.”
“He was right,” Marta said, her lips pursed tightly. “It looks better.”
“Yeah, well maybe it does, but he also cleaned out my operating budget for this year,” Sophie said, annoyed. “I had a list of new acquisitions that I now can’t afford. We couldn’t even afford to have the damn paneling installed.” She looked at her abused hands, nicked and scraped. “While you all were back home sleeping until noon and pigging out on turkey leftovers, I was here with Ted Albright every day, putting up all this paneling. God, what a nightmare. Do you know how high these walls are?”
The whole paneling debacle had been the source of yet another argument with Ted “the Third” Albright. Ted was the only grandson of the great archeologist, which unfortunately made him the sole owner of the Albright collection. He was also the owner of the museum, which unfortunately made him Sophie’s boss. She rued the day she’d ever heard of Ted Albright and his Barnum and Bailey approach to running a museum, but until a position opened up in one of the other museums, this job was it.
Marta turned to look at her, her eyes cold and . . . disappointed. “Spending two weeks alone with Ted Albright doesn’t sound like a hardship. He’s an attractive man,” she added, her tone acidic. “I’m surprised you managed to get any work done at all.”
Uncomfortable silence filled the room as Sophie stood, shocked and staring at the woman she’d mentored for four months. This can’t be happening again. But it was.
The men exchanged looks of wary confusion, but Sophie knew exactly what Marta was saying, exactly what she’d heard. The disappointment she’d seen in Marta’s eyes now made sense. Rage and denial screamed through Sophie’s mind, but she decided to address the current insinuation and leave the past covered, for now.
“Ted’s married, Marta. A
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