One Deadly Sin
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Synopsis
COMING HOME IS MURDER... Revenge. Edie Swann has hungered for it since she fled her hometown as a little girl. Now she's returned, ready for payback. Armed with a list of names, she leaves each one a chilling sign that they have blood on their hands. Her father's blood. What happens next turns her own blood cold: one by one, the men she's targeted start dying. Sheriff Holt Drennen knows Edie is hiding something. She has a haunted look in her eyes and a defiant spirit, yet he can't believe she's a murderer. As the body count rises and all evidence points to Edie, Holt is torn between the town he's sworn to protect and the woman he's come to desire. But nothing is what it seems. Long buried secrets begin to surface, and a killer won't be satisfied until the sins of the past are paid in full--this time with Edie's blood.
Release date: May 1, 2009
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 416
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One Deadly Sin
Annie Solomon
ACCLAIM FOR ANNIE SOLOMON’S PREVIOUS NOVELS
DEAD SHOT
“Solomon’s psychologically rich romantic thriller balances grisly imagery with tender moments and is entertaining, through
and through.”
—Booklist
“Gripping… Solomon’s characters are convincing and compelling… good suspenseful fun.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A riveting and edgy romantic suspense that you’ll want to read in a single sitting.”
—
BookLoons.com
“4 Stars! A creepy edge of danger threads through the story… fascinating. Solomon and suspense are a perfect match!”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Compelling… The plot is well-written, the action fast-moving, keeping the reader in suspense to the last page.”
—
MyShelf.com
“Dead Shot is a thrilling romance that is full of intrigue and emotion. Once I started… I just couldn’t put it down. The characters
are wonderfully written and it was a nonstop thrill ride… This is a definite must-read if you are looking for an intense read
with some romantic tension.”
—
RoundtableReviews.com
“An exciting romantic suspense thriller… Annie Solomon hooks her audience with the first spilled blood and never lets go until
the final Dead Shot reckoning occurs.”
—
TheBestReviews.com
“Will have your heart skipping beats… Filled with tension in every sentence and a plot that just keeps accelerating and getting
more intense by the second.”
—Shelflife
BLACKOUT
“4 Stars! Fantastic story!… Tough, suspenseful, and we have a heroine who is even tougher than the special agent hero. Whew!
Never a dull moment. Solomon has outdone herself this time, and that’s not easy to do.”
—
RomanceReviewsMag.com
“Twisty and diverting, with well-written action sequences.”
—Publishers Weekly
“4½ Stars! Hooks you from the first page and never lets you go… dangerous and riveting. Rising fast to the top of the romantic
suspense genre, Solomon doesn’t disappoint.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Talk about edge-of-the-seat! I have never read a book with such relentless suspense… A superb example of showing over mere
telling of a story. I highly recommend Blackout.”
—Romantic Reviews Today
BLIND CURVE
“4 Stars! Riveting and emotionally intense.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“A perfect ten… nail-biting, intense drama that will leave you breathless with anticipation.”
—
MyShelf.com
“Annie Solomon does such an outstanding job creating taut suspense. From the very first page… to the riveting climax, you
can’t help but be glued to the story.”
—
RoundTableReviews.com
“An action-packed novel… a feast for suspense fans, and the added mixture of romance… another winner for an author who clearly
has a gift and is on the rise.”
—
TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
TELL ME NO LIES
“Infused with raw emotion and a thirst for vengeance. Excitement and tension galore!”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Full of simmering emotions that lovers of romantic suspense will devour.”
—Rendezvous
“Another success! Miss Solomon’s latest novel is a testament to her gift for crafting intelligent, sexy novels.”
—
RomanceReadersConnection.com
DEAD RINGER
“Just the ticket for those looking for excitement and romance.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“An entertaining… exceptional… emotionally taut tale… offers twists and turns that kept me enthralled to the last page.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
“Thrilling and edgy… Dead Ringer delivers excitement, suspense, and sexual tension… Highly recommended.”
—
RomRevToday.com
LIKE A KNIFE
“A nail-biter through and through. Absolutely riveting.”
—Iris Johansen
“Fast-paced… exciting romantic suspense that… the audience will relish.”
—Midwest Book Review
She came at night, creeping into town like a shade. Darkness suited her. It evoked the past, that black hole of fury and mystery.
Recapturing it required dark arts.
There was irony, arriving at midnight. Pulling into the cemetery at the traditional witching hour, leaving the street lights
behind. She inched forward, navigating through stars, those pinpricks of light. And memory.
The stars were out that night, too, long ago when the doorbell clanged and shattered the silence into before and after. She’d
heard it through her bedroom door when she should have been asleep. But who could sleep with her father accused and missing,
her mother an inconsolable machine of tears?
She remembered the darkness through her window, the moon a sly smile in the sky, the black a background against which the
grown-up voices rumbled below.
And then her mother’s scream.
Unhuman, animal, a throat ripped out, a universe hacked and splattered into pieces. A sound so feral the memory of it still
gave her shivers.
No one screamed now. Nothing broke the silence but the hum of her wheels rolling down the winding cemetery road, a path between
graves.
At last she slowed. Stopped. Turned off the engine.
And picked her way over the dead to her destination. The last thing she’d seen in this town. The last image of home. Now,
it was the first thing she’d see on her return.
The black angel.
She swept a penlight over the sculpture. Remembered the gargoyle face seen with ten-year-old eyes. Twenty years later she
saw the face was meant to be kind. But it was overshadowed by massive wings that spanned up and out, looming over the headstone
like a vampire bat.
There had been hot arguments over that angel. Even banished to her room, she could hear her mother and her aunt fighting.
“It’s frightening. Unholy,” her aunt had said. “A mark against his name.”
“They put the mark there, not me.”
“They who?”
“I don’t know!”
“You can’t do this, Evelyn.”
“It’s done.” Her mother’s voice was harsh and strained. “It stays until the stain is gone. Until I can prove it.”
Until I can prove it.
Poor Mother.
There had been no proving. It was all too hard, too heavy. Like life itself.
She bent down, ran her fingers over the headstone. Mud had dried and caked over the words cut into the marble. She found her
penknife and scraped it away, blowing to clear the residue.
Charles Swanford.
Hello, Daddy.
She traced the rest of the inscription, not needing to see it because it was incised in her memory. Beloved husband and father. And the quotation: They make haste to shed innocent blood.
Innocent blood. She rose to face the angel. They needed a black angel, her father and mother. They were weak. Unprepared for
the pressure life steamrolled over them. People who retreated and hid. Ran away. Died.
But they had her now. She snapped off the light, leaving the darkness to coil around her like a shroud. Edie was back. And
she’d make everything right.
Edie Swann.” Red McClure looked from the job application to Edie, who stood on the other side of the bar.
She held her breath, waiting to see if the name struck a chord with him. Did he recognize it? She’d debated using her real
name. It wasn’t that dissimilar from the one she’d left Redbud with, so a false identity might have served her well. But using
an alias picked at her. She wanted to come back as herself, right under the nose of the whole damn town, betting that the
twenty years between then and now would have blurred memories. So far, she’d been right.
The look Red gave her was open, friendly. Free of shadows. It was a good round face, a plus for a bartender. One that invited
small confidences.
Not that he was going to get any from her. “That’s right.”
She’d seen the help-wanted notice for Red’s in the Redbud Gazette. Wondered if the bar was named after the town or after the owner. When she got there, the thinning red thatch atop his freckled
face was her answer.
He perused the application again, maybe for the third time. Edie tamped down her impatience.
“You’ve been around,” he said. “New York, Boston, Chicago, St. Louis, Nashville.”
She shrugged. “Still trying to find my Eden.” She put that out there, waited for some hint of recognition, and got none. A
shiver of satisfaction ran through her. It was hot outside, deep and thick with summer humidity, and the bar was air-conditioned
to the hilt. It would be great once she started working, but right now her bare shoulders in the tight leather vest were freezing.
“And you think you’ve found it in Redbud?” Doubt trickled into his voice.
“You never know.” She smiled, giving him the blazing one she showered on customers. It worked like it always did. Well, that
and a few other tricks of the trade. Like putting her elbows on the bar and leaning forward so her cleavage was even more
visible.
“These are good places.” He tapped the paper, referring to the list of priors that was her bar girl résumé. “I know some.
Well, by reputation, of course. Though I’ve been to the Sassafrass in Nashville. Quite a scene. You won’t get that here. This
is a neighborhood place, just folks relaxing.”
Neighborhood was an exaggeration, seeing as it was on the edge of town, a bare half-mile from the Hammerbilt HVAC plant. The
only neighbors were the truckers offloading steel sheeting and the steady stream of shift workers without whom Red’s would
be dead.
“What I’m looking for.” And to underscore her assurance, she looked around the place. A clutter of small tables, high on the
outside, low in the middle, stools at the bar. All squeezed into a cave of a room, dark and cool enough for hibernating. “Someplace
comfortable. I’m tired of wandering. Be thirty in a few months. Time I put down some roots.”
“And you picked Redbud?” As if no one in his right mind would choose this tiny spot on the highway to settle down. Not if
he had the options she’d obviously had.
She laughed, her story already worked out in her head. “Actually, Redbud picked me. Ran into some trouble with my bike and
had to shell out a handful to get it fixed. Redbud was as far as the rest of my cash could take me.”
“Well as far as bartenders go, you’ve got the pedigree.”
“What about the job?”
He pursed his lips. “Can you make, ah… one of those apple martinis?”
She paused. Didn’t think there’d be much call for mixed drinks here. “I do a killer appletini.” She vaulted over the bar.
Looked for the vodka and the apple schnapps. Found the former, not the latter. She asked for it.
Red-faced, the bar owner said, “Don’t have it. Don’t get much call for it here. Just—”
“—Wanted to see if I knew what I was doing?”
He nodded.
“Okay. Give me a second.” She took the time to peruse the shelves, found some brandy, a kid’s carton of apple juice in the
bar fridge, and a lemon. She mixed the drink over ice, added a dash of vodka, and poured it into an old-fashioned glass garnished
with a lemon twist. Made a second drink adding ginger ale and poured it into a highball glass. “Apple blossom. Apple blossom
fizz.” She pushed the drinks toward him. While he sampled, she found a bottle of crème do cacao, blew off the dust, mixed
it with vodka in an ice-filled shaker and poured the drink into a martini glass. “Chocolate martini. What do you think?”
He grinned. “Yeah, but can you draw a beer?”
She gave him that smile, leaned against the bar again. “Like nobody’s business.”
They shook on it, and agreed she’d start later that night. “Got a big to-do in town,” Red said. “The guy that heads the plant
is leaving to run with the big dogs at IAT—International Ambient Technologies. They own Hammerbilt.”
“Oh, yeah?” Edie faked mild interest. But anything about Hammerbilt got her attention.
“Won’t be much alcohol at the picnic, so figure there’ll be a lot of spillover here. You should stop by the park. It’ll be
a big send-off. I’ll introduce you around.” He handed her a flyer with all the particulars. She saw the honoree’s name and
her heart started to thud. Sometimes the gods were smiling.
“Thanks.” She pocketed the flyer. “Maybe I will.”
She needed a place to flop, and Red showed her a room above the bar. He apologized for the dust, but they worked out a deal,
and once the place was cleaned up it had everything she needed. Bed, hotplate, a table that could serve as living and dining
room. Not what she’d call homey, but then again, she hadn’t really known homey since she left Redbud behind.
Oh, there’d been home—Aunt Penny’s apartment with its mess of three rooms, Edie’s the one with the pullout bed. Then again
it had been a long time since she’d had a yard and a tree to swing on. It wasn’t as if she’d miss it.
Not like she had at first.
But that was years ago, and this was today. And she had things to do.
She hauled her bags up the iron stairs that overlooked the back alley. No one would bother her here. Perfect site to start
things swirling.
She stuffed the few hanging things she’d brought with her—a couple of dresses in case she needed them—into the tiny closet.
Cleaned up some abandoned crates lying in the alley and lugged them to the room to serve as a dresser.
By noon there was only one last thing to put away. Reaching deep inside an inner pocket of her duffel, she pulled out a plastic
bag. Hefted its light weight in her hand, jiggling the forms inside. The corners of her mouth twisted into a small dark smile,
and she upended the bag onto the bare mattress.
A dozen tiny black angels spilled out.
Redbud was built by immigrants and easterners coming west to Tennessee for adventure and prosperity. They brought with them
the square plan and built the town around it. As it grew, newcomers desperate for space stretched the boundaries, not always
sticking to the order. Behind the original town with its neat map of squared-off avenues around a central quad, the streets
were akimbo, alleys snaking off into meandering roads like a maze hiding secrets.
The signature redbuds, which once grew wild on the outskirts, had gradually given way to homes and progress. Town fathers
had added them later, planting the trees in orderly rows to line the central square and its expansion—Redbud Park. Spring
had long gone, though, and with it, the beautiful pink buds that had given the town its name. Now the trees bloomed green,
and if you didn’t know what they were they could have been mistaken for anything. But Edie remembered what they were, and
as she walked among them to get to the park, she pictured them fuzzed with pink.
Looked like the whole town had turned out to celebrate Fred Lyle’s departure from the Hammerbilt plant. Redbud Park was festooned
with balloons and banners that read “Thank you, Mr. Fred!” in bright blue letters. Four grills on one side of the park kept
up a steady stream of hot dogs and hamburgers. A small bandstand stood across the way, but it was empty now. According to
the notice she’d read in the window at Red’s, the music wasn’t supposed to start until later that evening.
She plunged into the crowd. Various sponsor signs greeted her. The Redbud Community Church manned a dessert table. A teenager
was handing out old-fashioned cardboard fans with Runkle’s Real Estate printed on one side. Red had his own corner—lemonade,
water, and iced tea by the looks of it. No alcohol for Mr. Fred.
People weaved around her as she stood still, pivoting to embrace the feel of the place. She was sure she remembered the swings
in the corner—higher, Mommie, higher!—and the water fountain and monkey bars. Or did she? Memories were tricky. Sneaky. She’d grab for one, and it dissipated like
a handful of smoke.
New children clamored over the playground now, also screaming at their parents to be pushed higher. She found herself riveted
by their innocence. It seemed foolish to be so guileless. As if the universe spared the young any more than it did their elders.
A microphone shriek drew her attention toward the bandstand. A kindly-looking white-haired man was tapping the microphone.
“Citizens of Redbud,” he began. “We are here to celebrate a lifetime of service to this town. For twenty years he’s been plant
manager at Hammerbilt and an asset to this community, holding our future in his hands with expertise and commitment. It’s
been an honor to work with him and with Hammerbilt’s corporate parent, International Ambient Technologies, and now, on the
eve of his well-earned promotion to CEO over all of IAT’s North American holdings, I can only say, thank you, Mr. Fred.”
Applause and whistles broke out as Fred Lyle ambled to the microphone. But not everyone approved. Behind her she heard a few
snorts and at least one muttered, “Bullshit.”
She turned, searching the crowd for the nay-sayer, but couldn’t find him. Meanwhile, Fred Lyle had started speaking. She let
his self-congratulatory words drift over her as she conjured an image of him from years ago. But only the name and the hush
it brought to her memory lingered. The living room in the old house. An impression of drapes hanging closed. Lamplight and
shadows. The couch where she’d squeezed herself into the crook of her mother’s listless arm. And Aunt Penny creeping in.
“Evelyn, Mr. Lyle is here.” Her voice was low and gentle, as it had been for days. Like they were all at a school play and
the lights had just gone down. Then, with a firmer tone. “Go to your room, Edie.”
She must have refused. Maybe she snuggled deeper against her mother’s body, hoping the physical touch would keep her mother
from drifting away. Whatever Edie did, she didn’t go to her room. Not until Mr. Lyle appeared. At the sight of him, her mother’s
body had stiffened. Become present and focused. And suddenly there was anger in the room. Huge, massive currents of rage.
Afraid she might hear that scream again, Edie had scurried away.
Now, she gazed at the man in front of her. An ordinary man. Thinning hair, glasses. A good man. A good citizen. Harmless.
But Edie Swann knew better.
“Bullshit!” This time, the voice was louder. Edie turned to see a tall, thin man with a greasy ponytail shake a fisted arm
in the air. “That’s a lie!”
People around the man frowned. “Shut up, Terry,” one of them said.
“I fucking won’t shut up,” he growled, and stalked toward the other man, who backed up quickly. “That’s what they want,” Terry
barked. “To shut me up. But I know stuff. I know what goes on in that place, and it ain’t all caring and concern.”
More of the crowd eased away.
“At Hammerbilt we’re proud of the work we do,” Fred Lyle was saying. “Proud of our commitment to our town and the people in
it.”
“Bullshit!” Terry yelled, this time loud enough for everyone to hear.
Lyle stumbled, adjusted his glasses, and continued.
“You’re drunk,” a man in the crowd said to Terry. “Go home.” He put a hand on Terry’s shoulder, and Terry whipped around.
“Don’t you touch me.”
“I just think you should—”
Terry swung, someone swung back, and before Edie could blink, the circle of people around her had collapsed into a free-for-all.
Someone cuffed her chin and she stumbled back, nearly lost her footing. A woman screamed. People were shoving and Edie struck
out, trying to keep a perimeter of safety around her. Her fist connected with something, sending a shock wave up her arm.
“Jesus.” A large, sandy-haired man scowled at her, rubbing his jaw. In the seconds it took to realize what had happened, she
realized something else. The man wasn’t just big. He was beautiful. Tight-jawed and wide-mouthed. Muscled shoulders and lean,
powerful legs. And just now all that hard masculine energy was scowling. At her.
He grabbed her arm in a merciless grip and pushed forward into the crowd, taking Edie with him.
“Hey—let me go!”
He ignored her, shouting into the crowd. “All right, stop it. All of you!” His voice was loud and authoritative as he waded
into the shoving throng.
“Let—me—go!”
Instead, he jerked her closer to him. She stumbled against his rock-hard ribs, and her teeth cracked together. Meanwhile he
addressed the huddle of men still struggling with Terry. “I said cut it out!” He kicked one man away and with his free hand,
pulled a second man back. “I’m counting to three…” The rest saw, heard, sheepishly slowed, then stopped. Only Terry still
fought, even if it was just air.
One of the fighters glared at Terry, then said contritely, “Sorry, Chief. But this asshole—”
Chief? Edie stared. Not likely Native American with all those Nordic bones. What other kind of—
She groaned silently and looked him over. No uniform, no badge. Just a pair of well-worn jeans and a T-shirt molded over a
broad, enticing chest. Then again, did the chief of police in a small town wear a uniform?
“Don’t think you can shut me up, Holt,” Terry said to the bigger man. “Ain’t no one can shut me up.”
“And we all know it, too,” the man named Holt said. “Come on, you can tell me your troubles on the way.” He put a friendly
arm around Terry, who tried, unsuccessfully, to shrug it off. Edie noted Holt’s arm had slipped up to Terry’s neck, more of
a hold, like his grip on her—tough and unbreakable. With both of them prisoners, the chief walked off.
“Hey!” Edie stumbled along. “Where are you—”
“You can continue, Mr. Fred!” Holt shouted.
“Thank you, Chief,” came Mr. Fred over the microphone, and began droning on again.
Edie tried twisting out of his grip. “You gonna let me go?”
He looked down at her. “You assaulted a police officer.”
“I did not!” She heard the screech in her voice and forcefully calmed down. “I was defending myself. Not my fault you stepped
into my fist.”
He grinned. “That what happened?” He turned Terry’s head toward him. “That what happened, Terry?”
“I don’t know,” Terry grumbled.
They’d reached the edge of the crowd and the curb where a black SUV was parked. Edie found herself shoved into the front,
while the lawman dealt with Terry in the back. As soon as Holt’s back was turned, Edie got out of the car.
“Don’t make me chase you.” Holt didn’t even bother turning around. “It’s my day off and I already did my run for the day.
Twice in one day makes me grumpy. And you don’t want to see me grumpy.”
She was debating this when he slammed the back door on Terry, and Red ran up.
“You okay, Edie? Holt, what the hell you doing with my new bartender?”
“Ah, so that’s who she is. Well, why didn’t you say so?” He grinned at her again, and she was flummoxed by the twinkle in
his eyes. Were they green? She looked closer, caught herself. Scowled.
“You didn’t exactly give me a chance,” she said.
“True. My bad. It’s just not good for my reputation to be hit in the face by a girl.”
“I need her tonight, Holt.”
“Expecting a crowd?”
“You bet I am.”
Holt rubbed his jaw again.
“You’re not seriously going to arrest me for injuring your pride?” Edie said.
“You do have a pretty mean left hook.”
“The better to pull two beers at once.”
“Yeah?”
“Holt—” Red was sputtering.
“Okay, okay.” Holt laughed. “Just wanted to find out who the little spitfire fighting the whole town was.” He leaned against
the car door. Inside, Terry began banging against the window.
“You could’ve asked,” Edie said.
He acknowledged as much with a shrug. “Now where’s the fun in that?”
Asshole. The word was halfway out her mouth when Red took her arm and pulled her away.
“Edie,” Holt called out behind her back as she walked off with Red. “Nice to meet you.”
She turned to face him, walking backward. “Can’t say the same.”
Holt watched her stomp off, a tough, dark-haired woman in a town of soft blondes. Not that he minded blondes. He’d married
one. But Cindy had always been modest, her butt carefully disguised in soft skirts and loose trousers. The one walking away
from him swayed proudly in tight jeans. Round, juicy, touchable. He had to tear his gaze away before someone accused him of
gawking. Hell of it was, he was gawking.
In a rush to stop, he whirled around, called his deputy to come get Terry Bishop, then looked out over the park, the clumps
of colored balloons, the clusters of townspeople. But all he could see were Edie’s firm breasts encased in her leather vest,
the tattoo peeking out of the shoulder. And that mass of dark hair piled loosely on top of her head—like one of the Ronettes
from his dad’s record collection.
Not exactly what he should be bringing home to Mom. Or a five-year-old.
His pulse picked up again. Edie whoever she was spelled trouble. Big-city trouble. He’d been away from Memphis for five years
now, and though loath to say so out loud, he missed it. The speed, the lights, the strange characters. Not to mention that
adrenaline rush of danger. His body hummed the way a missing limb itched.
He forced himself to recall the rest. The junkies, the dealers, the pimps and gangs. And the dead. Always the dead. Strung
out in alleys, outside clubs, on the street in midday, in hospital beds. Especially in hospital beds.
The dead had chased him back to Redbud.
Deputy Samantha Fish showed up in a squeal of brakes, siren and lights flashing. She jumped out of the car spic and span,
her uniform pressed, her hair slicked back in an efficient bun.
“Yes, sir.” She practically saluted him.
“At ease, Deputy,” Holt said dryly. But getting ex-army Sergeant Fish to ease up was no easy task.
“Yessir.” She still stood ramrod straight, even while looking past him at the back of his SUV. Terry continued making a racket.
“That the miscreant?”
“That’s him.” Gingerly, he opened the door, surprising Terry, who was in the middle of banging on it. The drunk fell out and
landed on his face, making it easier for Sam to cuff him.
“Stow it, Bishop.” She hauled him upright with a powerful arm that could more than handle Terry’s inebriated state. In fact,
it could more than handle most men. Holt suspected if he ever got down on the mat with her, he’d come up second, even with
the thirty-odd pounds and five inches he had on her.
Terry stumbled to his feet, grinned at her.
“Hey, Sam.”
“That’s Deputy Fish to you,” she said with a stern frown.
“Aw, c’mon, Sam. Let’s have a beer.”
She lug. . .
DEAD SHOT
“Solomon’s psychologically rich romantic thriller balances grisly imagery with tender moments and is entertaining, through
and through.”
—Booklist
“Gripping… Solomon’s characters are convincing and compelling… good suspenseful fun.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A riveting and edgy romantic suspense that you’ll want to read in a single sitting.”
—
BookLoons.com
“4 Stars! A creepy edge of danger threads through the story… fascinating. Solomon and suspense are a perfect match!”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Compelling… The plot is well-written, the action fast-moving, keeping the reader in suspense to the last page.”
—
MyShelf.com
“Dead Shot is a thrilling romance that is full of intrigue and emotion. Once I started… I just couldn’t put it down. The characters
are wonderfully written and it was a nonstop thrill ride… This is a definite must-read if you are looking for an intense read
with some romantic tension.”
—
RoundtableReviews.com
“An exciting romantic suspense thriller… Annie Solomon hooks her audience with the first spilled blood and never lets go until
the final Dead Shot reckoning occurs.”
—
TheBestReviews.com
“Will have your heart skipping beats… Filled with tension in every sentence and a plot that just keeps accelerating and getting
more intense by the second.”
—Shelflife
BLACKOUT
“4 Stars! Fantastic story!… Tough, suspenseful, and we have a heroine who is even tougher than the special agent hero. Whew!
Never a dull moment. Solomon has outdone herself this time, and that’s not easy to do.”
—
RomanceReviewsMag.com
“Twisty and diverting, with well-written action sequences.”
—Publishers Weekly
“4½ Stars! Hooks you from the first page and never lets you go… dangerous and riveting. Rising fast to the top of the romantic
suspense genre, Solomon doesn’t disappoint.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Talk about edge-of-the-seat! I have never read a book with such relentless suspense… A superb example of showing over mere
telling of a story. I highly recommend Blackout.”
—Romantic Reviews Today
BLIND CURVE
“4 Stars! Riveting and emotionally intense.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“A perfect ten… nail-biting, intense drama that will leave you breathless with anticipation.”
—
MyShelf.com
“Annie Solomon does such an outstanding job creating taut suspense. From the very first page… to the riveting climax, you
can’t help but be glued to the story.”
—
RoundTableReviews.com
“An action-packed novel… a feast for suspense fans, and the added mixture of romance… another winner for an author who clearly
has a gift and is on the rise.”
—
TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
TELL ME NO LIES
“Infused with raw emotion and a thirst for vengeance. Excitement and tension galore!”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Full of simmering emotions that lovers of romantic suspense will devour.”
—Rendezvous
“Another success! Miss Solomon’s latest novel is a testament to her gift for crafting intelligent, sexy novels.”
—
RomanceReadersConnection.com
DEAD RINGER
“Just the ticket for those looking for excitement and romance.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“An entertaining… exceptional… emotionally taut tale… offers twists and turns that kept me enthralled to the last page.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
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LIKE A KNIFE
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She came at night, creeping into town like a shade. Darkness suited her. It evoked the past, that black hole of fury and mystery.
Recapturing it required dark arts.
There was irony, arriving at midnight. Pulling into the cemetery at the traditional witching hour, leaving the street lights
behind. She inched forward, navigating through stars, those pinpricks of light. And memory.
The stars were out that night, too, long ago when the doorbell clanged and shattered the silence into before and after. She’d
heard it through her bedroom door when she should have been asleep. But who could sleep with her father accused and missing,
her mother an inconsolable machine of tears?
She remembered the darkness through her window, the moon a sly smile in the sky, the black a background against which the
grown-up voices rumbled below.
And then her mother’s scream.
Unhuman, animal, a throat ripped out, a universe hacked and splattered into pieces. A sound so feral the memory of it still
gave her shivers.
No one screamed now. Nothing broke the silence but the hum of her wheels rolling down the winding cemetery road, a path between
graves.
At last she slowed. Stopped. Turned off the engine.
And picked her way over the dead to her destination. The last thing she’d seen in this town. The last image of home. Now,
it was the first thing she’d see on her return.
The black angel.
She swept a penlight over the sculpture. Remembered the gargoyle face seen with ten-year-old eyes. Twenty years later she
saw the face was meant to be kind. But it was overshadowed by massive wings that spanned up and out, looming over the headstone
like a vampire bat.
There had been hot arguments over that angel. Even banished to her room, she could hear her mother and her aunt fighting.
“It’s frightening. Unholy,” her aunt had said. “A mark against his name.”
“They put the mark there, not me.”
“They who?”
“I don’t know!”
“You can’t do this, Evelyn.”
“It’s done.” Her mother’s voice was harsh and strained. “It stays until the stain is gone. Until I can prove it.”
Until I can prove it.
Poor Mother.
There had been no proving. It was all too hard, too heavy. Like life itself.
She bent down, ran her fingers over the headstone. Mud had dried and caked over the words cut into the marble. She found her
penknife and scraped it away, blowing to clear the residue.
Charles Swanford.
Hello, Daddy.
She traced the rest of the inscription, not needing to see it because it was incised in her memory. Beloved husband and father. And the quotation: They make haste to shed innocent blood.
Innocent blood. She rose to face the angel. They needed a black angel, her father and mother. They were weak. Unprepared for
the pressure life steamrolled over them. People who retreated and hid. Ran away. Died.
But they had her now. She snapped off the light, leaving the darkness to coil around her like a shroud. Edie was back. And
she’d make everything right.
Edie Swann.” Red McClure looked from the job application to Edie, who stood on the other side of the bar.
She held her breath, waiting to see if the name struck a chord with him. Did he recognize it? She’d debated using her real
name. It wasn’t that dissimilar from the one she’d left Redbud with, so a false identity might have served her well. But using
an alias picked at her. She wanted to come back as herself, right under the nose of the whole damn town, betting that the
twenty years between then and now would have blurred memories. So far, she’d been right.
The look Red gave her was open, friendly. Free of shadows. It was a good round face, a plus for a bartender. One that invited
small confidences.
Not that he was going to get any from her. “That’s right.”
She’d seen the help-wanted notice for Red’s in the Redbud Gazette. Wondered if the bar was named after the town or after the owner. When she got there, the thinning red thatch atop his freckled
face was her answer.
He perused the application again, maybe for the third time. Edie tamped down her impatience.
“You’ve been around,” he said. “New York, Boston, Chicago, St. Louis, Nashville.”
She shrugged. “Still trying to find my Eden.” She put that out there, waited for some hint of recognition, and got none. A
shiver of satisfaction ran through her. It was hot outside, deep and thick with summer humidity, and the bar was air-conditioned
to the hilt. It would be great once she started working, but right now her bare shoulders in the tight leather vest were freezing.
“And you think you’ve found it in Redbud?” Doubt trickled into his voice.
“You never know.” She smiled, giving him the blazing one she showered on customers. It worked like it always did. Well, that
and a few other tricks of the trade. Like putting her elbows on the bar and leaning forward so her cleavage was even more
visible.
“These are good places.” He tapped the paper, referring to the list of priors that was her bar girl résumé. “I know some.
Well, by reputation, of course. Though I’ve been to the Sassafrass in Nashville. Quite a scene. You won’t get that here. This
is a neighborhood place, just folks relaxing.”
Neighborhood was an exaggeration, seeing as it was on the edge of town, a bare half-mile from the Hammerbilt HVAC plant. The
only neighbors were the truckers offloading steel sheeting and the steady stream of shift workers without whom Red’s would
be dead.
“What I’m looking for.” And to underscore her assurance, she looked around the place. A clutter of small tables, high on the
outside, low in the middle, stools at the bar. All squeezed into a cave of a room, dark and cool enough for hibernating. “Someplace
comfortable. I’m tired of wandering. Be thirty in a few months. Time I put down some roots.”
“And you picked Redbud?” As if no one in his right mind would choose this tiny spot on the highway to settle down. Not if
he had the options she’d obviously had.
She laughed, her story already worked out in her head. “Actually, Redbud picked me. Ran into some trouble with my bike and
had to shell out a handful to get it fixed. Redbud was as far as the rest of my cash could take me.”
“Well as far as bartenders go, you’ve got the pedigree.”
“What about the job?”
He pursed his lips. “Can you make, ah… one of those apple martinis?”
She paused. Didn’t think there’d be much call for mixed drinks here. “I do a killer appletini.” She vaulted over the bar.
Looked for the vodka and the apple schnapps. Found the former, not the latter. She asked for it.
Red-faced, the bar owner said, “Don’t have it. Don’t get much call for it here. Just—”
“—Wanted to see if I knew what I was doing?”
He nodded.
“Okay. Give me a second.” She took the time to peruse the shelves, found some brandy, a kid’s carton of apple juice in the
bar fridge, and a lemon. She mixed the drink over ice, added a dash of vodka, and poured it into an old-fashioned glass garnished
with a lemon twist. Made a second drink adding ginger ale and poured it into a highball glass. “Apple blossom. Apple blossom
fizz.” She pushed the drinks toward him. While he sampled, she found a bottle of crème do cacao, blew off the dust, mixed
it with vodka in an ice-filled shaker and poured the drink into a martini glass. “Chocolate martini. What do you think?”
He grinned. “Yeah, but can you draw a beer?”
She gave him that smile, leaned against the bar again. “Like nobody’s business.”
They shook on it, and agreed she’d start later that night. “Got a big to-do in town,” Red said. “The guy that heads the plant
is leaving to run with the big dogs at IAT—International Ambient Technologies. They own Hammerbilt.”
“Oh, yeah?” Edie faked mild interest. But anything about Hammerbilt got her attention.
“Won’t be much alcohol at the picnic, so figure there’ll be a lot of spillover here. You should stop by the park. It’ll be
a big send-off. I’ll introduce you around.” He handed her a flyer with all the particulars. She saw the honoree’s name and
her heart started to thud. Sometimes the gods were smiling.
“Thanks.” She pocketed the flyer. “Maybe I will.”
She needed a place to flop, and Red showed her a room above the bar. He apologized for the dust, but they worked out a deal,
and once the place was cleaned up it had everything she needed. Bed, hotplate, a table that could serve as living and dining
room. Not what she’d call homey, but then again, she hadn’t really known homey since she left Redbud behind.
Oh, there’d been home—Aunt Penny’s apartment with its mess of three rooms, Edie’s the one with the pullout bed. Then again
it had been a long time since she’d had a yard and a tree to swing on. It wasn’t as if she’d miss it.
Not like she had at first.
But that was years ago, and this was today. And she had things to do.
She hauled her bags up the iron stairs that overlooked the back alley. No one would bother her here. Perfect site to start
things swirling.
She stuffed the few hanging things she’d brought with her—a couple of dresses in case she needed them—into the tiny closet.
Cleaned up some abandoned crates lying in the alley and lugged them to the room to serve as a dresser.
By noon there was only one last thing to put away. Reaching deep inside an inner pocket of her duffel, she pulled out a plastic
bag. Hefted its light weight in her hand, jiggling the forms inside. The corners of her mouth twisted into a small dark smile,
and she upended the bag onto the bare mattress.
A dozen tiny black angels spilled out.
Redbud was built by immigrants and easterners coming west to Tennessee for adventure and prosperity. They brought with them
the square plan and built the town around it. As it grew, newcomers desperate for space stretched the boundaries, not always
sticking to the order. Behind the original town with its neat map of squared-off avenues around a central quad, the streets
were akimbo, alleys snaking off into meandering roads like a maze hiding secrets.
The signature redbuds, which once grew wild on the outskirts, had gradually given way to homes and progress. Town fathers
had added them later, planting the trees in orderly rows to line the central square and its expansion—Redbud Park. Spring
had long gone, though, and with it, the beautiful pink buds that had given the town its name. Now the trees bloomed green,
and if you didn’t know what they were they could have been mistaken for anything. But Edie remembered what they were, and
as she walked among them to get to the park, she pictured them fuzzed with pink.
Looked like the whole town had turned out to celebrate Fred Lyle’s departure from the Hammerbilt plant. Redbud Park was festooned
with balloons and banners that read “Thank you, Mr. Fred!” in bright blue letters. Four grills on one side of the park kept
up a steady stream of hot dogs and hamburgers. A small bandstand stood across the way, but it was empty now. According to
the notice she’d read in the window at Red’s, the music wasn’t supposed to start until later that evening.
She plunged into the crowd. Various sponsor signs greeted her. The Redbud Community Church manned a dessert table. A teenager
was handing out old-fashioned cardboard fans with Runkle’s Real Estate printed on one side. Red had his own corner—lemonade,
water, and iced tea by the looks of it. No alcohol for Mr. Fred.
People weaved around her as she stood still, pivoting to embrace the feel of the place. She was sure she remembered the swings
in the corner—higher, Mommie, higher!—and the water fountain and monkey bars. Or did she? Memories were tricky. Sneaky. She’d grab for one, and it dissipated like
a handful of smoke.
New children clamored over the playground now, also screaming at their parents to be pushed higher. She found herself riveted
by their innocence. It seemed foolish to be so guileless. As if the universe spared the young any more than it did their elders.
A microphone shriek drew her attention toward the bandstand. A kindly-looking white-haired man was tapping the microphone.
“Citizens of Redbud,” he began. “We are here to celebrate a lifetime of service to this town. For twenty years he’s been plant
manager at Hammerbilt and an asset to this community, holding our future in his hands with expertise and commitment. It’s
been an honor to work with him and with Hammerbilt’s corporate parent, International Ambient Technologies, and now, on the
eve of his well-earned promotion to CEO over all of IAT’s North American holdings, I can only say, thank you, Mr. Fred.”
Applause and whistles broke out as Fred Lyle ambled to the microphone. But not everyone approved. Behind her she heard a few
snorts and at least one muttered, “Bullshit.”
She turned, searching the crowd for the nay-sayer, but couldn’t find him. Meanwhile, Fred Lyle had started speaking. She let
his self-congratulatory words drift over her as she conjured an image of him from years ago. But only the name and the hush
it brought to her memory lingered. The living room in the old house. An impression of drapes hanging closed. Lamplight and
shadows. The couch where she’d squeezed herself into the crook of her mother’s listless arm. And Aunt Penny creeping in.
“Evelyn, Mr. Lyle is here.” Her voice was low and gentle, as it had been for days. Like they were all at a school play and
the lights had just gone down. Then, with a firmer tone. “Go to your room, Edie.”
She must have refused. Maybe she snuggled deeper against her mother’s body, hoping the physical touch would keep her mother
from drifting away. Whatever Edie did, she didn’t go to her room. Not until Mr. Lyle appeared. At the sight of him, her mother’s
body had stiffened. Become present and focused. And suddenly there was anger in the room. Huge, massive currents of rage.
Afraid she might hear that scream again, Edie had scurried away.
Now, she gazed at the man in front of her. An ordinary man. Thinning hair, glasses. A good man. A good citizen. Harmless.
But Edie Swann knew better.
“Bullshit!” This time, the voice was louder. Edie turned to see a tall, thin man with a greasy ponytail shake a fisted arm
in the air. “That’s a lie!”
People around the man frowned. “Shut up, Terry,” one of them said.
“I fucking won’t shut up,” he growled, and stalked toward the other man, who backed up quickly. “That’s what they want,” Terry
barked. “To shut me up. But I know stuff. I know what goes on in that place, and it ain’t all caring and concern.”
More of the crowd eased away.
“At Hammerbilt we’re proud of the work we do,” Fred Lyle was saying. “Proud of our commitment to our town and the people in
it.”
“Bullshit!” Terry yelled, this time loud enough for everyone to hear.
Lyle stumbled, adjusted his glasses, and continued.
“You’re drunk,” a man in the crowd said to Terry. “Go home.” He put a hand on Terry’s shoulder, and Terry whipped around.
“Don’t you touch me.”
“I just think you should—”
Terry swung, someone swung back, and before Edie could blink, the circle of people around her had collapsed into a free-for-all.
Someone cuffed her chin and she stumbled back, nearly lost her footing. A woman screamed. People were shoving and Edie struck
out, trying to keep a perimeter of safety around her. Her fist connected with something, sending a shock wave up her arm.
“Jesus.” A large, sandy-haired man scowled at her, rubbing his jaw. In the seconds it took to realize what had happened, she
realized something else. The man wasn’t just big. He was beautiful. Tight-jawed and wide-mouthed. Muscled shoulders and lean,
powerful legs. And just now all that hard masculine energy was scowling. At her.
He grabbed her arm in a merciless grip and pushed forward into the crowd, taking Edie with him.
“Hey—let me go!”
He ignored her, shouting into the crowd. “All right, stop it. All of you!” His voice was loud and authoritative as he waded
into the shoving throng.
“Let—me—go!”
Instead, he jerked her closer to him. She stumbled against his rock-hard ribs, and her teeth cracked together. Meanwhile he
addressed the huddle of men still struggling with Terry. “I said cut it out!” He kicked one man away and with his free hand,
pulled a second man back. “I’m counting to three…” The rest saw, heard, sheepishly slowed, then stopped. Only Terry still
fought, even if it was just air.
One of the fighters glared at Terry, then said contritely, “Sorry, Chief. But this asshole—”
Chief? Edie stared. Not likely Native American with all those Nordic bones. What other kind of—
She groaned silently and looked him over. No uniform, no badge. Just a pair of well-worn jeans and a T-shirt molded over a
broad, enticing chest. Then again, did the chief of police in a small town wear a uniform?
“Don’t think you can shut me up, Holt,” Terry said to the bigger man. “Ain’t no one can shut me up.”
“And we all know it, too,” the man named Holt said. “Come on, you can tell me your troubles on the way.” He put a friendly
arm around Terry, who tried, unsuccessfully, to shrug it off. Edie noted Holt’s arm had slipped up to Terry’s neck, more of
a hold, like his grip on her—tough and unbreakable. With both of them prisoners, the chief walked off.
“Hey!” Edie stumbled along. “Where are you—”
“You can continue, Mr. Fred!” Holt shouted.
“Thank you, Chief,” came Mr. Fred over the microphone, and began droning on again.
Edie tried twisting out of his grip. “You gonna let me go?”
He looked down at her. “You assaulted a police officer.”
“I did not!” She heard the screech in her voice and forcefully calmed down. “I was defending myself. Not my fault you stepped
into my fist.”
He grinned. “That what happened?” He turned Terry’s head toward him. “That what happened, Terry?”
“I don’t know,” Terry grumbled.
They’d reached the edge of the crowd and the curb where a black SUV was parked. Edie found herself shoved into the front,
while the lawman dealt with Terry in the back. As soon as Holt’s back was turned, Edie got out of the car.
“Don’t make me chase you.” Holt didn’t even bother turning around. “It’s my day off and I already did my run for the day.
Twice in one day makes me grumpy. And you don’t want to see me grumpy.”
She was debating this when he slammed the back door on Terry, and Red ran up.
“You okay, Edie? Holt, what the hell you doing with my new bartender?”
“Ah, so that’s who she is. Well, why didn’t you say so?” He grinned at her again, and she was flummoxed by the twinkle in
his eyes. Were they green? She looked closer, caught herself. Scowled.
“You didn’t exactly give me a chance,” she said.
“True. My bad. It’s just not good for my reputation to be hit in the face by a girl.”
“I need her tonight, Holt.”
“Expecting a crowd?”
“You bet I am.”
Holt rubbed his jaw again.
“You’re not seriously going to arrest me for injuring your pride?” Edie said.
“You do have a pretty mean left hook.”
“The better to pull two beers at once.”
“Yeah?”
“Holt—” Red was sputtering.
“Okay, okay.” Holt laughed. “Just wanted to find out who the little spitfire fighting the whole town was.” He leaned against
the car door. Inside, Terry began banging against the window.
“You could’ve asked,” Edie said.
He acknowledged as much with a shrug. “Now where’s the fun in that?”
Asshole. The word was halfway out her mouth when Red took her arm and pulled her away.
“Edie,” Holt called out behind her back as she walked off with Red. “Nice to meet you.”
She turned to face him, walking backward. “Can’t say the same.”
Holt watched her stomp off, a tough, dark-haired woman in a town of soft blondes. Not that he minded blondes. He’d married
one. But Cindy had always been modest, her butt carefully disguised in soft skirts and loose trousers. The one walking away
from him swayed proudly in tight jeans. Round, juicy, touchable. He had to tear his gaze away before someone accused him of
gawking. Hell of it was, he was gawking.
In a rush to stop, he whirled around, called his deputy to come get Terry Bishop, then looked out over the park, the clumps
of colored balloons, the clusters of townspeople. But all he could see were Edie’s firm breasts encased in her leather vest,
the tattoo peeking out of the shoulder. And that mass of dark hair piled loosely on top of her head—like one of the Ronettes
from his dad’s record collection.
Not exactly what he should be bringing home to Mom. Or a five-year-old.
His pulse picked up again. Edie whoever she was spelled trouble. Big-city trouble. He’d been away from Memphis for five years
now, and though loath to say so out loud, he missed it. The speed, the lights, the strange characters. Not to mention that
adrenaline rush of danger. His body hummed the way a missing limb itched.
He forced himself to recall the rest. The junkies, the dealers, the pimps and gangs. And the dead. Always the dead. Strung
out in alleys, outside clubs, on the street in midday, in hospital beds. Especially in hospital beds.
The dead had chased him back to Redbud.
Deputy Samantha Fish showed up in a squeal of brakes, siren and lights flashing. She jumped out of the car spic and span,
her uniform pressed, her hair slicked back in an efficient bun.
“Yes, sir.” She practically saluted him.
“At ease, Deputy,” Holt said dryly. But getting ex-army Sergeant Fish to ease up was no easy task.
“Yessir.” She still stood ramrod straight, even while looking past him at the back of his SUV. Terry continued making a racket.
“That the miscreant?”
“That’s him.” Gingerly, he opened the door, surprising Terry, who was in the middle of banging on it. The drunk fell out and
landed on his face, making it easier for Sam to cuff him.
“Stow it, Bishop.” She hauled him upright with a powerful arm that could more than handle Terry’s inebriated state. In fact,
it could more than handle most men. Holt suspected if he ever got down on the mat with her, he’d come up second, even with
the thirty-odd pounds and five inches he had on her.
Terry stumbled to his feet, grinned at her.
“Hey, Sam.”
“That’s Deputy Fish to you,” she said with a stern frown.
“Aw, c’mon, Sam. Let’s have a beer.”
She lug. . .
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