Page 3 of The Pretender

The line rang once then a deep voice came on the line. “Yes?”

That was it. No greeting or introduction. Just a stern, half-angry bark. For the first time in an hour Harris felt relief. Like he might actually survive today.

“It’s Harris.” He blew out a long breath and said the words he’d vowedneverto say again. “I need you.”

Chapter 2

Fourteen months later

Judgment Day.

She’d left Tabitha Island more than a year ago on a bright sunny day and never returned. Until now.

The private island measured about three miles. It sat off the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland and could only be accessed by boat or helicopter. She used a private boat charter for her visit today. The boat’s captain, a guy named Ed, wasn’t her usual ride but she was trying to slip in unnoticed. The guy was chatty but grew more solemn the closer he got to the island. He’d circle back in exactly one hour, which was about fifty minutes longer than she wanted to stay.

Walking down the dock, she looked at the buildings scattered around the kidney-shaped piece of land. The beauty of the property always stole her breath. An impressive three-story Tudor house sat on the far edge, surrounded by a manicured lawn and mature trees. It had been built around 1900, along with the guesthouse and caretaker cottage on the opposite edge of the island and connected by a wandering rock path.

This was the much-talked-about jewel in what was once the Wright family property portfolio. It had been photographed, mostly from the outside, for decades. The property passed from one generation to the next, never daring to hint at neglect. The last generation refurbished it to use as a summer retreat. A place for parties and charity events.

But for fourteen months it had been reduced to a crime scene and endless source of gossip and speculation. A monument to family dysfunction and aching loneliness. There was no sign of that changing anytime soon.

There were whispers that books were being written about the tragedy that happened here. But the bigger news was the court’s recent decision to move forward with the estate distribution. The police investigation hadn’t resulted in any arrests. The judge insisted that absent additional evidence he didn’t have a choice but to finalize the finances and set a date thirty days from now for a new hearing to move forward with the distribution of assets.

The decision resulted in a new surge of interest in the case. Complex theories and a lot of finger-pointing. Amateur detectives itched to swarm the private property in search of clues. Some true crime fans snuck on only to be removed by the island’s caretaker, who still stood watch.

With the renewed attention came talk of upgraded alarms, complete with motion sensors, more cameras and private security. The judge approved those expenses and all would be added starting early next week. That meant she had to move fast.

She wrapped her arms around her to ward off the chill coming off the water. The sun was warm for early March but the burst of purple color on the trees and the cool wind hinted that spring would soon give way to an early summer.

She followed the winding path through the budding blooms of the season’s first flowers. The estate might be empty, but the caretaker made sure it didn’t look that way. The upkeep continued at a furious pace.

The path branched into a Y with one section shifting off toward the guesthouse. She hesitated there.Turn right.That message kept flashing in her brain. She needed to go right, do what she came here to do and then get out. Not be seen.

One glance at the big house on top of the slight hill to her left and her plans derailed. Ignoring the job she came to do, she stayed on the larger section of path and continued past the fifty-foot gunite pool toward the main house. She wouldn’t go inside. Couldn’t. But something about the structure with its massive wraparound front porch made of stacked stones called to her to come closer.

Her footsteps halted at the base of the porch as if some unseen barrier slammed down in front of her. An internal wall that lowered, shoved her back and kept her there.

She didn’t carry much with her on this unwanted journey, just the cell in her back pocket and the small gardening shovel in her hand. Craig hadn’t noticed on the boat because she’d kept the sweater off and the tool wrapped up in it. The cool early-spring wind had bitten into her arms as they crossed the waterway to the island with the jumbled ball of cotton and stainless steel secure on her lap.

Now she kept the shovel handy. She needed it for her job here. The job that had to happen now... before it was too late.

The excuses ran through her head, bounced around and echoed through her. She’d waited until now because she had no choice. The entire island had been a crime scene. Technically, still was.

That thought got her moving. She turned, determined to head back to the guesthouse and finish this. After two steps, she stopped. Her heartbeat ticked up until it thumped in her ears. She didn’t see anything or hear anything, but she knew. She didn’t need a shadow to fall across the path or anyone to appear in front of her or shout.

She was not alone.

“I knew you’d come back now.”

That deep scolding voice. She’d heard it a thousand times over the years. It haunted her now as an adult. All the threats and promises of catching her. The determination to destroy her.

She turned around to face the porch again. There he was. Stephen Wright. Businessman, millionaire and heir. Uncle to his famously slain niece.

He was pushing sixty and could easily pass for forty-five. Tall and lean, handsome with graying hair and a firm chin. He’d fit in at any yacht club or country club on the East Coast. More than likely with his overstuffed bank account he’d be welcomed at any of them without question.

His father had been a financial genius. His grandfather a bootlegger. Both filled the family coffers and supplied the money to build this estate and fuel his lifestyle.

His gaze slipped to the shovel in her hand. “Looks like I came outside too early.”

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