Denial (Stone Trio #2)

Prologue

Alice

Being chased by an unknown man with a hood pulled tight over his head isn’t my ideal activity for a Monday morning.

Chased may be a strong word for the loud clip of footsteps trailing me, but this asshole’s pace forces me to walk faster, and these blue-heeled boots were not made for running. As if the weekend ending isn’t awful enough, now I have to pencil confronting some psychopath into my schedule.

Before I’ve had a single cup of coffee.

The people milling about this stretch of road injects me with enough bravery to spin around. My loose black curls fan behind me. A bite enters my normally pleasing tone as we both come to an abrupt halt.

“Why are you following me?”

His shifty eyes dance about my face, not committing to one place for too long. “I want to talk to you.”

He loosens his black hoodie from his cheeks. The material is an odd choice for the Arizona heat. Despite the early hour, it’s nearing ninety degrees and only going to get hotter.

“I don’t know who you are.”

“Jake. My name’s Jake Lanighan. I’ve been trying to reach you about coming on my podcast—”

“No.”

The muscles in my neck tighten, and I turn around like I’ve got a rod stuck up my ass. His simple sentence is enough confirmation of who he is. Or more importantly, what he wants. And I want no part of it.

“Wait! Please, Miss Thompson. I’ve been trying to reach you for some time.”

I don’t stop walking. “Don’t you think my lack of response is an answer?”

He coughs awkwardly, easily keeping up with my short strides. Another day that my prayer for long, toned legs goes unanswered.

I sigh—both at his persistence and my five-foot-two stature.

“I thought maybe I landed in your spam folder.”

“Fifteen times?”

“You weren’t responding.”

“So stalking me was your next course of action?”

I weave around two women gabbing on the sidewalk while sipping to-go cups and tamp down the spike of jealousy at their seemingly normal morning. I have half a mind to pretend I know them just to get this guy off my back.

“I wouldn’t call it stalking.”

I dig out my cell phone. “Let’s find out what the police say, shall we?”

“Okay! Okay. I’m sorry.” He waves both his hands at me with his palms out as if that’s supposed to make this encounter less threatening. “Don’t call the cops. I just wanted to make sure you got my invite to do a show, and I didn’t think you’d return my phone calls.”

The admission to having my number tightens my grip around my phone clutched in my hand. “Got the invite. Not interested.”

“You’re one of our most requested guests this year. The Phoenix Fraudsters captured not only the state, but the entire nation. Your brother’s deception landed him behind bars while his accomplices roam free on an unfair technicality. Then he kidnapped his own kids—"

A swift fury negates any concerns for my own safety. A painful jolt lances through my gut, nearly taking me to my knees. I whirl around again, finger aimed at his face.

“What you’re describing as entertainment is my life, motherfucker. Have some compassion and stop looking at traumatized people as a way to boost your ratings.” I shove my trembling hands into my pockets and storm away.

“I have millions of listeners! You could be famous!” he calls after me.

I lift a single middle finger in the air and shake it behind my head. “Record this and make me famous, asshole!”

Famous.

The word leaves behind a bitter taste. Famous for turning in my brother and my mother in order to keep my niece, my nephew, and my best friend safe.

I shudder as memories from that night crash around me.

The one where I thought I might have lost them all forever.

The panicked phone call from my former sister-in-law turned best friend Whitney telling me that my brother stole their kids and disappeared.

The frantic dash to the airport to get to them as soon as humanly possible.

A few months ago, I started receiving emails from this local true crime podcast, True Crime Lies, and I checked out his Insta.

Not because I had an interest in the show, but I wanted to see what was being said about my family.

The number of people—strangers—requesting our story was shocking.

The comments were dominated by people asking for the true story of Devon Thompson.

Did he really fake his death? Did he really kidnap his kids?

Was his ex-wife in on it for the insurance payout?

Did his sister really turn over information?

The simple curiosity boiled over into people choosing sides. What felt like overnight, I had enemies. A cult of people I’ve never met deciding surely I must be guilty of something. They hated me for it.

To me, the story isn’t all that interesting.

The lived experience was traumatic, but not close to the other atrocities that happen every single day.

My dumb brother got what he thought was a brilliant idea and blew up his life in the process.

The insurance fraud would have been enough to land him in prison, but kidnapping his two children from another state and leading police on a manhunt really sealed his fate.

I push open the door to my favorite local coffee shop and let the scent of freshly ground beans wash away the memories. I’ve put it behind me. We all have. Whitney is living out her happily ever after with a hunk of a man and their kids in Minnesota, and I haven’t thought about it in ages.

Until this asshole started poking around in my business.

“Good morning, Alice.” Archie whistles and tips his hat from the booth in the corner where he sips his Earl Grey tea. “Those boots are sharp.”

“Don’t you just love them?” I smash the toe into the tile and twist to give him all the angles. Sequins shimmer beneath the fluorescent lights.

“Tell me you’ve taken them for a spin on the dance floor.”

“Not yet. Might I see you at The Saloon this week? You could help me break them in.” I waggle my brows.

The skin above his bushy white beard stains a warm red, and the old man clutches his chest with a palm. “You’re going to give an old man a heart attack flirting like that.”

I move up to the dwindling line at the counter, pulling out my phone to double-check my glucose is still within an acceptable range. “As if you weren’t the one to teach half the girls there how to line dance. Including me.”

He chuckles into his porcelain mug.

Archie rents the townhome attached to mine.

In the weeks following my brother’s very public arrest, the observant old widower noticed the change in my demeanor.

He picked up on my fury quicker than anyone else in my life.

Where everyone else expected me to be sad, he understood my anger.

The betrayal from my own family. And rather than leaving me to deal with my pain, he convinced me to join him at The Saloon.

A spin on the dance floor will whip that anger right out of you, he said.

I won’t say he was right. Change does take time, after all. But I’ve been going weekly ever since.

The barista hands me my usual order at the counter, an iced black coffee with a splash of cream and a pump of sugar-free caramel, and I drop a dollar into the tip jar.

“Finally,” I sigh before taking a long drink. The silky bitterness explodes on my tongue.

Archie stands at the door. “Can I walk you home?”

Normally, I’d brush him off. But thoughts of that podcaster lingering around have me looping my hand into his elbow. “You may.”

He holds open the door for us to exit. “Got a package at my house that was meant for you.”

A light breeze blows a curl across my cheek. I pluck it from my face. “Oh really?”

He lifts a shoulder in a weak shrug. “In defense of the deliveryman, the last digit was smudged.”

“Mm-hmm. Sure. I’d believe that if this was the first time you’ve gotten my mail.”

“So maybe the new guy isn’t any good.” Archie scrubs his hand over his weathered brow.

“Nor were the last three.” I’ve been collecting my packages from Archie regularly over the years we’ve been neighbors. Those check-ins led to dinner invitations whenever I made too much food for one person, and an unconventional friendship formed.

His elbow nudges mine. “What’s bothering you?”

I scan the road ahead of us. “You haven’t seen anyone lingering near home lately, have you?”

His mouth draws into a frown. “Can’t say I have. Someone giving you trouble?”

“Just someone sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong.” I sigh and sip my drink.

“Can’t have that.” He pats my hand tucked in his elbow. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Thanks, Archie.”

We make it to our street and walk up the sidewalk with light chatter. Archie tells me about the bird-scouting trip he’s taking next week before he disappears across the path and behind his front door.

“Here you go. Showed up yesterday.”

Confusion steals over me at the medium-sized brown box.

“What’s that constipated look for?”

I shake myself out of it and retrieve the package from his weathered hands. The cardboard box is so light it nearly blows out of my grasp. “Sorry. It’s just that I don’t remember what I ordered.”

“Only one way to find out. Better do it quick before you give yourself an aneurysm.”

I purse my lips and fish out my keys. “Thanks for the sage advice.”

“That’s what your elders are for.”

“And thanks for holding on to this. See you on Wednesday?” I call over my shoulder as I unlock the door.

He waves in retreat. “If I don’t see you before.” He waits patiently in his open entry until I shut my door.

My lips curve softly at his chivalry.

They sure don’t make them like they used to. My last few exes are confirmation of that.

Dropping my purse in the entry, I cross the open space into my kitchen in search of scissors. With one practiced slice, the tape parts easily.

I open the flaps curiously, not sure what to expect inside.

My breath dies in my throat, and my fingers freeze halfway into the box.

“What the hell,” I whisper.

A neat layer of photographs covers the bottom.

All of them are of me.

Entering my townhouse. Leaving. In my work clothes to open the boutique I work at downtown. Coming home late from line dancing on different days, evidenced by my changing boots. A stretchy athletic set I wore once to a Pilates class last month and never again. Standing on the sidewalk with Archie.

One by one, I pull them out. The past few weeks of my life are preserved in colorful stills.

The final photo sends my heart into overdrive.

It’s a picture of me, shot through my living room window, wearing the outfit I wore two days ago. Beneath the final photograph is a small note written in a choppy scrawl.

Answer the phone, Alice.

My phone begins to vibrate in my pocket, and I drop the paper as if it were on fire.