She Can Tell Read online

  Also By Melinda Leigh

  She Can Run

  Midnight Exposure

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 Melinda Leigh

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13:1612185657

  ISBN-10: 9781612185651

  eISBN-9781611095388

  This book is dedicated to my kids, Annie and Tom. You were right. Bandit was a great addition to the book. Love you.

  Contents

  Prologue: Twenty-five years ago

  Chapter One: Present day

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Twenty-five years ago

  He liked to watch.

  To see the secret, private things people did when they thought they were alone.

  From the moon shadow of an evergreen, he stared across the weedy backyard at the dilapidated rancher. Harry was inside. The Watcher’s breath steamed out into the crisp winter air. Twenty yards of crabgrass was all that separated him from retribution.

  Harry had to die.

  It was the only way to make things right.

  Impulsive responses, while satisfying, were rarely successful in the long term. Discipline was the key. He’d buried his rage and weighed all the options. Harry’s life against his actions. His future against the impact of what he’d done. Ultimately, it was what Harry intended to do that made the difference.

  Don’t worry. Just come with me. I’ll take care of you. I promise.

  An hour of standing on the frozen ground, waiting for the house to go quiet and dark, had left the Watcher’s toes with a numb ache. Fiery tingles shot through the balls of his feet as he crept toward a dark window cracked an inch for ventilation. The ground was too frozen for his boots to leave prints, but the crunch of dead grass echoed in the otherwise silent night. He crouched under the window, then peered over the sill. No sound. No light. No movement. He raised the sash and climbed through into the living room. Lacquer fumes and sawdust stung his nostrils. Heat rattled from a baseboard register as the aged furnace tried to raise the temperature above meat locker.

  The Watcher had never been in Harry’s house, though the carpenter had invited him over a few times to watch hockey games. They were both Flyers fans. They had other things in common too, but they wouldn’t be friends. Not ever. Not after what the Watcher had seen—and what he’d heard—the other night.

  Don’t worry. Just come with me. I’ll take care of you. I promise.

  Betrayal sliced into him like the drop point of his knife through a deer’s belly.

  Silver moonlight gleamed through bare windows. In the far corner, a drop cloth shrouded a battered recliner. The gutted house had a hollow, unfinished feel that matched the empty space in the middle of his chest.

  The house was in mid-renovation. Harry planned to flip it in the spring. The oak floor in the living room had been sanded down to raw wood, but the kitchen was still old and ugly. On the worn vinyl tiles, a four-by-eight sheet of plywood spanned two sawhorses as a makeshift table. The Watcher scanned the assortment of woodworking supplies. Flammable liquids. Newspapers. Rags. Check.

  It was a small house with a simple floor plan. Living room, kitchen, and dining area grouped at one end. A short hall led to the single bath and three tiny bedrooms. The door to the master was ajar. He touched it with one finger, and it swung open a few more inches. Single guys don’t think much about things like curtains. Enough moonlight filtered through the blinds for the Watcher to see Harry sprawled on his back under a thick comforter, one arm thrown over his head, snoring. His posture was childlike. Innocent.

  The guy was anything but. Anger, hot and sour, rose into the back of the Watcher’s throat. He swallowed, backed away, and clenched his freezing knuckles until they screamed. The pain focused him. He drew a chilling, chemical-laden breath into his nose and exhaled slowly. In the kitchen, he stretched a hand to the ceiling and disconnected the 9-volt in the smoke alarm. He moved to the sawhorse table. Paint thinner would do the job.

  “What’re you doing?”

  He whirled. Harry shivered bare-chested in the doorway, hands tucked under crossed arms, face wrinkled with sleepy confusion. The prelude to a middle-aged paunch hung over his low-riding sweats. Now what? Harry was awake. The plan was fucked.

  The Watcher bowed his head to hide his eyes. They burned with frustration. Couldn’t let Harry see. The Watcher needed to say something. Something to throw Harry off. Something that would make him comfortable with a middle-of-the-night intruder.

  “I need some help, Harry.” The plea choked him on its way out. His fingers crawled past the matches in his pocket to his hunting knife. He palmed the weapon alongside the back of his thigh, out of Harry’s line of sight, and opened the blade one-handed. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

  The Watcher knew he should wait it out. Come back another time with another plan. His arm even contracted to return the knife to his pocket.

  “It’s OK. You’re always welcome here.” Harry was a sap. He stepped closer, rested a cold hand on the Watcher’s shoulder, and gave it a compassionate squeeze. “Let me get a sweatshirt. Then we can talk.”

  The sympathetic touch and gentle words short-circuited something in the Watcher’s brain. Harry’s voice played in his head again.

  Don’t worry. Just come with me. I’ll take care of you. I promise.

  The Watcher’s vision went red. He lunged at the carpenter. The knifepoint pierced Harry’s belly. Blood seeped around the hilt and ran hot over frozen-stiff fingers. He yanked upward, as if gutting a deer, splitting Harry open from navel to breastbone with a moist rip. The Watcher wriggled the knife loose and stepped back. The frigid air filled with the metallic, raw scents of blood and freshly slaughtered game. Harry’s eyes bugged. His hands clutched his belly as if to keep his insides…well, inside.

  “Why?” Blood gurgled from his open lips as his body went limp, sliding to the floor as if the bones had melted.

  At the Watcher’s feet, dark liquid spread in a thick puddle on the raw wood. He stepped back before it reached his shoes. Sweat dripped down his back, and his heart knocked around his chest like a pinball.

  Harry was supposed to die in the fire. There’s no way anyone would think this was an accident. Now what? The house was a mile outside town. No other buildings in sight. How long would the place burn before the fire department arrived? Would the fire destroy the bod
y? Too many unanswered questions.

  Harry’s limbs twitched and went still. His torso deflated; gray eyes glassed over.

  The Watcher whipped the canvas drop cloth from the recliner and spread it out on the floor. At five-foot-nine, Harry was smaller than the big buck the Watcher had bagged last autumn, but dead limbs flopped and tangled as he rolled everything in the cloth, deli-wrap style. He dragged the body to the back door. After covering the kitchen floor with lacquer, newspapers, and rags, he tossed a lit match into the center. Fire sprinted across the hardwood with a whoosh. He flipped up his hood and hauled the bundle out. Using the three-foot elevation of the back stoop, he squatted and heaved the body onto his shoulders. He wasn’t small, but he staggered under the dead weight. Brittle-cold air and smoke clogged his lungs as he stumbled for the detached garage behind the house.

  Discipline was the key. Lesson learned. He wouldn’t forget it again.

  But at that moment, all he could think about was how to make Harry disappear.

  Chapter One

  Present day

  Leave town or die, you fucking whore.

  Not the most original statement, but it sure got the point across.

  Rachel raised the portable lantern over her head and scanned the side of her barn. In the artificial light, the blood-red words slashed across the white paint like fresh wounds. Every letter was still billboard clear despite hours of cleaning.

  She rolled her aching shoulder and shut off the pressure washer still chugging at her feet. Silence fell abruptly on the too-warm, wet October night. It was no use. The graffiti wasn’t coming off. Fresh coats of primer and paint would have to wait until the weather cleared.

  Someone was not happy she’d returned to Northeastern Pennsylvania. Troy? Who else would bother? Didn’t matter. She wasn’t leaving, no matter how difficult her brother-in-law made her life.

  Exhaustion weighted her quivering muscles as she half-dragged her equipment to the detached garage. On the way out, she secured the outbuilding with a thick padlock. No sense in tempting fate—or her vandal. The soggy grass squished under her boots as she crossed the lawn to her back door. After slipping off her boots in the mudroom and making sure her new deadbolt clicked securely into place, she padded into her empty kitchen.

  The rumble of her stomach reminded her she hadn’t had time for a grocery store run—or dinner. She yanked open the ancient refrigerator door and let the cool air waft over her sweaty skin. One lonely yogurt huddled next to a nearly empty quart of skim milk. Rachel poked a green and furry package in the bottom of the vegetable bin. When had she bought broccoli? And why? She picked the plastic bag up by the corner with her forefinger and thumb, and gingerly transferred it to the garbage can. It hit the bottom with a wet squish. She snatched a box from the counter, shook out the last strawberry Pop-Tart, and washed it down with water.

  A damp breeze and the patter of light rain drew her gaze to the window. Through it, the barn sprawled behind the house. Pride expanded her chest. She had ten horses boarded, not bad considering the number of setbacks the barn renovation project had suffered. Come winter, New Hope Farm would welcome its very first foal. Was it possible the black cloud that had dogged her for the past thirty-one years had decided to move on?

  Don’t jinx it. The pot of gold at the end of your rainbow has a way of turning into a pile of crap.

  As evidenced by the return of her vandal last night.

  Rachel’s cell phone burst into its digital rendition of the “William Tell Overture” from its charging cradle on the kitchen counter. She reached for the phone. The tiny screen displayed her sister’s name. Rachel’s heart fumbled a beat as she flipped open the cover. “Sarah?”

  “I’m sorry for calling so late.” Sarah’s apology trembled.

  Rachel’s heart squeezed. “It’s OK. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Troy.”

  Wasn’t it always? Sarah’s husband was the lowest form of life Rachel could imagine, at least two rungs below amoeba on the evolutionary ladder. Chimpanzees would be appalled to learn they shared ninety-eight percent of their DNA with Troy Mitchell. He was the main suspect for her vandalism—and the reason Rachel had returned to sink every single nickel into the rundown family farm.

  Six years Rachel’s junior, Sarah had her reasons for marrying young, but surely she could have done better than him.

  Rachel heard banging in the background, then Troy’s voice yelling for Sarah.

  “Sarah? Are you OK?” Sarah didn’t answer. “Do you want me to call the police?”

  “No.” Sarah blurted out her answer too quickly.

  “No, you’re not OK, or no, you don’t want me to call the police?”

  All Rachel heard was Sarah’s ragged breathing for one long moment.

  “Could you please just come and get me and the girls? Troy and I had an argument earlier, and now he’s back. He’s drunk and he’s really mad. Please, Rachel, just until he sleeps it off.”

  “OK. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Stay on the line with me.” Rachel stomped into a pair of battered tennis shoes, snagged her keys from the bowl on the counter, and bolted into the drizzle. Behind her the door closed with a resounding thwack. With her cell phone still pressed against her ear, she sprinted toward her truck. “Sarah?”

  Sarah didn’t respond, but Troy’s voice came through, louder this time. “Gimme the damn phone!”

  A muffled smack and a thud sounded over the open line as Rachel slid behind the wheel. Her heart thumped in her throat. “Sarah, are you OK?”

  Nothing.

  Rachel’s truck engine roared as she took off down her rutted dirt driveway. Her tires screeched as took the turn onto the paved rural road too fast. Raindrops blurred her windshield. She flipped on the wipers. “Sarah, are you there?”

  She lifted the receiver from her ear and glanced down at the display.

  Call ended.

  “Shit!” She smacked the steering wheel. Possibilities reeled through her mind. None of them good. Did Sarah hang up to call the police? Or did Troy take the phone? Should Rachel call the cops? She debated for a nanosecond before dialing 911. She described the situation and gave Sarah’s address to the dispatcher, who assured her that a patrol car was en route.

  The next five minutes stretched out in slow motion marked by the steady drip of sweat down Rachel’s spine and the rhythmic thud of her heart against her breastbone. Shiny pavement stretched out in front of her headlights like an endless black ribbon. Wipers swished on wet glass, arcing like dual metronomes.

  Each second that ticked by was an opportunity for Troy to commit an act of violence against her sister.

  Rachel turned the truck into Sarah’s tidy middle-class neighborhood. The sidewalks were edged, the shrubs trimmed. Minivans, SUVs, and basketball nets lined the gently curving streets, but the wholesome suburban scene was an illusion. Nothing was ever exactly what it seemed.

  She pulled up to the curb in front of Sarah’s house and jerked the gearshift into park. Except for the weak amber glare cast by streetlights, the neighborhood was dark, the street empty. No police yet. She was on her own.

  Rachel shoved open the truck door and jumped down to the curb. The rain intensified, filtering through the leaves of the mature oak and dripping on her head. She brushed a droplet of water off her cheek with a forefinger and turned to face Sarah’s deceptively quaint house. The furious yaps of Sarah’s little mutt came from around back.

  “You lying bitch!” Troy’s expletive carried through the open living room window and burst the neighborhood’s peaceful bubble. Next door, a light in the second-floor window blinked on. The dog yapped louder.

  A female scream sliced through the humidity.

  Rachel sprinted across the wet lawn and flew up the cement steps to the front stoop. Heart hammering, she pushed the unlocked door open. Her sister lay crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, one arm twisted behind her body at a grotesque angle. Red-faced and sweaty, Troy stood over her in the narro
w foyer.

  As Rachel stepped across the threshold, Troy’s booted foot connected with her sister’s unconscious body with a sickening thud. Limp, Sarah slid a few inches on the polished oak floor. Rachel’s lungs sucked in a reflexive gasp before she could stop them. Troy’s head swiveled toward her. Under a shock of sweaty brown hair, green eyes glittering with unnatural, rabid excitement. “What do I have to do to get rid of you?”

  Shock paralyzed her for a few seconds. He swung. Rachel slipped sideways, but her reaction was slow, and the sloppy hook glanced off her cheek. Pain, bright and sharp, burst through her face with a kaleidoscope of colors. She stumbled sideways. One hand caught the banister and kept her upright.

  Rachel shook her head. A glance at her sister’s broken body jolted her into movement. The pain in her face evaporated as Troy moved closer. She raised her hands, twisted her torso, and plowed an uppercut into Troy’s soft solar plexus. He grunted. An exhalation of stale whiskey passed over Rachel’s face. She brought her arm up to block a looping right, and then looked for a groin opening. No shot.

  Swinging wildly, Troy stumbled forward. Rachel moved away until her back hit the wall. Troy grabbed for her throat. Her ears strained for sirens as she shoved the heel of her palm under his chin. Troy’s head snapped back, the movement taking his body with it.

  His eyes shone with malice. He lunged unsteadily for the hall closet and pulled out an aluminum baseball bat. Rachel’s heart rammed against the inside of her chest as if it wanted out. She stepped in front of her sister. Running wasn’t an option. She’d never leave Sarah. Nor could she abandon the little girls that she knew were upstairs somewhere, terrified. But if Troy managed to hit her with that bat, it was game over. Sarah would be alone. Just like when Rachel had abandoned her little sister all those years ago.

  Where were the damned cops?

  Troy raised the bat over his right shoulder in a two-fisted batter’s grasp as he weaved toward Rachel. His face contorted with hate as he swung at her head.