Chapter One

It seemed like a simple request. Find a packet in the attic.

It wasn’t simple.

And it wasn’t safe.

I gathered a crew and scheduled the search for Thanksgiving week so I could wrap it up with a grand feast. Now that this oceanfront house on North Carolina’s Outer Banks finally felt like home, I wanted to celebrate it with friends.

Kip Hawkins had the longest drive—six hundred fifty miles—but he’d insisted on helping. His father and mine had been joint caretakers of a dodgy property called Dacretown near Concord, Massachusetts. Kip’s dad, Gregory, had been murdered for his trouble. Mine, Lang Hunter, had contracted a neurological debility. Just before these blows, they’d discussed that place in this house. Then Dad had vanished, leaving his house to me.

I’d pieced this all together when I’d finally located him. However, our reunion was brief. Before Dad left to work on a cure for his Dacretown blight, he’d asked me to look for a 6x9-inch white envelope. He thought it was in the attic. “It has a wax seal,” he’d said. “It’s private. Please don’t open it. Just tell me when you find it.”

I’d concurred...but I hadn’t promised.

I knew Dad might be dying. He’d grown ill from experiments he’d tried to stop. His “vanishment,” as he calls people gone missing, had robbed me of five years with him. Growing up, he’d been my anchor in a home full of shifting winds. He’d left my mother when I was a teen, but his advice from a distance had kept me on track. I could grant him this small favor. At least, I thought I could. To be fair, he hadn’t adequately warned me.

I’d already seen the multiple boxes, notebooks, and stacks of papers from Dad’s years of vanishment research. Locating a single envelope, I knew, would be like finding a one-eyed ghost crab on our beach. Doable but not quick.

Recently, Kip had pushed to complete this task, so I’d scheduled the quest. In Concord, he and I had started on the wrong foot, but a common mission involving my dad had pulled us together. It made sense to include him.

Two days before Thanksgiving, I stood at my picture window watching the wind push white caps toward the beach. Layers of cobalt and azure clouds hinted that rain was on the way. I hoped Kip would beat it. I expected him within the hour.

Natra Gawoni, my case manager, strode in. She tugged on the long brown ponytail that draped over her shoulder and gestured for her Doberdor, Mika, to come. The dog padded over to me for an ear rub.

“Coffee’s fresh,” Natra said. “The unit’s ready.”

“He’ll like it. Gives him privacy but also access to us when he wants it.”

We’d prepared the largest of my two rental studios on the ground floor. Off season, they weren’t used. My personal living space was on the second floor, adjacent to my great room conference area in the center of the house. Natra’s apartment was on the other side. My two-car garage sat below us, between the rentals.

A chime sound. A car had entered the driveway.

I gestured toward Natra’s unit. “Can you put Mika in her room? Let’s let Kip get settled.”

Natra took the dog out.

Kip knew this house. He’d been here with his dad two months before Gregory had died. I thought it might be rough for him to return. Just sixteen then, Kip hadn’t said what he’d witnessed, but he believed he knew what we were looking for.

I opened the sliding glass door to the balcony. A cold gust blew past me to ruffle papers inside. Kip stood below, next to the white Range Rover my father had gifted him, a long wool coat protecting his slender frame. A breeze jumped the backyard dune to ruffle his dark wavy hair. He looked up and waved. That afternoon, under a darkening November sky, I couldn’t have guessed at the perilous burden this young man bore…and brought to my door.

Chapter Two

Kip gestured toward the back of his SUV. “Got a full car. More files from Kate.”

He meant from Kate Gardiner, the lawyer handling my late grandfather’s complicated estate. I pointed to my right. “Pull in over there. We’ll get that stuff later. You’ve had a long drive.”

At twenty-one, Kip was the oldest of three brothers. His legal name was John Kinney Hawkins, named for an outlaw killed by Billy the Kid. He’d adopted ‘Kip’ on his own. It fit him. Tall and lanky with brown eyes and a headful of dark curls, his demeanor suggested a burdened soul. He’d protected his brothers while solving his father’s murder. He now worked for his cousin in a home restoration business, carving marble and restoring woodwork. He was quite the craftsman. I’d hired him to work on Dad’s Concord properties. In a convoluted way, Kip was family.

When he came level with me on the balcony, I hugged him. At just over six feet, he was taller than me by at least six inches. I ushered him into my living/dining/conference area, which has the best views in the house. From the large window facing the ocean, we watch sunrises and storms, dolphins and pelicans.

“Coffee?” I asked. He accepted. I gestured toward a wraparound leather couch. “Please, have a seat.”

He snorted. “I remember that couch. Fell asleep on it a few times.”

“Dad had good taste. I kept the furniture.”

“All of it?”

I nodded. “Pretty much. I made this room a conference area and installed more tech, but till last month I always thought he’d come back. Most of Dad’s things are still how he left them.” Kip’s face showed a flash of relief. That seemed odd. “You stayed in Philadelphia last night?”

“South of there. Saw a friend. Helped break up the trip.”

Natra came in. “Hi, Kip. Nice to see you in person.”

They’d talked thus far only by video. He shook her hand. “Thought you had a dog.”

“I do. You like dogs?”

He nodded.

“I’ll get her later. She made a big fuss over not greeting you.”

“Let ‘er loose.”

I brought over the coffee pot. Kip accepted a mug and sat down. “Is your daughter here?”

“My ex has her this weekend. Kamryn’s in South Carolina.”

I sat opposite Kip while Natra took a seat on the other side of the couch. She’s the observer. I count on her for a second opinion.

Kip looked around. “Seems like you’ve settled in.”

I picked up my mug. “It wasn’t easy, despite the impressive location. I didn’t move in right away. Each time I came, I just felt empty and sad.”

He nodded. “I get that.”

“It took almost a year, but I finally saw an advantage in the extra space. That’s when I started our PI consulting.” I gestured toward Natra. “I brought in Natra after we worked a case together. She named us the Nut Cracker Investigations.”

“Annie likes complicated cases,” Natra explained. “Nuts that are hard to crack.”

Kip raised an eyebrow. “I noticed.”

Natra flipped her hand. “The name’s unique, so people remember it. In just three years, we’ve gained a solid reputation. Not many investigators are also psychologists.”

I smiled. “Ayden was next.” Kip had met him in Concord. “He tricked me into hiring him as my PI. He used a case I couldn’t resist and proved his talent. Plus, he’s an artist and, as you know, he does carpentry on houses around here. Then there’s our part-time digital examiner, Joe Lochren. He’s been increasingly valuable, although he has a demanding career in cyber security. He helped me set up my podcast, Psi Apps, and I’ve developed a network of forensic consultants. Jackson Raines—you’ll meet him on Thursday—has become our go-to legal counsel. My executor’s fee from my grandfather’s passing last month helps with the bills.”

Natra pointed at me. “We need that, cuz she’s drawn to cases that don’t pay.”

“Spoken like a business manager.” I leaned toward Kip. “Have you made plans for joining Lang in Scotland?”

Kip shrugged. “He’s been ill. Bedridden. Hasn’t communicated in a week.”

I felt a stab of jealousy. I wished I didn’t, but there it was. My dad had taken to Kip like a son he’d never had. During the five years Dad was “missing,” he’d secretly worked with Kip and his brothers in Concord. They’d been privy to his darkest secrets, partners in his work, the recipients of his attention. Kip had been his main point of contact. For me, that left an aching gap. I’d had only a few days with Dad in October before he left again. He’d urged me to give Kip some maternal guidance. I wasn’t old enough to be his mother, but I could offer a sensitive ear.

“I’m so glad you came,” I said. “When I first got this house, I couldn’t go through Dad’s things. I made a start but always stalled. Dad wasn’t organized and there’s a lot to go through.”

Kip nodded like he knew Lang’s habits. He’d probably spent more time in the attic than I had. More to the point, he’d been a witness to multiple important transactions that bound our families.

“We’ve got you set up in the studio suite downstairs,” Natra told him. “Same one you had before but nicely updated.”

Kip smiled. “Good thing. I remember the shower not working.”

As he talked, his left hand, scarred from stonework, rubbed the side of the mug, perhaps the way he caressed a piece of marble to evaluate its challenges for carving. A heavy insignia ring adorned a finger on his right hand.

Kip turned to me. “I’ll help with whatever you need, but I have a reason for coming. I’m looking for something myself. Dad brought several things here I’d like to retrieve. Lang didn’t want them. They argued when they thought I was outside. It was pretty intense.”

I leaned toward him. “What things?”

“First, that envelope Lang asked you to find.”

I shook my head. “No, that’s something Dad—”

“I know which envelope he means. It’s white. Stamped with a wax seal. I told Lang my dad left it here. That made him angry. He meant to come back to get it.”

Natra cocked her head. “What’s in it?”

“A communication Dad got from someone they both knew. I think it’s a threat. Dad wanted Lang’s help. I remember Lang saying, ‘You can’t do this. It’s too risky.’ But Dad left it here, anyway. I saw him take it up to the attic and come down without it. Besides that, there’s a package, a couple inches thick. That’s in the attic, too. I think it holds a binder that has some records. On the way home, I asked Dad about it, but he wouldn’t tell me. He said he had to protect us, me and my brothers.”

I squinted. “You saw this binder?”

“Yes. It’s a leatherbound three-ring binder with lined note pages, like an accounting ledger. It has transparent sleeves for maps and pictures. I saw it at home when I was ten or eleven. I tried to look through it, but Dad grabbed it. He told me to never touch it. After he died, I looked for it but couldn’t find it. I think it might be in that packet.”

“Sounds like we’re on a scavenger hunt.”

“Sort of. The binder’s distinct. Shouldn’t be hard to spot.”

I cleared my throat. “So, you’re not here to help me get this envelope for Lang.”

Kip shook his head.

“Does he know?”

“No.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Is this a secret you want me to keep?”

Kip clutched the handle of his mug. “I hope you won’t have to. I didn’t tell him I was coming this week. Only my brothers and Kate and Mark Gardiner know I’m here. She’s your Concord attorney and Mark’s my boss. Lang wants to burn this stuff, but it belonged to my dad. I have the right to decide its fate.” He lifted his chin.

I drew in a breath. “What if he asks if you’re here? What do you expect me to say?”

“He’s ill, Annie. He hasn’t communicated since last week. He won’t like what I’m doing, but…” He glanced over his shoulder toward the window. “Whatever disturbed our dads, it’s still out there.”

***

Excerpt from You Can't Hide by Katherine Ramsland. Copyright 2025 by Katherine Ramsland. Reproduced with permission from Katherine Ramsland. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

The Regression Strain

As the cab rounded the corner behind the service buildings, the full bulk of the ship rose into view, a floating city gleaming white and blue against the gray Baltic sky. The Paradise would be Peter’s home and workplace for the next month.

His shoulders tightened. Had he forgotten to pack anything? It was too late now.

The taxi ejected him into the cool summer of Copenhagen—heaven compared to the stifling heat of Texas. He checked in at the terminal counter, cleared security, and joined the stream of chattering passengers traversing the covered gangway to board the vessel. Most of them spoke in English and a few in Spanish. Others conversed in German, French, or Scandinavian tongues. They seemed affluent and confident, not at all like his impoverished patients in Houston’s Fifth Ward. That guy in front—his Rolex probably cost more than Peter’s Outback.

Peter wheeled his suitcase through a colonnade of clapping crew members and across the threshold of the grand atrium. Its rich wood paneling and glittering chandeliers were as opulent as the brochures promised. He fused with the crush of passengers piling up in front of the diagrams posted near the elevators. Living quarters for the medical crew were on the lowest deck, conveniently adjacent to the clinic.

Amid the throng, a woman was fussing over a teenage boy in a wheelchair. She leaned in and whispered something in his ear, then tousled his thick mop of brown hair. With one hand cranked tight against his chest, he lolled his head back and rewarded her with a crooked smile. Her haggard face lit up. Now that was one tired mama.

“I like his shirt.” Peter pointed to the graphic of Thor wielding his massive hammer.

“You hear that, Calvin? He likes it.”

Calvin’s nose crinkled above the sparse stubble dotting his chin. She retrieved a ChapStick from her floral fanny pack and slathered Calvin’s lips first, then her own.

She offered the tube to Peter with a glistening smile. “Want some?”

He cringed. That was weird. “Uh, no thanks.”

“Want him?”

Peter’s eyes snapped up to hers. “Excuse me?”

“You can take him for a while.” She smiled and tipped her head. “He doesn’t eat much.”

“Ah…”

“Ha ha, it’s a joke.” She licked her moistened lips. “I’ve been on this boat too long. Cabin fever.” She gave him a little nod and wheeled the kid into the elevator.

The adjacent elevator dinged open, revealing a family that looked right at home, mom admiring the decor, two school kids horsing around. Sipping coffee in his striped polo, dad looked a bit like Peter’s microbiology professor—placid and plump.

Peter pulled his suitcase to the side with a smile. It was nice to see people relaxed and carefree. And if they needed medical attention—well, he could offer it. It would be a relief to simply treat patients. No rationing medications against their rent. No fighting through nettles of bureaucracy just to get a CT scan. He wasn’t built for that fight, and the last few rounds had left him bruised.

The younger child in the elevator darted out. Mom lunged and grabbed his collar, jostling dad into Peter. Coffee sloshed out of the man’s cup and down his jeans.

An animal snarl flashed over the man’s pale, doughy face. “Watch it, prick.”

“Sorry, I didn’t expect…”

The man leaned in, eyes glowing hot behind round bifocals.

Peter jerked back. “Whoa, are you okay?”

As the man cocked his fist back, Peter watched the sleeve of his polo shirt ride up his bicep, almost in slow motion. Peter quickly raised his open palms.

“Honey,” mom hissed. She tugged her little one back, and he huddled under her frail wings.

The man lowered his fist, the stench of coffee hot on his breath.

Peter nodded. “It was an accident. I’ll buy you another coffee. Or jeans.”

The heat in the man’s eyes dissipated and he blinked a few times, looking at Peter’s face yet his attention was directed elsewhere. “Ah, shoot.”

Sorry, mom mouthed and hustled the whole family away.

Peter stepped into the elevator among passengers who seemed oblivious to the encounter. His heart hammered in his chest, and his mouth soured with adrenaline. Microbiology professor? Scratch that—this guy was more like that assistant principal caught in a minivan with the high school girl. And here he’d nearly gotten into a fistfight on his first day.

But hey, he’d defused the situation. He was still supposed to be here. This was going to work out. He closed his eyes as the last passengers got off and the elevator continued to the bottom level.

The doors opened onto a hallway with plush burgundy carpet and polished handrails. Colorful abstract prints enlivened the walls. This was where everything could begin again, even at age thirty-two. He would be a healer on the high seas, applying his hard-earned expertise to help people on vacation.

But the aura disintegrated when he opened his cabin door. Inside was a single bed, a nightstand no larger than a magazine, and a built-in desk with a swivel chair. The sheets lay twisted in a lump at the foot of the bed, exposing a mattress with stains the color of dirty bathwater. A smudged TV hung crookedly from the ceiling, and a stale scent lingered in the air. The only feature that distinguished the cabin from a hospital on-call room was the round porthole window giving view to rusty shipping containers on the dock.

Well, he wasn’t on vacation, after all, even if everyone else was. Peter heaved his suitcase onto the lumpy mattress and began stowing his clothes. Luckily he’d packed light for this trial run. The tiny closet contained a white uniform, starched and waiting like a suit of armor, as well as an orange life vest and a safe the size of a cigar box.

The only real valuable he’d brought was his new 3M Littmann Cardiology IV, an upgrade from the battered stethoscope from residency. He fished around in the side compartment of the suitcase but came up empty. It should’ve been right there.

He checked every zippered pocket, then rummaged through his backpack. Nada. How could he have forgotten his freaking stethoscope, of all things? He’d followed his packing list. He loved lists, for heaven’s sake, loved checking off each item. Little good it had done. He drew a deep breath in then out, trying to clear his mind by counting to ten like the therapist said.

Ten seconds was a long time to think about nothing. Maybe he needed a higher dose of Lexapro. He’d been reluctant to accept his diagnosis, one he himself had given to so many patients, but the antidepressant seemed to help with his mood, concentration, and sleep.

The ambiance of the bathroom matched that of the bedroom, with black spots of mildew mottling the lower edge of the shower curtain. The sink offered little space for personal items.

He opened his bottle of Lexapro, shook a tablet into his palm, and swallowed it dry as he stared into the dingy mirror. Working aboard a cruise ship would be a huge change, and he needed to bring his best. He set the bottle on the narrow counter, but it clipped the edge, flipped out of his hand, and plopped into the toilet with an insulting splash.

His stomach clenched and he squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe, by some miracle, the bottle had landed upright with the tablets safe and dry inside, like a lifeboat. A tiny boat in a tiny toilet on a gargantuan ship.

He peered down. Nothing doing—the bottle floated on its side, surrounded by white tablets bobbing in the murky water like pearls of pasta in chicken broth. Why did the water have to look like that? Was it just reflecting the grimy inner surface of the toilet bowl?

Didn’t matter. His mental health was officially soaking in shit.

The half-life of Lexapro was around thirty hours, and he’d taken one yesterday back in Houston. He could just retrieve the tablets, wash them off, and dunk them in rubbing alcohol. Without more doses, the effects would diminish over the next few days. He could picture his exit interview: I’m sorry, Dr. Palma, you came ill-prepared.

One hand drifted to his pocket. At least he’d remembered to pack his favorite metallic pen. Even in the age of digital everything, a quality pen remained one of his favorite tools—that and old-fashioned index cards. His fingers closed around the pen, clicking the top: Ta-tick, ta-tack. Ta-tick, ta-tack.

Someone knocked on the door, but the bolt clicked open before he could reach it. The slight, olive-skinned man turned back to the hall almost as quickly as he’d come in. White shirt and charcoal vest—must be a steward.

“I’m sorry, I come back later,” he said with a duck of his bald head.

Peter waved him in. “It’s all right. I just got here.”

“Nobody clean your room yet?”

“I guess not.”

“You the doctor, no?”

“One of them.” He propped the door open for the man’s cart.

The steward glanced around the tiny room. “It will be my pleasure to serve you. I come later when you have gone out.”

Peter suspected the man’s cheerful acceptance hid the same bone-deep fatigue that had weighed down his own mother. She used to clean offices, back before Felipe joined the army, and she was always exhausted. Chemical fumes permeated her clothes and hair, and her knuckles cracked and bled until he bought her the non-latex gloves that her cheap-ass boss wouldn’t pay for.

Before Peter could return to the bathroom, somebody else came knocking: a petite woman in blue scrubs, probably late thirties. A tight ponytail held back her glossy chestnut hair. Her sharp cheekbones and jawline were all business.

“Luisa Calderone, nurse on staff.” The strength in her bony handshake matched the intensity of her hazel eyes. “They said this is your first gig.”

Yep, a fresh start, a sorely needed one. “Sorry. I’ll try to learn quick.”

“We can do a proper tour later, but let’s just walk and talk for now.” She nodded back at the hallway. “I can give you some time to get changed, but we have patients—so not too long, please.”

Right back into it, then. He was a kid on a roller coaster cresting the first big incline—the moment before the bottom fell out. He opened the closet and confronted his uniform. Sure, he’d paid for the ride, but that didn’t make it any less stomach-churning.

***

Excerpt from The Regression Strain by Kevin Hwang. Copyright 2025 by Kevin Hwang. Reproduced with permission from Kevin Hwang. All rights reserved.

from CHAPTER TWO of

Murder at the Wedding

The parking lot at St. Andrew's Episcopal was filled almost to capacity. Despite a recent visit to the car wash, my Jeep looked out of place next to all the Mercedes, BMWs, Range Rovers, Jaguars, and Porsches.

I took out and quickly scanned the engraved linen cream invitation. It read:

Matrimonial Ceremony of
Charlotte Alexis Whitaker
and
Brooks James Hawthorne IV
St. Andrew's Episcopal Church
Langford, Massachusetts
Saturday, the eighth of June, at two o'clock in the afternoon

As I approached the massive church, I saw all the pink plantings and railings wrapped in white tulle with pink peonies at precise intervals. It was a floral tour de force that must have taken an army of gardeners and florists a few days to accomplish. Inside there were pink roses, peonies, and hydrangeas everywhere. The scene was right out of InStyle Magazine. I wondered, were there any pink flowers left on the East Coast? On the West Coast?

As I squeezed into the last row, a large choir serenaded the full house in the loft above the congregation.

The choir began to sing "My Spirit Sang All Day" as Mrs. Whitaker, resplendent in a strapless, rose silk Carolina Herrera with a vibrant pink cabbage rose behind one ear and a necklace of marble-sized, green South Sea pearls, was ushered to the left front pew. Really? Strapless for the mother of the bride? Well, she does look amazing.

A hush fell over the crowd. The stained-glass doors closed, and the groom and his men filed to the altar.

Did one have to be six feet two, gorgeous, and ripped to be in this wedding party?

As the first strands of Wagner filled the air, the doors opened, and down the aisle came Anastasia Bleeker. She was one of the bride's four-year-old charges at Miss Bloomfield's School, where wealthy, pregnant women enrolled their offspring-to-be to claim a coveted spot. Anastasia was wearing a white tulle fairy-tale gown with a dark rose-colored sash. A circle of petite, light pink roses and baby's breath crowned her chin length, straight, white-blonde hair. She carried a small, white wicker basket in one hand, and with the other, she started to drop pale pink rose petals down the long aisle.

Channeling Lady Di, I thought.

Next came the ring bearer, Barrington Cabot. He was another nursery school trust-fund-baby-in-the-making in white linen shorts and jacket and a head of black, curly hair. Then six breathtaking models, or rather bridesmaids, dressed in rose-colored tulle skirts and pale pink lace wrap blouses, floated down the aisle carrying white and pink hydrangeas wrapped in rose-colored ribbons. They looked like an upscale version of an ad for the United Colors of Benetton.

After a slight pause, the stained-glass doors parted again, and Dr. Whitaker appeared in his morning suit, standing at Charlotte's right side. She was breathtaking in a Vera Wang white silk ball gown glittering with thousands of tiny seed pearls. A deep rose satin ribbon wrapped around her bouquet of white peonies. Her Belgian lace veil trailed behind her down the aisle.

The ceremony went on amid candlelight, roses, and organ music. It was like being in a dream, albeit a very, very expensive dream.

Finally, vows were exchanged, there were no objections, and Charlotte and Brooks were off to the photo-taking session in a vintage, white Bentley. As they left, the guests milled about outside the church for a bit and then headed to the reception.

Evelyn Greyson, the sixtyish director of Obstetric Nursing, stood at the top of the church stairs as I exited. She was dressed in a powder blue suit with a short jacket with peplum and knee-length, fitted skirt. A pearl necklace, her ever-present pearl brooch, and small pearl stud earrings completed the look. Her graying hair was, as usual, in her trademark chignon.

"Beautiful wedding," I said.

"Magnificent," Evelyn replied. "Dr. Whitaker wouldn't have it any other way. See you at the reception, dear." And then she strode off to her car.

Evelyn always agreed with everything Dr. Whitaker said and did. She worshipped him. Did she also have an unrequited crush on him?

I quickly greeted a few colleagues but didn't linger because I wanted to see how Will was doing.

The Country Club was buzzing with activity when I drove through the porte cochère, pulled up to the main entrance, and handed my keys to a valet. The grand foyer was glittering with hundreds of candles and still more massive floral arrangements in blush pink. A string quartet played Pachelbel's "Canon in D" beside the grand staircase.

Out on the veranda, the wedding party was taking pictures before an expanse of green lawn and brilliant blue sky and sea. It would be a wedding album worthy of its own issue of Town & Country.

Large silver serving trays were circulated among the guests, offering tiny crab cakes topped with dill aioli, mini beef Wellingtons, smoked salmon pinwheels, and tomato and goat cheese on toast points. There were massive silver bowls of fresh shrimp on ice on round marble tables.

"Maeve! Maeve! Over here!" one of the midwives called. Looking around the ballroom, which held table settings for six hundred guests, I saw that the Creighton Memorial staff was on the right side of the room while family and friends were on the left. I waved to the midwives but walked over to the table where Grand, Will's grandmother, was sitting with Will's parents, Will's sister, Eloise, her husband, Taylor, and Will's younger brother, Teddy.

"Hello, Maeve." William stood and extended his hand. Never a hug, never a kiss on the cheek, just a handshake.

"Hello, so nice to see you all," I replied, shaking his hand as I nodded to the table. I saw that Lydia, my mother-in-law, was outfitted in a mint green silk cocktail dress with a large diamond necklace and matching drop earrings. She tilted her head toward me and smiled but said nothing.

"The Country Club is such a perfect wedding venue," I offered.

"Quite lovely," she replied.

"You look beautiful, Maeve," Grand said.

"Thanks, Grand."

"Sweet dress," Lydia said.

Sweet dress? What, am I five years old? Lydia was a master of the backhanded compliment, and she was not my biggest fan. Keep it together, Maeve.

Eloise was in a sleeveless, pale green and cream striped dress with an emerald and diamond pendant and earrings. Like mother, like daughter.

"Well," I said, "enjoy the meal. Will has been creating a masterpiece." I saw William's and Lydia's smiles tighten. They did not respond. They were not pleased with Will's chosen profession.

"I can't wait," Grand said.

I gave a little wave and headed over to find my table.

Scanning the room, I saw my sister, Meg, cross her eyes and raise her wine glass in a mock salute. Meg was the Langford real estate agent of choice for the wealthy and had been invited along with other top business leaders of the town. She knew I had just navigated a minefield with my emotionally distant in-laws. As soon as I reached my table, I quickly sat down and took a long drink of chardonnay.

Herend Chinese Bouquet china in pink, Gorham Newport Scroll sterling, and Baccarat crystal decorated each setting.

My gosh, they'll have to pat everyone down before they leave.

Murray Alfond, the famed orchestra leader, turned on his mic and said, "Please be seated while the bridal party arrives."

There was sustained applause as Charlotte and Brooks triumphantly paraded into the ballroom. "The bride and groom will dance to a classic personally chosen by Brooks," Alfond announced.

"The Very Thought of You" wafted through the room as Charlotte and Brooks took to the floor. They obviously had attended many ballroom dancing classes in preparation for this moment, and they danced impeccably.

Then the entire wedding party sashayed to "Fly Me to the Moon." It was like watching La La Land. They were all perfectly coiffed, dressed, and ready for filming. Plus, they could dance.

When they were done and returned to their seats, Alfond intoned, "Please bow your heads while Reverend Lucas Mathers says grace."

The Episcopal pastor of St. Andrew's, Reverend Mathers, was slightly rotund with flushed pink cheeks. He ran his hand through receding black hair, obviously feeling the weight of this moment. Then he bowed his head.

"Dear Holy Father, thank you for this glorious day! What a wonderful celebration! We ask you to bless Charlotte and Brooks, as well as their families and friends, and we beseech you to grant this special couple a life together that is happy and blessed. We further ask you to bless this fabulous repast and grant your blessings on all present. Amen."

Gee, that was short. He must be hungry.

A phalanx of waiters served the first course of spring green and white asparagus spears with shaved red onion. As we started in on the delicate vegetables, the best man, Ry Farmington, took the microphone and asked all to raise their glasses in a toast to the couple.

"Brooks has been like a brother to me since our first day at Hollis in Harvard Yard. We've seen many adventures together—none of which, out of respect for your patience and his reputation, I will go into here."

He paused for applause and a few knowing hoots.

"In the words of the Bard,
No sooner met but they looked;
No sooner looked but they loved;
No sooner loved but they sighed;
No sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason;
No sooner knew the reason, but they sought the remedy;
And in these degrees have made a pair of stairs to marriage
Please rise and toast to their lives together."

Six hundred guests rose and toasted the couple.

Then came truffle-scented tenderloin with dauphinoise potatoes and tender baby carrots. I snuck a look first at the Whitaker table and then at William and Lydia. They all seemed to be enjoying the meal, and I prayed that all the reviews would be excellent.

For dessert, a chocolate mousse with a crème brûlée center was placed at each setting. I knew the wedding cake would be cut and served later.

Just then, the wait staff re-entered the room. They set a Baccarat champagne flute filled with pink champagne at each place. A hush came over the ballroom. Dr. Whitaker was standing at the head table, staring the crowd into silence. Then he picked up his glass and smiled adoringly at Charlotte.

Everyone listened as he gave a long, loving toast to his daughter. Finally, he took a moment to gather his thoughts before saying, "Charlotte, your mother and I found this magnificent champagne in France a few years ago and had it shipped in for your wedding."

Mrs. Whitaker stared at Dr. Whitaker with a huge Miss America smile.

Dr. Whitaker continued, "Would everyone please rise and toast my lovely daughter Charlotte and her husband, Brooks." He lifted his crystal flute to his lips and took a sip while beaming at Charlotte.

Immediately, his cheeks turned scarlet, and he started to wheeze. The crystal dropped from his hand and shattered on the ground. He clutched at his throat while making extensive gasping attempts to pull in a breath. Then he went limp and collapsed to the floor. The room erupted into pandemonium.

From Chapter 1

“What are you doing here, Luna?” The honeyed tone he’d used on the waitress morphed to granite.

“Since when does the FDLE investigate missing persons?”

“Since when do you talk to Stryker? Or any of us, for that matter?”

“Why do you keep answering questions with another question?” Although she knew good and well she’d started it.

The squiggle of a blue vein bulged at Corbin’s temple, and she kind of enjoyed it. “Since we gave our baby up for adoption. Since you cut me out of your life.” His finger stabbed the table to punctuate each sentence. “Since you left town without a word and never looked back.”

Another crack formed. His words knifed her heart. Images of a teen beggar girl on the streets of Pakistan played through her mind. The one with dark hair and eyes that mirrored her own. The girl’s striking resemblance to herself had brought Luna back to the time when she held a tiny life in her arms. The baby girl she’d given up—not because she wanted to, but because she refused to let her child suffer the life she’d had.

The daughter she’d brought into being was somewhere out there in the world, and she needed Stryker to tell her where.

The pang cut deep, but Luna gathered her composure and locked her emotional armor down tight. She wasn’t the only one who’d walked away. “You broke up with me, Corbin. You told me you didn’t want to be a father. You made that choice. I just made sure our daughter had a future.”

The skin around his collar flushed crimson. She could see his neck straining. “I can’t believe you—”

A sharp glint of light flashed through the storefront windows. Whatever Corbin was saying faded into nothingness. She watched Stryker emerge from his rusty old Jeep parked across the street. His hair, a blend of salt and pepper, hung in a knot at the nape of his neck. Aside from the silver strands, he looked like the same athletic man she’d known when she was a teenager.

Years melted away. She saw the man who’d seen the good in her, even when she was a mess of anger and bad choices. The man who’d taken a lost and confused girl and forged her into something stronger, something more. He’d pulled her back from the edge, shown her a different path. And somehow, against all odds, the rebellious girl who’d once cursed every cop in sight had become a government agent.

He’d challenged her, pushed her, never let her give up on herself. And she hadn’t. Would he still recognize that girl in the woman she’d become?

A black SUV slammed to a halt outside. Doors flew open. Three dark figures jumped out, faces swallowed by masks, bodies muted by black tactical gear.

Guns. They had guns.

Luna was on her feet before she knew what was happening. Her brain put it together on the fly. Outside. Help Stryker.

Corbin’s chair scraped back. Clattered over. He was on her heels.

Stryker wouldn’t go down without a fight. With his reflexes, he could disarm a shooter and break a few bones faster than she could blink. His resistance would buy them the priceless seconds they needed to get outside.

One man pointed a Taser at Stryker and squeezed the trigger. Two barbed probes shot through the air and embedded into the back of Stryker’s neck, sending fifty thousand volts of electricity screaming through his body. The other two men caught him under the arms before he hit the sidewalk and hauled his limp body into the back seat.

Luna and Corbin burst outside. Shouts. A woman screamed. But Luna’s eyes were laser focused on the dark vehicle. The doors slammed shut.

Corbin had his gun out. “Police! Stop or I’ll shoot!”

The SUV’s engine roared. The vehicle lurched forward, tires shrieking, grabbing traction. It fishtailed, sideswiping two parked cars. Then it swerved back on course, speeding down the street. It blew through a stop sign and disappeared around the corner.

Bits of red and yellow confetti littered the street and sidewalk. Luna crouched and used her fingernail to scrape up a few of the tiny round dots.

Corbin sprinted half a block chasing after the vehicle before he stopped. Feet set shoulder width apart. Knees flexed. Arms extended and ready to fire.

She marched over and slapped her palm on the muzzle of his gun to shove the barrel down. “Put that away. You can’t shoot into a busy street at a fleeing vehicle.”

He was breathing hard. “No plates. They wore masks. Should be able to get surveillance footage and interview witnesses.” Like her, Corbin was already thinking of the next steps.

She had her phone out, thumb hovering over the screen. The secret code used to send secure cables to the Agency wouldn’t work on this plain smartphone. The only person whose number was stored in this one had just been kidnapped.

Corbin muttered something Luna couldn’t hear. He had a hand on his waist. The tail of his blazer was pushed back, showing the gun in its holster on his hip. He rattled his name, badge number, and their location into his phone. “I’m reporting a confirmed kidnapping in progress. Requesting immediate backup and notify detectives.”

With Stryker gone, she had no reason to stay. Time to start searching for him. She did an about-­face and went back inside.

Angie was on the phone in hysterics. It’d be a wonder if the dispatcher could make sense of the gibberish behind her sobs. Luna marched to the table and picked up her purse. Paused long enough to drain her lemonade and toss a twenty on the table before heading back outside.

Corbin fell into step beside her, phone still pressed to his ear. “Where are you going?”

She kept walking.

“Hey, you can’t leave a crime scene.” He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around.

She caught his hand in a wrist lock and rotated his forearm until his knees buckled. “You’ve gotten slow in your old age.” She flashed a thin smile and shoved him, releasing her hold.

Corbin stumbled a few steps. The look on his face was almost worth the agony of seeing him again. She turned and headed for her car.

The last person she’d ever wanted to see was Corbin King. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

“Luna! You can’t just walk away. Luna!”

Stryker was not only her mentor but a father figure. She wouldn’t stand by and let someone hurt him. Besides, he was the one who’d arranged the adoption. Handled everything himself, outside the system when she was too young and emotionally wrecked to question the details. Back then, she hadn’t wanted to know. Convinced it was better that way. But that had changed.

Now, without Stryker, she had no way to find the only blood relative she had left. And after everything she’d lost in Pakistan, she could not afford to lose anything else.

The weight of it all didn’t matter.

She would save Stryker.

She would find her daughter.

And she would do it without Corbin King.

***

Excerpt from Girl Lost by Kate Angelo. Copyright 2025 by Kate Angelo. Reproduced with permission from Kate Angelo. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

New Caney, Texas
October, Thursday, Current Day
Therese

The shrill ring of my mobile phone jolted me awake at 2:00 a.m., a haunting prompt that emergencies seldom emerged in daylight. Someone had ventured into the wilderness and needed me to lead a rescue mission. My skills of trekking over precarious terrain to find victims who suffered from physical injuries, dehydration, starvation, or all three, kept me on alert. At times I viewed my life like a Star Trek tagline, “Where no man has gone before.”

I grabbed the phone off my nightstand. Unidentified caller. “Hello?”

“Ms. Palmer, this is Professor Rurik Ivanov from Houston Leonard University. We met nearly a year ago. You taught a course in wilderness survival as an adjunct professor.”

I captured a mental image of the Russian man—gray-blue eyes, stone-gray hair, angular face. “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

“I apologize for the hour, but I’m in a desperate situation.”

The angst in his voice zapped me into guarded mode, especially when I barely knew the man. I snapped on my bedside lamp. “Are you all right?”

“No, ma’am, which is why I’m calling you. Do you remember my wife and daughter?”

“I met them both at a faculty dinner last Christmas. A lovely family.”

“My wife was murdered today, and kidnappers have taken my daughter.”

I inhaled sharply, and alarm for the professor’s family fired hot from the soles of my feet. “Daria? Alina? What happened?”

“A man called me late this afternoon while I prepared to leave for home. He said he’d taken Alina. Then he sent a link to a video showing my wife’s execution—”

He stopped abruptly, his final words drumming into my senses. The seconds ticked by, and I waited.

“I watched Daria grab her chest and struggle . . . The blood rushed from her precious body—my dear Daria’s life gone forever.” He grappled again to control his tear-filled voice. “He said they would release Alina unharmed if I paid three million dollars. They’d call with instructions. When the man hung up, I hurried home thinking it had to be a terrible mistake or someone had used AI to generate the video. On the way, I phoned Daria and the call went to voice mail. I also redialed the man who’d contacted me. The phone rang repeatedly, but the number offered no way to leave a message. I contacted Alina’s school and learned Daria had picked her up before noon.

“At home, reality rooted. A lamp and a table in the living room lay in pieces. Daria would have fought hard, but there were no signs of blood. I didn’t recognize the place in the video where they killed her. I even checked for geotag information on the clip, but it had been stripped. I later clicked on the link . . . the video had disappeared.”

I ached for his loss. “What do the police say?”

Silence answered me, then Rurik finally said, “Contacting them is impossible. The man warned me against telling anyone who works in law enforcement, or I’d never see Alina again.” He sobbed into the phone. “Please, give me a moment.”

“Take all the time you need.”

The professor taught Russian language and literature at Leonard University and was highly respected and liked among faculty and students. I’d enjoyed our occasional chats, and he’d observed some of my classes. What had he done to upset the wrong people?

“Thank you. I can talk now,” he said. “I have no idea where the killers have taken Daria’s body or how to find Alina. Neither do I suspect anyone.”

I willed my pulse to slow. “Professor, the police are trained in handling confidential matters and how to find who is responsible. They have families and understand what you’re going through.”

“And endanger my daughter?” Panic throbbed in his ragged voice.

“I’m sorry.” My grief over losing Kate many years ago surfaced raw and bleeding. “Are you alone?”

“Yes. At home.”

“Are there family or friends who can stay with you?”

“My family is in Russia, and I do not trust anyone.”

“You could very well be in danger too.”

“My welfare is unimportant.”

“Who are these people, and why has your family been victimized?”

“I have no idea. The man refused to identify himself, but he did say ‘we.’ Maybe he thinks I have money or believes I have done something criminal to my country or to the US.”

What was he not telling me? I tossed off my blanket and stood in my bedroom, shivering, not from the cold but the horror of this unfolding story. “Professor Ivanov, I’m confused. Why call me? This is a job for the police or the FBI.”

“I cannot risk my daughter’s life. You are my only hope to find Alina. You have the skills to get her back.”

I ran my fingers through my hair. “I’m a wilderness-survival specialist, nothing more. I’m not equipped to carry out a hostage negotiation without backup, which is another reason you need to involve the authorities.” More questions bolted into my mental space like a landslide. “How would I find her?”

“That’s where I can help you. Alina has GPS trackers hidden in her shoes. Not even Daria knew about them.”

“Why would you track your young daughter?”

“Alina’s biological mother died when she was a baby, and I’ve been consumed with protecting my daughter ever since. I checked my phone app and learned at one thirty this afternoon, Alina was taken to a private landing strip west of Houston. I called there, and a woman who worked in the small office said no one had filed a flight plan. But she made a mistake. The tracker had stopped registering.” He coughed and asked me to wait while he got a glass of water.

A connection at Harris County Office of Homeland Security & Emergency Management popped into my consciousness. They had the technology to confirm the date and time a plane took to the skies and where it landed.

“I’m better. I apologize for my lack of control,” the professor said. “My app showed tracking again near an abandoned airstrip in a remote area south of Hobbs, New Mexico. The tracking indicated ground-speed movement for two and a half hours to a section on the north side of Guadalupe Mountains National Park called Dog Canyon. That’s where the tracking ended, and I’ve detected nothing since. I assume the kidnappers parked the vehicle and proceeded on foot with Alina. Research shows the area is off-grid. Ms. Palmer, did they remove her shoes? How would they expect her to walk in bare feet?”

My thoughts trailed to the worst possible scenario. Why take Alina to a remote location unless they planned to dispose of her body there? Another argument lay with logic. Why go to the expense of transporting a kidnap victim there when they had the ability to dispose of her body in their backyard? A morbid idea, except true. Whatever the reason, they risked exposure from security cameras until they reached an off-grid area.

“I can’t stress enough how the authorities have technology and skills to find Alina. They can unravel valid threats and comprehend the danger of taking your story to the media.”

“The man who called me said they’d be watching my every move. I bought a burner phone tonight to call you.”

His anguish rippled through me, interfering with my ability to think clearly. “What about the ransom?”

“I can liquidate assets here and in Russia to meet their demands, but the statistics on kidnappers returning my Alina alive are not good. Perhaps they would accept what I can put together now. I’m sorry . . . I wish I had an answer. Why harm an eight-year-old little girl?”

“I have empathy for your grief.” Daria’s lovely face and the white-blonde-haired little girl refused to leave me alone. “Although I could lead you into Dog Canyon, I have no idea how to pull her out of the clutches of dangerous men. You’d need armed law enforcement and possibly a negotiator.”

“That would draw attention. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

“Money is not the issue, Professor—”

“Alina means more to me than anything else in this world. What is love but to take ownership of a problem and do all I can to stop those men?”

“What if I fail?” The terror of not finding his daughter alive resurrected an echo from the past that had shaped my career.

“Can you live with yourself if you don’t try?”

Unaware, he’d pressed my weakest button. “I’ll hear you out. But I don’t believe you’ve given me the whole story, and I need the truth before I risk my life.”

“I’ve . . . I’ve given you all of it.”

“You’ve stated what you want me to know. What have you done or not done in this tragedy that Daria is dead, Alina is missing, and you can’t go to the police?

***

Excerpt from Canyon of Deceit by DiAnn Mills. Copyright 2025 by DiAnn Mills. Reproduced with permission from DiAnn Mills. All rights reserved.