Deadly Secrets

I should have known my life was about to change forever when I walked into Marcus Webb's office and found him standing over a dead body with blood on his hands.

My name is Grace Parker, and six months ago, I was a successful forensic accountant in Chicago with a corner office, a luxury apartment, and a life that made perfect sense. Now I'm sitting in a diner in Cedar Falls, Montana, population 2,847, trying to remember to answer to the name Emma Davis while my hands shake around a coffee cup.

The coffee tastes like it was brewed sometime last week, but I keep drinking it because it gives me something to do with my trembling fingers. Outside the window, Main Street looks like something from a postcard: a hardware store with rocking chairs on the porch, and pickup trucks parked at angles that would get you towed in Chicago.

Everything here is the opposite of my real life, which I guess is the point.

"You okay, hon?" The waitress, whose name tag reads 'Betty,' refills my cup without being asked. She's maybe sixty, with kind eyes and graying hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. "You look a little peaked."

"Just tired from the drive," I lie, forcing a smile. "Long way from Denver."

That's my story. Emma Davis, a freelance bookkeeper from Denver, is looking for a quiet place to start over after a bad breakup. It's simple, believable, and completely fabricated by the U.S. Marshals Service.

The bell above the diner door chimes, and I automatically tense, my eyes darting toward the exit. A tall man in a sheriff's uniform walks in, and I feel my breath catch. He's maybe thirty-five, with dark hair and the kind of solid build that speaks of physical work rather than gym visits. When his eyes scan the diner and land on me, I see intelligence there, and suspicion.

This must be Sheriff Jake Morrison. Marshal Bradley had mentioned him during my briefing. "Local law enforcement," he'd said. "Straight arrow, been sheriff for eight years. Won't give you any trouble as long as you keep your head down."

Jake approaches my table with a casual stride that doesn't fool me for a second. Everything about him screams alert predator, from his observant eyes to the way his hand rests near his weapon.

"Afternoon," he says, stopping beside my booth. "I'm Sheriff Morrison. You must be the new resident I heard about."

"Emma Davis." I extend my hand, hoping he doesn't notice the slight tremor. "Nice to meet you."

His handshake is firm, calloused, and lasts exactly long enough to be polite. "Welcome to Cedar Falls. Is Betty taking good care of you?"

"The best," I say, glancing at the waitress, who beams at the compliment.

"Good. Mind if I sit for a minute?" Without waiting for my answer, he slides into the opposite side of the booth. "I like to meet new folks personally. Small town habit."

I nod, though every instinct is screaming at me to run. This is exactly what Marshal Bradley warned me about—drawing attention, making people curious.

"So, Denver," Jake says, settling back in his seat. "What brings you to our little corner of Montana?"

"Change of scenery. I do bookkeeping, mostly freelance work online. Figured I could do that anywhere, and the rent prices here are certainly better than the city."

"That they are. You found a place yet?"

"The apartment above Murphy's Hardware. Mr. Murphy seems nice."

"Old Tom's good people. Been in business here since before I was born." Jake's eyes never leave my face. "Bookkeeping, huh? Must be interesting work."

"Not really. Numbers are pretty predictable. They don't lie or surprise you."

The moment the words leave my mouth, I realize my mistake. I sound bitter, traumatized. Emma Davis from Denver wouldn't sound like that. Grace Parker, who watched her boss murder someone and barely escaped with her life, would.

Jake notices. His eyes sharpen slightly, though his casual posture doesn't change. "Sounds like you've had some experience with people who do lie and surprise you."

"Bad breakup," I say quickly. "You know how it is."

"Actually, I do." Something shifts in his expression, becoming more human and less cop. "Divorced myself, few years back. Sometimes a fresh start is exactly what you need."

I feel an unexpected flutter of connection, which is dangerous. I can't afford to feel anything for anyone, especially not the local sheriff who's suspicious of my story.

"Well," I say, reaching for my purse, "I should probably get going. Still have unpacking to do."

"Of course. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call. Cedar Falls takes care of its own."

There's something in the way he says it that makes me think he means it. In Chicago, I was just another apartment number, another face in the crowd. Here, apparently, being a neighbor means something.

I pay my check and head for the door, acutely aware that Jake is watching my every move. Outside, the mountain air is crisp and clean, so different from the city smog I'm used to. For just a moment, I allow myself to imagine this could actually work. Maybe I could be Emma Davis. Maybe I could have a quiet life in a small town where the biggest excitement is the high school football games.

Then my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number:

We know where you are, Grace. You can't hide forever.

My blood race. I look around frantically, but Main Street is nearly empty except for an elderly man walking his dog and a woman loading groceries into a minivan. No sign of immediate threat, but that doesn't mean anything. Marcus Webb has resources, connections, and apparently, he's found me despite the marshals' promises.

I hurry toward my apartment, keys ready, checking every shadow and doorway. Behind me, I hear the diner door chime again, and I risk a glance back to see Jake Morrison standing on the sidewalk, his hand shading his eyes as he watches me practically run down the street.

He knows something's wrong. The question is whether that makes him a potential ally or just another threat I'll have to navigate.

Either way, my quiet life in Cedar Falls just got a lot more complicated.