Deadly Past. Kris Rafferty

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      LYRICAL PRESS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

       www.kensingtonbooks.com

      To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

      LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2018 by Kris Rafferty

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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      Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

      Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

      First Electronic Edition: December 2018

      eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0815-2

      eISBN-10: 1-5161-0815-9

      First Print Edition: December 2018

      ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0818-3

      ISBN-10: 1-5161-0818-3

      Printed in the United States of America

      Dedication

      For my smart, handsome, funny father. I love you, Dad.

      Chapter One

      Searing pain had Special Agent Cynthia Deming’s blue eyes opened and wide as she bolted upright in bed, her blond hair draped over half her face. Heart racing, vision blurred, she threw her legs over the mattress’s edge, suffering nausea and a headache that left her gasping. She touched the back of her head and felt matted, sticky hair around a clotted cut. When her vision cleared, she studied the resultant blood smears on her manicured fingertips, on her expensive gray pantsuit, on the worn and ugly bedspread.

      Wait. Not her bed, or her bedroom.

      “Well, this can’t be good.” Her voice came out raspy. What the hell happened last night? Fully dressed, injured, in a stranger’s bed? This was an unwelcome first.

      The stale air did seem familiar, however, as did the brown drapes pulled closed over windows. The bedroom was innocuous, its furnishings dated and worn. Maybe a cheap motel? Bare beige walls, fragrance of carpet cleaner, and a television against the wall did hint at a rented room, but there was no desk, phone, or tiny refrigerator—things that would indicate a motel.

      She struggled to her feet, swayed, and felt dizzy. A heavy object fell to the floor. A gun. Cynthia’s hand palmed her hip holster and found it empty. No small beans. She didn’t remember removing it from her holster. Definitely not good. Cynthia retrieved it from the floor too quickly, inviting more nausea and spiking head pain, forcing her to sit again as panic teased the edges of her composure.

      She couldn’t remember. Not how she’d arrived here, or even where here was.

      Pulling back the gun’s slide, she noted the bullet chambered, checked the magazine, counted rounds, and found six missing. A sniff told her it had been discharged recently.

      “Well, shit.” Bad news was piling up, and it was beginning to feel personal.

      Cynthia struggled to her feet. She had to take a moment to find СКАЧАТЬ