Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

Sam Smith.

There’s a decent chance it’s a fake name, especially since he paid cash. Which just begs the question—what is he doing here? It’s been running through my mind all day.

He told me he was here on business, but he hasn’t even asked for the Wi-Fi password. Everyone does that, even when they’re on vacation. And that makes me nervous.

The zipper on his black duffel bag is half open. That’s a good thing, right? It means he has nothing to hide. And it’s not really snooping if I move so I can see further inside. Crisp white dress shirts sit on top of black pants. A black leather wallet that looks thicker than usual. In fact, it reminds me of the badge I used to play with as a child. My father’s badge.

“What’s wrong?” Emily’s voice sounds far away.

My heart hammers in my chest as I stare down at it, the smooth black leather and the hint of gold peeking from the side. It could mean anything, of course. He could be a cop or a soldier. Lots of places have badges. It could even be pretend, though the idea of this man playing any sort of game feels all wrong. He’s serious. Completely serious.

“Marjorie?”

And even if he is CIA, that doesn’t mean he has any connection to my father. It doesn’t mean he has any connection to what happened over a decade ago.

Fear races through me, every nerve in my body is alight with it, and I can’t stop my hands from trembling as anxiety twists in my gut. “It’s nothing,” I say through the knot in my throat. “Nothing. I just… realized I forgot to start breakfast. I’ve got to go.”

I stumble backward as the past and present seem to twine around each other. Flashes spark in the back of my lids each time I blink. My chest tightens as panic sets in. I remember the glint of a black barrel. A gun pointed at my father.

For a moment, I’m a child again. My father shouts at me to run. I ran to the attic and locked myself inside. I cried until my tears were dry and sticky on my cheeks.

After a long while, my mother came back.

We went on the run. It was the only way we could survive.

All those times Mom held me close as I woke from nightmares, she questioned me time and time again, but I told her I didn’t remember. She took me to therapists. I sat in their offices for hours while they tried to delve into my mind.

I lied to all of them.

I told them I had blocked whatever it was out of my mind. I told them I didn’t remember the most terrifying night of my life. They all stared at me as if I was a poor girl who had lost her father. None of them forced me, though.

I stood by my story—I don’t remember.

But the truth is, I do.

I can recall that night as if it were happening right in front of me. I don’t know why I couldn’t bring myself to admit it, but I never wanted to talk about it again. And each time someone asked me about it, I found it easier to tell them the lie I made up.

None of that matters now. I shake my head, hard. Breakfast. That’s what I told Emily, and I meant it. I need to start breakfast. Food for the mysterious guest with a CIA badge in his bag. I back out of the room and head for the stairs.

Chapter Six

Sam

It’s too peaceful at the Lighthouse Inn. Marjorie’s built the place up to be a haven, a place to rest. It’s a collection of quiet, sunny spaces.

Which makes it impossible not to notice her.

Noticing is the job. Finding evidence is the reason I’m here.

But sensing every breath she takes? Every light step across the floor? Every sway of her hips? One creak of the stairs, and my mind plays out a hundred filthy scenarios. All of them end with her naked. Only the location changes. The kitchen. The room upstairs with its flimsy lock.

The carefully maintained furniture in the living room.

I’d make her feel good. Make that otherworldly face pink with pleasure.

That’s not the job, and I damn well know it.

Wind and waves do a decent job of clearing my mind. Caring about Marjorie the innkeeper is not my first priority. Completing my mission is my first and only priority.

The man I am? He doesn’t make plans.

He doesn’t have a future.

I kick the sand off my shoes on a mat by the back door and slip inside.

Marjorie’s upstairs. I can hear her voice. Must be on the phone. Her footsteps move back and forth.

I’ve been here long enough to know that she doesn’t keep anything in plain sight. The living room’s cozy, with throw pillows and blankets and a small collection of books. It’s not cluttered. I’ve poked my head in everywhere except one room.