Read the book: «Valley of Shadows»

“Kidnapping is a serious crime.”

“Kidnapping? Is that what you call this?”

“What would you call it?”

“Returning a favor. You saved my life. Now I’m doing the same for you.”

“It’s hard to believe that’s what you’re doing when you’re pointing a gun at me.”

“Sorry.” Hawke tucked the gun into his jeans.

Miranda eyed the man, the car door, the traffic speeding by. Maybe-

“Whatever you’re thinking, forget it.”

Miranda stiffened, turning to face him again. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“Sure you are. You’re thinking about opening the car door and jumping for it. Or maybe attracting someone’s attention.” Hawke shrugged. “It’s what I’d do if I were in your position.”

“And if I were in your position, I’d stop the car and let my prisoner out.” Miranda tried to sound less scared than she felt.

“You’re not a prisoner.”

“Then what am I?”

“The newest member of the witness protection program.”

SHIRLEE MCCOY

has always loved making up stories. As a child, she daydreamed elaborate tales in which she was the heroine—gutsy, strong and invincible. Though she soon grew out of her superhero fantasies, her love for storytelling never diminished. She knew early that she wanted to write inspirational fiction, and began writing her first novel when she was a teenager. Still, it wasn’t until her third son was born that she truly began pursuing her dream of being published. Three years later she sold her first book. Now a busy mother of four, Shirlee is a homeschool mom by day and an inspirational author by night. She and her husband and children live in Maryland and share their house with a dog and a guinea pig. You can visit her Web site at www.shirleemccoy.com.

Valley of Shadows
Shirlee McCoy

This is what the Lord says: “Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it.”

—Jeremiah 6:16

To Jude—musician, budding scientist, young man

of God. May the path God has set for you be clear,

may your faith be strong and may you always know

just how much I love you and just how proud I am

to be your mother.

To Jeannine Case. Piano teacher extraordinaire.

Thank you for all the years of hard work and

dedication you’ve given to your craft. May every

day, every moment be filled with joy and every

memory one to cherish.

To Ms. Dawn of Docksiders Gymnastics

in Millersville, Maryland, who gives children

wings and teaches them to fly. What you do

really does matter.

And to Melissa Endlich. Editor. Cheerleader.

Conference buddy. I promise I’m not going to say

one more word about redheads, or knights

or even accountants! Maybe.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

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

EPILOGUE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

The warm September day had turned chilly with sunset, the brisk air heavy with approaching rain. Miranda Sheldon shivered as she stepped outside of her three-story town house, goose bumps rising on her bare arms as clammy coolness seeped through her cotton T-shirt. A jacket would have been a good idea, but she’d been in a hurry to escape the house. Grabbing one had been the last thing on her mind and, as much as she knew she’d probably regret it, she wouldn’t return for one now. Not when her sister Lauren was there.

And not when memories filled every corner, sorrow every silent room.

Instead, she moved quickly, setting a rapid pace, hoping it would warm her as nothing else had in the past few days. People milled around her as she hurried down the busy Essex street. Many she recognized as patrons of the small bakery she owned. A few called out to her, some offering quiet condolences before moving on to whatever they’d planned for Friday night. Their words echoed in her ears, whispered through her head and lodged in her throat, nearly choking her with their potency. Comfort, sympathy. She wanted neither. What she wanted was to rewind the clock, to change the past, to make different choices that would lead to different outcomes.

But, of course, she couldn’t do any of those things. All she could do was grieve and move on with a life that seemed empty and void.

Two blocks down and around a corner, the neighborhood grew quiet, the sounds of traffic and voices muted, the busy Maryland town hushed. Miranda hesitated at the top of a cul-de-sac, the darkness not able to hide the truth of where her walk had taken her. Not just any street. Not just any place. This was where she’d spent the better part of two days. A place where she’d greeted those who’d come to share her sorrow. A place that she’d be happy to walk away from and never see again.

Earlier, the lawn of the huge Greek revival had gleamed brilliant emerald in the sunlight. Now, it was a blanket of shifting shadows, the half-bare trees that lined the driveway skeletal. Light glowed from the lower level of the building, but the remainder of the house was dark, the tall windows eerie in the moonlight. At night, more than any other time, Green’s Funeral Home looked like what it was—a place for the dead.

Miranda shivered, but moved forward anyway, knowing that she couldn’t turn back now. She hadn’t planned to come, but she was here and maybe it was for the best. If someone was still working at the funeral home, she might get a chance to say a final goodbye. A private goodbye. It was the last opportunity she’d have before the burial. She couldn’t pass it up.

The foyer of the building was brightly lit and visible through the panes of glass on either side of the door. Miranda knocked, then twisted the knob. It was locked as she’d expected, the funeral home empty. She should go home, finish the baking she was doing for the funeral and check over the list of things that had to be ready before tomorrow. That was the practical thing to do. But with her nephew Justin gone, practical didn’t seem quite as important as it once had been. Nor did home seem the comfortable place she’d thought it to be. Maybe once Lauren returned to her work and travels, Miranda could return to the quiet life she’d built for herself.

Maybe, but she didn’t think so. Her life had changed irrevocably—it would never be the same.

She clenched her jaw against a sob and stepped around the side of the building. The darkness was complete there, but the past two days had given Miranda plenty of time to become familiar with the grounds. Here, where the shadows were deepest, stone benches sat in shrub-lined alcoves. She sought one out and lowered herself onto it, ignoring the cold that seeped through her jeans. The night enfolded her, the muffled sounds of traffic a backdrop to her thoughts.

She rested her elbows on her knees and lowered her head into her hands, wanting to pray, but not sure what to pray for. Peace? Acceptance? Forgiveness? The words wouldn’t form, her thoughts refusing to coalesce. How could she pray when she didn’t know what to ask for? And how could she know what to ask for when she couldn’t even begin to imagine tomorrow, let alone a week, month or year from now? She’d spent the past ten years planning her schedule around Justin. With him gone, the future stretched out in front of her, a blank slate—empty and more frightening than she wanted to admit.

Eventually, Miranda would find a way to let go of the past and move on to the future, find a way to build a life that didn’t include her nephew’s special needs and unique gifts. But not tonight. Tonight she’d do nothing at all. Not plan. Not think. Not worry about the empty years stretching out in front of her.

Minutes ticked by, the soft sounds of the night filling her ears, the sweet scent of grass and leaves tickling her nose. Her arms were chilled, her body shivering with cold, but she didn’t want to leave her quiet refuge. Not yet. Instead, she sat in silence, listening to the melody of night creatures mixed with the soft hum of faraway traffic.

At first the low rumble blended with all the other sounds, the rough purr no different than those of the other cars and trucks that passed by. But soon it grew louder and the noisy intrusion drew Miranda’s attention.

She cocked her head, listening. The sound seemed to come from behind the building, but there was no parking lot there, just a wide expanse of grass and a gently sloping yard that led to a far-off road. Grass crunched beneath tires, the quiet rumble of the engine becoming a low roar. Then there was silence so sudden and complete Miranda’s breathing sounded harsh and loud in comparison. She forced herself to take a slow, deep breath, exhaling quietly as she waited to hear more. When the silence continued, she was sure she’d been mistaken, that a car hadn’t been in the backyard at all, that what she’d heard had come from another direction altogether.

A door slammed, the sound so close Miranda jumped, biting back a shriek and scrambling to her feet. Voices whispered into the darkness, the tones masculine, gruff and definitely coming from behind the building. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t any of Miranda’s business. The best thing she could do was head back to the front of the funeral home and leave. But something pulled her toward the back corner, some strange urging that wouldn’t let her walk away. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Fast. Hard. Insistent. Telling her what she already knew—that she should be walking away from, not toward, the voices.

But it was too late. She could already make out the words, already hear what was being said.

“…crematory is a better idea.”

“Takes too long. Cleaning crew will be here at midnight. We’ll bring him out to the cemetery.”

“It’s closed. If someone sees us there and calls the cops—”

“You’ve got a funeral tomorrow morning, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“So who’s going to think anything of you being at the cemetery? No one. That’s who. We’ll just drop our friend in the newly dug grave, throw in some dirt. Tomorrow the casket goes in on top of him and, voilà, our problems are solved.”

“I don’t like it. Someone sees us out there messing around with a grave—”

“Who’s going to see? The gate is locked. No one goes there after dark.”

“Like I said, I don’t like it. This whole business stinks like—”

“Yeah, so let’s get a move on and get the key to the cemetery gate so we can get it over with.”

“Fine. Sure. Get it over with. Stay here with Morran. I’ll go in and get the key.”

“You think I’m staying out here alone with him? No way. Now, come on. We don’t have all night.”

The men fell silent, their words hanging in the air, wrapping around Miranda and pulling her into something she was sure she didn’t want to be part of. She needed to move away. Quietly, cautiously. Then, once she was safe, call the police.

But she couldn’t. Not when she might be the only witness to a horrific crime. She crept toward the corner of the building, holding her breath, afraid the smallest sound would alert the men. Pale moonlight illuminated the backyard and an SUV parked there. Three men moved toward the funeral home, weaving a bit as they went, their shoulders pressed close together, their heads bent. They might have been college boys home from a night of partying but for the hostility that emanated from them.

And Miranda knew her fear was warranted. Knew something horrible was going on. Something violent. Something potentially deadly. Her breath hitched, her eyes straining to see more details, to take in every nuance of the picture. If she got out of this…. when she got out of this, she wanted to have plenty to tell the police, but the rising moon shone behind the men, casting their faces into shadow. Whoever they were, whatever they planned remained hidden.

A key scraped against a lock and a door creaked open, dim light spilling out onto the faces of the men. Miranda blinked, biting back a gasp as she caught her first clear sight of them. Two she recognized. Liam Jefferson and Randy Simmons were regulars at Miranda’s bakery. Both were well known in the community, one a police officer, the other the director of the funeral home. Miranda couldn’t imagine either being involved in anything illegal. At least she wouldn’t have been able to imagine it before tonight.

Now she had no doubt as to their true nature. Not when the third man stood between them, blindfolded, his mouth duct taped, his arms pulled tight behind his back. Was this the friend Liam and Randy planned to cover with dirt? She’d thought she was hearing details of a crime being hidden, a murder already committed. The truth was so much more horrible than that.

Or it would be if she didn’t stop it.

No way could she run and leave the man to die. She’d wait until Liam and Randy went into the building, call the police, and then try to get close enough to read the license plate on the SUV.

As the men disappeared into the funeral home, Miranda dug through her purse, searching for her cell phone, her damp palm sliding over keys, a packet of tissue, a bottle of aspirin.

The phone wasn’t there.

In her mind’s eye she could see it, sitting on the kitchen counter, charging. Completely useless.

“Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of all the nights to leave it at home.” Her whispered words sounded harsh, her breath uneven. She’d write the license plate number down, then run to a neighboring house, pray someone was home and would let her use a phone.

The plan had barely formed when the door creaked open again. Randy stepped outside first, his gravely words carrying on the night air. “I don’t know about this, Lee. It doesn’t feel right.”

Liam stepped out next, tugging the blindfolded man, then shoving him ahead a few steps while he turned to close the door. “It doesn’t have to feel right. It just has to be done.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Morran is scum. Getting rid of him will be doing the world a favor.”

“And saving our behinds.”

“Yeah, well that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Now get him in the car.”

Randy seemed to stiffen at the harsh tone, but obeyed, reaching out for his prisoner’s arm. He never had a chance to grab it. In a flash of movement the blindfolded man lashed out with a foot, knocking him to the ground.

Miranda gasped, jerked back, then froze as Liam swung toward her. His eyes probed the shadows where she stood, his gaze sweeping the corner of the building. She wanted to run, but knew any movement would have him swooping down on her. Her heart hammered double-time as she waited for discovery. But Liam turned away, stepping back toward the man who stood still as stone, giving no indication that he had moved. Miranda wanted to call out, to warn him, but thick, cottony fear trapped her words. Liam took a step closer and the man pivoted, slamming a foot into his stomach.

Now both Liam and Randy were down, but they wouldn’t be for long. Already, they were struggling up. It wouldn’t take much time for them to subdue their bound and blindfolded prisoner, to drag him away. To kill him.

Miranda glanced around, looking for help, for inspiration, for some way to undo what was being done. Her gaze lit on a large planter that sat near the wall of the funeral home. As weapons went, it wasn’t much.

But it was all she had.

Praying for strength and for the element of surprise, Miranda moved toward it.

TWO

Hawke Morran had no intention of dying. Not tonight anyway. He had payback to deliver and he wasn’t heading to the great beyond until he did so. If he hadn’t been gagged, he would have told his captors as much, but Jefferson hadn’t taken chances. Not only was Hawke gagged and trussed, he was blindfolded. Unfortunately for Jefferson, he hadn’t killed Hawke when he’d had the chance. It was a mistake he’d soon regret.

Hawke had managed to knock both men off their feet, but the rustle of movement and huff of their breathing told him they’d soon be back up. He stood still, waiting, knowing he might have only one chance to bring them down for good.

If he failed, he’d be buried alive.

He didn’t plan to fail.

Rage fueled him, muting the pain that sliced through his skull, warming muscles already demanding a fight. Jefferson’s overweight buddy attacked from the left, his wheezing breath speaking of too many cigarettes and too little exercise. Hawke turned toward him, ducking low and then coming up hard, slamming his head into the man’s gut and hearing with satisfaction the crack of a rib.

Agony pierced his skull, the hit he’d taken earlier allowing him no time to celebrate his victory. Nor did Jefferson allow time for Hawke to regain his balance. He came fast and quiet, but not quietly enough. Hawke spun on the balls of his feet, slashing Jefferson’s knee with his foot. The pop and scream of anguish that followed did little to satisfy Hawke’s rage. He wanted more. He wanted his hands free, wanted to wrap them around Jefferson’s neck until the man confessed every detail of the plan to set him up.

“Watch out!” A feminine voice cut through the haze of Hawke’s pain and fury, the sound so surprising he swung toward it. It was a bad move. He knew it immediately. Years of survival in a world where one wrong move meant death had taught him how swift and final the consequences of such mistakes could be.

He pivoted back toward the attack he knew was coming, the world tilting, the pain in his skull breaking into shooting flames that seared his brain. Something flew by his face, a crack and thud following so quickly he wasn’t sure he’d really heard them. Then silence. Thick. Heavy. Filled with a million possibilities. None of them good.

Footsteps rustled through grass, slow, cautious. Not the full-on attack Hawke expected. The air around him shifted, the scent of apples and cinnamon wafting toward him, mellow, sweet and completely unexpected.

He tensed, waited.

Fingers brushed his arm. Gentle, trembling, hesitant. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, gritting his teeth at the stars shooting through his head.

“Okay. Wait here. I’m going to find a phone. Call the police.” The voice was breathless and shaky, the fingers that brushed against his forearm starting to slip away.

He managed to grab them, holding tight when she would have pulled away. Whoever she was, whatever she’d come here for, she’d gotten herself into a mess of trouble. Leaving and calling the police wouldn’t change that.

“You want me to untie you first.” It wasn’t a question, but Hawke nodded anyway. He’d been determined to escape before. Now, he was desperate to. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be the only one lying at the bottom of another man’s grave.

The woman’s fingers danced over the tape that bound his wrists, pulling gently as if she were afraid of hurting him.

Come on, lady. Hurry up. He wanted to shout the words, convey by his tone just how desperate their situation was, but the tape over his mouth kept him mute, and he was forced to stand silent while she worked. Sweat beaded his brow, the dizzying pain in his head making him nauseous, but he wouldn’t give in to it. There was too much at stake.

Finally the tape loosened and he twisted his wrists, breaking through what was left of his bonds. The blindfold was next. Then the tape that covered his mouth.

He swung around, caught sight of the woman who’d freed him.

Soft. That was his first impression. Soft hair, soft full lips and soft eyes that widened as she took in his appearance. It was a reaction Hawke was used to and he ignored it, turning to search for his enemies. They were both on the ground. The heavier man lay in a heap, quiet groans issuing from between puffy lips. Jefferson was sprawled a few feet away from his buddy, a gun an arm’s length away and bits of a clay pot scattered around him. “Looks like it’s time to add flower pots to the list of deadly weapons.”

“Deadly? I hope I didn’t kill him.” The woman’s voice was as soft as her appearance, her hair swinging forward as she leaned toward Jefferson.

Hawke put a hand on her arm, stopping her before she could check for his pulse. “He’s not dead.”

But Hawke was tempted to finish him off. He might have if the woman hadn’t been watching him with wide, frightened eyes, or if his own moral code hadn’t altered drastically in the past year. An eye for an eye had once been his motto. Lately, that had changed. He hadn’t quite figured out what it had changed to, but killing Jefferson was no longer an option.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren blared to life, the sound spurring Hawke’s sluggish brain to action. “We need to get out of here.”

He moved forward, grabbed the gun that lay by Jefferson, checked the safety. He could feel the woman’s gaze, her fear and coiled tension.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, her voice shaky.

“Making sure we have protection.”

“Protection? From what? Neither of them look like they’re getting up anytime soon.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about.”

“Then who?”

“I’ll explain everything later. Right now, we need to get out of here.”

“You’re right. We need to call for help.” She started away, moving toward the side of the building.

Hawke lunged forward, grabbing her arm. “Not yet.”

She tried to pull back, but he didn’t release his hold, just tugged her toward the SUV.

“Let me go.” The panic in her voice might have made him hesitate if he weren’t so sure hesitation would mean death.

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can.” She jerked against his hold, her face a pale oval in the moonlight. “Just open your fingers and let me walk away.”

“If you leave here without me there’s a good possibility you won’t live to see tomorrow. I don’t want that on my conscience.” He didn’t give her a chance to argue, just pulled open the door of the SUV and glanced inside.

As he’d expected the keys were in the ignition. Another mistake Jefferson was going to regret making. “Get in.”

“I’m not—”

“I said, get in.” He half lifted, half shoved her into the car.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“Scoot over.” Hawke ignored the woman’s protest, sliding into the car and giving her no choice but to move into the passenger seat.

She scrambled for the door, and he snagged her shirt, holding her in place with one hand and firing up the engine with the other. Even with the windows closed, the sound of sirens was audible and growing louder. Hawke pressed down on the gas, gunning the engine and sending the SUV shooting up the slope of a hill toward a distant road. If he was lucky, he’d make it there and be able to hide the SUV in heavy Friday-night traffic. Unfortunately, he’d never had much luck. Maybe, though, for the sake of the woman who’d saved him, God might grant him his fair share tonight.

“Stop the car! Let me out!” The passenger door flew open, and Hawke just managed to grab the woman’s hand before she could jump from the vehicle.

“Do you want to get yourself killed?” His roar froze her in place. Or maybe it was the sight of the ground speeding by that kept her from pulling from his hold and leaping out.

Hawke slowed the SUV, afraid his seatbelt-less passenger would fly out on the next bounce. “Close the door.”

“I’d rather you stop the car so I can get out.” Her voice shook and her hand trembled violently as she tugged against his hold, but there was no mistaking her determination.

She didn’t know him, didn’t know the situation and probably assumed the worst. If he’d had time to explain, he would have, but he didn’t. Not with death following so close behind them.

He released her hand, pulled the gun from the waistband of his jeans and pointed it toward the already terrified woman, ruthlessly shoving aside every shred of compassion he felt for her. “I said, close the door.”

She hesitated and he wondered if she’d take a chance and jump. Finally, she reached for the handle and pulled the door closed, her body tense and trembling.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Where exactly is that?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” Hawke winced as the SUV bumped over a curb, its tires sliding onto smooth pavement. Traffic was lighter then he’d expected, and he merged onto the road, picking up speed and hoping that would be enough to discourage his passenger from trying to jump out again. Being distracted didn’t figure into his escape plan. Then again, escaping with a woman who looked like she belonged in a cozy home with a couple of kids playing at her feet wasn’t part of his plan, either.

So he’d have to make a new plan. Fast.

But first, he needed to get to a safe place.

Miranda fisted her hand around her purse and tried to control her breathing. If she hyperventilated and passed out there’d be no chance of escape. The man beside her still held the gun pointed in her direction. Though his gaze was fixed on the road, Miranda was sure he was aware of every move she made. A few minutes ago he’d seemed a helpless victim who needed saving. Now she wasn’t so sure.

Something flashed in the periphery of her vision, and she glanced in the side mirror, catching sight of blue and white lights in the distance. Hope made her heart leap and her pulse race.

Please let them be coming for us.

But even as she mumbled the prayer, her dark-haired kidnapper took the beltway ramp, speeding into traffic with barely a glance at oncoming vehicles. Miranda gasped, releasing her purse so that she could hold on to the seat. The lights had disappeared from view, but the car’s speed and swift lane changes should attract more police attention.

If it didn’t get Miranda and her kidnapper killed first.

As if he sensed her thoughts, the man eased up on the gas and pulled into the slow lane, dashing Miranda’s hope of rescue. Tense with worry, sick with dread, she prayed desperately for some way out, her gaze scanning the cars that passed, her mind scrambling for a plan. Any plan.

“If you let me out here, I won’t press charges.”

“Charges?”

“Kidnapping is a serious crime.”

“Kidnapping? Is that what you call this?”

“What would you call it?”

“Returning a favor. You saved my life. Now I’m doing the same for you.” His voice was harsh, an exotic accent adding depth and richness to the words, but doing nothing to soften the tone.

“It’s hard to believe that’s what you’re doing when you’re pointing a gun at me.”

“Sorry. It seemed the only way to keep you from doing something we’d both regret.” He tucked the gun back into the waistband of his jeans, his movements economical and practiced, as if he’d done the same a thousand times before.

And somehow, looking at his chiseled face and the scar that bisected it from cheekbone to chin, Miranda had a feeling he had. She slid closer to the door, wishing they were in bumper-to-bumper traffic or that she dared jump out of a car traveling sixty miles an hour. But they weren’t, she didn’t. She was reduced to sitting terrified as she was driven farther and farther from home.

She eyed the man, the door, the traffic speeding by. Maybe she could attract someone’s attention with a gesture or an expression. Maybe—

“Whatever you’re thinking, forget it.” He wasn’t even looking her way, yet seemed to sense her intentions.

She stiffened, turning to face him again. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“Sure you are. You’re thinking about opening the door and jumping for it. Or maybe attracting someone’s attention.” He shrugged. “It’s what I’d do if I were in your position.”

“And if I were in your position, I’d stop the car and let my prisoner out.” She tried to put confidence in her voice, tried to sound less scared than she felt.

“You’re not a prisoner.”

“Then what am I?”

“The newest member of the witness protection program.”

Miranda blinked, not sure she’d heard right. “Are you with the FBI?”

He hesitated and Miranda had the feeling he was trying to decide how much of the truth to tell her. When he finally answered, his tone was much more gentle than it had been before. “No, but I plan to be just as effective in keeping you safe.”

“I don’t need you to keep me safe. I need you to let me go.”

“Then it would have been better if you’d walked away and left me to deal with Jefferson on my own.”

“He was trying to kill you.”

“And now he’s going to try to kill us both.” His tone was grim, his jaw tight, and Miranda had no doubt he believed what he was saying.

She just wasn’t sure she did. “Why?”

“Because I’m a threat and because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and were foolish enough to let him know it.”

“What else was I suppose to do? Let him kill you?”

“Let whatever was to happen, happen.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Then maybe you’ll understand why I can’t let you go.” His tone was softer than Miranda would have expected from such a hard-looking man and she studied his profile, wishing she could read more in his face.

“Who are you?” The question popped out, though Miranda wasn’t sure what answer she hoped for—a name, an occupation, some clue as to who she was dealing with.

“Hawke Morran.” He answered the question without actually answering it. The name doing nothing to explain who Hawke was or why Liam had been trying to kill him.

“Who are you to Liam?”

“Liam? You know Jefferson?” The gentleness was gone, replaced by a harshness that made Miranda cringe.