The Pretender Read online

  Dedication

  For my husband, James, who immediately handled the crisis when my computer imploded during the editing of this book, saving me hours of turmoil and proving once again that not all heroes wear capes.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  By HelenKay Dimon

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Harrison Tate didn’t believe in luck. He believed in planning. Right now, he needed the luck.

  He blinked a few times, hoping the scene in front of him would change. No body, no blood . . . nope, it was all still there.

  A woman—the woman—the one who stuck to a schedule and rarely ventured outside a three-mile area. She should have been reading at the dock, as she did every nonrainy day at this time for the last three weeks. Sitting there, watching the waves lap up on the stone retaining wall that separated the Chesapeake Bay from Tabitha Island. Her private island.

  He’d staked out the isolated land, this house and this woman for more than a month. Watched from a boat at one point and from the small uninhabited island a short distance away at another. He’d been able to hack into the camera on her laptop. He knew when she was working on it, which was almost always.

  He’d tracked her movements, knew her schedule. But on the ride over here he’d missed seeing someone else go into her house. Someone who wanted more from her than a painting.

  The longer he stood there, looming over her still body, the more he became locked in a confining shell he could not break. Less than thirty seconds had passed since he walked into the old-school library with its dark floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and massive desk positioned in front of the french doors to the small patio outside. He’d found her there, sprawled on the floor with her eyes closed and her chest not moving. Blood pooled around her and seeped into the muted gray carpet beneath her.

  Just as his brain signaled to his hand to grab his cell and call for help, her eyes popped open. Stunning green. That fact registered in his mind. Next came her fear. It bounced off the walls and pummeled him. Her body shook with it.

  She reached out and her fingertips brushed his pants right near his calf. She likely thought she grabbed him and pulled hard, but he barely felt the touch. Whatever energy she possessed had been spent during the furious battle that waged in the room before he got there. Glass shattered on the floor, an overturned table. Books and papers scattered everywhere.

  He dropped down, balancing on the balls of his feet, and reached for her hand. He still wore his gloves, but she didn’t seem to notice. She kept mouthing something. A soundless word he couldn’t make out. He leaned in with his ear right over her mouth, trying to pick up a thread or any noise but that didn’t work either.

  He pulled back and looked into her eyes. They were clouded now and unfocused. “Tabitha?”

  He knew her name because he made it his business to know the people from whom he planned to liberate any number of items. In her case, a specific painting that usually hung over the fireplace in this room. It balanced there now, ripped from the wall with one edge hanging over the mantel. Teetering, ready to fall. All eleven million dollars of it.

  “Help me.” The words came out of her on a strangled cry. Her chest heaved as she fought for breath.

  He could see her wince as she inhaled. Her hand slipped out of his as all the tension drained out of her. Her eyes rolled back then closed.

  “No, no, no.” This time he started mouth-to-mouth. He blew and counted, trying to remember the precise sequence from every television show where he’d seen it performed and from a class he’d taken more than a decade ago.

  Nothing worked.

  He moved, thinking to press down on her chest, but the wound was right there. A slashing cut that left a gaping seam close to her sternum. Another slice into her abdomen. There was no question her attacker had unleashed a wild frenzy on her. Someone wanted her dead. He didn’t, but he had no idea where to push to save her or how to get her heart beating again either.

  A crackling energy raced through him right behind an uncharacteristic panic. He prided himself on his ability to stay calm and handle nearly anything. He’d been trained to maneuver through any situation. Use charm, strength or pure nerve to battle his way out. Right now, every cell was alive and on fire and desperate to do something.

  He clamped down on his fight-or-flight instincts and reached for the burner cell tucked in his back pocket. He had no idea how long it would take for reinforcements to arrive, but he’d stay as long as possible. Try to keep her breathing but leave enough lead time to escape.

  One thing was true. He could not be caught here . . . or anywhere.

  He’d just hit the first button to make the call as he heard the sound. A gurgling in her throat, as if she was drowning in her own body. An openmouthed, labored breath . . . then a shocking stillness. Saliva dribbled out of the corner of her mouth as her head dropped to one side.

  The death rattle. Had to be. He’d never heard it before and never wanted to hear it again.

  He slid off his gloves and checked for a pulse. Nothing. She was gone.

  With his brain in free fall, he lost his balance and tipped forward. Landed hard on his knees as every part of him shut down. For a few seconds he couldn’t think. Couldn’t get a single muscle to move. He stared at her, willing her to jump up or reach for him again. Anything.

  The stillness in the room mirrored her unmoving body. He now knew silence could thump and beat just like a sound. The second later reality pounded him. Smells came rushing back to him. An unexpected scent he couldn’t place.

  A door thudded. He pegged it as a screen, which likely meant the front door.

  “Tabitha?” A woman’s voice floated through the oversized rooms. “I thought we were going to meet at the dock twenty minutes ago.”

  The sister.

  She’d been a surprise. Intriguing . . . a mystery. People whispered about her. They jumped to conclusions based on rumors. He had and now regretted it. Under different circumstances he’d take the time to meet her and see how deep her secrets ran.

  All the stories about the sisters’ estrangement turned out to be untrue. All the talk about her being disowned. None of that mattered now because she was there, in the house. She was about to stumble into a horror and Harris couldn’t protect her from it. She’d be plunged into a hell worse than his.

  He scrambled to his feet. Right as he turned to run back through the doors to the outside a thought hit him. His mind rebelled at the thought of what he needed to do. The pure sickness of it. His gaze zipped to the doorway before he bent down and used his glove to wipe Tabitha’s mouth. To erase any signs that he’d tried to save her.

  When he stood back up a sensation hit him. Self-loathing. Maybe he was a fucking asshole just as his father claimed.

  Footsteps sounded on the hardwood in the hallway. “Tabitha? Enough with the online sleuthing for today. It’s beautiful outside.”


  Harris couldn’t wait another second. In a soundless jog, he stepped around the body. He’d already kneeled and walked through the scene, likely made it impossible for a forensic team to discover anything of value. His only goal now was not to track blood in a path directly to him.

  The handle slipped in his hand, but he finally got the door open. He’d made it outside and into the sunshine when he heard the sister’s voice again.

  “Hey, who are—”

  He didn’t stop or look around. Didn’t wait to explain or comfort her. He pulled off the coverings on his shoes and started running.

  And then the screaming started. A high-pitched wailing that tore through him. A mix of shock and pain so raw it ripped away his defenses and slammed his body to a halt. Right there on the perfect lawn with the blue water shining all around the island, he froze. Not for long, but long enough to hear the sister’s gulping cries.

  He shook his head and took off again. Ignoring the boat dock and the small beach there, he ran in the opposite direction to the rocky shoreline. To his small boat and backpack filled with supplies. He climbed over a rock ledge and down to the water’s edge.

  Waves crashed in a soothing beat that clashed with the images rewinding in his mind. They would haunt him. All of this would. Tabitha. Her sister. The blood.

  He skipped the boat and went right for the water. Nothing in the stolen craft would trace back to him. He’d worn gloves most of the time and wiped off everywhere he touched when he didn’t, so no fingerprints to be found. The neoprene dive suit he wore under his clothes should keep him warm enough to stand the cold temperature of the water. As he plunged into the water, splashes of red mixed with the blue. He looked down and realized blood coated his pants. Now it mixed with the Bay and slipped farther away from him with each new wave.

  Trying to call up every ounce of training, he mentally walked through his steps into the main house. It took only seconds but felt like a full-length movie unspooled in his brain. Satisfied he’d covered his tracks, he turned the boat over and pushed it down until water bubbled up inside. He didn’t need to sink it, just be sure any unexpected traces and fibers disappeared.

  He heard yelling. A man’s voice. It grew more faint as Harris saw a figure running for the front porch of the house from the far edge of the island. Away from Harris, not toward him. Likely the island caretaker responding to the sister’s screams.

  That was all the incentive Harris needed. People were moving. Law enforcement would appear. The press—everyone. The Wright family had money. Stupid money. They would not stop until they caught the killer, and he refused to be tagged as that.

  He needed to swim. To get to the smaller island nearby. From there he could call his reinforcements.

  The way he got to the main island, by rowing, was too dangerous now. People would remember everything they saw the day Tabitha Wright was stabbed to death. A man rowing at breakneck speed dressed all in black and wearing gloves would stick out. No, he had to bide his time. Hide among the overgrown trees on the island two hundred feet away and let the people he trusted figure out how to extract him.

  But he had to get there first, so he started swimming with his backpack. A few strokes then he dove under. The tide crashed on him, stealing his breath. He didn’t care. This was life or death. First, hers. Now his.

  Even being in good shape and with the protection of the narrow strait between the two islands minimizing the waves, the tide spun him around. For every two strokes he seemed to fall back one. He forced his mind to focus and his body to pump even harder. Water filled his mouth, not as salty as the ocean but the taste lingered. His ears clogged. The advance took an eternity and his lungs burned from the effort.

  Just as his arms gave out, his knee brushed against the rocky coast of the smaller island. A thwapping sounded above him. He recognized it. Helicopters.

  Keeping low, he crawled up into the brush. A jagged edge shredded his pants and slit his skin but he barely felt the cut. The sound of his heavy breathing echoed around him. Branches and some plant with sharp needles jabbed into him, but he kept going.

  He shimmied on his knees and elbows until he landed in the protected cover of the overhanging trees. Turning over, he stared up into the canopy of green. Patches of blue sky poked through the trees and fluffy white clouds blew by.

  On any other day, under any other circumstances he would declare it a perfect day to be outside. But today was his nightmare. A job gone deadly wrong.

  He closed his eyes and the haunting sound of the sister’s cries came rushing back to him. He feared the noise would always fill his brain, as would the guilt of not being able to do enough for Tabitha, a woman he didn’t actually know.

  Exhaustion tugged at him. He could feel his muscles crying out for rest. For a bed. For quiet. For any place that was not here.

  He turned onto his side and forced his body up on one elbow. His joints groaned in protest. At thirty-four that never happened, but he didn’t have any energy left. The adrenaline surge that got him across that water had all but vanished. Now he lay there in the shade, wet and with cooling skin.

  He pushed up to his knee and his body buckled. He couldn’t put any weight on his left side. Even through the dark, soaked clothes he saw a fresh spurt of blood. It stained the ground where he’d just kneeled. He used his gloved palm to cover the red blotch with dirt.

  Pushing the whole way up, he hobbled on one leg. Half bounced and half dragged his body over to the nearest tree trunk and tried to get his bearings. He’d staked out Tabitha Island from here and left backup supplies. His Plan B. Random items without any identifying marks. The most important being a satellite phone. The ultimate emergency safeguard that he had planned to double back and pick up when he finished the job.

  So much for thinking today’s work would be fast and easy.

  It took another five minutes to get to his hiding place. A helicopter had landed on the island and boats were circling, some filled with tourists looking to see what was happening and others in transit to likely lock the place down.

  He reached for the duffle bag and ripped the zipper open. He still wore the gloves. They were molded to his hands now and stiff. He dialed one of the few numbers he ever called. If the sat phone was the backup plan, this phone number qualified as the end-of-the-world measure he never wanted to invoke.

  The line rang once then a deep voice came on the line. “Yes?”

  That was it. No greeting or introduction. Just a stern, half-angry bark. For the first time in an hour Harris felt relief. Like he might actually survive today.

  “It’s Harris.” He blew out a long breath and said the words he’d vowed never to say again. “I need you.”

  Chapter 2

  Fourteen months later

  Judgment Day.

  She’d left Tabitha Island more than a year ago on a bright sunny day and never returned. Until now.

  The private island measured about three miles. It sat off the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland and could only be accessed by boat or helicopter. She used a private boat charter for her visit today. The boat’s captain, a guy named Ed, wasn’t her usual ride but she was trying to slip in unnoticed. The guy was chatty but grew more solemn the closer he got to the island. He’d circle back in exactly one hour, which was about fifty minutes longer than she wanted to stay.

  Walking down the dock, she looked at the buildings scattered around the kidney-shaped piece of land. The beauty of the property always stole her breath. An impressive three-story Tudor house sat on the far edge, surrounded by a manicured lawn and mature trees. It had been built around 1900, along with the guesthouse and caretaker cottage on the opposite edge of the island and connected by a wandering rock path.

  This was the much-talked-about jewel in what was once the Wright family property portfolio. It had been photographed, mostly from the outside, for decades. The property passed from one generation to the next, never daring to hint at neglect. The last generat
ion refurbished it to use as a summer retreat. A place for parties and charity events.

  But for fourteen months it had been reduced to a crime scene and endless source of gossip and speculation. A monument to family dysfunction and aching loneliness. There was no sign of that changing anytime soon.

  There were whispers that books were being written about the tragedy that happened here. But the bigger news was the court’s recent decision to move forward with the estate distribution. The police investigation hadn’t resulted in any arrests. The judge insisted that absent additional evidence he didn’t have a choice but to finalize the finances and set a date thirty days from now for a new hearing to move forward with the distribution of assets.

  The decision resulted in a new surge of interest in the case. Complex theories and a lot of finger-pointing. Amateur detectives itched to swarm the private property in search of clues. Some true crime fans snuck on only to be removed by the island’s caretaker, who still stood watch.

  With the renewed attention came talk of upgraded alarms, complete with motion sensors, more cameras and private security. The judge approved those expenses and all would be added starting early next week. That meant she had to move fast.

  She wrapped her arms around her to ward off the chill coming off the water. The sun was warm for early March but the burst of purple color on the trees and the cool wind hinted that spring would soon give way to an early summer.

  She followed the winding path through the budding blooms of the season’s first flowers. The estate might be empty, but the caretaker made sure it didn’t look that way. The upkeep continued at a furious pace.

  The path branched into a Y with one section shifting off toward the guesthouse. She hesitated there. Turn right. That message kept flashing in her brain. She needed to go right, do what she came here to do and then get out. Not be seen.

  One glance at the big house on top of the slight hill to her left and her plans derailed. Ignoring the job she came to do, she stayed on the larger section of path and continued past the fifty-foot gunite pool toward the main house. She wouldn’t go inside. Couldn’t. But something about the structure with its massive wraparound front porch made of stacked stones called to her to come closer.