The Pretender Read online

  Her footsteps halted at the base of the porch as if some unseen barrier slammed down in front of her. An internal wall that lowered, shoved her back and kept her there.

  She didn’t carry much with her on this unwanted journey, just the cell in her back pocket and the small gardening shovel in her hand. Craig hadn’t noticed on the boat because she’d kept the sweater off and the tool wrapped up in it. The cool early-spring wind had bitten into her arms as they crossed the waterway to the island with the jumbled ball of cotton and stainless steel secure on her lap.

  Now she kept the shovel handy. She needed it for her job here. The job that had to happen now . . . before it was too late.

  The excuses ran through her head, bounced around and echoed through her. She’d waited until now because she had no choice. The entire island had been a crime scene. Technically, still was.

  That thought got her moving. She turned, determined to head back to the guesthouse and finish this. After two steps, she stopped. Her heartbeat ticked up until it thumped in her ears. She didn’t see anything or hear anything, but she knew. She didn’t need a shadow to fall across the path or anyone to appear in front of her or shout.

  She was not alone.

  “I knew you’d come back now.”

  That deep scolding voice. She’d heard it a thousand times over the years. It haunted her now as an adult. All the threats and promises of catching her. The determination to destroy her.

  She turned around to face the porch again. There he was. Stephen Wright. Businessman, millionaire and heir. Uncle to his famously slain niece.

  He was pushing sixty and could easily pass for forty-five. Tall and lean, handsome with graying hair and a firm chin. He’d fit in at any yacht club or country club on the East Coast. More than likely with his overstuffed bank account he’d be welcomed at any of them without question.

  His father had been a financial genius. His grandfather a bootlegger. Both filled the family coffers and supplied the money to build this estate and fuel his lifestyle.

  His gaze slipped to the shovel in her hand. “Looks like I came outside too early.”

  She glanced past him to the screen door. The mesh hid the rooms inside but she saw enough for the rumbling sensation to start deep inside her. That familiar rush of bile worked its way up her throat. The desperate need to drop to her knees and cry or throw up until she lost the strength to do either hit her out of nowhere.

  “Well?” That was all he said as hatred spewed out of every cell.

  The hate was the part she noticed. The tremor of fury in his voice. His mouth screwed up in a grimace as if he’d just tasted something sour.

  “I didn’t know you were here.” It was a stupid thing for her to say but it was honest.

  “Obviously.” He took out his cell and started dialing.

  Anxiety welled up inside her. It churned in her stomach and started a banging in her head. “What are you doing?”

  “Calling the police.”

  The urge to grab the phone and smash it nearly overwhelmed her. It took all of her energy to stand still, to not fidget. To not lunge for him.

  He held the cell to his ear. “It’s over, Gabrielle. I finally caught you.”

  Gabrielle. He always used her full name. He never called her Gabby, no matter how many times she asked. Since the murder he hadn’t talked to her at all. He referred to her in interviews as Gabrielle Elizabeth Wright, as if stating her full name somehow separated her from him. Made her less human.

  “I’m just standing here.” She needed to bolt. Swim, if she had to. Maybe the numb shell that surrounded her would protect her from the icy cold of the Bay.

  He glared at the shovel. “Whatever you’ve been hiding . . . we’re going to find it this time.”

  “What are you—”

  “Save it.” He shook his head. “I specifically told my attorney not to fight the newest estate decision because I knew it would bring you out of hiding. That you wouldn’t be able to ignore all that money and the prospect of experts coming here to assess the value of the personal items and furniture. Going through everything, pulling things apart. Possibly finding whatever you hid here that day.”

  “I’ve never cared about the money or the stuff.” She didn’t then. She didn’t now. But no one would ever believe that. Not with her past.

  “You buried evidence right here on the island, didn’t you? The shovel proves that.” He swore under his breath. “Were you not even smart enough to throw the knife in the water after you killed her?”

  Gabby’s mind flashed back to that day. To the blood. The thudding footsteps. Tabitha’s outstretched arm. How she shouted and begged people to believe her about the intruder but no one would listen. Every piece of the nightmare washed through her.

  The gagging sensation had her chest heaving. It took another second before she could say anything. “There is no evidence to find. You’re wrong about me.”

  How many times had she said that over the years? Too many to count.

  “You’re responsible for all of this,” he said.

  “I’m not. There was someone else on the island that day. A man and he ran.” But maybe she did own some responsibility for what happened. If she had gotten to the house sooner. Suggested they go out to the dock earlier. There were so many ifs and maybes. Every single one dragged her down, refused to be tucked away in the back of her mind. The guilt was always right there, kicking to the surface.

  “You’re disgusting.” He practically spit at her.

  The words punched into her gut, but she refused to let him know he hurt her. Again. “I loved my sister.”

  He shook his head. “You’ve never loved anything but the money. And I’ll prove it.”

  Harris climbed the last few feet to the second-floor window of the redbrick four-story town house. Breaking in had been no easy feat. The property sat on a stretch of Massachusetts Avenue in Washington, DC, known as Millionaires’ Row. The street was home to embassies and billionaires. Private security roamed the neighborhood, protecting the international powerbrokers and diplomats.

  It was the perfect target, seemingly impenetrable between the guards and alarms and high walls with locked gates. Naturally, he couldn’t resist.

  He knew from experience the back of the property provided the most cover. Scaling the side gate to get there had been the only answer thanks to the fancy new lock and corresponding keypad that would take too long to crack, especially with it being nighttime and roving patrols moving around. The uneven spikes at the top of the gate added some excitement, but he’d long ago figured out how to maneuver around those and jump to safety.

  A light clicked on the minute his feet touched the back patio. He didn’t make that mistake twice. He pressed his back against the wall and slid the rest of the way. The back double doors were locked and protected with computer alarm pads. He could see the motion sensors in the upper and lower corners of each door, plus the deadbolt lock into the floor. The home security was no joke. He could break it, but he’d need time, planning and equipment.

  That left one direction to go—up. He preferred to start a few houses away, jump roofs then rappel down, but this way also worked. The added flair of entering through the second story would make the climb worth it.

  With a throw, he hooked the metal end of his gear to the edge of the roof ledge and set off. The rope dug into his palms through the gloves, but he kept climbing. Once he reached the right height he debated shattering the glass as he dangled outside the floor-to-ceiling dining room windows. A part of him expected to be caught, so why prolong the journey trying to figure out how to get around the window sensor? But the challenge of getting away with it had excitement spiking inside him.

  Adrenaline pulsed through every vein as he used the thin blade in his slim black toolkit to cut a hole in the glass. Despite working with some speed, he was careful not to rattle the window. Then came the slow ease of the piece of metal he held in front of the sensor at just the right speed, jus
t the right time, to trick it into thinking the seal hadn’t been broken.

  It was tedious work, especially as he balanced twenty-five feet in the air with neighboring backyards facing him. He could be seen at any time, but that only added to the thrill.

  With the sensor covered, he reached up through the window and unlocked it. Sliding it high enough to fit through the open space, he slipped inside the impressive house.

  His feet touched the hardwood floor with only the barest tap. He untied the safety rope from his waist and headed for the bar set up at the far end of the room. The glass jangled as he picked up the decanter and lifted the topper for a quick sniff. Whiskey, just as he expected.

  After pouring a glass, he walked over and sat down at the dining room table. He removed his gloves and set them down next to a stretch of rope he’d used to anchor his weight on the climb.

  And then he waited.

  Less than a minute later the light at the top of the curving stairway flipped on. He didn’t see or hear anyone. Another light under the oven hood cast a soft glow on the nearby kitchen and bounced off the expansive marble countertops, highlighting the fact he was alone.

  He leaned back in the chair, wincing when the wood groaned under him. The sharp noise filled the otherwise silent floor, but still no one ran downstairs. The alarm didn’t whirl to life. Not that he thought he’d hear it anyway. This place definitely would have a silent alarm.

  “Tick tock.” He whispered the words as he swirled the liquor around in the heavy crystal glass. He had no intention of drinking it, but holding it fit the mood.

  He had barely counted to three when a face peeked around the corner of the wall. The light from upstairs cast her part in shadow and part not. He could make out the shoulder-length brown hair. Definitely a she, a very pretty she with big eyes and a round face.

  Her eyes widened then she popped back out of sight. Didn’t make a sound but the phone started ringing.

  “What the hell?” Racing footsteps followed the male voice. He came down and rounded the corner holding a gun. Stopped as if he’d been hit with a brick.

  Yeah, Levi Wren was home and very much awake.

  Well, he was now.

  Harris waved. “Hello.”

  “Damn it, Harris.” Wren lowered the gun. He marched over to the alarm panel and typed in a series of numbers. Then he lifted his cell and mumbled a word that didn’t make much sense before turning on Harris again. “You’ve got to be kidding with that entrance.”

  “What’s going on?” The woman came into view again.

  Wren looked at her this time. “Next time, wake me up. Don’t just run downstairs to check out a burglar.”

  Not wanting to start a household dispute, Harris jumped in. “Technically, I don’t intend to take anything.”

  “Shut up.” Wren responded to Harris without breaking eye contact with her.

  “I set off the alarm as soon as I saw him.” She shrugged. “And I only came down in the first place because I figured it was Garrett.”

  They both stood on the bottom step talking about Wren’s right-hand man in his business, Garrett McGrath. Wren had tucked the woman slightly behind his shoulder. They looked at each other and at Harris. There was a lot of gawking and frowning.

  She wore a man’s white cotton shirt, which dropped to her upper thighs but not much farther. Wren wore boxer briefs, a gray T-shirt and a scowl that could melt steel.

  Harris was enjoying every second of his surprise visit so far.

  “This is Harrison Tate.” Wren made the introduction as he ushered the woman into the room. “You can call him Harris or dumbass. Both fit.”

  “You actually know the guy breaking into the house?” Before anyone could answer, she rolled her eyes. “Forget that. Of course you do.”

  It was a typical Wren response. Harris couldn’t help but smile when he heard it come from her.

  Harris and Wren had been friends for years, long enough for Harris to know Wren’s real name, which was not Levi Wren and not something most people knew. He was a professional fixer. He negotiated deals and made problems disappear. Most people considered him the fixer, the only person the wealthy and connected contacted when a life-threatening event occurred.

  He went by an alias. The guy had a birth name and an alias and a fake name he’d chosen for himself. It was all pretty convoluted, but Harris played along. The few who did know about the fixer job and his life referred to him by the last name he’d taken long ago—Wren. But a handful of people, most of them now men around the same age who all met in their late teens and early twenties, knew his first name as Levi but still called him Wren.

  They’d lived together, ran together, fought together, all under the careful watch of their mentor, a man named Quint who’d taken them all in and saved them from an inevitable life choice of death or prison. Back then there were five of them. Quint taught them about privacy and subterfuge. He gave them purpose and tried to redirect their criminal tendencies. That worked to varying degrees, depending on which member of the group you talked to.

  Harris considered Wren family, more so than the one he was born into. They’d survived rough upbringings and formed a bond. And one day fourteen months ago, Wren saved his life.

  “For what it’s worth, I prefer Harris to dumbass.” He looked from Wren to the woman. Harris knew who she was without hearing her name. Emery Finn, the woman who changed everything. She walked into Wren’s life and turned it upside down. They were in love and living together, and if the whispers among their circle of friends were right, not far from a walk down the aisle. Once Wren got around to buying a ring and actually asking her.

  “Harris is one of the Quint Five.” Wren exhaled. “The annoying one.”

  Interesting. Wren wasn’t the type to cough up information. Harris knew that meant Wren had likely told her everything. She might even know about his past, which was the kind of thing guaranteed to keep Harris up at night.

  “Blame yourself for the intrusion. I’m here because you called me and said we needed to talk.” Harris had specifically stayed far away from the DC metro area and Chesapeake Bay for more than a year. He had no interest in this part of the country and chose jobs carefully to only be in town when he had to, and even then only for a short period.

  He’d come back this time at Wren’s request because Wren never asked anything of anyone.

  “I didn’t actually invite you to break into my house,” Wren said.

  Emery stepped away from Wren then and moved closer to the dining room table. “Wait, how did you get in here?”

  “The window.” Harris pointed at the one opened behind him.

  Wren focused on the glass. “Is that a hole? You actually cut a hole in my window?” He dropped his cell on the table. “You’re paying for that.”

  Emery walked over to the windows and leaned out. Looked up and down the outside wall. “That’s amazing.”

  “No,” Wren said. “Please don’t encourage him.”

  She snorted. “You can be grumpy if you want, but it kind of is awesome. That’s a big drop.”

  Harris watched her because it was hard not to. The long legs. The sexy sway of her hips. The charm. The way Wren stared at her with that ridiculous look on his face.

  “I’m guessing you’re Emery, the woman who won over one of my oldest and most difficult friends.” At the mention of her name she faced Harris and smiled. He could see why Wren had fallen hard. There was something about her. In their closed-off, sometimes dark and insular worlds, she struck Harris as a clear beam of light.

  Wren grabbed Harris’s full glass and drank it down. “You think I’m the difficult one?”

  Emery reached over and snapped up the empty glass before either of the men could refill and try for a second round. It was a slick move. One sweep and all of the attention shifted back to her.

  “Is there a reason you broke in? I mean, it’s pretty cool and all . . .” When Wren made a strangled noise, she shot him an oh-come-on glan
ce. “It is. Get over it.”

  “I like her.” Harris did. From all he’d heard from their friends who’d met her and the interaction he saw in front of him, complete with the blazing attraction arcing between the two of them, Harris liked Wren and Emery together. He knew her background wasn’t easy. Maybe that was why the two of them matched up so well because Wren’s personal history was the stuff of nightmares. Harris just cared that they fit. “And I like to make an entrance.”

  Wren leaned against the wall. If he cared that he was almost undressed, he didn’t show it. “He’s also a thief.”

  Harris held up a hand. “The correct term is former thief.”

  Technically he was retired. He did the odd job now and then. He’d liberate an item to balance the scales, but the days of stealing to steal or to get money or to finish a job were behind him. His legitimate career provided a cover that let him sneak around and target houses without putting him in law enforcement’s crosshairs.

  She nodded at the rope sitting on the edge of the table. “You seem to still have the equipment.”

  “She’s got you there.”

  Harris ignored the amusement in Wren’s voice and answered the question Emery sort-of asked. “I am paid by insurance companies and very wealthy patrons to find lost works of art and return them to their rightful owners.”

  “It’s the way he says it.” She smiled as she looked at Wren. “Can you hear the dodging-the-truth thing when he does it?”

  Wren made a humming sound. “He is an expert at evasion.”

  “You two are adorable,” Harris said, hoping to turn the conversation to a new topic. “I’d heard you were living together, but for some reason my invitation to come over for a visit got lost in the mail.”

  She pointed at Harris. “There it is again. The attempted change in direction.”

  “Huh. I see what you mean.” Wren nodded. “It is annoying.”