Edge of Darkness
Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author Karen Rose
Monster in the Closet
“Monster in the Closet is an emotionally charged thrill ride. With deep characters, an intriguing plot, and breathless action, Karen Rose’s latest book is a real page-turner!”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Lisa Jackson
“Riveting. Emotional. Karen Rose at her best.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan
“A fast paced, high-intensity story that’ll carry you along on an amazing journey.”
—New York Times bestselling author Lori Foster
“A wonderful rainy-day read. Suspenseful and engrossing.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Lora Leigh
“Karen Rose has written another top-notch thriller! Grab this book. You won’t be able to put it down.”
—New York Times bestselling author Brenda Novak
“An up-all-night, unforgettable tale of secrets, lies, and taut suspense. Readers will want to grab this one!”
—New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers
Alone in the Dark
“Deftly mixes a family crime saga and the horrors of human trafficking . . . [A] gripping story.”
—Publishers Weekly
Closer Than You Think
“[A] chilling, enthralling read that succeeds on every level.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Watch Your Back
“The plot is complex, the characterization sound, and the boundaries of the genre pushed . . . Tremendously sexy.”
—The New York Times
Did You Miss Me?
“This is a thriller with heart.”
—Suspense Magazine
No One Left to Tell
“Action-packed . . . [A] twisting tale.”
—The Mystery Gazette
You Belong to Me
“[A] fast-paced murder mystery that will keep you turning pages.”
—Fresh Fiction
Further praise for Karen Rose and her novels
“Karen Rose delivers the kind of high-wire suspense that keeps you riveted.”
—Lisa Gardner
“Karen Rose writes blistering, high-octane suspense that never lets up.”
—Karen Robards
“From the first rousing chapter to the last . . . intense, complex, and unforgettable.”
—James Patterson
“A high-octane thrill ride that kept me on the edge of my seat and up far too late at night!”
—Lisa Jackson
“Takes off like a house afire. There’s action and chills galore in this nonstop thriller.”
—Tess Gerritsen
Titles by Karen Rose
DIRTY SECRETS
(enovella)
Baltimore Novels
YOU BELONG TO ME
NO ONE LEFT TO TELL
DID YOU MISS ME?
BROKEN SILENCE
(enovella)
WATCH YOUR BACK
MONSTER IN THE CLOSET
Cincinnati Novels
CLOSER THAN YOU THINK
ALONE IN THE DARK
EVERY DARK CORNER
EDGE OF DARKNESS
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by Karen Rose Books, Inc.
Excerpt from Death Is Not Enough by Karen Rose copyright © 2018 by Karen Rose Books, Inc.
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780399583094
Headline UK hardcover edition / November 2017
Berkley mass-market edition / February 2018
Cover art by Pete Thompson/Gallery Stock
Cover design by Adam Auerbach
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For my readers. Thank you for allowing me to have the job of my dreams and for loving my characters as much as I do.
As always, for Martin.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Terri Bolyard, for listening while I talked myself free of plot snarls.
Marc Conterato, for all things medical.
Caitlin Ellis, Sarah Hafer, and Beth Miller, proofreaders extraordinaire.
Amy Lane, for all the knitting.
Geoff Symon, for his crime scene advice.
The Starfish—Chris, Cheryl, Sheila, Susan, Kathy, and Brian—for helping me stay on track.
As always, all mistakes are my own.
Contents
Praise for the novels of Karen Rose
Titles by Karen Rose
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
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
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Epilogue
Excerpt from Death is Not Enough
About the Author
Prologue
Cincinnati, Ohio
Friday, December 18, 11:15 p.m.
Andy’s body jerked and his eyes flew open. His own shiver had woken him up. Cold. He was so damn cold. So move, dammit. Get your blood—
His memory returned and, with it, a mind-blowing panic.
He couldn’t move. He was tied up. Someone had tied him up and left him here. Wherever here was.
Scream, dammit. Scream for help. He drew a deep breath into his lungs that burned like fire, and his body shook in a fit of hoarse coughing.
No, he remembered. Don’t scream. His head still throbbed from the last time. He’d woken once before and screamed. How long ago? It had been dark then. It was dark now.
The man had come when he’d screamed. Dressed in black. Of course. Didn’t the bad guys always dress in black?
Because this was a bad guy. Andy had screamed for help. For anyone. But Guy-in-Black had kicked him in the head so hard he’d seen stars. That had shut him up quick.
That wasn’t what had put him back to sleep, though. No. He fought to swallow because his fear was a living thing, filling his chest with ice, choking his throat. The man had brought a smelly rag with him and had covered Andy’s face with it. He’d tried not to breathe it in, but the man had aimed a hard punch to his gut, forcing him to gasp in a breath along with whatever was on the rag.
Just like in the alley.
Yes, yes. Andy remembered the alley now, the one behind Pies & Fries. He’d been on his break and had gone out for a smoke. Someone had been waiting. It had been dark already and Andy hadn’t seen the guy until he’d lit a match, and even then he hadn’t seen a face. Or a body. The sudden flare from his match and the shadow at the edge of his peripheral vision were all he’d seen.
Who did this to me? Why? He didn’t have enemies. Not anymore. Not here, anyway.
He’d started over. He had.
And now he was going to die here. Wherever here is, he thought bitterly.
I’ll miss my final exams, and I had A’s. Even in English lit. He’d worked so damn hard for that A, too.
Which did not matter right now. None of that mattered right now.
I need to get out of here. Before he comes back. Whoever he is.
I need to get out of here. Need to find Linnie. Never told her that I love her. Need to tell her. Need to tell her that I didn’t mean it. Any of it. They’d had a fight. He’d said terrible things. She’d think he meant the things he’d said. That he’d run away. Like everyone else in her life. Like everyone in both their lives.
I made a mistake. It couldn’t have been her that he’d seen that day. With another man. She’d denied it so forcefully when he’d screamed his accusations. His rage. His hurt. She’d backed away, weeping, still denying. Then she’d fled. And I let her go.
And then, when his temper had calmed, he’d believed her. She wouldn’t do that. She couldn’t. I believe you. But he hadn’t told her. Not yet. Unless I get out of here, I never will.
He struggled against the ropes that bound him, wrists and ankles, but all it did was burn his flesh. He collapsed into a heap on the cold concrete, barely holding back the sob that threatened to rip him up from the inside out. It came out a whimper. A teeny little whimper.
Be a fucking man, dammit. Do something. Save yourself.
But it was no use. I’m going to die here.
You can’t die here. You’ve come too far. Fought too damn hard.
For nothing. I’m going to die here.
He was so cold. He could feel the icy concrete through his thin sweater and socks. They’d taken his parka and his shoes. Both were new, too. New to me, anyway. He’d bought them at the thrift store just last week. He’d paid his spring tuition and had just enough left over to buy some winter clothes. Because nothing from the year before fit anymore.
Because I finally grew. He’d waited for years to be big enough to fight back. Finally he was. And some asshole shoves a smelly rag in my face and I’m down for the fucking count.
Who? Who could do this? Who the fuck would want to? It wasn’t robbery. After he’d bought the parka and shoes at the thrift store, he’d had only twenty bucks in his pocket—and those were his tips from the dinner rush. Everything else—all one hundred forty-two dollars and six cents that he had left in the world—was in his checking account.
Nobody in his right mind would want to rob him, and the one person who hated his guts was in jail.
That sick bitch was in jail, wasn’t she? New panic layered over the old. The judge had sent her away for fifteen years. It had only been three.
Oh God. If she gets out, I’m dead. Andy began to pant, hyperventilating. The cops would have told him, right?
No, genius, because they don’t know where you are, either. You ran away, remember? Changed your name. Didn’t leave a forwarding address.
The only people who knew where he was were Shane and Linnie. Linnie . . . she’d never want to see him again, he thought, closing his eyes. The things I said . . . I’m so sorry.
Shane would always come if Andy called. But Andy hadn’t called. Hadn’t returned any of Shane’s calls after they’d gone their separate ways. Because I wanted to start over.
Just like Shane had. Shane was never afraid.
A tear spilled from Andy’s eye and trickled down his face. I’m not going to live to see the morning.
Not if they kept him out here all night. He’d freeze to death.
Do something. Be a damn man. Find a way to cut these ropes before he comes back and makes you breathe from that smelly rag again.
Find a way to get free so you can find Linnie. So you can tell her.
There was nothing on the floor that he could use to get free. No metal with a sharp edge. No plastic, even. Not even one rock. Nothing.
It was just concrete with rough wooden walls. Someone had slapped some planks together to make a shack. There was no mortar or fiberglass or anything between the planks—nothing to keep out the cold. It was just going to get worse.
Andy went still when he heard the snap of a twig outside. Someone was coming.
Maybe it was help. Maybe they’ve come to take me home.
But then the door opened and his heart sank. It was the man again, still dressed in black. Without a word, the man picked him up and slung him over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold.
Pain radiated through Andy’s head. The rest of his body was so cold it was numb. He saw the ground pass under his feet as the man carried him across a yard covered in the thin layer of snow that had fallen two days before. His body was jostled as the man opened a door and . . .
Oh my God. Warm. It was so warm. His feet were on fire with the worst pins and needles ever as the blood began to circulate. Another whimper escaped his throat.
“Put him down there,” a voice said quietly. Male. Older. So menacing that Andy shivered again.
New pain swept over him when the guy in black dumped him facedown on a sofa. An old sofa. Dusty.
A new voice cried out in distress, female and . . . familiar. Oh God. Familiar. “Why?” she asked, physical pain in the single syllable. “Why him? He had nothing to do with this.”
“Because I need him,” the man said. “Sit him up straight.”
Guy-in-Black yanked the collar of Andy’s thin sweater, pulling him into a sitting position. He was in an office with old, ratty furniture. In a garage? He could smell the oil.
Andy stared at his captor in the dim light provided by a single lamp.
He was . . . nobody. Nobody Andy had ever seen before. Not old, exactly. But not young, either. Maybe forty or fifty? It was hard to tell in the semidarkness. He appeared tall and strong, the sleeves of his starched white shirt straining around his biceps.
He was nobody Andy knew and certainly nobody he’d dare cross.
But the woman . . . Oh God, Linnie. She knew who the man was. It was clear from the expression on her pale, pathetically thin face. Her swollen, bruised face.
“Linnie?” Andy rasped. This man was dangerous. And he had them both.
Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe we’re both a mistake. He meant to take someone else.
But then Linnie shook her head. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Andy.”
Not a mistake, then. The man hadn’t meant to take someone else. Or at least he’d meant to take Linnie.
This must be him. Andy had seen them going into a motel room. He’d seen them . . . together. “Who are you?” Andy asked him, deflated and broken. “What do you want?”
“You, Mr. Gold. Specifically your services.”
“My services?” Andy repeated stupidly. “What se
rvices? I’m a waiter, for God’s sake. I’m majoring in English lit. You’ve got me confused with someone else.”
The man turned to Linnie. “He doesn’t know, does he, Linnea?” he asked and Andy’s gut turned inside out with dread. Linnie knew why he’d been taken.
Linnie closed her eyes. “No,” she whispered. “He thinks you’re my lover.”
The man snorted a laugh. “Lover? As if. Tell him the truth.”
Linnie shook her head, shrinking back into the chair in which she sat, turning her face away. Her bruised and battered face.
Andy leaned forward, suddenly furious. But still tied. “You hit her? You hit her?”
“I slapped the shit out of her,” the man said with a mean smile. He backhanded her again, making her yelp in pain. Like a dog. “Tell him, Linnie,” he commanded mockingly.
“Linnie?” Andy’s shaking voice jumped an octave, his heart beating so hard it was all he could hear. “Tell me what? Who is this guy?”
“Tell him,” the man commanded. “He deserves to know why he’s here.”
Andy felt bile climbing up his throat, burning. Dread now lay in his gut like rancid lard. “Linnie, please?”
“He’s my . . . pimp.” She spat the word out.
Andy’s mouth fell open in shock, but he didn’t say a word. Her pimp? Linnie was a prostitute? No, it couldn’t be true. She’d have come to me if she needed money. She would have told me. Wouldn’t she?
He’d loved her for years. They were going to get married someday. Because he would have found the courage to tell her how he felt. Eventually. He would have.
I should have told her that I loved her. His eyes stung. Because he still did.
The man’s smile was pure evil. “And?” he coaxed silkily. “Who owns you, Linnea?”
A sob jerked from her chest. “You do.”
“Yes, I own you.” The man shoved her away like trash. “You’re mine. Don’t you ever forget it, bitch,” he snarled. “Close your mouth, Mr. Gold. It’s highly unattractive.”
Unattractive. The word hung between them, suspended on the air. Vibrating like a plucked string. Unattractive? Andy’s gulp was audible. “I’m not doing that,” he said desperately. “I’m not going to be attractive. I’m not going to sell myself.”