Deadly Past. Kris Rafferty
Cover Copy
Cold, hard facts are what make or break a case for the FBI. But when there’s evidence that one of their own has been turned, there’s more on the line than the truth. There are personal bonds that can be stretched to the limit…
After blacking out, a discharged weapon and hazy memories put FBI profiler Cynthia Deming at the scene of a crime: the execution of six federal witnesses against the mob. The one and only person she can turn to for help is her best friend, Boston forensic pathologist Charlie Foulkes. It’s a relationship that no one on her team knows about—and it’s about to be tested by danger and desire…
Charlie knows that Cynthia is no killer. But as they embark on a shadow investigation to clear her name, evidence surfaces implicating him. With the conviction of a mob boss hanging in the balance, they’ll have to uncover who’s framing them to take the fall, and what lines they’re willing to cross—in their professional and personal lives—to prove that nothing will tear them apart.
Books by Kris Rafferty
Secret Agents Series:
CAUGHT BY YOU
CATCH A KILLER
DEADLY PAST
Table of Contents
Cover Copy
Books by Kris Rafferty
Dedication
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
Epilogue
Teaser Chapter
About the Author
Deadly Past
Secret Agents Series
Kris Rafferty
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Kris Rafferty
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Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: December 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0815-2
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0815-9
First Print Edition: December 2018
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0818-3
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0818-3
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For my smart, handsome, funny father. I love you, Dad.
Chapter One
Searing pain had Special Agent Cynthia Deming’s blue eyes opened and wide as she bolted upright in bed, her blond hair draped over half her face. Heart racing, vision blurred, she threw her legs over the mattress’s edge, suffering nausea and a headache that left her gasping. She touched the back of her head and felt matted, sticky hair around a clotted cut. When her vision cleared, she studied the resultant blood smears on her manicured fingertips, on her expensive gray pantsuit, on the worn and ugly bedspread.
Wait. Not her bed, or her bedroom.
“Well, this can’t be good.” Her voice came out raspy. What the hell happened last night? Fully dressed, injured, in a stranger’s bed? This was an unwelcome first.
The stale air did seem familiar, however, as did the brown drapes pulled closed over windows. The bedroom was innocuous, its furnishings dated and worn. Maybe a cheap motel? Bare beige walls, fragrance of carpet cleaner, and a television against the wall did hint at a rented room, but there was no desk, phone, or tiny refrigerator—things that would indicate a motel.
She struggled to her feet, swayed, and felt dizzy. A heavy object fell to the floor. A gun. Cynthia’s hand palmed her hip holster and found it empty. No small beans. She didn’t remember removing it from her holster. Definitely not good. Cynthia retrieved it from the floor too quickly, inviting more nausea and spiking head pain, forcing her to sit again as panic teased the edges of her composure.
She couldn’t remember. Not how she’d arrived here, or even where here was.
Pulling back the gun’s slide, she noted the bullet chambered, checked the magazine, counted rounds, and found six missing. A sniff told her it had been discharged recently.
“Well, shit.” Bad news was piling up, and it was beginning to feel personal.
Cynthia struggled to her feet. She had to take a moment to find her balance, so it felt like an accomplishment when she’d made her way to the heavily draped window. She nudged aside the curtain, winced as morning sunlight irritated her eyes, and felt relieved to recognize the view.
Chinatown, Boston. She was at a federal safe house she’d used three weeks prior for a case now closed. Why was she here? Injured, with gun drawn, red flags flapping in the breeze. From her vantage point, she could see her black Lexus parked at the curb across the street, indicating she’d driven here. A quick press of her palm to her pants pocket and she found her car keys, which eased her mind enough to holster her gun. There was no sign of her iPhone, or wallet, suggesting she’d been robbed. But then what?
She couldn’t remember.
Whatever had happened had prompted her to seek shelter at the safe house. Not the worst decision she’d ever made. An active safe house had on-site personnel who could help her, and fill in some blanks. Hope spiked as she hurried out of the room, and it grew as she continued to recognize familiar wall-to-wall rugs, worn to the backing in places, dingy beige drywall, the dark hallway, the smell of cigarettes and air freshener. She might have lost time, but she remembered these details.
The safe house had a hollow feel, and it surrounded her in silence. Calling out, searching every room, she continued to hope someone was there, until the last room