Hidden Identity. Carol J. Post
When they had stepped onto the porch, she stopped and looked up at him. There was softness in her gaze, and it touched something deep inside him, something that had been dead for a long time.
He dropped her hand and squashed whatever it was that had just passed between them.
Four years ago, his life had been perfect. He’d been living in Ocala, surrounded by family and friends and engaged to Denise, his childhood sweetheart. Three weeks before their wedding date, she’d been on her way to meet the wedding planner when a drunk driver had crossed the line. Her life was over in an instant.
That was when he’d packed up and made a fresh start on Cedar Key. Now, four years later, time had taken the edge off the pain. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was good. As long as he stayed busy.
Meagan attempted a shaky smile but didn’t quite succeed. “Thanks. I’m glad you were here.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” If she’d been alone, she likely would have walked in on the intruder.
After she unlocked the door, he followed her inside. She flipped a switch, and soft yellow light chased the shadows from the room. It was sparsely furnished. A wooden desk sat in one corner with a lamp on top. A couch occupied part of another wall, with a coffee table in front of it. Across the room was a small stand with an even smaller television perched on top.
Most striking, though, was the total lack of personal belongings. There were no pictures, no knickknacks, nothing to make the space distinctly hers. Like a motel room.
Or the residence of someone who needed to travel light.
When he stepped into the kitchen, it didn’t take long to figure out how the intruder had gained access. The French-style back door was open, the pane of glass next to the knob broken. A wrench lay on the stoop.
“Does that belong to you?” He angled his head that direction.
Her eyes widened. “No. Maybe he used it to break the window, then dropped it when he ran.”
The doorbell rang, and a second later the front door swung inward. Bobby, the officer on duty, stood there.
Hunter filled him in on everything that had happened. “We know how the intruder gained access, but we don’t know why.” He turned to Meagan. “Anything missing?”
She disappeared into her bedroom, then reappeared moments later. Apparently that room was as sparsely furnished as the living room. “Not that I can tell.”
Bobby addressed her. “I’m going to try to lift some prints. I’ll dust the door, the knob and the wrench. Anything else look like it’s been disturbed?”
Meagan didn’t respond. She was standing in the center of the kitchen, brows drawn together.
Hunter stepped closer. “What’s wrong?”
“The stove is crooked. Maybe it’s been like that, but I’ve never noticed it before.”
“I’ll dust that, too.” Bobby turned to leave the room.
Her eyes grew wide, and she drew in a sharp breath. “No, no fingerprints.”
Bobby turned back around, brows raised in question.
Meagan continued. “I mean, it makes such a mess. I’m sure whoever came in was wearing gloves.”
Bobby frowned. “We might have a burglar loose in Cedar Key. This is our chance to catch him before he breaks into any other houses.”
“It’s just so messy.” Her voice had lost its fire.
“Not really,” Bobby argued. “It’s not that difficult to clean up, especially from hard surfaces. I’m going to go get my kit, and I’ll be finished in no time.”
As he disappeared out the front door, Meagan’s shoulders slouched in resignation. Hunter studied her. Why didn’t she want prints lifted? Was she really concerned about the mess? Or was she afraid they would find a match—to her?
Meagan’s gaze shifted back to the stove. Her lower lip was trapped between her teeth, and vertical lines of worry marked the space between her brows. The stove was freestanding, gas, probably supplied by a propane tank outside. Had someone planned to tamper with it, to booby-trap it in some way to cause a fire?
Maybe the wrench had a dual purpose.
“Any idea who’s behind all this?”
Meagan shook her head but didn’t meet his eyes.
“Someone took a big chance coming in here when you were just riding to The Market and back.”
“Maybe he thought I was going out for the evening.”
“Or maybe his intent was to be waiting inside the house when you got home.”
Her tight jaw and the determination in her eyes told him that was something she had already considered. And was trying hard not to think about.
He stepped closer and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Tell me what you’re hiding from, Meagan.”
Fear filled her eyes—just as when she had faced the reporters. And when she’d thought he might have overheard her conversation with Anna. But she didn’t respond.
“Tell me what’s going on.” He kept his tone soothing, nonthreatening. “Let me help you.”
Her gaze dipped to her feet, and several more moments passed. Finally, she shook her head. Whatever secrets lay in her past, she was nowhere near ready to let him in.
His chest tightened, his desire to protect her warring with her determination to hold on to her secrets. If only she would talk. If she was running from some psycho ex-boyfriend, she could have the whole Cedar Key Police Department watching out for her.
And one officer in particular staying especially close. Because those haunted green eyes weren’t going to let him do otherwise.
That had to be her story—she was running from a psycho ex-boyfriend. But there was another possibility, one he didn’t want to consider—that she might be running from the law. Though the thought had lodged itself somewhere in the back of his mind, it was too much at odds with what little he had seen of Meagan. She couldn’t be a fugitive. She seemed too sweet. Too pure.
But so did a lot of con artists.
Ever since arriving in Cedar Key, Meagan had kept to herself. She went to and from her job at Darci’s Collectibles and Gifts and, every few days, took out that little boat of hers. But any invitations to social activities she politely turned down.
Maybe it was time to get to know her, beyond occasional casual greetings. Maybe she needed his help.
But if the opposite was true, and she was running from a criminal past, he would do what he had to do. He would bring her to justice. It was his job.
No matter how sweet and innocent she seemed.
The air was chilly and damp, the darkness complete. Meagan felt her way along the narrow passage, palms turned outward, the stone floor cold and rough beneath the soles of her feet. Why was she barefoot? Where did she leave her shoes?
She crossed her arms over her stomach, clutching the fabric at her sides. Silk. She wasn’t only barefoot, she was also dressed in her nightgown. Its thin spaghetti straps and short length offered little covering, which further amplified her sense of vulnerability.
She continued down the passageway, touching the walls only enough to stay in the center of the path. Sticky strands fell across her face and neck, and a startled shriek shot up her throat.
Spiderwebs.
She stamped and spun, clawing at her face, running her fingers through her hair and brushing her