The Texas Murder Files, Book 1
by
Laura Griffin
Description:
An ambitious female reporter tracks a deadly threat in Austin, Texas, in the newest riveting thriller by New York Times bestselling author Laura Griffin.
When a woman is found brutally murdered on Austin’s lakeside hike-and-bike trail, investigative reporter Bailey Rhoads turns up on the scene demanding access and answers. She tries to pry information out of the lead detective, Jacob Merritt. But this case is unlike any he’s ever seen, and nothing adds up. With the pressure building, Jacob knows the last thing he needs is a romantic entanglement, but he can’t convince himself to stay away from Bailey.
Bailey has a hunch that the victim wasn’t who she claimed to be and believes this mugging-turned-murder could have been a targeted hit. When she digs deeper, the trail leads her to a high-tech fortress on the outskirts of Austin, where researchers are pushing the boundaries of a cutting-edge technology that could be deadly in the wrong hands.
As a ruthless hit man’s mission becomes clear, Bailey and Jacob join together in a desperate search to locate the next target before the clock ticks down in this lethal game of hide-and-seek.
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Excerpt:
Chapter One
Dana was in love with a complete
stranger. She could admit it. Or she could have admitted it, if she’d had
anyone to admit it to.
She eyed him in the parking lot as
she leaned against the lamppost and stretched her quads. Tall, wide shoulders,
strong runner’s legs. He had shaggy brown hair that Dana would have once
considered sloppy, but now seemed sexy beyond belief. She imagined combing her
fingers through it, imaged it would feel thick and silky.
The main attraction wasn’t his
looks, though. It was his commitment. He was here every day at six a.m. sharp.
You could set a watch by it.
He closed the door of his dusty
black Jeep—one of the old ones that clearly had lots of miles on it. Not a
fancy car, and he probably didn’t have a fancy job, either, but Dana didn’t
care about that. She’d dated men with money before. They’d burned her life
beyond recognition, and she’d made a vow to herself: never again.
It was one of the many vows she’d
made over the last year.
He set off on the hike-and-bike
trail, and Dana waited a moment to give him a head start. She zipped her phone
into the pouch clipped around her waist and then stepped onto the path, taking
a deep breath as the soles of her shoes hit gravel. Setting a brisk pace, she
felt her muscles start to loosen and warm.
She looked ahead at Blue. That was
the name she’d given him the day he glanced up from the drinking fountain and
his turquoise eyes hit her like a sucker punch. She’d been so mesmerized she’d
hardly noticed the water’s rusty taste as she gulped down a sip and watched him
walk away.
Blue was way ahead of her now, and
he would stay way ahead of her for the entire six-mile loop. If she was lucky,
she’d pass him beside the fountains, and they’d trade nods before she set off
on the rest of her morning.
Or maybe not. Maybe this would be
the day she summoned the courage to strike up a conversation.
The morning air was already thick
with humidity as the sky went from indigo to lavender over the treetops. The
trail was almost empty, which was how she liked it. Just the die-hard runners
and some power walkers. Dana settled into her rhythm as she passed the boat
docks where long red kayaks still were racked and chained. She smelled fresh
dew on the reeds by the lake, along with the faint scent of rotting vegetation,
which would grow more pungent as the sun climbed higher in the sky. It would
hit triple digits today. Again. Dana still wasn’t accustomed to the Texas heat
or the way the weather here could turn on a dime.
“On your left,” a voice growled.
Dana’s heart lurched as a cyclist
whisked past her. She muttered a curse at him. The guy swerved, barely missing
a jogging stroller coming around the bend, pushed by a flushed-cheeked woman in
yoga pants.
Of everyone on the trail, the manic
stroller moms bugged Dana the most, especially at this hour. She couldn’t
imagine rousting a child from sleep and driving to the lakefront, then shoving
a sippy cup into pudgy little hands to serve as a distraction while Mom
squeezed in a workout. Passing the stroller, Dana caught a glimpse of a
cherubic toddler with brown curls, not much older than Jillian.
Just thinking of Jillian made
Dana’s heart swell. It was something she’d never expected when she’d first
taken the nanny job. How could you truly love someone else’s kid? But it turned
out, you could. Dana would have jumped in front of a bus for that child. Maybe
it was human instinct. Protect the innocent. Or maybe it was something else,
some deep-rooted impulse that hinted at future motherhood. When Dana had first
identified the feeling, she’d felt relieved. It told her she was okay. Mostly.
It told her that despite the ugly things she’d seen and done, her moral compass
was still intact.
The trail narrowed and wended
through the cypress trees. Most people hung a left onto the pedestrian bridge
at this point, but not Blue. He did the full loop and crossed the lake at the
dam, predictable as clockwork. At first when Dana began shadowing him it had
been a struggle, and she’d ended each workout feeling dizzy and depleted. But
now she was stronger. Her thighs still ached, and her lungs still burned, but
she pushed through, and the heady rush at the end of each run was her reward.
The trail narrowed again, and the
woods became thicker. Dana heard the faint crunch of gravel. Her senses perked
up, and she glanced over her shoulder.
Her blood chilled.
A man jogged behind her, maybe
twenty yards back, and she’d seen him before. Dana focused on the path ahead,
listening to the rhythm of his footsteps. Her pulse started to thrum. Where had
she seen him? Her brain kicked into gear, retracing her steps over the past
twenty-four hours. She’d been to work, the grocery store, home. She tried to
recall the faces in the checkout line, or anyone she’d passed in the lobby of
her apartment building. She pictured the man without looking back: tall, buzz
cut, heavy eyebrows. Where had she seen him before?
You’re
being paranoid.
You’re being paranoid.
You’re being paranoid.
The words echoed through her mind as
she pounded down the trail. She peered ahead, searching for Blue on the path,
but she couldn’t see him anymore, couldn’t see anyone. This section was
practically deserted.
The footfalls came faster, and panic
spurted through her. Why had he changed his pace?
Dana changed hers, too, trying to
catch up to Blue—or anyone, at this point. The slap of shoes behind her sounded
closer now.
Sweat streamed down her back. She
visualized where she was on the trail. About a quarter mile ahead was a nature
center. To her right, through a patch of trees and bushes, was a parking lot.
Would someone be there now? It wasn’t even six thirty.
Dana’s breath grew ragged. Her skin
prickled, and her blood turned icy. With every footfall she knew that the years
and the miles and the lies had finally caught up to her. There would be no more
running.
And there would be no mercy.
With a trembling hand, she unzipped
her pouch and took out her phone. She thumbed in the passcode. Should she
really do this? Maybe she was overreacting.
But no. She wasn’t.
She darted another glance over her
shoulder.
Eye contact. And Dana knew.
She bolted into the woods, plowing
through bushes and darting around trees. Behind her, she heard the distant but
unmistakable swish-swish of her
pursuer moving through the brush. Dana’s heart thundered as she pressed the
contact number. Every swish-swish
ratcheted up her terror. Finally, the call connected.
“Tabby, it’s me. It’s happening!”
Just saying the words made her stomach clench. “It’s happening!”
Dana hurled the phone into the
bushes and cast a frantic glance behind her. She couldn’t see him anymore, but
she knew he was back there, felt it in her core. Every nerve ending burned with
the certainty of being chased.
Where was the damn parking lot?
Through the trees, she glimpsed a patch of asphalt and the red hood of a car.
She ran faster, swiping at the branches. Thorns snagged her clothes and sliced
her arms, but she clawed through the bushes as fast as she could, sprinting for
the red.
A tall figure stepped into her path.
Dana gave a squeak and stopped short.
The man moved closer. His eyes bored
into hers, and she knew she’d been right. Not paranoid at all, but right.
He took another step forward, and
Dana’s gaze landed on the knife in his hand. A silent weapon. Of course.
Terror pierced her heart as he
stepped nearer. Tears stung her eyes.
“Please,” she rasped. “I’ll do
anything.”
Another step, and she could smell
the sweat on his skin now. He was that close. Her heart jackhammered and she
knew this was it. Fight-or-flight time.
“Please.”
She let the tears leak out. Let him
think he’d won.
“Please….”
The man smiled slightly.
Dana turned and ran.
##
Bailey Rhoads watched the parking
lot through the veil of rain. It poured off the overhang, splashing the
sidewalk in front of her and soaking the cuffs of her jeans. She pressed her
phone to her ear as a police car pulled into the lot and slid into the
handicapped space beside the door.
“Metro desk.”
“Hey, it’s me,” Bailey said as the
officer got out. Skip Shepherd. That figured. He pretended not to see her as he
ducked through the sheet of water and jerked open the door to the convenience
store, letting out a waft of cold air.
“Tell me something good, Rhoads.”
“Sorry, can’t do it.”
“Crap.”
“This is a bust,” she said. “A
couple teens boosted some beer from the stock room, ran out the back. Clerk
chased them and a patrol car pulled up.”
Her editor muttered something
either to himself or someone else in the newsroom.
“I’ll write up a brief, but I’d
give it two grafs, max,” she said.
“They minors?”
“Yeah.”
“Then don’t bother. Listen, where
are you?”
“In my car,” Bailey said, pulling
the hood of her sweatshirt over her head before ducking through the water. She
jogged across the lot to her white Toyota that had been in desperate need of a
bath until this afternoon. “Why? What’s up?”
“I don’t know.”
But something in Max’s voice made
her pulse quicken. She slid into her car, dripping water all over the seats as
she kicked off her flip flops.
“Some chatter on the scanner,” Max
said. “Lance heard something about a code thirty-seven.”
“What’s Lance doing in on a
Saturday?”
“Some drama with one of the
councilmen. Long story. Listen, you know what a thirty-seven is?”
“A shooting,” she said, starting up
her car. “Where is this?”
“The lake, I think.”
“Lady Bird Lake?”
“Yeah. But this could be nothing.
Scanner’s been quiet since.”
“I’ll check it out.”
“Text me if it’s anything,” Max
said. “And do it soon. I’m trying to get out of here.”
“Got it.”
She dropped her phone onto the seat
beside her, along with the damp spiral notebook where she’d jotted the details
of the convenience store holdup that wasn’t. Would this be another dud?
Probably, given her pattern lately. For the last three weeks she’d been chasing
down court filings and scanner chatter and only netted a few short briefs.
Saturday traffic was light, but the
afternoon downpour had thrown everyone for a loop, and she passed two
fender-benders before reaching Barton Springs Road, which took her straight
into Austin’s biggest park. On a typical sunny weekend, the place was busy.
Several weeks a year it wasn’t just busy, but packed, with traffic choking the
streets and the soccer fields crammed with festivalgoers. Today, the fields
were empty except for a few clusters of people sheltering from the drizzle
under sprawling oak trees. Bailey parked in the lot near the pedestrian bridge,
noting the conspicuous lack of police vehicles. This was probably another
non-event.
It was time for Bailey to get
creative. It had been a slow month, and rumor had it the newsroom was in for
another round of layoffs. She should spend her Sunday brainstorming feature
ideas. Something about local law enforcement that wouldn’t be interchangeable
with a story pulled off the wire. Maybe an innovative new forensic technique.
Or budget overruns. Or official corruption. She had to dig up something. For
months she’d been hanging onto this job by her fingernails. Her industry was
shrinking, and she was in a constant battle to prove her worth relative to more
seasoned reporters who fed at a bottomless trough of news tips.
Bailey shed her wet hoodie and
grabbed a blue zip-up jacket from the back seat. She stuffed her notebook into
the pocket and looked around. It was unusually empty for a Saturday
evening—just a few wet dog-walkers and a guy strapping a paddleboard to the
roof of his Volkswagen. She zipped her jacket and ran her fingers through her
wet brown curls. With this weather, she probably looked like Medusa, but it was
pointless to fight her hair. It did what it wanted.
Bailey hurried across the parking
lot, hopscotching around potholes as she made her way to the pedestrian bridge.
The six-lane highway overhead provided cover, along with a roar of traffic
noise as she crossed the lake, which was narrow here.
She reached the trail marker on the
opposite side and glanced around. Normally, this area was bustling with
cyclists and pedestrians, but this evening it was empty except for a pair of shirtless
runners in burnt-orange shorts. UT track and field, if she had to guess. They
didn’t spare her a glance as they blew past her.
Looking up the trail, Bailey
noticed the orange barricade positioned in the center of the path, along with a
sign: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. Bailey had been here three mornings this week and
that sign was new. She walked up the path, skirting around the barrier. The
trail curved into some leafy trees, and Bailey’s pulse picked up as she noticed
the swag of yellow crime scene tape.
“Area’s closed, ma’am.”
She turned around to see a bulky
young cop striding toward her. He had ruddy cheeks and acne, and Bailey didn’t
recognize him.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Trail’s closed off.” He stopped
beside her and wiped his brow with the back of his arm. His dark uniform was
soaked from what looked like a combination of rain and sweat.
“I’m with the Herald.” She unzipped her jacket and held up the press pass on a
lanyard around her neck. “We got word about a possible shooting here?”
He frowned and shook his head. “I’m
going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Leave?”
He gestured toward the sign. “This
is a restricted area. You’re going to have to step back.”
“But—”
“Step back, ma’am.”
“Okay, but do you know what this is
about?” She took her time moving toward the barricade.
“No, ma’am.”
What a liar. “Can you confirm it
was a shooting?” she asked.
“You’ll need to talk to our public
information officer.”
He corralled her toward the
barrier. She sidestepped it and turned around, and the cop was watching her
suspiciously, as though she might sprint right past him if he turned his back.
At last, he did. He proceeded up the
trail, tapping the radio attached to his shoulder and murmuring something as he
went. Probably giving people a heads up that the media had arrived on the
scene—whatever the scene was.
The cop reached the yellow swag of
tape blocking the path. He walked around a tree and darted a look of warning at
her before disappearing into the woods.
Bailey dialed her editor. Max picked
up on the first ring.
“I’m here at the hike-and-bike
trail,” she told him. “Something’s definitely up.”
“Who’s there?”
“I’ve only seen one cop, but they’ve
got the trail barricaded, and there’s a scene taped off.”
“One
cop?” Max sounded skeptical.
“So far, yeah.” Bailey walked away
from the barrier, looking for any other sign of law enforcement. The nearest
parking lot on this side of the lake would be behind the juice bar. Maybe the
cops had parked there.
“What about a crime scene unit?” Max
asked. “Or the ME’s van?”
“Haven’t seen either,” she said,
scanning the area as she walked. She spied several cars parked along the
street, but no police vehicles.
“Keep asking around,” Max said. “The
scanner’s been quiet, so maybe this isn’t out yet.”
Bailey would definitely ask around,
but she didn’t see anyone to ask.
“Where are you exactly?”
“The trailhead near the nature
center,” she said, “but it’s pretty deserted.”
The rain started again. It streamed
down her neck and into her shirt, and Bailey moved faster. Up the street that
paralleled the lake was Jay’s Juice Bar. She spotted a patrol car in the
parking lot. Bingo.
As she hurried closer, she saw not
just one but four police cars in the
lot behind the place, along with an unmarked unit with a spotlight mounted on
the windshield—probably a detective’s car. How had this stayed off the scanner?
Someone must be trying to keep a lid on the story.
Bailey surveyed the juice bar.
Typically, Jay’s had a line of sweaty customers at the window waiting to order
smoothies. But today the window was closed. A guy in a green apron stood beside
the door, talking to a tall man with a badge clipped to his belt.
“Rhoads? You there?”
“I see a detective,” she told Max.
“Let me go talk to him.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know. I’ll call you back.”
“Do it soon. I need to know if this
is going to blow up the front page.”
Bailey tucked her phone into her
pocket and watched the detective interview the juice bar guy, who clearly was
agitated. He kept wiping his brow with his hand and gesturing toward the trail.
Was the man a witness? Had he heard the gunshot? The detective towered over
him, watching intently as the man talked and shook his head.
Bailey started to pull out her
notebook, but then thought better of it. The detective dug a business card from
his pocket and handed it to the man. Perfect timing. They were wrapping up the
interview.
Bailey crossed the street, and the
detective glanced at her. His gaze narrowed when he spotted the press pass
around her neck. Bailey felt his guard go up as she strode toward him. She took
a deep breath and squared her shoulders.
She was about to get stonewalled.
Buy links:
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Author's bio and links
Laura Griffin is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than twenty-five books and novellas. Her books have been translated into fourteen languages. Laura is a two-time RITA® Award winner (for Scorched and Whisper of Warning) as well as the recipient of the Daphne du Maurier Award (for Untraceable). Her book Desperate Girls was named one of the Best Books of 2018 by Publishers Weekly. Laura lives in Austin, Texas, where she is working on her next novel.
Website
laura@lauragriffin.com
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GIVEAWAY
Laura Griffin is giving away a print copy of Hidden to one lucky person in the United States.
Please leave a comment (please don't forget your e-address) about what intrigues you most about romantic suspense and whether you have read other books by this prolific and talented author?
A winner will be randomly chosen after September 4, 2020.
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My review:
4 stars
Hidden by Laura Griffin is the first book in the ‘Texas
Murder Files’ series and features reporter Bailey Rhoads, whose investigation
into a woman’s murder pits her against the detective assigned to the case,
Jacob Merritt. Their uneasy alliance puts them in a race against time to
prevent the murderer from striking again, but Bailey’s research may put her
right in the crosshairs.
This suspenseful and romantic thriller features a determined
and tenacious heroine, characteristic of this talented author’s stories. I love
heroines who are resourceful and intelligent, and it was great to watch the
women in this story demonstrate ingenuity and an ability to think on their
feet. It was a little disconcerting to shift to a new point of view later in
the book, but understandable.
The tension ramps up and the clues are sprinkled in with
unexpected twists and turns as the mystery gets more and more intense. Some of
the developments are chilling, especially to a paranoid person like me, and
very pertinent to today’s society. This was a wonderful introduction to a new
series, and I can’t wait to read more of these stories!
