Fire engines and dozens of cop cars surrounded the building, their bright red and blue lights flashing in the dark.

Eva’s head spun as the old memories of another fire rose up inside her and coiled around her chest. She could barely breathe and for a moment wanted nothing more than to bolt. Instead, she held her ground, shoving trembling hands through long black hair. She scanned the crowd for anyone that she recognized. Sally managed the shelter but she was nowhere to be found. And Rhonda, the evening manger wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Oh God. Oh, God.

Her mind tripped to the people who were to have spent the night in the shelter. Tony. Pam. Luna. She kept hoping she’d see them next to one of the EMS trucks huddled safely under a blanket. But she didn’t see anyone.

She hugged her arms around her chest, wanting to rush forward under the yellow crime tape and ask the cops about the building occupants, but she didn’t. Since she’d gotten out of prison six months ago, she avoided the cops. Cops translated into trouble and she’d sworn never again to trust a cop or return to prison.

But her friends. God, she had to find out something.

Tucking her head low, she moved toward the edge of the growing crowd of onlookers mesmerized by the bright red flames. The heat would be so hot now that it could sear lungs and melt flesh.

Eva glanced toward an elderly man with wire-rimmed glasses and a Steelers sweatshirt that hugged a rounded belly. “Hey, you know what happened?”

The man shook his head. “Can’t say. I was watching the Price is Right when I heard the sirens. I came out to look and saw the house on flames.” He nodded his head east. “I live a block and a half away but could see the light of the flames as clear as day.”

She nearly choked on the lump of tension in her throat. “You don’t know how it started?”

Nope.”

As the cop lights flashed, she resisted the urge to run. “Anyone know anything?”

“Couldn’t say.”

Emotion shortened her temper. “They bring anyone out? I mean from the shelter.”

“Not that I’ve seen. The firemen just got the flames contained enough to get close to the building. There might be people around the back side.”

“Thanks.”

Eva hugged her arms around her chest and moved through the crowd, listening and collecting any bits of information that would tell her what had happened.

“Said it started just after seven.”

“Heard an explosion. Those old gas heaters are trouble.”

“Odd folks came and went from that place. Always knew that place was nothing but trouble. But looks like they brought in the big guns cop-wise. They’re taking this seriously.”

Being near so many cops left her edgy and worried. Goons like Radford could be managed whereas cops equaled to real trouble. She shoved out a breath and buried her emotions down deep inside. Prison had taught her that showing true fear not only showed weakness but also provided leverage for your enemies.

She focused on the fire. Who could have done this? Sally understood trouble often followed her residents and she was careful to keep the peace. They had code words. Security systems. Eva admired Sally’s careful planning.

Her gaze skimmed the crowd of onlookers who looked shocked and terrified. Their sadness magnified her fears. As she turned to leave, her gaze settled on a lone figure standing just inside the yellow tape. His back was rigid, his arms folded over his chest. He wasn’t weeping, whispering or afraid to look at the destruction. In fact, he glared at the dying embers with defiance.

Taller than most around him, this man had broad shoulders and a battle-like stance suited to an ancient warrior more than a modern day man. When he turned slightly the fire department’s floodlights caught his profile. His chin was covered with dark stubble and jutted forward, as if anger chewed at his insides. Dark hair teased the edge of his collar and begged for a trim.

This one was a pit bull who gave off a big-time cop vibe. She’d bet money that nothing stood between him and a closed case.

A shiver crept up her back and coiled around her throat choking the breath from her lungs. Cops determined to close a case a decade ago had stolen ten years of her life. Just tell us you killed him, Eva. Just tell us…

As she retreated, the cop turned as if guided by radar. His gaze locked on her like a hunter would a deer. She froze, refusing to show fear all the while watching closely for any sign of trouble.

Eva swallowed. Her skin tingled and the muscles at the base of her spine bunched painfully. Not good. Not good at all. Smart ex-cons stayed off all cops’ radars, especially at a crime scene.

It had been a mistake to linger. She didn’t want to be noticed by anyone, especially a pit bull cop. Carefully, Eva kept her expressions neutral as she slowly shifted her gaze away from his. She pretended to smile at something the man next to her said and made a nonsensical comment. Then as if she were just another gal out for an evening stroll, she melted into the crowd.

Her muscles screamed: Run, Hide!

But she didn’t.

Experience had taught her that even the innocent looked guilty when they ran.

“Stieg Larsson fans will find a lot to like in Burton’s taut, well-paced novel of romantic suspense.”
— Publishers Weekly

“In the first of two linked novels, rising romantic suspense star Burton gives us a fast-paced thriller with a touch of romance. With hard-edged, imperfect but memorable characters, a complex plot, and no-nonsense dialog, this excellent novel will appeal to fans of Lisa Gardner and Lisa Jackson.”
— Library Journal

“Powerful characterization and expertly calculated plotting will have readers at Burton’s mercy, turning the pages anxious to read what happens next.”
— 4 stars, Romantic Times

Coming Soon

A twisted tale . . . I couldn’t put it down!”
—Lisa Jackson on Dying Scream

Burton’s taut, fast-paced thriller will have you guessing until the last blood-soaked page.”
—4-1/2 Stars. RT Book Reviews

DYING SCREAM is an absorbing thriller,
ripe with twists and turns.”
—Bookreporter.com

Kendall scanned the crowd. She was good at summing up a setting quickly, picking shots and getting to the root of a story. Her blood pumped with a mixture of fear and excitement. She’d forgotten how much she really enjoyed covering hard news. These last few months she’d done her reporting from the news studio and when she did get out, the stories were soft serve.

Now as the wind cut through her coat and she struggled to keep from sinking into the mud, she realized she’d grown lazy covering the soft stories. Not good. Comfort was the beginning of a slow decline.

“The other news stations aren’t here yet.” There was no hiding the excitement in her voice. “With luck, we can snag an interview before they do. Follow me.”

She knew all the homicide detectives in the department as well as a dozen others from other departments. It was safe to say none really liked her when she showed up at their crime scene, but there was a mutual respect. She hoped.

Kendall’s gaze settled on the broad shoulders of a very tall man. His back was to her but she recognized the scarred black leather jacket, faded jeans and lean body. Jacob Warwick.

He stood next to the river’s edge staring into the distance. He flexed the fingers of his right hand as if they were stiff. She’d heard somewhere that he’d competed in a charity, boxing match last weekend. He’d taken a beating but in the end had won the bout in points. He was a fierce fighter who never conceded.

Tenacity was something she would never fault this man for. It had saved her life last summer…

The Guardian serial killer had taken her to his basement slaughterhouse. He had shot her in the shoulder and she’d stumbled back and fallen to the hard cement ground. The pain had robbed the breath from her.

The Guardian had stood over her, his ax raised high as he’d readied himself to sever her hand from her body. Tears welled in her eyes and she’d only been able to say, “Please, don’t.”

Without warning, the killer had spared her hand and left her to bleed to death, alone, locked in the tiny basement room.

Even now, she remembered the cold cement floor pressing into her back. She’d tried to stand but every move intensified the agony. She’d screamed until her throat burned. But no one had come.

Blood seeped from her wound and she quickly didn’t have the energy to stand. Her limbs grew cold as life seeped from her.

In the darkness, there’d only been the drip, drip of a pipe and the scurry of rats. Time lost meaning and she passed out.

And then the door opened and light shone on her face. She’d thought for a moment the Guardian had returned and she’d balled up her good hand, praying she had strength to fight.

Warwick’s face had loomed over her, his shock as palatable as her own. His large hands gently touched her face. “Jesus, it’s Kendall Shaw. Kier, call for paramedics.”

“He tried to kill me,” she whispered. “To cut off my hand.”

Immediately, Warwick ran his hands down the length of her arms and to her hands. “He didn’t take your hand.”

What little fight she’d mustered had vanished. She nodded and closed her eyes. The iciness called, beckoned her to let sleep take her.

“Kendall!” Jacob sharp voice cut through the fog.

Her eyes fluttered open. Fierceness mingled with fear in his eyes. She moistened her lips but couldn’t seem to hold onto consciousness. God, but she was tired. Her eyes slipped closed.

“Open your eyes,” he commanded. “Help will be here soon. Hold on.”

Hold on. It sounded so hard. It was just too easy to let her grip slip.

“Listen to me. You are better fighter than this.”

“I’m not.” She’d been fighting for so long—against her mother’s illness and past secrets—suddenly she was tired of struggling.

“Listen you, bitch,” he’d hissed by her ear. “Open your goddamn eyes.”

Bitch had been what had gotten her attention. Her eyes had opened and she’d felt a rush of fire and outrage. “Jerk,” she muttered.

Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. “Good, girl.”

The paramedics had arrived seconds later. They’d rushed her to the hospital and the doctors had taken her into surgery almost immediately. She’d not seen Warwick since.

And now as Kendall faced him she felt a rush of embarrassment. He’d seen her well-cultivated veneer shatter in that basement. He’d seen her terror. She’d given up.

She could play the badass, diva reporter for everyone else, but Warwick knew under it all she had cracked in that basement room. Shame had her straightening her shoulders until they were ramrod straight. No one, especially Warwick, would ever see her so vulnerable again.

As if sensing her, Warwick turned. Their gazes locked. The scene around them faded and she saw only his intense gray eyes. For a moment she imagined she saw regret. And then just as quickly it vanished.

© 2008 Mary Burton

“Dangerous secrets, deadly truths, and a diabolical killer combine to make Mary Burton’s DEAD RINGER a chilling thriller. ” — Beverly Barton, New York Times bestselling Author

Lindsay’s cell phone, perched on her nightstand, rang just after midnight. She jerked awake. Accustomed to being awaken in the middle of the night, she sat up and grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

No answer.

She shoved back her hair and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Sam had dropped her off over three hours ago and she’d fallen into bed exhausted. “Hello?”

There was breathing on the other end. Normally, when she got late night calls, it was a frightened woman hiding out from her abuser, too afraid to talk. Often she had to coax the women into speaking.

But tonight, she didn’t sense someone in trouble. She sensed danger. Her voice harsh, she demanded, “Who is this?”

There was a moment’s pause. And then the line went dead.

Lindsay checked the incoming number and discovered it was blocked. She closed the phone. Fully awake, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and clicked on the bedside lamp.

A chill slithered through her.

It wasn’t like her to be so easily spooked. She got out of bed, clad only in an oversized t-shirt. The air-conditioning chilled her skin.

Careful not to wake Nicole, Lindsay hurried past her roommate’s closed door and went down the carpeted stairs to check the lock on the front door. She peered out the peephole. Nothing. Then she went to the back sliding glass door. Locked. She moved from window to window, checking them. All locked.

She flipped on the flood light and it shone over her backyard garden. She stared into the yard, looking for any sign of movement.

Nothing moved.

And yet she had the feeling that someone was watching. Hugging her arms, she stared into the darkness. There was no one there.

She shoved stiff fingers through her hair. This was insane. She was driving herself nuts over what was likely a wrong number. She shut off the back porch light. “Too much caffeine.”

She opened the refrigerator and peered inside at the carton full of leftovers from the bistro. She opened the chocolate cake container and opened it. She pinched a piece. It melted in her mouth. Closing the door, she moved into the living room, switched on a light and sat down. In the silence, she ate the cake savoring every bite.

As she rose to pitch the takeout container in the kitchen trash bin, she spotted the door under the stairs. Behind it was a small storage place where she kept old boxes of pictures. Tossing the carton, she wiped her hands, opened the door and removed the worn box. She carried it to the couch, sat, and dug among the photos, careful to avoid the ones with Zack. She’d never organized or put the photos in an album, but she’d written dates on notes on the back of each.
There were pictures of Lindsay with her friend Joel. They were at the pool, smiling. Joel had his arm wrapped casually around her shoulder. She smiled as she traced Joel’s face. Joel and his dad had been the ones who’d gone back to the house after her mom died and gotten these photos and her clothes.

Going deeper in the photo box, she found a picture of her as a baby. Other pictures of her at swim and tennis meets with her father and mother smiling proudly behind her. They looked so happy. Picture perfect.
And yet behind the smiles, there was tension in her parents’ eyes. Most wouldn’t have noticed it, but she did.

Digging deeper into the box, she found black and whites of her mother as a young girl before she’d married her father. Her mother had had a bright smile, dark wavy hair that set off her hazel eyes and peaches and cream complexion. In one photo, Lindsay’s mother stood with her older brother who was fifteen years older than her mother. He looked to be about twenty-five in this photo. His arm was slung casually around her mother’s shoulders and he wore a sailor’s uniform that accentuated his trim waist and broad shoulders. She had no memories of her uncle expect for the rare story her mother told.

Buried on the bottom of the box were pictures of three-year-old Lindsay holding a baby boy. The child had been her younger brother who’d died of crib death when he was just seven months old. Her mother had rarely spoken about her brother Bobby but Lindsay knew the boy’s death had left a hole in both her parents’ hearts that had never healed.

Maybe if Bobby hadn’t died. Maybe if…

These stupid mind games weren’t going to change her past. It was what it was. A mess.

She dropped the pictures back in the box unable to bare the sadness. She replaced the lid and put the box back in the closet under the stairs.

Suddenly very tired, she climbed the stairs and got into bed. The sheets felt cold against her skin. Despite the fatigue, her mind was restless.

She reached for the light. She’d searched the house and assured herself that she and Nicole were alone. And yet, she still felt as if someone stood over her.

Watching.

© 2007 Mary Burton

“Burton does an outstanding job of slowly revealing the character and motives of the players in her dark drama. Creepy and terrifying, it will give you chills.”
– Jill M. Smith, Romantic Times BOOK Reviews

“Taut, compelling and emotional, I’m Watching You is romantic suspense at its most riveting. Mary Burton delivers a page-turner.”
– Carla Neggers, New York Times bestselling author