A trauma therapist escaping her father’s legacy.
A homicide detective who can’t prove murder.
A case that can heal their old wounds or send them over the edge.
When an innocent woman plunges to her death, Mallory Kotite is convinced there’s a connection to her father’s supposed suicide. Desperate to be free of the family legal empire—and the suffering at the hands of a self-made tyrant—she convinces the investigating detective to take a second look. Only to find her life and her heart in danger.
Detective Payton Nichols can’t hold onto a partner. He’s good at understanding evidence. People are a different puzzle altogether. But faced with a mistake on his last case, Payton must rely on Mallory’s insights into her father’s life. He’s not a project for the assertive therapist to fix, but as desire ramps up between them and a killer targets Mallory, he finds himself exposed to a past better left forgotten.
With a serial killer closing in, Mallory and Payton don’t have much choice. Learn to trust one another or get their own view from above.
“It’s not what you think.”
Payton holstered his weapon and unpocketed his cuffs in the same move, closing in. He secured his grip around one wrist and twisted it down to her lower back then the other. Her smooth skin caught on calluses honed over years of hands-on police work as the cuffs ratcheted loud in his ears. “What is it I think, Mallory?”
“I didn’t hurt that woman,” she said. “I didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“You’re in the middle of a potential crime scene.” He tugged her into his chest and lowered his voice. “I have enough to arrest you for tampering with evidence and obstructing an investigation.”
“I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.” Her voice turned breathy as he spun her to face him. Long lashes grazed across exaggerated cheekbones and framed impossibly dark brown eyes. Almost to the point he couldn’t differentiate the color from her pupils, a hereditary gene he’d seen only once before. Mallory Kotite set her jaw as though ready for a fight. “My father didn’t jump from that roof last month, and I don’t think that woman down there did either. You’re making a mistake.”
He patted her jacket pockets, discovering her phone in one and a set of car keys in the other. He tossed the keys to Wells and turned the screen to capture Mallory’s face ID to check the logged messages. Do you believe me now? The recipient of her last message had been saved in her contacts. Detective Jackass. “Seems I’m not the only one.”