1
As far as Tara Kingston was concerned, not all murderers were created equal. Some killed people out of hate, some out of anger or revenge. Some were twisted enough to do it for chuckles. Some—and this category had always had the ability to chill Tara’s skin and send her stomach toward her Manolos—were frightening enough to do it for no reason at all. The murders Tara had helped to prosecute in her three years working in the Remington District Attorney’s office had ranged from emotion-fueled snap decisions to calculation and ice-cold blood. There was only one thing that every single one of them had in common.
The people who’d committed them all deserved to pay for their crimes. And even though it wouldn’t reverse the one senseless murder that mattered to her most, Tara could make sure that when wrong was done, justice was served.
Because she was going to miss her best friend for the rest of her life.
“Stop,” she said, her voice echoing through her office. The rest of the staff, including her workaholic boss, Bennett Alvarez, were long gone. If she’d clocked enough hours to have even a hint of a weak moment, it was time to toss in the towel for the night. No one wanted a soft, sentimental lawyer—especially not the families of the victims of the case she was working on right now. Ricky Sansone had committed three murders, maybe more, while he was selling illegal guns and God only knew what else to criminals with rap sheets as long as Tara’s leg. She’d busted her ass to work the case with Remington’s Intelligence Unit, carefully cultivating an agreement with a young woman who worked in Sansone’s nightclub to get her to work as an informant and testify against him. Between the intel they got from Amour—whose real name was Aimee and who wasn’t even old enough to drink, let alone work in a seedy-ass nightclub that was really a front for Sansone’s shifty extra-curriculars—and the evidence collected by the detectives at the Thirty-Third, Tara had been able to build a case and get an arrest warrant. Bail had been set at a staggering one million dollars, which Tara had thought was a victory…right up until Sansone had posted it.
But his days breathing free air were numbered. He was dangerous. Deadly. She was going to need all the fortitude she could work up in order to prepare for the trial, but she would put him away forever.
Tomorrow, her weary brain told her, and her burning eyes ganged up in agreement. Thanks to the precautionary measures she’d insisted upon as a condition of his bail, Sansone was being carefully monitored by the RPD. Tara had six weeks until the trial started, and it was—shit—nine thirty on a Friday night. Her yoga pants and the leftover Pad Thai in her fridge were calling her name. She’d start fresh in the morning.
Turning in her desk chair, she powered down her laptop and slid it into her bag. A few files went on top, along with the legal pad she’d jotted a few notes on throughout the day. Remembering the self-defense class she’d taken last year, Tara pulled out her keys so she wouldn’t have to hunt for them in the dark and made her way out of her office, the sound of her heels clicking on the polished floor seeming overly loud with everyone gone. Exhaustion set in, turning her shoulders heavy as she stepped into the elevator, and she allowed herself the luxury of a too-long blink as the car descended to the ground level. The quick refresher gave her enough energy to steel her spine once the doors trundled open, and her legs took the autopilot route out of the building.
The night air was still residually warm from the brutal late-June heat wave that had put a chokehold on most of North Carolina over the last few days. Tara savored her inhale despite its muggy state, tucking back a strand of hair that had escaped from the twist at her nape. She needed to schedule a yoga class—she’d already missed two this week because of all this trial prep—and make sure she hit the dry cleaners tomorrow to pick up her lucky suit to wear in court on Tuesday. And, oh, she had to order flowers for her mom’s birthday next—
The chime of her cell phone interrupted both her thoughts and the quiet, making her jump, then making her laugh at herself for doing so. Slipping her hand into the side pocket of her messenger bag, she palmed her phone and smiled at the name on the caller ID.
“Hi, Amour.” Tara hit the button on the key fob in her other hand, shifting the phone between her shoulder and her ear as the locks on her BMW disengaged with a beep-click. “How’s it—”
The pain-laced moan filtering over the line cut Tara’s question off at the knees.
“Amour?” Dread shuddered down Tara’s spine, cold and clammy despite the humid night. Oh, God. “Amour, talk to me. Where are you?”
“Tara,” came the barely-there whisper.
“I’m here,” she promised. “Tell me what’s going on. Are you hurt?”
Amour’s whimper in reply was all the affirmative Tara needed, the sound claiming her gut in an instant. “Please. Help me.”
Tara’s brain kicked her thoughts into action. “Don’t hang up, do you hear me?” She flung her car door open, dumping her bag inside and yanking herself into the driver’s seat. She needed to get EMS on the line so they could access the GPS in Amour’s phone and send help. “I’m going to put you on hold and get nine-one-one on the line. Do not hang up, Amour.”
Willing her fingers not to shake so hard they couldn’t function, Tara pressed the mute button for three seconds that might as well have been a month, then dialed nine-one-one.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the operator asked, his voice smooth and sure.
Tara’s was neither. “My name is Tara Kingston, and I’m an ADA in Bennett Alvarez’s office. I’ve got an informant on the other line who’s in danger. I’m patching her through.”
Praying that Amour was still there—please, please, please—Tara punched the button that would—please—bring her back on the line. “Amour? Are you there? There’s an operator listening.”
“Tara,” she croaked. “It hurts.”
“Ma’am, can you tell me where you are so I can send help?” the operator asked.
Amour whimpered. “H-home.”
“Twelve Broadmoor Street, in North Point,” Tara supplied, switching the call over to her car’s Bluetooth and pulling out of her parking spot. She’d arranged for at least a dozen Ubers to take Amour home as they’d put together the case against Sansone. Of course, she was all the way across town, and damn it! Tara had to hurry.
“Ma’am, can you tell me if you’re in danger right now?” The operator was trained to keep his tone calm, Tara knew, but the concern in his voice was obvious.
“I don’t…know. There was a man,” Amour murmured. “He…I can’t…my…my head feels funny. Hurts.”
Tara bit her bottom lip hard enough to make it throb, letting the nine-one-one operator do his job even though she wanted nothing more than to loosen the scream in her throat.
“I’m dispatching police and EMS to your location, ma’am,” the operator said. “Do you know if the man is still there? Are you in danger?”
“I don’t…see him…he…said…not to…” Amour’s whisper faded into a white-noise whoosh of silence on the line.