Wendy is the bestselling author of the Detective Madison Harper series and the Dean Matheson series, as well as two standalone thrillers: The Birthday Party and The Night She Vanished.
She is a former coroner's assistant turned crime writer. Some of her books have been shortlisted for various writing competitions and awards, including the International Thriller Writer Awards.
You can find more information on her website.
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The only social media Wendy uses is her Facebook author page: Wendy Dranfield Author.

PROLOGUE

JANUARY 2000-AUSTIN, TEXAS

"Nathaniel Monroe, I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions..."

Nate zones out. He can't listen to this cop arresting him when the woman he loves is dead on the ground at their feet. He forces himself to look down at Stacey. Her eyes are staring but unseeing. Her long hair is matted in a red puddle, and under the harsh fluorescent light, he can make out blood spatter on the garage wall, clinging on among the DIY tools. Her body is still here, but everything that makes her Stacey is long gone.

His head swims; she'll never say his name again, she'll never kiss him and tell him she can't wait to get married. She'll never infuriate him again.

"... If you decide to answer questions now, without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop answering at any time. You understand?"

Nate slowly turns to look at the black, uniformed officer who has cuffed his bloodstained hands together. They're probably the same age, around twenty-one, but because of the body on the floor, their lives will play out completely differently. "This isn't happening." The cop raises his eyebrows and nods to Stacey's lifeless body. "Actually, it already happened."

He spins Nate around and, in what feels like slow motion, pushes him out of the garage, past the crime-scene technicians and the cop securing the scene with yellow tape, and out to the waiting police cruiser.

It's dark outside, but the flashing red and blue lights are a painful contrast, and brighter than Nate expected. He feels a migraine starting behind his eyes. He looks beyond the car. There's already a crowd of Stacey's neighbors standing around, shivering in the cold, misty night. The cruiser's flashing lights reflect the horror on their faces. Some are wearing bathrobes over pajamas, with their arms crossed tight and their eyes eager.

One man is standing a little distance away, behind the others. The town's parish priest and Stacey's uncle, Father Jack Connor. He's watching Nate with a sanctimonious look on his face.

What's left of Nate's faith dissolves as he realizes what Father Connor has done.

ONE

JUNE 2019-MALIBU, CALIFORNIA

Madison Harper yanks her sneakers off and lies back on the creaky motel bed, exhausted. She's just finished the morning shift as potwasher and waitress at Big Bob's Diner. Since her release from prison back home in Colorado, it's how she's made her money. But she can't do it anymore. Today is the day she's finally going to give in and ask for help, and it goes against every instinct in her aching body. This motel is supposed to be a halfway house for recently released prisoners, but it's more like an extended version of prison. She's been here just over seven months so far, which is longer than she's allowed. She's been told by Leonard, the creepy building manager, that if she's not out by next week, she'll be thrown out. He's always been uneasy around her and she thinks it has something to do with him finding out what she used to do for a living. He's not exactly running this motel legitimately.

She sighs as she sits forward and slips her shoes back on. This place is meant for the kind of people she used to arrest, not for a cop. Or an ex-cop, which is how she's now considered, causing a ball of anger to swell in her chest. She was so proud to be a detective that it's particularly painful to be in her new situation. As a recently released convicted murderer with only the worst employers willing to give her a job, life can't get much worse, so she refuses to stay a day longer.

She stands up, ignoring the squeak of the bed and the pain in her feet, and looks out of the motel's grimy window. There are three provocatively dressed hookers on the street opposite, all gossiping and looking at each other's phones. She'd guess they're proudly sharing photos of their kids. She once worked alongside women like this; when she was assigned to work undercover for the vice squad. What surprised her most during that time wasn't that women were willing to put their lives at risk to earn money; it was the love they had for the kids who were conceived through violent assaults. It humbled her to see how strong they were in the face of their adversity, and she called on those memories more than once while she was locked up with power-hungry male guards.

While working for vice, Madison helped catch some of the worst pimps in Colorado. Now she's living among pimps and their girls, only a few weeks away from needing to sell her own body in order to survive.

One of the girls, Patty, notices her and waves enthusiastically. Madison waves back. She brought some leftover breakfast food home from work that Patty's kids can have for lunch if they reheat it. If Big Bob had caught her, she would've been fired on the spot. He might even have called the cops on her for stealing. She laughs at the irony, while blinking back the angry tears behind her eyes.

She turns away from the window as Patty gets into a john's car. The time has come. It has to be now. She grabs a handful of coins from her purse and heads out to the payphone on the street corner.

Two

Nate Monroe struggles through a flashback from the worst time in his life. He feels the stomach bile creeping up into his throat and swallows to keep his breakfast down.

The room service is getting worse in this hotel, but it's still a million times better than prison food. He stands up and slides the tray that holds greasy eggs and half-eaten toast outside his room, then closes the door on the smell. Sipping a black coffee, he walks to the window.

It's another sunny day in California. He got so little sunshine while incarcerated on death row in Texas that for years he craved living somewhere like this. Somewhere with energetic young people hanging out on bright sandy beaches, and a never-ending ocean view. Now he's here, it feels bittersweet. The sun burns his fragile skin quicker than it used to, he has few friends, and instead of working hard to become a priest, he works as an unlicensed private investigator, helping those the police ignore.

Sometimes the idea of leaving his hotel room cripples him with panic. After spending seventeen years in a ten-by-six-foot prison cell, the outside world can seem too vast, too bright and too dangerous.

He watches from afar as an athletic surfer flirts unsuccessfully with a cute brunette. The sky is clear and blue with no clouds in sight. It's mid morning and already hot. The seagulls are huddled together in the shade of the lifeguard tower, waiting for lunchtime. Nate knows from his daily beach gazing that once the tourists start eating their picnics on the sand, that's when the gulls will feast. For now, they're conserving their energy.

His cell phone rings. He walks to the nightstand and pulls the phone off its charger. He tries to ignore what's left of the white powder next to his wallet. He doesn't want to spend yet another day feeling ashamed of himself.

"Nate Monroe."

"Hi, my name's Madison Harper and I need your help."

This is how all of his phone calls start. There's no family calling to check up on how he is, no girlfriend to ask him out on a date. Just desperate people needing his help. He takes a seat on the bed and pulls out a legal pad and a pen from under the pile of true-crime paperbacks on the floor.

"What's the problem?" he asks.

"I can't tell you over the phone. I'd like it if we could meet in person."

He's intrigued. The woman has a warm voice and speaks eloquently. Not his usual clientele. "I'm in Malibu. You know it?"

"I know it," she says. "You're staying at the Majestic Hotel near Zuma Beach. I've done my research on you, Mr. Monroe, and there's a reason I want your help in particular."

He's alarmed that she knows where he's currently staying. He tries to live off-grid so the police never screw him over again. He immediately suspects she's a cop. "Listen, Ms. Harper, I don't want to get involved with any police business. I don't—and won't-ever work with the police."

"I'm not a cop. Would you meet me at the Mango Bar at noon? I'm not trying to waste your time."

He thinks about it. He's just finished an emotionally draining cold-case investigation that resulted in his client finding out his missing wife was dead and had been for nine years, so he was hoping for a few days' reprieve before moving on to another case. Thanks to the wrongful-conviction payout he eventually received after his release, he's not in this game for the money. He's got enough to last him a lifetime of modest living if he doesn't blow it all on, well, blow. His payout might not make up for losing his fiancée and seventeen years of his life, but it's better than being executed.

Even though he doesn't need the money, he decided to become a private investigator for a reason: he is driven to solve mysteries that no one else dares to or cares to, like someone special once did for him. Fixing other people's problems stops him dwelling on his own. Besides, it's not like he has anything else to do with his time; he never got the chance to finish college so he's not qualified for anything.

"Fine," he says. "I'll be there at noon."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

His watch tells him he has an hour to get ready.

THREE

Nate deliberately arrives at the bar ten minutes late so he can scope out the parking lot for anyone who might be here as backup for Madison Harper. He may have been out of prison for almost two years now, but he still watches his back and suspects he always will. Walking through the near-empty bar that smells strongly of vodka, he's grateful that alcohol has never been an issue for him. He can take it or leave it, unlike most ex-prisoners. Since his release, Nate's medicine of choice is cocaine, but even that he can control. Most days.

He spots a solitary woman outside on the veranda overlooking the ocean. She has straight shoulder-length blonde hair and is sitting upright with crossed arms leaning on the table. She's on edge. She looks like a cop in her skinny jeans and smart-if somewhat crumpled-white shirt, and he'd bet she's armed. He has a few seconds to consider backing out in case this is some kind of trap to put him back inside, but she turns to look for him and spots him immediately.

She smiles. It's a nervous smile. Not something he'd expect from a serving detective. It's only that smile that pushes him forward onto the veranda.

"Ms. Harper?" he says.

She stands up and shakes his hand. "Please, call me Madison. I hate that word, Ms. Makes me feel old." She smiles brightly at him and points to the chair opposite her.

He smiles back, but he's not fooled by her attempt to set him at ease. It's a standard police tactic and gives him reason to believe she was lying when she told him she wasn't a cop.

He sits opposite her, placing his legal pad and pen on the table next to the menu. He knows using a notepad ages him, even though he's only thirty-nine, but he missed the digital revolution while inside, and although he's learning to upgrade, he still feels more comfortable relying on good old-fashioned pen and paper in these situations. No one can hack a notepad, and when you burn a sheet of paper, no IT guy in the world can retrieve its contents.

The waitress is straight on them. "What can I get you guys? Today's special is lemon shrimp."

"I'll just have a black coffee," says Nate. He looks at Madison.

"I'll have a beer, thanks."

"Sure thing." The waitress takes their menus away, probably disappointed she's not in store for a larger tip.

"So, what kind of help do you need?" Nate asks, getting straight to business.

Madison looks over her shoulder like she's expecting some kind of drugs bust.

Copyright: Wendy Dranfield