Cold Case Witness

By Melinda Di Lorenzo

One shocking moment threatens two lives

What Warren Wright accidentally sees one night—armed men exhuming a body—could cost him his life. Worse, he inadvertently endangers his favorite barista, Jeannette Renfrew, in the process. Their only option? Go on the run and try to save themselves. As they become targets of a manhunt, they stumble upon a cold case with eerie connections to a murder…and Warren’s past. Do Warren and Jeannette dare fall in love as a deadly force tries to silence them?

From Harlequin Romantic Suspense: Danger. Passion. Drama.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harlequin Romantic Suspense
• Release date: Sep 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9780369713681

Melinda Di Lorenzo

Melinda Di Lorenzo has been writing professionally for more than a decade and is the author of Counting Scars and Racing Hearts in the Orca Soundings line. In 2013 she won Harlequin's annual So You Think You Can Write contest, which came with a publishing contract and launched her successfully into the romance world. With a BA in English from Simon Fraser University and a passion for classic love stories that feature strong (albeit sometimes problematic) female leads battling social constraints, such as Pride and Prejudice and Wuthering Heights, Melinda infuses her books with flawed characters in real, relatable situations. Bullied as a teen, Melinda sought refuge in books. She now wants to bring that refuge to others, and she draws on her experience as the parent of three teens to craft stories that reflect modern struggles without turning those struggles into stereotypes. She also supports young writers and makes an annual creative writing scholarship donation to École Salish Secondary. Melinda lives in Surrey, British Columbia.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Overhead, a fork of lightning split the sky, momentarily illuminating the otherwise dark road ahead. Evenly placed fence posts were momentarily visible. A barn in the distance stood out like a dilapidated wooden beacon. Then blackness took over again, and the rumble that followed was as ominous as thunder could be. Wind blasted violently over the prairie highway, kicking up a whine.

Inside his dust-covered pickup truck, Warren Wright fought a shiver. He had the heat blasting on high, but the lick of air that blew through the broken seal of his driver’s-side window held more than a chill. It was heavy with the weight of impending rain, too. Of course, after nearly forty-one years of living in Southern Alberta, Warren had seen enough storms to be sure that there were no guarantees of precipitation. This was the third display in the last two weeks, but it had been twice as long since a drop had fallen, and already there were rumblings from the small-town residents of Pollard. For the sake of the surrounding farmland, he did hope tonight would be the night.

But after I get home, all right? he said as another jagged bolt and its accompanying clap made the world shudder.

A glance at the truck’s dashboard told him that he should’ve been halfway home by now. Twenty minutes more. Maybe less, so long as the highway stayed empty.

Which it probably would, Warren thought dryly. Considering that it’s Friday night at eleven o’clock.

It didn’t exactly qualify as rush hour. Yes, there were enough people who commuted from outside of Calgary proper that there were times of congestion. Seven in the morning and five in the evening came to mind. Particularly if those instances overlapped with a slow-moving tractor or a hay-hauling truck. But the current moment definitely didn’t fall into that category. On top of which, Warren had been forced to pull a U-turn about five clicks back, and he was now headed in the opposite direction of home anyway.

He sighed, annoyed all over again. Realistically, the lack of traffic was the only good thing about his day so far. Everything else fell into the seven depths of hell. From the permit that had fallen through on his two-year-long building project to the plumber who’d walked out at the end of the day while his half-finished, poorly executed job spewed water every which way, there hadn’t been a single silver lining. All he wanted was to crack open a beer, put his feet up on his ottoman and watch the PVRed hockey game. Preferably in flannel PJ bottoms and a T-shirt. Preferably a set that wasn’t covered in construction residue like his current jeans and cotton top. Instead, he was heading back to the city to retrieve the device he both resented and was completely dependent on at the same time.

Stupid damn phone, he muttered.

If it hadn’t been Friday, he might’ve chanced going without it. Or maybe if he hadn’t just let one of the guys on his crew talk him into giving up his landline in favor of full wirelessness. Really, though, the thing that trumped all else was the fact that Warren was the boss. If something—else—went wrong, he needed to be available to deal with it.

Warren pinched his nose, sighed again, then reached over and clicked the radio on. Right away, a voice boomed through the truck.

And for all you Flames fans... said the announcer.

Dammit, Warren swore, belatedly remembering why he’d been maintaining the silence in the first place.

He fumbled to turn the radio off again. He wasn’t quick enough.

A hard loss in the shoot-out, finished the DJ.

Warren stabbed his finger against the button a little too hard, resulting in a momentary loss of control of the steering wheel. A horn blared out, and he jerked the truck back onto his own side of the road as an angry driver—the first one he’d seen since turning around—flipped him the middle finger. Warren growled a curse. Except swearing wasn’t satisfying in the slightest, because a dance of flashes lit up the sky at the same moment, and the thunder clapped all around as though to outdo him.

Seriously?

He squeezed the steering wheel and contemplated turning around once more. Would the world really end if he was out of contact for the weekend? If people were desperate to get a hold of him, they could send an email, couldn’t they? His finger hovered near the turn signal switch. Before he could hit it, though, yet another blaze crackled overhead, and this time, it illuminated a familiar billboard.

More Coffee, read the sign. Our Name Says it All. Open 24 hours!

Underneath the slogan was a picture of a steaming mug and an address.

Unconsciously, Warren relaxed his shoulders. The quaint café was generally his first stop in the morning on the way to the site. The coffee was good. So were the fresh pastries. Neither of those things was what kept him coming back. What Warren liked best was the service. In particular, who he liked best was Jeannie.

The thirty-something barista was an anomaly in the sea of otherwise ultrayoung people working at More Coffee. Not that she looked that much older than they did. In all honesty, Warren had been surprised to learn that she was closer to his age than to theirs. Her skin was flawlessly unlined. The dark, waist-length hair that she wore in a braid was notably devoid of gray. It was something less definable that made her stand out. Multiple things, really. Like the extra second she took to ask him how he was—like she really cared rather than like it was just a part of her job. Or the hint of sadness in her brown eyes that made him want to squeeze her hand and ask if she was okay.

Or maybe you just like reading into everything she does because you think she’s pretty?

Warren gave his head a rueful shake. She was most definitely attractive, but he wasn’t in the market for romance. Not on any level. He had far too much baggage weighing him down. A past that no one—even himself—needed to mire in. Still. That didn’t change the fact that every time he saw the billboard, it was Jeannie’s smile that filled his mind. Even now, when he knew he wasn’t heading into the café—and if he had been, that she wouldn’t be there—he found his mouth curving up a bit as he turned off the highway.

Slowing the truck to a reasonable speed, he navigated the turns without having to think about it. He’d been coming and going from the area for twenty-three months on the nose, and it was as familiar as his own town. Soon, he’d be done. The last of the older, run-down homes were long since demolished. The new shopping mall was up and awaiting its grand opening. The biggest housing subdivision was already teeming with kids on bikes and dogs on leashes. Permit failure notwithstanding, the final piece in the development would be the attached townhome and apartment building where Warren presently spent his days. It was the biggest job he’d ever undertaken. The most collaborative and the most lucrative, too. Up until the inception of this project, he’d worked primarily with individuals rather than companies and city planners. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure he wanted the headache of doing it ever again, either.

And speaking of headaches...

Warren felt one coming on as he neared his on-site office and spied an older model, boxy-looking sedan. The vehicle sat up near the newest—and closest—section of partially finished homes. It was just barely visible in the yellowish glow of the office’s exterior light, but that didn’t stop it from being out of place. Warren wasn’t sure what annoyed him more—the fact that someone was intruding on the property, or the fact that he was now obligated to check it out.

I swear that if I find a bunch of drunk teenagers hanging from the frames, I’m gonna haul their butts down to the police station myself, he thought irritably as he cut the engine, shrugged into his plaid jacket, then swung open the door. And so help me, if I have to replace the damn lock...

Except when he reached the gate, he saw that the heavy chain and padlock weren’t damaged. They simply hung open, whipping and rattling in protest as the wind hit them.

Unease slithered between Warren’s shoulders. Who was there? He swung his gaze up to the sedan and tapped his fingers on his thigh.

On the one hand, the fact that the lock wasn’t broken made him think whoever was there had at least some kind of authorization. A lot of subcontractors came and went. Electricians, plumbers, drywallers and more. Emergencies weren’t limited to business hours. Whoever they were, they could have a perfectly valid reason to be there, even if Warren hadn’t been informed.

He frowned, considering the likelihood. It was plausible. On the other hand, though, he really felt like it was the kind of thing he ought to be aware of. Who didn’t let the guy in charge know if there was extra work to be done after the site closed up?

Then he smiled wryly as he recalled that there was a possibility that someone had tried to call him. Only he would never have known, since his phone was sitting on his desk.

His fingers tapped the denim of his jeans a little harder, the dull, rhythmic thuds vibrating up his leg. Realistically, he knew he couldn’t leave without at least determining who it was, but he sure as hell wished it wasn’t an obligation.

His eyes hung on the car, the discomfort coming back. Was that a light he saw up there, too? For a second, he could swear he saw a bumping series of flashes that had nothing to do with the storm. It didn’t look much like the steady beam of someone who was doing work.

Probably some other dummy who forgot his phone, he muttered, rolling his shoulders to shake off the unease.

He forced his gaze away and stepped through the gate, moving at a quick, irritated pace toward the portable office. If he was lucky, the unexpected visitors would spy him first and save him the trouble of going to them. He didn’t make it all the way to the building, though, before a clang blared out over the wind. It made him pause. For a moment, the air was reasonably still and silent. Then the clang sounded again. It was almost like metal on metal, but not quite.

Warren turned his attention toward the noise. He took a few more steps, this time to the side of the building instead of closer to its door. He halted again, waiting. For several seconds, there was nothing. He was about to turn away when a thick gust of wind kicked up, bringing muffled voices with it.

What the hell was going on back there?

Warren picked up his feet again, striding forward. He moved past the office and through the various piles of discarded construction material. No one was in sight. Certain that he should be able to see some evidence of the commotion, Warren continued his walk. The farther away he got from the office, the more the darkness engulfed him. He half wanted to turn back, but he made himself carry on.

They’re here somewhere.

On cue, that same flickering light came into view, just past an enclosed utility trailer. Cautious now, Warren moved toward it. When he reached the wheeled structure, he at last spied the source of both the noise and the voices. About thirty feet away, just inside a circle of freshly planted trees, were two men. One had a shovel in his hands, the other held a wavering flashlight. The former of the two was younger, shorter and skinnier than the latter, who was gray-haired and quite heavyset. Warren didn’t recognize either of them, but that wasn’t surprising. While he was acquainted with many of the men and women who worked on-site, it would’ve been impossible to recognize every one of them. That didn’t stop the men’s presence from being puzzling. But as Warren continued to stare, the fact that they were there ceased being the most confusing aspect of the scenario. Instead, that honor belonged to holes that dotted the ground.

In the dimness, Warren gave his eyes a quick rub, his mind trying to process what he was seeing. The area where the men stood was a designated greenspace. The trees would eventually grow in a thick grove. A large pond would be the centerpiece. When complete, it would be a beautiful space. Right then, though, the planned park area was the source of Warren’s very long, very bad day. The fallen-through permit had something to do with the proposed irrigation. Did the current activity relate to that in some way?

Then, as if they’d read the turn of his thoughts, the younger man spoke up.

You’re telling me this couldn’t have been done before the construction got this far? he asked.

"You think it wouldn’t have been done, if the boss had known?" replied the older man.

How does something like this get overlooked?

Clerical error. Bureaucratic mix-up. Kind of like the one that created the permit failure that let us be here today. Now dig, before you wind up in one of these holes, just like she did.

The shovel clanged obediently. And a chill, colder than the wind, slapped into Warren. The pair didn’t belong there in any legal capacity. The realization was like a physical blow. He stumbled, lost his footing, then hit the ground hard. To his ears, the thump sounded as loud as the thunder overhead. He scrambled backward, sure the two men would immediately turn his way, and equally sure the result wouldn’t work in his favor. Drawing in a shallow breath, he prepared to defend himself. No one changed their focus. The shovel hit the dirt and gravel. The beam of light bobbed up and down.

Warren exhaled, and he shifted, carefully trying to push himself to his feet without attracting any notice. Except when he slid his hand over the dirt, his index finger caught on something. He gave it a tug. There was a momentary resistance, then his hand came free, and with it the item that had held it captive—a silver necklace, heavily tarnished and caked with mud. By itself, the object was unexpected. But as Warren’s eyes focused on the pendant that hung from the delicate chain, his confusion became a raging storm. He knew the pendant personally. He’d picked it himself, from a local artisan, and he’d fastened it around a girl’s neck. Twenty-five years earlier.

It was impossible. Wasn’t it?

Yet when he blinked, the necklace remained where it was, how it was.

The world swam. Warren wondered if he was about to find out what it felt like to faint.

What in God’s name is happening?

Hey!

The shout cut through the surreal blur, but it still took a too-long moment for him to clue in that the shout was directed his way. He’d been seen.

Reacting instinctively—if belatedly—Warren sprang to his feet. Squeezing the necklace tight in his hand, he ran at dead speed all the way back to his truck, hopped in and peeled away without looking back. They would follow him. He knew it. But he also knew he had to try to get away.

---

Jeannette Renfrew was tired. And not just the need-a-bit-more-sleep, working-too-hard kind of tired. She was bone weary, what-possessed-me-to-take-this-shift tired.

She yawned, and it was so wide and emphatic that it would’ve been embarrassing if there’d been anyone around to see.

So freaking tired, she muttered, wiping a cloth over a saltshaker that she may or may not have wiped down a half a dozen times before. Why did I agree to this?

Of course, she knew exactly why she had. And just what had possessed her, too. Cold, hard cash. Or maybe it would’ve been more accurate to call it lukewarm cash. In the form of a terrible hourly wage and the possibility of some equally terrible tips from the postbar crowd.

Blearily, she lifted her eyes to the strawberry-shaped clock up on the wall. One minute past midnight. It meant she’d been there for a little over two hours. And that she’d be there for just under six more. There were also at least two hours before the bar patrons in question turned up. If they did.

Rowan—the girl whose shift Jeannette was working—had told her that it was kind of a fifty-fifty thing. Sometimes, they picked More Coffee as their drunken haunt. Other times, they hit up a fast-food restaurant for a greasy poutine. Right then, Jeannette couldn’t decide which one she hoped for.

I just hope you and that dumb boyfriend of yours managed to make up, Rowan, she said aloud to her not-present coworker.

Rowan was exactly twenty-two years, three months, and eight days old. The other woman had told Jeannette so just that afternoon. And she’d added that she had no intention of rolling into her thirties—middle age, for crying out loud—as an old maid. Her mouth turned up into a half smile as she thought about the way the pretty brunette had clapped her hand over mouth, then gasped, Not you! as she realized who she was speaking to. But of course, Jeannette did kind of fit the dreaded description. Thirty-six. (And the months and days didn’t matter.) Presently unmarried. No kids. No prospect of either thing in her near future.

By design, she reminded herself.

Although maybe it wouldn’t be fair to say that the circumstances leading up to her current life state were a result of choice.

As she stifled a sigh that would undoubtedly turn into yet another yawn, Jeannette realized that at some point over the last few minutes, she’d slid into one of the soft-backed booths and closed her eyes. She forced herself to lift her lids. But when she tried to stand, her body heaved a cranky protest.

Okay, she said in the empty restaurant. "A ten-minute break. Then coffee, and then we get back to work. Or at least we do some of our homework while we wait for some customers to show up. She paused. And maybe stop talking aloud to ourselves. Myself, I mean."

She pinched the bridge of her nose and attempted to shift her mind onto something productive. Schoolwork was definitely a good option. Especially considering that she was going to be far too tired to get much of anything done the next day. And for a short bit, the refocus worked. The project she had due at the end of the following week for her third-year English class was worth a big chunk of her grade, and Jeannette felt like she’d barely started it. In fact, that worry had come up a lot lately. She was so close to being done with the program. She’d worked hard to get there. Overcome so much and put her past behind her. So why didn’t it feel like achieving her goal was going to bring the sense of satisfaction—the ownership of her life—that she’d assumed it would?

Stop it. School is where you’re meant to be.

And for a moment, her brain hung where it ought to. She debated whether a colorful, automated slideshow would be a better choice for the project, or if she should kick it old-school and make a cardboard foldout. Jane Eyre was a classic, and it deserved to be showcased in a way that would attract attention.

Maybe I should come dressed in a period costume.

A laugh bubbled up at the thought of her classmates’ reaction. There’d be attention all right. And maybe some teasing. Okay, possibly lots of teasing. They already ribbed her good-naturedly about her mature student status and her visible passion for learning. She didn’t mind. Not most of the time, anyway. But truthfully, just over three years ago, when she’d more or less started her life over, she hadn’t exactly thought it would go this way. She hadn’t expected to be unable to find a job in her field—early childhood education—and she hadn’t anticipated going back to school. When she had started down the road to becoming a teacher, she’d imagined roomfuls of like-minded people. Not a group of students who looked like kids.

Jeannette’s smile fell off, and she wondered at what point she’d become a fist-shaking old lady who couldn’t pull an all-nighter.

Just think about something else. Anything else.

But the thing that popped to mind was almost as bad, though in a different way. It was a pair of blue eyes. A specific pair.

Really, Jeannie? she grumbled. "You’re going to go there?"

Pushing to her feet and grabbing her cloth, she tried to tell herself that it made total sense to think of the man attached to those eyes. After all, he was a customer. She was at work. And he hadn’t come in this morning on her regular shift, so he’d peppered her thoughts all day. Was he sick? Away? But for the last two years, he’d dropped in like clockwork at 7:17 a.m. Large coffee, black. The daily pastry special. Except for today—a fact noted not just by Jeannette, but by her boss and by Vishal, the other daytime barista.

Jeannette gave the table an unnecessarily rough scrub. Mr. Blue Collar. That’s what they called him. And it was an apt nickname. He came dressed in work clothes, was unfailingly friendly and had the to-die-for baby blues. Of course, she knew more about him than that. She knew his name was actually Warren Wright and that he lived in a small town almost an hour away. She was aware that he’d worked his way up from construction helper to construction foreman to his current job—the owner of Wright Designs, a contracting company. But she would never admit any of that—or anything else she knew, either—to her coworkers. They bugged her enough about the imaginary love affair that they’d concocted.

She finished the extra-thorough wipe down, then turned and tossed the cloth toward the sanitizing bucket. As the white fabric left her hands, the roar of an engine carried in from somewhere outside the front of the café. The noise startled her so badly that she couldn’t properly complete the throw. The cloth still almost hit its target. But instead of landing inside, it smacked the lip, sloshed the liquid up in a wild spray, then splatted to the ground in a puddle.

Jeannette wrinkled her nose at the mess. Could this night get any worse?

Then—as if provoked by the words—the front door slammed open so hard that it shuddered against the wall on the other side. Jeannette jumped, her heart in her throat. She turned toward the entrance, half-afraid of what she’d find. But if she’d had to make a guess as to who she’d see standing there, it certainly wouldn’t have been Mr. Blue Collar.

Chapter 2

For a tenth of a second, Jeannette was not only relieved, she was also pleased. She was glad to see that Warren was all right. In fact, she was kind of just glad to see him, full stop. But the little zap of enjoyment was gone almost as quickly as it had come. Because there was definitely something very wrong.

Warren’s handsome face—always a little stubble covered, with the smile lines creasing the corners of his eyes and the graying sideburns that begged to have a thumb run gently over them—was deeply troubled. More than troubled. He looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him. And also...scared. An emotion completely at odds with his rugged appearance. Just his height and the width of his shoulders made the idea of him being afraid of anything smaller than a bear ludicrous. So the obvious worry that filled those blue eyes of his made Jeannette’s heart lurch with concern, too.

Warren, what’s wrong? she asked.

She stepped toward him, then blushed a little as she realized she’d been about to put a hand on his elbow. She stopped