Connor: Marquette Security, #5

By Clara Kendrick

This is the fifth and final book in the Marquette Security series, with over 80,000 words of romantic suspense.

 

On the night of Connor Marquette's seventeenth birthday, his best friend, Lydia Irvine, was brutally murdered. That's why he left town, joined the military, and then started his own security and private investigation firm.

 

But he never expected Lydia's unsolved case to come back and haunt him the way it has been for the past six months. He knows that it's time to go back to his hometown and solve Lydia's case once and for all, and he's going to need the help of an old high school friend, Whitney, to do it.

 

Just when he thinks he's making progress in the case, it suddenly becomes clear that everything he thought he knew about his past and the people in it couldn't have been more wrong, and if he doesn't act quickly enough, Whitney is going to pay the price.

 

Connor will have to face his demons—even the ones he didn't know he had—and it's only Whitney that can make it all worth it in the end, if he can just get to her in time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clara Kendrick
• Release date: May 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9798224473380

Clara Kendrick

Discover the captivating world of Clara Kendrick's romantic suspense. With her masterful storytelling and skillful blend of intrigue, romance, and passion, Kendrick draws readers in and keeps them hooked until the very end. Get ready to be swept away by her thrilling and steamy tales of love and suspense. Signup and follow at: Books2read.com/ClaraKendrick Facebook.com/AuthorClaraKendrick

Book preview

Prologue

Seventeen years old. It felt like the world was going to open to Connor this year, what with his brand-new job, college applications, his project to restore his grandfather’s car, and all the other exciting adventures that were bound to come with his senior year of high school.

Tonight was the night that would kick it all off, and his friends—especially his two closest friends—would be there to celebrate with him. His parents, after much persuasion, had agreed to rent out the entire skating rink just for him and his friends. It was a nostalgia thing because when they had all met during their first year of middle school, they had spent every Sunday night at that rink, acting like the ability to skate backward could make or break someone’s reputation and obsessing over who would skate together during the end-of-night couples skate.

There would be a lot less sincere skating tonight, now that they had all grown up so much, but they would all dress to the nines, sit in the red and yellow faded booths, eat junk food, play loud music, and blow off steam, as they wound down their junior year of high school. It was going to be the perfect night, and Connor was so antsy to get it started that he kept jiggling his keys in his hands as his mother cut the birthday cake she had made for him and passed him the first piece.

Settle down, she chided, clucking her tongue at him. You’ll be free to go run off with your friends soon enough. But you promised a family celebration, too.

He winced guiltily. Sorry. I’m not impatient. I’m just excited. It’s going to be a cool night—that’s all.

Brenda Marquette gave him an indulgent smile. I know, honey. And we’re excited for you, but we want to celebrate your seventeenth, too.

Speak for yourself, Nick grumbled.

At thirteen years old, Nick was too cool for everything, particularly anything that his big brother got to do that Nick didn’t get to participate in. It was much better to pretend he wouldn’t have wanted to go in the first place than to be told that he was too young to go.

Connor reached over and pushed Nick’s towhead lightly. Oh, get over yourself. You get cake, so you can’t complain.

Hmph, Nick said, grabbing his plate of cake and digging into it in a way that suggested Connor was right on target.

Happy Birthday, Vaughn Marquette said, leaning over and clapping his son’s shoulder as Brenda put a piece of cake in front of him as well. We’re very proud of you, Connor. You’ve grown into quite a young man. You don’t get into trouble. You don’t sneak out. You haven’t even given us trouble by bringing girls around. It’s hard to ask for an easier teenager.

Chuckling, Connor took a big bite of chocolate cake wrapped in whipped chocolate frosting. Those are some pretty low standards, Dad.

What about his grades, too? Brenda added, gesturing with her fork. Almost all A’s this year. Keep that up next year, and you’ll get into some excellent colleges. Are you still interested in marine biology?

Maybe, Connor said, speaking around another big bite of cake. I don’t know. I’ll figure it out after the summer when I have to start applying for places.

Well, whatever you decide to do, you’ll be great at it, Vaughn said, rapping his knuckles against the tablecloth-covered kitchenette set that matched the pale-yellow walls that surrounded it. There’s no doubt.

Nick groaned. Guys, do we have to just talk about how cool Connor is?

We can talk about how cool you are on your birthday, Brenda said, unperturbed by her thirteen-year-old son’s petulance. Don’t you have anything nice to say about your brother?

Connor reached over and ruffled Nick’s hair, not giving him a chance to respond. Course he doesn’t, he teased, standing up. I’ve gotta go. Mom, the cake was really good, and so was dinner. And I love the new shoes. They’re awesome. I just don’t wanna be late...

Go, go, Brenda said, waving him away. Go have a wonderful night with your friends. No drinking. Be home by two. Not a minute later, all right?

That was two hours past his usual curfew, and Connor grinned, hurrying over to give her a hug. You got it. Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad. Bye, Nick.

He waved once more, then grabbed his keys and coat and hurried out of the house into the already darkening night. Illinois Februarys were always brutal, and this one was no different. He shivered as he pulled his heavy coat closer around him and got into his father’s car, which he had permission to borrow for the night.

Connor turned the car on to get the engine warmed up, but he kept the engine in park as he pulled out his phone and checked for messages from his best friends, Owen and Lydia. The three of them were in almost constant communication, and he had several messages from both in their group chat. He skimmed through them, smiling to himself as they bantered back and forth, and then he added his own two cents.

Lydia: What do you mean you can’t pick me up until 7:30? This is just outrageous. You’re going to be in trouble with Connor, Owen. No party starts til I get there.

Owen: Well, considering I have a job and you don’t, we’ll go based on my schedule, party queen. It’s only half an hour! You’ll make an entrance. It’ll be fine.

Connor: On my way. Both of you get there ASAP!

Putting his phone away, Connor put the car in reverse and headed out of the driveway. He turned the music up loud, drumming his hand against the steering wheel as he hummed along with the singer. For a moment, he considered driving past Lydia’s house and picking her up so that she didn’t have to wait on Owen, but knowing her, she probably wasn’t ready anyway. The girl was never on time for anything.

Besides, he wanted to get to the place early in case the two cheerleaders he invited got there right on time. Amber and Abby were two of the most popular girls at Champaign High, and they had said they might actually show up at his birthday. Just the possibility made him press his foot down on the gas a little harder.

This was going to be his best year yet, and it was going to start tonight.

Chapter One

Connor

He woke up in a cold sweat, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling above him. His body clock told him it was about three in the morning, and he trusted that clock after many years in the military. Sometimes, his body clock had been all he’d had to go on.

Besides, it was always about three in the morning when he was jolted out of his restless sleep by whatever terrible nightmare had chosen to haunt him that particular night. The last three months had brought a consistent pattern of terrible dreams. The dream would start with some memory of his days in Afghanistan, and he would find himself somewhere in the desert, surrounded only by empty, broken, useless machinery that would do nothing to protect him against the next ambush attack that he somehow knew was coming at any minute. He wandered helplessly around, stumbling over dead body after dead body, the remains of a brutal massacre of American heroes.

Inevitably, one of those dead bodies would eventually be Lydia’s, out of place and obscenely grotesque. In his dream, he wouldn’t question why she was lying dead in Afghanistan. He would only react to seeing her lifeless body, just the way he had reacted in real life all those years ago. Horror. Nausea. Fear. Anger. Despair. Grief. It all came crashing down on him, and as he sank to his knees beside her, the desert faded, and he was once again standing at the edge of the park where he, Lydia, and Owen had often gathered after school to eat fast food, dish about the day, and, on sunny days, lie down and look up at the blue sky.

Her body lay crookedly between two bushes, her party dress torn and bloodied, her hair matted around her head, and her eyes glazed over as they stared without purpose. Vapid. Empty. Lifeless. Though she was just a few feet from him, he couldn’t reach her to help her. He couldn’t go to her side and take her hand or call her name. He was stuck, so close to her and yet so far away.

And then Owen would appear, brokenhearted and destroyed. He would sob for Lydia, falling to the ground, his whole body shaking with anguish. It would only be in that moment that Connor would realize—over and over again...every night—just how deeply Owen had cared for Lydia. Deeper than Connor had, however much he had loved the young girl as a friend.

The dream would drag on and on, sometimes for what felt like hours, and all Connor could do was stand there, frozen in time, watching one of his best friend’s body lying broken and his other best friend shattering apart with grief. His chest would tighten, and his fists would clench, his body’s instinctive reaction to the totally helpless feeling that overwhelmed him.

And then, eventually, he would wake, sweating, exhausted, and destroyed all over again, as though Lydia died and Owen self-destructed every single night.

Connor knew enough about such things to understand how unhealthy his mental state must be if this was what his brain played to him while he slept. But he also knew that nothing was going to change until he figured out who was behind Lydia’s death—and who had been sending him messages about her for the past six months.

After Lydia’s death, Connor and Owen’s friendship had fallen apart. Guilt and anger and tragedy had been too much for them, close as they were, and they had gone their separate ways. Owen had never gone much of anywhere, actually, but Connor gave up his college goals and dreams to join the military, knowing that it was the quickest way to get him as far away as possible.

He and Owen went years without talking, and then, before Connor could make the first move to try to repair their friendship, he received word that Owen had been killed in a car accident. That he had likely been under the influence at the time. That his life, short and bitter, was over.

Connor got up from his bed, knowing that sleep was no longer a possibility that night. He sat on the edge of his bed, scrubbing a hand over his face as he tried to get his bearings again. After he’d left the military, he had put a lot of effort into leaving the past in the past, even distancing himself from his family because they still lived in the same town and the same house all these years later.

He’d moved to Chicago, begun a security agency, and made new friends—incredible, loving, supportive friends who were every bit as much family to him as the family he had left behind in Champaign, Illinois. All of their lives had taken off this year, with one amazing thing after the next happening for all of them. Ethan, one of his oldest Chicago-area friends, had reconnected with his little girl and gotten engaged to the love of his life. Ian had fallen hard for the beautiful, funny, intelligent Hayley, and they moved in together. Dean, whom Connor had worried would never settle down, had abandoned his partying ways for food scientist and single mother Quinn, and they were now expecting their first baby together. And sweet, strong Willow—the girl of the group and resident little sister to all of them—had just found her own happy ending in the arms of the older, wiser Benjamin.

The happiness on all of their faces radiated, and all of their get-togethers were now so full of fun, life, and family. Even though Connor didn’t have anyone special in his life—he didn’t have time anyway—he loved the changes he had seen come over everyone, and it helped to chase away the bad memories that he had left back in his hometown. Lydia’s ghost wasn’t supposed to have been able to follow him here and break through all of that.

Except she had. On his birthday this year, the ten-year anniversary of Lydia’s death, someone had sent him a letter about her. That letter had been followed with monthly missives that had grown into packages filled with her childhood pictures and even photographs of her from the night she had died.

At first, Connor had wondered if it wasn’t Lydia’s brother, who had never recovered from her death, trying to get Connor to investigate again and blaming Connor for not figuring out who had hurt Lydia all those years ago.

He walked over to his work desk and sat down, reaching out to touch the photograph that had changed his whole perspective about the person who was stalking him with memories of Lydia. He had found the image on his bed one day, but that part wasn’t what had bothered him most.

What bothered him most was that the picture showed Lydia in the dress that she had died in, except in the picture, she was still alive. Her eyes were filled with fear, and she was cringing away from the photographer. It didn’t take a trained military man or a private investigator to realize exactly what that meant.

The person taking the picture had been Lydia’s killer, and for some reason, after ten years, the murderer was reaching out to Connor, taunting him. Did the murderer want to be discovered? Was guilt eating away at him? Or her?

Somehow, Connor didn’t think so. The letters were too angry. Too sarcastic. Too biting. The writer was angry with Connor. Angry because—somehow—he was to blame for Lydia’s death, though how Connor couldn’t imagine.

He had loved Lydia like a sister, and he had carried her with him every day since her death, however much he didn’t want to some days.

Connor reached for one of the letters and reread it. Then he placed it back in its order and reached for another one. He read that one. Then he looked at more of the pictures, carefully keeping them in order as well. It was his nightly ritual once he woke from his nightmares, and though it got him nowhere new, he did it faithfully, waiting for the day when the first clue he needed would jump out at him, and he could put Lydia’s memory to rest and reclaim his own life.

Chapter Two

Whitney

I understand your point, but there are certain standards here to which we adhere. And I’m sorry, but you haven’t met them. Whitney handed the young girl across from her a manila folder with her paperwork tidily held within, not reacting to the tears welling in the former assistant’s eyes. Inside, you’ll find an excellent severance package—far exceeding what you would find anywhere else, I’m certain. It should give you three months to find a new position, which I’m sure you will if you apply the lessons that you’ve learned here at Williams, Chhabra, and Sullivan.

Whitney sat back in her chair, the wide expanse of her sleek black desk separating her from Angelica, who had worked for her for the past six months. She said nothing else but folded her hands in her lap and glanced towards her glass door, a clear indication that their meeting was over.

Mrs. Hannigan— Angelica began, her voice catching.

Whitney interrupted her. Ms. Hannigan, Angelica. I’ve told you again and again.

Yes, but Mrs. Hannigan, you just have to give me another chance, Angelica pleaded. I can’t lose another job. I just can’t.

Whitney sighed but said nothing, her fingers remaining laced together on her lap. The only change was that her foot, wearing its pointed black heel, began to bounce impatiently beneath the desk.

Angelica took that as an invitation to continue. I know that I can be late sometimes. And I don’t always file the paperwork the right way. But I need more time to learn, that’s all. I’m smart, and I’m capable, and I can do it if you’ll just work with me, Mrs. Hannigan. I swear I can do it.

Do you know what I do for a living? Whitney asked, tilting her head.

Seeming confused, Angelica glanced around the room. Well, yeah...you’re a lawyer.

Yes. That means that I draw conclusions based on evidence. Could I go into a courtroom and present a jury with a slew of evidence that suggested that a client was guilty but then ask them to simply take my assurances that he was innocent?

Angelica frowned, her brow knitting. I guess not.

And, yet, that’s what you’re doing, Whitney pointed out, quite enjoying her metaphor now that she’d thought of it. You have spent six months providing me with daily evidence that you are not capable of doing the job I have hired you to do, and yet you want me to simply accept your assurances that you can. Angelica, a jury would not accept that, and neither would I. Now, please excuse yourself. I have a great deal of work to do.

Angelica stood up, and Whitney felt a sense of relief that they could now both move on with their day, but as she reached for her phone to tell her assistant, who still remained, to write a job advertisement for Angelica’s position, she got the shock of Angelica’s wrath instead.

I hate you! Angelica shouted at her. Working for you has been the worst experience of my life. Nobody—nobody—should have to work here. You’re never nice. You’re never patient. You’re always correcting me! Hasn’t anyone ever told you to just take a breath and calm down for a minute? This office isn’t life or death! God! And I hate how you make me call you Ms. Hannigan and correct me when you don’t. You’re all sensitive about being a powerful woman, and you don’t want people to think you’re married—that’s so messed up! You’re a sad, lonely, workaholic, and I’m glad not to work for you anymore!

With that outburst, Angelica threw the manila envelope down on the desk and stormed out, her thin ankles wobbling on the royal blue heels she was wearing with her lavender bodycon dress.

For a long moment, Whitney simply stared at the door, uncertain how she should react. It was hardly the first time she’d ever been called uptight, and she wasn’t so lacking in self-awareness that she couldn’t admit that, yes, she was a bit intense. But no one had ever spoken to her that way, and it left her more unsettled than she cared to admit.

Hey...

The tentative greeting was accompanied by a light knock at the door, and Whitney waved her other assistant, Julia, in. Shut the door behind you.

Julia did, then walked over and sat down in the chair that Angelica had recently vacated. So... Julia said, smiling a bit. That went well.

I guess everyone heard her.

I’ve always thought it was strange to have a law office with glass walls. For a place that’s centered on attorney-client privilege, the offices sort of do let you see and hear everything.

Whitney shook her head, reaching a hand behind her to smooth down the back of her pixie cut. It was a nervous gesture more than a necessity, and all she felt against her hand was a tidy array of fine, red hairs, all perfectly in place. Was I wrong to fire her?

Julia laughed. Are you kidding? She was incompetent. Nothing can change that. She couldn’t do the work, and you fired her with a nice severance package. Life happens, chick.

"Did you just call me chick?"

Yes, and if you complain about it, then I’ll call you uptight and lonely.

Whitney cracked a smile. She didn’t have very many friends, but Julia, her assistant for many years now, was certainly one of them, and she trusted the woman’s opinion. So, is that what I’m really like? Power hungry, lonely, and uptight?

I prefer to think of it as career-oriented, self-sufficient, and dedicated.

Smiling more widely now, Whitney picked up her pen, tapping it against her desk. That does sound better.

You’re not the Wicked Witch, Julie said, rolling her eyes. Angelica has her own issues, the primary one being that nothing can ever be her fault. Therefore, it must be yours, Mrs. Hannigan.

I have no idea why that one bothered her. So, I’m proud of the fact that I’m not married, and I don’t want to be given a title that suggests that my last name somehow belongs predominantly to my non-existent husband. Whitney threw her hands up. So shoot me.

Julia winced. Okay, so as a lawyer, you probably shouldn’t give people extra invitation to shoot you. Most of them want to anyway.

Whitney laughed, rolling her own eyes. Okay, okay, you’ve joked me out of my Angelica-induced mini-crisis. Don’t you have work to do?

Yeah, tons of it. My boss is a total bitch, Julie said. Without waiting for Whitney to respond, she smirked and moved on. A couple of things before I get back to the grindstone. First, your client dinner tonight has been cancelled. Hank has a party to go to.

Of course, he does. Which means he’ll be in more trouble shortly.

So, I took the liberty of calling Abigail and scheduling a dinner with her instead. I know that you’ve been trying to find a way to squeeze her into your schedule. She’s available at seven.

Perfect, Whitney agreed, jotting down a note on the calendar she always had beside her. Why don’t you come with us? You were as much a part of her case as anyone.

Julia smiled. I made the reservation for three of us. Then, I rearranged your schedule for tomorrow because sweet Angelica triple-booked you at one. So ...you have to be here at eight in the morning, and you have client meetings straight until four in the afternoon, but at least everyone gets in. I’ll plan to work until at least eight tomorrow because I know that after your meetings, we need to prep for the Manga trial.

You’re amazing, Whitney said, leaning back in her seat and taking a deep breath that removed from her body the lingering tension from Angelica’s outburst. Seriously. Do we even need a second assistant around here?

It’s possible that you could decline your second assistant line and argue for a raise for your favorite employee. Julia beamed charmingly, batting her eyelashes.

Done, Whitney said without hesitation. Write it up for me, and I’ll sign off on the request. I’ll see you at dinner tonight.

Julia left, and Whitney returned to the slew of work that was waiting for her. She didn’t have very many people in her life, and Champaign, Illinois, wasn’t the town she had ever thought she would land in, but it was impossible to forget that she was pretty lucky for what she did have—namely, a job where she would make partner in the next two years and people like Julia around her to keep her grounded.

With all of that, what did she need with the classic happily-ever-after most people craved?

Chapter Three

Connor

He’d fallen asleep at his desk again. Connor sat up and rubbed his eyes, looking around his office at Marquette Security with blurry vision that cleared slowly. It was almost two in the afternoon, and he’d been at his desk since six o’clock that morning, going over and over the papers in Lydia’s file, even though he had them all memorized by