Death Is Not Enough

  Copyright © 2018 Karen Rose Books, Inc.

  The right of Karen Rose Books, Inc. to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by that company in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2018

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 4409 3

  Cover photograph © Larry Rostant

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Also by Karen Rose

  Dedication

  Praise

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Epilogue

  About Karen Rose

  Karen Rose was introduced to suspense and horror at the tender age of eight when she accidentally read Poe’s The Pit and the Pendulum and was afraid to go to sleep for years. She now enjoys writing books that make other people afraid to go to sleep.

  Karen lives in Florida with her family, their cat, Bella, and two dogs, Loki and Freya. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading, and her new hobby – knitting.

  By Karen Rose

  Have You Seen Her?

  Don’t Tell

  I’m Watching You

  Nothing to Fear

  You Can’t Hide

  Count to Ten

  Die For Me

  Scream For Me

  Kill For Me

  I Can See You

  Silent Scream

  You Belong to Me

  No One Left to Tell

  Did You Miss Me?

  Watch Your Back

  Monster in the Closet

  Death is Not Enough

  Closer Than You Think

  Alone in the Dark

  Every Dark Corner

  Edge of Darkness

  Novellas available in ebook only

  Broken Silence

  Dirty Secrets

  To Robin Rue, who believes in me when I doubt myself.

  And, as always, to Martin. I love you.

  Praise for Karen Rose and her novels

  ‘A high-octane thrill ride that kept me on the edge of my seat and up far too late at night!’ Lisa Jackson

  ‘Intense, complex and unforgettable’ James Patterson

  ‘Karen Rose delivers the kind of high-wire suspense that keeps you riveted’ Lisa Gardner

  ‘Takes off like a house afire. There’s action and chills galore in this nonstop thriller’ Tess Gerritsen

  ‘Fast and furious’ Sun

  ‘A pulse pounding tale that has it all’ Cosmopolitan

  ‘Rose juggles a large cast, a huge body count and a complex plot with terrifying ease’ Publishers Weekly

  ‘A blend of hard-edged police procedural and romance – engaging’ Irish Independent

  Acknowledgements

  Terri, Kay, Sonie, Mandy, and Amy for all your love and support.

  Chris, Cheryl, Brian, Kathy, Susan, and Sheila for the plotting.

  Julie Gerhart-Rothholz for making sure I described my Julie just right.

  Sarah Hafer for editing all the pages (even the ones that make you blush).

  Beth Miller and Sarah Hafer for the proofing.

  Claire Zion and Alex Clarke for guiding me in making this an even better book.

  All mistakes are my own.

  Prologue

  Nineteen years earlier . . .

  Chevy Chase, Maryland,

  Sunday 10 January 10.30 P.M.

  ‘Sherri, give me the damn key.’

  Rolling her eyes at her boyfriend’s growl, Sherri Douglas closed the driver’s-side door, locked up, and tossed the key to her old Ford Escort over its peeling roof. ‘There you go.’

  Thomas’s scowl was interrupted by the grimace of pain that twisted his bruised face as he reflexively caught the key in midair. He froze for a second, then hissed as he lowered his arm. ‘Shit,’ he muttered.

  Sherri sucked in a breath, instantly regretting her thoughtlessness. ‘Oh, Tommy, I’m sorry. That was stupid of me.’

  He schooled his battered features and swallowed hard, pursing his lips then quickly opening his mouth because his lip was split too.

  She wanted to cry. His beautiful face was . . . still so beautiful. But hurt. Her chest ached as she catalogued every wound. She wanted to hit something. Someone. Four someones, actually. She narrowed her eyes, thinking about the boys who’d done all that damage. Hating them. Her fists clenched and she shoved them in her coat pockets. Hitting them wasn’t going to help Thomas.

  And her father would kill her if she got in trouble too. Her dad wasn’t terribly keen on her dating a white boy to begin with. Ha. A white boy. It would have been funny had it not been so frustratingly sad. Thomas’s dark skin wasn’t white enough for him to fit in here at school, but he wasn’t black enough for her father. At least he hadn’t forbidden them from seeing each other. Because Sherri would have disobeyed her father if he’d tried. But if she got expelled along with Thomas? Her father would make sure they never saw each other again.

  Expelled. They’d expelled him. She still couldn’t believe it. It was so unfair.

  ‘Don’t you ever call yourself stupid,’ Thomas said quietly.

  She blinked in confusion, then realized he was referring to what she’d just said. But it had been stupid to make him move so quickly. ‘I should have thought.’ Because it wasn’t only his face that was battered. They’d kicked his arms and legs too. She clenched her teeth, willing the tears back.

  They’d hurt him. Those bastards. They’d hurt him.

  Thomas shook his head. ‘It’s all right. I’ll live.’ He walked around to where she stood and held out the car key, his expression one of weary defeat. ‘Sherri, please. Give me t
he right key. I’m too tired for games. I just want to get my bass and get out of here. Get back in the car and keep it running. You should stay warm.’

  Her eyes filled with tears she couldn’t hold back. ‘I’m going with you,’ she whispered fiercely.

  His dark brows lifted, his split lip bending down. ‘No. You’re not.’

  ‘I’m . . .’ Her voice broke and she looked up at him helplessly. He was so big and strong and . . . good. Better than any of those bastards. One on one, it would have been no contest. At six-three, he was the tallest, strongest boy in their class. But there’d been four of them. Four. They’d beaten him and yet he’d been blamed. He’d been punished. He’d been expelled.

  Because Richard Linden – even in her mind, Sherri hissed the entitled bastard’s name – thought he had the right to touch any of the scholarship girls. Just because we’re poor. And he’s not. And because Thomas couldn’t ignore poor Angie’s terrified face as Richard held her against the wall and groped her. And because when Thomas pulled Richard off Angie, Richard and his posse of thugs attacked him and beat the crap out of him.

  The principal had blamed Thomas. What a shock. Dr Green did whatever the Linden family said because they were rich. And white. And Thomas and Angie and I are not. And to make it all even worse, somehow Richard or one of his crew had gotten to Angie, because she was denying Richard had even touched her.

  So they’d expelled Thomas. He’d worked so damn hard to look good to the colleges. He’d needed a scholarship or he wasn’t going. Now? He’d have to go to his local high school, the expulsion on his permanent record. Would the colleges even want him after this?

  Richard Linden and those bully friends of his had stolen Thomas’s future. She was going to make damned sure they didn’t touch anything else of his. A blink sent the tears down her cheeks. ‘I’m going with you,’ she repeated. ‘It’s just the band room. It’s not dangerous.’

  ‘If you get caught, you’ll be expelled right along with me.’ He cupped her jaw in his huge hand, gently swiping at her tears with his thumb. ‘I won’t let that happen to you.’

  ‘It shouldn’t have happened to you. It’s so unfair, Tommy.’ She bit her lip hard, trying not to cry anymore. She knew her tears ripped him up.

  He drew a deep breath. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We need to fight this. You need to fight this. You did the right thing. You protected Angie. You were the hero.’

  ‘Fighting it won’t do any good.’

  She held his gaze, desperately hoping to make him see reason. ‘We can sue.’

  He laughed, a huff of disbelief. ‘What? No!’

  She took his free hand in hers, twined their fingers together. Her skin dark, his a few shades lighter. ‘We can get a lawyer.’

  ‘With what?’ he scoffed. ‘Willy counts every bite of food I put in my mouth, for God’s sake. You think he’s gonna pay for a lawyer?’

  Thomas’s stepfather was a nasty, abusive man. Sherri didn’t like being around him. He made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. He didn’t make any secret of the fact that he thought Thomas was inferior. Thomas, who was better than all the other men.

  Thomas, who Sherri loved with all her heart.

  ‘We can call the ACLU,’ she said.

  Thomas blinked down at her. ‘No way. I’m not suing anyone. Nothing ever gets solved in court.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Her voice was trembling again and she closed her eyes to fight back tears. ‘Tommy, this is your life.’

  Wearily, he leaned down until their foreheads and noses touched, a gesture he’d learned from his real father, with his Maori roots. His real father, long dead, whose memory Thomas quietly worshipped.

  Sherri, only five feet nothing, leaned up on her toes so that he didn’t have to bend down so far. She barely caught his whispered reply.

  ‘I can’t fight the Lindens, Sher. You know it as well as I do. Nobody is going to stand up for me. Nobody but you.’

  ‘But some of the teachers might. Coach Marion or Mr Woods . . .’ The soccer coach loved Thomas, and their history teacher did too.

  He closed his eyes, shook his head, pivoting against her forehead. ‘They won’t stand up for me either.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  He drew in an anguished breath. ‘Because they didn’t,’ he snapped, then sighed. ‘They had a chance on Thursday.’

  ‘They pulled the boys off you,’ she murmured. ‘Then walked with you to the main office.’

  Except that Thomas hadn’t been walking, not really. He’d been too badly hurt, dizzy from the kicks to his head and limping because one of the boys had repeatedly stomped on his knee with a heavy boot. Coach Marion and Mr Woods had actually been holding him upright.

  ‘They had the chance to tell Dr Green what happened, but they didn’t.’ Thomas shrugged. ‘Woods started to, but Green called him out into the hall and said something about contract renewal.’

  Sherri’s eyes widened. ‘He threatened Mr Woods’s job?’

  ‘Yes. I assume he said the same to Coach, because he didn’t speak up for me either. And they were the best allies I had.’ Another defeated shake of his head. ‘Hell, Miss Franklin could have let you take my bass with you on Friday, but here we are, breaking into the school to get it. I bet Dr Green threatened her too.’

  It would have sounded paranoid, except that it was true.

  Miss Franklin had said as much when she pressed three keys into Sherri’s palm late Friday afternoon. One was to the school’s outer door closest to the band room, one to the band room itself, and the third unlocked the instrument cabinet.

  I can’t give him the bass myself. But if someone breaks in and takes it? Miss Franklin had shrugged. That would be a real shame. Especially if it happened on Sunday night. Nobody’s here to stop any would-be thieves on Sunday night.

  Miss Franklin wanted to help, but she wasn’t willing to defend Thomas either, and the realization was devastating.

  ‘Tommy . . .’

  He pressed his finger to Sherri’s lips. ‘Nobody’s gonna stand up for me, Sher, and that’s just the way it is. I’ll go to the high school near my house. I’ll be okay. I’m more worried about you, staying here without me.’

  She wanted to say she’d go with him, that she’d leave this fancy school with its rich white brats and follow him wherever he went. But her father wouldn’t allow it. Her parents wanted her to have a future, and Ridgewell Academy was her ticket to an easier life. There had to be an answer for Thomas, but she wasn’t going to figure it out standing here in the school parking lot.

  She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. ‘Come on. Let’s get your bass.’ It had been his father’s – his real father, not that piece of shit who was his stepfather. His real dad had died when Thomas was five, and the bass was all he had left of him.

  The instrument wasn’t worth a lot of money, but it was everything to Thomas. He never left it at school overnight, but the principal hadn’t let him get it Thursday after the incident. Dr Green hadn’t allowed Sherri to get it for him either, the ass.

  She set off at a half jog toward the rear of the building, well aware that one of Thomas’s strides required two of hers. At least on a normal day. He was still limping and she reached the door before he did, scowling as she unlocked it and slipped through, holding it for him.

  ‘Dammit, Sherri, go back to the car. I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘Nope.’ Because she wasn’t sure what they’d find in the instrument closet. Yes, she had the keys, but it had been forty-eight hours since she’d seen the bass. She wanted to be there to support Thomas if someone – like Richard Linden and his friends – had gotten there first. If the bass was gone . . . or, even worse, broken?

  Thomas was going to lose it.

  The heavy outer door closed behind them, automatically locking with a click that
echoed in the quiet. ‘Let’s do this,’ Sherri said, and started jogging toward the band room. She could hear Thomas’s heavy steps behind her. Normally he moved like a panther, swiftly and silently, but Richard’s friends had done a number on his knee.

  Abruptly, his footsteps halted. ‘Sherri,’ he hissed. ‘Wait.’

  She slowed and turned. ‘I’m not going back to the . . .’

  Thomas was limping down one of the side corridors, and Sherri followed, catching up as he reached the stairwell at its end. ‘Sherri!’ he shouted, panic in his voice.

  ‘I’m here,’ she said, a little out of breath. ‘What’s wrong?’ A second later, her eyes adjusted to the dim light . . . and she saw. Horrified, she stumbled backward. ‘Oh my God. Who is it?’

  Because the boy on the floor wasn’t recognizable. Someone had beaten him until his features were one big bloody mess.

  Thomas crawled under the stairwell and pressed his fingers to the boy’s neck. ‘He’s . . . still alive, but God, Sher. I don’t see how. Looks like he was stabbed.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘I’ll try to stop the bleeding. You call 911.’

  ‘I don’t have any quarters.’

  ‘You don’t need them for 911. Go!’ He shrugged out of his coat, wincing in pain because his arm still hurt. She turned to run, but from the corner of her eye she saw him freeze.

  ‘Shit,’ he whispered, then looked up to meet her eyes. ‘It’s Richard.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Sherri breathed. ‘Oh no.’

  Thomas’s jaw tightened. ‘Go. Call 911. He’s lost a lot of blood. Go!’

  She turned at the snapped command, then stopped short when he called her name again. He’d taken off his coat and was now ripping off the sweater she’d given him for Christmas. ‘What?’ she asked as he flung the sweater away and began taking off a long-sleeved T-shirt.

  He balled the T-shirt up and pressed it to Richard’s stomach. ‘Once you’ve called 911, get out of here. I don’t want you involved.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t argue!’ he shouted. ‘Just . . .’ His voice broke, and he blinked, sending a tear down his battered cheek. ‘Just go,’ he whispered hoarsely.