Shattering Dawn

An unsettling investigation teaches two deeply suspicious people how to trust in the next thrilling novel of the Lost Night Files trilogy by Amelia Rivers, a member of the Gideon suspects that Amelia is either paranoid or an outright con artist, but he can’t resist the chemistry between them. He takes the case despite his skepticism. For her part, Amelia has second thoughts about the wisdom of employing the mysterious Mr. Sweetwater. She is wary of the powerful attraction between them, and deeply uneasy about the nightmarish paintings on the walls of his home. She senses they were inspired by his own dreamscapes. Amelia knows she doesn’t have time to find another investigator, and Gideon is;forced to reckon with the truth when he disrupts what was intended to be Amelia’s kidnapping. Now the pair is on the run, with no choice but to return to the haunting ruins of the old hotel where Amelia’s lost night occurred. They are desperate to stop a killer and the people who are conducting illegal experiments with a dangerous drug that is designed to enhance psychic abilities. If they are to survive, they will have to trust each other and the passion that bonds them.

Autorentext
Jayne Ann Krentz is the author of more than fifty New York Times bestsellers. She has written contemporary romantic suspense novels under that name and futuristic and historical romance novels under the pseudonyms Jayne Castle and Amanda Quick, respectively.

Klappentext

"Amelia Rivers, a member of the Lost Night Files podcast team, hires private investigator Gideon Wells to catch the stalker who has been watching her. Amelia suspects the stalker may be connected to the shadowy organization responsible for the night that she and her two friends lost to amnesia--a night that upended their lives and left them with paranormal talents. Gideon suspects that Amelia is either paranoid or an outright con artist, but he takes the case despite his skepticism"--

Leseprobe
CHAPTER ONE

Maybe the stalker would not return tonight.

Maybe she had imagined the ghostly figure in the hoodie and running sweats. Maybe no one was watching her. Maybe she was falling into a vortex of delusions and hallucinations.

No. She might be losing it but she was not that far gone-not yet, at any rate. She was not hallucinating. She was a rational, logical woman descended from a family tree that had produced a lot of highly successful individuals in fields ranging from psychiatry to engineering.

Okay, so she wasn't one of the overachievers, and yes, there was the occasional self-declared psychic like Aunt Cybil dangling from a branch or two. The point was, none of them had wound up in an asylum. As her mother said, every family had a few eccentrics.

Amelia Rivers hovered in the shadows of her second-floor apartment balcony and struggled to suppress the stirring tentacles of panic. The balmy San Diego night seemed to close in around her.

Dr. Pike was right. She was developing a full-blown phobia, complete with anxiety attacks and excuses. At the rate she was losing ground she would soon become a total recluse after sundown. Pike had warned that the fear would eventually creep into the daylight hours. She probably should not have canceled the last two appointments with him. He meant well. She did not doubt his concern for her mental health. But she no longer had any real hope that he could help her deal with the visions.

She checked her watch. It was almost one o'clock. She clutched the old-school film camera in one hand and waited. The stalker would either show up or not. She no longer knew which outcome she wanted. Both were equally scary. If the watcher was real, she was in danger. If she had hallucinated him, she should probably check herself into a psychiatric hospital.

From where she stood, she had a view of the lushly planted courtyard and the glowing blue pool in the center. The four wings of the two-story apartment complex surrounded the gardens on all sides. There were four entrances. Each was guarded by a high wrought iron security gate and there were cameras, but it was easy enough to slip onto the grounds if you waited for an opportunity to follow a resident inside.

There was no roving guard or drive-by security service. Amenities on that level were only available at the more expensive properties. She was on a budget. It was tough to make a living as a photographer.

Last night the stalker had arrived from the service lane gate, which was veiled by a couple of palm trees and a bunch of strategically planted bushes. No one wanted to look at the massive garbage and recycle bins.

The walls of night seemed to move in on her. She would not be able to stay outside much longer.

Stupid phobia.

She was coming to the grim conclusion that she had imagined the stalker when she glimpsed a slight movement in the shadows near the service lane gate. She almost stopped breathing.

The figure in the hoodie emerged from behind the mass of greenery that shielded the entrance on the far side of the courtyard. The vintage Nikon camera that she had purchased from an online collector shook a little in her fingers. She was already tense but the fresh dose of fear-driven adrenaline sent shivers through her.

The stalker went swiftly along the path that led to the pool and disappeared behind the equipment shed. Something about the smooth, efficient-one could even say predatory-way he moved was as disturbing as the silent shriek of her intuition warning her that she was the stranger's target. Dr. Pike could blame her nerves as much as he liked. She no longer gave a damn. She knew this creepy sensation all too well. This was not the first time she had been hunted.

Down below, the stalker reappeared from behind the pool house. She held her breath, raised the camera, and focused through the viewfinder. She could not use a flash. The bright burst of hot light would interfere with her other vision. But she was not out here on the balcony, braving the oppressive weight of the night, because she hoped to grab a photo of the stalker's face. She was after some very different images, the kind that could only be captured with an old-fashioned single-lens reflex camera and black-and-white film. A digital camera would not work for what she had in mind.

The hooded figure glided toward the courtyard stairs that served her wing of the complex. Sure, he might be a new tenant who happened to live on her floor, but what were the odds?

She waited as long as she dared, letting the stalker get close, and took the picture. The snap of the shutter sounded loud to her ears, but down in the courtyard the figure in the hoodie did not appear to hear it. He continued to head toward the stairs of her building.

A rush of panic hit her. She took another shot, this time with the flash. The bright burst of light grabbed the stalker's attention. He stopped abruptly and looked up. The hood of his sweatshirt still shielded his face.

"You down there in the gardens," she called, going for an irritated but unsuspecting tone. "Would you mind getting out of the way? I'm trying to practice my night photography."

The figure did not move. She got the feeling he was trying to decide how to handle the situation.

"Feel free to stay in the scene," she said. "But I'll be publishing these pics online, so if you value your privacy-"

The stalker made his decision. He whirled and ran, heading back toward the service lane gate.

The balcony door of the apartment two doors down on the right opened. Irene Morgan appeared. She was dressed in a slinky satin bathrobe and a pair of sexy, stylish mules. Her mane of blond hair hung in deep waves around her lovely face. No matter what she wore she managed to project a vibe of Old Hollywood glamour.

"Amelia?" she said in a loud whisper that enhanced her husky voice.…