I love real-life cold case stories and programs about investigations into unsolved crimes. It’s what made writing COLD CASE REOPENED so much fun! I used so much of what I had gleaned from various sources to craft the story of Rhea Reilly and how she’s trying to find out the truth about what happened to her twin sister. If you like cold case and forensic kinds of mysteries, I hope you’ll check it out. Did I mention there’s also a romance with the sexy detective Rhea has convinced to help her investigate? For now, here’s a teaser and free read for you!

Teaser

They are on a cold trail

And running out of time.

Rhea Reilly is certain her twin sister’s sudden disappearance six months ago wasn’t a suicide, no matter what Colorado authorities think. She can’t afford to trust police detective Jackson Whitaker—even if he’s risking his career to uncover the truth. But a lethal trail of lies is drawing them together…and into an inescapable trap.

Excerpt

Rhea had barely finished unpacking her things when the knock came at the door.

She hurried there and threw it open, expecting to find room service with the extra blanket she’d requested. That earlier chill hadn’t left her, not that a blanket would end it, but it had been worth a try.

It wasn’t room service. It was six-plus feet of lethal male, dressed in police blues, with a white Stetson held in hands that he shifted uneasily on the brim. He had shortly cropped sandy-brown hair that screamed former military and eyes the gray of lake waters on a dreary day. He clenched and unclenched his chiseled jaw as he stood there, obviously hesitant, before he finally said, “You should be more careful and check to see who it is before you open the door.”

Anger ignited instantly at his chastisement. “I was expecting room service. Not the police.”

He tipped his head, seemingly sorry, but he didn’t strike her as the type to apologize. Not willingly anyway. And it occurred to her then that he was the officer she’d run into outside the police station. The one who’d helped her pick up her papers and whom she hadn’t thanked.

“Rhea Reilly,” she said and held out her hand. “I’m sorry I was so rude before. I was upset.”

“I understand. Detective Jackson Whitaker. Jax to my friends.” A ghost of a smile danced across full lips, and he enveloped her hand with his big calloused one.

His touch roused a mix of emotions. Surprising comfort. Unwelcome electricity and heat.

“We’re not friends…yet,” she said as he continued holding her hand, longer than expected. Longer than necessary.

She withdrew her hand from his and wrapped her arms around herself. “And I doubt that you can possibly understand.”

That slight dip of his head came again, as if accepting her statement, and he motioned inside her room with his Stetson. “Do you mind if I come in?”

She both did and didn’t mind. Something about his presence was unnerving, but if he was here, maybe it meant that the chief had reconsidered her request.

“Please,” she said and waved him in.

He entered and, as he did so, his gaze swept the room, assessing. Observant. A cop’s eyes taking in the scene and immediately focusing on the thick folder sitting on a small bistro table beside French doors to a balcony facing the lake. The lake was a constant reminder of why she was here.

“May I?” he said and pointed toward the folder.

“Is that why you’re here? Did Chief Robinson change his mind?”