Harlequin Romantic Suspense April 2021 by Karen Whiddon (interesting books to read for teens TXT) 📕

stopped himself before offering to help, remembering how she’d reacted to his offer the day before.

“Suit yourself,” she said, arms folded across her chest. Luis figured that was as good of an invitation as he was going to get. “Got a pair of gloves, Doc?”

Doc Lambert withdrew several pairs of translucent gloves from his pocket and handed them to Luis. After pulling on the protective gear, he patted down the corpse. There was no wallet in the jacket pocket. None in the pants pocket, either. “Nothing,” he said. “It looks like we have a John Doe.”

Calling down to Deputy Cooper, Julia said, “I need you to secure a two-block radius. Don’t let anyone in at all. Anything you find, you place in an evidence bag. After that, check the trash cans and see if a wallet was thrown away.”

“Sure thing,” said Cooper. “What else?”

“Get the other deputies over here. Have them bring the camera. I want photographs of everything.”

Deputy Cooper nodded.

Luis returned to the victim and took out his phone to take photos. In his experience, every corpse had a story to tell. Too bad that this guy didn’t have much to say...at least not yet.

“Have you been able to determine the time of death yet, Doc?” Julia asked, her arms still tightly folded over her chest.

At first, Luis had seen her stance as a defensive posture—body language meant to protect and ward off interference. Then he understood. She was cold—she was wearing running gear and had been sweating only moments before. While the morning chill had eased a bit, it was still far from warm.

Standing, he slipped off his flannel shirt. Holding it out to Julia, he said, “Here.”

A beat passed. Then another. She reached for the shirt. Her fingertips grazed his knuckles and Luis’s hand warmed. He tried to ignore the sensation of her touch while Julia worked her arms into the sleeves.

“Thanks.” Then she turned and said, “Doc, if you and the deputies have this covered, I’m going to the inn and see if I can get an ID for John Doe. You got pics on your phone to show the staff at the inn?” she asked of Luis.

Rubbing his hand over her knuckles—the exact place she’d touched—he gave a terse nod. “Got ’em.”

“Care to come with me?” she asked.

Luis never gave up when playing football in high school, or at community college. That inability to let go was what had made him a good cop. And a lousy gambler.

Then again, he already saw this case as his. So did he want to go with Julia? Without question. The need to know how the dead guy ended up in the gazebo was keen. Yet, he wasn’t sure that being a part of the investigation was the best idea—not while his flesh still held the memory of Julia’s touch.

CHAPTER 3

Peter Knowles sat behind his desk in the editor’s office of the Pleasant Pines Gazette, staring at a blank computer screen. Finger hovering over the keys, he waited for inspiration to strike and unleash a torrent of words. They never came and the blank screen continued to chastise Peter for having nothing to say.

Early on a Sunday morning, the newspaper’s headquarters was blessedly silent. Then again, they only operated with the smallest of staffs. There was a single photographer, who also wrote about high school sports. Two other reporters, a retired English teacher and a part-time novelist were paid by the article.

The PPG had been housed in the same building, five blocks from the town square for nearly a century. The walls were brick. The floor was wood. The radiator hissed and barely warmed the cavernous newsroom in the winter. Despite all its flaws, for Peter, this was home.

Searching for a topic for his column, Peter knew one thing for certain—more than half of the readers only wanted their biweekly copy of the Pleasant Pines Gazette to glance over the obituaries, local sports scores and bits of local gossip.

All of that changed when it was discovered that the sleepy town of Pleasant Pines had unknowingly been the home of a notorious serial killer—Darcy Owens. She had claimed several victims while living and working in town. Like a long-neglected houseplant, the community was thirsty for minute-by-minute updates as the story unfolded.

Peter had worked nonstop to provide the best information he could to the town. His hard work had paid off. Subscriptions quadrupled in a few short weeks. Peter started charging access to the paper’s online site, something he never would have imagined possible.

Then, as quickly as the investigation began, it ended when the killer was arrested. The stories became less sensational as court proceedings and inconclusive psychological evaluations dulled the daily headlines. As Darcy Owens languished in a jail cell, Peter wondered if his newspaper would be her final victim.

The wail of a police siren drew Peter from his desk to the front window in the newsroom. Across the street sat the town park. Two deputies stood next to the gazebo—one of them had a roll of black-and-yellow crime-scene tape in hand. Doc Lambert, the town physician, was already on the scene. The new sheriff, Julia McCloud, was also there, dressed for running. A moment later, a big guy with a crew cut arrived. After speaking briefly to one of the deputies, Travis Cooper, the guy bounded up the steps.

Adrenaline surged until Peter’s veins buzzed. His toe tapped and he slapped his fingers on the leg of his jeans. The jitters were his journalistic intuition, or so he always claimed. Slipping on a tweed blazer over his always pressed button-down shirt, he stepped into the early morning.

Mist rose from the grass that filled the town square. Loping across the street, Peter lifted his hand in greeting at the deputies. “Morning, fellas. What’s going on?”

“Oh, it’s you again,” said Travis Cooper, rolling his eyes. “We can’t say.”

“Can’t say because it’s part of an investigation or because you don’t know?”

“You need to move along,” said the other deputy.

“Can I get at