The Stranger Next Door

A new neighbor...

or a stranger next door?

Under-the-radar FBI agent Deacon Ross is on a mission of vengeance. He is in Winchester, Tennessee, to get it. After years away from home, Cecelia Winters is back to find her father’s killer. She’s faced with a hostile town fraught with danger—then she meets her new neighbor, Deacon. With two cases colliding and desire blindsiding them, will the search for the truth cost Cece and Deacon more than a future together?

DEBRA WEBB is the award-winning USA TODAY bestselling author of more than one hundred novels, including those in reader-favourite series Faces of Evil, the Colby Agency and the Shades of Death. With more than four million books sold in numerous languages and countries, Debra has a love of storytelling that goes back to childhood on a farm in Alabama. Visit Debra at www.debrawebb.com

Also by Debra Webb

In Self Defence

The Dark Woods

Finding the Edge

Sin and Bone

Body of Evidence

Dark Whispers

Still Waters

Bridal Armour

Ready, Aim…I Do!

Colby Law

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

The Stranger Next Door

Debra Webb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09418-4

THE STRANGER NEXT DOOR

© 2019 Debra Webb

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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This one is for Paula Morrison, who believes like

I do that if one schlep bag is a great idea, then let’s

make a dozen. Thanks for making Quilting by the

Border quilt club so fun.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

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

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Winchester, TennesseeFriday, August 2

Murderer. Cecelia Winters stared at the ugly word scrawled in red paint across the white front door. She glanced back at the taxi that was already speeding away down the dusty road. She sighed, dropped her backpack onto the porch.

Her brother Levi was supposed to have picked her up at the prison when she was released. Evidently something had held him up. She went up on her tiptoes but still could not reach the ledge above the door. Surveying the porch, she decided a chair would work for what she needed. The two ladder-back chairs and the swing had been a part of her grandmother’s front porch for as long as Cecelia could remember. The wicker plant stand that stood between the chairs was empty and in serious need of painting. Tiny flakes of faded white paint lay on the floor around it.

“Falling apart like everything else around here,” she grumbled as she dragged the chair to the door and climbed atop it.

The key lay on the dusty ledge just as it always had. It would be a flat-out miracle if the house hadn’t been vandalized and cleaned out of anything worth taking. But Cece, as she had always been called, wasn’t complaining. Her grandmother had left her this old house with the ten acres that surrounded it. The walls were still standing and the roof appeared in reasonably good condition. Anything over and above that would be icing on the cake. Cece was enormously thankful to have a place to stay at all. What was left of her family had turned their backs on her a long time ago.

Except for her grandmother, her momma’s momma. She had never believed the lies. And Cece’s little brother—at least, she had thought her brother had not turned on her. He had not shown up to pick her up when she was released so she could not be certain. Last month he had visited her at the prison. He had seemed fine and, frankly, over the moon that she would soon be free.

No one was happier about that than Cece. She had served her time.

She stared at the red letters of the word painted on the door once more before opening it and stepping inside. No matter that it was barely two in the afternoon, gloom filled the house that had always been Cece’s refuge growing up. The shades, she realized. Moving from window to window, she tugged gently on the old roller-style shades, causing each one to slide upward and allowing sunlight into the house. Dust floated in the air, filtering through the rays of light like a thousand miniscule snowflakes in an old snow globe with yellowed glass.

Emily Broward had died one year ago. The house had sat empty, awaiting its new owner’s release from prison. Levi had sworn he had checked in on things from time to time but Cece could not be sure he had done so. The house was neat and clean—other than the dust—so she supposed he had dropped by on occasion. Her grandmother had been an immaculate housekeeper, so the neatness wasn’t surprising and likely had nothing to do with Levi’s drive-bys.

The house was small. A living room, eat-in kitchen, two bedrooms and a bath. There was an attic and a tiny brick-walled and stone-floored basement that was more a root cellar than anything else. The house was plenty roomy enough, her grandmother had always said. The furniture was the same as Cece remembered from her childhood. Emily Broward had been far too frugal to spend money on new furniture when what she had remained serviceable.

Which, Cece imagined, was how she had hung on to what was left of this small family farm for nearly half a century. Emily’s one and only child, a daughter and Cece’s mother, had died more than twenty years ago. So the place now belonged to Cece. In truth, if not for this house, she would never have come back to the Winchester area. She had sworn she wouldn’t be back. Ever.

But here she was.

Really, what else could she do? She had nothing but the clothes on her back and the backpack she’d had with her when she’d been arrested nearly nine years ago. She had nothing. No money. No job. No family—unless you counted her no-show younger brother, the sole sibling who hadn’t disowned her.

Still, there was the matter of the truth. No matter that she had told herself a thousand times that she did not care, she did. Somewhere in this town, someone knew the truth and she wanted to find it. To prove she was not a cold-blooded murderer. To show whoever cared that she was the good girl her grandmother Emily always believed her to be.

Pushing away the overwhelming and painful thoughts, Cece decided what she needed at this moment was paint. Didn’t matter what color. Anything to smear over the ugly word slashed across the front door.

Paint and tools were in the old smokehouse. Her grandmother had stopped using the smokehouse for its original purpose years ago, after Cece’s grandfather passed away. She had turned it into a gardening shed. Flower and vegetable gardening had been Emily’s favorite thing in the world.

Cece headed out the back door. The smaller rear porch was a little less stable than the front. South facing, it weathered the harshest elements. She would need to have a closer look at its condition soon. Her grandmother had been one of those women who refused to be helpless in any way. She had learned how to wield a hammer and a shotgun with equal skill. Cece would just have to do the same since she had no resources.

But first, she would need a job.

She opened the door to the smokehouse and peered into the dark interior. She shuddered, wondered if her grandmother’s shotgun was still in the same place. Probably in her closet or under the bed. Deep breath. She stepped inside, reaching overhead for the string that would turn on the light. Her fingers found it and she pulled. The bare bulb glared to life, spilling light over the dusty, cobweb-infested space.

It took some doing but she found an old bucket of white paint. When she had opened it, removed a hard skin from over the top and vigorously stirred the contents, it appeared to be enough for her purposes. Hopefully.

With a serviceable brush rounded up, she turned off the light and closed up the smokehouse. There was a good deal of cleanup she needed to do. Someone had been keeping the yard cut, which was a really good thing. Augusts were generally as hot as Hades and rain was typically scarce. Snakes would be actively searching for water sources. About the only thing she disliked more than snakes were spiders. Banishing the idea of creepy, crawly things, Cece scrubbed a coat of paint over the graffiti. It would take several coats to cover the red, or maybe she would have to pick up a stain-blocking product to help make the glaring reality go away.

You need money for that, Cece.

After cleaning the brush and pressing the lid back onto the paint can, she decided to have a look in the bedroom she had used before ending up in prison. She left the front door ajar with its wet paint and headed that way. Her father had kicked her out of the house when she was sixteen. At the time she had been only too happy to go. She wouldn’t have stayed that long if not for her younger sister. She had worried about Sierra, who was four years younger, but she had learned the hard way that her little sister was quite capable of taking care of herself.

Her grandmother had warned her, but Cece had not wanted to see it. Sierra had turned into a selfish, belligerent teenager. As a little kid she had looked up to Cece. Hung onto her hand every chance she got. Crawled into bed with her when she was scared. They had both been so young when their mother died, but especially Sierra. She had only been two years old. Cece had tried to be more than just a big sister. Fat lot of good it had done her.

Sierra and Marcus, their older brother, were fanatical just like their father had been. According to Levi, Marcus had taken over her father’s church—cult was a better description. And Sierra was his right hand.

Another reason Cece would rather have been anywhere than here.

Regardless of how she pretended, she could not leave. Not until she found the truth. In the final letter she had received from her grandmother before Emily passed away, she had told Cece that her trusted attorney, Clarence Frasier, had hired a private investigator to help find the truth.

Unfortunately Frasier had died two months ago without passing along any new developments in the investigation. His partner had sent her a letter saying he would not be able to pursue her case or represent her. Her file was available for pickup should she choose to do so. Additionally, in his letter, he had confirmed her fears about the private investigator’s inability to find anything new.

Probably she would pick up the files in a day or two. For now, she just wanted to be alone and enjoy being outside those gray prison walls. A nice hot bath or shower in private was very high on her list. Planning her own menu and picking out what she would wear. No one realized how important all those little decisions were until the right to make them was taken away.

The clothes she had owned before she was arrested still hung in the closet. Underthings and pajamas were neatly folded in drawers—her grandmother’s doing, no doubt. Cece had never been that organized. Her heart squeezed at the memory of how she had begged to be allowed to visit her grandmother in the hospital those final days of her life and, when Emily was gone, to be able to attend her funeral. Cece’s persistence had landed her in isolation for a week.

She would visit the cemetery soon. Take flowers, as soon as she had money to purchase something nice.

At the dresser, she hesitated before turning away. A framed photo of her mother and her grandmother from twenty-five years ago captured her attention. Cece had the same curly red hair as her mother and her grandmother. She was the only one in the family to inherit the red hair and green eyes. Marcus and Levi had dark brown hair with brown eyes, like their father. Sierra’s hair was even darker, as were her eyes. Her coloring was a fact Cece’s father had held against her. He had sworn her red hair was the mark of the devil. She remembered him telling her mother the same thing. Her mother had died when Cece was six years old but she remembered those cruel words.

Her father had been a mean man, and harsh, hurtful words and actions were the only memories Cece had of him. She hoped he was burning in hell.

Her grandmother would pat her on the hand and assure her he was, indeed, roasting in hell. She had hated Mason Winters. Her daughter’s—her only child’s—marriage to him had broken her heart.

Cece shook off the painful memories. There was a lot she needed to do. Starting with stocking the kitchen. Though food wasn’t exactly a priority for her, she had to eat. The attorney had said in his letter that a credit of five hundred dollars awaited her at the market in town. Frasier’s doing, no doubt. He had felt sorry for Cece and had adored her grandmother. Cece had often wondered if he had been in love with her grandmother. He had certainly seemed to be. He had been a widower, she a widow, but to Cece’s knowledge their relationship had never been anything other than friendship.

Cece closed the front door and locked it. She tucked the key into the pocket of her jeans and went to the kitchen to see if her grandmother had still kept her truck keys in the drawer by the back door. She pulled the drawer open and there they were. She snatched up the keys and headed out to the side of the barn her grandparents had used as a garage. She raised the crossbar and the double doors swung open. She climbed into the blue truck that was twice as old as she was and inserted the key.

She said a quick prayer in hopes that Levi had done as he had promised and kept the truck in running order. Her grandparents had maintained it in immaculate condition, but after Emily’s death the battery would have died if the truck wasn’t started regularly, driven around a bit. Levi had promised to drive it once a week until Cece came home.

Holding her breath, she turned the key and pumped the accelerator.

The engine purred to life as if she had just driven the vehicle off the showroom floor.

Relieved, she slid the gearshift into Reverse and backed out of the garage. Her grandmother had taught her to close the garage doors whenever she took the truck anywhere. No one who passed would realize she was gone as long as those doors were closed. Even in a small town, run-of-the-mill thieves could be found.

Far worse could be found, as well. The really bad ones just knew how to hide better than the others.

* * *

THE DRIVE TO Ollie’s in Winchester took scarcely twenty minutes. The first few miles were easy. Driving was like riding a bike, her grandmother had said in her letters. You won’t forget how whether you haven’t driven for eight years or eighty. She had been right about that part.

But the traffic—even in a small town—had Cece’s heart pounding, her fingers gripping the steering wheel and sweat beading on her forehead. The fact that it was ninety-five degrees did not help. The old truck didn’t have any climate control features. Her grandfather had insisted the windows were control enough. You either let the climate in or you do not, he would say.

All the noise—from the many different sounds blowing in through her window to the other vehicles on the road—had Cece on edge, as well. Not that she was complaining. It would just take some getting used to.

Cece did not breathe easy until she had braked to a stop in the lot at the market and thrust the gearshift into Park. For good measure, she engaged the emergency brake before climbing out. She pocketed the keys but didn’t bother locking the doors since there was nothing in the truck worth stealing. The bench seat was a little on the worn side and the rubber-coated floorboards had never been covered with mats as far as she recalled. Just a plain old truck. No rust or dents but very basic. The automatic transmission was the one upgrade, and that had been added only because her grandmother pitched a fit about it back when her grandfather decided to buy a truck.

The asphalt steamed as she crossed to the store entrance. With only a handful of cars in the lot, she was hopeful that she wouldn’t run into anyone who remembered her. Eight years was a long time. If she were lucky most folks would have forgotten her by now.

Yeah, right. Like people forgot when a girl was charged with murdering her father.

She would never live that down—no matter that she was innocent.

Her fingers curled around the handle of the shopping cart and she started with the aisle closest to the entrance. The store looked different now. At some point over the years it had been remodeled and she had no clue where anything was anymore, but she would leave empty-handed before she asked for help and drew attention to herself.

Mostly she only needed the basics. Bread, milk, cheese, eggs. Maybe some peanut butter and crackers. The fruit department spread out before her and she decided fruit would be nice, as well. She grabbed apples, berries, oranges and bananas before stopping to think that she had no idea how much this stuff cost anymore. Since she only had a limited amount of credit, she had to be careful.

Keeping the apples and bananas, she put the berries and oranges back and moved on. Next time she would have those. When she reached the coffee aisle, she realized she could not live without a caffeine fix every morning. Since her grandmother had preferred hot tea and only bought instant coffee for guests, there was no coffee maker. Cece grabbed a jar of instant and moved on. Resisting the snack aisle, she strolled on to the dairy department. When she had mentally checked off the items on her list and deposited each one into her cart, she headed for the checkout counter.

Fortunately, the cashier was young, maybe seventeen or eighteen. She wouldn’t know Cece.

When she had rung up the final item, she looked at Cece. “That’ll be sixty-two fifty-eight.”

Uncertainty seared through her. How did she explain the credit? “Is there a manager on duty?”

The girl stared at Cece, impatience written all over her face. “Sure.” She called for the manager over the loudspeaker.

Cece ignored the people who glanced at the register and her. What if the manager on duty had no idea about the credit? Her stomach twisted into a thousand knots. She should have called the attorney’s office before coming here.

“She has a question,” the cashier said, yanking Cece’s attention to the man who approached the checkout.

He was older, fifty or so, and looked vaguely familiar. Tension banded around her chest making a breath near impossible. When he frowned, her anxiety escalated.

“Cece?”

She nodded, the move jerky.

A smile propped up the corners of his mouth. “Make a note of the amount,” he said to the cashier. “The lady has a credit that will take care of the total.” To Cece he said, “Whenever you come in, just have them write the total and my name on the back of the receipt and tuck it into the till.”

Cece searched her memory banks but his name was lost to her.

“Thanks, Mr. Holland,” the cashier said, saving Cece from having to ask.

She nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

Holland sent her an answering nod and returned to whatever he had been doing before the cashier had summoned him to the front.

By the time the cashier had written Holland on the back of the receipt and deposited it into the till, a short line had formed behind Cece. She had her bags in her cart and was ready to run a good five seconds before the girl glanced at her and said the words that would allow her to feel comfortable making her exit, “Thanks. Come again.”

Cece was almost to the door when a female voice called out behind her, “Aren’t you that girl who killed her daddy?”

Cece did not look back, just kept going. Her focus narrowed to the old blue truck waiting for her in the parking lot. All she had to do was reach that truck, load her stuff into the passenger seat and drive away. When she had money of her own, she would go to Tullahoma or some other nearby town where people were less likely to know her. Then again, even if she had had money, the fear of her driving skills being too rusty would have kept her close to home today.