In The Lawman's Protection. Janie Crouch

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-One

       Chapter Twenty-Two

       Chapter Twenty-Three

       Chapter Twenty-Four

       Extract

       About the Publisher

       Chapter One

      For a dead woman, Natalie Anderson was pretty paranoid about security.

      She rested her forehead against the back of the heavy wooden door. The closed, locked and completely bolted, heavy wooden door. And even though she hated herself for it, she reached down to double-check the security of the locks again.

      Double-check, ha. Double-checking could be forgiven. This was more like octuple-check. And it wasn’t just this door. It was every door in the house. And every window.

      And she was about to start round nine. She had to stop herself. This could go on all night if she let it; she knew that for a fact.

      “Get your sticky notes, kiddo,” she muttered to herself. “Work the problem.”

      She’d discovered the sticky note trick around year two of being “dead.” That if she put one of the sticky pieces of paper on each window and door after she was one hundred percent certain the locks were in place, she could finally stop checking it again. Didn’t have to worry she’d accidentally missed one. Otherwise it was hours of the same thing over and over, just to be sure.

      She grabbed the knockoff sticky papers she’d gotten from a discount store and began her process. She checked every single door—again—then every single window. The little yellow squares all over the place gave her a sense of security.

      Although she had to fight the instinct to check them all one more time just to be absolutely sure.

      She hadn’t needed sticky notes in a while. Her tiny, threadbare apartment—not even a full studio, just a room and bathroom that was part of a garage—only had two windows and one door. That didn’t take a whole lot of stationery to make her feel safe.

      Agreeing to house-sit a gorgeous beach house in Santa Barbara had seemed liked such a great idea two weeks ago. Something different. Beautiful sunsets on the beach. A place where she could get out her paints, ones she’d caved and bought when she couldn’t afford them, even though she hadn’t painted in six years. Yeah, house-sitting had seemed like such a great idea.

      Olivia, a waitress friend at the bar where Natalie worked in the evenings, had talked Natalie into it. Olivia was supposed to have been doing the house-sitting, but her mother had had a stroke and she’d had to go out of town.

      So here Natalie was, in a million-dollar home with a view of the Pacific, and instead of cracking the doors to hear the sounds of the ocean or getting out her paints, she had every drape pulled tight and every door battened down enough to withstand a siege. Did she really wish she was smelling the motor oil that permeated everything in her apartment on the far east side of town rather than the brisk February California night air?

      She turned away from the front door and forced herself to cross to the living room and sit on the couch. Once there the exhaustion nearly overwhelmed her, settling into her bones. Seven hours at her cleaning job today, then another six washing dishes at the bar.

      That was her life almost every day. Seven days a week. For nearly the past six years.

      None of the jobs paid even minimum wage. But they all paid in cash, and that was what mattered. She hadn’t filled out any tax papers or had to show any ID. Because anyone who tried to pay Natalie Anderson Freihof would find out rather quickly that Mrs. Freihof died six years ago, caught in a freak shootout between law enforcement and some bank robbers.

      The irony of that entire situation wasn’t lost on her. Law enforcement had come for the robbers, never knowing there was a much bigger criminal—her husband—trapped right in the lobby with all the other victims. They could’ve made the world a much safer place by leaving the thugs with guns and masks and taking the man in the impeccable three-piece suit into custody. Would’ve saved a lot more lives.

      Including Natalie’s.

      But she had made it away from Damien, thanks to some idiot bank robbers, gung-ho SWAT members and a freak biological hazard scare at the local hospital, which required the immediate cremation of all corpses that day.

      In other words, chaos on multiple levels. But Natalie had taken the chance and run.

      Whatever the reason it had all worked out, she wouldn’t question. She was just glad it had. Just glad she had gotten away from the hell she’d been trapped in. If she had to work under the table, doing low-paying junk jobs for the rest of her life, she would do it. At least she was alive.

      Most people would probably think staying completely under the radar even after all this time would be overkill, not that she had ever told anyone about her situation. That after a funeral and burial—even if it had been an empty casket—her husband would accept that she was dead. Wouldn’t be searching for her.

      But Natalie would put nothing past the methodical bastard that had systematically controlled her life and tortured her for years. Checking to make sure she wasn’t drawing a paycheck years after she’d been declared dead? She could totally see Damien doing something like that. Then casually strolling through the door of her place of employment the next day.

      She should probably move to Nebraska or Missouri where the cost of living wasn’t so high or somewhere that wasn’t SoCal so she wouldn’t have to work so hard. Even the rent on her tiny apartment was ridiculous.

      But California was the only place he’d ever said he hated. That he never wanted to step foot in again. Natalie had been praying that was true for six years and, so far, it had been. So she would stay here, even if she was tired. Even if fear was her constant companion. Even if half her salary was spent on sticky notes.

      Agreeing to house-sit had been a mistake. The view was nice, as was the coffee machine she used to brew her cup in the mornings. And the linens were at least a three times higher thread count than she was used to. But the unfamiliarity of it all just added to her stress.

      More windows to check. Longer bus rides to and from work.

       The feeling like eyes were on her.

      She’d fought that compulsion so often in the early days. The fear that she would get home and Damien would be there. Or that he was watching her from across the street. Ready to take her back into the hell he’d trapped her in for so long.

      The feeling that she was being watched had to be just the unfamiliarity. The exhaustion. She needed sleep.

      She wished she could convince herself that was the case.

      It was so hard to know. In the early days, she’d so often given in to the panic. Let it dictate all her moves. She tried not to do that anymore, tried instead to make logical decisions based on actual circumstances rather than gut feelings.

      Gut feelings couldn’t be trusted. Her gut