No Safe Place. Sherri Shackelford

be reached by email at [email protected], or at P.O. Box 116, Elkhorn, NE 68022.

      Happy Reading!

       Sherri Shackelford

      For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?

      —Mark 8:36

      To Jessica Alvarez and TR, my partners in crime!

      Contents

       Cover

       Back Cover Text

       About the Author

       Booklist

       Title Page

       Copyright

       Introduction

       Dear Reader

       Bible Verse

       Dedication

       ONE

       TWO

       THREE

       FOUR

       FIVE

       SIX

       SEVEN

       EIGHT

       NINE

       TEN

       ELEVEN

       TWELVE

       THIRTEEN

       Extract

       About the Publisher

       ONE

      Today was a good day to die, as far as days went.

      Beth Greenwood focused on the steady blink-blink-blink of the cursor on her screen. One click and her life changed forever, possibly even guaranteeing her death unless she disappeared indefinitely. As her trembling index finger hovered over the mouse button, she glanced at the single photo perched on the bare expanse of her desk. Her dad’s unwavering stare gave her courage.

      Her heartbeat stuttered, and her palms grew damp.

      A Chicago cop, he’d suffered a debilitating stroke two months before his retirement. His death had been shattering, but knowing he was no longer suffering gave her a modicum of peace. Never much for talk, Officer Greenwood had lived his faith and had led by his example. Though his job had exposed him to temptation, he’d seen his dedication to truth as a higher moral calling. For what shall it profit a man, he’d quote the Bible, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?

      What, indeed? She checked the email attachment and then clicked the option to schedule the message for arrival the morning after the bank holiday. A muffled thump startled her upright, and her pulse thrummed in her ears.

      She whipped around, shooting her mouse off the side of the desk, searching for signs of a lingering coworker. The building usually emptied early on the Friday afternoon before a holiday. She leaned out of her cubicle, and her shoulders sagged. An overflowing trash bin sat in the center of the aisle. Probably the cleaning crew getting an early start on the weekend. She retrieved her battered mouse and set it beside her keyboard.

      She logged out of her computer with a few rapid clicks, then stood and reached for her dad’s photo. She’d supplied the FBI with the evidence she’d discovered about the money laundering. It was time to disappear from Quetech Industries for good.

      Not that she’d miss the place.

      Her job as a forensic accountant was transient by nature, and she’d worked in plenty of office buildings over the years. Quetech Industries had earned the dubious title of being the worst. It was like drowning in a sea of gray. The walls were medium gray. The carpet was dark gray. Even the cubicles were fashioned from light gray plastic.

      She turned and ran into a solid male chest.

      Stifling a shriek, she stumbled backward. “Clark, I mean, um, Corbin. What are you doing here this late on a Friday?”

      She smoothed her hair with quaking fingers.

      “I could ask you the same, Beth,” he said, his voice low and intimate, like the romantic strains of a cello.

      The ladies in the building had dubbed the new financial consultant “Clark Kent.” The office nickname suited his darkly handsome good looks. His coffee-colored hair was cut in neat, almost military, precision, and his eyes were ice-blue behind his black-rimmed glasses. Though he wore a suit and tie, someone claimed they’d seen a sleeve tattoo on his left arm. There was even talk that he was ex-military. Special Forces.

      “I was just leaving.” Hiding her unsteady hand, Beth reached for her bag. “Had to finish up some work before the weekend.”

      Corbin had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. He rested his elbow on the top of the cubicle wall, and she caught a hint of ink at his wrist. Her mouth went dry. In another time and place, she’d have been curious about the rest of the art. She had no trouble believing he’d once been in the military.

      “You up for a drink?” he asked. “The finance department is meeting at O’Malley’s tonight.”

      “I don’t drink,” she said, casting a surreptitious glance at the blank computer screen.

      She certainly didn’t have time to socialize. Someone was laundering money through Quetech Industries to an offshore account. As a forensic accountant, she’d sent white-collar criminals to federal prison in the past. People who laundered money didn’t frighten her. Greed and cowardice