“Come on, sleepyhead. Let’s go to bed,” Xander said.

She smiled at him, patted the seat next to her. “Come here.”

He grinned and joined her, plopping down with a groan. “Oh, that does feel good, doesn’t it?”

She swung her legs up into his lap. “It does. It’s good to be back. I didn’t think I’d miss D.C., but I did.”

“Well, we have the whole weekend in front of us. With nothing planned, either. We can wander the streets, take in the sights. Or spend the weekend in bed, if you prefer.”

It was her turn to grin. “I think that sounds like a fine idea. I don’t think I can keep my eyes open for another minute. But I have no intention of sleeping, just in case you were wondering.”

She batted her lashes, and he laughed. She leaned up and touched his cheek, and his lips found hers, hungry and warm. She let the tide of relief flood through her, thought back to the moment three weeks earlier when she’d seen him on television, in cuffs and being hauled off to parts unknown. She’d had a wild dose of terror course through her then, a sudden fear that she’d never see him again. Thank God, she whispered mentally, adjusting her body to fit his better, deepening the kiss. Thank God he’s all right, and here.

He released her too soon, stood her up, wrapped his arms around her. She melted into him, feeling his strength, enjoying the sense of protection being in his arms always afforded her.

Then he stiffened and pulled away. She felt bereft; the loss of him was so intense as to be painful. Opened her eyes to see concern etched on his face.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

He bent down to the coffee table. It was an ugly faux wood, but she didn’t care. They wouldn’t be here long.

“What is this?”

He didn’t touch it, just pointed. Sam saw what she’d missed before—a small red rose lying on top of a folded piece of paper, her name written in spiky black letters on the paper.

Worry flooded her. “I don’t know.”

“Son of a bitch.” Xander used a knuckle to knock the rose away and open the paper. He read the words, then let the note close.

“Come away,” he said, his voice hard as glass. “Right now. We’re leaving.”

“What does it say, Xander?” She heard the fear in her voice, the quavering tone. Be strong, damn you. Don’t be afraid.

But she was. She was so afraid.

Xander steered her into the kitchen, picked up the phone. She heard him vaguely, through a fog, the pounding of her heart too loud to allow rational thought.

“Baldwin. It’s Xander. He was here. He was in the apartment Fletcher rented for us. We’re fine, but the bastard was here. He left a note.”

Xander gave her a concerned look, listening to Baldwin. She took a deep breath and started back toward the living room.

“Sam, wait. Don’t—”

But she was already there. She grabbed the note and opened it, vaguely recognized the handwriting from somewhere. Reminded herself to breathe, that she was safe. For now.

It was from him. There was no mistaking the message. Or its intent.

Come find me, Samantha. I’m waiting.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from WHEN SHADOWS FALL by J.T. Ellison.

Acknowledgments

I owe a debt of gratitude to so many people for their kind help, expertise, good humor and support during the writing of this book:

Acclaimed virologist Eric Mossel, Ph.D., who was instrumental in helping me develop the story, lent authenticity to a variety of situations, and helped me find the right path between fiction and reality. He’s a mean copy editor, to boot.

Lee Mossel, for hooking me up with his son, and laughs on the golf course.

Sherrie Saint, who did a load of legwork tracking down just the right way to kill a bunch of people.

David Achord, for clarifying the finer legal points for Xander’s little situation.

Randy Ellison, for all the on-point articles, talking points and napkin sessions over margaritas. And calming the hysterics...

Catherine Coulter, for helping me see the original story wasn’t personal enough.

Anton Pogany, for even more medical expertise.

Karen Evans, for all the things.

Laura Benedict, for countless phone calls and machinations and treats in the mail.

As always, all mistakes, exaggerations or pure literary license are mine, and mine alone.

Several wonderful people bid on character names for charity (the Brenda Novak Diabetes Auction) and on my Facebook fan page. Robin Souleyret, Thomas Cattafi and Maureen Heedles, you are all fabulous. So are you, fellow Langley-ite Emma Cattafi, for getting this for your BIL. It was my honor to capture your names for this work. Thank you!

Thanks to the usual suspects, without whom I’d never get anything accomplished: my lovely agent, Scott Miller; my wonderful editor, Nicole Brebner (thank you twice); everyone at Trident Media Group and MIRA Books who work tirelessly behind the scenes to get these books into readers’ hands; my hoodoo guru Paige Crutcher; my soul sister Ariel Lawhon; my sister from another mister Jennifer Brooks; my wine and chat for five (uh—fifty) Erica Spindler; the indomitable Alex Kava; Deb Carlin, for so much; my dear productivity buddy Jeff Abbott; the ever-fabulous and funny Andy Levy; the one and only Joan Huston, grammar goddess extraordinaire; Blake Leyers, for edits and manis and pedis and lunches and being a fellow tall chick! The Wild Women—River Jordan, Susan Gregg Gilmore, Kerry Madden, Lisa Patton—for a weekend to remember forever; Sheldon, my UPS guy, and Chris, my postman, who are bloody patient with all the packages; Anna Benjamin, for the best care package evah!; my incredible friends on Facebook and Twitter, who laugh at my jokes even when they aren’t funny; the indie booksellers and librarians who’ve been working so hard to get me into readers’ hands—couldn’t do it without you!; and Writerspace.com—Cissy, Susan, Celeste and Dee—ladies, you’re the bees knees!

Special thanks as always to my awesome parents, for whom there are never enough adjectives, and my bros.

No book is ever truly finished without thanking (yes, again!) my Randy. Je t’aime, je t’adore, et je vous aime aussi. Thanks for Paris, bunny.

Finally, this book is dedicated to the memory of a dear friend who passed away this year. John Seigenthaler was an extraordinary man who gave so much to this world, to the Nashville literary community and, of course, to me personally. He is dreadfully missed.

“Shocking suspense, compelling characters and fascinating forensic details.”

—Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author

If you loved What Lies Behind by New York Times bestselling author

J.T. Ellison, don’t miss a thrilling moment in the Samantha Owens series.

A Deeper Darkness (#1)

Into the flood again…

Edge of Black (#2)

The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides.

When Shadows Fall (#3)

If you are reading this letter, I am dead, and I would be most grateful if you could solve my murder…

Complete your collection today!