In Search of Truth Read online

  Also By Sharon Wray

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2020 by Sharon Wray

  Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Eileen Carey/No Fuss Design

  Cover images © Mihai Simonia/Shutterstock; © pathdoc/Shutterstock; © Thomas Erskine/Millennium Images, UK

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  www.sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  In memory of

  Megan Casey Wray and Courtney Elizabeth Lenaburg

  Sisters. Soldiers. Saints.

  Prologue

  “When was the last time you saw a man bow?” Allison Chastain Fenwick led Zack Tremaine onto the courtyard of Le Petit Theatre.

  Nestled in the French Quarter of New Orleans, the humid, flower-filled courtyard provided a reprieve from the freezing theater. A breeze tinged with jasmine and white lights wrapped around the trees enhanced the romantic summer night.

  “No idea.” Zack took two flutes from a server’s tray and handed her one.

  The champagne tickled her nose. As the courtyard filled with intermission-freed guests, Zack found a clear spot near the raised fountain. “Why?”

  “When I was leaving the ladies’ room”—she sat on the fountain’s edge and her gown pooled on the bricks below—“I bumped into someone. I apologized, but he just wrapped his arm around his waist and bowed. By time I blinked, he’d disappeared.”

  “Maybe it’s a Charleston thing. It’s certainly not a New Orleans thing.”

  She sipped her champagne. “It’s not a Charleston thing. It’s a weird thing. So it has to be from New Orleans, which you’d know about since you’re a native Cajun.”

  Zack threw her a fake-offended look. “Says the woman whose Charlestonian last names are so old she has to use both of them?”

  She laughed at their on-going joke about the differences between their hometowns and punched his shoulder. The U.S. Army had turned him into a wall of muscle, so her fist probably hurt far more than his shoulder.

  He smiled, took her hand, and kissed her palm.

  “Maybe it’s a formal thing,” she offered to keep the peace. “He was wearing a tux.” At this last word, she raised her eyebrow. While she’d chosen a long blue satin gown in honor of Hamlet’s opening night, Zack rarely wore anything other than jeans and T-shirts. She was happy with his pressed gray trousers, white button-down shirt, and striped tie, despite his almost-shaved black hair.

  When he pulled at his collar and scanned the courtyard, she hid her smile behind another sip of champagne. It wouldn’t surprise her if he was armed.

  Glass broke behind her, and she glanced toward the noise. People were clearing away. As they drifted from the mess, she saw a solitary man in the corner. He stood near a potted palm with his hands in the pockets of his wrinkled, ill-fitting blue suit. The kind of suit someone borrowed or rented, not owned.

  The other odd thing? He was staring directly at Zack.

  Zack tapped her bare shoulder. “Since we haven’t seen each other since graduation, we have some toasts to make. First, to me.”

  She laughed out loud. “To you?”

  “Yes.” He held up his glass. “Congratulations to me on completing the Special Forces Assessment and Selection Course. Soon, hopefully, I’ll be a Green Beret.”

  “Oh my gosh!” She stood and gave him a hug. After they’d graduated from Tulane, Zack, who’d been an Army ROTC cadet, had hoped to become a Special Forces officer. So she was very happy for him. When she pulled away, she raised her glass. “May you win every battle and always return to us safe and sound.”

  “Us?” Zack’s brown eyes shuttered and the lines around his mouth seemed deeper than before. “Of course—Stuart.”

  “Stuart will be happy for you. He’s your best friend, besides me.” She fluttered her eyelashes until Zack smiled again. “Stuart was sorry he couldn’t make the play. He’ll meet us for dinner later.”

  Zack raised his glass again. “Here’s to you crushing your cultural anthropology PhD program.”

  They clinked glasses, and Allison ignored Zack’s quiet laughter. She knew what Zack and Stuart believed: the only job a cultural anthropology PhD could get was as a barista.

  “Despite what you think”—Allison tried to kick him with her high-heeled sandal until he moved—“I’ll get a job that doesn’t require asking people if they
want whipped cream on top.”

  Now Zack laughed so loudly people glanced their way.

  “My turn.” Allison lifted her glass and, with her other hand, touched the sapphire-and-diamond engagement brooch attached to her neckline. “To your best friend and my future husband, Stuart. He was just elected Tulane alumni president for our class year. I’m certain he’ll become a bank president before he’s twenty-five.”

  Zack nodded, although the shadows in his eyes reappeared. “I have no doubt.”

  They clinked glasses for the third time, and Allison felt a rare tremble of happiness. She’d always been so alone, but tonight she felt safe. She was engaged to Stuart, and Zack had come home to visit. For the first time in years, she felt like nothing bad could ever happen to her again.

  The audience began to file back into the theater, leaving them alone. Neither one of them wanted to return to the play.

  “I’m sorry I missed your engagement party.” Zack gave his glass to the last server standing. “I was training.”

  “I understand.” She cleared her throat and handed her glass away as well. She’d drunk almost all of it and her head felt fuzzy. “I sent you photos.”

  “I got them.” Zack crossed his arms and his gaze settled on the brooch pinned to her dress. “Allison, are you sure marrying Stuart is the right thing to do?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “I know you. And I love you.” The courtyard lights reflected the truth in Zack’s eyes.

  They stood so close his breath caressed her forehead, and his insanely sexy bay rum cologne sent tingles down her arms.

  “Stuart loves me. And I love him. I’m certain of it.”

  “Certainty is an impossibility.” Zack pushed a stray curl behind her ear.

  She shivered at the touch of his fingers against her face. “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re not in love with him the way a woman is supposed to love a husband.”

  Her breath snagged, making it hard to breathe without hyperventilating. He’d always discerned all of her insecurities and vulnerabilities. Here, alone in the courtyard, she was defenseless. “Zack—”

  “I’m begging you to rethink this marriage. Stuart may be able to give you the security you think you need, but it’ll never be enough—not for either of you.”

  “What are you saying? Stuart will break my heart?”

  “No,” Zack whispered. “You’ll break all of our hearts.”

  She blinked as he lowered his head. When his lips touched hers, her first thought was that they were so much softer—and gentler—than they appeared. He held her head at the perfect angle so he could deepen the kiss. In all the years they’d known each other, he’d never touched her so intimately, and now that they were locked in this embrace she wondered why.

  Horrified at her reaction, Allison pulled back and pressed her fingers against her mouth. That’s when she noticed two things: the ill-suited man moving closer and another tuxedoed man following behind. This tuxedoed man with dark skin and green eyes was the bowing man she’d seen earlier in the evening.

  Something glinted in the bowing man’s hand. A small sword? “Zack?”

  Zack twisted just as the ill-suited man pulled something out of his jacket.

  Zack grabbed her by the waist, and they hit the ground. Her hands took the brunt of her fall, scraping on the bricks. The pain made her dizzy but not enough to ignore the action she saw from beneath Zack’s larger body. The bowing man moved behind the ill-suited man and slid his thin sword into the man’s neck. The ill-suited man silently slumped to the ground.

  Suddenly, with Zack on one knee and holding his handgun, the bowing man pressed his sword point against Zack’s heart.

  “Hold your peace,” the bowing man demanded in a distinct Australian accent. “Do not fear. Tonight’s violence has been met and meted.”

  Zack put his gun on the ground and rose slowly, both hands held up in surrender.

  The bowing man retracted his sword, which became a thin, ten-inch-long wand of steel. He slipped it into his jacket pocket. “My name is Laertes. I venture here tonight to bring a message and a warning.”

  Allison took Zack’s hand and he helped her up, making sure she stayed behind him. He didn’t speak, so she didn’t either—not that she could cobble together any words. All she could do was stare at the dead man and keep the nausea at bay. With no visible blood, he seemed to be asleep.

  Laertes took a cell phone from the dead man’s pocket and tossed it to Zack.

  The dead man’s messages were open, and Zack clicked on an image. A short, silent video appeared along with the sent and read receipt.

  Allison’s body shook. The ill-suited man had texted the video of their kiss to Stuart.

  Zack handed the phone back to Laertes.

  Laertes glanced to one side, and she noticed another tuxedoed man deeper in the shadows. She grabbed Zack’s arm. There were two of them?

  “My lord has decreed that now is not the time for your understanding.” Laertes put the phone into a different pocket than the sword. “’Tis time for a change.”

  “What are you talking about?” Zack asked.

  Laertes hit his own chest with his fist. “My lord believes you are not meant for your life’s work. You have other passions he’d encourage you to pursue.”

  “Was that the message?” She took Zack’s hand. “Or the warning?”

  “The warning is for you, my lady,” Laertes said to her. “Choose your lover wisely.”

  She took a step back and swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. The veins in Zack’s neck bulged.

  Before they could respond, Laertes wrapped an arm around his waist and bowed. “My lord must be cruel only to be kind. Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.”

  Chapter 1

  “Who’s there?” Allison stopped in the dark Charleston alley, sure she’d heard footsteps other than her own. When no one answered, she rechecked the address on her phone. The building had to be here somewhere. Clutching her phone in one hand, she held up her gown’s skirt and walked on the cobblestones.

  Now that she was close to the river, she heard waves splashing the wooden wharf and halyards clanging against aluminum masts. Normally, by ten p.m., she’d be tucked into her bed in pj’s, grading papers. But tonight’s action required full-on body armor: black strapless gown, hair twisted into a braided knot and decorated with crystal daisy hairpins, high heels, and the jasmine perfume she only wore on special occasions.

  The hairs on her neck rose, and she paused near an out-of-business bakery. Although the sun had set, the summer humidity pressed down on her like a damp blanket. The air wasn’t just hot—its heft and weight carried a warning.

  So similar to Laertes’s warning seven years earlier.

  Voices came from behind her, and she tucked herself into the sunken doorway of a seventeenth-century brick warehouse. A minute later, two men in tuxedoes and black masks covering half their faces walked by at the same time her cell phone buzzed. A light appeared with the message, and she pressed it against her stomach. Keep moving, gentlemen.

  The first man stopped a foot away. “Did you hear something?”

  She almost choked on the stench of moldy bricks.

  “Nah,” the second man said. “Probably rats.”

  Rats? She exhaled, making sure to breathe through her mouth so she wouldn’t gag. She’d forgotten about the rats, especially being so close to the water.

  They moved on until stopping fifty yards away, in front of the last eighteenth-century mansion next to the river. All of its windows, along with the front door, had been boarded up. But it still had its split, semicircular staircase with wrought-iron railings. Instead of going up the stairs, the men went around them and disappeared.

  After a few more breaths, she checked her text. It was from Maddie. Ex
cept the caller ID name had been changed to MADDIE THE BESTEST FRIEND EVER. Allison smiled. Maddie’s almost-eight-year-old daughter had probably changed the ID.

  Allison swiped the screen to read Maddie’s message.

  Good luck! Text when it’s done.

  I will. Thanks for the dress.

  She left her alcove and stopped near the stairs, where the masked men had disappeared. No one came or went. There was no sound. Yet those men had gone somewhere.

  Although she didn’t want to call more attention to herself, she used her phone’s flashlight. A rat only a foot away scurried off. She moved and her light glinted on a polished brass knob attached to a door beneath the protruding staircase. The knob was engraved with JL embedded in a lily.

  How odd.

  She put her phone into her evening bag and opened the door. A dim light appeared, leading her into a narrow hallway. The walls were decorated on both sides with mirrors and candles in sconces.

  The hallway veered right, and she climbed a narrow flight of stairs, the sound of electronic music getting louder. Once on the landing lit by candles, she stopped. A man in a tuxedo and a black mask covering his eyes stood in front of another door, arms crossed. Despite his dress clothes, his dark pupils shining through the mask’s slits backed up his stance.

  She took a coin out of her skirt pocket and handed it to him. “Allison Chastain Fenwick Pinckney.”

  “Chastain? Interesting.” The man tossed the Roman silver denarius into the air and caught it. “Esse aut non esse.”

  “To be or not to be?” Seriously? “Id est quaestio.”

  He shoved the two-thousand-dollar coin she couldn’t afford into his pants pocket and opened the door. She paused from the heavy reverb caused by too many speakers in too small a room and blinked from the pulsing lasers.

  “Non ruta non dolor, sweetheart.”

  Neither rue nor regret? She slipped in, and the closing door hit her back, causing her to stumble in her high heels.

  A strong hand grasped her elbow, arresting what might have been a nasty fall. She was grateful for the low light that hid the hot flush flooding her cheeks.

  Once she was stable on her feet, the masked man dropped her arm, hit his chest with his fist, and bowed his head. “My lady,” he said in a distinct Scottish accent.