Page 1 of Holden

Chapter 1

I must’ve practiced for this moment dozens of times before today. I know exactly how I want to introduce myself, how I want to smile, the way my head should tilt.

But suddenly my mouth is numb and my vocal chords have stopped functioning.

I can’t even move my tongue. It’s in knots.

I never thought the phrase “tongue-tied” could feel so accurate, but right now it literally applies to me.

It’s been like this since the moment I walked through the door of Holden Quinn’s spectacular penthouse office. Maybe it started when I caught sight of Manhattan through the floor-to-ceiling window behind his desk, with the skyscrapers in the distance winking to life under the still rising sun. Or maybe it’s when I heard the surreal click-click-click of my heels on the polished onyx floor.

Actually, it’s neither.

I can pinpoint the exact instant my tongue stopped working—it was the second Holden Quinn’s skin touched mine. In that brief impersonal handshake, an electric circuit coursed through my body. It must have shorted out my brain too, because in that span of time, I started imagining the way his mouth might move against mine, or how those taut muscles beneath his suit would feel pressed up against my naked skin.

Which is ridiculous.

I expected to feel a lot of things about Holden Quinn—but unadulterated lust certainly wasn’t one of them.

He leans forward, elbows on the desk, large hands clasped, pointer fingers steepled with nonchalant formality. “So,” he says. “You knew Mrs. Kratky, then?”

I take a sip of coffee, allowing the exotic warm liquid to loosen the knot in my mouth. My tongue slowly begins to unravel. After a long pause, my voice works surprisingly well. “Knew of her,” I say, the first but not the last of several lies I’ll tell today.

His chocolate eyes harden. “I see.”

I flick my tongue across my top lip, moistening my dry mouth, reassuring myself that I can in fact still talk. “As I mentioned in my e-mail, I understand she was a very well-liked teacher …” My voice trails off as I realize I’m already losing him. A muscle at the side of his temple jerks. I clear my throat, and keep pushing forward before I lose my nerve. “I’m afraid she was gone before I could take her class.”

Holden’s expression softens.

My cheeks flush a little at my deception. The truth is, I’d long since moved from Maine before I was old enough to attend high school. My mother and I packed only a suitcase, then snuck out of town, leaving behind our home, our friends, and the horrific memories of a tragic day when a lone psychopath opened fire on a classroom, killing twenty-six students and a teacher before shooting himself in the head.

Not a psychopath, I remind myself.

My father. Roger Moorehouse.

A sharp pain stabs into my chest.

This secret I’ve been carrying with me for almost my entire life still hurts as badly now as it did when I was a little kid.

Ten years later and I’m still looking for answers, for some kind of rationale that will help me understand how a man that once took me to movies on the weekends and bought me candy, suddenly became a mass murderer.

I glance down at my hands folded on my lap, fingers interlaced to stop them from fidgeting.

“She was a thoughtful woman,” Holden says, mistaking my personal, selfish pain, for something more compassionate. “Truly an angel.”

I know all about Mrs. Kratky—her contributions to charity, the community, the love she had for her students. I’ve researched every facet of her life that isn’t closed off to the public, but it’s still not enough. Nowhere close to what will explain why my father murdered her. Why her class? Why those students?

What really happened that day?

Pinpricks of tears sting my eyes.

Holden shifts uncomfortably. “Perhaps we should just move on to your questions then, Miss Faber?”

“Chelsea.” I lift my gaze, and my breath hitches. Holden Quinn has an intelligent soul—dark like his hair, his aura. I can’t decide if I want to hop on the back of a Harley with him or have him bend me over a desk and punish me for my growing list of falsehoods.

Christ, Chelsea. Something must be seriously wrong with my brain, because neither of those situations is consistent with—

Well, with me.