Allison Brennan
If I Should Die
Who’s the outlaw, quick on the draw
Cast the first stone if you don’t have a flaw
Who fills the jails, who lives above the law
White collar, black market, who’s rich, who’s poor
PROLOGUE
Guilt led him down the dark, cold passage many times that winter.
The weeks of unrelenting snowfall kept most people indoors, huddled in houses with poor insulation and roofs threatening to cave under the pressure of snow and ice. TV newscasters called this an epic winter, though upstate New York had seen it all before.
Jamming his ski poles into the deep snow, he slid to a halt at the main entrance of the abandoned Kelley Mine. The sun inched over the smooth, round mountains, chiseled against the blue sky. He stared at the entrance, frozen in fear and deep pain, as the clear February morning crept up to minus twenty degrees as dawn broke.
The rock and wood barrier appeared impassable, but a hollow spot to the left-visible from only one angle- gave easy access to the mine. He removed his skis and slipped through the opening into the dark tunnel, storing his equipment in an alcove off to the right.
Numbing cold had already seeped into his bones through the many layers of clothing, but he was used to it. Trekking down the main tunnel, he hunched over to avoid hitting his head, a flashlight illuminating the area right in front of him.
The only sounds were his footfalls on the frozen ground and the blood pumping through his veins, its relentless roar an echo in his head. As the tunnel slowly led him deeper into the mountain, his anxiety fueled his imagination. She wasn’t there. She was a ghost. She would seek revenge.
He bit back a strangled sob. In life, she had been kind and smart and forgiving. Would she be different in death?
His foot slipped on the edge of a deep hole, rocks falling down the vertical exploration shaft.
“Stupid,” he whispered, as he pushed his back against the rough wall, trying to calm his racing heart. Dammit, he had known about the hole in this passage! How could he have wandered so far into the most dangerous area of the mine and missed the turn? There were a dozen exploration shafts and he knew exactly where they were because he had the only set of maps that had been updated by the last engineer, with all the added tunnels and shafts marked.
In the years since the mine closed, a half dozen people had lost their lives here. Everyone had heard the stories. Like three decades ago when Paul Swain and his pals were getting stoned in the mine, and Mike Stine fell to his death down one of these shafts. They never recovered his body. Some people didn’t believe it was an accident, but no one dared question the Swain family. Lawson Swain had kept Spruce Lake alive until his death, when Paul took over. And even though he was in prison on drug charges, most people suspected Paul was still very much in control of criminal enterprises in Spruce Lake.
But the truth was far more terrifying.
Ten yards back he found the right tunnel. Thirty feet down, it spilled out into an open space, not much bigger than a long, narrow garage, which had long ago stored mine equipment. Two tunnels shot off the room. He didn’t know where they went. He’d never been this far into the mine, except …
He turned his flashlight toward the woman who haunted him.
She was unchanged, lying so peacefully he could almost pretend she was sleeping. His eyes burned.
He knelt at her side, reached out to touch her, then stopped himself.
“I’m so sorry.” His voice broke and he began to shake. Gutless. This should never have happened. She should never have died.
He bowed his head and prayed for forgiveness. For strength.
He prayed for survival.
He remembered not her death but her smile, her sassy mouth, her quick wit. He’d loved her.
He hadn’t killed her, but he’d let it happen.
He remained kneeling until the cold was so bitterly unbearable that he feared he wouldn’t make it back out. Would that be so bad? To die here? Every time he came, he thought the same thing. Take a few pills, lie down next to her, sleep. The subzero temperature would take care of the rest.
But others depended on him. He had responsibilities and obligations. If he disappeared, the town he had once loved, the town that had once saved him, would be doomed.
His soul was already doomed. There would be no forgiveness, no redemption. Truly, the only thing that kept him alive was the fire of vengeance burning inside.
He pulled a limp white flower from his pocket. He didn’t know what it was called, he wasn’t much into gardening, but she had loved them. It was wilted from being frozen, then being stored in the warmth of his pocket. Before leaving, he placed it on her chest, barely able to resist touching her.
ONE
Sean Rogan watched Lucy stretch with the grace of a cat, her thick, wavy black hair falling across his bare chest. She sighed as she relaxed on top of him, her dark eyes closed, a half-smile on her face.
There was little Sean enjoyed more than early-morning sex with Lucy.
For the first time in months, they were alone-no friends, no family, no stress-sharing a secluded cabin in the middle of the Adirondacks. Just the two of them. Lucy didn’t seem to realize how much she’d needed this vacation- already, after one night, she was looking more rested than he’d seen her in months. Sean hoped their change of plans to help his brother Duke’s friend wouldn’t put a damper on their week together.
“This is perfect.” Lucy kissed his chest. “I wish it could last.”
A faint, nagging fear that such unadulterated happiness would come at a cost marred Sean’s good mood. He knew Lucy was talking about their time alone, but he couldn’t help but think she had been reflecting on their relationship.
“Luce?”
“Hmm?”
What should he say? That their vacation could last forever? Should he call her out on her skepticism? If he asked her to explain her comment, she’d overthink her response, and worse, she’d put her shields back up. He’d worked hard at getting her to put down her armor; it was these rare moments when she was entirely comfortable that he savored.
“Up for a hike this morning?” he asked instead.
