The Suspect Next Door, page 1
“Listen,” he said—and holy hell, his voice sounded sexy. “We need to get out of here. Someone might have heard that shot and called the police.”
“Will we be in trouble?”
“It’s not trouble from the cops I’m worried about. I really can’t have anybody seeing me here.”
“Just what, exactly, are you doing here?” I asked, dying to know what sort of situation I had just made much more complicated.
“Really? You’re asking me that right now?”
I glanced at my feet, suddenly unable to look into those beautiful hazel eyes.
“These guys aren’t going to be out forever. We’ve got to go.”
“I mean, you saved me, so you must be a good guy, but I’m just not entirely sure why you had the mask on—”
The look on his face made the words stop spewing from my mouth.
“Not that it’s really your business, but I’m a private detective.”
Dear Reader,
If you love cozy-mystery vibes with a heavy dose of a certain girl detective from days past, then you’ve come to the right place.
Writing The Suspect Next Door was such a treat, with feisty and sometimes irreverent Petra Jackson taking charge of (okay, meddling in) the lives of those around her—particularly a certain neighbor, Ryan, who just happens to be the most intriguing man she’s ever encountered.
Like that girl detective, Petra finds herself immersed in all sorts of entertaining and alarming conundrums...but Petra is only one part of a whole cast of quirky characters, and I hope you’ll come to love them all.
Fun fact: I’m honored that the book you hold in your hands shares the same title as the Nancy Drew Files #39, published in 1989. It feels like a perfect homage to the books I grew up reading in my grandma’s basement all those years ago. I still have a few of my maternal family’s original hardbacks from the 1930s on my bookshelves.
Thank you so much for picking up this book and helping make this author’s dreams come true.
Happy reading,
Rachel
THE SUSPECT NEXT DOOR
Rachel Astor
Rachel Astor is equal parts country girl and city dweller who spends an alarming amount of time correcting the word the. Rachel has had a lot of jobs (bookseller, real estate agent, 834 assorted admin roles), but none as, ahem, interesting as when she waitressed at a bar named after a dog. She is now a USA TODAY bestselling author who splits her time between the city, the lake and as many made-up worlds as possible.
Books by Rachel Astor
Harlequin Romantic Suspense
The Suspect Next Door
Visit the Author Profile page at
Harlequin.com.
Contents
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
Excerpt from Colton’s Dangerous Cover by Lisa Childs
Chapter 1
Top 10 Worst Opening Lines for a Book
It was a dark and stormy night...
Gazing into the mirror, I stared into my deep brown eyes...
In the end, it was all a dream.
My eyes refused to open as I flung my alarm clock across the room.
The phone rang.
The date was March 12, 1988...
I couldn’t believe how big my butt had gotten.
Kaboom!
Storm clouds roiled above menacingly... (aka an even worse riff on dark and stormy night)
Once upon a time...
I was fantastically screwed.
I’d legitimately typed—and subsequently deleted—each one of the awful lines onto the screen that kept staring at me, annoyingly blank. My muse had apparently gone for a smoke break.
Eight hours ago.
I sighed. I knew exactly who I wanted to write about—Amelia Jones, inspired by amalgamations of real-life kick-ass women, like Amelia Earhart, and famous fictional kick-ass women like Jessica Jones. In short, she was going to be very, well...kick-ass. She would be a fighter (and not in the “oh she’s so strong emotionally” way, but more the “I’ll take down a burly heathen whilst in evening wear and emerge unscathed save for a charming, dewy glow” way), be so clever she could take down any vainglorious Princess Bride weirdo in a battle of wits, and be gorgeous to boot, but in an accessible way, of course—no supermodel dimensions here.
Except... I couldn’t think of anything for her to do. Like not a damned thing. Which was weird, because I used to be able to write and write and write about nothing in particular and then sometimes—when those elusive literary deities poured their sparkle juice into my keyboard—it turned into something great.
Or at least pretty good.
At the moment, anything other than incredible suckitude would be great. I ran my hands along my hair and held it up in a sort of mock ponytail, watching the cursor blink.
You. BLINK. Are. BLINK. A failure. BLINK.
How condescending.
Before I launched my laptop off the balcony and admired its beautiful spiral of doom—the sun glittering beatifically off its silvery edges before sailing to its final, magnificent shattering—there were a few things I needed to try.
I jumped up and went to my dresser, pulling out my favorite costume jewelry—a dazzling bracelet and a few massive ornate rings—topping them off with my pink feather boa. Maybe if I looked the part of a glamorous author, the words would start to flow.
I sat back at my desk, spitting out a stray feather and scratching the tickle from my nose. Man, those feathers really got everywhere. I set my fingers gently on the keyboard and started to...
...do absolutely nothing.
Damn.
Why? I wailed in my head. I used to believe writer’s block didn’t exist. That it was just some pathetic excuse for someone who was too lazy to sit down and do the work.
What a prime ass past me was.
I mean, sure there was a little more pressure to come up with something good now that I’d written a book that was published and actually sold well, but that was silly. That should mean I was even more confident about the magic I could weave with words, right?
Um. Apparently not.
I spit out another feather, fished an additional plume from my cleavage and shook my head. This was ridiculous.
Tossing the boa aside, I packed up my laptop and grabbed my coat. Perhaps a change of scenery would do it, and I could really use a cinnamon caramel latte while I was at it. Nothing soothed the writerly soul like the decadent scents of a coffee shop.
I stepped into Cuppa Joe on the ground floor of my apartment building, and instantly felt at home. I’d spent hours there writing my last book, and that had gotten me almost to the top of the New York Times bestseller list. My stomach did a little flip just thinking about it. Cuppa Joe was the reason I’d moved in once I’d been able to afford an apartment in the building.
I smiled as I took in the spicy sweet scents, the low murmur of voices, the clicking of spoons on dishes. Yes, this was the ticket. Surely the words would flow once I got my coffee and found a nice quiet corner and...damn. The place was packed.
Since when were there so many people who could just come to a coffee shop and write in the middle of the day? Didn’t people have jobs anymore? Not that I had one, really. Well, not anything structured, like in an office or anything. Although if I didn’t get some words going soon, I might have to find one. Which, from what I could recall, was decidedly not a lifestyle I would prefer to go back to. No shade to those who love being cooped up in a cubicle/practice coffin begging for time off to go to the gyno or whatever, but those were not the things that brought me a whole lot of passion, personally.
Unfortunately, writing really hadn’t brought much in the last while either.
Still, I knew this was my life’s calling, so I needed to find a way to emblazon some words onto that screen.
Sitting at a table in the middle of the room, I felt like I was in some kind of performance piece, even if it was exceptionally mundane. I preferred to stick along the edges so no one could look over my shoulder. It wasn’t like I was writing some super confidential plot twist (as if I had any semblance of a plot twist), but sometimes, when writing some of the more...romantic scenes, things could get a little steamy. And someone sneaking a peek out of context might wonder—or, you know, faint dead away or something. I put my coffee down and set up my workspace—laptop open, notebook handy to my right and phone to my left. Perfect.
Then obviously I had to check social media—just for a second—to see if anyone replied to that comment I made this morning. And while I was at it, I may as well play a game or two of Candy Crush, just to get nice and relaxed and in the mood for typing.
Finally, I set my phone down and really got ready, leaning back in my seat.
All the other people were typing away. Some of them incredibly fast, almost frantic—like they were so filled with ideas, they couldn’t get them down fast enough. One girl in the corner, who was gorgeous and had the shiniest black hair I’d ever seen, had the biggest, beaming smile plastered on her face over whatever it was she was typing so passionately about. I briefly wondered what would happen if I got up, calmly wandered over and slapped her right across the face. Which of course I would never do, but it was tempting to think about getting rid of that radiant smile.
I tried to remember a time when something I wrote gave me that much excitement. There must have been a moment at some point, but I couldn’t readily recall it. I mean, maybe she was just messaging with some guy or something, which led to thoughts about how I decidedly had no guy of my own to message, but I quickly banished that from my mind.
I could not go down that rabbit hole again.
Even the man in the corner, who was very serious about whatever it was he was working on with his stern look and harsh glasses, typed faster than, frankly, I’d ever seen a guy his age type.
I glanced around. These people were all so...productive.
I closed my eyes for a second.
Okay, time to stop worrying about what everyone else was doing and get to it. I stretched my neck to either side then readied myself at the keyboard once more. Here we go. Just write something.
Anything.
I blinked. The cursor blinked. I took a sip of coffee. The cursor blinked some more.
My phone dinged. Thank god.
How’s the writing going?
Victoria. Who should know better than to bother me when I was working. Of course, she probably knew as well as I did that there was not a lot of actual work going on. She’d been an up-close-and personal witness to my writer’s block for months.
It was so bad the writer’s block had taken on its own persona. I called her Mabel.
Funny, I wrote back.
Well, kid. I don’t know what to tell you. You’ve got to get out of this slump.
Tell me something I don’t know.
Okay, one question. WWND?
???
What would Nancy do?
I smiled. Vic was well aware of my juvenile obsession with girl-detective books.
She’d go find a mystery for inspiration, of course, I typed.
Then you know what you have to do.
I set down my phone. Could she be right? I mean, maybe it was the whole “trying to think up a mystery out of thin air” that was holding me back. Surely other writers must look for inspiration in real life, right?
There was only one problem. How did one go about finding a mystery in the middle of a random Tuesday?
An hour later, my coffee was gone and my screen was as blank as ever. The raven-haired girl had left, leaving a sense of despair in her wake. Not her own, of course. She looked perfectly fine when she left. Happy even.
The despair was all mine.
I packed up my laptop and headed out to the street—there was no direct access from inside the building to the coffee shop, which I thought was a massive oversight until the barista, Frank, had explained that it was for the safety of the residents. “You wouldn’t want people off the street to be able to access the building through one of the businesses, would you?” Fair point, Frank. Fair point.
Other than Frank, I hadn’t made much headway getting to know many of the people in my building. Except Annie.
Annie was quickly becoming my favorite human. I’d basically already decided I wanted to be her when I grew up. And the gossip, my god, but somehow it was the complete opposite of snark and more just a way to talk about her favorite people, which was to say, everyone in the building. She talked shamelessly about all of us, and yet, we loved her. There had to be a name for that. Affectionmonger? Praisecaster?
In any case, Annie was my insider. For instance, the couple in Apartment 406 was a teacher and an office manager, which at first sounds like a perfectly tame combination. Until you find out the office manager, Samantha, was in charge of the nation’s largest chain of adult toy stores. I had to admit, I was pretty glad I didn’t have the apartment underneath those two.
And then there was Mrs. Appleton in Apartment 105. Until I’d moved in, I’d never even heard of a woman who’d had eight husbands. How does one even go about finding men that fast? I hadn’t even had a date since Johnny and I broke up four months ago.
Anyway, Annie really was adorable, and that day was no exception as I unlocked the front door to the building and saw that she was, as she tended to be, sitting in one of the comfy lounge chairs in the lobby. Her outfit was pretty surprising though. Normally the woman looked like a unicorn had exploded on her, all rainbows and sparkles, but today she was pretty tame in a black sheath dress and black ankle boots. If it weren’t for the leggings featuring cartoon characters and the electric blue wig, I would have thought something terrible had happened.
“Petra!” Annie squealed. “My gorgeous! How can you even be so spectacular with all that hair?”
I smiled, trying my best not to make a face. In the words of my favorite Nancy, compliments were not my chum.
“And this figure... You are to die for, honey. Those curves!” she said, fanning herself.
Frankly, I didn’t love when people mentioned my curves. They were somewhat new—hello, slowing metabolism—and I hadn’t quite gotten used to them yet. Seriously, I’d bought six different bras and they all fit just slightly wrong, though each in dissimilar, and increasingly mystifying, ways.
“Thanks, Annie,” I said. “Your wig is stellar.”
“Aw, thanks,” she said, primping it a little. “I wasn’t really feeling any of my outfits this morning, but the wig put me right in the spirit.”
I wasn’t sure what spirit she was talking about—maybe the spirit of RuPaul or something—but she always put me in a better mood instantly. Annie had a way of making everyone feel just a little bit better about their day.
“Come sit with me. Tell me everything.”
So of course, I sat, though I wasn’t really sure what she wanted me to tell her. There hadn’t been a whole lot of “everything” since we’d danced this routine yesterday.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Annie. There just isn’t a whole lot going on these days.”
Annie tilted her head, a sort of nondescript look on her face. It wasn’t quite pity or disappointment or a “things’ll get better” look, but it was maybe a combination of the three. In any case, it made me feel like I had to elaborate.
“Maybe I need to take a class or something.”
Annie chuckled. “You certainly like your classes, don’t you, kitten?”
I smiled. “What? It’s been like, two weeks since Tae Kwon Do for Beginners ended.”
“And before that it was?”
“La Dolce Vita: An Exploration of Italian Pastries.”
“And before that?”
“An Introduction to American Sign Language.”
“Uh-huh. Exactly how many classes have you taken this year?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe...six?”
“Petra,” she said, taking my hands. “It’s only April. That’s more than one a month.”
“Well, some of them overlapped. ASL can’t be learned overnight, you know,” I explained, not sure why I felt like I had to. Because seriously, I loved taking classes. What’s not to love? Learn new things. Meet new people. Sometimes there was exercise...that intermediate pole dancing class was no joke, let me tell you.
“Is any of it helping with your writing?”
Did I mention Annie had a way of squeezing information out of people? We’d already extensively covered the subject of Mabel the writer’s block, ages ago.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Learning new things has to be helpful, right? And I’ve been meeting a lot of people, so that’s good for creating characterization.”
“And how much have you written because of it?”
“Um, not...much?”
“Well, if you ask me, all these classes of yours are great, as long as they’re not a distraction from your real work, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I feel like they might be.”
