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      In loving memory of my mom and dad.

      Forever in my heart.

      THANKS TO:

      My husband, Michael, for believing in my dream. My children, Christine, Paul and Jennifer, for quietly taking up the slack around the house when my writing overtakes my days, for cheering me on, praying for me, listening, critiquing and even typing!

      My agent, Joyce Hart, and editor, Tina James, for believing in me. My mentors Margaret Daley and Susan May Warren for teaching me so much, and for enthusiastic encouragement.

      My critiquers, Wenda Dottridge and Vicki Talley McCollum, for their selfless investment of time, and invaluable suggestions. My writing buddies, Laurie Benner and Kate Weichelt, for inspiring brainstorming sessions and chocolate celebrations!

      My first readers, Betti Mace and Tina Tarling, for their timely feedback. My friend Nancy Miller for her endless support in too many ways to name. My prayer warriors, Angie Breidenbach, Lisa Jamieson and Patti Jo Moore.

      The numerous police officers who shared their expertise with me.

      And most important, thanks to my Lord Jesus for the greatest love of all.

      There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known.

      —Luke 12:2

      ONE

      Stop now, or else.

      Rick Gray strode toward the spray-painted warning inside the half-framed building. The sawdust-strewn floor groaned under his weight, then suddenly gave way, dropping him ten feet onto his back in basement mud. His hard hat cracked against a rock and the air rushed from his lungs. Pain streaked through his body. He tried to suck in a breath, but his chest seized.

      He willed his muscles to relax and tried again. This time a gasp squeaked through.

      He squinted past the flashes of color dancing in front of his eyes and focused on the floor joists that dangled over his head. He might be an undercover cop just posing as the foreman on this group-home project, but he didn’t have to be the real thing to spot the clean saw lines bisecting three of the struts.

      Fury blazed through his veins. If the basement slab had been poured yesterday as planned, he’d be a dead man.

      Holding his breath against the throbbing pain, Rick crawled up the ladder to the main floor. Last night’s rain had turned the Southern Ontario sandy loam into a soupy mess, and the late winter chill layering the air around Miller’s Bay bit through his damp jeans. Bit like the suspicion nipping at his thoughts that this wasn’t the handiwork of another disgruntled neighbor.

      The warning to stop construction on the controversial home for the mentally challenged might be from an angry Not-In-My-Backyarder, but if his “boss” had figured out why Rick really took this job, staging an accident that looked like the work of local protesters was an inspired way to take him out.

      Two shiny leather shoes, enveloped in thin rubber sole guards, met his nose at the top of the ladder. Rick shot out his hand and dug his fingers into the floorboards, bracing himself for the push that would send the ladder, and him, toppling back to the ground.

      Emile Laud’s well-manicured hand reached for Rick’s free arm and hoisted him up the last three rungs. In a three-piece suit and Burberry overcoat, his boss clearly hadn’t planned on picking his way across a construction site. “What happened?”

      “Sabotage,” Rick grunted, his suspicion of Laud masked by his struggle to pull in a full breath.

      The panic that flashed in Laud’s eyes wasn’t the response of a man who’d just tried to kill off his foreman. His gaze traveled across the splintered wood, up Rick’s mud-caked pants and paused on the cracked hard hat clutched in Rick’s fist. “Are you okay?”

      “I’ll live.” Rick watched Laud’s reaction, but nothing in his expression suggested he hoped otherwise. So who was their saboteur? And what did he really want?

      Laud pried a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped the mud from his hands. “Those crazy radicals have gone too far this time. I’ve got my new PR girl stopping by this morning. We’ll have her take pictures and write a news article to rally public opinion to our side.”

      Rick kneaded the muscles in the back of his neck. Here to nail Laud for the arson murder of two—maybe more—people, Rick couldn’t afford to have an innocent get in his way. And that’s exactly what would happen if this new PR person acted

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