Fade To Gray (Triad Series Book 1)

  FADE TO GRAY

  Dee Davis

  Fade To Gray is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  Published by Pocito Press.

  Copyright 2017 by Dee Davis Oberwetter

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design: Rogenna Brewer

  ISBN: 978-0-9971834-2-9

  http://www.deedavis.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Every effort has been made to produce this book as accurately as possible. However, if you find an error, please let us know feedback@deedavis.com

  Also by Dee Davis:

  Random Heroes Collection:

  Dark Of The Night

  Dancing In The Dark

  Midnight Rain

  Just Breathe

  After Twilight

  Liars Game Series:

  Lethal Intent (novella)

  Eye Of The Storm

  Chain Reaction

  Still of the Night (novella)

  Last Chance Series:

  Endgame

  Enigma

  Exposure

  Escape (novella)

  A-Tac Series:

  Dark Deceptions

  Dangerous Desires

  Desperate Deeds

  Daring (Novella)

  Deep Disclosure

  Deadly Dance

  Double Danger

  Dire Distraction

  Triad Series:

  Fade to Gray

  Matchmaker Chronicles

  A Match Made on Madison

  Set Up In SoHo

  Time After Time Series

  Everything In Its Time

  Cottage in the Mist

  The Promise

  Wild Highland Rose

  Devil May Care Series

  Hell Fire (novella)

  Hell's Fury (novella)

  To my friend Patricia Ceraso who always makes me smile!

  CHAPTER 1

  Manhattan

  EMILY MASTERSON ROLLED to her side and tried not to gag. Something smelled horrible. Her stomach clenched, threatening to rebel, and she scrunched her eyes shut, as if by doing so she could forestall what was obviously going to be an awful morning. Her mind scrambled to pull forth details from last night.

  She’d gone out with her friends, Sylvie and Jules. She drew in a shaky breath and swallowed, trying to keep her stomach in line. They’d started with dinner and then moved on to some clubs, ending at Avalon if she was remembering right. There’d been tequila involved. Which of course had been a mistake. She’d never been able to handle tequila well.

  She grimaced and risked opening an eye. For a moment the world was blurry and then it cleared. Her other eye popped open, her heart pounding.

  This wasn’t her bedroom. In fact, she’d never seen that chair or those drapes before. She squeezed her eyes shut again. What in the world had she done? She was always so careful not to cross the line between having a good time and making a fool of herself. So she couldn’t have done anything that bad. Right?

  Except for the fact that she had no idea where she was or how she’d gotten here. She shifted and the sheet slid against her skin. Oh God, she wasn’t wearing much of anything. Did that mean she wasn’t alone? Could this get any worse?

  Eyes still screwed tightly shut, Emily considered again what she remembered of last night. In truth, not much about the ending at all. Sylvie had left before she and Jules had headed for Avalon. A hotspot for up and coming politicos, Jules had wanted to make an appearance. She was running for office, after all. And even though Emily wasn’t much of a party girl, she had wanted to support her friend.

  Pushing her hair from her face, she rolled to her side, opened her eyes—and nearly strangled on a scream. Tom Irwin lay sprawled beside her on the bed, covered in blood. The smell. Oh God. That was the smell. His sightless eyes looked to the ceiling, his hand stretched out as if he were summoning her. He was naked. And dead.

  Oh, dear Lord, she was going to be sick. Really, really sick. Senator Tom Irwin, the Democratic party’s golden boy, was dead. Dead. Dead.

  She bounded from the bed, choking on her terror, trying to hold back the contents of her stomach. As she turned the corner into the bathroom she caught the image in the mirror. A woman covered in blood. On her hands, her legs, her chest, everywhere. Her panties and bra were splotched with red. Her hands were stained. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

  What had she done?

  She hit the cold tile with her knees and hung her head over the toilet, her stomach emptying itself immediately. She heaved a few more times, and then flushed, heart still pounding. She had to go back out there. She had to face him. If for no other reason than to assure herself this was really, truly happening.

  But even as she had the thought, she curled into a small ball on the floor. She couldn’t go back out there. Couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face him. If she stayed here maybe it would simply go away. Maybe this was just a nightmare. She’d lived through night terrors once before. When her mother died. She could do it again.

  This had to be a dream.

  Forcing herself to breathe in and out, in and out, in and out, she felt her panic recede. Pushing to her feet, she forced herself back into the hotel room. The big bed mocked her, Tom’s body still in the same frightening position. From this angle she could see spatters of blood on the wall and headboard and the open, gaping wounds in Tom’s chest. There were multiple deep cuts on his face, arms and legs. A macabre image right out of a slasher movie. Her stomach threatened revolt again as her eyes dropped to the foot of the bed and the bloody knife that lay across the duvet.

  Her head spun, and her knees threatened to buckle. She fought to stay on her feet. She needed a plan. She couldn’t just walk away. And she couldn’t call the police. Her father had drummed the need for caution into her from her earliest days. She was a Masterson. Her pedigree and money meant she was always a target. People watching, waiting to take advantage. Waiting for her to fall. Anything she did was fodder for the press with the potential to ruin her family.

  And murder certainly fit that ticket nicely.

  She swallowed the bile, breathing through her mouth to avoid the smell. Acrid. Metallic. Awful. Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t like Tom Irwin. And she certainly hadn’t wanted to marry him. But that didn’t mean she’d killed him, did it?

  Why couldn’t she remember?

  Her dress and purse lay on the chair by the bed. Moving slowly, step by step, as if she expected Tom to jump out of bed and attack her—which was foolish beyond belief, considering—she inched toward the chair, and, eyes still locked on Tom, grabbed the dress and bag and retreated back into the bathroom.

  She dropped the dress to the floor. She certainly couldn’t put it on until she washed off the blood. A bubble of hysteria welled in her throat, bursting forth as a tortured laugh. So what? A freshly showered murderer was better than a bloody one? Who did she think she was trying to fool? If someone found her like this, there would be no doubt—whether she was covered with blood or
not.

  She had to get out of here.

  Grabbing the dress again, she rushed back out into the room and over to the door, but as she reached for the knob she realized what a sight she’d make running down the hallway of whatever hotel she was in. Her eyes moved to the rectangular paper pasted to the door. The Brighton. Oh God, this just kept getting worse. The Brighton was a small boutique hotel on 56th. There wasn’t a chance in the world that she could get out without anyone seeing her.

  And besides, she wasn’t going to run. Was she? Surely she needed to stay and face this head on. She couldn’t have killed anyone. Could she? Especially not Tom. She might not have liked the man, but he was a favorite of her father’s. That’s why…why…

  She bent over, the tears flowing freely now. She was completely and totally screwed. No one would care about the truth, whatever it might be. She was Blake Masterson’s daughter. All that would matter was what the tabloids had to say. She turned away from the bed and edged back to the bathroom, her mind spinning, her stomach still trying to empty itself even though there was nothing left to throw up.

  She just needed time. Time to think. Time to remember. Time to figure out what in the world she was supposed to do. Blindly she climbed into the tub. Maybe if she were clean her mind would clear. She sank to her knees, clutching her purse and her dress, knowing she needed to turn on the water, but unable to move. Unable to do anything except close her eyes and try to crawl deep into herself. Somewhere safe. Somewhere no one could harm her. Only there wasn’t such a place.

  Her father loved her but she couldn’t lay this at his door. Not with the senator involved. Everyone knew that her father had wanted her to marry Tom. And Tom…Tom had only wanted her as a conduit to her father’s kingdom. Or worse, as a possession—a plaything. She shivered, looking down at her blood-stained hands.

  Not that any of that mattered anymore. Tom. Was. Dead.

  She blew out a breath, forcing herself to focus. She could call Sylvie or Jules, but then that would make her friends a part of this. And that wasn’t fair, particularly with Jules having so much riding on this election. She deserved more than a best friend who’d…Oh God.

  Tears blurred Emily’s vision. She was truly alone. And this wasn’t going to go away. She sucked in a breath. Better to just face it. She was a Masterson, after all. She opened her purse and pulled out her phone and then, with shaking fingers, hit the home key. She’d call the police. What else could she do? Maybe there was a way to keep it out of the press? Even as she had the thought, she rejected it. No matter the outcome, this was going to be a disaster.

  The background on her phone mocked her thoughts as Gideon’s face filled the screen. She wasn’t sure why she’d kept the photo. She’d told her friends it was to remind her what men were truly like. But she knew it wasn’t that at all. And with a sigh that felt like it came from the bottom of her soul, she dialed the phone.

  "Gideon Sloan."

  His voice hadn’t changed. And even with all that lay between them, with all that was happening to her now, it still soothed her somehow. Helped her to find words.

  "It’s me. Please don’t hang up." She waited, heart pounding, praying for a miracle.

  "Emily, what do you want?" His voice wasn’t warm or comforting, but he was still there.

  She wiped at her tears, trying to control the quiver in her voice, knowing that her panic was only a breath away from consuming her. "I…I need you. I know I’ve no right to ask, but I’m in trouble. I need help. Gideon, I think I killed Tom Irwin."

  *****

  "YOU CAN’T POSSIBLY be thinking about going?" Declan Rafferty demanded, his dark eyes assessing as he watched Gideon hang up his phone. "Not after what she did to you?"

  "It was her father, if you want to be technical about it," Gideon replied, his brain still scrambling to make sense of the telephone conversation he’d just had. "And I don’t think I have a choice. She’s in trouble. It’s what we do."

  "For people who pay us. Mostly people who deserve it," Ryder Kincaid added from across the conference room table. The three of them had come in early to review their cases. And now both of his friends were looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. Which might not be that far from the truth. "I’m not sure Emily Masterson falls into either category," Ryder continued. "And I certainly can’t imagine her father agreeing to pay for your services. Declan’s already pointed out that she hasn’t exactly earned a spot on your trusted client list—hell, your trusted anything list. The woman’s trouble."

  "Yeah. And she needs me." Gideon ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Until today he’d have sworn he’d put Emily Masterson firmly in his past. Along with the shit storm her father had put him through. It had been ten years. And he didn’t need a reminder that going down this path was sure to end in disaster. But despite all of that…

  "You’re going," Declan said, finishing his thought for him. Which wasn’t all that unusual when he considered how long he and Declan had been friends.

  The two of them had banded together in grade school. Fighting to stay alive and unharmed in the public housing they’d called home. Ryder hadn’t entered the scene until middle school when he transferred in from a school in Queens, but as far as Gideon was concerned he was just as much a childhood friend—more like a brother really. Both him and Declan.

  The two of them had been there when he’d hit rock bottom. When it had looked like he was going to spend the rest of his life in prison. And they’d been there when things had suddenly turned around for the better, when his guardian angel had stepped in and made the horror go away.

  All Gideon had wanted to do in the moment was pay forward the enormous gift he’d been given. Not to mention make enough money to insulate himself from ever being screwed like that again. So it had been a no-brainer when his anonymous benefactor had offered the seed money to start his company. And it hadn’t taken a lot of thought to know that he wanted Declan and Ryder along for the ride. It had always been the three of them against the world.

  He looked at the company logo on the door of the conference room. Triad. The name said everything.

  "I’m going. She needs me." There wasn’t anything more to say really. Emily had sounded beyond scared. And if Tom Irwin was truly dead, there was going to be hell to pay.

  Ryder pushed to his feet, grabbing his computer. "If you’re going, I’m going."

  Declan sighed. "I just want to go on record saying that this is a bad idea. And I don’t think it’s going to end well." He stood up. "But I’m in."

  Some things never changed. Brothers to the end. No matter what kind of trouble he was dragging them into.

  "Right, then," Gideon said, pushing to his feet as well. "Declan, I’ll need you with me. I’ve no idea what we’re going to be walking into. But if I’m right, we’ll have to get Emily out of there as quickly as possible."

  "We’re going to cover it up?" Ryder asked, frowning.

  "I don’t know what we’re going to do. But I want to be ready for any option. She’s at the Brighton."

  "Christ," Declan said on an expelled breath, accurately echoing Gideon’s thoughts. "That’s not going to be easy."

  "Nothing ever is with us," Ryder said with a crooked smile. "I’m assuming you want me to stay here and work my magic?" Ryder was an expert when it came to all things technical. Especially those that involved security devices, cameras and so forth.

  "That and brief the rest of the team," Gideon affirmed. Although the three of them were the principals of Triad, Gideon had pulled together some of the best and brightest in their fields to work their cases. Forensic experts, logistics facilitators and various assorted ‘specialists’ that were best kept under the radar.

  What Triad did was mostly for the best, but not always legal. Not that it mattered. People found themselves in deep shit all the time. Sometimes because of stupidity or greed. Sometimes, like in his case, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Regardless of how it happened, they all
needed help. Expert help. People capable of cleaning up their messes without leaving collateral damage. And that’s where Triad came in.

  Gideon had just never expected he’d be cleaning up after Emily. Her father was the man who’d damn near brought him down. And best he could tell, she’d done absolutely nothing to stop him. Ryder was right; he didn’t owe her a damn thing. He ought not to care if she rotted in hell.

  But at just the sound of her voice—none of that seemed to matter at all.

  He had to help her.

  No matter what she’d done.

  *****

  "YOU’RE OUT EARLY this morning," Blake Masterson said, laying aside his newspaper as his brother strode into the dining room.

  "No rest for the weary." His brother Vincent smiled and walked over to the buffet and filled a plate with bacon, biscuits and eggs. Blake glanced down at his own fare of egg whites, fruit and wheat toast.

  "Still following doctor’s orders, I see." Vincent pulled out a chair and sat down, the chair groaning with the added weight.

  "I’m trying my best, although Mrs. Dumas makes it awfully difficult to do so when the morning fare is full of temptations." He nodded toward the buffet. "It’s not like anyone else is here to eat it, after all."

  "Well, there’s me," Vincent said over a mouthful of eggs.

  "Yes, so I see." Blake lifted an eyebrow, wondering, not for the first time, why his younger brother was such a constant source of irritation. As children, he’d written it off as an unfortunate by-product of birth order. Blake, charged with the responsibility of being the heir apparent to their father’s vast empire, held fast beneath their father’s watchful eye. While Vincent, as the spare, was allowed to run wild, doing pretty much as he pleased regardless of the havoc his escapades rained down on the family.