Sharon Sala - Snowfall

Snowfall

Book Jacket

Praise for New York Times bestselling author
SHARON SALA

Spellbinding narrativeSala lives up to her reputation with this well-crafted thriller.

Publishers Weekly on Remember Me

Wear a corset, because your sides will hurt from laughing! This is Sharon Sala at top form. Youre going to love this touching and memorable book.

New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber on Whippoorwill

Ms. Sala draws you in from the very beginning. She delivers main characters who will touch your hearts and quirky secondary characters who will intrigue you as you try to figure out whodunit.

Romantic Times BOOKclub on Butterfly

Whippoorwill is a funny, heartwarming story, set in a raw, untamed land and rich with indelible characters that will stay with you long after the last page is turned. I didnt want it to be over.

Deborah Smith, New York Times bestselling author of A Place to Call Home

Once again, Sharon Sala does a first-rate job at blending richly developed characters and inspired plotting into an unforgettable read.

Romantic Times BOOKclub on Dark Water

Also by SHARON SALA

THE CHOSEN

MISSING

WHIPPOORWILL

OUT OF THE DARK

DARK WATER

REMEMBER ME

REUNION

SWEET BABY

MIRA Books is also proud to publish
Sharon Sala under the pseudonym
DINAH M C CALL

Watch for Dinah McCalls next novel
of romantic suspense

THE SURVIVORS

SHARON SALA

Snowfall

When we are born into this world, we do not choose the family we are given, only the friends we yearn to keep.

Throughout my life there have been many, some fleeting, some steadfast, who stood, not by me, but with me, through the proverbial thick and thin.

I cannot name you all, but you know who you are, and I cherish my place in your life. You have unselfishly given me both your presence and your time.

I can only hope that, in return, I did not fail to return the favor.

Contents

One

You will suffer for the sin.

C aitlin Bennett took a deep, shaky breath as she reread the letter in her hand. No matter how many times she read it, the warning didnt change. It was the latest in a chain of hate mail shed been receiving for the past six months. Each one she received was worse than the last.

When theyd first started coming, shed chalked it up to nothing more than a disgruntled fan. As C. D. Bennett, bestselling mystery author, it wasnt the first weird fan letter shed ever received. But when the second, and then the third, came, each with a similar message of retribution, she began to get nervous. Public figures were often murdered with less provocation.

Deciding to err on the side of caution, she had called Boran Fiorello, an old friend of the family and a detective with the 45th precinct. When she showed him the letters, he was most understanding but didnt consider them truly threatening, and as she looked back, she could understand his reaction.

The first three letters were almost ambivalent, written in an I dont like you because style. It was no wonder he wasnt impressed. Fiorello had sent her home with a pat on the back and a promise to take her out to dinner sometime soon.

But the letters kept coming, each one a bit more threatening than the last and renewing her anxiety. Certain that Fiorello would take these more seriously, she called him again. That time his response had been brief, almost distracted. Hed told her that there was no law against not liking what she wrote and no law against telling her about it. Short of receiving an actual physical threat, which she had not, he didnt think she had anything to worry about. Feeling suitably chastened, shed given up, even though the tone of the letters continued to darken.

Now she had just over two dozen, and all very obviously from the same person. The last one had come this morning. The bright crimson of a felt tip pen on white paper was eye-catching; part of what the writer most likely intended. But it was the perfect bloodred drops added to the bottom of each word that gave her chills. The letters appeared to be seeping blood, and where there should have been a signature, there was an accumulating pool of blood instead. It was the perfect visual assaulthorrifying without striking a single blow.

She was scaredas scared as shed ever been in her lifeyet there was nothing but words on which to base her fear. Shed never been accosted, never received a threatening phone call, never had one moment when shed experienced physical danger.

A small clock on her desk began chiming the hour, and as it did, she jumped at the sound. Dismayed by the time, she put the letter in the file with all the others and then hurried to her bedroom.

In less than an hour, a car would arrive to take her to DBC Studios. Kenny Leibowitz, her publicist, had arranged her personal appearance on the Live with Lowell show to promote Dead Lines, her newest release. She didnt like the publicity part of the business, but she dealt with it. Doing television was her least favorite thing, especially when it was on the DBC network. She began a mental countdown of the interview as she put on her makeup.

Inevitably the host of this particular show seemed bent on bringing up the fact that her father was Devlin Bennett, who, among other things, had founded Devlin Broadcasting Company. After that, he seemed compelled to mention that when her father died, hed left all his millions and his holdings, which included DBC, to Caitlin. Doing television meant she had to cope with the one-liners about owning the network and buying her way into fame. It didnt seem to matter to the glib talk-show host that her books had an average eighty-five percent sell-through, which was phenomenal in and of itself. All Lowell was looking for was the laugh. She didnt like his snide remarks, but she dealt with them in a witty and urbane manner, giving the host as good as he gave. To his credit, he loved itand her. He didnt know that Caitlin was cringing inside, or that she would much rather have been home watching videos of old movies and having her favorite snack, a peanut butter and dill pickle sandwich. To too many people in the world, she was a poor little rich girl who played at being a writer. Although her father had been dead for almost five years, Caitlin had been forced to accept the fact that she would forever live in his shadow. Not for the first time, she was wishing for a man in her life, and maybe children. She wasnt just afraid, she was lonely. But wishing didnt produce results.

Her makeup finished, she rummaged through her closet, snatching the first warm black outfit she came to, and began to dress. One good thing about being a writernobody expected you to look pretty. You just had to be smart. By the time her car arrived, she was ready and waiting.

SoCaitlinmay I call you Caitlin, or should I say Ms. Bennett? After all, you are my boss.

Caitlin smiled what she hoped was a forgiving smile and tried not to wince. God. Where did they get those people? Ron Lowell was an attractive man, but his brain seemed stuck on Rewind. This was the fourth time in as many years that shed been on his show promoting a book, and he always started her interview in the exact same way.

I dont care what you call me, as long as you buy the book, Caitlin quipped.

The audience roared, and Ron Lowell beamed. The interview was getting off to a good start. He picked up the book and made a pretense of flipping through the pages, although his focus was definitely on the swell of her breasts beneath the black knit dress she was wearing.

So the new book is called Dead Lines. Tell us about it.

Caitlin leaned forward. Its a murder mystery, Ron.

He grinned. Shed fed him the perfect line.