It had been an extensive and brilliantly executed kidnapping network. They’d scam parents who thought they were going through legitimate channels to adopt a child, and then place the stolen babies with families who paid enough money and didn’t ask too many questions.
When she and Clive had arrived in Miami, they hadn’t been greeted with open arms by the city or by the higher-ups in law enforcement. And to make matters worse, the media had been notified of her arrival and were waiting to greet them at the airport, turning the whole thing into a three-ring circus. She’d found out later Clive had been the mastermind behind that particular ambush.
It had only taken her a matter of hours to get to the bottom of things. She’d touched the files, handled the evidence, let the visions come flooding in with all their terrible clarity. And thank God she’d made friends at the FBI during various cases over the previous decade, because once she’d found out the mayor, the CEO of the hospital, a captain at the police department, and a state legislator were all involved, she knew she needed to call in someone who could take control and get those children back to their rightful parents.
They’d been fortunate that all the data had been meticulously kept—which children were taken from which families and what state and family they’d been sent to. It was an undertaking that would take months to unravel, but she’d been able to tell them where to look and who to look at.
And Clive had been right about one thing. The combination of her popularity as a photographer and the coverage from the press over the kidnapping case had made her show sell out in less than an hour. Every piece gone. Every photograph finding a home.
She should have been happy. She should have been thrilled.
Instead, she’d felt dirty. She hadn’t liked the attention, hadn’t liked the feel of using one gift to help make the other gift profitable. The whole thing felt wrong—like she’d betrayed something sacred. Like she’d turned her pain into a commodity.
Then she’d found out exactly how far Clive’s betrayal went.
Unbeknownst to her, he’d signed legal documents in her name—forged her signature with the casual arrogance of a man who’d never been told no. He’d made himself her business manager and given himself control of the majority of her assets. He also owned her name, and because her name represented the work she did, he owned that too.
Everything she’d built. Everything she’d worked for. It all belonged to him.
She knew how men like Clive operated. She’d seen him in action during business deals, watched him smile and charm and then go for the throat when his opponent least expected it. He was a man who got what he wanted, no matter the cost. And she’d never be able to beat him if she tried to take him to court and reclaim what was hers. He had too much money, too much influence, too many lawyers on retainer.
But Marnie had always been resourceful.
Clive never should have underestimated a girl who’d been raised learning how to stay out of Harley Whitlock’s way. She’d survived her father. She’d survived foster care. She’d survived years of moving from place to place with nothing but her camera and her wits. She could survive this too.
So she’d taken the money in her savings and hidden it in a different account—one with only her name on it, at a bank Clive had never heard of. And she’d added to it when he gave her the small percentage of her sales every two weeks, skimming off what she could without him noticing. She’d quietly told her landlord she wouldn’t be renewing her lease. And she’d packed her personal belongings and favorite photographs—the ones she’d taken for herself, not for one of Clive’s galleries—and prepared to disappear.
He’d told her repeatedly that he’d take care of her and she never had to worry about money again. But what he’d really meant was that he’d control her. Keep her on a tight leash, doling out small amounts of “play money” so she had to keep coming back for more. Keep her dependent on him. Keep her grateful.
Keep her trapped.
It was about that time that the visions of Laurel Valley went from the occasional and sporadic to every day. She’d see the mountains in her dreams. See the valley spread out below like a quilt of green and gold. See herself walking down Main Street with the autumn leaves crunching under her feet.
She knew it was time to return home, though she didn’t know what waited for her there. Only that when she saw herself in those visions, that’s where she was. That’s where she was meant to be.
Clive had never been abusive. Not like her father. He’d never raised a hand to her, never made her fear for her physical safety. But he was controlling in ways that were harder to see, harder to name. He’d essentially bought her, though she’d been too naïve and dazzled at the time to realize it.
When she’d finally told him she was leaving—that she wanted out of their relationship and partnership—he’d spewed such filth and hatred at her that she wondered what she’d ever seen in him to begin with. The mask had slipped, and underneath was a man who saw her as property. As something he owned.
But at least he’d let her walk out the door. With her belongings and the small van she’d had for years—the one she used to haul equipment for photo shoots, the one that had taken her from city to city and state to state.
He’d already started calling the banks and cutting off her credit cards when she walked out that door. Already making calls to freeze her accounts and lock her out of everything he thought he controlled.
He’d underestimated her.
She didn’t care about money. She’d never had money and it had never mattered. She’d learned to survive on nothing, and nothing was exactly what she’d started with before. But she’d be darned if she’d escape one prison only to be held in another.
So she’d walked out the door and toward freedom, for the second time in her life, with a smile on her face.
Laurel Valley was waiting.
And so, she suspected, were the ghosts she’d left behind.
Chapter Five
After a busted radiator in Missouri and a stomach bug that kept her holed up for two days in South Dakota, she finally crested the hill that led to Laurel Valley.
She stopped the van at the top of the ridge, next to the sign that said Welcome to Laurel Valley. It was familiar, yet different. They’d upgraded the old green highway sign to a carved wooden one with the town’s Bavarian crest painted in bright colors—a nod to the European settlers who’d founded the valley over a century ago.
