Whispers Read Free

metal-legged table where he’d taken most of the meals of the first twenty years of his life. The electric company must’ve come through and reconnected the old wires because the screen flickered and the laptop hummed in readiness.
    Snapping open his briefcase, he pulled out a file, thick with notes, clippings, and pictures of the Holland family. He dealt the photographs out like cards from a well-worn deck. First card faceup was the king of diamonds, old Dutch Holland, patriarch and would-be governor of the state, a man who claimed to be of the people, but, Kane knew, was more twisted than a sailor’s knot.
    Second was a picture of Dutch’s ex-wife Dominique, still model-beautiful, but living out of the country these days and, presumably, a source who might, for the right amount of cash, help him with his quest. Then there were the glossy prints of two of Dutch’s daughters, Miranda and Tessa. The final photograph, a snapshot, was of Claire.
    Too bad she was involved, and, he guessed, involved to her teeth.
    His jaw hardened at the two faces staring sightlessly from poses encouraged by some nameless but expensive photographer. He dropped the pictures of Miranda and Tessa, the oldest and youngest onto the table’s surface to join their parents, but he studied Claire’s picture more closely, a snapshot that he’d committed to memory long before. She was astride a painted pony, only the back and neck of which were visible. But Claire was caught square in the camera’s lens. His camera’s lens.
    Clear eyes, straight nose, wide cheekbones, and loose cinnamon brown curls framing an oval face. God, she was beautiful. Her smile was shy and enigmatic, a naive turn-on. Hell, he still felt it, that slightly elevated beat of his pulse whenever he thought of her, the girl who had everything, who had looked at him with disdain and pity.
    But not anymore.
    Now the tables had turned. He was the one in control. A twinge of conscience spiked his brain because he knew that what he was about to do might expose Claire to the most brutal of scrutiny. Her life would be turned inside out and shaken until all the dirt fell out, all the hidden secrets exposed like the bleached bones of a desert carcass.
    Too bad. If she got hurt, well, that was just part of life. The breaks. Sometimes pain couldn’t be helped. A man was dead, sent to a watery grave years before by someone who had lived in the house of Holland. Kane was determined to find out who had crushed Harley Taggert’s skull and hidden the crime for over sixteen years. He had personal reasons for this vendetta, reasons that went far beyond his pressing need to make a living, reasons that included his sincere belief that Harley might not have been the only victim in the lies and deceit that were hidden beneath the still surface of Lake Arrowhead.
    He flipped through a few pages of notes, then positioned the computer in front of him. Fingers moving deftly, he typed out the first page:

    Power Play:
    The Murder of Harley Taggert
by
Kane Moran

    He took another swig from his bottle and started writing. Even though his investigation into all the skeletons tucked discreetly away in the Holland family closets was just beginning, he realized that before he was finished, Harley’s murderer would face charges on a sixteen-year-old crime. Dutch Holland, the bastard, would have no chance of becoming governor of Oregon, and every single member of the Holland family, including Claire, would despise Kane Moran.
    So be it. Life wasn’t easy, and it sure as hell wasn’t fair. He’d learned that painful lesson years ago, and Claire had been one of his teachers. Besides, this, his exposé of the Holland family, was to be his revenge and catharsis.
    A new start.
    He tipped the bottle back again. A swallow of whiskey burned a fiery path to his stomach, and Kane wondered why, instead of a sense of elation, he felt a premonition of dread, as if