The Fallen - Book cover

The Fallen

Cristal Sieberhagen

Rayburn Investigations

LIZ

According to the newspaper clippings and the date on the new smartphone, five weeks had passed since Detective Liz Howard had died in an explosion during a raid on a lower district warehouse.

The article conveniently provided no specifics. She stared at the pictures of her funeral with crying colleagues and uniformed police, frowning at the heading that called her a “Fallen Hero.”

Where had she been since then? She had no memories after that day and no ideas. The bridge of her nose itched, and she reached out to scratch it, but something didn’t seem right.

She discovered a mirror in a small personal care kit and stared at her face in shocked horror.

The changes were subtle but effective. The lines of her face were more delicate than before. The minor cleft in her chin, her father’s legacy, was gone as if it never existed, and although that was no great loss, it angered her.

The slight bend in her nose, an old hockey injury, had been straightened out.

The subtle white line below her nose that reached her lip, a scar from a cycling accident as a child, no longer marred her skin.

Her forehead also seemed less angular. She scowled at the stranger staring back at her.

They took away all the little defects telling her life story and created a flawless beauty that seemed as foreign to her as if they had ripped off her face and given her another. Her sense of violation increased.

She picked the binder back up, but the photos on the next page increased her rage a thousandfold.

About thirty “surveillance” photos showed her in bed with Caleb Rayburn, seemingly engaged in sexual acts.

The images were clearly taken on different days, and no court of law would annul a marriage after seeing these.

Her nausea returned, and she almost vomited. Had Caleb raped her?

Well, he took her life and killed her off. He certainly seemed capable of it. He had even threatened her family.

If she walked into a police office and claimed to be Liz Howard, she suspected that no one would believe her. Caleb would have scrubbed the system of her prints by now and any other trace that could prove who she was.

She’d been so close to nailing this bastard, or so she’d thought, but it seemed he’d nailed her first. Quite literally.

The wedding certificate claimed they were hitched in Vegas. There were a few blurry pictures of a dark-haired woman wearing a veil that might or might not be her, and a picture of “the kiss” that was just as deceiving.

She finished paging through the binder, laying out her new life as a “private investigator” in Las Vegas—of all places—with a list of dos and don’ts cleverly disguised as “helpful information.”

She pocketed the expensive smartphone, itching to call her mother but knowing she could never do that again.

Liz repacked the bag, helpless fury boiling through her veins, but all she had to do was look at the picture in her wallet to know she’d only tasted what the Rayburns could do.

She would not risk her family’s lives by trifling with these people again.

She turned to walk toward the road and noticed the sleek black Harley with Caleb’s monogram emblazoned on the tank, and it only brought the realization home that she belonged to the Rayburn cartel just like that bike.

How the hell did all of this happen? Confused, she pulled the bag over her shoulders, sure there were no keys inside it.

She seated herself on the bike, noticing the thumb pad as she pushed it upright, and with the lightest touch, it puttered to life.

How did the Rayburns even know she could ride a bike?She hadn’t shared that information with her colleagues, but these people had probably been watching her since childhood.

Liz pulled the phone out of her pocket, her fingerprint activating the pad so she could access the GPS to direct her wherever she had to go.

Liz pushed the pre-marked button for “office” with a sigh and noted the one marked “home.” She wondered if her “husband” would wait there for her and doubted it.

The lightheadedness lingered, accompanied by weakness as if she’d been asleep for a long time. Whatever drug they gave her was thankfully wearing off, but she’d kill for Riva’s hangover cure.

Her sister had a voice like an angel but had tended bar on weekends while making her way through law school.

It surprised Liz that she was less than five miles from the city. The cool breeze blew some of the cobwebs from her mind, and it didn’t take her long to find the office.

She frowned at it as she loosened the classic black helmet with her name stenciled on it and fixed her hair in the mirror.

Rayburn Investigations the gold-lettered sign in the window proclaimed in a flowing script, much like Muriel’s handwriting.

She lifted herself off the bike, thankful for her athletic build as she kicked the stand in place under the heavy machine and made her way to the door.

“Mrs. Rayburn!” someone gushed. “We didn’t think you’d make it in today!”

Liz almost flinched at the bubbling enthusiasm of the five-foot-eight blonde woman with her curious gray eyes, cherubic features, and shrewd expression.

A gray pencil skirt, formal jacket, and white blouse marked her as some kind of “employee.” Her three-inch suede stilettos betrayed a certain vulnerability about her lack of height.

Mrs. Rayburn. She didn’t like the sound of it, but assumed that complaining would gain her nothing.

What in the world made Caleb decide to marry her? Why didn’t he just kill her? And what was with the whole “Welcome to the family” bit? None of this made any sense to her.

The entire morning seemed surreal, and she wondered when she would wake from her nightmare in the warmth of her bed.

“Who are you?” Liz found it hard to mimic a modicum of decency.

“Sorry! I am Avery St. Clair. Your personal assistant, general dogsbody, and secretary. Anything you want—food, laundry run, coffee, or directions—just name it,” Avery offered.

Liz wondered what the woman would do if she asked her to disappear.

Avery’s bubbling persona did not fool her. She was much more than a lackey. The watchful edge to her gaze, the intelligence in her thoughtful expression, and that touch of “knowing” said it all.

Avery’s primary function was to ensure Liz toed the line and to keep the Rayburns informed of Liz’s every move.

“So, what exactly do we do at Rayburn Investigations, and who runs the place?” Liz asked.

What was the plan with this entire elaborate setup? The body mods, bike, business, money, and home? Things they would do for Caleb’s actual wife?

“We investigate whatever people pay us to investigate, and you’re the boss. It says so just below the sign. Elizabeth Rayburn, PI,” Avery pointed out, and Liz squinted at the sign as if it offended her.

“Perhaps we should get you out of the sun. Please take the bike around back—you can’t leave it out here—and maybe it would be better if you take the car home tonight, boss. You’ve got a slight sunburn.”

Avery fussed like a mother hen, but it rather felt to Liz as if her new assistant handled her like a petulant or irresponsible child.

“That sounds like a good idea.” Liz did as she was told to buy herself a moment longer to sort through her thoughts.

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