Relentless

RELENTLESS SYDNEY RYE MYSTERIES, BOOK 16 EMILY KIMELMAN CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Sneak Peek Author’s Note About the Author Emily’s Bookshelf Relentless Sydney Rye Mysteries, Book 16 Copyright © 2023 by Emily Kimelman All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Heading illustration: Autumn Whitehurst Cover Design: Christian Bentulan Formatting: Jamie Davis For my son, Desmond, who made me a mother of two. I love you fiercely and always will. There is no Space or Time Only intensity, And tame things Have no immensity. — Mina Loy CHAPTER ONE To her neighbors, Jennifer Johnson seemed odd, just a little off. How could she not? Her entire existence was a lie. While the child at her breast was really hers, the husband by her side…not so much. They shared the same innocuous last name—second most common in these United States—but he was not the father of her child, or the love of her life. Those honors were held by a dead man. The Johnsons didn’t bother with baby gates because of their dog, whom they called Buddy, the second most popular dog name in the country. Tall as a Great Dane with the snout of a collie, the markings of a Siberian husky, and the thick coat of a wolf with one blue eye and one brown, that dog monitored the baby as if he were part of some kind of military operation. It was adorable. Buddy wasn’t fixed, though, something noted by the Homeowners Association. A discussion ensued as to whether he was even allowed to be in the neighborhood, such a large, menacing-looking dog with such big balls. Is that what Hidden Bush was all about? Of course, Mrs. Katagan’s sin-red tulips came up. Unfortunately, there was no stipulation as to the color of plants in the bylaws, so while it irked her neighbors to see such glossy, colorful petals, the tastefully muted tones of their homes and CHAPTER TWO Gray bleeds into the horizon as I slip out the front door. The air is thick with moisture and the grass heavy with dew. My SUV, the same Ford model that cops use, waits in the driveway—the garage too full for both our cars. How do we have so much stuff? We don’t, actually. But we pretend like we do because most people’s garages are too full for both their cars. And we are pretending, earnestly, to be like most people. And while most people don’t have tunnels in their garages that lead to the woods for escape purposes, they do have gray plastic bins lining metal shelves. We have bins and a tunnel. Peter, whose alias is John Johnson—a name picked because it is ridiculously common, which really makes me wonder about the imaginations of most people—bought a four-wheeler so we had something to keep in the second garage bay. He’s taken it out a few times with some other guys in the neighborhood and definitely enjoys the thing. It reminds me of Costa Rica, of a time I don’t think about. I’m alone as I climb into the driver’s seat of my SUV—an unusual situation. My dog, Blue, raised his head when I got out of bed, but I held up my hand. Stay with James. Blue, who we’ve called Buddy for the last ten months, cocked his