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  About this book

  Irresistible attraction. Unimaginable danger.

  I knew from the moment Noah Williamson walked into the diner that he was haunted—deeply haunted—but I couldn’t resist the lure of him. He was gorgeous and fascinating and mysterious, and like a delicate moth to a brilliant blue flame, I was drawn to him. Drawn to his fire.

  But if I’d known about his job, about what happened to his wife, I’d have run the other way. Before I got caught up in the red-hot blaze of his life. Before everything in my world got burned to the ground.

  It’s too late to run now. I hesitated and that was it. I fell. I fell for him before I knew there was danger in loving him.

  Noah once told me that this is the way we burn—together or not at all. At the time, I didn’t know what that meant.

  Now I do.

  The Way We Burn

  M. Leighton

  M. Leighton Books

  Copyright © 2018 by M. Leighton

  FIRST EDITION

  Cover photo by konradbak

  http://www.depositphotos.com

  http://www.mleightonbooks.com

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Created with Vellum

  Copyright © 2018 by M. Leighton

  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.

  Cover photo by konradbak

  http://www.depositphotos.com

  http://www.mleightonbooks.com

  Created with Vellum

  This book is dedicated to my husband, my family, my friends, and my readers. Even though I don’t deserve you, all of you have loved me through my brokenness. I am so profoundly grateful for you that it defies words.

  To you as you dive into this complex story: I believe our true self is found in brokenness, in having your whole world set on fire. Something different, something better, something stronger emerges from the flames. For all you who have been broken, by the grace of God may the pieces of your best self rise from the ash.

  Contents

  1. Noah

  2. Poppy

  3. Noah

  4. Poppy

  5. Poppy

  6. Noah

  7. Poppy

  8. Noah

  9. Poppy

  10. Noah

  11. Poppy

  12. Noah

  13. Poppy

  14. Noah

  15. Poppy

  16. Noah

  17. Poppy

  18. Noah

  19. Noah

  20. Poppy

  21. Noah

  22. Noah

  23. Noah

  24. Poppy

  25. Noah

  26. Noah

  27. Noah

  28. Noah

  29. Noah

  30. Noah

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  Dear Reader

  Connect with Me

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by M. Leighton

  1

  Noah

  M aryland, eighteen months ago

  “Mind going over the story with me one more time?”

  I stare at the detective. I see the disdain in his eyes. I see the disbelief. He came here with his mind made up. I’m suspect number one and we both know it. What we both don’t know is that I did nothing to my wife. I would never hurt her. I don’t think I could even if I had to , even if she was trying to hurt me. She is the only woman I’ve ever loved, the only person whose happiness means more to me than my own.

  Except for our daughter.

  Her happiness would’ve meant more to me than my own, too.

  Would’ve.

  Past tense.

  Grief slices through my chest like a scalpel. Clean. Neat. Surgical. Like someone is cutting out my heart.

  Five months ago, we lost our daughter. And now I’ve lost Carly. How the hell is a man supposed to live through something like this? A child. Then a spouse. This is the shit nightmares are made of.

  And I would know. I’ve seen nightmares. Up close. Personal. The kind that sink their teeth in and leave marks. Wounds. Scars.

  Sweat beads on my upper lip. I’ve never felt such an intense sense of loss, so much pain. So much helpless, hopeless agony.

  A few months ago, I’d have said a person couldn’t bear hurt like this. I’d have said the human body couldn’t take it.

  But I’d have been wrong.

  It can.

  I’m proof. I’m still alive, still standing. Damned if I know how, but I am. Even when I’d rather not be, I am. And now, on top of everything else, I’m being questioned like a felon. I’m the primary suspect in my wife’s disappearance, and every second they spend focusing on me is another second she’s further from being found.

  But there’s nothing I can do to change that. It’s Basic Detecting 101. The husband is suspect numero uno . Why? Because it usually is the husband. I know that. I also know there will be no convincing them otherwise.

  Maybe if I could split my chest wide open, they’d believe me. Maybe if they could see what I’m feeling, see the bruised and bleeding thing that used to be my heart, they’d understand. Maybe if they could physically see what this is doing to me, they’d look beyond the obvious. But outside of that, there’s nothing I can say to make them understand. That’s why there’s an edge to my voice when I answer this asshole’s questions. I may not be able to change it, but I sure as hell don’t have to like it.

  “It’s not a ‘story’, Detective. It’s the truth. Carly left for work Tuesday morning at seven. She said she had an early meeting. I texted her at lunch to see if she needed me to bring anything from the store. She didn’t answer. I haven’t seen or heard from her since that morning. And that was almost sixty hours ago.”

  Sixty hours. That’s twelve hours after “we’ve got a good chance of finding her”, and twelve hours before “hope for the best, but expect the worst.” The window is closing.

  “Had you two fought before she left?”

  Ther
e’s a dull throb just above the bridge of my nose. I pinch it between my index finger and thumb. “No, we hadn’t fought. We don’t fight anymore. At all. I told you we’ve both been recovering from…from…”

  I can’t make the words come out. They’re stuck in my throat like tar—black and sticky and foreign. Bitter.

  “The death of your daughter. Right, right. I feel you,” he placates, making more notes on his pad. “But they never recovered her body, isn’t that right, Mr. Williamson?”

  My eyes snap up to his. Surely to God he’s not insinuating…

  Zero to sixty in one second. In one sentence. That’s how long it takes my blood to come to a hard boil. Like lava down a mountainside, it rushes through my veins in a thick, hot river, destroying trees and grass and flowers and life as it goes. Killing off a little more of what was left of me.

  I take a deep breath, striving for cool. Or even tepid. Anything but the blazing rage that’s pumping through me.

  “Detective, I’m a patient man. I work for the FBI, so I understand how this process works. I also understand that I’m at the top of your list of suspects, so I get it. I get it. But let me make one thing crystal clear.” I take a step forward. “My daughter was killed. My child is dead . So while I have agreed to jump through all your hoops, make no mistake. My tolerance has its limits and you are dangerously close to finding out what happens when my patience runs out. I’ve got nothing left to lose. Not one thing, so wiping the floor with your smug ass might actually improve my situation. You feel that ?” The last is hissed through teeth clenched so tight my jaws ache. I’m practically spitting down into his face, my chest close enough to bump his if I take a deep enough breath.

  I can tell by the set of his lips and the narrowing of his eyes that I’ve pissed him off. But I can also tell that he’s not fool enough to press me one more inch right now. Not one more. It’s there in the way his pupils swell. It’s there in the way his nostrils flare. He won’t push me. He’s smarter than that.

  My daughter is dead.

  My wife is missing.

  There’s nothing left. Nothing that matters. There’s nothing they can take from me or threaten me with. Surely this pathetic lackey knows what I know from years and years of experience—men like me are unpredictable.

  Unpredictable and dangerous .

  2

  Poppy

  C hicago, present day

  Hefting the loaded tray up onto my shoulder and balancing it on my palm, I push through the stainless steel doors that lead out of the kitchen. As usual, my eyes scan my section, checking to see if anyone else has made their way to one of my booths.

  And someone has.

  The tray tips precariously to the left when I see him.

  Noah.

  Gorgeous, quiet, tortured Noah.

  At least that’s the way he seems to me—tortured. But all I really know for sure is his first name. That’s all any of us know about him. That and the fact that he comes in every day at seven o’clock sharp and slides into the booth in the back corner. He’s always alone and he always orders the same thing—plate of fries, tap water, no lemon. Other than that, we know nothing about him.

  The other girls who work here have tried to learn more, of course. I mean, a man that gorgeous, that quiet and that dangerous-looking is like catnip for them. Well, he’s catnip for all women really. Even me, and that’s saying a lot. I make a point not to notice men, especially gorgeous/dangerous/catnip ones, but Noah even got my attention.

  It’s different for me, though. Normally, I run from men like him—the beautiful, confident ones with killer smiles and, in my experience, asshole natures—but that doesn’t seem to deter me from Noah. But then again, I’m not drawn to him because of the jet-black hair that’s grown shaggy because it hasn’t been cut in a while. I’m not drawn to him because of the chiseled jaw that’s always set in a way that makes him look angry and hurt at the same time. I’m not even drawn to him because of that world-class body of his, the one that’s set on a six-foot-something frame and looks hard as a rock and built to please. No, I’m drawn to him because of the sadness that plagues the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. I know that kind of agony. I know how heavy that weight is to bear. I know what it is to be haunted, and to be unable to outrun your ghosts.

  And Noah has ghosts. That much I can tell. This man has seen things. Things that don’t go away. He’s seen things that echo and moan and rattle through your soul long after the nightmares stop. It’s all right there in his eyes, eyes that are like a cemetery on the most beautiful day of the year—warm and bright and safe on the surface, but full of monsters and ghosts that lie in wait, just beneath the green, green grass and the well-kept flowers.

  It’s those ghosts that bring my heart to his table, right along with my smile, when I change my trajectory so that I can walk by his booth. I don’t even care that I’m still holding a tray full of food that belongs to someone else.

  “What are you drinking tonight? I can grab it before I come back to get your order. ”

  He lifts those somber eyes up to mine and I see his mouth curve the tiniest bit at the corners. I bet a smile from those lips would turn this place upside down.

  I’m sure it would turn me upside down. This man is as devastating as he is quiet and solemn and broken. If he actually smiled…

  God!

  I’ve never seen one, though—a smile. Not from him. Far as I know, none of the other girls have either. Noah just doesn’t smile. I get the distinct impression that he doesn’t have much to smile about. That’s why I never mind that he always sits in my section. That’s why I don’t complain, even though he never orders much and always stays longer than most customers, which cuts way down on my tips. I’m always happy to see him because I get the feeling that coming here may be the only time he gets to see a friendly face. And as crazy as it sounds, I feel like maybe I can give him something to ease that great pain of his, even if it’s just a smile.

  Eventually.

  Maybe.

  But it hasn’t happened yet. By the looks of it, I don’t think I’ve helped evict one single ghost. The pain is still there when I look into those sky-blue eyes of his. It’s raw and bleeding and barely disguised.

  “Tap water, no lemon, please.”

  I nod. I’m not the least bit surprised by his order. This is the way our interactions always start—tap water, no lemon. “You got it.”

  I shoot him another smile before I hurry off to my other table, already hopelessly distracted. It happens this way every night. Once Noah arrives, all my focus shifts to him. I can’t help it. No one can, really. Noah sits in the back booth where it’s a touch darker, yes, but there might as well be a spotlight on him. I doubt he can go anywhere without being noticed.

  I glance at faces as I weave my way between tables. Most eyes, belonging to both males and females, are flickering toward Noah, like they don’t want to look, but can’t quite help themselves. He’s not only a striking man, but he’s mysterious as well. There’s just something about him… Even the men aren’t immune. Maybe they feel threatened. Maybe they like to keep an eye on him because he has that dark, unpredictable, loose-cannon air about him. I don’t know, but it happens this way every night—Noah comes in, people take notice.

  I finish setting food in front of my customers at table four then head back to the kitchen. I’m filling a large glass with tap water when Tilly walks in. She bumps her shapely hip against mine and purrs into my ear. “Noah’s here. You need some help?”

  My grin is automatic. “No, I only have him and two other tables.”

  “I know, but that seems like an awful lot for a tiny little thing like you. Maybe I should take one off your hands,” she teases with a white, white smile that shows off the red, red, red of her lips.

  “One, like Noah?”

  “Well, if you insist.”

  And, just like that, she’s gone.

  I’m topping off the glass when she pokes her head back through the
door and nods at it. “That his?”

  I nod in return.

  She snatches the water from my hand, kisses the air in front of my face and disappears, leaving me to shake my head at the cloud of cheap perfume left in her wake.

  She does this often. Tilly has tried and tried to bait Noah. She’s flirted, she’s insulted, she’s spilled something on him, she’s dropped things in front of him. She’s done everything, including directly propositioning him, but she’s never gotten much of a response. He’s always been kind, but kindly not interested , and for a woman like Tilly, with her big blonde hair and big fake boobs, disinterest is not something she’s accustomed to. That’s why she refuses to go down without a fight.

  So she keeps trying.

  And I keep shaking my head.

  I guess she’ll learn eventually. Noah’s something different. She just hasn’t figured that out yet.

  3

  Noah

  I ’m studying a burn on the table as I wait. The color of it, though faded, and the shape of it indicate that it’s from a cigarette left lying there. In my mind, I flick through a handful of scenarios that might explain how the mark came to be. It’s an old occupational hazard. Keeps the skills sharp. But at this point, for me in my life, it’s just a way that I pass the time until Poppy returns with my water.