Stop time, p.1
STOP TIME, page 1
S T O P
T I M E
(A Beth Drake FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 6)
K a t e B o l d
Kate Bold
Bestselling author Kate Bold is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, including Meg Thorne, Heather King, Brynn Justice, Beth Drake, Maggie Flight, Addison Shine, Barren Pines, Nina Veil, Nora Price, Kelsey Hawk, Alexa Chase, Ashley Hope, Camille Grace, Harley Cole, Kaylie Brooks, Eve Hope, Dylan First, Lauren Lamb series.
An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Kate loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.kateboldauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.
Copyright © 2025 by Kate Bold. 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. 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 recipient. If you’re 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 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Galyna Andrushko, used under license from Shutterstock.com.
SERIES BY KATE BOLD
MEG THORNE
HEATHER KING
BRYNN JUSTICE
BETH DRAKE
MAGGIE FLIGHT
ADDISON SHINE
BARREN PINES
NINA VEIL
NORA PRICE
KELSEY HAWK
ALEXA CHASE
ASHLEY HOPE
CAMILLE GRACE
HARLEY COLE
KAYLIE BROOKS
EVE HOPE
DYLAN FIRST
LAUREN LAMB
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
The bass thudded through Zoe Harrington's chest like a second heartbeat, vibrating through the marble floors of the Whitmore mansion and into her designer heels. She pressed her palm against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window, watching her breath fog the surface as she giggled at something she couldn't quite remember. Outside, the manicured lawns of Philadelphia's Main Line stretched into darkness, punctuated by the distant lights of other estates where other rich kids were probably doing exactly what she was doing.
Pretending their lives meant something.
"There you are!" Madison's voice cut through the music as she appeared at Zoe's elbow, holding two champagne flutes. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Tyler's about to do that thing with the—" She paused, studying Zoe's face. "Oh my God, your pupils. What did you take?"
Zoe blinked, trying to focus on her best friend's concerned expression. Madison's features seemed to shimmer and shift in the dim light from the DJ's setup. "Just the molly from that guy... what's his name? Brad's friend?"
"Jake?" Madison set the glasses on a nearby table, her perfectly shaped eyebrows drawing together. "The one from Penn? Zoe, you said you weren't doing that anymore. Not after—"
"I'm fine," Zoe interrupted, not wanting to hear about the incident at her father's fundraiser last month. She'd promised her parents she'd stay clean, promised Dr. Brennan during their weekly sessions, promised herself. But tonight was different. Tonight, she needed to not think about the acceptance letter from Columbia's journalism program sitting unopened on her desk, or the voicemail from her mother about the internship at the Inquirer that had been "arranged," or the way everyone looked at her like she was a wind-up doll programmed to follow the Harrington family playbook.
The pill had been small, white, unremarkable. Jake had sworn it was pure MDMA, the good stuff from his connection in New York. Zoe had only hesitated for a moment before washing it down with champagne forty-five minutes ago. Now, warmth was spreading through her limbs like honey, making everything feel soft and significant.
"How many fingers am I holding up?" Madison waved her hand in front of Zoe's face.
"All of them," Zoe laughed, catching Madison's hand and spinning her in an impromptu dance move. "Stop worrying. I feel amazing. Like... like when we were kids and used to have sleepovers at your place, remember? Before everything got so complicated."
Madison's expression softened. They'd been best friends since third grade at Baldwin Academy, back when their biggest concern was whether they'd get the lead in the school play. Before Madison's parents' divorce, before Zoe's older brother died in that sailing accident, before the pressure of being a Harrington became a weight that pressed on Zoe's chest every morning when she woke up.
"Yeah, I remember," Madison said quietly. "Your mom would pick us up in that huge SUV, and we'd get ice cream from that place on Lancaster."
"Scoops," Zoe said, the memory so vivid she could almost taste the mint chocolate chip. "God, when did we stop doing that? When did everything become about... this?" She gestured vaguely at the party around them—the children of pharmaceutical executives and investment bankers, future senators and CEOs, all playing at being adults while their trust funds quietly accumulated interest.
The warmth in her chest was intensifying now, spreading up into her face. Zoe touched her cheek, surprised by how flushed she felt. The room seemed brighter somehow, the colors more vivid. The DJ was playing something with a hypnotic beat that made her want to move, to dance, to run barefoot across the Whitmores' perfect lawn like she had at her family's place in the Hamptons when she was seven.
"I need some air," she said, already moving toward the French doors that led to the terrace.
"I'll come with you," Madison said, but someone called her name from across the room—Tyler, probably, wanting her to watch whatever stupid thing he was about to do.
"I'm good," Zoe assured her, squeezing Madison's shoulder. "Just need a minute. Go. I'll find you."
The terrace was quieter, the music muffled by glass and stone. A few couples were scattered around, absorbed in each other, paying no attention to Zoe as she walked to the balustrade. The night air should have been cool against her skin, but she felt like she was burning from the inside out. Not unpleasantly—more like being wrapped in the world's softest blanket while sitting by a fireplace.
She thought about texting Connor. Her on-again, off-again boyfriend was probably at his frat house at Villanova, playing beer pong and pretending he wasn't waiting for her to call. They'd been together since junior year of high school. Connor Mitchell and Zoe Harrington—it looked good on paper, their parents approved, and when she was with him, she could almost forget that she felt like she was suffocating.
But tonight, she didn't want Connor. She didn't want anyone. She just wanted this feeling to last forever—this lightness, this sense that maybe she could float away from all the expectations and disappointments and just be.
The stone balustrade was rough under her palms, grounding her as the high intensified. She'd done molly before—a handful of times at concerts and parties—but this felt different. Deeper somehow. Like it was reaching into parts of her she'd forgotten existed.
"Mommy used to call me her little bunny," she said out loud, surprising herself. Where had that come from? She hadn't thought about that nickname in years. But suddenly, she could see it so clearly—her mother's face, younger, less concerned with appearances, laughing as five-year-old Zoe hopped around their old kitchen, the one they'd had before the renovation that had turned their Gladwyne home into a magazine spread.
The memory was so vivid it made her chest ache. When had her mother stopped calling her that? When had she become "Zoe, darling" instead of "little bunny"? When had her father's hugs become brief, distracted things squeezed in between phone calls to Hong Kong?
The terrace suddenly felt too confining. Zoe kicked off her heels—Louboutins her mother had bought her for her birthday—and headed down the stone steps to the lawn. The grass was cool and damp under her feet, and she laughed at how good it felt.
Like being a kid again, running through the sprinklers at their house in Martha's Vineyard.
She spun in a circle, arms outstretched, face tilted up to the stars. They seemed brighter than usual, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Was that normal? She tried to count the beats but kept losing track, distracted by how beautiful everything was.
The way the light from the house painted golden rectangles on the dark lawn. The sound of laughter floating from the party. The smell of night-blooming jasmine from the garden.
"I'm going to be a journalist," she announced to the stars. "A real one. Not just writing puff pieces for the society pages like Mom wants. I'm going to tell stories that matter. I'm going to—"
The words caught in her throat as a wave of dizziness washed over her. She stopped spinning, swaying as she tried to regain her balance. Her heart was racing now—really racing, like she'd just run a marathon. She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the rapid flutter beneath her palm.
"That's... that's not right," she whispered.
The euphoria was shifting, becoming something else. The warmth that had felt so good moments ago was now too much like her blood had been replaced with electricity. Her skin felt too tight, too sensitive. Even the gentle breeze felt like sandpaper.
She tried to walk back toward the house, but her legs weren't cooperating. They felt impossibly heavy like she was moving through water. The lawn seemed to stretch endlessly before her, the terrace miles away instead of yards.
"Madison," she tried to call, but it came out as barely a whisper.
Her knees buckled, and she found herself sitting on the grass, then lying down. The stars above spun in lazy circles, and for a moment, she was six years old again, lying in the backyard with her brother James, making up constellations.
"There's the ice cream cone," James's voice seemed to whisper in her ear. "And there's the bunny. See the ears?"
"I see it," Zoe said or thought she said. She couldn't tell if the words were making it past her lips anymore.
Her heart was a hummingbird in her chest now, beating so fast it was almost a continuous flutter. She knew she should be scared, should be calling for help, but all she could think about was how soft the grass felt against her cheek. Like her old stuffed rabbit, the one she'd slept with until she was twelve and her mother had declared her too old for such things.
The sounds from the party were fading, becoming distant and dreamlike. Someone was laughing. A glass broke. The bass line continued its steady thump, so much slower than her racing pulse.
She thought about the acceptance letter from Columbia, still sealed in its envelope. She'd been carrying it around for a week, afraid to open it, afraid to take that step toward a future that might disappoint everyone. But lying here in the grass, feeling her heart struggle against whatever was happening to her, she realized how stupid that was.
How stupid all of it was.
"I would have been good," she whispered to the stars. "I would have written beautiful things."
The flutter in her chest reached a crescendo, like a bird beating its wings against a cage. Then, between one breath and the next, it simply stopped.
The stars continued their slow spin overhead, indifferent to the girl in the yellow sundress lying still on the perfect lawn, her hand pressed to her silent chest, her eyes reflecting the lights of a party that would continue for hours before anyone noticed she was gone.
CHAPTER ONE
The morning sunlight filtered through Beth's bedroom blinds, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets where she and Gabe lay entwined. She could hear the distant sound of her neighbor's lawnmower—Mrs. Gladstone always started early on Sundays—and the aroma of fresh coffee drifted from the kitchen where the timer had done its job perfectly.
"I could get used to this," Gabe murmured against her shoulder, his breath warm on her skin. "Lazy Sunday mornings. No autopsies. No crime scenes. Just us."
Beth smiled, running her fingers through his perpetually messy hair. "Don't jinx it. Harrison could call any minute with some emergency that absolutely can't wait until Monday."
"Bite your tongue." Gabe propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at her with those dark eyes that still made her stomach flutter after over a year together. "I'm declaring this a work-free zone. The only emergency I'm interested in is the fact that we're out of that good coffee from the place on Connecticut Avenue."
"There's backup in the freezer," Beth said, stretching lazily. "I may be a disaster at cooking, but I know better than to run out of coffee."
They lay there for a few more minutes, neither wanting to break the spell of the quiet morning. These moments had become more precious lately, carved out between cases and autopsies and the endless demands of their jobs. Beth found herself memorizing the feeling—Gabe's weight against her side, the way the morning light caught the silver threads in his stubble, the comfortable silence that came from knowing someone well enough that words weren't always necessary.
Eventually, the need for caffeine won out. Gabe rolled out of bed and padded to the kitchen while Beth took a quick shower, smiling at the sound of him humming off-key as he puttered around her kitchen like he belonged there. Which he did, she supposed. He'd been spending more nights here than at his own place in Dupont Circle, enough that he'd commandeered an entire drawer in her dresser and started leaving his reading glasses on her nightstand.
By the time she emerged, dressed in yoga pants and an old FBI Academy t-shirt, Gabe had coffee ready and was scrambling eggs with the focused intensity he usually reserved for examining tissue samples.
"You know," he said, not looking up from the pan, "I've been thinking."
"Dangerous habit," Beth teased, pouring herself a mug of coffee and adding just enough milk to turn it the color of caramel.
"I'm serious." He slid the eggs onto two plates and turned to face her. "We've been together for what, almost two years now? And we're practically living together already. Half my stuff is here, half your stuff is at my place. My landlord asked me the other day if I was planning to renew my lease, and I realized I didn't know what to tell him."
Beth felt something tighten in her chest. She took a sip of coffee to buy herself time, but Gabe was watching her with that patient expression that meant he wasn't going to let this drop.
"What are you saying?" she asked carefully.
"I'm saying maybe we should talk about making it official. Moving in together. For real, not just this halfway thing we're doing now." He set the plates on the small table by her window, but neither of them moved to sit. "I know your place is smaller, but it's closer to work for both of us, and—"
"Gabe." The word came out sharper than she'd intended. "Where is this coming from?"
"From the fact that I love you? From wanting to wake up next to you every morning without wondering whose turn it is to host?" He paused, and Beth could see something shift in his expression. "After visiting your family last month, I thought... I thought we both felt the same thing. Seeing Ethan and Sarah with the twins, that whole life they've built together. You seemed happy there."
Beth remembered the visit all too well—the chaos of her nephews' birthday party, the warmth of her brother's home, the way Gabe had fit in so naturally with her family. She'd caught him playing with the twins, seen the soft look on his face when Sarah had asked him to help in the kitchen like he belonged there.
"That was different," she said, though even to her own ears, it sounded weak.
"Was it?" Gabe's voice carried an edge now. "Because when we were driving back, you were the one talking about how nice it must be to have that kind of stability. To know where home is."
He was right. She had said that. But there was a difference between admiring her brother's life and being ready to create something similar. Wasn't there?
"I thought we were just talking," Beth said. "Not making plans."
"Maybe that's the problem," Gabe said quietly. "I wasn't just talking, Beth. Seeing you with your family, watching you with those kids... it made me realize I want that. With you. This isn't exactly out of left field."
"Isn't it?" She set her mug down, needing her hands free, though for what she wasn't sure. "We've never talked about this. About... permanence."
"We're talking about it now." His voice had taken on an edge. "Or trying to, anyway. Why does this feel like I'm defusing a bomb?"
"Because you're pushing for something we haven't discussed. Me saying it would be nice to have that kind of stability—that's not the same as discussing it. Not when it comes to something that is so… significant. Something that would change everything."
