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T U R N
B A C K
(A Morgan Reid Mystery—Book 1)
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.
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
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Pastor Jonathan Whitmore’s knees protested as they met the worn velvet cushion of the prayer bench, the same cushion his own father had knelt upon forty years before. The private chapel of First Methodist Church of Alexandria held the accumulated prayers of three generations of Whitmores, each one called to shepherd the congregation through times of plenty and want.
Tonight, like every night for the past thirty-seven years, Jonathan came here after the church emptied, after the committees finished their meetings, after the last troubled soul seeking counsel had gone home.
The chapel was barely larger than a closet, tucked behind the main sanctuary like an afterthought. But to Jonathan, it was the heart of the building. No grand stained glass here—just a single window depicting Christ as the Good Shepherd, the glass old enough that tiny air bubbles distorted the image in places. His grandmother had commissioned it in 1942, the year his father was born. Now, at sixty-three, Jonathan could trace the familiar imperfections with his eyes closed.
Something felt different tonight. The air seemed heavier, and there was a faint smell beneath the familiar mustiness—something sharp and chemical, like wood stain. Perhaps the contractors had been working in here too, though he’d specifically asked them to leave the chapel untouched.
He shifted his weight, trying to find a position that didn’t send shooting pains through his right knee—the one he’d injured coaching Little League all those years ago when Sarah was young. His daughter would be thirty-eight next month, older now than his wife, Margaret, had been when the cancer took her.
Time moved strangely in this sacred space, compressed and expanded all at once.
The evening light filtered through the shepherd window, casting fragments of color across his clasped hands. Blue and gold, crimson and emerald—Margaret had loved the way the light painted rainbows on the white walls during evening prayers. “God’s promise,” she’d called it, even near the end when the pain medication made her thoughts drift like clouds.
Jonathan closed his eyes and began his ritual thanksgiving, the same prayer structure he’d followed since seminary. First, gratitude for the day’s blessings, however small. Today, Mrs. Stone’s grandson had been accepted to college, the first in their family. The youth group had raised enough money to repair the community center’s roof. Elena had texted from her sister’s in Arlington, her tone filled with excitement about visiting her sister. His own blood work had come back normal—the irregular heartbeat that worried Dr. Mills was just stress, nothing more.
Then came the intercessions, the litany of his congregation’s needs that he carried like stones in his pockets. Hector Ortega’s drinking had been getting worse since the plant closed. The Morrison family was still reeling from their son’s overdose. Sixteen-year-old Ashley Reeves, seven months pregnant and terrified, her parents demanding she give the baby up for adoption while she sat in his office that afternoon, tears streaming down her face as she asked if God could forgive her for whatever choice she made.
“There is no sin too great for God’s mercy,” he’d told her, holding her hand while she sobbed. But privately, in this chapel, Jonathan wondered if he still believed that himself. Thirty-seven years of ministry had shown him the depths of human cruelty, the ways people could twist faith into weapons, turn scripture into stones to throw at the already wounded.
A board creaked somewhere in the church, and Jonathan’s eyes flickered open. Old buildings made noise—he’d long ago learned to distinguish between the settling of ancient wood and the sound of human presence. This was just the building breathing, contracting in the cooling evening air. October in Virginia brought swift temperature changes that made the 1920s-era construction groan and whisper.
He returned to his prayers, moving now to confession—his own failures and doubts laid bare in the divine presence. The sermon he’d phoned in last Sunday, recycling old thoughts because he’d been too tired to craft something new. The flash of anger when Dennis Morton questioned the church’s budget priorities in front of the entire board.
Forgive me, he prayed. For my weakness, my wavering faith, my human frailty.
But tonight, something else pressed against his conscience, demanding confession. The letter he’d received three weeks ago, unsigned, quoting scripture he knew by heart: “Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.” He’d thrown it away, dismissed it as the work of some disgruntled former member. Churches attracted their share of unstable individuals—it came with the territory.
Then came the second letter, last week: “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few. Soon, the chaff shall be separated from the wheat.” The latter wasn’t a verse, per se. More a paraphrase of one of Jesus’s parables.
And yesterday, the third: “Peter denied Him thrice before the cock crowed. How many times have you denied Him, Jonathan?”
He hadn’t told anyone about the letters. What would he say? Was someone sending him vaguely threatening Bible verses? The police would file a report, and nothing would come of it. The board would worry unnecessarily. Sarah would insist he retire, move to Richmond to be closer to her and the grandchildren he saw only on holidays and in carefully staged FaceTime calls.
The truth was, part of him wondered if the letters weren’t telling him something he needed to hear. Had he become complacent? Had his faith crystallized into mere routine, his ministry into a performance? When did he stop feeling that electric connection to the divine that had called him to this work as a young man?
Show me, he prayed. Show me how to serve You better. Show me how to be the shepherd this flock needs.
Another sound—different this time. The soft click of a door closing. Jonathan’s eyes opened fully, his body tensing. The church should be empty. He’d checked all the doors himself, set the alarm for everything except this back section where his study and the chapel were located.
“Hello?” he called out, his voice steady despite the sudden acceleration of his heartbeat. “Church is closed for the evening.”
Footsteps approached down the narrow hallway. Not the shuffle of someone seeking sanctuary, not the urgent pace of someone in crisis. These steps had purpose, intention.
Jonathan rose from his knees, grimacing at the stiffness, and moved to the chapel doorway. The hallway stretched before him, lit only by the emergency exit sign at the far end and the spill of light from the chapel. A figure stood at the edge of the shadows, tall and still.
“Can I help you?” Jonathan asked, switching into his pastoral voice—calm, welcoming, but with e nough authority to establish boundaries. “I’m afraid the church office is closed, but if you’re in need—”
“I’m exactly where I need to be, Pastor Whitmore.” The voice was cultured, precise, with an oddly formal cadence. The figure stepped forward into the light, but Jonathan found his features strangely hard to focus on—average height, dark clothing, a face that seemed to shift between memorable and forgettable with each blink.
His eyes, though—his eyes held an intensity that made Jonathan take an involuntary step backward.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Jonathan said, though something about the man seemed familiar. “Are you new to the area?”
“In a sense.” The man’s lips curved into what might have been a smile. “I’ve come to talk to you about your ministry, Pastor. About the seeds you’ve sown and the harvest that’s coming.”
A chill went down Jonathan’s spine, but he kept his expression neutral. Years of crisis counseling had taught him to remain calm when confronted with potentially disturbed individuals.
“I’m always happy to discuss ministry,” Jonathan said carefully. “Perhaps we could schedule a time to meet during office hours? My assistant can—”
“Do you know the story of Simon Peter’s death, Pastor?” the man interrupted, his tone conversational, as if they were discussing the weather.
“Of course. Tradition says he was crucified in Rome, requesting to be crucified upside down because he felt unworthy to die in the same manner as Christ.”
“Very good.” The man took another step closer. “But do you know why Peter? Why him specifically? Why not John, the beloved disciple? Why not Andrew, Peter’s own brother?”
Jonathan found himself backing into the chapel, the man following with that same measured pace. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking.”
“Peter was the rock upon which Christ built his church. But Peter was also the denier, the one who swore three times that he didn’t know Jesus. He was both foundation and failure, strength and weakness. Like you, Pastor Whitmore.”
“I think you should leave,” Jonathan said, reaching for the cell phone in his pocket. “The building is closed, and—”
“You denied Him, too, didn’t you?” The man’s voice remained calm, almost gentle. “Not in words, perhaps, but in actions. In compromises. In the way you’ve let this holy place become a social club, a community center that happens to have crosses on the walls.”
Jonathan’s hand found his phone, but before he could pull it out, the man raised his own hand in a peaceful gesture.
“I’m not here to hurt you, Pastor. I’m here to help you. To give you an opportunity that few receive—the chance to make your death mean something. To transform you from a failed shepherd into a true martyr.”
“You’re sick,” Jonathan said, managing to extract his phone. “You need help, and I can—”
“The twelve-year-old girl who came to you fifteen years ago,” the man said quietly, and Jonathan’s finger froze over the emergency call button. “The one who told you her father, an elder in good standing here, was touching her. You counseled the family privately, didn’t you? Kept it all very quiet to protect the church’s reputation. She killed herself at seventeen. Did you know that?”
The phone slipped from Jonathan’s numb fingers. “How could you—”
“The homeless veteran you had removed from the property last winter. He froze to death two blocks away. The gay couple you quietly discouraged from attending because it might upset your major donors. The women’s shelter you voted against supporting because it would be ‘too political.’ Every compromise, every denial, every time you chose comfort over Christ’s actual teachings.”
Jonathan sank onto the prayer bench, his legs suddenly unable to support him. Within each accusation was a kernel of truth, no matter how much he’d like to deny it.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
The man knelt beside him, almost tender in his proximity. “I am someone who understands the burden of representing heaven on earth. The impossible weight of it. But tonight, Jonathan, you can lay that burden down. Tonight, you can become what Peter became—not the failed fisherman, but the sanctified saint. Your death will mean more than your life ever could.”
“My death?” Jonathan’s voice cracked. “You’re going to kill me?”
“No, Jonathan. I’m going to transform you. In the same way Peter was transformed. He didn’t want to die, either. He ran from Rome to escape his fate. But Christ appeared to him on the Appian Way and asked, ‘Quo vadis?’—Where are you going? And Peter understood. He returned to Rome, to his destiny.”
The man pulled something from his coat—a small syringe, capped and ready. “This will help with the fear. It’s quite peaceful, really. A mercy I’m not supposed to offer, but we all have our occasional shortcomings, don’t we?”
Jonathan looked at the syringe, then up at the stained glass window. The shepherd’s face was obscured by shadow now, the sun having set completely. He thought of Sarah, of his grandchildren, of all the sermons he’d never preach, the couples he’d never marry, the babies he’d never baptize.
But he also thought of Margaret, waiting somewhere beyond this veil of tears. Of the accumulated weight of compromises and failures. Of the faith he’d once had that had slowly eroded until only the rituals remained.
Why did he feel so… resigned? He should be angry and defensive. He should rush out and call the police. But instead, he just sat there, contemplating his own sins.
“If I refuse?” he finally asked.
“Then it will be harder. More frightening. But the outcome will be the same. You’ve been chosen, Jonathan. Not by me, but by something greater. You should be honored.”
“Chosen for what?”
“To be the first. The herald of a new age. Peter was the first apostle called and the first to truly die for the faith. Your death will call others to remember what real faith costs.”
Jonathan closed his eyes, hearing his heartbeat thundering in his ears. He thought of Christ in Gethsemane, sweating blood, asking his Father for the cup to pass. But in the end, accepting.
“Will others die?” he asked.
“That is not for you to know.”
“This is… insanity.”
“The prophets were called insane. The apostles were called insane. Even Christ himself was accused of having a demon. History will judge who was truly mad—those who compromised their faith into meaninglessness, or those who took it seriously enough to die for it.”
Jonathan stared at the man. In those intense eyes, he saw not madness exactly, but something perhaps worse—absolute certainty.
“What’s your name?” Jonathan asked.
The man smiled. “Tonight, you can call me Simon. Simon, whom Christ renamed Peter. The rock that became sand, then rock again through glorious death. Soon, very soon, you’ll understand everything.”
He held up the syringe, patient as a priest offering communion.
Jonathan looked once more at the shepherd in the window, now completely lost in shadow. He thought of all the prayers offered in this tiny chapel, all the hopes and fears and confessions that had soaked into these walls. He thought of his father and grandfather, men of simpler faith in simpler times.
“Will it hurt?” he asked, hating the weakness in his voice.
“Everything worthwhile hurts, Pastor. But only for a moment. And then—glory.”
Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, someone else’s emergency racing through the night. Jonathan found himself wondering who would find him, hoping it wouldn’t be the church secretary, Mrs. Patterson, who’d been with the church for thirty years and didn’t deserve such a shock. And thank God Elena was at her sister’s for the weekend. She’d have to identify him eventually, but at least she wouldn’t be the one to discover…
Whatever this would become.
The man who called himself Simon stood, moving with that same unhurried grace. “It’s time, Pastor. Your congregation needs to see what true faith looks like. They need to be shocked from their complacency. Your death will be their wake-up call.”
“And if it isn’t? If they just see horror and senselessness?”
