Get out, p.1
GET OUT, page 1
G E T
O U T
(A Heather King FBI Suspense Thriller—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. Jacket image Copyright Galyna Andrushko, used under license from Shutterstock.com.
SERIES BY KATE BOLD
MORGAN REID
HEATHER KING
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
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
The lights at the Mile Marker 37 Truck Stop flickered overhead through the diner’s windows, casting intermittent shadows across the empty parking lot. At this hour—well after midnight—the place existed in a strange limbo between destinations, a forgotten waypoint along the rural Illinois highway where only the desperate or the determined ever stopped.
Sarah Mills was both.
She pushed through the smudged glass door of the diner as she exited, the bell above giving a half-hearted jingle that dissolved instantly in the cold night air. The paper cup of coffee in her hand had already lost its warmth, much like her resolve to make it to a motel and get a few hours’ sleep before sunrise. She didn’t have much money, but maybe it’d be enough to find a bed that wasn’t the back seat of her car. But the nearest motel was thirty miles from here, and maybe she’d dragged her heels a bit too long. She was so tired.
“You be careful out there, honey,” the waitress had told her, not looking up from wiping down the counter. “Nights like these, people disappear.”
Now, standing at the threshold of the diner and the vast, dark parking lot, Sarah understood what the woman meant. The silence was absolute save for the distant, hypnotic hum of idling diesel engines. It pressed against her ears, making her suddenly aware of her own breathing, her own heartbeat.
She clutched her keys tighter, scanning the lot for her decade-old Honda Civic, parked among the hulking semis and scattered vehicles, most of which looked as though they’d been abandoned rather than parked. The overhead lights cast pools of sickly yellow illumination that seemed to emphasize the darkness rather than dispel it.
Something felt wrong. Sarah had spent enough nights on empty highways to know the particular quality of solitude that came with late-night travel, but this was different. This wasn’t solitude. This was something to watch.
Her footsteps cracked against the pavement as she moved toward the far edge of the lot, each noise seeming to echo off the surrounding darkness. The wind picked up, sending discarded wrappers skittering across her path, and Sarah pulled her jacket tighter around herself. Her fingers were already numb from the cold, making her fumble with her keys.
Movement flickered at the edge of her vision—a shifting in the shadows near the perimeter where the truck stop’s lights didn’t reach. Sarah froze, her gaze darting to the spot, but there was nothing there. Just the massive outline of a long-haul truck and, beyond it, the faint red glow of a distant sign marking the highway.
“Get it together,” she whispered to herself, the words forming a small cloud in the freezing air. She was letting her imagination run wild, letting road fatigue cloud her judgment. But still, she quickened her pace, her free hand diving into her coat pocket for her phone.
No signal. Of course.
Her car waited just ahead, a small island of familiarity in this strange, liminal place. Thirty more seconds and she’d be safe inside, doors locked, engine running. Twenty seconds. Ten.
The soft scuff of gravel behind her was so faint she almost missed it. Too deliberate for the wind. Too close.
Sarah turned, coffee sloshing over the rim of her cup and onto her frozen fingers. The parking lot stretched out before her, empty and silent under the faltering lights. Nothing moved. No one was there.
And yet.
That prickling sensation crawled up her spine, the certainty of being watched by unseen eyes. She turned back toward her car, moving faster now, no longer caring if she looked paranoid or frightened.
The shadow detached itself from the side of a trailer with unnatural speed—a darkness deeper than the night, moving with purpose. Sarah’s mind registered several details in a split second before panic overwhelmed rational thought: the figure was tall, impossibly tall, and it moved with a fluid grace that seemed almost inhuman.
The cup fell from her hand, splashing across the pavement. Her keys clattered beside it. She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound caught in her throat as the realization crashed over her.
She wasn’t alone. She never had been.
And now it was too late.
CHAPTER ONE
The alarm split the morning silence with its insistent beeping. Heather King’s hand shot out from beneath the quilt, silencing it with practiced precision before it could sound a second time. 5:30 AM. She allowed herself exactly three seconds to stare at the ceiling of her garage apartment, gathering her thoughts before swinging her legs over the side of the bed and planting her feet firmly on the cool wooden floor.
First day. Her first real day as Deputy Heather King.
The thought propelled her to her feet. She padded to the bathroom, flipping on the light and confronting her reflection. Pale skin, scattered freckles, and those green eyes that her mother always said could see right through a lie. Her long red hair hung in sleep-tangled waves around her face.
First day. First impression.
She showered quickly, the hot water chasing away the last vestiges of sleep. With a towel wrapped around her, she returned to the bedroom and opened her closet door. The uniform hung there—pressed, perfect, waiting. She’d prepared it the night before, just as she’d been taught at the academy. Attention to detail. Preparation. The foundations of good police work.
As she dressed, her fingers traced the badge on her chest. There was something surreal about wearing it here, in the town where she’d grown up, the place that held both her brightest memories and her darkest loss.
Her sister’s face flashed through her mind—Kelly, with her long brown hair and easy smile, so different from Heather’s own serious demeanor. Four years gone. The thought settled like a stone in her stomach, a familiar weight she’d learned to carry.
A sound from the main house caught her attention—the distinct shuffle of her father’s footsteps, followed by the softer tread of her mother moving to help him. Heather glanced at her watch. 6:05 AM. Time to help with Dad’s morning medication.
She made her way down the external stairs and across the short path to the back door of her childhood home. The kitchen was warm and smelled of coffee. Her father sat at the table, his hands resting before him, trembling slightly with the early signs of his day’s struggle.
“Morning, Firecracker,” James King said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. His nickname for her since childhood, whe n her temper had matched her hair.
“Morning, Dad.” Heather leaned down to kiss his cheek, then moved efficiently to the medicine cabinet, retrieving the morning’s dose. “Sleep okay?”
“Well enough.” He watched her organize his pills into the small plastic cup—carbidoba/levodopa, amantadine, the vitamin B complex that the neurologist swore might help. “Look at you. Deputy King.” Pride warmed his voice.
Her mother entered, already dressed in the navy blue scrubs she wore for her shifts at the county hospital. Margaret King’s hair—the same vibrant red as Heather’s, though now threaded with silver—was pulled back in a practical bun.
“There’s my girls,” James said, smiling at his wife.
Maggie returned the smile, though Heather noted how it didn’t quite reach her eyes, how it never quite had since Kelly disappeared. “Breakfast in five,” she said, moving to the stove. “Can’t have our deputy heading out without protein.”
Heather stood behind her father, her hands gently massaging his shoulders, a morning ritual that seemed to ease the stiffness in his muscles. She could feel the bones beneath his cardigan, more prominent now than before his diagnosis two years ago.
“You don’t have to do this every morning, you know,” he said quietly.
“I know.” She continued the gentle pressure, working her way up to the base of his neck. “I want to.”
Her father had been there for her entire life—the steady, kind chemistry teacher who’d made science fascinating and the world seem logical and ordered. Watching his body betray him with early-onset Parkinson’s had been its own kind of heartbreak, coming too soon after Kelly’s disappearance. Things had gotten worse lately, and now that Heather had a position in town, she’d decided to move in with her parents to help out more with her dad. It was the very least she could do.
Her mother placed plates on the table—eggs, toast, sliced fruit arranged with clinical precision. “Nervous?” she asked, studying Heather’s face.
“No,” Heather answered automatically, then caught herself. “Maybe a little. It’s different coming back as…”
“As an officer,” her mother finished for her. “I understand.”
But Heather wasn’t sure she did. Coming back as an officer meant facing the department that had failed to find Kelly. It meant walking the same streets, wondering which houses might hold secrets about her sister. It meant purpose, not just grief.
The three of them ate together, conversation flowing around mundane topics—her father’s tutoring schedule for the day, her mother’s hospital shift rotation, the unseasonably cool weather for early September. They spoke around the obvious, around the empty chair at the table where Kelly should be sitting, twenty-two years old now and likely complaining about early mornings.
As Heather prepared to leave, collecting her keys and shouldering her bag, her mother caught her arm.
“Heather.” Maggie’s voice had dropped, the professional nurse tone giving way to something more vulnerable. “Be careful out there.”
Heather recognized the fear behind the words—the terror of losing another daughter. She wanted to promise she would be safe, that nothing would happen to her, but they both knew better than to make promises they couldn’t keep.
Instead, she hugged her mother tightly, inhaling the antiseptic smell that always clung to her clothes. “I’ll check in during my shift,” she said. “Promise.”
Her father beckoned her over for his own goodbye. His handshake was firm despite the tremor.
“Show ’em what you’re made of, Firecracker,” he said, his brown eyes steady on hers.
Heather nodded, throat suddenly tight. Then she was out the door, walking to her car with determined steps, trying not to look back at the house. The morning sun cast long shadows across the lawn, and for a moment, she could almost see the ghosts of Kelly and herself running through the sprinklers, almost hear the echo of their laughter.
She slid into her sedan, placed her hands on the steering wheel, and took a deep breath.
First day.
She started the engine and pulled away from her childhood home, heading toward the county sheriff’s department, where she would begin the job she’d been preparing for since the day her sister vanished.
CHAPTER TWO
The county sheriff’s department building looked smaller than Heather remembered from her brief visits during the academy. A squat, brick structure just outside the Riverview town limits, it served as the law enforcement headquarters for the surrounding rural communities too small to maintain their own police forces.
Heather parked in the spot designated for deputies, noting with a small thrill that her name had already been stenciled onto the curb. Deputy H. King. She sat for a moment, gathering herself, checking her reflection in the rearview mirror—uniform crisp, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, expression composed.
The department doors opened with a hydraulic hiss. Inside, the bullpen was alive with the controlled chaos of shift change—deputies finishing paperwork from night patrol, day shift officers collecting their assignments, the constant background noise of phones ringing and radios crackling.
“Well, look what the academy spit out,” a voice called from the coffee station.
Deputy Jenkins, a thirty-year veteran with a perpetual five o’clock shadow, raised his Styrofoam cup in mock salute. “King’s kid. Didn’t think you’d actually go through with it.”
Heather kept her expression neutral as she walked past him. “Morning, Jenkins.”
“You know where the coffee supplies are, right? Been a while since we had a girl around to keep the pot fresh.”
Several nearby officers chuckled. Heather didn’t break stride, didn’t let her face show anything but calm professionalism as she headed toward the locker area.
“Hey, King.”
She turned to find Officer Craig Reynolds approaching, a clipboard in hand. He’d been two years ahead of her in high school, the type of guy who’d made sure everyone knew his father was on the city council.
“Sign-in sheet,” he said, thrusting the clipboard at her. “And Sheriff wants all rookies to check in with dispatch before roll call.”
“Thanks.” She took the clipboard, signing her name with a steady hand.
Reynolds lingered. “So, daddy’s connections get you this gig, or was it pity points for the sister?”
The pen jerked in her hand, leaving a small blot next to her signature. Heather looked up slowly, meeting Reynolds’s gaze with a stare that had silenced loudmouths at the academy.
“My dad is not in law enforcement. For the record, I graduated top of my class at Springfield,” she said evenly. “My application and qualifications are in my personnel file if you’re interested in the facts.”
She handed back the clipboard and walked away before he could respond, her heart hammering against her ribs even as her exterior remained composed. This wasn’t unexpected. She’d prepared for this—the small-town politics, the casual sexism.
Still, hearing Kelly referenced so callously stung in a way she hadn’t anticipated.
The dispatch area was quieter, the soft murmur of operators directing the morning patrols creating a bubble of focused activity. Heather introduced herself to the chief dispatcher, a gray-haired woman who barely looked up from her console as she nodded acknowledgment.
By the time Heather made it to roll call, most of the chairs were filled. She took a seat near the back, aware of the sidelong glances from her new colleagues.
Sergeant Thompson, a barrel-chested man with thirty years on the force, ran through the morning briefing with mechanical efficiency—overnight incident reports, notable arrests, areas needing increased patrol. Heather took notes, committing names and locations to memory. When Thompson assigned her to desk duty for her first shift, she accepted without complaint, though the disappointment was bitter on her tongue.
“Rookie paperwork rotation,” he explained with a dismissive wave. “Department protocol.”
As the room emptied, Heather gathered her notebook and stood to leave.
“Deputy King.”
