by Montana Carr
Private investigator Marti Starova has handled missing persons cases before, but nothing quite like this. When a group of desperate mothers pool their meager resources to hire her, they bring a heartbreaking story: their sons—young Hispanic men—have been vanishing from Falls City’s streets over the past several years, with little interest from the police department in finding them.
The case hits closer to home when an unexpected incident leaves Lori hospitalized after accidentally consuming a dangerous drug called Bright that was meant for Marti. The fallout from this near-tragedy drives a wedge between them that seems impossible to bridge. When Lori finally quits her position, Marti loses not just her competent secretary but the one person who kept her grounded and professional.
Left without Lori’s stabilizing influence, Marti spirals deeper into her Shadow addiction while trying to maintain focus on the missing men. Her investigation takes her through Falls City’s underbelly, from immigrant communities afraid to talk to police to the bureaucratic maze of city departments where cases like these get buried under paperwork and indifference.
With her new secretary Naomi providing research support, Marti begins uncovering disturbing patterns in the disappearances. The young men didn’t just vanish—they were carefully selected, their disappearances timed and methodical. As she digs deeper, she discovers connections that reach into unexpected places, including city government and law enforcement itself.
The investigation becomes increasingly dangerous as Marti realizes she’s not just hunting for missing people—she’s hunting a predator who has been operating with impunity for years. Someone with access, authority, and the power to make inconvenient questions disappear along with the victims. Her inquiries begin drawing attention from people who would prefer these cases remain cold.
When Marti uncovers evidence that could break the case wide open, she faces an impossible choice: pursue justice through official channels that have already failed these families, or take more direct action. The decision becomes even more complicated when she realizes the mothers who hired her are reaching the same conclusion—that the system will never deliver the justice their sons deserve.
As Marti closes in on the truth, her personal life continues to unravel. Her relationship with Lori remains fractured, her addiction threatens to derail the investigation, and her new secretary proves to be more of a liability than an asset. The case forces her to confront not just a killer, but the systemic failures that allowed these crimes to continue unchecked.
In the aftermath, as Falls City reels from the exposure of crimes that were hiding in plain sight, Marti must navigate the dangerous waters of a city in crisis while trying to rebuild her own fractured existence. The case may be solved, but the cost of that solution—for the families, for the city, and for Marti herself—is higher than anyone anticipated.
Buy The Familiar Dark online, or at your local bookstore. This is Book 5 in the series. Check out the earlier Marti Starova Erotic Thriller books, Drowning in Broad Daylight , Shadow Work, Rain-Soaked and Almost.
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The Familiar Dark – Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
“Who the fuck are you?”
Marti groaned, squinting at the tiny intruder hovering by her bed. Four, maybe five years old. Blond. Freckled. Staring at her like she was some zoo animal that might start throwing shit at any moment. And since she was Marti Starova, she just might.
“I said, who the fuck are you?” She pressed a hand to her temple. The headache pulsed behind her eyes while her shoulder and leg screamed in protest when she tried to sit up. Fantastic. Just fantastic.
“Aiden!” A whisper-shout from across the room. “Aiden! Leave her alone. She’s sleeping.”
“She’s not sleeping,” the kid—Aiden—observed blandly. “She’s swearing.”
Lori snorted, disguising it as a cough while she crossed the room and grabbed the kid by the shoulders. “Aiden, out,” she said, steering him toward the door. “Go on, scoot your butt.”
Marti flopped onto her back with a groan and stared at Lori through barely cracked eyelids. “Who the fuck was that?”
“Stop swearing.” Lori leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed in that way that meant she wasn’t actually mad but wouldn’t mind making Marti suffer anyway. “That was my nephew. His mom, my sister, got called into work last minute, so I’m stuck with them for the day.”
“Them?” Marti repeated, dread pooling in her gut.
Lori’s ips curled into the exact smirk Marti knew was coming: the one that meant she’d been waiting for this precise moment of suffering. “Yes, them,” she said cheerfully. “Aiden, Douglas, and Franny.” She pushed off the doorframe, stepping closer, and pointed toward the hallway with her thumb. “I’m making breakfast if you feel like joining civilization.”
“Toast?”
“I didn’t say I was making your breakfast.” She reached over and tucked a stray piece of hair behind Marti’s ear. Too soft, too careful. Then turned and left before Marti could come up with something appropriately shitty to say about it.
Lori Harring was by far the best secretary she’d ever had.
Marti sighed and forced herself upright. “Fuck!” Her leg seized, the muscles contracting around the BioGen scaffold that barely held them together. She hated kids almost as much as hospitals. But not quite. After two weeks rotting away in one of those sterile hellholes, she’d spent every minute since itching to be anywhere else. So here she was, stuck recovering under someone else’s roof.
Her fingers found the bottle of Fentafill on the nightstand. One pill down, she grabbed her cane and limped toward the bathroom, each step a reminder of how close she’d come to dying.
Three weeks ago, she’d ended the Andreas Katsaros case. Not that it had done her any favors. Cliff Kogoya had put a blade into Andreas thinking he was taking Marti off the board. Payback for Charlie Gomes murdering his daughter while on the run. Charlie, the same Charlie that Marti took the head for escaping. The same Charlie who’d torn the heart from Cliff’s kid. Literally torn it out. Cliff had earned that much mercy when she gave him a choice: feds or a grave. And he’d taken option one. Died in prison anyway.
Ari Stirling hadn’t appreciated how things shook out and decided to pay her a visit, with an entire fucking army on his heels neither of them saw coming until it was too late. By the time the dust settled outside her office building? Heather Blair was bleeding out next to her, Ari and most of his men were dead, and Marti… well, Marti got lucky enough to only be mostly fucked up instead of all-the-way dead. At least Lori was spared.
The shower knob creaked as Marti cranked it. Lukewarm water shot from the showerhead as she stepped in, turning the temperature higher until steam filled the bathroom. The post-op manual had warned against hot showers: not good for healing or some shit. But she needed the burn against her skin. Needed to feel something that wasn’t dull aching numbness or sharp reminders of bullets that had almost done the job right.
Water cascaded over her shoulder, revealing the smooth SynthoSkin stretched across what remained of her real flesh. She ran her fingers along the seam where artificial met natural, wincing as her shoulder twinged. Her thigh bore similar marks, the muscle held together by another scaffold. Her knee: part titanium, part cobalt-chromium, moved better than before but still protested with each step. And somewhere inside, a lab-grown kidney filtered her blood, a miracle of modern science keeping her pissing.
Water stung her eyes as she reached for the shampoo. Pain or no pain, she had work to do. Getting clean enough to fake being respectable was step one.
The money situation was fucked. Henrick Katsaros had paid her for finding his parents, but she gave the money back after Andreas got murdered. Ari Stirling had hired her to find Andreas’s killer, but he died in the same hail of bullets that tore Marti apart. Four hundred crisp from Victim Services covered medical bills but didn’t do shit for everything else: rent, Lori’s paycheck… drugs.
It didn’t help that her temporary secretary stole all her money and fled to China in the hopes of murdering her husband.
Fuck.
At least detoxing in the hospital had lowered her tolerance. Small mercies while she saved up for more Shadow. But it hadn’t killed the need entirely. Pauline showing up high as hell hadn’t helped either. That crazy bitch had pumped Poison Ivy into Marti’s IV twice before Lori caught her red-handed and had her arrested.
“It’s like the universe wants me high,” Marti muttered around a mouthful of toothpaste before spitting foam into the sink. “I want me high.”
Another reason to get out of here soon. Lori could ruin a perfectly good high with one well-timed frown.
She pulled on clean clothes and stepped out of Lori’s sister’s childhood bedroom. The floral wallpaper made her eyes itch almost as much as the thought of spending time with a bunch of kids. She paused in the hallway, taking in the massive house: three floors with rooms big enough to lose yourself in forever if you weren’t careful. This place barely felt like a house at all; more like an entire hotel stretched across too much space. There was even talk of some hidden basement larger than her whole damn apartment back home.
A child’s voice carried down the corridor: “Hi! Merry Christmas!”
Marti braced herself before limping into the kitchen. Three small faces turned toward her from the breakfast bar, Lori standing behind them with a spatula in hand, smiling like this wasn’t some cruel joke played on hungover people everywhere.
“Merry Christmas,” the little girl said, because that was what you were supposed to say in houses like this. The brats burst into laughter immediately. Fucking hyenas in toddler form.
“Merry Christmas tomorrow,” Lori corrected with a grin as the kids chattered about Santa and gifts and magic bullshit Marti had never believed in even as a kid.
Marti’s lips parted. “You know Santa doesn’t—”
“Marti!” Lori’s eyes flashed a warning before she could finish ruining their innocence. “What’s your problem?”
Marti rolled a kink out of her spine. “What’s my problem? I dunno… but I’m guessing it’s hard to pronounce.” She turned away from their breakfast bar shrine and headed back toward blessed solitude.
The bedroom window stuck before giving way with a hard shove. Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of freezing rain: Falls City’s poor substitute for snow. Marti lit a cigarette from what remained of a crushed pack, inhaling deeply as the first hit of nicotine flooded her system. Bitter cold clawed at her face while smoke curled warm into her lungs. A war between sensations she had no real investment in picking sides over.
The door creaked behind her as she lit a second cigarette.
“Sorry about that,” Lori murmured, her voice closer than expected. Then warmth pressed against Marti’s back as Lori leaned into her. “The kids love to talk.”
Arms slid around Marti’s waist. A slow movement meant to be gentle but landing somewhere between comforting and torturous.
Marti stiffened. Harder than any withdrawal she’d faced so far.
“Why are you torturing me?” She exhaled smoke without looking back.
Lori didn’t budge an inch. “I’ve heard so many of your sex stories… Thought you might like it.”
Marti swallowed. She liked telling stories. Twisting the passions just enough to keep Lori hanging on her every word. Like the time she’d been close enough to Isabella Katsaros to feel the air shift as the whip cracked against the woman’s skin. She had to be sure the birthmark was there, had to confirm it was really Isabella bound and gagged in that chair, since asking wasn’t an option.
Lori pulled away first, like always. They never got further than a few brushes of fingers in passing, a touch that lasted too long.
“Come eat,” Lori said. “The toaster’s waiting.”
Marti exhaled slowly, blinking hard to clear her head. “Yeah, in a second.” Maybe if she stood still long enough, the heat between her legs would go away. Probably not. Lori was making it her full-time job to drive Marti insane. Lingering too close, dropping hints, trying to convince Marti they should date.
No fucking way was Marti dating her secretary, no matter how good she looked doing shit like this.
Lori paused in the doorway. “Are you allergic to anything?”
“No.”
“Eggcellent! I’m eggcited!”
Marti dragged a hand down her face. “How old are you?”
Lori’s grin flashed before she disappeared into the kitchen. Marti stubbed out her cigarette and followed, cane tapping against hardwood then carpet then tile.
The scent of browning butter filled the kitchen. Marti leaned against the counter as Lori worked, butter melting into two slices of bread, each with a hole cut from the center. The bread sizzled when it hit the hot pan, and Marti’s stomach tightened with hunger.
“What’s your name?”
A small voice from her elbow. Marti turned slowly to find a kid staring up at her, all big eyes and boundless energy.
“Marti.”
“I’m Franny! I’m five.”
I don’t care, Marti thought.
“Auntie Hay-Hay says you used to be a cop,” another kid piped up from somewhere behind them.
Jesus Christ.
“Yeah.”
“Marti was in Homicide,” Lori added as she flipped one of the toast slices over. “Like Grandpa. My dad works Homicide too.”
The little boy—Daniel? Douglas?—stood on his toes to see better. “In Georgetown! Twenty-eleven years on the force.”
The toast hit the stove again as Lori cracked eggs into both holes.
“Slow department,” she continued while sprinkling salt and pepper without looking up. “Couple murders a month, nothing crazy.”
“Huh,” Marti said because something seemed expected of her.
“Bacon?”
“Yep.”
“BACON!” Douglas-or-whatever shouted like he’d been personally blessed by God himself.
Lori pointed toward the basement door. “Go watch Blippy and Bloopy, please.”
The kids took off running, and seconds later an explosion of cartoons rattled through the floorboards.
Marti’s shoulders dropped. “Your sister’s kids, you said?”
“Yep. Bobbie’s kids,” Lori said as she laid strips of bacon onto a paper towel. “Love ‘em.”
Lori plated everything carefully before setting it in front of Marti, knife and fork placed neatly beside her hand like they were at some fancy brunch instead of sitting in a family kitchen at seven in the goddamn morning.
Marti ripped off a chunk of toast with her fingers and dunked it straight into the yolk.
“This is sweet,” she muttered around a mouthful before taking another bite.
Lori sat beside her with her own plate, nudging paprika across an egg with the edge of her fork.
“My dad had a good solve rate,” she said after a moment. “Still had one case that haunted him though.”
Marti kept chewing but didn’t answer right away. There was always one case for a homicide detective. Always one that ate your soul.
She picked up her fork and finished one egg before speaking again: “Christmas shot?”
“It’s not Christmas,” Lori deadpanned.
“Fine. But since I didn’t pull my gun on that kid today,” Marti said, “I think that calls for a reward.”
Lori’s eyes narrowed over a bite of toast. “You didn’t—”
“Of course not,” Marti scoffed mid-chew, gesturing with what remained of a bacon strip. “Too loud anyway. And those little fuckers are fast.”
“Amazing,” Lori muttered as she gathered their plates and carried them toward the sink.
“I’m serious,” Marti called after her, leaning back in her chair. “A drink would be nice.”
“You just joked about shooting children.” The cupboard door opened with a flick of Lori’s wrist as she grabbed a bottle down anyway.
“I joke about all kinds of shit,” Marti replied.
“You’re sick.”
“Yep,” Marti agreed without argument as Lori set down a glass between them and poured amber liquid into it.
“My dad likes whiskey too,” Lori said after taking a sip from Marti’s glass instead of handing it over. “Smokes too. God, that’s disgusting.”
“You trying to set me up with your father?”
“No.”
“You’re staring like you have something extra dumb planned this time.” Marti gingerly took the shot from between Lori’s fingers.
“I think you’d like him,” Lori admitted after a pause, a rare hesitation creeping into words that usually flowed so freely.
“Doubt it.” Marti knocked back half the whiskey but didn’t protest when Lori refilled it seconds later.
“You like me though,” Lori pointed out with an infuriating little smile.
Marti let herself look this time, really look: took in where soft fabric clung to warm curves; traced lines from collarbones down bare shoulders before forcing herself back up toward bright eyes waiting patiently.
“I like you,” she admitted eventually. “But not most people. People are terrible.”
“You think you’re terrible,” Lori challenged, not letting it slide.
Marti cleared her throat against the tightness building there. “…You never told me your dad was Homicide.”
Lori tilted her head, warmth lingering behind quiet amusement. “He’s why I became an engineer.”