A dead body and a lake of blood.
Matt flinched.
He didn’t need to feel for a pulse. From the size of the deep-red stain on the carpet, he knew the person was dead. No one could survive that much blood loss.
The body was too small to be Justin. Matt used the flashlight app on his phone to better illuminate the body. Shock washed over him. It was a woman. She wore boots, jeans, and a sweater. Long, dark hair streamed out from under a knit cap.
He moved a few steps to the side and shone the light on her face. Matt inhaled sharply.
Justin’s wife, Erin, stared back at him with empty hazel eyes.
What is she doing here?
Brody whined, a thin, plaintive sound. Matt put a reassuring hand on the top of the dog’s head as he called 911 on his cell phone.
In rural areas, deputies wore multiple professional hats. Several deputies, including the current chief, also served on the county search-and-rescue team. Others were on the dive team. Several were volunteer firefighters. Matt had been an investigator and, later, a K-9 officer. As he gave the dispatcher the address, he put aside his emotions and viewed the scene like the detective he’d been.
Erin was on her side, her body curled around itself. From the size of the wound, Matt suspected she’d been shot. Blood covered her hands, which were near the wound in her chest. She hadn’t died immediately. She’d known she was bleeding out. She’d clutched the wound, maybe even tried to stem the bleeding. The heart stops beating at death, and it had taken a minute or so to pump a fatal volume out of her body. It must have seemed both a long and short minute to her. Matt took in the size of the bloodstain. It had been a futile effort. He hoped she’d lost consciousness quickly.
An image from their wedding flashed into his mind. Justin and Erin posing for a photo with her two kids. He closed his eyes for a second. Justin had mentioned that the kids hadn’t seen their father in years. No one even knew where he was or if he was alive. They could be orphans.
The 911 operator gave a response time of four minutes. Matt took two minutes to snap pictures of the rest of the room with his cell phone camera. He was no longer a deputy. Since the former sheriff’s death and the airing of the corruption in the department, many other deputies had left. There were a number of new hires, and of the longtime deputies, Matt didn’t know who he could trust. How many had known of the former sheriff’s crimes?
He was certain of only one thing. This would be his only chance to record the crime scene.
Justin hadn’t planned to live here long and hadn’t invested in much furniture. The bedroom held a bed, a chair, and a nightstand with a lamp. A purple puffy coat lay across the chair. It looked too small and feminine to be Justin’s. Erin’s? He snapped a picture, then took photos of a dark red smear on the doorframe and another on the wall.
On the floor in front of the bathroom door lay a towel. Matt stooped and touched the corner. Damp.
Matt ducked into the bathroom. Another damp towel hung over a rod mounted on the wall. He used the sleeve of his jacket to open the medicine chest, noting the extra toothpaste, a tube of mascara, and a lipstick on the glass shelf. In the cabinet beneath the sink, he found a hairdryer, a round hairbrush, and a box of feminine hygiene products. As he photographed everything, he wondered if the female items belonged to Erin or another woman.
A siren approached.
“Time to go.” He led Brody back out the way they had come into the house, taking more pictures on his way out. He followed his own tracks back to the sidewalk and waited, noting and filing details in his head. The front door had been locked. The back slider had been open, as if someone had rushed out of the house.
Who killed Erin? And where is Justin?
Two hours later, emergency vehicles clogged the street. Swirling red-and-blue lights reflected on the snow. A county CSI van was parked behind the sheriff’s department vehicles. The medical examiner had been the last to arrive. Uniformed men hustled back and forth from the house to their vehicles. Each doing his job, focused on a specific task. At the base of the driveway, a rookie manned the crime scene log, recording every person who set foot on the scene.
Standing on the sidewalk next to his SUV, Matt had never felt like more of an outsider.
Grey’s Hollow Chief Deputy Todd Harvey approached. Before the shooting, Matt had worked with Todd for years and was 80 percent sure he was trustworthy. Todd stopped in front of Matt and crouched to pet the dog. “How’s retirement, Brody?”
Brody leaned in for a scratch behind the ear. With a final pat, Todd straightened. “How long have you known Justin?”
“We went to grade school together.”
“You knew the victim too?”
Matt nodded. “But not as well.”
“Since he lives here, and her address is a rural route outside town, can I assume they were separated?”
“Yes.” Matt took a deep breath. The facts were the facts. “Justin and Erin married four years ago. I was the best man in their wedding.”
“Did they have any kids?”
“She has two, but they aren’t Justin’s.” Matt’s stomach cramped with pity.
Todd scraped a hand across his jaw. “Shit.”
Yeah. Shit.
Grief choked Matt as he pictured the children.
“How old are they?” Todd asked.
Matt cleared his throat. “Luke is in high school. Kayla is still in grade school.”
Todd pulled a small notepad from his pocket. “I’ll loop in social services. I also have to notify next of kin. Do you know who that might be?”
“Erin’s parents are dead.” Matt remembered Erin’s family from the wedding. The story of her parents’ deaths stuck with him. “She has a brother and a sister. The sister lives in Philadelphia, but the brother is local. Erin kept her maiden name, so you should be able to find him.”
Todd made a note. “How long has Justin lived here?”
“Four months, since his second DWAI.” Matt suppressed a pang of guilt. Todd would already have Justin’s record, but Matt still felt disloyal giving him the information.
“Was their breakup volatile?” Todd was definitely focused on Justin as a suspect. The spouse was always on the list, but a good detective didn’t go into an investigation with any preconceived notions that could influence how he viewed the scene and evidence. Then again, most of Todd’s experience was as a patrol officer and supervisor. He’d never been an investigator. How many murders had he handled?
“No.” Matt shook his head. “Erin didn’t want the drugs in the house with her kids. He didn’t blame her.”
“So, he wasn’t angry at all after his wife kicked him out of his house?” Todd sounded incredulous.
“It’s her house, not his.”
Todd pressed his lips together. “Do you know why she was here this evening?”
“No.” Matt’s gut twisted. “I talked to Justin yesterday. He didn’t mention it.”
“OK.” Todd turned as the medical examiner gestured from the doorway of the house. “I need to get back to it. I’ll probably be here all night. I need you to come to the station in the morning and sign a statement.”
“Sure.” Matt’s fingers stroked Brody’s head. The dog leaned against his legs, his weight nearly buckling Matt’s knees. He leaned into the dog to counter the pressure.
Todd turned away. Matt pictured the scene. Questions about Erin’s presence ran through his head. What had she been doing there?
“Did you find her cell phone?” Matt called after him.
Todd walked away without answering. Would he shut Matt out of the case?
Matt looked down at Brody. As usual, the shepherd’s brown eyes looked right through him. Brody whined again.
“I know. I’m worried about Justin too.”
As a friend, he worried that Justin could be in serious trouble. As a former investigator, he knew that Justin would be a primary suspect, and as a former deputy, he worried about the chief deputy�
��s lack of investigative experience and Matt’s 20 percent uncertainty about his honesty.
With or without the chief deputy’s cooperation, Matt would find out what had happened.
CHAPTER FOUR
He lathered his hands and arms to the elbow, then rinsed thoroughly and repeated the process twice more. He’d worn gloves, but he didn’t want to take any chance that blood, gunshot residue, or other trace evidence clung to his skin.
When he was finished, he dried his hands on a paper towel and tossed it in the trash. Flecks and streaks of dried blood spotted the front of his pants and his shirt cuffs. He stripped off his clothes and stuffed them in a paper grocery bag.
He hadn’t realized there would be so much blood.
That sounded stupid. Of course a bullet wound bled. But the amount had surprised him. Blood had poured out of her, forming a puddle. It had expanded rapidly under her body, spreading across the pale carpet in a thick pool, like he’d spilled a full gallon of red paint. And the smell—metallic, like coins, blended with the scent of gunpowder, resulting in an odor that was pungent and nauseating.
The whole experience hadn’t been what he’d expected.
But it was done. She’d been an obstacle, and he’d removed her. In that way, her death had been her own stubborn fault. She’d known exactly what she was doing. He’d warned her multiple times, but she’d refused to listen. Instead, she’d threatened him.
As he remembered her disrespect, fresh rage boiled inside him.
Yeah, she’d gotten exactly what she’d deserved.
She’d brought this on herself. All she’d had to do was shut her fucking mouth and do what she was told. But no. She’d thought she was better than him.
And now she was dead.
She’d be silent forever.
He showered, lathering and rinsing his body multiple times. He’d taken precautions. There was little chance of him carrying evidence on his body. But he couldn’t stop himself. He scrubbed his skin until it was raw, as if washing his body cleansed his soul. Then he dressed. He cleaned the soles of the boots with oxygen bleach. He’d drive a few towns over and drop them in a donation bin the next day.
He grabbed his bag of clothes and the jacket he’d worn and went outside. The yard was empty, and the cold night air already smelled of smoke. In living rooms nearby, people sat in front of fireplaces and enjoyed the warmth of cozy fires.
His fire would be less cozy and more of a pyre.
He dumped his clothes in a barrel used to burn leaves and other natural debris. He added paper and set the pile on fire. The fabrics were mostly cotton blends and burned well.
The flames consumed their fuel and died down. He added some dried wood and let the fire burn until embers turned to ash. As the orange glow died out, the anger in his heart cooled.
It was over.
Nothing stood in his way. Now he could have what was his by right. The life he’d worked hard for. The life he deserved.
No one else had better get in his way.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bree exited the interstate. A few minutes later, she passed the sign welcoming her to Grey’s Hollow and fished a roll of antacids from the console.
As usual, being in her hometown felt surreal and slightly nauseating.
After her sister’s call, Bree had finished her reports so she would have the next two days off. She’d arranged for a neighbor to feed her cat, packed a bag, and headed north at two in the morning. She’d driven on autopilot for five hours. As she neared Grey’s Hollow, the familiar scenery dragged her back to the childhood she’d worked so hard to forget.
She’d tried her sister’s number several times. Every time, Erin’s number switched to voice mail, and the knot in Bree’s belly tightened. On the bright side, anxiety kept her from falling asleep.
She sipped her cold coffee. Her sister lived on ten acres in upstate New York. Erin had wanted her kids to have room to run and raise animals if they wanted, all the things she’d perceived as stolen from her own life after their parents’ deaths.
Perception was everything. Bree had lost all those things as well, but she wanted nothing that reminded her of her childhood. But then, she was older and had clearer memories than her sister or brother. Erin could recall only snatches of their life before, and she denied remembering anything about the horrible night that had destroyed their family. Adam had been an infant. He had no memories of their parents at all.
Bree followed the GPS directions. She’d visited her sister’s place only a couple of times. She spotted the mailbox, which looked like a black-and-white cow, and turned into the driveway. A layer of snow and ice covered the rutted dirt and gravel. Behind the house sat a small red barn. Barbed wire enclosed the pasture. The last time she’d been here, it had been summer. Everything had been green. Flowers and horses had dotted the grass. It had been peaceful and lovely. Now the icy scene was bleak and lonely.
And there were two sheriff’s department vehicles parked in the driveway.
Bree stared, the coffee in her mouth turning sour. Disbelief flooded her. She didn’t want to think about the possible reasons.
She pressed the gas pedal. Her Honda bounced and slid all the way up to the house. Bree got out of the car and walked up the wooden steps onto the porch. The front door was closed, and she shielded her eyes to stare through the glass panes in the door. There was no one in sight.
She hadn’t buttoned her coat, but fear numbed her to the temperature. The sheriff would not be searching Erin’s house unless a major crime had been committed. Her gaze was drawn to the porch swing her sister had installed herself. Snow covered the wooden seat, and ice-coated chains suspended it from the ceiling. The chains squeaked as it swayed in the wind, the pitch of the metallic sound grating on Bree’s nerves.
She heard movement inside the house. Bree tried the knob, and the door opened. Erin’s place was small for a farmhouse. But Erin had fallen in love with the wraparound front porch and the picturesque barn. She used words like cozy and homey.
“Hello?” Bree called out from the doorway, not wanting to surprise the deputies or intrude on the scene. But she scanned everything she could see. The front door opened into a large wood-floored living room. On one side, a set of french doors led into an office. The stairwell ran up the far wall, and a hallway led to the kitchen at the back of the house.
Boots stomped on the stairs, and a uniformed deputy descended. Stepping out onto the porch, he motioned Bree to move backward.
He touched his hat. “Ma’am, can I help you?”
Bree showed her badge. “This is my sister’s house. Why are you here?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said in a measured voice. “You’ll have to ask the chief deputy.”
“Is he here?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Where are my sister and her children?” Bree asked.
The deputy repeated, “You’ll have to ask the chief deputy.”
“Has Erin been arrested?”
The deputy deadpanned.
“I know. I’ll have to ask the chief deputy. Where can I find him?”
“At the sheriff’s station.”
Bree turned and scanned the property, her nerves gnawing a hole in her gut.
Why are two deputies searching Erin’s house?
The thought of her sister committing a crime was ludicrous. Erin was as Goody Two-shoes as a person could be. But something had happened.
Bree followed the porch around to the back door. Cupping her hands around her eyes, she looked through the windows. The entire back of the house was kitchen. At seven thirty in the morning, Erin should be drinking coffee and getting the kids ready for school, but the kitchen was empty. A hallway led to the front of the house. At the end of the hall, Bree could see lights and a deputy moving around in the living room. Other than the intrusion of the deputies, the house looked normal, with nothing to indicate a physical altercation had occurred.
Who else could Bree call? When Bre
e had seen them over the summer, eight-year-old Kayla hadn’t had a phone, but Luke had been bent over his most of the trip.
If you were a better sister and aunt, you’d know your nephew’s number.
But Bree wasn’t, and she didn’t. She saw Erin and the kids once a year when they visited her. She hadn’t been able to put aside her own issues to see them in Grey’s Hollow.
Her boots thudded on the porch as she walked back to the front of the house. The deputy had gone back inside. With ten acres of land, Erin had no neighbors in sight. The closest house was a half mile down the road. Bree pulled out her phone and called her brother again. Her call switched to voice mail, and she left him another message. Adam not responding didn’t alarm her. He often neglected to charge his phone. He was an artist. If his creativity was on, he might disconnect for days. He had a habit of taking off for weeks at a time to paint. He might not even be in town.
There was only one way she could get immediate answers. With one last glance at the closed front door, Bree slid back into her car and drove toward the sheriff’s station. The town of Grey’s Hollow was too small to fund their own police department and relied on the county sheriff for law enforcement.
The dread in her chest expanded until it constricted her lungs. She would not breathe easily again until she saw her sister and the kids with her own eyes.
At seven forty-five, the day was brightening, but the overcast sky clouded the sunrise. Bree turned into the entrance of the Randolph County Sheriff’s Station in Grey’s Hollow. She stepped out of her car, gave two reporters delivering live updates a wide berth, and walked into the squat, brown brick building. Looping the strap of her small crossbody purse over her head, Bree approached the counter separating the lobby from the front office. Two men in suits conferred on one side of the lobby.
More reporters?
Something was definitely going on.
An older woman in a heavy cardigan greeted her. “Can I help you?”
Bree said, “I’d like to speak with the sheriff.”
CROSS HER HEART Page 3