Raven set down her beer and gazed outside. “Better get home before the storm hits.”
CHAPTER 6
LIGHTNING SLICED THE sky as Raven pulled up the long, rock driveway to her bungalow, nestled at the foot of the tallest mountain in Devil’s Den, Black Bear Mountain. The rain was coming down in buckets now, which made the drive home through the curvy roads interesting, to say the least.
She rolled to a stop in front of the house and cursed the rain, kicking herself for not buying a house with a garage. But when she’d moved to Devil’s Den the bungalow was the first, and only, house she looked at. From the second she laid eyes on it, she knew she had to have it—it was quaint, warm, welcoming, and within her budget. And thanks to the generous compensation from Black Rose, she purchased it on the spot.
It was a small, two-bedroom, two-bathroom cabin with a wraparound porch. Bright green boxwood shrubs lined the steps that led to the porch, and more color-coordinated pots sat on either side of the front door. When the weather would warm up, she’d plant colorful flowers, and switch out the pots to match, of course. Two vibrant red rocking chairs sat in front of the bay window and matched the red shutters to a tee, which also matched the red threading on the hammock that hung on the edge of the porch. More winter-friendly plants hung from the awnings, spaced exactly fourteen inches apart.
She grabbed her bag and bolted across the driveway, jumping over the puddles, and jogged up the porch steps.
Dripping wet, she pushed through the front door and was welcomed by the sweet scent of vanilla, courtesy of the candles she’d purchased the day before. She flicked the lights, grabbed a towel from a decorative basket—that she kept by the door for wet days—and wiped herself down, including the bottom of her shoes. Then, she hung her jacket and bag on the coat rack.
She paused, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, thankful to be in the sanctuary of her home and out of the rain, the woods, and that godforsaken cave. The image of the lifeless body of Abby Collier flashed through her head and she quickly opened her eyes as a shiver ran across her wet skin.
A drink. She needed a drink—immediately.
She padded across the shiny, hardwood floor to the kitchen, yanked open the refrigerator door, grabbed a beer and took a long sip. She rested the cold bottle against her temple, leaned against the counter, and gazed out at the dense woods behind her house.
Rain poured down the window.
What a fucking night.
Her stomach churned thinking of the sheer violence of Abby’s murder. She’d been out jogging—just as Raven had been—and somehow ended up in a cave fighting for her life. Raven had seen more than a few murder scenes, but only one other scene that involved mutilation. And if this case were no different, she wouldn’t be able to sleep for days.
She took another sip and thought of Zander, and how her stomach dropped the moment she saw him walking through the woods. Not that it was an uncommon response to seeing the six-foot-two, muscular Lieutenant with devilishly handsome good looks. Hell, every woman in town drooled over him, including Raven. She’d never forget the first time she met him—it was her first day on the job, and she and Dixie were surveilling a group of small-town drug dealers. One thing led to another, and a fight broke out, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, Zander sprinted up, and single-handedly dismantled the brawl, knocking one thug out, handcuffing the other, and terrifying the third badly enough to pee his pants. Her heart was gone in an instant.
Of course, she’d never told anyone of her secret crush, or acted on it, for three reasons. One, Zander Stone was like family to the Knight sisters and the last thing she wanted to do was get involved with someone in the “family” at her new job. Two, the women of Black Rose worked very closely with the local law enforcement and she sure as hell didn’t need the awkwardness of a break-up if things went south. And three, Zander was at least ten years older than she was, and she got the vibe that he looked at her like a little sister. Little ol’ Rave.
She blew out a breath.
In the two short years that she’d lived in Devil’s Den, she’d been on a grand total of three dates—three. And each had been a blind date, set up by one of the sisters.
The first one, James, was a dentist who was attractive enough, smart enough, ambitious enough, but there had been zero chemistry between them—none. She’d started looking at the clock only fifteen minutes into their first date.
The second date was with a construction worker, who was definitely cute, with an amazing body, but unfortunately, his charm went as far as his IQ—not very.
And the third, the finale of all her dates, the date that had her calling off men, was with a local guitarist—a struggling musician who, she found out at the end of the date, still lived with his mommy. And had a curfew.
But perhaps the most mind-boggling thing about each of the dates was that she found herself thinking of Zander at the end of the night.
How was that even possible? How was it possible to think about, and daydream about, and fantasize about someone that she barely knew?
She sighed, and felt a rush of emotions fly through her—the restlessness, unease, and overall creepy feeling that came with seeing a dead body, the sense of urgency to help find whoever the hell did it, and the unexplainable attraction and lust over the Devil’s Den Lieutenant, who seemed to dominate her thoughts above all else.
What the hell was it about that guy?
Frustrated, she downed her beer and grabbed another.
It was going to be a long night.
CHAPTER 7
DAMN THE RAIN, Zander thought as he leapt over a puddle and jogged to his truck. He jumped in and winced at the soreness beginning to settle in his back.
Damn helo crash.
Damn Marden Balik.
Damn Krestel, or whoever the hell she was.
Thank God Hunter knew how to handle the helicopter while it went down in the pitch-black smoke, or whatever the hell it was. Only a few cuts and bruises for the both of them—it could have been a lot worse. And although he tried to remind himself of that, and tried to be grateful, he knew that it was just the beginning. The beginning of figuring out what the hell had happened up there. And figuring out where the hell Marden Balik was.
He was soaked to the bone, in pain, hungry, pissed off, and had just added another homicide to his caseload.
He turned the ignition, and pulled out of the gravel parking lot at the head of Red Rock Trail.
As always, he was the last one to leave the crime scene, which had taken longer than expected thanks to the relentless downpour.
After Zander and Deena had hustled to take pictures, and search for evidence before the rain picked up, Cora bagged up Abby Collier’s body, and promised to begin the autopsy at first light, and he had no doubt that she would.
He gripped the steering wheel.
Another homicide.
His jaw clenched. Zander approached all crime scenes the same—cool, calm, collected, and with laser focus. But when it came to a homicide, especially involving victims being overpowered by their cowardly attackers, all bets were off. Outside of a crime scene, Zander was known for having a quick temper. A wicked, quick temper. A temper that had almost cost him his job once when he beat a serial rapist within an inch of his life, after sexually assaulting a local girl.
Although that fire still burned inside of him, he’d eventually learned to control his rage, and realized that his time was better spent locking up the son of a bitch, rather than beating him to a pulp. It was his job to serve and protect the citizens of Devil’s Den—a town shaded by shadows, that seemed to have more than its fair share of homicides. Zander didn’t believe in ghosts and folklore, but he believed in evil, no doubt about that. He’d seen a lot of it in his fifteen years of service, and most cases, he’d never forget.
Due to the small size of the town, and budget constraints, DDPD didn’t have a crime scene investigation unit, special task force, or official detectives. The officers of the Devil’s Den p
olice department did everything from patrolling, crime scene investigation, evidence collection, and the detective work. They did it all, and they did it well. As police lieutenant, Zander acted as the main detective on all homicides. Sure, he could call in the Sheriff to assist on big cases, but Zander took each case personally, and felt that it was his responsibility keep the citizens of Devil’s Den safe. He didn’t need the Sheriff, or anyone else, barging in and taking over his crime scene.
He turned his windshield wipers on high and hesitated at the four-way stop. He glanced down at the pocket knife in his hand. Usually, he’d wait until morning—a much more respectable time for an unannounced drop-in. But thanks to that damn low-cut tank-top and skin-tight jogging pants she’d been wearing, he couldn’t seem to get Raven Cane, or her body, off of his mind.
Maybe the crash did more than rattle his bones.
He was surprised at his reaction to seeing her, standing on top of a rock, in the middle of the woods. Usually, nothing broke his focus at a crime scene, but she had, if even for a split-second. She looked anxious, in shock, but cool-headed, and he swore he saw a spark of… something in her eye when she looked at him. She’d looked so small against the vast landscape, yet somehow strong and determined—and sexy. And he'd been a total dick to her—dammit.
He remembered when she’d moved to town, and he remembered the tingle of excitement that flew through him when he first saw her. And he remembered the metaphorical stop sign that appeared above her head when he’d realized that she worked for Black Rose Investigations. The ladies of Black Rose were off-limits to him—the Knight sisters were practically family, and they’d have his hide if he went after one of their own. And everyone in town knew that it was never a good idea to piss off one of the Knight sisters.
So as quickly as his attraction had sparked for Raven Cane, he forced it out of his head, only to think of her a few lonely nights when he’d had one too many whiskey drinks. And besides that, he was at least ten years older than she was and he assumed she looked at him like an old man. Ol’ Lieutenant Stone.
He glanced at the clock—10:30.
After another second of hesitation, he flicked on his turn signal and hung a right. The rain blurred his windshield as he drove, a little too fast, through the mountains. He knew the roads by heart—hell, he could drive them with his eyes closed if he really had to.
A bolt of lightning lit the sky as he neared the base of Black Bear Mountain. He braked at the wooden mailbox painted with a vibrant, floral design—he didn’t need to check the number, he knew exactly where she lived.
He drove down the long driveway until her small bungalow came into view—a dim light was on. She was up.
He parked behind her car, turned off the engine, yanked up his collar and got out. The rain pelted his face as he jogged across the driveway and onto the porch. He paused, hesitated again. What the hell was he doing? He should wait until morning…
The door opened.
Dear God, she was still in the tank-top.
He could tell she was surprised to see him, but along with the surprise was the same spark he’d seen in the woods, earlier. Goosebumps tickled his skin, followed by a fleeting moment of embarrassment—why was he reacting so strongly to her all of a sudden?
It had to be that damn tank-top.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry to stop by so late…”
“It’s not late. I was up.” She looked at his clothes. “You’re soaking wet. Come in, out of the rain.”
As he stepped inside, she grabbed a towel and handed it to him. He caught the scent of her perfume, or shampoo, or whatever. She smelled like fresh flowers, with a hint of vanilla. And vanilla drove him crazy.
He closed the door behind him, careful to stay on the doormat, and began wiping down his clothes. “I heard you were given your first case. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. Stockbrokers are an interesting bunch.”
“The Coleman brothers are dicks, and so is Eric. Not hard to imagine insider trading between the three of them.”
“I see you’ve been speaking with Dixie.” She stepped back, staring at him standing in her hallway.
He couldn’t read her expression, and for some reason, he began to feel slightly awkward. And awkward was not a feeling he was used to.
Maybe he shouldn’t have stopped by.
Her gaze shifted to the cut above his eye, and her face filled with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay, Zander?”
The damn crash. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a scratch.”
“Okay…”
She stared at him with those big, doe eyes, and suddenly, he forgot why he’d stopped by.
“Would you like a drink?”
Yes. “Sure, thanks.”
She turned, and his eyes immediately dropped down to her backside—and he felt a tingle in his pants. It was a damn nice ass. A perfectly round, not-too-big, not-too-small, perky little ass.
Get ahold of yourself, Stone.
He followed her down the hall, peeling his eyes off of her and glancing around her quaint, little house. Hardwood floors lined the rooms, and large log beams ran across the ceiling. It was cozy—small as shit—but cozy. And clean—as in, not a speck of dirt on the floor, clean. To the right of the entryway was a den with a massive stone fireplace. White candles lined the mantel, and brown leather couches sat on a beige colored rug, with a stack of books on the coffee table—except it wasn’t really a stack, the books were staggered on top of each other, each at perfect ninety-degree angles with the bindings facing out.
To the left of the entryway was her office—a spotless desk with a computer and decorative lamp. The wall was lined with shelves, full of storage baskets, each with their own label. He cocked an eyebrow—everything in the house seemed to be strategically placed and organized.
He shook his head. She’d have a heart attack if she saw his place.
She led him into the small kitchen, with dark granite countertops, and dark wood cabinetry. A small seating area sat in front of large windows that looked out to the woods. He liked the kitchen.
He liked looking at her in the kitchen.
“I’ve got beer, wine, whiskey, and vodka.” She pulled open the fridge and looked at him. He had to fight from looking at her chest—he knew what cold air did to a woman’s nipples. He glanced at her half-drunk beer on the countertop.
“I’ll take a beer, please.”
She grabbed a beer, popped the top, and handed it to him. “Did you just leave the cave?”
“Yes.” He took a deep sip, and realized just how badly he needed a drink. He was wired, and based on this visit, not making the best decisions. He sipped again.
“Did you find anything else?”
“No, but we’ll go back at first light. We verified that the red sedan is her car. We’ve towed it off and will scan it first thing in the morning.”
He saw the wheels begin to turn in her head.
She pushed off the counter and began pacing the room. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the fingers. Just seems to throw everything off, right? I mean, why do it?” Pause. “I’ve thought of two possible scenarios.”
“Shoot.”
She paced to the end of the kitchen, and the turned back. “It could have some sort of significance to the killer. Ritual significance.”
“You’re talking about Krestel, or witches in general.”
“Yes and no. I wouldn’t immediately pin Krestel. Mutilation just seems so brutal for a woman. But maybe a male witch?”
“I believe they call that a warlock.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve been studying up on your witchcraft.”
“After decades of living in Devil’s Den, you learn these things. Trust me.”
“Anyway, there’s that. Now to my next possible scenario. Cora believes Abby fought her attacker after she woke up… so she would have fought with her hands, right?”
“Most likely, yeah.”
“So then, she would ha
ve slapped, punched, scratched at him, right?”
He nodded, and had a feeling he knew where this was going.
“Assuming she scratched his bare skin somewhere on his body, Abby possibly would have gotten the killer’s DNA under her fingernails.”
“And maybe the killer destroyed the evidence by cutting off her fingers. Is that where you’re going with this?”
She stopped in her tracks and turned to him. “Exactly.”
“Yeah, I’ve considered the same scenario.”
“A smart killer… the worst kind.”
He wholeheartedly agreed. The majority of his cases were made up of dumb, idiotic criminals who left a trail of evidence as long as his… you know. But the cases that kept him up at night, the most heinous cases, were always committed by someone smart, clever, self-aware. Cunning.
“In that case, it makes me think that it’s got to be someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“Or just a psycho who watches too many true-crime shows.”
“That, too.” Pause. “I don’t know… it just doesn’t sit well with me.” After a moment, she said, “Did you find anything else at the scene? Outside the cave?”
He released an exhale and leaned against the countertop, relieved to be talking through the case, instead of having a bunch of half-developed thoughts jumbled in his head. “We found a few tracks—boot prints—leading away from the cave. We pulled a cast as best we could, but of course, the rain did a number on it.” He shook his head, frustrated. “At best, we got half a print.”
She paused. “And there’s no guarantee that the print even belongs to the killer.”
“Right.”
“What about the murder weapon? No knife or anything?”
“He murdered her with his hands. But no, we didn’t find the knife that was used to cut off her fingers.” His tone was almost sarcastic. “Not that damn lucky.”
She grabbed her beer. “She wasn’t reported missing, was she?”
“No. She wasn’t close to her folks, apparently. They didn’t talk a lot, especially in the last few months.”
“Ace said she’d changed. Started wearing black and became withdrawn.”
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