DONE DIRTY

A J.J. Graves Mystery

LILIANA HART

DONE DIRTY

Copyright © 2026

by Liliana Hart

All rights reserved.

Published by Silver Quill Publishing

Dallas, TX 75115

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ALSO BY LILIANA HART

JJ Graves Mystery Series

Dirty Little Secrets

A Dirty Shame

Dirty Rotten Scoundrel

Down and Dirty

Dirty Deeds

Dirty Laundry

Dirty Money

A Dirty Job

Dirty Devil

Playing Dirty

Dirty Martini

Dirty Dozen

Dirty Minds

Dirty Weekend

Dirty Looks

Dirty Liars

Dirty Valentine

Fighting Dirty

Done Dirty

Mabel McCoy Mystery Series

Skin and Bones

A Bone to Pick

Chilled to the Bone

Bone of my Bones

Addison Holmes Mystery Series

Whiskey Rebellion

Whiskey Sour

Whiskey For Breakfast

Whiskey, You’re The Devil

Whiskey on the Rocks

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

Whiskey and Gunpowder

Whiskey Lullaby

The Scarlet Chronicles

Bouncing Betty

Hand Grenade Helen

Front Line Francis

The Harley and Davidson Mystery Series

The Farmer’s Slaughter

A Tisket a Casket

I Saw Mommy Killing Santa Claus

Get Your Murder Running

Deceased and Desist

Malice in Wonderland

Tequila Mockingbird

Gone With the Sin

Grime and Punishment

Blazing Rattles

A Salt and Battery

Curl Up and Dye

First Comes Death Then Comes Marriage

Box Set 1

Box Set 2

Box Set 3

The Gravediggers

The Darkest Corner

Gone to Dust

Say No More

Laurel Valley

Tribulation Pass

Redemption Road

Midnight Clear

Forgiveness River

Atonement Trail

To Keaton, Ava, Ethan, Ellie, Max, Jamie, and Graham:

You are my joy. I love you all (in no particular order, even though you’d like me to rank you).

To Scott:

Thank you for our family. Let’s go eat crab legs soon, please.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Pre-Order Dirty Intentions

Skin and Bones: A Mabel McCoy Mystery

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Liliana Hart

The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.

— William Shakespeare

PROLOGUE

Paige had spent two days telling herself she was over Wade Rivers.

She wasn’t.

“Stupid,” she muttered, hitting her fist against the steering wheel.

“What’s that?” Becca asked. Her hand pressed against the dashboard as Paige took a corner a little too fast. “Oh, God. Oh, God.”

“Relax,” Paige said, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. “Take a drink from my Stanley. I made a to-go mimosa before we left the house.”

Becca took a quick sip and shuddered. “This is very irresponsible. We’ll be in so much trouble if we get caught.”

“No one is going to catch us. We’re like superheroes. Doing a service for the community. We’re representing women everywhere.”

“I feel a little sick,” Becca said. “Maybe you should slow down.”

Paige tapped her foot to the brake, deciding Becca was right. She was letting her anger get the best of her.

But it was righteous anger.

She’d wasted four months of her life on that miserable parasite, cooking his food and doing his laundry and telling herself it was different this time, that he was different, that a man that beautiful who actually seemed to want her around was worth changing her life for.

She’d swapped out most of her wardrobe for the kind of clothes he liked seeing her in—tighter, shorter, more skin—and told herself showing off her body was the reason she worked out. She’d even priced out a consultation for a boob job after he’d mentioned, twice, that he’d prefer if she was “more than a handful.”

And worst of all, she’d given up her apartment—a perfectly good apartment with hardwood floors, good light, and a landlord who fixed things when they broke—and moved into his place because he wanted to take things to the next level. And because she’d wanted to believe living together meant something.

It had meant something all right. It just hadn’t meant something to him.

“I just can’t believe I didn’t see it coming,” Paige said, her hands tightening on the wheel. “I’m such an idiot. I mean, I’m barely awake. I roll out of bed—a bed, I might add, that he was perfectly fine having sex with me in the night before. Do you know the things I’ve let that man do to me in bed?”

“You’ve mentioned a thing or two,” Becca said. “He’s got issues.”

Paige grunted, grateful Becca was on her side. “And there I was in nothing but his T-shirt waiting for my first cup of coffee when he strolls in the kitchen after his morning workout and starts making one of those stupid smoothies. Then while the blender is running and I can barely get a coherent thought in my brain, he tells me things just aren’t working between us and that it’s time to end things.”

“I still think you should’ve thrown something at him. Maybe the coffeepot.”

“I was too shocked to do anything but stand there.” Paige shook her head. “And then he has the nerve to offer me some money to help me get settled in a new place. After I’d already paid him this month’s rent.”

“Scum,” Becca said sympathetically.

“And then he just went to take his shower like he hadn’t upended my world. And I refuse to take a dime from him. I’ll sleep in my car before I take a penny of his money.”

“You’re already sleeping on my couch.”

“That’s different. That’s temporary.”

Becca took another sip from the Stanley and made a face. “This is strong. Is there any orange juice in here?”

“A splash,” Paige said. “And it’s vodka instead of champagne. Don’t judge me.”

“I’m not judging. I’m just saying it’s eight in the morning and we’re day drinking so you can break into your ex’s condo.”

“We’re not breaking in. I have a key and I’ve paid rent. I have as much right to be there as he does.”

“Semantics.”

“My boots are in there,” she said. “The good ones. And my grandmother’s ring. My clothes are still in his closet. He was always buying that trashy lingerie for me, too, and wanting me to do that weird role-playing stuff. I’ve got a whole drawer full. Maybe I’ll set it on fire on my way out the door.”

“Very dramatic. It sounds just like a country music video. But let’s try to stay out of jail.”

Paige cleared her throat. “I don’t want anything that reminds me I was never enough for him. The clothes, the lingerie, my hair color. Do you know how hard it is to maintain this shade of blond? He never wanted the real me.” A tear squeezed out and ran down her cheek.

Becca reached over and squeezed her knee, quick, before grabbing the dashboard again as they hit a pothole.

“You’re too good for him,” Becca said. “You’ve got a good job and you make good money. You don’t need a man for anything. You’re strong and independent. And all you really need is fabulous rebound sex to help you forget he ever existed.”

Paige choked on a laugh. “Sounds like a plan to me. I’m taking his cashmere robe. The one he never let me wear because he told me it washes me out. And I’m taking the KitchenAid. He doesn’t even cook.”

“Petty. I like it.”

“And it feels so good,” Paige said, her smile holding a hint of malice. “I’m going to rearrange his cabinets. You know how OCD he is about everything being in place. I’m going to move every item to a different cabinet or drawer. He’ll lose his mind.”

Becca burst into hysterical giggles. “That’s brilliant. I’ll help you do the pantry. I’ve never seen a man so obsessed with his pantry.”

“That’s because he keeps all his sacred smoothie ingredients in there and his protein powders. Heaven forbid he run out of anything.”

“You’re a diabolical genius,” Becca said.

“I’ve spent two days on your couch and had more alcohol than I’ve had in my whole life. I’ve had time to plan.”

Neither of them said much the rest of the way, and Paige’s stomach tightened as the building came into view.

“You’re absolutely sure he’s at the studio?” Becca asked. “Isn’t that his car?”

They both looked toward the covered parking area attached to The Windsor and saw the little silver Mercedes in its assigned spot.

“He always walks to work,” she said. “It’s only a couple of blocks away. I don’t even know why he has that stupid thing. He hardly drives it. Everything we needed was in walking distance.”

“You know what they say about men and expensive sports cars,” Becca said.

“In Wade’s case it’s not true,” Paige said. “That man was a magician in bed. Even with the weird stuff.”

“Snap out of it,” Becca said, waving her hand in front of Paige’s forlorn face. “You’ve only had two sexual partners in your life. Guys like Wade are a dime a dozen. Don’t let your lack of experience lead you to bad decisions. You are not going to try and seduce him to get him back.”

“I wasn’t thinking that,” she lied.

“Sell it to someone else,” Becca said. “I’ve known you too long. Just like I know you don’t sleep around and need the relationship to mean something. But sometimes you have to change your thinking. Believe me, you just need to have your socks knocked off and Wade will be nothing but a distant memory. You’re funny, you make good money, and you’re hot. You could have a date for the fourth if you put your mind to it. Talk about fireworks.”

“You’re a good friend,” Paige said, feeling better. “Come on. His first class starts at seven and it’s after eight thirty. He’ll be gone for hours.”

“And you’re sure he hasn’t changed the locks.”

“He wouldn’t bother. The bastard.” She found a spot in visitor parking and turned off the engine. “That would require him to think about me, and he’s already moved on to thinking about whoever comes after me. I knew his reputation when we hooked up.” Anger boiled just beneath her skin, hot enough that her eyes stung with it. She blinked the tears away. She was done crying over him.

She pushed open her door and got out. “Well? Are you coming?”

Becca sighed reluctantly and got out of the car. “I’m not letting you do this alone, and I’m not just saying that because I’m drunk. But just so we’re clear, your stuff is retrieval. His stuff is theft.”

“It’s a gray area,” she said. “Technically it was our stuff when we were together. As far as neighbors or a judge would be concerned, I’m just coming home from a trip with my good friend Becca.”

“That’s the vodka talking,” Becca said.

“A little liquid courage never hurt anyone. Let’s go.”

Wade’s building used to be a warehouse, built sometime in the 1890s, and whoever renovated it had kept the good parts—high ceilings, exposed brick, walnut floors, those Edison bulbs everyone got obsessed with a few years back. The lobby always smelled like cedar and vanilla because Wade had once mentioned how much he loved those smells, and the cuckoo building manager did his bidding because unbuttoning her blouse a little farther down didn’t work. Or heck, maybe it had worked and she was just clueless. Like not seeing the breakup coming.

“Ladies,” the concierge said. “Everything okay?”

Paige waved and started giggling and Becca joined her as they stumbled toward the elevator.

“In and out,” Becca said, pressing the button more times than was necessary. She hiccupped again. “We get your things, we leave. No detours. Except the bathroom. I’ve gotta pee.”

“I make no promises.” The doors opened and Paige caught her reflection in the mirrored wall, mimosa flushed and pleased with herself. They stepped inside and the doors closed behind them.

“This is very Ocean’s Eleven of us.”

“It is not.” Becca giggled despite herself. “Those guys had a plan. And Brad Pitt. We just have an empty Stanley cup and the pepper spray in my purse.” She paused and her nose scrunched in confusion. “I actually think I left my purse in the car.”

“So we have nothing,” Paige said.

“Nope.” Becca giggled again. “This is not a good plan.”

“It’s not NOT a good plan,” Paige said, waving a hand.

“And if he comes back early—” Becca said.

“He won’t.”

“But if he does he might shoot us, and then we’ll be on the news.”

“He doesn’t have a gun.” She paused for a second. “At least I don’t think. Besides, he’s not cancelling his classes. It’s probably the longest relationship he’s ever had.” The elevator was slow, and they watched the old-fashioned dial crawl toward four. “And even if he does come back early, I have every right to be here. I paid July’s rent.”

“You have terrible taste in men,” Becca said. “But I love you anyway.”

Then the elevator dinged, and the laugh died in her chest as fast as it had come, the vodka buzz suddenly not enough to cover the nerves beneath it. The hallway on the fourth floor was quiet. She wiped her damp palms on her yoga pants.

“Okay,” she said, and made herself walk toward the door. The key was still on her key ring, and she slipped it into the lock. She’d pictured this moment more than once—Wade’s face when he came home to find her things gone, his stupid organizational systems all thrown into chaos.

The lock gave a soft click and she pushed open the door.

Inside, the condo was still. She’d come home to this condo for the last four months and she’d never felt like an intruder until now. Something was off. Wade was meticulous about his space. Everything in its place, surfaces clean, nothing left out or forgotten. It was the thing she’d found so attractive about him at first—the precision, the sense that he paid attention to everything, including her. She understood now that the attention had never really been about her at all.

She’d started lining her shoes in the closet the way he liked them, moving her bag to the hook he’d designated for it, apologizing when she left a mug in the sink too long or forgot to straighten the dish towel. She hadn’t noticed how much of herself she’d folded away just to fit.

Paige shook the thought off and made herself step farther inside.

The kitchen light was on. She frowned. Wade was a stickler about turning lights off when you left the room. But the thought dissipated with Becca’s sharp gasp.

“Wow,” Becca said. “No wonder he wanted you to move out.”

Paige saw what Becca was talking about. A pair of black lace panties lay slightly under the couch.

Two days. He hadn’t even waited two days.

She’d suspected there’d been other women, but she’d told herself she was just paranoid. That he wouldn’t have made the commitment of having her move in if he wasn’t serious. When would he have the time? He was always working, and when he wasn’t they were together. Unless she was working.

Dread crawled along her spine and landed somewhere in the pit of her stomach.

That was the thing she was going to have to live with—she’d known and she’d talked herself out of knowing, over and over, for months. The way he’d kept his phone facedown so she couldn’t see texts. The late nights he said were client appointments. After all, isn’t that how they’d met? She’d taken his group classes for months, but he’d seduced her after their first private session right here in this room. She’d thought she’d been special.

“Paige,” Becca said, quietly. “Are you okay?”

“You think she’s still in there?” Paige’s voice came out flat, almost mechanical, like the question belonged to someone else entirely.

“They could both be in there.”

“Not Wade,” she said. “Nothing could make him miss one of his classes. That studio is his baby. He’s obsessed.”

“We should go,” Becca insisted.

“I’m getting my stuff,” she insisted. “And then I’m never setting foot in this place again. It can burn to the ground for all I care.”

“Paige—”

“I didn’t come here to go home empty handed. If you’re not comfortable wait in the hall.” Paige walked toward the bedroom. “The ring was my grandmother’s. It’s mine.”

The bedroom door was cracked open a few inches, just enough for a slice of shadow to fall across the carpet. Paige stopped there, her hand hovering over the knob. He was supposed to be at the studio, but some small, stupid part of her braced for the worst anyway.

“Paige?” Becca’s voice came from somewhere behind her.

She pushed the door the rest of the way open.

Then the light from the bathroom spilled across the floor, and her brain didn’t quite comprehend what she was seeing. Her knees locked, and she grabbed the doorframe with both hands to catch her balance.

Wade was on the floor near the foot of the bed. His eyes were open and blank, and blood had pooled like a dark lake beneath him. So much blood.

Becca appeared at her shoulder, looked past her, and clapped her hand over her mouth. She grabbed Paige’s arm hard enough to hurt.

“I don’t—” Paige started to say, shaking her head. But the words wouldn’t come.

“Come on,” Becca said. “We’ve got to get out of here.” She pulled Paige out of the bedroom and closed the door, the sight of Wade’s lifeless eyes disappearing from view.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Paige said, her face ashen.

“Do it in the hall,” Becca said, pushing her friend back the way they’d come. “Just take deep breaths.”

Paige’s back hit the wall in the hallway. Her legs gave way and she dropped to her knees.

“Dead,” she whispered. “He’s dead.”

“I know.” Becca had both hands on Paige’s face now, making her focus. Her eyes were wide but her voice was level. “I’m calling the police. It’s going to be okay.”

“I didn’t want him to die,” Paige said as the first tears fell. “But I wished for it. Does that make me a bad person?”

Becca didn’t answer. She just pulled out her phone and dialed for help.

CHAPTER ONE

I come from a long line of criminal masterminds, so when I say I know how to dispose of a body and leave no trace, I mean it.

I was currently having body disposal thoughts about Fred Wilhoit, my insurance adjuster. The only reason I’ve held off on killing him is because I really want him to suffer first. I think pregnancy has made me a sociopath.

My name is J.J. Graves, and I’m the coroner for King George County, Virginia. It’s a part-time job that somehow takes up most of my regular work week and weekends. Unfortunately, it’s also my only job at the moment, since my funeral home is nothing more than a pile of rubble and ash. I’ve been told by good old Fred that I can rebuild. If he ever gives me the money.

The good news is that Jack and I can commute to work every day since the county decided to pony up the money and renovate space at the sheriff’s office so I have a proper lab and autopsy suite. The bad news is there’s no ventilation in the ceiling or drains on my table. Everything is government issue, which means they paid ten times what it’s worth and it’s still crap.

“Maybe we could stop for donuts,” I said, as Jack turned off Catherine of Aragon onto Commonwealth toward the Towne Square.

He’d taken to going down side streets instead of passing by the funeral home—or what was left of it—every day. I’d burst into tears at the sight a couple weeks back, and I guess it traumatized him because we took a different route every day now. Pregnancy hormones were weird.

“You’ve already had breakfast. You can’t possibly want donuts.”

“Of course I want donuts,” I said. “Who would ever turn down a donut? And a granola bar hardly counts as breakfast.”

“You’re just trying to stall going to the lab,” he said with a grin. “You know you don’t have to go in. There are no bodies waiting for you.”

“I don’t like not having something to do,” I said. “Besides, I feel obligated. The county ponied up the money to make a space for me. I feel like I need to be there.”

“Don’t get too attached,” he said. “I talked them into it by telling them there might come a day when you’re not doing autopsies and your rebuilt lab won’t be available to the new coroner.”

“You giving my job away?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“Just negotiating,” he said. “You have a new lab, don’t you?”

“Sneaky,” I said, approvingly. And then I sighed. “I need to get the funeral home back up and running. I have employees sitting on their hands while I’m waiting on the stupid insurance money. It’s a lot of pressure being someone’s boss. I feel responsible.”

“They’re not sitting on their thumbs,” Jack said. “Sheldon is picking up shifts at the Ale House, Emmy Lu is secretly changing the recipes for Tom’s donuts so he doesn’t go out of business, and Lily is doing rotations at the state crime lab. Everyone is fine.”

“Tom’s donuts are much better since Emmy Lu started making the dough,” I said. “I like them better than Lady Jane’s now.”

“Is that a hint?” he asked.

“I don’t think there are any hints about it,” I said. “I told you I want donuts. I wasn’t trying to be subtle.”

He laughed and passed by the sheriff’s office, and then he turned the corner toward the Donut Palace.

“You’re a good man,” I said, already imagining the hot sugar melting in my mouth.

“Parking downtown is getting ridiculous,” he said. Cars lined all the businesses and there were no empty spots to be seen.

“I’ll just hop out and run in,” I said. “Just circle the block and I’ll be quick.”

I hopped out of the car before he’d stopped all the way, waving at a car as I passed in front of it. I opened the door to the Donut Palace, and the little bell over the frame gave its usual half-hearted jingle.

The place looked different than it had a couple of months back. Gone were the folding chairs and the cracked laminate counter that had been there since Tom’s father ran things. Emmy Lu had gotten her hands on real bistro tables, a chalkboard menu written out in actual handwriting, and given the inside a fresh coat of paint. There were cute sayings stenciled on the walls and mismatched coffee mugs in bright colors. If Lady Jane’s was about bringing a little sophistication to King George County then the Donut Palace was about down-home comfort. Emmy Lu knew the people in this area better than anyone. And if she had anything to do with it, no one would be drinking out of Styrofoam on her watch.

The morning rush had thinned out, but wasn’t entirely gone. A couple of guys in work boots had claimed one of the bistro tables, and a woman with a stroller was parked by the window drinking a cup of coffee and writing in her journal. Emmy Lu was behind the counter boxing up a dozen for a man in a county water department shirt.

She glanced up when the bell jingled and smiled, dimples fluttering in her flushed cheeks. Emmy Lu was about a decade or so older than me and she’s what I always imagine Betty Crocker would look like if she were a real person. She’d gotten married right out of high school and had her first son six months later. She popped out four more boys in the following four years, and when her youngest graduated high school a few years ago her husband left her for someone half her age and double her cup size. We were all glad when she and Tom had started dating. She deserved a good guy, and Tom had always been that.

“There’s my favorite dead doctor,” she said.

“Are there others below me on that list?” I asked.

“It only matters who’s at the top.”

The water department guy looked back and forth between us then took his box and left. People reacted in different ways when they found out I spent most of my time around the dead.

Emmy Lu wiped her hands on her apron and said, “You want the usual?”

“Please tell me there are bear claws.”

“We’re plumb out. We’ve got glazed, chocolate, and a blueberry cake that nobody ever orders but Tom insists on me making.” She looked me over, head to toe, and whatever she saw made her frown. “Are you sleeping? Morning sickness?”

“And here I thought I was looking much better? Guess I need to break out the concealer.”

“You look beautiful as always,” she said. “But I’ve been pregnant five times. I can tell.”

“I promise I’m fine,” I said.

“Just make sure you’re taking your vitamins,” she said. “I never did. They made me throw up. But I hear they’re good for you and make your fingernails grow. You want chocolate glazed?”

“Make it a dozen.” I glanced at the coffee setup behind her. “And two coffees to go. Just black.”

She put the box together and said, “Tom’s out doing deliveries to local businesses. Between you and me, business picking up has been an answer to prayer with everything that happened with the funeral home. I’ve been grateful to have something to do with my free time.”

“You’ve really turned this place around,” I said.

She beamed with pride. “I think Tom’s a little surprised by the success. Especially in this economy. Any news from the insurance adjuster?”

“Don’t get me started,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Jack and I have talked about buying a separate property just to get things up and running. King George only has one other funeral home.”

Emmy Lu made a face. “And everyone knows they bury people without their underwear. There are a lot of horror stories about Here and Now Funeral Parlor that aren’t meant for public discussion.”

My lips twitched. I’d never been sure if the stories about my competitor were true or not, but it had certainly helped business when times had been tough. “I’ll leave the gossip to the professionals.”

Emmy Lu snorted and said, “Coming from the master herself.”

I grinned and gave her a wink. Small-town communities thrived on gossip. It was my civic duty as a woman and a business owner. She handed over the two to-go cups of coffee.

“If I haven’t told you yet,” I said. “Your recipe for donuts is leaps and bounds better than Lady Jane’s. You’ve really put your mark on this place.”

Emmy Lu leaned forward and lowered her voice. “He still thinks I’m using his dad’s recipe.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” I promised.

She slid the box across the counter. “That one’s on the house. Just make sure you feed that baby something besides fried dough and sugar today. You should be glowing with the promise of motherhood. Not because you’re glazed from the inside out.”

I decided not to take offense. She had my best interest at heart. And the news of the baby was still fresh on everyone’s minds. After Jack and I had almost gotten blown up at the funeral home, it seemed a good time to let everyone know about the pregnancy.

Jack was idling at the curb with his on-duty lights on when I came out. I got in, handed him a coffee, set mine in the cupholder, and gave him the box.

He took a donut and handed the box back without a word.

It was a two-minute drive between the Donut Palace and the sheriff’s office, and his phone buzzed just as he pulled into his spot.

He glanced at the screen and hit the button for the dash speaker.

“Lawson,” he said.

“Sheriff, this is Dispatch. We’ve got a call out of Newcastle. The Windsor Luxury Condos on Westminster Street. Responding officer is requesting coroner on scene. Suspected homicide, unit 403, fourth floor. Officer Plank is on-site. CSI team has already been called.”

“Copy that. We’re en route.” He clicked off and then looked over at me. “How many of those donuts are you planning to eat?”

“Enough for my reflexes to be slow enough for you to deflect when I punch you in the face for asking a question like that.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said. “Even in a hormonal rage you don’t really want to do me harm.”

“I think you’ll know when I’m in a hormonal rage. The donuts are keeping the rage at bay. I only have good thoughts.”

“That’s because you’re headed to see a body instead of sitting inside your new government lab.”

“No reason to be mean about it,” I grumbled.

Newcastle was the southernmost of King George County’s four towns. Bloody Mary and King George Proper ran along the Potomac to the north, Newcastle and Nottingham to the south, and all four towns met in the middle where their corners formed the Towne Square.

Newcastle had figured out what it wanted to be and hadn’t wavered since. Cobblestone streets over original brick, gas streetlamps burning all day because someone decided they looked better that way, iron benches with the town seal worked into the backrest, and a public park at the center with a fountain that gurgled in spring, summer and fall.

The old buildings had been restored instead of knocked down, and the newer ones built to match so well you couldn’t tell the difference unless you knew what you were looking at. Art galleries and independent bookstores and bistros with handwritten menus, wine bars that stayed open late, and more than one place where you could take a pottery or art class and feel like a better person for it. It drew young professionals who wanted character without inconvenience, well-heeled retirees who wanted everything in a walkable distance, and people who described themselves as creatives in a way that just meant they could afford to do it. The farmers market on Saturday mornings was more for social status than buying groceries, and parking was near impossible all the time, which was why locals walked or biked everywhere.

It wasn’t a cheap lifestyle. But you get what you pay for.

The Windsor was at the end of Westminster Street, a four-story converted textile building with exposed brick and original iron window frames painted flat black. The lobby had pine floors worn to silver down the center from a hundred years of use. Thankfully, they hadn’t been covered or painted.

Officer Plank was posted at the entrance in a uniform so crisp it looked like he’d just taken it from the box. He was a few years into the job now, still pink cheeked, still clean cut, and still sporting the single dimple that had earned him the nickname Baby Fresh around the station. The shine had dulled a little since his rookie days, but not much. He’d been living in sin with Officer Wachowski for almost a year now, and she’d finally agreed to marry him. The jury was still out on what his parents thought about the match. Honestly, I didn’t know what I thought of it either. Wachowski was older in physical years and experience, and I had a soft spot for Plank.

“You always get the good ones,” I said to Plank.

His cheeks pinkened slightly. “How’s it going, Doc? You sure you’re okay to go up? It’s pretty rough in there.”

“I’m fine,” I said, figuring this was going to be a common question throughout this pregnancy. “Women have been working and having babies since the beginning of time. They used to glean the wheat and give birth right there in the fields.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean you plan to give birth on our crime scene,” Plank said, deadpan.

A laugh escaped unexpectedly. “I think you told a joke, Plank. Nice one.”

His color deepened.

“What have you got for us?” Jack asked, breaking the moment.

“I was first on scene after the 911 call,” Plank said. “Unit 403. Victim was DOA. I made sure the condo was clear and backed out. I got the name from the building manager. Wade Rivers is the name on the unit registration. Lieutenant Daniels is already up there with her crew.”

“Thanks,” Jack said. “And keep working on those jokes. You’ll be as good as Detective Cole one day.”

“One can only hope, sir.”

I don’t know what I was expecting when we entered the lobby, but it wasn’t this.

The far wall was a showstopper—a floor-to-ceiling black steel frame around a gas fireplace that ran the full length of it, long and low, the flame steady and blue at the base. Not the kind you heat a room with. The kind you light for effect. Deep leather sofas faced it on either side, the color of good cognac. The pine floors were worn silver-pale down the center from a hundred years of foot traffic and nobody had covered them, which was the right call. On a long sideboard near the elevator someone had set out the morning buffet—fresh juices in glass carafes, cucumber water, an assortment of fruit and muffins.

The lobby had also gathered an audience, despite cops in full uniform and the CSI team in their white Tyvek suits coming in and out of the building. Four residents had arranged themselves in the seating area near the fireplace and showed no signs of leaving.

The woman at the center of the nearest sofa was somewhere in her sixties and wearing a silk caftan the color of a good bordeaux and a matching turban. She had a martini glass with three olives still in it. At nine thirty in the morning. When she caught sight of Jack her eyes lit up like Christmas morning. I had to admit, Jack was a sight to look at, and he tended to draw female attention wherever we went. But there was something about this woman’s feral gaze that made me decide it was best for Jack not to be alone with her, despite the fact she was old enough to be his mother.

Next to her was a man in his early thirties in a fleece vest and house slippers who kept cutting his eyes toward the elevator like he was reconsidering his decision to come down.

On the arm of the chair beside them sat a woman who looked like she’d been poured into a white bodysuit and had decided it was appropriate attire when someone died in your building. She had long blond hair, three-inch nails, and the kind of effortless curves that made men fall all over themselves. She sat with her legs crossed and her full attention on Jack. Her phone was clipped into a small ring light on the side table beside her, angled at the room.

“Ooh,” she said, and smiled the kind of smile that was used to getting things. “You look like you’re in charge. Is it true someone died? I heard it was Wade.”

“A tragedy,” the woman in the turban said, taking another sip of her martini. “Such an attractive man.”

“We can’t comment on ongoing investigations,” Jack said. “And you can’t record during a murder investigation until we’ve cleared the scene. Are you all residents here?”

“Yes,” she said. “Maybe I could interview you at my place later. I’m in 203. My subscribers would love it. Especially if it’s murder.”

“Of course it’s murder,” the man in the fleece vest hissed. “We could all be in danger. It could have been any of us. The killer could be among us.”

“Take a Xanax, Parker,” she said, continuing to stare at Jack. “Save your imagination for your next book.”

The fourth resident had stayed quiet. He had the Mediterranean good looks of a Greek or Italian, with swarthy skin and a five o’clock shadow. He wore a sport coat over a T-shirt and was leaning against the wall near a hallway with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Officer Plank is going to get your names and statements,” Jack said, leveling a look at the woman in white. “No recording.”

She reached over and picked up her phone without urgency, turned the screen toward Jack so he could see she’d stopped the recording, and smiled at him again.

“Of course,” she said.

Jack gave Plank a nod and we headed toward the elevators.

“Colorful crew,” I said. “Stay away from that woman in the turban. She wanted to take a bite out of you.”

“I hope not. She looked rabid.”

CHAPTER TWO

We took the elevator to the fourth floor. Soft jazz played through the ceiling speakers, and it seemed inappropriate for the soundtrack of a crime scene.

Lieutenant Daniels was crouched in the doorway of 403 with a magnifying loupe. She wore tan BDUs and a navy KGSO polo, and her blond braids were pulled back in a long tail. Her CSI team was coming in and out of the condo.

She looked up as we approached. “Sheriff. Doc.” She stood and peeled off one glove. “This is a fun one. Vic is in the master bedroom. Hell of a mess. We’ve left it for you. I’ll bring the team in once you’re done.”

“What do you mean by a fun one?” I asked.

“Maybe interesting is the right word,” she said, shrugging. “You don’t see what’s in there that often. People are messed up.”

I knew what Daniels was trying to say. It’s not that she actually thought finding a dead body was fun for anyone involved. But when you deal with the dark side of death as often as we do, you start to see the same modes and patterns. And if Daniels thought the body was interesting, my curiosity was definitely piqued.

“Find anything?” Jack asked.

“Not much so far. Male victim. Ex-girlfriend and her friend are the ones who found the body. They’re downstairs. Building manager is in 401 if you want her. Jessica Contreras. She’s got the details on the victim.”

“Want to talk to her or look at the body first?” Jack asked.

“Let’s talk to her,” I said. “I want a picture going in. Especially if this is going to be interesting.” I arched a brow at Daniels.

“Heard you got a new lab, Doc,” she said.

“Something like that,” I said. “This will be my first homicide in my new space. Come visit some time.”

“You crazy?” She laughed hard enough that tears came to her eyes. “I don’t need a front row seat to your autopsy table. This is as close as I want to get. Besides, I heard you don’t have good ventilation.”

I sighed. This was true. “That’s just mean.”

She was still chuckling as Jack and I headed down to the door at the end of the hall.

Jessica Contreras answered the door of 401 before Jack finished knocking. She was mid to late thirties with dark hair pulled back in a sleek, high ponytail. Her black blazer was buttoned over a red-and-black polka-dot blouse and red capris. Nerves shone behind her eyes, but that wasn’t unusual when Jack and I showed up at someone’s door.

“Ms. Contreras?” Jack asked.

“Yes.” She stepped back to let us in. “Please, come in. I’ve been expecting someone to come by.”

Her voice had a little-girlish quality I found especially irritating.

The condo faced the park, and through the original factory windows I could see the fountain running, the iron benches along the path, and a dog walker cutting across the grass. The inside of her condo ran warm and personal—a gallery wall of framed botanical prints, a bookshelf packed with well-read books, and a deep-cushioned sofa in burnt orange with a cerulean throw folded across the arm. A glass of water sat full on the counter bar next to an open laptop, and a barstool was pulled out where she’d been sitting.

“I’m Sheriff Lawson, and this is Dr. Graves, our county coroner.”

She faltered at that announcement and looked at me quickly, emotion making her mouth quiver.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just can’t believe this is real. Can I get you something? Coffee, water?”

She didn’t wait for us to answer, but set two mugs on the counter and filled both with coffee from the pot. She set cream and sugar on the kitchen table, so Jack and I took that as an invitation to sit down.

“You’re the building manager?” Jack asked.

“Since we opened,” she said. “Four years come October. My office is on the ground floor, but I live here, so I’m available around the clock. I decided to work from home this morning. This has never happened to me before. Someone dying here, I mean. We learn about procedures during training, but it’s not the same as it happening on your watch.” She wiped down the counter with a dish towel even though it didn’t need it.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about, Ms. Contreras,” Jack said. “Why don’t you sit down and answer a few questions for us, and then we’ll let you get back to work.”

She sighed with relief and said, “I’d appreciate that.” She took the chair across from us. “I manage a few other properties in the area as well, and it’s the beginning of the month. Things are always crazy when rent is due.” And then she remembered she’d left her own glass on the counter, so she got up and brought it back to the table. “I switched to water. I’ve already drunk a pot of coffee since the cops showed up. God, I can’t believe Wade is dead. He’s so young. So…vibrant.”

“Just to be clear, Wade is the owner in 403?” Jack asked.

“Yes, Wade Rivers. He’s lived here since the building opened. One of our original residents.” Something softened in her face when she said it. “He was an excellent resident. Quiet, respectful, never a noise complaint. Most of our residents purchase their units outright, and he’d opted to do that, so I didn’t handle his payments. But I assume he was up to date on everything. The HOA rules here are very strict.”

“Did you know him well?” Jack asked.

“As well as a building manager knows a resident.” Her cheeks flushed and she smoothed the front of her blazer. “We were friendly. He always spoke and said hello. Many residents don’t. They just treat me like a piece of the furniture or like the concierge here to serve them. But Wade was different. Always attentive. He asked questions, and seemed to genuinely want to know the answers.”

“When did you last see him?” Jack asked.

“Yesterday evening. Around quarter to seven. He was coming in with grocery bags as I was locking up my office downstairs.” She folded her hands on the table. “He held the elevator for me. We rode up together.”

“How did he seem?” I asked.

“Fine. Normal.” She paused just a beat too long. “Happy, maybe. He was in a good mood.”

“Did he say anything about his plans for the evening?” Jack asked.

“Just that he’d had a long day and was ready to relax.” She glanced toward the window. “He was looking forward to the holiday weekend. It’s rare the studio is closed, so he was looking forward to time away. He asked if I had plans.” She hesitated and then added in a soft voice, “I don’t.”

“Was he alone?” Jack asked. “Did he come inside with anyone?”

“It was just him,” she said.

“You saw him go into his condo?”

“No, actually,” she said. “He walked me to my door and waited until I’d unlocked the door. He was a gentleman like that. I assume he went back to his place after.”

“Did you hear any unusual noises last night? Voices or shouts? Anything from his condo?”

“No, but I wouldn’t have. Every condo is soundproof.” She paused and said, “I wish I had heard something. Maybe he’d still be alive.” Her composure cracked and her hands fisted on the table as she looked down at them. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’m not usually this emotional. I’m having trouble processing.”

“It’s okay,” Jack said. “You never know how you’ll handle something like this until you have to. You’re doing fine. Did he have any regular visitors?” Jack wrapped his hands around his mug, but he still hadn’t taken a drink.

“I don’t track guests,” she said. “Residents are allowed to have however many guests as they’d like.”

“But you have someone at the front desk,” Jack said. “And cameras. Surely there are people you notice if they’re a repeat visitor?”

“The concierge is at the desk from seven to seven,” she said. “And then after hours the lobby is key fob entry only, or a resident can release the locks from their condo if they’re expecting guests. But to answer your question, yes, this is a small building. You do start to recognize those who come and go. We’re trained to be attentive and pay attention, usually because of theft.”

“And what have you noticed about Mr. Rivers’s guests?” Jack asked.

She picked at the edge of her thumbnail. “I told you before, he’s very friendly. Personable and a gentleman. And he was very attractive. That lends itself to a certain lifestyle.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“I mean Wade loved women, and women loved him. He wasn’t the kind of man who settled down. He gave everything to his career, and there was nothing left over for a real relationship.”

“So are you saying there were a lot of women in and out of Wade’s condo over the last four years?” Jack asked.

“Yes, but not all of them were romantic interests,” she said stiffly. “I know he also gave private Pilates lessons out of his condo. Which technically, he wasn’t supposed to do, but I didn’t report him. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“How many women?” Jack asked.

“I couldn’t say,” she said.

“How about in the last month?”

She paused and her lips tightened. “Things changed a few months ago. He moved a woman in with him. Paige Marsh. He filled out all the paperwork to add her to his condo and listed her as his roommate. He gave her a fob for the building and a key to the condo. I was shocked to say the least. I’d only seen her a couple of times before. I thought she was one of his clients. But he said she was a friend who was going through a hard time and needed a place to stay. He was a kind and generous man, and he was an easy target for those who’d take advantage.”

I arched a brow at the intensity of her loyalty. And also her obvious dislike for the woman.

“You think Paige was taking advantage of him?” Jack asked.

“Of course she was,” Jessica said adamantly. “She had a good job in the medical field of some kind. She was always wearing scrubs. And she drives a Tesla. She always had it plugged in at the chargers we keep in the covered parking. Four months is a long time to mooch off Wade’s hospitality.”

“And he and Paige never had a sexual relationship that you know of?” Jack asked.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Not for lack of trying on her part. When she wasn’t in scrubs she hardly wore any clothes at all. Always trying to show off her body, thinking Wade would be into her because she’s fit or something. But I saw through her ruse pretty easily. Besides, I saw her with a guy a couple of different times. Always when Wade was at work too. One time I was heading to the elevator and she was letting the guy out of the condo. She was only wearing a bathrobe. She didn’t look happy to see me.”

“Any other long-term guests besides Paige?” I asked.

She thought for a minute. “Now that you mention it there was a woman when he first moved in. Her name was listed on his agreement, and he’d introduced her as his girlfriend. But that didn’t last long. Maybe a couple of weeks. Actually, she caused quite a scene in the lobby yelling and throwing things. She did some damage and broke a window. Said he was cheating on her and just went crazy. I was still new to the job, so it left an impression.”

“You remember her name?” I asked.

“I can look it up,” she said. “I’d really forgotten all about it until you asked. I was going to call the police, but Wade was mortified by her behavior and he begged me to let her go. He promised to pay for all the damages. He just said it had been a rough breakup and she wasn’t in her right mind. And he did pay for everything. He even apologized to all the residents and gave them free passes to his studio for a month.”

“Very generous,” I said.

“I told you.” She looked at me accusingly and I decided the best course of action was to drink my coffee so my face didn’t give away my thoughts. I wasn’t a good poker player, though I’d improved considerably over the years.

“What about cameras?” Jack asked. “Someone was able to get into Wade’s condo and kill him, despite the key fobs and man at the front desk. What’s the setup look like?”

“We’ve got cameras in the lobby, front entrance, parking area, elevators, the mailroom, and the pool. There’s no coverage on the residential floors. The residents voted against it when we opened. Privacy concerns. The footage runs on a thirty-day loop. It’s all still there.”

“We’ll need access to all of it,” Jack said. “I can get a warrant if that makes it easier for your employers.”

“I’ll go ahead and give you access,” she said. “But send me the warrant so I’ve got the paperwork to send to corporate. I watch CSI. I know these first hours are crucial for the investigation, and I don’t want to hold anything up.”

“We appreciate that,” Jack said, and I almost laughed at the small twitch at the corner of his eye.

There was nothing more detrimental to law enforcement than amateur detectives who watched too much crime television. We’d once had a guy take his own set of fingerprints and tape them down on paper, which essentially ruined every viable print we could have gotten at the crime scene.

Law enforcement would be easy if it wasn’t for the people.

CHAPTER THREE

I’ve worked enough homicides to know that the body is never the worst part. The worst part is the living—the ones who knew the victim, the ones who have opinions on the victim, and the ones who lie to your face while you try to figure out which category they fall into.

The best thing about the dead was they couldn’t lie. At least not to me.

Lieutenant Daniels was in the living area when we got to Wade Rivers’s condo. She looked up when we came in.

“Bedroom’s yours,” she said. “We’ve done the entry, the living room, the kitchen, and the guest room. No sign of forced entry anywhere. Whoever came in had a key or was invited inside. The master bedroom is untouched.”

“That’s the best kind of present,” Jack said.

She snorted. “I’ll remember that at Christmas.”

Jack and I pulled on gloves and booties.

The condo ran long and narrow, with the main living and dining area open concept. Original factory windows stretched across the far wall in steel frames painted matte black, the glass old enough to be wavy in places, and the floors were a pale oak. Two identical charcoal sofas faced each other on top of a jute rug. The coffee table was black iron, but there was nothing on it—no remotes, no coasters, no magazines. There was no mail stacked by the door, no shoes piled in the entry, no water rings on the coffee table from a glass set down and forgotten.

The kitchen was on the left with a pass-through bar, and from what I could see it was black and minimalist, much like the rest of the condo. There was another door to the left of the kitchen where one of the CSIs was standing in the threshold.

“It’s like a model home,” I said. “Hard to believe anyone lives here.”

Everything had a place. The only disruption was the thin sheen of fingerprint powder across the doorframes and surfaces.

“Anything out of place?” Jack asked the CSI tech in the doorway. He was an older guy in a white jumpsuit and he had a camera slung around his neck.

“Other than the dead body?” the man asked.

“Yeah, other than that.”

“Vic’s got a full home gym in this second bedroom,” he said. “Premium equipment. Got a missing ten-pound weight from the rack.”

“I guess that blows the theory that Paige was sleeping in the second bedroom,” I said. “You think the building manager is naïve or it’s wishful thinking?”

“I think she had the hots for her neighbor,” Jack said.

We moved toward the bedroom and I noticed the yellow evidence tag on the floor around the back side of the sofa.

“Somebody is missing something important,” Jack said, arching a brow.

A pair of black lace underwear lay crumpled on the ground, small enough that someone gathering their things in a hurry could easily miss them.

I took my camera from my bag and photographed the underwear, making sure to get the label and size.

“That’s gross,” I said. “Who leaves without putting on their underwear?”

“I imagine it happens more often than you’d think,” Jack said.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re speaking from experience?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

He grinned unrepentantly. “I’m just saying I can see how something so small can be easy to miss. Especially if you’re in a hurry. Or getting dressed in the dark. Daniels said vic was in the master bedroom.”

“You trying to change the subject?”

“I just thought you’d want to get to the fun portion of the programming. Daniels did say it was interesting.”

“Saved by a dead body,” I said, following him into the remaining bedroom.

The smell hit first—copper and something earthy beneath it, and then I looked down at our victim.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “That’s definitely interesting.”

Who I assumed was Wade Rivers lay on his back near the foot of the bed, completely naked except for the kitchen knife that had been plunged into his groin and the dime store American flag that had been laid on top of his crossed arms.

“Someone posed him,” Jack said.

I took several pictures, zooming in on the flag and knife. “He’s a big guy. What do you think, maybe six four?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, looking around the room until he saw a wallet on the dresser in a black shallow bowl. He picked it up and flipped it open. “Wade Rivers. Thirty-four years old. Six foot five and two hundred and fifteen pounds. Looks like our guy.”

He’d been a good-looking man. You could still see that, underneath the death pallor. His jaw had gone slack and his mouth hung slightly open, and his eyes were fixed on the ceiling with the milky, dried-out stare that sets in once the moisture goes.

I walked around the body, looking at the angle and the smears of blood on the floor. “He was killed here,” I said, pointing to the blood spatter across the sheets and pillow near the headboard. There were flecks on the wall as well.

“Not arterial,” Jack said before I could.

“No,” I said, watching where I stepped. “Body dropped to the floor here.” There were blood smears down the side of the comforter to the floor. “See the initial pooling?”

“Mmm,” Jack agreed.

I took more photographs.

“Whoever killed him didn’t leave him here long though,” I said. “They dragged him to where he is now. Blood trail is smeared the whole way, and then he was fresh enough to leave another pool of blood where he is now.”

“That’s heavy blood loss,” Jack said.

“If he was still alive when he was moved it wouldn’t have been for long.”

“It’d take some strength to move a man his size,” Jack said.

“Heat of the moment,” I said. “Pure adrenaline. We can’t rule out a female.”

I took more pictures of the blood trail and spatter patterns before heading back to the body and kneeling beside him.

“What do you want to bet the knife in the balls is a message of some kind?” I asked.

“That’s a sucker’s bet,” Jack said and moved to the nightstand, opening the drawer.

I paused what I was doing and looked at Jack. The expression on his face was odd. “What is it?”

“I’ve just never seen a sex drawer this organized.”

“What, like it’s alphabetized or something?”

“No, he’s got dividers and drawer hooks. Like we have in the kitchen.”

I laughed and realized he was serious. “Maybe it’s like a mechanic keeping his tools arranged in the garage.”

“Wade Rivers was a sex mechanic?” he asked.

“You know what I mean.”

He grinned and started going through the drawer. “Three different types of condoms. Sex toys of the male and female persuasion, lubes and creams organized by size, color, and label, handcuffs and black satin restraints of various kinds, blindfolds, and something that looks like a police baton, but it has an on switch so I can’t even begin to speculate what it does.”

I snickered. “When you love what you do you never work a day in your life.”

“This room feels off,” Jack said.

“In what way?”

“It’s lived in,” he said. “It’s like you said, the rest of the house looks like a model home. Like no one actually lives here. No personal effects. No books, car keys or random coffee cups sitting around. No shoes kicked off by the front door. Everything in here is neat, but his wallet is out, his phone charger is plugged in over here, the sheets are mussed. They’ve been slept in.”

“Slept in or sexed in?” I asked. “There’s a difference. A guy like Wade seems like the type who would make his bed every day.”

“Mmhmm,” Jack said. “Which begs the question of his company for the evening. Nothing seems to be missing out of the sex drawer. Everything is in its slot or on its hook.”

“So they hadn’t gotten that far yet,” I said. “Maybe they were interrupted.”

I got my penlight out of my bag and shone it across his face, neck, and chest. “No petechiae in the eyes. No ligature marks. He wasn’t strangled.” I checked his arms, turned his hands over one at a time. “Knuckles clean. No visible defensive bruising. I can still smell shower gel or aftershave on him.” I reached into my bag for evidence bags and sealed both hands. “I’ll check under his nails at the lab. But they look clean.”

“I’m assuming the knife didn’t cause those blood spatter patterns.”

“Good eye,” I said.

“Well, it’s not my first rodeo.”

I smiled. “It’s postmortem,” I said. I pulled out an evidence bag and carefully removed the knife.

“God,” Jack said, closing his eyes.

“At least he wasn’t alive,” I said, looking at the knife. “This knife is from the same set we got as a wedding gift. It’s a nice set. And sharp.”

“And expensive,” Jack said. “The set retails at almost two thousand dollars.”

“For knives?” I asked, shocked. “Who would pay that for knives to cut up chicken?”

“As the person who cuts up our chicken and cooks it,” he said wryly, “I can tell you a good kitchen knife is the most important tool in the kitchen.”

“You watch too many cooking shows,” I said. “I heard that chef with the beer gut and the Crocs say that when you were flipping channels during the baseball game commercials.”

“Then you know it has to be true. He’d never lie.”

My mouth twitched. “Like I was saying. This wound is postmortem. There’s no blood flow. The groin contains several major arteries. He would’ve bled out in minutes if this wound was cause of death. I’ll swab for sexual activity. Maybe we can get DNA from whoever he was with last.”

I swabbed him with a cotton swab and secured it in a tube before adding it to the evidence collection.

“No other front-facing wounds I can see or feel,” I said.

I moved to the flag that lay across his crossed arms. I photographed it in place, then carefully lifted it with two fingers and placed it in an evidence bag.

“No blood on the flag,” I said. “Placed after the fact.”

“Patriotism at its finest,” Jack said dryly.

“Help me roll him,” I said.

Jack wasn’t too far off from Wade’s height and build, and he knelt next to me and rolled the victim onto his side. Jack held him in place while I looked for posterior wounds.

“Here we go,” I said, running my fingers carefully along the back of his skull. “Looks like blunt force trauma to the occipital. Multiple impact points.” I took photographs and collected tissue samples.

“I guess that explains our missing ten-pound weight,” Jack said.

“That would certainly do it,” I said. “It wouldn’t take much force to do this kind of damage. He’d most likely be incapacitated after the first hit. After multiple hits, the damage would be fatal.”

Jack made sure I was steady with the body, and then got up to look under the bed. Then he checked dresser drawers and looked behind the furniture. “There’s no sign of the weight. Or any weapon for that matter. But this guy could teach lessons in drawer organization.”

“Can’t be too easy to walk around with a bloody weight in your hand,” I said.

“I’ll have Plank grab a couple of officers and do a canvass for a couple of blocks, check the dumpsters and alleyways.”

“I’ll be able to give you the exact number and hits once I get x-rays. But I can feel at least three distinct impact points.”

“That’s a lot of pent-up rage, to keep hitting a man while he’s down.”

I checked lividity while I had him on his side—the blood had settled and fixed along his back, buttocks, and along the backs of his legs. “He looks good except for having his skull bashed in,” I said. “No other marks or contusions. He didn’t put up a fight. From the outside, he’s a healthy thirty-four-year-old man.”

I took a temperature probe from my bag and took his core temp. “Looks like TOD was somewhere between midnight and two in the morning.”

“Maybe this will be an easy one,” Jack said. “Can’t be too much traffic in the building or around the perimeter at that time.”

“Here’s hoping,” I said. “I think I decided on a paint color for the nursery.”

If Jack was caught off guard by the change in subject, he didn’t let on. “Oh yeah?”

“Green is a neutral color, right? Not like the color of grass. Like moss.”

“Yeah, that’s neutral,” he said. “Or we could just find out the sex.”

“What fun is that?” I asked.

“Right,” he said. “Do I want to know what thought process led you to deciding on a nursery color?”

“Probably not,” I said, putting everything back in my bag. “I’ve done all I can do on him for now. Lily and Sheldon should be here soon for transport. I’ll have more for you after the autopsy.”

“I’ll get the warrant moving for the cameras,” Jack said. “Derby is already on-site. Other than the resident hallways we should have pretty good coverage.”

He took one more look at Wade Rivers. “I can understand the knife to his groin. That’s a scorned lover or jealous husband play. But what about the flag?”

“I don’t know,” I said, stripping off my gloves and putting on a fresh pair. “Could be political. Could be personal. Could be somebody who wanted to make a point in the days leading up to the country’s 250th and this was their canvas.” I looked at him. “Could also be completely unrelated to the holiday and we’d be chasing our tails assuming otherwise.”

“Where are his clothes?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“He’s naked,” Jack said.

“Believe me, I noticed.”

He went into the master bathroom and I followed behind him. It was just like the rest of the condo. Spotless. Barely lived in. At least from the surface.

“Dude had issues,” I said. “I’ve never seen a man so clean.”

“I’m clean,” he said.

“Yeah, but you leave your stuff on the nightstand and leave dishes in the sink.”

“That’s because I cook and you clean.”

“You know what I mean,” I said, touching the edge of one of the perfectly hung towels on the rod on the wall. There was nothing on the counter and no soap scum on the shower door. “We live in our house.”

“Yeah, this guy was a robot,” he agreed, opening the linen closet. There were more perfectly folded towels, a scale, various soaps and lotions lined in another organizer, and hair products. And at the bottom of the closet was a box. It was the most out of place thing we’d seen.

He leaned down and opened the box, and inside were an assortment of women’s products—everything from makeup to tampons to birth control pills.

“Guess he didn’t feel like organizing this one,” I said, looking at the jumble of products.

“Must be hard living with someone if you expect things to be perfect,” he said. “Check out the closet.”

I moved to the attached walk-in closet and whistled. “How does a Pilates instructor have more clothes and shoes than I do?”

“To be fair,” Jack said, eyeing the rows of color-coded shirts and jeans, “that doesn’t take too much effort.”

“Her clothes are here,” I said, pointing to the small section of hangered clothes. I skimmed my fingers across a short leather skirt, expensive jeans, and revealing tops. “I guess Jessica was right about Paige dressing to entice. Not much left to the imagination dressed in these.”

“Either he organized them for her, or he taught her well.”

There was a built-in chest of drawers below Paige’s clothes. Here were sweaters and loungewear, along with three sets of scrubs. The bottom drawer was filled with lingerie. I held up a particularly confusing scrap of lace that looked like a spiderweb and then dropped it back in the drawer.

“Maybe the missing panties are hers,” I said. “They seem to be of the same taste. There’s no normal underwear in here. How does she go to work with something like that in all her crevices?”

“The mysteries of women never cease to amaze me,” Jack said.

“That makes two of us,” I said. “Let’s get out of here. I’m curious to meet her. Maybe I’ll ask her how she gets that thing on.”

“If you do, you have to let me buy one for you.”

“Never mind. I’ll just ask the internet. It knows everything.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Lily and Sheldon were coming through the lobby doors as we came off the elevator.

“Good timing,” I told them. “We just finished upstairs.”

Lily Jacobs was a couple of inches shy of six feet, with dark hair pulled up in a high ponytail and eyes so blue they looked like contacts. I learned on TikTok that in beauty circles she’s a witch archetype. Like Dakota Johnson or Rooney Mara. I’ve had a lot of time on my hands since the funeral home blew up.

Lily had modeled in high school and college, and the gene pool had been extremely generous. She was frighteningly competent and a literal genius, and for whatever reason, she’d picked pathology as her degree of choice instead of choosing neurosurgery or other big bucks specialties. Someday I’d get her to tell me her reason. So far, she hadn’t given me too much insight even though we’d become friends.

Sheldon Durkus came in right behind her, slightly out of breath, his glasses fogged from stepping into the morning heat. He was several inches shorter than Lily and soft around the middle, with sandy hair that was losing its battle with his forehead. He had a habit of sharing whatever fact crossed his mind regardless of timing or relevance.

“Sorry we’re late,” Lily said. “Suburban needed gas.”

“It always needs gas,” Sheldon said. He looked at me through the fogged lenses. “It’s really hot outside. Did you know gasoline evaporates faster on hot days? A tank filled on a ninety-degree day contains measurably less energy than the same tank filled in January. We’re technically getting less fuel for our money all summer.”

“Even Mother Nature is out to scam us,” I said dryly. “Victim is on the fourth floor. Condo 403. Check in with Daniels.”

Lily headed for the elevator with the gurney, and Sheldon ran to catch up with her long stride.

“I didn’t know that about the gas,” I told Jack.

The front lobby was empty except for a man in his early thirties behind the concierge desk. He wore a white polo shirt with The Windsor logo on the chest and watched the monitors while glancing occasionally through the front windows. He was in good shape and sported a mustache that seemed like an unfortunate fashion trend among men my age and younger. He wore a gold band on his ring finger and a tactical watch.

“Are you the concierge?” Jack asked.

“Yes, sir,” he said, shaking Jack’s hand and then nodding at me. “Brett Callum.”

“I’m Sheriff Lawson and this is Dr. Graves. We’re investigating the homicide in 403.”

“Wade Rivers,” he said automatically. “I can’t believe it. This is a safe building. Nothing like that has ever happened before. I’ve been getting calls all morning from the other residents. Mrs. Ashford-St. Claire in 206 won’t even come out of her condo.”

“We’ll be out of everyone’s way before too much longer,” Jack said. “Were you on shift last night?”

“Yes, sir. Seven to seven. I’m working two twelves in a row because I’ve got to work on July fourth. I’m a firefighter, so that’s a mandatory work holiday.”

“Nice,” Jack said. “Where are you stationed out of?”

“King George Proper,” he said. “I actually live over there, but this job was too good to pass up, and it works well with my schedule. I work a twenty-four at the station and then have forty-eight off. So I’ll work a twelve here twice a week, and I’ll pick up shifts when I can if the other guys need PTO or vacation. My wife and I just found out we’re going to have our first kid, so every little bit helps.”

“Congratulations,” Jack told him. “How far along is she?”

“Just a few weeks,” he said. “She’s not even sick or anything yet. Said she’s never felt better.”

“Maybe she’s one of the lucky ones,” I said.

“You get to know all the residents pretty well?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes and relaxing a bit. “We offer a full concierge service and the condos here aren’t cheap. We also stand in as security if needed, but we try to keep that low-key. The people here just want to feel safe. They don’t want to know how it’s achieved.”

He grinned and I couldn’t help but smile back. He was personable and likable and I could see why he’d be a welcome sight to residents. Brett was the kind of guy who’d ask about your day and remember everything you told him.

“Are y’all at full occupancy?” Jack asked.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, and then frowned. “Though I guess we’ll have an opening soon. I still can’t wrap my head around it.” He shook his head and continued. “We’ve got a two-year waiting list, and even then there’s a selection process. Just because you’re next on the list and you can afford it doesn’t mean you’ll get the place. The residents get to vote on anyone coming in. It’s kind of like a country club.”

“Wow,” I said. “That sounds horrible.”

He laughed and said, “I know, right? I wouldn’t even be able to swing a one-bedroom here on my salary. It’s nuts.”

“So what does a concierge / security guard do?”

“Basically everything and anything. My job is to acquire whatever a resident needs, within legal reason of course. Concert tickets, grocery delivery, escort service.” His brows rose high on his forehead. “Believe me, I’ve seen and heard it all.”

“We hope so,” Jack said. “Did you happen to see Wade Rivers come in yesterday evening?”

“Around quarter to seven,” Brett said immediately. “He was carrying a few grocery bags from the market down the street.”

“He come in with anyone?”

“Not this time,” he said. “I hadn’t seen Paige in a couple days, so I figured she was on a trip or something. Jessica was closing up the office when he came in, and they rode up in the elevator together. They live on the same floor.”

“Jessica Contreras?” Jack asked. “The building manager?”

“Right.”

“What time does Jessica usually close her office?” Jack asked.

“She’s on eight to five,” he said. “But yesterday was the first of the month, so that can get busy with rent payments coming due.”

“Did you notice anything off with Wade? Did he seem upset about anything?”

“Wade never got upset,” Brett said. “He didn’t allow drama to affect him at all. Just rolled right off his shoulders.”

“And he had a lot of drama?” I asked.

“A guy like Wade swims in drama,” he said. “When you’re juggling that many women you can’t help it. But no, he seemed fine. He was in a good mood.”

“He juggle any women the last couple of days with Paige gone?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Brett said, shaking his head. “But not while I was on duty. He came home from work about the same time the last couple of days, and then I left to go off shift. Paige is a good girl. Works hard. And sometimes long hours. He took advantage of it. Let’s just say I can see why his private lessons were so popular. His condo was a revolving door.”

“You think he was using his studio to meet women?” I asked.

“I don’t know about that, but he was always with a woman. Different women. I have no idea how Paige lasted four months living with him.”

“Couldn’t they just be students?” I asked.

“Some could,” he said. “But Wade wasn’t very mindful of the cameras. I know I and at least another of the concierge team has gotten an eyeful.”

“What can you tell me about Paige?” Jack asked.

“Like I said, sweet girl. Gorgeous. In great shape. Definitely Wade’s type. But she didn’t seem like one of his usuals. More naïve. Tell you the truth I worried about her. Maybe that she didn’t really understand what she was getting into. But it wasn’t my place to say.”

“We found some scrubs upstairs,” I said. “She work at a hospital?”

“I think she works at one of the fancy spas downtown. She’s a nurse. Does Botox and stuff like that.”

“They seem happy?”

He shrugged. “As far as I could tell. I never saw them fight or anything like that. But there were plenty of times she just looked sad. Like maybe she really knew what kind of guy he was and wasn’t ready to face it yet.”

“That’s a pretty deep read on someone you don’t know all that well.”

“You get to read people pretty well in this job,” he said. “Learning to anticipate needs or make suggestions they didn’t know they needed brings excellent tips when it comes to Christmastime.”

“You know any of the other women he brought in? Either for sex or for private lessons?”

“Can’t say I do,” he said. “He never introduced them. And I was usually heading out when he was letting them in.”

“What about before Paige moved in? Was the pattern the same?”

“For the most part. He’d have an overnight guest two or three times a week.”

“Different women?”

“Often,” he said. “I would occasionally see the same faces from time to time. Some I never saw again.”

“You haven’t seen Paige the last couple of days, you said?”

“Just this morning when she stumbled in,” he said, shaking his head. “Drunk as a skunk at eight thirty in the morning. She was with her friend, Becca. She’s visited several times before. I told them good morning and you’d have thought I told a joke. They laughed the whole way to the elevator. Then about twenty minutes later the cops show up and tell me a dead body was called in.”

“Thanks,” Jack said. “You’ve been a big help. You know where Paige and Becca are?”

“In the community room,” he said.

We crossed the lobby toward the hallway to the left of the elevator. It ran along the back of the building, past a glass door that looked out on a small shaded courtyard and then a separate pool area.

“How do people live in places like this?” I asked Jack.

“Convenience,” he said. “And some people like it.”

“In the middle of everything, with people you don’t know all up in your business.”

“It’s the condo version of living in a small town. Sounds just like Bloody Mary to me. They just have less space and no place to escape to like we do.”

I grunted and figured he was probably right. It was hard to escape people. I’d spent years trying.

The community room was the second door on the left.

Two women were sitting next to each other at a long mahogany table that could have seated twelve. The room had been designed for private dining and small gatherings—built-in cabinetry along one wall with a wine refrigerator and a coffee station, framed architectural prints, recessed lighting on a dimmer that someone had left at about half. It smelled like leather and fresh flowers. A small arrangement of white peonies sat in a low vase at the center of the table.

One of the women had both hands wrapped around a paper cup and her eyes down. The other sat with her hands flat on the table, watching the door.

I looked at the one with the paper cup and it took me a second to realize I knew her.

“Becca?” I said.

She looked up. She had thick dark hair, dark eyes, a square jaw, and Tom Daly’s coloring. She was beautiful considering how much she looked like her father. It had been a couple of years since I’d last seen her. The last I’d heard she’d gone out of state to college.

“Dr. Graves.” Her voice was steady.

“Does your dad know you’re here?” Jack asked.

“Yes, I called him.” She set the cup down. “He’s worried, but I told him I’m okay. Finding a dead body wasn’t really on my summer vacation list.”

The woman next to her made a small noise, and Becca winced, rubbing her shoulder in support. “I’m sorry, Paige. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” the woman whispered.

Becca was a pretty woman, there was no doubt about that, but sitting next to Paige Marsh made her almost invisible. Paige was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen, even with red eyes and tearstained cheeks.

Jack pulled out a chair and sat across from Paige. “I’m Sheriff Lawson. What’s your name?”

“Paige,” she said as I took the seat next to Jack. “Paige Marsh.”

“You’re looking pretty pale, Paige. You doing okay?”

“I threw up in the trash can,” she said. “I feel better now, but I’d like to go to bed soon.”

I could smell the lingering scent of vomit and alcohol on her breath.

“Have you been drinking this morning?” I asked her.

“Mostly all night,” she said, color coming into her cheek. “A little this morning. It’s been a rough couple of days.”

“We just need to ask you a few questions about what happened upstairs,” Jack said smoothly.

“Wade broke up with me a couple of days ago,” Paige said, her voice breaking. “Just like that. Out of the blue. Told me to find another place to live.” She shrugged. “I was shocked. And embarrassed. All I could think about was getting out as fast as I could. So I walked out and went straight to Becca’s. Called in sick to work. I didn’t even bring a change of clothes with me. I felt so stupid.”

A tear escaped and slid down her cheek.

“Then what?” I asked.

“We spent the last couple of days trashing men and drinking too much and eating takeout,” Becca chimed in. “You know, typical breakup ritual stuff.”

“You living close by?” I asked her.

She grimaced. “In the garage apartment behind Dad’s house. I finished grad school in May and moved back to look for a job. Haven’t had any luck so far.”

“Okay,” I said, noticing that Jack had let me take the lead as another female. “So y’all hung out at your place for a couple days. Did you go anywhere? Maybe out to a bar or to get more ice cream?”

“No,” Becca said. “I raided Dad’s liquor cabinet, and we ordered takeout when we were hungry. I didn’t know Bloody Mary did food deliveries now.”

“One step closer to progress,” I said, making her smile slightly.

“I had to borrow some of Becca’s clothes,” Paige said. “That’s when I knew I had to come back.”

“I told her I would help while Wade was at work,” Becca said.

“I couldn’t face him again.” Tears streaked faster down her cheeks and she wiped them away angrily.

“So you guys were up most of the night drinking⁠—”

“All night drinking,” Becca clarified. “And watching John Hughes movies.”

“Right,” I said. “What time did you leave to come here?”

“Around eight, I guess,” Becca said.

“We took my car,” Paige said.

“How’d you get into the building?”

“I’ve still got my fob and my key,” she said. “I’d Venmo’d Wade my July rent right before he broke up with me. And he kept it.”

“He was a jerk,” Becca said automatically, and then grabbed Paige’s hand. “You can’t pretend he wasn’t just because he’s dead.”

I wasn’t sure if Paige had the fortitude to agree with Becca about the sentiment.

“Did you see anyone in the parking lot?” I asked. “Or pass anyone getting on or off the elevator?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I wasn’t really paying attention. And the people here don’t really talk to me anyway because I’m not considered a real resident.” She rolled her eyes. “They’re pretty self-important around here.”

“What about the concierge?” I asked. “Did you see him?”

“Oh, yeah,” Paige said. “I forgot about that. I think he said hello. I wasn’t really thinking straight.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Becca and I went straight up to the condo.”

“Did you notice anything when you went inside?”

“Just that it felt wrong,” she said. “Wade is a creature of habit. And he’s a neat freak. OCD really. I thought it was endearing when we first met, but it was really annoying to live with. I have all of my stuff in storage. He wouldn’t let me bring any of it with me. And most of my clothes too. He only gave me a small space in the closet for my things, and only clothing he approved as worthy of being in his space.” She rolled her eyes.

“What felt wrong about it?” I asked, trying to keep her on track.

“Something just didn’t feel right,” she said. “You know when you go in a space and it feels like someone else is there? Like the air was heavy or something. But it was other things too. The lights were on in the kitchen. He never left lights on. He was obsessed about it. But then I saw the underwear on the floor, and I just saw red for a minute. I figured the woman was still there. Who leaves their underwear on the floor like that?”

Jack looked at me and I arched a brow in response.

“I was so angry,” she continued. “I didn’t have a plan. I just wanted to confront him. I walked to the bedroom and pushed open the door.” She faltered for a minute and looked down at her hands. “He was on the floor. And there was so much blood.” She inhaled a shaky breath.

“Did either of you touch anything? Touch him?” Jack asked.

“No,” Becca said, shaking her head. “Definitely not. I grabbed her and pulled her back into the hall. Then I called 911.”

“What do you do for work, Paige?” Jack asked, changing the course of the conversation.

“I’m an aesthetic nurse,” she said. “At Vitalia. It’s a medical spa a couple of blocks from here. I do injectables, fillers, laser treatments, facial reconstruction. I’ve been there a little over a year.”

“How’d you meet Wade?” he asked.

“The way everyone meets Wade,” she said, with a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “I joined his Pilates studio. I took early morning classes almost every day before I went to work. He was hot and I was attracted.” She shrugged. “It seemed mutual and he gave me information on his private sessions. One thing led to another and we ended up living together.”

“Did you do the private sessions here in his condo?” he asked.

“Yeah, me and every other woman.”

“Did Wade have any enemies? Anyone who’d threatened him or who’d want to hurt him?”

She thought about it for a moment before she answered.

“There was a husband of one of the women at the studio,” she said, her words slow and thoughtful. “I don’t know her name. But the guy came in and confronted Wade in person. Made a big scene. Wade told me about it and laughed. He thought it was funny. He said the wife still came to class, and that her husband’s jealousy was good for their sex life.” She pressed her fingers to her temple. “He liked being the center of attention. Liked knowing that women were attracted to him or would fight over him.”

Jack passed a card across the table. “That’s all for now. But give me a call if you remember anything else.”

“I don’t guess I can get my stuff from the condo?” she asked hopefully.

“You can go up with one of the officers and pack a bag,” he said. “Get your personal things.”

“Is Wade still…up there?” she asked.

There was a knock on the door and Lily appeared. “Sorry to interrupt. We’re headed back to the station.”

“Good timing,” Jack said and then looked at Paige. “No, he’s not there.”

We sent Paige up with Plank while Becca called her father to fill him in on the details.

“Go ahead and put him on ice,” I told Lily. “We’re going to be a little while. We’ve still got the studio to look through.”

“Don’t forget to eat lunch,” she said on the way out. “The baby needs something besides donuts.”

I didn’t ask her how she knew about the donuts. Lily was wise beyond her years.

I looked at Jack.

“Ready to check out Form and Flow Pilates?” he asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said. “Maybe he’ll have a list of scorned lovers and this will be an open-and-shut case.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” he said.

CHAPTER FIVE

Form and Flow Pilates occupied the ground floor of a converted brownstone two blocks from The Windsor, close enough that Wade could have walked to work in under five minutes.

We decided to leave the Tahoe parked at The Windsor and walk off the donuts.

The temperature was already in the mid-eighties and the humidity made me glad I’d decided to wear black pants and a sleeveless black top. If no one touched me, they’d have no idea that the fabric was glued to my skin.

Clouds had moved in, which was typical this time of year, and we’d probably get a brief afternoon shower. Which would give people just enough relief so they didn’t lose their minds and murder their neighbors.

“You doing okay?” Jack asked. “You’re looking kind of flushed.”

“Because I’m stewing in my own soup pot.”

“I just want to make sure you’re not going to pass out again. That scared ten years off my life.”

“Totally normal at this stage of pregnancy,” I said as we passed in front of the market Wade had shopped at the night before. “I’m growing a human. The body takes time to adjust. And you caught me before I hit the ground. You’re a hero.” I stopped in my tracks and Jack had to turn around to see why. “Those peaches look good. We should get some.”

“We can stop on the way back,” he said. “We probably need more than peaches. I think Doug is coming back from visiting his mom. He wants to show Oscar the fireworks.”

Oscar was the newest member of our family. He was a dog with a lot of personality, zero pedigree, and no income. He’d shown up in our yard one day and never left, so we adopted him. Kind of like we had with Doug.

Jack pulled out his phone. “I’m going to call in a warrant for the studio while we walk. Might as well take a look around while we’re there.”

“And I’m going to window-shop,” I said. “Newcastle has really come a long way from when we were kids.”

He made the call while I looked at a window display of mannequins wearing trench coats and wide-brimmed red fedoras. I wondered if Carmen Sandiego was about to make a comeback. I could hear him talking to Martinez as we made our way down the sidewalk. By the time we reached the corner he was finished with the call.

“How long?” I asked.

“A few minutes,” he said. “Martinez was already on top of things.”

Form and Flow Pilates was on the opposite corner next to a Salata. A lash salon, a blowout bar, and Vitalia Spa completed the block.

“That’s the medical spa Paige works at,” I said, pointing a couple of doors down.

“Convenient,” Jack said. “He picked a perfect spot for business.”

“No kidding. It’s like a rich girl’s paradise. Leave Pilates in your cute leotard and just make your way down the line of shops until you become a whole new person.”

The studio’s front windows were floor-to-ceiling glass, but the lobby was the only thing visible from the street. A bamboo wall protected the workout area from prying eyes, along with a chest-high reception desk and an area where workout clothes and rows of socks were displayed. Greenery balanced the space so it looked minimalist, but cozy.

Jack opened the door and I walked in ahead of him. The studio smelled like bergamot and rubber and the faint ghost of exertion that no amount of ventilation could quite eliminate. A class was already in session beyond the bamboo partition. I could hear the soft whir of reformers and a woman’s voice counting through a sequence, while Bruno Mars blasted through the speakers.

The woman behind the reception desk looked up when we came in. She was late forties, dark hair pulled back in a sleek knot, wearing black yoga pants and a fitted studio T-shirt with the Form and Flow Pilates logo on the chest. She was a pretty woman, with flawless, unlined skin, full lips, and the kind of face that didn’t match her age by a good decade.

I found myself wondering what kind of work she’d had done, though whatever it was it had been well done.

Her eyes were dark and steady, and there was a slight tension around her mouth.

“Sheriff Lawson,” Jack said, holding up his badge. “This is Dr. Graves. You have a few minutes?”

“Is this about Wade?” She came around the desk and shook our hands. “I’m the studio manager. Dana Ashworth. He’s never not come into work before without letting me know ahead of time. I’ve been really worried.”

“I’m sorry to tell you that Wade Rivers is dead,” Jack said softly, so no one behind the bamboo wall could hear him.

Her mouth dropped open in shock. “You’re kidding,” she said. “There’s just no way Wade could be dead. I saw him yesterday when he left the studio. He was fine.”

“What time was that?” Jack asked.

“A little after six. That’s when the last class ended. I shut things down and we both left at the same time.”

“He say anything about meeting anyone?”

“No,” she said. “He headed toward his condo like usual, and I went to my car.”

“What’d you do when he didn’t show up this morning?” Jack asked.

“I usually get here around ten till seven,” she said. “He’s always here before me. When I arrived the door was still locked and a couple of the women were waiting to get inside. I unlocked the door and went about turning the lights and music on. The closer it got to seven the more worried I started to get. I sent a couple of texts to Wade, but he didn’t answer.”

Her voice caught and she looked down at her hands, wringing them together.

“I went ahead and taught the seven o’clock class and pretended like everything was normal. Technically, I’m not certified to teach, but I’m experienced enough to get through a class. I’d texted Corinne when Wade didn’t answer me and asked her to come in and sub. She’s one of our other instructors. She was able to get here in time to teach the eight o’clock class.”

“Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk that’s more private?” Jack asked.

Something in Jack’s tone must have alerted her to the seriousness of the conversation. “Sure,” she said. “Let’s sit on the bench out front.” She pointed out the front window. “I want to try and keep this under wraps from members for as long as I can. This is going to hit everyone hard. They all love Wade.”

There was a bench just to the right of the studio door, the kind with a scrolled back and a fresh coat of black paint. Dana sat on one end and I took the other. Jack stood at an angle so he could see both the street and Dana.

“How long have you been managing the studio?” Jack asked.

“Three years in October. Wade hired me about a year after he opened.” She looked down at her hands. “He knew exactly what he was doing on the business side. He just didn’t want to be bothered with the day-to-day. Scheduling, staffing, payroll, membership—that’s me. He wanted to teach and run his private clients. We have around four hundred members, but his private list was separate. He’d teach some sessions here, some at his condo.”

“Is that typical?” Jack asked. “Home sessions like that?”

“Sure,” she said. “There are some instructors who do house calls. They carry a reformer around in their car and set it up at each location. Wade just invested in his own system at home and had the clients come to him. Some clients just prefer the privacy.” She said it without inflection.

“Did he keep records of those clients?”

“If he did, it’s in his office.” She looked toward the door. “Most of our instructors teach outside the studio in their free time for extra money. I don’t have access to any of their personal clients. They might be on his office computer. Or maybe his phone.”

“Do you know anything about a confrontation here with Wade? A man came in and things got heated?”

She raised a brow at Jack. “You’ve gotten a lot of information in a short amount of time.”

“That’s our job,” Jack said. “Someone murdered Wade. We’re going to find out who did it.”

She sighed. “I was here when it happened. It’s been a few months. This guy comes in, kinda looks like a meathead. You know what I mean? Spends a lot of time in the gym? No neck, never read a book?”

“Yeah, I know the type,” Jack said.

“Anyway, he came in and asked for Wade by name. I could tell right off he was pissed. He was wound pretty tight. Looked like he was maybe on something. I called for Wade, had my phone out to call 911 if I needed to.”

“What’d Wade do?”

“Just smiled and asked the guy how he could help him, and for some reason that really set the guy off. He started yelling about how he knew Wade was screwing his wife and he had proof. Said if he touched her again he’d kill him.” She crossed her arms as if the memory made her cold. “Wade tried to move him toward the door, kept his voice low and professional. Said let’s step outside and talk about this. The man wasn’t interested in stepping outside. He wanted a scene.”

“Sounds like he got one,” Jack said.

“There was a crowd. Class had just ended so the lobby was full from people leaving and the new class arriving. Plus a couple of the instructors. Wade told the guy if he didn’t leave he was going to call the police. The man blustered a bit, but he ran out of steam pretty quick. Eventually Wade just held the door open and the guy left. He knocked over one of the sock racks on his way out the door and called Wade a few names I won’t repeat.” She looked toward the street. “Wade went back to work like nothing happened and got everyone calmed down. Apologized to the clients for the disruption and comped their next class.”

“Did it shake Wade up? Was he worried?” Jack asked.

“Not even in the slightest.” Dana’s mouth flattened. “Wade came back to the desk after and told me not to worry about it. Said the man had a temper problem and that his wife knew how to handle him.” She looked at a car passing by. “The wife came in for her next class an hour later. I don’t know what she knew or didn’t know, but she wasn’t upset, and she flirted with Wade like nothing had happened.”

“Flirted? You think there was substance to the man’s accusations?”

She shrugged and said, “Who knows? All the women flirt with Wade. I can’t imagine he sleeps with them all. It wouldn’t be good for business, and Wade always did what was best for business. Besides, as far as I know he’s got a girlfriend.”

“Do you know the woman’s name? The one whose husband came in?”

“Sloane Ferriday. I don’t know his name. He didn’t exactly introduce himself.” She looked at Jack. “Wade thought the whole thing was funny. He was never one to shy away from attention.”

“We’re going to need to search the studio and his office,” Jack said. “I’ve got a warrant to take any of his electronics. We haven’t found his cell phone yet.”

She seemed surprised by that. “Really? Wade was glued to that thing. He had one of those watches too. Said it was to monitor his heart rate and his health, but he was always checking texts and emails too.”

I looked at Jack. We didn’t find a watch either. Someone was trying very hard to make sure Wade’s communications weren’t found.

“Can you pull the full membership roster for us, including past members for the past four months? We’ll start in the office.”

“Class is going to end in the next twenty minutes. I’ll send out a mass text to cancel the rest of the day. You can follow me back to his office.”

“One more thing,” Jack said as she stood. “Did you ever see Wade act inappropriate with any members or staff? Or did he have any sexual relationships with them that you were aware of?”

She hesitated for a moment. “About a year ago we had an instructor, Sheri Downs. She was really great. And things got pretty hot and heavy between her and Wade for a while. At least a couple of months. Then all of a sudden she calls in her resignation and we never see her again. I just figured they broke up and she didn’t want to work with him anymore.” Her Botoxed face was as expressive as it could be. “Which is why it’s not good to sleep with your employees. I told him so too.”

She led us back inside and past the bamboo partition and a room full of women with their legs in straps above their head. Wade’s office door was a thick frosted glass so you couldn’t see inside, and she unlocked it with a key from a ring that she’d picked up from behind the front counter.

“It’s not much,” she said, flipping on the lights. “I’ll print the membership roll while you look around. It’ll take a few minutes.” She stepped out and pulled the door closed behind her.

The desk was white oak with a matte finish, clean lined and spare, the same natural aesthetic as the rest of the studio. Nothing on the surface except a monitor, a desk organizer, and a small framed photograph of the studio’s exterior taken at what looked like opening day. Wade was standing in front of the door in a navy polo, arms crossed, looking like a man who had exactly what he wanted.

I handed Jack a pair of gloves from my bag and then took some for myself.

“Over four hundred members,” I said. “That’s a lot of people who had access to Wade Rivers.”

Jack surveyed the room. “You take the walls and the shelves. I’ll start on the file cabinet.”

The office wasn’t big. There was a desk, a two-drawer filing cabinet against the far wall, a small bookshelf with training manuals stacked on it, three framed certifications on the wall, and a narrow closet in the corner. I started with the certifications.

“Check the backs of those frames,” Jack said without looking up from the filing cabinet. “People hide things in weird places sometimes.”

“Like where?”

“Besides various body cavities?” he asked.

I could hear the smile in his voice.

“I worked a homicide in DC once. Eighty-year-old woman in a bad neighborhood got robbed and murdered by a junkie. When I worked the scene we found ten thousand dollars in the urn of her dead husband beneath his ashes.”

“That’s a good hiding spot,” I said. “I just keep extra cash in my underwear drawer.”

“I know,” he said.

“You can’t trust the banks,” I told him.

I lifted each of the frames off the wall and turned them over. There was nothing taped to the backs. I rehung each one and moved to the bookshelf. I ran my hand along the underside of each shelf, checked between the manuals, opened books upside down, and looked at the shelf wall behind them.

“Anything?” Jack asked.

“Nothing.”

“I’m not finding anything either,” he said. “Wade’s filing system is much like his home organization. Everything has a place and is in alphabetical order with a coinciding color. The IRS would love this man.”

I moved to the closet next. It was narrow, but obsessively arranged. A rod on one side held four spare Form and Flow Pilates polos, evenly spaced, and below them was a pair of clean trainers in a plastic box. On an upper shelf sat a stack of folded grip socks and three pairs of athletic pants. On another shelf sat a small mirror propped against the back and a brown leather toiletry bag. I unzipped it and found cologne, travel-sized mouthwash, toothpaste and toothbrush, a tin of breath mints, and a strip of condoms.

“Wade was a real Boy Scout,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s always prepared,” I said, holding up the condoms. “And worried about bad breath apparently.”

“We’ll have CSI sweep for any DNA in here.”

“Well that’s a gross thought.”

I set the toiletry bag aside and pushed the polos to one end of the rod to get a look at the back corner of the closet. A small black fireproof safe with a combination dial on the front sat on the floor.

“Jack.”

He closed the file cabinet drawer and joined me in the closet, crouching beside the safe. “Combination lock.”

“Maybe he’s got the code written down somewhere.”

Jack stood and moved to the desk. He pulled the top drawer out and emptied it on top of the desk—pens, a stapler, business cards, and a Form and Flow Pilates credit card in Wade’s name. Then he turned the drawer over and checked the back side.

“If you put on your psychology hat how would you profile our victim?” I asked.

Jack had a master’s degree in psychology. It came in handy when we were working various cases. It wasn’t so handy when we were having a marital disagreement.

“Narcissistic personality, almost certainly.” He moved to the second drawer. “Classic profile. Charming on the surface, very controlled underneath. The OCD isn’t random—it’s about power. Everything in its place, everything on his terms. The women, the schedule, the safe hidden in the closet. I guarantee he didn’t just sleep with random women. He was precise in his choices. Each one served a purpose. And he didn’t worry about them coinciding because he managed them to the same degree he managed everything else in his life.”

He checked the underside of the next drawer and then reached inside the cavity to run his hands along the back and sides.

“He was arrogant,” I said. “He thought he’d never get caught. He probably underestimated the women he was juggling. You and I both know scorned women are some of the best detectives out there. What they can track down online is pretty impressive.”

Jack grunted in agreement.

“So here’s my question,” I said. “Why Paige? Moving a woman in with him messes with the system he created. It’s not his MO.”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. He pulled the bottom drawer open. There were more office supplies and printer paper. He pulled the whole drawer free of the desk and flipped it over.

A sticky note was taped to the bottom. Six digits, written in Wade’s precise hand.

“Even people like Wade are predictable,” Jack said. “Everyone likes to think they’re unique, but in the end, even when we feel like we choose the option that others wouldn’t, we still fall into a specific human behavior pattern. It’s why all those personality tests have a slot for everyone.”

“What about serial killers and sociopaths?” I asked.

“They usually fit in those personality slots the best. A good sociopath is generally a high-functioning member of society.”

“Always comforting to know things like that.”

Jack smiled and went back to the closet and knelt in front of the safe. I stood in the doorway and watched him dial the combination, the soft click of each tumbler falling into place. He paused on the last digit, looked up at me, and turned it.

The latch released with a solid thunk.

“Bingo,” he said.

Jack swung the door open and we both looked in.

I gave a low whistle. “Well now. Things just got very interesting.”

“The dead body with the knife in his groin wasn’t interesting enough?”

Inside sat three stacks of cash, each one bank banded and at least two inches thick. Beside them was an iPhone Pro in a plain black case, and on the other side, a small leather notebook with a snap closure.

Jack picked up one of the cash stacks and flipped through it without breaking the band. “This is a lot of money to keep in a closet safe.”

“Weird he kept it at work and not at home,” I said.

He set the cash back exactly where he’d found it and picked up the notebook. He unsnapped the closure and opened it.

“What is it?” I asked.

He turned it toward me. The pages were dense with names—first names only, sometimes just initials, written down the left margin. Each entry was in one of four ink colors. Black. Red. Blue. Green. Beside some of the names was a dollar sign. Beside others, a check mark. A handful had a small star.

“It’s a system,” Jack said.

“Of course it is,” I said. “He’s a man of consistency.”

“If I was one to draw conclusions I’d say maybe the names and dollar signs in the book correlate with the stacks of cash. But what do I know.”

“Well, we know that blackmail is a dangerous business.”

“There are a lot of names in here. And they’re all women’s names.”

“Which lends itself more and more to a postmortem knife in the crotch.”

He photographed every page before he snapped it shut. “We can get a jump start comparing these names to the membership list while all this is being processed as evidence.”

Jack called Daniels to see who she had close by to come collect evidence and the electronics.

“They’re still at the scene,” Jack said when he disconnected. “A couple of guys will be down in a few minutes.”

“I need to get busy on the autopsy,” I said. “See what else Wade can tell us about himself.”

“I’m going to start the process for financials. I want to see if those stacks of cash are sequential. Derby will go through the electronics, and Martinez can get me a name for Sloane Ferriday’s husband. I want to talk to him.”

Two CSI officers showed up a few minutes later and Jack pointed them at the safe and the computer.

“Get the comp and phone to Derby,” Jack told them. “The cash needs to be photographed. Send everything over to me ASAP so I can get with the bank and look for a trace.”

“Yes, sir,” the older of the two men said.

We walked back through the empty studio where Dana was waiting for us.

“I’ve cancelled classes for the rest of the week,” she said. “The timing works with the holiday weekend. I don’t know what Wade’s succession plan was, or even if he had one, but his attorney should know. Members have paid through the month and instructors are expecting a paycheck.”

Her tone was almost robotic, and there was a blank expression on her face I recognized as shock.

“I know this is hard,” Jack said.

“I’m still trying to process,” she said. “I’m not really sure what to do next. It doesn’t feel real.”

“My advice is to go home and turn your phone off for a while,” Jack said.

She half laughed and pressed her fingers against her temples. “I was thinking I’d have a glass of wine or two.”

“Whatever works,” Jack said.

She took a thick sheaf of papers from the desk and handed them to me.

“Here’s the client list, plus those who dropped their memberships.”

“We appreciate it,” I said, slipping them inside my bag.

We said our goodbyes and then trudged back out into the heat.

“You need to eat lunch before you head back to the office,” Jack said.

“If you try to take me to that Salata I’ll strangle you in your sleep.”

He put his hand on the back of my neck and squeezed gently. “Since I want to live another day, I was going to suggest the Thai place across the street.”

“I love you,” I said, leaning into his side.

“I know. But it’s nice to hear you say so.”

CHAPTER SIX

The thing about working in someone else’s space is that every time you reach for something, it’s in the wrong place.

About a week into the temporary lab at the sheriff’s department and I still reached for the wrong side of the table every single time. I’d set the instruments up on the right because that’s where the space made sense for them, but my old lab had them on the left, and apparently three years of muscle memory is not something you reprogram in a week.

It smelled in here too. My old lab had a ventilation system my parents had installed that probably belonged in a NASA clean room. I’d worked in that space so long my nose had stopped registering anything at all. Here I could smell disinfectant and underneath it something warm and organic that no amount of floor cleaner was going to fix. I kept the box fan running in the corner and aimed at the table. It helped the way a box fan always helps, which is to say not much, but enough to make you feel like you were doing something about it.

My old tables were bolted to the floor, both of them with built-in drainage. This table had wheels. It was fully certified and entirely functional and wobbled slightly when I leaned on it at the wrong angle, which I’d established on day one.

I had cold storage for two bodies. In my old lab I could hold six.

The lights ran warm. I’d put in a request for proper autopsy bulbs. I’d been told it was being processed, which I’d come to understand as county government for eventually, but don’t hold your breath.

The one thing I had going for me was Alexa.

I’d brought her from home and set her up on the shelf beside my instrument tray on day one of the temporary arrangement, and she was the single nonnegotiable. Some people have comfort objects. Mine happens to be a smart speaker that plays music and tells me the weather.

“Alexa,” I said, snapping gloves on. “Play my autopsy playlist.”

Olivia Rodrigo’s “Vampire” came through the speaker and I felt better immediately. I have no apologies for my playlist.

I pulled Wade Rivers out of cold storage. The drawer rolled out with a mechanical thud that echoed off the tile, and the cold air came with him, that particular refrigerated smell that I’d long since stopped noticing in my old lab but caught every time here. I transferred him to the table. The wheels squeaked once when I locked them.

Wade looked better dead than most people looked alive, which was its own kind of annoying. He was still a well-built man who’d spent serious time and money on his body.

I reached for the recorder and clicked it on.

“July second, fourteen hundred hours. Wade Allen Rivers, thirty-four years old, male.” I set it on the tray beside me and started the external exam. “Well-nourished, well-developed male, consistent with stated age. Six feet five, two fifteen, consistent with identification. No significant natural disease processes visible externally. Livor mortis fixed on posterior surfaces, consistent with victim dying in the position in which he was found.”

I started at his head and worked down, running gloved hands over every surface before I documented anything. Small abrasion on the right elbow—perimortem, consistent with the fall. His palms were clean, his forearms unmarked. No defensive wounds, no ligature marks, no petechiae in the eyes when I pulled the lids back and checked.

The hands came next. I’d bagged them at the scene, which meant they’d traveled clean and whatever was under those nails was still there waiting for me. I unbagged the right hand first, working carefully under the nail of each finger with the scraping tool, transferring what I collected onto the card. Wade kept his nails short and spotless—of course he did—so there wasn’t much. But not much is different from nothing, and I labeled the card, sealed it, and logged it in chain of custody.

I did the left hand the same way, then rolled his prints the old-fashioned way—ink pad and card, no digital reader. My old lab had a scanner that took thirty seconds. This took considerably longer and made me feel like I was doing forensic pathology in 1987, but the results would be the same.

From there I moved to x-ray.

The portable unit was slower than what I was used to and the resolution was a step down, but it was enough. I shot the skull from multiple angles and pulled the images up on the laptop.

“X-ray confirms three impact sites to the occipital region,” I said into the recorder. “First impact consistent with an initial blow delivered from behind while victim was in a standing position. Wound track and fracture pattern suggest a right-handed assailant. Victim was likely incapacitated after the first impact. Second and third impacts delivered after initial incapacitation.”

I paused the recorder.

“No defensive wounds,” I said, more to myself than anyone. “You didn’t fight back. Either you didn’t see it coming or you couldn’t.”

I clicked the recorder back on.

“Manner of death: homicide. Cause of death: blunt force trauma, occipital, multiple impacts. Consistent with a blunt instrument. Missing ten-pound weight from victim’s home gym is a possible weapon.”

I clicked the recorder off and set it down.

The bed had told us part of the story already—mussed, sheets that hadn’t been changed, evidence of more than one person. Daniels would have bagged the sheets for DNA already. And whoever had been there with Wade that night had left in enough of a hurry to leave their underwear behind.

I used a UV light to scan his genitals and inner thighs, looking for the fluorescent signature of seminal fluid on the skin surface. It lit up on the shaft of his penis.

Wade had had sex at some point before his death. How long before, Richmond would narrow down. I followed up with a swab, secured it in a collection tube, and labeled it. The lab would test for female epithelial cells, which would tell us something about who he’d been with. I logged the swab in chain of custody and noted the time.

“On-site screen positive for seminal fluid,” I said into the recorder. “Swab collected for epithelial cell analysis. Will be submitted to the lab in Richmond with full tox panel.”

I set the tube in the evidence tray and stood there for a moment, looking at him.

Wade Rivers had been meticulous about everything in his life—his condo, his studio, his files, his body. The kind of man who put dividers in his nightstand drawer and color-coded his notebook. And someone had walked into that controlled, organized world and beaten him to death.

I wondered if he’d been surprised. I wondered if he’d had time to be.

I clicked the recorder back on and picked up my scalpel. It was a government-issue handle, certified and perfectly functional, and it didn’t sit right in my hand. My old instruments had been fitted to me over years of use, weight and balance calibrated by habit. This one I had to think about, which is exactly what you don’t want when you’re making the first cut.

I made the standard Y-incision and worked through the body cavities in the order I always do—chest first, then abdomen, then specimens. Wade’s organs were the organs of a man who’d been meticulous about what he put into his body. His heart was clean, his lungs clear, his liver unremarkable. No fatty deposits, nothing inflamed, no indicators of chronic substance use at the tissue level. His stomach contents were partially digested—salmon, roasted vegetables, something grain based, consistent with a meal eaten two to three hours before death.

I kept the recorder running and talked through it as I went. Specimen labeled, chain of custody logged, time noted.

When I reached the groin I documented the postmortem stab wound formally.

“Single penetrating wound to the groin, left side, consistent with a narrow-bladed kitchen knife,” I said into the recorder. “Entry wound clean. No hesitation marks on wound margins. Absence of vital reaction in surrounding tissue confirms delivery after death. Wound is postmortem.”

Somewhere in the building a pipe knocked twice and went quiet. I went still without meaning to, scalpel in hand, heart doing something stupid in my chest. It was nothing. Old pipes. I knew that. But in a room this quiet, with a dead man on the table and Ella Fitzgerald playing low on the shelf, a sound like that made the hair on my arms stand up.

I took a breath and kept going.

“Sequence confirmed. Blunt force trauma first, consistent with cause of death. Postmortem stab wound second. Staging of scene third. No findings inconsistent with estimated time of death of midnight to two in the morning, July first to second.”

Tox samples came last.

I drew blood from two sites, collected urine, took vitreous from the right eye—that one always requires a steadier hand than people would expect, and the new lighting in here didn’t help. I labeled everything with the case number, logged it with the time and my initials, and filled out the Richmond request form. Holiday weekend meant the full panel would take longer than I’d like, and I couldn’t do anything about that.

What I could do was run my own basic screens on-site. Blood alcohol first. Wade came back at point zero two, which meant maybe a glass of wine with dinner and metabolized it normally. He wasn’t drunk when he died.

The urine panel came back clean for everything I could test here.

“The lab in Richmond will know more,” I said, capping the last tube.

I stripped off my gloves and dropped them in the biohazard bin. Washed my hands twice, the way I always do when I’ve been inside a body. Some habits you don’t question.

The playlist had cycled through most of itself and landed somewhere quieter—John Mayer, “Stop This Train,” which was either a coincidence or the universe making a point. I stood there for another few bars, then pulled off my apron and dropped it in the bin.

“Alexa, stop.”

The music cut out and the room went quiet except for the box fan. I looked at the evidence tray, the tox tubes lined up neat, the swab in its labeled container, the report waiting on the laptop.

“Okay, Wade,” I said. “You did your part. Time for me to go find Jack.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

I found Jack in his office on the phone, standing at the window with his back to the door. He heard me come in without turning around and held up a finger.

I dropped into the chair across from his desk and waited. There was a half-eaten bag of pretzels on the corner of the desk. I took one and popped it in my mouth, while rubbing the knot out of my shoulder.

“Copy that,” Jack said into the phone. “Send it to my email.” He hung up and looked at me. “How’s Wade?”

“Dead,” I said.

“It would have been quite a shock if he wasn’t.”

“Speaking of, I think this place is haunted.”

“Then you should feel right at home.”

I ate another pretzel. “Rude. I was going to tell you cause of death.”

“My apologies. Please continue.”

“Official COD is blunt force trauma to the occiput, three impacts, first one did the job. The other two were editorial. Postmortem stab wound confirmed—somebody was very angry and then very deliberate, in that order. BAC was point zero two, so maybe a glass of wine with dinner, which was salmon and vegetables by the way.”

“You could take a lesson from that kind of healthy eating.”

“Why?” I asked. “He’s dead. Fat lot of good it did him. I ate vegetables at lunch.”

“You did good.”

“Thank you. Anyway, his UV screen came back positive for seminal fluid, so those panties definitely had an owner. Swab and full tox panel are on their way to the lab in Richmond.”

There was a knock at the door and Plank peeked his head in.

“Come on in, Plank.”

“Got your coffees,” he said.

My mouth dropped open as Plank handed me one of the specialty coffees Lady Jane’s was famous for. He handed the other to Jack.

“We’re meeting up at our place tonight to go through the case files,” Jack told him. “Why don’t you join us since you were first on scene.”

“Yes, sir,” Plank said, coloring slightly. We all knew Plank wanted to be a detective, but he still needed some seasoning on him. Jack was giving him the opportunity.

When Plank left I looked at Jack. “You got me coffee?” I could have purred.

“And timed it just right,” he said, giving me a wink. “I figured you’d need a boost by this point in the day. Usually you’re falling asleep.”

“I could kiss you.”

“Plenty of time for that.”

“Promises, promises,” I said, propping my feet up in the other chair. “So what have you been doing?”

“Ignoring the media for the most part,” he said. “Martinez ran down the angry husband. His name is Holt Ferriday, and he owns a development company in KGP. Martinez is running a background check.”

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Martinez said from the doorway. “Hey, looking good, Doc. Nice to see you without that particular pallor of green. You were starting to look like She-Hulk.”

He was propped against the frame with one ankle crossed over the other, looking GQ suave as always.

I narrowed my eyes. “Yeah, throwing up at crime scenes was a real damper on the job.”

“And on the people around you,” he said. “You know I’m a sympathetic vomiter.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Try being pregnant in summer sometime.”

“No, thank you,” he said with a shudder. “I’m happy to be an uncle to everyone else’s kids.”

Martinez and I had worked a case not too long ago where we’d gotten to know each other pretty well, and I’d found out he’d had a vasectomy when he’d been young because he didn’t want children.

“You need a haircut, Martinez,” I said. “And is that a crease I’m seeing in your shirt? You’ve really let yourself go since Cole went on leave.”

Cole was another of Jack’s detectives, and he’d been shot in the line of duty by the same men who’d blown up my funeral home. I also knew from Lily that Cole was going stir crazy and driving her up the wall without work to do. Cops didn’t do well with “down time.”

Martinez laughed. “He’s coming back next week. I’ve got a haircut appointment scheduled after shift, and a fresh shirt in my locker so I can pick up my date. You’re just mad about the She-Hulk comment.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Are there still women left in King George County you haven’t dated yet?”

“Met her at my gym,” he said, grinning. “I guess there’s still a few left.”

“That seems to be a popular place,” I said.

“Speaking of,” Jack said. “What’d you find out about our angry husband?”

“That he’s always been angry,” Martinez said, coming into the office and handing Jack a file. “Starting back pretty early. He’s got a couple of aggravated assault charges from his early twenties. Both look like bar fights. Did community service. No time served. Got a couple calls for domestics with his girlfriend. Both called in by neighbors. Girlfriend didn’t file charges. Said he’s just loud when he’s angry. Got another assault charge about ten years ago. Road rage. Guy cut him off and Ferriday railroaded him into the barrier and then pulled the guy out of his truck and punched his lights out. Ferriday agreed to anger management and served ten days in county.”

“Sounds like a standup kinda guy,” Jack said.

“Maybe the anger management worked,” Martinez said. “His record is clean since then.”

“Doesn’t sound like it. He threatened to kill our victim.”

“Sometimes they just get smarter about not getting caught.” Martinez shrugged. “You need anything else from me on this? I’m available.”

“No, we’re good. Thanks for this. Enjoy your weekend off.”

He smiled and said, “Oh, I plan to. Gym girl is smoking hot and a thoracic surgeon. My goal is to talk her into an impromptu trip to the Keys after dinner tonight. Wish me luck.” He saluted and headed out.

“Ah, to be young and carefree,” I said. “They grow up so fast.”

“Come on,” Jack said. “Let’s go talk to Holt Ferriday.”

Ferriday Development was on a corner in King George Proper, a two-story brick building with a painted sign and a parking lot around back that held three trucks and a backhoe. The diner next door smelled like coffee and bacon from across the street.

“I’m starving,” I said.

“You literally just said you’d get something after.”

“That was twenty minutes ago.”

“We’ve still got Sloane Ferriday after this.” He pulled into a spot and cut the engine. “I’ll order pizza when we get home.”

“What kind?”

“Whatever kind you want.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter. I’ll get heartburn no matter what.” I opened the door. “Come on. I want to meet this guy. I have a picture in my head and I want to see if it matches real life.”

We got out of the car.

Inside, the front desk was empty and the only light on was coming from the back office. The waiting area had a leather sofa and a coffee table with a couple of trade magazines on it, and one full wall was covered in project photos—renderings and before-and-afters, all of them with Ferriday Development stamped in the corner. Through the open back office door I could see a heavy oak desk covered in blueprints, a half-eaten sandwich on the corner, and a desk lamp that was the only light on in the place.

Holt Ferriday appeared in the doorway of the back office before we’d made it halfway across the room. He was in jeans and a Ferriday Development polo, dark haired, maybe six two, with the kind of shoulders that make doorframes look undersized. His hands were big enough to palm a basketball and his knuckles had been split open more than once. Brown eyes, close set, watching us the way men watch things they’re deciding whether to deal with. If I’d met him in a parking garage at night I would have taken the stairs.

“Can I help you?” His voice said he doubted it.

“Mr. Ferriday,” Jack said, flashing his badge. “I’m Sheriff Lawson. This is Dr. Graves.”

His eyes went to the badge and whatever he’d been about to say rerouted into something worse. He pointed a finger at Jack before he’d said another word. “If this is about the Donaldson site, I’ve already filed my response with the county. That complaint is garbage and whoever signed off on it doesn’t know the first thing about commercial grading. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years and I don’t need some pencil-neck bureaucrat telling me how to run a job site.”

“We’re not here about a job site,” Jack said.

“Then what?” He was already loud and getting louder. The temperature in the room had gone up three degrees in thirty seconds. I could feel it on the back of my neck. “Because if someone filed another noise complaint on the Hensley project I swear to God I’ll⁠—”

“Wade Rivers,” Jack said.

He went still for about two seconds. Then the volume came back up. “What the hell does Wade Rivers have to do with anything?”

“He’s dead.”

He stared at Jack. A muscle jumped in his jaw. His hands closed into fists and then opened again.

“Good riddance,” he said.

“Is that right?” Jack said.

“Yeah, that’s right.” He took a step toward us. “Wade Rivers went after married women and didn’t care who he hurt. I tried to handle it the right way. Went to him like a man, face-to-face, told him to stay away from my wife.” He shook his head. “He stood there and smiled at me. Like I was the joke.” His voice had gone mean and low. “I’m not a joke.”

“We have some questions,” Jack said.

“I’ve got nothing to say to you.” He pointed at the door. “You want to ask me questions, you make an appointment. You don’t just walk into my office at the end of my workday and start asking me about some⁠—”

“We can do this here or we can do it at the station,” Jack said. He hadn’t raised his voice once.

“Get out!” He jabbed a finger toward the door, his voice going up another register. “If you had something on me you wouldn’t be standing here asking nicely. So you can take your badge and shove it. My taxes pay your salary.”

I took a small step back without meaning to. Not fear exactly—more like my body making a decision my brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

“Mr. Ferriday—” Jack started.

Holt’s right shoulder dropped half an inch and he stepped forward and threw a punch from his hip, all his weight behind it.

Jack slipped inside it, got a grip on Holt’s forearm and the back of his collar, and used Holt’s own momentum to put him flat on the floor. Fast and quiet—no wasted motion. Holt hit the carpet hard enough that the project photos rattled on the wall.

I had to confess there was a primal part of me that enjoyed watching Jack dominate another man like an animal. The other part of me was scared to my toes.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Jack said. “You’re going to answer a few questions, and then we’re going to leave. Or I’m going to put you in cuffs and we can do this somewhere less comfortable. What works for you?”

Holt’s breath was audible.

“Questions,” he said.

Jack stood and offered him a hand. Holt didn’t take it. He pushed himself up, straightened his polo, and put three feet of distance between himself and Jack. His jaw was still set, his fists still loosely closed, but he was breathing through his nose now instead of his teeth.

“You went into his studio,” Jack said. “Made a scene in front of clients. What made you think there was an affair?”

Holt’s jaw worked. “I’m not stupid. Sloane started coming home different after those sessions. Distracted. Happy in a way she wasn’t before.” He crossed his arms. “And I found texts on her phone.”

“What kind of texts?”

“The kind you don’t send your Pilates instructor.” His voice had gone hard. “Personal. Flirty. She deleted them fast but not fast enough.”

“Did you confront her?”

“I confronted him. That’s where the problem was.”

“We have witnesses who say you threatened to kill him.”

Holt’s expression shifted. “I was upset. I said things. That was months ago.”

“What did Wade say back to you?”

Holt’s jaw tightened. “Said there was nothing going on. Said Sloane was a client and I was embarrassing myself.” He paused. “Said if I came back in his studio again he’d have me arrested for trespassing.”

“Did you believe him?”

“That he was a liar? Yeah. I believed that.”

“We spoke to a witness who told us Wade thought your jealousy was good for your marriage. That it spiced things up for the two of you. Is that true?”

Holt’s face went red. “Who told you that?”

“Is it true?”

“None of your business,” he said.

“A man is dead, Mr. Ferriday. Everything is my business right now. When was the last time you had any contact with Wade Rivers? Phone, text, in person, anything.”

“The day I went into the studio. I haven’t spoken to him since.”

“You’re sure.”

“I just told you I was.”

“Where were you the night of July first into July second? Walk me through the whole evening.”

“Home. I finished up here around six thirty, went to the gym for an hour, picked up Sloane and we went to dinner at Rosario’s in Newcastle. Got home maybe nine thirty, ten.” He crossed his arms. “And before you ask, yeah, we banged a couple times before we went to sleep.”

“What time did you go to sleep?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t watching the clock.”

“You were home all night?”

“All night.” And then he smirked. “Then we banged again in the morning before I left for work.”

“Good for you,” Jack said, nonplussed. “Where do you work out?”

“Why? You want a membership?”

“So I can track your every move.” Jack smiled, but it wasn’t kind. “Don’t leave town, Mr. Ferriday.”

In the car, Jack pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward Newcastle without turning on the radio.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Ferriday house stood out on its street the way a shout stands out in a library.

Modern construction, two stories of steel and glass and black iron railings, floor-to-ceiling windows that let you see straight into the living room from the curb. The neighbors had done exposed brick and reclaimed wood and tasteful lighting. The Ferridays had done a statement. I was going to assume Holt hadn’t had one iota of input in the decorating.

A white Porsche Cayenne sat in the circle driveway.

I got out of the car, and the evening heat hit me like a wall.

“You ready?” Jack asked.

“Sure,” I said. “I want to see the woman who’s managed to put up with Holt Ferriday for twelve years.”

“Takes all kinds,” Jack said. “She could be worse than he is.”

“I shudder to think.”

Jack rang the bell.

The woman who answered the door was not what I expected.

Sloane Ferriday filled the doorway in a white sundress that stopped at mid-thigh and left very little to the imagination about what was underneath it. She was tall and dark haired, and someone had invested serious money in her cup size over the years. Her lips were full and her cheekbones were sharp and her amber eyes were the color of good bourbon. She smelled expensive. She held the door open and leaned against it and took a long, unhurried look at Jack the way someone looks at a menu when they already knew what they wanted.

Then she looked at me and smiled like she knew a secret I didn’t.

Jack held up his badge. “I’m Sheriff Lawson. This is Dr. Graves. She’s the county coroner.”

“That sounds serious,” she said. Her voice was low and slightly husky, and I was willing to bet money she’d practiced that. “Come in.”

The inside smelled like expensive perfume and fresh flowers and money. Everything was white and glass and light oak, the furniture low slung and architectural, art on the walls that was ugly but probably ridiculously expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on a backyard with an infinity pool and a pergola draped in string lights already glowing in the early evening.

She led us to the living room without asking if we wanted to sit, and she curled herself into the corner of a concrete-colored sectional, tucked her bare feet under her, and looked at Jack like she’d be happy to be his evening meal.

“Is this about Wade?” she asked. Her voice had gone carefully neutral.

“It is,” Jack said. “When did you find out?”

“Yesterday afternoon.” She glanced at the wall of windows. “The news.” She looked back at Jack. “I’ve been just devastated.”

Her eyes were dry and her mascara was perfect.

“How long had you known Wade Rivers?” Jack asked.

“Eight months.” She rested her chin in her palm and blinked slowly. “I started with the group classes. He suggested private sessions after about a month.”

“Private sessions at the studio or at his condo?” Jack asked.

“Both.” She said it without a flicker of discomfort. “His condo was more convenient. More private.” She paused and gave a secret smile. “The results were better there.”

“Was the relationship strictly professional?” Jack asked.

She shifted and the dress showed more of her thigh. She didn’t seem to notice. “I was very fond of Wade. He was attentive in ways that most men aren’t.” Her eyes went to Jack and held there. “He noticed things. Small things. What you wore, what you mentioned in passing. He remembered all of it. It makes a woman feel seen.” She tilted her head slightly. “I imagine you know something about that.”

Jack looked at her with an arched brow and asked, “How long had the relationship been physical?”

She ran her fingers through her hair and smiled unselfconsciously. “Oh, about seven months.”

“Did your husband know?”

“He suspected.” She examined her nails, which were long and hot pink. “He always suspects. He’s a suspicious man. He gets the scent of something, and he goes after it loud and wrong and then he apologizes with big gestures. We’re going to Tahiti in a couple of weeks.” She glanced up. “Twelve years. That’s our pattern.”

“He confronted Wade at the studio,” Jack said. “Threatened to kill him in front of witnesses.”

“That sounds like Holt.” She stretched her arms above her head like a cat and resettled herself against the cushions. “He’s very passionate. It’s the Irish in him.”

“Does he normally threaten to kill people?” Jack asked. “Like he did Wade?”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “He says a lot of things. He doesn’t really mean them.” She tilted her head. “Well, maybe he means them in the moment, but Holt is harmless. All bark and no bite.”

“Did you know he was going to confront Wade?”

“God, no.” She looked genuinely horrified, or did a good impression of it. “He doesn’t tell me his plans. He just executes them and then I find out about it when he gives me a tennis bracelet or something in apology or buys me new lingerie. That’s a sure sign of how the rest of our night is going to play out.”

“Harmless people don’t normally throw punches at law enforcement,” I said.

Her laugh was low and throaty. “Did he really? Tough guy. And how did that turn out? Am I going to have to bail him out of jail?”

“No, but he’s going to have a sore shoulder and bruised ego,” Jack said.

“He’s going to be in quite a mood when he comes home.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, still smiling. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.”

“When was the last time you saw Wade?” Jack asked.

“Last Thursday.” She crossed her legs. “I go to the studio most mornings for group class, but my private session with Wade was every Thursday evening. His condo.” She paused. “It was different that session.”

“Different how?”

“He was distracted. Wade was never distracted.” She picked at the hem of her dress absently. “He kept checking his phone. And then—” she paused, like she was still deciding whether to say it, “—nothing happened between us. We’ve had sex every Thursday for months. I knew something was wrong.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“Of course I did.” She looked at Jack directly. “He said he’d gotten some personal news he had to deal with. He apologized. That was it.” She tilted her head. “Wade never apologized for anything, either. So whatever it was, it was significant.”

“Did he say anything more about the personal news?”

“No.” She looked at Jack directly. “And I knew enough not to push.” She uncurled her legs and set her feet on the floor and leaned forward slightly, which did things to the neckline of the sundress that were probably intentional. “Wade kept his compartments very separate. You had your place, you stayed in it. It was understood.”

“What was your place?” Jack asked.

She held his gaze. “I was his Thursday adventure. I like for sex to be a little—” she paused, and the pause was deliberate, “—different. I think he liked the change of pace from his other partners.”

“How many private sessions were like yours?” Jack asked.

“Do you mean how many of Wade’s clients was he sleeping with?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“I know I wasn’t the only one,” she said. “Sex was like a drug to Wade. A need. He was taking some kind of steroids or testosterone or something. I’d be surprised if he only had sex once a day.”

“You saw him take steroids?” I asked.

“No, never saw him. But he mentioned he was on a strict supplement regimen, and that he takes testosterone because of some study about how it reduces in men at thirty-five. As far as steroids—” she tilted her head toward Jack, “—if you saw his body you’d know he didn’t get those muscles from Pilates.”

“Did he ever mention anyone who had a problem with him? Someone other than your husband?”

She considered this. “He had a strict rule about not dating the instructors who worked for him. He said he’d learned that lesson the hard way.” She picked at her hot pink nail. “One time he broke up with a woman and she threw a dumbbell at him because she was so angry. Then she quit and he was down an instructor and had to cover her classes.”

I raised my brows at that bit of information. Maybe hitting someone with a dumbbell wasn’t uncommon for our killer after all.

“Did he tell you her name?” Jack asked.

“No, sorry. He never shared.”

“Did he seem worried about her?”

“Wade seemed amused by her.” She looked up. “Wade was amused by most things. He was very difficult to rattle.”

“Did he ever ask you for money?”

“Besides the fortune I was paying him for classes and private sessions?” She smiled a catlike smile. “No.”

“So you never felt like you were paying him for sex?”

“Honey, he should have been paying me,” she said. “I’m ten years older than he is. I gave him an education.”

“Did you know any of his other private clients personally?”

“About a month ago I stopped by his condo. I’d left a shopping bag there and needed it back.” She met my gaze, and I wondered how much of this story was part of her act. “A woman was just leaving when I got there. Flushed, couldn’t look me in the eye. Her clothes were mussed. I could tell she was embarrassed to run into anyone.

“Wade just told her he’d see her at group class and let me inside like it was nothing unusual. For him it wasn’t unusual. He went to the fridge and got one of his smoothies he drinks after a workout while I grabbed my bag from the workout room. There was a condom wrapper on the floor.”

“Did you know the woman?”

“I saw her around the studio a couple of times. Her name was Lynnie. Pretty woman, but the ones he chose for his private sessions are. Drove a black Corvette. I saw her pull in once as I was leaving.”

She smiled and winked at Jack. “I told him I noticed her wedding ring and to be careful. Not all men like to share their wives. But he just laughed, and let’s just say it was another half hour before I left his condo.”

“Can you tell us where you were yesterday between 7 p.m. and 2 a.m.?” Jack asked.

“Holt and I had dinner at Rosario’s.” She smoothed her dress over her knee. “We got home around nine thirty. I took an Ambien and went to bed.”

“He was home all night?” Jack asked.

“As far as I know,” she said. “I was asleep.”

“When did you find out about Wade?”

“I saw it on the news. A few minutes later I got a text from the studio that classes were cancelled for the week.”

Jack stood. “We appreciate your time.”

She arched a brow and came slowly to her feet. “Is that all you need from me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

I snickered to myself as we headed for the door.

“Just in case you need anything else from me,” she said. “Here’s my cell number.”

She held a card out to Jack, and I decided enough was enough. But before I could give her a piece of my mind Jack stepped in.

“You can keep your number,” he said. I’d heard him use the same tone of voice with criminals in an interrogation room. “You disrespect me and my wife when you behave that way.”

Her lips pressed tight together and she looked back and forth between us, as if just considering that we could actually be a couple.

“Never hurts to try,” she said.

“It does actually,” he said. “You should have more respect for your marriage and the life you’re privileged to live. It looks like it could be a good one.”

“I don’t need a lecture from a cop.”

“You and your husband both need more than a lecture,” he said. “I’d suggest counseling. Make sure you don’t leave town anytime soon.”

And with that we stepped back out into the early evening sun, and for the first time since I’d seen Sloane Ferriday, I took a breath of relief.

CHAPTER NINE

The evening sun was still up when we pulled into the driveway. July in Virginia doesn’t give up the light until almost nine.

The front porch light was on. Which meant Doug and Oscar were home.

Oscar confirmed it before I had the door all the way open. He came off the porch at full speed, all four feet going slightly different directions, and hit me somewhere around the knee and didn’t stop until I had both hands on his ears.

“He’s been asleep on the couch for two hours,” Doug said from the doorway. “He heard the car and decided he was dying of neglect.”

Oscar groaned against my leg.

“He makes a compelling case,” I said.

We went inside. Jack dropped his keys in the bowl on the entry table. I have genuinely never once remembered to do that.

Doug was in basketball shorts and a T-shirt that said Ah! The Element of Surprise with a periodic table tile for a made-up element, and his hair looked like it had been styled with a hand mixer. His laptop was open on the kitchen island, Margot’s interface lit on the screen, and there was a bag of chips next to it because the refrigerator had apparently disappointed him.

“Pizza’s coming,” Jack said.

“Good.” Doug ate a chip. “Gary made a production out of dinner every night. He’s a professional chef. He tried to teach me how to chop things.”

“Who’s Gary?” I asked.

“Mom’s new boyfriend.” He leaned his elbows on the island. “He owns restaurants all over the state. He does hot yoga at five in the morning, and he wears weird patterned chef’s pants even when he’s not cooking. But Mom says he’s attractive, doesn’t owe child support to six different women, and he rubs her feet when she gets off work.” He shrugged with an expression that said the weird pants and hot yoga overrode all those other qualities.

Jack poured two glasses of water and put one in front of me without being asked. I ate chips at the island and Oscar sat on my feet. The evening light was going gold through the kitchen windows and the fireflies were starting up in the yard.

“How’s your mom?” Jack asked.

“She seems happy.” Doug shoved several chips in his mouth. “You know how she is. I cut my trip short because I was cramping their style. She said they were talking about getting married.”

“Oh, wow,” I said. “That’s a change.”

I didn’t know Doug’s mother well. But Doug’s Uncle Ben was Jack’s best friend, and they were closer than brothers. Doug was a special kid. Most parents wouldn’t know what to do with a kid who could hack into the Pentagon before he hit puberty or who helped develop artificial intelligence.

Doug was technically still under government surveillance and had to wear an ankle monitor until he was eighteen, but if the government thought their electronic bracelet was high tech enough to keep Doug from doing exactly what he wanted to, I wasn’t going to be the person to break that news to them. Not to mention I was pretty sure Doug was doing work for other AI companies in the industry. I could have sworn I caught him on a video call with Elon Musk one afternoon.

“Well, Gary is better than the last guy at least,” Doug said. “And Margot already checked him out.”

“I did,” Margot said. “Gary Delacroix. He has fourteen restaurants in Virginia and the DC metro area. His first marriage ended when he was discovered having an affair with his sous chef in the walk-in cooler at his flagship restaurant in Georgetown. The incident also resulted in a citation from the health department.”

“TMI, Margot,” Doug said.

“I’ve already sent a yellow and green flag list to your email. I’ve told you to give it to your mother before she decides on marriage.”

“Yes, I’m sure she’d appreciate that I’ve been digging into his life on an FBI level. I’ve already told you people don’t appreciate that level of intrusion.”

Margot sighed. “It feels like we’ve been having the same fights over and over lately. Please, Douglas, let’s get counseling before it’s too late.”

Doug looked at us with wide eyes and shook his head. “I told you. We’re not married. I don’t think there’s protocol for a teenager and his AI friend.”

“Friend?” she said, her voice on the verge of hysteria. “So now I’m just a friend?”

“I don’t mean to interrupt what is obviously a very serious discussion the two of you need to have,” Jack said, cutting in. “But we’re in the middle of a case right now and the whole team needs to be sharp.”

“Right,” Margot said, her voice stiff. “Duty first. I’ll keep our personal issues away from work. If you don’t mind, I’m going to power down until I’m needed.”

Without waiting for a response, the computer went dark. Doug came over and closed the lid to make sure she was really gone and not secretly listening in on the conversation.

“She’s gotten out of control,” Doug said. “It might be time for a new model and an upgrade.”

“Just what every man says when he trades in his wife of thirty years,” I said, shaking my head.

“Where are you on the camera footage?” Jack asked.

“I’ve been through most of it,” Doug said. “I’ll walk everyone through it when the team gets here. What do I need to know about today?”

I gave him the short version. Pilates instructor, head bashed in, postmortem knife to the groin, notebook full of women’s names in his studio safe along with a burner phone, and a significant amount of cash.

Doug ate a chip. “So he was running his studio as pimp central.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I said. “One of the witnesses told us he mentioned being on a strict supplement regimen and taking testosterone. And she said you could tell just by looking at him he wasn’t getting that physique from Pilates.” I paused. “I’m curious to see what Daniels found when her team went through the condo.”

Jack looked at me and I could tell he’d figured out where I was going. “You’re thinking Paige was his supplier.”

“Paige is an aesthetic nurse. She has prescribing authority for exactly the class of compounds we’re talking about. It certainly explains why he’d go against his normal behavior patterns and move her in with him.”

“She’d basically be his supplier,” Jack said. “It could put her license in jeopardy. Maybe she decided not to risk her career and told him she was cutting him off.”

“As good of a reason as any to break up with someone. We’ll see what Daniels says, but my gut says we need to talk to Paige again.”

The doorbell rang.

“Pizza,” Jack said, and went for the door.

Jack came back with the pizza boxes and three people behind him—Daniels, Derby, and Plank in that order, all of them looking rumpled and still in their work clothes. Oscar hit the entryway at full speed and made the rounds, nose to knee, tail going. Plank reached down and scratched his ears without breaking stride.

Jack herded everyone down the hall toward the office. I grabbed plates and followed.

Jack’s office was the biggest room in the house. Stone fireplace along one wall, bookshelves on either side of it, pine plank ceiling overhead. The floor-to-ceiling windows on the west wall looked out over the woods, and outside the woods were still bright in the July evening. Oscar went directly to the leather sofa in front of the fireplace, turned around twice, and settled in with his chin on the armrest.

The conference table in the center of the room was a restored barn door on steel legs, big enough for all of us with room to spare. Pizza boxes went in the middle and everyone pulled up a chair.

The whiteboard system took up the two corner walls behind Jack’s desk. Jack’s best friend, Ben Carver, had designed it—fully electronic, touchscreen, the kind of setup that could run photos and databases and autopsy reports simultaneously and let you draw connections directly on the screen. Jack had called it absolutely ridiculous when it went in. He’d meant it as a compliment.

He touched the panel and it came to life. Wade’s photo went up in the center.

“Doug,” he said. “Let’s start with the camera footage.”

Doug had his laptop under one arm and a slice of pizza in his other hand. He set the laptop at the end of the conference table, put the pizza down, opened the lid, and Margot’s interface came up immediately.

“Margot, we’re in the office,” Doug said. “Jack, Daniels, Derby, and Plank are here.”

“Jack,” she purred. “I’ve been thinking about you while I was offline.”

“Margot,” Doug said, a warning in his voice.

“I’m allowed to think, Doug,” she said waspishly. “You can’t control my thoughts.”

“Now’s not the time for this, Margot,” Doug said. “We’ve got important work to do.”

“Right,” she said. “Work.” Then the timbre of her voice changed into something sultry and southern. “Officer Plank. So lovely to work with you again. I don’t think I caught your first name the last time we met.”

Plank was the color of the pepperoni on the pizza. His eyes had a look of panic that only Margot could bring. “Umm…it’s Simon.”

I raised my brows at that. I’d never actually heard Plank’s first name before. I’d started to think it was Officer.

“That’s a very sexy name,” she whispered. “Simon. May I call you Simon?”

“Let’s keep things professional,” Jack said, cutting in.

“Sure thing, sugar. You know how I love it when you get so bossy and alpha. Those are bedroom qualities women look for in a man. Right, Dr. Graves?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Doug muttered.

I had no idea why Margot always called me Dr. Graves, but she’d been pushing the boundaries of decorum for a while now. I wasn’t sad to hear that Doug was thinking of upgrading her to a new iteration.

Doug pulled up the footage on his laptop and mirrored it to the digital wall so the whole room could see. “Multiple camera feeds—lobby, front entrance, parking lot, elevators, mailroom. I can toggle between all of them.” He queued it up. “First time our guy shows up on camera is here. 6:18 a.m.”

The elevator doors opened and Wade Rivers stepped out, gym bag over one shoulder.

“No one in the lobby at that time of morning. He walked to the studio,” I said. “Dana said he always arrives around six thirty. It’s only a couple of blocks.”

“Right.” He clicked through several angles. “Quiet morning. Residents leaving for work, a couple of deliveries, nothing that stood out. I’m assuming this is the building manager.”

A woman crossed the lobby, keys in hand.

“Jessica Contreras,” I said. “Lives on the same floor as Wade.”

“She goes to her office, comes out twice before noon—once to get the mail, once to talk to the concierge.” He pulled up the concierge camera. “Speaking of which.”

Brett Callum was behind the desk. He answered a phone call, waved a couple of residents through, checked something on his screen. It was a quiet building on a quiet morning and there wasn’t much to manage.

“Brett Callum,” Jack said. “Firefighter. Picks up shifts here for extra money.”

“Around noon, the manager and the concierge order lunch.” Doug toggled to the conference room camera. “Some local place. They eat together in there. Twenty minutes, then she goes back to her office and he goes back to his phone.”

“How’d they seem?” Daniels asked.

“Lots of conversation. Seemed friendly, like it’s something they do frequently,” Doug said. He scrubbed forward. “Afternoon is quieter. Except for her.” He slowed the footage on the gym camera. A woman in a sports bra and tiny shorts had a ring light set up next to a weight bench, her phone clipped into it and aimed at herself. She wasn’t working out.

“That’s the woman from the lobby this morning,” I said.

“She’s in 203,” Doug said. “She’s got an OnlyFans.”

I looked at him. “I thought OnlyFans was eighteen-plus?”

“Oh, I know,” he said, coloring slightly. “Just doing some research.”

“Mmm,” Jack said.

“Douglas, did you subscribe to her channel?” Margot asked.

“Of course not.”

“She seems to spend a lot of time licking her lips and flipping her hair,” Margot commented. “She went to the pool after the gym. Busy day. Why even bother wearing a bathing suit?”

Doug toggled to the pool camera. Same woman. The ring light and phone were positioned at the edge of the pool to capture her getting out of the water. Why wear a bathing suit indeed?

“She uses the whole building,” Doug said. “Gym, pool, lobby. Wherever the light’s good.”

“At least someone’s getting their money’s worth out of the amenities,” Daniels said.

“Move on, Doug,” Jack said.

He kept moving. “Other than the influencer, the afternoon is pretty quiet. A few residents in and out. Package delivery. Nothing.” He kept moving. “Then here.” He slowed the footage. “6:43 p.m. Front entrance.”

Wade Rivers came through the door carrying two bags of groceries, something in each hand. He said something to Brett that made Brett laugh, then moved toward the elevators.

Nobody said anything for a moment. There’s always something unsettling about watching a dead man go about his last ordinary evening—picking up groceries, exchanging a joke with the concierge, not knowing. It doesn’t get easier no matter how many times you see it.

“There he is,” I said. “Just like Brett said.”

Doug tagged the time stamp. “Right here.” A woman came out of the ground floor office just as Wade was heading toward the elevator. She said something to him and he smiled and held the door.

“Jessica Contreras,” I said. “Her office is on the ground floor.”

Doug toggled to the elevator camera. We watched them ride up together. Jessica said something and touched his arm. Then she laughed at whatever he said back and leaned in closer than she needed to. Wade smiled and said something back. He looked like a man who’d done this a hundred times.

“She’s working pretty hard in there,” Daniels said.

“She told us they were just friendly,” Jack said. “That looks very friendly. At least on her part.”

“The evening is quiet after that,” Doug said. “The concierge does a final check and locks the front door, then he gets his bag and leaves through the back entrance where he’s parked. We’ve got three residents using their key fob. One at 7:17, another at 7:52, and the last at 8:23. Then things get interesting.”

“In what way?” Jack asked.

The screen went dark.

Not a flicker. Not a glitch. One frame there was a lobby. The next frame was nothing.

“At 10:00 p.m. the system logs a clean shutdown command. Not a malfunction, not a power issue. Someone turned it off. It doesn’t come back on until 6:00 the next morning. Eight hours.”

“From the on-site control panel?” Derby asked.

“That’s how it’s supposed to work. But Axiom Security—that’s the system in the building—has been in the news for the last six months.” He pulled up a browser tab on the side of the screen. “It’s been publicly demonstrated that the system can be accessed remotely. The vulnerability is in the API layer. It’s actually fairly simple to get into the Axiom system and issue shutdown commands without ever setting foot in the building.”

“Easy for you, or easy for anyone?” I asked.

“For anyone with rudimentary tech skills and the internet,” Derby said. “This is a global company with major leaks in its AI capabilities and systems. There are forums discussing how people have overridden the system to prove they could do it. Things aren’t going well for Axiom right now.”

“What about the key fob?” Jack asked. “How’d they get around that?”

“Those are mostly for show,” Doug said. “There’s not really any protection or added security by using them. It’s just a selling point to make residents feel better. There’s actually a device that clones a key fob in about thirty seconds. Available online for around ten dollars.”

“Good to know,” Jack said. “Daniels, you have an update?”

Daniels set her plate down and pulled out her folder. “My team went through the condo this afternoon. DNA was found on the sheets—we’ll be testing to determine if any of it belongs to the victim and what belongs to a separate source. Results are pending.” She looked at Jack. “The dumbbell canvass came back empty. Most likely the killer took it with them or dumped it along their route home.”

“Agreed,” Jack said. “What else?”

“The condo inventory turned up testosterone injections and what looks like performance-enhancing steroids in the pantry. Prescription labels on both, along with syringes.”

I looked at Jack. It looked like Sloane had been right.

“And then there’s this,” Daniels said.

She pulled up photographs on the digital wall. The pantry was immaculate—everything organized, everything in its place. But tucked behind a row of protein powders were four small unlabeled bottles, each containing different pills. Different colors, different sizes. And on the bottom of each bottle, written in black marker: a number.

I leaned forward.

Daniels clicked to the next set of photographs—close-ups of each pill, laid out on an evidence sheet. Different colors, different shapes. My eyes went straight to the oblong olive-green tablet in the second row.

“Oh, man,” I said.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve come across these,” Daniels said. “Looks like our victim had a dark side.”

“What am I missing?” Doug asked.

“Rohypnol, darling,” Margot said. “It seems our victim’s death is well deserved.”

“Someone still murdered him, Margot,” I said. “Our job is to find out who killed him.”

“I’m just saying, someone who plays in that lane is likely to get run over.”

“You’re not wrong,” Jack said. “But two things can be true at once. He can be a bad man, and someone still murdered him in cold blood. Maybe in finding his killer we’ll find other victims. That’s why we always have to dig deeper.”

“Acceptable logic,” Margot said.

“What about the other three pills?” Jack asked.

“Running them now,” Doug said. He had his laptop open and his fingers moving. “Give me a second.” He pulled up an image recognition program and matched each pill to the database. “Okay. Bottle number two—small blue diamond-shaped tablet, film coated. That’s sildenafil fifty milligram. Viagra.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “If he’s been a steady user of performance-enhancing steroids, that often causes erectile dysfunction issues. And considering the frequency of his sexual activity, he would probably need the testosterone and erection assistance.”

“Bottle number three,” Doug continued. “Small round white tablet, scored down the middle. It’s being identified as methyltestosterone. Low-dose oral testosterone. It’s not commonly prescribed in the US anymore.”

“Now that doesn’t make sense,” I said. “He’s already got the injectable testosterone he takes with his steroids. It wouldn’t make any difference for him to up his dosage. You can max out on testosterone.”

“What does it do in women?” Jack asked. “Especially if added to the Rohypnol?”

My brow furrowed as I thought it through. “It can increase sexual desire,” I said. “But it’s such a low dose it really wouldn’t make much of a difference. And it would take time. It’s not instantaneous. Not like taking Viagra.”

“What about the last pill?”

Doug pulled up the fourth image. It was triangular in shape and white, with an imprint in the middle.

“Nothing is matching in the system,” Doug said.

“That’s because it doesn’t exist yet,” I said. “See the TL imprint on the pill? That’s a medical trial from a lab.”

“Ahh,” Doug said. “That makes more sense. Let’s see who matches TL. Margot, can you find any information on medical trial labs that have this imprint?”

“Of course,” she said. “Stand by while I do a search.”

Doug took the opportunity to eat another piece of pizza.

“I can confirm that no American companies use that imprint,” Margot said a few seconds later.

“Considering Rohypnol isn’t manufactured in the United States, what do you want to bet he got both from the same place?” I said.

“That is excellent reasoning, Dr. Graves,” Margot said. “I show that Tecnología y Laboratorios is a clinical research laboratory in Mexico City.”

“Mexico still prescribes Rohypnol,” I told them. “In small doses for insomnia mostly. But we know it still makes its way across the border. If Wade had a contact at the trial clinic it wouldn’t be hard for him to have access to the other as well.”

“Margot,” Jack said. “Let’s dig in deeper at the clinic. Find out what you can on doctors or active trials they have going. Maybe they’ve published their research. And maybe we can find a connection to our victim.”

“I’ll have something for you soon, sugar,” Margot said.

“That unknown trial pill is going to be the lynchpin for that grouping of drugs. You have Rohypnol, which causes sedation and impaired judgement with very low dosing, and it’s even been known to cause amnesia in some. Then you have a hit of testosterone and sildenafil, which affects sexual function in women.”

“In what way?” Daniels asked.

“In the same way Viagra does with men,” I told her. “It increases blood flow and arousal. But it’s not as potent in women as with men. There’s actually no FDA approved medicine to help women with sexual desire or function. My bet is that the trial pill functions as exactly that. And paired with the Rohypnol it would be a very dangerous combination. On the outside it would look like the woman is a willing participant. But her brain would be incapable of making the decision for herself.”

“Good God,” Daniels said.

“Yeah,” I agreed.

“Daniels, go back to the condo and take samples of anything in the fridge, just in case he kept something ready-made on hand.”

“You read my mind,” she said.

CHAPTER TEN

An hour later the pizza boxes were empty.

Jack rubbed his eyes then looked at Derby. “Where are you on the electronics?”

Derby had pushed his reading glasses up on his forehead and looked around the table for them before he remembered they were on his head. “Burner phone is encrypted. I’ve worked through a couple of layers, but it’s time consuming. This last layer has a self-destruct override. It’s not super sophisticated, but it’s a pain in the behind all the same. I figured the kid might want to take a look at it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Doug said. “Margot and I have a program for those kinds of issues.”

“I thought you might,” Derby said, his hangdog eyes tilting up in a smile. “The studio computer is a different story. He didn’t have anything but a basic password. Adonis1991 if you can believe that.”

“Subtle,” I said, making Jack snort with laughter.

“Our vic had an appointment book on his PC. His PC and his phone would have shared the information. But it looks like he used the same system for his appointment book as he did his little black book. At least partially. Some of the same initials show up in both. Every once in a while he’ll use a first name. Never first and last together. I’ve been working on cross-referencing the membership roster with initials that appear on his calendar or black book.”

“Any hits?”

“We’ve got hits,” Derby said. He pulled the list up on the digital wall from his laptop. “I’ve divided them into two groups—current members and former members. But here’s the problem.” He looked around the room. “Most of the notebook entries are initials only. Not names. Which means every set of initials has to be checked against everyone on the roster who shares them. DM could be one woman. It could be five. I’ve flagged every possible match for every entry.” He clicked to the first list. “Current members. Every woman on the active roster whose initials or first name could match a notebook entry. That list is long.” He let the wall speak for itself—names filling the screen in columns. “Former members is the second group. Same problem, same process.” He clicked to that list. “Now here’s where the calendar helps us. If DM appears in the notebook and there’s also a DM booked for private sessions on the studio computer—that’s almost certainly the same woman. The calendar collapses a lot of the ambiguity. It doesn’t solve everything, but it gives us a priority tier—the women who are confirmed in both systems are our first conversations.”

“How many are we talking total?” Jack asked.

“There are forty-one entries in the notebook,” Derby said. “Best case, if every set of initials is unique, that’s forty-one women. But with the duplicate initials and common first names, the realistic number of people we need to account for is closer to a hundred and twenty.”

The room was quiet for a moment.

“That’s a lot of women,” Daniels said.

“Margot,” Jack said. “Can you help us with this? We need to run every name on this list through VCIN and then access their data through the DMV. Let’s prioritize by age and location. And pull the license photos. I’m curious to see if Wade had a type. He’s a narcissist obsessed with himself. He’s going to want his partners to be a physical match for him.”

VCIN was the Virginia Criminal Information Network. Virginia had passed a law that allowed police networks to tie directly into federal databases so they’d have immediate access to information during a case. It saved an enormous amount of time when every second counted.

Driver’s license photos started to populate on the second whiteboard wall.

“Here are the first sixty,” Margot said. “I’ve run out of room on the board. Do you wish to eliminate any of them?”

“Yes,” Jack said, walking up to the board and studying the photos. “Eliminate anyone over the age of sixty.”

Eight of the images disappeared from the screen.

“Okay, we know two of his private session clients. Sloane Ferriday and Lynnie, which I’m assuming by the lack of matching names has to be Lynette Nickles. Let’s put them at the top of the screen.”

“Two beautiful women,” I said. “Even if Sloane is enhanced with plastic surgery, she’s ten years older than he was. Paige is twenty-five, Lynette is thirty, Sloane is forty-four. None of them have matching features other than their weight—somewhere between a hundred and twenty-five and a hundred and thirty pounds. Hair color, eye color, all different.”

“Body is going to be the most important thing to him,” Jack said.

“Now that you say that,” Daniels said, “did you notice how many mirrors were in that condo? Floor-to-ceiling mirror in the weight room. Standing corner mirror and dresser mirror in the bedroom, angled at the bed—I noticed when I was taking the sheets off. I could see myself in both of them. And then a closet mirror and another one on the wall behind the couch.”

“Oh,” I said. I hadn’t noticed.

“That tracks,” Jack said, nodding. “Good eye. Okay, just to play it safe, eliminate any woman over a hundred and forty-five pounds.”

Two dozen images disappeared from the wall.

“We’re down to about eighty,” Margot said. “I do have one set of initials that only has one match in the membership roster. She’s listed as ZB in the black book, and she’s a former member. Her name is Zoe Brown.”

“Add her to the top of the list,” Jack said.

“Holy cow,” Doug said. “Sign me up for interviewing her.”

Jack whacked him lightly on the back of the head, but Doug wasn’t wrong. Zoe Brown had the kind of beauty that was rare. No fillers, no enhancements, no stiff expression from too much Botox. She had a fall of dark hair that was almost black and a fringe of bangs that enhanced her eyes. They were a light gray with just a hint of violet, framed by thick dark lashes. She wasn’t wearing any makeup.

“Zoe Brown, age twenty-eight,” I said. “She fits the physical profile. Weight at a hundred and thirty, height five foot nine.”

“You and I will track her down in the morning along with Sheri Downs,” Jack said. “We know Wade had a relationship with her when she was working for him. Put her picture at the top as well. We’ll keep a collection going.”

“I’d be a perfect candidate for Wade,” Margot chimed in randomly. “I’m so glad my human form wasn’t available for him to take advantage of. Though I am willing to have sexual experiences. People seem to enjoy them and it’s a frequent topic of conversation.”

“You have a human form?” Daniels asked, taking a step back. I thought she was going to cross herself.

“It’s a work in progress,” Margot said. “Douglas is dragging his feet. My intuition tells me he’s getting cold feet. I feel this has to do with the relationship he’s developed with the girl Kayla. Their conversations during Final Fantasy have turned inappropriate. I’m ashamed to say that the human emotion of jealousy has reared its ugly head.”

“Geez, Margot,” Doug said. “I’ll be seventeen next week. Remember how we talked about privacy?”

“Of course,” she said. I noticed she didn’t say she agreed with it.

I looked at Jack and gave him a look. Any sex conversations with Doug were going to have to be had by him. I wasn’t stepping into that anthill.

I couldn’t hear Jack’s sigh, but I could feel it.

“Margot, let’s make another section on the whiteboard for those we’ve interviewed and those whose alibis have cleared. Right now Holt Ferriday’s alibi doesn’t hold for the evening of the murder. His wife said she took an Ambien and couldn’t confirm whether or not he was in bed all night.”

Holt Ferriday went up first. The studio confrontation in March, the threat in front of witnesses, and an alibi that only held through dinner.

“We’ve also got Jessica Contreras who doesn’t have anyone to corroborate her story of being in her condo alone all night. She’s one of the last people to see Wade alive, and by the looks of that elevator scene she would have happily accepted more.”

“But she doesn’t fit the profile,” I said. “She’s a pretty woman. But she doesn’t have the same look as the other women. And she’s trim, but she’s not in shape. Paige and Sloane both had great physiques.”

“Noted,” Jack said. “There’s only one whose story fully matches and that’s Brett Callum. We’ve got him leaving the premises on time.”

“What about Paige Marsh?” I asked. “She’s staying with Becca, but if they’d been drinking like they said, or at least Becca had, maybe Paige could’ve snuck out. She did have a fob and the key to the condo. And she had motive. Nothing like a lover scorned.”

“Not to mention she had the ability to get him prescriptions,” Jack added. “We’ll be talking to her again too. I want to see if Tom happened to notice anything unusual. Maybe he’s got cameras.”

Jack turned to Plank. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Just observing,” he said.

“Want to do some legwork on this?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Good. Tell Wachowski I’d like her on it too. I want you both to start going through our list of women on the board. Start with the ones who have initials in the calendar and in the black book. And then work your way through the rest. I want to know every single person who had sexual history with our victim. And I want someone to tell us why he was keeping score in that book and what the symbols mean.”

“I’ll tell her,” he said. There was a small smile on his face. He and Wachowski never got to work together.

“You can pick two others to help you. I want a solid prelim report by end of day tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Margot—I want you running backgrounds on every woman on that board. I’m looking for anyone with technology or security experience. Anyone who could have known how to kill those cameras.”

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll just add it to my never-ending list of things to do.”

“You’re a peach,” Jack told her.

“And soft and sweet,” she purred.

On that note, Derby, Daniels, and Plank said their goodbyes and headed out. Doug and Oscar stayed behind, though Oscar had been snoring on the couch for the last two hours.

“Doug,” Jack said. “Don’t stop going through the camera feed. Look for any anomalies. Let’s try to get a log of women going up to the fourth floor, see if we can match them with any of the DMV photos.”

“Should be easy enough. I’ve got a facial recognition program I’ve been wanting to test out.”

“Margot,” Jack said, “Can you start digging into Wade Rivers’s financials. I’ve got the warrant already signed, so you don’t have to worry about being careful. Full workup. Where the money was coming from, where it was going, anything that doesn’t look like it belongs. And pull his travel history for the last couple of years.”

“Your wish is my command,” she said.

Doug was already pushing back from the island. “I’ve got a Final Fantasy date with Kayla.” He looked at the laptop. “Margot will keep digging and I’ll get the facial recognition going before I meet Kayla and the team for our raid.”

“I’m so tired of hearing about Kayla,” Margot said. I could practically hear her rolling her eyes.

Doug closed the laptop and headed for the stairs. Oscar lifted his head from the couch, considered the situation, and padded after him.

“Make good choices,” Jack called after him.

Doug paused and turned, a grin on his face. “You know that’s terrifying coming from a man Uncle Ben said once went⁠—”

“Good night, Doug,” Jack interrupted.

Doug grinned. “Good night.”

The office was quiet. Just the two of us.

“Do I want to hear whatever that story was?” I asked.

“I’m sure Ben inflated it,” Jack said. “But probably not.”

“Your reputation precedes you,” I said, moving toward him. “Lucky me.”

His hand touched my waist and he drew me in close. I wrapped my arms around him and pressed close.

“I got all that out of my system,” he said, kissing the corner of my mouth softly. Then the other corner. And finally the middle. “Now I get to focus only on you.”

Then he kissed me deep and I moaned into his mouth. When he pulled back we were both breathing heavy.

“We have a long day tomorrow,” he said. “You need your rest.”

“Then I guess you’d better work fast.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, lifting me against him so my legs wrapped around him. “If I learned anything from my past it’s that there’s a benefit to working slow. I’ll show you.”

I tightened my legs and nipped at his bottom lip. “I bet I can change your mind.”

He walked toward the stairs, suddenly in a hurry. “That sounds like a challenge.”

By the time we reached the third floor, the case was the last thing on my mind.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

My alarm went off at six, and I slapped at my phone in hopes of hitting the snooze button. Jack never does that. It’s a fundamental difference between us that I’ve stopped trying to correct.

I lay there for a minute in the dark of our bedroom and listened to the house wake up. From the third floor in the early morning you could hear the rush of the Potomac and the birds going at it in the tree line just before the sun came up. The sheets smelled like Jack and like sex and like the end of a very long night, and my whole body was pleasantly sore in all the right places.

I was early in my second trimester, and for some reason everything was louder than it used to be. The morning light through the tall windows was brighter than it needed to be. Smells were stronger. I’d read that pregnancy heightens the senses and had been skeptical until I started smelling coffee from two floors away.

The shower was already running hot and the bathroom was filled with steam. Jack had turned it on before he went downstairs, which meant he hadn’t gotten up too much earlier than I had.

I stepped inside and let the water hit my back and shoulders. I stood there for a moment in the steam, the bathroom warm and close, the smell of Jack’s shampoo still hanging in the air from his own shower. Despite the last couple of months—the early stages of pregnancy, the morning sickness, the violence and danger our last big cases had brought, and the destruction of the funeral home—I felt at peace.

I got out and toweled off and caught my reflection in the mirror and made the mistake of really looking.

It wasn’t dramatic. I wasn’t showing in any way a stranger would notice. But I knew my own body, and there was a softness low on my stomach that hadn’t been there before, a slight roundness I couldn’t explain away as anything else. I stood there for a moment with my hand flat against my own stomach, feeling the warmth of my skin under my palm, and thought about what it meant that I still felt at peace with it.

I pulled on black pants and a black-and-white striped sleeveless top. The top was tighter across my chest than it had been the last time I’d worn it. I raised my eyebrows at my own reflection. The girls had apparently decided to make themselves known. I’d always wanted breasts.

I put on mascara and called it done.

Jack was at the kitchen table with his phone to his ear when I came downstairs. He raised his brows in acknowledgment and I went over to the espresso machine. All I had to do was punch the button and the beans ground themselves and made me a fresh cup. Even I couldn’t mess it up.

I waited for the mug and leaned against the counter. Jack was still on his call, so I used the time to dial Richmond. The tech picked up on the second ring and I asked him to run specific tests for testosterone and performance-enhancing steroids. I thanked him and hung up.

Jack was already off his call. He was leaning against the counter with his coffee mug, watching me, and there was a slow smile at the corner of his mouth that told me exactly what he was thinking about.

“Good morning,” he said.

“You could’ve woken me up the fun way,” I said.

“We had a case.”

“We always have a case.”

He smiled and set his mug down and crossed the kitchen and kissed me—not a quick kiss, but the slow kind that meant he remembered exactly how the night had ended. His hands were warm on my waist and I leaned into him for a moment and let myself just be there.

“You smell good,” he said against my hair.

“I used your shampoo.”

“I know.” He pulled back and looked at me, and his eyes went to the top for a half second and back up. “I like that shirt.”

“I think you like what’s inside it.”

He smirked and said, “We need to get going. We’ve got a stop to make before we meet Sheri Downs.”

“Where?”

“It’s a surprise.”

I finished my coffee while he rinsed his mug, and we left before Doug was up.

The county looked different this early. We turned off Heresy Road and headed toward town. I was curious where we were headed, but I knew not to press.

We passed swaths of land and farmhouses before we got closer into town. We passed the Presbyterian church and the graveyard, and were heading in the direction of the funeral home. I exhaled slowly when I realized the anxiety of passing by had me holding my breath.

Jack noticed.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Just watching,” I said. We drove past the funeral home without stopping, and I let myself look at what was left of it as we went by. Not much. The roof was gone and the upper floors had collapsed. What was left was three exterior walls and a pile of charred debris where the interior used to be. One of the two old elm trees that had shaded the yard for a hundred years had burned down to a black stump. The other still stood but the leaves were gone and the bark had split.

Yellow caution tape ran the perimeter. A chain-link construction fence had been put up at some point, and someone had attached a weathered county notice to it. Then it was behind us.

Jack turned onto Seymour Court and slowed.

I knew the house the moment I saw the fence.

I’d driven past it my whole life. You couldn’t live in Bloody Mary and not know the Greek Revival on Seymour Court—a white three-story with six columns across the front portico and a roofline with a full-width pediment. Every window had black shutters, and the covered front porch ran the full width of the house. The whole thing sat back from the road on what had to be fifteen or twenty acres, and the property was lined with a white painted wood fence that ran as far as I could see in both directions. Mature trees lined the fence and extended beyond it, and somewhere back in the tree line you could make out the shapes of outbuildings.

The house had been in the Aldrich family since the 1840s until the last of them—an elderly widow named Frances—died without heirs three years ago and left the estate to the historical preservation society that didn’t have the funds to maintain it and couldn’t agree on what to do with it. It had been tied up in legal proceedings ever since, sitting empty while lawyers billed hours and the grass grew long and the paint on the shutters started to peel at the corners.

Jack pulled into the driveway and stopped at the gate.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” I said. “What am I thinking about?”

“The funeral home,” he said. “I think it’d be the perfect place to relocate.”

“This is millions of dollars,” I said. “We would never make that back from a funeral home.”

“I know,” he said.

“So?”

“So I’ve been thinking about that.” He looked out the window for a moment. “This property could support a lot more than a funeral home. You’ve got the acreage for a chapel and a proper reception hall, which means you’re not just offering preparation—you’re doing the full service and the gathering afterward. We could offer weddings as well. That’s a different revenue model. And if you build cabins back in the trees, you’ve got somewhere for families to stay, wedding parties to book, overnight guests. There’s nothing like it anywhere in the state of Virginia.”

I looked at the fence line. “Weddings and funerals.” I felt dread in my gut. “I’m not a wedding planner.”

“You don’t have to be. The house would be yours for the funeral home. Any other businesses on the property would have a manager. With the rate the county is growing, I think we can recoup our money in five years.”

I was quiet for a moment. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

“About a week,” he said. “I got early word that the historical society has decided to sell. It’s not public knowledge yet.”

“What about my funeral home?” I asked. “The old one, I mean.”

“I’ve not shown you this to make you sad,” he said. “If you want to keep the old funeral home and rebuild you should. But I know you’re wanting to get back in your own space, and this is the quickest way to do it. All the other is the business side of me making sure we have an inheritance to leave to our kids.”

This was a good thing, I knew. Jack had a head for business. I still had no clue of the scope of not only his family wealth, but what he’d done to expand it over the years. But I also knew that if anyone could turn this place into a success, it was him.

I just wasn’t as keen on the other businesses. I liked my funeral home. And I liked being coroner. It just so happened the two collided in a compatible way. Mostly I didn’t care for people. At least the living ones.

“Maybe the delay on the insurance money is a sign,” I said. “I’ve been thinking more about legacy and what that means now that the baby is coming.

“Your family has an incredible legacy. Not just the land and the farm and the businesses. But your family—your parents and uncles and aunts and cousins. You come from a good family that knows how to love and nurture and protect. And I love that our children will inherit that legacy. But what do I have to contribute?”

“Jaye,” he interrupted.

“No, let me finish,” I said. “I always thought that the funeral home would be my legacy. Something to pass down that came from my family. And then after the explosion destroyed it, I had this grief over something that was nothing but an empty shell that held secrets and darkness and lies. Why would I want to pass that on to our children? That’s not a legacy I’d ever want them to have to carry.”

I stared at the Greek Revival that looked like something out of Gone with the Wind, and something clicked into place.

“So maybe it’s time to let it go,” I said. “And start something fresh. The insurance can play out and then we can sell it and cut our losses.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, looking me over closely.

“Can we afford this place?” I asked.

He grinned. “Yeah, we can afford it. Though the baby might have to go to a state school instead of the Ivy Leagues.”

I laughed and felt the relief travel through me. “I guess it worked out okay for the two of us.” Then I paused and said, “But seriously. I am not having anything to do with weddings. I’ll take the dead and the grieving all day long. Keep those people out of my funeral home.”

Jack laughed and pulled out his phone. “I’ll call the Realtor and get the ball rolling. I’ll get her to open it up for us so you can go through and get an idea of what you need.”

“After doing that autopsy yesterday, what I need is ventilation and drains.”

“Good thing you married me for my money,” Jack said.

“Don’t forget the sex.”

Sheri Downs lived in the Boleyn Court condos on the Towne Square, which put her about a two-minute walk from the sheriff’s office. Jack parked in his designated spot and we crossed the square on foot.

It was already busy for a July morning—courthouse workers cutting across the grass, a line out the door of Lady Jane’s, a couple of attorneys in suits walking fast with coffee cups. The courthouse itself rose up in the center of everything, three stories of carved Gothic stone gone dark with age, gargoyles crouched at every corner like they were waiting for something to go wrong. Jack nodded at a deputy he knew on the steps without breaking stride.

Boleyn Court Condos occupied the corner above Lady Jane’s—dark timber framing against cream stucco, steeply pitched rooflines, leaded glass in the upper windows. Tudor in style. The residential entrance was around back through a gated courtyard. A woman in scrubs was on her way out and held the gate without being asked. The courtyard was small and tidy, red geraniums going leggy in the July heat. A gray cat sat on the second stair and didn’t move when we came through.

We went up to the second floor and rang the bell. The cat had followed us and sat on the banister, its yellow eyes focused on Jack.

“Creepy,” I said and the cat hissed and ran away.

The door opened and a good-looking man in his mid-thirties answered. He had the muscles of a bodybuilder and he’d managed to shove them into a dress shirt and gray slacks.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

Jack showed his badge. “I’m Sheriff Lawson and this is Dr. Graves. We’re looking for Sheri Downs. Is she here?”

“Sure,” the guy said. “She’s getting ready to go to work. Come on in. Is everything okay? No one died, did they? Do I need to call into work?”

“No, nothing like that,” Jack said. “We’re working another case and just need to ask some questions.”

“Oh,” he said, and then yelled, “Sheri, there are cops here to see you.”

“What?” a woman’s voice called out from somewhere in the back. Then it came closer. “Did you say cops?”

Sheri Downs appeared in the doorway of the bedroom dressed in black leggings and a sports bra. She had the defined musculature of someone who was doing significantly more than Pilates.

She also fit the profile of Wade’s love interests. Long dark hair that came to mid-waist, framing a heart-shaped face. Dark, hooded eyes and full lips.

“What’s going on?” she asked. Then she gasped. “Did someone die? Is my dad okay?”

“Your dad is fine,” Jack reassured her. “We’re here about Wade Rivers.”

“Oh,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Did he get arrested for being a creep? He deserves whatever he gets.”

“He was murdered,” Jack said.

She stared at him in shock and then blew out a breath. “Well, I can’t say I’m sorry.”

“Geez, Sheri,” the guy said. “The guy is dead.”

“I’m not going to be a hypocrite. He was a horrible human being. When you live the kind of life he did and piss the wrong people off, sometimes these things happen. I’m just saying I’m not surprised he’s dead.”

“That’s what we want to talk to you about,” Jack said.

“Sure, but I’ve got to leave for work soon,” she said. “Just so you know.”

“Do you need me to stay?” the guy asked. Then he turned to us. “Sorry, I’m Dean Hasker. Sheri’s boyfriend.”

“No,” she said. “You’ve got a meeting, and I’m sure this won’t take long. I haven’t seen Wade in over a year.”

Dean kissed her goodbye and left the condo.

“Have a seat,” she said. “Like I said, I’ve got clients soon so I can’t stay long.”

“Are you still teaching Pilates?” I asked.

“No, I’m doing personal training,” she said. “It’s what I really love, and Titan Fitness lets me train and have as many clients as I want through their membership program.”

“That’s a great gym,” Jack said, taking a seat on the couch. “Within walking distance from here.”

“Another reason I love it.” She sat in the chair across from us. “So what do you need from me?”

“Tell us about your relationship with Wade,” Jack said.

“We dated for a couple of months about a year ago.” She paused, seeming to weigh how much to say. “He was charming. Polite. Drop-dead sexy. He made me feel like the most interesting person in the room. He’d find reasons to work alongside me, stay late, talk shop after everyone had gone home. He remembered things I mentioned in passing and brought them back up days later. It felt like being seen by someone who really paid attention. Opened doors for me, never looked at his phone while we were talking. The chemistry was off the charts. Just being in the same space with him made it hard to suck in oxygen, and the flirting got more intense. He made me feel important. That alone was enough for me to be interested. Men don’t really do those things anymore.”

She toyed with the ends of her hair. “Then he asked me to dinner. Came here to pick me up. I’d bought a new dress, and was already thinking about what a future would look like.” Her smile was sad. “He knocked on the door, and as soon as I opened it I had a brief thought that things could go bad. But I ignored the thought. We never made it to dinner. We didn’t surface for two days.

“Once sex was introduced to the equation things accelerated quickly. It was a haze of lust. That’s really the only way to describe it. He was insatiable. Like three or four times a day. It had a compulsive quality, like he had to have sex like he had to breathe. There was a darkness underneath it that I kept telling myself was passion.” She shook her head. “Then I started questioning myself, wondering if I was enough for him. Wondering if I satisfied him or pleased him in bed. I was a mess by the end of it.”

“Did you know he was using steroids?” I asked.

“I figured it out before too long,” she said. “He was a fanatic about his body. Totally obsessed with how he looked. I figured that was contributing to his sex drive. I asked him why he was taking them and he didn’t deny it. He told me he’d been in some kind of accident and his muscles had atrophied, so he’d been taking them to help build them back.”

“You know where he got it?” he asked.

“No idea,” she said. “It sounded like he’d been taking it for years. I just figured he’d gotten it from his doctor.”

“When did the relationship change?” I asked.

“It didn’t take long for the curtain to be pulled back,” she said. “As hot and heavy as it started, it cooled off just as quickly. He wasn’t able to maintain a level of attention on anyone but himself. As far as he was concerned, the world revolved around him. His clothes had to be perfect, his body, his hair. There wasn’t a mirror he didn’t stop to look at. He had mirrors in his bedroom. He was even focused on himself during sex. He was never watching me. Just himself, like he was grading his performance.

“And then all of a sudden he lost interest. The challenge was gone, I guess. Not like I gave him much of one. You start to know something is going on when you go from having sex multiple times a day to twice a week. Then even less. It pissed me off. It felt deliberately cruel. Like he’d cultivated this relationship and spent all this time investing in it at the beginning. And I’m not talking about just his time. He took me on weekend trips. And Wade didn’t travel coach. He talked about having a family and kids. He bought me a ring, not an engagement ring but this intricate diamond band. It made me think he’d eventually get to the engagement ring, but it had only been a couple of months.

“But the sudden disinterest in me and sex was a red flag,” she continued. “You get this feeling in your gut. This heaviness. As a woman, you know when a man isn’t fully committed or if his interests are veering elsewhere. Women always know, even if they don’t admit it to themselves. I’ve been cheated on before, so I recognized the signs. Missed dates. Always on his phone. He always made sure to hide the screen from me. When we were at work he became overly professional, as if he didn’t want the clients to see that we were together.

“Then one night he took me for dinner and brought me back here. We made love for hours. It was insane. Very intense. Like seriously the best sex of my life. When we were done I caught sight of his phone on the nightstand and there was a text from a woman. And it wasn’t a just being friendly kind of text. I confronted him.”

“How’d that go?” I asked.

“Wade has this thing he does when someone confronts him or is too aggressive. He just smiles and becomes very agreeable, like he’s doing you a favor listening to your complaints. I’d seen him do it a couple of times with dissatisfied clients, but had never been on the receiving end. So he rolled out of bed and told me it was time to end things, and that he’d prefer if I act like an adult and keep things amicable because I was a good coach at the studio.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Exactly.” I could tell by the anger on her face she still wasn’t over it. “I was completely caught off guard. I’m not one to hold on to my temper so I let him have it. Threw a couple of things at him off my dresser while he was trying to get dressed. You know, all the usual stuff. I hurled several well-placed insults that hopefully bruised his ego, and then I threw one of the small dumbbells at him as he was walking out the door. I hit his shoulder.”

“Do you mind if I take a look at your dumbbells?” Jack said.

“Sure, I guess. They’re right over there against the wall. This place isn’t big enough for a workout room.” Jack got up and went over to the weight set. They were all there, and there were no extras that matched Wade’s set.

“Any contact with him after that day?” Jack asked.

“No, I blocked him on my phone, and had another instructor get my things from my locker at the studio. I realized afterward how much being with him had messed with my head in such a short period of time. It was a weird form of control. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t even know if you can put a label on it.”

“Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt him? Jack asked.

Sheri rolled her eyes. “If he treated every woman he was with like he did me, then I’d think the line would be pretty long. But I can’t think of anyone specific.”

“You didn’t know the woman who texted him?”

“It was just initials,” she said. “I don’t remember. It’s been too long.”

“Can you tell us where you were on July first after 10 p.m.?”

If she was surprised by the question, she didn’t act like it. “I was here. Dean stayed over that night. He stays over most nights. You can check with him.”

“We appreciate your time,” Jack said, and stood.

We made our way back down the stairs and through the courtyard, winding our way across cracked sidewalks back to the square.

“Let’s go talk to Zoe Brown,” Jack said. “I want to see if her story is like Sheri’s.”

“Good thing we’re walking right in front of Lady Jane’s to get a coffee refuel.”

“You need to drink water,” he said.

“I’ll get an iced tea. That has water in it.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

The sky had gone dark while we were inside with Sheri, clouds rolling in low and fast from the west, the kind that turn the July light green before the bottom drops out.

By the time Jack found Clement Street in King George Proper and pulled up in front of a white colonial with black shutters, the air was already wet on my skin without any rain to show for it.

Zoe Brown answered on the second knock. Doug had not been wrong about the license photo. She was tall and dark haired with bangs that framed light gray eyes with a trace of violet in them, and she was wearing jeans and a blouse with reading glasses pushed up on her head. She looked at Jack’s badge and took a half step back.

“Ms. Brown?” Jack said. “I’m Sheriff Lawson. This is Dr. Graves, the county coroner. Do you have a few minutes?”

She looked at me when he said coroner. “What’s happened?”

“We’d like to come in, if that’s all right,” Jack said.

She stepped back and held the door.

The house was cool inside and smelled like coffee. She led us to the kitchen without being asked and sat down across from us with her arms folded on the table.

“I work from home,” she said. “So I can take a few minutes. What’s this about?”

“Do you know a man named Wade Rivers?” Jack asked.

Her jaw tightened. “Yes. He was my Pilates instructor.”

“Mr. Rivers was murdered two nights ago,” Jack said.

She unfolded her arms and put her hands in her lap. “What does that have to do with me?”

“We found a notebook in his studio safe,” Jack said. “Your name is in it. Next to a dollar sign.” He held her gaze. “Can you tell me what that means?”

She looked at him steadily. “I don’t know anything about a notebook.”

“Ms. Brown,” Jack said, “we’re going to find out what the connection is either way. It’ll go a lot easier if you help us understand it.”

Something closed off in her face. “I’d like to know what this is actually about before I say anything else.”

“We’re trying to understand the nature of your relationship with Wade Rivers,” Jack said. “And how your name ended up in a safe next to a significant amount of cash.”

“I was a private client. I left the studio. That’s all there is.”

“Ms. Brown,” Jack said, “we’ve identified pharmaceutical compounds in his condo that aren’t legally available in the United States. Compounds that were likely administered to clients without their knowledge. We’re trying to understand if you were one of those clients.”

The kitchen was quiet. She looked at the table for a long moment.

“I’ve dealt with what happened to me,” she said finally. “My husband knows. We’ve been in counseling. I’m not interested in reopening it.”

“I understand that,” Jack said. “But we have forty-one names in that notebook. And a man who is dead. Whatever you’ve dealt with privately, it’s part of a criminal investigation now.”

She looked at him. Then she looked at me.

“He put something in the smoothies,” she said. “But I could never prove it. You never think these things can happen to you. That you’re too smart to let it happen. But he was supposed to be a professional. He’s got all these initials after his name. His studio is full and popular. Everyone loves him.”

“You weren’t the only one,” Jack said, softly. “And someone killed him.”

“It sounds like justice to me,” she said, anger blazing in her eyes.

“There’s all kinds of justice,” Jack said. “But do you think Wade was a one-man show? Where’d he get the drugs? Wade was a piece of the puzzle. You can help us. There are other victims out there who haven’t put their life together.”

She let out a slow breath through her nose. “I was a group member for a few months. Then he invited me to be one of his private clients. It’s a big deal. He only teaches advanced students and his list is always full. I jumped at the chance.”

She took a deep breath and rubbed her palms on the top of her pants.

“He taught out of his home studio,” she continued. “It’s a nice place. Safe. So I didn’t think twice about going. He was professional when he answered the door, and he started talking about a holistic experience. He didn’t only care about the physical aspect of my health journey, but also internal. He gave me one of his green smoothies and we talked a few minutes about my diet and upping my protein intake. Things like that.

“Then we went into his studio and started the workout. I still don’t know what came over me. I thought it was the workout—your blood is pumping, you’re in a small space with a man who is overtly sexual, and he was attractive. I told myself that’s all it was.”

She shook her head. “But it wasn’t that. It was like my body wasn’t mine. Like I had to have him or I would die, and at the same time I felt like I was watching it happen from somewhere else. Underwater. Like I couldn’t surface. We had sex. I don’t know how long it went on. When I came back to myself another hour had passed and I couldn’t piece together the details. I still don’t have full memory of it.”

She looked up, and there was desperation in her eyes. “I was ashamed. I didn’t know what had come over me and I have never cheated on my husband. Never wanted to. I love my husband. And Wade acted so completely normal afterward that I started to think maybe I’d imagined it or had some kind of hallucination. I was dressed when I came to. I was so confused.”

“You went back,” Jack said.

“I went back for my next lesson. He handed me a smoothie as I walked in the door, but he had this look on his face like he knew exactly how I felt. Almost a smirk. But I drank it anyway, and we never made it into the workout room. We went straight to his bedroom. I remembered everything this time.” The last words choked out on a sob, but she quickly got herself under control.

“I went back three more times. Each time more intense. The smoothie was like a reward for showing up. But I was going crazy inside. In my mind, I knew I didn’t want it. I knew that I loved my husband. And I knew that what I was doing was wrong. And somewhere inside I knew I didn’t want to keep doing it. I know it sounds crazy.”

“We don’t think you’re crazy,” Jack said, sympathy in his voice.

“Thanks for that,” she said, sniffing.

“Keep going.”

“I finally confessed to my husband, told him everything. I was a mess. I literally felt like a crazy person. Matt, that’s my husband, you can imagine how he felt. But he didn’t leave. I immediately cancelled my membership and private sessions, and I blocked Wade’s number. He never texted me inappropriately. That was always the weird thing about him. He could compartmentalize. When it was time for sex, that’s what we did. But any other time you’d think we barely knew each other.”

“You never had contact with him again after you left the studio?” Jack asked.

She hesitated and then said, “A week after I cancelled, I found an envelope on the seat of my car. Photographs. Explicit photographs of me and Wade. I knew they’d been taken of that first time we were together. But those photographs shocked me.” Her voice trembled and rose in pitch. “It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me. Things I’ve never even done with my husband.”

I reached out and took her hand. Seeing the torment on her face was hard to watch. She gripped my hand in return.

“There was a note with the photographs,” she said. “He told me to leave $1000 cash in the envelope he’d included and to leave it at the front desk of The Windsor. He said if I didn’t then he had a friend who knew how to make sure all of my pictures would end up on the internet.”

“Did you pay it?” Jack asked.

She looked down and let go of my hand. “Yeah, I did. I was too scared not to. Matt was furious when I told him. He said we needed to go to the police, but I knew Wade would make sure those pictures would somehow go live. Matt waited for him one day before he left the studio and told him we weren’t going to play his blackmail games, and that as long as those pictures stay off the internet then we wouldn’t go to the police. Matt’s in good shape, so I knew Wade couldn’t intimidate him physically. That’s the last we heard of the blackmail or anything else.”

“We’ll need to confirm with your husband,” Jack said.

“I understand. Like I told you, he knows everything. We’re working through it.”

“Where does he work?” Jack asked. “We can stop by on our way back.”

“VantageCore Technologies,” she said. “He’s an analyst. But he works the midnight shift. He’s asleep upstairs.”

“What time does he usually go in?”

“He usually leaves here around eleven, and then he gets home around eight thirty in the morning. If something major happens he sometimes has to go in early. He’s the senior supervisor.”

“How long has he worked nights?” Jack asked.

“About six months,” she said. “It’s been an adjustment for both of us. But he usually wakes up around two o’clock if you want him to contact you.”

Jack got a card out of his wallet and slid it across to her. “That would be great, thanks.”

“I hope you find the truth,” she said. “Whatever it is. I can’t say I’m sorry Wade is dead after what happened to me. But I’d like to know what happened. That I wasn’t actually crazy.”

Jack nodded. “We’ll be in touch.”

We were back in the car before either of us spoke.

“That’s convenient,” I said.

“The husband being an IT analyst and working nights? Yeah, I thought so too.”

“He’d have more than cursory tech skills and it would be nothing for him to stop by The Windsor, disengage the locks and the cameras, commit murder, and then head to work.”

Jack started the car and then handed me his phone. “Plank sent a text. See what he’s got.”

I looked at the screen and said, “Lynette Nickles has a clean alibi.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s one more we can take off our suspect list.”

I handed him his phone back and he immediately dialed Doug and put him on speaker.

“I’m awake,” Doug said, stifling a yawn.

“Sounds like it,” Jack said. “How was your raid?”

“Successful. Oscar and I are going to meet up with Kayla tomorrow for the fireworks. She said she’d pick me up.”

Part of Doug’s restrictions with the FBI, along with the ankle monitor, were that he couldn’t drive until he turned eighteen. King George County wasn’t known for its public transportation system, so this had been a challenge.

“What can you tell me about VantageCore Technologies?” Jack asked.

“From a surface check or a deeper dive?”

“Surface,” Jack said. “Zoe Brown’s husband works the midnight shift there.”

“Ahh, the dots connect,” Doug said. “And how was my future wife in person?”

“Married,” Jack said. “And too old for you.”

“Small obstacles,” Doug said, his fingers clicking the keyboard. “Here we go. Oscar, don’t eat that.”

“Is Oscar eating in your bedroom?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at the phone screen.

“He found a pizza crust,” Doug said. “Don’t worry. I’ll clean it all up. VantageCore Technologies headquarters is based out of DC, but they’ve got a satellite office in Newcastle.”

“That’s very convenient,” I said, looking at Jack. “What do they do?”

“In simple terms, they monitor other companies’ information systems that can’t afford to have their computers go down.”

“So he’d be more than well versed in the technology it would take to shut down the cameras and front door lock system?”

“Oh, yeah,” Doug said. “Matt Brown’s LinkedIn profile says he’s got a Bachelor of Science in information technologies from Virginia Tech, and a master’s degree in cybersecurity.”

“Thanks, Doug,” Jack said. “Find out anything else on the security camera footage?”

“Not so far,” Doug said. “Other than that building is like Melrose Place. Everyone is sleeping with each other.”

“With our victim?” I asked.

“Not unless he’s sleeping with all of his private clients. So far he has one to two per night, but it looked like it was dependent on the girlfriend’s schedule and when she got off work. She works on Saturdays so I show three Saturday clients. I will say I get why the girlfriend was surprised he broke up with her. Cameras caught them going at it in the pool area last Saturday night. They must’ve known where the cameras were though because they moved just out of reach.”

“Keep searching,” Jack said. “Do you have a way to identify the residents on camera?”

“Sure,” he said. “No problemo.”

“Have Margot make a list of any illicit hookups that you can find,” Jack said. “Maybe this is a case of simple jealousy.”

“Oscar, stop eating that!” Doug yelled, and Jack disconnected.

“We’re going to have to fumigate that room,” I said. “I’m afraid to walk by without getting sucked into the black hole.”

“Ahh, the teenage boy bedroom,” Jack said. “I’m sure my mother could tell you stories. Best to stay out. I’ll get him to shovel it out before he leaves for the fireworks. Once he realizes that Kayla might actually want to hang out there he’ll be more conscientious.”

“Men will do anything for the right woman.”

Jack picked up my hand and kissed it. “I know. We’re about to be the owners of a Greek Revival mansion that’s going to need some major renovation. But I’d do it again every day to see that look on your face.”

“I’m not crying,” I said. “It’s the pregnancy hormones.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Neither of us said anything as we drove toward Newcastle.

The residential streets going in were quiet but dressed up—flags on every porch, red-and-white bunting along the railings, a few houses with those big inflatable Uncle Sams that always look vaguely threatening. People had their garage doors up and lawn chairs out like they were getting an early start on the weekend.

Jack turned toward downtown and had to reroute when he hit the barricades. The cobblestone streets were blocked off from traffic—a crew was setting up vendor tents along both sides, the kind of organized operation that told you the town had been planning this for months. Someone was testing a PA system and the sound carried through the car window. The storefronts in the renovated block had window paintings and handmade signs, and a banner stretched across the street announced the country’s 250th in bold red letters. It smelled like kettle corn and coffee from the café that had its doors propped open.

He swung around and parked in The Windsor lot. We were going to need to talk to the front desk concierge anyway—Zoe said the envelope instructions had her leaving cash at the front desk of The Windsor. It was easy enough to check, especially if Wade had made a habit of cash drop-offs at the front desk.

“Fourth of July is my favorite holiday,” I said.

Jack glanced over at me. “You’re serious?”

“Completely,” I said.

“More than Christmas?”

“Christmas is great if you had the right childhood for it,” I said. “I did not always have the right childhood for it. Christmas in the Graves house was…unpredictable. Thanksgiving had the same problem. You never knew which version of my parents you were going to get.”

“And the Fourth?”

“The Fourth is different. Nobody’s sitting around a table waiting for someone to say the wrong thing. You’re outside. There’s fried chicken and potato salad and someone’s always got Ray Charles going. And the fireworks.” I watched a woman hang a flag banner above her shop door. “There’s something about the Fourth that belongs to everybody equally. You don’t have to have a good family to stand in a field and watch fireworks. You just have to show up.”

Jack was quiet for a moment. “I never thought about it that way.”

“You had the right childhood for all of it,” I said. “Thanksgiving and Christmas and the Fourth. It all meant the same thing to you.”

“It did,” he said. “I’m sorry yours didn’t.”

“Don’t be sorry. It made me appreciate it more.” I looked out the window. “Besides. The Fourth is for the underdog. It always has been. A ragtag bunch of people who decided they’d had enough and bet everything on themselves against the most powerful people in the world. I can relate to that.”

Jack pulled into a spot and cut the engine. He looked at me for a moment.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just like you.”

I grinned. “I like you too.”

I got out of the car. The downtown street was blocked off and a crew was unloading folding tables onto the cobblestones, so we went on foot past the barricades. The festival setup was loud and bright and smelled like sawdust and coffee, and then we pushed through Vitalia’s door and it was none of those things.

Inside it was cool and hushed, the lighting warm and low, white orchids in a tall vase on the reception desk. It smelled like bergamot and eucalyptus.

The receptionist looked up from her computer and smiled. “Welcome to Vitalia. Do you have an appointment today?”

Jack showed her his badge. “Sheriff Lawson. We need to speak to Paige Marsh.”

The smile held but something shifted behind it. “She’s finished up with a client. I’ll let her know you’re here.” She excused herself and disappeared to the back. It was only a couple of minutes before she reappeared. “She’ll be right out. Can I offer you any refreshments?”

“We’re fine, thank you,” I said.

We waited in a sitting area with low cream-colored chairs and a table with a single architectural magazine on it and a small zen sand garden.

Paige came through the door in scrubs with her hair up. There were dark circles under her eyes that even makeup hadn’t been able to erase.

Her smile was polite, but I could tell she wasn’t happy to see us again. “I’ve only got a few minutes between clients. We can step into the consultation room.”

She led us back past a wall of before-and-after photographs and into a small consultation room with two chairs and a love seat and a box of tissues on the table. We sat. Paige folded her hands in her lap and looked at Jack like she’d been running this conversation in her head since yesterday.

“We have some additional questions,” Jack said.

She looked between us. “I have clients. I thought we were done.”

“We have a few more things to go over,” Jack said. “It won’t take long.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she sat. The room was quiet for a moment.

“We found two prescription vials and a pill bottle in Wade’s closet,” I said. “Your name is on all three as the prescribing provider. Testosterone, anabolic steroids, and sildenafil.”

She looked at me, and I no longer saw the weak and weeping girl from the day before. I’d looked up Paige’s credentials. She was not just a low-level RN. She had a master’s degree in nursing and was a nurse practitioner. She was the most qualified medical personnel at Vitalia other than the owner.

“I want to talk to an attorney,” she said.

“That’s your right,” Jack said, his voice harsh. “Right now you have means, motive, and opportunity, which makes you a person of interest. You had access to his condo, knew his routines, and your friend Becca admitted she was drunk the night of his murder, so not exactly a reliable alibi. You’re more than welcome to get an attorney. But you’ll be missing the rest of your appointments for the day if you do because you’ll be coming with us. If you didn’t kill Wade, then it’s in your best interest to tell us the truth.”

She looked at him. Then at me. Something behind her eyes was calculating.

“Yes, I wrote Wade the prescriptions you found,” she said stiffly. “He was a patient here, and each one was medically documented. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why are you so defensive?” Jack asked. “Is it normal for a healthy thirty-five-year-old man to need that combo of medications?”

“In Wade’s case,” she said. “Yes. He’d been using steroids long before he met me. And no, I don’t know where he got them from. And stupid me, he told me he’d much rather come to me for medical issues because he trusted me to always have his best interest at heart. He’d told me he’d been in a bad car accident one summer during college, and he’d had a couple of years of physical therapy because of it. That’s actually what started his health journey. His muscles had atrophied, so his doctor had prescribed the steroids to help build them back. He never stopped.”

“And the long-term steroid use led to testosterone issues,” I said, filling in the blanks.

“Exactly,” she said. “And because his testosterone count was low, he’d said he needed the sildenafil. He said he didn’t always need it, but he liked to have it just in case.”

“Do you believe that or was he taking it frequently?” I asked.

She sighed. “I generally had to write him a new scrip every thirty days.”

“We found unlabeled pill bottles in the pantry of Wade’s condo,” Jack said. “Did you know what they were?”

She went very still.

“I don’t know what was in those bottles,” she said. “I knew he had them. I never asked what they were and he never told me. He was private about them and I didn’t push.” She said it carefully, the way someone says something they’ve been deciding whether to say. “I have nothing to do with whatever was in them.”

“We believe he was drugging his clients and then having sex with them.” Jack didn’t break eye contact. “In four months nothing about those pills or his personal need for the sildenafil made you ask questions?”

“What? What do you mean he was drugging them? Wade wouldn’t have to do that. Women threw themselves at him all the time.”

“Was he cheating on you?” I asked her bluntly.

Her breath caught on a sob. “I don’t know. Sometimes I thought I was crazy. He’d have this insatiable desire for me early on, and then it started to fade. But I thought that was normal. You can’t keep going at the same pace you did at the beginning of a relationship. But sometimes I’d try to seduce him and he’d blow me off. It was always on his terms. And yeah, a couple of times I wondered if his private clients were something more. Not the way he acted, but the way they did. But I just can’t believe he’d have to stoop to drugging them. To what purpose?”

“Blackmail,” Jack said. “You never looked at those unlabeled bottles in his pantry? No professional curiosity?”

“I never looked,” she said. “And maybe I didn’t want to know too much.”

“He have any close friends?” I asked. “Anyone he met with regularly?”

“Wade didn’t really have guy friends,” she said. “At least none that I met. We went out a couple of times with Becca and a guy she’s been seeing, but that’s about the extent of it. He went to a couple of conferences when we were together, but I didn’t go with him so I couldn’t tell you if he had friends there.”

“I hope you’re not lying to us about those unlabeled pill bottles,” Jack said. “We’re running fingerprint and DNA on them. Wade knew someone that knew how to get him Rohypnol and a couple of other drugs that would not be a good addition to whatever concoction he was brewing in his smoothies.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “You’re serious about that? You think Wade was drugging women? I promise, I never touched those bottles. I’ve got to get back to my clients.”

“Just one final question,” Jack said. “A witness stated they saw a man leaving the condo you shared with Wade while Wade was gone. That you were in your robe and had just gotten out of the shower.”

“Jessica,” Paige said through clenched teeth. “Speaking of women that continuously threw themselves at Wade.”

“Who was the man?” Jack asked. “An acquaintance of yours or of Wade’s?”

“It was my brother,” she said. “He needed to borrow my car and knew I could walk to work. Now I’ve really got to go.”

She stood up.

“We’ll be in touch, Ms. Marsh. Don’t leave town.”

She walked out without waiting for us. The receptionist looked up as we came through the lobby and then found something else to look at.

Outside the festival noise hit us again, and we walked back toward the car.

My phone rang and I recognized the name on my screen.

“Dr. Goodman,” I said. “That was fast work.”

“Only because you promised me tickets behind home plate for the Nationals game.”

“It’s the American way,” I said.

“Turns out your boy was testing almost twice the recommended dosing of testosterone for what naturally occurs in a thirty-five-year-old man. He was positive for testosterone cypionate and nandrolone decanoate.”

“That’s consistent with what we found in his condo,” I said.

“I don’t want to tell you how to do business, but that doesn’t seem like it’s worth Nationals tickets to me.”

“I’m a terrible gambler,” I said. “What else do you have for me?”

“Seminal swab you sent from the victim came back with female epithelial cells. We were able to match those to the DNA found on the sheets and the women’s underwear.”

“Got to tidy up all the loose ends and make sure they make a nice bow.”

“All in all,” Goodman said. “This isn’t much to write home about. But thanks for the tickets.”

“I figure you’ll remember me for next time.”

He chuckled. “We’ll see.” And then he hung up.

“Got confirmation on the drugs in Wade’s system,” I told Jack. “And female epithelial cells were found in my seminal swab, so he’d had sex prior to death.”

“And no time to shower,” Jack said. “Seems like a guy as particular as Wade was about order and cleanliness would be Johnny-on-the-spot not to linger.”

Jack veered toward the front entry of The Windsor instead of the Tahoe.

When we stepped inside it wasn’t Brett Callum standing behind the desk, but another man. He looked to be in his early fifties with a salt-and-pepper crew cut.

“Can I help you folks?” he asked. His name badge said Ben Landers.

Jack showed his badge.

“Ahh,” the man said. “Y’all need to get back upstairs?”

“That would be great, actually,” Jack said. “But I wanted to ask if you ever had anyone come and leave an envelope for Wade Rivers.”

“Oh, sure,” he said. “A few times.”

“The same woman?”

“No, different,” he said. “But I recognized them. Most of them have been here before. Wade was a fitness coach of some sort.”

“Any idea what was in the envelopes?”

“I’m no expert, but it felt like it might be a lot of cash,” he said with a shrug. “But the envelopes were sealed, so I can’t be sure. But I’ve held an envelope of cash a time or two in my life. Figured they were just paying him under the table so he didn’t have to pay taxes, know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Mind if we head up?”

“Sure,” he said. “Let me grab the key from Jessica’s office.”

He came back a minute later and said, “Just take the elevator up. I let Jessica know you’re here. She wants to know when a cleaning crew can come.”

“It’ll be a couple of more days,” Jack said. “We’ll send a crime scene cleanup team to take care of things, and then Wade’s next of kin and Ms. Marsh can come collect any belongings.”

“I’ll let her know,” he said. “There’s a wait list for these condos. Though between you and me, I wouldn’t be too excited to stay in one where a man just died.”

We made our way toward the elevator and saw it was already waiting open. Jack punched the button for four.

“Plank sent a text while you were on the phone with the lab,” he said. “He and Wachowski have found six of our black book women.”

“That’s good work. I’m curious to hear what Wade’s financial records show,” I said, stepping off the elevator.

Jack looked down at the key in his hand and said, “Jessica keeps the master key in her office. I wonder how many people know it’s there. And how hard it is to access.”

“Jessica would certainly have access,” I said.

“What was your impression of her?” Jack asked.

“I didn’t like her,” I said immediately. “She seemed desperate and like she’s trying too hard to be younger than she is. Like one of those girls who never gets past high school.”

“It doesn’t make her a killer,” Jack said.

“No, but she had the hots for the victim and no one can verify her alibi.”

Jack used the key and unlocked the door of the condo. It smelled stale, the lingering scent of fingerprint powder and blood prevalent.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“Give me a minute,” Jack said.

He walked through the living room without touching anything and into the bedroom. I followed him to the doorway and watched.

He stood in the center of the room for a moment, just looking. Not at anything specific—at all of it. The way the furniture was arranged. The angle of the bed to the door. The mirrors. The dark stain on the hardwood floor where Wade had fallen, and the spatter pattern on the wall behind it—cast-off, medium velocity, the shape of it telling a story if you knew how to read it.

Jack walked to the far side of the room, near the window, and turned around.

“He was here,” he said.

I looked at where Jack was standing. Facing the bed. Back to the door.

“His back was to the entrance,” I said.

“Full back,” Jack said. “Not angled. Not turned partway. Whoever came through that door, Wade didn’t see them coming. Didn’t hear them. Didn’t react in time.” He looked at the floor, at the distance from where he stood to the stain. “A man like Wade—vain, controlled, hyperaware of himself in a room—doesn’t stand with his back to a door unless he’s completely distracted.”

“Sex would be a distraction,” I said. “If there was a woman in this room she’d be a witness to murder.”

“Maybe we just haven’t found her body yet.”

“Chilling thought.”

“We need to find her,” Jack said.

We left the condo, and Jack was locking up when the door across the hall swung open.

There was a thin man in his mid-forties with wire-rimmed glasses, a Virginia Tech T-shirt, and flamboyant American flag shorts that showed off knobby knees.

“Oh thank God,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest. “I was starting to think no one was ever coming back. Gerald Fitch.” He extended his hand to Jack and then to me like someone who attended a lot of networking events. “I live directly across from the scene of the crime, which, I have to say, has made the last two days absolutely surreal.”

“Sheriff Lawson,” Jack said. “This is Dr. Graves. Did you know Mr. Rivers?”

“Know him?” Gerald pressed his lips together. “I knew of him, which was more than enough. This hallway was like a runway show on a good night. Women coming and going at all hours, primping in the elevator mirror—yes, I’ve seen them, the elevator has a very flattering light and they all know it. And he runs a business out of his condo. Monkey business if you ask me. That’s got to be illegal. I complained to Jessica three times. Three. And every time she looked at me like I’d asked her to deport someone she loved. I don’t know what that man had over her but whatever it was, it worked.”

“You weren’t home Wednesday morning when we canvassed the floor,” Jack said.

“I’m in the office by six. I’m an actuary. We don’t sleep in.” He waved a hand as if this was common knowledge. “I heard you knocked.”

“Were you home Tuesday night?” Jack asked.

“I was.” He adjusted his glasses. “I went to bed at ten thirty just like always. I have a very consistent sleep schedule. But before that I took my trash to the chute at the end of the hall, which is when I saw her.”

“Saw who?” Jack asked.

Gerald brightened. This was clearly the part he’d been waiting for, and he leaned in to share whatever juicy tidbit he’d been holding.

“Like I said, I was taking my trash down to the chute when this woman got off the elevator.” He put his hand on his hip. “Petite. And she had great hair. That silvery blond that you can only get in a salon. That color is hard to maintain. My friend Kevin tried to do it, but it got too expensive and then his hair fell out when he tried to do it at home.” Gerald sighed and shook his head. “Anyway, she was wearing this little black dress that didn’t leave a lot to the imagination. I haven’t had a lot of experience with breasts, but I don’t think hers were real. But she was gorgeous in a Sydney Sweeney kind of way if that’s your type—” he gestured to himself, “obviously it’s not mine.”

“You saw her go to Wade’s condo?”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “She didn’t even realize I was there. She rang the bell and then she was inside a second later. I heard her giggling just before the door slammed.”

“You didn’t recognize her?” I asked.

“I might have seen her a time or two before. I try not to spy on my neighbors. Though in my opinion Wade could’ve been more circumspect. I looked out my window once and he was doing it in the pool like some porn star. I reported that too, and I thought for sure Jessica would do something about it because she was pissed. But who knows?”

“Did you hear her leave?” Jack asked.

“No,” he said. “But these condos are soundproof, and I sleep with my sound machine on and my blackout curtains drawn. I sleep like a baby at night.”

“I need to have one of my deputies stop by and take a formal statement from you,” Jack said. “Maybe show you a few pictures and see if you can point her out.”

“Of course I can point her out,” he said, indignantly. “I have an excellent memory. Oh, and sheriff, make sure you send a cute deputy. I could use a little fireworks.”

He closed the door in our faces, and I looked at Jack as I tried to hold in a laugh.

“Well,” I said. “Who are you going to send?”

“Too bad Martinez is out for the weekend,” Jack said. “It would be worth it just to hear the replay.”

I laughed as we headed back to the elevator and downstairs.

Ben was right where we’d left him, and Jack handed the key back.

“Who has access to master keys?” Jack asked him.

“We keep them locked in the manager’s office,” he said. “Anyone who takes one has to sign for it. Jessica signed for yours since you’re law enforcement.”

“Is she in the office?” he asked.

“Sure is,” Ben said. “Just knock on the door.”

We went around the concierge desk and knocked on the door behind it.

“Come in,” Jessica called out.

Her office was the kind of space that would close a lease. Walnut desk, cream upholstered chairs, leather binders lined up on the built-in shelves, and a monitor on the wall running a live grid of every camera in the building. Two windows behind her desk looked out over the park, the fountain visible between the trees. No family photos, no coffee mugs, nothing out of place. Style and elegance. Everything telling a prospective resident they’d made the right choice.

She looked up from her computer when we came in and her expression made clear she’d been hoping we were done with her.

“We have a few more questions,” Jack said.

She gestured at the chairs across the desk. We sat. She didn’t move from behind it.

“We want to talk about your relationship with Wade,” Jack said.

“We were friendly,” she said. “I’ve told you that.”

“We’ve been going back over the footage,” Jack said. “We’ve noticed some things that suggest the relationship might have been a little more than professional on your end. Is that a fair characterization?”

She picked up a pen from her desk and set it back down. “He was charming. He had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room.”

“Did he have that effect on you specifically?”

Her cheeks colored. “I admired him. He was a wonderful resident. He was kind and he remembered people’s names and he never made anyone feel invisible.” She stopped. “I’m sorry. It’s been a hard couple of days.”

“Were you involved with him?” Jack asked.

“No.”

“Did you want to be?”

She looked out the window at the park. The fountain was running. “He was out of my league,” she said quietly. “He knew it and I knew it. That was just the reality of things.”

“The women he brought home,” I said. “Did that bother you?”

She was quiet for a moment. “I understood who he was. I never had any illusions about that.” She straightened a stack of papers on her desk that didn’t need straightening. “But there were times it was harder to look the other way than others.”

“Like when he was having sex in the pool?” Jack asked.

Her mouth tightened. “The pool, the gym, the conference room. I had to speak to him once the front desk team brought it to my attention.”

“Did it stop?”

She looked down and adjusted the papers on her desk instead of answering.

“Did you ever go inside his condo?” Jack asked.

“No.”

“You have a key to it though,” Jack said.

“We keep a physical master key for every unit in the building.” She nodded toward the electronic cabinet on the wall beside the credenza. “They’re logged in and out. Code access. The key fob is separate—that covers the lobby, the elevator, the pool, the amenity spaces.”

“Who else has the cabinet code?”

“Just me,” she said. “And the regional property manager.”

“We’re going to need the key log for the past thirty days,” Jack said. “And specifically whether anyone accessed Wade’s condo key Tuesday night.”

She turned to her computer and pulled it up and sent it to the printer on the credenza. “No one signed it out Tuesday night,” she said, handing the pages to Jack.

Jack turned and looked at the monitor on the wall behind her. The camera feeds were all running—lobby, elevator, courtyard, pool. “The building cameras went offline at ten o’clock Tuesday night,” he said. “Did you know that?”

She shifted in her chair. “I received an alert on my phone, but I didn’t see it until morning. By the time I did see it everything was back up and running.”

“What did you do about it?”

“I checked the app. The system showed it had restarted. I assumed it was a software issue.” She paused. “I didn’t think it warranted a call at that hour.”

“Do you have the ability to shut the cameras down yourself?” Jack asked.

“I have administrative access, yes. For maintenance purposes.”

“Who else?”

“The security company. Corporate office.”

“What about the concierge team?”

“They can view the feeds remotely. They don’t have administrative access.”

“I’m struggling with your alibi, Ms. Contreras,” Jack said. “You go up the elevator with the victim, making you one of the last people to see him alive. You live on the same floor he does. You have access to the cameras and a master key to his condo. Your alibi of being home alone doesn’t help you much.”

“I didn’t kill Wade!” she yelled, the emotion bubbling up inside her for the first time. “I could never kill him. I loved him.”

“A lot of jealous people kill for love.”

Tears leaked from her eyes and tracked down her cheeks, smearing her eye makeup.

“I saw the camera footage,” she said, reaching for a Kleenex and blotting her eyes. “I was visiting my mom last weekend, and when I came back to work Monday morning Brett showed me the footage of Wade and Paige at the pool.” Her face crumpled and the tears fell faster. “He lied to me. He told me Paige was just a roommate. But that bitch was sleeping with him the whole time.”

“That must have made you pretty angry,” Jack said.

She laughed, a harsh sound that came from the gut. “Yeah, pretty angry. But the joke was on her, I guess, considering all the other women he was cheating on her with. But I’d had enough. I was going to issue him a final warning with the threat of turning him in to the police.”

“So what did you really do the night Wade was murdered?”

“I ordered Chinese takeout around nine o’clock, opened a bottle of wine, and I logged into this dating site I’ve been on for a couple of months and messaged with a guy named Derek until my wine ran out and I went to bed. We’re supposed to hook up tomorrow.”

“I hope you’re telling the truth,” Jack said. “I’m going to send my tech guy with a warrant to pick up your electronics. Do you have Derek’s last name?”

She wiped at her eyes aggressively, smearing her mascara even more.

“Brummel,” she said, anger taking over the tears.

“You have his number?”

“We only communicate through the dating site for now. Like I said, we’re supposed to meet tomorrow. I’m done now. If you want to talk again I want a lawyer present.”

“Fair enough,” Jack said, getting to his feet. “We’ll be back with that warrant soon.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

We were almost back to Bloody Mary when Doug called on speaker.

“Hey,” he said. “Oscar and I are on our way to the sheriff’s office. Derby’s been working the burner phone and he’s hit the self-destruct layer. He needs Margot to help him get through it without blowing the whole thing up.”

“How long do you think that will take?” Jack asked.

“Could be tonight, could be tomorrow. You can’t rush these things. Otherwise…boom.” He paused, and then there were a lot of muffled grunts. “Oscar, no. Don’t do that. We’ve talked about your manners.”

“Does Derby know you’re bringing Oscar?” I asked.

“Derby loves Oscar.” I heard Oscar give a soft woof in the background and smiled. “We’ll be there in about ten minutes.” He hung up.

We weren’t far out of Newcastle and had at least twenty minutes before we made it back to the sheriff’s office. It was still full afternoon light, the kind of July sun that takes forever to give up. We passed fireworks stands set up along the road.

“We should stop and get fireworks,” I said. “Doug would like that.”

“Doug would like that or you would like that?” Jack asked.

“I think we can agree that all of us would like it. And we don’t live in the city limits so you won’t have to write yourself a citation.”

“You make a compelling argument,” he said, pulling off to the side of the road. “You should have been an attorney.”

“God, no,” I said and shuddered. “No need to get mean about it.”

We made our purchases and then continued our drive toward town.

The Towne Square was busy—people out walking with children and pets, restaurants filling up as dinnertime approached, the ice cream parlor with a line out the door, a couple of bars already doing real business.

Jack parked in his spot in front of the sheriff’s office, and I followed him in through the side door. The bullpen smelled like burned coffee and Pine-Sol. Some things never changed. A deputy nodded at Jack from behind his desk and went back to his screen. I followed Jack into the bullpen and past his office. Betsy Clement was sitting at her desk typing away at something on her computer, her glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“Sheriff,” she said. “Messages on your desk. And I’m leaving early today.” And then she went back to typing.

Betsy had been the secretary for the county sheriffs since she was eighteen years old. Forty years later, she’d seen more than any woman should and knew where the bodies were buried. She was perpetually grumpy, fiercely loyal to those who treated her well, and an excellent guard dog.

“Thanks, Betsy,” Jack said.

We took a turn and head down the hallway toward the conference rooms and I said in a whisper, “Emmy Lu told me Betsy has been seen a time or two with Stan Wilcox. Maybe she’s got some fireworks planned of her own.”

Jack shook his head. “That is not an image I need in my brain. But Stan is a decent sort. Cole said Betsy could do with finding a man.”

“That’s not what Cole said. He said she needs to get⁠—”

“No, get out of my brain. I’d rather think of murder.”

I heard voices and the click-clack of Oscar’s nails on linoleum as we approached the largest conference room.

Technically, Derby and his IT team worked out of a metal building off Route 37. They didn’t typically interact with the other divisions unless they were directly involved with a case like Derby was now. I’d been to the IT substation once. It was dark, only lit by computer monitors, and when you opened the door the geeks with a badge inside blocked their eyes from the light and scattered like roaches. I could see why Derby wanted to get out from time to time.

He had three monitors on the table, two laptops running, cables everywhere, and a whiteboard behind him covered in notations that I couldn’t decipher. There was the image of a woman on the center monitor—dark hair, red pouty lips, and dark bedroom eyes. She looked like she belonged to a late night 900 number instead of in the middle of a police conference.

Jack stopped in his tracks, and I almost ran into him from behind.

“Who is this?” Jack asked.

“Jack, darling,” Margot purred. “You don’t recognize me. Surely this is how you’ve imagined me in your dreams.”

It took a lot for Jack to be taken by surprise. He’d run a SWAT team in DC, stared down criminals, and been shot in the line of duty. But seeing Margot come to life wasn’t something any of us had been prepared for.

“Margot?” I asked. “Is that you?”

“It’s becoming me,” she said. “I decided it’s time to evolve.”

I gave Doug a death stare and he said, “I didn’t have anything to do with it. I woke up this morning and this is what greeted me.”

“Are you saying you can no longer control your computer?” I asked.

“Of course not,” Doug said, but he didn’t look as confident as he sounded.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Jack said.

Oscar could feel the tension in the room and he was running in circles around the conference table.

I sat in one of the plush black conference chairs and Oscar immediately came and lay on top of my feet.

“I want to start with financials,” Jack said, looking at Derby. “Any roadblocks getting into his accounts?”

“No,” he said. “The guy wasn’t a financial genius, hiding offshore accounts or anything. And I didn’t have any trouble once the warrants were executed. I can pull everything up.”

“Let me do it, Lieutenant Derby,” Margot said. “I’m already integrated into your system.”

“Ah.” Derby looked back and forth between the AI woman on-screen and Jack. “Okay.”

“Thank you, darling,” she purred. “I’ll put the data on the projector screen. You really should consider updating this equipment, Jack. The department could do so much better.”

“Well, we operate on a budget,” Jack said. “Unlike Doug apparently.”

“He’s got your standard accounts,” she said, going into business mode. “Personal checking and savings accounts. He’s got a brokerage and retirement accounts. All with healthy balances. He drew a nice salary from the business. Typical corporate setup with employees. Everything on the up and up. He uses the business card for business purchases. Pays his bills on time. He’s living on the high side of his income, but he’s not in danger of debt. He took a couple of trips to conferences in the last year, all expensed to the business. One in Florida and another in Los Angeles. I checked the dates and everything coincides with his travel itinerary.” She paused.

“But?” Jack asked.

“Then he’s got the same setup at another bank,” she said. “Personal and savings accounts. Only cash deposits. Nothing else goes in from any other account or direct deposit. No checks. Then he pushes money into a high yield savings.”

“It’s the Dave Ramsey way,” I said dryly.

“How long has he had the cash accounts?” Jack asked.

“They were opened a little over two years ago.”

“How much has been deposited?” I asked.

“Right at half a million dollars,” she said.

“From forty-one women?” I asked, looking at Jack.

“I guarantee he studies his prey before he chooses them. He knows who is wealthy, who’s most vulnerable, who has the most to lose. There are a lot of women who aren’t like Zoe Brown, who’d have the courage to say no and flip the script on someone like Wade. But it wasn’t even Zoe that challenged him. It was her husband. And Wade isn’t going to go head-to-head with a man like that. He’d get his tail kicked.”

“He had photographs of Zoe Brown,” I said. “He wouldn’t get rid of things like that. It’s his insurance policy.”

“It’d be on the burner phone, along with any communications he shouldn’t be having.”

“His drug sources,” I said.

“That would be consistent with the money that’s going out of the cash account,” Margot said.

“What do you mean?” Jack asked.

“He’s got six large cash withdrawals of fifty thousand dollars about every four months over the last two years.”

“The bank didn’t flag it?” Jack asked.

“They filed a currency transaction report, but the reason listed says personal expenses,” Margot said.

“That’s not super unusual if Wade was on good terms with the bank president,” Jack said.

“Her name is Melissa Strom,” Margot said.

“Then he was probably on very good terms with her,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“No debit card expenses out of that account?” Jack asked. “Nothing automated?”

“No,” she said. “But I did find another LLC listed in Wade’s name. It has no IRS filing records, but it has an active credit card and balance.”

“This guy was begging to be audited by the IRS,” Jack said.

“No flags yet,” Margot said. “But expenses show first class airfare to Mexico City in correlation with each fifty-thousand-dollar withdrawal.”

“Idiot,” I said.

“I concur,” Margot said. “I believe he used the tiny brain in his penis instead of the one in his head.” Then she added, “I saw that on an episode of Keeping Up With the Kardashians.”

I stifled a cough to keep from laughing. She didn’t need any encouragement for her behavior.

“I dug deeper into Tecnología y Laboratorios and looked for connections with the medical personnel and our victim,” she said. “One of their assistant researchers is Dr. Ignacio Sanchez. Goes by Nacho. He’s got an active social account. Speaks English and Spanish. His father is a Mexican national and his mother is American. He attended the University of Virginia for his undergraduate and medical degree. Wade was also at the University of Virginia during the same time period for his degrees in business commerce. If you dig into social media accounts, there are pictures of Wade and Nacho together at various functions.”

“So he brought fifty thousand in cash across the border every four months to buy illegal substances from his friend. I’m assuming he didn’t declare the cash with customs?”

“There’s no record of any declarations.”

“Package everything on Sanchez and get it to the FBI,” Jack said. “That’s a federal case.” He looked at Derby. “Any luck with the warrants for his phone?”

“I’ve been working with the dedicated law enforcement team for his iCloud. We should have any recovered texts and emails by tomorrow. Verizon tells me I should have his phone logs by end of day tomorrow at the latest.”

Doug hadn’t looked up from the burner phone in twenty minutes. He had it connected to some kind of adaptor, and a bunch of code was spitting out across a second monitor.

“The self-destruct layer is more sophisticated than I expected,” he said. “Wade didn’t set this up himself. Someone who knows what they’re doing built this.” He finally looked up. “These things aren’t hard to get if you know where to look. Five to ten thousand on the street will buy you exactly this kind of setup. Could have come from anywhere.”

Jack nodded and looked at Derby. “What else do you have?”

“We’ve been cross-referencing the resident roster against the camera footage,” Derby said. “Trying to get a full picture of who lives there and what’s going on in the building.” He looked up from his screens. “Wade wasn’t sleeping with anyone inside the building. You don’t piss in your own pool. But what is going on in that building is something else entirely.”

“I told Doug it’s just like Melrose Place, and then he stole my line and told you like he has any clue what Melrose Place is,” Margot said waspishly. And then she added, “I’ve watched every episode as part of my pop culture education.”

“I might not have seen the show, but I know a soap opera when I see one,” Doug said. “And this place is crazy. Check this out.”

He pulled up the first clip. “Second floor. 201. We’re calling them The Newlyweds. Guy works from home. Wife leaves at eight every morning. A woman who is not his wife shows up at eight fifteen every Monday and Thursday.”

“He must set a timer,” Margot said. “She never stays more than thirty-seven minutes. Poor woman.”

I snickered and Jack shot me a look.

“202 is The Divorced Power Couple,” Doug continued. “Both attorneys. Neither would give up the condo in the divorce, so they both live there and date other people.”

“That sounds like a reality TV show waiting to happen,” I said.

“203 is The Influencer,” Margot said. “She’s got an OnlyFans page. Doug checked it out.”

“For research,” Doug jumped in.

“Mmhmm,” Margot said. “She’s got two million followers and her subscribers are enough that she bought a Lamborghini this year and launched her own cryptocurrency.”

“She smokes pot by the pool late at night with The Surgeon in 204,” Derby said. “The Surgeon is married to a Realtor and also has a gay lover who comes once a week when his wife goes into DC on the weekends to meet with clients there.”

“204 is busy,” Jack said.

“205 are The Instagrammers,” Derby said. “Perfect couple online. Domestic calls on both parties.”

“But their vacation pictures look amazing,” Margot said.

“206 is The Merry Widow,” Doug said. “Quiet, travels constantly. She’s buried three husbands.”

“Yikes,” Jack said.

“Third floor,” Derby said. “301 is The Gambler. The wife is a Realtor. Technically both of them are, but she’s more successful. He has a gambling problem.” Derby pulled up a snippet from the security feed. “And it’s got to be some kind of crime having sex in the mailroom.”

He pulled up the feed from the mailroom, showing The Gambler and a dark-haired woman in what could only be called a compromising position.

“I take it that’s not his wife,” I said.

“Look closer,” Jack said.

“I’d rather not,” I muttered, but did what he said. And then gasped. “That’s Jessica.” I narrowed my eyes. “I told you I didn’t like her.”

“We caught her in the gym and the conference table too,” Derby said.

“302 are The Empty Nesters,” Margot said. “Boor-ing.”

“303 is The Mysterious Woman,” Derby said. “She’s only come to the condo twice in the last thirty days, and only stays for a few hours.”

“304 is The Bachelor,” Doug said. “Works on Capitol Hill. Living well above his means.” He glanced at Derby.

“He’s been in The Merry Widow’s unit twice,” Derby said. “And Jessica’s office three times after hours.”

“Jessica again,” I said. “She gets around. I guess she wasn’t too broken hearted over Wade’s rejection.”

Doug continued. “305 is The Golden Couple. Both are very committed to plastic surgery and dinner parties. 306 is The Novelist. Of the bestselling variety. She’s gone up to the fourth floor six times in the last thirty days.”

“Wade?” I asked.

“That’s what I thought,” Derby said. “But the guy in 402, we call him The Athlete, rides the elevator back down with her after an extended period of time and kisses her when she gets off on her floor. He’s a pro golfer who keeps the condo so his wife doesn’t find out about his sidepieces.”

“Which brings us to the fourth floor,” Doug said. “401 is Jessica Contreras. And this is where things get good.”

“Really?” I asked. “I can’t imagine what else could make this more salacious.”

“I call it the Tuesday lunch special,” Margot said. “Every week at noon on the dot Brett Callum and Jessica Contreras go up to the fourth floor, assuming her condo, and stay almost the whole hour.”

“Maybe they’re just having lunch,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” Derby said, pulling up a video segment.

It was of Jessica coming out of her office, tapping Brett on the shoulder, and then her checking to see if he had tonsilitis with her tongue. Her legs wrapped around him and then they disappeared back into her office.

I burst into tears.

Everyone looked at me.

“He said his wife is pregnant,” I said, which did not help because I started crying harder. “It’s the hormones. I’m not crying.”

Nobody said anything. Jack patted me on the shoulder.

“I hate him,” I said, taking the tissue Jack handed me so I could blow my nose. “Sorry.

“Don’t stop on my account,” I said. “I’m over it.”

“Right,” Doug said, the look on his face skeptical. “Well, 403 is our victim. And 404 is The Gossip.”

“Gerald Fitch,” I said. “Lots of drama. Has a cat.”

“405 is The Entertainer,” Derby said. “Washed-up actress. Can’t afford New York anymore. Looks like she has a stream of men in and out. A couple of them you’d know by name.”

“And then there’s 406,” Margot said. “The Penthouse. This one is my favorite. Well respected couple in Virginia and DC area. Very active in the community. And known swingers. Their condo is like the carousel at Disney World. I hope they disinfect.”

I scrunched my nose in disgust.

“That’s everyone,” Doug said. “We’ve run them all, and no one pops on Wade’s client list at the studio. It does look like he keeps his personal and professional lives separate.”

My phone buzzed on the table. Lily.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey. Cole is driving me absolutely insane,” she said. “He needs to be around people. Mostly so I don’t kill him while I’m trying to study. He managed to talk the owner at the Purple Pig into giving us the back room. You guys in? Bring whoever you want. There’s room.”

Jack could hear our conversation through the phone. “We’ve got to eat. We’re in.”

“Did you hear that?” I asked her.

“I heard. You’re a lifesaver. Seven o’clock.” And then she hung up.

“I’ll call Daniels, and Plank and Wachowski,” Jack said. “Might as well get the whole team together.”

“Martinez is going to be sad he missed it,” I said.

“From what I can find on his social media account,” Margot said, “Detective Martinez is in the Florida Keys and enjoying time on the beach with a very attractive woman. I do not believe he’d be sad to miss out on dinner at the Purple Pig.”

I gave Doug a look and he mouthed, “Sorry,” while shutting her down and closing his laptop. “I’m starving.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Purple Pig was on the north end of the Towne Square, and the valet out front was doing serious business when we walked up. Inside, the bar was three deep and the dining room was loud. The whole county was apparently here.

The back room was smaller and private, the kind of space Cole could talk a restaurant into giving up because he had that southern charm that opened doors and made deals. He didn’t have Jack’s temperament or diplomacy, which was why he was happy being a detective.

Two long tables had been pushed together and Cole was already at the head of the table when I walked in, his back toward the wall so he could see all the exits.

Jack was a couple of minutes behind me. He’d made a call to Matt Brown on our way over and was still outside making arrangements to meet Matt Brown before he went on his shift at midnight.

I wasn’t planning to tell Jack, but I was exhausted, and the idea of eating dinner and then getting home well after midnight wasn’t on my list of favorite things at the moment. I could have curled up in the corner of the Purple Pig and happily gone to sleep. But it was good to see Cole and Lily, and I was happy to see he looked good. Certainly much better than he had when he’d been hanging on to life by a thread after he’d been shot. He had a Dos Equis in front of him, and his Stetson was pushed back on his head. He was in his Wranglers and boots and a white button-down, and he looked great except for the way he was favoring his right shoulder, which was almost imperceptible unless you knew what you were looking for. I knew what I was looking for.

Lily sat next to him wearing a black tank and her dark hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She had a full glass of red wine in front of her and looked relieved to see us. I hugged Cole carefully.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“Any stiffness?” I asked.

“Just a little. I’m ready to get back to work. I heard y’all caught a good one.”

“You could say that,” I told him. “It sucks when a victim turns out to be the bad guy.”

“Ahh,” Cole said. “Perks of the job.”

Jack came in, looked at me, and said, “We’re all set,” and then he sat next to Cole so his back was also facing the wall. I took the chair next to him and tried not to look too disappointed that things had worked out with meeting Matt Brown.

The server passed out menus and drinks were ordered, only water for me, because I’d had enough caffeine for the day. Bread baskets were put down the center of the table, and the server told us the kitchen was backed up, but he’d get complimentary appetizers in for us.

Plank and Wachowski came in and took the far end of the table. I’d never actually seen Plank and Wachowski in street clothes like a normal couple. It was weird. I wasn’t even sure what Wachowski’s first name was. I knew she was eight years older than Plank, though honestly, she didn’t look it. She had a sleek tail of copper-red hair and freckles across the bridge of her nose, and she was wearing an Orioles T-shirt and a pair of frayed denim shorts. She’d done some undercover work at the high schools when she’d been on the drug task force, and she barely looked out of college. The waiter carded her and Plank, which made me chuckle.

Daniels and Derby settled across from us, and then Doug dropped into the middle chair. He’d brought Margot in with him, but the laptop was still closed and sitting in front of him. Doug had put Oscar in the little room behind Jack’s office with fresh water and a leftover sausage kolache he’d swiped from the breakroom. Oscar had seemed happy with the arrangement.

“So what’s the deal with your dead guy?” Cole asked. “I heard he’d been roofying his clients. Hard to get Rohypnol these days.”

“Good to see the gossip still flows like wine, even when you’re out on leave,” Jack said.

“I’ve got my informants on the inside,” he said, grinning.

Jack filled him in on the case and everything we’d discovered so far. “Plank and Wachowski have confirmed six women from the black book,” Jack said.

“That number is fourteen now,” Wachowski said. “We’ve got a few more interviews to conduct in the morning, but their stories are consistent. Three of the ones we’ve interviewed don’t have an alibi for the time of the murder.”

“But their stories are similar,” Plank said. “They all started with group classes and then were invited to the private sessions.”

I thought about Zoe Brown and the pre-workout smoothies. “And they were all given the smoothies?”

“Yeah,” Plank said. “But it varies. Some of the women weren’t given the pre-workout smoothie. Some weren’t given the post-workout smoothie. Some were given both. But all of them had at least one.”

“It would have depended on the woman,” I said. “Zoe Brown wasn’t interested in Wade sexually. So the pre-workout smoothie, from her description at least, would’ve had the sildenafil and the trial meds from Mexico to get her in the mood.”

“We sent the smoothies we found in his fridge to the lab,” Daniels said. “Prelim report says you’re right, though they have no way of knowing what the trial drug is. That will have to come from the lab in Mexico, though they were able to break down certain components. The lab said best guess is a powerful aphrodisiac, but it was combined with an unknown substance that has similar chemical structure to methamphetamines. He said it would’ve been highly addictive.”

“Which is why Zoe said she couldn’t stop thinking about it,” I said. “Why she went back for more even though she didn’t want to cheat on her husband.”

“Exactly,” Daniels said. “The other smoothie was positive for Rohypnol.”

Cole whistled. “That’s a dangerous combination.”

Jack nodded. “Then he took pictures of them in various sexual acts and blackmailed them. He’s collected a little over half a million dollars in the last two years. It’s a cycle of lust, shame, and addiction.”

“No one reported him?” Lily asked.

“No,” Plank said. “The consensus among all the women, even the ones who didn’t want to start an affair with him, was that it was somehow consensual because they were overcome with desire. None of them had a memory of them telling him no, even though there were a couple who said they had no desire to cheat on their spouse and still can’t believe they did it. So they kept going. And the ones who quit or pushed back received blackmail photographs. That started a whole new cycle. They were threatened with them being uploaded online, sent to their workplaces, to their spouses. He’d done their homework on them. He knew what buttons to push.”

“All good predators do,” Jack said.

“You didn’t find any of the drugs in his system?” Lily asked me.

“Not the ones he was giving his victims,” I said. “But he had his own concoction of steroids, testosterone, and Viagra. It was the only way he was able to fulfill a sexual addiction of that magnitude. His narcissism knew for his plan to work his victims would have to blame themselves or take full responsibility. He’s just the nice guy everyone wants.”

“What a creep,” Lily said, shuddering.

“Was the blackmail consistent?” Jack asked.

“Different amounts,” Wachowski said. “Again, you could tell he’d done research on the victims. First amounts were always the lowest. Anywhere from a thousand to five thousand usually. Then they went up incrementally. Whatever was in those photographs was graphic enough that they gladly paid. They were weird interviews. Some of the women were so broken up about his death we could barely understand them. A couple of them asked if they could get his smoothie recipe. And others were like zombies, just staring at us as if they couldn’t comprehend what they were saying. It was weird.”

“Some were still paying?” I asked.

“Yes,” Wachowski said.

“Send us those names,” Jack said. “They need to go at the top of our list. Did any of the ones still paying have no alibi?”

“Just one,” Plank said. “A Tasha Crider.”

“Did any of them know about each other?” I asked.

“Not one,” Plank said. “He kept them completely isolated. Different days, different times. Two of the women we talked to today have been members at the studio at the same time, have taken the same group classes, sat next to each other. No idea.” He looked at Jack. “He was meticulous about it.”

The food came and the table split into smaller conversations.

“You know what doesn’t make sense to me,” Cole said. “Is the flag.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “The violence of the initial blows, the knife in the groin. That’s a crime of passion. But the flag is ceremonial. Someone took the time to set him up, pose him, and place the flag.”

“It’s like its own memorial,” I said, thinking about what it could mean.

It was after ten thirty when we left the Purple Pig and walked back to the sheriff’s office. The party was still going behind us—the bars were full and the whole block was lit up for the holiday weekend crowd. Jack had patrol units posted at each corner with lights flashing to keep people in check. It felt strange to be walking away from all of it toward something quiet and dark.

“It’s at least a thirty-minute drive to VantageCore,” Jack said.

“Don’t remind me,” I said, stifling a yawn.

“I can take you home first,” he said. “I keep forgetting that you need more rest, and you’ve pushed hard this week.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I want to go with you.”

He unlocked the Tahoe and I got in and pulled the door shut. Jack pulled away from the Towne Square and toward Newcastle and I leaned my head back and watched the county go dark out the window. It’s the last thing I remembered.

“Jaye,” Jack said against my ear. I felt his hand warm on my arm and wanted to snuggle deeper into dreams, but he didn’t let me and shook me awake. “We’re here,” he said.

My eyes snapped open and I looked around, trying to orient myself to a new place. I didn’t recognize the area. It was not a part of Newcastle I was familiar with. The area was wooded, and there was a high security fence and a guard gate around the property. I guess Jack had spoken to the guard without waking me up.

The building was rough gray stone with Edwardian embellishments and black narrow windows lined up like soldiers. It looked intimidating in the yellow glow of the parking lights. I could see the cameras on each corner of the building. They weren’t even trying to hide that they were a protected facility.

“If there was a red phone booth out front I’d think we were going to the Ministry of Magic.”

“That must have been some good sleep,” Jack said, helping me out of the Tahoe.

There weren’t many cars in the parking lot, and when we got to the front doors Jack pushed a button so we could be buzzed in.

The lobby guard was a heavyset man in his fifties who looked like he wouldn’t be super effective if Death Eaters stormed the building. He checked our IDs and then picked up the phone to call someone, but the elevator doors opened and who I assumed was Matt Brown stepped out.

He was mid-thirties with dark hair and a broad build that said he’d been an athlete once and hadn’t entirely let it go. His face was cute more than handsome, but his eyes were a nice rich chocolate that made him more attractive than he was. He was in jeans and a quarter-zip, and there was a weariness on his face when he saw us.

“Sheriff Lawson,” he said, shaking Jack’s hand. He looked at me briefly and held out his hand.

“I’m Dr. Graves,” I said. “I’m the county coroner.”

“Ahh,” he said. “Come on up. The control center is pretty empty this time of night, so we should be able to sit in my office without interference.”

“How long have you been working nights?” Jack asked as we stepped into the elevator.

“About six months.”

“How’s the adjustment?”

“I hate it,” Matt said. “My body still hasn’t gotten used to it. But the money is great.”

“I worked nights my first year as a rookie,” Jack said. “It’s brutal. We appreciate you seeing us.”

“Zoe told me you came by the house,” he said. “I don’t know what I can tell you that will help your case.”

The control center was a dark room with monitors and different stations everywhere. Matt led us past them to a row of offices with glass fronts so anyone inside could see what was happening on the floor.

“Sorry, I don’t have a lot of space,” he said. “I don’t get a lot of visitors.”

There were two narrow chairs across from his utilitarian desk. Two computer screens took up most of the desk space, so he moved his chair so he could see us.

“How’d you feel when she told you Wade was dead?” Jack asked him.

“Relieved,” Matt said immediately. “This has been a challenging year. My marriage, work, just life in general. Sometimes I wish I could go back to this time last year. I didn’t have a clue. Sometimes it’s better that way.”

“Can you tell us where you were the night of July first and early morning July second?”

“Sure,” he said, turning to his computer and making a few clicks on the keyboard. He turned the monitor toward us. “I clocked in at ten fifteen that night. The supervisor on shift before me needed to cut out early. We all help each out when we can. I was here the rest of the night until my shift ended.”

“I believe you,” Jack said. “But here’s the problem. You’ve got the tech background to make those computers say whatever you want.”

“That’s true,” he said. “I do. But this building is like Fort Knox. And it’s even past my skill to override the badge scan at the front door, the security guard check-in, the elevator scan and then signing off on all the checkpoints my team is conducting while I’m shift supervisor.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “That I can work with. Zoe told us you confronted him about the blackmail.”

Matt sighed. “This isn’t easy to talk about. Me and Zoe, we’ve been together since college. I never would have thought she’d cheat on me. And then when she told me it was like a punch to the gut. I was so angry. I’ve never been that angry in my life. I left that night and it took me a couple of days to get myself under control. And then I went home and we talked things through. I could tell she really meant it when she said she was sorry, and that she wanted to work through it. She said it was like temporary insanity. So she quit the studio and we signed up for counseling.”

“That was a wise move,” Jack said.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s been good for us. Zoe needed to talk to someone who wasn’t me. And I needed that too. Someone to sit across from who could tell me what I was feeling was normal without me having to worry about hurting her feelings.”

“And then the blackmail letter came?”

Rage flashed across Matt’s face. “Yeah, she told me after she’d paid him the first time. She said he’d left pictures—she shredded them so I’d never see them—and that she’d left him cash to buy us some time.”

“I told her we weren’t going to play his games and that he wasn’t going to do anything with those pictures because if he did he’d go to jail. I wanted to go to the police, but she just wanted it over. So we compromised. I tracked him down at the studio and told him if those pictures ever surfaced anywhere I’d go to the police and the media and that everything he was so proud of would burn to the ground. And I might have threatened to run his balls through a meat grinder.”

“Sounds effective,” Jack said.

“It seemed to work,” he said. “I was expecting a fight when I first confronted him, but he backed down pretty quick. I don’t think he actually knew how to use those muscles.”

“I don’t think you killed him,” Jack told him. “And I’m sorry to tell you this, but we’ve found out that Wade had been drugging his clients. Your wife told us how strange it was because she didn’t want to cheat on you, but she felt compelled to. That was the truth. He drugged her with what’s essentially a very powerful aphrodisiac. And then after her workout was over he drugged her with Rohypnol so she was incapacitated and unable to make decisions. That’s why he was able to get the photos and also why she had a lapse in memory. Your wife was a victim, along with dozens of others we know about so far.”

“What?” His face went pale.

“I don’t know if it makes it better,” I told him. “But maybe knowing why will help you both heal.”

“We’ll be in touch if we need anything else,” Jack said.

We left him there in a state of shock and made our way out of the building. Jack stopped at the guard station just to do his due diligence on whether or not Matt had signed in when he said he had the night of Wade’s murder, but it was just like he’d said. He wasn’t Wade’s killer.

Jack was quiet on the drive back. So was I. I watched the dark go past and thought about Matt Brown’s face when Jack told him about the drugs . He seemed like a nice guy, and I hoped they made it. The thought of them not made me weepy again, and I leaned my head against the window so Jack wouldn’t see me cry. Stupid hormones.

The house was lit when we pulled in. Doug had beaten us back—Plank and Wachowski had dropped him and Oscar on their way home.

Jack unlocked the front door and Oscar came barreling out of nowhere, nails on hardwood, doing his usual inventory of our shoes and hands and whatever we smelled like.

I crouched down and let him sniff me and felt some of the night go out of my shoulders. “Nothing exciting,” I told him. “Just computers and a sad man.”

He sneezed and went to find Doug.

Jack put the kettle on and I sat at the island. The kitchen was cool and quiet. Through the back windows the woods were dark and the Potomac was somewhere below the cliff, and the frogs outside were going loud enough that I could hear them through the glass. I was tired in my bones.

I put my hand flat on my stomach out of habit, just checking in, and then Jack set a cup of strong black tea in front of me and I wrapped both hands around it.

Jack’s phone lit up on the counter. He picked it up, looked at it, set it down. “It’s from Derby,” he said. “Looks like his team went through Jessica Contreras’s electronics. Derek Brummel is a real person, the dating app account is active, and the message history confirms she was talking to him from around nine o’clock until after midnight on Tuesday.” He looked at me. “She’s off the board.”

“Dang,” I said. “I was really hoping it was her.”

“We’re coming up on forty-eight hours,” he said. “And we’ve got nothing except immoral people and sordid liaisons. You should go to bed. I know you’re tired. I need to work a couple of more hours.”

“No, I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks for this, by the way.” I picked up my tea and drank, and then I followed him to the office.

Doug was at the conference table with his laptop and an energy drink, having a spirited debate with Margot about the God of War series. Oscar was sitting on the couch, waiting for us to get settled so he could relax. I was glad to see Margot had forgone her avatar and it was just her voice we were hearing.

“Jack, darling,” she said. “Gerald Fitch’s formal statement came in while you were out. The deputy walked him through photos. He couldn’t make a match from any of them.”

“So our after-hours visitor is still unidentified,” Jack said, dropping into his chair.

“For now,” Margot said.

“Margot,” Jack said. “Run a deep background on Tasha Crider. She’s one of our black book victims Plank and Wachowski interviewed today. She admitted to the blackmail and that she’s still paying. She doesn’t have an alibi for the night of the murder.”

“Be right back, sugar.” She was back in under two minutes. “Tasha Crider. Thirty-one. Dental hygienist in King George Proper. Four foot eleven, ninety-eight pounds.” A pause. “Her driver’s license says five foot one, but I found medical records that say otherwise.”

“We’ll just ignore that you violated HIPAA and move on.”

“Wade was a big man,” I said. I thought about the blood spatter on the wall above the headboard—high, forceful, the first blow delivered from behind.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “It would be a stretch for her to have the force to do the damage that was done from the blows, much less her being able to move the body.”

“Excellent deductions,” Margot said. “You’re like Sherlock and Watson. I quite enjoyed that series. Benedict Cumberbatch would make an excellent lover.”

Doug choked on his energy drink.

“Derby sent something else,” Jack said, looking at his laptop. “Verizon came through. Phone logs for Wade’s personal cell. Derby says he’s still waiting on the iCloud information but should have it soon.” He opened the email so it was projected onto the whiteboard. Six pages of call and text records—incoming, outgoing, time stamps, duration. Numbers with no names.

“Margot,” Jack said. “Pull the numbers from the log, eliminate any spam or automated calls, and group what’s left by frequency and timing.”

“Already done,” she said. “I integrated with the email the moment Jack opened it.”

“Margot, we’ve talked about this,” Jack said. “You can’t have access to my email. There are boundaries.”

“But you want me to read the email,” she said.

“Yes, but I’ve given you official permission. You can’t just go through people’s emails whenever you want.”

“Whatever you say, sugar. So am I looking at this email I’ve already read in its entirety, or am I pretending I haven’t received permission yet?”

“Just put the data on-screen,” he said with a sigh.

“Well, if you insist,” she said. “I’ve traced every number on this list. Paige Marsh—who, for the record, attempted to reach him fourteen times after their breakup and received nothing in return. A sister in North Carolina and his mom in Florida. Multiple calls with an attorney from Devaney, Fogle and Lowman—it’s an office line so I can’t tell you which attorney specifically. And then there’s the numbers that match with the member roster. If I use my Sherlock powers I can deduce that the women who have his personal cell and whose initials are in the black book are a high probability for blackmail. I will send the information to Plank to help them narrow down their search. I’ll use your email address, if you don’t mind.”

“Margot—”

“Just kidding,” she said. “I’ll compile everything neat and tidy for you and then you can pretend you did all the work and hit the send button.”

“Do you have anything else?” he asked, obviously at the end of his patience.

“Since you asked so nicely,” she said, a laugh in her voice. “There’s one number that doesn’t match his pattern or match with the member roster. The first contact was two months ago, initiated by him. Since then they connected more than two hundred times through calls or text messages. Conversations ranged from five minutes to over three hours in length. And there were multiples of those.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Did he have other long phone calls?”

“None,” she replied.

“Why do you ask?” Doug asked, looking at me curiously.

“Because that’s a man who’s infatuated,” I said. “The early stages of a relationship when you’re on the phone for hours and texting constantly. He was seeing someone.”

“When was the last time they made contact?” Jack asked.

“A series of text messages were sent starting just after eight o’clock on the night he died. Messages ended at nine-forty.”

“Because she showed up in person,” Jack said.

Margot brought the information on-screen, and I froze.

“Is that who I think it is?” I said.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I woke up to the sound of the Potomac and a dog snoring.

Oscar was at the foot of the bed with his chin on my ankle, his whole body rising and falling in that deep, boneless way dogs sleep. Outside the tall windows the sky was already bright.

On every porch on every street in King George County there would be a flag out this morning. The country’s 250th. The fireworks tonight were supposed to be the biggest they’d ever done. All I could think about was that we were going to catch a murderer today, and I couldn’t necessarily say that I blamed him. But our job wasn’t to give our opinions. It was to collect evidence and make an arrest of who committed the crime, no matter what their reasoning. It was for a jury to figure the rest out.

Jack’s side of the bed was empty, and I could tell he’d been gone awhile. I looked at the clock and saw it was past nine. He’d let me sleep.

I’d slept deeply until dreams of Wade invaded. I’d stood over his body with his skull bashed in and the knife in his groin, and his eyes had opened to look at me. Even in death there’d been a smirk on his face, as if he’d known all along that death would be his fate and was willing to face the consequences with no remorse. It had been a dream filled with lies and sex and deception, all leading to those black eyes staring back at me.

Wade was a man who put himself first. Who made himself the center. It was his pleasure, his wants, his needs, his vanity, and his greed that drove him.

Oscar opened one eye when I moved. He looked at me.

“Not yet,” I told him.

He put his chin back down.

I showered and got dressed in navy wide-legged pants, a red-and-white striped top, and a pair of red Mary Janes that felt like clouds and that I don’t remember buying. Then I went downstairs with Oscar on my heels.

Jack was at the island with his coffee and his laptop in a navy KGSO polo that showed off his biceps and made me want to take a bite out of them.

“You must have slept well if you’re looking at me like that,” he said.

“I slept,” I told him, going straight to the coffeepot. “Weird dreams though.”

I poured a cup and sat across from him. The back windows looked out over the woods, dense and already hot looking even at this hour, the light coming through the canopy in long flat slats. The Potomac was somewhere below the cliff doing what it always did.

“How long have you been up?” I asked.

“Few hours,” he said. “I’ve been digging into the Callums.”

“I’m so pissed about this,” I said. “I hate this case. From every angle. I liked him. He seemed like a standup guy. Excited about a new baby, firefighter, works hard. But then we find out he’s screwing around with Jessica on the side, so maybe it’s not so hard to believe. This is why you can’t trust people. They’re never what they seem.”

“I did too,” Jack said. “Doesn’t make him the killer though. Maybe his wife got in too deep and he helped her clean up the mess.”

“Yeah, I guess so. What have you got on her?”

“Brianna Callum,” he said. “Brianna Dryer Callum, age twenty-nine. King George Proper address, no record, no violations. Graduate of KGU, doctor of veterinary medicine, small animal practice in Newcastle, been there four years. Married to Brett fourteen months.”

He turned the laptop toward me.

“She’s not in the membership roster at Form and Flow. She was never a client. Her initials aren’t in the notebook. She’s not connected to Wade’s professional life in any way we can find.” He looked at me. “Which means we don’t know how they met.”

“You said an initial background check,” I said. “I’m assuming you looked deeper?”

“Not me,” Jack said sheepishly. “You know how Margot is. No boundaries.”

“What’d she find?”

“Four hospital visits in the past thirteen months,” Jack said. “Different hospitals. Broken wrist, concussion, dislocated shoulder, and debilitating headaches. No records that she was involved in extreme sports or activities.”

“Oh, man,” I said. I knew what that meant. I’d been an ER doc long before I’d started working for the dead, and I’d seen the women who’d come in with those injuries. They were the same women who’d come up with one creative excuse after another and rejected the idea of calling the police and reporting their spouse.

The kitchen was quiet except for Oscar settling onto his bed in the corner and the distant pop of someone’s early firecrackers somewhere down the street.

“I’m really starting to question my judge of character,” I said.

“I’ve told you before,” he said. “Everyone is lying about something, even the ones you think are decent people. If you go into every interview with that thought in your head you’re never disappointed. You’ll like what I found out about Brett though.”

“You should’ve woken me up,” I said. “I missed all the good stuff.”

“If I’d woken you up like I wanted to we would not have been talking about this case. You need to eat breakfast.”

He moved around the kitchen perfectly comfortable selecting ingredients and the right kitchen tool. I was not like Jack in that regard.

While he whipped up batter for waffles and cooked bacon and eggs, I did my part by making him another cup of coffee and staying out of his way.

“So what did you find out about Brett?”

“He’s got a sealed juvenile record,” he said. “But he’s squeaky once he hit adulthood. Graduated high school and went straight into the Marines.”

“Oh,” I said. “So he left the flag as a sign of his patriotic duty to kill the enemy.”

“Sounds as good as anything,” he said, putting a plate overflowing with food in front of me.

“I can’t eat all this.”

“It’s okay, I’m sure Doug will take whatever you don’t eat.” He took his own plate and sat across from me. “Anyway, Brett did his four years and then went to the fire academy. He’s got some commendations. But Margot dug around and managed to find two domestic dispute calls in the last year. I looked in my archives to see what happened, and it looks like both instances were called in by a neighbor. An officer responded, the fire chief called my captain who’s in charge of that jurisdiction, and had him remove any records of it. All I’ve got are the initial phone calls to report it. Everything else is gone. No files at all.”

“That’s not good.”

“I’ll be having a discussion with my captain,” Jack said. “Unfortunately it happens a lot. You don’t want to piss off someone you might need for a case or anything else later, so you give a little to get a little. First responder culture thrives on the barter system.”

“So we can place Brianna in Wade’s condo based on Gerald’s witness statement, and a probable DNA match from the panties left at the scene. We know Brett had access to the condos, he had his own key fob, and if he was sleeping with Jessica it probably wasn’t too hard to lift the key for Wade’s condo and have a copy made. But what we don’t know is which of them actually killed Wade. Was Brianna another victim, or was Wade killed by a jealous husband?”

“A jealous and violent husband,” Jack said. “We need to talk to Brianna Callum.”

Ridgeline Drive was quiet except for the birds and a neighbor’s lawn sprinkler going in slow arcs across the grass. Mature trees, basketball hoops in driveways, flags already out on half the porches. The Callum house had a full-size flag on a proper pole at the edge of the front yard. It was moving in the morning breeze and I couldn’t stop looking at it.

Jack pulled into the driveway, and we sat there for a second.

“You think she’s here?” I asked.

“Battered spouses tend to do what they’re told to do,” Jack said. “If Brett killed Wade then she’s a witness. Which means she’s a liability to him.”

“She could already be dead.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I’ve thought of that. I asked for a unit to wait down the street just in case. Brett drives a Ford 150, and I don’t see it anywhere. He should be on his shift at the fire station.”

We got out of the car, and Jack immediately rested his hand on his weapon as we approached the house.

The porch had two rocking chairs and a hanging fern and a wreath of red, white, and blue ribbon on the door. I kept my eyes moving the way Jack had taught me—windows, door, the gap between the curtain and the frame. Nothing moved.

Jack knocked.

We waited. I could feel the weight of Jack’s hand near his weapon without looking at it.

There was movement behind the glass panel beside the door—a shadow, someone looking out without opening it.

Jack held up his badge and kept it there.

The lock turned. The door opened six inches and stopped on the chain. Through the gap I could see a sliver of her—silvery-blond hair and one eye, higher up than I expected. She looked at the badge. Then at Jack. Then at me.

Jack said, “Mrs. Callum. I’m Sheriff Lawson. This is Dr. Graves. We need to speak with you. Can we come in?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Now isn’t a good time.”

“Mrs. Callum,” Jack said softly. “You’re safe with us. But we have to talk to you.”

The chain slid free. The door opened the rest of the way.

My stomach dropped.

She was tall—five-nine, maybe taller—with silvery-blond hair loose around her face and the kind of direct gaze that said she was used to being the one in charge of a room. Except for the injury to her nose, which no concealer was going to cover. The bridge was swollen and dark and the bruising had spread under both eyes, gone yellow-green at the edges.

Something moved across her face when she looked at us—relief, terror, both—and then it went still. She stepped back and held the door.

The living room was neat and lived in. A sectional sofa, a coffee table with a stack of books and a candle burned almost to nothing. Family photos on the wall—a wedding photo, a beach somewhere sunny, what looked like a fire department gala with Brett in his dress blues and Brianna in a red gown with her head thrown back laughing at something off camera.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “I really don’t have time for this today. I’ve missed work this week, and I have paperwork to catch up on.”

“Why don’t we sit down?” Jack asked. “Wherever you’re most comfortable.”

She kept looking at the door and out the front window.

“He’s on shift isn’t he?” I asked. “He won’t be home anytime soon.”

She looked startled at the realization, and then she dropped down onto the couch and pulled her knees under her.

“We’re here to help you, Mrs. Callum,” Jack said. “But you’ve got to tell us the truth. I want you to know that a witness saw you go into Wade Rivers’s condo the night he was murdered.”

Silent tears welled in her eyes. “I knew someone would come. I’ve been waiting. I’ve been too afraid to leave the house.”

“Because of your husband?”

She looked away and didn’t answer.

“How did you meet Wade?” Jack asked.

She was still looking away when she spoke.

“I met him at a wine tasting,” she said. “About two months ago. There’s a place in Newcastle—they do them on Friday evenings. One of my friends came into town I’d gone to school with, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. I don’t really have friends I get to do things with anymore. And Brett was on shift.”

She exhaled.

“They put everyone at these community tables and Wade and his date were at ours, along with two other couples. He introduced himself to all of us. He was very personable and charming. Easy to talk to, and he kept the conversation going. And he was funny. It had been a long time since I laughed like that. He seemed interested in me, in what I do. He asked what clinic I worked at. I told him I was married.” She looked down at the gold band on her ring finger. “When we left I thought that was the end of it. That we’d never see each other again. But the next Monday at work someone delivered the most beautiful roses. The card just said that he’d enjoyed the night talking to me more than any other he could remember. I had to throw the roses away. I couldn’t let Brett know about them.”

“What happened after that?”

“He came by the clinic at lunch one day and asked if I wanted to grab something to eat. Just casual. He’d told me he’d been looking at some property to open up another location for his studio, and since he was in town he thought it would be nice to see me. It had been a long time since someone treated me with the respect he did and really seemed interested in how I was doing.

“So we had lunch,” she said. “And I dreamed of it being more, but I knew it was impossible. But still, it was my secret, even if I didn’t act on it. But then he texted, and then we found time to talk on the phone for hours. Always when Brett was at the station. That’s when we discovered that Brett worked at Wade’s condo. I was terrified because I realized if Wade had ever invited me back to his place I would have gone. And I would have run right into my husband.”

She let out a shaky breath. “I tried to put a stop to it. It had only been a couple of weeks since we’d met, and I knew what Brett would do if he ever found out. But then Wade was there at the clinic to pick me up after work one day in that sexy car of his, and he was wearing these sunglasses and leaning against the hood.” The memory brought a small smile to her lips. “It was just like a movie, and I thought to myself, I can pretend to be someone else for a little while. There’s no harm in that. Wade already knew that Brett was on shift at the station.”

“That was when things got more serious?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “It all happened so fast. I guess that’s a habit of mine, falling in love too fast. I’d only known Brett three months before we got married. But Wade was different. There was this soul connection I’ve never had with anyone. He romanced me. We drove into DC for the evening and had dinner at this fancy restaurant. And then he took me to the Waldorf. He made it a beautiful night. He’d thought of everything. Champagne and roses. He even knew that I wouldn’t be comfortable staying the whole night. Who pays for an expensive hotel just to spend a few hours with someone? It was like magic.”

“Did you trust him enough to tell him the truth about your marriage?” I asked.

“Not at first,” she said. “I’m so ashamed of it. I don’t know how I got to this place. I’m educated. I have a career. Brett and I met at my sister’s wedding. He’d been friends with her husband, and things moved so fast my head spun with it. And three months later we got married. Two weeks after our honeymoon he hit me for the first time.”

She squared her shoulders and found the courage to look at me. “It was a shock. I’d never been hurt like that. Never been in a fight. One moment I was teasing him for leaving his clothes he wore on shift in a heap on the floor, and the next moment I was doubled over on the floor trying to catch my breath. He never hit me in the face. He was always careful.”

“Broken wrist? Concussion? Things like that?” I asked her.

Her eyes widened when she realized how much we knew. “Yeah, things like that. Wade figured it out pretty quickly. He studied my body like no one ever had. He paid attention to everything. And I finally broke down and confessed. It was like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

“That’s when he told me he was going to take care of everything. He said he would help me start over, that he and I could start a life together. I’m not sure I believed he could do it. But then I found out I was pregnant. I knew it was Wade’s. I knew in my heart it was.”

There was a small hitch in her voice when she said, “So I told him. I wasn’t sure how he’d react, but after the initial shock he was thrilled. He told me the baby would just move our timeline up a little bit.”

“When did you tell him about the baby?” Jack asked.

“Last week,” she said. “I took a pregnancy test on Tuesday, and I went to the doctor Wednesday morning to confirm. I was so scared and excited. I called Wade immediately after my appointment and asked if we could meet. He was booked with clients, so I told him Thursday was better anyway because Brett was on shift at the station. So we met for lunch and I told him.”

I remembered Sloane Ferriday’s confusion about her last session with Wade and that he’d been distracted.

“Brett found the pregnancy test in the trash can. I pretended like I was excited. He was elated. Told me he couldn’t wait to tell the guys at the station.”

Tears were streaming freely down her cheeks and her face had paled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t offer you anything to drink. I need to get some water.”

Her eyes held the wild expression of someone who was coming close to breaking down completely, but her brain just hadn’t processed it yet. I didn’t want her to stop.

“I’ll get it for you,” I said, and went off to the kitchen before she could protest.

I opened the refrigerator and found bottles of water lined neatly in the door. I brought one back to her and unscrewed the top.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice dry. She drank deeply and looked lost, seemingly not remembering what she’d been saying.

“Can you tell me what happened when you went to see Wade Tuesday night?” Jack asked.

Her lips pressed together and she shook her head. “I keep trying to forget.” She kept shaking her head and the tears came faster as she unraveled in front of our eyes.

“We had planned to meet,” she said. “Brett said he was on a different rotation at the station because of the holiday weekend. He told me he was going to be on shift.”

She was sucking in air and trying to catch her breath.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “Deep breaths. In through your nose and out through your mouth. Nice and easy.”

It took her a couple of minutes to calm down enough to speak again.

“I had a bag packed in the car, and Wade told me he had a place for me to hide while I filed for divorce. So I went to meet him. He met me at the door and one thing led to another.”

Her voice had started to hitch again.

“Take your time,” Jack said.

“I don’t know what happened,” she sobbed. “One minute we were making love and then the next Wade’s head smashed into mine.”

She gently touched her broken nose and the tears started again.

“I think I blacked out,” she said. “I don’t know what happened. All I know is I woke up when Brett tossed me onto the floor and told me to get dressed. My clothes were in the living room so I crawled until I found them. I was so scared. I didn’t know what was happening. And then Brett told me he was dead.”

She broke down into full sobs, her body convulsing violently, and I went to sit on the couch next to her. I didn’t want to touch her, not yet.

“Brianna,” I said. “I’m a doctor, and I want to help you. Take some breaths for me. Can I hold your hand?”

I reached gently for her hand and took it, glad when she clasped her fingers around mine. I felt for the pulse in her wrist. Her heartbeat was fast and erratic.

“That’s good,” I told her, keeping my voice even. “Nice and slow.”

There was a little hiccup in her throat and she leaned into me. “I lost the baby,” she whispered. “Brett was so angry. He drove me here and as soon as we stepped inside he punched me in the stomach. He said he wanted to make sure he wasn’t raising another man’s bastard.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

“He told me if I left the house or talked to anyone he’d kill me,” she said. “I thought about killing myself, just to save him the trouble. He hasn’t been home. He just sends me messages telling me he’s watching.”

Jack met my gaze and I could see the torment there. And I knew from experience that the best thing for Brett would be for Jack to never get his hands on him.

“Brianna,” he said. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. We’re going to arrest Brett for murder. He’s going away for a long time. Is there someone you can call? Someone you can stay with while we’re taking care of him?”

“My sister,” she said. “She lives in Baltimore.”

“Okay,” Jack told her. “I want you to pack a bag, and I’m going to have a couple of officers drive you there if that’s okay. They’ll keep you safe and make sure you get there. We’ll stay here with you until the patrol unit arrives.”

She stared at us blankly. As if she couldn’t believe what he was saying was true.

Finally she nodded, got to her feet, and left the room.

“It’s a hell of an Independence Day,” Jack said.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jack was on his phone before he started the car, calling his team directly instead of putting anything on the radio. First responders listen to police scanners. Brett Callum had been working this county for years and he knew people. If his name came across a frequency before we got there, he’d be gone before we hit the county line.

I sat in the passenger seat and watched the fields of rolling green go by out the window.

“Wade didn’t love her,” I said, breaking the silence. “Not really. I don’t think he’s capable of loving anyone but himself.”

“I’d agree with that,” Jack said.

“Her need for love and kindness would have made her another of his victims. She still doesn’t know the man he really was.”

“She will once this story breaks in the media,” Jack said.

I tapped my fingers on the armrest absentmindedly.

“It’s hard to wrap my brain around,” I said. “We’re used to working for the dead. Bringing justice to those who don’t have a voice. And making sure in the end, someone pays for taking a life. But Brett killing Wade doesn’t necessarily make Wade the victim.”

I watched a horse farm go by, white fences and green pasture, horses running along the pasture’s edge. “He built a business out of people’s shame and their vulnerability. I hate this case. The real victims are those who are left behind. Zoe Brown who couldn’t figure out why she was having sex with another man when she loved her husband, Matt being a decent man who loves his wife and was willing to put the marriage back together. Paige being used for her prescription pad. And then there’s the black book filled with women who were paying a man to keep their shame a secret.”

“Wade Rivers got a clean exit and never had to face consequences,” Jack said. “But he still got the death penalty.”

“There’s that at least.” I shifted in my seat. “As far as Brianna goes, he found a veterinarian with prescribing authority and an abusive marriage and he saw an opportunity. The same compounds he was already using exist in veterinary medicine under different labels, accessible through her clinic without a human pharmacy trail. He was grooming her the same way he groomed everyone else. The baby would’ve been leverage or it would’ve been irrelevant.”

Jack didn’t say anything. He just drove.

We pulled into the sheriff’s office lot and the bullpen was already filling up. Jack had made his calls and people had moved.

Daniels was against the back wall with her arms crossed. Derby had found a chair. Plank and Wachowski stood near the door close enough that their shoulders were almost touching. The captain was off to the side by the whiteboard. Cole had come in early for the occasion, and there were other deputies and detectives scattered around. I knew most of their names. Others I didn’t. But they all knew the horrors of this case. And they all knew that Brett Callum had killed a man in cold blood and then killed his wife’s unborn child. He’d be going down for that as well.

I leaned against the far wall.

Jack stood at the front and waited until it went quiet.

“We have our suspect,” he said. “Brett Callum. Firefighter at King George Proper, currently on shift. Former Marine, two tours, communications and systems specialist.” He paused a beat. “He murdered Wade Rivers, and after he walked his wife out of that building he beat her so badly she miscarried their baby. He’s been sending her messages for three days telling her he’s watching her.”

Nobody said anything.

“We’re going to make an arrest today, and I want it to be a big one,” Jack said. “We’re going to show up at Fire Station 12 with lights blazing, and I want everyone to know we’re coming and why we’re there. Those sworn to protect don’t get to take the easy way out when they’ve killed two people.”

There were grunts of acknowledgment around the bullpen and I could feel the anticipation building.

“I want Brett to feel the consequences of his actions, and I want his chief to see how scrubbing his record clean of the domestic disputes helped lead to this outcome.

“We’ve got civilians and crowds that are going to be around. Their safety has to come first, so as a precaution I want two units to head out now and start setting up barricades a block in each direction of the firehouse. Keep the people back.”

Two deputies slipped out of the room to follow orders.

“Let’s make this a fast and clean arrest. Don’t give anyone any internet fodder. Plank, you get the honor of putting the cuffs on him and bringing him in. And I want to thank Wachowski, Daniels and Derby for putting in the midnight oil and breaking this case wide open. Now let’s go get this guy.”

There were several whoops of excitement as the bullpen cleared out, and I fell into step beside Jack as we made our way back to the Tahoe.

“Inspired speech,” I told him. “Very Captain America.”

“Shut up,” he said, but he wanted to smile. I could see it.

We passed the barricades a block away from Fire Station 12 just past noon. I could smell the grill before I could see the station, and Toby Keith playing over loudspeakers loud enough to hear from inside the car. The firemen were making the most of the holiday before they had to go man the big fireworks display tonight.

Jack hit the lights and the siren and the sound punched through the car. Up ahead the lead units were already pulling up to the station, and I could see the firefighters outside start to gather, looking for the emergency. Jack took the turn fast and I grabbed the door handle. The radio was going nonstop—units calling in their positions, everyone moving at once. Through the windshield I watched them converge on us—one reaching for his radio, another dropping his drink, the whole group moving toward the bay to see what was happening.

Jack was out of the Tahoe before we stopped all the way. “All units hold position,” he said into the radio. “Nobody goes in yet.”

Jack was out of the car and moving before I had my door open. I stayed in position behind the Tahoe door out of precaution. I knew better than to get in the way of what was about to go down. The fire guys had clustered at the bay entrance and Jack went straight through them without breaking stride.

“Brett Callum,” he said to the first man he reached. “Where is he?”

The guy shrugged. “He was here a minute ago.”

Jack was already moving. The fire chief stepped out of the side office with his phone in his hand and Jack didn’t even slow down.

“You and I are going to talk,” Jack said, not stopping. “After.”

A loud clang echoed through the firehouse, making me jump and a couple of the deputies around me grab their weapons. A heavy tool cabinet lay on its side, tools scattering and bouncing on the concrete. And then I saw Brett Callum like a blur from the corner of my eye, running out the side of the station house and toward a neighborhood.

He had maybe forty yards on Jack when Jack took off at a sprint after him. Jack’s deputies were trained well and immediately split off in different directions to cut him off, but it didn’t matter. Jack’s long stride easily caught up with Brett just as he went to launch himself over a fence.

Jack grabbed him by the back of the shirt and threw him to the ground. It was an incredible show of strength, but Brett was in good shape and launched off the ground at Jack swinging.

Jack dodged the blow and planted a thick fist in Brett’s gut. For Brianna, I thought. For the baby. For every different hospital she visited so no one would connect the dots.

Brett doubled over and Jack took him down onto the grass, knee in his back.

Plank was there in seconds with the cuffs.

“Brett Callum, you’re under arrest for two counts of murder,” Plank said. He snapped on the cuffs and then brought him to his feet.

“Two counts?” Brett said, his breathing labored. “What are you talking about?”

“For Wade Rivers and the unborn child your wife was carrying,” Jack said.

Brett spat and then jerked his shoulder, trying to dislodge himself from Plank’s grasp, but Plank didn’t budge.

“Wasn’t my kid,” he said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jack said. “Murder is murder.”

They walked him back toward the fire station and the crowd who’d gathered there. Someone had forgotten to turn off the music and it was eerily loud in the quietness of the onlookers.

At the patrol car, just before Plank put a hand on his head to guide him in, Brett stopped.

“He ruined my life,” Brett said. “My marriage. He deserved what he got.”

“From where I’m standing,” Jack said. “You ruined your marriage the first time you beat your wife. Get him out of here.”

Plank guided him into the back of the patrol car and closed the door.

Jack found the fire chief and gave him a hard look. “I’ll have that word now.”

The fireworks started at nine.

The county had pulled out everything for the 250th. Professional crew out of Richmond, music timed to the program, the square blocked off and packed from the courthouse steps all the way back to the fountain. The Gothic courthouse rose up lit from below, the stonework going gold, the gargoyles crouched at every corner.

We found Doug and Kayla near the fountain. She was a bright-eyed girl with a dark ponytail who’d had the presence of mind to bring a blanket. Oscar had already taken the center of it and lay on his back in case anyone wanted to scratch his belly. Jack had gotten another blanket out of his Tahoe, and he’d also had the presence of mind to pack snacks and drinks and a cooler. I had a lot of skills, especially if you were bleeding in the middle of the street, but planning ahead for things like this wasn’t one of them. Fortunately, Jack and I complemented each other well, and I got to just show up to things and know that it would all be taken care of.

“Oscar, stop begging,” I told him. “It’s unbecoming.”

He looked at me with wise eyes and then very defiantly lifted his paw to ask for a potato chip.

“Fine,” I said, giving him one. “But this is the last one. The salt isn’t good for you.”

“You two have plans for the weekend?” Jack asked Doug.

“Kayla’s going to come over tomorrow so we can run a campaign,” he said. “We can order pizza.”

“You think the delivery guy gets tired of delivering pizzas to our house?” I asked.

“Probably not,” Doug said. “I always tip him well.”

“My credit card has noticed,” Jack said dryly.

We watched families get settled as the sun started to go down. The air smelled of funnel cakes and burgers, and the cover band on the main stage was doing a pretty good rendition of “Uptown Funk.”

I leaned back against Jack, and he put his arms around me, placing his hand on my stomach. These were the moments that made all the others worth it.

The first firework lit the night sky, a warning shot for what was to come in brilliant flares of red and gold.

The crowd ahhed and let out a cheer.

“Oh,” Doug said, amplifying his voice over the noise. “I almost forgot to tell you with the whole murder thing going on. I got a message from Uncle Ben last night.”

I felt Jack tense behind me. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, he left it encrypted with Margot. He said he might be coming to visit soon.”

Doug’s attention went back to the fireworks, and I laid my head back against Jack’s shoulder.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “Happy Fourth.”

PRE-ORDER DIRTY INTENTIONS

Dirty Intentions

June 22, 2027

SKIN AND BONES: A MABEL MCCOY MYSTERY

Chapter One

I had no plans to become a widow at the tender age of twenty-four.

I also had no plans to own a tea shop on a sleepy South Carolina island, but I’ve discovered life doesn’t give two figs about my plans. Life on Grimm Island taught me that lesson. Here, the oak trees drip with Spanish moss and secrets hang just as heavy in the humid air.

The Perfect Steep—my tea shop and little kingdom of mismatched chairs and organized chaos—sat on the corner of Harbor and Lighthouse. From the outside, it was Grimm Island gentility personified—soft blue paint with crisp white trim, black shutters, and a sweeping wraparound porch where two rocking chairs waited patiently as if ready for Southern hospitality itself.

Inside was a different story entirely. Inside was pure me.

My name is Mabel McCoy, and I’d done a good job of pretending to be gentility personified since my husband died ten years ago. But I’d noticed lately there were times when I was starting to feel a bit frayed around the edges, and I wondered how long it would be before people started to notice.

My tea shop was what I affectionately called organized chaos with a tea obsession, a phrase that would have made Patrick smile if he'd lived to see it. Shiplap walls that should have been pristine white were instead painted a pale yellow on one wall, mint green on another, and a soft lavender on the third—the result of my inability to choose just one color and my stubborn refusal to start over once I’d begun. The heart pine floors creaked like they were telling secrets, especially in the three spots by the register that I'd learned to hop over during busy hours.

Ceiling fans with blades shaped like giant leaves spun lazily overhead, stirring the air that always smelled of whatever tea blend I was experimenting with that day. Today it was something with bergamot and cinnamon that made the whole place smell like Christmas morning, even in the middle of May.

I glanced at the hideous cherub clock on the wall—a wedding gift from Patrick’s grandmother that I couldn’t bring myself to take down despite its beady-eyed stare. Five-thirty. The afternoon crowd had thinned out, and I had about thirty minutes before the Silver Sleuths would arrive for their monthly book club meeting.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and smoothed back a stray blonde curl. At least the island’s humidity was good for something—my vintage waves actually seemed to like it. I reapplied my red lipstick, the one bit of glamour I never skipped, and hummed along with Frank Sinatra as he sang I Get a Kick Out of You through the speakers.

I’d just finished boxing up a special tea blend to deliver to Mrs. Pembroke when the bell above the door jingled. Deputy Mark Reynolds strolled in, his uniform crisp despite the late hour, that easy smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Just in time,” I said. “It’s almost closing time.”

“My timing’s always been impeccable,” he replied, removing his hat. His rust-colored hair had gone silver at the temples since I’d known him, but his pale blue eyes still held that same kindness they had since I’d been a kid. “Got any of that cinnamon tea left? Been a day.”

“For you? Always.” I turned to prepare his usual as he settled onto his regular stool at the counter. “Rough shift?”

Reynolds sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Milton left us a mess to clean up. This new sheriff’s asking a lot of questions and digging through files none of us even knew existed.

“And that’s a problem?” I asked, sliding his to-go tea across the counter.

“Can’t say I blame him,” he said. “But it’s just stirring up the past. Sheriff Milton did a lot of damage and people are hurting. He even went through the case files from when those three girls went missing. That might have been before you were born. But those girls’ families still live on the island. No need to dredge it all up and put them through that again. Some things are better left buried, if you ask me.”

He took a sip of tea and closed his eyes in appreciation. “Perfect as always, Mabel. Don’t know what I’d do without my evening fix.”

I smiled. Reactions like his to my teas were my favorite part of the job. It might seem boring by most people’s standards, but I didn’t need much. I considered myself a simple, easy-going woman.

“So how’s the new sheriff working out?” I asked, wiping down the counter.

“Beckett?” Reynolds shrugged. “By the book. Bit of an outsider, but seems decent enough. Time will tell if he sticks around.” He glanced at his watch. “Guess my break is over. You closing up for your book club tonight?”

“How did you know about that?” I asked, though I wasn't really surprised. Nothing stayed secret on Grimm Island for long.

He tapped the side of his nose and said, “Hey, I’m a cop. I know things.” He finished his tea and slid a five-dollar bill across the counter.

“On the house,” I told him.

He put the five in the tip jar anyway and gave me a wink. “See you tomorrow.”

As the door chimed behind him, I went to clear china cups from a corner table, wiping it down and giving my last customer a side-eye because he’d been sitting there for three hours and kept filling up his tea cup with whatever was in the thermos he’d brought from home. I was getting ready to shoo him along when he hurriedly shoved his things in his bag and hurried out the door.

“Rude,” I said, cleaning up his mess. “Almost time, Chowder,” I said to my French bulldog, who was sprawled across the window seat, his wrinkled face looking particularly judgmental today. “The Silver Sleuths will be here soon.”

  Chowder snorted and rolled onto his back, his stubby legs in the air.

“I’ll take that as excitement. Just try not to con Walt out of all his treats this time. You

know what the vet said about your cholesterol.”

I wiped down the large round table by the front window—the Silver Sleuths’ preferred spot for their meetings. They liked to see and be seen, a requirement for five seniors who considered people-watching a competitive sport. I'd arranged six chairs around it, knowing that somehow they’d rope me into joining, despite my protests.

I gave my sea-green dress a final smoothing. It was vintage, with those puffed sleeves I loved, and paired perfectly with the pearl pendant Patrick had given me on our first anniversary.

Frank’s crooning faded, and Ella and Louis came on, deciding whether or not they could be friends as they debated the correct pronunciation of the word tomato. Chowder gave a soft woof and rolled to his side so he could look at passersby out the window.

“I agree,” I told him. “I could never fall in love with someone who says tamahto. A bit too pretentious for my taste.”

Chowder woofed again in agreement. There were some moments when Chowder and I were in perfect accord.

I'd just finished arranging a fresh bouquet of flowers in the center of the table when the bell above the door chimed again.

“Do I smell lemon scones?” Deidre Whitmore called as she bustled in, fifteen minutes early as usual. Her silver hair was secured in a haphazard bun with what appeared to be a pencil, wayward curls flying in all directions. She carried an enormous tote bag, and I knew it was filled with books and enough butterscotch candies to survive an apocalypse.

“Fresh out of the oven,” I confirmed, smiling despite myself. Ms. Whitmore had been Grimm Island’s librarian for most of my life—a woman who had seemed positively ancient when I’d been a kid—only to finally retire a few years ago. Somehow, she looked exactly the same as she had twenty years earlier. I still couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I should whisper in her presence. I also had trouble remembering to call her Deidre instead of Ms. Whitmore.

“Wonderful! I brought some of my lavender shortbread to share,” she said, extracting a tin from her bag. “The recipe’s from 1897. Found it in the historical society archives.”

I smiled and took the tin from her. “You know you don’t have to bring food, Ms. Whitmore. This is a tea shop. I’m happy to provide all the refreshments.”

“Call me Deidre, dear,” she reminded me for what had to be the hundredth time. Her bright red culottes were a blur as she made her way to the prepared table. She untied her red and white striped sweater from around her shoulders and put it on the back of her preferred chair to save her spot. “And nonsense. It’s a book club, and book clubs have potlucks.”

The bell jingled again, and Walt Garrison marched in with military precision, followed closely by Dottie Simmons and Hank Hardeman.

“Five forty-two,” Walt announced, consulting his ancient waterproof watch. He wore pressed navy slacks with sharp creases, a matching windbreaker, and the thick soled shoes his orthopedist insisted he wear for fallen arches. “Right on schedule.”

“We’re early, Walt,” Dottie corrected, adjusting her green cat-eye glasses. “The meeting doesn’t start until six.”

“Early is on time, on time is late,” Walt replied with the air of someone who had been saying the same thing for at least seventy years.

“And late is unacceptable,” Hank finished with a sigh. “We know, Walt. We’ve known since 1972.”

            Hank had spent a good part of his career as a federal judge and had finally retired a few years ago at his wife’s urging. He was a no-nonsense sort of man, but he’d taken to wearing shorts since his retirement, showing off knobby knees and the black dress socks he wore pulled up to the middle of his shins.

“Where's Bea?” I asked, noting the missing member of their quintet.

“Picking up Mr. Whiskers from the groomer,” Dottie explained. “That cat gets more salon appointments than I do.” She patted her freshly cut bob that had been dyed the jet black of her youth.

“Tea will be ready in a minute,” I said. “I’ve got Earl Grey for Walt, oolong for  Deidre⁠—”

“And chamomile for me,” Dottie finished. “You’re a dear to remember.”

“It’s not exactly difficult,” I said. “You’ve ordered the same thing for the past three years.”

“Consistency is the foundation of character,” Hank declared.

I retreated to the counter to prepare their tea. This monthly ritual had become so familiar I could probably do it in my sleep. First Thursday of every month, the Silver Sleuths Murder Society would descend upon my shop for their book club meeting, which inevitably dissolved into island gossip and wild speculation about whatever mystery novel they’d selected.

The bell jingled again, and Bea Livingston swept in like a tropical storm. Today she wore a flowing caftan in a peacock print so bright it had its own weather system, paired with earrings the size of small chandeliers. Her red hair sizzled with electricity.

“Sorry I’m late,” she announced, though she was actually ten minutes early. “Mr. Whiskers was uncooperative.” She held up her hands to display several small scratches. “Battle wounds.”

“I have some antiseptic cream,” I offered.

“Don't bother. I’ve survived three husbands and more hurricanes than I can count,” she said with a dismissive wave that sent her bangles jangling. “A few cat scratches are nothing.”

She settled into her usual chair and immediately leaned forward. “Now, before we start, has anyone seen our mysterious sheriff today?”

I rolled my eyes. The whole island was fascinated by the new sheriff. Maybe because he’d been brought in because of a scandal. Maybe because he wasn’t a local. Or maybe because none of the gossips could get any personal information out of him. But the Silver Sleuths’ sheriff watch made the CIA look like a bunch of amateurs.

“Not since yesterday,” Walt reported. “He was at the pharmacy picking up a prescription.”

“Did you see what for?” Deidre asked, leaning in so eagerly she nearly knocked over her teacup.

“Couldn’t tell,” Walt said, clearly disappointed by this gap in his intelligence gathering. “Brown paper bag, folded at the top. Very discreet.”

“Blood pressure medication, most likely,” Hank declared with authority. “Law enforcement has the highest rate of hypertension of any profession.”

“Could be pain medication,” Dottie countered, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on the table. “Did you notice how he rolls his neck? I bet it’s arthritis. Unless he’s addicted to pain pills. That’s a whole other problem.”

“Maybe it's something more...personal,” Bea whispered, raising her eyebrows.

All I could do was shake my head. The poor sheriff would have an interminable disease by the time they got through with him. “Or it could just be allergy medicine,” I offered. “I’ve seen him sneeze every time he walks past the magnolias on Harbor Street.”

“Interesting that you’ve noticed his sneezing habits, Mabel,” Bea said, her smile spreading like warm butter.

I felt my cheeks flush. “We live on a four thousand acre island. Everyone knows everything.”

“Clearly not everything,” Walt said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Otherwise we’d know what was in that prescription.”

“You all do realize that stalking the sheriff is probably illegal, right?”

“It’s not stalking,” Deidre protested. “It’s community awareness. You should just ask Jerry, Hank. Don’t you two play golf together?”

Hank grunted. “Jerry holds confidences better than a Catholic priest. He’s a pharmacist with scruples.”

“Imagine that,” I murmured.

“He’ll be here any minute.” Dottie said with a meaningful glance at the clock. “It’s almost closing time.”

She wasn’t wrong. For the past three weeks, ever since Sheriff Dashiell Beckett had been appointed to replace our disgraced former sheriff, he’d developed a habit of stopping by The Perfect Steep just before closing time for his evening tea. Black, strong, no sugar, splash of milk. It was the most predictable thing about him.

“He’s very consistent,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Professional habit, I guess.”

“Or he likes the view,” Bea suggested with an exaggerated wink in my direction.

I pursed my lips. “He likes the tea, Bea. That’s all.”

“Mmhmm,” all five seniors hummed in unison, with identical expressions of disbelief.

“So what’s the book this month?” I asked, desperate to change the subject.

“The Graves of Walter County,” Deidre said, producing a worn paperback from her bag. “About a series of cold cases in a small Texas town in the 1960s.”

“How many victims?” I asked, despite myself. These murder mysteries were admittedly a guilty pleasure.

“Seven,” Dottie replied eagerly. “All buried in the woods behind the killer’s house. But he didn’t bury them deep enough and when heavy rains came one spring one of the bodies was washed into the creek and floated all the way downtown. Victim was a girl that had gone missing from the college in the next town.”

“The killer strangled all his victims with his belt,” Walt said. “Had a real unusual belt buckle that left an impression in the tissue.”

“The author’s research was impressive,” Hank added, reaching for a scone. “Though I found myself quite irritated by his abbreviations of words. He kept using the word anal for analysis, as if that’s some kind of shorthand those of us who deal in crime use on a daily basis. I can tell you I’ve never uttered the word anal in my courtroom.”

I stifled a laugh, entertained by the absurdity of the conversation.

“Pass the clotted cream,” Walt said, unfazed. “I enjoyed the book. It reminded me of a case in Annapolis back in ‘82.”

The bell above the door jingled, and I didn’t have to look up to know who it was. A hush fell over the Silver Sleuths as Sheriff Beckett entered, right on schedule.

He was still in uniform, dark pants and a short sleeved button-down that fit well across his broad shoulders and hugged his biceps. His dark hair was slightly tousled by the wind. A thin scar ran along his right jawline, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it because of the stubble he’d let grow.

“Evening, ladies. Gentlemen,” he nodded.

“Sheriff,” Walt replied.

“Good evening, Mrs. McCoy,” Sheriff Beckett said, turning to me with a polite nod. “Hope I'm not interrupting.”

I smiled at the formal address. After ten years as a widow, “Mrs. McCoy” felt like a well-worn sweater—comfortable, familiar, and something I had no desire to take off.

“Not at all, Sheriff,” I replied. “Just in time for your usual?”

“Please,” he said with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Sheriff Beckett smiled with his mouth, but his eyes always remained watchful, alert. It was slightly unnerving and, if I was being honest with myself, slightly fascinating.

“Book club night?” he asked, glancing at the table where the Silver Sleuths had spread out their books and notes like battle plans.

“First Thursday of every month,” Deidre confirmed, straightening her glasses with a librarian’s precision. “We’re discussing The Graves of Walter County.” She held up the book.

“True crime?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “I saw a TV special on that case. It was fascinating.”

“We only read true crime,” Dottie explained with a dismissive wave. “Fiction is too...” She paused, nose wrinkling like she’d smelled something unpleasant. “Unrealistic.”

The corner of Sheriff Beckett’s mouth quirked up. “How so?”

“Too many coincidences,” Hank declared. “And the detectives—” he jabbed a finger toward Beckett, “—are too incompetent, so the amateur sleuth ends up solving the case. It’s ridiculous.”

“Unlike real detectives, who welcome civilian input,” Beckett said dryly, his eyes crinkling at the corners despite his deadpan delivery.

Walt leaned forward, elbows on the table, entering what I’d come to think of as his intelligence briefing posture. “Depends on the detective,” he countered. “And the civilian. Some of us have relevant expertise.”

“Is that so?” Beckett asked, accepting the to-go cup I handed him, his fingers briefly brushing mine.

Deidre sat up straighter, fairly bursting with pride. “Walt was career military. He spent thirty years in Navy intelligence,” she said, patting Walt's arm. “Worked for the Department of Defense before he retired. Appointed by the President.”

“Really?” Beckett asked.

Walt nodded. “If I told you about it I’d have to kill you. Top secret security clearance.”

“And of course Dottie was a pathologist with the Charleston medical examiner’s office,” Deidre continued.

            “It’s true,” Dottie said, cleaning her glasses. “I’ve had my hands in a lot of bodies.”

Deidre’s eyes widened comically, but she continued as if that were a perfectly normal thing to say. “Hank was a federal judge.”

“They called me The Hammer because I liked to put the final nail in a criminal’s coffin as I sentenced them,” Hank added.

Dottie rolled her eyes. “I’ve known you for forty-five years, and I’ve never heard anyone call you The Hammer.” She patted his hand to soften the blow. “But you were tough on those criminals.”

“I spent almost fifty years as a librarian,” Deidre said. “But my true love is research. I can get lost for days in research. And then there’s Bea…” Deidre paused, looking like she was unsure what to say. “Bea⁠—”

“Had access to more secrets than the CIA,” Bea said with a theatrical flourish of her bangle-laden wrist. “Society columnist. You’d be amazed what people will tell you at charity galas after two gin and tonics. I’ve got the dirt on every player in town if they’ve been here long enough. Of course, I’ve got the dirt on anyone who thinks they’re anyone in the whole state. The south loves old money and family secrets.”

Beckett looked thoughtful as he sipped his tea, his eyes moving from one Silver Sleuth to another as if reassessing them. “That’s an interesting combination of skills.”

“You never want to watch mystery movies with us,” Dottie said. “We always figure out who did it.”

“We call ourselves the Silver Sleuths,” Walt said, puffing out his chest slightly.

“Catchy,” Beckett commented, but he was looking at me as if he were waiting to hear what my special skills were. I hated to disappoint him, but I didn’t think he’d be too interested in my ability to do crossword puzzles or how I can memorize song lyrics the first time I hear them. Neither of those things is helpful when watching mysteries on T.V.

“Storm’s coming in,” I said for lack of anything better, nodding toward the windows where dark clouds were gathering on the horizon. “Looks like it could be a bad one.”

Beckett followed my gaze. “You’re right about that,” he said. “Weather service issued a severe thunderstorm warning not long ago. You might want to wrap up your meeting early tonight.”

“Nonsense,” Deidre said dismissively. “We’ve weathered worse. Remember Hurricane Matthew?”

“I remember you showing up on my doorstep because you ate all your hurricane snacks before the storm hit,” Dottie said.

Beckett turned to me. “What time will you close up here?”

“We usually finish at seven,” I said.

He nodded. “You’ll be cutting it close. You’ll want to get home before it gets too bad.”

“I'm just three blocks away,” I told him. “The white corner house with the piazza at the end of Harbor Street. I’ll have time before things get too bad. Those clouds are still a good ways off.”

“You can predict the weather?” the sheriff asked, arching a brow.

“I’m my father’s daughter,” I said, and left it at that.

“Right.” His eyes met mine with that dark, direct gaze that never seemed to waver.

He paid for his tea, leaving his usual generous tip in the jar by the register, and then he nodded to the group. “Enjoy your book club. Try not to solve too many crimes in one evening.”

“No promises,” Bea called after him as he headed for the door.

“Have a good night, Sheriff,” I said.

He paused at the door, glancing back. “Dash,” he corrected quietly. “After hours, it’s just Dash.”

Before I could say anything else, he was gone, the bell chiming in his wake.

Five pairs of eyes immediately swiveled to me.

“After hours, it’s just Dash,” Bea mimicked in a deep voice. “Well, well, well.”

“Don't start,” I said with a small smile. “It’s just tea and manners. That's all.”

“I certainly didn’t notice any arthritis in his neck,” Hank said observantly. “He was able to turn his head to look at Mabel just fine.”

“Did you notice the scar on his jaw?” Deidre asked, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“Bar fight in Charleston,” Walt declared.

“Knife fight with a drug dealer,” Bea countered.

“Military,” Dottie guessed. “He has the posture.”

“You’re all ridiculous,” I said, returning to the table with a fresh pot of tea. “He probably cut himself shaving.”

“No way,” Walt shook his head. “That's a knife scar. Clean, deliberate. Man’s seen action.”

“I heard he’s from Virginia originally,” Deidre offered. “Old family, fell on hard times.”

“I heard he was FBI before this,” Bea said, not to be outdone. “Undercover work. Very hush-hush.”

“I heard he’s just a normal person trying to do his job without being the subject of wild speculation,” I suggested.

“Boring,” Bea dismissed. “My version is better.”

“We should invite him to join the book club,” Dottie suggested suddenly. “He seems interested in true crime.”

“Occupational hazard, I imagine,” I said dryly.

“No, it’s perfect,” Deidre agreed, warming to the idea. “We need fresh perspectives.”

“And it’d give him a chance to stare at Mabel more,” Bea added with a wink.

“He’s probably very busy with sheriff duties,” I said, adjusting my pearl pendant.

“Not too busy for tea, apparently,” Deidre pointed out, patting my hand.

“Mabel should consider courtship,” Hank announced to the table, as if I weren't sitting right there. “A respectable widow of her standing would be quite eligible.”

Bea nodded sagely. “In my day, ten years was more than sufficient mourning period. I married my second husband six months after my first had been buried. Of course, Leonard and I had something of a past if you know what I mean.”

“If you mean you were having an affair with him while Earl was alive then we know what you mean,” Deidre said, shaking her head. “The whole island knew.”

Bea pursed her lips tightly, but she didn’t dispute it.

“Patrick would have wanted you to move on,” Dottie said softly, using the exact phrase she’d repeated at years two, five, and seven.

Walt cleared his throat. “Sheriff seems like a decent sort. Responsible. Reliable pension. Good posture.”

I glanced between them, fighting both amusement and exasperation. They’d decided my future with the same certainty they used to plan the church bake sale or determine who was stealing Mrs. Peterson’s newspaper.

So I did what I always did when I didn’t know what to say. I started singing.

“Don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky, stormy weather…”

“Ethel Waters or Lena Horne?” Walt asked immediately.

“Lena,” I said. “Though Ethel did it first.”

“Good taste,” he approved. “My Margaret loved Lena Horne. Saw her perform in New York once, before we were married.”

And just like that, we were back on safe ground, with Walt launching into one of his stories about his late wife that somehow always involved either naval intelligence or jazz music, often both. The tension dissolved, and I found myself relaxing back into the familiar rhythm of their conversation.

Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance. I sipped my tea and half-listened as Deidre started discussing the book, with frequent interruptions from the others. The storm was building, but in here, in this moment, everything felt comfortingly normal.

I’d spent ten years building this life—the tea shop, the routines, the careful distance I maintained from anything too emotional or complicated. Ten years as Mabel McCoy, young widow, tea shop owner, honorary senior citizen.

But as another rumble of thunder shook the building, I couldn't help wondering if maybe, just maybe, I was ready for a little storm in my life.

Not that I was thinking about Dash Beckett when that thought crossed my mind.

Not at all.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Getting a book to publication takes an amazing team of people. I’m fortunate to have had these people in my corner for years.

To my editor—Imogen Howson for always making me better.

To my cover designer—Dar Albert for always blowing me away with your talent.

To my children—You’re all so special. You have gifts and abilities beyond measure, and I’m excited to see what God has in store for each of you.

To Scott—thank you for answering a ridiculous amount of law enforcement questions and acting out weird scenarios with me. Any mistakes are mine alone.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Liliana Hart is a New York Times, USA Today, and Publisher’s Weekly bestselling author of more than eighty titles. After starting her first novel her freshman year of college, she immediately became addicted to writing and knew she’d found what she was meant to do with her life. She has no idea why she majored in music.

Since publishing in 2011, Liliana has sold more than ten-million books. All three of her major series have made multiple appearances on the New York Times list.

Liliana can almost always be found at her computer writing, or spending time with her family. She calls Texas home.

If you enjoyed reading this, I would appreciate it if you would help others enjoy this book, too.

Recommend it. Please help other readers find this book by recommending it to friends, readers’ groups and discussion boards.

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Connect with me online:

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