Nichole Severn's Blog - Posts Tagged "enemies-to-lovers"

Black smoke billowed from the flat warehouse roof and rolltop door.

A rush of cold wind burned Arden Olsen’s exposed skin as she approached the entrance where Baldwin had instructed her to meet him in his last text message. She huddled deeper into her scarf and coat, her exhales steaming from her mouth. Temperatures plummeted fast out here. Vashon Island had become home to fewer than eleven thousand residents over the years. Without bridges connecting to the mainland, spotty cellular service, and only a small satellite office for law enforcement, it was the perfect location to dump a body. Eighty square miles of trees, coastline, and isolation. If Baldwin’s suspicion that the recent death of an investigative journalist wasn’t accidental, they’d have a damn good story.

Pebbled gravel crunched under her boots as she studied the abandoned structure, a slight burn of gasoline in the air. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. That didn’t make sense. The warehouse had been shut down a few years ago when a fluoropolymer manufacturer had moved their operation overseas, but there were no other vehicles in the lot aside from her ten-year-old beater. Nothing to suggest Baldwin had already arrived or a reason for the smoke.

Arden checked her smart watch then swiped through to the last message her mentor had sent. She’d gotten here on time. He should be here. She crossed her arms over her chest, bouncing slightly to keep the blood pumping to her toes. The sun had started to dip behind the horizon, and she checked her watch again. Where the hell was he? “Come on, come on.”

Excited energy skittered down her spine the longer she forced herself to stay in place. They had to move on this lead. The Seattle Post had already positioned themselves as the trusted source concerning the death of Jacqueline Day, one of their own journalists, but Arden wouldn’t take the loss lying down. If she played her cards right, and Baldwin’s scoop turned out to be tangible, this story could double The Seattle Times’s subscription rate.

And push her into the open full-time investigative journalist position.

But none of it would happen without a new angle into the case. The King County Sheriff’s Department had played the investigation close to the vest and cut her out, but a new lead would put her back into the running for the promotion.

Jacqueline Day’s body had been discovered burned beyond recognition inside the remains of her vehicle outside the venue for the National Newspaper Awards, three days ago. Less than twelve hours after Arden had spoken to the journalist during the ceremony the previous night. After investigators noted there’d been a significant leak from the gas tank prior to the explosion, the sheriff’s department had tentatively ruled the incident an accident. All it would’ve taken was a small spark to trigger the inferno. But according to Baldwin’s message, the county’s chief medical examiner had reported traces of gasoline in Day’s stomach, which suggested she’d been injected with the accelerant before the fire.

Arden read the text again. No suspects mentioned. No motive. One of the city’s top investigative journalists had accepted the National Newspaper Awards investigations award one night, and Arden had been assigned to cover the story of her death the next. Now there was a possibility Jacqueline Day had been murdered.

The hints of gasoline Arden had noted earlier in the air thickened. She breathed into her hands to fight back the stiffness in her fingertips. They were losing daylight, and the only flashlight she’d brought was her phone.

She wasn’t going to wait. If Baldwin was right about Jacqueline Day’s death, it was only a matter of time before the medical examiner released the official autopsy report. She needed the story. She tapped the button for the flashlight and headed toward the single side door on the west side of the structure.

She wrenched the heavy steel door open, a full hit of gasoline diving deep into her lungs. Spinning around for a last inhale of clean air, Arden covered her nose with the back of her hand and stepped inside. Instant tears sprung to her eyes as petroleum residue crowded out fresh oxygen. Her boots echoed in the oversized space with every step. She aimed the phone’s flashlight in front of her. Smoke tendrilled out from under the dividing door between the offices and the main warehouse in random Rorschach patterns. Shadows clawed toward her from the corners of the office suite. “What the hell?”

The sound of metal striking cement twisted her gut, and she froze mid-step. Warning knotted in her stomach, and she clenched the phone tighter.

Someone was here.

“Baldwin?” She moved slower than she wanted to go, her body tight with tension, one foot in front of the other. Reaching into the depths of her bag, she closed her hand around the telescoping baton her ex-husband had given her for protection and arced her arm down to extend it fully. She transferred her phone to her mouth. Biting down on the edge, Arden adjusted her grip on the weapon as she tested the knob and wrenched the door open.
More smoke filled her vision, and she fell back. The taste of gasoline settled on her tongue. Her lungs immediately revolted, convulsing to find the smallest amount of clean air. Coughs spasmed from deep in her chest. This didn’t make sense. The warehouse hadn’t been used in years. Why would there be—

Realization hit.

“Baldwin!” Arden pushed through the smoke, hands outstretched, until cold steel shocked the nerve endings in her free hand. There was a roll top door somewhere to her right. Eyes shut against the burn of smoke and gasoline, she felt for the chain to lift the door. Her jaw slackened around the edge of her phone, and it fell to the cement. The flashlight beam arced wide as she hauled the chain toward the floor, and crisp January air filtered into the warehouse.

The smoke cleared after a few seconds—maybe a minute—and the source of the fire became clear. Remnants of dying sunlight outlined a body bound and burned beyond recognition in the middle of the second half of the warehouse.
A scream caught in her throat as the backs of her knees threatened to give way. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Stumbling back against the wall, she fumbled for her phone. Police. She had to call the police. Wiping at her face with the back of her hand, she unlocked her phone and dialed 911, unable to take her eyes off the body.

The line picked up immediately. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“I found…” Arden forced herself to take a deep breath. She’d written about the worst kinds of cases as a part-time investigative journalist for The Seattle Times over the past year. She could do this. Her gaze slipped to the dark outline of an all-too-familiar tablet near the charred, blackened, unrecognizable remains. The one with the dark green nail polish she’d accidentally spilled on the back. Baldwin’s tablet. No, it couldn’t… It couldn’t be him.

Adrenaline ticked her heart rate higher, and she studied the shape of the victim’s jawline, the wide opening of his mouth as though frozen in agony. She had to focus. She had to breathe. “I found a body. He’s burned. I can smell gasoline.”

“Ma’am, I need you to tell me where you’re located,” the dispatcher said.

“I’m… I’m in the old chemical warehouse on the island. I think whoever did it is still here.” Tears burned in her eyes as she shoved to her feet, the tip of the baton dragging against the floor. Dirty sunlight reflected off the shattered screen of the tablet beside the body. Baldwin carried it with him everywhere, even kept all his notes about different stories he was investigating in one of his apps. She pinched her phone between her shoulder and ear and picked up the tablet. If he’d had a new angle into Jacqueline Day’s death as he’d claimed in his message, he would’ve kept it in this device.

“Ma’am…still there?” Static cut through the line.
“You said you… discovered…body…located?”

The call ended.

Arden stared at the tablet in her hand, her reflection broken up by different shards of glass. She wasn’t sure how long she’d sat there, staring at the remains. The device could be evidence in a murder. As soon as the sheriff’s deputies arrived, they’d log it into evidence and shut her out of the investigation. She’d never know why Baldwin had brought her out here. Never find out if he was right about Jacqueline Day’s death. Her attention drifted to the blackened remains a few feet away, the odor of gasoline dense in her throat.

The county’s chief medical examiner had reported traces of gasoline in Day’s stomach. That was what Baldwin had said in his message when he’d asked her to meet him here. Tremors worked down her hands as she backed away from the body. Heat coming off the remains tunneled through her coat and deep into bone. This wasn’t a coincidence. Whoever’d killed Jacqueline Day had targeted Baldwin. Two journalists. Two murders. Both burned alive.
She slipped the tablet into her messenger bag and stepped farther away from the body. The police would be here in seconds. As though conjured from the deepest fear battling for control, sirens pierced through the haze of questions sprinting through her head, and she jerked toward the door. Black and white patrol vehicles with forest green lettering kicked up gravel as they skidded to a stop outside.

A woman, tall and slender, shouldered out of the first vehicle. The dark gray slacks and button-down shirt of her uniform highlighted the vicious red of her hair, but it was the piercing green eyes and set to her expression that pressurized the air in Arden’s lungs. Plump lips and high cheekbones worked overtime to soften Sheriff Blair Sanders’s hardened exterior. “Are you the one who called this in?”

“Yes.” Arden nodded, all too aware of the tablet she’d removed from the scene in her bag. She clutched the baton for some kind of anchor as the repercussions of removing evidence from a crime scene surfaced. Her mentor—her best friend—had been murdered. She hadn’t been thinking clearly, but the chances of replacing the device where she’d found it without the sheriff noticing plummeted. Nervous energy paralyzed her in place.

Hand lingering above the Glock 19 holstered on her left hip, the sheriff approached the cement pad of the warehouse, then froze. In that moment, Arden understood Sheriff Sanders had caught sight of the body. Her friend’s body. The sheriff didn’t take her eyes off the victim but softened her voice. “Did you touch anything?”
Arden shook her head, even as nausea swirled in her stomach. “No.”

“Okay. You did the right thing.” Pinching the radio strapped to her vest, Sheriff Sanders spoke into the device. Strong fingers latched onto Arden’s arm and maneuvered her out of the warehouse as though she were made of glass or about to break into sobbing convulsions. “What’s your name?”

This wasn’t happening. Baldwin wasn’t dead.

“Arden M—” No. That wasn’t her name anymore, hadn’t been for almost two years. “Arden Olsen.”

“You can put that away now, Ms. Olsen.” The sheriff nodded toward the baton at Arden’s side. Raising one arm, Sheriff Sanders motioned to something—or someone—behind her. “This deputy is going to get you a cup of coffee and ask you some questions before taking you down to the station for an official statement. Anything you can tell us about what you saw is important, understand? When you called 911, you said you thought whoever had done this was still in the area.”

“I heard something drop onto the cement before I opened the door.” She forced the baton to collapse. Another vehicle pulled into the parking lot, a darker unmarked SUV that had no place on a small island like this. Jacqueline Day’s death wouldn’t be viewed as a single incident anymore. Not with the similarities between both scenes. Baldwin Webb’s name would be added to a list of victims burned alive by the same killer. It stood to reason the feds would be brought in on the case. Tears clouded her vision. “Why would somebody do this?”

She let the deputy at her side pull her toward his patrol car as reality bled into focus. Someone had killed Jacqueline Day in her vehicle three days ago, and now Baldwin had been killed in the same manner after telling her about the results of the autopsy report. There had to be a connection, and as soon as she was finished giving her statement to the sheriff’s department, she’d find out what it was from Baldwin’s tablet. Baldwin hadn’t believed Jacqueline Day’s death had been an accident, and Arden had to find a way to prove him right. She’d connect it to Baldwin’s death, and she’d expose a killer. With or without the police’s help.

“Arden?” That voice. His voice. She’d prayed every night she’d forget how her name on his lips warmed the darkest stretches of her insides, but her traitorous body hadn’t forgotten him in the least. “What… What are you doing here?”

Gravity increased its hold on her legs as Special Agent Lawson Mitchell of the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit closed in on her. Apprehension climbed up her spine. Lawson’s thick eyebrows and dark, styled hair shaped a perfectly symmetrical and chiseled jawline and brought out the color in his storm-gray eyes. His pristine navy-blue suit and white button-down shirt begged for relief from the mountainous stretch of muscled shoulders beneath the fabric. Every inch of the man she’d tried to forget triggered her instincts to run. Not out of danger but something far more terrifying: remembered attraction.

“I’ve got this.” Lawson nodded to the deputy still waiting to take Arden back to the sheriff’s station on the other side of the island, dismissing him. The last bit of sunlight dove beneath the horizon, but Lawson instantly made up for the lack of light with a click of his flashlight before turning that intensity he carried back to her. “I asked you a question. What the hell are you doing out here?”

The tremors in her hands shot down her legs, but she wouldn’t break down. Not in front of him.

“I’m covering the Jacqueline Day story, but now there seems to be more to the investigation than police originally believed.” She lifted her phone between them, a defense mechanism that meant nothing when it came to him, and hit the voice recorder. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to hold onto the sob building in her throat. Her friend had been murdered, but she wouldn’t let Agent Mitchell see her cry. Never again. “Care to make a statement as to whether the death of this second victim might be the result of a budding serial murderer?”

“No comment.” The words left his mouth between gritted teeth, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

“Agent Mitchell, the body is in here. Looks like we have another one on our hands.” Gravel ground hard in Arden’s ears as Sheriff Sanders burst the bubble they’d built around themselves in a matter of seconds. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem, Sheriff.” Lawson pushed past her toward the warehouse. “My wife was just leaving.”

People were poison.

King County Sheriff Blair Sanders followed the deep tracks along the hiking trail winding west around Rattlesnake Lake. Temperatures dropped in the shade of tall pines even as the sun battled the last few inches of winter snow and ice clinging to the final days of March. Her boots suctioned into the mud as low conversation reached her ears.

The crime scene unit had found the body.
Blair nodded in greeting as she passed the deputy stationed at the perimeter and ducked under the crime scene tape. Hikers kept their distance, whispering between themselves. The call had come in three hours ago, but it’d taken the team at least half that time to find the remains. The trail stretched ten and a half miles and switchbacked along Rattlesnake Mountain before delivering hikers on the north side, and the witness who’d called 9-1-1 had had to leave the park to get cell service. Unfortunately for her, service bars hadn’t been all she’d found.

“Who called it in?” Blair’s legs burned as she hiked the small distance toward Seattle’s chief medical examiner who was crouched over the remains.

“Hiker.” Dr. Vanessa Moss pointed to a thin, dark-haired woman outside of the perimeter tape talking with one of the deputies. “Call came in at six this morning.”

From the state of the victim’s clothing, she’d guess the body hadn’t been out here more than a few hours. Jeans, blazer, nice blouse. Whoever the woman was, she hadn’t come out here for hiking. Not in heeled boots. Blair instantly homed in on movement beneath the victim’s silk blouse and leaned in closer. Pointing down, she glanced at Dr. Moss. “You know she’s moving, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” the ME said.

The head of a vibrant green snake burrowed through the victim’s clothing, followed by another. Half a dozen at least. Her gasp filled the scene, and Blair closed her eyes to counter the embarrassment heating her neck and face. She forced herself to stay in place. The snakes’ bright red eyes stood stark against their soft, coiling bodies, as though staring back in warning. Her stomach tightened. It wasn’t uncommon for wildlife and insects to feed off of a set of remains, but this… She had a hard time believing this had been an accident. No signs of a struggle or blunt force trauma. A remote location. “I’ve never seen snakes go after a set of remains like this.”

“The cold drove them to take shelter inside the victim’s remains, but as far as I can tell, they haven’t fed on the body. Nothing has.” Dr. Moss reached a gloved hand for one of the snakes and pulled it free from the body. Handing it off to the Regional Animal Services deputy a few feet behind her, the pathologist shifted her position to the head of the remains. Her dark gaze scanned the victim. With long, brown hair tied at the base of her neck and a shoulder-to-ankle protective bodysuit, Dr. Moss exuded expertise and intelligence in one petite package. The ME didn’t normally respond to death scenes, usually leaving this kind of work to her medicolegal investigators, but Blair appreciated her assistance all the same. Dr. Moss pulled another reptile free, staring into small red eyes a few inches from her face. “Animals will avoid eating dead flesh if they smell something off. I’ll have to get her back to Harborview to know for sure, but we could be looking at a poisoning.”

“I don’t see any bruising or evidence she fought her attacker.” Blair crouched beside the remains. Medium-length brown hair with perfectly shaded highlights spread around the victim’s shoulders. Pristine makeup fought to cover a birthmark above a thin upper lip, professionally sculpted arched eyebrows revealing the victim’s natural coloring. Dried skin and thick foundation flaked off around the woman’s chin. Blair unpocketed a notebook from her jacket pocket and compressed the end of her pen. “Any idea who she is or how long she’s been out here?”

“I’ll be able to check her clothing for identification once I remove all the snakes.” Dr. Moss pushed to her feet. “Judging on lividity and these temperatures, I’d say she was out here between five and six hours. As for time of death, I’ll need to get her on the slab to give you a better timeframe. I will say she was already dead before the killer disposed of her body.”

“Not snakes. Vipers,” a deep, masculine voice said from behind. “More specifically Trimeresurus rubeus or ruby-eyed green pit vipers.”

Blair turned, instantly aware of the six-foot-plus, striking man inside the perimeter tape. She swept her focus the length of his muscular body, void of credentials, and instant stiffness ran down her spine. T-shirt, jeans, boots, and a leather jacket. Short brown hair and a few days of beard growth pronounced the enthralling brightness of his gaze. No uniform. Not a federal agent and sure as hell not one of hers.

“Vipers aren’t indigenous to this area.” He took a single step closer and intensified the responsiveness simmering along her nerve endings. “Whoever dumped the body out here left them behind, too. Maybe as some kind of message or warning.”

“Sir, I don’t know who you are, but this is a crime scene.” Blair faced him fully, her hands automatically sweeping her jacket out of the way to show her badge on her hip. “You’re not allowed to be here unless authorized, and I don’t see a badge.”

“Oh, I’ve got one of those.” He dug into his back pocket, flipping open his wallet before pulling a card from the depths. He handed it off to her, callused knuckles brushing against her hand. “Colson Rutherford. Seems you might’ve found my missing person.”

Blair read the card, her gut souring. A license. “You’re a private investigator.”

“Among other things.” Colson plucked the card from her hand and tucked his wallet back into his pocket, that playful gaze never leaving hers. Amusement deepened the smile lines around his eyes and mouth. He scanned her from head to toe as he shifted his weight between both feet. Sizing her up. “You must be Sheriff Sanders. I’ve read a lot about you. Your work on that serial case two months ago has been topping headlines for weeks.”

The case she couldn’t forget. No matter how many times she’d tried. Three victims—all investigative journalists—forced to swallow gasoline and set on fire out of a killer’s wrathful revenge. Colson was right. That case and her work with the FBI had rocketed her career into the limelight, but fame and recognition hadn’t ever been the reason she’d run for King County’s sheriff four years ago. It was because of people like the man standing in front of her.

Blair pressed the edge of her notebook into her palm as anger bubbled to escape. “I don’t care who you are or why you’re here, Mr. Rutherford. Police solve crimes. Private investigators exploit their clients for profit and leverage. Now get off my scene before I have you arrested for obstructing a homicide investigation.”

She turned back to the remains and forced herself to take a deep breath, but the flood of heat that’d crawled into her neck refused to abate. She made a note to research ruby-eyed green pit vipers and check them against the snakes Regional Animal Services had collected into an oversize sack. Hisses permeated through the fabric, their violent movements a testament to the warning she’d noted in their red eyes. “Let’s check her clothing for an ID, Doc.”

“Her name is Rachel Faulkner.” Colson’s voice penetrated through the focused haze she used to block out the world when working a new case, and her pulse ticked up a notch. He’d stepped back behind the tape, all six-three, maybe six-four, of muscle and mystery honed in on her. “She was reported missing two days ago. I recognize her blazer. It was one of her signature pieces of clothing. Her father hired me to find her.”

A hint of regret infused the last part of his statement, but Blair’s impatience only burned hotter. She turned to face him. “Mr. Rutherford—”
“My friends call me Colson.” The tall, dark, and dangerous private investigator raised both hands, palms forward as though in surrender, but she’d dealt with guys like him her entire life. She knew better. “And I know what you’re about to say, but I figured you’d want to save your department and her family time by hearing what I’ve gathered on the victim these last couple of days. Or are you going to let your personal opinions of private investigators impede your investigation into who killed her?”

The fire under her skin cooled. Her personal opinions, as he’d put it, had nothing to do with solving this case, but if Colson Rutherford had information relevant to the investigation, she needed it. This was what she’d been trained for, what she was good at, and where she felt most in control. And she wasn’t going to let an investigator more interested in money than justice put this case at risk. “Hundreds of people must own jackets like hers, and we don’t have a positive ID yet. How can you be sure this is the missing woman you were hired to find?”

“He’s right, Sheriff.” Dr. Moss rounded the remains and stepped into her peripheral vision. The pathologist’s thin frame was nearly swallowed in her protective gear as she offered a mud-caked leather wallet inscribed with designer gold above the button closure. Tendrils of hair slipped free of the knot at the back of the medical examiner’s neck, softening the severe angles of her cheeks and chin. “I found this under her remains. Driver’s license says this is Rachel Faulkner. Cash, phone, and her cards are all there.”

Blair pocketed her pen and notebook and pulled an evidence bag from her jacket. The ME dropped the wallet inside, and Blair sealed the top. This hadn’t been a mugging gone wrong. Whoever’d dumped the victim out here wasn’t interested in money. She’d have CSU pull prints from the leather wallet and run LUDs on the victim’s phone. She raised her attention to Colson and closed the distance between them. The crime scene tape brushed against her jacket as she lowered her voice. “All right, Mr. Rutherford, I’ll bite. Tell me what you’ve discovered about the victim before she ended up out here, and I’ll make sure you’re not lying about being hired to find her.”

“You have trust issues, don’t you?” Colson slid his hands into his front pockets, his mouth quirking to one side in an attempt to soften her guard. It wouldn’t work. “Rachel Faulkner is the daughter of a CEO who runs a Fortune 500 company in the city.”

“And when a rich man’s daughter goes missing, you just can’t help but jump on the opportunity?” she asked.

He ignored her quip and graced her with another half-smile. “He came to me. Rachel took off for weeks at a time for her job, giving keynote speeches and promoting her books on tours, but she always stayed in touch. Only this time, neither he nor her husband had heard from her in two days.”

“She’s an author.” Blair took notes as the medical examiner prepared the remains for transportation back to the Harborview Medical Center, King County’s morgue. While publishers didn’t spend the funds they used to by sending their authors on tour, there would have to be someone who handled the victim’s schedule. An assistant or publicist maybe.

“Rachel was a social media influencer who happened to land a three-book deal with a big publisher. She’s also a business coach with almost two million followers, a podcast host, and a self-proclaimed marriage counselor.” The weight of Colson’s gaze burrowed beneath the thick layer of her uniform jacket. “She ran a multi-million-dollar company with about thirty employees without any capital investors.”

“And none of them realized she’d been missing for two days?” Blair found that hard to believe. Although the chances of all thirty employees knowing the victim’s schedule were slim.
“A main part of Rachel’s job was giving speeches to other companies, colleges, and anyone who wanted to pay her to be their own personal or business coach. A lot of people found her to be inspirational.” Those dark eyes settled over Blair’s shoulder. The hint of regret she’d caught in his voice earlier bled into his gaze, but, in her experience, private investigators were far too adept at using their clients for their own gain. Colson wouldn’t be any different. “She encouraged them to take care of their bodies, put their dreams first, and make themselves a priority. She changed countless people’s lives and never apologized for being herself.”

“I highly doubt the person who dumped her body out here found her to be inspirational.” Blair pointed the end of her pen over her shoulder.
“What about enemies? Have you been able to get access to her social media accounts, mail, or email since you started looking into her? Did any of her employees or fans have a problem with her as far as you could tell?”

Colson seemed to pull himself back in the moment, straightening slightly, and another hit of awareness chased through her. He scrubbed a hand down his face, and suddenly, he seemed much younger than she’d originally believed. Almost lost. In her next breath, the confident man who’d strode onto her scene without consideration for himself stared back at her. “Sheriff Sanders, everything I’ve told you about Rachel Faulkner is public knowledge, but the details I’ve uncovered in her private life aren’t. I understand you have a job to do, but I was contracted by the victim’s father to find her. I signed a non-disclosure agreement to keep the things you’re asking for from leaking, and I intend to stand by it. If you have any further questions about Rachel’s personal life, I suggest you get a warrant for those accounts. Or you can save yourself the trouble and bring me into the investigation.”

“First, this is a homicide investigation. No judge in the state is going to hold up that non-disclosure agreement if you have information about this case. Second, you’re not law enforcement, Mr. Rutherford. I imagine it’s been fun playing pretend, but private investigators don’t solve crimes. Police do.” She stepped into him. This was how private investigators worked. Willing to give or sell information solely on their terms, despite the consequences to everyone around them, even their own clients. But she knew how to play this game. She forced herself to click the end of her pen and slid it into her jacket breast pocket with her notebook slower than she wanted to. “Lucky for me, I believe you have information pertaining to Rachel Faulkner’s death, and it’s your duty as a private investigator to give a full statement to the police.” She motioned to one of her deputies off to her left higher up the trail. “This deputy will escort you back to the station while my team finishes collecting evidence from this scene.”

His humorless laugh filled her with satisfaction as the deputy she’d signaled stepped beneath the crime scene tape and motioned him down the trail. Colson leaned into her, a hint of soap and man filling her lungs. “Well played, Sheriff, but taking me off the board isn’t going to win you the game.”

Blair cocked her head to one side. “You’ve never gone up against me.”