Nichole Severn's Blog
December 13, 2021
Chapter One: Into the Veins
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.”
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.”
August 5, 2021
Chapter One: Over the Flames
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.”
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.”
June 5, 2021
Chapter One Reveal: Profiling a Killer
“Seattle PD received a hand-drawn map early this morning from a witness who hasn’t been able to reach her sister for over twenty-four hours.” Supervisory Special Agent Miguel Peters tossed a thick manila folder onto the conference table, the scrape of card stock and wood cutting off conversation. A thick five o’clock shadow stood stark against his white button-down shirt and showcased the exhaustion under his eyes. The supervising director of the Behavioral Analysis Unit pointed to the head of the conference room. “Now we know why.”
The projector flashed to life at the direction of their tech guru—Liam McDare—at the opposite end of the table. A single image filled the screen. The bright seal of the evidence bag cut off the top two inches of a crude, torn piece of lined paper with penned outlines of vague, unlabeled buildings, sidewalks, a park and a large red X off to one side. SSA Peters hit the remote in his hand, and the image on the projector changed. A woman—no older than twenty-five or twenty-six—sat on a commercial steel bench outside what looked like a wall of windows leading into the main floor of an apartment building. One leg crossed over the other, the victim looked as though she’d sat down to take in the sunrise from across Puget Sound to start her morning. Aside from the angry purple-and-blue strangulation marks around her neck and the red X carved into her right cheekbone, she’d been a strikingly beautiful woman.
“The map designated where the victim’s sister could find the body.” Hell. Special Agent Nicholas James leaned forward in his chair, a knot of dread knifing thought him. No. It wasn’t possible. Reaching for the folder SSA Peters had tossed in his direction, he pried it open and compared the crime scene photos to those taking up nearly an entire wall in the BAU’s high-rise conference room. All the signs were there, right down to the positioning of the body. He locked his back teeth against the denial clawing up his throat without looking up. “Who is she?”
“Victim’s name is Kara Flood, a kindergarten teacher who lives in the building you see behind her, and, in case you can’t tell from the crime scene photos, she resembles a few victims we’ve come across before.” SSA Peters pressed his palms onto the edge of the long conference table. “Director Branson wants this handled as quickly and as quietly as possible. We can’t have the public panic. Agents James and Striker, meet your next assignment.”
A kindergarten teacher? Nausea churned in Nicholas’s gut. Gravity pulled the blood from his face as he memorized the woman’s features.
“The X Marks the Spot Killer.” Madeline Striker, the unit’s kidnapping expert, unfolded her arms and set her elbows on the table. Dark, layered hair with golden highlights framed perfectly angled warm brown cheekbones. A hard light of dedication to find the missing echoed in her dark, rich eyes. Her flawless complexion made her look younger than her age, but any perp who had the guts to take advantage learned St
riker had an uncanny ability to handle herself. “He chose women who were in their early to mid-twenties, single, with short brown hair and were much smaller than him to make it easier to strangle them from behind. He was all about control, domination. She matches his profile.”
Nicholas’s ears rang as images of his childhood superimposed the faces of the victims from his first case assignment for the unit three years ago. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to come up with some other explanation as to why Kara Flood had been targeted, strangled and mutilated with an X. They’d found the killer. They’d put the bastard behind bars.
Confusion altered the clean lines of Madeline’s dark eyebrows. “He hunted his victims in that same neighborhood, but Cole Presley was found guilty and sentenced to life behind bars. We need to contact the warden at Washington State Corrections to ensure Presley is still accounted for.”
“We never released the details of the X Marks the Spot case to the public, and there haven’t been any leaks in information as far as I can tell after the conclusion of the trial.” BAU’s resident cybercrimes expert, Dashiell West, tapped his hand against the table. The light from the agent’s laptop cast shadows along chiseled features and thick beard growth. Two years older than Nicholas, West had more experience in the digital world, but serial cases would always default to Nicholas. Especially this one. “The only way this guy could’ve gotten the specifics of how the victims were killed is if he was involved in the case somehow. Maybe one of the original victims’ family members? They would’ve been informed about manner of death.”
“The X Marks the Spot Killer strangled and mutilated thirty victims over thirty years that we know of, every year on the same day. Assuming one of the victims’ family members is involved, that leaves hundreds of suspects.”
Only Nicholas had known the killer by a different name when he’d been a kid. Right up until he’d put the cuffs on a man he’d trusted his entire life. The bones under his knuckles threatened to break free from the callused skin on the back of his hands. Kara Flood. He didn’t know the victim or recognize her name directly, but instinct heightened all the same as he studied perimortem photos of the woman discovered this morning. He could almost see the resemblance, and a shot of warmth dumped into his veins. Dark brown hair, same shade of honey-colored eyes, possibly a similar face shape. Had the victim been related to Dr. Aubrey Flood, the medical examiner who’d performed the autopsies on the last three victims of the X Marks the Spot Killer? He scanned the file in front of him. “The sister found the body.”
“Yes.” The lines around SSA Peters’s mouth smoothed. “According to her statement given to Seattle PD this morning, Dr. Aubrey Flood found the map taped to her door this morning, then immediately tried calling the victim. When she didn’t get an answer, she followed the clues the killer had left for her. Forensics is trying to pull prints from the map and the tape, but the lab is backed up as it is. We won’t have results for a few days.”
“Dr. Flood was the ME in the original case. She performed the autopsies on Presley’s last three victims.” Nicholas licked his suddenly dry lips as a visual of the doc replaced the violent memories in his head. Wisps of soft medium-length brown hair highlighting a creamy complexion, a honey-warm gaze that had pierced straight through him and the voice of a siren tempting him to believe in something other than the worst in people.
He’d only met the medical examiner a handful of times to discuss the initial case, but there always seemed to be a forged intimacy between everyone involved in a serial investigation. Emergency responders, agents assigned to the case, the first officers on scene. Drowning in that kind of darkness brought out a need for safe human contact that even the most veteran investigators clung to, and Aubrey had been part of the team. She’d been professional, respectful and warm toward the victims under her scalpel, a miracle considering the kind of work she had to face on a daily basis as Seattle’s chief examiner.
“She gave us the exact type of blade Cole Presley used to carve an X into each of the victims’ cheeks by swabbing particles from the wounds and testing hundreds of blades. Without her insight, we never would’ve caught up to him. We can’t discount the possibility her sister’s death might be some kind of retaliation from one of his super fans.”
“You think this killer might be trying to get the attention of the X Marks the Spot Killer by drawing out the medical examiner who put him away.” SSA Peters centered himself in the light from the projector as the slideshow ended. The FBI seal tinted the antiterrorism expert’s Cuban American skin tone blue.
“It makes sense, but I think there’s more at play than we’re seeing here. This is the first victim we’ve uncovered using a previous serial MO, and something tells me it won’t be his last.” Not when Dr. Flood was quickly becoming a central element to this case. Nicholas studied the photos of the victim again. “It can’t be a coincidence Kara Flood was strangled and marked after her sister became connected to the case, or that the killer delivered the map directly to Aubrey Flood’s door. His target wasn’t random.”
Nicholas raised his attention to SSA Peters. The question was why. That was the specialty of the Behavioral Analysis Unit—to make sense of the incomprehensible, to get into the minds of humanity’s worst killers to stop them from striking again. Cole Presley had strangled young women in their twenties with brown hair and marked them with an X to show the victims’ family members where to find his treasure, his masterpieces, but Nicholas wasn’t willing to risk Aubrey Flood’s life in order to add to his profile of this killer. He closed the file in front of him. “He knew exactly what he was doing and whom he wanted to draw into his game.”
“All right. I’ve got Caitlyn Yang meeting with Dr. Flood and the family now to fill them in on the investigation and explain where we go from here. Dr. Flood is one of us, and we owe her nothing less than the full support of this unit.” SSA Peters straightened. “West, I need you to search through security footage from the good doctor’s apartment building. There might be something there to give us an idea of when our unsub left the note so we can track his movements last night. James and Striker, take Dyson to check out the scene where the killer dumped the body. I want to know if anyone noticed our victim or her killer before she wound up in front of her apartment building.”
“You got it.” Nicholas pushed away from the conference table and headed for the double glass doors leading out into the main offices. Blinding hits of sunlight glimmered across Puget Sound through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Liam McDare, the tall, lanky IT tech with an easy smile, unplugged the projector from his laptop and nodded as he passed.
“Agent James, a minute,” SSA Peters said from behind.
Pivoting, Nicholas let the team maneuver past him as he faced the supervisory agent. “Sir?”
“Dr. Flood specifically requested for you to work this case after your work together three years ago, but I know how close you were to Cole Presley before you discovered who he really was.” SSA Peters stalked toward him, and Nicholas’s defenses automatically bristled. “No one would blame you if you recused yourself from this case. It isn’t every day we find out the people we trust aren’t who they seem. The team is here for you. However you need.”
His mind instantly snapped back to the moment he’d cuffed the man who’d taught him how to play catch, how to drive, who’d been the role model he’d needed in his life when his father hadn’t been around. His next-door neighbor had turned out to be the X Marks the Spot Killer, the very same killer who’d inspired him to join the BAU. SSA Peters was right. He’d never be able to trust the mask people presented to the world, including the pretty face that’d been the key to putting Cole Presley behind bars. “It won’t be a problem.”
The projector flashed to life at the direction of their tech guru—Liam McDare—at the opposite end of the table. A single image filled the screen. The bright seal of the evidence bag cut off the top two inches of a crude, torn piece of lined paper with penned outlines of vague, unlabeled buildings, sidewalks, a park and a large red X off to one side. SSA Peters hit the remote in his hand, and the image on the projector changed. A woman—no older than twenty-five or twenty-six—sat on a commercial steel bench outside what looked like a wall of windows leading into the main floor of an apartment building. One leg crossed over the other, the victim looked as though she’d sat down to take in the sunrise from across Puget Sound to start her morning. Aside from the angry purple-and-blue strangulation marks around her neck and the red X carved into her right cheekbone, she’d been a strikingly beautiful woman.
“The map designated where the victim’s sister could find the body.” Hell. Special Agent Nicholas James leaned forward in his chair, a knot of dread knifing thought him. No. It wasn’t possible. Reaching for the folder SSA Peters had tossed in his direction, he pried it open and compared the crime scene photos to those taking up nearly an entire wall in the BAU’s high-rise conference room. All the signs were there, right down to the positioning of the body. He locked his back teeth against the denial clawing up his throat without looking up. “Who is she?”
“Victim’s name is Kara Flood, a kindergarten teacher who lives in the building you see behind her, and, in case you can’t tell from the crime scene photos, she resembles a few victims we’ve come across before.” SSA Peters pressed his palms onto the edge of the long conference table. “Director Branson wants this handled as quickly and as quietly as possible. We can’t have the public panic. Agents James and Striker, meet your next assignment.”
A kindergarten teacher? Nausea churned in Nicholas’s gut. Gravity pulled the blood from his face as he memorized the woman’s features.
“The X Marks the Spot Killer.” Madeline Striker, the unit’s kidnapping expert, unfolded her arms and set her elbows on the table. Dark, layered hair with golden highlights framed perfectly angled warm brown cheekbones. A hard light of dedication to find the missing echoed in her dark, rich eyes. Her flawless complexion made her look younger than her age, but any perp who had the guts to take advantage learned St
riker had an uncanny ability to handle herself. “He chose women who were in their early to mid-twenties, single, with short brown hair and were much smaller than him to make it easier to strangle them from behind. He was all about control, domination. She matches his profile.”
Nicholas’s ears rang as images of his childhood superimposed the faces of the victims from his first case assignment for the unit three years ago. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to come up with some other explanation as to why Kara Flood had been targeted, strangled and mutilated with an X. They’d found the killer. They’d put the bastard behind bars.
Confusion altered the clean lines of Madeline’s dark eyebrows. “He hunted his victims in that same neighborhood, but Cole Presley was found guilty and sentenced to life behind bars. We need to contact the warden at Washington State Corrections to ensure Presley is still accounted for.”
“We never released the details of the X Marks the Spot case to the public, and there haven’t been any leaks in information as far as I can tell after the conclusion of the trial.” BAU’s resident cybercrimes expert, Dashiell West, tapped his hand against the table. The light from the agent’s laptop cast shadows along chiseled features and thick beard growth. Two years older than Nicholas, West had more experience in the digital world, but serial cases would always default to Nicholas. Especially this one. “The only way this guy could’ve gotten the specifics of how the victims were killed is if he was involved in the case somehow. Maybe one of the original victims’ family members? They would’ve been informed about manner of death.”
“The X Marks the Spot Killer strangled and mutilated thirty victims over thirty years that we know of, every year on the same day. Assuming one of the victims’ family members is involved, that leaves hundreds of suspects.”
Only Nicholas had known the killer by a different name when he’d been a kid. Right up until he’d put the cuffs on a man he’d trusted his entire life. The bones under his knuckles threatened to break free from the callused skin on the back of his hands. Kara Flood. He didn’t know the victim or recognize her name directly, but instinct heightened all the same as he studied perimortem photos of the woman discovered this morning. He could almost see the resemblance, and a shot of warmth dumped into his veins. Dark brown hair, same shade of honey-colored eyes, possibly a similar face shape. Had the victim been related to Dr. Aubrey Flood, the medical examiner who’d performed the autopsies on the last three victims of the X Marks the Spot Killer? He scanned the file in front of him. “The sister found the body.”
“Yes.” The lines around SSA Peters’s mouth smoothed. “According to her statement given to Seattle PD this morning, Dr. Aubrey Flood found the map taped to her door this morning, then immediately tried calling the victim. When she didn’t get an answer, she followed the clues the killer had left for her. Forensics is trying to pull prints from the map and the tape, but the lab is backed up as it is. We won’t have results for a few days.”
“Dr. Flood was the ME in the original case. She performed the autopsies on Presley’s last three victims.” Nicholas licked his suddenly dry lips as a visual of the doc replaced the violent memories in his head. Wisps of soft medium-length brown hair highlighting a creamy complexion, a honey-warm gaze that had pierced straight through him and the voice of a siren tempting him to believe in something other than the worst in people.
He’d only met the medical examiner a handful of times to discuss the initial case, but there always seemed to be a forged intimacy between everyone involved in a serial investigation. Emergency responders, agents assigned to the case, the first officers on scene. Drowning in that kind of darkness brought out a need for safe human contact that even the most veteran investigators clung to, and Aubrey had been part of the team. She’d been professional, respectful and warm toward the victims under her scalpel, a miracle considering the kind of work she had to face on a daily basis as Seattle’s chief examiner.
“She gave us the exact type of blade Cole Presley used to carve an X into each of the victims’ cheeks by swabbing particles from the wounds and testing hundreds of blades. Without her insight, we never would’ve caught up to him. We can’t discount the possibility her sister’s death might be some kind of retaliation from one of his super fans.”
“You think this killer might be trying to get the attention of the X Marks the Spot Killer by drawing out the medical examiner who put him away.” SSA Peters centered himself in the light from the projector as the slideshow ended. The FBI seal tinted the antiterrorism expert’s Cuban American skin tone blue.
“It makes sense, but I think there’s more at play than we’re seeing here. This is the first victim we’ve uncovered using a previous serial MO, and something tells me it won’t be his last.” Not when Dr. Flood was quickly becoming a central element to this case. Nicholas studied the photos of the victim again. “It can’t be a coincidence Kara Flood was strangled and marked after her sister became connected to the case, or that the killer delivered the map directly to Aubrey Flood’s door. His target wasn’t random.”
Nicholas raised his attention to SSA Peters. The question was why. That was the specialty of the Behavioral Analysis Unit—to make sense of the incomprehensible, to get into the minds of humanity’s worst killers to stop them from striking again. Cole Presley had strangled young women in their twenties with brown hair and marked them with an X to show the victims’ family members where to find his treasure, his masterpieces, but Nicholas wasn’t willing to risk Aubrey Flood’s life in order to add to his profile of this killer. He closed the file in front of him. “He knew exactly what he was doing and whom he wanted to draw into his game.”
“All right. I’ve got Caitlyn Yang meeting with Dr. Flood and the family now to fill them in on the investigation and explain where we go from here. Dr. Flood is one of us, and we owe her nothing less than the full support of this unit.” SSA Peters straightened. “West, I need you to search through security footage from the good doctor’s apartment building. There might be something there to give us an idea of when our unsub left the note so we can track his movements last night. James and Striker, take Dyson to check out the scene where the killer dumped the body. I want to know if anyone noticed our victim or her killer before she wound up in front of her apartment building.”
“You got it.” Nicholas pushed away from the conference table and headed for the double glass doors leading out into the main offices. Blinding hits of sunlight glimmered across Puget Sound through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Liam McDare, the tall, lanky IT tech with an easy smile, unplugged the projector from his laptop and nodded as he passed.
“Agent James, a minute,” SSA Peters said from behind.
Pivoting, Nicholas let the team maneuver past him as he faced the supervisory agent. “Sir?”
“Dr. Flood specifically requested for you to work this case after your work together three years ago, but I know how close you were to Cole Presley before you discovered who he really was.” SSA Peters stalked toward him, and Nicholas’s defenses automatically bristled. “No one would blame you if you recused yourself from this case. It isn’t every day we find out the people we trust aren’t who they seem. The team is here for you. However you need.”
His mind instantly snapped back to the moment he’d cuffed the man who’d taught him how to play catch, how to drive, who’d been the role model he’d needed in his life when his father hadn’t been around. His next-door neighbor had turned out to be the X Marks the Spot Killer, the very same killer who’d inspired him to join the BAU. SSA Peters was right. He’d never be able to trust the mask people presented to the world, including the pretty face that’d been the key to putting Cole Presley behind bars. “It won’t be a problem.”
December 4, 2020
Chapter One Reveal: The Fugitive
Raleigh Wilde.
Hell, it’d been a while since Deputy United States Marshal Beckett Foster had set sights on her, and every cell in his body responded in awareness. Four months, one week and four days to be exact. Those soul-searching light green eyes, her soft brown hair and sharp cheekbones. But all that beauty didn't take away from the sawed-off shotgun currently pointed at his chest. His hand hovered just above his firearm as the Mothers Come First foundation’s former chief financial officer—now fugitive—widened her stance.
“Don’t you know breaking into someone’s home is illegal, Marshal?” That voice. A man could get lost in a voice like that. Sweet and rough all in the same package. Raleigh smoothed her fingers over the gun in her hand. It hadn’t taken her but a few seconds after she’d come through the door to realize he’d been waiting for her at the other end of the wide room.
It hadn’t taken him but a couple hours to figure out where she’d been hiding for the past four months once her file crossed his desk. What she didn’t know was how long he’d been waiting, and that he’d already relieved that gun of its rounds as well as any other weapons he’d found during his search of her aunt’s cabin.
“Come on now. You and I both know you haven’t forgotten my name that easily.” He studied her from head to toe, memorizing the fit of her oversize plaid flannel shirt, the slight loss of color in her face and the dark circles under her eyes. Yeah, living on the run did that to a person. Beckett unbuttoned his holster. He wouldn’t pull. Of all the criminals the United States Marshals Service had assigned him to recover over the years, she was the only one he’d hesitated chasing down. Then again, if he hadn’t accepted the assignment, another marshal would have. And there was no way Beckett would let anyone else bring her in.
Beckett ran his free hand along the exposed brick of the fireplace. “Gotta be honest, didn’t think you’d ever come back here. Lot of memories tied up in this place.”
“What do you want, Beckett?” The creases around her eyes deepened as she shifted her weight between both feet. She crouched slightly, searching through the single window facing East Lake then refocused on him.
Looking for a way out? Or to see if he’d come with backup? Dried grass, changing leaves, mountains and an empty dock were all that were out there. The cabin she’d been raised in as a kid sat on the west side of the lake, away from tourists, away from the main road. Even if he gave her a head start, she wouldn’t get far. There was nowhere for her to run. Not from him.
“You know that, too.” He took a single step forward, the aged wood floor protesting under his weight as he closed in on her. “You skipped out on your trial, and I’m here to bring you in.”
“What was I supposed to do?” Countering his approach, she moved backward toward the front door she’d dead-bolted right after coming inside but kept the gun aimed at him. Her boot hit the go bag she stored on the kitchen counter beside the door. “I didn’t steal that money. Someone at the charity did and faked the evidence so I’d take the fall.”
“That’s the best you got? A frame job?” Fifty and a half million dollars. Gone. The only one with continuous access to the funds stood right in front of him. Not to mention the brand-new offshore bank account, the thousands of wire transfers to that account in increments small enough they wouldn’t register for the feds, and Raleigh’s signatures on every single one of them. “You had a choice, Raleigh. You just chose wrong.”
“Beckett…” She slowed her escape. Her fingers flitted over the gun as her expression softened. “You know me. You know I didn’t do this. Find Calvin Dailey, the foundation’s CEO. I told him everything when I discovered the funds were being sent offshore. I’ve been trying to contact him for weeks. He must’ve gone into hiding when the news about my arrest hit the media, but he can clear my name.”
“I’m afraid Calvin Dailey can’t help you right now. Seems your boss left his house without about a half a gallon of his own blood. Local police haven’t found the body yet, but I don’t think that’s a coincidence considering you just revealed he’s the only other person you told about the missing money.” He locked his jaw against the fire burning through his veins, the easygoing marshal gone. Beckett lowered his hand from above his holster and took another step. “You think you know a person. Then one day you wake up and see them on the morning news getting arrested for embezzlement.”
“Calvin’s…dead?” Shock dropped her bottom lip. Real dangerous. Either Raleigh Wilde was one hell of an actress, or she honestly hadn’t known her former colleague had most likely been murdered. Shock bled to resolution and wiped the confusion from her gaze. She secured the butt of the rifle against her shoulder. Just as he’d taught her. “I didn’t kill him, and I didn’t embezzle that money. I’m not going to prison. I can’t. Not now.”
There was the woman he’d let into his life, the one with vengeance in her eyes and her middle fingers raised high. The one who’d stood up to the mugger who’d tried stealing her purse on a Portland street until it’d gotten to the point Beckett had to intervene before she punctured one of the bastard’s lungs with her high heel. The one who’d thanked him for his help by intertwining her fingers with his and showing him what real desire looked like. He’d never forget that woman. Too bad she’d never existed in the first place. Instead, he’d gotten involved with a criminal, but she wasn’t going to manipulate him again. “That’s up to the judge, sweetheart.”
“Don't call me that.” The words left her mouth between gritted teeth. “You lost the right to call me sweetheart when you disappeared after my arrest.”
“And here I was thinking you’re the one who broke us up.” He pulled a set of cuffs from the back of his holster, shards of reflected sunlight bouncing across her face. “I’m bringing you in.”
“I’ll give you one chance to walk away, Beckett.” She racked the shotgun, her expression softening slightly. “Please. For both our sakes, don’t make me pull this trigger. Turn around and pretend you never found me. It’s better for everyone if I stay lost.”
“You’re going to shoot me now, is that it?” It was possible. Honestly, how well did he really know her? They’d been together six months before she’d gotten arrested. Sure, she’d let her past slip out every once in a while, but, it turned out, nearly everything he’d known about her had been a lie. The deeper he’d dug into her life, the more he’d realized how stupid he’d been to trust her. People didn’t change. Once a criminal, always a criminal.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to survive.” The shadows across her throat shifted as she licked her lips and swallowed. “This isn’t just about me anymore.”
Beckett stuck his hand in his jeans pocket and pulled out the rounds he’d taken from the gun. Pinching one between his thumb and index finger, he held it up for her to see. “How are you going to shoot me if the gun is empty, Raleigh?”
She faltered, her green gaze lowering to the weapon.
Beckett dropped the cuffs and the rounds and lunged. Ripping the rifle from her grip with one hand, he unholstered his own weapon and aimed with the other. In less than two breaths, he had his fugitive. The shotgun hit the floor, jarring her instantly. Nice to see there were still some things that could get through that carefully monitored exterior. “Now I can guarantee you this gun is loaded.” He motioned her to the left with the barrel of his service weapon. “Cuffs. Now.”
“You’re making a mistake. If Calvin was killed as you said, whoever stole that money is cleaning up loose ends. He’s the only one I told about the missing money. Who do you think they’ll come after next?” Raleigh crouched, picked up the handcuffs, and secured one over her wrist. The cords between her shoulders and neck flexed tight as she moved. She straightened, facing him, her light vanilla scent making its way deep into his lungs. “You take me in, you’ll only make it easier for his killer to find me.”
He ensured the cuffs were tight enough she couldn’t squirm loose, his fingers brushing the inside of her wrist. An electric jolt shot up his arm in response. Hell. He’d forgotten what it was like to touch her, how his body had always craved hers. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest, his lungs pressurizing with the air stuck in his throat. Six months. That’d been all the time he’d needed to fall for her, she’d been that addictive. He’d run to help when some purse snatcher had tried to take off with her bag, but, in reality, she’d been the one to save him that day. She’d changed…everything, given him hope he didn’t have to spend the rest of his life alone. Until he’d learned who she really was. Learned it’d all been one long con.
The cuffs ratcheted into place, the clicks loud in his ears as he secured her hands in front, and reality bled into focus. Justice. Integrity. Service. He’d sworn to uphold the law when he’d become a marshal, and the woman in front of him wouldn’t change that. No matter how strong her gravitational pull. Or how clever her lies. “No, Raleigh. The mistake was trusting you from the beginning.”
“I’m not going back.” She stared out the window over his shoulder, almost lost, green eyes ethereal. Seconds ticked by. Then, in an instant, her gaze snapped back to his, and his instincts screamed in warning. Raleigh wrenched away from him then kicked him square in the gut. “Not until I clear my name.”
His head hit the old wood mantel above the fireplace—hard—and he went down. The cabin blurred in his vision as he struggled to his feet; the only illumination came from a beam of sunlight through the now open front door. It was enough to give him direction. The go bag from the kitchen counter was gone. He pressed his free hand to the back of his head then glanced at his fingers. Blood. Pain spread fast through his skull. Damn, that woman had powerful legs. Beckett charged out the door, gun up, finger on the trigger. He blinked against the brightness glinting off the lake and shook his head to clear the soft ringing in his ears. “Raleigh!”
Movement registered along the lake's shore about fifty feet to his left. Cuffed, she sprinted toward a thick line of trees behind the cabin, all that soft brown hair trailing behind her.
Beckett pumped his legs hard. The sun had already started hugging the mountains. If she evaded him long enough, there was a chance she’d disappear forever. That wasn’t an option. Raleigh vanished into the tree line ahead of him. Loose rocks and fallen branches threatened to trip him up, but he only pushed himself harder.
His heart thundered behind his ears as shadows enveloped the small dirt trail ahead. Too many damn places for an ambush. He slowed, sweat beading in his hairline, and forced the adrenaline pumping through his veins to cool. His training kicked in, instincts on high alert. Raleigh might be a criminal, but she wasn’t a trained law enforcement officer. Any family she’d had, had turned their backs on her a long time ago, and her friends had been advised to keep their distance by counsel. She couldn’t hide from him. At least, not for long.
The sound of a broken twig snapping in two twisted him to the right. He took aim as branches of a fir tree swayed with the fresh breeze. Tension tightened every muscle down his spine. Three seconds. Four. A shadow slipped into his peripheral vision off to the left, and he spun, too late.
Thick, dried bark scraped across the exposed skin of his arm a split second before he ducked out of the way of the massive branch she’d swung at him. He lunged as she widened her stance for another round, hiking her over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold. A sharp jab of her knee knocked the air from his lungs. A growl rumbled through his chest as they hit the forest floor. He pinned her beneath him, all that lean muscle and soft skin. “You’re making this harder on yourself.”
Raleigh hooked her foot under his shin and shoved, trying to roll him onto his back. Wouldn’t work. Struggling for purchase, she bucked her hips up to dislodge his advantage. Fire ignited the subtle hints of gold around the edges of her eyes.
He secured her wrists between his hands and pulled her to her feet. “You’re under arrest.”
Hell, it’d been a while since Deputy United States Marshal Beckett Foster had set sights on her, and every cell in his body responded in awareness. Four months, one week and four days to be exact. Those soul-searching light green eyes, her soft brown hair and sharp cheekbones. But all that beauty didn't take away from the sawed-off shotgun currently pointed at his chest. His hand hovered just above his firearm as the Mothers Come First foundation’s former chief financial officer—now fugitive—widened her stance.
“Don’t you know breaking into someone’s home is illegal, Marshal?” That voice. A man could get lost in a voice like that. Sweet and rough all in the same package. Raleigh smoothed her fingers over the gun in her hand. It hadn’t taken her but a few seconds after she’d come through the door to realize he’d been waiting for her at the other end of the wide room.
It hadn’t taken him but a couple hours to figure out where she’d been hiding for the past four months once her file crossed his desk. What she didn’t know was how long he’d been waiting, and that he’d already relieved that gun of its rounds as well as any other weapons he’d found during his search of her aunt’s cabin.
“Come on now. You and I both know you haven’t forgotten my name that easily.” He studied her from head to toe, memorizing the fit of her oversize plaid flannel shirt, the slight loss of color in her face and the dark circles under her eyes. Yeah, living on the run did that to a person. Beckett unbuttoned his holster. He wouldn’t pull. Of all the criminals the United States Marshals Service had assigned him to recover over the years, she was the only one he’d hesitated chasing down. Then again, if he hadn’t accepted the assignment, another marshal would have. And there was no way Beckett would let anyone else bring her in.
Beckett ran his free hand along the exposed brick of the fireplace. “Gotta be honest, didn’t think you’d ever come back here. Lot of memories tied up in this place.”
“What do you want, Beckett?” The creases around her eyes deepened as she shifted her weight between both feet. She crouched slightly, searching through the single window facing East Lake then refocused on him.
Looking for a way out? Or to see if he’d come with backup? Dried grass, changing leaves, mountains and an empty dock were all that were out there. The cabin she’d been raised in as a kid sat on the west side of the lake, away from tourists, away from the main road. Even if he gave her a head start, she wouldn’t get far. There was nowhere for her to run. Not from him.
“You know that, too.” He took a single step forward, the aged wood floor protesting under his weight as he closed in on her. “You skipped out on your trial, and I’m here to bring you in.”
“What was I supposed to do?” Countering his approach, she moved backward toward the front door she’d dead-bolted right after coming inside but kept the gun aimed at him. Her boot hit the go bag she stored on the kitchen counter beside the door. “I didn’t steal that money. Someone at the charity did and faked the evidence so I’d take the fall.”
“That’s the best you got? A frame job?” Fifty and a half million dollars. Gone. The only one with continuous access to the funds stood right in front of him. Not to mention the brand-new offshore bank account, the thousands of wire transfers to that account in increments small enough they wouldn’t register for the feds, and Raleigh’s signatures on every single one of them. “You had a choice, Raleigh. You just chose wrong.”
“Beckett…” She slowed her escape. Her fingers flitted over the gun as her expression softened. “You know me. You know I didn’t do this. Find Calvin Dailey, the foundation’s CEO. I told him everything when I discovered the funds were being sent offshore. I’ve been trying to contact him for weeks. He must’ve gone into hiding when the news about my arrest hit the media, but he can clear my name.”
“I’m afraid Calvin Dailey can’t help you right now. Seems your boss left his house without about a half a gallon of his own blood. Local police haven’t found the body yet, but I don’t think that’s a coincidence considering you just revealed he’s the only other person you told about the missing money.” He locked his jaw against the fire burning through his veins, the easygoing marshal gone. Beckett lowered his hand from above his holster and took another step. “You think you know a person. Then one day you wake up and see them on the morning news getting arrested for embezzlement.”
“Calvin’s…dead?” Shock dropped her bottom lip. Real dangerous. Either Raleigh Wilde was one hell of an actress, or she honestly hadn’t known her former colleague had most likely been murdered. Shock bled to resolution and wiped the confusion from her gaze. She secured the butt of the rifle against her shoulder. Just as he’d taught her. “I didn’t kill him, and I didn’t embezzle that money. I’m not going to prison. I can’t. Not now.”
There was the woman he’d let into his life, the one with vengeance in her eyes and her middle fingers raised high. The one who’d stood up to the mugger who’d tried stealing her purse on a Portland street until it’d gotten to the point Beckett had to intervene before she punctured one of the bastard’s lungs with her high heel. The one who’d thanked him for his help by intertwining her fingers with his and showing him what real desire looked like. He’d never forget that woman. Too bad she’d never existed in the first place. Instead, he’d gotten involved with a criminal, but she wasn’t going to manipulate him again. “That’s up to the judge, sweetheart.”
“Don't call me that.” The words left her mouth between gritted teeth. “You lost the right to call me sweetheart when you disappeared after my arrest.”
“And here I was thinking you’re the one who broke us up.” He pulled a set of cuffs from the back of his holster, shards of reflected sunlight bouncing across her face. “I’m bringing you in.”
“I’ll give you one chance to walk away, Beckett.” She racked the shotgun, her expression softening slightly. “Please. For both our sakes, don’t make me pull this trigger. Turn around and pretend you never found me. It’s better for everyone if I stay lost.”
“You’re going to shoot me now, is that it?” It was possible. Honestly, how well did he really know her? They’d been together six months before she’d gotten arrested. Sure, she’d let her past slip out every once in a while, but, it turned out, nearly everything he’d known about her had been a lie. The deeper he’d dug into her life, the more he’d realized how stupid he’d been to trust her. People didn’t change. Once a criminal, always a criminal.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to survive.” The shadows across her throat shifted as she licked her lips and swallowed. “This isn’t just about me anymore.”
Beckett stuck his hand in his jeans pocket and pulled out the rounds he’d taken from the gun. Pinching one between his thumb and index finger, he held it up for her to see. “How are you going to shoot me if the gun is empty, Raleigh?”
She faltered, her green gaze lowering to the weapon.
Beckett dropped the cuffs and the rounds and lunged. Ripping the rifle from her grip with one hand, he unholstered his own weapon and aimed with the other. In less than two breaths, he had his fugitive. The shotgun hit the floor, jarring her instantly. Nice to see there were still some things that could get through that carefully monitored exterior. “Now I can guarantee you this gun is loaded.” He motioned her to the left with the barrel of his service weapon. “Cuffs. Now.”
“You’re making a mistake. If Calvin was killed as you said, whoever stole that money is cleaning up loose ends. He’s the only one I told about the missing money. Who do you think they’ll come after next?” Raleigh crouched, picked up the handcuffs, and secured one over her wrist. The cords between her shoulders and neck flexed tight as she moved. She straightened, facing him, her light vanilla scent making its way deep into his lungs. “You take me in, you’ll only make it easier for his killer to find me.”
He ensured the cuffs were tight enough she couldn’t squirm loose, his fingers brushing the inside of her wrist. An electric jolt shot up his arm in response. Hell. He’d forgotten what it was like to touch her, how his body had always craved hers. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest, his lungs pressurizing with the air stuck in his throat. Six months. That’d been all the time he’d needed to fall for her, she’d been that addictive. He’d run to help when some purse snatcher had tried to take off with her bag, but, in reality, she’d been the one to save him that day. She’d changed…everything, given him hope he didn’t have to spend the rest of his life alone. Until he’d learned who she really was. Learned it’d all been one long con.
The cuffs ratcheted into place, the clicks loud in his ears as he secured her hands in front, and reality bled into focus. Justice. Integrity. Service. He’d sworn to uphold the law when he’d become a marshal, and the woman in front of him wouldn’t change that. No matter how strong her gravitational pull. Or how clever her lies. “No, Raleigh. The mistake was trusting you from the beginning.”
“I’m not going back.” She stared out the window over his shoulder, almost lost, green eyes ethereal. Seconds ticked by. Then, in an instant, her gaze snapped back to his, and his instincts screamed in warning. Raleigh wrenched away from him then kicked him square in the gut. “Not until I clear my name.”
His head hit the old wood mantel above the fireplace—hard—and he went down. The cabin blurred in his vision as he struggled to his feet; the only illumination came from a beam of sunlight through the now open front door. It was enough to give him direction. The go bag from the kitchen counter was gone. He pressed his free hand to the back of his head then glanced at his fingers. Blood. Pain spread fast through his skull. Damn, that woman had powerful legs. Beckett charged out the door, gun up, finger on the trigger. He blinked against the brightness glinting off the lake and shook his head to clear the soft ringing in his ears. “Raleigh!”
Movement registered along the lake's shore about fifty feet to his left. Cuffed, she sprinted toward a thick line of trees behind the cabin, all that soft brown hair trailing behind her.
Beckett pumped his legs hard. The sun had already started hugging the mountains. If she evaded him long enough, there was a chance she’d disappear forever. That wasn’t an option. Raleigh vanished into the tree line ahead of him. Loose rocks and fallen branches threatened to trip him up, but he only pushed himself harder.
His heart thundered behind his ears as shadows enveloped the small dirt trail ahead. Too many damn places for an ambush. He slowed, sweat beading in his hairline, and forced the adrenaline pumping through his veins to cool. His training kicked in, instincts on high alert. Raleigh might be a criminal, but she wasn’t a trained law enforcement officer. Any family she’d had, had turned their backs on her a long time ago, and her friends had been advised to keep their distance by counsel. She couldn’t hide from him. At least, not for long.
The sound of a broken twig snapping in two twisted him to the right. He took aim as branches of a fir tree swayed with the fresh breeze. Tension tightened every muscle down his spine. Three seconds. Four. A shadow slipped into his peripheral vision off to the left, and he spun, too late.
Thick, dried bark scraped across the exposed skin of his arm a split second before he ducked out of the way of the massive branch she’d swung at him. He lunged as she widened her stance for another round, hiking her over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold. A sharp jab of her knee knocked the air from his lungs. A growl rumbled through his chest as they hit the forest floor. He pinned her beneath him, all that lean muscle and soft skin. “You’re making this harder on yourself.”
Raleigh hooked her foot under his shin and shoved, trying to roll him onto his back. Wouldn’t work. Struggling for purchase, she bucked her hips up to dislodge his advantage. Fire ignited the subtle hints of gold around the edges of her eyes.
He secured her wrists between his hands and pulled her to her feet. “You’re under arrest.”
November 6, 2020
Cover Reveal for The Fugitive!
It's cover reveal day for The Fugitive, the first book in my brand new Intrigue series, Marshal Law!
Four US Marshals. Four of the country's most dangerous criminals. One shot to save their futures.
Request an ARC: http://eepurl.com/g88hqT
She’s on the run, pregnant…
And about to find out whom she can trust.
When Raleigh Wilde reappears in Deputy Beckett Foster’s life as a fugitive, he’s shocked. He has a job to do, but she needs his help clearing her name. By-the-book Beckett is having none of it until he learns she’s pregnant—with his child. With a killer willing to do anything to keep Raleigh from discovering who embezzled millions from the charity she runs, the lawman will do whatever it takes to ensure he doesn’t become a fugitive father.
Four US Marshals. Four of the country's most dangerous criminals. One shot to save their futures.
Request an ARC: http://eepurl.com/g88hqT
She’s on the run, pregnant…
And about to find out whom she can trust.
When Raleigh Wilde reappears in Deputy Beckett Foster’s life as a fugitive, he’s shocked. He has a job to do, but she needs his help clearing her name. By-the-book Beckett is having none of it until he learns she’s pregnant—with his child. With a killer willing to do anything to keep Raleigh from discovering who embezzled millions from the charity she runs, the lawman will do whatever it takes to ensure he doesn’t become a fugitive father.
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