Bree exited the interstate. A few minutes later, she passed the sign welcoming her to Grey’s Hollow and fished a roll of antacids from the console.
As usual, being in her hometown felt surreal and slightly nauseating.
After her sister’s call, Bree had finished her reports so she would have the next two days off. She’d arranged for a neighbor to feed her cat, packed a bag, and headed north at two in the morning. She’d driven on autopilot for five hours. As she neared Grey’s Hollow, the familiar scenery dragged her back to the childhood she’d worked so hard to forget.
She’d tried her sister’s number several times. Every time, Erin’s number switched to voice mail, and the knot in Bree’s belly tightened. On the bright side, anxiety kept her from falling asleep.
She sipped her cold coffee. Her sister lived on ten acres in upstate New York. Erin had wanted her kids to have room to run and raise animals if they wanted, all the things she’d perceived as stolen from her own life after their parents’ deaths.
Perception was everything. Bree had lost all those things as well, but she wanted nothing that reminded her of her childhood. But then, she was older and had clearer memories than her sister or brother. Erin could recall only snatches of their life before, and she denied remembering anything about the horrible night that had destroyed their family. Adam had been an infant. He had no memories of their parents at all.
Bree followed the GPS directions. She’d visited her sister’s place only a couple of times. She spotted the mailbox, which looked like a black-and-white cow, and turned into the driveway. A layer of snow and ice covered the rutted dirt and gravel. Behind the house sat a small red barn. Barbed wire enclosed the pasture. The last time she’d been here, it had been summer. Everything had been green. Flowers and horses had dotted the grass. It had been peaceful and lovely. Now the icy scene was bleak and lonely.
And there were two sheriff’s department vehicles parked in the driveway.
Bree stared, the coffee in her mouth turning sour. Disbelief flooded her. She didn’t want to think about the possible reasons.
She pressed the gas pedal. Her Honda bounced and slid all the way up to the house. Bree got out of the car and walked up the wooden steps onto the porch. The front door was closed, and she shielded her eyes to stare through the glass panes in the door. There was no one in sight.
She hadn’t buttoned her coat, but fear numbed her to the temperature. The sheriff would not be searching Erin’s house unless a major crime had been committed. Her gaze was drawn to the porch swing her sister had installed herself. Snow covered the wooden seat, and ice-coated chains suspended it from the ceiling. The chains squeaked as it swayed in the wind, the pitch of the metallic sound grating on Bree’s nerves.
She heard movement inside the house. Bree tried the knob, and the door opened. Erin’s place was small for a farmhouse. But Erin had fallen in love with the wraparound front porch and the picturesque barn. She used words like cozy and homey.
“Hello?” Bree called out from the doorway, not wanting to surprise the deputies or intrude on the scene. But she scanned everything she could see. The front door opened into a large wood-floored living room. On one side, a set of french doors led into an office. The stairwell ran up the far wall, and a hallway led to the kitchen at the back of the house.
Boots stomped on the stairs, and a uniformed deputy descended. Stepping out onto the porch, he motioned Bree to move backward.
He touched his hat. “Ma’am, can I help you?”
Bree showed her badge. “This is my sister’s house. Why are you here?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said in a measured voice. “You’ll have to ask the chief deputy.”
“Is he here?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Where are my sister and her children?” Bree asked.
The deputy repeated, “You’ll have to ask the chief deputy.”
“Has Erin been arrested?”
The deputy deadpanned.
“I know. I’ll have to ask the chief deputy. Where can I find him?”
“At the sheriff’s station.”
Bree turned and scanned the property, her nerves gnawing a hole in her gut.
Why are two deputies searching Erin’s house?
The thought of her sister committing a crime was ludicrous. Erin was as Goody Two-shoes as a person could be. But something had happened.
Bree followed the porch around to the back door. Cupping her hands around her eyes, she looked through the windows. The entire back of the house was kitchen. At seven thirty in the morning, Erin should be drinking coffee and getting the kids ready for school, but the kitchen was empty. A hallway led to the front of the house. At the end of the hall, Bree could see lights and a deputy moving around in the living room. Other than the intrusion of the deputies, the house looked normal, with nothing to indicate a physical altercation had occurred.
Who else could Bree call? When Bree had seen them over the summer, eight-year-old Kayla hadn’t had a phone, but Luke had been bent over his most of the trip.
If you were a better sister and aunt, you’d know your nephew’s number.
But Bree wasn’t, and she didn’t. She saw Erin and the kids once a year when they visited her. She hadn’t been able to put aside her own issues to see them in Grey’s Hollow.
Her boots thudded on the porch as she walked back to the front of the house. The deputy had gone back inside. With ten acres of land, Erin had no neighbors in sight. The closest house was a half mile down the road. Bree pulled out her phone and called her brother again. Her call switched to voice mail, and she left him another message. Adam not responding didn’t alarm her. He often neglected to charge his phone. He was an artist. If his creativity was on, he might disconnect for days. He had a habit of taking off for weeks at a time to paint. He might not even be in town.
There was only one way she could get immediate answers. With one last glance at the closed front door, Bree slid back into her car and drove toward the sheriff’s station. The town of Grey’s Hollow was too small to fund their own police department and relied on the county sheriff for law enforcement.
The dread in her chest expanded until it constricted her lungs. She would not breathe easily again until she saw her sister and the kids with her own eyes.
At seven forty-five, the day was brightening, but the overcast sky clouded the sunrise. Bree turned into the entrance of the Randolph County Sheriff’s Station in Grey’s Hollow. She stepped out of her car, gave two reporters delivering live updates a wide berth, and walked into the squat, brown brick building. Looping the strap of her small crossbody purse over her head, Bree approached the counter separating the lobby from the front office. Two men in suits conferred on one side of the lobby.
More reporters?
Something was definitely going on.
An older woman in a heavy cardigan greeted her. “Can I help you?”
Bree said, “I’d like to speak with the sheriff.”
Forget the chief deputy. She’d go to the top.
The woman took off her reading glasses. “Regarding?”
Bree swallowed, lowered her voice so no one but the woman would hear, and watched for a response. “Erin Taggert.”
Recognition lit the woman’s face. She knew Erin’s name. Bree’s belly cramped.
This was not good. Not good at all.
“Your name and agency?” the woman asked. The woman correctly assumed Bree was a cop, which Bree would totally take advantage of.
“Bree Taggert.” She pulled her badge from her pocket. “Philadelphia homicide.”
The woman clearly noticed that Bree’s last name matched Erin’s. Something that felt uncomfortably like pity crossed the woman’s face, but she quickly wiped it away. “Wait here, please, Detective.” She turned and walked down a hallway.
The door behind Bree opened, and a man entered, a German shepherd at his side. The man moved like a cop, but Bree’s attention fixed on the dog. A K-9 team?
Bree’s anxiety grew. She’d been waiting all night for answers but now dreaded getting them. The dog’s presence wasn’t helping. She moved to the end of the counter, as far away from it as she could get. With some distance between them, Bree breathed a little easier. Her attention shifted to the man. In his midthirties, he was six three, a lean two hundred pounds, and broad shouldered. With piercing blue eyes, reddish-brown hair, and a couple days of stubble on his heavy jaw, he reminded her of a Viking. He was also familiar. She knew him from somewhere. She met his eyes, and he recognized her too.
They had definitely met before, but where?
Nerves had short-circuited her brain.
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the woman returned. “Detective, you can come on back.” She ushered Bree to an open door marked with the word SHERIFF. Bree barely noticed several uniformed deputies working on computers as she passed their desks. “Chief Deputy Harvey is acting sheriff. We don’t have an actual sheriff at the moment.”
Bree hesitated at the threshold. She knew instinctively that once she crossed it, her life would never be the same.
A man around thirty sat behind a huge desk. He rose as she entered, shook her hand, and gestured toward a guest chair. “I’m Chief Deputy Harvey.”
They both sat. His chair was as jumbo-sized as the desk, and he seemed lost in it.
“My name is Bree Taggert.” Bree pulled out her badge again. “Philadelphia homicide.”
“Are you related to Erin Taggert?” He leaned an elbow on the arm of his chair.
“She’s my sister.” Bree pulled her hand into her lap, her fingers curling around her badge until her knuckles turned white. She told him about Erin’s message the previous night and finding the deputies searching the house this morning.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Your sister was killed last night. I’m sorry for your loss.”
The news fell over Bree like frost. Her body went cold, her brain numb. For a full minute, she just sat there, staring at the chief deputy. His mouth was moving, but she heard no words, as if her head was full of static.
He got up and walked around the corner of the desk to crouch in front of her. “Ms. Taggert?” He raised his voice. “Are you all right?”
Bree startled as her hearing returned in a rush of sounds and sensations. “Yes. I’m sorry. I, um . . .”
She didn’t know what to say or do. Her mind felt like a vacuum.
Erin is dead?
It didn’t seem possible. The deputy left the office for a minute and returned with a bottle of water. After twisting off the cap, he handed her the bottle. She took it but didn’t drink. Her throat was so dry that she was afraid she’d choke.
“Are you sure it’s my sister?” Bree’s voice was barely audible.
“Yes. The medical examiner has positively identified her.” He perched on the corner of his desk.
“Where are the children?”
“With your brother.”
Who hadn’t answered his phone all night. Bree suppressed a flash of anger. She had no right to be upset with Adam. He’d been with the kids when they’d needed him. Bree had been hundreds of miles away. Besides, Adam was distracted on a good day. He’d had his hands full last night.
“What have the children been told?” she asked.
“Last night, I told them their mother had been killed.” His face creased with sadness. “I didn’t give them any details.”
Bree closed her eyes for one full breath as she reeled in her sorrow. When she opened them, her words grated against her vocal cords. “I want to see her.”
“Of course. I’ll find out when the medical examiner will release the body. Do you have a funeral home in mind?”
Bree flinched at the word body. Of course there would be an autopsy. “I want to see her ASAP.”
He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll give you the ME’s number.”
“Thank you.” She shook her head, not in response to his statement, but to clear it. “How did my sister die?”
“She was shot.”
“Where and when?”
“At her husband’s house. Can you tell me why they were separated?”
“He had a drug problem.” Bree absorbed his answers. “Where is Justin?”
“We don’t know.”
What does that mean?
Did Erin’s husband kill her, like their father had killed their mother?
Emotions clawed for a hold. Bree’s compartmentalizing skills were failing her. She latched on to her anger for stability. “Why was she at Justin’s place, and who found her body?”
The chief deputy returned to his chair, putting some distance between them. He leaned his elbows on the desk and considered her for a few seconds. “Her body was found by a friend of Justin’s. We don’t know why she was there.”
The man with the dog she’d seen in the lobby flashed into her head, and she remembered him from the wedding. He’d been Justin’s best man. Matt. Matt Flynn.
The chief deputy said, “Look, Ms. Taggert—”
“Detective Taggert,” Bree reminded him.
“Detective Taggert,” he corrected. “I know you’re upset. But this is not your jurisdiction, and I can’t allow a member of the victim’s family to be part of this investigation.”
“But you can give me the consideration of keeping me informed.” Bree’s words sounded cold, and she clung to the icy feeling in her gut. When it thawed, the pain would break through, and she wanted no part of it.
The chief deputy nodded, but his eyes narrowed. “Here are the facts I can share. Your sister was shot inside the home of her estranged husband, Justin Moore, yesterday evening between seven thirty and eight thirty.”
Bree knew there were other questions she should be asking, but her mind felt sluggish with shock.
“Do you have any other suspects?” she asked.
“We are just beginning our investigation.” The chief deputy shifted forward. “When was the last time you saw your sister?”
“She and the kids came to Philly in August, and we spoke on the phone once or twice a month.” Which now seemed so . . . inadequate.
Grief bubbled in Bree’s throat. She swallowed it.
Not yet.
Keep it together.
But her control felt as weak as a single silk thread.
“What about Erin’s pickup truck?” Her sister had driven a white farm truck, an older model F-150. Bree hadn’t seen it at the house.
“I put a BOLO alert out on the vehicle,” the chief deputy said.
“Do you think he’s driving it?”
“It’s a reasonable theory. It’s her only vehicle. Now it’s missing and so is he.”
Bree thought if Justin had killed Erin and driven off in her truck, he would have dumped it by now. Anyone with two brain cells would assume law enforcement was searching for the vehicle.
“I assure you that we are looking at all of the evidence,” the chief deputy said. “I will share more information when I am able.” His chair squeaked as he shifted his weight back, signaling that he was finished. “I’m going to have more questions for you. I’ll need your contact information.”
Bree gave him her cell number. She was going to have more questions for him too, once she got her act together.
“Where are you staying?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Bree said. “When will Erin’s house be released?”
“I’ll let you know. Hopefully, the deputies will finish searching it today, but I make no guarantees. I don’t know what they’ll find.”
But Bree already knew he wasn’t a hands-on investigator. If this were her case, she would be searching the victim’s house herself, and not only to find physical evidence. A detective could learn a lot about a person by studying their personal space. She kept her criticism to herself. Ripping apart his investigative procedures would not make him more cooperative.
“The horses will need to be fed and watered this evening,” she pointed out.
“Yes. If we aren’t finished with the house, one of my deputies will take care of it. Same one who saw to them this morning.”
“Thank you.” Bree stood too quickly. The blood drained from her head, making her light-headed. She braced herself with one hand on the arm of the chair for a few seconds.
“You don’t have any idea what kind of trouble your sister was in?” the chief deputy asked.
Bree shook her head. “Erin didn’t get into trouble.”
But as she said the words, she knew they couldn’t possibly be true.