The distant mountains stole moisture from the clouds and soaked the county in forty inches of rain per year. Dense woods of jack pine, red maple, and yellow birch tumbled across the landscape, cloaking the valley in a lush green growth. Driving with the windows down, Natalie breathed in the chilly April air and felt an invigorating rush. As they crested the next hill, she could see the glittery lights of downtown in her rearview mirror. The frozen months of winter had left big potholes in the road, and one of these bumps woke Brandon up.
“Uh,” he hiccupped, producing a beer bottle from his jacket like a magician.
She glanced over at him disapprovingly. “Where’d you get that?”
“Ain’t sayin’.”
“Seriously, Brandon. What’s up with the drinking lately?”
“Nothing’s up. Dickwise, that is.”
She shot him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. We’re fine. Everything’s fine,” he muttered.
“Who’s fine?” she asked suspiciously.
This was a small community, surrounded by thick woods like a fairy-tale kingdom, and it was true—everybody knew everyone else’s business, or at least people assumed they did. Brandon wasn’t a problem drinker, but he’d been getting drunk after work lately—twice this week, three times last week, a worrisome trend. Natalie wanted to know why.
“I just felt like getting staggeringly wasted tonight, okay? So shoot me.” He took a defiant swig of beer, rolled down his window, and chucked the bottle into the night. “There. Happy now?”
“Jerk. You just littered.”
“I’m a deeply flawed human being,” he admitted, raking his fingers through his brown, medium-length hair until it jutted out all over. “Stay for dinner, Nat? I’ll let Daisy know you’re coming.”
“Sorry, Brandon. I can’t tonight.”
He ignored her and called home. “Huh,” he said after a moment. “She’s not picking up.”
“That’s okay. I can’t stay for dinner.”
Brushing her off, Brandon tried again. “Come on, babe. Pick up.”
The car rolled toward its destination through an endless expanse of woods—there weren’t many streetlights out this way. It got pretty dark and eerie out in the countryside, where the brambled trees reached for the moon. The wind blew year-round in Burning Lake, sweeping in from the southwest and deforming the hemlocks and sycamores over time, until they became as gnarled as old crones. At the heart of autumn, the constant winds made a haunting, ghostlike lamentation.
“Hey, did I show you my new barbecue yet?” Brandon asked, fumbling with his iPhone and swiping through the images. “Check this out. Thirty-six-inch grill, stainless-steel hood, rear-mounted rotisserie … she’s a beaut, huh?”
“Awesome.”
“And look at this,” he said excitedly, still swiping. “I got so sick of my front yard looking like crap every Christmas, I decided to plant some evergreen trees, you know? Spruce things up a bit. Ha-ha. But then I found out there’s more to it than that.”
“More to it than what?” she asked, glancing at digital pictures of Brandon’s torn-up front yard.
“It’s called winter landscaping. You plant a bunch of colorful berries, like red-twig dogwood and Christmas holly,” Brandon explained, showing her the results. “See? Yew bushes will catch the snow in their branches, and bayberry smells like the holidays. My house is gonna look like a fucking Christmas card this year.” He put his phone away and sighed. “Okay, so my marriage isn’t perfect.”
She looked at him, startled by this admission.
“They say it’s only natural. We’ve been married for twelve fucking years.”
“Things are good enough, though, right?” she hedged. “With the baby coming?”
He shrugged it off, which disturbed her.
The clouds parted, and a frost of moonlight dappled the surface of the lake. Natalie took a left onto Lost Pines Road, which snaked through the gorgeous wooded countryside that used to belong to the Native Americans, then to the French fur traders, then to the Jesuit missionaries, then the pork farmers, and finally the apple farmers. Now it was a booming tourist destination with a budding technology sector. At least, that was what the town website wanted you to believe.
“I fell in love with Daisy in the fifth grade,” Brandon said quietly. “She wrote this poem about shoes … how a person’s footwear can tell you everything you need to know about them. God, she was cute. She said my sneakers looked comfortable enough to curl up in. That cracked me up. Anyway, life goes on, and then one day, you wake up, and suddenly you aren’t on the same page anymore.” He wore a look of frustration. “Daisy’s satisfied with what we’ve got—a house, a car, a barbecue. Life’s simple for her. It’s a series of goals.”
She glanced at his sweaty face in the moonlight. “But not for you?”
“Hell, no.”
Natalie didn’t know how to respond to any of this. Brandon had done nothing but brag about his marriage for as long as she’d known him.
“My wife’s smart. Book-smart. She likes to read and think about stuff intellectually, whereas I prefer to get my hands dirty. Dig around in the dirt, you know? Like with the winter landscaping. I’m a spiritual person, and whenever I look at the sky and the stars … it moves me. But Daisy will spout a bunch of facts and figures, very cut and dry. Anyway, our sex life…” He shook his head.
“I’m sorry to hear it.” She winced.
“Too much information, huh? Maybe the lieutenant is right. Me and my fairy-tale marriage. Pfft.” He put the phone to his ear. “Still not picking up,” he grumbled. “Funny, I told her I’d be home by eight.”
Wolf Pass Road was home to generations of hardworking families and boasted some of the most beautiful Victorians and Gothics in town, painted all colors of the rainbow to highlight the original trim work. By midsummer, these historic residences would be swimming in oceans of black-eyed Susans and tangerine touch-me-nots.
“Listen,” Brandon clarified, “my marriage isn’t in trouble or anything. I love Daisy, and she loves me. We’ve been through some bad patches before. Maybe it’s just the stress of being pregnant again, having all our hopes and dreams wrapped up in this baby … I don’t know.”
Natalie pulled into the driveway and parked next to Daisy’s green minivan. Strange. The house lights were off. The property was completely dark—no porch or yard lights. The gabled house was bathed in moonlight.
Brandon got out and stood swaying in the front yard as if he were standing at the helm of a ship. The lawn was freshly seeded, and there were newly planted shrubs around the foundation with the price tags still attached—part of his winter landscaping scheme, she figured.
“Daisy?” Brandon shouted at the house.
Natalie left her keys in the ignition and followed him across the yard. On the wide front porch was a wrought-iron table and chairs with a floral centerpiece straight out of Better Homes & Gardens.
Brandon opened the door and banged his way inside. “Daisy? I’m home!”
Natalie prevented the screen door from slamming shut in her face and followed him inside. The first floor was open concept, with a long cherrywood bar dividing the living room from the kitchen area. Brandon brushed the light switch with his hand, and several designer spots cast a pale hue over the handsome built-ins crowded with sports memorabilia—football trophies and team letters.
“Babe?” Brandon said as he headed for the kitchen.
Natalie tensed. The air smelled vaguely familiar—earthy, coppery. A stiffness invaded her limbs as she followed him into the kitchen, then froze in the doorway. Daisy Buckner lay in a puddle of blood at the base of the refrigerator. She wore faded Levi’s, a pullover top, and a pair of Marc Jacobs low tops. Her glassy eyes were open. Her arms and legs were sprawled across the floor. There was an ugly gash on the right side of her head, and her short red hair was matted with blood.
Brandon dropped to his knees as he tried to suck some relief out of the air. He crawled across the tiled floor toward his wife, and before Natalie could secure the scene, he was cradling her limp body in his arms. His mouth moved fishlike as he tried to produce a sound, but nothing came out. He sat there rocking his dead wife back and forth, silenced by grief, while Natalie stared at the bright spatter of blood arcing across the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets. A single can of soda had rolled against the base of the dishwasher, and there was a greasy cast-iron skillet on the floor not far from the body, and a smattering of cooked ground beef on the Mexican tiles. A blue-checkered dish towel lay crumpled nearby.
“Brandon?” She gently plied his shoulder. “You’re contaminating the scene.”
His eyes were frosted with shock. “What?”
“We need to protect the evidence. Put her down.”
He shook his head viciously. “Back off!”
Her mind spun like a compass needle. They were wasting precious seconds. It felt like an eternity. She radioed Dispatch to report the crime, then pried Brandon away from the body. After propping him in the doorway, she checked for a pulse on Daisy’s neck. Of course she was dead, but you had to make sure.
“I can’t breathe,” Brandon gasped, his eyes jerking in all directions.
“Stay there,” Natalie commanded. “Don’t touch anything.”
She tested Daisy’s skin for lividity. The blood had settled into the lower regions of her body due to the pull of gravity. A purple discoloration was noticeable on the lower sides of her arms, hands, and neck—all of which were bruised from blood vessels filling with red blood cells and coagulating inside her veins, skin, and muscle. There was no pulse. Her skin was cool to the touch. Her pupils were of differing sizes. The position of the body had been compromised. Because of Brandon’s actions, there was the possibility of cross-transfer of prints, fibers, and hairs. Natalie placed the body back where they’d found it originally—or as close to that position as she could recall. Daisy had been dead for several hours now.
Her heart began to pound with an explosive mixture of adrenaline and fear. She tamped down her anxiety and had a flash-memory of the boy in the woods. The stick. The dead raccoon. A sour taste filled her mouth. A snowy dullness crept over her.
Natalie shook it off. She had to stay focused. For a few miserable seconds, she couldn’t pry her eyes away from the refrigerator magnets that had slid off the stainless-steel door and landed in a darkening pool of blood. SpongeBob, Lisa Simpson, Wonder Woman.
Focus.
Thirty-six-year-old Daisy Forester Buckner was a petite redhead, five foot four, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. She looked like a Barbie doll come to life, with her perfect teeth and hair. Her gemlike eyes drew you in. Her sleek red hair was cut short, and she wore very little makeup. It was common knowledge around town that Daisy had been having trouble getting pregnant. Finally, she’d managed a small triumph. Now she and the baby were dead.
Natalie had known Daisy Forester all her life. They’d grown up on the same street together. BFF’s Daisy and Grace were the same age and had always been close. Now they were teachers at the same school, but when they were younger, they’d wanted to be Olympic gold medalists, swimmers as famous as Janet Evans. They were self-proclaimed water nymphs. For Natalie, who was eight years younger than Willow and six years younger than Grace, it felt like having two extra moms. Cool moms. And Daisy was a bonus mom. The three older girls had spoiled her silly. They’d piled on the love. They’d doled out Skittles and Reese’s Pieces and brushed her hair and dazzled her with tall tales about witches and princesses trapped in towers, but as the years passed, they had gradually slipped into adulthood without her.
Natalie doubted the killer was still on the premises, but you never knew, and besides she had to follow procedure—first, secure and isolate the crime scene. “Brandon, wait here. I have to secure the area. Don’t touch anything.”
She unbuttoned her jacket, unfastened the safety strap of her shoulder holster, and lightly rested her fingers on the butt of her gun. Her clothes were clammy and damp. Natalie had a talent for shooting. On the practice range, she actually liked the smell of gunpowder and the “surprise” sound of shots ringing out. But she’d never had to fire her weapon in the field. When to use your weapon, that’s the big question, her father used to say. Because the answer was vital to the soul of all law enforcement personnel. It was the final solution, and only after every other option had been exhausted. Despite all her years of training, Natalie had no idea when that line would be crossed.
Now she searched the second story. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms. The second floor was clear. She went downstairs and swept through the dining room, the half bath, the living room and den. The basement was empty. There appeared to be no secondary crime scene, no blood or disarray found anywhere but inside the kitchen, the primary scene. This wasn’t a botched robbery, she decided, since all the things a thief might’ve taken were still there—computers, mobile devices, audio system, cash, jewelry, a thirty-year-old bottle of scotch.
The only disturbance was a cluttered desk in the living room. Daisy kept a fairly neat household, but it looked as if someone had rummaged through the desk recently. Drawers were open. Desktop items were askew. Messy paperwork—mostly test papers and student essays—littered the surface, with a few pieces coming to rest on the seat of the chair. Natalie tucked this observation away for later rumination and headed back into the kitchen.
The sliding glass doors overlooked the backyard. They weren’t locked. She stepped out onto the cedar deck, letting in the chilly night air along with a curl of moonlight. There was Brandon’s new top-of-the-line barbecue grill. She took out her iPhone, activated the flashlight, and illuminated the expansive backyard with its old-fashioned gazebo and flower beds bordering the perimeter. A tall cedar fence separated the three-acre property from the Buckners’ nearest neighbors. The backyard was great for summer barbecues, recessed about thirty yards from the road and surrounded by dense woods. Very isolated.
Back inside the kitchen, Natalie fastened the safety strap of her holster and looked around for Brandon. She found him in the living room, rummaging through his wife’s desk. “What are you doing?”
“Son of a bitch.” He held up a piece of paper. “Riley Skinner. He’s in Daisy’s class. The stupid prick was flunking out of school, and she was trying to help him. Daisy thinks she can reason with these animals.…”
“Whoa, back up. You aren’t making any sense,” Natalie told him. There was only one Riley Skinner in town—a sixteen-year-old troublemaker, well known to the police, whose father was an ex-felon.
“See this F?” he said, pointing at the test paper. “See Riley’s name on top? Daisy jumped through hoops getting him to retake the midterms last February, but he didn’t care. He never showed up. You know Daisy, right? She only tries harder to help these drug-addled bastards … Jesus.” His voice broke with raw despair. “Riley threatened her a few weeks ago.…”
“He threatened her? What happened?”
“He’s flunking out of school, and he blamed her for the whole fiasco.” His eyes blazed. “I know where to find him, Natalie. We could pick him up right now. He’s either at Haymarket Field or Munson’s Lane, one of those two places…”
“Slow down.” She struggled to understand. “I’ll call Dispatch and tell them to put out a BOLO for Riley’s vehicle, okay? In the meantime, you’re in no condition to do anything…”
“I’m telling you, this asshole threatened Daisy’s life. He did this to her.”
“We don’t know anything yet.”
He nodded numbly. “Fuck that.” He scooped up a set of keys from Daisy’s desk and bolted out the door.
“Brandon, wait!” She chased after him, but by the time she got to Daisy’s minivan, he’d locked himself in. She pounded on the driver’s side window. “You’re drunk!” she shouted. “You’re in no condition to drive. Get out of the vehicle, now!”
He hit the gas and sped off in a cloud of dust, leaving a nasty patch of rubber on the road.