The day was so busy, Kinley didn’t have time to think about the danger she might be in or the next steps she should be taking. She sure as hell thought about Easton, though. Getting the intensity of his gazes, the free-fall tumble in her belly at the most innocent touch, and the steady timbre of his voice to leave her mind was an impossible feat. She’d never felt the type of instant attraction she did with Easton. Her physical reaction to him was startling, but she wasn’t afraid. Without a doubt, Easton was a good man. One who had painful secrets shuttered behind his dark eyes. He understood her in a way she wished no one ever had to. She still received counseling and took medication for her anxiety. It didn’t shame her. Why should it? The steps she took to heal were as necessary as cleaning and covering a wound, setting a broken bone. But the majority of society shied away from discussing what it took to heal a soul. To the marrow of her bones, she knew Easton would never judge her. Would never question her personal journey.
The first thing she’d done was go straight to her lieutenant’s office. She’d spent forty-five minutes convincing him that she was still able to do her job. Watching his face go from surprise, to shock, then pity wasn’t how she wanted to begin the day. Maybe she should be grateful for all her years of anonymity. Now that she’d had a taste of being a normal person, not just “the survivor,” it was hard to be treated otherwise.
“You look like you could use some sugar.” Their dispatcher, Meredith Calder, rolled her chair to the other side of the sizeable v-shaped desk and pulled out a drawer. “Kisses or gummy peaches?” There was a reason they called the young woman Merry. She was the most considerate, kindest person in the station. Her drawer was always stacked with treats for her coworkers. That was just a stand-in for when she didn’t bake. Her smile was like a thousand-lumen floodlight. Since she joined the barracks two years earlier, everyone liked to complain about needing new clothing stipends because they’d all gone up a size. Ultimately, Merry was the best-loved person in the barracks.
“Gummies. Thanks, Merry.” She sank her teeth into the sugar-coated candy and leaned against the wall. Why did artificial fruit slices have to taste so good?
“Anytime, lovebug.”
There was that, too. Her ridiculous nicknames. Ones that only she would get away with calling the intensely alpha personalities in the station.
The doorbell to the barracks chimed, and Merry glanced at the camera positioned on the front door before hitting the buzzer to allow the person access. Kinley instantly recognized the man. Merry’s dad was friendly with the lieutenant and had been a decorated agent with the bureau before his retirement. Added to that, he clearly adored his daughter and was always bringing her coffee or lunch from the outside world. She might’ve learned to spoil those around her from her dad, but her physical features were all inherited from her late mother, who was originally from Mumbai. Merry had explained her mom was in a terrible car accident shortly after Merry’s birth.
“There’s my favorite daughter.” Mr. Calder smiled at his child with such affection it gave Kinley a pang of envy. Her parents hadn’t gone out of their way to keep in touch with her after she relocated. Then again, neither did she. Everyone coped with grief in their own way, but it still stung. “Thought you could use this.” He slid a tall coffee through the glass window. “You stay up too late studying.” Merry was just one more year away from earning her Master’s degree to become a criminologist.
She rolled her eyes and giggled. “I’m pretty sure that’s what everyone has to do in college, Dad. Thank you, though. I’ll never turn down a caramel latte.”
The sound of an incoming call made Merry straighten, her thick black hair swinging around her midsection as she reached for the phone, bronze cheeks falling with concern as she spoke.
She relayed the information of an unattended death over the radio to inform their shift, and Kinley straightened. “I’m glad I didn’t go home yet. I’ll respond.” Working would keep her mind off Easton and her tormentor. Plus, she suddenly felt like she was invading a family moment—or maybe it was just her sense of isolation that made it seem that way.
“Be safe.” Concern was evident in Merry’s tawny eyes.
“Just another day at the office.” She smiled and walked out of the dispatch room to her unmarked car. Talking to Easton had been a good thing. Her step was lighter as she approached the vehicle. Maybe she’d been intimidated, feeling a little cornered when he said he’d protect her in his home. Independence was important to her. Never did she want to be at the mercy of another again. Yes, Easton was a good man—she knew not everyone was a killer waiting to strike—but she needed to stand on her own. She didn’t like to admit it, even to herself, but it was a great way to keep people at arm’s length. She lived for her job. Lived to put criminals behind bars. To uncover deadly secrets. Now that she’d had some space, though, she realized it was probably something he’d just said in the heat of the moment. It wasn’t like he was expecting her to throw together an overnight bag or something.
Kinley slipped behind the wheel, and the radio at her hip crackled.
“Badge thirty-four. Received. Responding to 18 Highland Path.”
The voice was unmistakable. With everything going on, she was thrilled Lambert was responding to the same call as her.
Dusk was falling earlier each night. Colorful leaves peppered the trees and accumulated into dried-out piles on the sidewalks. Every few houses, a ghost, witch, or gravestone marked the coming of Halloween. As she reached the city’s outskirts, the homes thinned, and the roads became more shadowed and coiled. There was a prickling sensation along her scalp as she glanced in the rearview mirror. No one was behind her. Nothing was wrong. She was just jittery from lack of sleep the night before and that email, plus the note left on Easton’s car. Maybe that wasn’t about her, either. Perhaps he had a girlfriend or lover, and someone was unhappy with their union. Something odd and ugly twisted her gut, but she dismissed it. What did she care if Easton was attached? He was only helping her. She had no claim on him.
She eased on the brakes as she approached the two-story home on a dead-end street. Silent blue strobe lights and yellow tape framed the property line. There was already a media van on site, Lord help them, along with an ambulance, even though it wouldn’t be of much use. She parked behind one of the local cruisers and got out of her car. Strobe lights cut through the dark and illuminated boarded-up windows and a lawn overrun with coiled twigs and tall brush. Dead leaves clinging to the tall oaks lining the street rustled overhead. A car door slammed behind her, and she jerked around.
“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever caught you by surprise.” Lambert had arrived, parked behind her, and exited his vehicle without her even noticing. How was that even possible? She was more preoccupied than she thought. In a job like hers, distractions were deadly.
“Don’t get used to it. You made me realize I’m off my game, though. I appreciate the forewarning.” She turned back to the house, and Lambert approached, standing at her side.
“This looks like every haunted house ever depicted,” he muttered, hands on his hips, looking over the house from its boarded-up windows to the unruly landscaping.
They began walking toward a dilapidated Victorian. “It is giving off an Addams Family vibe.” With every step closer to the old house, a sense of dread hollowed a pit in her stomach.
A gust of wind whipped her hair, so powerful it nearly made her lose her footing on the cracked concrete walkway leading to the front door. She continued with purposeful strides, keeping her hands at her side even though she was desperate to bring them together. She’d visited hundreds of crime scenes over the years and understood what to expect, so why did she feel so off-kilter?
“You okay?” Lambert’s eyes narrowed as he glanced down at her.
“Yeah. Fine.” She picked up her pace, brushing off his concern. The police officer guarding the door stepped to the side as they approached.
“What do we have?” she asked, stepping upon the threshold. He offered her a pen, turning the binder to note their information in the crime scene entry log.
“In my twenty years, I’ve never seen anything like this.” The unmistakable scent of death wafted into the foyer. “Down the hall. The body’s in the kitchen,” the officer said.
She exchanged a look with Lambert before walking in the direction of the noise. The shuttering lens of a camera. The rise and fall of serious discussions. Everything seemed to slow as they approached the scene, like sprinting through waist-deep water. The crime scene photographer was taking pictures of the body at the kitchen table. She might’ve mistaken the woman for someone reading the newspaper if not for the rope holding the victim to the chair. Kinley absently dragged her damp hands down her pant legs.
“Detectives.” A patrol sergeant approached them. “Scene’s secured. This house hasn’t had an occupant in over five years.”
“Good. Fill us in.” Lambert’s eyes were trained on the scene around them, assessing, cataloging.
“Dispatch received an anonymous call to report an unattended death at three thirty. The caller immediately disconnected. Officer William Gardner was the first responding officer and gained entry through the front door, which was left open, at three forty.” He lifted his chin toward the foyer where they’d been moments before. “Medical examiner declared the victim deceased upon arrival shortly after. We have officers searching the property and the yards of adjacent residents. The houses are spaced out in this area, but we’re trying to locate a witness.”
Kinley cleared her throat and directed her gaze at the patrol sergeant. “Any changes made to the scene that we should know about?” Even the smallest discrepancy at the crime scene could mean the difference between putting a killer behind bars or freeing them to walk the streets.
The sergeant rocked back on his heels, shaking his head. “Just an alternative light source. Wiring’s faulty.”
Kinley verbalized her thanks. The conversations blurred around her as she moved forward, flashlight gripped in the hollow of her hand. The deceased was dressed in black dress pants and a sensible blouse. Nondescript. Similar to what she wore daily. Her blonde hair had been hacked short—definitely not the work of a professional salon.
“No visible blood beneath the fingernails,” she said as Lambert approached behind her, keeping his distance so they could both examine the body one at a time. “But maybe the ridges in her blouse caught some fibers. There’s a newspaper beneath the left arm, but I can’t tell if there’s any significance to it. Once we release the body to the medical examiner, we can get a better look.” She was babbling to retain some of the details she wanted to reexamine. It helped her remember the scene, along with the rough sketch she’d scratch into her notebook before the night was over. A swatch of yellow spandex material caught her eye, and she crossed the room, careful to place her feet where everyone else had also been walking to disturb as little evidence as possible.
“Lambert.” She beckoned him over, and they started down at the floor. “What do you make of the cocktail dress?” It was tossed carelessly on the wooden planks as if someone had hastily stripped. Strappy platform heels were kicked off a foot from the piece of clothing.
“Maybe she was living here. Hiding from a domestic situation. Just got back from a club or a date.” He looked from the body back to the dress. “Wouldn’t you change into something comfortable, though? The clothing the victim is wearing looks like she’s about to report to an office job.”
“Yeah, and how often do you strip down to your skivvies in the middle of your kitchen?” she asked. The worn floorboards creaked as she shifted.
Gus raised a brow and smirked. “Now that Sasha’s moved in—”
She put up both hands, stopping his next words. “Point taken. What if she was an escort or sex worker? Used this place as her home base? The price is right. It’s secluded.”
“So she entertains a john and then dresses for her other night job?” A door opened and closed somewhere in the house, boots scuffed down the hall, and radios crackled in the distance.
“It’s possible. Let’s see if we can get an ID on her. Must have a license or credit card somewhere. Especially if she’s been living here.”
Together, they methodically processed the scene of the crime. There was no sign of a struggle, no evidence of someone living in the vacant house.
“Where’s the physical evidence? It’s eerie.” A shiver coursed down Kinley’s spine. She just couldn’t shake the idea that she was missing something big.
“No blood, no footprints aside from those believed to be the victims. The only tool marks we have are at the point of entry. If it weren’t for the dress, I’d buy that she was killed elsewhere and dumped here,” Lambert responded from behind her.
The strobes of their flashlights bobbed, and dust stirred as they moved down the stairwell in single file. By the time they’d reached the bottom, she was desperate to rub the gritty itch from her eyes. She refrained, keeping her hands at her sides. They were nearly back to where they started, with one wing left to process.
“First door on the right,” she said, striding toward a room left slightly ajar.
They turned into the bathroom, illuminating the space. Long blonde hair, still in a ponytail holder, lay in the empty sink. Scissors sat on the vanity. She leaned away, revulsion pumping through her.
“You okay?” Lambert stepped forward. His features were shadowed, but the concern on his face was still readable.
“Fine.” She gave a decisive nod, not sure if she was trying to convince her partner or herself.
“Tell me.” Lambert’s voice hardened. She only spoke of her experiences to a select few. He’d become one of those people.
She rolled her eyes, and steeling her nerves, leaned in to examine the hair more thoroughly. “Has anyone ever told you that you and your brother are both incredibly bossy?”
“Easton?” His brows scrunched up. “Easton’s the smart one. The softie.”
She nearly laughed out loud. Oh no, she’d seen Easton with her own eyes. There was nothing soft about the man. Maybe he wasn’t as much of an alpha as Lambert or Isaac, his biological brother who was a SEAL operating overseas on a covert mission, but he was all man.
“Is that so?” She raised a brow. Easton certainly hadn’t seemed like a pushover to her. “When the Kingston Town Killer took me, he cut my hair. He wanted me to look a certain way. Seeing that just dredged up some bad moments.”
“Do you think that’s what happened here? It would explain the positioning of her hand around the mug, why the body was sitting in a chair.” Lambert’s brows drew together.
“And the clothes.” A breathy whisper shuddered from her lips. “Goddammit. The clothes.” Ice trickled through her chest, coating her stomach with a cold, hard layer of fear.
“What? Lambert took a step closer, crowding her in the small bathroom. What is it?”
“I didn’t think of it before. When I saw the clothing, I thought it looked like something I might pull out of my closet. It’s business casual. Millions of people probably wear the same thing each day. But the hair, short like mine. The coloring and build of the victim.” She dropped her gaze and swallowed hard. She had to be wrong. If she wasn’t, an innocent woman had been killed because they shared a likeness.
“We need to get a look at that newspaper.” A muscle in Lambert’s jaw clenched.
She was breathing way too fast as they made their way back to the deceased. Despite the chill in the air, a bead of sweat dripped down her back. There was a chance this had nothing to do with her. Since her abduction, her mind went dark places, and the worst-case scenario was usually the first to pop into her head. Her heart was darting against her ribs by the time they passed through the threshold of the kitchen. The medical examiner was there, and the body was laid out on a white sheet.
“Where’s the newspaper that was on the table?” Her voice was tight, stress squeezing each syllable.
“Bagged for evidence.”
“We need to take a look at that. Nothing’s supposed to be moved until the scene is released.”
The investigator shrank back at the bite in Lambert’s words, turned, and retrieved a clear evidence bag, placing it in his waiting hands.
She was barely aware of Lambert’s fingers wrapped around her arm. There was a roar in her ears so loud she couldn’t hear a word Lambert was saying. Sure, his mouth was moving, but there was no sound. The article twisted her focus up in a familiar web of the past. A picture of her—braces, freckles, cheeks pink with a summer sunburn—was visible through the evidence bag. Community Fearful After Teen Abduction.
“He staged the victim to look like me.”