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One

She’s dead.”

Those two words brought Madison Knight to 982 Hillcrest Drive in the middle of a Saturday afternoon in March. It was a quiet neighborhood in the south end of Stiles, a city of about three hundred sixty thousand, and it had been her real estate agent, Estelle Robins, who’d called. When Madison saw the name on caller ID, she’d assumed Estelle had found the perfect place for Madison and her boyfriend, Troy Matthews. Boy, had she been mistaken.

Madison parked in the driveway, admiring the raised bungalow with its grayish-brown brick and beige siding. It couldn’t be older than fifteen years. The front door was under a small overhang, and that’s where Estelle was standing, her arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold, but the temperature today was unusually warm. Some of the more northern states would envy their spring-like weather in early March.

Madison got out of the car and approached Estelle. She was normally the picture of calm and put-togetherness, but her hair was frizzed around her heart-shaped face, and her eyes were wet and wide. Her brown eyeshadow was smudged beneath her right eye, but her mascara had stayed in place.

“Omigod, Madison. I didn’t know who else to call, but you’ll know what to do.”

“You did the right thing.” Madison was a Major Crimes detective with the Stiles Police Department. Troy could have tagged along, as he was also a detective for the department, but his primary role was leader of a SWAT team. Solving murders was her thing. “Where is she?”

“In the shed. I’ll take you there.” Estelle led the way to a side gate next to the garage. Her hand was shaking as she worked the latch.

Madison followed Estelle down a concrete sidewalk toward the backyard. “How did you find her?”

“There’s supposed to be an open house.” Estelle spoke over her shoulder. “I was making sure the property looked good.” Estelle stopped and hoisted a chain-link gate at the end of the walk that was hinged on the fence and wedged against the brick of the garage.

To the right was a deck, and ahead was a manageable yard. The rear of the lot was framed by mature cedars and a chain-link fence. There was another gate back there, and it appeared open.

Estelle pointed to a shed with a concrete foundation and beige siding. It was about twelve feet wide and twenty feet long.

“She’s in there.” Estelle shivered. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Madison laid a hand on her arm. “It’s a lot to process, for sure, but I’m here now. You said you had an open house scheduled—”

“Oh.” Estelle ran a hand through her hair, making it even more frizzy. The extension of her arm revealed a beautiful big-faced watch, which she consulted. “It’s scheduled to start in fifteen minutes. I wasn’t thinking… There are still signs around the neighborhood.”

Madison nodded. “I saw them on the way. They need to be taken down and the open house—”

“Canceled. Yes, I understand completely.”

“Can you manage collecting the signs, or do you want help?”

Estelle rubbed the back of her neck. “I can handle it.”

Madison nudged her head toward the house. “We’ll also need to contact the homeowners and make them aware of the situation. I’ll need to question them too.”

Estelle chewed on her bottom lip. “I will call them.”

“Okay, after you get the signs.”

Estelle sniffled but stood tall, as if finding some strength. “I’ll get the signs and come right back.”

Madison headed across the lawn to the shed. The door was toward the rear of the building and next to a window. The handle had a keyhole. She gloved up and turned it. Unlocked. Had it been left that way or picked?

She stepped inside, immediately catching the stench of blood—something she didn’t have much tolerance for despite her chosen profession. She swallowed roughly, and her stomach tossed, but she pushed forward.

She took her phone from her coat pocket and activated the flashlight to get a better look. The window let some light in, but the space was still immersed in shadows.

The beam went over stacked patio furniture, as well as shovels and garden tools that leaned against the wall and were laid out on a shelving unit. There were a couple large containers for cushions and garden pots in various shapes and sizes.

Madison edged farther inside, following drips of blood, and rounded a lawnmower.

And there she was. Jane Doe. Late forties, possibly fifties. Blank stare, pool of blood— Madison gazed at it. She was getting better at handling messy scenes, and she tamped down her visceral reaction as best she could, but it didn’t help that she’d been battling with nausea lately anyhow.

She put a hand on her stomach, resembling, in a way, the dead woman, who had an arm cradled across her lower abdomen. Blood had seeped around her palms to the back of her hands and between her fingers. She’d been stabbed at least a few times, from the looks of it, each blow in the vicinity of her gut.

Doe’s dress, casual—blue jeans, a light jacket unzipped, a gray T-shirt, black-heeled boots. Her makeup was artfully applied, and given the macabre circumstances, she was rather beautiful even in death. Her hair was wet—like her clothing—and spread around her head like a halo on a folded blue tarp. She must have been caught in last night’s rain before seeking shelter from the storm. Aside from the tangible quality of death clinging to the air and the blood, it could almost be imagined that she’d slipped into the shed for a nap.

It was heartbreaking to think she’d died alone, bleeding, while rain beat against the metal roof. Had it hypnotized and soothed her as she drifted into darkness? Or had she fought for life?

There were no personal effects near the woman—no purse or phone—but her identification could be in her pockets. Madison wasn’t going to go rummaging until she had backup.

No immediate sign of the murder weapon either.

Madison turned away and started making the necessary calls. Patrol officers to cordon off the property; her partner-on-the-job, Terry Grant, to assist her; Cole Richards, the medical examiner; and crime scene investigator and head of the forensics lab, Cynthia Baxter—or Baxter-Stanford now that she had married Lou Stanford, another Major Crimes detective.

She ended her last call, and the silence was deafening. Soon the property would be crawling with law enforcement and crime scene investigators. But for now, it was just her and Jane Doe.