The scent of a reptilian terrarium mixed with death filled Ann’s nostrils. Packaging peanuts hid the contents of the box. She had to find the source of the smell, but at the same time, she didn’t want to just plunge her hands into unknown depths. She pushed away the top layer of peanuts and uncovered a leather bomber jacket with a paper bag tucked inside the collar. The jacket was her dad’s. Part of the Bram Logan signature style. Ann pulled the paper bag from the jacket and unfolded the top flap. She opened it and peeked inside. Nothing dead and rotting. She dumped the contents onto the table. A passport and wallet.
She pulled the jacket out of the box, and the smell of decay intensified. Ann reeled and covered her nose.
Jeezus fuck. There’d better not be a head in here.
Two parcels remained at the bottom. One, a plain brown package about six by six inches, tied shut with a piece of thick twine; the other five inches long, roughly cylindrical, wrapped in newsprint. She tugged the corner of the newspaper, and one of her mother’s angel figurines rolled out. They were usually lined up on the mantel at the house where she grew up.
The angel held a little girl in a protective embrace. Ann set the figure on the couch next to her and lifted the other package, fumbled with the twine and unwrapped it. A blue velvet jewelry box and an incredible stench. Good Lord. Her stomach twisted.
Ann opened the lid. Her mouth filled with saliva. She dropped the box, ran to the bathroom, and heaved into the bowl. She rested her head against the roll of toilet paper.
Hallucinations, glowing veins, burn marks—now this. Cold sweat broke out under her eyes and across her upper lip. Ann wiped her forehead on the back of her arm. She got the first aid kit from under the sink, rifled through it, and found a jar of menthol rub. She dabbed some under each nostril and returned to the little box of horrors.
One, two, three. She opened the lid.
Even though Ann’s mother died thirty years ago, Bram Logan never took off his wedding ring. Not even now. Her dad’s ring finger, still wearing his custom-made band, had been crammed into the neck of a decapitated rattle snake. The snake’s body coiled around the inside of the box like a macabre necklace.
Ann’s brain worked to make sense of what she was looking at while desperately searching her memories.
Is it really a finger?
What was the last thing she said to her dad? She struggled to remember.
It can’t be his finger.
When was the last time they spoke cordially? It had to be the night before she graduated.
Christ, it’s his finger.
When was the last time she hugged him, saw his smile, heard his laugh, gave him the time of fucking day?
Her rational mind forced its way to the forefront. She needed a print to be sure it was his finger. She snapped the box shut, and as her lungs took in short bursts of air and she worked to not break down completely, she dumped the rest of the Styrofoam out. There had to be an explanation. A ransom letter. A business card from the mob boss in Harmony.
Harmony didn’t have a mob.
She grabbed her cell phone, still tucked in the armband from her run.
Call it in. Take everything to the station. Start a case. Find him now.
Instead, she called her dad. His voicemail was full. She hovered her thumb over her Lieutenant’s number in her recent calls.
Maintain control. No body, no murder.
Not entirely true, but she had to tell herself something.
The right thing to do was call the police, she knew this, but at the same time, she didn’t want someone like Anderson assigned to the case. That greasy-haired fucktard would screw everything up. Ann didn’t understand how someone so incompetent could be a cop.
Who else could she call? Six months ago, she would have called Bruce.
She took a deep breath. Maybe someone in Harmony had seen her dad. She sat up straighter. Sheriff McMichael, her dad’s best friend. She didn’t have his personal number, but she could easily call the Sheriff’s Department. She did. He wasn’t there. Too early. She left a message with the bored dispatcher and scrolled through the rest of her contacts.
Joey Rigsby, professional hacker. Worked for the CIA for a while even and never let anyone forget it. Not a good secret-keeper, so it hadn’t worked out.
She shook her head. No. She hadn’t left things great with him either.
That’s your way, isn’t it? Burn your bridges until you have no one left.
She examined the outside of the big box again. Someone packed it, someone delivered it. There had to be prints. She ran out to her truck and grabbed her kit. But the box and its contents were clean. She examined every packing peanut, every nook and cranny inside the box, every inch of each item for any clues. Nothing. It was like the box had been packed in a vacuum.
She lifted the angel figurine. It was definitely one from the house in Harmony. When she was six, she thought the angels needed faces. This was the one she had started on. Her dad caught her before she could draw the second eye, but he’d let her finish it anyway.
Summon your angel, Dad. I guess that really worked, didn’t it?
It was his phrase. Summon your angel. All her life he had used it to remind her she had a guardian angel who would protect her.
Ann scoffed. Angels, right. Protection, sure. She stared at the figurine, then focused on the passport.
Her dad was a world traveler. He was in law enforcement. He was careful and smart and observant. She rubbed her thumb across the angel’s face. She had to go home.
After nearly fifteen years of being away, she had to return to Harmony, Colorado.