Rory’s fingers flew across the keyboard, the gentle tapping a counterpoint to the whirring of the ancient computer fan. The harsh fluorescent lights of the sheriff’s office cast a sickly glow over the stack of files on her desk, each one a fragment of Talia Montero’s life.
She blinked hard, trying to focus on the screen. The image of the coroner’s sketch still burned in her mind, overlaying everything she saw with its twisting, sinister pattern. Her wrist throbbed with phantom pain, and she resisted the urge to rub it again.
“Hey,” Evan said, his voice cutting through her spiraling thoughts. He set a steaming mug of coffee on her desk, the rich aroma momentarily drowning out the musty smell of old paperwork. “Thought you could use this.”
Rory managed a small smile, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. “Doesn’t have almond milk by any chance, does it?”
Evan frowned, surprised. “I thought you liked dairy.”
“Been drinking almond lately. Watching calories, you know.”
“You want me to go back and—”
Rory shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. Any luck with Talia’s financials?”
Evan sighed, dropping into the chair beside her desk. “Nothing out of the ordinary. No large withdrawals, no suspicious transfers. If she was involved in something shady, it doesn’t show in her bank records.”
Rory sighed, taking a sip of the coffee. It was terrible—burnt and bitter—but the caffeine hit was welcome. “There has to be something we’re missing. People don’t just get murdered for no reason, especially not like that.”
She turned back to her computer, pulling up Talia’s social media profiles. The smiling face of the victim stared back at her from a dozen photos—Talia at charity galas, Talia on horseback, Talia and Marcus looking disgustingly in love at various exotic locations.
“Look at this,” she said, gesturing to Evan closer. “Six months ago, Talia posted about a big real estate deal she was working on. Said it was going to ‘change everything.’ But there’s no mention of it after that.”
Evan leaned in, his shoulder brushing against hers. Rory ignored the brief flutter in her stomach at the contact. “Could be the ranch purchase,” he suggested.
Rory shook her head. “Timeline doesn’t fit. She bought the ranch almost a year ago. This is something else.”
She clicked through more photos, searching for any clue, any inconsistency. A group shot at a business conference caught her eye. Talia stood front and center, her million-dollar smile in place, surrounded by a group of men in expensive suits.
Just then the phone on her desk rang. She picked it up, her eyes still on the photo. “Wood here.”
“Rory, it’s Sarah from dispatch,” came the voice on the other end. “We’ve got a request for a wellness check out at the Harrow place. A neighbor called, said they haven’t heard from him in days. Pretty unusual.”
“Has anyone been sent out yet?” Rory asked. Beside her, Evan had stiffened as he stared at the picture.
“No, I was about to assign it to Deputy Miller.”
“No,” Evan said, suddenly animated. “Tell her we’ll go.”
Rory frowned, puzzled.
“Trust me,” Evan said.
Rory cleared her throat. “No, don’t bother Deputy Miller,” she said into the phone. “We’ll check up on Clayton. Thanks, Sarah.”
She hung up the phone and looked at Evan. “Want to fill me in?”
Evan pointed to one of the men in the picture on Rory’s screen. “That’s Clayton Harrow right there.”
***
The drive out to the Harrow ranch was long and winding, the paved road giving way to gravel and then to little more than a dirt track. Rory’s old truck bounced and rattled, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them.
“You think this is anything?” Evan asked as they crested a hill, the vast expanse of the Harrow property spreading out before them.
Rory’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I have a hunch it might be,” she said. But deep down, she knew it was more than that. The same instinct that had served her so well in the rodeo ring was screaming at her now, telling her that something was very, very wrong.
The Harrow ranch house loomed ahead, a sprawling log mansion that looked like it had been plucked from the pages of a luxury real estate magazine. But as they drew closer, Rory noticed details that set her nerves on edge. The flower beds were overgrown, the normally immaculate lawn unkempt.
And parked haphazardly near the front door was a sleek black SUV, its windshield coated in a fine layer of dust.
“That’s not Harrow’s car,” Evan said, echoing Rory’s thoughts. “He drives an old Cadillac, according to his DMV records.”
Rory pulled up beside the SUV, her hand instinctively checking her holster as she stepped out of the truck. The air was eerily still, the only sound the crunch of gravel under their boots as they approached the front door.
“Mr. Harrow?” Rory called out, rapping sharply on the heavy wooden door. “Bearclaw County Sheriff’s Office. We’re here to check on you, sir.”
Silence greeted them. Rory tried the handle—locked. She glanced at Evan, saw the same unease she felt reflected in his eyes.
“Around back,” she said quietly. They moved in tandem, their partnership allowing them to communicate without words. As they rounded the corner of the house, Rory caught a whiff of something that made her stomach turn. Sweet, cloying, with an underlying tang of copper.
The back door stood slightly ajar.
Rory drew her weapon, motioning for Evan to do the same. She approached the door cautiously, using her free hand to push it open wider. “Mr. Harrow? It’s the sheriff’s office. Is everything alright?”
The smell hit her full force as she stepped inside, nearly making her gag. Flies buzzed lazily in the stifling air. The kitchen was a mess—dirty dishes piled in the sink, rotting food on the counter. But it was the dark smears on the floor that drew Rory’s attention.
Footprints, she realized with a sinking feeling. Bloody footprints.
She followed the trail, her heart pounding in her ears. It led down a hallway toward what looked like a study. The door was closed, but more bloody smears marred its surface.
Rory took a deep breath, steeling herself. She nodded to Evan, who positioned himself on the other side of the door. In one swift movement, she turned the handle and pushed it open, her gun at the ready.
“Oh God,” Evan breathed behind her.
The study was in chaos. Books and papers littered the floor, shelves overturned. The heavy oak desk had been pushed askew. And there, slumped in a leather armchair, was Clayton Harrow.
Or what was left of him.
The body was in an advanced state of decomposition, the flesh mottled and sunken. But even through the ravages of decay, Rory could see the bruise stretched across the throat.
And there, burned into the hardwood floor at Harrow’s feet, was a familiar symbol. The same intricate, twisting pattern that had been found in Talia Montero’s barn. The same design that had been braided into the rope that took her life.
As Rory stared at the gruesome scene, a sudden movement caught her eye. A shadow, fleeting and indistinct, passed by the study’s window. She whirled, gun raised, but saw only the overgrown lawn and the encroaching forest beyond.
For a moment, just a moment, she could have sworn she saw a figure standing at the tree line. Tall, broad-shouldered, watching. But when she blinked, it was gone.
Rory’s blood ran cold as the realization hit her. This wasn’t just a murder investigation anymore.
This was a hunt.