“That’s what her parents said, too.”
“Did you speak with them?”
“No, the chief knows the family personally. He made the call tonight.”
“How horrible.”
It was horrible. The “call” was, without question, the hardest part of his job. And he’d had to make that call more times than he could count. He took a deep breath. “Anyway, we’ve bagged up her clothes and will send them off first thing in the morning, but aside from the droplets of blood on the shirt—from her chin—there didn’t appear to be any bodily fluids on them.”
“Maybe they’ll find fibers on her shirt, or his hair, maybe.”
He nodded, although his gut told him they weren’t going to get that lucky with that, either. He continued, “As you probably know, a cave is one of the worst scenarios for trace evidence…”
“The moisture.”
“Yep. Even if the killer left a perfect handprint with flashing lights around it, it would be disintegrated by now.”
She sipped her beer, her thoughts running a mile a minute. And it was interesting, watching her. She wasn’t a blubbering, fearful, shaking mess like most witnesses were after seeing a dead body. No, she was composed, with a determination shining from her eyes—determination to help find whoever killed Abby Collier. But that was his job, and he didn’t want her anywhere close to a homicide that involved strangling and mutilation.
So he needed to change the subject.
“Anyway…” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out the reason for his visit, which he’d suddenly remembered. “I stopped by to give you this.”
Her eyes widened, and she grabbed the pocket knife from his hands. “I didn’t even realize I dropped it.” She looked at him. “Where was it?”
“In the cave.”
She shook her head. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome. We were hoping it belonged to our guy, but then I noticed the initials… and I don’t see our killer choosing a hot-pink knife, anyway.”
She laughed, some of the stress of the day momentarily leaving her face. “No, it’s mine—would’ve been nice if it were the killer's though. No, my dad gave it to me the day I left town.”
“To come here?”
She nodded, and for a split-second, he saw sadness in her eyes.
“You miss home?”
“Sometimes, yes, but I’m so lucky to work for Black Rose… I wouldn’t change a thing. It just gets kind of lonely out here without family.”
He glanced around the kitchen for any sign of a man, a boyfriend. It shocked him that she wasn’t casually dating someone, at the very least. She was beautiful, with long, straight brown hair, big blue eyes and full pink lips, and he knew the guys of Devil’s Den took notice because every man that he worked with drooled over her when she first moved to town.
She continued, “Anyway, he had it specially made with my initials on it. It was sweet.”
“Do you take it with you every time you jog?”
She nodded.
“Good. You know how to use it?”
“A pocket knife? Uh, yeah, I know how to use a pocket knife.”
He smirked at her sarcastic tone. “No, I mean in a self-defense scenario.”
She shrugged. “I mean, it’s a knife. I know how to cut something.”
He cocked an eyebrow, grinned, and nodded at her finger. “I can see that.”
She looked down at the bright red slice, still oozing from when she cut it earlier in the woods, and then looked back at him. “How the hell did you notice that?”
“Blame the job.”
“Impressive.”
“Impressive that while you were under no duress or physical attack, you managed to cut yourself merely by opening your blade? Boy, it is a good thing you take that on your jogs with you… for self-defense, of course.”
Something in her eye twinkled as she smirked. “Well aren’t you a little smartass this evening?”
His eyebrows tipped up, followed by a buzz of enjoyment—Raven Cane had an attitude on her. And he liked it. With his eyes locked on hers, he drained his beer, set it on the table, and motioned her to come to him.
She cocked an eyebrow.
“Come here.”
She stared at him for a moment, then set down her beer and walked across the kitchen.
“Turn around.”
She grinned, and in an overly accentuated Southern accent said, “But Lieutenant Stone, I’ve only just met you…”
He laughed. They were definitely flirting now—full-blown flirting. And he liked this, too. “Seriously. Turn around.”
She did as she was told.
“Okay, say your attacker comes at you from behind.” He closed the inches between them, pressed up behind her, and wrapped his arms around her. He felt her, ever so slightly, press back into him. His pulse picked up, and he tried to ignore the electricity that was now shooting between them.
He pinned her arms down and had to keep from inhaling the intoxicating scent of her hair. “Can you get to your pocket knife now? You know, the one that you keep for self-defense.”
“No… smartass.”
“Exactly. Lesson one, it’s best to run with the knife out, in your hand, or at least have the blade of your keys in your hands, okay?”
“Okay.”
She was being submissive and it was making him crazy. He squeezed her harder. “Now, your hands are pinned, and you have no weapon. What’s the first thing you do?”
“Scream.”
“Good job. Always scream first, as loud as you can. Next, assuming he didn’t run away, and still has you from behind, now what?”
No response.
“Drop all of your weight.”
She turned her head, her lips inches from his, and he noticed her cheeks were flushed. Was she possibly enjoying this as much as he was? Was she feeling the chemistry between them?
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said, drop your weight, but not all the way to the ground. Don’t collapse, stay strong, just drop your weight.”
She did, and his grip loosened.
He released. “See? The moment you dropped down, I had to bend over to keep my hold on you, which knocked me off balance and caused me to loosen my grip. Always use your attacker’s energy, his weight, against him…”
Before he could finish the sentence, she spun on her heel, jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, and then raised her knee, stopping less than an inch from his groin.
“WHOA… whoa, whoa, there.” His heart officially stopped beating. “Jesus, Raven.”
“Elbow jabs and groin kick… I know what to do from there.”
He blew out a breath—holy shit that was close—and swallowed the knot in his throat as his pulse came back. “Okay, good job. But don’t ever do that again.”
She grinned, a gleam in her eye.
He continued, “A jab to the throat works, too.” He lightly grabbed her hand. “Jab with a straight hand, not a fist, into the throat.”
She nodded.
“Now, let’s say you’ve got your knife out, as you’re supposed to, and you’re attacked—what do you do now, big shot?”
“Slash the hell out of the son of a bitch.”
“Yeah, but where? Always aim for the areas of biggest impact—main arteries, underside of the forearm, eyeballs. The face in general. Slice and jab.”
She repeated. “Slice and jab.”
“Right.” He took a step back. “Show me.” He handed her the knife.
She raised her eyebrows.
“Show me.”
She cocked her head. “Okay.” She flipped open the blade—carefully this time—took a deep breath, and the second she raised her arm, he knocked the knife from her hand, causing it to tumble to the ground, out of her reach.
“Always keep the knife close to your body.”
She narrowed her eyes, swooped down and picked it up. And tried again.
“You
’re holding it wrong.” He stepped forward, put his hands over hers. “Run your thumb along the side, like this. Tighten your last three fingers, leave your index finger loose for ease of mobility. Good job.”
With his hands over hers, she stared up at him, her big blue eyes wide, her chest rising and falling heavily. He looked down at her, and his gaze trailed to her mouth.
Thunder rumbled outside.
She licked her lips.
He pulled back. What the hell was he doing?
He cleared his throat, grabbed his beer, and for a moment, the room stood silent.
With apple-red cheeks, and embarrassment written all over her face, she plucked her beer from the counter and took a long sip. “Thanks for the tips.”
Tips. He’d like to have given her a different tip… which is exactly why he needed to get the hell out of her house. Now.
“Thanks for the beer.” He stared at her a moment longer before pulling his keys from his pocket.
“And thanks for bringing me my pocket knife.”
He nodded, and paused. For what? Why was he pausing? For her to tug down his jeans, get on her knees, and beg him to stay?
Dammit, this woman was throwing him off, big time.
“Good night, Raven.”
She smiled. “Good night, Lieutenant Stone.”
He felt her eyes on him as he pushed out the front door, and jumped into his truck.
CHAPTER 8
RAVEN WOKE UP to her alarm clock screaming at her. She forced her eyes open, rolled over, and glanced at the clock—6:33. She looked out the window. Thanks to the lingering rain, it was still dark outside.
Great.
What she needed was a bright, sunny day. A bright, sunny day to push the darkness of the day before out of her head, and give her a boost of energy after a sleepless night full of tossing and turning, thinking of Abby Collier’s vicious murder.
A bright, sunny day to help her focus on all of the work she needed to do, and not on Zander Stone.
But it appeared that a sunny day wasn’t in the cards.
She threw back the covers, the cool air sweeping across her warm skin. She pushed out of bed, stepped into her slippers, and pulled on her grey, terry cloth robe. She padded to the kitchen, glancing at the front door where not ten hours earlier, Zander’s tall, thick body had filled her door frame.
She was surprised—shocked—when he showed up at her house. And excited. But that excitement was nothing compared to the butterflies she’d gotten when he’d wrapped his arms around her, in the middle of the kitchen, and gave her a lesson on defending herself.
She was always a sucker for strong, alpha males, which Zander definitely was—to the extreme. And to have his handsome face and sexy body tossing her around in her kitchen, giving her commands, and teaching her a thing or two, was about all she could handle. There was something erotic about a confident man taking charge, and metaphorically flexing his big muscles… and Zander sure as hell had plenty of muscles to flex. It was everything she could do not to jump him and rip his clothes off.
He was so damn sexy, and last night made him even more so.
She turned on a dim light, started the coffee, and leaned against the counter.
He could have just dropped off the knife and left. Hell, he didn’t even need to come inside. But he did, and he stayed. And despite the horrific afternoon they’d shared, his short visit had turned into a major flirt-fest. Was it possible that Zander thought of her more than a kid? More than little ol’ Rave?
Her stomach tickled at the thought, but that excitement was immediately replaced by a frown on her face. Regardless if he liked her or not, she knew that her boss wouldn’t approve. Zander was off limits.
She blew out a breath, and without waiting for the brew to finish, grabbed a mug, and poured a steaming cup of coffee. After adding a splash of low-fat creamer and squeeze of honey, she sipped and gazed out the window.
An eerie blue-grey glow began to lighten the woods that surrounded her house.
And suddenly, the hair on the back of her neck prickled.
Was that…?
She squinted and stepped closer to the window. Was… someone out there?
Watching her?
She leaned forward and zeroed in on, what appeared to be, a tall, dark figure blending into the shadows, standing motionless, looking right into her window.
No way.
She was tired, seeing things.
She blinked a few times, opened her eyes, and squinted again—the figure was gone.
Laughing at herself, she muttered, “You're losing it, Rave.”
She shook her head and took a gulp of coffee. She had a busy day ahead of her, and she needed to focus on her first and only case—Eric Stevens, the Coleman brothers, and whether or not they were involved in insider trading. That was going to be her priority today.
Nothing else.
She took a deep breath.
Okay, forget about Abby and focus. Focus Raven.
She topped off her coffee, took one more look into the woods and then padded down the hall to the shower.
***
Sprinkles of rain slid down his windshield as Zander parked under a massive pine tree. It was almost seven in the morning, and although it was wet and gloomy outside, he couldn’t wait. He’d been up all night, unable to sleep, thinking about the horrific details of Abby Collier’s murder. He needed to get another look at the crime scene, rain or shine, immediately.
He grabbed his gun, flashlight, and just as he was about to push out of the truck door, his cell phone rang.
“Stone.”
“Zander, it’s Cora.”
He straightened. It was early for Cora to be calling him, which made him think she had news. News that couldn’t wait.
“Am I calling too early?”
“No, what’s up?”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I came in super early and started working on Abby’s autopsy. I’ve barely scratched the surface, so to speak, but I’ve already discovered something interesting, and I had to call.”
His pulse picked up. “Okay…”
“Her fingers. First, they were removed post-mortem. It’s important to note that they were not removed to inflict pain or torture of any kind because she was already deceased. Second, each finger was severed at the base by a smooth blade, not serrated, as we initially assumed.”
“We assumed that because serrated would be easier to cut through bone.”
“Exactly. I thought that was weird, right? So I looked closer, and based on the markings, the blade width appears to be wider than a traditional knife…”
“An ax.”
Pause. “Or, a hatchet.”
His eyebrows raised. “You mean to tell me that the killer cut off Abby’s fingers with a hatchet, inside Hatchet Hollow.”
“Exactly.” He could practically hear Cora shudder through the phone. “Looks like we’ve got a poetic killer on our hands.”
A second passed as Zander processed the information. “Thanks, Cora. Let me know what else you find, immediately.”
“Of course.” Pause. “Hey, Zander. This makes my skin crawl… just so you know.”
He clenched his jaw. “We’ll get him, Cora.”
“Soon. Bye.”
Click.
Zander rested the phone on his chin in deep thought. The fingers were removed post-mortem, which fits the theory that the killer possibly cut them off to destroy evidence that might link back to him.
Raven was right.
A hatchet.
Hatchet Hollow.
His gut twisted—A smart, cocky killer.
As he got out of the truck, he tried to ignore the pit in his stomach, telling him that this was going to be no ordinary case.
***
Two hours later, Raven drove up a bumpy driveway that led to a small, decrepit house in the middle of the woods. She cocked an eyebrow as she parked next to a faded sign that was held up only by a stack of rocks.
&nbs
p; Claire’s Cut and Curl
According to Ace’s research, Claire Banks was the name of the hot blonde who received the afternoon delight by Eric Stevens, the day before.
Born and raised in Devil’s Den, Claire was a high school dropout, turned salon owner, and had been cutting and coloring hair for the last fifteen years. But Claire’s hair cutting abilities wasn’t what she was known for. No, according to Ace’s thorough research, Claire was known around town for her willingness to have afternoon delights with anyone who was interested. Anyone, anytime.
Although Raven’s gut told her that Claire knew nothing about Eric’s illegal side-job, and most likely wasn’t involved in any way whatsoever, she wanted to be sure. And she decided now was as good a time as any to try out her undercover skills.
Raven slid her recorder pen into her breast pocket, grabbed her bag and got out of the car. The lingering rain had finally given up, but the thick clouds remained, making an exceptionally dreary morning.
As she pushed through the old, wooden front door, she was greeted by the smell of chemicals and stale cigarette smoke. She looked around the small salon, which was empty. There were three stations, each with a chair, long mirror, and cabinet. Pictures of women with full, teased hair and neon makeup decorated the walls. Hello, 1980's. A layer of dust and hair coated everything—gross.
As she closed the door behind her, Claire stepped out of a back room, her eyes wide with surprise… or fear, Raven couldn’t decide which. Her hair was in a messy, braided side-ponytail, her eyes bloodshot and shaded. She wore a plaid blouse—unbuttoned to emphasize her impressive cleavage—jeans, and the same bejeweled boots she’d worn the day before.
She looked like she hadn’t slept a wink.
Raven’s internal radar immediately turned on.
“You have an appointment?” Her voice was clipped as she stood, rigid as a stone, her face pulled tight. Either she’d had some serious Botox, or this woman was having one hell of a morning.
“No. I was hoping to get a trim this morning. Do you have an open slot?” Raven glanced at the three vacant chairs.
“Looks like it.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm. “Have a seat in the first chair by the window. I’ll be right back.”
No pleasure to meet you, or please take a seat. No, this woman was strung as tight as a top. And Raven wanted to know why.
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