After clearing the snow with the windshield wipers, she flicked on the headlights, made her way down the driveway, and onto the narrow, curvy mountain road.
Twilight sat on the horizon, its bright colors fading behind the snow-covered mountains in the distance. Devil’s Den was no stranger to snow, or any weather for that matter. The small, Southern town experienced all four seasons—steaming summers, fresh springs, crisp falls and ice-cold winters. And, with almost six inches of snow already, this winter promised to be no different.
She leaned forward and clicked on the radio.
“…snow is expected to continue for the next three days, accumulating close to three feet by the end of the storm. Power outages are to be expected, and please, stay off the roads.”
Her gaze shifted to the steep ravine, slicked with ice, that hugged the side of the road—it would be a hell of a time to go missing… assuming Lizzie Meyers was still alive.
According to Raven’s research, Lizzie was a twenty-three-year-old pharmaceutical sales rep with a business degree and a penchant for knitting, red wine and pedicures—the kind with fancy designs and jewels, apparently. According to Lizzie’s social media accounts, she was gregarious, to say the least, spending almost every evening out—at dinner, at a bar, at a friend’s house, or hosting book clubs and wine nights. And, she appeared to be single.
An only child, Lizzie was born into a hardworking, blue-collar family who attended church weekly and gave generously to local charities.
Nothing led Dixie to believe that Lizzie had any substance issues, mental, or physical issues, or anything that would make her seek out, or hang out with, an unsavory crowd. Lizzie seemed like the run-of-the-mill bubbly, former sorority girl who lived life to the fullest.
John Blevins, MD, on the other hand, was a Devil’s Den native and a workaholic, and had been married seventeen years to Suzie, with no kids. Dixie had reached out to the wife earlier in the day, only to receive her voicemail. But that was okay, she’d track her down later.
As Dixie pondered all the possible scenarios surrounding Lizzie’s disappearance, something deep in her gut twisted—a woman’s instinct… telling her that this was going to be no ordinary case.
Her phone rang.
“Dixie here.”
“Dix, it’s Ace. I tried to catch you before you left.”
“What’s up?”
“I’ve got some info on Lizzie.”
“Give it to me.”
“The last transaction on her credit card was Sunday night, the night before she went missing.”
“Where?”
“At Banshee’s Brew liquor store.”
“How much?”
“Seven dollars and ninety-three cents.”
“Maybe a bottle of wine, for herself.”
“Right—doesn’t appear that she was buying for a social outing. Also, Raven told me Lizzie posted a few pictures Sunday evening of a coaster she was knitting, so I don’t think she went out. Aside from that, nothing seems out of the ordinary.”
“Okay…”
“I also looked into her cell phone—her last call was placed at eight thirty-one Monday night, the night she went missing.”
Dixie’s eyebrows shot up. “Please tell me you have the number she called.”
“I do, but it’s a burner phone—no name attached to the number.”
“Dammit.”
“The call bounced off a local tower, though. So whoever had the phone was close by.”
“A burner phone usually belongs to someone who has something to hide. Someone that’s up to no good.”
“Agreed—like someone plotting an abduction, perhaps.”
“Agreed. Assuming she called her abductor, then she obviously knew him. Or, at least, had been in some sort of communication with him.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay… now I’m wondering if John Blevins recently purchased a burner phone…”
Ace groaned. “That’s going to take a hell of a lot of digging.”
“What? Not up to the challenge?”
“I’ll let you know what I find.”
“Thanks, Ace.”
Click.
In deep thought, she tapped the phone on the steering wheel, and then clicked it on again.
“Devil’s Den PD, Lieutenant Stone here.”
“Zander, it’s Dixie.”
There was a brief pause, and muffled voices in the background.
“I’d like to think you’re calling just to say hi, or perhaps to offer to bring me dinner for helping you with your last case, but something tells me that this call has to do with a young, missing blonde.”
She grinned.
A Devil’s Den native, former college football star, and one hell of a handsome cowboy, Police Lieutenant Zander Stone was Dixie’s go-to for information. Why? Because Zander’s father and Dixie’s father had been best friends for as long as Dixie could remember. Zander was practically family and Dixie had no problem using that to her advantage, and neither did Zander, when he needed information from her, too.
A PI’s relationship with local law enforcement was always a very sensitive, slippery slope, full of blurred lines, red tape… and secrets. Zander was invaluable to her and they both thrived in their quid pro quo relationship. Thankfully, due to budget constraints, the small town of Devil’s Den didn’t have a detective, so she didn’t have to engage in that pissing match with every case that she accepted.
“Do you think my life revolves around crimes, Zander?”
“I have absolutely no doubt that it does, you sicko. You need to get a boyfriend, Dix.”
She laughed. “Wow, if that isn’t calling the kettle black, buddy. Your last relationship was when? A hundred years ago?”
“Just waiting for the right one.”
“The right one is a phantom, a mythical creature that exists only to make men like you reject every single woman that comes across their paths, only to end up being a miserable old bastard who spends their time hovered over the engine of some sports car—that they spent their life savings on—with a bottle of lube in one hand, and a can of Bud in the other.”
“That reminds me, my dad says hi.”
She laughed. “Anyway, yes, you read right through me. What do you have on Miss Lizzie Meyers?”
“You on the case?”
“You could say that. Have you searched her place yet?”
“Just left. And, no, it’s not open yet, still roped off.”
“What’d you find?”
“Hang on.” More muffled voices. “Hunter wants to know when you’re going to let him take you on a date.”
She rolled her eyes and blew out an annoyed, impatient breath. “Zander, tell me what you found at Lizzie’s.”
Zander pulled away from the receiver. “She said tonight, and she can’t wait.” He turned back to the phone. “You know I can’t get into that with you, Dix.”
“Just give me your read.”
“Hang on.” He pulled the phone away again, and muttered something. A minute of silence ticked by, and finally, in a low voice, he said, “Okay, Hunter just left. Not much to read; doesn’t look suspicious so far. No break-in, nothing. Car’s gone. I talked to her family and friends, no one has any idea where she went—she didn’t tell anyone she was going out Monday night. Look, I gotta go, be careful on the roads, okay?”
“Did you find fingerprints in her house? DNA? Anything?”
“I gotta go.”
“What about her car? Have you located it?”
“Dix, I gotta run.”
“What else did the parents say?
“They’re in shock, gave us nothing to work with.”
“I heard she lives close to ol’ Black Magic Balik.”
Pause. “Dix, listen to me. Do not go over there, I’m serious. I don’t need you walking all over the crime scene. We plan to go back first thing in the morning.”
“Hmm... that leads me to believe you guys found jack shit.”
“Jack shit would’ve been something.”
She raised her eyebrows. Yep, they found nothing.
“You going to the Black Crow later?”
Shit. She’d forgotten that she promised to meet Raven and Scar for a drink. “Yeah, I think so.”
“I might see you there and do not go over to Lizzie’s, you understand?”
Pause. “Talk soon, Zand.”
Click.
She tossed the phone on the passenger seat, and in deep thought, chewed on her lower lip.
No signs of a break-in, no car out front. So based on that information, and Ace’s research, Dixie felt strongly that Lizzie knew her abductor—assuming that’s what happened—and willingly drove somewhere to meet him, or her.
Regardless, they were almost at the twenty-four-hour mark, and according to most missing person statistics, that did not bode well for Lizzie Meyers.
Dixie reached over, plucked a wrinkled piece of paper off the seat and read the address scribbled across it—903 Shady Oaks Lane.
She leaned forward and squinted to see through the snow. As the street came into view, she flicked on her turn signal and parked next to a sign that read Shady Oaks Cottages.
Shady was right. She turned off the headlights and looked around.
Four, small, decrepit stone cottages sat in a row, surrounded by leafless, ice-coated trees that backed up to dense woods. A fresh blanket of snow covered the grounds, which were untraveled on as far as she could tell.
According to her research, only two of the four cottages were occupied. One home belonged to Lizzie Meyers, and one to a Devil’s Den legend—Black Magic Balik. Dixie wasn’t the type of girl to give rumors much thought—especially in her line of work—and witch or not, Marden Balik was the only potential witness on the evening that Lizzie Meyers went missing.
One potential witness—and one was better than nothing.
She grabbed her bag, her gun, yanked up her hood and pushed out of the truck. The soft scent of snow tickled her nose as she lightly closed the door.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to clear her racing thoughts, focus and tune into her instincts—her sixth sense that had made her one of the top private investigators in the country.
Black smoke rolled out of the chimney of Balik’s cottage, and a dim light flickered between the tiny cracks in the boards that blocked the windows. Dixie cocked her head—why the hell were her windows boarded shut? Hiding something, perhaps? Various symbols, including a moon and stars, and strings of crystals hung from the cracked awnings. Two black cats lay curled at the front door, their beady, orange eyes flickering through the darkness. A black crow perched in the tall tree beside the cottage.
Dixie shivered—the only thing missing was a bubbling cauldron out front.
Her boots sank in the snow as she made her way to nine-zero-three—otherwise known as Lizzie’s cottage.
Yellow Do Not Cross police tape flapped against the old, wooden door. A brown doormat with the word welcome written across it lay haphazardly to the side. Shrubs lined the front of the house, with just enough room for someone to hide behind and peep in the windows.
She pulled out her flashlight and surveyed the area. Muddy boot tracks were everywhere—presumably from the police—no scratches on the door or the window latches, and no fresh fingerprints on the glass. She stepped away from the door and shined the light along the rock walls, the ice that clung to the small crevasses reflecting in the beam.
Careful to avoid adding unnecessary footprints, she stepped along the shrubs and rounded the corner to the back of the house.
Each cottage had a small back porch that stretched to the woods. Basically, the cottages were a detective’s nightmare, and a stalker’s dream. Too many places to hide, too many access points. Too dark.
A small table and two pink chairs sat on the porch, next to a narrow door which Dixie assumed led to the kitchen. The shades were drawn in both windows.
She scanned the area—nothing suspicious.
She walked around to the front of the house and after taking a quick glance over her shoulder, pulled a small silver tool from her bag—courtesy of her dad—and without so much of a grunt, popped open the front door.
The scent of cheap potpourri slapped her in the face as she slipped on a pair of booties and latex gloves, before stepping over the threshold.
The cottage was ice-cold, still, and lifeless.
After taking another glance behind her, she shut the door and flicked the lights.
The one-bedroom cottage was as tiny as she imagined, with a living room, a small kitchen and laundry room, and in the corner was a door that led to the bedroom and bathroom. Despite the rock walls and old hardwood floors, the cottage screamed bachelorette pad with a stylish white leather couch with hot pink pillows, a flat screen television, and multiple brightly colored paintings on the walls. It was clean, too, and tidy, and in Dixie’s experience, people who were clean and tidy were less likely to make irrational decisions.
She walked across the kitchen and glanced in the fridge—Chinese take-out, an open bottle of wine, chocolate bars—pretty much what you would expect from a single girl. She opened the freezer and wrinkled her nose at the nauseating amount of Lean Cuisines. Gross. She’d rather eat cardboard than that shit, which, by the way, tasted just like cardboard.
She opened the trash can—it was empty, with a fresh liner that smelled of lavender.
She walked into Lizzie’s bedroom and saw more of the same—pink, pink, pink.
Vomit, vomit, vomit.
She paused.
Strewn across the pink bedspread were several shirts and jeans—silk shirts, lace tank-tops and designer jeans. She glanced in the bathroom—makeup and beauty products covered the counter. A curling iron and hairspray lay in the sink.
She cocked her eyebrow.
Lizzie Meyers had spent the last moments in her home primping and prepping for something—for something special.
To see a man, perhaps?
Could that man be John Blevins?
CHAPTER 5
Dixie pulled the door closed behind her and ripped off her gloves and booties. Snow whipped around her as she stepped away from the cottage.
It was a quiet night—an eerily quiet night.
She narrowed her eyes and scanned the area, listening to the soft sound of snow falling onto the trees.
Her phone beeped in her bag, startling her. She reached down and clicked it on—one new message from Raven.
At the Black Crow, you still coming?
She looked at the clock—almost eight. Shit. She was late. Again.
She slid the phone back into her bag, turned toward her truck, but then paused, and turned back. Maybe just one lap around the cottages before she left.
She flicked on her flashlight, looped her bag over her shoulder, and began walking toward the tree line, surveying the ground.
No boot prints, no tracks. The heavy snowfall took care of that.
She passed Balik’s cabin, shining the light into the trees.
Suddenly, the hair on the back of her neck prickled.
She paused, her hand instinctively sliding to the handle of her gun.
She slowly turned.
A silhouette emerged from the shadows, and in a low, raspy voice, said, “Damn cold to be outside.”
“And damn ballsy to creep up on a woman with a gun.”
“It ain’t creepin’ when you’re on your own back porch.”
“You must be Ms. Balik.”
“I am.”
Dixie released her gun and took a few steps toward the woman. “I apologize, you spooked me.”
“Not the first. Who’re you?”
“I’m a friend of Lizzie’s.”
Silence.
“It appears she isn’t at home, do you know where she is?”
A moment passed before Balik reached up and turned on the outside light, casting a dim, orange-tinted glow across the back porch. No cha
irs, no tables, just a few candles and stones. Snowflakes drifted through the light and onto her long, black robe and scuffed leather boots, as she stood rigid, at the edge of the porch. Her stringy, grey hair was pulled back in a braided ponytail that ran down her hunched back. She wore black onyx earrings that accentuated the large moles on her face and her small, beady eyes that made Dixie want to take a few steps back.
Black Magic? A witch? Now having met Marden Balik, the rumors weren’t so difficult to imagine.
The woman coughed a hideous sounding cough. She took a slow, unsteady step toward Dixie and stared at her for a moment before saying, “Lizzie ain’t around anymore.”
“What do you mean anymore?”
“You know exactly what I mean, Miss Knight.” Something flickered in her eyes.
Dixie raised her eyebrows. “Have we met?”
“Here and there.”
No, she definitely would’ve remembered that face… those eyes. How the hell did Balik know who she was? And if she knew her name, Dixie had no doubt that she also knew that Dixie was a private investigator, and not a concerned sorority friend of Lizzie’s.
“Ms. Balik, did you see Lizzie last night?”
“I see a lot of things, you know what I mean.”
Impatience boiled up. “I’m afraid I don’t. But one thing I do know is that you need a license to carry that revolver you’ve got tucked in the pocket of your robe.” She slid her phone from her bag, and pretended to dial the police station. “So unless you want to…”
A crooked grin cracked across Balik’s face. “You’ve got fight in you, Knight. I like that.” She paused and shrugged. “I might’ve seen a black truck driving by over the last few days.”
“What kind of truck?”
“Nice one. New.”
“Make? Model?”
Balik shrugged.
“When was the first time you saw it?”
“A few weeks ago. Drives by every now and again but never stops. Sometimes pulls in and backs out.”
“What time of day do you see it?”
“Night, mostly.”
Dixie’s gaze cut to the woods.
Balik continued, “Miss Meyers was a troubled girl.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know the sort. Weak, ignorant, self-conscious.”
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