Braden swung his feet off the side of the bed and swiped a hand over his prickly face. His mouth tasted like something had crawled in there and died while he'd slept, and there was a massive crick in his neck. So much for enjoying a nice peaceful morning. "I'm getting real impatient, Mitchie. Spill it."
"Yeah, sorry about that Brae. Things are a mite busy here. Uh, so listen, when was the last time you investigated a homicide?"
Braden frowned. "What in hell are you talking about? It's too early for riddles, Mitch. Get to the damn point already."
"When was the last murder in Stony Gap? Just answer the question."
"Shit. I don't know. How long has Uncle Clive been in office…fifteen, maybe twenty years? Why? What does that have to do with any—?"
"Last night."
"Huh?"
"There was a murder here last night."
Braden was on his feet, wriggling into the uniform pants he'd discarded on the floor the night before. "You're shitting me! A murder? Here?" He reached into his closet, grabbed a clean work shirt, punched his arms through the sleeves, and buttoned it while balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder. "Mitch, if this is one of your warped jokes, I'm going to throttle you."
"It's no joke, Brae. Apparently a couple of delivery men found the woman when they showed up with a new washing machine she'd recently purchased."
"A woman, huh? Do we have an ID on her?" One thing about small communities, everyone knew everyone else.
"Yeah, her name is Roxanne Delray. Uncle Clive says she grew up here, but moved away before she turned eighteen. He hadn't seen her in twenty years and heard through the local gossip vine that she'd only recently moved back. You know, the place out on Old Cove Road?"
Braden pulled up a mental image of the tiny, white clapboard house. It was barely big enough to be called a shack. He couldn't believe someone lived there. "I thought that place was condemned or something. It's been empty forever."
"We're still waiting on the coroner, but from the look of things, I'd say she was killed some time late last night."
Braden couldn't tell if he detected nervousness or excitement in his brother's tone, though if he had to guess, it would be the latter. Mitch was the one always itching for more excitement beyond issuing the errant speeding ticket.
"Now don't go jumping to conclusions. It's possible her death was accidental or medical."
"No and no. I'm telling you, somebody wanted this woman dead. From the looks of her, they enjoyed the kill." An evil laugh echoed through the phone line.
Braden shook his head and stomped into his boots. "You're seriously fucked up, you know that, right?"
"Yeah, yeah. So you and everyone else tell me. Now get your hairy ass down here, pronto. We need your help with this one. Your precious vacation can wait."
"I'm on my way." Braden flipped shut his phone, laced up his boots, and headed into the bathroom. Less than three minutes later, a minty-mouthed Braden secured his heavy-duty leather gun belt around his waist, grabbed his keys off the kitchen counter, and walked out the back door. He squinted in the bright morning sunshine.
One of the things he'd always loved about small town living was the sense of safety he felt in being able to leave his back door unlocked. He could come and go as he pleased, without having to worry about someone robbing him blind while he was out. Somehow, that didn't seem to be a comfortable notion on this morning of murder. He locked the door behind him.
When he pulled in behind the long line of vehicles in front of the victim's home and strode up the walk, Braden steeled himself for what he would see at the crime scene. Even in the best of circumstances, death wasn't pretty, nothing like what they showed on TV. People didn't put on makeup and pretty themselves up before the grim reaper came calling. They didn't strike poses or land in an attractive position. TV never showed the blood and gore, or how people lost control of their bodily functions and messed themselves.
Being the last man to arrive on site, he probably wouldn't be much help. Undoubtedly, the scene had already been photographed and processed to the best of the department's capabilities.
With a population of fewer than five thousand people, spread over miles of barren desert, Stony Gap was a tiny blip on the Nevada state map. It wasn't as if the town had a huge crime lab budget or CSI staff to handle a murder site. It learned to make due with what it had: a town sheriff along with four full-time deputies, two of whom were greener than grass and currently standing outside the house as if they had their thumbs up their asses. Cody Bedford, a first-year rookie with wheat-colored hair and a hooked nose burnt an odd shade of red from too much exposure to the sun, looked decidedly peaked.
"Boys." Braden nodded and continued past them toward the house. He stepped over the threshold and into the poorly lit interior. From somewhere beyond the cluttered, dark-paneled living room he could make out the sound of voices. He gave his eyes a second to adjust to the change in light before following the noise down a narrow hallway and into the back bedroom of the small house.
The first thing he saw as he walked through the doorway was his brother squatting beside the supine body of a woman he assumed was Roxanne Delray. She lay not on the king-size sleigh bed that dominated the room, but on the floor at its foot. Her naked body was arranged in a vulgar display, with the legs bent at the knees, gaping open. Her arms crossed her chest, hands cupped together over the heart in a parody of a classic burial pose.
His hands covered in latex, Mitch collected various samples off the body with tweezers and clear adhesive lifting tape. Then he slid each into a small, carefully labeled envelope.
Clive stood behind Mitch, observing the work at hand. He glanced up as Braden entered the room. "'Bout time you got here, boy."
"Sorry," Braden murmured to his uncle as he cautiously moved forward, paying particular attention to where he stepped. He didn't want to contaminate the scene. "What've you got so far?"
Mitch looked up at him. "Coroner just left. Liver temp places time of death at somewhere between midnight and two A.M. Lividity shows that the body hasn't been moved. Cause of death is pretty damn obvious." He pointed to the rough, tan-colored, braided rope twisted around her throat like a hangman's noose.
Braden wrinkled his brow. "I wouldn't be so quick to jump to conclusions. It could have been staged."
"Yeah, I thought of that, but look…" Mitch waved him closer. "See here." He pointed to a ring of broken, angry red skin on her wrists. "She was bound by something. And if that isn't enough, there's this," he gently pulled up one eyelid and pointed out tiny red splotches on her eyeball. "We'll know for sure after the autopsy, but my bet is strangulation. You can't fake petechial hemorrhaging."
Mitch moved his hand away, but the eyelid stayed open. A single pupil stared accusingly at Braden, as if beseeching him to find her killer. Bile crawled up the back of his throat.
He grimaced and rose to his feet. During the four years he'd spent in the Army and the one spent as a detective in the Las Vegas Special Victims Unit, he'd seen plenty of people die, including more women and children than he cared to remember. It never got any easier. He'd thought he was prepared for what he'd see today, but the reality of it was like a slap in the face. It'd been a long time since he'd seen firsthand proof of the sinister side of mankind. The last five years he'd spent in Stony Gap had softened the iron constitution he'd developed, and that weakness shamed him.
Mitch, on the other hand, seemed to have no problem with what he saw. Braden watched his brother finish collecting fiber evidence off the body without so much as a twinge.
"Oh, and what do we have here?" Reaching out with his tweezers, Mitch plucked an errant hair from off the body. He held it up for inspection. "Color doesn't match the vic."
Braden moved in for a closer look. "It still has a follicular tag."
"Good for us. Bad for the killer." He tucked the hair into a bag and marked it. Then he gathered his samples and packed them away. Rising to his feet, he pulled out his ce
ll phone and ordered his men to come in and get the body.
Braden moved out of the way, his back pressed against the far wall to give the men wide berth as they retrieved the corpse. He'd never felt more useless in his life.
* * * *
The nauseating stench of eggs permeated the air as Cyndi staggered through her bedroom doorway and headed for the bathroom. Wrinkling her nose at the offensive aroma, she wiped the sleep from her eyes and performed the morning's ablutions with the half-hearted attitude of someone who was more of a night owl than a morning person. She really needed to talk to Lance about not frying eggs before seven A.M.
Getting up early wasn't easy for her on the best of days, and today was far from that. Tired and cranky, she wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and bury herself under a mound of covers.
Today marked the last day of school in the Stony Gap school district, and the end of her first year teaching. She wasn't looking forward to it. The kids she taught were sure to be a royal pain in the ass. It was the one day of the year when they knew they could get away with murder.
Why they couldn't teach high school in the evenings was beyond her. She was willing to bet the rowdy bunch of 17 and 18-year-old kids to whom she taught English would be more than grateful for the suggestion. They might even be willing to cut her some slack if she was the one responsible for giving the school board the idea.
Thank God it would be a short day. She had four exams and it would be over. As soon as the bell rang at noon, the students would pour from the building, and it would be the last she would see of the kids until a new group of rambunctious teens arrived in the fall. Not that finished final exams meant her job was over. She and all the other teachers would still have grades to turn in and last minute end-of-the-year things to catch up on, but at least they would be able to do their work in peace and quiet.
Eyes still half closed, she ambled down the hall toward the kitchen. Coffee loaded with sugar was her only hope of waking up this morning. She rounded the corner in the overly cheerful yellow kitchen and spotted Lance at the stove, his back to her while he puttered with what she was sure was his trademark egg-white omelet.
Not surprisingly, he was already showered and dressed impeccably in one of his black power suits. His light blond hair brushed back from his face, shellacked into an immovable coif. Seeing him so alert and ready for the day made her want to drag him back to bed and muss him up.
She cared about Lance, but he was almost annoyingly perfect. That was in addition to being a health fanatic. When he wasn't spending the night with her, he was up before the crack of dawn, working out at the gym on the first floor of his apartment complex. She was the exact opposite. Rarely did she perform a task more strenuous than carry an armload of books or climb a flight or two of stairs. As far as food went, give her a huge helping of caffeine and a fat-laden donut any day, and she was a happy gal. There was no way she could consider slimy looking eggs a good way to start the day. Having to smell them was bad enough.
Her gaze drifted across the counter and she noticed that Lance, bless his heart, had a fresh pot of java ready and waiting for her. That, alone, was enough reason to forgive the stench filling her house. They could always discuss his eating habits later.
Silently, she snuck up behind her fiancé and wrapped her arms around his trim waist. She buried her nose against his shoulder, kissed him, and breathed in a deep lungful of his delicious cologne. She never could remember the frou-frou name of the expensive designer crap he favored, but it sure did smell heavenly. "Good morning, handsome."
Lance turned his head, his attention still on his breakfast, and kissed the top of her head. "I was wondering if you were ever going to get up. I didn't wear you out last night, did I?"
Cyndi smiled and kissed the corner of his smooth chin. Poor man, he was always hunting for a compliment. He could be so insecure about his performance between the sheets. "Might have, but you know I enjoy it. Good thing for the kids I don't have to teach anything today."
"They should thank me for keeping you up. I'm betting you're not even fully awake until noon."
"Smart ass." Cyndi pinched his suit-covered rear and scooted over to pour her coffee.
Half a cup of sugar later, Lance glanced over at her and laughed. "You like a little coffee with your sugar, babe?"
She topped the rest of the cup off with pure caffeine and carried it over to the breakfast nook. Once there, she plopped down at the table, held the mug up to her nose and inhaled, practically moaning at the mouth-watering scent of the syrupy confection. "You know I like it sweet."
Lance turned, hot pan in hand, and grinned at her. "Mm hmm, just like me." He slid a perfect, crescent-shaped omelet and two pieces of lightly brown toast onto his plate before joining her.
They sat in companionable silence, Cyndi watching him methodically eat his breakfast while she sipped her brew. She loved how comfortable she felt with Lance. He was like a laid-back, well-tailored teddy bear. There wasn't any need to force conversation just for the sake of filling the silence.
"So"—he pushed away his plate—"what's on your agenda for the day? You want me to come back tonight?"
"I'd like nothing better, but I've got plans with Heather. We're going to grab a bite to eat after work and talk about the wedding. You could come by late, if you want."
Lance shook his head, his artfully styled, short blond hair not moving an inch thanks to all the styling products he used. "That's okay. I should probably bring home some work tonight anyway. I'll get that done and then we can spend the weekend together."
Cyndi nodded. "That sounds nice. And I have about a gazillion more wedding details to run past you. We still have a lot of stuff to do. August will be here before you know it."
"We have plenty of time. There's still over two months to get everything figured out." He glanced down at his Rolex and pushed back his chair. "I have to go, babe. I'm running late." He stood and bent across the table, pressing his lips to hers. Before she had a chance to sink into the kiss, he backed off. "Have a good day at school. I'll call you tonight."
"Love you," she called as the front door slammed shut. Well, so much for romance. The purr and rumble of Lance's beloved Lexus backing out of the driveway, shifting gears, then racing down the street, floated back to her through the open kitchen window.
Cyndi took a quick peek at the microwave clock. Lance wasn't the only one running behind schedule. She hopped up and grabbed her empty cup and Lance's plate. After setting them in the sink, she rushed into the bedroom to get ready for work.
She arrived at school with ten minutes to spare and strode quickly down the narrow hallway before the first bell rang. Students buzzed past her on their way to class. Deciding to make use of her extra time, she hustled into the teachers' lounge for an extra shot of caffeine.
Yanking open the door, she almost ran over Ms. Potter, the fine arts instructor, as the woman barreled past her. Cyndi quickly muttered, "Excuse me," and entered the closet-sized room. Coach Kowalski, the varsity football coach, and Ivan Blackmoore, who taught the dreaded course of algebra, stood huddled on either side of the coffee pot, babbling about a summer football camp.
Cyndi tapped her foot impatiently, wishing they would move already. In the entire year she'd been working with the school's faculty and staff, not one of them had gone out of their way to be nice to her. Even after making over her life, she still managed to be a leper among her peers.
When she began teaching, she'd wondered if there was some vile odor, or an invisible sign written on her forehead, warning people to stay away. Maybe a white-trash frequency emitted through her pores, turning off others. At first, it had really bothered her, but she simply didn't care anymore. She was beyond sick of being nice to people who made a point of snubbing her.
Seemingly oblivious to her presence, she finally had to clear her throat and speak to get their attention. "Good morning, gentlemen."
Their discussion ended mid-word. Ivan jumped, hi
s thick glasses wobbling precariously on the tip of his thin nose, his steaming coffee sloshing over the rim of his cup and spilling onto his hand. Dark splotches of brown liquid splattered over the clean surface of the white counter and dripped down the side. Ivan swiveled around to glare at her through his coke-bottle lenses while mopping up the mess with a crumpled paper towel. "Good morning, Ms. Whitmore."
Coach Kowalski nodded at her and turned back to Ivan. "Talk to ya later, Ivan." Styrofoam cup in hand, he scooted around her and exited the room.
Ivan trashed the dripping paper towels and gathered his things: a huge stack of books and a scarred leather briefcase. She watched him leave before pouring herself a to-go cup of coffee. As she added sugar, the five-minute warning bell sounded. Her class was at the other end of the hall, and she realized she'd never make it before the second bell rang. Suppose that's what she got for being greedy. She hoped the morning was not a sign of how well the rest of her day was going to go. Maybe for once she should have followed her baser instincts and stayed in bed.
Books by Michelle Cary
A Lover’s Ransom
Beyond the Tears
Circle of Masters – A Siren’s Call
For Better For Worse
Her Indiscretion
It Came Upon a Midnight Clear
Northern Lights
Shelter Me
Sophie’s Secret
Some Kind of Hero
The Price of Submission
For more information on Michelle Cary
www.michellecary.com
www.facbook.com/authormichellecary
Table of Contents
www.facbook.com/authormichellecary
Table of Contents
www.facbook.com/authormichellecary
Best of Intentions Page 18
