Jerry’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.“Later. Humor me, okay? I’m worried about the boy.”

Tammy almost bit her tongue, the desire to let loose an angry rant nearly overwhelming her good sense. For some reason, her fiancé had taken a real liking to Nick. Who the hell knew why. Did she really want him thinking she wasn’t quality mother material for his own children?

“You’re a good guy,” she whispered, kissing his mouth. “I’ll go find him.”

“We can go together,” he said, lifting her fingers to his mouth. Such a gentleman. And definitely a good guy. Way better than she deserved, and she knew it.

Jerry walked away to grab a flashlight and returned a moment later. Taking her hand again, he led her into the woods, which had been bright and cheerful when they’d set up camp several hours ago. Now they were dense and shadowy, the thick leaves overhead completely blocking out the stars that had begun to pop out in the sky.

Cripes. Maybe the kid really had gotten lost. She’d told him to take a flashlight, but hadn’t actually checked to make sure he had done it. It had been more like dusk a half hour ago when he’d left. Now the day had quickly dropped straight into night.

“He’s okay, right?” she said, feeling a tingle of concern for the first time.

“I’m sure he’s fine.” But Jerry didn’t sound sure.

“There’s, like, no grizzly bears around here, are there?”

“In Virginia?” He laughed at her. “Not likely.”

Then they walked around the side of the small cement building, and his laughter faded. She followed his stare and saw Nicky’s Orioles ball cap lying on the ground. Beside it was his still-lit flashlight, which was rolling an inch or two at a time, pushed by the nighttime breeze. Nearby was a dark circle, then another.

Oil? It took a second for her to process it. Not oil. As the flashlight rolled another inch, rustling across the dead leaves that had drifted onto the cement walk, it sent light across the stains.

Not black. Red.

Tammy started to scream.

15

When she had returned to Hope Valley a little more than two years ago, Stacey had felt sure she’d never have to process a murder scene again.And she very much wished she’d been right. Because dealing with the nightmare that had taken place in the Freeds’ drab little house was something she would happily have forgone.

She had spent the entire evening here, accompanied by the county medical examiner and a crime scene processor from the state. Her own jurisdiction didn’t have the manpower for something like this.

Winnie had been taken to the hospital to be checked out. She’d been making a strange wheezing sound as she’d breathed, and Stacey suspected Stan had broken a rib or two before she’d taken him out. Stacey would have to head up there in the morning for formal questioning, and to take the woman into custody. But she’d already put a call in to the DA in Front Royal and explained the situation. She doubted Winnie would face murder charges. Maybe involuntary manslaughter, at most. And with the extenuating circumstances, she didn’t see the woman actually serving hard time.

Dean and the other two special agents had offered their assistance in any way possible. She’d refused. They had another job to do, one which she couldn’t help them with right now. For all they knew, the Reaper was already out trolling for his victim.

Or worse, had found him.

They had no time to mess around with a local murder, especially one that had literally been solved as soon as it was reported. The proverbial smoking gun in the hand of the abused wife-it didn’t get much more open-and-shut than that.

So, accompanied by random professionals who showed up as the evening wore on, she did her job, went through all the motions, as familiar with them as if she dealt with such things on a regular basis. What, she wondered, would Dean think about that?

The things he’d said to her at her dad’s place hadn’t left her thoughts, returning to echo in her head at odd times throughout the evening. And part of her, the part that resented the hell out of having to watch blood-spatter evidence being taken and Stan Freed’s brains being scooped up off the floor, wanted to tell him he was wrong. Wrong.

Another part had to wonder. Because while she truly hated that this ugliness had come to the town she’d grown up in, she couldn’t deny that it felt good to be doing real police work again. She was energized, her thoughts sharp and direct in a way they hadn’t been for a long time. All the haziness, the lazy, laid-back attitude she’d had a little more than a week ago, had been eradicated.

That was a bad thing.

So why was she feeling so alive all of a sudden?

“Violent death,” she muttered as she took one last walk through the Freeds’ house late in the night. Such sudden, violent death would make anyone reassess what he was doing.

“I’m done here if you are,” the young crime scene tech said as he packed up his evidence kit. He looked around the room and shook his head. “Somebody’s going to have a hell of a mess to clean up.”

Stacey extended her hand and shook his. “Thanks for all your help.”

“Don’t mention it. Hope this works out the way it should.”

He’d been around for hours and had heard enough to understand the situation. These kinds of things were hard even for law enforcement to deal with. Because while every cop she knew was committed to stopping, and solving, crimes, they were also human. And anyone with an ounce of humanity could look at the barely cognizant, badly beaten Winnie Freed and know she wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer.

Desperately wanting to go home and shower, she checked her cell phone as she walked to the car. A blinking signal indicated a message. Dialing, she listened, figuring she’d hear Dean’s voice. Instead, she heard her father’s.

“Stacey, I heard about what happened and I know you’re busy, but…” His voice broke, and she’d swear she heard him sniffling. He’d probably been thinking about poor Winnie and her poor daughter. “I need you to come over as soon as you get this.”

She didn’t like the sound of that.

“And I think you should come alone.”

She definitely didn’t like the sound of that.

“I’ve been watching the tapes and I found something. Please just come.”

“God, what else?” she asked as she got in the car and drove. Had it really been just seven or eight hours since she’d left his place and come straight here, convinced she was about to find Winnie dead on her own floor?

Life. It was so precarious. So damned unpredictable. In big cities, big colleges, and here.

She shoved that realization away to deal with later.

When she arrived at her father’s house, she saw him waiting for her on the porch. He’d stepped out as soon as she’d pulled up, obviously having watched for her.

“Saw your headlights coming up the drive,” he called.

Stacey got out, tilting her head from side to side to stretch her aching neck. It was only after she’d reached the front steps and walked into the pool of light thrown off by the fixture by the door that she realized she had Stan’s blood on her uniform. Her father looked at it, blanched a little, then beckoned her in.

“What is it?”

He led her into the kitchen. The laptop still sat there. Beside it was a half-eaten plate of spaghetti. Next to that, a nearly empty glass of whiskey.

Dad very rarely drank. And never alone. Fear making her voice rise, she asked again, “What is going on?”

He didn’t say anything. Instead, he sat down, turned the computer so the screen faced her, and clicked the play button on the video player. “Watch.”

She watched. The scene was like many others she’d witnessed in the hours of surveillance footage. A steady stream of people made their way through the mall, a woman stopping for a hot pretzel in the lower corner of the frame, a couple peering into the window of a jewelry shop on the top.