Every conversation inside was undoubtedly about one thing:
The Slaying in the Park.
Word had spread. It wouldn’t be long before the town learned the victim was the pastor’s son. The other victim—the one still breathing—would be forgotten, like survivors often were. It never sat right with me.
I peered out the window as I passed the diner. Cowboy hats filled the booths. Ms. Booth, the legendary waitress who knew every name and secret in town, leaned over a table with a coffee pot and an earful of gossip. Two people waited outside, eager for a seat and a story.
I made a mental note to stop by later. I’d cracked more than a few cases from that corner booth, just listening.
At the lone stoplight in the center of the square, a Stetson-wearing local hammered a sign into the tree near the fountain. I squinted.
City Council Meeting – 6PM Tonight
CANCEL MOON MAGIC FESTIVAL!
Keep Our Town Safe
Here we go again. Cowboys versus the hippies. Same fight, every year. One half of the courthouse in boots and hats, the other in beads and braids, all arguing about free speech. The cowboys wanted nothing to do with what they saw as witchcraft. The hippies told them where they could shove it. It always ended with a call to the cops and zero resolution.
But this year? Two homicides might give the cowboys what they needed. Fear was fuel.
I hung a right off Main Street, onto a narrow road ofboutiques, bakeries, and bars—quaint, charming, tourist bait. The street, dubbed Tourist Row, ended at the woods bordering City Park.
It also happened to be the scene of Seagrave’s murder.
And the Cedonia Scroll heist.
I rolled to a stop next to an old, weathered sign that readMystic Maven’s. I didn’t bother locking my Jeep as I slammed the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. I dipped my chin at the pair of Goldendoodles walking their owner.
“Mornin’ Detective.”
“Morning, Ms. Addington.”
I pivoted onto the pebbled path between buildings, avoiding small talk that would certainly start with“I heard…”
The humidity clung like a second skin. I yanked at the collar of my T-shirt, already soaked with sweat. In honor of Colson’s suggestion to “button-up,” I’d gone all out: thinnest grey tee—complete with pit stains—ripped khaki tactical pants, and the most beat-up pair of ATAC boots I owned. He’d be so proud.
Slowing my steps, I scanned the alley—ground, walls, rooftops. I’d been here a dozen times since the shooting, but my gut said I’d missed something.
It had been three hours since I left the station. I didn’t follow Colson’s advice to sleep. Instead, I reviewed the case file over two fingers of whiskey, caught a few scores on ESPN, then took an ice-cold shower to keep my blood moving. I laid down sometime after five-thirty, drifted into that hazy place between thinking and dreaming, then rolled off the couch an hour later and started the coffee.
Now, with the sun glaring overhead, the town already awake, I was running on fumes.
I knelt by the ditch. A mosquito the size of a dronebuzzed past my ear. Bloodstained rocks still speckled the ground where Lieutenant Seagrave had fallen. Less than yesterday. Probably picked off by some sick kid wanting a souvenir from a murder scene.
I picked up a stone and turned it in my hand, my mind whirring.
The Black Bandit.
The cursed scrolls.
The blue sedan.
The Voodoo Tree.
Sunny Harper.
Six shots. Seagrave had takensixbullets.
