One or two would’ve said panic. Quick, clean kill. But six?
That was rage.
That was personal.
I’d had Darby pull the list of Seagrave’s open cases from the last year of his life. It was long. Too long. We’d be combing through it for days.
Could it have been revenge?
If so… by who?
My money was still on the Black Bandit. Somehow, every thread led back to him.
Gnats bit at my neck as I ran a hand through my hair and settled back on my heels.
I glanced toward Ms. Hoffman’s window, where the birdwatching cam had caught the blurry figure darting through shadows, right before Seagrave collapsed. If it had been angled just a few inches left, we might have seen the full picture.
Instead, we got a foot.
A worn brown loafer, lifeless and tilted sideways in the dirt.
Too early.
Way too early.
Then—
“Well, mornin’ there, Detective.”
20
JAGG
Iturned to see Hazel De Ville padding down the pathway. Beams of sunlight sparkled through her long, dreadlocked silver hair. She wore a brown skirt to her ankles with rope sandals to match, and a tie-dye T-shirt that readStay Weird.
“Morning.” I pushed to a stance, my knees popping in protest.
“Sure early for you to be out here, isn’t it?”
“Sure early for you to be spreading gossip, Ms. De Ville.”
A silver brow slowly cocked. “Ah, so you know I called Arlo Harper last night.” She snorted. “Of course you do.” She stopped next to the bloodied rocks. “I’ve known the Harpers for decades, back when Arlo bought his first property here. Good people. I come from a time where neighbors still reach out to neighbors. Erickson reached out to me, I reached out to Arlo.”
“And I come from a time where neighbors leave homicides to the authorities.”
“Well, maybe if the kids of your generation still believed in actual human to human communication instead oftexting or sitting behind video games all day, there wouldn’t be so many homicides to investigate, Detective.”
I smirked. “Not arguing with you there, ma’am.”
“Smart boy,” she winked. “Well, I knew you’d have some more questions for me this morning. Come on in for some coffee, son. You look worn.”
Worn.
I followed Hazel up the pathway contemplating, for the umpteenth time over the last few weeks it seemed, if I was getting old.
Old.
Hazel pulled a heavy keyring from her woven purse and unlocked the thick wooden door. A swirl of incense—Patchouli, if I had to guess—drifted out, clinging to the air like memory. Morning sunlight poured through the tall windows, casting golden puddles across the gleaming hardwood floor.
