“This just doesn’t seem like that big of a deal to me, or worth our time to pursue, Detective. Forgive me, sir, but you’re notorious for letting misdemeanors slide. I heard about the time you caught a group of football players fighting a bunch of band kids in the park, and instead of arresting them, you laid out each one on their asses in what you called a self-defense lesson… And about the time you chased down a man who kicked a woman out of a moving car, ran him off the road, and slashed his tires—only after stopping to pick up the woman. And then, there’s the story about the two women you caught soliciting prostitution on Main Street. You ordered them to clean the bathrooms of the women’s shelter for six months, only after someone called in a noise complaint behind Donny’s Diner, citing, I quote, two women groaning, gasping, and multiple rounds of screams.”
I cleared my throat.
“So, Detective, my question is, what’s so different about this one? So what if some witches had a little party. Who cares? Nothing serious has come of it. Why not let this one slide?”
I stared at him.
Ten grueling seconds of self-restraint later, his puppy-dog eyes went wide.
“Oh. …Unless you think this has something to do with Lieutenant Seagrave’s murder.”
3
JAGG
I’d left Darby to his spinning thoughts at the Voodoo Tree, where he assured me he would search every inch of the area—not that I asked him to. I’d already searched and was confident I’d missed nothing, but hell, if that’s how the kid wanted to spend his evening, have at it.
I picked my way through the park, pausing at the tree line before stepping onto Main Street.
Ahead was Donny’s Diner. The hub of Berry Springs, the birth of all gossip, and the first place I went to catch a lead. That was the thing about small towns—gossip was as valuable and heavily traded as gold. Donny’s was a stereotypical small-town eatery, inviting busybodies both young and old with cozy red leather booths, blue and white checkered curtains, and a soda fountain in the back.
I made my way down the alley that cut between Donny’s and Tad’s Tool Shop—otherwise known as second church. My living quarters were on the backside of the diner’s brick building. The apartment was on the second floor, overlooking Main Street and the town square, whichwas the entire reason I’d rented it. No better place for a detective to live than right in the middle of the action.
The rickety wooden staircase creaked and groaned as I made my way up it. I unlocked the deadbolt, pushed open the door, and was greeted by a humid wall of rotted trash. The apartment was dark, except for a pool of light on the brown carpet from the streetlamp outside. I flicked on the fluorescent lights, the room illuminating like a high school cafeteria.
I tossed my suit jacket on the floor and hung my shoulder holster on the coat rack I’d dug out of the dumpster a month earlier. I grabbed the hunting knife I kept on the windowsill next to the front door, lifted it to my jugular, and sliced the noose from my neck. The tie tumbled to the top of my dress shoes. After peeling off my button-up, I made my way across the living room to the kitchen.
12:06 a.m.
Another long, sleepless night.
I yanked open the fridge and squinted inside. My choices: a Ziploc bag of bacon that had developed a concerning green shimmer, a block of fuzzy cheese, something shapeless in a grease-stained paper bag, and twenty-three longnecks. Not even enough for my signature breakfast burrito—also known as the only thing I cooked.
I slammed the door, grabbed a loaf of bread, and chewed one dry as I set the coffee to brew.
After pouring myself a cup, I headed for my desk—thecenterpiece of the apartment. I’d positioned it right in front of the living room window, overlooking the square.
A lump rose in my throat, denser than the bread.
I’d looked at them a hundred times already, but the crime scene photos still turned my stomach. They’d held an open casket for Lieutenant Seagrave, but no makeup or suit could erase the image I carried—his bloodied torso obliterated like a slice of Swiss cheese, his face frozen in that grimace like a warning. A reminder that his death was no accident.
I lifted a photo, scanning every inch. I didn’t need to. The images were seared into my memory. My pulse picked up. That low, white-hot burn ignited again, flooding my system.
I set my coffee mug beside the cluster of coffee rings that marked nearly every piece of paper on my desk. My personal trademark. I worked best in chaos.
The next photo hit me differently—not for the violence, but for what it suggested. A grainy image from a street cam: a silhouette mid-jog, caught passing the window of the art shop near the alley where Seagrave was found. The timestamp read 1:13 a.m.
The figure carried a black bag. Hat, mask, clothes, shoes—every inch of them cloaked in black. If not for the angles of the bag, they would’ve blended into the night completely.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, setting the photo down with a tremble that came from somewhere between the caffeine and the fury.
I turned to my laptop. After logging in through several security screens, I hit play on the video I’d watched countless times since that morning. I memorized the flashes of the silhouette moving back and forth past the window, smooth, quick, calculated.
Planned.
Sipping my coffee, I settled behind the desk and watched the video over and over, as I had done every night since my friend’s death. I wasn’t sure how long had passed when my senses suddenly switched to the front door behind me. A distant creak told me I had company—and I never had company.
Then, arap, rap, rapof knuckles against the paper-thin door.
