Her hands were shaking again as she shoved the phone into her purse. She looked one last time at Victor's body, at the man who'd been kind to her, who'd treated her like she mattered.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
Then she turned and walked quickly toward the front door, her heels clicking on the tile. She forced herself not to run, not to panic, to move with the same composure she'd arrived with. The sirens were getting closer—less than a minute now, maybe thirty seconds.
Tessa opened the door, stepped out into the warm Phoenix night, and pulled it closed behind her. She walked to her car at a measured pace, got in, and started the engine. As she backed down the driveway, she could see the flash of red and blue lights turning onto the street two blocks away.
She drove in the opposite direction, hands gripping the wheel, trying to control her breathing.
The sirens filled the night behind her as she turned the corner and disappeared into the Phoenix streets, leaving Victor Sheridan's body and the last remnants of her conscience behind.
CHAPTER TEN
Kari arrived at the Paradise Valley crime scene just after nine-thirty, Maria Santos already waiting by the police tape that cordoned off the sprawling modern home. Maria looked tired, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that suggested she'd been called in from home, her expression grim in the strobing red and blue lights.
"Three victims in six days," Maria said by way of greeting. "The department is losing its mind."
Kari ducked under the tape, showing her credentials to the uniformed officer stationed at the perimeter. "Hatathli's still in custody?"
"Still in custody." Maria started walking toward the house. "And now this. Victor Sheridan, construction executive. Shot in his kitchen, probably around eight PM based on body temp. Same MO as the first two—suppressed gunshot to the chest, no signs of forced entry, victim was home alone."
"Which proves Hatathli didn't do it."
"You'd think." Maria's voice carried a bitter edge. "But the chief is already floating theories about accomplices. Says Hatathli might be part of a larger network of environmental extremists."
"That's insane."
"That's politics." Maria held the front door open. "Welcome back to Phoenix PD, where the pressure from above is only exceeded by the pressure from Paradise Valley residents who are now terrified that some mysterious killer is targeting wealthy people connected to controversial development projects."
The house's interior was pristine except for the crime scene markers and the forensics team processing evidence. Kari followed Maria through a spacious living room that looked likeit had been staged for a magazine shoot—expensive furniture, carefully curated art, everything positioned for maximum visual impact.
"Victim lived alone?" Kari asked.
"Yeah. Widower, one daughter away at college. Made his money in construction—his company was the general contractor for the Sunset Ridge Resort development." Maria led her into the kitchen. "Same project that destroyed those petroglyphs, same project the other two victims were connected to."
Victor Sheridan lay where he'd fallen, his body now surrounded by evidence markers and the clinical apparatus of death investigation. Kari studied the scene with the detached focus she'd learned to cultivate—the position of the body, the shattered wine glass, the blood spatter pattern on the tile, the entry wound visible through his torn shirt.
"Single shot, close range," she observed. "He was standing here, probably pouring wine or just having poured it. Killer was close enough to ensure accuracy."
"Very similar to the other two." Maria crouched near the wine glass fragments. "The other scenes were just as clean. No fingerprints, no DNA besides the victims', no shell casings—the killer's been collecting those. No security footage either, because apparently wealthy people in Paradise Valley are confident enough in their gates and neighbors that they don't all have cameras."
Kari walked the perimeter of the kitchen, noting the sightlines, the entrance points, the way the crime scene felt both intimate and coldly efficient. "Tell me about how he was found."
"That's where things take a turn." Maria pulled out her phone and played an audio file. "Anonymous 911 call came in at 8:17 PM."
A woman's voice filled the kitchen, surprisingly calm for the circumstances: "I need to report a death. I just found someone—I think he's been shot. He's not breathing. I'm at 4782 Desert Vista Drive in Paradise Valley."
The dispatcher's response: "Is the shooter still present? Are you in danger?"
"I don't think so. I don't see anyone. I just—I just got here and found him like this."
"Okay, I'm dispatching officers and paramedics to your location now. Can you tell me your name and your relationship to the deceased?"
There was a long silence.
"Ma'am?" the dispatcher asked. "Can you tell me your name?"
"I—"
