The words hung between them, weighted with meaning neither seemed ready to explore.
Her phone buzzed, saving them from the moment. Another text from the team, but she ignored it. Right now, watching Cory Fraser throw away his precious rulebook to keep her safe was occupying all her attention.
"For what it's worth," she said as they turned onto the winding road to the old mining district, "I like this version of you. Even if it means I can't tease you about your manual anymore."
"I'm sure you'll find other things to mock."
"Oh, definitely. Your soup alphabetizing alone provides endless material."
22
Brad Houzer'sproperty lay a hundred yards ahead when Cory killed the engine, the old mining district road having wound them through towering pines and firs where patches of snow glowed white between the trees in the moonlight.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness as he took inventory. "Single-story cabin, detached garage, old F-150 in the drive. One light on inside. Kitchen window."
"Charming," Izzy muttered, checking her Glock.
They exited the SUV in silence, weapons drawn but held low. The December night was sharp with pine and snow, their breath clouding white in the thin mountain air. As they approached the cabin, Cory's flashlight swept across the front walkway.
He stopped short. "Watch your step." He played the beam over the path to the door. "Look at this mess."
The walkway was a disaster—weeks, maybe a month's worth of footprints compressed into an icy glaze. Brad had clearly never shoveled, just walked the same path over and over until the snow became a treacherous sheet of frozen impressions. Pine needles and dirt were embedded in the ice layers.
"Guy was too lazy to clear his walk but meticulous enough to sabotage aircraft?" Izzy observed.
"People are contradictions." Cory pointed to the virgin snow beside the path, deep and undisturbed beneath the pine branches. "Step there. Preserve any evidence in case?—"
He stopped. The front door stood ajar, a sliver of darkness against the weathered wood frame.
Every cop instinct he'd developed over fifteen years started screaming. Doors didn't stand open in December in the mountains unless something was very wrong.
"Stay behind me," he murmured, raising his weapon.
"I can?—"
"Please." The word came out sharper than intended. "Just this once, let me take point."
She fell in behind him without further argument, maybe sensing the tension radiating from his shoulders. He approached the door at an angle, using the frame for cover.
"Police. Brad Houzer, this is Chief Fraser. I need you to respond."
Silence except for the distant hoot of an owl.
He pushed the door wider with his boot, wincing at the horror-movie creak. "Hope Landing Police. Anyone inside needs to respond now."
Nothing but the hum of a refrigerator and the tick of a wood stove cooling.
Then the smell hit him.
Death had a particular odor—sweet and wrong, unmistakable once you'd encountered it. His stomach clenched as he swept his flashlight across the entry, finding a light switch.
The overhead bulb revealed a living room that looked like a tornado had been through it. Pizza boxes, beer bottles, old newspapers creating a maze of garbage. A small wood stove sat cold in the corner, ash spilled on the hearth. And in the recliner facing a flickering television?—
"That's Brad," Izzy confirmed quietly.
The skinny mechanic sat slumped to one side, head lolling at an unnatural angle. Empty vodka bottles surrounded his chair like fallen soldiers. A prescription bottle lay overturned on the coffee table made from a rough pine slab, white pills scattered across the stained wood.
Cory holstered his weapon and pulled on nitrile gloves from his pocket. He approached the body carefully, noting details with clinical detachment.
