“I didn’t come around back,” Brenna muttered, and he could hear the regret in her every word. “I should have. If I’d seen this—”
“Whoever did this probably wasn’t here when you dropped by,” Colt interrupted. “If they had been, there likely would have been signs of a struggle.”
She made a sound that made him think she didn’t believe that. So, he added more detail.
“If the perp was here, he would have come after you, too,” Colt spelled out.
That put a flash of alarm in her eyes. But it worked to tone down some of the second-guessing stuff.
Brenna nodded and fanned around her own flashlight beam, catching a few more drops of blood trailing across the stone pavers.
They followed it out into the backyard.
It was wide and deep, the lot bigger than it had looked from the front. Tall oaks and thick landscaping ringed the yard, the kind of space that gave plenty of privacy. And plenty of places to hide. Shrubs had been neatly trimmed, but the darkness made everything look wild and dangerous.
Colt swept the light across the lawn. It looked peaceful at first glance, but he knew better.
Moving ahead, with his light steady, he scanned the shadows between the trees. Every leaf rustle sounded louder than it should. The air had that tight, loaded feeling, like a storm waiting to break.
He didn’t think they were at risk of being gunned down. Not here. Not now. But he kept watch anyway, his grip firm on his weapon, just in case.
No, this didn’t feel like a sniper waiting in the dark. It felt like something worse.
This killer, whoever the hell they were, wanted more than a body count. They wanted a performance. A sort of punishment on display. Colt had seen enough scenes at Timberline to know the difference.
A quick kill shot wouldn’t satisfy someone like this. That was too clean, too final. This kind of predator wanted time. They wanted fear. They wanted to turn justice into a show.
He glanced back to make sure Brenna and Harlan were still close, then turned toward a dense thicket near the back fence. His flashlight caught another small trail of blood, drops leading into the trees.
“This way,” he said. His voice came out rough. “Keep your eyes up. And stay close.”
Colt pushed deeper into the trees, the blood trail faint now but still there. The brush thinned out near the back of the yard, opening into a small clearing near the fence line.
Then a light flared.
It snapped on, harsh and white, pouring from a portable work light perched on a tripod. The beam cut straight through the darkness, fixed on a figure on the ground.
Leah.
She was posed with deliberate care. Arms stretched out. Knees bent at precise angles. Head tilted gently to the left. Her eyes were open, unseeing. Her body looked untouched, but the positioning was anything but peaceful.
Brenna stopped beside him, her breath catching.
Colt stared at the scene, every muscle wound tight. This was a ritual. It echoed everything they had seen at Timberline. The same cold precision. The same need to control the story.
A sheet of paper had been tucked under Leah’s open palm. Colt crouched, heart pounding in his ears, a sick twist tightening in his gut. He didn’t touch the paper. Didn’t have to. The bold letters were clear, the words sharp enough to cut.
Just two words.
Justice Served.
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Chapter Four
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The Crossfire Ops incident room was quiet except for the soft clack of Harlan’s fingers on a laptop keyboard. Morning sunlight filtered in through the high windows, casting pale stripes across the floor and the sleek metal table where Brenna sat, her fingers curled around a lukewarm cup of coffee.
