I didn’t want to see the chicks, or the loops of intestine coiling off the edge of the table. I didn’t want to see the little box Jojo had painted for their bedding, now soaked through and split like a crime scene prop.
Dan worked in silence. He lined up each bird for a close-up, then took a wide shot of the whole table, the powder, the spatter. He didn’t glance at me until he’d finished the set, then said, “You want to tell me the real reason you’re out here, Steele?”
I kept my arms folded, body blocking the stairwell. “It’s a ranch. I’m ranching.”
He gave a single, barked laugh. “Never seen a rancher who stands at parade rest while I process a poultry massacre.”
I didn’t bother answering.
He went back to work, opening a brown evidence envelope and scraping a few grams of the lime into it. He was careful, efficient—didn’t waste time with the rituals of big-city forensics. Out here, everything was looser, but if he missed a detail, it was only because it wasn’t worth finding.
When he was done, he clicked the pen and wrote a date and case number on the bag. He set it on the counter, lined up with military precision.
“You know, Victor Hargrove’s been sniffing around this property since the day he got here,” Dan said, rolling his shoulders. “Used to joke with old man Steele about buying it out, back when the market was hot. Now he just wants it because he’s pissed you got it and not him.”
I grunted. “He’s a beta who needs to prove something.”
Dan shot me a look, equal parts curiosity and warning. “Careful, Rawley. He’s got money and a mean streak.”
I nodded, because it was obvious and because I’d learned a long time ago that men like Hargrove only respected escalation.
Dan picked up the first of the chicks, holding it by the wings. “Your kid’s project?” he asked, voice flat.
I bristled at the word. “Jojo. He’s not a kid.”
Dan’s eyes slid to me, sharp and measuring. “He’s what, nineteen?”
“Twenty-one,” I stated, because I could feel the line of interrogation coming and didn’t want to give the sheriff any ammunition.
Dan just grunted and slid the chick into the evidence bag, then snapped it shut.
The sun was fully up now, slanting through the kitchen windows and turning every blood droplet into a tiny, perfect ruby. I stared at them, counting each one, the way I’d once counted bullet holes in a wall to reconstruct an ambush.
“There’s no forced entry,” Dan said, closing the last bag. “No prints I could see. Whoever did this, they wanted you to find it this way.”
“I figured,” I said.
He took out a business card, wrote his cell number on the back, and slid it across the counter. “Anything else happens, youcall me. You see Hargrove, you call me. You shoot Hargrove, you definitely call me.”
I couldn’t help the thin smile that cracked my face. “You always this accommodating?”
He shrugged, the motion making his badge glint in the light. “This town is small. We don’t need another Scudder County Incident.”
I didn’t know what that was, but he said it like it should mean something, so I nodded. “Give me a minute before you leave.”
We both glanced toward the second floor when we heard noise.
Sheriff Calloway nodded. “I’ll be outside.”
He put his sunglasses back on and made for the door. Just before he left, he paused in the entryway, hand on the frame. “Take care of your omega,” he said, voice so low it was almost a growl. “They’re rare out here.”
The words landed like a stone in a bucket of cold water.
By then, Jojo padding barefoot to the top of the stairs. He watched me, eyes swollen with sleep and the aftermath of fever, hair wild.
“What happened?” he asked, voice hoarse.
“Just a mess,” I said, too gentle. “You should go back to bed.”
