THE VAMPIRE SHRINK by Lynda Hilburn

THE VAMPIRE SHRINK by Lydna Hilburn

Book 1, Kismet Knight, Ph.D., Vampire Psychologist Series

Denver Psychologist Kismet Knight, Ph.D., doesn’t believe in the paranormal. She especially doesn’t believe in vampires. So what happens when she finds herself neck-deep in the vampire underworld?

Kismet is smart, witty and attractive. She’s respected in her field, successful and prosperous. She’s followed all the rules – done everything right. So, what’s the problem? Her life is empty. There’s no passion. No vitality. No excitement.

That is, until a new client introduces Kismet to the vampire underworld, and a drop-dead gorgeous, 800-year-old vampire named Devereux. Kismet isn’t buying the vampire story, but can’t explain why she has such odd reactions and feelings whenever Devereux is near. Kismet is soon forced to open her mind to other possibilities when she is visited in her office by two angry bloodsuckers, who would like nothing better than to challenge Devereux by hurting Kismet.

As Kismet gets pulled deeper and deeper into the vampire subculture, she struggles to hold onto her professional ideas about what is and isn’t “real.” The more she finds herself attracted to the charismatic, handsome Devereux, the more out of control her life becomes.

When one of her clients shows up in her office almost completely drained of blood, Kismet finds herself immersed in an ongoing murder investigation. Kismet is questioned by irreverent, handsome FBI profiler Alan Stevens, who warns her that vampires are very real. And one is a murderer. A murder who is after her.

In the midst of all this, Kismet realizes she has feelings for both the vampire and the profiler, but even though she cares for each of the men, facing the reality that vampires exist – along with all the other supernatural insanity she discovers – is enough of a challenge. For now.

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THE VAMPIRE SHRINK - EXCERPT #4

A Really Bad Night . . .

It was perhaps lucky that I didn’t know right away that I’d woken up in a coffin. The first thing I noticed was a putrid smell, a unique stench consisting of backed-up sewer, rotted meat, blood, mold, mildew, and death. The smell was so horribly potent that it caused me to become aware of the second thing: it was very dark. The reason the smell triggered me to notice the darkness was because as soon as I got a good whiff of it, my stomach heaved. I tried to sit up, or roll over, because I didn’t want to throw up on myself, and I was certain that barf was in my immediate future.

My attempt to sit up caused me to bang my head against an unexpected barrier, which led me to discover there was a ceiling directly above my body. I began to push against it and quickly deduced it was an immovable object, or at least a very heavy one.

Then I panicked.

The feeling of my hands pushing against the resisting material immediately triggered a cellular memory of the aforementioned movie and I started to scream, which shifted my attention away from throwing up. This proved to be very helpful: fear is a powerful motivator. Like the mothers who lift multi-ton vehicles off their children, imagining myself locked in a box for my ride up the Entry Ramp to Eternity allowed me to become Hulk-like in my strength, and to force open what turned out to be the bulky lid of an old coffin.

I sat up, still screaming, the sound reverberating off the walls of the small, decrepit building I’d awakened in. A building that smelled extraordinarily bad.

Raising the lid on the coffin allowed me to see the sunlight filtering in through the broken front door. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but it was obviously daytime. A chunk of my life was missing. I valiantly tried to reconstruct the chain of events that had brought me to this moment, and failed.

I stopped screaming – mostly because it hurt my throat – and let my eyes adjust to the dim light. Being able to see where I was made things worse. Instead of only suspecting I was up shit creek, I now had verification.

The building was an old, run-down mausoleum. Low spots in the cement floor were filled with stagnant, rancid water mixed with blood from several dead bodies. Even in the limited light, it was clear that no one in any state of aliveness could be the color of the remains scattered around that room. The place looked like a human slaughterhouse. Back in a corner were bones and pieces of rotting clothing, which gave evidence to the likelihood that whatever was going on here had been going on for a very long time.

Needless to say, I had to get out.

I assumed that whoever had killed all those people was probably coming back to get me. I didn’t have time to think about why I was still alive, why the murderer had left me in the coffin instead of adding me to the collection on the floor. It occurred to me I was probably in shock, which explained the strange fuzzy feeling in my head.

Since the lid of the coffin had only swung back on its hinges and was still standing straight up on one side, I couldn’t brace myself by holding on to both edges to lift up. Grabbing the available edge, I put my other hand down alongside my legs and felt it sink into clumps of dirt or sand. As I pulled my knees underneath me, I heard a soft clattering sound as something knocked against the inside of the coffin. I reached my hand out to find what had made the noise and closed my fingers around a long stick-like thing. I brought it up into the light and found myself in possession of a human bone. I had been lying on top of whoever had been buried in that coffin.

Holy shit!

My stomach lurched again and I rose to my feet as if pulled by ropes. Looking down, I could clearly see the remains of the original resident. With shaking hands I brushed off as much of the desiccated decomposed material as I could from the rear of my pants and apologized silently to the person I had scattered into the air.

The coffin I was now standing in was situated on a pedestal about three feet off the floor. The area close around it was filled with dead bodies and pools of bloody water. I would have to jump, which under the best of circumstances called on grace I hadn’t cultivated, and to jump while wearing four-inch heels would guarantee a painful outcome. But if my choice was to wait in the coffin for the psychopath to return or take my chances with a sprained ankle, I’d choose the sprain anytime.

Since I was far from adept in physical situations, it took me a moment to work out that I could sit on the open edge of the coffin, swing my legs out, and scoot down, then find a small space for the ball of my foot on one of the few dry spaces on the floor and ease myself away from the pedestal.

Kismet the nerd who flunked gym class in ninth grade.

That’s what I did, all the while listening for any sound that would alert me to the return of the monster who’d brought me there.

I walked on tiptoes through the carnage to the door, unable to avoid wading through puddles of slimy, bloody water, and finally reached the stairs leading up to the light. My stomach had been clenched so tightly I’d barely breathed since I left the coffin. I climbed up the stone steps and shoved the door. It swung open on rusty hinges, making that sound always present in horror movies. Then I stepped out into the sunshine and found myself in the middle of an old graveyard.

I heard sounds of traffic nearby and moved in that direction. I kept glancing behind me to see if it had been a trap, if someone – or something – was going to spring out at me from behind one of the huge gravestones and haul me back into the pit of hell, but I was alone.

Doubtless I must have been quite a sight as I walked out of the ornate cast-iron gates of the graveyard and crossed the parking lot of McDonald’s.

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BAD BOYS IN BLACK TIE by Lori Foster, Erin McCarthy and Morgan Leigh

BAD BOYS IN BLACK TIE

Some men you can't take anywhere. . .except the bedroom.

Good With His Hands by Lori Foster

By New York Times bestselling author Lori Foster. As next-door neighbors and best friends, Pete Watson and Cassidy McClannahan have a "no sex" relationship. Until Pete decides he's ready to transform himself into the perfect "black tie" guy he thinks she wants. And once she's in his arms, he'll show her just what else that black tie can do. . .


Miss Extreme Congeniality by Erin McCarthy

By New York Times bestselling author Erin McCarthy. CJ White knows there has to be a catch when Wyatt Maddock--her despised FBI partner--offers to transfer out of Chicago and far, far away from her: she has to spend one sexy night with the untamed playboy, wearing the outfit of his choice. . .


Last Call by Morgan Leigh

Tess Braeden is new in Justice, North Carolina, but there's no justice when she learns that her inherited home is about to be foreclosed on. Thank goodness for the sensual, mysterious Fletcher Graham. But will Mr. Right become Mr. Wrong once Tess discovers his day job?

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Good With His Hands Excerpt

Pete Watson smiled as he watched Cassidy McClannahan get out of her spotlessly clean white Ford Contour. It was a familiar thing, smiling at the sight of Cassidy. Which meant he smiled a lot these days because he saw her everyday, everywhere he went. They worked together at the Sports Therapy center and they lived in adjoining condos, thanks to the fact that Cassidy told him when one of the units became available. They left the same time in the morning, came home the same time each day.

It was nice. Routine. As predictable as being married - but without the chain chaffing around his neck.

And no sex.

But hey, that kept it simple and easy. Besides, he could probably have sex with Cassidy if he wanted. But he didn't. Not really.

Not bad anyway.

The spring breeze played havoc with her super long, too curly brown hair, whipping it into her face until, in disgust, she dropped her grocery bag and grabbed the mass with both hands.

She was such a contradiction, so much a woman in some ways, so oblivious to her own femininity in others.

Sidling up next to her, Pete said, "You should have put it in a ponytail."

"Bite me."

He laughed. Her reaction to him fell into the oblivious category. She treated him like an asexual pal. Joking with him, putting him down sometimes. And she never, ever primped or prettied up for him. Nope, Cassidy didn't want him. Still, he could get her if he wanted to.

He just didn't want to.

Scooping up her bag, which weighed a damn ton, Pete said, "Come on, Rapunzel. I'll help you inside."

She eyed his bulging biceps as if she didn't see them every day at work. But it wasn't a look of admiration, just one of observation - the same sort of look she always gave him. Unaffected. Non-sexual.

Finally she looked away, saying, "Don't strain anything."

Yeah right. She knew better than most that he was in great shape. "What the hell did you buy, anyway?" Part of their routine for Friday was stopping at the grocery store. Since their eating habits were like night and day, the separated in the store, but met up again in the parking lot. He'd only bought enough lunchmeat and bread to last him through the week, but it felt like Cassidy had bought bricks.

While she rolled up her driver's side window and locked her car door, she listed off her purchases. "Baking potatoes, steak, corn on the cob, and a six-pack of pop."

"Got a big night planned?" Pete knew she didn't. Cassidy almost never dated. In fact, he couldn't remember ever seeing her date. That made him stop and think.

"Not really."

Well. That was pretty damn vague. Frowning, Pete waited to see if she'd invite him to join her. But she didn't. She never took the initiative. If he asked, she'd smile and tell him what time to show up. But why the hell did he always have to ask? Couldn't she just once extend the invitation? Another contradiction. They always enjoyed each other's company, but she never deliberately sought him out.

He loped beside her as they went up the tidy walkway to her front stoop - which was right next door to his, a mere fifteen feet away.

Assuming he'd follow, she unlocked her door, pushed it open and strolled inside, kicking her sneakers off the moment she got in. Out of the wind, she released her long hair and Pete watched as it tumbled free down to the small of her back, swishing above her plump ass.

Pete shook his head. She stayed in great shape, was always clean and well dressed, but she paid zero attention to feminine details like her hair and nails. She didn't wear make-up or perfume - not that she needed to. She always smelled great, even sweaty. And she had a healthy, robust complexion.

Robust? Yeah, that's how normal men should think of women. Half disgusted, half embarrassed, Pete shook his head at his odd musings.

He'd asked Cassidy once about her long hair and found out she only washed and dried it. No curlers, no trims, no highlights. He'd never known a woman who didn't spend hours on her hair. When it got humid outside, her hair drew into long bouncy ringlets that looked adorable.

Like Cassidy, her place was clean and comfortable but not overly decorated. It overflowed with plants and posters and throw pillows. By rote, Pete trailed her into the kitchen.

"You want some coffee or something?" She didn't wait for him to reply, but began filling the carafe, proving how predictable he'd become. He should politely decline and head home, maybe throw her off a bit. But he didn't.

"I can take one cup." Pete set their groceries on the counter, pulled out a kitchen chair and sat.

With the coffee preparations complete, Cassidy set out mugs and sugar before turning away. "Be right back."

"Where're you going?"

"To change. It's warm tonight."

She disappeared around the corner into the hall leading to her bedroom. Pete knew the set-up of her condo because it was the mirror image of his. Where his bedroom ran to the left of the front door, hers ran to the right. He'd never been in her bedroom though - and she'd never been in his.

Today she'd worn loose navy blue athletic pants and sneakers with the red unisex polo shirt supplied to all employees at the Sports Therapy center.

Pete tilted his chair onto the back legs. It dawned on him that he'd known Cassidy about eleven months now. Not that he was counting or anything, but maintaining a close platonic relationship with a woman other than his sisters-in-law for almost a year had to be some sort of personal record. Usually if he knew a woman any length of time at all, he either dated her or was merely acquainted, not friendly.

The thing he'd first noticed about Cassidy - after that abundance of super soft, crimped hair - was her focus. They'd spoken for about an hour his first day on the job, and in that time he realized that she had it together more than anyone he knew. If you asked Cassidy where she wanted to be five years from now, she could tell you. She knew where she wanted to work, where she wanted to live. She even claimed to know the type of guy she wanted to one day marry.

In comparison, Pete didn't even know where he wanted to be next week. Not that he intended to leave his job, his home, or Cassidy's friendship. But after finishing school and working three different jobs before settling at the sports center, he often felt unsettled, as if he was somehow missing the big picture.

Not Cassidy. She set new goals daily and worked hard to reach them. Maybe that's why she didn't date, she was too busy meeting her goals. Pete frowned in thought, trying to remember if any of their male clients had ever hit on her.

No one specific came to mind, but then everyone, young and old, male and female, loved Cassidy. She laughed a lot, honest laughter, not the trumped up, polite kind. She also had nice eyes. Sort of a wishy-washy blue/green that managed to be awesomely direct. Honest, like her laugh.

She was built well enough, of course. On the short side. A little too muscular, given all the time she spent being physical on the job, but trim and fit. She had a body guys would notice...

And why the hell was he dwelling on her body anyway?

Pete stood up and went to her patio doors. With his hands stuck in his back pockets, palms out, he contemplated the darkening sky. Looked like another spring storm on the way. Trees swayed under the wind. Heavy gray clouds raced by. He slid the glass door open so the fragrant, moist air could come in through the screen, wafting around him, stirring his senses.

Now that he'd thought of Cassidy's bod, he couldn't stop thinking of it. And that was strange because he preferred his ladies on the prissy side. He enjoyed watching a woman fuss with her hair, fret about her nails, and reapply her lipstick. It was so intrinsically female.

Dawn, the woman he'd most recently stopped dating, had done a lot of fussing. She was a corporate exec, smart, lots of ambition, and sexy as hell in a power suit. It had teased Pete, the way she'd pair a short snug skirt, high heels and red lipstick with a business jacket that begged to be unbuttoned. The attire emphasized rather than diminished her femaleness. Her glasses were a bonus. The way she pulled them off whenever she meant to get intimate had really turned him on.

"Coffee's done."

Speaking of turned on... Pete watched as Cassidy strode back into the room. No business suits, heels or glasses for her, but unlike Dawn, Cassidy never bored him.

Her hair was now pulled up into a high, sloppy knot, haphazardly clipped into place. Long twining hanks of hair fell loose to her shoulders, around her small ears. She'd changed into a football jersey and cutoffs. A really big jersey - and really short shorts.

Being male, and healthy, and for some reason kind of horny on this almost-rainy, quiet Friday, Pete automatically gave her the once over. Maybe there'd be a full moon tonight, or maybe the tide was high. Something, some unknown force, was making him contemplate Cassidy naked. Eyes narrowed and mouth pursed, he watched as she filled the mugs with coffee. He'd seen her in everything from sweats to bike shorts, so he knew she had lots of soft, squeezable curves to go with the muscles.

As if she felt his gaze, Cassidy looked over her shoulder, caught him staring at her butt, and looked away again. She didn't care that he was looking. She didn't care if he didn't look.

Damn abnormal woman.

Driven by some inner perversity heretofore undeveloped, Pete leaned back against the doorframe and smiled. "Your ass looks nice in those shorts."

A slight pause, then: "Thanks. You want a cookie with your coffee?"

His jaw locked. Thanks? That was it? No more reaction than that? Pete folded his arms over his chest. "How about I take your ass with my coffee?"

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ULTIMATE JUSTICE by Ryder Islington

ULTIMATE JUSTICE by Ryder Islington

A Trey Fontaine Mystery

Special Agent Trey Fontaine has his hands full as he tries to juggle three different sets of cases in his hometown. While healing from a bullet wound, and on limited duty, he is charged with helping find out what’s happening to young women who are disappearing without a trace. But that’s just the beginning. Someone is beating and raping women in town, women who are related to his godfather, Detective Russell Coleman. And then the bodies of men start showing up, eviscerated. Are the crimes related? Or are has the town become a haven for all sorts of criminals?

Wile, Rocky, and Drew, three children from a violent home, take matters into their own hands and soon the small town of Raven Bayou, Louisiana is brimming with dead bodies. But the only victims are those whose background proves them to be deserving of such justice.

Can Special Agent Trey Fontaine stop the violence? Or will he only figure out the truth after someone he loves is dead?

"The twists and turns of Islington's excellent plot and dialogue will keep you on the edge of your chair as you turn page after page to find out what happens next."
Bridget Gibson, Editor
The Times-Tribune - Grant City, Missouri

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Chapter One



SPECIAL AGENT TREY FONTAINE

Rural Neighborhood Crime Scene

Raven Bayou, LA

Friday Early Morning, 3 June 2005



Intermittent flashes of the camera gave Trey ugly glimpses of the scene—cobwebs—a broken shovel—a roll of rusty wire—

The body.

Quick flickers of light enhanced the details as the camera clicked—the petite body in a semi-fetal position on the bare dirt, back to the door. Click—naked and bruised, hair matted with blood.

Click—camouflage-mottled skin, swollen and distorted with gases.

“Shit,” he mumbled, forcing a smile, trying not to gag.

His reaction to the dead woman gnawed at him. He’d been on the job with the bureau nine years, long enough to become immune to grisly images of death, so what was it about this scene that affected him so deeply? He’d learned to distance himself from the carnage that came with his profession, or so he thought. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath as a disturbing thought crossed his mind. Maybe he was losing it. Maybe being shot had done something to his mind. No. That’s not it, he thought. It was just seeing such a scene in his own hometown.

Back when he was a boy, the population was about nine thousand. Now it was closer to fifteen thousand, with two casinos. He hadn’t spent more than a weekend here since going off to Quantico. He took another deep breath, lifted the camera hanging from his neck, and limped a few feet away to get an overview shot of the shed.

Turning away, he wiped rain from his clean-shaven face, swallowed hard, and focused on the small forest across the road, trees fighting for life against the choking kudzu and poison ivy thick as the set of a jungle movie. Rain ran down his forehead from his short-cropped hair.

His Hummer, called “Streak,” for the silver grey paint the color of a lightning bolt, sat at the edge of the dirt road not far from the deputies and crime scene techs who combed the weeds inside the splintered rail fence. They swarmed over the Louisiana mud, fire ants searching for a lost colony. A couple of officers tied off the ends of the overhead tarp and started stringing lights.

Right hand stuffed in the front pocket of his black jeans, Trey stood between a dilapidated tool shed and a shanty some poor Louisiana family had once called home. Paint peeling. Windows broken. The small porch sagging on one end.

He took a breath and turned back to the crime scene. His eyes adjusted from dark clouds and pouring rain to the even darker shadows beneath the canvas canopy. He stared into the maw of darkness, the open door to the outbuilding in question. The canopy gave the detective some relief from the rain and would allow the coroner to remove the body without washing away evidence.

Trey’s cell rang.

“Got answers for you.” It was the smooth Southern drawl of Tamlyn Washington, intelligence analyst down in the New Orleans field office.

“Shoot.”

“May tenth, Ilene Grant reported her sister Kelli Stevens missing. This is the last girl working at Bayou Lights Casino who went missing. And you’ll love this. Four days ago, Michael Grant reported his wife Ilene missing as well.”

Sisters, he thought. “Is Ilene linked to Bayou Lights?”

A service officer set a box of supplies near the detective. Trey hadn’t seen him before, but there was no mistaking the family resemblance. Straight, dark hair. Gray eyes. Large dimples. Patrician nose. He was a damned Boudreaux.

“Nothing suggests that,” Tamlyn said.

He refocused, pulled out a notepad and pen. “I’m ready.”

Tamlyn described Ilene Grant and as much of the particulars as she’d found.

“Much obliged.”

“Is it fun to work a case in a casino? I’ve heard things about Bayou Lights. Hopkins said it was probably a pain in the butt.” Tamlyn giggled.

“Cute. Tell Hopkins...Never mind. I’ll tell him myself.” Bobby Hopkins had been his partner for a little while and there was nothing he loved more than to razz Trey about getting shot in the butt.

“Hey, Trey...How’s Ace doing?” Tamlyn asked.

He bit the inside of his lip. “Just as expected. She’s the rising star. Thanks for asking how I’m doing.”

“Oh...Hey—”

He pressed the END button. Tamlyn had only been with the Bureau for a year, but she was a good analyst. One day when he was feeling more generous, he’d have to take the time out to warn her about his partner. Bobby Hopkins was a bad influence on young women.

The service officer walked away before homicide detective Russ Coleman could introduce them. “A Boudreaux on the force?”

“Yeah.” Russ worked the camera. “Near about a deputy. Hope I’m out to pasture by then. The youngest boy. Has a year to go but he’s on it. How’s Georgia?”

Trey stepped back. “Mom left town for a conference before I got here. She’ll be in Baton Rouge until Monday. Then she’s going on a cruise with a friend.” A sigh of relief managed to escape his lips and Russ chuckled. He offered a faint smile. Russ knew him too well. “Brother-in-law of one of the missing girls filed a missing persons report on his wife.” He gave Russ the rest of the details. Unless an I.D. proved the body to be of one of the missing women linked to Bayou Lights, he had no business here. Hell, he had no business here anyway.

Trey wouldn’t have gotten the call if any other detective were in charge of the scene. It pays to be an agent in your home state. It’s even better if your godfather is a senior detective for the Sheriff’s Department.

The camera clicked away in Russ’s mocha-colored hands as he took interior shots of the outbuilding. Below the camera, Trey noticed the gray in Russ’s goatee. He’s getting old, Trey thought.

When the flashes stopped, the body became barely visible through the dimness within.

The portable light had just been hung and strung. The generator kicked on. Trey flipped the switch. The sight made his heart thump against his ribs. Bile burned the back of his throat and he swallowed hard. He’d seen hundreds of bodies and had smelled worse things than this. Maybe he should have taken a little more time off after the shooting. Maybe being wounded had affected his mind. No. That’s not it. My mind is fine. He took a breath, lifted the camera hanging from his neck, and limped back a few steps to get an overview shot.

He had intended to keep his hand in his pocket like a good observer. It wasn’t his damned case, but he was antsy, ready to do something, not just stand around being useless. Besides, doing something would give him an excuse to stay at the scene.

Since the shooting, he’d been given nothing but scut work. And now he was Ace’s babysitter. While she went undercover on a potentially huge case, he played boyfriend, a perfect position for collecting info from her and updating her on any new evidence. It wasn’t a perfect position for Trey.

The last nine years with the Bureau had taken him across the country, though he worked out of the New Orleans field office. The bad guys had taken to traveling, forcing agents to pursue. But he’d never had to pursue one to Raven Bayou. He only remembered one murder in this town in all of his childhood. This town was an oasis, so different from the big cities. And now his safe oasis was the scene of an ugly murder, a place where young women were disappearing.

Squatting near the door of the shed, he winced as the half-healed wound in his butt sent a shot of pain up his hip. He returned to his standing position, eyes glued to the child-like body of a woman.

Could be either of the sisters. Or not. With her back to him and her skin stippled, he couldn’t tell much about her, other than her hair was dark brown and relatively straight, though neither of those things could be relied upon in determining ethnicity anymore. People colored, straightened, or permed their hair on a whim these days.

He slid the button on the digital camera hanging from his neck and snapped a few shots. It would be easier to see the truth when the pictures were printed in black and white. His mind filtered through the thousands of photos and textbook descriptions of decomposition and its many manifestations, calculating how long this body might have lain here.

After a breath, he stepped back and returned his right hand to its proper hiding place. The size of the body was a match for Ilene Grant. That wasn’t much. When all the evidence was in, he’d load it into his computer and make some calculations. Then he’d have something concrete to work with. If Russ needed his help, Trey would be ready.

Russ took a few more shots before putting his camera down and beginning a sketch.

“Any crime spree against females I don’t know about?” Trey shifted his weight.

“Naw.”

“Any similar crimes?”

His godfather gave him a quick look, jaw flexing. “Nothing leading to death. Had a rape and beating of a young woman, Endri Cheramie, a month or so ago. In the hospital two weeks.” He looked down at the body. “Guess we’ll know more after this autopsy. I suspect this one wasn’t raped, and the cases aren’t related.”

“I know, your famous gut.” Trey noted the name Cheramie on his pad.

“And nearly forty years doing this.”

Trey averted his gaze and kept his mouth shut. He scanned the site again and saw that Russ was the only detective there. “Where’s your partner?”

“On her way. Some people sleep in till five, sometimes even six.” Russ didn’t bother to look up.

“Her?”

“Taylor.”

“Taylor who?” Trey said.

“No, Gemini Taylor.”

“Gemini? Like in twenty years ago, Gemini.”

“That would be the one.” Russ raised his gaze. “You know her?”

“Everyone in Raven Bayou at least knows of her. I met her right before she left town.” He rubbed two fingers up the ridges between his eyebrows. “I can’t believe she came back here.”

“I think a coyote just run over your grave.”

Was it just a coincidence Taylor and Trey were in town at the same time? It had to be. There was no such thing as fate. Not that he meant anything to her. She probably didn’t even remember him. But he sure remembered her. The bad girl of Raven High.

“I’ll check with them.” He motioned toward the techs, heads down like hens after scratch.

Russ nodded and went back to work.

Trey limped, carefully avoiding possible evidence beside which sat bright yellow markers. Most of this shit’s probably just trash someone threw out a car window. Mud seeped above the soles of his black boots, staining the sides an ugly brown.

He pulled a small mint tin from his pocket, opened it, removed two Lortab, and tossed them past his tongue, dry-swallowing without so much as a flinch. A tingle ran up his spine and tickled his neck, and he took a quick peek behind him only to find his godfather’s eyes boring into him. Having an almost familial relationship with a detective was a dagger. And both edges were razor sharp.


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