Prologue

RAFE COLTON

Thursday, July 31, 2025, 11:00 a.m.
Red Onion State Prison, Pound, Virginia

In prison, I learned to appreciate the little things. Cracks in a wall. A bug scurrying along the floor. Underlined words in a dog-eared prison library book. Or when a prisoner’s smile turns feral. Cells don’t offer me the big picture, but they’ve taught me focus.
Front and center in my mind were the lumpy mattress in the prison hospital bed, the IVs running from my arms, and a machine beeping in time to my slow and sloppy heartbeat. The doctors said my cancer is worse. I’ll be dead in a year or two. Some say I should be relieved—this disease will end three decades in prison. But I liked living. And I wanted to squeeze out all I could of what was left.
A female nurse sat across the room, reading charts. Mousy brown hair was secured in a tight bun. She was younger than me, midthirties to early forties. Her skin still had some life in it, but it wasn’t glassy smooth like a teenager’s. A few lines had etched into creases around her eyes, marking a lifetime of disappointments. Half glasses reminded me of a librarian I’d had in middle school. Mrs. Davenport. Alone at night, I’ve dreamed about the nurse. What did she look like in her teen years? Was that hair silken? Were her curves tight and hot? Was her skin soft?
I rubbed my fingers against the coarse prison sheets and tried to remember the feel of a young woman’s smooth skin. Memories were too distant to grab.
Sighing, I curled my fingers into a fist. Time hadn’t been kind to me either. But it isn’t charitable to most of us.
“Darlin’, could you do me a favor?” I asked.
The nurse looked up.
“I sure could use a drink of water, darlin’.” My lips slid into a slight grin.
The nurse’s expression softened. Time hasn’t robbed me of all my charms. When I’d been younger, I’d enjoyed many appreciative glances from females. I missed the way their eyes glistened and their lips parted as they watched me move.
She filled a cup with water and carried it to my bedside. I took the plastic, careful to brush my fingers against hers. The V of her scrubs dipped low, as if she wanted me to see the curve of her breasts. Her boxy top doesn’t hide her narrow waist and rounded hips. And I bet her calves have a nice shape despite the comfortable black shoes.
She doesn’t wear perfume, and her skin carries the scent of a generic soap. Once I was surrounded by young women who smelled like mountain flowers and sex.
I sipped the water, letting the cool liquid roll down my dry throat. “Thank you, darlin’. I appreciate you.”
Her face remains neutral, but her eyes grow expectant. Her head tilts. She wants to smile, but she doesn’t.
I like knowing I can charm a woman with a grin. I’m old and dying, but still vain.
The door buzzer chimed. The moment broke. The nurse took the cup back and crossed to the security door. She opened it to a man dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and sensible shoes. A cop. There’s no missing a law enforcement officer’s demeanor. The good ones are always tense, anticipating trouble and ready to spring. This guy is a tiger coiled, prepared to pounce.
We’ve met twice before. Sergeant Grant McKenna.
He hasn’t shared much of his own past, but he’s questioned me about the crimes that earned me a life sentence. The papers and the cops called me the Mountain Music Festival Killer. My victims were dubbed the Festival Four. Not the coolest monikers, but they stuck.
The powers-that-be tried and convicted me of four murders three decades ago. To this day, I still profess my innocence. I was framed. The cops have never found the bodies. And I argued the commonwealth’s case was based on physical evidence planted in my barn.
A prison guard stepped inside the clinic and stationed himself by the door.
I sat straighter, wincing as I adjusted the pillow behind my bony back. The handcuffs that bound my left wrist to the bed dug into my fragile skin.
Grant knows the basic facts about me and has a working knowledge of my case. I don’t know how deep he’s dived into the finer points, but he knows enough. I’m flattered he’s here. I haven’t had many visitors in recent years. There was a time when the Mountain Music Festival Killer eclipsed Charles Manson, Ted Bundy, and John Wayne Gacy.
According to the cops and press, my rampage spanned not years but a six-hour window. Psychologists assumed I would have killed more women if the cops hadn’t stopped me. My splash in the headlines was intense and brief. No one remembered me now. I’m not even a footnote. All that keeps me relevant are the missing bodies.
“Sergeant,” I said.
“Mr. Colton.” He extended his hand to me.
I took it, disarmed by this very human gesture. I’m amazed the guard allowed it. “How’s retirement?”
“Can’t complain.” Grant withdrew his hand and pulled up a chair.
“Washington, DC, right? Homicide?”
“Good memory.”
“Living on the pension now?”
Grant leveled his gaze on mine. “Basically.”
“Why aren’t you enjoying retirement?”
“Guys like you and me never really leave the game, do we?”
Many cops are filled with unspoken rage. Past traumas, unsolved cases, killers who got away—it all haunts them. They come here hoping that if they find the Mountain Music Festival bodies, they will find salvation.
However, the good cops hide their emotions well. And I’ve established that Grant is one of the good ones.
Grant watched me closely. “I hear you’re up for another parole hearing. Your chances look good this time.”
“I’m no threat to anyone,” I said. “Finishing out my days in the mountains isn’t too much to ask, is it?”
He regarded me for a beat. “You want to return to Dawson?”
“Yes.”
Grant never brought a notepad or file. But I suspected his memory was laser sharp. “The parole board will be reviewing your case next month. Compassionate releases are popular.”
Release. I’d heard the word before, but after too many disappointments, I didn’t dare allow any emotion. I crossed my fingers. “From your lips to God’s ears.”
Grant folded his arms over his chest. He was fit. Lifted weights. A runner. We’d made small talk about workouts during his last visit. I exercise any chance I get. It pays to be strong in here.
“I spoke at a conference a few weeks ago,” Grant said.
No small talk today. “About me, I hope?”
“Your case among others.”
“What was the theme?”
“Convictions without bodies.”
“Interesting. You get a lot of cases like that?”
“Enough.”
“Must be frustrating for the police and the families. No closure. And the judges and juries struggle to justify convictions like mine. How many of them wonder if they put away an innocent man like me?”
“I don’t know.” Grant sat back, unbuttoning his jacket. I appreciated that he dressed the part of a professional lawman.
“I bet a lot of them worry and wonder if they made the right call.”
“You willing to tell me where you buried those bodies?” Grant asked.
“No foreplay today?” I chuckled. “Direct. To the point. But girls like a little warm-up before the big event.”
Years ago, the police and prosecutors had dangled a reduced sentence if I told them where the bodies were. Even if I had known, I wouldn’t have told. Cops can lie, and I don’t trust them.
Plus, I’ve grown to enjoy the mystery of this unfinished story. All humans chase attention. We pursue it in different ways. Some get on the stage. Some publish. Others get tattooed or choose the perfect personalized license plate. Anyone who says they don’t want to be noticed doesn’t know how to escape the shadows.
My silence keeps me center stage. Maybe it’s not the attention I’d once craved, but visits like this break up the monotony of prison life. Beggars can’t be choosers.
“I’m-an-innocent-man.” I’d made this statement so many times, the words had conjoined.
“You’ve said that.”
“The Mountain Music Festival and the Festival Four victims are ancient history.”
“Not everyone has forgotten.”
“I bet you can count those that remember on one hand.”
“I’m driving to Dawson,” Grant said.
My memories of Dawson rely now on pictures I’ve clipped from articles about the Festival Four. Those images are black and white and at least a decade old. They don’t capture the vivid blue skies, the rolling green mountains, or the scent of honeysuckle in spring.
“It’s a small, middle-of-nowhere town.”
“I consider that an asset.”
His southern accent was faint but strengthened as he spoke about Dawson. I’d bet it was his hometown, or it reminded him of home. “You’re going to Dawson for peace and quiet?”
“There’s a writer working this story. I’ve met her. She’s sharp. Tenacious. She’s headed to Dawson.”
He’s teasing me. Dawson. The case. A woman. “You think she’ll do what cops and thirty-one couldn’t do?”
“She might.”
“Is she writing a book about me and all those missing women?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Talking about a woman who was thinking about me was tantalizing. “You have a hard-on for her?”
He didn’t answer. Ah, a good southern gentleman.
I pressed, sensing a tender spot. “Are you trying to woo her with my deep dark confession?”
Grant shifted, smoothing a wrinkle from his suit jacket with long, tanned fingers. “Men have jumped through hoops for a pretty woman since Adam and Eve. I’m no different.”
Ah, this was the part where he pretended that he was my pal. My buddy. “What we won’t do for a woman.”
“You have a few words of wisdom?” Grant asked. “You were always good with the ladies.”
“It’s been thirty-one years. I’m out of practice.” But riding a woman came naturally, and I bet I’d have no problem if I ever had the chance again. “You overestimate me.”
He grinned. “I don’t think so.”
Grant was good. He was baiting a hook. And I shouldn’t have taken the bite, but I couldn’t resist. “Tell me more about this woman. Blond? Brunette? Tall? Short?” My mind runs wild with possibilities. “Does she have a name?”
“Her name is Sloane Grayson. Dark hair. Very attractive.” The cop’s voice softened just a fraction. Grant liked Sloane Grayson’s look.
“I don’t get to read too much true crime in prison. Is she a good writer?”
“She is.” Grant’s gaze and face remained relaxed. But his fingers opened and closed once into a fist.
“Tell Ms. Grayson I don’t know where the Festival Four are. A polygraph proved that.”
“I bet you run circles around a polygraph.”
Talk of Dawson and Sloane Grayson stirred a longing I’d suppressed for years. “If I don’t get out in time to join you in Dawson, keep me posted. I’d like to see what you unearth.” A smile tipped my lips. “Excuse the bad pun. I find amusement where I can.”

Another Girl Lost

Detective Kevin Dawson

Saturday, July 20, 2024
Norfolk, Virginia
6:00 a.m.

Fear is a shape-shifter.

It manifests in dozens of different ways. Loud shrieks, righteous wails, angry denials, moans, nervous tics, tapping feet, even nail biting. Detective Kevin Dawson had seen all incarnations in his fifteen years on the force.

He’d also crossed paths with the rare ones who didn’t show any signs of anxiety. They barricaded themselves behind an oppressive, icy silence that was difficult to penetrate. Discovering their secrets was always a challenge.

The woman sitting across the interview table from him now was one of the unusual ones. A rare breed. Scarlett Crosby had tucked herself under layers of a smooth, nonresponsive facade. Nonplussed—bored, even.

He’d yet to get under her skin, but she’d burrowed deep under his. Hours ago, he’d been pissed when he tightened the cuffs around her thin wrists, constricting the links until tension rippled through her body.

Scarlett Crosby had likely killed one woman and had been caught trying to murder another. She’d viciously attacked the arresting officer, and now Dawson, along with everyone in the department, wanted a pound of her flesh.

Two hours ago, after the paramedics had patched her up, he’d stuck her in this small, windowless interview room. He’d dimmed the lights, knowing she’d stew in shadows and dirty grays. When he’d slammed the door behind him, he’d made a show of flipping the dead bolt. His message was clear: You’re locked in. Trapped. Get used to a cell.

On his orders, she’d received no bathroom breaks, water, or coffee, and no human contact. He wanted her uncomfortable. Given her history, a little physical discomfort in a confined space might penetrate her silence.

Playing fair? Maybe not. But his job was to solve two murders, not coddle Scarlett Crosby.

When he reentered the room, her eyes were closed, and her bandaged hand rested on her thigh. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was meditating at a yoga retreat.

She wore gray scrubs, courtesy of the forensic officer who’d confiscated her blood-soaked T-shirt, jeans, and shoes. The garments swallowed her thin frame and cast an unhealthy hue on already-pale skin stippled with traces of blood. She smelled of her victim’s perfume, the back of the squad car, and the artist’s paint she used daily.

When he flipped on the lights, she didn’t open her eyes or move.

He angled the second chair at a diagonal close to her, the position a deliberate choice to foster a connection between them. No table separating them, they were allies, not enemies.

He sipped coffee as he set a cup of water in front of her. He shouldn’t be the one talking to Scarlett Crosby. His perspective on this case was tainted, but he was the first to admit he had an on-again, off-again relationship with common sense. He wanted, needed, her to talk to him.

When she opened her eyes, there were no signs of gratitude or relief. If anything, annoyance simmered. He prided himself on sizing up suspects, but reading her was tough.

He tugged his jacket, sipped coffee. “How did we get here, Scarlett?” The use of we and her name was deliberate. Creating-connections, building-bridges kind of thing.

The suggestion that they were in this together seemed to amuse her. “I want my lawyer.” Her voice rattled with a slight rasp.

When his investigation began almost two weeks ago, he’d recognized her name immediately. An internet search unearthed ten-year-old images of a haunted, broken Scarlett staring blankly into a camera. A gash had run down her cheek, and bruises covered her neck and arms. That version of Scarlett had plagued his nightmares for a decade. He’d failed that Scarlett. She’d been the victim of Tanner Reed, who’d held, raped, and tortured her for three months. She’d suffered for those three months because when Dawson had interviewed Tanner weeks before her kidnapping, he’d not seen past the man’s easy explanations and smile. It took three months for the dots to connect in Dawson’s mind, and thanks to some dumb luck, he’d finally saved Scarlett. The world had seen him as her ultimate savior, and he’d been promoted.

This Scarlett sitting here now, the 2.0 version, had physically filled out in the last decade, softening those sharp bones. Her blond hair had thickened and grown glossy, color warmed her skin, and the old terrors radiating from her eyes had vanished.

Now, he believed, her fears hadn’t gone anywhere, but had bonded with anger and embedded in sinew and bone. She’d remade herself into an artist, a businesswoman, and a volunteer who helped at a local recreation center where she’d just completed a mural. Current publicity and public images captured smiles, but a detectable distance blunted her gaze.

“I’ll call your lawyer soon,” he said.

Scarlett drank her water and dug her thumbnail into the Styrofoam cup. “I’m only talking to Luke Kane, Detective Dawson.”

“It could be a while. I’d hate for you to sit here any longer than necessary.”

The cup creaked as she tightened her fingers. “I was locked in a basement for eighty-eight days, remember? You’ll have to try harder to intimidate me.”

He glanced at his watch, struggling to hide his rising frustration. “Scarlett, let me help you. I want to get this sorted out so you can go home. Talk to me.”

“Lawyer first, Detective Dawson.” Full lips flattened into a grim line, projecting experience well beyond her twenty-five years.

“Where do I start? We have footage of you speaking to your latest victim, and we’ve also confirmed you were one of the last people to see her alive. You also stalked and kidnapped a second woman. You’d have killed her if you’d not been stopped.”

She sat silent, barely breathing.

“And I can also link you to the human remains found entombed in a wall.” He leaned forward, his knees less than an inch from hers. “What set you off? Why call in the location of the first body that’s been hidden for a decade? Why kill again after all these years?”

She exhaled slowly, her face remaining a blank mask.

He sat back, refusing to acknowledge the frustration elbowing his gut. He lowered his voice and softened the tone. “Tell me about Della.” He knew Della was a trigger point for Scarlett, their alleged relationship an open wound. “Tell me how she hurt you.”

She settled back in the chair, her face cool and emotionless. “Not talking.”

“You and me have history, Scarlett. You don’t want another cop handling your case. I’ve seen you at your worst. Others won’t understand you like I do.”

“You understand me?” Bitter amusement vibrated under the words.

The first threats of anger. Progress. “We must talk, Scarlett. You helped kill a woman, murdered another, and tried to suffocate a third. You put a cop in the hospital with several vicious stab wounds. You called that officer Della multiple times. And this isn’t the first time you’ve confused a woman with this Della.”

Scarlett’s fingernail dug into the cup.

Dawson didn’t focus on the dead women but the one currently in surgery. Scarlett’s latest version of Della had elicited so much anger and rage, she’d attacked her with a knife. “Nineteen stiches. Your knife left a nasty gash on your victim’s neck and chest. The doctor said a few more centimeters to the left and you’d have severed her carotid artery. If she’d bled to death, you would be facing another murder charge.”

The cup creaked again.

He’d sat across from hardened criminals in this room. Gangbangers, drug dealers, and men who’d strangled their baby mamas to death. Some protested their innocence. Some tried to look bored or indignant when he accused them of attempted murder. Some cried. Scarlett barely blinked.

“I was there when the van crashed a decade ago. I shot and killed Tanner Reed when he drew on me. I helped pull you from the wreckage,” he said. “I’m on your side.”

She inhaled and exhaled slowly.

“Breaks my heart when I think about pulling you out of that torn metal. What happened to you in that basement should never have happened to any person.”

Counselors he’d consulted in the early-morning hours said she managed the old traumas by disassociating. Quiet. Distant. In her own world. This was how she coped. The consultant had underlined Detached several times.

“Were you always like this?” he asked. “Withdrawn, I mean? As a girl, were you outgoing?”

“You want to talk about my middle school years?” Bitterness pirouetted with amusement.

“I want to start a dialogue with you. I want to help you.”

“Then call my lawyer.”

“At some point you and I are going to have to talk, Scarlett. You need to tell me what you know.”

How did you scare someone who’d been tortured by the devil?

Dawson’s fifteen years in the department had armed him with tricks and tactics. Fighting every urge to rail at her, he leaned on his patience. “When did you first meet Officer Margo Larsen?”

She moistened her lips. “This information for the case or your own personal reference, Detective?”

He almost protested, then slid back behind a blank stare. “What does that mean?”

“You know.” A smile tipped the edges of her lips before she closed her eyes, released the cup, and drew in a deep breath. The muscles in her arms and hands eased, shedding the tension. She’d turned the tables.

“When did you decide to stalk Margo Larsen?” He shifted back to offense. “I’ve seen the portrait you left for her in her apartment. Odd.”

Scarlett blinked. “Her name isn’t Margo. It’s Della.”

“She’s Officer Margo Larsen.”

“When did you start screwing Della? Did you find her, or did she find you? What itch do you have that she scratched?”

“What’s that mean?”

“Della found me. Her smile was so bright, it banished all my fears and worries. That smile lured me into Tanner Reed’s van. That smile ruined my life.”

“Margo Larsen isn’t Della.”

“You’re wrong. She’s Della, and she’s come back for me.”

Chapter One
Lane
Friday, December 29, 2023
Norfolk, Virginia
7:00 p.m.
The fall began with a small slip on a marble step. Any other time, I’d have caught myself, adjusted, and found a way to hold steady. But not this time.
That misstep sent both of us tumbling down twenty-one stairs. Us. Kyle and I weren’t really an us. We’d known each other three and a half weeks, technically twenty-five days.
He’d first approached me in the coffee shop I manage. I was refilling the whole milk and creamer containers at the self-serve station when he slid in beside me. The soft scent of his aftershave snagged my attention. Sandalwood. He said something charming. I thought he was talking to someone else. But his gaze pinned me. I was flattered, and even blushed.
Almost immediately, the floodgates between us opened. He began showering me with enchanting texts, fragrant flowers, and mouthwatering kisses. He didn’t push sex, and I was wooed by his patience. In a few short weeks, we were on the path to something.
This weekend was supposed to be our big, romantic beach getaway. Our first sleepover. We were going to ring in the New Year alone, wrapped in each other’s arms. A big step toward figuring out if this thing between us might be real. So much anticipation. Excitement. I’ve no free time between school and managing the coffee shop, so for Kyle to have lured me away for a long weekend was saying something.
However, within an hour of arriving at his glittering North Carolina cottage overlooking the dunes of the northern Outer Banks and the Atlantic Ocean, we fell. The weight of our bodies sent us hurtling through the air so fast, adrenaline didn’t catch up until the last microsecond, when we hit the marble floor.
Now I’m in the hospital, my left hip is banged up and bruised, and my body is so stiff, it’s hard to turn my head to the right. I feel as if I’ve gone three rounds with a boxer. But my injuries aren’t critical. I’ll heal.
Kyle wasn’t so lucky.
He’s dead.
“You’re fortunate to be alive.” Dr. Jackson sounds cheerful, a little too upbeat, as he closes the curtain to my room. He’s tall, lean, and keeps his hair cut short. Dark circles smudge under his eyes. Emergency room sounds swirl around us. Gurneys. Machines beeping. Hushed conversations.
I shift, doing my best to sit up. The muscles in my gut and along my ribs scream in protest. The guy I liked is dead, and I can barely move without my body crying. I was supposed to be sipping wine while sitting in a hot tub with Kyle, making out, and taking another step toward us. “Yes, lucky.”
Dr. Jackson holds a light up to my eyes and waves it over my pupils. I stiffen. “Just look at the light.”
“How long have I been here?” I ask.
“About six hours.”
“How did I get here?”
“You were airlifted from the Outer Banks to Norfolk.”
The Outer Banks is a 170-mile barrier island chain, and Kyle’s house is in the northernmost section, tucked against the Virginia line.
As the crow flies, Kyle’s cottage is thirty minutes from Norfolk, where I live. But there’s no quick way to get from here to there. This remote stretch of land requires a trip around Norfolk’s beltway, followed by a few secondary highways in North Carolina, crossing the three-mile-long Wright Memorial Bridge, and then another twenty-mile drive north. All that travel is rewarded with an eleven-mile four-wheel drive on an untamed beach. Basically, over the river and through the woods takes two and a half hours.
Memories of the trip and the house are vague. My mind is trapped in a loop, replaying the crack of Kyle’s skull on marble, the pool of his blood oozing toward me, and the pain rocketing through my body.
I’m only vaguely aware of a man trying to rouse me and then being placed on a stretcher. I was out cold during the med flight ride to Norfolk. Most of this entire day tangles like a bad dream.
“Kyle is really dead?” I ask.
“Yes,” Dr. Jackson says. “He was pronounced dead at the scene.”
I brace for a rush of sadness. Grief, despondency, and sorrow are all natural responses for someone who’s lost the other half of a potential us.
Kyle and I weren’t married or even sleeping together, but we’d had a connection. I didn’t fully understand what tethered us so tightly, but it had been very real. Yet no emotions charge or encircle me. There’s only numbness. Must be shock.
“Are you taking any medications?” Dr. Jackson asks.
“For sleepwalking. I can’t remember the name.”
“That might explain the drugs we found in your system.”
“What drugs?”
“A sedative.”
“I don’t take anything other than the pills to hold off the sleepwalking.”
“Okay.” He regards me and then says, “The head scan tells me you suffered no damage to your brain or spine, which is excellent news. But I’d like to do an MRI of your left hip. X-rays tell me it’s not broken, but I suspect you’ve torn muscles or tendons, or maybe separated the labrum.”
My head is good. A win. “What’s a labrum?”
Dr. Jackson tucks his penlight in his front pocket and runs calloused hands up and down my neck. I brace. “It’s the cartilage cushioning the hip joint. Any pain in the neck?”
“A little stiff, but okay.” I angle my neck away from him and feel the muscles resisting. “The hip aches.”
Dr. Jackson nods. “Then we should do the MRI.”
I look around the curtained-off emergency room cubicle. How much is all this going to cost me? “MRIs are expensive.”
“Clear images give me a good look inside your body. You don’t want to risk more damage.”
As I shift, the back folds of my hospital gown open, and a cold breeze fingers up my spine. I can live with a stiff hip, which in all likelihood just needs rest. “My head is good, right?”
Dr. Jackson sighs. “Yes. But the hip correlates with long-term mobility.”
“I’ll rest it. See how it goes. If it’s an issue, I’ll call you. When can I leave the hospital? I’ll take it easy. Take aspirin. Ice, heat, ice. Chill out.” This place is suffocating, and I want to go home, where I’ll try not to think about the fall, the sound of Kyle’s head exploding, or sticky, warm blood.
Dr. Jackson shakes his head. “I’d like to admit you overnight for observation.”
“No,” I insist. “I’d rather be in my own bed. It’s paid for.”
His brow furrows. “Do you have insurance?”
“I do if you can call it that. My plan is stitched together with high copays and ridiculous deductibles. I’ll take a pass on the tests and the overnight.”
“I don’t advise this, Ms. McCord,” Dr. Jackson says carefully.
“I get it. Liability. Lawyers. I’ll sign whatever I need to.” I shift, wince. Seven hours ago, Kyle and I were driving up the beach toward his house. The day was warm, the sun bright, and the ocean calm. I was nervous, in an excited kind of way.
Now Kyle’s blood smears my arm. “Are you sure about Kyle?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “What do you remember?”
“Arriving at the cottage.” It’s a stunning place and unexpectedly elegant on such a remote stretch of beach. Vaulted ceilings, large plush couches, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dunes and ocean, white granite kitchen counters, dazzling stainless-steel appliances, and modern art on the walls. Fresh red roses filled a crystal vase on the living room coffee table. I remember almost teasing it was a no-one-can-hear-you-scream kind of place but thought better of the joke. My dark sense of humor is best reserved for people who’ve known me more than three and a half weeks.
“The EMTs responded to the house at one fifteen p.m. today. When did you arrive at the cottage?”
“About noon. I don’t remember much after we arrived.”
Doubts crease his brow. “It’s okay. Those memories should come back in time.”
I know better than anyone, the power of positive thinking is faulty at best. “I want to leave. Where are my clothes, purse, and phone?”
“I really would like you to stay overnight for observation.”
“No.” Panic constricts my chest. “I hate hospitals.”
“Most people do.”
I sit up straighter, wince as my hip protests. My head is clear. “I’ll call if something goes wrong.”
Dr. Jackson’s frown deepens as he shakes his head. “I’m going to hold you to that, Lane.”
I cross my chest. Hope not to die. “Promise.”
“Any signs of dizziness, nausea, or headaches, call me. No running, cycling, or jumping. If you don’t heed my advice, you’ll really screw up your hip and be in surgery by Valentine’s Day.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” A few days ago, I’d toyed with spending Valentine’s Day with Kyle. He might have come out of nowhere, but our relationship was headed somewhere. He was so into me. And now he’s dead.
“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Dr. Jackson asks.
“I’m fine, Doctor.” In an hour, Dr. Jackson will have seen five or six more patients, and I’ll recede into his distant memory. I’ll enter the hospital’s digital archives and reside alongside my foster care records, student loan debt accounts, college transcripts, and credit card scores. I’ve lived between the cracks all my life, and I’m comfortable with obscurity. “I just need to get out of here.”
“I’ll send in someone from administration to help you check out.”
I glance over the side rails to a small table outfitted with a phone. “Where are my purse and clothes? My pills are in my purse. I’ll show you the prescription bottle.”
“Let me check with the nurse.” He’s trying to care, but it won’t last long. At least I have his attention right now. “I’ll be right back.”
“Great. Thanks.” I lean my head back against the pillow. I breathe in deeply and slowly exhale. I feel light-headed. This small room feels as if it’s shrinking by the moment, and the hospital’s antiseptic smell makes deep breathing unsatisfying.
When I close my eyes, I hear the pop of Kyle’s skull as it splits like a melon. My stomach tumbles, and I think I’m going to get sick. The bathroom is across the room, but I’m hooked up to an IV, and my hip cries every time I move. Please, I cannot get sick. They’ll never let me out of here if I barf.
The curtain opens and closes, and Dr. Jackson reappears. “The nurse said your purse didn’t come with you.”
“What do you mean it didn’t come with me?” It contains my cell, my medications, and basically my life.
“The nurse contacted the EMTs, and they said your belongings were left behind at the beach house.”
“Are they still there?” I shift and grimace. “I remember setting my overnight bag and purse by the bed in the main bedroom.”
“The EMTs say the house was closed up,” Dr. Jackson says. “It must still be where you left it.”
Shit. I must get my phone and the pills that keep my insomnia and sleepwalking in check. “Where are my clothes?”
“The nurses bagged them. I understand they were badly stained. We also had to cut your pants off to examine your hip.”
“Stained with blood,” I say more to myself. My hands tremble. Blood stains forever, right?
“Let me talk to the nurse. She can get you a set of scrubs.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll call my neighbor.” I reach for the hospital phone.
“No running or long walks at all, Lane,” he warns. “I’m serious. Take it easy for a few months, or that small rip will go full-blown and will require surgery.”
“I’m not doing surgery.” The idea of a surgeon’s blade cutting my skin terrifies me.
“Then take care of yourself. Call me if you need me. I can also put you in touch with a psychologist.”
Kyle was a psychologist. I’m also a semester away from being one. “Thanks.”
He leaves, and I dial my next-door neighbor Shelly’s landline. I remember it because it’s only two digits higher than my phone number when I was a kid. She’s not going to recognize the hospital number and won’t answer, but she has an old-school answering machine. The phone rings six times before the machine picks up. “This is Shelly. Don’t leave a message.”
“Shelly, this is Lane. I’m in the hospital. I need you to go by my place, use your spare key, and get a few things.” I rattle off a list and tell her where I am.
I hang up, shift my weight off my left hip, and lie back on the bed. My body aches, and I still can’t believe Kyle is gone. Kyle. Is. Dead. I should be doing something for him. Calling someone. But my eyes drift closed.

Coming Soon!

The Lies I Told Excerpt

Him

NOW
Friday, January 7, 2022
Richmond, Virginia

The dead were always watching. And they did speak to us, though we rarely noticed.

Normally, the dead didn’t bother me, but the night was cold, dark, and raining, and I was anxious as I gripped a coiled art show flyer and got out of the Uber. A light drizzle fell, and an uneasiness had piggybacked onto my bones with the cold. I was tempted to go home and ignore you. Sane men don’t chase the dead.

But when it comes to you, I’m not reasonable—never have been. So I returned to J.J.’s Pub, a corner, brick building with tall display windows and crimson-red front doors. Inside the vestibule, I unrolled the handbill, coiled tighter than a clock spring, and confirmed that I’d not lost my mind. You were still staring, smiling.

Your red hair swooped around your shoulders like a curtain and framed a face as pale as ivory. Once you had reminded me of an Irish sprite, plucked straight out of Dublin, but now I saw you were Persephone, back from the underworld.

Your gaze held me, reached out, and the longer I studied the ironic humor swimming in those sapphire eyes, the more I remembered our intimate history and shared losses.

A rational mind wouldn’t be lured by the dead or revisit a dangerous past. Turn, leave, and slam the door shut on yesterday.

But this pull between us transcends life and death. And this time I was not going to repeat old mistakes. The past doesn’t have to equal the future. Eyes forward.

I pushed through the bar’s doors, chased in by cold air that lingered at my heels, and shook off raindrops dripping from my jacket. The sounds of piped jazz horns mingled with warmth, laughter, and the smells of beer and french fries. I wasn’t here for the art, food, ambience, or company. Just for you. I needed to see if you were really you. Honestly, I hoped you weren’t, that it was a mistake. I’d spent too many years imagining your face, your smile, the way your eyes closed forever so long ago. I was afraid seeing a knockoff version would only taint my memories. I hoped whoever you were, you’d be ugly, fat, and easy to forget.

The bar was divided into two sections: the main room filled with round café tables and then, off to the side, a sort of annex

There was no one in the main room, but the smaller room held at least a dozen people, and laughter and conversation drifted from it.

J.J.’s Pub’s back room, the gallery tonight, was certainly not Met worthy. A lesser artist might have turned down the space and waited for a better opportunity. But not you. You wanted the world to see the images that rattled in your mind and haunted me.

Outside the room was a sign that read Exhibit. Your picture was not on it. Disappointed, I wondered whether the dead were playing tricks with me again. They’d done this so often that I usually recognized their trickery. I should have just left, but I was still too curious. Please be old and gray. The young and youthful version of you was enshrined in my memory, and I wanted to keep it that way.

A sane man . . .
I brushed the last of the raindrops off my coat and moved toward the room. The space was small, with a low ceiling pitted with pot lights spilling pools of light onto a black-and-white tiled floor. There were no small tables in this space, and the chairs rimmed one wall. This setup gave any visitor a clear view of two dozen black-and-white pictures hanging on the walls, ghosted by the faint impressions of artwork that had hung here before.
On a round table by the door was another flyer, featuring several more images from your show. A makeshift catalog of sorts. The photos were moody, and the shades of gray captured the jagged rocks of the James River. A fast current splashed ragged, jutting boulders, and the combined effect suggested trouble and violence.

The last memory I held of you was on that rocky shoreline, and it still warmed me. You were laughing, a bit drunk, wild eyed, and begging me to kiss you. I still dream of pressing your body against the warm hood of my car on that cold day. Your body was so responsive, eager, desperate almost.

A laugh rose above the din of conversation, and it jerked me back to now. I looked over, and I saw you standing with your back to the wall as you talked to two men. Your smile was as bright as I remembered. Your hair remained a tumble of red curls, and a hint of freckles still sprinkled your nose. A black V-neck blouse dipped between full breasts and skimmed a flat belly before vanishing into faded jeans hugging narrow hips.
I stared, wondering whether you were real. The dead are clever and can play with a man’s mind. They don’t care about feelings or the living’s need to get on with their lives. It’s jealousy, I suppose: they can’t live, so neither can you.

But as you moved among the living, it was clear they all saw you. They talked to you, laughed, smiled. You weren’t a figment of my imagination. You were very real. Perfect.

Tightness clutched my chest as I twisted the rolled flyer into a tighter spiral. I felt suddenly both thrilled and sorry I had come. My grainy memories, replayed too often, were now faded and lackluster. Suddenly they wouldn’t do anymore. Seeing you in the flesh had made them obsolete.

I’d never expected to see you again, beyond dreams and fantasies. And yet here you were, flesh and blood, twenty feet away. My system heated as my thoughts raced and collided. An overload was coming. Never a good thing. I pivoted toward the door.

Outside, I unfurled the paper and looked at the grainy image of your face. I’d thought I had never forgotten one detail about you. But now I saw time had degraded my memory. Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz had jumped from black and white to Technicolor.

“Grabbed my attention!”

Robin (Goodreads)

“Another brilliant Mary Burton book!” Gabrielle (Goodreads)

“You won’t be able to put it down!” Sara (Goodreads)

Chapter 1

Tuesday, March 30
10:00 p.m.

The call from dispatch was a jolt to homicide detective Jordan Poe’s system. After a fifteen-hour shift, she had arrived home, eaten a quick dinner, and settled on the couch to watch a movie. She had immediately fallen asleep.
Now, as she bolted up to the shrill ring, she shook off the sleep and reached for her phone. “Detective Poe.”
“Detective, a woman’s body has been found in Southeast Austin.” Dispatch rattled off familiar cross streets and an address less than ten blocks from her house.
“Tell me.” Jordan cleared her throat as she moved toward the kitchen through her darkened house, illuminated by only the television screen’s light.
She listened patiently as the dispatcher told her about the discovery of a woman’s body. No details about manner of death, but the body was in an advanced state of decomposition. Translation: the smell would saturate anything porous that came within fifteen feet. Full PPE was suggested.
She made a strong pot of coffee, and as it brewed, she brushed her hair, refashioned it into a bun, and splashed water on her face. Ten minutes later, coffee in hand, she pushed out of her front door, wearing yesterday’s clothes. She slid behind the wheel of her SUV, parked in a small gravel driveway by her bungalow. She had inherited the one-story, fifteen-hundred-square-foot house from her mother twelve years ago, and she had spent a lot of that time renovating it. Many of the homes on her block still had their original owners and had not been updated. But the rush of newcomers to Texas had discovered the East Austin neighborhood with wooded lots, and it was a matter of time before the elderly residents sold.
When she arrived on the scene ten minutes later, she had drained her coffee and convinced herself she was not exhausted.
The one-level ranch was painted a mint green. It was surrounded by a chain-link fence encircling a yard filled with tall weeds. Across the street was a heavily wooded empty lot that had turned into a dumping ground filled with discarded tires, an old stove, and piles of brush.
Four cop cars were parked along the house’s curb, their blue lights flashing in the darkness. A forensic van was parked in the short driveway, and two techs were setting up a tent and table. Normally the techs used tents to shield them from the hot Texas sun, and seeing as the sun had nine more hours before showtime, the setup told her they expected to be here well into tomorrow.
Before her mom, little sister, and she had moved to Austin, they had lived in Boston. She remembered the snow had come up to her waist on her sixteenth birthday, and the January air was so cold the windchill drove the temperatures below freezing. That was the day her mother had mumbled something about “being done with this shit,” and the three of them had packed the family’s blue Subaru and driven to Austin.
The day’s growing heat brought her back to the moment. She noticed there were still no reporters on the scene yet, and she was relieved. Crime in this area was standard, but sooner or later the press would catch on and this would all get more chaotic.
She rose up out of her vehicle, grateful to stretch her long, stiff legs. She was craving a good workout, but that was going to have to wait.
Jordan’s low-heeled boots, dusted with dirt from yesterday’s crime scene, crunched against the freshly graveled street as she moved toward the back of her SUV and opened the hatch.
Shrugging off her jean jacket, she tugged on the lightweight PPE suit over a black T-shirt and worn jeans banded by a leather belt. Next it was shoe coverings and latex gloves.
She looked up at the ramshackle ranch. A sign in the front window indicated it was marked for remodeling by a developer who had done dozens of projects in the area over the last year. No doubt, the landowner hoped to sell the property to a newly relocated young professional willing to pay a premium.
A couple of forensic technicians wrestled a large light up the two concrete front stairs and into the house. After a moment, they reappeared, faces grim as one plugged a long extension cord into a generator. A press of a button and the generator jolted to life, and the interior of the house lit up.
A deputy moved toward her. He was tall, lean, a bit gangly, but he had the look of a guy who would fill out.
She guessed he was in his mid-twenties.
“Detective Poe?” he asked.
“That’s right. And you are?” Hints of her Boston accent drew out the last word.
“Officer Wilcox.” They shook hands. “I was first on the scene.” His face was stoic, but his fingers flexed involuntarily. Easy to control reactions on the face, but there was always another body part that gave the nerves away.
First seconds on a scene were precarious and tense. And if you should be so unlucky as to come across a suicide, murder, or infant death, the emotional gut punch was inevitable. “When did you arrive?”
“Two hours ago. The renovation crew chief called it in. He’s still in his truck. Not happy about having to wait for a detective.”
“We all could think of better things to do, including the victim.”
A slight smile tweaked his lips. “That’s for sure. The crew chief figured the dead person was a squatter or drug addict who had died. It’s not rare in this area.”
“I was told the victim is female.”
“That’s right.”
“Any idea of the cause of death?”
“Offhand, I’d say suffocation. But who knows? It’s nothing like I’ve ever seen.” He shifted his feet and flexed his fingers.
“How long have you been on the job?” she asked.
“A year.”
This scene likely was now in the officer’s Book of Firsts. All cops had a book like that, and no matter how full it got, there was always room for a new horror. “Okay. Let me have a look.”
“Want me to come with you?” Officer Wilcox asked.
“Stay in the yard. Fewer people in the house, the better.”
His relief was palpable. “Understood.”
She slid her mask over her face and crossed the gravel driveway, and as she climbed the two front porch steps, the scent of decomposition hit her hard. She stopped, raised her hand to her nose.
“Jesus,” she muttered. Her first year on the job, she had swabbed Vicks under her nose but learned menthol did not conceal rot. These days, she sucked it up, knowing the brain would cancel out the smell after a few minutes.
“Detective Poe!”
She turned toward Andy Lucas, the senior forensic technician in the department. He was short, had a round face and belly, and his ink-black hair showed no signs of graying despite his recent fiftieth birthday.
“Andy.”
“When you get inside, follow the yellow cones to the body. There’s a lot of dust in that room, so I have a prayer of getting a shoe impression.”
“Roger that.”
“Hey, and thanks for the case of beer,” Lucas said.
“A man only turns fifty once.”
“Thank God,” he joked. “Took me days to get over the surprise party.”
She had helped host the event, which was just as much a department morale booster as it was a celebration of Lucas’s half-century milestone. Because she did not drink, she had left early, but the stories, some of which were pretty damn funny, still circulated two weeks later.
She stepped over the extension cord, walked heel to toe beside the yellow cones, which led her into the small main room. Artificial light shone on faded rose wallpaper peeling off old shiplap, four barred broken windows, and clumps of hay nestled in shadowed corners.
She moved toward the illuminated area and the victim. Female, with a slight frame, and naked, she was wrapped in a thick layer of plastic. Her hands were bound, and there appeared to be a bag over her head and a gag in her mouth.
The manner of death stirred memories Jordan had worked hard to forget. Closing her eyes, she drew air into her lungs, her desire to avoid the stench overruled by the need to breathe fully. Tight bands of anxiety squeezed her chest. She closed her eyes, pushing away the past and allowing her mind to settle. This was now. Not two years ago. And she had nothing to worry about.
Slowly, her thoughts collected, and she opened her eyes. Chalk up another experience for her Book of Firsts.
As she did at all fatality scenes, she mentally reclassified the dead person from Human to Evidence. This woman could no longer speak, but her body still might have secrets to share.
The body was badly decayed. Gases had already built up in the belly and burst through the skin, leaving a real oozing mess encased in the plastic. The covering around the body had slowed the bugs attracted to decomposing flesh, but a few had found a small opening and begun nature’s work. Another two weeks and there would not have been much to find.
The plastic bag over the victim’s head was secured in place with a thin drawstring tied in a double-knotted bow.
Jordan had responded to a couple of accidental autoerotic asphyxiation deaths. The people who played this dangerous game cut off oxygen to the brain, sexually stimulated their bodies, and then, seconds before orgasm, released the bag or neck restraints. The rush of oxygen was supposed to heighten the pleasure, but the trick was to remove the bag or rope in time. In both prior, unrelated cases, the victims had been men. One had worn a belt around his neck, whereas the other had chosen a thin cord. Each had passed out before the big O and suffocated to death.
Even if this woman had started this dangerous trek willingly, it was clear she had not been alone at the time of her death. Had the dead woman’s sex partner panicked and wrapped and dumped the body?
At this stage it was impossible to tell the victim’s ethnicity. Her skin appeared to be brown, but Jordan knew that could be from decomposition. Her hair had been icy blond, but the color looked as if it could be found on any drugstore shelf.
Age was another detail that was hard to call. But if Jordan had to guess, she would have said the victim was young.
Footsteps behind her had her turning to see Andy and the other tech, Marsha Brown, enter the room. In full PPE, they looked more alien than human.
“We’d like to get started on the footprints,” Andy said. “They’ll be the first ruined.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Jordan said.
“Are you sticking around?” Andy asked.
“Just standing back and observing.”
As Jordan backtracked her steps to the front door, she imagined other motives behind this killing. With the border 220 miles away, human trafficking was common here. Though coyotes raped and sometimes killed their victims, they generally discarded the bodies on a barren patch of earth in the open sun. Some might take the time to cover the remains with a little dirt or brush, but she had never seen any wrappings this elaborate. Drug dealers and pimps were not strangers to violence, but they rarely went to such lengths with their dead, unless they were sending a message.
The house was marked for renovation, so whoever had left Jane Doe here had known she would be found eventually. Maybe he wanted her found. Maybe it was a sign of misguided respect or contrition for what he had done. Maybe it was a message to someone. Or maybe he simply wanted his work displayed.
But until she could find out more about the victim’s identity, any stab at motive would be conjecture.
Her attention was drawn back to the bound hands tied with precise, tight knots. Like the drawstring, they were double knotted.
Jordan guessed the killer had played with the tension on the bag before he killed her. How many times had he brought her up to the point of death and then carefully loosened the drawstring so she could suck in enough oxygen to stay alive? Had she been a willing participant or a victim? Jordan had seen a lot of crazy shit over the years, but her money was on murder.
Had she been the killer’s first victim? Had he been playing out this erotic scenario for months—if not years? The thick plastic wrap and packing tape, even finding this location, required planning. Forethought. Jordan remembered the woman she had found bound, gagged, and struggling to breathe two years ago, when she’d still been a patrol officer. She’d saved that one, but she had been minutes away from losing her.
“Christ,” she muttered. “What do the footprints look like, Andy?” she asked. “Any idea how many sets?”
“From what I can see, there’re the deputy’s prints as well as another set.”
“Only one other?”
“Yep. The contractor smelled the decomposition and didn’t enter the house.”
“We can assume they are the killer’s prints, and he likely carried her in here?” Jordan asked.
“She’s barefoot and has small feet. I don’t see any prints like that.” Andy killed the big light, and they were plunged into darkness before he shined his flashlight over the dusty floor. Shadowed footprints appeared. “We lost a lot of the killer’s initial foot strikes near the body, but in the corners and around the perimeter we have traces of his footsteps. Lucky for us the place has been abandoned for a while, and the dust was thick.”
Picturing the scene, she imagined a killer carrying in his unconscious victim. That gave him time to get his plastic, tape, and whatever other toys he had brought to this party. By the time the victim had woken up, she would have been naked and immobilized with rope and perhaps under the weight of his body. How long had her struggles to live lasted? Minutes? Hours? Days? For the victim, time must have stretched for an eternity.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Jordan said. “The medical examiner can take the body.”
“Right. Should have a report in a few days, week at the most.”
“Thanks.”
Tightness fisted in Jordan’s chest as she stepped onto the porch. The eyes of the four other deputies settled on her. How many bets had been placed on the newest homicide detective’s reaction? She squared her shoulders and slowly walked down the steps and crossed to the forensic van.
She wanted to rip off the PPE and scrub the stench off her. Suddenly, the protective gear reminded her of the plastic encasing the dead woman. But again, she moved slowly, drawing her gaze up to the nearly full moon before she removed her mask. There were enough women in Texas law enforcement, so she was not an anomaly, but freaking out at a crime scene earned any officer a black mark, regardless of gender.
She dumped the gloves and booties, and then the suit, in the disposal bin. There was no breeze to cool her skin, but with the outer layer shed, she felt lighter.
As she crossed back to her vehicle, she saw Officer Wilcox eyeing her. It was a matter of time before he churned up the courage and asked whatever question was on his mind.
She kept moving, opened the back of her SUV, washed her hands with sanitizer, and from a cooler grabbed a bottle of water as Officer Wilcox approached. She handed the first bottle to him and took a second for herself.
She twisted the water bottle’s top open. “What’s on your mind, Officer?”
“I’ve seen shootings and car accidents. But nothing like that.” Absently, he scraped the water bottle label with his thumb. “This killer took pleasure in what he did.”
“You’re right. Some kill for sport, Officer.” As he drew in a breath and nodded slowly, she added, “It takes planning to find the woman, this location, and assemble the supplies.” She raised the bottle to her lips, savoring the cool liquid in her mouth. “Even if the killing was meant to be a lesson, this killer enjoyed his work.”

“With plenty of possible suspects, Burton’s (Never Look Back) latest will appeal to readers who want light romance and heavy suspense.”  – Library Journal