Chapter 6

Jess

The house is navy, a two-story Craftsman. Lovely, if a bit unloved, in need of some TLC. I slow my motorcycle, wheels crackling over frost-coated gravel, and stop next to an unmarked Explorer. I flip open the compartment for the hand-operated side stand and yank the lever. It pops open near my right heel as I kill the throttle.

I unsnap my cane, get my balance, and dismount. One year today and I'm still adjusting to my limitations, to the things I can no longer do.

I hang my helmet on the handlebars, a gust of wind tugging at my hair, the icy bite almost blistering. I hunch deeper in my winter parka as I pull out my phone. I read the text from Lieutenant Galloway again, a strange, sticky feeling hitting me.

Relief. Something to distract me from the fact that the anniversary is today. What'd my shrink call it, a traumaversary ? The events, everything that happened, everything I lost, swirling in my head.

I need to keep my head full, my hands busy, away from the amber bottle in my cupboard. It's why I'd volunteered to be on call for the weekend.

Need you to check out a house. 4200 Lakeside Court. A backpack found there has been handed into the station. May be related to the Harper case. Could be a secondary crime scene. I'll send Shane along, too.

The Harper case.

It rings a bell. Not my case, but a case like that casts a long shadow. A family went missing last Christmas. No witnesses. No ransom demands. No motive. Just an entire family, vanished with barely a trace.

I was still in the hospital at the time, learning to walk again, losing myself in pain meds, then booze, trying to escape everything that had happened.

I look around, feeling a strange sort of unease, a sense of something looming. The house is set on a private lot across the street from a small field that leads to Killer's Grove.

The dark copse of wood is smaller than when I first moved to Black Lake over a decade ago, the trees cut back, new housing developments growing faster than the old oaks. Still, Killer's Grove has a reputation. Witch gatherings, ghost sightings, and then the unexplained disappearance of the Harpers last year. People say it's haunted.

Once upon a time, I would've laughed at this. I know better than that now.

I turn my attention back to the house.

Approaching a crime scene—even a secondary one—isn't just about the evidence or the crime. It's a full-body sensory immersion. It's about the bent grass and the direction it lays, the acrid scent of gunpowder lingering in the air, the blood spatter and how a body has fallen and the stillness in the air, like a soul has just left it.

I limp up the path, feeling a brittle stab of annoyance that Shane hasn't roped off the property yet, step one of any investigation. And another stab that I've been sent Shane Townsend, our most junior detective.

Today of all days, the anniversary, I don't have the patience for it.

My nose wrinkles at the smell of old cat pee, the boxwoods lining the pathway, and I climb the steps. As I reach the door, my skin prickles, cold chills scattering along my neck. I glance over my shoulder, scan the front yard, the gravel drive, the field across the street. There's no one there, but in my peripheral vision I see the blinds in the large bay window flutter.

Another stab of annoyance. Who has Shane let inside?

My cane makes a hollow thunk-thunk on the hardwood floor as I enter into a sparsely furnished living room. Someone's hung Christmas lights. A sprig of mistletoe droops from an arched beam. Couches are pushed against the wall, the nut-brown hardwood flooring beneath scuffed. The ceilings are high, the walls a bland beige.

The place smells of bleach and Windex and just slightly of stale booze. Beer and something sweeter. Whiskey. My mouth waters, and for a second the urge to drink is so overwhelming that I have to close my eyes.

I fumble in my pocket and grasp my one-month chip. For a little while, alcohol became my first love, my biggest crutch, more essential than the cane I now use for my shitty leg. I grip the chip, staring down at my closed fist, the torn, ragged flesh around my nails. I can still see blood on them, still feel it. Like it's seeped into my skin.

I move into the living room, to the large bay window where someone was watching me. But there's no sign of anybody now.

"Shane?"

"Down here." Shane's voice floats out from an open door at the end of the hallway.

"Don't you want to rope off the house?"

Shane appears in the hallway, his red hair tousled, faint circles under his eyes, his clothes a little rumpled, like he was out partying late, pulled from a deep sleep early. He has a pleasant face, young, naive, with bright freckles spattered over his nose; quick, intelligent eyes; and a mouth that naturally forms an easy smile.

"Sure. I only just got here."

I peer past him. "Did you guys find anything?"

He gives me a quizzical look. "I'm on my own."

I frown. Is he lying?

He shoots me that aw shucks smile that charms people so easily, one of those people who's eternally happy. It's pretty rare in our line of work. I wish I could be the same.

"Shall we have a look downstairs first?" I say, stepping around him.

The stairs down to the basement are dark, dusty. I lean hard on my cane, my leg dragging.

"Watch yourself, they're a bit rickety," Shane says from behind me.

I reach the bottom and look around. It's cold and smells damp and musty. It's packed with junk: a broken running machine, mismatched suitcases, stacks of old newspapers. There's barely any floor space to walk around.

Shane bumbles his flashlight, almost dropping it. I try not to roll my eyes as I snap on gloves and suggest he follow suit. Sometimes in this job, you get a feeling, and I have that feeling now, a fissure of alarm, something tingling along my spine.

We take opposite ends of the basement, walking it slowly. The lights are on, but it's still dim, gloomy. Dust prickles my nose.

"You out partying last night?" I say, for something to fill the silence.

"Ha. No, not my scene," he says with a chuckle.

"Ah." I smirk. "Hot date."

Shane's pale skin flares red, even in the murky light. "No."

I shrug, catching the hint. I'm not one for sharing details of my personal life, either.

"Backpack was found in there." Shane points at a steamer trunk that lies on its side, lid propped open.

I get to my knees with difficulty and direct my flashlight inside. Shane keeps moving, flashlight jumping over old weights, stacks of boxes, shelves of moldy books.

My flashlight lands on something smeared across the edge of the trunk. In the thin yellow light, I know instantly what it is.

"We've got blood."

Across the room, Shane turns sharply to hurry to me, but his foot catches on a suitcase and he trips, arms outstretched, legs tangled. He and the suitcase both fall, landing on the floor with a heavy thud.

Dust poufs into the air, making me sneeze. "You all right?"

But Shane doesn't answer. He's staring at something, his expression one of horror.

I follow his gaze.

And I know I won't be focusing on the anniversary today.

Because emerging from the suitcase he just knocked over is an arm.