Dead Don't Lie

The job was her life. Her life, the job...and not many men understood that. She’d tried, had gone on a few dates, but finally gave up after the last man told her that being with a cop wasn’t such a turn-on after all.

After she poured the wine, she leaned against the cool granite counter and looked out the window over her kitchen sink. She had a clear view of sweet old Craig Meyer puttering in his kitchen next door. She smiled and took a sip of wine. Maybe he was baking tonight. Occasionally, he’d bring her some pumpkin muffins, which she adored. It was the only time she ever saw him. He mostly kept to himself, but hopefully he’d bring some baked goods over soon.

Glass in hand, she reached for the bag of lavender she’d bought before the murders and headed toward the stairs, desperate to relax. She couldn’t wait to slip into the hot water and let the strain of the past week seep from her cells. She hadn’t realized just how much this case had leached from her until now. Every muscle screamed at her. Her legs felt like lead as she slowly climbed the steps. Lavender heaven, here I come.

But she didn’t make it to her watery bliss. Instead, the small office directly across from her master suite called to her. She stepped into the room, moved to the desk and sank into the black leather office chair.

Grisly case photos, case files, newspaper clippings and handwritten notes—some colored with age—peppered the wall. Large eight-by-ten, colored photos of her family adorned it as well, a constant reminder of her loss. Sadness rolled over her, its familiar chill lingering as she settled into the chair. She took a sip of wine and swallowed back tears. Stepping into this room always tore at the scabs around her heart, opening the wound deep within her soul. She knew it, yet couldn’t break the hold it had over her.

The same drive to bring closure to the families she encountered on an almost daily basis also drove her to this room time and time again to bring closure to her own loss.

Tremors had torn through her the night she’d brought Kate and Ryan up here for the first time. The thought of losing the people closest to her had made her stomach roll. She’d half expected them to drag her straight to the closest psych ward. Who obsessed about their family’s murder but a crazy person? Instead, Kate walked up to her, wrapped Evelyn in her arms and whispered, I get it. Ryan had solemnly paced in front of the wall and started reading. When he’d turned to look at Evelyn, his face was soft. She’d sagged against the table and nodded, a small quiver of a smile on her lips.

And that was that. They were family.

The three of them didn’t talk about it often. They didn’t need to. It was Evelyn’s battle, which they’d respected. She’d been forever grateful for their silent strength. Kate would occasionally ask her how it was going. The two women didn’t need to clarify what it was—they knew.

As Evelyn sipped her Malbec and studied all the information that hadn’t changed in fifteen years, her cell chirped. Setting the glass down on the desk, she grabbed her phone. A message from Kate illuminated the small screen.

I know what you’re doing, E. Go to bed. You can’t cover my hot husband’s back if you’re falling asleep. Love you. K

Evelyn laughed. Her friend knew her too well. She hugged herself as she turned back to the wall. The vise around her heart tightened. Would she ever crack this case? Ever bring closure to the always-present questions surrounding her family’s death? Would she ever be able to move on to the next season of life, and all the promise it held: A husband, a family? Or would she be like her adorable, but completely isolated neighbor—alone, tethered to this wall for the rest of eternity?

She pushed herself up from the desk and looked again at the wall as a wave of fatigue washed over her. Sighing, she put down the now-empty goblet. Kate was right. Evelyn needed sleep—desperately. She pulled her shirt over her head, crossed the hardwood floor to her room and wrestled out of her jeans. With zero regard for her nightly routine, she crawled under the extra-heavy down cover and closed her eyes.

Within two heartbeats, Evelyn was asleep.

It seemed like only minutes later that shrill sounds jostled her from a dreamless sleep. For a moment, she lay there in the dark, fully awake, staring at the ceiling fan swirling on its axis. Another scream from her phone jerked her upright. Reaching for the obnoxious device, she cast a peek at the red digits of the alarm clock sitting on her nightstand: 4:00 a.m. Shit. This couldn’t be good.

“Davis,” she said, already rolling out of bed and reaching for her jeans.

“We have another one,” Kessler’s voice barked through the phone. “I need you down here. Now.”

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_d8af447f-b80a-5934-8097-bab9de057e84)

EVELYN’S STOMACH CHURNED. This marked the third case mimicking a family annihilator in as many weeks. One was uncommon, two completely unheard of. Now a third one. Crap. If the chief wasn’t thinking serial killer before, he certainly was now.

She drove through the black wrought-iron gates of their latest victims’ home. Her MINI Cooper’s tires crunched. She pulled up next to Ryan’s FJ Cruiser, threw her car into Park and took a deep breath. She got out of her vehicle and faced the house. Even darkness couldn’t hide its beauty. It wasn’t quite grandiose, but it was close. She sighed, then hunched her shoulders against the cold wind and marched toward the curving marble steps that lead to the ornate glass doors. Ryan met her on the top stair.

“You look like hell,” she said.

“Right back at’cha, babe.”

He handed her a steaming cup of coffee. “Compliments of Kate.”

“I love your wife.” She inhaled the strong aroma, grateful for her friend.

“Not more than I do.” He smirked and jerked his thumb toward the door. “Our babysitter is inside.”

“Oh, yeah?” Evelyn raised her eyebrows and looked toward the house. Her heart raced a little at the thought of seeing Agent Moretti. Where did that come from? “When did he arrive?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

“Great. Who’s heading up the CSI team?” She didn’t want to think about the handsome Fed any more than she had to.

“Jake Campbell.”

Perfect. He knew his stuff. She raised her cup, sipped the molten liquid and stepped into the house.

They found Jake and Marcus in the oversize living room to the left of the grand foyer. A white marble mantel framed the walk-in fireplace that took up half the far wall. Two purple wingback chairs flanked it. A matching set mirrored them. Above the mantel sat a large portrait. The family’s faces smiled at them. Twin frames sat to the right, showcasing the children.

“Jake?”

As Ryan and Evelyn approached, the CSI officer rose from his place in front of one of the chairs. He barely looked old enough to drive, and still had the acne to prove it, but he was one hell of an investigator. If Evelyn had her choice, she’d handpick him to be her CSI lead every time.

“Hey, guys,” Jake said.

“Agent,” Evelyn said and nodded in Marcus’s direction. How was it possible for him to look so good even just after 4:00 a.m.?

“Evelyn.” Marcus smiled, pulling heat from every cell within her.

“What have we got?” she asked, turning her attention to Jake.

Jake shook his head. “Whoever did this is certifiably nuts.”

“You won’t get any argument there,” Ryan agreed.

Jake motioned for them to circle the chair. Evelyn looked at the man’s head, or what was left of it, and her stomach heaved. Should’ve grabbed a scone before chugging that coffee. She swallowed hard. Just like the last male victim, his head had been blown off. And just like the last scene, the wife lay at her husband’s feet.

Jake knelt, and they followed suit. With the tip of his pen, he pointed to a crimson stain seeping through the woman’s green silk pajama top. “See here. She was shot in the heart, then stabbed repeatedly. Twenty-seven times.”

“Holy shit,” Ryan said. “You sure?”

“See the lack of blood spray?” Jake pivoted on his toes and pointed to the wall. “If her heart was still beating while the unsub inflicted these wounds, there’d be more blood splatter.”

Ryan turned away from the woman’s mutilated body. “That’s truly disgusting.”

Evelyn whistled. “That’s a whole lot of rage.”

“He’s escalating his pace.” Marcus looked up, concern in his face.

She rose. “And we’ve still got nothing.”

Evelyn scanned the room. Something was missing. Rather, not something, but someone.

“Where are the children?”

Jake shook his head, eyes downcast. “They’re upstairs. Both smothered in their beds.”