Page 2 of What Doesn't Kill You…

She examined the red brick wall and nodded. “Would have taken quite a bit of force to cause that kind of damage.” It went without saying that someone trained to put their full body weight behind a kick could have done it—someone like her.

With latex gloved hands, Murray leaned over and opened the buttons on the front of the dead man’s shirt. A large red welt appeared in the middle of his pasty-white chest. Violet’s breath hitched in her throat.

“Boot print,” she said, fighting hard to keep the relief out of her voice.

“Wee bit bigger than your tiny feet.” Murray sounded as relieved as she felt. His eyes caught hers as he ran a hand over his shaven head. “There will still be questions, Violet. And probably a suspension to weather.”

Her jaw clenched again. You hit one too many people in self-defense and suddenly you’re a pariah. It wasn’t like Scottish cops had guns to threaten off dangerous criminals. No, all they had to back them up was the weight of the law and the hope their prey would surrender. It wasn’t a great strategy when you were a female cop who barely skimmed five-feet tall, and it didn’t help that her Chinese heritage had gifted her with a slight build and a face that looked barely out of its teens. There was always the odd dirtbag who decided to strike out at a fragile-looking cop rather than surrender. Weirdly, they were always surprised when she struck back.

As another vehicle angled into the wide alley between old tenement buildings, the beams from its headlights bounced off the wall beside the victim’s head and Violet sucked in a breath.

Murray, who missed nothing, said, “What? What did you see?”

She walked around to the other side of the body before crouching again. Holding her breath, she shone her flashlight on the wall beside the killer’s head. A chill went up her spine.

The light beam wobbled slightly as she looked over at her boss. “It’s another message.”

Grimly, he stood and came over behind her.

“Well, hell,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” was all Violet could think to say.

Scratched into the brick, beside the victim’s head, were the words: your welcome. The exact same words, with the exact same grammatical error, that she’d found near the last two criminals she’d been suspected of killing. Both of whom she'd had violent altercations with on the day they'd died. It was a coincidence that'd worried her. Now, she realized it was actually a pattern. A very deliberate pattern.

Her boss rubbed his chin, appearing suddenly weary. “Hate to say it,” he said, keeping his voice low. “But I think you’ve got a?—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, cutting him off.

But it was too late, the word was in the air between them.

Stalker.

Violet Lee, Detective Inspector, had a violent stalker. One who targeted the suspects who hurt her. With something like this hanging over her head, there was no way in hell management would ever let her out of the office again. She’d be stuck on desk duty until they caught the bastard. And seeing as they didn’t have even a shred of evidence hinting at who it could be, that would be a very long time indeed.

She stared at the words scratched into the wall and knew exactly what they signified. They weren’t a clue to a killer. They were the death knell of her career.

Toronto, Canada

That same year

Max Durant clenched his fists against his thighs and fought the urge to punch his boss. He wasn’t a violent man. He preferred to take his revenge on the printed page but, seeing as that avenue had been stolen from him, he’d settle for dishing out a bloody nose.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Ronald Chambers said with a weary sigh. “You want to hit me. You think you’re the first reporter to come into my office with that look in your eye? You won’t be the last either. But you may as well face facts. My hands are tied. The publisher wants this story buried and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“It’s bullshit and you know it.” Max managed to spit the words out.

Ronald loosened his tie, leaving it crooked. “It’s business. You can’t bite the hand that feeds you and get away with it. The owner’s family and the Poole family go way back. Hell, they even have neighboring weekend cottages up in Muskoka. Lake Joseph, I believe.”

Of course they did. And by cottages, Ronald meant mansions.

“I have a good story here.” Max paced the carpet in front of Ronald’s desk. Behind him, the blinds had been pulled on a wall of windows separating the editor from the newsroom outside. “I have proof that Damien Poole is involved in a criminal enterprise.”

“You don’t have proof.” Ronald waved a dismissive hand at the documents in front of him. “You have suspicion, rumors, and conjecture. You know better than to try to push a story through on this alone. Face it, in your eagerness to go after some rich asshole, you rushed the job.”

“I have a witness who saw Damien talking to a Russian mobster.”

“You have a waitress who overheard some stuff she doesn’t fully understand.”