Page 12 of Sinister Secrets
A long moment of silence passes before I admit, “I’m not entirely sure. Wadcutting, maybe? Or metal jacket?”
I can feel both men staring at me as I look down at the mud-smeared body, my gut screaming that the strange entrance wound is just the tip of the iceberg. Hesitantly, I reach out and flip first one of the hands, then the other, revealing what I feared when I first glimpsed them floating just beneath the murky surface of the water. The tips have been burned, leaving pale, empty blisters where there should have been prints.
Rich clears his throat. “They’re not going to make it easy on us, are they?”
I shake my head, afraid to speak, because as unfamiliar as this wound is, there’s one thing that’s not—the buzzing hum that fills my head. The same one that filled it as I raced up those basement steps to find my partner flat on his back, eyes unblinking as they stared emptily at the ceiling, a shotgun blast to his chest. The one that I’ve come to associate with danger.
Whoever did this, they left the body here knowing it would be discovered, yet they took extensive measures to make their victim hard to identify. Why? The two actions in conjunction with each other don’t make sense.
Killers usually either want the spotlight or the shadows. This one seems to seek both. So what exactly is it that they’re hoping to achieve? A chill courses through me, making me shiver as I realize that the message they sent isn’t mixed, but rather very loud and very clear.
They’re playing a game.
My vision narrows to a pinpoint. My lungs refuse to fill. Locking my limbs, I make drawing in air my sole focus, because I will not have a panic attack in front of Sheriff Kingston. I refuse to show any sign of weakness in the man’s presence.
I remind myself that I have a proven track record of catching killers. Of surviving. Whoever did this made a very big mistake, because I don’t intend for that to change.
Finally, my lungs inflate. My vision clears. The tremor deep inside my core subsides. I can do this.
“When do you think the ME will perform the autopsy?” I ask, my voice sounding strangely detached.
“I think he’ll want to move this one to the front of the line, so my guess is tomorrow. You want me to call you when I know for sure?”
“Please. I want to be there.”
“I figured you would. How about you?” he asks, turning to face the sheriff.
Kingston’s throat stretches beneath pale skin as he swallows hard, nodding.
“Great. It’s a date then.”
My eyes meet the sheriff’s, and for the very first time we have something in common—neither of us thinks that this is going to be enjoyable.
CHAPTER 8
I turn off the shower tap, finally giving up on scrubbing off the reminders of the day, like the stubborn shadow of mud that mars one ankle. The grass stain across a raw patch of skin from where a vine tripped me while I was exploring the path the trespasser had taken to dump the body in Chomp’s pond. The image of the corpse’s destroyed face that’s been seared onto the back of my retinas.
Drying off, I squeeze the excess moisture from my hair before hanging the towel on the rack. The moment I enter the bedroom, a heavenly scent almost sweeps me off my feet. Quickly, I pull on some clothes and stumble down the hallway, bouncing off one of the boxes from my apartment. Find Jake in the kitchen, his back to me as he unpacks a plastic bag of to-go boxes onto the counter. Crossing the room, I wrap my arms around him from behind and squeeze.
“Hey,” he laughs, setting down a Styrofoam container and covering my hands with his. “I missed you, too. How’d it go today?”
I shake my head against his back, not wanting to ruin the moment by speaking.
“Cassie?”
I allow him to pull from my embrace. He turns to face me, his expression matching the concern in his tone.
“Everything okay?” He frowns as he cups my cheek in his hand.
“It is now.”
His voice is a low growl as he asks, “Did Kingston give you trouble?”
“Surprisingly, not as much as I would have expected. It’s just been a long day.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“I’d rather hear about yours.”
