Page 55 of Trigger Happy

“Yeah, that’s the one.” I snap my fingers.

The corpse looks like a sea bass covered in one of those salty shells. Must be because of the minerals. It’s probably been in here for a while, too, because it’s mostly decomposed. I can’t make out what she looks like, but she’s bald and toothless. I kind of feel bad for the woman.

Knew our friends were hiding something.

“Smell’s not too bad, all things considered. She must’ve been rotting in here for a while,” I say, getting closer. “Glad I don’t need my tea-tree cotton balls.”

Sabrina lifts up the woman’s stiff arm to check under the armpit. For what, who the hell knows, but she’s got her process. I’m surprised she’s willing to get her hands dirty. “You can thank the hot spring for that. Higher temperatures increase bacterial growth and accelerate enzymatic reactions, which breaks down the tissues faster.”

“How do you know all this?”

She bends down to examine the woman’s arm. “Because I don’t spend all my time looking up ‘can you get a DUI on a horse?’ ”

“Aw, you stalkin’ my search history, Chastain?”

“Can we focus, please?” she says, pulling her phone out of a waterproof baggie.

Because of course she had her phone in a waterproof baggie for a hike when the chance of rain was zero percent.

She goes back to examining the body, but I watch her in all her hair-dripping, micromanaging glory. If it were just me, I would have glanced at the corpse, maybe snapped a photo if I remembered to bring my phone, and then left. Later, I would have gotten pissed when I couldn’t remember if the bruise was on her right or left wrist, but I don’t have to worry about that with Sabrina. She mumbles to herself, making note of everything. It’s impressive how she notices every single detail.

She’s not a bad partner to have.

Her clothes are soaked from the hot spring, clinging to her curves. Every time she bends over, her shirt rides up and I spot those two small dimples on her lower back.

My throat goes dry, but then I see her shiver, and that guilt comes back in full force. I shouldn’t have pushed her, but who doesn’t know how to swim? If her mom ever steps foot into this country again, she’s getting a lecture on the importance of swim lessons, and then a bullet to the head.

But…

After talking to Sabrina, I’m starting to wonder if it was all a sick accident. That doesn’t make it better, but I want to believe her mom didn’t mean for it to happen, because hating Sabrina’s tough to keep up.

Sure, she’s high-maintenance, but she always keeps the barn clean, she’s easy to toss around ideas with, and she oiled all my guns yesterday morning—only because I didn’t do it right, she said. I’ve had other partners, but Walker and I shot so much shit, we’d get distracted, and Katya left me behind during that one car chase. Yeah, Sabrina’s uptight, but she keeps me focused and she’s never once left me behind.

I peer down, doing my own examination so I don’t keep staring at Sabrina’s lower back dimples. “Looks like her wrist might have been broken, which means she could have fought back. Punched whatever asshole did this.”

“There’s no blood on the surrounding rocks either,” she adds. “I mean, it could have been washed away, or…”

I know where she’s going with that. “Or maybe someone moved her here because… Why? This place was important to them?”

Our eyes meet. “That’s what I was thinking too,” she murmurs.

A gust of wind makes the hair on my neck stand. How is there wind? We’re in a cave. I look up to see if there are any bats, but nothing. “You think Bobbi or Arch did this? Think this is why we were hired to stalk them?”

“I don’t know, but this totally feels like something a serial killer would do. Stab your victim and then tattoo the coordinates on your body? It’s just unhinged enough to be plausible,” she says, snapping photos of the corpse. “Sorry, babe. Bald is not your look.”

I stare at the woman’s shaved head and squint, something tugging at the back of my mind. She could be bald from natural decomposition, but… I remember a photo from years ago with the same lack of hair. “Do you remember the Barber of Bastrop?”

She stops taking pictures. “The serial killer?”

“Yeah.” I nudge the body’s leg with my boot. “The one who always shaved their victims’ heads.”

“You think it’s related?” she says, sliding her phone back into the waterproof baggie.

“Could be.”

She’s quiet for a long while, and I stay silent so she can think. “Wasn’t he mostly active in the Southeast?” she says.

“No one ever confirmed it was a he.”