“Did he tell you who was threatening him?”

  “No.”

  Zac leaned forward, sending his companion a stern frown. “Jacob, I’m trying to find the people who hurt your brother,” he chided. “I need a name.”

  “I don’t have one. Jude never said. He only told me he needed to disappear.”

  Zac tried to imagine what had happened. Jude no doubt had arrived in a panic, expecting his older brother to solve his latest problem. A familiar situation. But faking a death seemed extreme.

  “Why didn’t he just move away?” Zac asked. “People vanish all the time.”

  “That’s what I said.” Jacob lifted a shaky hand to rub his bald head, as if it was aching. Was it grief for Jude? Or the strain of trying to dredge up the memories? “He said they would never stop hunting him. He insisted we had to convince them he was dead.”

  “So you faked his funeral.”

  Jacob continued to rub his head, his expression petulant. “I didn’t do nothing wrong. There was no funeral. I bought a plot and put up a headstone.”

  “And dug a grave,” Zac added.

  The man blinked, his hand slowly lowering as he regarded Zac in confusion. “I scraped up some ground. Just enough to make it look as if someone had been recently buried. I wasn’t going to the time and expense to hire someone to dig an empty grave.”

  There was a sincere horror in Jacob’s voice at the suggestion of wasting money. Zac made a mental note to check the man’s finances. Had he benefited from Jude’s death? He wouldn’t doubt it. On the other hand, Zac was willing to accept that he hadn’t known about Staci Gale. Or whoever it was they’d uncovered. The man might not be as sharp as he’d once been, but he was a cagey salesman who would have a ready lie to explain any stray bodies found in the grave.

  “It wasn’t empty,” Zac said.

  Jacob frowned. “What wasn’t empty?”

  “There was a body in the grave.”

  A long silence settled between them. As if Jacob was waiting for him to continue. Then he made a sound of impatience. “So? That happens. The graveyard didn’t keep records until the 1880s. They accidentally dig up old coffins all the time.”

  “It wasn’t an old coffin.” Zac carefully watched Jacob’s face. “The body was wrapped in a tarp and tossed into the ground you disturbed twenty-eight years ago.”

  “What?” The man jerked back, his eyes darting from side to side. “That’s impossible.”

  “I have the body to prove it.”

  “Stop it.” Jacob struggled to his feet, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. “You’re trying to confuse me. I put up a headstone and scraped up some ground. I didn’t put any damned body in there.”

  Zac shoved himself upright, eyeing the strange color that was crawling beneath the man’s face. “I’m not accusing you, Jacob. I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”

  “What happened is my brother is dead. I want to know who did it. Why aren’t you out there finding his killer?” The man’s voice was spiraling toward a harsh shout as he worked himself into a rage. “I want Rudolf in charge of his murder.” He faltered, glancing around in confusion. “Where’s Rudolf?”

  There was the squeak of footsteps on the tiled floor before Bailey abruptly appeared in the doorway. “Is anything wrong?”

  “I’m late.” Jacob rubbed his head, his expression troubled. “What time is it?”

  “Everything is fine,” Bailey assured him, moving to take his arm in a gentle grip.

  “The funeral . . .” Jacob sent her a pleading glance. “I need to get to work. I can’t be late.”

  Bailey grimaced. “I think he needs to go back to his room and rest.”

  Zac nodded. It was obvious they weren’t going to get anything else out of Jacob. Not today. “Can you let me know when he’s feeling better?”

  “Sure.”

  Bailey led Jacob toward the door, his steps shuffling and his shoulders stooped. He looked old and tired.

  With a grimace, Zac crossed the room to where Rachel was tucking her phone into her leather satchel.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  She nodded moving to stand next to him. “I had my team do a quick search for the Dr. Dickerson that signed this.” She waved the death certificate.

  “And?”

  “There was a Dr. Dickerson in Grange on the date that Jude was pronounced dead at his apartment.”

  His eyes narrowed. There was an expression on her striking features that he easily recognized. Satisfaction.

  “Please tell me he’s still alive.”

  “Nope.” She handed him the death certificate. “He was killed by a hit-and-run driver. Two days after Jude’s death.”

  Zac pursed his lips, releasing a low whistle. “Damn.”

  * * *

  Paige Carr stormed out of the small trailer she shared with her husband, Joe, and their two-year-old daughter, Zoe. After a day dealing with Zoe’s ear infection, a broken toilet, and babysitting the next-door neighbor’s kids after school to make some extra money, she was done. Done with a capital D.

  Yanking open the door of her battered secondhand car, she tossed in her purse and did her best to ignore the large man who was following behind her, his chest bare despite the icy bite of the night breeze.

  “Damn it, Paige,” he rasped. “Where are you going? It’s my Friday night bowling league.”

  Reluctantly she turned back to glare at the man who’d been her husband for the past three years. He was still handsome with reddish hair cut short and a broad face that was freshly shaven. And while he was starting to put on a small gut, he was still muscular from his hours working at the farmers’ co-op. She, on the other hand, couldn’t claim to be aging with the same grace. She kept her dark hair cut short so she didn’t have to bother with it and she’d never fully taken off the baby weight. Plus, she had dark circles under her brown eyes from spending the past two nights trying to soothe a crying child. She was starting to look and feel like an old woman, and it scared the hell out of her.

  “And last night you had to meet the guys for a beer after work,” she reminded him in tart tones. “And this weekend you plan to go hunting with your dad.”

  Joe grimaced, but he refused to concede he’d been a total jerk lately. “I work hard at the co-op,” he whined. “What’s the big deal if I let off some steam with my friends? Their wives don’t nag at them.”

  Of course they didn’t, she thought bitterly. They were all off having fun with the delivery man, or neighbor, or local bartender. She didn’t want another man. There’d never been anyone for her but Joe.

  All she wanted was a break.

  “Well I work hard too,” she reminded her husband. “And then I spend every night alone with a squalling two-year-old. Tonight I’m going to let off steam and you’re staying home.”

  “Can’t you get your mother—”

  “No,” she hissed, glancing toward the open door of the trailer. “I’ve made dinner and given Zoe her bath. All you have to do is read her a bedtime story and tuck her into bed. Seriously, how hard is that?”

  He stepped toward her, reaching out to cup her face in his hands. “Come on, Paige,” he wheedled. “Tonight we’re bowling the first-place team. The guys will shit if I miss.” He leaned down to brush a kiss over her mouth. “I promise next week I’ll be home.”

  How many times had she melted when this man kissed her? How many times had she given in to whatever he wanted? Even when she knew he was manipulating her.

  Well, not tonight.

  Lifting her hands, she shoved him away. “I’m not sure I’ll be here next week.”

  He scowled as she climbed into the car and switched on the engine. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Figure it out.” She slammed shut the door and put the car into reverse.

  The engine sputtered, as if it was going to betray her, then with a loud rattle she was rolling out of the driveway.

  “Wait!” Joe dashed into the road as she stopped to put the car in drive. He pounded on the window. “Dammit, at least tell me where you’re going.”

  Rolling down the window, she sent him a defiant glare. “I’m going to the Bait and Tackle to meet Pam,” she said, not caring if her nosy neighbors heard she was headed to the local bar. Living in the trailer park was like living in a fishbowl. “Don’t wait up for me.”

  Gunning the engine, Paige squealed away. A part of her knew she was acting childish. Her mother would happily have taken care of Zoe. She adored her only grandchild. And it wasn’t even like she wanted to go to the bar. She’d been a party animal when she was in high school, but since getting married, she preferred to spend time with her family.

  But after weeks of having Joe devote more and more time away from home, she decided if she didn’t take a stand, nothing was going to change. She needed to teach Joe she wasn’t his maid, or babysitter, or convenient body in his bed. If he wanted to keep her, then he’d better start paying attention.

  Driving across town, Paige slowed as she reached the plain brick building with large windows that was framed by the dentist’s office and laundromat. The narrow street was already lined with cars. Paige sighed. Since the new owner had taken over, the place had been cleaned up and a local band had been hired to play. There was always a crowd on Friday night.

  Circling the block, Paige pulled into the alley behind the bar and switched off the engine. She wasn’t going to park blocks away. Not when she was wearing her only good pair of heels. If the cops wanted to tow away the piece of shit car, then they could knock themselves out.

  She paused long enough to tug at the hem of her dress. It was shorter than she remembered. Or maybe she just filled it out more, she conceded. Then she headed toward the back door. She thought she heard the crunch of footsteps against the icy pavement behind her, but she didn’t bother to turn.

  Lots of customers came out here to have a quick smoke.

  She was reaching for the doorknob when a hand appeared from behind her, as if it was going to keep the door pressed closed. For a second, she assumed that Joe had followed her. How dare he bring Zoe to this place?

  She’d started to turn, when the hand slammed over her mouth and something soft was pressed against her face. A shirt? A towel? She reached up to grab the wrist, gagging at the chemical scent that was flooding her nose.

  Was Joe playing some sort of game? Was he trying to scare her from going to the bar with her friend? It didn’t seem like something he’d do. But he’d been pissed when she’d left. Desperately yanking on the attacker’s wrist, she lifted her foot and brought it sharply down on the foot behind her. She heard a muffled grunt and she felt a burst of satisfaction. That would teach Joe to . . . to . . .

  To what? Paige blinked, trying to concentrate. She needed fresh air. That acrid stench was clouding her brain. And worse, her knees were suddenly refusing to hold her weight. Clutching the wrist, Paige no longer tried to shove the attacker away, she struggled to keep from falling to the ground.

  It was a losing battle as the world condensed to a small pinprick of light, her head falling backward as arms wrapped around her limp body.

  * * *

  She is perfect. The right age, the right family. The right looks. The right amount of bitch. A shame her hair is so short but otherwise she fulfills my needs.

  I study her in satisfaction. She has been stripped naked, revealing the pale, perfect body that I had enjoyed. More than once.

  Now that my physical hunger has been sated, I’ve arranged her on the narrow gurney with her arms stretched over her head and her legs bound together.

  I allow myself a smile as anticipation curls through my gut. My blood is hot as the flames that used to burn in the nearby crematorium. I’ve waited for the moment for so long. A part of me longs to give in to my savage desires. There’s a devil inside that’s ready and eager to be released. But I remind myself that I’m not a savage. Unlike my master I possess an appreciation for artistry. Anyone could be a brute. I am a maestro. An artist. A master of my craft.

  I’m not going to ruin my first kill with sloppy haste. I force myself to take a deep breath, easing my grip on the crowbar I hold in my hand. It isn’t the most elegant weapon. In fact, it’s tediously cliched, but I promised myself to walk in the same footsteps. How else can I prove I am superior in every way?

  I move to stand over the woman. She’s beginning to regain consciousness. Good. I long to hear her screams. Lifting the weapon I wonder how many ribs I can break before puncturing a lung.

  “Welcome to the game, Paige . . .”

  Chapter 5

  Rachel pulled her SUV into the driveway and switched off the engine. In front of her was the house where she’d been born and raised. It was a white two-story home built on the edge of town with black shutters and a sharply angled roof. There was a wraparound porch complete with a wooden swing and ceramic pots that were filled with flowers during the summer. Behind the house was a large open field where Rachel had organized neighborhood games of hide-and-seek and baseball and swimming in the shallow creek. So many fun memories.

  But it was also where the greatest tragedy of her life had occurred. With a grimace, Rachel jumped out of the car and climbed onto the porch. She didn’t know if there would ever come a day when she could return home without it being tainted by the past, but it seemed doubtful.

  Rachel shoved away her dark thoughts even as a shiver snaked down her spine. She told herself it was from the cold. The sun was cresting the horizon, but the air was still frigid enough to coat the wooden planks of the porch in frost.

  Lifting her hand, she rapped her knuckles against the door. Less than a second later it was pulled open, revealing that her mother had been watching out the window for her to arrive.

  “Come in.” The slender, dark-haired woman stepped aside. She was wearing gray pants with a patterned silk blouse, and her hair was pulled into a sleek bun at the back of her head. DeeDee Fisher always looked perfectly polished. As if she were a doll, not a flesh-and-blood woman. Rachel assumed it was because she was married to the manager of the local bank and she felt she had a social position to maintain, but it was also possible that she used her perfect exterior to cover the broken woman underneath. “I’ve told you there’s no need to knock.” DeeDee closed the door. “This is your home.”

  Rachel ignored the chiding, glancing around the living room that had been recently redecorated in cool shades of silver and gray. The furniture was low and sleek and looked extremely uncomfortable, but Rachel knew it made her mother happy. Or at least the renovations kept her mind occupied.

  “Something smells delicious,” Rachel said, sucking in a deep breath. “Bacon? And pancakes?”

  “Yes.” Her mother smiled, pleased by Rachel’s dreamy expression. “Eggs and bacon, with your favorite blueberry pancakes.”

  “I told you not to go to a lot of bother.”

  “When does your mother ever listen to what anyone says?” a male voice tartly demanded.

  Swallowing her rueful sigh, Rachel glanced toward the entrance of the hallway where a tall, solidly built man with silver hair was standing, wearing dark slacks and a crisp white shirt.

  Wilson Fisher was close to sixty, but he looked forty from a distance. He worked full-time at the bank, and golfed on the weekends when the weather was fine, and jogged at the local high school gym when it was cold.

  Walking across the silver carpet, Rachel brushed a kiss over his recently shaved cheek. “Hello, Dad.”

  “Good to see you, Rach.” He stepped behind her to help her slip off her leather jacket to reveal her jeans and casual sweatshirt. It was Saturday morning, and while she was never truly off duty, she was planning to spend most of the day at the motel going over her file on Kim Slade, while searching for additional information on Jude and Jacob Henley. “It’s been too long.” Her father got in his own subtle rebuke. “You look skinny. Are you eating?”

  “Like a horse,” she assured him.

  “Come into the kitchen and prove it,” DeeDee commanded, headed toward the opening across the living room. “I want your plate cleaned.”

  Obediently following her lead, Rachel entered the long room with white cabinets, a ceramic-tiled floor, and stainless steel appliances. Unlike the living room, the kitchen was warm and inviting. Her mother loved to cook and it filled the atmosphere with an infectious joy.

  Taking a seat at the large wooden table, she watched DeeDee efficiently filling three plates while her father poured her a mug of coffee and set it in front of her.

  “Don’t worry, I made it,” he said with a wink.

  It was a running joke in the family that DeeDee could cook like an angel, but her coffee tasted like sludge.

  Rachel reached for the mug, taking an appreciative sip as her mother placed a plate in front of her. Grabbing her fork, she dug in, her stomach rumbling in pleasure at the sticky sweet taste of pancakes slathered in warm maple syrup. She rarely had time to make a homemade meal, and even if she did, it wouldn’t taste like this. Cooking was a talent she’d never bothered to acquire.

  DeeDee sat next to her, eating with far more decorum than her daughter. Of course, everything DeeDee did had more decorum.

  “Before I forget, Aunt Trina wants you to come to dinner on Tuesday,” the older woman told Rachel. “And the church luncheon is on Thursday. The ladies will be expecting you to make an appearance.”

  Rachel polished off a piece of bacon before answering. She’d already braced herself for this argument. DeeDee would organize every second of Rachel’s life if she allowed her.

  “This isn’t a vacation, Mom. I’m here to work.”

  “You can’t work every second of the day.”

  “No, but my hours are never regular. I can’t make plans when I’m on a case.”

  DeeDee clicked her tongue. “Everyone should have time off. And it’s not like we ever get to see you. When was the last time you were home? Six months at least.”

  “Don’t pressure the poor girl.” Her father intruded into the familiar lecture.