“Well, I’m telling you, there’s a victim there. Quasi doesn’t make mistakes.”

  “He must have.” She frowned. “Only two people were reported missing in the entire neighborhood. This would be number three.”

  “Like I said. Quasi doesn’t make mistakes, and he was confirming a hit by another dog.” Parker scrubbed a hand over a jaw covered in stubble. “I marked the location with flags. You do what you want with it.”

  “I’m sorry, Parker,” she said sincerely. “I don’t mean to call your expertise into question. Of course, I’ll check it out. And I’ll do it right now.”

  He nodded and turned toward the makeshift parking area for workers. Maggie doubted he was done for the day, but since Quasimodo just lighted on a victim, he would rotate out for another dog. This same dance had been going on from sunup until sundown for days now while they checked every home in the large neighborhood, not just the ones whose owners were reported missing.

  She continued her course, the first few drops of rain hitting her face. By the time she reached 5040, a steady drizzle was falling. She was glad to see that the crew had already erected a canopy with light over the location to preserve the remains. She stopped to settle a particulate respirator over her mouth and nose and stepped off the road.

  She worked her way through the rubble, her boots sure and solid when the ground underneath shifted. Passing by the house, a spiral staircase climbed eerily toward the dark sky. She would never forget the sights and smells of this recovery. Bad dreams haunted her for days now, but she wouldn’t let that scare her off when desperate families needed her help.

  She slogged through the debris to the back of the property, where ashen trees stood forlornly looking over the remains of what was once a storage shed. Near the red flags planted by Parker, she set her bag on the ground and snapped pictures of the area for documentation, taking long shots first and moving on to close-ups.

  She stowed her phone and set to work, carefully excavating rubble. She found bases for a rake and shovels, the steel impervious to the hot fire, but their wooden handles were gone. Before long, she found her first bone, a femur. Hoping that she might have found an intact skeleton, she continued, carefully picking up and discarding debris from atop the bones. The work was painstakingly slow, but hours later, she reached the upper body covered with a large steel wheelbarrow, and she lifted it off.

  Experts told her that this fire burned close to twenty-two hundred degrees, taking most everything in its path. But the melting point of carbon steel was over twenty-six hundred degrees, which is why metal structures remained intact.

  As she settled the wheelbarrow out of her way, the sun disappeared below the horizon. Didn’t matter. No way she’d quit before learning more about this body. But she needed to turn on the overhead light to continue working.

  She stood and stretched up to click on the bulb. She took a moment to give her leg muscles a chance to recover from squatting and let her gaze roam the quiet site. Her fellow workers had all taken off. Not unusual. She worked late most nights by herself just to keep up with the demand for her skills. And standing there wasn’t going to get it done.

  She squatted again to brush away more debris, revealing a narrow, heart-shaped pelvis that told her she was looking at the remains of a male. One of the missing men? Neither of them lived at this address, but it was possible this guy came over here to get a hose or some other tool to try to stop the fire from spreading.

  Eager to find leads on his identity, she moved up to the skull. The head was turned to the side, and she spotted a circular hole in the parietal bone in the rear. The wound beveled in, one of the most obvious responses of cranial bone to ballistics.

  This man had been shot.

  “No way.” She sat back on her heels and stared.

  Murdered. Someone murdered him. That was obvious by the location of the wound. He couldn’t have shot himself in the back of the head.

  She examined the front of the skull but didn’t find an exit wound. The slug was most likely still in the skull. Would make sense if the wound was caused by a handgun and small-caliber bullet. She quickly measured the entrance wound. Yeah. Small caliber. Most likely a handgun.

  She glanced around, looking for the weapon, but found none. She wanted to do more. To look for the actual slug. But this was a crime scene now, and the medical examiner and county sheriff needed to take over.

  Heart hammering, she hurried down the street toward the recovery truck lit by a hastily rigged streetlight so she could make the call and get additional equipment. She passed a burned-out car with melted aluminum rims running in rivulets down the street, the metal now solidified. Past the other homes, their foundations dark with eerie shadows.

  At the truck, she pushed up the respirator and snapped off her latex gloves to dig out her phone.

  “Nate,” she said after the sheriff answered. “Dr. Turner here. I’m at Summit, and I found something you’ll want to check out.”

  “What’s that?”

  She leaned against the truck and described her findings. “The circular hole along with the beveling in the skull is clear evidence of a gunshot wound. This man was murdered.”

  “Oh, man.” He sighed out a long breath. “You’re sure.”

  “Yes. The wound is a classic bullet wound, and he was shot in the back of the skull.”

  “Which is unlikely for a self-inflicted wound unless the guy rigged something up to hold the gun and pull the trigger.”

  “Right,” she said, her mind racing to make sense of this scene. “And odds are good that he didn’t do that. Much easier to shoot himself in the mouth or temple.”

  “I’ll get on the horn with the ME and get her out there. If you need to take off, I’ll dispatch a deputy to protect the scene.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until we figure out if this guy is one of our missing men.” She shook her head. “Imagine that. A murder in the middle of this terrible tragedy.”

  “You think you’ve seen everything in this job and then…” His voice fell off, but he didn’t have to say more. After years of working forensic anthropology investigations, Maggie got it.

  “Okay,” Nate said. “I’m about thirty minutes out.”

  “I’ll wait for you at the shed.” She disconnected and stowed her phone. This was such a crazy turn of events, and it was likely going to be a long night. She should grab a bottle of water and protein bar from the cab before getting the equipment.

  She rounded the truck and came up short.

  A man stood in the dark, the moon barely outlining him.

  Her heart seized with fear, and her arms went out in an automatic defensive posture.

  “Hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” The guy held up his hands and stepped out of the shadows, taking away a bit of the fear factor. He had an average round face, full beard, and glasses making him appear kind of scholarly…like one of her fellow assistant professors or one of the older students on campus. In fact, he seemed familiar somehow.

  “Do I know you?” she asked, trying to get a good look at his face with shadows still hiding much of it.

  He shook his head. “I just got off work and wanted to check on my house. My place is one of the few that survived.”

  He sounded legitimate and didn’t look all that threatening, but still, she wished she had a weapon of some sort or was still on the phone with Nate.

  “Which house is yours?” she asked, hoping to ferret out the truth.

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Big blue one on the left about a half mile down. Wife put that ginormous concrete fountain out front. Can’t miss it.”

  Maggie remembered the house and fountain he was describing.

  “It’s crazy how some houses escaped damage, isn’t it?” he asked.

  She nodded and started to relax. The fire didn’t burn as hot in some areas, leaving entire homes in the subdivision without any damage. The destruction all depended on how the fire hopped from one location to another.

  “Not that I’m gonna live here anytime soon.” He frowned. “Not with the destruction all around. Still, I check on the place every day. Pick up a few more things. Never know about looters.”

  “I’ve been working here for days and haven’t seen anyone who wasn’t here to help.”

  “Good to know.” He tilted his head. “You’re working kind of late, aren’t you?”

  “There’s much to be done.”

  “You’re the anthropologist, right? Saw you on the early news tonight.”

  She nodded and hoped he didn’t gush about her volunteer work the way others were doing. She was just a regular person whose skills allowed her to be of assistance in this dire time.

  “Well, on behalf of myself and neighbors, thank you.” He smiled and erased all worry from her mind. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  She nodded. “Nice talking to you.”

  He took off down the street, and she headed for the cab to grab her water and bar, glancing over her shoulder along the way to make sure he kept going. He strolled down the middle of the barren street, the only safe place to walk at night—the best place even in broad daylight. She chugged some water, stowed the bottle and bar in her apron pocket, then went to the back of the truck. She unlocked it and climbed in.

  The victim’s teeth, though ashen gray—meaning they were extremely fragile—were intact and could be compared to dental x-rays of the missing men as a quick method of confirming his identity. She would use a handheld x-ray device for that. With only fragments left to recover, no one used it for days, and she suspected it was buried in one of the bins on the truck’s shelves. She worked her way down the right side, pulling out containers, digging through each one until she reached the front of the vehicle.

  She found the device in a lower bin. Finally. She pulled it out, and carefully set it on the floor. She stood to stretch, her lower back stiff from bending over ruins.

  An arm came around her neck, jerking her back against a hard body.

  She screamed.

  Once. Twice. Loudly.

  Then he cut off her air supply. Totally. Completely.

  She strained to speak. Couldn’t emit even a peep. Tried again. Failed.

  She only had a minute—maybe less—to get free before blackness settled in.

  Hurry! Hurry!

  She clawed at the arm in long frantic gashes. His long sleeves prevented her from ripping into his skin. She reached up. Clutched a fistful of hair. Yanked hard. Pulling. Tearing.

  The man grunted but didn’t release her.

  “I’m not going away for murder,” he said, his tone like a hissing snake.

  What in the world?

  He tightened his hold.

  She tried to suck in air. Couldn’t gain a breath. Not even a sip of oxygen.

  The darkness came, obscuring her vision. Beckoning her. She blinked hard. Blinked again but couldn’t fight the shadows descending over her eyes.

  2

  The screams tore through Jackson’s body.

  Maggie. He was too late, and she was in trouble.

  He bolted from Vince’s battered old pickup and charged into the subdivision. He could use help. One of his teammates. Why did he insist on Riley remaining at Maggie’s place in case she came home?

  Stow it. He couldn’t do anything about that now.

  He raced toward a large truck parked under a streetlight. Probably a truck used to store recovery supplies. He hoped to find Maggie there—unharmed. He ran full out and rounded the back of the vehicle. The door was open. A man stood, his back to Jackson, struggling with a woman. Was it Maggie?

  “Let her go!” Jackson charged toward the door.

  The man spun, releasing the woman. She crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath.

  Jackson climbed onto the wide bumper.

  The man bolted, barreling into Jackson and knocking him off. He hit the road hard. His head slammed into the concrete, and his breath whooshed out. The man landed on top of him.

  Wooziness had Jackson blinking hard. He reached up to restrain the man, but the attacker scrambled to his feet and took off. Jackson tried to turn. To get a good look at the fleeing suspect, but his equilibrium was off, and he couldn’t focus.

  He pushed up on his elbow. The entire area whirled before him, and he couldn’t move without everything spinning wildly.

  Some protector he was.

  Get up, man. Get up.

  Seriously, he needed to dig deeper. Draw on reserves he knew he possessed.

  He gulped in air and forced himself to sit up. He saw the woman still laying in a heap in the truck. He glanced in the direction where the man had taken off, but the guy was long gone. Jackson could try to go after him, but the woman might need immediate medical attention, and Jackson had first aid training from his army days.

  He got to his feet and stumbled the few steps to the truck like a town drunk. The woman lifted her head. Their gazes connected.

  “Maggie,” he said her name, one that he never thought he’d utter in her presence again. His throat clogged with emotions.

  “Jackson.” His name rasped out, and she clutched her throat. “Is that you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That man. He tried to kill me.”

  “I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “What?” She screeched, finding her voice, her gaze darting around the area. She was heading toward shock or was already in shock.

  He needed to calm her down. He climbed into the truck, nearly losing his balance but making it upright, and offered his hand. He expected her to refuse, but she pressed her fingers into his. The touch of her skin sent a bolt of heat straight to his heart.

  He was suddenly back in college. Back at the hospital. Back with her on that last day when they’d made their promise, and he fled from her life…from their loss…like a coward. Now here he was. His heart still as raw and broken.

  Shake it off, man. Put it all back in the recesses of your mind and help Maggie. Protect her.

  He gently tugged her to her feet and led her out of the truck so she could sit on the bumper. The minute their feet hit the ground, she started crying, tears running down her cheeks and making rivulets through the dust clinging to her face.

  “Aw, honey, don’t cry,” he said, knowing if tears were flowing, she was totally destroyed inside. An incredibly strong woman, she rarely cried in the time he’d known her. Okay, fine, not so rarely after the tragedy ended their relationship. Then she couldn’t seem to stop.

  She turned green eyes up to his, her head tilted, leaving her ponytail hanging over her shoulder. Her full mouth quivered. The mouth he’d kissed hundreds of times and felt the same irresistible draw to kiss now. He wouldn’t follow his desires, but he also wouldn’t stand idly by while she broke down in front of him.

  He drew her close, and she came willingly, surprising him. She settled in, fitting her body against his. Her head rested on his chest just below his chin, the fit as perfect as he remembered. Her tears turned to gut-wrenching sobs. He tightened his hold and stroked her back covered with dust and ash.

  Imagine if he hadn’t gotten here in time. When he and Riley had arrived at her house, her roommate told him she was working this recovery scene. If he hadn’t come or even if he’d argued with Gage another minute…no, he wouldn’t think about that. He was here with her, and she would be all right. Once she got over the shock of the attack.

  He loosened his hold to dig out his phone and dial 911. She didn’t seem to notice his movements or the call. He got that. Shock often consumed everything else, burning and devouring like the fire that almost erased this subdivision and many acres surrounding it.

  He gave the operator concise details of the attack, and after receiving a promise for a deputy to report to the scene, he stowed his phone. Maggie continued to sob, though her chest heaved less. He rubbed circles on her back and laid his head on top of hers, trying to comfort her the best he knew how. Her crying eventually turned into quick little hiccups, and she planted delicate hands on his chest to push back. He wanted to continue holding her, but he let go and led her to the bumper where he sat by her side.

  “A deputy’s on the way,” he said, breaking the ice.

  She turned and peered at him as if seeing him for the first time since he arrived before looking down. Maybe with the shock she’d gone on autopilot and now she realized he was the one who came to her rescue. The one who’d held her so close.

  “I’m so thankful you’re here,” she said, the tenor of her voice throaty and raw. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough, but…” She raised her eyes to his, her gaze searching deep. “I thought we promised not to see each other again.”

  He expected her to say that, but it still hurt to hear. “I had no choice.”

  Disbelief flashed across her face. “We all have choices.”

  His thoughts traveled back to their breakup. “No, we don’t.” The words slipped out in a whisper before he even thought about them. “You of all people should know that.”

  She jolted back as if he’d slapped her.

  “I’m sorry, Maggie. I shouldn’t have said that,” he said over a lump forming in his throat. “I did have a choice about coming here, but when I learned your life was in danger, I had to come.”

  Her face turned ashen, and she shot a look around. “You think my attacker is still here?”

  “No. No,” he soothed. “He’s long gone, but the ongoing danger isn’t.”

  “I don’t understand.” She started rubbing her fingers together, over and over as if trying to rid herself of her attacker’s touch.

  “You know Scott Dawson, right?”

  “The murdered student.” Her tone climbed into the quiet night. “How could I not? He was killed in the lecture hall I use. But what does that have to do with me?”

  “The investigating sheriff ran out of leads so Scott’s father hired my team to find the killer.”