And there they were.

  On the back seat of the bus, singing along with their classmates, happier than most of them. Mother or no mother, I had provided a good life for them in our little town of Cocoa Beach. As a detective working for the Brevard County Sheriff’s Office, working their homicide unit, I had lots of spare time and they had their grandparents close by. They received all the love in the world from me and their grandparents, who loved them to death (and let them get away with just about anything).

  Some might think they were spoiled brats, but to me they were the love of my life, the light, the…the…

  What the heck were they doing in the back?

  I hit the brakes a little too hard at the red light. All the kids on the bus fell forwards. The teacher, Mrs. Allen, whined and held on to her purse.

  “Abigail and Austin!” I thundered through the bus. “Stop that right now!”

  The twins grinned and looked at one another, then continued to smear chocolate on each other’s faces. Chocolate from those small boxes with Nutella and sticks you dipped in it. Boxes their grandmother had given them for snack, even though I told her it had to be healthy.

  “Now!” I yelled.

  “Sorry, Dad,” they yelled in unison.

  “Well…wipe that off or…”

  I never made it any further before the phone in my pocket vibrated. I pulled it out and started driving again as the light turned green.

  “Ryder. We need you. I spoke with Ron and he told me you would be assisting us. We desperately need your help.”

  It was the head of the Cocoa Beach Police Department. Weasel, we called her. I didn’t know why. Maybe it had to do with the fact that her name was Weslie Seal. Maybe it was just because she kind of looked like a weasel because her body was long and slender, but her legs very short. Ron Harper was the county sheriff and my boss.

  “Yes? When?”

  “Now.”

  “But…I’m…”

  “This is big. We need you now.”

  “If you say so. I’ll get there as fast as I can,” I said, and turned off towards the entrance to the zoo. The kids all screamed with joy when they saw the sign. Mrs. Allen shushed them.

  “What, are you running a day-care now? Not that I have the time to care. Everything is upside down around here. We have a dead body. I’ll text you the address. Meet you there.”

  5

  APRIL 1984

  ANNIE WAS GETTING ready. She was putting on make-up with her room-mate Julia, while listening to Michael Jackson’s Thriller and singing into their hairbrushes. They were nineteen, in college, and heading for trouble, as Annie’s father always said.

  Annie wanted to be a teacher.

  “Are you excited?” Julia asked. “You think he’s going to be there?”

  “He,” was Tim. He was the talk of the campus and the guy they all desired. He was tall, blond, and a quarterback. He was perfect. And he had his eye on Annie.

  “I hope so,” Annie said, and put on her jacket with the shoulder pads. “He asked me to come; he’d better be.”

  She looked at her friend, wondering why Tim hadn’t chosen Julia instead. She was much prettier.

  “Shall we?” Julia asked and opened the door. They were both wearing heavy make-up and acid-washed jeans.

  Annie was nervous as they walked to the party. She had never been to a party in a fraternity house before. She had been thrilled when Tim came up to her in the library where she hung out most of the time and told her there was a party at the house and asked if she was going to come.

  “Sure,” she had replied, while blushing.

  “This is it,” Julia said, as they approached the house. Kids a few years older than them were hanging out on the porch, while loud music spilled out through the open windows. Annie had butterflies in her stomach as they went up the steps to the front of the house and entered, elbowing themselves through the crowd.

  The noise was intense. People were drinking and smoking everywhere. Some were already making out on a couch. And it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet.

  “Let’s get something to drink,” Julia yelled through the thick clamor. “Have you loosen up a little.”

  Julia came back with two cups, and…Tim. “Look who I found,” she said. “He was asking for you.”

  Annie grabbed the plastic cup and didn’t care what it contained; she gulped it down in such a hurry she forgot to breathe. Tim was staring at her with that handsome smile of his. Then, he leaned over, put his hand on her shoulder, and whispered. “Glad you came.”

  Annie blushed and felt warmth spread through her entire body from the palm of Tim’s hand on her shoulder. She really liked him. She really, really liked him.

  “It’s very loud in here. Do you want to go somewhere?” he asked.

  Annie knew she wasn’t the smartest among girls. Her mother had always told her so. She knew Tim, who was pre-med, would never be impressed with her conversational skills or her wits. If she was to dazzle him, it had to be in another way.

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Let me get us some drinks first,” Tim said and disappeared.

  Julia smiled and grabbed Annie’s shoulders. “You got him, girl.” Then she corrected Annie’s hair and wiped a smear of mascara from under her eyes.

  “There. Now you’re perfect. Remember. Don’t think. You always overthink everything. Just be you. Just go with the flow, all right? Laugh at his jokes, but not too hard. Don’t tell him too much about yourself; stay mysterious. And, whatever you do…don’t sleep with him. You hear me? He won’t respect you if you jump into bed with him right away. You have to play hard to get.”

  Annie stared at Julia. She had never had sex with anyone before, and she certainly wasn’t going to now. Not yet. She had been saving herself for the right guy, and maybe Tim was it, but she wasn’t going to decide that tonight. She didn’t even want to.

  “I’d never do that,” she said with a scoff. “I’m not THAT stupid.”

  6

  JANUARY 2015

  WEASEL WAS STANDING outside the house as I drove up and parked the school bus on the street. The house on West Bay Drive was blocked by four police cars and lots of police tape. I saw several of my colleagues walking around in the yard. Weasel spotted me and approached. She was wearing tight black jeans, a belt with a big buckle, a white shirt, and black blazer. She looked to be in her thirties, but I knew she had recently turned forty.

  “What the…?” she said with a grin, looking at the bus. She had that raspy rawness to her voice, and I always wondered if she could sing. I pictured her as a country singer. She gave out that tough vibe.

  “Don’t ask,” I said. “What have we got?”

  “Homicide,” Weasel answered. “Victim is female. Laura Bennett, thirty-two, Mom of Ben, five years old. The husband’s name is Brandon Bennett.”

  My heart dropped. I knew the boy. He was in the twins’ class. I couldn’t believe it. I had moved to Cocoa Beach from Miami in 2008 and never been called out to a homicide in my own town. Our biggest problems around here were usually tourists on spring break jumping in people’s pools and Jacuzzis and leaving beer cans, or the youngsters having bonfires on the beach and burning people’s chairs and leaving trash.

  But, murder? That was a first for me in Cocoa Beach. I had been called out to drug related homicides in the beachside area before, but that was mostly further down south in Satellite Beach and Indialantic, but never this far up north.

  “It’s bad,” Weasel said. “I have close to no experience with this type of thing, but you do. We need all your Miami-experience now. Show me what you’ve got.”

  I nodded and followed her into the house. It was located on a canal leading to the Banana River, like most of the houses on the back side of the island. The house had a big pebble-coated pool area with two waterfalls, a slide, and a spa overlooking the river. The perfect setting for Florida living, the real estate ad would say. With the huge palm trees, it looked like true paradise. Until you stepped inside.

  The inside was pure hell.

  It was a long time since I had been on a murder scene, but the Weasel was right. I was the only one with lots of experience in this field. I spent eight years in downtown Miami, covering Overtown, the worst neighborhood in the town, as part of the homicide unit. My specialty was the killer’s psychology. I was a big deal back then. But when I met Arianna and she became pregnant with the twins, I was done. It was suddenly too dangerous. We left Miami to get away from it. We moved to Cocoa Beach, where my parents lived, to be closer to my family and to get away from murder.

  Now, it had followed me here. It made me feel awful. I hated to see the town’s innocence go like this.

  My colleagues from the Cocoa Beach Police Department greeted me with nods as we walked through the living room, overlooking the yard with the pool. I knew all of them. They seemed a little confused. For most of them, it was a first. Officer Joel Hall looked pale.

  “Joel was first man here,” Weasel said.

  “How are you doing, Joel?” I asked.

  “Been better.”

  “So, tell me what happened.”

  Joel sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  “We got a call from the boy. He told us his mother had been killed. He found her finger…well, the dog had it in his mouth. He didn’t dare to go upstairs. He called 911 immediately. I was on patrol close by, so I drove down here.”

  “So, what did you find?”

  “The boy and the dog were waiting outside the house. He was hysterical, kept telling me his parents were dead. Then, he showed me the finger. I tried to calm him down and tell him I would go look and to stay outside. I walked up and found the mother…” Joel sniffled again. He took in a deep breath.

  “Take your time, Joel,” I said, and put my hand on his shoulder. Joel finally caved in and broke down.

  “You better see it with your own eyes,” Weasel said. “But brace yourself.”

  I followed her up the stairs of the house, where the medical examiners were already taking samples.

  “The kid said his parents were dead. What about the dad?” I asked. “You only said one homicide.”

  “The dad’s fine. But, hear this,” Weasel said. “He claims he was asleep the entire time. He’s been taken to the hospital to see a doctor. He kept claiming he felt dizzy and had blurred vision. I had to have a doctor look at him before we talk to him. The boy is with him. Didn’t want to leave his side. The dog is there too. Jim and Marty took them there. I don’t want him to run. He’s our main suspect so far.”

  We walked down the hallway till we reached the bedroom. “Brace yourself,” Weasel repeated, right before we walked inside.

  I sucked in my breath. Then I froze.

  “It looks like he was dismembering her,” Weasel said. “He cut off all the fingers on her right hand, one by one, then continued on to the toes on her foot.”

  I felt disgusted by the sight. I held a hand to cover my mouth, not because it smelled, but because I always became sick to my stomach when facing a dead body. Especially one that was mutilated. I never got used to it. I kneeled next to the woman lying on the floor. I examined her face and eyes, lifted her eyelids, then looked closely at her body.

  “There’s hardly any blood. No bruises either,” I said. “I say she was strangled first, then he did the dismembering. My guess is he was disturbed. He was about to cut her into bits and pieces, but he stopped. “I sniffed the body and looked at the Weasel, who seemed disgusted by my motion. “The kill might have happened in the shower. She has been washed recently. Maybe he drowned her.”

  I walked into the bathroom and approached the tub. I ran a finger along the sides. “Look.” I showed her my finger. “There’s still water on the sides. It’s been used recently.”

  “So, you think she was killed in the bathtub? Strangulation, you say? But there are no marks on her neck or throat?”

  “Look at her eyes. Petechiae. Tiny red spots due to ruptured capillaries. They are a signature injury of strangulation. She has them under the eyelids. He didn’t use his hands. He was being gentle.”

  Weasel looked appalled. “Gentle? How can you say he was gentle? He cut off her fingers?”

  “Yes, but look how methodical he was. All the parts are intact. Not a bruise on any of them. Not a drop of blood. They are all placed neatly next to one another. It’s a declaration of love.”

  Weasel looked confused. She grumbled. “I don’t see much love in any of all this, that’s for sure. All I see is a dead woman, who someone tried to chop up. And now I want you to find out who did it.”

  I chuckled. “So, the dad tells us he was sleeping?” I asked.

  Weasel shrugged. “Apparently, he was drunk last night. They had friends over. It got a little heavy, according to the neighbors. Loud music and loud voices. But that isn’t new with these people.”

  “On a Sunday night in a nice neighborhood like this?” I asked, surprised.

  “Apparently.”

  “It’s a big house. Right on the river. Snug Harbor is one of the most expensive neighborhoods around here. What do the parents do for a living?”

  “Nothing, I’ve been told. They live off the family’s money. The deceased’s father was a very famous writer. He died ten years ago. The kids have been living off of the inheritance and the royalties for years since.”

  “Anyone I know, the writer?”

  “Probably,” she said. “A local hero around here. John Platt.”

  “John Platt?” I said. “I’ve certainly heard of him. I didn’t know he used to live around here. Wasn’t he the guy who wrote all those thriller-novels that were made into movies later on?”

  “Yes, that was him. He has sold more than 100 million books worldwide. His books are still topping the bestseller lists.”

  “Didn’t he recently publish a new book or something?”

  Weasel nodded. “They found an old unpublished manuscript of his on his computer, which they published. I never understood how those things work, but I figure they think, if he wrote it, then it’s worth a lot of money even if he trashed it.”

  I stared at the dead halfway-dismembered body on the floor, then back at the Weasel.

  I sighed. “I guess we better talk to this heavily sleeping dad first.”

  7

  JANUARY 2015

  “WHO WAS THAT guy you talked to last night?”

  Joe walked into the kitchen. Shannon was cutting up oranges to make juice. She sensed he was right behind her, but she didn’t turn to look at him. Last night was still in her head. The humming noise of the voices, the music, the laughter. Her head was hurting from a little too much alcohol. His question made everything inside of her freeze.

  “Who do you mean?” she asked. “I talked to a lot of people. That was kind of the idea with the party after my concert. For me to meet with the press and important people in the business. That’s the way it always is. You know how it goes. It’s a big part of my job.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder. A shiver ran up her spine. She closed her eyes.

  Not now. Please not now.

  “Look at me when you’re talking to me,” he said.

  She took in a deep breath, then put on a smile; the same smile she used when the press asked her to pose for pictures, the same smile she put on for her manager, her record label, and her friends when they asked her about the bruises on her back, followed by the sentence:

  “Just me being clumsy again.”

  Shannon turned and looked at Joe. His eyes were black with fury. Her body shrunk and her smile froze.

  “I saw the way you were looking at that guy. Don’t you think I saw that?” Joe asked. “You know what I think? I think you like going to these parties they throw in your honor. I think you enjoy all the men staring at you, wishing you were theirs, wanting to fuck your brains out. I see it in their eyes and I see it in yours as well. You like it.”

  It was always the same. Joe couldn’t stand the fact that Shannon was the famous one…that she was the one everyone wanted to talk to, and after a party like the one yesterday, he always lost his temper with her. Because he felt left out, because there was no one looking at him, talking to him, asking him questions with interest. He hated the fact that Shannon was the one with a career, when all he had ever dreamt of was to be singing in sold out stadiums like she did.

  They had started out together. Each with just a guitar under their arm, working small clubs and bars in Texas, then later they moved on to Nashville, where country musicians were made. They played the streets together, and then got small gigs in bars, and later small concert venues around town. But when a record label contacted them one day after a concert, they were only interested in her. They only wanted Shannon King. Since then, Joe had been living in the shadow of his wife, and that didn’t become him well. For years, she had made excuses for him, telling herself he was going through a rough time; he was just hurting because he wasn’t going anywhere with his music. The only thing Joe had going for him right now was the fact that he was stronger than Shannon.

  But as the years had passed, it was getting harder and harder for her to come up with new excuses, new explanations. Especially now that they had a child together. A little girl who was beginning to ask questions.

  “Joe…I…I don’t know what you’re talking about. I talked to a lot of people last night. I’m tired and now I really want to get some breakfast.”

  “Did you just take a tone with me. Did ya’? Am I so insignificant in your life that you don’t even talk to me with respect, huh? You don’t even look at me when we’re at your precious after party. Nobody cares about me. Everyone just wants to talk to the biiig star, Shannon King,” he said, mocking her.

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Am I? Did you even think about me once last night? Did you? I left at eleven-thirty. You never even noticed. You never even texted me and asked where I was.”