Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
“We’ve got to earn our pay somehow, Captain,” I answer dryly, though this isn’t fucking funny at all.
It reeks to high heaven.
“You know, guys,” Lucas says, “it’s possible he was just here with someone. What if he fell, and the other person panicked and ran without reporting it? Might’ve been scared they’d be blamed for his death. People turn into idiots all the time.”
“Maybe,” Henri says. “But if someone was out hiking with him, they’d be wearing boots. This looks more like… dress shoes?”
Yeah, I think he’s right.
There’s a nagging suspicion teasing at me.
Dress shoes or loafers—or the severe church-style shoes of someone who dresses like she just stepped out of the year 1800.
Grant grunts. “We’ll sort that out by working the scene. Let’s start off by seeing if he’s got any ID on him. He’s definitely not a townie or anyone I recognize. So we’ll find out who he is, where he came from, and see if we can track down anyone connected.” He rubs a finger to the side of his nose, giving us all that baleful, stern Captain Faircross look. “Let’s keep a lid on the murder talk for now until we can dig up more information.”
Henri frowns, tapping a hand against his knee. “I dunno, Cap. I trust Micah’s instincts on this. Man’s got a nose like a wolf. Feral instincts, tracks like an animal.”
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment,” I mutter before Grant cuts us off with a sharp sound.
“Split up, you bozos. Work the scene, document evidence,” he says. “Micah and Henri, head down the hill. I’ll call in the paramedic team to get the body lifted, but do what you can to find the evidence. Photograph everything. Lucas and I will photograph the footprints up here.”
“Yes, sir, Captain.” I snap off a sardonic salute.
That just gets me an eyeroll. Henri grins, straightening and tossing his head, sending his long shag of brown hair flopping.
“C’mon, renard arctique.” Arctic fox. “Let’s go find out who this guy is.”
Shaking my head, I turn to follow Henri.
We pick our way around the main path up the slope and into the trees, toward where the ground slopes more gently to the bottom and we can skid through without too much effort. The guys always tease me for the way I analyze crime scenes, but right now it’s really sticking with me.
Maybe because it’s how Talia sees me, too.
The way she reacts like I’m an animal, dangerous and feral.
Last night, I almost fucking kissed her.
Blame it on the whiskey, sure.
But like hell I’ll be my father, blaming every bad move on booze alone.
I know full well it wasn’t the bottle.
Truth is, it took everything in my power not to fucking eat her whole when she showed up on my doorstep in that gauzy little dress that let me see the freckles on her shoulders, strewn around the soft curves of her tits. Every last dot made me want to bite her.
To taste her.
To sink my teeth in until she screams.
She looked so innocent. My own Little Red Riding Hood.
And I’ve never felt more like the big bad wolf.
I need to keep my hands to myself—because she is innocent, and the only thing I can do is taint her.
I’m terrible with fragile things.
Right now, I also need to keep my mind on the job, instead of thinking about this ache in the pit of my stomach that makes me want to go find her for no other reason than the fact that I can.
I know I can, and she’d just look at me with those wide blue eyes, like she sees something in me I can’t see myself.
As we reach the bottom of the slope and break through the trees, we nearly trip over the victim’s bag.
Looks like it went tumbling free as he fell and landed several feet away. I put down an evidence marker and leave it where it is until I can photograph it later.
We make our way to the fallen man, flanking him and avoiding the blood as we bend for a better look. Henri pulls several nitrile gloves from the breast pocket of his uniform, shakes them out, and offers me a pair.
“Thanks.” I snap the gloves on and then carefully grip the man’s chin. He’s got sandy-brown hair and a scruffy hipster beard.
His eyes are wide open, pale brown.
There’s a sort of quiet shock etched on his dead face. Like he was startled right before the lights went out.
I gently turn his head left and right.
There’s a little stiffness.
“Rigor. He’s been dead for a few hours, at least. No other signs of trauma. So the impact is definitely the cause of death.”
I carefully settle his head back in the exact position where I found it, then fish my phone from my pocket and start snapping photos. Henri frowns.