Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
It’s like chasing a ghost.
Just glimpses of him up ahead, always too far away.
I’m stumbling through underbrush, tripping over fallen branches, flailing and just barely catching myself before forging on.
This time, it’s different.
If I don’t catch him, I never will.
It’s like I’m electrified, something unnatural pushing me on, forcing me after him, because there’s something here, some answer, some secret I have to know.
And even if there isn’t—
He’s hurt. Bleeding from the mouth, limping, obviously dazed and confused.
If I don’t do something, he could die out here.
But I’m worried I’ve lost him.
I can’t hear anything but my own crashing footsteps and raging heartbeat.
No more of those glimpses, no snapping twigs up ahead, no sign of him at all, but I keep moving.
And I nearly smack right into him as I break through a gap in the trees into a clearing thick with stacks of orange and brown leaves.
He sways in front of me.
Only for a second while I stop in my tracks, staring.
Then he collapses like a falling tree, wheezing as his lanky frame falls down in a pale tangle of limbs at my feet.
At first I don’t see it, not when I’m on my knees, searching for a pulse.
But once I see he’s still alive, the churned-up patch of dirt next to him catches my eye.
There, the bones protrude from the ground, sharp off-white fingers of human ribs stabbing up at the sky.
17
ONE GOOD TURN (GRANT)
When you’ve been a cop as long as I have, you learn to trust one thing.
If something smells bad, it’s probably rotten.
Right now, this whole situation stinks to high heaven.
The clearing in the woods on the west side of town, just on the far edge of the tiny central shopping district, is a riot of color.
The violent yellow-orange of October leaves.
The retina-burning contrast of red and blue patrol lights flashing, clashing with the red and orange of the whirling ambulance flashers.
The black-and-white patrol cars.
The vibrant green of the last few pine needles slowly turning dull for winter.
Then there’s the blaring red of that man’s blood, so coppery crimson it’s loud.
It spills down his chin, turning muddy brown as the splatters left behind soak into the disturbed earth.
Also, the sickening paleness of those bleached bones.
The skull is just a dome protruding from the dirt. One empty socket partly exposed, staring at me like it’s waiting for me to give it a name.
Now I get why some folks say the dead can be more demanding than the living.
God-fucking-dammit.
Every time I think I’ve learned just how fucked up the secrets in this town are, something darker turns up.
Someone else.
This deep instinct inside me twitches, aching to know, but also afraid to find out who.
I might not like knowing who those bones belong to.
Still, it’s part of the job.
Tearing my gaze away from the unmarked grave, I refocus on the paramedics carrying that man to the back of Redhaven’s lone ambulance. They push the stretcher up the small slope of hill to the highway visible in snatches just past the woods.
My crew stalk through the scene like scavengers, staking out the clearing with police tape, cordoning it off in yellow lines that add another garish splash of color to this unholy ground.
One of the EMTs breaks away, giving the man one last troubled look before jogging over with her brown ponytail bouncing.
“Captain Faircross?” she says breathlessly. “Hey, I’ll get you a full medical workup for your police report once we’ve had a good look at him at the medical center, but...”
“But?” I prompt.
“Right now, it’s looking like attempted suicide,” she says reluctantly. “From taking his vitals, he’s going into organ failure. Vomiting blood was a classic sign. Some sort of toxic substance, I bet. It’s possible he tried to kill himself with rat poison, antifreeze—there are a ton of household cleaners that could do the trick. Even overdosing on some OTC meds. Actually, I’d put my odds on that, this dude wandering off under the influence. Anyway, once we run toxicology, I’ll have a better idea for you.”
“Thank you,” I grind out. That’s the only thing I can manage when my mind’s still stuck on her very first words.
Attempted suicide.
Second suicide in less than a month.
Don’t fucking tell me it’s not connected to the Arrendells.
No matter what Montero said—no matter what fucking front they put up, parading their staff in front of me—that uniform doesn’t lie.
It’s the same suit every other butler there wears.
They’re connected, somehow.
Cora Lafayette’s death and this strange man’s attempt.
They can’t not be.
No way in hell.
The ambulance starts its siren and the EMT gives me an expectant look.
I nod at the vehicle.
“Go on. I’ll wait for y’all to call. Gonna work the crime scene over in the meantime.”
She stares at those bones significantly, then snaps off a sharp nod before jogging back through the trees. I watch her until she vaults over the highway guardrail up the slope and vanishes into the back of the ambulance. The door barely slams shut before the thing goes rocketing off toward the outskirts of town, screaming like a banshee the whole way.