Trinity sipped her coffee, her considering gaze on him, apparently not bothered by any of that, and then she asked, “What about with animals? Can you feel what they feel?”
“I don’t think I ever have.” He barely paused before saying, “You’re curious. About Braden. Is he really that strange?”
“He’s that . . . unusual.”
“Because he has a mind of his own?”
Trinity drew a breath and let it out slowly. “Because before there was any report at all, he led me to Scott Abernathy’s apartment, and to the murdered body. As if he knew.”
—
TOBY GILMORE LAID out the cards for the third time, and frowned down at them.
Weird.
She hardly considered herself an expert at tarot, but she had been reading the cards since high school. For fun, of course; it was a good party trick, so she always carried a deck of cards wherever she went, and whenever there was a festival of any kind, her thing was dressing up like a gypsy and telling fortunes.
For entertainment purposes only, of course.
Usually when she laid out the cards in whatever pattern she chose, what she got was a random arrangement, one she interpreted more through knowledge and intuitive guesswork about her friends and acquaintances than any paranormal gift. Usually. And she was good at cold-reading strangers—or seemed to be, judging by their reactions. But sometimes it really did feel like the cards were talking to her, telling her things.
Not something she wanted to admit to any of her friends.
Especially now.
Because this . . . was more than a little unnerving. It had started only a few days before Scott had been found so horribly murdered. She generally “practiced” tarot here in her office, because real estate wasn’t exactly a booming business in Sociable, at least not in winter. Even with a storefront window opening onto Main Street, what foot traffic there was to her office tended to be the UPS guy or friends dropping by.
So there were long hours that would have been boring if she didn’t do something to occupy herself.
Toby stared at the layout and rubbed her forehead, trying to ease the increasing ache there. The same combination kept coming up—almost exactly. No matter how many times she shuffled, the same dozen or so cards turned up in the same exact place in the layout.
She was experienced enough at tarot not to be disturbed that the death card was always there; that only meant a change, a transition, something as simple as changing jobs or moving house or breaking up with a boyfriend—not literal death.
But it was always at the center of the layout, and that was troubling. And the other cards . . .
Toby had realized not long after Scott’s murder, when at least the worst of the shock had passed, that something else had changed. She had. Or how she saw the cards had. She wasn’t sure which. All she knew for sure was that when she looked at a layout now, not occasionally but every single time she dealt the cards, she . . . felt what they meant.
And what she felt were certainties.
There were changes coming—for a lot of people. There was something very bad looming out there, something worse than a killer, and it was . . . old. Ancient.
Scary as hell.
She told herself that it was only a natural reaction to the murder of someone she had known. Scott had been a bit of a ladies’ man—well, worse than that, if the truth be told—but even though Toby’s fling with him had lasted only a few weeks and was years back, just after college, they had remained friends because Scott was like that and Toby never held grudges.
Despite what gossip said, despite the edgy “discussion” in the restaurant she had witnessed herself, she knew he most certainly would have remained friends with Melanie James, a much more recent fling.
Just as he was still friends with Trinity and with the other women who had shared his bed for whatever length of time. There might have been—probably were—a few men who had been pissed off at Scott, but he had a charming way about him when he wanted, and as far as she knew, there had never been any trouble that had escalated to even a punch.
Even when Scott had probably deserved one.
But that wasn’t what bothered Toby right now. What bothered her were the cards.
It had been Cathy Simmons who had, years before, christened them The Group: a dozen or so men and women in their early thirties, actually from the same high school graduating class, who had lived in Sociable their whole lives and had either remained after high school or returned after college.
In Trinity’s case, after college and nearly a decade down in Atlanta as a cop. But that hadn’t changed anything. She’d been born here, raised here, lived and worked here now. So she was one of The Group.
Discounting kids still at home and in school, and the occasional person now and then returning for brief family visits, they were pretty much the youngest group of people in town; after The Group, kids tended to go away to college and stay away.
Or just go away.
As if the town itself had decided there were enough people here.
What a weird thought. It’s just . . . no real career choices. Not many good jobs unless you inherit the family ranch or farm. That’s all it is. Completely natural.
Toby rubbed her forehead harder.
Most members of The Group were still single, and there had been a fair amount of dating among them, with at least a few bad breakups over the years. But The Group’s social lives were still pretty much intertwined—though it wasn’t as if the various members didn’t also socialize with other friends and family.
We aren’t a cult, for God’s sake!
Just a group of friends who had gone to school together and got invited to the same parties and worked out at the same gym and known each other their whole lives.
Melanie James was in The Group despite not having been born here. Maybe because she was friendly and personable and simply in the right age bracket. Because she was very attractive and seemed bent on putting down roots here.
Because she . . . fit.
Cathy had brought Melanie into the group, though it certainly hadn’t been a formal thing. They had known each other in college years ago, now worked at the same bank, and Cathy had simply invited Melanie along when a few of them had gone on one of their Sunday trail rides. Melanie could ride and had enjoyed it—and they had enjoyed her company.
That’s how it had started, and after nearly three years, Melanie was tacitly considered one of them.
Which was interesting, very interesting, because Toby was convinced that it would be Melanie who would be instrumental in finding the murderer doing such horrible things in Sociable.
Melanie was a linchpin of some sort.
A catalyst.
Toby couldn’t see it all in the cards, not clearly at least; some things were fuzzy. And outcomes depended on actions, individual choices, which could always change right up until the moment those actions and choices took place.
Some things were always fluid.
Almost nothing was set in stone.
Almost nothing.
But there were things Toby knew, things she was certain were fated to happen.
Toby knew that because of Melanie, a dark man would come to town. Was, in fact, already here. And at least two other people were coming as well, a tall woman with odd eyes and a big blond man who was rather startlingly handsome. Three people either on their way or already in Sociable. Three people who had things in common, much as The Group had things in common.
But not the same things.
The three strangers had faced evil before, more than once, and survived it. They would face it again, here.
And one of them would be destroyed by it.
That’s what the cards kept telling Toby.
“In a small town, the obvious is seldom where we end up,” DeMarco agreed. “So not that one guy everybody suspects. With our luck, it’ll be the mayor or sheriff.”
“We’ve had it be one mayor and one chief of police i
n past SCU investigations, if I’m remembering correctly. Plus a deputy or detective or two.” Hollis sighed, then shook her head. “Probably not the sheriff, though, at least this time.”
“It would be nice if we could at least trust the badges,” DeMarco observed.
“Ain’t that the truth.” Hollis opened her tablet and in a moment was studying official documents. “So the sheriff is the one who formally asked for FBI assistance. Trinity Nichols. Unusual name. A woman. Attractive. Young for a sheriff, too. Law enforcement background down in Atlanta, with lots of commendations and glowing reports earned when she was a very young detective. Plus some serious formal training in crime investigation, including courses at the Bureau. Physically, though, just basic cop marksmanship and self-defense training. She excelled at both, says here, but nothing fancy like martial arts. So even if she’s physically imposing—which her picture and stats indicate she really isn’t—it’s a bit hard to see how she could have snapped the neck of a man nearly a foot taller than her. Or . . . snapped a human neck, period. Last I checked, they don’t teach cops how to do that.”
“Granted. How’s the mayor look?”
Unsmiling, Hollis checked the files. “Late fifties, married, kids and grandkids, never so much as a parking ticket. No military background. And not exactly physically imposing. Or even physically fit. Says here his doctor has ordered him to watch what he eats and to exercise. So His Honor signed up for a gym membership. And visited exactly once, last month.”
“New Year’s resolution,” DeMarco murmured.
“Probably. Gym memberships always pick up around the New Year. And before swimsuit weather.”
“Uh-huh.” He paused, then added, “I’m not going to ask how we got our hands on medical records.”
“Best not,” she agreed.
“Okay, so there’s two possible suspects mostly ruled out, and we haven’t even hit town yet.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Hollis continued to study the file, the reports, the crime scene photos.
“But?”
“But, we have an unlikely victim who lived in a small town—a young, fit adult male found with his neck snapped. In a locked room in his own locked apartment. No signs of forced entry into the apartment or the room. Room is neat. Victim shows no signs of being strangled, no ligature marks, no signs of trauma. No signs of a blitz attack to subdue him. And no signs he even tried to put up a fight. There was certainly no disturbance that attracted attention. Even though he lived in a second-floor apartment, the bedroom of which is where the body was found.
“You saw the crime scene photos when we got the case,” Hollis finished. “Awfully peaceful and neat, this guy’s bedroom.”
“I just glanced at them but, as you said, no visible signs of struggle. Was he drugged?”
“Tox screen isn’t back yet, says here. Forensics went to the state lab, and they’re busy.”
“Usually are. I’m betting Bishop will have whatever they’ve got shipped to Quantico ASAP.”
“That would be my guess. So we’ll probably have tox screen results and any other forensics within a few days.”
“You don’t think those results will be helpful,” DeMarco noted, guided by her tone as much as his own logic.
“Well, I doubt he got drunk or high and managed to break his neck without leaving even a bruise. And if he had, there still would have been signs of some kind of disturbance, surely. A chair knocked over. A wrinkle in the rug at the foot of his bed. Something.”
“Granted. Unless a drug was used to knock him out so he could be more easily dispatched.” DeMarco added, “All signs of which the killer then took with him after making sure the room was left nice and neat and then using his mad skills to throw a security deadbolt from outside the apartment door without leaving so much as a scratch on the metal.”
“It’s a puzzle,” Hollis agreed.
“Who found the body?”
Hollis read, then let out a little sigh. “The sheriff. An anonymous tip, she said.”
“So maybe the killer wanted his handiwork found and appreciated. And sooner rather than later.”
“Maybe. According to their coroner, who is also apparently the most senior doctor in town, the victim had only been dead an hour, two at most, when he was examined at the scene.”
“Interesting,” DeMarco said.
“Weird is what it is. Aside from the whole locked-room thing, I don’t like anonymous tips; it means somebody knows something or saw something that they are not willing to be public about. And that is never good.”
“Secrets.”
“Yeah. And small-town secrets can be doozies.”
—
MELANIE HAD ONLY one appointment that morning, and since foot traffic into the bank was very light and she hadn’t been sleeping well, she went to her boss and asked if she could take a sick day.
Bank manager Gary Martelle was immediately sympathetic. “Of course you can go home, Melanie. I told you yesterday you could take the rest of the week, if you needed it. I know you and Scott had your problems, but it had to be a horrible shock for you, his murder.”
She couldn’t tell if he was fishing for information or genuinely sympathetic, but neither interested her, given her present mood. So she merely smiled and thanked him.
Cathy appeared in the doorway of her office as Melanie was gathering her things, her usual sweet expression disturbed by worry. “Hey, are you going to be okay? I mean, do you really want to be at home alone?”
Melanie didn’t really want to go into long explanations or protest what she knew would be Cathy’s offer to accompany her, so she said what she knew would most likely reassure her friend.
“My brother’s going to be visiting for a couple of weeks, so I won’t be alone. I’ll be fine, Cathy.”
Visibly relieved, her friend nevertheless said, “We’ll go to the funeral together, okay? And . . . visitation is tonight. Are you going to go?”
“I haven’t decided yet. I guess the rest of The Group is going?”
“Far as I know. I’m not sure about Trinity; it probably depends on how her investigation is going. And when the feds get here.”
Involuntarily, Melanie said, “Man, news travels fast.”
“Well, federal agents in Sociable? Just a couple days after the first murder in these parts for a decade?” Cathy smiled wryly. “You should be glad of them coming, you know. It’s at least taking some folks’ minds off whether Scott killed himself because you broke his heart.”
“Seriously?”
“Afraid so.”
Melanie’s strongest reaction to that news was the realization that Scott would have hated anyone believing that a woman had dumped him, driving him to suicide.
Cathy’s smile widened. “I know I shouldn’t be amused, but . . .”
“Yeah.” Even as she said it, Melanie shook her head. “I bet gossip has it both ways. He dumped me, so I killed him—somehow; I dumped him, and he killed himself. I really come out on the lousy end of things no matter which they believe.”
“Well, if it helps, most of The Group I’ve talked to have every intention of spreading the word that you two broke up—and that you were both fine with it. End of story.”
Except it wouldn’t be, Melanie knew. Not with Scott dead.
Murdered.
“I’m going home and taking a nap,” she announced.
“I’ll call you in the afternoon to check on whether you want to go to the funeral home tonight.”
“Okay.”
Melanie lived close enough to work that she only bothered to take her car if she knew she’d be leaving the bank to go out of town for some reason. Shopping out by the highway. The multiplex out by the highway.
Even the funeral home was out near the highway.
For some reason, that really depressed Melanie. But the chill in the air served as a handy excuse for her to avoid pausing to talk to anyone on her way home, walking briskly down one block and then back just one street to her ap
artment building. Rather than external apartment entrances like Scott’s building had, Melanie’s boasted a lobby with a manned security desk and an elevator.
She waved to the security guard but didn’t pause to talk to him, either, going straight to the elevator and up to her apartment.
It was a nice place, and she had furnished and decorated it with a lot more care—and more taste—than she had put into the tiny apartment in Atlanta where she’d lived during and after college. This was her home, a place she intended to live in and enjoy for a long time. Maybe for a very long time.
She was reasonably sure she had already dated all the men who interested her in Sociable. The men who had attracted her. Of course, maybe one would come along later, or get divorced or widowed . . .
Jesus. It’s not like I mind being alone.
She turned on the TV because she didn’t really want to nap, then went into her bedroom to change out of her work clothes and into jeans and a sweater.
The day stretched before her. She was ruefully certain that Deacon was already in town and was not at all surprised that she hadn’t seen him yet. He’d get the lay of the land first, get a sense of Sociable and its citizens, probably even check in with Trinity and the investigation into Scott’s murder, before coming to tell her all the reasons why the panic that had caused her to call him was nothing but her fevered imagination.
Not that he’d put it that way. No, he’d be more subtle than that. More caring. But the gist would be the same.
Are you taking your meds, Mel? Are you getting enough rest, enough sleep? Eating right? Because you know what the doctors said about stress and how the mind can play tricks . . .
Swearing under her breath, she turned toward the elegant little desk in her living room, where she usually used her laptop for work—or for fun. She took one step toward it.
And then froze.
Gooseflesh spread over her entire body, and she almost felt her heart stop.
No. It isn’t. It can’t be.
Scott. Standing not a foot from her desk, looking at her, his expression anxious. He reached out a hand toward her. To her.