Trent radios for the forensics team and Tim, the town coroner
Oh, fuck this.
Preserving my modesty the best I can, I jump the hedge, too, losing my shoe in the process. I manage to retrieve it and put it back on before any of them notice, and I’m halfway to them when Drake looks up with fire in his eyes.
“Noelle,” he growls.
I stop. But not because of his warning.
Because I’m looking at a dead body, and if I’m not mistaken, it belongs to Toni Thompson.
Bile rises in my throat, and I press my hand against my chest as I take in a deep gulp of air.
I’ve seen bodies in horrendous conditions. I’ve seen them burned, dismembered, beheaded, tortured. I’m not afraid of death or its many appearances. That said, I’ve never seen a dead body in quite the state Toni’s is. And by state, I mean… Hell, I don’t even know what I mean.
She’s lying butt naked, faceup, in the middle of a cut-out circle of grass. There are black marks that look awfully like scorch marks teasing the ground, both around her and under her in an undiscernible shape. Her hair is spread out in a halo around her head, and the very ends of the strands are torched. Her eyes are closed, and if I didn’t know better—and it weren’t for the upside down cross sliced into her forehead—I’d say she’s sleeping.
The cross is only one thing, I realize as my gaze traces the rest of her body. There are other shapes cut into her skin, ones I don’t necessarily recognize. The only one I know is the inverted pentagram. It’s carved into her skin right on her breastbone, just between her breasts. The blood surrounding it and all the other markings marring her perfectly pale skin is congealed, dry on top, and I can tell that this girl has been dead longer than a day or two. She’s been here, in this spot, maybe three or four days.
How many people have walked past her body and not known?
My hand slides up to my throat and rests there. There are hundreds of cars in that field behind me and not a single person knew she was here. Or maybe one of them did. I don’t know.
Someone, somewhere, knew that Toni Thompson was lying in this field.
The thought that Melissa Samuel could have faced the same fate is enough to make my hot dog threaten to make a reappearance.
I lean over the bushes, my eyes closed, and vomit.
“And she wonders why I told her to stay put,” I vaguely hear Drake complain. His strong hand moves gently over my back. “You see why you should listen to me?”
I wipe my mouth with a leaf, satisfied that my stomach is empty. “At least I didn’t contaminate your crime scene.”
“Yes. Much appreciated,” he says dryly, pushing my hair from my face.
“Melissa,” I whisper.
Sadness etches into his features. “The field and surrounding areas will be searched and cordoned off. As for the fair…” He flicks his eyes toward it and the sound of people laughing and shouting, having fun, going about their activities without a care in the world. “I don’t see that this needs to be public knowledge. Someone is taking Jessica down to the station for questioning now.”
An ambulance, several police cars, and two vans rumble up to the parking lot. Within minutes, the field is taped off and a white tent has been set up over Toni’s body. I bite my thumbnail as Sheriff Bates approaches us.
The salt-and-pepper-haired man stops in front of us and, with barely a glance at the tent, adjusts his bright-red tie. “What do we have, Detective? And why am I not surprised to see you here, Ms. Bond?”
My lips move into a pathetic attempt at a sheepish smile, and the sheriff, my father’s best friend, pats my arm softly.
“We have the dead body of a teenage girl bearing the resemblance to the description of Toni Thompson, sir,” Drake explains.
Straight to the point, as always.
“Peters!” Sheriff Bates barks.
A twenty-something year old man, or should I say boy, appears as if out of nowhere.
“Get the officers together and get this field searched.”
“M-me, sir?” Peters sputters.
“Did I mumble, boy?” Sheriff roars.
Peters shakes his head.
“Then off you go!”
As soon as he’s disappeared, Sheriff shakes his head.
“Dang rookies. Send me the worst, I tell y’all. Johnson! Get the surrounding fields taped and searched.”
“What are we looking for, Sheriff?” Detective Johnson asks him, just moving out of the way of Officer Peters, who’s bumbling his way across the field.
Sheriff rolls his eyes, something that looks odd on a man his age. “Anything that shouldn’t be here, boy! What else?”
God, I love him.
He reaches for his tie again—this time, undoing it—and meets my gaze. “They send me a bunch of damn monkeys to do a human’s job,” he mutters before turning back to Drake. “Well, Nash? What are you standing there for? Show me the body!”
Drake’s lips twitch at the elder man’s brash manner, but he’s used to it. We all are. I do particularly love the way he calls everyone except Drake and my brothers “boy.”
“Well, butter my biscuit and call me Elvis,” Sheriff Bates explodes inside the tent.
My thoughts exactly. Well, not exactly. In fact, nowhere near my thoughts, since mine contended solely of “Fuck,” and the urge to vomit. And actual vomit.
Sheriff Bates emerges and takes a deep breath. The fresh air is tainted with the scent of death, and despite the blood being dried and congealed, if you know it, you can almost taste its heaviness.
I’ve never known fresh air to be quite this stale.
Tim, the town coroner, slips into the tent with Drake and a few members of forensics. My heart clenches at the horror that girl must have gone through.
Sixteen.
Sheriff Bates takes another deep breath and reaches for my hand. He squeezes it lightly. “Nash said you were sick. Do you feel better now?”
“Yes, thank you.” I offer him a small smile. “The bush was very helpful.”
“Ah, well. At least you didn’t contaminate the crime scene, my dear.”
And people wonder what influences my warped sense of humor.
After two hours of searching the field, my brother found Melissa’s body.
Trent refused to allow me to see her, an order I had no intention of ignoring. Instead, I was told that her body was in much the same state as Toni’s, thrown Drake’s keys, and bundled into his truck to wait.
I’ve been in here for a further two hours, and I’ve exhausted every radio station his truck can find. I even snuck out to my car for my purse, knowing that my Kindle was inside.
Obviously, that died ten minutes ago. I’m hungry and tired, and I’m trying not to think about those dead bodies…
And the fact that Detective Giorgio Messina has just pulled up in front of Drake’s truck and is getting out of his car.
Excellent.
Drake and Sheriff Bates walk down to the edge of the field. Messina hasn’t entered, so I’m assuming he hasn’t been cleared to enter the area. I crack my window open, sensing that Drake’s foul mood has more to do with than the fact that he has to tell two sets of parents that their daughters have been found undoubtedly murdered.
Unfortunately, I can’t hear the conversation. Whether it’s because the hive of activity still blissfully happening just over in the fair or the loud hum of voices of the police in the area, the tense words being exchanged between Drake and Giorgio are nonsense to me.
Dammit. I was kind of hoping to get an idea of why they hate each other.
Eventually, Giorgio nods tersely and gets back in his car, but not before he notices me and gives me a quick salute. I hold my hand up in acknowledgement then turn my face toward Drake.
He’s focused on other cop. As soon as the car goes, he faces me with a look that could melt stone. I avert my gaze to the center console. I have two choices: stay and feel his wrath for not leaving or leave and feel his wrath for not staying. I’m not sure which is the lesser of two evils right now.