CHAPTER FIVE
THE SHOT WAS all hers. The sights lined up. She didn’t dare breathe as her finger moved toward the trigger.
“You made it.”
The masculine words in her earphones were purposeful, much like her movements on the imaginary gun. They sent a swarm of irritation charging through her veins.
That wasn’t going to work. Not right now. Detective Amanda Nettles-Robinson wouldn’t let it. There was too much at stake. She hadn’t taken more than five steps from where she’d parked her car outside the crime scene. “I made it?”
“Uh-huh.” Surprise didn’t linger in the words, just a hint of the smirk she could imagine forming on her husband’s lips as he sat in his office across town with the phone pressed to his ear. He was probably polishing some FBI plaque he planned to rub in her face later, biting into a juicy apple while making demands of every law enforcement agency in the state of North Carolina.
Except, he’d have all those agencies exponentially happy to work alongside him, the apple par for the course, and the plaque more fictional than reality.
The truth left her grasping to find justification for the pricking sensation settling at the back of her neck. The heavy weight in her gut. “I’m hanging up.”
“That says a lot about your state of mind, Detective.” He laughed, the sound warm. “You only threaten to disconnect when you’re in the middle of a challenge you’ve grasped with both hands and I’m annoying you. It’s been a while. Nice to have you back.”
Sure. Nice to have her back. Time to holster the gun she’d never actually pulled from its spot at her hip. To admit that she’d never even bothered to aim the thing, but instead stood looking down on the fictitiously cold contraption. Wondering if she even remembered how to use it.
“You do it on purpose.” She adjusted the phone at her ear as she walked up the gravel driveway of a two-story home on Avon Avenue—on the outskirts of Charlotte’s city limits—that had seen better days, but had been well cared for at some point. The siding had been recently painted, but the windows looked like they needed to be updated. Shrubs grew half over the porch as if they might have been a decorative touch at one time, but were now nature’s way of proving itself much stronger than man. “Would it kill you to tone down the giddiness? Just a little?”
“I’m here for you.” The smile in his voice came across the line in heavy doses, the crunch of an apple not far behind. There was something to be said about being married to someone who was both best friend and lover.
Right now, the exact wording was…elusive. “Yeah. Seemed that way this morning.” It really had, as much as she’d been hoping for the contrary. “Best Husband Award goes to you.”
“Don’t be mad, A.J. You’ll thank me later.”
A crime scene unit technician came out of the house. He headed her way, a Tyvek suit over his tall frame and booties covering his feet. Ninety-nine percent of her wanted to back away slowly and pretend she’d come to the wrong house. The wrong life. The wrong day.
Only six hours and twenty-seven minutes to go.
Then Amanda could end her first official day back to work. A horrible sentiment she’d never embodied before. It wasn’t what she’d want any detective working her case to think. Not even for a fraction of a second. It went against everything she’d worked so hard for her entire life.
That was before.
She stopped. A gust of Charlotte’s chilly winter air rushed around her. Made her shiver. The sky was gray and bleak above. It hadn’t snowed in over a decade, but today might be the record breaker. She sucked in a breath of crisp biting air and blew it back out in a puff of white. “You actually thought I’d bail.”
The truth hummed through the line. It echoed in his silence.
A squeak of what had to be his office chair resounded. “You’re rolling the idea around. I get it. Nobody would blame you, but you’d hate yourself. Remember that. Now stop bothering me. I have work to do.”
“You called me.”
“Uh-huh.”
The line went dead. Because of course she had a million things she could say to prove him wrong. Case in point: she was standing right here. Fighting the urge to leave everything she’d ever known behind. At least in a professional capacity.
“You picked a nice start.” Mark, a crime lab tech she’d spent a number of years working with, handed her a pair of gloves and booties as if she’d been on vacation for a week instead of six months.
It had been far from it. She doubted anyone cared about the reason. She’d been gone. They were glad the Nettles cloud had taken reprieve.
Now she had to make her way back in. Pray that cloud passed them by. Make a new road. “No. My son picked the start to this day. With piercing screams at three this morning, waking his sister, who immediately joined in like two firetrucks racing to a five-alarm fire.” She owed her ever-so-willing husband big time since he stepped in and calmed the twins so she could rest up for the big day.
Like she was a rookie straight out of the academy.
Amanda had half expected him to hand her a steaming cup of coffee this morning while begging her not to get herself killed in the line of fire.
We have kids now. You better come home.
The words had never left his lips. Never appeared to enter his eyes. She’d been watching. Waiting. Braced for impact.
He’d known what that would do. So, even if he’d actually entertained the notion, he’d kept it quiet. Went on about his morning as if nothing monumental were happening.
A grimace flashed over Mark’s face. “That sounds conducive to a full day of work.”
She’d argued for staying home with their six-month-old twins.
One more day couldn’t hurt.
Robinson had cut through her logic like an anvil falling on soft butter, much like he’d called the instant she arrived on site. As if he’d known her heart had found an out-of-sync rhythm and her mind was calculating the quickest exit route.
He was right. She needed to get back in the game.
If you had the shot, you took it. If you could save a life, you did. You didn’t second-guess it, question it, or run from it. Even if that meant starting over.
Right?
Amanda blew out a breath.
Six hours, twenty-six minutes before she would be able to fix her niece an after school snack and help her with her homework. Give the twins a bottle, bathe, and play with them before bed. Hug and kiss her husband, who’d immediately ask how this day had gone.
She could do this. Like riding a bike. Or shooting a gun. Yes, she’d taken time off, but she was no rookie. She’d been around the block. Seen the action. Lived through it.
Amanda tugged on her gloves. She had the shot. All she had to do was squeeze the trigger. Figurative. Literal. Whatever. “How bad is it?”
Mark glanced at the house. “One male. DOA. No identification that we’ve found yet. Got an interesting red bag full of hands.”
She stopped, everything inside of her clenching together. “Hands?”
“Polaroids. Can’t tell if the pictures were taken in a sinister nature or if this guy had some crazy fetish. Kind of hard to ask him when he’s hanging from the vaulted ceiling.”
“Possible suicide?”
“Uh…” He scratched the side of his face. “You better take a look, boss-lady.”
She moved around a potted plant that was tipped on its side. Whatever had been inside was covered in brown weeds, the dirt spilled over the walkway as if the event had been recent.
“You and Davis picked a piss-poor time to go off gallivanting.”
Amanda climbed the steps even as everything inside of her stilled. “Sorry, Mark. I’ll make sure to check with you first next time.” There’d been no gallivanting. Just FMLA following the traumatic birth of the twins after the hostage situation inside Mercy hospital six months ago and—
“If it’s any consolation, we’re glad to have you back.”
“We?” Right. There was no we.
“We—I wasn’t sure you’d come back with… Well, your mom was a wonderful woman.” His eyes darted across the yard. He rubbed the back of his neck. “The way it ended… We’re just—”
“We. I get it. That’s you. Sole survivor of CMPD’s Nettles meltdown. Maybe a few other stragglers who wish to remain unnamed.” Amanda swallowed back the main reason retracing her steps was the only thing on her mind this morning.
She’d anticipated this type of scenario and the grief that would snake into her heart. In the mirror at home, she never made it all the way through this kind of conversation. Out here she didn’t have a choice, no matter how much she wanted to close her eyes and pretend the woman she’d called Mom was simply on an extended vacation.
In a place she couldn’t visit or call to ask advice.
“And Detective Davis.”
The mention of Charleen snapped her attention back to Mark. “You two talking a lot?”
“No.” He held up his hands. “No!” His voice echoed in the quiet. He gave an audible swallow, his face flaming red. “Nobody talks to Davis. I mean, it’s Davis…she’s pretty and all, but she’s likely to bite your head off for saying hello.” He cleared his throat. “It’s just good to see you. And I’m going to shut up now.”
Silence reigned a beat. “You’re right. Eileen Nettles was wonderful.” Amanda wouldn’t think about the rest.
Dead was dead. The ache would lessen. Someday.
Or never.
“Right. Yes.” A whoosh of air left his lips.
“Davis will be back.” Eventually. “You know how it goes. Gotta get the counseling after discharging your weapon.” Amanda wasn’t privy to what the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department planned to do with Detective Charleen Davis from there. The other woman wasn’t real forthcoming about anything in her life.
“Never thought I’d say I miss the prickly peach—in a strictly platonic manner—”
“I know what you mean.” Amanda would prefer Davis’ snarky comebacks hidden in the chip on her shoulder and general lack of information to the attitude her interim partner sported. “Is Detective Ross around?”
He nodded. “Got here five minutes ago. I take it you’ve been introduced?”
Oh, yeah. “This morning. It seems my reputation has preceded me.” And a lot more. The other detective had eyed her like a mountain lion stalking prey.
“In a few days you’ll be the talk of the town.”
That was totally what she was going for. She should have declined. Told Governor Terndale he could take his ceremony—and her part in it—and shove off. Rebuild Charlotte’s football stadium, honor the loss of life in the last couple of years, and commend the heroes. Leave her out of it. “It’s humbling. I’m honored.”
For nothing. She’d done nothing to deserve it.
Deep-seated anger lapped at her esophagus. She and her family were moving forward, even if the city of Charlotte wanted anything but that.
“There will be a million more like Ross.”
Amanda had already met half of them. “You’re not really helping, Mark.”
He shrugged. “There are a lot like Robinson. Me. Davis.”
Maybe. And Governor Terndale? Was this more than a publicity stunt to get the city back into the football revenue game?
She stepped inside the house. The smell of ammonia and rotting flesh hit her in a wave of poorly circulated air as she walked through a short foyer and made it to a living room. Two members of Mark’s crew worked inside the rectangular space that opened to an eat-in kitchen tucked underneath a loft-style second story.
Furniture was shoved against a picture window near the front of the house—a worn leather couch and two scratched end tables devoid of any type of personal effects. A table sat beyond the bloated body hanging from the banister directly above them.
It was suspended by thick, coarse rope wrapped around loafer-clad feet. Light gray dress pants were bunched at the knees, the jacket more on the floor than the body, exposing a once-white shirt now yellowed. Arms hung over his head, fingertips centimeters from the scratched hardwood floor and the decorative rug covering it. His brown hair hung a little long and scraggly.
“He’s attached to what appears to be a homemade snare trap.” Detective Ross’ shiny black shoes tapped across the floor in slow, even steps. His red hair was close cut with not a piece out of place, much like the pressed navy suit covering his tall frame.
Not a note of humor crossed his face—not that anything in the room was close to that emotion. He stopped next to her. Put his hands on his hips, which parted his jacket and revealed the SIG near his right hand. The sharp scent of his cologne swirled around them as if he’d dumped the bottle on himself. It was better than the smell of death, but not by much.
If Davis were here, this would be a different scenario. But the other woman was stalling. Using her time with the Internal Affairs psychologist as a crutch.
As an excuse.
Which meant that she was probably smarter than Amanda, who’d been too much of a chicken to point out the truth to the other woman. Doing so would’ve meant she had to face her own that much quicker.
She’d used her children—the intense love she’d embodied in her heart the moment they’d open their eyes—as an excuse to avoid this day.
You’re a winner.
“Six months.” Ross chewed a piece of gum as if it were in danger of disappearing and he needed to absorb every ounce of flavor before that happened. “A few stabbings, one gang-related incident, some road-rage, and a dozen cases of domestic violence gone wrong. You’re back for two hours and we get this?”
The man had a point, but she doubted their thoughts on it were similar in nature. There was no entourage of homicidal maniacs waiting to play mind games with her specifically.
He squinted at her. “Three years. Seven pretty hardcore criminals. That doesn’t include all the smaller cases no one took notice of. Seems like a pattern.”
The tech in the corner glanced up from her work, her eyes darting between them.
Amanda clenched her teeth together. Were these really her choices? Rehashing her mother’s death or defending her past closed cases?
She’d been doing her job. “I’m not seeing any obvious wounds on the body.” She moved around the space. Needed to get away from Detective Dillweed before she did something she would never allow her children to do.
Retaliate.
He followed, the sound of his shoes dying on the carpeted surface. It was matted and filled with dirt and dust. “Your career is surrounded by danger. You do the math, detective.”
Amanda forced herself to count to ten. “Think it’s self-inflicted or was someone coming back to finish the job and nature won out?”
He gave a slow shake of his head, the smirk on his face sending irritation down her spine.
Did he think she jumped into any case she wanted with the hopes that she’d find the next messed-up serial killer she could attach her name to? “Last I checked, a gun and a badge didn’t mean I’d be safely behind a desk.”
“From what I hear, you shouldn’t even have a badge or a gun.”
So much for that we’re-so-glad-you’re-back attitude. She’d expected some fallout from her lengthy absence. Had even prepped for some sidelong glances and black plague type treatment.
But coming right out at her? Two hours in?
Six months with drooling infants hadn’t prepared her for this. “Sounds like you’ve had too much time for locker-room talk, Ross. And your sources are no better than that of prepubescent girls.”
He shook his head. “No locker room about it, Nettles. Straight facts.”
“I doubt it. Seeing as any information you’ve got on my career is secondhand, at best, I’ll thank you to reserve judgement or grow a pair and speak your mind in a more direct manner, because I’ve got seven—about to be eight—hardcore criminals under my belt.” Silence reigned in the room. She held his gaze.
Was that number even correct?
No.
It wasn’t about numbers. It never had been. Never would be. “You think the victims’ families care about how I got assigned the case? When the grief subsides, they want justice. Closure. The truth. The rest of Charlotte wants the guy off the streets.”
The certainty of it filled her. This was her shot. She wasn’t going to miss, hesitate, or change her mind. She wasn’t going to regret the six months she’d spent nurturing her family. And she wasn’t going to be the poor example by not standing behind her principles. She’d either pull the trigger or give up the gun and find a new way to fight.
“You seem to be collect—”
A shuffling noise came from overhead. Sent her heart into overdrive. Had her glancing in that direction. Silence reigned. It came again, this time a scraping noise, almost as if someone were rearranging furniture.
“You check the loft?”
“The premises have been cleared.” He took a step toward the stairs.
Another scuffle came. “By?” Amanda grabbed the sign-in list from Mark. Noted all the names on it. Accounted for everyone in the room and the officers in the driveway.
No way.
She pulled her weapon, breezed past Ross and headed up the stairs. The two bedrooms facing the living room were open. The first had been converted into an office with a desk and chair in the corner closest to the window facing the once-decorative backyard. Dust covered the surface of the mahogany, a yellowed notebook lying on the center of it, a ballpoint pen next to it. Grime made the window an act of futility to see out of.
She moved to the second room, which held a bed with a faded quilt covering it and two seen-better-days pillows. Neither held the telltale dip from a head or body having recently been anywhere in the vicinity.
Cobwebs hung in the corners and bridged across the bi-fold closet doors, one propped open. The edge of a colorful rattle peeked out. Dust covered its surface, same as everything else in the room. She used her free hand to open the door, her gun still centered.
Three wire hangers and the infant toy stared back at her.
Ross’ footsteps echoed in a slow rhythm as he moved across the hardwood, around a corner, and to the third bedroom not visible from the entryway. Amanda followed suit, gun raised as she approached the closed door at the end of the hall.
Something prickled at the back of her neck, the same need to flee this scene and forget it all settling in her stomach. Six months ago she’d have known if she needed to follow that instinct or man up. Right now, uncertainty settled in her gut.
Like she’d been here before. Done something similar. Escaped something horrific.
Ross jiggled the handle, prepped for a quick entry. The door didn’t budge.
Who furnished the bedrooms, but never stored any clothes, boxes, or odds and ends that didn’t fit anywhere else in the house and left a rattle out and the closet door open in an otherwise ordered space?
Who tied a man to the banister and left him hanging to die? Or who tied themselves to a banister?
She slowed, her heart not getting the message. There was more than herself to think about now. Had been for the better part of a year. And nothing about this scene was right. She’d worked with all the people in this room before.
Everyone except Ross.
There’d never been a time when an area hadn’t been secured properly.
Why hadn’t it been done? Had he arrived and tossed the responding officer out and made rounds himself?
No. If there was backup, it was used, ego or not. “Ross…”
“I’ve got this.”
The pound in her ears made hearing futile. “Wait a second.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job.”
Amanda couldn’t draw in a breath. She had to stop him. She moved forward. “Let’s reass—”
He raised a black-shoed foot and kicked the door, gun at the ready.
A boom rushed through the room. It sucked the air from around them and sent her flying backward into the banister. A crack split through her body. Pain jackknifed into her spine. Air rushed from her lungs, and then she was falling into dead space. She reached out. Something jagged scraped a fiery trail across her arm. It bit into her cheek seconds before she hit the unforgiving floor in a pop that echoed around her.
A high-pitched buzz filled her skull. Bright white surrounded her, dark blotches raining down from an equally white ceiling. Half a Polaroid landed within reach.
The palm of a hand was visible, pinky and ring finger curled inward. Feminine. Pale. Small. Another image floated past, a blond woman and dark-haired man held a blond little girl between them. The shape blurred. She needed to focus, but her eyes wouldn’t cooperate.
An image of her children, her niece, and her husband floated in front of her. There was only six hours. She’d see them again. She had to.
Amanda tried for a breath. She couldn’t suck one in. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. The pain was gone. It should be intense and unforgiving. All she could think about.
Something vibrated beneath her. Two faces appeared above. Their mouths moved without sound. Mark—was that his name?—held up a hand. And then the words came into view beyond them. A carving into the wood of the ceiling as if its message were meant for her.
Revival.