SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

Present Day

David Carver paced around the interrogation room. Exhaustion dragged at him, but he hadn’t been able to get a good night’s sleep for more than a week. It perplexed him, for he’d always slept well, even after he’d murdered his wife. The nightmares had started just after his last trip to Vegas, and they were always the same: a dark-haired bitch in a robe chased him through a forest until he fell into a grave and the ground swallowed him up.

The weird thing was that the bitch wasn’t Rachel, not with those gorgeous bazoombas. David smirked a little. If Rachel had had that kind of rack, he might have let her live and just kept her too doped up to do diddly-squat.

The door suddenly opened, and a heavyset detective with curly gray hair stepped in.

“Who are you?” David demanded. “And why have you kept me waiting in here for an hour?”

“Detective Joseph Stuart with the Homicide Unit,” the man said, but he didn’t offer his hand. “I had to wait for some paperwork to be sent over from Financial Crimes. Sit down, Mr. Carver.”

The words Homicide and Financial Crimes made him eye the thick file folder tucked under Stuart’s meaty arm.

“I don’t understand. Is this about Rachel? Was she in some kind of trouble?”

“Take a seat,” the detective said and went around the table. He eased his bulk down onto the aluminum folding chair, and then looked up at David until he sat across from him. “Mr. Carver, you reported your wife missing on the morning after you were married.” He opened the folder and skimmed the top page. “Monterey police responded to the scene, and found evidence that indicated she may have accidentally or deliberately drowned herself.” He met David’s gaze. “Do you want to add anything else to the statement you made that day?”

He let his expression transition from outrage to suffering.

“I told them everything I knew. I also hired a recovery team to search the area for weeks, but they never found a trace of her.”

“As opposed to looking for her yourself,” Stuart noted as he drew a stapled document from the file and pushed it across the table. “This is a copy of a power of attorney that your wife signed just after you were married, giving you complete control of her estate. Is that your signature, sir?”

David pretended to study it. “Yes, it is.”

“We interviewed the notary who witnessed your signatures, and the clerk who prepared your marriage license. Both women said your wife was pale, trembling and visibly disoriented.” David gave the detective a bland look. “Was there a reason for her distress?”

“Rachel’s parents died before they could see us get married. She was devastated by their loss, which is why we skipped the big wedding and had a civil ceremony.” He blinked rapidly, as if to hold back tears, and then rubbed his eyes. He usually doused his fingertips with cologne to bring on real tears, but he hadn’t remembered. “We were both very upset that morning.”

“Is that why you purchased all these drugs, and this combat knife?” Stuart placed a stack of written prescriptions and a photo of the weapon in front of him. “In the event your wife got upset with you, so you could knock her out and solve your problems?”

“The sedatives are for me,” David said blankly, staring at the photo of the knife. The knife he no longer had. The knife he’d left stuck in Rachel’s back. God oh God, how could he have forgotten it? He hadn’t worn gloves. His fingerprints and DNA were all over it. “Uh, I have trouble sleeping, so my doctor prescribed them. I bought the blade for personal protection.”

“Really? I would never have pegged you as a knife fighter.” The detective put a bank statement next to the photo. “Were you still upset when you cleaned out Rachel’s personal accounts a week later? Did you need a sedative the week after that when you hired a very high-powered attorney to liquidate the remainder of her assets?” When David said nothing the detective gave him an easy smile. “It must be really tough to have a permanent suite reserved now at the biggest casino in Sin City. How much have you gambled away since you paid off your bookies and that showgirl you knocked up? Five million? Ten? You do realize that accounts have to be settled here, David.”

He realized the rapidly-hurled accusations hadn’t mesmerized him as much as the photo of the knife. He’d have to go back for it. Accounts have to be settled. What did that mean, anyway? Now he didn’t have to fake a shaky voice.

“I loved my wife, and I’ve been grieving ever since she killed herself. Look at me. I’m exhausted.”

“Looks to me as if you’ve been partying like there’s no tomorrow,” the detective said and took out a hand-written statement. “Your father believes that you murdered your wife for her money, especially in view of your recent behavior. He came to us yesterday, and provided us everything we needed to establish your motive.”

David stared at his father’s elegant hand writing, and recalled the vicious argument he’d had with Paul just after his last trip to Vegas.

“I see where this is going,” he said. “My father introduced me to Rachel, did you know that? He wanted me to marry a rich woman. If he’s trying to frame me so he can get at her money–”

Stuart’s big belly shook as he chuckled. “Your father has an unshakeable, air-tight alibi. So does your mother, in case you’re thinking of pinning it on her. They were both at the charity fundraiser for the entire day, and then had dinner with the governor that night.” He cocked his head. “Was it an accident, Dave? You didn’t mean to hurt her, but you argued, and your temper got the better of you? Did she find out about the gambling debts, or the showgirl?”

He doesn’t have a body, so he needs a confession, David thought, and felt calm once more. He’d been too careful for the cops to prove anything.

“I’m sorry, but my wife committed suicide. Please don’t call me Dave. I despise nicknames.”

“Well, the party’s over now, David.” Stuart gathered up the documents and returned them to the file. “Financial Crimes has obtained an emergency court order to freeze all of your wife’s assets. By tonight I’ll have the warrants we need to put everything you own under a forensic microscope.”

Accounts have to be settled.

That reminded him: he should have put more money overseas. But having all those lovely millions to play with had been impossible to resist. Now accounts have to be settled.

“We’ll find her eventually, you know,” the detective said. “When we do, you’ll be moving into a permanent suite on Death Row.”

“Are you going to charge me with anything?” When Stuart shook his head David stood and straightened his suit jacket. “If you need to speak to me again, please contact my attorney. Have a nice day, Detective.”

David dropped his cell phone in a trash can on his way out of police headquarters, and drove his new Porsche around the city until he felt sure he wasn’t being tailed. He then went to his condo, where he changed clothes and put on a fedora to cover his hair. Leaving the Porsche in the underground garage, he took his Mercedes on another roundabout drive through an industrial area before he finally felt secure enough to get on the highway and headed for Los Padres.

Checking his mirrors constantly, David deliberately drove past the exit for the park, and then doubled back. By the time he reached the oak grove, he had worked out a new plan. He would use his knowledge of his father’s extramarital affairs to force Paul to recant his entire statement. He could even sue the San Diego Police Department for harassment, negligence and violation of his Fourth Amendment rights. He didn’t intend to stay for the duration of the lawsuit, however. As a precaution he’d already transferred a million dollars to a Swiss bank. Once he bought a new identity, he’d fly to Monaco and restart his life.

All he had to do was get the knife he’d left stuck in his wife’s spine.

David parked at the edge of the clearing, grinning as he climbed out. He’d have to brush up on his French so he could tell the women in Monte Carlo how he liked to have his dick sucked. The million he’d stashed away wouldn’t be enough to keep him afloat, but maybe he could branch out, maybe do a little murder for hire.

The grass had grown over Rachel’s grave, but he still remembered the exact spot. He’d never felt anything quite as thrilling as the moment he’d shoved the blade into her back. That was why he’d forgotten to retrieve the weapon. Before he left the US he might use it again on Paul, and cut out his tongue or slice off his balls. Maybe he’d make his mother watch.

After all, accounts have to be settled.

David took the shovel head and handle out of the duffle, and put the tool together before he began digging up the ground. Overhead the leaves made a rustling, whispery sound as he tossed aside shovelfuls of dirt and grass. When the edge of the shovel struck something hard he hooted with triumph.

“There you are, Rache.”

He scraped away the soil from the decaying face, which now looked nothing like his dead wife. He expected her to smell rotten, but the scent rising from the earth was more like roses. He knelt down to push her body over to get at her back, and then noticed her clothes were wrong.

“What the…”

When he yanked at the full, heavy skirt she wore, it disintegrated in his fingers and fell onto the body in piles of rotted thread.

A skeletal hand latched onto his wrist, gripping it so tightly David felt his bones snap. A huge bolt of white-hot pain shot up through his arm, making him howl.

“Get off me!” he shrieked.

But when he fought the bony hand, it suddenly crumbled into dust, making him fall backward onto his ass. Before he could scramble to his feet roots began to shoot up from the ground and slither over and under him like tentacles.

“What the fuck is this?”

He grabbed the shovel and stabbed at the roots with the edge. Yet for every one he hacked through, two more punched up through the soil to wrap around him. The shovel fell from his hand as he became enveloped by the writhing roots, which seemed to be pushing him up off the ground.

The taste of dirt filled David’s mouth as a root gagged him. The movements of the roots stopped for a moment, but then went in the opposite direction. His eyes bulged as the growths retracted outward, and he saw them wrapping around the oak trees. His limbs were stretched out in four different directions, and still the roots kept tightening and pulling on his body.

Tearing sounds filled the air as the seams of his clothes gave way, and then his joints began to pop. Pain ripped through him as he bellowed against the root crammed between his lips. His arms and legs dislocated and he knew it wouldn’t stop. It would never stop. He was going to be pulled apart. This couldn’t happen to him, not like this. He was a billionaire now. He was supposed to be living the good life.

The tugging of the roots slowed, drawing out the torture.

As agony blazed through his pelvis and torso David felt the root gagging him slide away, and he turned his head as something gushed from his mouth. He could see Rachel’s grave, now filled with hundreds of white roses. The sweet smell of them filled his lungs, burning him from the inside out. Drops of blood fell onto them and streaked them red.

His body snapped as the roots pulled his right arm from his body, and then his left, and the last thing he saw was the ground rushing toward his face.

The oak trees stood sentinel as the roots dragged the pieces of David Carver’s body deep into the ground. The shovel disappeared as well, while the roses in the grave grew pure white again, and then retreated into the soil as grass took their place. Above the hidden portal the veins of some oak leaves turned scarlet, but after a few moments the clearing appeared undisturbed.

All accounts had been settled.