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I tap the screen, read the message, then rip off the covers. Carefully, I make my way to the closet with Banjo on my heels. I remove my satin pajama shirt—the one I ordered from Victoria’s Secret a week before. The one my husband didn’t notice. I wrestle into a beige sweater and a pair of faded jeans. Boring clothes for boring me who never “does herself up.” Plucking the hair-tie off my wrist, I tie my long, brown hair into a ponytail. I realize my sneakers are in the bathroom, so unfortunately, I have to pass my husband to get them.
Shepherd stops and turns when he realizes I’m dressed. Blood drips from his fingertips.
“Where the hell are you going?”
“To work,” I say.
TWO
ROWAN
Arrival time three minutes, the GPS announces from the dashboard.
I click on the high beams. The fluorescent light shimmers against the asphalt, wet from a recent rain. Mounds of brown, brittle leaves crowd the ditches. A crescent moon hangs low in the sky, surrounded by a million stars.
It’s a cool, clear autumn night, a prelude to what is predicted to be a rough winter ahead.
There are no streetlights in this neighborhood. Instead, ornate lampposts line the newly paved two-lane road, their orange orbs encircling the copse of trees that surrounds each one. Beyond the light, miles and miles of forest. My windows are down and I can just barely hear the lake lapping against the shore in the distance.
Unlike the secluded neighborhood I live in, these woods are manicured, resembling a park. The residents here have plenty of money to pay for year-round landscaping.
I try to remember the last time I responded to a call on this side of town. I can’t.
Blackbird Cove is a small town ninety minutes north of Houston, located on the edge of the Sam Houston National Forest, right outside of Lake Conroe. I was born and raised here, back when tractors clogged the roads, when the height of entertainment was starting a bonfire in the middle of the woods, and when pride was defined by our lack of anything chain-store. Now, however, the town has doubled in size due to an influx of Houston retirees seeking solace from the city. Amenities include golf courses, guided horseback trails, club houses, and twenty-four-hour spas.
There are two types of people in Blackbird Cove: One, hardworking blue-collar southerners stuck in a perpetual time-warp. And two, retired rich people.
The neighborhood I have been called to tonight is called Mirror Lakes—the unofficial name given to the area of town where “the money” settled.
My interest is already piqued.
I pass a grandiose two-story brick home with nightlights centered in every window. The next house is hidden by a veil of trees but appears to be another brick monstrosity.
I slow as I near the next home marked by a gold mailbox and a long, paved driveway.
“Your destination is on the right,” the GPS announces.
I click the turn signal. My department-issued Impala squeaks and groans over the dip that leads into the driveway, reminding me to get the front end aligned.
Dozens of small pathway lights illuminate a windy path through tall, mature trees that eventually leads to a large stone mansion. Four vehicles crowd the circle drive: one police car, one unmarked, an ambulance, and a jacked-up gunmetal-gray Chevy that I recognize instantly.
The house is the biggest on the block, tall and fat, like a medieval castle. Twin lions flank an impressive arched entryway with a port cochere. Every single light is on.
I roll to a stop behind the Chevy, crack the windows, and turn off the engine. A gust of cold night air whips past me as I dip out of the car. I chide myself for not grabbing a coat on the way out. I always forget a coat.
I open the rear door.
“I’ll be back, buddy-boo.” Ruffling Banjo’s ears, I pull the backpack from the floorboard. My best friend licks my wrist then torments me with a whine before I close the door. I reach into the side pocket of my pack and toss him a dog treat.
“Just a bit, then I’ll take you out,” I promise into the cracked window.
After looping the pack over my shoulder, I weave through the vehicles.
Outside the home, a uniformed police officer is interviewing an elderly man in a gray terry cloth robe. They are standing under a gaudy six-foot chandelier hanging over the front entry of the home. The man’s hair is snow white, but his skin is tanned, giving him an almost cartoonish appearance. Flannel cotton pants cover his legs, leather slippers over his feet.
The witness.
THREE
