AllFreeNovel
Share Us
PROLOGUE
Lebanon, New Hampshire
Wednesday, March 10
11:45 p.m.
Was killing someone supposed to be this easy?
The Mascoma River churns and bubbles beneath the wood-slatted bridge, drowning out the sound of my own breathing as I drag dear Michelle out of the car by the tarp I laid under her. Her shoes catch against the asphalt but fail to slow me down. I’ve studied enough homicide investigation scenes to know the longer I stay, the more evidence I’ll leave behind, but I’ve trained for this. I’m good at this, as Michelle can attest. And when I’m done, everyone in this town will know exactly how far I’m willing to go.
For only my second time, I’m equally pleased with and surprised by myself. I’ve been watching Michelle for weeks. I know what she eats for breakfast, when she’ll head out for a jog along the river, and her work schedule. I know who her friends are, where her sister lives, and how many times she’s flirted with her next-door neighbor. Over the course of the days leading up to tonight, her routine has become mine. All in preparation for this.
The tarp crinkles in my gloved hands as I haul the body under the covered portion of the bridge. It’s humid here despite the crisp temperatures once the sun goes down. Moisture builds at the back of my neck and down my aching sides, but as stunned as I am by how easily my plan has been put in motion, I’m a little disappointed Michelle didn’t fight back. It’s almost as though she knew I’ve been planning to kill her all this time. As though she knew her death was just one of many to drive out the evil residing here.
Crickets chirp from the surrounding wall of trees as asphalt turns to wood beneath my feet. I’ve been out here too many times to count. I know every inch. In the light of day, dark, distressed wood stands out among the impenetrable wall of pines around it, highlighting the maroon square sign that reads covered bridge no. 67 posted at the entrance to each side. Large braces form Xs down the length of the bridge to take the weight of passing vehicles. Lighter slats track along the sides and make up a pedestrian walkway, but I’m not going to let Michelle sit over there for days on end. No. By morning, the cyclists will be out in force, and they’ll see exactly what I’ve done.
Anticipation burns through me as I pull the tarp out from beneath Michelle. Her head hits the deck harder than I mean for her to, but whatever postmortem wound is left behind won’t detract from my work. I’ve made sure of it. I set the tarp off to the side and crouch in direct line with those lifeless blue eyes. Fisting the collar of Michelle’s running jacket in both hands, I sit her up. Her head slouches forward, but I need those perfect, white teeth of hers front and center. Not especially hard when I’ve already taken the time to remove her lips. I angle her chin back with the tips of my fingers then slip a small parting gift into Michelle’s front pocket. “Perfect.”
I step back, and a thrill of pleasure ignites down my spine. Collecting the tarp, I fold it carefully into squares to keep whatever Michelle left behind contained. I head back to the car and strip out of my borrowed clothes. Pulling my jacket free of my shoulders, I drop it on top of the tarp. Next goes my shirt, boots, socks, jeans, and underwear. My gloves are last. I tuck everything inside a duffle bag I’ve brought for the occasion and dress in a fresh set of clothes from the front passenger seat. The bag goes in the trunk for now. I have other plans for it.
The sounds of wilderness quiet around me.
No more crickets.
No more gurgling from the river.
As tempting as it would be to stick around to watch the early results of my handiwork, that’s not part of the plan. I slide behind the wheel of the car, shift it into Drive, and maneuver the vehicle over the covered bridge as the first flakes of tonight’s predicted snow drift across the windshield. “Right on time.”
ONE
Lebanon, New Hampshire
Thursday, March 11
11:30 a.m.
Not many people cared when you were alive.
But they sure took an interest once you were dead.
Leigh Brody studied the controlled chaos of the scene as she stepped from the vehicle that’d been waiting for her at the municipal airport. Crystalized puffs of exhales formed in front of her mouth. She’d gotten the call to Lebanon less than four hours ago, the flight nearly an hour and a half from Clarksburg, West Virginia. Straight from one frozen hellscape to another: the town she’d sworn never to come back to.
Pulling her credentials from her coat, she targeted the nearest officer serving as scene security, and a hint of recognition registered. Then again, returning to a town of less than 13,700 people was sure to put her in the crosshairs of a few familiar faces. His name slipped her mind, but she guessed they were about the same age. Had probably even been in the same graduating class. “I’m Leigh Brody, FBI. I was told?—”
“Leigh Brody. Well, hell. Didn’t think you’d have the guts to come back here. Haven’t you and your family done enough to this town?” His voice grated against her nerves. Mid-morning streaks of sunlight penetrated through the thick density of the trees and reflected off the officer’s receding hairline. His clean-shaven jawline, bleached teeth, and wide shoulders gave her the impression of someone who obviously took great care of himself, but it was the way he widened his stance, preparing for an oncoming fight or to bar her from the scene, that revealed the assumed power he believed he held. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Her gaze slid to the gold nametag pinned above his right pectoral. “Pierce.”
“Donavon Pierce,” he said.
The name rang a bell, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. “Okay, Donavon Pierce. I was called here to consult on an investigation. Are you going to let me get to that, or should I keep pretending we go way back?”
Pierce’s mouth hiked higher at one side, and recognition burned hot. She’d caught Donavon Pierce slashing her car’s tires one late night after school, that same snarl carved into his expression. She’d had to pay for the damage with the money she’d saved up to get out of town. He hefted the perimeter tape high enough for her to bow underneath then lowered it behind her and handed her the sign-in sheet designed to track every officer, agent, and tech in and out of the scene. “Those federal types are waiting for you.”
“Great.” Unsettled dread tightened the tendons between her neck and shoulders. She’d known coming back here wouldn’t bring closure or a sense of nostalgia, but she hadn’t expected the anxiety to start before she’d gotten eyes on the body. The frozen sting in her fingertips rushed her to the point she wasn’t sure Pierce could even read her signature. Leigh pocketed her credentials with one hand and gripped her duffle bag with the other.
A wide, graveled trailhead and the rusted, stainless-steel guardrail that’d seen better days curved along the path and inclined toward the covered bridge. Uniformed officers dressed in black button-downs beneath their heavy coats and dark slacks policed the scene to keep unwanted guests behind the tape. She caught sight of the multicolored depiction of the water-powered city mill under Lebanon, New Hampshire on their sleeves the closer she got to one of the town’s most recognizable landmarks. Uniforms fanned out along the one-lane road as full clouds rolled overhead, but it was the wall of swaying trees and the house located on the other side that threatened to trip her up.
