Chapter One

Mayor Baxter Moore held a hand up to block the sun as he watched a distant vulture circling through the trees. He’d chosen the wrong time for a walk, and he wondered if the damn bird knew something he didn’t.

What was I thinking?

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t go tramping up the trail above Robin Hood Lake in this damn heat, but this wasn’t an ordinary walk. This was—he didn’t even know what. His mind was reeling, as it had been for a while now.

He pushed himself forward, stepping over a fallen branch before moving it off the trail so less attentive hikers wouldn’t trip.

Swiping sweat from his forehead only soaked his shirtsleeve. Finally, he passed beneath a canopy of green that kept the intensity of the sun off him. Even though the sharpest incline on the trail was ahead of him, his footsteps bit heavily into the rich earth beneath his shoes. Perhaps trying for the summit wasn’t a good idea.

Even the cedar waxwing’s song, which usually cheered him up, hadn’t been as frequent today. Probably because birds knew better than to flap around in the heat.

Baxter rested his hands on his hips, catching his breath. Was he really going to let his diagnosis stop him from enjoying the simple pleasures in life?

You cut that kind of thinking out right there.

Pushing on again, he focused on placing one foot in front of the other. All he had to do was keep going, and he’d reach the top.

On the bright side, the intensity of hiking this trail helped him feel more alive. His heart pumped, and as long as it continued to do its job, he would keep moving. Living was about motion.

Because Baxter hiked the trail so regularly, he barely needed a marker to know when to turn off the path. Still, he reached out and patted the mossy stump he used as a landmark, like he always did.

Veering off the path, he threaded his way through the trees, slipping a little on the carpet of pine needles. “Nothing more than the humidity making them slippery.” His reassurance sounded valid, and his legs had never felt stronger.

And the cool shadiness of the hollow had never felt so welcome.

Tall pines stood guard around the boulders that Mother Nature had placed there, waiting with her boundless patience for an intelligent man to sit and ponder. Baxter went there to oblige her as often as he could.

He perched on the huge rock he’d dubbed his thinking stone—the one farthest from the trail, closest to the bluff—and waited for the peace he normally found while watching what he assumed was the same lazy vulture spiraling above the shoreline.

Usually just a few minutes of musing on dilemmas was enough for him to relax and plot a path forward.

Until now, when he had two conundrums plaguing him.

Cancer.

The mere word made his insides churn.

Not just any cancer either. A rare form of blood cancer.

He’d trekked up to his thinking stone a dozen times since his doctor first said those awful words, and he still couldn’t make sense of that sucker punch.

This was like nothing he’d ever had to cope with, and when he told his wife, she’d fought back tears to reassure him that they’d get through it. Her attempt at being brave still touched him deeply.

“We’ll beat this thing together.”

Nettie, sweet Nettie. Beautiful, loving Nettie.

“You can always count on me, Bax.”

The love and devotion threaded through her words was as strong and heartfelt as when she’d first said them on their wedding day.

“I can always count on you, Net.”

But could you be there for me if you knew what I’ve done? If you knew about Latrisse?

Maybe the diagnosis was a weird blessing. It gave him a concrete reason to end things with his mistress so Nettie would never find out.

He’d need all his strength to battle the disease, and his mayoral duties already took up most of his waking hours and energy. Hiding the affair from Nettie and the people he was responsible for in Nottingham had been hard enough when he’d been healthy.

Keeping his illness a secret from the masses was getting harder as his dizziness worsened, and he could only pass it off as “just a head rush” so many times.

At the heart of all his worries was the simple fact that Nettie didn’t deserve what he was doing.

He wasn’t being fair to either woman. Worse than that, he’d broken the most sacred vow he’d ever made—to be true to Nettie and to honor her.

Baxter’s butt was going numb. His thinking stone felt harder under his tailbone than it usually did. It was time to end things with Latrisse, to be the man Nettie thought he was. If she was going to be there for him now when he really needed her, he would recommit to being there for her.

“Even if I don’t beat the disease, you’ll have the best version of me I can give you right until the end.”

His thoughts turned to their daughter, Glory, and hot tears burst free. The thought of their little girl growing up without him was too much. She wasn’t even done with high school. Nettie might be the best mom a girl could ask for, but Glory needed his guidance and advice too. She needed both parents.

Dammit, he was only forty-five years old. Cancer had no damn right to interrupt his life like this.

Baxter pushed himself off the boulder, and dizziness swamped him. This feeling would pass. Just took a minute.

Focusing on a patch on the ground, he breathed in the scent of pine resin and tried to fill his troubled body with the peace that surrounded him.

He had so much to live for.

“I’ll beat this. I can beat this.”

He’d seen the stories on the news where little kids did it all the time. Being a man in his prime meant Baxter was wiser. And his biggest advantage was that he had money to pay for whatever treatment might help. And if he didn’t, he knew the good folks of Nottingham would raise any funds their beloved mayor needed.

First thing on the list, though, was to get that second opinion Nettie had been nagging him about. He’d go right home and get her to pull up the list of doctors she’d assembled. His title might even persuade one of them to squeeze him in for an appointment this very afternoon.

“Mayor Moore.”

Baxter jerked up at the sound of his name, trying to iron out any anguish showing on his face. He won elections because of his can-do attitude, and that was what he’d show whoever was interrupting him now. Mayor Baxter Moore was a man in charge, a man even terminal diseases couldn’t rein in.

“That’s me. How can I help you?”

Dammit. He hated not knowing one of his constituent’s names.

But as he studied the man, a few things didn’t add up. For one thing, he didn’t recognize him. He had to be a tourist, dressed as he was in a black flannel shirt and cargo pants, altogether too hot for the weather. And what the hell had he stuffed his feet into? Some kind of fishnet bag. The kind of thing Nettie used to hold the fruits and vegetables she picked up at the farmers market.

For another—no one in Sherwood County would follow him up the trail to hold him at gunpoint.

Baxter’s hands shot up. “Hey, there, easy now.”

The man’s aim on him was rock solid, as if this was what he did every day. “Over there.” He indicated the edge of the hollow.

“What for?”

“Over there. Unless you want this,” he moved his weapon up and down, “to do the talking.”

“There’s no need for that.”

“Then move.”

“I can do that.” Baxter walked to the ring of trees circling the hollow.

“Keep going.”

He swallowed. Half a dozen more strides were no problem. But beyond that was the edge of the bluff.

He compensated by shuffling. The spiky grip of the close-knit trees snagged on his shirt as if they wanted to hold on to him. But after just a handful of steps, he was through them, and the only thing in front of him was the big sky over the lake far below.

Turning around slowly, he faced the man. No sudden moves. No surprises. “What do you want? You know I’m a man of power, so what can I get for you? Name it, and it’s yours.”

The man was a brick wall, regarding him with stony silence.

“We can resolve whatever this is if you tell me what you want.”

“Keep moving.”

“Where?” The word squeaked out. Baxter was as close to the bluff edge as he cared to get. He’d never known chunks of the rock and earth to crumble and plummet onto the rocky beach below, but he didn’t want to test it out by standing on any weak spots. “Look, I don’t have anything worth taking.”

He considered dropping his hands to prove his point by patting his pockets but thought better of it.

“Your life.”

“What?” Baxter shouted the word, but he doubted anyone was close enough to hear it.

“There’s only one way you make it out of this alive.”

Hope was a liar, but it loosened his chest enough for one breath. “How’s that?”

“You send your wife a text that says, ‘I’m sorry for the man I’ve been.’ You deviate from that by so much as one letter, and I’ll shoot you in the head and kick your worthless body over the cliff.”

The man’s buzzed brown hair and the hard look in his eyes screamed that he was deadly serious. Baxter had no doubt he’d do what he threatened, and the certainty made his fingers clumsy as he fumbled his phone out of his pocket.

Who was he? How did he know about Baxter’s affair? He and Latrisse were so careful.

Whoever the man was, he wasn’t her husband. He looked nothing like Damien Herberg.

Could she have another lover?

No, not his Latrisse.

She gave herself to him one hundred percent, and she had such a warm heart. He couldn’t imagine the granite man in front of him showing any emotion, let alone the passion he and Latrisse shared.

Had shared.

Baxter had to focus on being the man Nettie thought she was supporting, even though the deep connection he shared with Latrisse couldn’t be described as just a simple affair. As complicated as those feelings made everything, he was blessed to care so deeply about two women and for them to feel the same about him.

Blackmail, then. That was what this cold fish must be planning. Making Baxter text that to Nettie would have her asking questions. Next, he’d demand the money Baxter needed for his second opinion and treatment.

And what choice would Baxter have but to offer it to him?

His shirt was already plastered to his back and chest, but beads of sweat still dripped down his sides and rolled over his temples.

He took out his phone. His clumsy fingers made so many mistakes, but he finally managed to put the letters in the right order and held the phone up to show the man he’d done as requested. Baxter’s finger hesitated over the Send arrow. When he pressed it, there was no going back.

Things would change.

But he was a golden boy who’d grown into a blessed man. His words were his power, and he could use them to turn even this rotten scenario around.

Baxter looked at the man, imprinting his appearance in his mind so when he went straight to see the sheriff, he’d give the best description of a perpetrator the sheriff’s office had ever received. Round face, stocky build, early to mid-thirties. His bald patch glistened with sweat. Was he not quite as cool as he behaved?

The most memorable thing about his face would make it easy for law enforcement to track him down. A badly reset broken nose with an unfortunate, distinctive bend to the left that suggested the doctor who’d worked on it had been drunk to the hilt.

Baxter would remember everything about him.

The whoosh of the text leaving Baxter’s phone was loud in the silence.

“Sent. Now can I go?” He hated how weak he sounded, how he was pleading.

“Once you’ve seen what almost befell you. Once you appreciate this chance I’m giving you.”

“I understand. Honest, I do.”

“But you don’t appreciate it. Take a look over the edge. See how close you came.” The man pointed the gun at the bluff before leveling it back on Baxter.

All pretense that Baxter had any control dissipated when he shuffled to the edge of the bluff and peered over. Far below, jagged rocks jutted up like fangs waiting for a meal. He imagined his broken and bleeding body pierced on them, the circling vulture plummeting toward him with beak outstretched. His knees became as weak as a newborn’s.

“I appreciate it.”

He turned back to the man, who shook his head. A hint of emotion finally broke through his bland expression. One that Baxter didn’t want to see.

A smile.

It started small, almost human, before broadening into a psychopathic grin. He was enjoying this, Baxter realized. Relishing in the dominance. The fear.

Every instinct screamed for him to run…but where? He took a tiny step back, wondering whether, if he pushed forward with enough momentum, he could surprise the man and get past him before he could fire a shot.

His boots scraped against loose gravel, and the sound seemed to freeze time. The man’s arm twitched, and for one hopeful heartbeat, Baxter thought he was lowering the gun. But the movement shifted, and fast as a snake’s strike, a large palm struck his chest.

“Bye-bye.”

The world tipped, and Baxter was already falling before his panicked mind could instruct him to grab for the man’s hand.

No, no, no!

Air rushed past his ears and tugged at his hair in a mournful, funereal song.

Too heavy. He was too heavy.

His judge and executioner grew smaller, but somehow, Baxter could still see his obscene smile. Why, why had he done this? Baxter had done what he’d asked. Why hadn’t he let him go?

I’m so sorry, Nettie. So sorry, Latr—

He slammed onto the rocks. The violent impact tore through his body. Explosions of pain blazed through his shattered bones and shredded skin, setting every nerve on fire. His broken lungs couldn’t breathe. His fractured mind couldn’t understand the agony.

And then it no longer mattered.

Chapter Two

“I’ll call you right back.” K-9 Detective Indira Reign disconnected the call with the distressed woman who’d interrupted the embarrassing nightmare dinner had turned into.

Since returning to Sherwood County, Indie had just about managed to endure eating with Aunt Edith, her Grammy Ada’s former close friend, and Aunt Edith’s granddaughter, Hen. But this evening had degenerated into an absolute ordeal now that Aunt Edith’s son—and Hen’s uncle—Cash had come home.

Because he was altogether too sexy and too interesting to walk around without a public health warning. And Indie hadn’t been able to stop looking at him, much to his amusement.

“We have to go.” Indie told her Belgian Malinois, Broc, who was already sitting bolt upright as she came back into the room, like he’d sensed her needs before she’d expressed them.

“What’s happened?” Hen’s off-duty ensemble of turquoise harem pants and purple cami made her look as far removed as she could be from a sheriff’s deputy, but the way she recognized Indie’s urgency was all law enforcement. “Can I help?”

“Not so far. Aunt Edith, can you help Satch and Moriarty find their way home?”

Aunt Edith could easily care for Indie’s menagerie, since Indie’s apartment was conveniently located above Aunt Edith’s detached garage.

“Of course, dear. Don’t worry about them. You go and do what you have to.”

“Doesn’t Dispatch have to call you?” Cash pushed his empty plate away. “You haven’t had dessert yet.”

“I’m full.” As if she could force anything else down with him watching her. “Doesn’t much matter who makes the call if someone’s in trouble. I gave my card to a lot of people on my last case.”

The gravelly tones of Satch, Indie’s German shepherd, dropped right into her head as if she were hearing him speak. “You be careful.”

She patted between his ears. “Won’t be long. You go home when you’re ready.”

The newest member of her ark, an orange-and-white stray cat she’d named Moriarty, watched her coolly from the doorway. Right now, he was only her foster cat, because she couldn’t claim ownership until Ari the vet confirmed no owner had come forward. But already, she’d learned Moriarty didn’t care who fed him so long as someone did. He was scrappy enough to want to come with her, but he was keeping a close watch on the leftovers too.

Broc trotted to her Jeep, and when she opened the rear door for him, he jumped onto the back seat. Indie hopped behind the wheel, slotted her phone in the dashboard mount, and called the woman back.

“Why do you suspect your husband’s missing?”

“He left his office this afternoon and hasn’t responded to calls from me or his staff. That’s not like him. He prides himself on being available for people.”

Indie looked at Broc in her rearview mirror. He sat up straighter, and she knew he could hear the same thing in Mrs. Nettie Moore’s tone as she did. There was something more going on than the mayor’s wife was saying, so Indie phrased her question carefully.

“Your husband’s not accounted for…what’s it been? A couple of hours?” Indie left out the only.

“It’s not the time that’s important. There’s something you need to see.”

“Give me your address, and I’ll be right over.” Indie ended the call and, after advising Dispatch, was soon turning onto the mayor’s street.

Nettie Moore hovered in her open doorway, beckoning Indie and Broc inside before they’d even gotten out of the Jeep. Her dark curls were held off her face by a light-pink scarf that matched her leggings. She’d tied an oversize white blouse at her waist that she wore with the sleeves rolled up. She looked more like a fun mom in retro garb than a mayor’s wife.

But her eyes were so red, she must’ve been crying for a while.

As soon as they stepped inside the house, Nettie closed the door and pressed it against the frame.

“I appreciate you coming so quickly. I’d like to think Baxter’s going to come home safe and sound at any minute, but I’m so worried.”

“Why do you believe he won’t?”

She hesitated. She opened her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t seem to force the words out.

Indie tried again. “I need to know what you know to help me find him, Mrs. Moore.”

“Nettie, please. I understand, but you can be discreet, can’t you?”

“What do I need to be discreet about?”

“This.” Nettie held her phone out.

The screen showed a slew of unanswered variations of Are you okay? and Please call me, all in response to the chilling text at the top from her husband. I’m sorry for the man I’ve been.

“Baxter’s been diagnosed with leukemia, but he’s been dealing with it very well.”

Though Indie kept her face blank, any way she looked at it, the words of his last text sounded like a final message.

“Is there anywhere your husband routinely goes where we could start looking?”

“I can show you.” Nettie navigated to a map app on her phone. “He has a place he calls his thinking spot.”

A man with a recent serious diagnosis would have a lot of thinking to do. Indie copied the coordinates into her phone and asked Nettie for something of her husband’s so Broc could track him.

She disappeared upstairs, reappearing momentarily with a black t-shirt. Indie pulled out an evidence bag from a pocket on her tactical vest and held it open. She wondered at the shocked look on the woman’s face and realized why.

“We’re not assuming anything untoward has happened. This is just to preserve the mayor’s scent, that’s all.”

Nettie swallowed and dropped the t-shirt inside.

“Thank you. Could Broc sniff your hand so he can discount your scent?”

She held her hand out nervously as the big dog approached her.

Indie spoke reassuringly. “He won’t hurt you.”

“Got it.” Broc confirmed the scent with his let’s get on with it voice.

“One last thing. I’m new in town, and I haven’t met your husband. Can you send me his photo?”

Nettie worked her phone until the whoosh of an incoming text sounded on Indie’s.

When she opened the photo, Baxter Moore smiled out at her from where he crouched on an earthy trail to tie up his walking boot. Dressed in jeans and a blue flannel shirt, he seemed too young to hold such a responsible public office. He looked like an infomercial for a health supplement, not like a man who’d received such a serious diagnosis.

“Could you please not tell Baxter I told you about his illness?” Nettie hugged her arms around herself. “Other than his doctor, him and me, only our daughter knows. We’re still deciding how to deal with this as a family and…well, as I’m sure you appreciate, because he holds a public-facing position, it requires special consideration.”

“Of course. We’ll handle that sensitively.”

The woman was still standing outside her house when Indie turned off her street in the direction of Sherwood County Forest. She looked small and lost.

When Indie reached the parking lot Nettie said her husband favored, the mayor’s sedan was easy to spot next to a red minivan.

“That’s his car.” Indie clipped Broc on the fifteen-foot long line she used for tracking and let him sniff the ground around the driver’s door. While he worked his way to the rear, she looked through the windows and checked the exterior, seeing nothing to suggest anything unusual, or criminal, had happened by his car.

She opened the evidence bag containing the mayor’s t-shirt for Broc to get his scent. “Such.” Track.

Broc acted immediately on the German command and, nose to the ground, led Indie up a well-used trail.

As the track wound upward away from the lake, his nose leapfrogged from one well-defined footprint to the next made by the same shoe tread. Seemed like only one person had walked this way recently.

Broc veered off the trail heading up a steeper slope. She followed him along a much less-used path, where he stopped to sniff at the bushes as much as at the ground. The scent led them into a hollow where Mother Nature looked to have played a dice game with some huge boulders.

Checking her phone, Indie confirmed they were standing on the pin location the mayor’s wife had sent her.

“Mayor Moore?” Indie’s call sounded loud in the dappled silence.

She followed Broc around the outside of the hollow, checking every boulder in case the mayor was hidden from view and unable to answer. When they reached the far side of the clearing, they carried on through the pines.

The trees ended abruptly, and the expanse of sky beyond was dizzying.

“Bleib.” Stay.

He obeyed, though too close to the edge of the bluff. “The scent stops here.”

“Zurück.” Back.

She was taking no chances with him. For all his muscle and grace, no amount of training could fix his lack of thumbs.

Broc walked backward to where she waited.

“Sitz.” Sit.

With him stationary and far enough away from the edge that her insides didn’t squirm, Indie crept closer to peer over.

Oh, no. The sight she didn’t want to see. A man’s broken and bloody body on the rocks far below.

She hit the call button on her radio. “K-9 Detective Indira Reign requesting medical support to Robin Hood Lake. Adult male with life-threatening injuries. Difficult terrain. I’m on the trail above. I’ll radio coordinates when I get down to the beach.”

A soft, static buzz sounded, followed by the dispatcher’s voice. “Copy, Detective Reign. Medical support and backup en route.”

The distance of the fall, all the blood…Mayor Baxter couldn’t have survived, but they needed to check.

Indie swung her gaze from one side of the bluff to the other, but there were no paths leading down. They’d have to do this the long way.

“Mit mir.” With me.

She tapped her leg and led Broc back down to the trailheads, where they picked up the one leading to the lakeshore. Pebbles knocked and shifted against each other as she scrambled over them and onto the sand.

The terrain didn’t allow her to get close to the broken body, but it was enough for her to understand they were too late. The mayor lay contorted on the stalagmite rocks, staring up at the sky with an empty gaze.

Indie looked back up the cliff. It was a very long fall.

“You found him.” She patted Broc. “We were just too late.”

“Lots of smells here.”

“Lots of people come here.”

The mayor could’ve taken ill while up on the bluff or simply misjudged the edge and accidentally plunged over. But she couldn’t rule out homicide. Though given his recent diagnosis and the text he sent his wife, this could also be the result of him deciding he couldn’t fight leukemia.

Indie shivered with a terrible sense of déjà vu. This could be another suicide.

But after the events of last week, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was something more.