Chapter One
Jasmine Latimer stopped, sweat prickling at the back of her neck, and looked behind her to where the lakeshore stretched into a thick growth of trees, deep and humid and dark. Nothing moved inside. Wavelets lapped the beach, sounding almost like footsteps.
But the only thing following her along the lakeside was the music. Distant, hypnotic bass throbbed through her body.
After her next hit, she’d want to dance.
Then she’d become the music.
It was late—must’ve been hours since things got going. Soon, she’d go back to the lake house and be the party queen again. But first, she wanted to enjoy her high alone.
Maybe by the time she turned around, that creep who’d kept pawing at her would have found someone else.
Whatever will be, will be. Right now, I just gotta be me.
She wove through a willow’s dark shadow before ducking beneath a low-hanging branch. Outside the cage of the boughs, the moon cast a soft, faint glow, reflected in the muddy water, but the tree’s branches reached down almost to the surface, making this the perfect hideaway.
Not that she cared who saw her shooting up—she just needed to get away from Mr. Grabby Hands. He still hadn’t gotten the message that he needed to earn his way into her pants.
This was a cute spot.
Jasmine sat down heavily on the muddy lakeshore, dropping a syringe and tubing onto the surprisingly cool ground. She closed her eyes and swayed to the soft lap of water. Step, step, step. Like the water itself was solidifying, coming out to walk among the trails and shadows.
Ugh, had that guy followed her all the way out here?
No, she was imagining things. Last night, around the firepit, they’d been talking about weird monsters that lived in these South Carolina woods. What was the story again? Dragons? No, it was something that actually existed.
Not snakes.
Lizards.
That was it. Lizard people.
The ones that came up out of the water and snatched kids for rituals on their island out in the middle of the lake. Or just ate them.
Any sound was the water flowing, not walking. Nothing walking here. No lizards. No people.
How long have I even been here?
In a couple days, she’d have to get sober long enough to do some odd jobs or whatever. Make sure she still had enough money to make it home.
But this party was the best she’d ever been to. Their host, whoever they were, provided everything anyone would need to get zooted. It was an all-you-can-eat buffet, and she’d loaded her plate high.
Ha. I’ve suddenly become a poet, like I’m smart or something.
Must’ve been all the good stuff they had here. The colors around her blurred at the edges, and she hadn’t even worked her way through half the rainbow of pills lying around.
Jasmine giggled. She should definitely stay. Keep her mind buzzing.
What waited in the syringe was her favorite. She couldn’t often afford it, but since arriving at this shindig, she’d taken it every day.
So. Much. Fun.
Korinda should’ve stayed too. No job was worth missing out on this. But her bestie wasn’t adventurous—never had been. Jasmine would have to work harder to get her to loosen up.
Whatever she’d been drinking before coming out here hit her hard. The distant boom of the music echoed in the otherwise silent night. She cocked her head, trying to focus instead on the lapping waves, on the way the gentle breeze lifted her hair.
It was so pretty here. Like a fairy tale.
In the distance, the house’s bright windows reflected on the dark surface, breaking apart and reforming as the waves beckoned her in.
Maybe she’d swim later. The lake had a soothing effect on her, promising more to life. This party had done that, too, giving her ideas about how to get what she wanted and how to hook up with people who had the money to make that happen.
She picked up the strap and tied it around her right arm.
Where’d the needle go?
She’d had it when she plunked down here. Jasmine patted the ground around her, an all-too-familiar panic tightening her throat, threatening to smother her.
I’m okay. This is okay.
If she’d lost the syringe, they’d have another one at the house. But the lake only offered a few seconds of calm. She needed more. She needed longer.
Pushing herself to her feet, Jasmine checked the ground again, surprised at how well she could see in the darkness. But there was no syringe. Maybe it’d rolled into the water?
A shadow fell over her—an interruption in the pattern of leaves and moonshine, as if something very large had slipped from the trees and landed right in the center of the trail she’d taken to get down here.
The branches parted like a curtain, and a ragged, crooked silhouette took shape, backlit by the distant lamps at the house.
Jasmine froze, hoping some rando from the party had come to light up, sneak off, or puke in the lake.
But the shape wasn’t moving right at all. It didn’t lurch or sway like a wasted bro. The shoulders seemed hunched, the arms crooked and dangling low.
She tried bringing the wobbling edges of the world into focus, but her gaze kept snagging on the thing’s head. It was a long, sharp point, catching a swipe of moonlight.
A mask? Not a mask. But maybe a mask? The way it rotated made her think of a mutilated dinosaur.
Then it cocked its head, like it was sniffing, and Jasmine almost peed herself.
A lizard person.
It was real. Really real.
“Shit,” she whispered. A soft breeze sighed back.
Some other girl at the party had said they’d see them at Halloween for sure. Jasmine had figured she’d stay in town until then, just to see if it was a hoax or whatever.
Halloween was still weeks away, but sticking around for a while sounded nice. At least, it sounded nice while they’d been laughing at the crazy stories, safe with each other around the flames.
Jasmine had found it hard to laugh at their origin story, though. Mutants from radiation experiments who kidnapped women to be their sex slaves. Forcing them to produce their monster offspring even if it tore the women apart. None of that had sounded funny to her then.
And it definitely didn’t now.
Not when one of the giant lizards was walking toward her, pushing through the hanging branches as though they weren’t there.
“Go away.” Her words sounded tiny and scared. Ice filled her chest as she swatted at the air. She raised her voice. “I said go away.”
She took a step backward. Another.
“You’re not real.”
But the snap of a twig breaking was real. The grunting was real. Another twig cracked, sharp as a whip.
As Jasmine turned to flee, her foot caught on a tree root and the grunting turned into a roar.
The monster grabbed her. Sharp claws jabbed at her shoulders, gripping her and pulling her close.
“Get off me.” Through the haze of her buzz, Jasmine found just enough strength to push at its chest. She screamed and struggled. Twisted away from its grip.
But the creature was strong, its breathing heavy. A blinding pain tore through her shoulder, and she realized it had bitten her. She squealed and headbutted the creature, making her teeth rattle. White stars filled her vision.
The thing kept coming.
Jasmine punched at it, but it easily blocked her pathetic swings. Though she screamed and tried to pull up her knee, her legs wobbled beneath her.
Her sundress ripped, giving way to the scratching claws. The monster stepped back and yanked the flimsy material off her.
Oh, fuck this.
Jasmine scrambled backward, out of the creature’s loosened arms. Let it keep the sundress—she wasn’t hanging around.
Her cheap sandal twisted around her foot on that damn root. She stumbled, scrabbled at the willow’s trunk to stay upright, and slipped, falling face down into the wet earth.
Before she’d even hit the ground, a weight landed on her, pinning her, pushing the air from her lungs.
Jasmine writhed and bucked beneath the heavy, astonishingly strong beast. She pulled in air to scream, but it pressed her face into the muck. Red-hot pain seared through her neck with another bite. When she gasped, she only got a mouthful of mud.
She coughed and choked. Those crushing teeth refused to let up. Her mind shrieked as something vital inside her throat snapped, cutting off any sound.
Still, Jasmine twisted and writhed, every movement agonizing. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream.
All she tasted was cold mud worming its way into her mouth.
Chapter Two
K-9 Detective Indie Reign pulled her SUV in behind the sheriff’s personal car on the circular driveway of an enormous house on the Loxley side of Robin Hood Lake.
Indie’s apartment would fit over the triple garage three times and at least eight more times in the main house. That was a lot of space for two people to live in. Well, one person, now that the woman of the house was dead. Homicide didn’t seem possible in a place like this, where what went on inside should’ve been as perfect as the outside appeared.
But the grandeur of the home tallied with the little she knew about Dr. Kyle Alexander. The one or two times she’d seen him around town since moving back to Sherwood County, he’d seemed polished and self-assured, bordering on arrogant.
Aunt Edith had warned her about his callousness.
His general demeanor wouldn’t matter to her. Right now, he was facing the death of his spouse. He deserved Indie’s best, whether guilty or innocent. If innocent, he needed justice for his wife.
If guilty, he needed to be caught.
Regardless of whether it was him or someone else who murdered his wife, she deserves my best too.
“You ready?” Indie didn’t really need to ask Broc, her K-9 partner. The Belgian Malinois was already sitting upright with his work face on.
“Always.”
As if she couldn’t tell that from his posture and position, his confirmation dropped into her head in his ready for work tone. Truth be told, they were both more than ready to get back to work after the sheriff made them take a few days after their last case—an active shooter situation at one of the local high schools.
“This is better than therapy. Well, not the crime part, but the doing what we do best.”
“We do good.”
“Yes, we do. We both do better when we’re doing our jobs.”
She’d attended a few therapy sessions, but this would help her get back to normal faster. Her therapist might disagree that puzzling over a new case was the best way to keep her mind busy, but this was what she needed so her mind wouldn’t rerun the horrific images from inside the school.
Indie warned the memories not to surface now and talked herself through getting her big black best friend out of the Explorer.
Open his door, clip his leash on. Let him jump out, tail clear. Close the door.
Concentrating on such simple movements helped her stay in the moment, just as Hen suggested. Her friend and colleague’s advice sometimes sounded a bit odd, but Indie was learning that the weirder it sounded, the more she should follow it. Hen’s wisdom was almost magic like that.
And Indie did feel more in control. And calmer, despite the frisson of nerves at the thought of what waited for them behind the closed doors of the house. She adjusted her tactical vest on her shoulders. It felt heavier today than usual.
“I’m carrying the same amount of stuff, so it can’t actually be heavier.”
Broc tipped his head, not understanding what she was saying.
Her hand slipped down to the seam of the pocket on her utility pants, and she ran her fingertips across the stitched seam.
Beside her, Broc gave a full-on shake and waited for a command.
“This is some place, huh? We could play some great ‘find it’ games in here.” She straightened the K-9 patch on Broc’s harness and checked to be sure her badge clipped to her belt was visible.
The gray van on the other side of the ornate fountain told her Sherwood County’s coroner had arrived.
Indie explained the situation to Broc. “Clifton and the sheriff got here fast. We have one dead body inside, and you need to find what doesn’t belong. Voran alt.” Search old.
At the huge entrance, Indie pulled on plastic overshoes and signed in with Deputy August Pantano, who was standing just inside the open front door. He grinned at Broc and handed her the logbook.
She completed her entry, then turned to check the frame of the front double doors. No damage to suggest forced entry.
“Has anyone noted damage to windows or doors?”
“Not so far. At least, not that I’ve heard. I haven’t been more than five feet from these doors though.” August twirled the pen around in a circle to indicate the grand entrance hall. “The housekeeper and the deceased’s husband are on the back patio. He’s made arrangements to stay at a hotel until the house is cleared, but the sheriff said he needed to be interviewed first. Sheriff and Clifton are with the body in the office. Which is that way.”
Following his pointed finger toward the back of the long entryway, Indie spotted an open doorway leading off to the left.
“That’s the home office, but it’s more like an actual commercial office. I think my entire apartment could fit in there.”
Thanking him, Indie tapped her fingers against her thigh, signaling Broc to follow her into the home.
His claws clicked and Indie’s overshoes rustled on the hard floors. To her right, every interior door was closed, but on the left, they all stood open, spilling light in from the lakeshore view.
Indie stopped at each doorway and gave a cursory glance at the windows. None were broken, and no frames appeared damaged. Not likely the point of entry.
Inside the home office, floor-to-ceiling windows provided a spectacular view of the lake. The bright blue of the water and sky contrasted sharply with the room’s shades of beige, white, taupe, and cream.
August wasn’t lying. This office is huge.
Clifton and the sheriff stood in quiet conversation.
Indie stepped into the grand room, eyeing every piece of furniture.
A day planner lay open on a side table with a pen laid across it, as though something had interrupted the writer. Indie gave it a glance and saw the page was open to today’s date. Beside the number twelve in the time column, someone had written the entry Lunch. SMLGV.
Making mental note of it, Indie scanned the rest of the room, looking for a sign of who might have used the space the most. But just like the entry hall and the sitting rooms she’d passed, and despite its size, the office held nothing personal on display. The room felt staged—like a photographer was going to come by to take shots for an upscale lifestyle magazine.
Sheriff Sammy patted his hair. “Indie, thanks for getting here so fast. I’ll leave you and Clifton to your work. Gotta see how Kyle’s doing.” He aimed a thumb out the open doors leading to the back patio.
A man in a suit sat on one of the ornate stone benches beside a small reflecting pond. He held his head in his hands and seemed ready to fold in on himself.
“That’s the husband?”
“Dr. Kyle Alexander, yes,” Sammy clarified, “and he’s an old friend. Let’s do this one by the book and do it right.”
The man was alone, but August had said two people were in the house when he and the sheriff arrived.
“Is the housekeeper out there too?”
“She’s across the lawn.” He jerked his head to the side. “I can keep an eye on both of them.” With that, he stepped away and went to the grieving man.
Clifton turned to greet her, holding a flashlight in one hand. “Indie, good to see you. Hello, Broc.”
His dazzling outfit—purple-and-orange-striped shirt, pink bow tie, bottle-green pants—was a fashion statement, but Indie didn’t know if it was a good or bad one. Seeing him dressed in a black suit and tie at all fifteen funerals he and his daughter had arranged for the victims of the recent school shooting had been jarring.
“Nice to see you dressed in your uniform again.”
Clifton chuckled, muting his usual rambunctious laugh in deference to the somber setting. “I’m certain most people wouldn’t describe my style as a ‘uniform,’ but I have to confess, it’s refreshing being me again. Colors help me think better.”
“I’m not sure I could do my job dressed so…brilliantly.”
He pointed his flashlight at the victim on the floor. “Well then let’s put our heads together here. See what we can learn.”
Olivia Alexander lay on her back on the marble floor in the middle of the room, light-brown hair fanned out around her head. A neat cream silk blouse and taupe pants were as fresh as if she’d just put them on, and her navy espadrilles were neatly buckled. Her arms were by her sides, fingers curled enough that Indie could see her pale-pink manicure was pristine, as if she’d just left the salon.
Nothing indicated a struggle. Was it possible she just died from a heart attack?
Olivia had been in her late thirties, maybe early forties, Indie guessed. Her clothes appeared tailored, which fit with her surroundings.
But what about the pink silk scarf tied around her neck?
Clifton caught her looking at it. “That could be the murder weapon, but I’m waiting for forensics before taking a proper look.”
If it was, leaving it behind was sloppy on the killer’s part. Unless they were sending a message. Or rushed out before they were discovered.
Indie motioned for Broc to sit, then squatted closer to the body, leaning her elbows on her knees. Olivia’s eyes were closed, the lids covered by a swish of brown eye shadow and her lashes by a light coat of mascara. Pigments in the bronzer dusted on her cheekbones glittered in the sunlight.
That was how Olivia had wanted to appear to the world today. Alive and with a good face for whatever came her way. Not cold and lifeless.
Still. Silent.
Indie leaned in closer.
Near the victim’s hairline, tiny purple dots showed beneath the bronzer—likely broken capillaries that had overfilled with blood and ruptured during strangulation. The scarf was wide enough that it concealed most of her neck, but a faint bruising was visible just along the top edge.
Was that why the mascara was smudged beneath her lower lashes? Had she cried while pleading with her killer? Or been terrified that she wasn’t going to escape this terrible fate?
Indie knew any additional injuries would become visible as Olivia Alexander’s skin dried and turned more transparent. The autopsy would reveal all.
She tapped Broc on the shoulder and then her temple in their what’re you thinking sign.
“Nothing smells.”
That was unsurprising in a room as welcoming as the centerpiece of a staged home. The only real color—apart from Clifton—was a bouquet of flowers on the floor to one side of Olivia’s body. The lilies were still in bud, and the roses were only just beginning to unfurl. A shock of yellow and orange flowers Indie didn’t recognize provided a dazzling contrast to the lilies and roses, though she couldn’t detect much scent from them.
Were they from Olivia’s husband or a lover? Were they a peace offering or a gift of love?
Indie gestured at Broc to sniff the flowers, pointing at the stems covered in elaborate lilac gift wrap. He did, then looked at her.
“Not her.”
Olivia hadn’t touched them. Maybe her husband could explain their presence.
He’d have to be thoroughly and carefully questioned. Indie knew the sad fact that intimate partners committed a third of all female murders. And when that circle expanded to include everyone the murdered woman knew and interacted with, the number rose to a shocking seventy-six percent.
She led Broc to the windowed wall, where open bifold doors led out to the back patio and yard. Sheriff Sammy was standing with a hand on Kyle Alexander’s slumped shoulder while the man wept. Beyond them, a white-haired woman in a simple collared dress paced around a wide lawn.
Broc sniffed at the sill of each door while Indie examined the latches and frames. Still no signs of forced entry, so it seemed unlikely that Olivia’s murderer would be among the remaining twenty-four percent of people—a complete stranger to the victim.
But if the doors had been open at the time of the murder, the killer could have waltzed right in.
Indie’s gaze flicked to the open day planner. If that was Olivia’s, she’d apparently had one appointment today, but Indie couldn’t make sense of the cryptic entry.
Lunch. SMLGV.
Maybe her husband would know what that meant. But as the spouse, Indie had to remember, he was also the most likely suspect.
Agonized moaning filtered across the patio to where she stood. The sheriff’s calm voice followed.
“We’re here for you, Kyle.”
Indie stepped outside and made her way to them.
Though she didn’t have much familiarity with Dr. Kyle Alexander, she’d seen him about town plenty of times. He had always seemed in control, his polished look similar to the sheriff’s. Both men had suspiciously dark hair for their ages, a Hollywood smile, and a deep tan.
The sheriff seemed his usual self, but right now, Kyle looked ready to throw up or slither off the bench and right into the reflecting pond.
“I don’t understand. How could this have happened?”
“We’ll get to the bottom of it. You can rest assured of that.” Sheriff Sammy’s tone was confident, like when he’d reassured the media during her last case. As well it should be. He had good people working with him.
“Olivia’s the center of my world. You know that.” Dr. Alexander reached up and gripped Sammy’s shirt.
“I do, I do.” Sammy patted Kyle’s hands and tried to pull them away.
“Everyone loves Olivia.” Kyle let go of the sheriff long enough to rub his eyes. He pressed his palms to his chest, drawing in a stilted breath. “Who would do this? Everyone loves her.”
“Not everyone loved her if she was killed.” Broc’s wisdom was spot-on, but Indie couldn’t agree with him out loud.
Watching the doctor grab hold of the sheriff again, wailing and moaning, she couldn’t help but think that what he called love could have morphed into obsession.
The sheriff turned to Indie, giving up trying to extricate himself from the grieving man’s grip. “Kyle and Olivia are very good friends of mine.”
“You said.” He had, but the way he repeated it made Indie think Sheriff Sammy felt stronger about this friendship than others. That would explain why he’d come in his personal car and out of uniform. He must’ve rushed right over when he got the call.
“So I can’t question him,” Sammy went on. “That falls to you. You’ll need to take over this investigation. Kyle, this is Detective Indira Reign and her K-9, Officer Broc. She needs to ask you a few questions, while things’re fresh in your mind.”
“What do you mean? Why won’t you be talking to me?” Kyle’s eyes widened, and he blinked furiously, as if trying to make sense of the sheriff’s words.
“Because that’d be a conflict of interest, and we want to make sure that we wrap this up with no wiggle room for the prosecution. Everything has to be done by the book—”
“But she’s a kid.”
Indie frowned. “Can a kid have three years of experience in law enforcement, two degrees, and make detective after only one month with the office?”
Sheriff Sammy coughed at Indie’s response, but she’d only pointed out the obvious.
“Detective Reign might sometimes speak without thinking things through,” he grimaced at her, “but she’s a damn good detective. Though she’s only been with us for a month, she’s already impressed the FBI twice. Justice for Olivia’s in good hands with her leading the investigation.”
Kyle glared at Indie with bloodshot eyes. He could doubt her all he wanted, and even piss her off half as much as he was right now, but she’d still do her best for his wife.
What’s done is buried. But what’s buried isn’t done.
Before Sherwood County can recover from a harrowing active shooter situation, the beloved wife of a prominent doctor is found strangled in her home. When the sheriff assigns Detective Indie Reign the case, she knows it’s going to be a sensitive one—the victim is friends with the sheriff.
But before she’s even finished questioning the victim’s husband, another body turns up. In a suitcase.
Then a third.
And each case is grislier and more disturbing than the last.
Rumors fly that the deaths are related to a farfetched local myth about Lizard People. Surely human-sized lizards aren’t killing… Read More