Chapter One
Greg Holcombe checked his watch—11:15 p.m. He backed out of the parking space, tires squealing against the pavement as he pointed his Chevy Tahoe in the direction of home. Fifteen minutes past when he’d promised Carrie he’d be there. He pressed the accelerator harder, the vehicle rumbling as it picked up speed along the dark rural road.
Ever since his wife had gotten into his phone last month and read a string of private texts, she’d been insufferable about his schedule. Twenty-four years of marriage, and suddenly she cared what time he rolled in? Greg snorted. She’d always known about his extracurricular activities. That was the deal. But lately, every night he came home late, she had something to say about it.
“You’re too old for this.” She kept saying the same thing. “You’re too old for this.”
Greg scoffed as he turned up the music, blasting the Revivalists’ “Good Old Days.”
Too old? Yeah, right. He’d stop chasing women when he was dead.
His headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating stretches of open field on either side of the road. Mountains rose in the distance, black shapes against the starlit sky. The moon hung bright overhead, casting silver light across the landscape. It was the kind of night that made you forget winter was coming. These were the moments Greg lived for—driving alone, multiple women wanting him, the whole world spread out like it was his for the taking.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love Carrie. He did. He was proud of their life together. Twenty years working as an electrician for McFarland Brothers meant decent money coming in.
But when a beautiful woman came on to him, what was he supposed to do? Say no?
That didn’t fit into his religion. His girlfriends knew the deal. And they all knew he wasn’t leaving his wife. At least this way, everyone was getting what they wanted.
The woman he’d just left certainly hadn’t complained.
Greg had been playing this game since his teens. Before Carrie, during Carrie, probably long after Carrie, if he was being honest with himself. Some men collected stamps. He collected phone numbers. It was just who he was. Fighting such intense passion would be like fighting gravity.
He’d just rounded a curve, considering excuses, when his headlights caught a figure ahead on the narrow shoulder. He eased off the gas.
A woman walked along the edge of the road, pushing a bike. Low-rise jeans fit her as if made for her body specifically, and a cropped sweatshirt rode up, exposing a strip of pale skin at her waist. Even from behind, Greg could see the curve of her body, the way she moved. She was athletic and confident. Probably too confident, truth be told. It was getting on midnight, and she was out here, all alone.
Just his type.
He slowed further as he approached, eyes fixed on her. One of the bike’s tires was completely flat, the rim scraping against the pavement with each rotation.
Perfect.
He could tell Carrie he was late because he’d stopped to help someone in trouble. It was the truth, even. And it just so happened to be a pretty someone.
Greg pulled up alongside her and rolled down the passenger window.
The woman turned, and he got his first real look at her face in the moonlight. His eyebrows shot up. If it wasn’t Miss Sexy Lips herself.
“Need some help, Sexy Lips?”
She flashed him a smile, parting those amazing lips. “Hey, you. That would be amazing. I don’t know what happened. The tire just went flat.”
He’d already started undressing her in his mind. “Put it in the back. I’ll give you a ride wherever you’re headed.”
She hesitated, biting her lower lip in that way that made him half hard and glancing around, but no one else was nearby.
“I don’t want to put you out.”
He grinned, draping his arm over the passenger seat. “You’re not putting me out at all. I wouldn’t want you to be,” Greg’s gaze moved down her body as arousal burned inside him, “walking along by yourself this late at night. It’d be ungentlemanly of me.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” She tilted her head. “You’re not actually a serial killer, are you?”
“Not tonight, I’m not.” He winked.
She threw her head back with laughter as she wheeled the bike to the rear of the Tahoe.
But damn, she’s definitely killing me right now.
Greg popped the hatch, climbed out, and helped her hoist the bike inside, their hands brushing as they maneuvered it into place. She smelled like vanilla and roses, and he had to remind himself that he needed to get home.
“Thank you so much.” She brushed a strand of dark curly hair from her face. Most of it was pulled up in a loose bun, but a few pieces had escaped. “I didn’t know what I was going to do. I was already getting tired from walking.” She stretched her arms overhead, arching her back in a way that lifted her sweatshirt higher and showed off the toned lines of her stomach. She kept everything tight.
Greg’s tongue ran along his bottom lip before he forced himself to meet her gaze again. “Well, hop in. Can’t have you stranded out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”
Greg stood in his place as she sashayed toward the passenger seat. Finally regaining use of his legs, he jogged toward the driver’s side. “Want the seat warmer on?”
“That’d be great. Thanks. It’s so cold.”
He clicked it on and pulled back onto the road. The hula dancer on his dash bobbed with the movement of the vehicle, her plastic grass skirt swaying back and forth. His phone sat in its holder clipped to the vent.
He’d received no angry texts from Carrie yet. Maybe she’d gone to bed already. He hoped that was the case. Then he’d have a chance of sneaking into the house undetected after a little rendezvous with the hottie in his passenger seat.
“So where am I taking you?”
“Oh, just up the road a bit. I’ll let you know when we get close.”
“All right.” Greg settled in his seat, one hand on the wheel. “Have you been walking that bike far?”
“Far enough.” Her voice had a velvety quality to it, smooth and low. Reminded him of late nights and tangled sheets. “If you hadn’t come by, I don’t know what I would’ve done. I was already getting exhausted. My hero.”
Greg glanced at her. Even in the dim light of the moon, he could see her athletic build, the way her sweatshirt clung to her frame. She had strong shoulders and a to-die-for flat stomach. The kind of body that came from actual work, not just a random gym membership. “You look like you could run a full marathon with no issues.”
She snorted. “No, I don’t.”
He laughed, the sound filling the cab. “Oh, yes, you do. Come on, now. Don’t be modest.”
She tilted her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “Okay, fine. I do some hiking in addition to biking.”
“Knew it.” Greg let his gaze linger on her legs before returning his attention to the road. Those jeans had no business looking that good. His heart raced just knowing she was next to him. “Want me to turn down the music?”
He reached for the dial and froze when her fingers touched his arm. “No way. I love John Denver, actually. ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’ is my karaoke go-to.”
He’d heard her sing before. A little off-key, but she had other assets. Greg smiled at her. “A woman after my own heart.”
They drove in silence for a moment, the music filling the space between them. The fields stretched endlessly on either side, broken only by the occasional fence post catching the moonlight.
“Beautiful night,” she offered.
“Sure is.” Greg drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of John Denver’s strumming. “Lucky you broke down now, after the rain stopped.”
“Lucky you came along.”
He glanced at her again. She watched him now, her brown eyes reflecting the dashboard lights. And she didn’t look away or give any sign that she was uncomfortable. Merely watched him with that same small smile.
Hell, yeah. This was happening. Two women in the space of a couple hours. This was shaping up to be the greatest night ever.
Greg’s hand drifted from the steering wheel to rest on the console between them. He waited a beat, then another, giving her time to object, to give him any sign that he was reading this wrong.
She didn’t move.
He slid his hand under her knee. The denim was warm from the seat heater, and he could feel the firmness of her thigh beneath the fabric. Still, she didn’t push him away or tense up. She only watched him.
A stop sign appeared ahead, a red octagon glowing in the headlights.
Greg eased the Tahoe to a halt, the brakes squeaking slightly. He needed to get those looked at. He turned to face the woman fully, letting his hand slide higher on her thigh. “You know you’re gorgeous, right?”
She tilted her head, that small smile still playing on her lips. “Am I?”
“Why don’t we,” he nodded toward the back seat, “get more comfortable?”
She held his gaze for a moment longer, then leaned close to him. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Greg’s pulse spiked.
He drove through the intersection and pulled onto the shoulder, unbuckling his seat belt before he even had the vehicle in park. “That’s what I like to hear.” He threw open his door, the cold air slapping him in the face, but he barely noticed. He yanked the rear door open and got in, unbuckling his pants.
She took her time getting out, circling around the vehicle with an unhurried pace that made him even more eager. When she finally, finally climbed into the back seat, Greg reached for her waist before the door even clicked closed.
“C’mere.” He pulled her closer. “Damn, you’re so hot.”
She moved with him, letting him position her on top of him. Her hands came up to rest on his chest.
Greg grinned in the darkness. “See? Isn’t this better?” He slid his hands up her sides. “I’m gonna make you feel so good.”
She moved one of her hands behind her, and he caught a glint of silver. His mind took a moment to recognize the shape of the item.
Greg’s eyes widened as the knife’s blade shimmered in the dim light.
“What the—”
“Aw, don’t look so scared. You were so confident a minute ago.”
Greg barely blinked before she plunged the blade into his neck.
Fire erupted beneath his skin, a searing pain that radiated down into his shoulder and up to his skull. He tried to speak, to ask why, to scream, but blood bubbled up into his mouth instead.
Hot and thick, choking him.
The metallic taste filled his senses, overwhelming everything else.
He reached one hand up instinctively, grasping for the blade. The knife sliced across his palm as she pulled it away, a sharp sting lost in the greater agony. His neck pulsed with each heartbeat, warm rivers running down his chest, soaking into his shirt.
Her face hovered close to his, her expression calm. Cold. Those brown eyes that had seemed so inviting moments ago held nothing but ice. Her sexy lips curved in a sneer.
The once-loud music was now muffled, distant. Denver’s clear voice ringing about country roads taking him home and mountain mamas.
She jammed the knife into his neck again. “You think you can screw one woman after another and get away with it?”
All Greg could do was make a gurgling sound. She stuck the blade into him several more times before stopping.
A river of blood. Greg couldn’t breathe around it. He couldn’t think past the burning agony in his throat. His chest heaved, trying to pull in air. But only blood flowed out of him. And blinding pain.
His phone screen remained dark. No one was calling. No one was coming. No one even knew where he was.
He searched her face, this stranger who was killing him, and couldn’t make sense of it. What had he done? They’d only ever had fun together.
She leaned close to him. “You deserve this.”
What did I ever do to you?
But the words never made it past the blood in his throat. The pain began to fade, replaced by a coldness that spread from his chest outward. His fingers went numb.
The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him was the woman’s hand, still gripping the knife, as she reached for the door handle.
The last thing he felt was the cold October air rushing in before she slammed the door shut.
Chapter Two
Special Agent Genevieve Steel’s alarm went off at 5:30 in the morning, dragging her from a dreamless sleep. She silenced it and lay still, convincing herself to get up.
She swung her legs out of bed and crossed the cold hardwood floor of her third-story apartment. She pulled on her hiking clothes and laced up her boots.
Genevieve pulled her hair into a loose ponytail as she walked to the living room. Her leopard gecko Smaug watched her from his terrarium. He blinked once but didn’t move otherwise.
After feeding him a few crickets, she opened her laptop and checked her work email. The inbox sat empty except for a departmental memo about updated protocols. Work had been quiet and mundane for the past week, but Genevieve knew it was only a matter of time before a case landed on their desks.
She closed the laptop and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge before heading out for a hike and maybe an easy bike ride after, if she was feeling ambitious. The stairwell was silent at this hour, her boots echoing off the walls.
Genevieve met no one on the way down to her Hyundai Accent. The temperature had dropped overnight, so she started the engine and let it warm up before heading out.
She merged onto Route 19 and drove north, watching the landscape change as she left town. Trees crowded both sides of the road, their branches forming a canopy overhead.
She’d hiked the Endless Wall Trail dozens of times. It offered a moderate challenge without being too strenuous, the perfect combination for her to ease back into her routine. Reaching the trailhead took a good twenty minutes, the route winding through backcountry that grew denser with trees the farther she went.
The Fern Creek parking lot was still another mile ahead when her headlights caught the shape of a vehicle pulled off on the narrow shoulder, a few paces away from a stop sign.
Genevieve rolled down her window, allowing cold air into her car as she slowed.
Music wailed from inside the dark-colored Chevy Tahoe. The vehicle’s shade—maybe dark blue, gray, or black—was hard to tell in the dim light.
The engine was running. She hesitated. Probably just someone who’d pulled over to…well. She grimaced. Not her business, but they couldn’t stay parked here. The park service enforced the no-parking rule strictly.
Genevieve pulled onto the shoulder twenty feet ahead of the Tahoe. She threw the Accent into park, grabbed her flashlight and a pair of nitrile gloves from the glove box, and climbed out into the cold morning air.
Her boots crunched on gravel as she approached.
She came up alongside the driver’s door, the music really hitting a sustained note now, and considered that she might be happening on a “romantic” interlude. Still, there were more private areas for necking.
Genevieve peered through the window, sweeping her flashlight beam across the front seats. Empty.
Crap. They were likely getting it on in the back. Good morning to me.
Not as good a morning as them, but still…
She angled the beam toward the back. Even through the tinted window, she could see a man slumped against the far door, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, dark streaks splayed across his throat and body. He was alone.
“Sir?” She raised her voice over the music and tapped the flashlight against the window.
The man didn’t flinch. He didn’t react at all.
Genevieve pulled the handle. The door opened without resistance as the interior light flickered on. A thick metallic scent filled the car, mixed with a sweetness that might’ve been perfume or cologne. Maybe an air freshener.
John Denver’s voice met her, thanking God he was a country boy.
Blood covered the front of the man’s shirt, dried to a dark brown. It had pooled in his lap, soaked into the fabric of his jeans, and splashed onto the window. The wound in his neck gaped open, the edges of flesh pulled back to reveal severed tissue beneath. Multiple stab wounds.
His skin was waxy, bloodless. Eyes half open, staring at nothing.
And his pants were undone.
He was dead.
Careful not to touch anything else, Genevieve pressed two fingers against the man’s wrist. His skin was cold and stiff. The man had been dead for hours.
Genevieve swept her flashlight around the interior of the Tahoe. A hula dancer sat on the dashboard. A phone was clipped to an air vent.
Did he know his killer?
The music shifted to Denver’s “Annie’s Song.” Genevieve looked again at the wound. She wasn’t a doctor, but she didn’t believe he would’ve had time to fight back or do much of anything except die.
What a painful way to go.
Next, she looked around where she stood, but the road was empty in both directions. No possible witnesses. Just her and the body and miles of wilderness.
She backed away from the vehicle and pulled out her phone, then cursed under her breath. Zero bars. She moved a few steps down the asphalt. Still nothing. The gorge played hell with cell service, leaving her stranded without communication.
She couldn’t leave the scene unattended, but she couldn’t call it in either.
What if an early morning hiker, like her, came along? Someone out to catch the sunrise from Endless Wall, walking along the shoulder because the parking area was still a quarter mile up the road? After all, if Genevieve could happen across the body, anyone could. She wasn’t the only person to ever get up before the crack of dawn.
The last thing she wanted was for someone to contaminate the scene more than it already was.
Maybe a compromise. The nearest help waited at the Canyon Rim Visitor Center.
Making the tricky but strategic decision to leave the Tahoe for the moment, she got back into her car and started the engine, making a U-turn toward the visitor center and picking up a little speed. Time was of the essence.
Her morning excursion was forgotten. The soreness didn’t matter anymore. Someone had been murdered, and she’d just stumbled into the middle of it.
Buried truths. Blood-soaked payback.
Sometimes you can’t see the forest for the trees. FBI Special Agent Genevieve can’t see the forest for the bodies that keep finding her.
Just weeks after rescuing a woman attacked in the woods by a serial killer copycatting Genevieve’s own murderer father, her early morning hike is interrupted by yet another grisly discovery.
A dead man, stabbed repeatedly in the neck in the back seat of his vehicle, his pants unzipped.
A serial philanderer, the victim’s long string of jilted lovers and baby mamas yields a plethora of possible suspects. Read More