Harlequin Intrigue April 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Carol Ericson (short books to read TXT) 📖

ranch-style, light blue home stood out among the others in the neighborhood, its cheery bright yellow door hung with a wreath. The well-manicured lawn and flowerbeds had been kept in pristine shape. That, combined with his knowledge that Annabell Ross obviously enjoyed the outdoors, had led Dylan to believe the owner took great care of nature and went out of her way to preserve it. The recycle bin positioned near the garage only added to her profile point.

Dylan turned off the engine and reached for the glove box. Remi had taken his duty weapon back at the safe house, but it wasn’t his only firearm. Holstering the 9mm Smith & Wesson, he shouldered out of the vehicle. The rain was starting to pick up as he headed up the driveway. Corner lot, exposed to the street from the south and west, fence to the east between Annabell’s home and the neighbors, trees in the backyard. Good location. A lot of vantage points.

He hit the front porch and rang the doorbell once followed by quick knocks to ensure she’d heard him. Seconds ticked by, a minute. No answer. “Annabell Ross, it’s Deputy—” No. He wasn’t a marshal anymore. “It’s Dylan Cove. I was one of the officers at the scene a few days ago. Wonder if I might ask you some questions.”

The rain picked up, as though sensing the distress coiling in his gut. Gresham PD had advised Ms. Ross to stay in touch until they concluded their investigation into Del Howe’s death. Apparently, her respect for the community didn’t extend to those responsible for keeping it safe. He hopped off the cement porch and peered through the nearest pane of a small bay window. White curtains shifted inside, blowing this way and that with the help of what looked like an overhead fan.

He shielded his eyes from the glare of a nearby streetlamp to get a better look inside. Conservationists didn’t usually leave their fans on when they were away. Minimalist furniture and décor had been expertly placed throughout the living room and dining room. No television. No personal effects aside from a few photos on a bookshelf in the back. His heels sank into the soil as he repositioned himself for a better view. This was a woman who could pick up and go at a moment’s notice. Hell, maybe she had just gone on another adventure with her small group of cavers as Captain Paulson believed. But his instincts told him if Annabell’s hiking partner had been the one to kill Del Howe as the evidence suggested, then she hadn’t lived long after giving her statement.

Dylan followed the flowerbed around the side of the house, senses at an all-time high. Water fell from his hair and collected around his collar. The backyard was as well manicured as the front. Healthy grass, fresh flowers, a large line of trees leading into pure wilderness beyond the property line. Old wood protested under his weight as he climbed the back stairs and tried the sliding-glass door. The heavy pane screeched along the track. He froze, holding his breath. “Annabell?”

No answer.

His pulse slammed wildly at the base of his neck as he stepped over the threshold into the galley kitchen. Builder’s grade wood cabinets, a large white fridge, stainless-steel stove. Not much clutter on the counters. Peeling linoleum threatened to trip him up from nearly every angle. A small round table with four chairs took up space on his other side. Three large arches led into the living room at the front of the house and the front door, a hallway off to his left. Presumably to the bedrooms. No stairs as far as he could tell.

“Ms. Ross?” He freed his weapon, his finger stilled on the trigger. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find, but the compulsion that’d pushed him to finish what he’d started with the New Castle Killer directed him down the hallway. Something wasn’t right here. He nudged open the first door with the toe of his boot. A bathroom. Clear. He turned the knob of the door across the hallway and hit the lights. A single twin-size bed sat in the center of the room. No other furniture. Dread pooled at the base of his spine as he caught hints of a foul odor. He moved forward to the last bedroom. Hand on the doorknob, Dylan braced himself against the hollow wood.

Decomposition.

Covering his nose and mouth with his gun hand, he forced his way inside and turned on the lights. Wide brown eyes stared at him from Annabell’s upside-down position over the edge of the bed. Discolored bruising and angry inflammation circled her neck, her skin ashen white compared to the last time he’d seen her. “Son of a bitch.”

The hiking partner. Henry Sallow. He’d used her as an alibi that day near Del Howe’s cabin, pretended he’d found the body instead of being the one responsible for the New Castle Killer’s death, and discarded Annabell when he was finished with her. Dylan hadn’t been fast enough.

Damn it. He had to call it in, had to let Remi know. He holstered his weapon. Unpocketing his phone, he hit the speed dial for her cell and hoped to hell she’d answer. This wasn’t about what’d happened between them. This was another murder in the wake of twenty-six others. The line rang once. Twice.

Dylan turned back toward the hallway, but a bolt of pain shot through his chest, along his arms and into his legs. The phone fell from his grasp and bounced off the carpet. The outline of the attacker blurred in his vision as two electric nodes forced high doses of amps through his body. His hands automatically fisted as he swung out, but he met nothing but air just before he hit the floor.

Unending pain coursed through him as his attacker stepped into the light, Dylan’s arms and legs jerking without his permission. Remi had been right. His throat convulsed around the only word he