Prologue
Coming face-to-face with a corpse for the first time is an experience that’s never forgotten. The lifelessness is something that can’t be imagined or explained.
First, is the utter silence.
The sky was just growing light at the edges. Ponderosa and sugar pine trees soared to the heavens, looking down on the body lying in a small clearing. It was empty of life. Eternally still. While a slight breeze stirred the branches above, nothing animated that face, and no breath moved through the now-empty lungs. The expression didn’t look startled or angry or confused. It looked like…it looked like nothing. The facial features had turned, moment by moment, from a suggestion of sleep, to one of accusation, and within the space of a single breath, to a vacant home. The face wasn’t sculpted like a plastic mask; it didn’t resemble a mannequin, smoothly devoid of life. It was in a category of its own, a horror that defied description.
There were two bullet holes, one on the left side of the stomach. Rather, it was obvious that’s where the bullet had entered the flesh. A thickening pool of blood covered the actual wound. The other hole was in the chest, off to the side. Four or five inches to the right and there might have been a chance for life to continue.
Murder hadn’t been the plan, but plans change.
1
Skye
Lake Tahoe was the most awesome deep blue I’d ever seen. It looked like it went on for miles, so enormous that the mountains on the other side were blurry with a hint of purple, like they belonged in a fairy tale.
Joe and I were a little jumpy, eager for whatever was going to happen next. It was the thrill of not-knowing, a desire that excited both of us, although probably for different reasons. The cocktails in front of us were there to help us relax, but we were trying not to gulp them down too fast. We didn’t want to get so relaxed that we screwed things up.
I’d ordered a cosmo, a drink that says you’re classy. Joe was drinking a fancy beer of some kind.
We sat beside a long table that was designed so the maximum number of people could be close to the view. Unlike everyone else eating and drinking—mostly drinking—and staring at all that amazing blue water, both of us had our attention on the spot by the bar where people walked from the main restaurant out to the patio.
“That guy. With the beard,” Joe said. “His wife is hot.”
I sipped my drink. The alcohol did nothing to settle the twitchy feeling in my left leg. I crossed it over my right. “No.”
“Why not?”
I laughed. “Don’t be so impatient.”
“What are we waiting for? Anyone in this place is good.”
“They have to be right.”
“And who decides what’s right? You?” He squeezed my leg just above my knee, his hand strong, cooling my skin that was burning and turning pink from sitting in the sun. He squeezed harder. I pushed his hand away.
I started to take another sip, then put my glass on the table. I took a deep breath. I was better at waiting than Joe was. But that was also what made me fall for him all those years ago—the pent-up energy, the way he made decisions without ever thinking he might kick himself later. He was the kind of guy who would run down the pier in front of us, never slowing for even a second, then throwing himself out over that deep blue water, landing with a huge splash, not caring if it hurt. He would pop to the surface and laugh his head off. I loved him the minute I met him. Even if I didn’t always like him, now that I was older. Still…
He squeezed my leg again. “That guy with the UCLA shirt looks good. He hasn’t stopped looking at his phone since our drinks came. Totally ignoring his—”
“No.” I shook my head.
Joe rolled his eyes. “Come on. What are you waiting for?”
“Re-LAX.”
“I’m relaxed. I don’t know what you think you’re looking for.”
“It’s hard to explain,” I said. “It’s instinct.”
He put his hand in my hair and wound some of it around his hand, tugging gently to pull me toward him. “You do have good instincts.”
I smiled.
He let go of my hair and we didn’t talk for a while, just looking at the lake on one side, the entrance on the other. I mean, that’s why everyone wanted to sit at the table facing the water. If we turned our backs on it all the way, we might get snarly looks and too much attention from people who were keeping an eye out for empty seats beside the water.
Joe’s beer was half gone when I saw them. “Those two.”
He followed my gaze to the couple near the hostess stand, looking around the patio for a place to sit. The guy was a little taller than Joe, about six-two. He had light brown hair that was short on the sides, longish on top so it fell over his forehead, which had a light, very hot-looking tan. He was wearing a white polo shirt without a logo, gray board shorts, and black flip-flops—the nice kind, not the flimsy rubber ones that slide around and slap your feet so everyone can hear you coming.
The woman was thin, but looked like she was in shape. Her legs and arms had nice muscles. She had brown-and-blonde-streaked hair that was done so you couldn’t be sure about what the real color was. It was perfectly straight, cut just above her shoulders, smooth and silky. She kept tucking one side behind her ear and it would slide out again. She had on a short, sleeveless black top, white Capri pants, and black gladiator sandals. Her purse was so tiny it looked like the only thing that would fit inside was a phone and maybe some lip gloss and a credit card.
“It’s the hair, isn’t it?” Joe smirked. “Why do people with a lot of money always have such great hair? It doesn’t seem like something you can buy. It’s almost like they aren’t just lucky with money, they’re lucky in the gene pool.”
“You have nice hair,” I said.
He grinned.
“Besides, you can absolutely buy nice hair,” I said.
“If you say so.”
Following the hostess, the couple began walking in our direction. They were seated at a table for two in a section that wasn’t as close to the water as we were. They sat down without complaining about the location.
Joe gave me a look. There wouldn’t be any more talking because we didn’t want to risk them hearing us. The look told me that Joe had noticed the same thing—no complaining about the table. When you’ve spent as much time watching people in restaurants and bars as Joe and I have, you notice certain personality traits. One of those was the kind of person who complains about the table they get. People who complain are picky and suspicious about everything. They think someone else got a better deal; they think they’re being dissed. They are not the kind of people that are fun to hang out with. Joe and I had discussed this, so I knew from his look that he was thinking the same thing I was—my instincts were awesome.
I took a sip of my cosmo.
Joe got the server’s attention and we ordered a plate of calamari to share and six oysters for him to swallow all on his own. He told the server we wanted our second round of drinks a few minutes after the food came. He was being picky—maybe the kind of person who wasn’t fun to hang out with, if he thought about it, which he probably hadn’t. I don’t think he ever noticed when he was being a hypocrite. I notice those things. A lot. I might not have a fancy education, or much education at all, in the way people talk about it—college and all that—but I know about people. When you’re in charge of pretty much raising your brother and three sisters, you learn how people are.