She’d tried her sister’s number several times. Every time, Erin’s number switched to voice mail, and the knot in Bree’s belly tightened. On the bright side, anxiety kept her from falling asleep.
She sipped her cold coffee. Her sister lived on ten acres in upstate New York. Erin had wanted her kids to have room to run and raise animals if they wanted, all the things she’d perceived as stolen from her own life after their parents’ deaths.
Perception was everything. Bree had lost all those things as well, but she wanted nothing that reminded her of her childhood. But then, she was older and had clearer memories than her sister or brother. Erin could recall only snatches of their life before, and she denied remembering anything about the horrible night that had destroyed their family. Adam had been an infant. He had no memories of their parents at all.
Bree followed the GPS directions. She’d visited her sister’s place only a couple of times. She spotted the mailbox, which looked like a black-and-white cow, and turned into the driveway. A layer of snow and ice covered the rutted dirt and gravel. Behind the house sat a small red barn. Barbed wire enclosed the pasture. The last time she’d been here, it had been summer. Everything had been green. Flowers and horses had dotted the grass. It had been peaceful and lovely. Now the icy scene was bleak and lonely.
And there were two sheriff’s department vehicles parked in the driveway.
Bree stared, the coffee in her mouth turning sour. Disbelief flooded her. She didn’t want to think about the possible reasons.
She pressed the gas pedal. Her Honda bounced and slid all the way up to the house. Bree got out of the car and walked up the wooden steps onto the porch. The front door was closed, and she shielded her eyes to stare through the glass panes in the door. There was no one in sight.
She hadn’t buttoned her coat, but fear numbed her to the temperature. The sheriff would not be searching Erin’s house unless a major crime had been committed. Her gaze was drawn to the porch swing her sister had installed herself. Snow covered the wooden seat, and ice-coated chains suspended it from the ceiling. The chains squeaked as it swayed in the wind, the pitch of the metallic sound grating on Bree’s nerves.
She heard movement inside the house. Bree tried the knob, and the door opened. Erin’s place was small for a farmhouse. But Erin had fallen in love with the wraparound front porch and the picturesque barn. She used words like cozy and homey.
“Hello?” Bree called out from the doorway, not wanting to surprise the deputies or intrude on the scene. But she scanned everything she could see. The front door opened into a large wood-floored living room. On one side, a set of french doors led into an office. The stairwell ran up the far wall, and a hallway led to the kitchen at the back of the house.
Boots stomped on the stairs, and a uniformed deputy descended. Stepping out onto the porch, he motioned Bree to move backward.
He touched his hat. “Ma’am, can I help you?”
Bree showed her badge. “This is my sister’s house. Why are you here?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said in a measured voice. “You’ll have to ask the chief deputy.”
“Is he here?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Where are my sister and her children?” Bree asked.
The deputy repeated, “You’ll have to ask the chief deputy.”
“Has Erin been arrested?”
The deputy deadpanned.
“I know. I’ll have to ask the chief deputy. Where can I find him?”
“At the sheriff’s station.”
Bree turned and scanned the property, her nerves gnawing a hole in her gut.
Why are two deputies searching Erin’s house?
The thought of her sister committing a crime was ludicrous. Erin was as Goody Two-shoes as a person could be. But something had happened.
Bree followed the porch around to the back door. Cupping her hands around her eyes, she looked through the windows. The entire back of the house was kitchen. At seven thirty in the morning, Erin should be drinking coffee and getting the kids ready for school, but the kitchen was empty. A hallway led to the front of the house. At the end of the hall, Bree could see lights and a deputy moving around in the living room. Other than the intrusion of the deputies, the house looked normal, with nothing to indicate a physical altercation had occurred.
Who else could Bree call? When Bree had seen them over the summer, eight-year-old Kayla hadn’t had a phone, but Luke had been bent over his most of the trip.
If you were a better sister and aunt, you’d know your nephew’s number.
But Bree wasn’t, and she didn’t. She saw Erin and the kids once a year when they visited her. She hadn’t been able to put aside her own issues to see them in Grey’s Hollow.
Her boots thudded on the porch as she walked back to the front of the house. The deputy had gone back inside. With ten acres of land, Erin had no neighbors in sight. The closest house was a half mile down the road. Bree pulled out her phone and called her brother again. Her call switched to voice mail, and she left him another message. Adam not responding didn’t alarm her. He often neglected to charge his phone. He was an artist. If his creativity was on, he might disconnect for days. He had a habit of taking off for weeks at a time to paint. He might not even be in town.
There was only one way she could get immediate answers. With one last glance at the closed front door, Bree slid back into her car and drove toward the sheriff’s station. The town of Grey’s Hollow was too small to fund their own police department and relied on the county sheriff for law enforcement.
The dread in her chest expanded until it constricted her lungs. She would not breathe easily again until she saw her sister and the kids with her own eyes.
At seven forty-five, the day was brightening, but the overcast sky clouded the sunrise. Bree turned into the entrance of the Randolph County Sheriff’s Station in Grey’s Hollow. She stepped out of her car, gave two reporters delivering live updates a wide berth, and walked into the squat, brown brick building. Looping the strap of her small crossbody purse over her head, Bree approached the counter separating the lobby from the front office. Two men in suits conferred on one side of the lobby.
More reporters?
Something was definitely going on.
An older woman in a heavy cardigan greeted her. “Can I help you?”
Bree said, “I’d like to speak with the sheriff.”
Forget the chief deputy. She’d go to the top.
The woman took off her reading glasses. “Regarding?”
Bree swallowed, lowered her voice so no one but the woman would hear, and watched for a response. “Erin Taggert.”
Recognition lit the woman’s face. She knew Erin’s name. Bree’s belly cramped.
This was not good. Not good at all.
“Your name and agency?” the woman asked. The woman correctly assumed Bree was a cop, which Bree would totally take advantage of.
“Bree Taggert.” She pulled her badge from her pocket. “Philadelphia homicide.”
The woman clearly noticed that Bree’s last name matched Erin’s. Something that felt uncomfortably like pity crossed the woman’s face, but she quickly wiped it away. “Wait here, please, Detective.” She turned and walked down a hallway.
The door behind Bree opened, and a man entered, a German shepherd at his side. The man moved like a cop, but Bree’s attention fixed on the dog. A K-9 team?