Nowhere to Hide (The Faith McClellan Series Book 4) by LynDee Walker

Author:LynDee Walker [Walker, LynDee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn River Publishing
Published: 2021-11-08T16:00:00+00:00

21

We didn’t pass a single other vehicle until we turned onto Marta’s street, where a pair of sheriff’s patrol cars and an ambulance nearly had the road blocked, yellow tape strung haphazardly between two low, scrubby Texas trees in the yard warning neighbors not to gawk from too nearby.

And gawk they did. The modest residential lane was lined with folks in multiple layers of pants and jackets, but nobody was playing in the mounds of snow—they were all standing in clumps, whispering among themselves.

I parked nose-to-nose with a cruiser and checked the mirror. Kelsey Marie was sleeping.

I waved Graham out of the car and met him at the hood.

“You want to chat up the nosy neighbors while I pop inside?” I nodded to a group about ten feet away.

“I’ll keep an eye on the car. If she wakes up, I’ll keep her out here.” He let out a shuddering breath. “Probably good her phone is busted.”

“You reported the video?”

“There was a box to check if you’re in law enforcement, so I used my credentials. But like a million people already saw it.”

“Hopefully they’ll take it down before too many more can.” I squeezed his hand and rounded for the door.

The house itself wasn’t much different than mine, small and tidy with a pair of shutter-flanked windows framing a red front door. It opened as I put my foot on the lowest step of the little brick stoop.

“Miss McClellan?” I’d have pegged Sheriff Barnes’s three packs and ten scotches a day growl even without the nameplate on his uniform.

“Ranger.” I met his eyes with a friendly smile that softened the edge in my tone. “Ranger McClellan.”

“No disrespect, ma’am.” He tipped his ten-gallon Stetson and backed up, raising an arm to welcome me into Marta’s home.

I glanced around. “Do we have gear?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Booties, hair nets, gloves?” You know, stuff to keep our people from contaminating the crime scene? I didn’t say that last part out loud. This man had been the sheriff here for nearly two decades and he’d only ever seen one other murder. And that one was outside, with half a dozen witnesses.

His wide forehead furrowed under his hat, drawing unruly white brows to a point over his nose. “Nope.”

Since he wasn’t the only person who’d been inside, the scene was contaminated anyway. I sighed and stepped into the house, my nose stinging from the coppery tang of blood, though blessedly missing the sickly-sweet stench of decomposing human. She hadn’t been dead long enough for that, thank God.

A young deputy, snow dripping off his caked boots, followed a tall woman in a quilted jacket with a Texas Justice of the Peace patch on one arm around the living room, taking notes as the JP pointed things out. And picked things up. With her bare hands.

I blew out a slow breath. Odds weren’t in my favor that forensics were getting us across the finish line of this one, anyway. So what could I control here?

Get the facts.

I stepped closer to the body.

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