Last Winter's Taken: The Last Cold Case

By MJ LaBeff

The murder of Willow Danby, a married woman and expectant mother, thrusts Homicide Detective Rachel Hood into a murder investigation and missing person's case as she searches for the baby ripped from Willow's body.

 

The mysterious undertone surrounding the current investigation forces Rachel to reopen a cold case from the previous year. Yvonne Johnson and Willow Danby couldn't have been more different. Wrong side of the tracks meets white picket fence. The only thing the two women have in common: they're both dead and their infants are missing.

 

Even with a long list of suspects to interview, alibis abound, and Rachel is no closer to solving Danby's or Johnson's deaths. She worries: where are the children? Rachel's psychic empathy draws her closer to the taken infants, and she suffers from a haunting premonition. But, how can she be their voice when they are too tiny to speak? A single clue left at each of the crime scenes links the cases together and leads Rachel to a mystery dating back to the year 1638.  Her frightening premonition spirals out of control, but she can't track the infants' sobs. 

 

The sinister murders and search for the missing infants reunites her with occult crimes specialist and psychic FBI Agent Nick Draven. Even with his psychic gift of hypersensitive hearing, Nick can't hear the infants' cries in the night. Then a mysterious enigma is unearthed for the first time in over 372 years and draws them closer to a modern day sociopath, murdering expectant mothers and taking their unborn children. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: MJ LaBeff
• Release date: Jul 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201282868

MJ LaBeff

MJ LaBeff is an American author best described as the girl-next-door with a dark side. MJ grew up in northeastern Ohio but traded snow for sunshine and moved to southern Arizona where she lives with her husband and three dogs. She’s drawn to writing suspense novels, featuring complicated characters and twisted plot lines that will keep readers turning page after page. When she’s not writing or plotting her next novel, MJ enjoys reading, running, lifting weights, and volunteering for the American Cancer Society.

Book preview

Chapter 1

December 21, 2011

10:30 a.m.

Willow Danby dug her bloodied fingers into the creamy plush carpet, gripping the shaggy fibers. The fireplace poker she’d been hit with had split open her head. It lay, taunting, just beyond her reach. A pool of blood leaked beneath her skull and onto the spotless floor. Hot tears spilled from her eyes and dried on her cheeks.

She’d fought hard, yet she’d landed flat on her back. Thank, God. Luck had been on her side. Had she fallen onto her swollen belly, she could have lost the baby. Her right hand instinctively released the carpet and reached for her stomach, leaving a bloody hand print on her tattered sweater.

She willed herself up. Staggered, and then ran. Through bleary, swollen eyes, she panicked at the three locks on the front door. Dead bolt, chain lock, snap, snap. No, no. The key. Where was the key for the standard door lock? She yanked at the knob, leaving another bloody stain behind. Her hand fished in the decorative glass bowl on the table in the entry way. Oh, God, please, the key. Where’s the key? It’s always right here.

Willow turned and staggered toward the dining room. If she could make it to the sliding glass doors...darkness covered her. She fought to throw off the quilt. Something sharp whacked her on the head again, sending her to her knees in a pool of blood and tears.

The attacker dragged her by the ankles, shedding the quilt from her body. Her hands grabbed at the carpet along the way. She struggled for leverage, reached for a dining room chair, the leg of the table, the bottom of the China cabinet... Her grip weak, things crashed in her wake in her attempt to fight back.

A streak of blood snaked its way from the dining room to the marble kitchen floor where Willow Danby lost her battle and died.

Homicide Detective Rachel Hood visualized this poor woman running for her life.

The familiar rusty scent she encountered at other crime scenes permeated the area. Blood. And there was a lot of it here. So much so, she could almost taste its metallic essence. Blood spattered the walls and streaked the floors, pooling in places where Willow had fought her attacker.

Rachel knelt down near the spot where Willow had taken her final breaths. Her eyes were closed, telling Rachel she had died a slow and agonizing death. Based on the yellowish coloring of her skin she had been dead for an hour or so. A sock was missing from her foot. There was a gag in her mouth, probably the sock. A metal bowl filled with water and a dish rag sat on the floor next to the victim’s body.

Unease swept from the base of her spine and shivered across her shoulders. She’d processed plenty of crime scenes but nothing could have prepared her for this. Only the ME could confirm what she was thinking. She swallowed the bile rising in the back of her throat. Took a deep breath and then exhaled.

Willow’s stomach had been sliced open with a box cutter. The killer had completed an amateur C-section. Her stomach walls were open, but her womb was intact. Her hands closed around bloody entrails, probably grasping for the baby ripped from her body.

Nothing good ever comes from murder, but a life had been born and God willing could still be found.

Whoever did this had taken his or her time. Willow’s chest was exposed. It appeared the milk from her breasts had been suctioned out with a breast pump.

Rachel looked away from the carnage. She pressed her gloved hands onto her knees and pushed herself up. Crime scene techs wearing blue plastic gowns with booties covering their feet painstakingly combed through each of the rooms for evidence. It’d be awhile before they finished processing the crime scene.

Deputy Paul Joslin was at the kitchen table, questioning the shaken security guard. Ronald Haasman’s ghostly face conveyed the outrageous death Willow Danby had suffered. He’d left his post at the guard gate for his routine neighborhood patrol around ten o’clock in the morning. When he noticed the Danby’s front door wide open he stopped, yelled in, received no response, and entered. Mrs. Danby’s dead body stopped him in his tracks. He dialed 9-1-1.

Don’t move her body, Rachel instructed the techs milling around her. Don’t touch her until the ME gets here.

They’d need to collect evidence from Danby’s body, but Rachel needed time to evaluate the scene more closely. Even a more seasoned detective would have had a hard time walking into this. If the techs started picking apart her body...she would have had to reconstruct what happened.

She exited the kitchen and passed through the dining room, glancing at the bloody mess, then went through the enormous entry way, pausing to look up at the soaring ceiling and sparkling chandelier. She dropped her head to her chest. Her eye caught the entry table with the glass bowl covered in bloody finger prints. For chrissakes, if Willow could have only found the key to get the final lock open. Rachel shook her head and walked out the front door. She snapped off the gloves and deposited them into her jacket pocket.

What kind of person murders a pregnant woman and takes her unborn infant from her body?

Beyond the threshold, she inhaled and exhaled. Her breath gusted in a foggy cloud. The cold air offered some relief from the brutality waiting on the other side. She placed her hand against the door jamb and rested her head against her outstretched arm. The cold decorative molding seeped beneath her palm, causing her to tremble, but the chill soothed her battered nerves. She glanced at the angel with open wings above the house number at 1818 Lincoln Drive in Snug Harbor, Ohio.

The lingering question rose in her head again.

What kind of person takes an unborn infant from a pregnant woman’s body and then murders her four days before Christmas?

Rachel knew better.

Murder knows no time, date or holiday.

She lifted her head and dropped her outstretched arm to her side and stared out in the distance beyond the Danby’s long driveway.

Bright yellow and black crime scene tape slapped against the blowing wind. Beyond the flapping tape, several deputy vehicles haphazardly clogged the road. Uniforms had grabbed their guns and toys and converged on the premise ready to apprehend the killer. Rachel had drawn her gun when she bolted from her SUV. It was standard protocol.

Curtains rustled from the neighbor’s home across the street. No one had ventured to find out what happened. Too cold, too early, too private, too upscale? Maybe. If she were in any other neighborhood, nothing would have stopped the looky-loos. A sleek BMW with dark windows drove by.

A light blanket of snow covered lawns and tree limbs. Homes were decorated for the holidays. An otherwise picturesque scene unfolded, crime scene tape aside. She thought about the Christmas tree in the Danby home and the ornament prominently displayed—Baby’s First Christmas 2011. Her stomach churned.

Somewhere out there was little Baby Danby.

* * * *

The tiny, pink and red fleshy mass wiggled and wailed in her arms. She’d held him tightly against her vacant nipple, forcing him to suckle her breast void of milk.

Sweet little child of mine, don’t you cry, Mama’s here, and she’s gonna give you the perfect home, she sing-sang her words to him.

The decrepit rocker whined against its hinges. She cradled the back of his head. He stopped crying. His small mouth tugged at her breast. The silence was brief. He turned his head and contorted his face away from her. The crying started again.

Oh, my sweet, sweet baby boy, don’t cry, Daddy will be here soon.

She rose from the rocker and crossed the patch of carpet to the scarred linoleum floor in the kitchen. The milk was in the fridge. She bounced up and down. Shh, shh, shh, there, there. She warmed the bottle in the microwave, tested the liquid on her wrist, and satisfied with the temperature, she pressed the plastic nipple between his twisting lips. He stopped crying.

If only she could make him suckle. She took the bottle from him and poured the warm liquid over her exposed breast then cradled the back of his head against her. He tugged on her nipple. She squeezed another trickle of milk from the bottle.

Mama’s here, baby. Mama’s here.

She sank into the rocking chair and sang a familiar lullaby. When he finished tugging at her breast she propped him against her shoulder and gently patted his back. The cutest little belch escaped from his mouth. She settled him into the crook of her arms again. Ever so slowly she rocked the chair back and forth.

He drifted off to sleep.

His cherub face contented. His belly full and body nourished. His tiny arms and legs occasionally jerked. His soft snores reached her soul.

Her heart sank to her feet. She hated the thought of leaving him, but she had no choice. It was too soon to take him home.

She tilted her head back and stared at the water stains on the ceiling. To think a woman had lived like this, in this tiny, filthy den of a place with a baby on the way. Shameful. To think she had grown up in conditions like this. Unbelievable.

It had been a year since she’d come back. The cold and dimly lit apartment hadn’t changed. The old radiator rattled still when the heat came on, and the same tattered carpet, pitted linoleum, peeling kitchen cabinets that had been painted over too many times, and rattling windows graced the studio with their presence. Aside from the rickety rocking chair, an old-fashioned hide-away bed leaned against a wall, and a filthy plaid love seat was pushed in front of single pane windows that shook against wooden frames every time the wind blew.

A neon sign suffered beyond the windows. The partially lit sign boasted the Pussy Palace with a feline a la Jessica Rabbit, showing off her assets. She smirked at the fire escape. If something happened in this neighborhood, one might be better off inside then outside.

The smell of pot smoke wafted through the air. Probably from the creep that lived down stairs—a forty-something-year-old, small-time drug dealer, pot smoker, skirt chaser and all around loser. He’d stopped her the first time she’d visited the old neighborhood. His long, brown hair was slicked into a pony tail, and his dark eyes looked at her with suspicion.

What’s a pretty lady like you doing here? he had asked.

She pulled a hundred dollar bill from her pocket, handed it to him and kept going. Suspicious eyes looked the other way. People in this neighborhood could be bought and sold, bribed and bartered with for silence.

Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.

People in neighborhoods like this minded their own business. They had enough of their own troubles to be bothered with someone else’s. She ought to know.

No one asked questions. She had brought in a new baby crib, complete with a whimsical mobile, a changing table, diaper pail, and other infant essentials. The pristine baby items looked out of place in this God-forsaken dungeon. She shuddered and wrinkled her nose in disgust. She hated her baby had to start his brand new life living in a discount, bargain basement, Dollar Tree world. But, he wouldn’t be here for too long. She sighed.

There was a tap on the door.

She slowly rose and put the baby in the crib then went to the door. She yanked it open and pulled the woman inside by her quilted black winter coat. The fringe of her eggplant tinted hair peeked beneath the black stocking hat on her head. She eyed her obnoxious gold hoop earrings. Hesitation creased the older woman’s face. She didn’t need any push back from her. Not now. If it weren’t for her, she wouldn’t be in this mess. She narrowed her eyes to her. Don’t challenge me, bitch. She held the woman in place with her menacing glare then smiled and held back a groan.

He has everything he needs, and I’ve stocked the kitchen and bathroom with some essentials for you, too. You should enjoy them. She eyed the woman from head to toe, indicating she didn’t approve of her style. After the money she’d extorted from her, the woman could have dressed better. Ah, well, you can take the kid from skid row, but you can’t take skid row from the kid. She ought to know. I’ll try to get back soon.

The woman’s mouth dropped open. She raised her hand to silence her and turned away. She reached for her winter coat slung over the railing of the crib and pulled a wad of bills from the pocket and handed them to the woman.

Did you have something you wanted to say to me?

The woman shook her head.

You’ve been so kind, so helpful, now you’re not going to forget our deal. Right?

The woman nodded in agreement.

Good. I’d hate to have to tell the police about you. Hmmm, she tapped her manicured fingernail to her lower lip. They might just think you’ve masterminded this entire thing. Come to think of it, you did now, didn’t you?

The woman’s pale blue-gray eyes widened. She smirked at her, trying to discern her expression. What was she thinking or feeling? Who knew. The woman was a con. A fraud. A criminal. The gal should have taken her acting abilities to Hollywood.

Don’t cross me. She reached for the marred brass door knob then looked over her shoulder and said, Take good care of him, or it’s your ass.

She walked out the door, closing it quietly behind her. It was too soon to take him home, but home is where he belonged. Leaving her newborn baby behind with that woman made her stomach coil into a tight knot. He needed his mama. She sighed.

Don’t worry, baby, she mumbled. Mama will be back soon.

Chapter 2

December 21, 2011

11:05 a.m.

Deputy Dennis Greene climbed the wide steps and met her on the front porch. His ruddy face indicated he had searched the perimeter. He shook his head. Neither he nor the other deputies had found the missing baby or caught the psycho who did this, yet. He stomped his feet and brushed the snow from his mop of rust colored hair. He stopped blowing on his hands and looked up at her. His kind eyes conveyed his disappointment.

Whoever did this went out through the master bedroom sliding glass doors.

So our killer takes the time to open the front door before taking off with the baby?

He shook his head. The person went upstairs to the nursery first. All of the dresser drawers were filled with baby things except for one. If I had to guess I’d say the killer took some clothes for the kid and then rushed out through the master bedroom. There’s a balcony and winding staircase. They escaped out the back. We recovered a partial shoe print.

Male or female?

He shrugged his shoulders. Snows filled it in. She exhaled. Wait a minute, here’s the interesting thing. There’s a pair of men’s shoes missing from the master closet. Her eyebrows rose, scrunching her forehead, and her mouth slanted down as if to say, tell me more. A man only wears one pair of shoes at a time, and two pairs are missing from his closet.

She frowned. So either Mr. Danby is being tricky, or our killer thinks he or she is being clever.

Or, he could have them out for shoe repair, gifted them to the Salvation Army or some other such place, or we just haven’t found them hidden somewhere in the house.

You don’t believe any of those things or you would have said so sooner.

He smiled at her and patted his protruding belly. It’s awfully suspicious.

She shook her head. I’ve got to get inside to process the body. You take the upstairs.

He followed her into the house. They each paused inside the marble entry and glanced at each other. The mini-mansion screamed opulence. Greene looked away and started up the wide wooden staircase. The steps were covered in carpet held in place by wide gold bands that glistened from polish. She didn’t doubt they had a housekeeper.

Rachel turned to the glass bowl on the entry table. She examined it again. The only reason Willow would have dug around the bowl was if she were searching for a key. Where was the key?

There didn’t appear to be signs of forced entry. Had someone the Danbys known stolen the key and used it to enter the home? If the killer was someone familiar to Willow, he or she could have rang the doorbell and gained entry.

She looked from the table to the front door, searching for a keypad for a security system. She didn’t see one. Maybe, they felt they didn’t need one since they lived in a gated community with a security guard at the gate?

Bloody hand and fingerprints stained the gray door. There was so much blood everywhere. She turned and tried to reconstruct the crime scene. The sliding glass door in the dining room was locked. There was a lock at the bottom of the door, securing it. Didn’t mean the killer didn’t gain access through it. It could have been left unlocked. To throw them off the investigation the killer could have been smart enough to lock it. The handles inside and outside had fingerprint residue, including the lock. She’d know more after the prints were checked against the Danbys and anyone else who had regular access to their house.

She followed the blood trail, again. Cast-off spotted the dining room wall. The dining room had a fireplace. The killer would have been behind Willow until they reached the edge of the fireplace and were in reach of the fireplace poker. Here’s where Willow had been struck in the head. Rachel mimicked the act of violence, picking up the poker. She drew it back and then forward. The sharp edge had whacked the back of Willow’s head, hard enough to cause the blood cast-off. Slowly, pieces to the crime fit together. Next, Willow ran to the front door and tried to escape. Rachel’s eyes traced the bloody pattern on the floor. When Willow couldn’t find the key, she ran toward the sliding glass doors and that’s when she was blinded with the quilt and hit over the head again. She had collapsed. Her killer then dragged her by the ankles from the dining room to the kitchen. Rachel looked at the large wall of sliding glass doors in the dining room then to the cut out in the wall to the kitchen. Willow’s murderer wouldn’t risk being seen through the sliding glass doors. The kitchen offered privacy. Here’s where Willow had been knocked unconscious and her unborn child had been cut from her body.

Rachel exhaled, keeping a constant eye around the crime scene. She walked toward the entrance and paused before she entered the kitchen. A large island with a cooking range, double sink and raised breakfast bar, big enough to seat eight; she counted the bar stools curving around the shining marble top, separated the roomy kitchen from the great room.

Deputy Joslin and Ronald Haasman were still seated at the kitchen table. They were hidden from view of Willow’s body.

Joslin’s clean-shaven face and sharp dark eyes looked intent. His military style haircut glistened with a fine sheen of perspiration beneath the glow of the suspended lights. He was reading Haasman’s written statement.

Haasman sat slumped in the chair. He leaned against a hand, looking distraught. He hadn’t noticed she’d entered the far side of the room.

She went over to Willow’s lifeless body and knelt beside her. Heat flooded her body. She stood from her crouched position and removed her coat. With each new homicide case she found it harder and harder to separate her emotions from the victim. Perhaps more years in the field would make her more callous. Somehow, she doubted it.

Her psychic empathy came to fruition four years ago when her sister, Amy, was abducted. It had taken four years to find Amy and the other missing women. The serial killer had made finding each murdered woman intentionally easy, leaving a sick signature behind. For four summers the psychopath had terrorized Snug Harbor collecting and killing women during the summer solstice. Rachel had felt every ounce of the women’s pain but was powerless to save them. She blew out her breath. God, she was happy to have Amy back. Alive.

It’s not that she couldn’t appreciate her psychic empathy. Hell, she could use a percentage of her brain other people wished they could tap into, but she didn’t have time to learn more about her psychic empathy.

Another homicide case followed, and another gift of her psychic empathy had unleashed itself. The Organ Snatcher case. She had captured a family of killers a few months ago. But, she had almost lost her life in the process. Almost. The victims were being murdered with a shot gun. The killer was a one-shot, one-kill sharp shooter. She only had seconds to release her psychic empathy or die from the victim’s gunshot wound. More importantly, she not only could feel the victim’s pain, but now she could hear them, too.

Reminding herself she had a personal connection to each of those previous cases eased her frayed nerves. She didn’t know the Danbys. Didn’t have a personal link to them. Maybe, her psychic empathy would lie dormant during the investigation.

She draped her coat over the back of a barstool and grabbed a pair of latex gloves from the box on top of the glass table.

Mr. Haasman startled. He glanced up at her from beneath hooded white brows. His rumpled thick head of gray hair, brown hound dog eyes and distraught face expressed his distress. He wrung his hands.

I keep replaying the morning in my head, he said. No one came into the subdivision.

What about delivery people? Rachel asked.

Deputy Joslin shook his head in answer to her question.

Mr. Haasman dropped his hands onto the table in front him.

I can tell you’re the kind of man who takes his job seriously. Don’t be so hard on yourself. This isn’t your fault, she said, trying to ease his pain.

She understood how he was feeling all too well. Her job was to protect and serve the public. She figured he had that same sense of obligation to the residents of Woodbury Manor.

Did you see Mr. Danby leave for work this morning?

Haasman straightened a bit. Yes, he came through the gate at seven fifteen.

Keep talking with Deputy Joslin, you never know when something unusual will pop into your mind.

He nodded.

Haasman was in good hands with Joslin. He had been a deputy for five or more years now. She trusted his work. He and Deputy Greene became partners when Joslin was a rookie, and Greene’s partner retired from the Metro County Sheriff’s Department. They made an interesting team. Joslin was the epitome of good health and clean living; Greene exemplified the stereotypical cop, donuts and black coffee for breakfast, burgers and beers for dinner. He was your typical grizzled veteran deputy, counting down the days to his own retirement. Rachel imagined most law enforcement professionals eventually got to that point, dealing with the public wasn’t always pleasant.

Rachel walked to the other side of the room and rounded the corner of the breakfast bar. She crouched near Willow’s body. A large pool of blood was beneath the body, specifically around the head, forearms and hands. Rachel wouldn’t know cause of death until Dr. Thomas Klinger, the Medical Examiner performed an autopsy but it appeared to be massive blood loss or possible blunt force trauma to the head. Klinger would confirm cause and time of death.

The front door slammed open, jolting her from her thoughts. A man screamed then yelled, Willow! Willow! Rachel rushed toward the kitchen entry, but she was too late. The man stormed into the kitchen. His unbuttoned black trench coat sailed behind him. Concern creased his angular face and filled his startled blue eyes. He rounded the corner of the breakfast bar and gasped. Willow!

Damn. Why wasn’t a deputy stationed at the front door? For chrissakes, he shouldn’t see her like this. The man vomited on the floor. He swiped at his mouth and then fell to his knees, crying, next to his wife. He cradled his face against his hands and rocked back and forth.

A tan uniform blazed into the room. He skidded across the marble floor. The black rubber soles from his boots let out a high-pitched-squeal. Deputy Jimmy Sneaky Snake Raines distracted her from the distraught man.

No, no, no! Honey, oh, God, no. Willow, honey, please wake up.

Rachel shuddered. His deep, throaty voice ripped through her. She would never get used to the cries bellowing from a loved one who lost someone to a horrible crime.

Deputy Raines stopped short. She glared at him and motioned for him to get back to his post guarding the front door. Detective, I tried. He threatened to....

She pumped her open palm in the air, gesturing for him to shut up. We’ll discuss this later.

Raines sighed. He tore the knit cap from his head and dragged his hand through his dirty blonde hair. At least his hair was no longer touching the top of his uniform collar. His baby blues pleaded for understanding. The sharp shooter had been through a lot in the past few months, but she didn’t have time to deal with him now. He slapped the cap against his thigh, revolved on his heels and left.

Oh, my God, the baby, the baby, he sobbed. Where’s the baby?

Mr. Danby. Rachel gently touched the back of his shoulder. Please, you don’t want to remember her like this.

He jerked his shoulder forward. What, what happened? he croaked, and dragged his quaking hands through his silvery hair.

His hands lowered from his face and searched hers for answers. Tears streaked his cheeks. He turned back to his wife. His wide palms shook and gestured in such a way Rachel worried he’d touch her body for a moment. His hand hovered near his wife’s lifeless face, but he restrained himself from touching her.

The baby. My, God, where’s the baby? When she didn’t respond, he looked up at Rachel and yelled, Where?

Rachel sucked in a deep breath and extended her hand. He looked away from her with disgust. She dropped her arm to her side.

He dragged his hands down his face then rose from his stooped position and narrowed the space between himself and Rachel. He was a tall man and used his height in an attempt to intimidate her. They told me she had an accident. His baritone voice broke through his clenched teeth and tears filled his eyes again. His lips quivered. He was a mass of emotions and raw grief. She gave him several seconds. He regained his composure. They said she had an accident. What the hell happened? He craned his head and glanced down at his lifeless wife. Sobs racked his body, and he broke down again.

Rachel ground her teeth together. Mr. Danby should never have been allowed to enter the house and see his wife like this. Once she’d discover why Raines was derelict in his duty it was his ass on the line. Her sister’s boyfriend or not, threats from Mr. Danby or not, for chrissakes, he didn’t do his damn job.

Mr. Danby, please, Rachel said, and walked behind him and coaxed him from the carnage. I’ll need you to come with me.

Where’s the baby?

I’m so sorry, the baby was taken.

What? I’ve got to get out there. I need to find our baby.

We’ve got deputies searching and an APB has been issued.

I need to help. I have to go.

She grabbed his arm. She couldn’t allow him to leave. I can’t let you do that. We need to talk first.

He hesitated, looking down at the hold she had on his arm. He was tall like Nick but didn’t have his beefy arm or athletic build. She held firm to him. When he looked down at her mere five-foot-seven-inch frame she met his eyes with a stern gaze. She could take down most men. He shouldn’t try her.

Mr. Danby, let us do our job.

He pursed his lips together and begrudgingly nodded in agreement. She released her grip.

We can talk in here, he said, and led them toward the main artery of the house.

She stepped to the other side of him, shielding him, as much as possible, from the blood-stained carpet and spattered walls in the dining room. Unfortunately, his gaze strayed from her face to the red smears marring the glass bowl and front door. He paused, looked away and then shed his coat. His dress shoes clicked and clacked across the marble.

Rachel imagined the leather shoes had been nicely polished before meeting their collision with snow and ice. The driveway was blocked off. He would have had to park on the road and run the distance to the front door. He stood with his back to her, facing the modern looking coat tree, a configuration of long and short silver arms jutted from the metal rod.

He hung his coat then turned to her. The sad look on this man’s face slowly dissolved into a solemn expression. His wide, blue eyes took it all in, the blood, the battle, the destruction, the death that had taken place in the foyer. Disbelief. Denial. Despair. Reality. Danby’s eyes closed then popped open. The latter seeped in. Evil had entered their home, took his wife’s life and stole her unborn baby. She gave him another moment.

I need to ask you a few questions. Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?

He rubbed at his eyes and brushed the tears from his face then gestured for her to go into the living room. He crossed the center of the foyer and went to the Christmas tree soaring between the staircase and dining room. His eyes leveled with the Baby’s First Christmas 2011 ornament. He touched the teddy bear with the red and green embroidered t-shirt.

Avoiding her gaze, he said, Willow had insisted we buy this. His voice faltered. She, she kept telling me the baby would be here before Christmas. We...Oh, God, Willow. How? Why?

Rachel cleared her throat. She didn’t want him seeing the blood trail in the dining room. Mr. Danby, that’s what we’re going to find out.

Several more seconds passed. He took the ornament from the tree, turned and went into the living room.

Rachel scanned the formal room. Another Christmas tree stood between two large windows flanked by heavy burgundy drapes. The backyard was covered with snow. A fireplace adorned with garland and red candles lined the mantel. Two ivory chairs patterned in dark brown octagons sat opposite the hearth. A matching set of ivory couches loaded with pillows and separated by a large, round, tufted rose ottoman were centered on a large, irregular shaped zebra rug in the middle of the room.

Mr. Danby flicked on an end table lamp. He sat on a couch. Rachel chose the couch opposite of him. A breakfast tray with a small pine tree decorated with miniature ornaments obstructed her view of his face. She leaned forward and nudged the tray across the velvet ottoman. A coffee table version of The Night Before Christmas caught her eye. The book nearly looked like an antique. She caressed the leather cover.

Her dad’s voice echoed in her head. Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house... It had been a family tradition for him to read the holiday classic. He would heat milk on the stove and prepare steaming cups of hot cocoa with mini-marshmallows for her and her sister, Amy. They would fix a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for Santa and then snuggle around their dad, hanging onto his every word while he read.

It was the one night of the year they could count on dad to be at home and not at the Metro County Sheriff’s Department. Even if Lieutenant Detective Joe Hood had a case or was called on another, somehow he managed to make time for them on Christmas Eve. He’d survived over thirty years on the force. God, she was beyond happy when he finally retired.

Mr. Danby picked up the book from the ottoman. In his other hand he held the ornament. He set the book on his lap and ran his hand over the front cover. We found this in a little book store in Massachusetts this summer. He stopped talking and tilted his head back, pausing several seconds while he stared up at the ceiling. Willow was nearing the end of her first trimester. We’ve always loved the rocky coast and thought... He looked at her with tears cresting his lids. It would be our last trip just the two of us.

I’m so sorry for your loss. We will find who did this to her, and we will find the baby.

We had started to child proof the house. He choked back tears and pressed an index finger into the corner of each eye, plugging the leaks about to break. He searched the room. You wouldn’t know it from this room. He’d read her mind, the opulent room didn’t scream child friendly. Our lifestyle was changing, but we were so ready for the late nights, dirty diapers, toys everywhere, little sticky hands. He exhaled and threw a pillow across the room.

Rachel’s heart ached for him, but she wasn’t a therapist or counselor; she could listen, but had a job to do. Find the killer. Find the baby. Mr. Danby.

Please call me Tyson, everyone at the law firm calls my Dad, Mr. Danby.

Okay, Tyson, do you know anyone who would want to hurt your wife.

The list is endless.

Excuse me? Had she heard him wrong? That was not the standard response. Most people always said, no, so-and-so was loved by everyone. You know someone who would want to hurt your wife? She had intentionally asked the question again and slowly.

Willow was a social worker. She worked for Child Protective Services, placing kids in dangerous environments into foster homes. She had a damned if you do, damned if you don’t job. Take the kids away from their parents and you’re a cold, heartless, pick an adjective. Leave the kids with their parents and have something horrible happen and you’re an irresponsible, over worked, pick an adjective.

I see.

Her work was confidential.

But...

He removed the book from his lap, placing it back on the ottoman, and then rubbed his forehead. "I’m a defense attorney. One of her cases landed on my desk. Pro bono. She was