The Wringler: A Letter From Home: Book One of the MOBE Series

By Daniel G. T. Swarthout

When his fiancé, Brooklyn, died, Tatum Teague left the world he knew behind. He moved to a new city, started a new career, and turned his back on everything he held dear after she was killed. Now, nearly seven years have passed, and everything is finally starting to feel normal for him. No more flashbacks and fewer dreams. Just the scars remain, or so he thinks.

And then, Tatum receives a mysterious letter in the mail from Brooklyn enticing him back to Auvent Falls, Washington. The letter includes her engagement ring, the ring he was certain was on her finger when she was buried.

Tatum goes home, back to where everything started. Back to the Falls, where danger and evil lurk everywhere he turns. How far must Tatum go to seek the truth? Will he ever discover what truly happened that day seven years ago?

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798385011957

Daniel G. T. Swarthout

Daniel G. T. Swarthout grew up on the banks of the Colorado River, in a small town called Big River, California. He is the second oldest of six children, all of whom are adopted. Swarthout enjoys movies and a good story, something to keep him captivated in his free time. He also enjoys writing poetry. He now lives in mid-Missouri with his four-year-old boxer, Obsidian.

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 Daniel G. T. Swarthout.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

844-714-3454

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture quotations are taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 979-8-3850-1194-0 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-3850-1196-4 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-3850-1195-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023921440

WestBow Press rev. date: 12/11/2023

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1   The Wringler

Chapter 2   Flint Krewshaw

Chapter 3   Tatum Teague

Chapter 4   Flint Krewshaw

Chapter 5   Tatum Teague

Chapter 6   Leonell Marshall

Chapter 7   Flint Krewshaw

Chapter 8   Tatum Teague

Chapter 9   The Wringler

Chapter 10  Flint Krewshaw

Chapter 11  Tatum Teague

Chapter 12  Lowman Case

Chapter 13  Tatum

Chapter 14  Flint

Chapter 15  Lowman Case

Chapter 16  The Wringler

Chapter 17  Tatum Teague

Chapter 18  Arlene Teague

Chapter 19  Flint

Chapter 20  Tatum

Chapter 21  Lowman Case

Chapter 22  Tatum Teague

Chapter 23  Arlene Teague

Chapter 24  Flint Krewshaw

Chapter 25  Xanie

Chapter 26  Tatum

Chapter 27  Flint Krewshaw

Chapter 28  Tatum Teague

Chapter 29  Flint Krewshaw

Chapter 30  Tatum Teague

Chapter 31  Flint Krewshaw

Chapter 32  Malike Woods

Chapter 33  Flint Krewshaw

Chapter 34  Tatum

Chapter 35  Flint

Chapter 36  Tatum

Chapter 37  Flint

Chapter 38  Tatum

About the Author

I will punish the world for its evil,

And the wicked for their iniquity;

I will halt the arrogance of the proud,

And will lay low the haughtiness of the terrible.

—Isaiah 13:11 (NKJV)

To the one

with the biggest heart,

the softest of hugs

and the warmest of eyes

Thank you for always believing I could accomplish this,

and for always being proud to call me yours.

My grandma Margie Hedgcoth

PROLOGUE

Brooke’s shrieks were all Tatum could hear, as the ringing in his eardrums muffled any other noise. As he lay there out of breath, the flames danced around the room and melted the walls that surrounded him. The heat ate away at the gothic paintings and murals until all that was left were the metal frames, now radiant in the darkness. The constant squeaking of broken shutters swinging on hinges ricocheted off the walls.

The room was dark, enhancing the flames’ orange glow. His cell phone lay a few inches from his hand. He stretched out for it, praying his fingers could grasp it. A sharp pain shot up his side as he brushed the bottom of his phone, unintentionally pushing it away from his shaking hand.

His vision blurred as he strained to make out the room’s layout. Shadows wove in and out of the flames capering across the walls. The heat was filled with the breath of demons, and sweat flowed from his rigid body. He choked on the smoke as it rose higher, filling the room before taking the form of its master.

Tatum covered his eyes, struggling to catch another glimpse of it, but he only managed to see the beast disappear in the smoke.

With each intake of air, his body cried out in agony. He clutched his side, his fingers pressing his broken ribs together, trying to ease the pain. He refused to yell out in defeat. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

As each uncanny screech echoed from behind the closed door, Tatum felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He reached up and massaged his throat. His parched lips cracked and slightly bled from lack of water. The taste was on his tongue.

He could feel the airway of his throat closing as the smoke burned his esophagus. Brooke was dying. The door was right there, just a few feet from where he lay. He could see it, but he had no way to reach it.

The Dark Passenger lingered in the shadows, swaying in Tatum’s vision, teasing him, mocking him. It moved in the smoke, hiding well in the darkness.

Tatum heard another cry from behind the door. Brooke. She would die soon.

He jolted awake.

42576.jpg

CHAPTER 1

THE WRINGLER

T he rain predicted by the local weatherman was finally falling from the clouds rolling in from the west. He had been waiting all day for the rain to arrive. He clicked the weather app on his phone, hoping the rain would last all night. His phone read nine o’clock, and he knew the rain wasn’t supposed to start until ten, so he sat on a bench at the edge of the park and watched the storm float in.

His long, bony fingers scraped across the ancient stone as he sat patiently, counting down the minutes until the rain came. The coolness of the bench sent a chill down his spine as he finished tracing the initials—B. C. + L. D.—carved into the wood. The letters were not deep, yet somehow, they had endured and had not faded away. The hood covering his head brushed against his face as the wind blew around him.

Lightning flickered across the sky, flashing a bright light over the land. He steepled his fingers as he hunched over his knees; his gaze was focused on the ground. The faint ticking of the second hand on his watch sounded between the roars of thunder. Slow. Constant.

His tired eyes fluttered shut, his breathing coinciding with the ticking of his watch. Counting helped steady his heartbeat as his nerves began to rise. As he scanned the incoming dark clouds, his left leg bounced rapidly—one, two, three.

The storm was six miles away. He rose slowly, then paced back and forth in front of the bench. He felt the cold, wet drops of rain tumble on top of his bare feet. Pulling down his hood, he allowed the rain to sprinkle his dark hair.

The emptiness of Huntington Valley Green Park was an eerie sight. He was used to the sounds of children running and playing on the wooden jungle gym in the middle of the field. This late at night, everyone was in the comfort of their own homes. He didn’t blame them. It was an eerie night.

His bare feet chilled as his dark cloak swept against the tops, hiding his milky-white flesh from sight. Thunder, the song of the gods, echoed again. This time, the rumble was loud enough to scare the neighboring dogs and cats into hiding. The sight of one dog skulking away with its tail tucked between its legs brought a grimacing smile to his face. The fright of others gave him so much joy.

As the bellow of thunder repeated itself a third time, he threw his hood back from his head. The downpour was coming. He was ready for the rain. Lowering his shoulders, his eyes fixated on the ground as the soundless movement of each step continued his journey down Maple Street.

He loved the rain and how it cleansed the earth. It was also the perfect obscurer. The more it rained, the freer he felt. Footprints washed away in the water. Fingerprints were swept away by the tears of angels. The rain brought a fresh start to the world, just like the days of Noah. It purified the earth of detritus so all that was left was perfection.

He glanced over at the dying grass and contemplated stepping onto it. He knew the fresh mud would mush around his toes and cake against his soles, leaving footprints everywhere he ventured.

It wasn’t that he was worried about leaving footprints on the cement. He knew that as long as the rain continued, it would wash away everything. It was just the thought of his skin being unclean. He shuddered at the thought of it.

Where he was heading now, the rain would not be able to cover him, but the rain tonight was not meant to be his cover. The rain tonight was the sign from his master. For weeks, he had waited for this. Finally, it was here. Finally, it was time. She was going to die.

Time was short. Life was shorter. He grinned as he continued to walk toward her house, down his sacred path. He stood on holy ground now, just like Moses had before the burning bush.

The sidewalk was his timeline. With each passing step, another minute drew nearer until he’d complete this task. He walked with his head held high, his arms spread-eagled. A dog barked in the distance as lightning colored the night sky once more. This night was too perfect. There was no way he could fail, not tonight.

His bare feet slapped against the wet cement. Is this how Jesus felt when he walked on water? The thought made him smile.

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, embracing the coolness of the water as it sprinkled his face. He stuck out his tongue to taste the rain’s purity. The freshness of the rain danced on his skin in a rhythm the Mayans would have enjoyed. The smell of the desert rain was invigorating.

He checked his watch. He stood at the end of the winding sidewalk that led to the front door of her bright-yellow house. The marble pathway leading to the mahogany front door was beautiful in the way it cut through the front lawn. The scent of roses tingled his nose as he glided closer to the house. The red rose bushes planted in front of the pillars aligning the entrance gave the home so much color. The grass was cut, and the many massive palm trees were well-trimmed along the edges of her property.

Here he stood, at the end of Maple Street in Southern California. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to control his heart rate in all the excitement. The master had allowed her to live, but now it was time to claim her life, once and for all. As the rain continued to fall, he ascended the porch steps. The freshness and coolness in the air made his skin prickle. Finally, he felt free. Finally, he felt alive.

It’s a good night for rain, he murmured. It’ll wash away the sins. Then he walked through the front door, a sneer contorting his lips.

42576.jpg

CHAPTER 2

FLINT KREWSHAW

T here was no going down Sandberg Drive. The road was blocked by all the vehicles that swarmed around Laura Dawn’s suburban home. Word was already out about her murder. It wasn’t every day that a successful lawyer was found stabbed to death down here in Southern California.

Flint Krewshaw pulled the car up behind the row already established down the street. The scene was complete chaos. Police were flocking in and out and around her house, scouring the area for any sort of clue. Evidence was the key here, and from the message he’d received from Jefferson, there was little to none.

This type of murder was new to the department. What lay on the other side of those yellow brick walls was something out of a nightmare. A horror story. Word was the department was still waiting for a coroner to arrive. Figures.

Flint watched as the police continued their movement. It had already been a long week for him. He was ready to go home and see his wife and son. Hours had bumped up so much this month in the bureau. He had spent more time in the office and in the field than he had in his own home and sheets. He pulled out his phone and looked at the time: 11:59 p.m.

He let out a deep sigh as his fingers went to work on the cell phone, sending Becky a message:

Don’t wait up again, babe. It’s gonna be another long night. Love you.

A knock on the window startled him, causing him to drop his phone into his lap. The high-pitched ding rang in his ears, telling him the text had been sent.

Flint looked out the window. Jefferson Davis was leaning against his door. Jefferson and he had been partners for almost seven years now. He looked weary, leaning there, his hand on his gun, elbow resting on the top of the car. Flint watched as Jefferson buried his face in the palm of his hand and closed his eyes for a second. Davy is just as tired as I am. They both needed a vacation.

What we looking at, Davy? Flint asked as he rolled down the window to the sedan.

Multiple stab wounds to her abdomen and lower back. The throat is slit. The tongue is missing. Something you’d see in a horror movie. Jefferson cleared his throat. There are some carvings on her back as well.

Carvings? Flint’s eyebrows rose at the word. What kind of carvings? He flicked his wrist toward Jefferson as he hit the button to roll up the window and then pushed another button on the dash to turn off the vehicle. The sound of the last swipe of the windshield wipers lingered in his ears. He opened the door and rose out of the car sluggishly, his body worn down from the long day. He slid his hand under his tie to straighten it before he readjusted his pants.

Jefferson slid his right hand down into his pocket and gestured down the street. I really don’t even know. Could be Japanese; could be Chinese. Honestly, not too sure. But the same symbol is carved into each of her shoulder blades. He now stuffed his left hand in his pocket as he walked side by side with Flint.

Tattoos maybe?

Jefferson shook his head. These are different. Blade inflicted, not a needle. He sighed. But still, no weapon has been found.

Have you seen them? Flint asked.

Jefferson shook his head again. Nope. Wanted to wait until you were here.

The ground was still wet from the storm earlier that evening. Flint and Jefferson walked the rest of the way down Maple Street toward the house as Jefferson continued to update him.

It’s a mess, Flint. With all the crime happening in this area lately, people will no longer feel safe just going to get some groceries. This case will rattle the city. He cleared his throat and nodded ahead. Look—reporters.

There they were, like a ravenous pack of wolves swarming around their weakened prey. After all, that’s what they were looking for—someone weak. Someone with a loose tongue to spill this case wide open. It wasn’t going to be them.

Jefferson was right. Just this week alone, there had been four murder cases, five armed robberies, two unsolved rapes, and ten counts of domestic violence. The closer the two of them got to the house, the more reporters he could see. It didn’t surprise him either. Once he got the call from Davy as he was leaving In-N-Out, where he’d had dinner, he knew some of the reporters would beat him there. He just hadn’t expected half of California’s news team. Not yet.

You think this murder could be connected to the other four this week? Jefferson asked.

Flint shook his head. Unlikely. The first two were shot. The third was strangled, and the last, butchered. You read the reports?

Yeah, I read ’em. Was just hoping there could be some connection. Wishful thinking, you know? We both need an easy case.

They slip up eventually. Flint gave a half-hearted smile. They always do.

Yeah, but how long until then?

The clouds were moving slowly over the November night. A slight breeze pushed the trees, causing the branches to sway and the remaining leaves to rustle. The surrounding police vehicles gave the only visible light on all of Sandberg Drive. The dampness in the air created a fog that shaded the lampposts down the block, making things more difficult to see.

They walked the few remaining yards in silence. Flint pulled out a small flashlight. The beam gave a dim glow as it bounced around their feet. The air was so thick that the flashlight only pushed a foot of darkness away from them. They finally reached the house, having delayed the moment as long as possible.

Reporters swarmed around the yard, trying their best to find someone to spill details about what had happened just beyond the yellow tape. Flint locked eyes with a young female, but he held up his hand as she made her way toward him. The look he gave her was enough to let her know he wasn’t her rat. She stopped in her tracks and turned around.

Once they reached the caution tape guarded by local police, Flint flipped open his badge. Davy followed suit, and they were both permitted in. Flint’s phone vibrated in his pocket, but he didn’t look. He knew it was Becky. She was probably upset again since this was the fourth night in a row that he hadn’t been home or seen their son, Wilton. He understood why she got so frustrated. They had made a promise to each other before they decided to have a child that they would both be involved in their child’s life. And he was. It was just that this week had been more unpredictable than most.

More than anything, he wished he was with them in the comfort of his own home. He missed the warmth of Becky’s kisses and the joy of his son’s laughter. But that would have to wait. Soon, he thought. Very soon.

Flint …

Sorry. He rubbed his forehead.

You ready to do this? Jefferson asked.

Flint nodded and pushed the door open for both of them.

42576.jpg

CHAPTER 3

TATUM TEAGUE

T atum lay on his bed, fighting the urge to cry. That wasn’t a dream. That was a memory. The dreams revisited him every night now, depriving him of much-needed sleep. Work had become so stressful these past few weeks with the grand opening of Tatum’s Trinkets. He still wasn’t sure why he had opened the pawn shop. Albrecht had talked him into it, really. When he’d shot the idea to Albrecht in the first place, Albrecht had told him, Chase your dreams while you’re still young and have them. Truthfully, the pawn shop reminded him of home, back in the Falls. It brought back memories of ol’ Hedge’s diner. He wouldn’t admit it out loud to anyone, but man, he really did miss that old fool.

He rolled onto his side and pushed his hands under the pillow. The coolness of the untouched sheets against his skin was comforting. His body was warm, so the temperature change helped soothe his mood.

No matter how far he ran away from the dreams, the memories, it was never far enough. His past always followed. He rolled onto his back and covered his face with both hands, wiping down slowly as he let out a low moan.

I just want some peace.

To the outside world, he was happy, whole, complete. But inside, he was far from it.

The slow ticking of the clock echoed around the room. He just lay there in bed, listening to the clock sing to him, as light tried to fight through the black shades on the windows. Even though he was on the second floor, the idea of someone being able to look in through the windows unsettled him. As soon as he’d moved in, he’d quickly covered the windows.

A glass of water rested on the wooden nightstand next to his head. His throat burned for the cool liquid, but he picked up the photograph instead. He brought his finger up to Brooke’s face and rubbed her cheek. He couldn’t believe it was going to be four years soon. In three days. Three days.

Maybe that’s why I am having the dreams.

He pulled the covers up to his neck; the room was cold. His roommate, Jenny, must have turned off the heat before leaving for work that morning. She probably forgot he had the day off.

Tatum rubbed his forehead. In the mornings after his rough nights, he’d always wake up with a headache. The pounding was settling now, but the pain was still there. He closed his eyes again, hoping rest would relieve some of the pain. As he lay there with his eyes closed, he could still feel the heat of the flames from the dream on his skin.

His bedroom was still. The slow ticking of the ceiling fan echoed along the walls as the blades moved, circulating the air in the room. This was the most peace and quiet he would get this week. The workplace was already insane from surviving the Thanksgiving and Black Friday sales. Rush after rush, they got hit. He hadn’t sweated like that since he’d played basketball at Auvent High. That’s when life was easy—no responsibilities, no bills, just freedom.

Maybe he was just worn out. Maybe he just needed a change of scenery. Maybe that was why the dreams kept coming. He was too worn out to fight them off.

Tatum inhaled deeply, holding the breath in his lungs while his mind drifted back to the Falls. He still missed it. Missed how he could hear the sound of the falling water late at night, crashing against the rocks. Missed the roaring of the waterfalls splashing and plunging into the cold depths of Clear Water Creek. He preferred that sound over the cry of sirens any day. Sirens meant her, and she meant death.

She crept around him wherever he went. No matter how hard he tried to distance himself from her, she was always there. Dr. Rich Pen said that this was normal.

No matter how much you try to run from the accident, Tatum, it will follow you until you decide to accept what happened and then move past it. Pain is relevant. It helps us stay sane. It reminds us that we are human. Remember the pain of when she died. It will only make you stronger, Tatum. It’ll be four years. I’m not saying to erase her from your memories. I’m simply saying that it’s time to live your life again. You will feel this pain until you accept that it wasn’t your fault that she died. You didn’t kill her, Tatum. You just couldn’t save her. No one could have saved her.

A cold touch to his skin brought Tatum back to his senses. He opened his eyes and couldn’t help but to smile. Cherokee pressed her nose against his hand as it dangled off the bed. The Alaskan malamute stared proudly as Tatum scratched her behind the ears. He had purchased her as soon as he’d moved here, needing a companion after the accident.

How are you doing this morning, girl? Huh? How you doing? He laughed as he playfully took her head and pushed it side to side with each hand. She gripped his wrist in her teeth and nibbled with powerful jaws until their eyes connected. Seeing the soul in her eyes, he knew he needed this dog more than anything. She was his best friend.

The continuous spinning of the fan’s blades echoed in his ears, bringing back some memories of the accident—the helicopter, the screams, the smell of burning flesh; it was all too much.

He sat up and gently pushed Cherokee away before placing his bare feet on the carpet. His hands gripped the edge of the bed while he bent over; the smell had unsettled his stomach.

Breathe. Tatum. You’re fine. You’re home. Safe.

A heat as intense as a small fire engulfed his gorge when he inhaled. Tears fell from the corners of his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. He had hoped the deep gasp of cool air would subdue the flames in his throat, but it only intensified the warmth. Tatum bent over in pain and coughed into his hand. A warm sensation eased into his palms and seeped through his tightly sealed fingers. Blood fell onto the white carpet in a smooth puddle.

Tatum sprung up and ran toward the bathroom. He shoved his hands into the sink, splashing the crimson fluid against the white bowl. He turned on the faucet to wash it away as he scrubbed his fingers in the warm water. He cupped his hands together, brought them up to his mouth, and rinsed the bloodiness off his tongue.

He spat the bitter taste into the sink and watched it swirl down the drain. Gathering water in his hands, he splashed his face to help calm his nerves. With water still dripping from his fingers, he rubbed the back of his neck and took slow, deep breaths, trying to steady his heart as it raced in his chest. He gripped each side of the sink as he glanced into the mirror. The black ink from his tattoo on the left side of his chest caught his eye—MOBE. He watched the letters rise and fall with each breath. The meaning of those four letters burned bright in his mind.

Tatum turned off the faucet and stood in silence. Three days. In three days, he would have been with Brooke for seven years. The memory of his proposal filled his mind.

It was the middle of June. They hiked the mountains of flowing water—seven altogether—each one was more beautiful than the last. Brooke loved the Falls. Tatum loved the way her eyes sparkled in the reflection of the crushing water. He had planned this for weeks. All he wanted was for them to spend the day together, surrounded by the Falls. He even had a picnic planned next to Clear Water Creek for the afternoon. It was the perfect place to do it. He had already purchased the ring, thanks to Malike. Malike had stolen one of Brooke’s old rings so he could get the right size. He was grateful to Malike for that; he always would be.

I love you, Tatum. Forever.

The softness of her voice echoed in his head. Oh, how he missed her voice. He longed for the feel of her hands on his chest as she embraced him from behind and rested her head on his shoulders. He missed her laugh, her smile, her touch. Most of all, he missed how he could feel her love for him radiate off her aura.

A small growl gathered in Cherokee’s belly. Tatum took his eyes from the mirror and looked down at her. Her lips curled back as she snarled, baring her teeth as a threat. Tatum leaned back against the sink, keeping his distance from her. He watched as her muscles hardened in her chest, her snarl becoming more malicious. Cherokee’s growl rumbled from deep down in her throat. Her eyes filled with anger as her tongue showed between her sharp fangs.

Cherokee? What’s wrong, girl?

She let loose a howl that cut the silence in the air and sent a chill down Tatum’s spine.

Something was wrong. Another long, uncanny howl echoed from her jaws as she focused her aggression and series of barks at the mirror. Hatred was building in her throat while her eyes blazed with darkness. She was ready to kill.

Tatum reached out to rub Cherokee’s head, but she quickly backed up, flashing her fangs.

Cherokee, it’s me, girl. It’s me. Tatum crouched down as he hit his chest with both hands.

Cherokee barked one last time before dashing past Tatum toward the mirror with a devilish fury. Her ghostlike movement was swift and agile and full of vehemence. Something about the mirror made her go ballistic—something only she could see. Tatum made a motion to get up, but Cherokee turned her head toward him, letting loose a warning growl.

Cherokee placed her massive body between Tatum and the sink, her eyes never leaving the mirror. Somehow, Tatum knew her growl meant he should stay down, so he did. A few seconds slowly passed, feeling like minutes, and the room became motionless. Whatever it was, it passed. Cherokee calmed, but Tatum’s heart was turbulent.

And then he heard it.

Keys jingled on the other side of his apartment door. Tatum moved from the bathroom quickly, with Cherokee on his heels. He watched as the door handle began to turn. A slow, cool breeze from the ceiling fan brushed against his back. His heart beat in his chest quickly, and he felt a lump growing in his throat. Cherokee fixed her eyes on the door and waited with her master, her malevolent growl growing in her belly. Both were on edge as they stared blankly at the door. The locked clicked, and the door moved open slowly. A foot stepped between the door and the frame, preventing it from shutting.

42576.jpg

CHAPTER 4

FLINT KREWSHAW

A s he stood in the doorway, his blue eyes canvassed the scene as if it were a painting. Two police officers walked past him and left the scene. He watched as they strolled toward the caution tape. Their shift must have ended. He envied them. How lucky and free they were, compared to him. Their nights had ended, and his had only begun.

Once they were out of sight, Flint ran his fingers slowly over the door frame. The edges were smooth and clean. There were no scratches or broken hinges. He pulled the door closed and then reopened it. No squeaking. No resistance. The door moved back and forth, smooth as butter.

Flint exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. He wasn’t prepared for what lay behind the door he was about to walk through. Mentally, his mind wasn’t there. It was home, in bed, where his body should be.

The lights flicked on and then off from the bulbs dangling below the ceiling fan. Flint shifted his eyes around the room and noticed a wooden lampstand resting on a black marble base in the corner. Next to the base was a black leather chair, which looked like it had never been touched. The lights dimmed low, then flickered brightly once again, leaving him with an unsettling feeling.

Black leather, black marble, white painted walls … Flint whispered the mental notes to himself, trying to take it all in. He walked the corners of the room slowly, his feet soundless on the white carpet. Aside from the wind blowing through the open window, the room was still. He could hear Jefferson breathing behind him; the sound gave him an unusually calm demeanor.

The lights flickered again.

Faulty lighting in this place? Jefferson asked, his voice low, as if a whisper.

Doubt it. This house is worth more than what we make in five years.

Then what you think makes the lights flicker like that?

No idea.

The light next to Jefferson shut off quickly, making him jump. Flint grabbed the hilt of his gun, ready to pull it with no hesitation. Nothing was there.

Scary, right? Jefferson asked.

I wasn’t expecting that.

You smell that, Flint?

Lavender.

Jefferson nodded.

The smell was strong, yet relaxing at the same time. Flint walked to the window and examined it. He could feel Jefferson’s eyes on him. He pulled the window back and forth hoping to hear squeaking on its frame, but he was disappointed. No sign of forced entry. Flint looked back at the front door. The door was intact as well. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. Which means the killer was already in the house or—

They personally knew the victim, Jefferson interrupted.

Flint nodded. More than likely the latter. We need to find out if Ms. Dawn had any enemies. Any people holding grudges against her.

She was a lawyer, Flint. I’m sure she had many people with grievances.

Flint lifted his hand to his chin. You’re right. He rubbed his hands together. Gather a few of the police together and have them go door to door in a three-mile radius. Have them ask if anyone’s seen anything unusual in the past forty-eight hours. Maybe something will come up.

Jefferson turned to leave.

Davy, also see if we can collect a list of names she prosecuted in the last six months.

Jefferson smiled. From that list, see how many connections we can find?

Exactly.

Jefferson nodded. Flint heard him yell out to an officer next to his patrol vehicle.

Flint took the opportunity to look over the room again in silence. The pleasant smell of lavender still floated throughout the room. He glanced around at the furniture and the walls. He was puzzled. Everything looked to be in place. Nothing was turned over. There were no signs of a struggle. He shook his head, kneeling down next to the marble table and resting his arm on it. He closed his eyes and listened intently. Slowly and steadily, he inhaled and exhaled.

Am I ready for this one?

Caught in his thoughts, he didn’t hear his partner reenter the room.

Jefferson shuffled over and rested his hand on Flint’s shoulder. He gave it a quick squeeze. Praying? Jefferson asked.

Flint shook his head. Listening. Sometimes, you learn more from listening to the things around you than from looking.

Any luck?

Too soon to tell. He paused. You get the word out? Flint asked, his eyes still closed.

Five teams of two spread out to cover the area.

Good stuff, Davy.

Flint’s eyes moved from the wall to the mantel above the fireplace. He spotted a single photo of the victim. The rest of the photographs were filled with other people. He could only assume they were friends and family.

Jefferson squeezed his shoulder once more, telling him it was time to get this over with. Flint sighed and slowly rose to his feet, using the marble stand next to him to steady himself. He looked back and saw Davy folding a piece of paper before sliding it into his suit.

What was that? Flint asked suspiciously.

Just something from back home; I’ll tell you about it later, Jefferson responded as he walked past Flint toward the room the victim was in. Flint followed closely after.

Laura Dawn lay motionless in an unnatural position. Blood stained the white carpet around her. Staring down at her corpse, Flint’s mind went back to his wife. A tightness came over his chest as he wondered what he would do if he ever found his wife in a puddle of her own blood. Without Becky, his life would have little purpose.

He crouched down as he strained to count the numerous stab wounds. A cool breeze blew through the nearby window and ran across the back of his neck. A shudder quivered down his spine, causing him to twitch.

Death was indeed here, Davy. He came and collected what was his. He lifted his hands to his face and wiped down, sighing into his palms.

She lay on her stomach. The fresh cut on her throat inched up toward the back of her neck. Her long black hair was matted with dried blood. Flint’s eyes went to the two marks on each of her shoulder blades.

Flint, Davy called over to him, the coroner is here.

42576.jpg

CHAPTER 5

TATUM TEAGUE

J enny stuck her head around the door, peaking at Tatum. Uh, a little help would be nice, she told him.

Tatum rubbed the back of his neck. You almost got stabbed, fool. His