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“Sorry, it draws a straight line.” The sound continues to slow, and my stomach tightens with each passing second that we drive in the wrong direction.
Sharpe takes the next left and picks up speed.
“Right, again!”
We make a circuitous route out of the industrial area and through the business district.
Then we leave behind the darkened offices and stores to venture into one of Clearhelm’s more upscale neighborhood, where five-bedroom houses grow into mini-mansions with manicured lawns and gated driveways.
My leg bounces with agitation. Too long. Too long.
“We’re getting close!” The beeping grows faster, the pauses in between almost imperceptible.
Sharpe steps on the gas, the engine roaring. I glance out the window, praying we don’t pass any cops who could slow us down.
I scan what I can see of the yards past stone walls and tree screens, searching for a darker spot in the shadows.
As we approach an imposing mansion, the beeping merges into an ear-piercing shriek.
Reese stabs his finger toward the house on our right, his eyes fixed on the device in his hand. “Here! The reading is strong here!”
Sharpe slams on the brakes, bringing the car to an abrupt halt at the curb.
We spill out onto the quiet street, and Marc emits a low whistle as he scans the multi-level house. “Who the hell would own a place like this?”
The others join us, and Xander is quick with his phone, looking up the address. “Daniel Collins. He’s a judge.”
Sharpe curses under his breath. “Who wants to bet it’s the one who was covering up for Vicki?”
Flint stares at the wrought iron gate blocking the entrance. “Greed is still on the hit list.”
A sinking sensation fills my stomach. Why hasn’t the black dog made the kill yet? Why is this one so different?
“Lights are on in the back.” Savannah hovers over Xander’s phone. “There’s a pool.”
Darius paces the sidewalk. “Bit late for a swim.”
“What do we do?” Trent rattles the gate, but it stays locked. “I never mind a little breaking and entering, but a judges’ house? We just unpacked. I’d hate having to move again so soon.”
Flint claps him on the shoulder. “You can come stay with us at the Harbor.”
“Hey, I have a hefty retirement fund, but I’m no Midas like you lot?—”
A piercing, terrified scream splits the night.
Sharpe’s head jerks toward the sound. “That came from the back!”
My heart lurches, and I spin around to scale the fence, the wrought iron cold against my palms.
I hit the ground running, my boots slipping over the dew-covered grass as I race for the back. I hear the thuds of the others following but don’t slow. Once the black dog attacks, it works fast.
Before I reach the backyard, the stench of death hits me.
We’re too late.
I round the corner and come face to face with the gruesome scene of a lifeless man floating in the pool, the water turning crimson beneath his body. His eyes stare unseeing at the sky, his throat and stomach ripped out.
A table between the lounge chairs hold a half empty bottle of whiskey and two glasses, but no sign of the other person.
