“Where are you?”
Whatever waited for him out there was bad. Matt sounded rattled, and that alone had Sean’s pulse spiking.
“Do you remember how to get to Red Maple Park?”
“Yeah.”
“When you get here, one of my men will point you in our direction.” Matt hesitated before clearing his throat. “And Sean?”
He froze with a T-shirt in hand. “What?”
“I hope you’ve got an empty stomach.”
Damn it.
Chapter Two
Twenty minutes later, Sean pulled his new black Mustang into the playground parking lot at Red Maple Park. Fully loaded and top of the line, the car had been his birthday gift to himself the month before, and he loved it with every ounce of male ego he possessed.
A young sheriff’s deputy waved him to a stop before he’d fully entered the lot. Sean didn’t recognize him from previous visits to Whisper. The kid looked barely old enough to shave, more like someone playing dress-up than an actual deputy, though the name tag on his uniform identified him as J.R. Peterson.
Sean rolled down the window and held up his FBI credentials. “Sheriff Griffin’s expecting me.”
The deputy nodded so hard Sean thought his head might come loose. “Yes, sir. He told me to watch for you.” His gaze drifted toward the Mustang again. “Not sure you’ll want to drive this beauty down there, though. Crime scene’s off that dirt trail.” He pointed toward a wide pedestrian path disappearing into the trees.
“How far in?”
“About half a mile—maybe a little less.”
Peterson’s attention lingered on the sleek black Mustang far longer than it did on Sean’s badge. The guy looked like he was one step away from asking if he could sit in it.
Sean parked, popped the trunk, and climbed out before locking the doors. No sense tempting the kid into getting handprints all over the gray leather interior. He grabbed a Maglite from the trunk, slammed it shut, and headed toward the trail.
A short walk later—past several patrol vehicles and two county Bureau of Criminal Investigation vans—he reached another deputy standing beside a folding table and holding a clipboard. Sean showed his credentials again, signed into the crime scene log, and followed the deputy’s gesture toward a cluster of men gathered deeper in the woods.
Not that he needed directions. The harsh glow of crime-scene floodlights cut through the darkness like a beacon.
Sheriff Matt Griffin spotted him and headed over, looking like he’d rolled straight out of bed and pulled on the first clothes he found—sneakers, sweatpants, and a T-shirt beneath his department-issued navy jacket.
“Thanks for coming, Sean.” He extended his hand.
Sean shook it. Griffin was in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and stood only an inch shorter than Sean’s six-three frame. The sheriff had known the Malone brothers most of their lives.
“What’s going on?”
A grim look crossed the other man’s face. “Female homicide victim. Third one in the past three months.”
His stomach sank. “Serial?”
“Yeah. No question.” Matt motioned for him to follow. “Come take a look.”
They moved past the trail and into the roped-off section of woods where crime scene techs worked beneath the glare of portable floodlights. Yellow tape marked the perimeter while investigators photographed and flagged possible evidence.
Matt handed him a pair of latex gloves and paper booties before pulling on his own. “BCI already completed the grid search over here.”
Sean followed him through the cleared section until they stopped near the victim’s feet. She lay sprawled across a bed of pine needles and dead leaves, her vacant eyes frozen wide with terror. Dark bruising circled her neck, while deep abrasions ringed her wrists and ankles where she’d been bound. Her chest was badly discolored, the center slightly concave, possibly from fractured ribs or a broken sternum. But what drew his attention most was the bloody word carved across her torso.
Sinner.
