KERI LOCKE MYSTERY SERIES

      A TRACE OF DEATH (Book #1)

      A TRACE OF MUDER (Book #2)

      A TRACE OF VICE (Book #3)

      A TRACE OF CRIME (Book #4)

      A TRACE OF HOPE (Book #5)

      PROLOGUE

      Most days, Karen Hopkins enjoyed working from home. She stayed busy, which was good because her little web optimization business was only supposed to be a side gig but had somehow become a full-time thing—a full-time thing that was going to help her and Gerald, her husband, retire in two or three years. But there were some days when the clients were so damned stupid that she almost yearned for the years when she’d answered to someone else. The ability to pass troublesome clients off to someone higher up the chain would have benefited her greatly far too often.

      She was staring at an email, wondering how she could respond to her client’s asinine question with a response that would not make her sound rude. She had one of her classical playlists currently playing on Spotify—but not the kind with multiple strings that drowned out the piano. No, she preferred just the piano. Currently, she was trying to enjoy Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie No. 1.

      The key word was trying. She was distracted by the email and the occasional question from the man in the den. The den was separated from her office by a single wall, meaning that whenever the man had a question, he basically had to scream it at her. He was friendly enough but good grief, she was starting to wish she had never called him.

      “This is a gorgeous rug you have in here,” he said, his voice bellowing through the wall, through Erik Satie, and through her collected thoughts concerning this damned email. “Is it Oriental?”

      “I believe so,” Karen said, calling over her shoulder. Her back faced the entryway to the hallway and the den beyond, forcing her to have to speak rather loudly.

      She tried to keep her voice polite…chipper, even. But it was hard. She was too distracted. This email was an important one. It was a repeat client that looked to be bringing in even more work several months from now, but the people running his business were apparently idiots.

      She started typing her response, choosing each word carefully. It was hard to sound professional and reasonable when you were angry and questioning the intelligence of the person you were writing to. She knew this very well, as she felt like she had to endure it several times a month.

      She made it four seconds in before the man in the parlor called out again. Karen cringed, wishing she had never called him. The timing was all bad.