Ms. Calculation. Danica Winters
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and watched her, taking in the sight of her body flexing as she moved around the coop. She seemed nervous, but he could have her all wrong. Most people he could read at a glance. The ability to tell whether someone was lying, hiding something or telling the truth came with the job. Yet he didn’t have the same innate gift when it came to Gwen. She was his enigma.
“I’m going to go inside. Feel free to take your time out here, okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. That’s fine. I’ll be out here if you need me.” She didn’t bother to look back at him, fully consumed with opening the henhouse to collect this morning’s eggs. This late in the year, without a light in the henhouse, they both knew that there wouldn’t be many, if any, eggs, but he didn’t say anything.
He walked to the front of the cabin. Its walls were made of the aged, gray logs like those from the pioneering days when the town had been founded. The wooden door sat crooked in the frame, listing like Bianca’s drunk mother. For a moment, he wondered if Bianca had left it like that on purpose as a reminder of what she had to move past in order to live her own life.
He pushed the door open. His breath caught in his throat. Papers were strewn around the room, every drawer was open and the couch cushions had been thrown from their places, one precariously close to the woodstove. Either Bianca was the kind who never cleaned, or someone had turned the place over.
In an effort to avoid causing Gwen any more emotional trauma, he walked inside and closed the door. He pulled out his camera and clicked a few pictures. It was odd how, in just a few short hours, his assignment had led him from thinking this was a natural death to a possible suicide to now something much more sinister.
He couldn’t say if Bianca’s death was a murder. Nothing about Bianca’s body or presentation at the scene had pointed toward a struggle or malevolent act, but his instincts told him to push the investigation deeper.
Unfortunately, he was leaving in a few days for a prisoner transfer in Alaska. If he followed his instincts, he could be wrapped up in this investigation for weeks—and he had been wrong before. Just a year ago, he’d wasted time investigating a case similar to this. Maybe it had been his bravado, or his need to follow every lead, but he’d spent two weeks tracking down every thread just to find out from the medical examiner that their victim had died of a methadone overdose. The guy had been seeking euphoria—and all he’d found was the grave.
Wyatt walked through the cabin, careful not to disturb things in case he needed to call in his team of investigators—and what a team it was, two of the least-trained CSI guys anyone had ever met. In fact, he wasn’t sure if Lyle and Steve had ever gone to college, or if their certification had come from some online university where they never had to actually set foot on a crime scene to graduate.
There was a squeak from behind him. Gwen stood there, her hands over her mouth as she stared at the mess of papers, clothes and overturned chairs.
“Do you know who would have done this?” he asked, staring at her.
Her eyes were wide and she dropped her balled fists to her sides. She glanced at him and shook her head.
He’d been wrong about Gwen. He’d thought he couldn’t read her. Yet when she looked at him, he could see she was lying.
They’d gone through everything. Or at least it felt like it. Gwen closed her sister’s dresser drawer with a thump.
“Anything?” Wyatt asked, motioning toward the drawer that had been filled with her sister’s bras.
From an objective point of view, it struck her as a bit funny and maybe a touch endearing that Wyatt, the type-A man who seemed most at home in his squad car, was squeamish about riffling through her sister’s underwear drawer. In high school he had seen just about every pair of panties that Gwen had owned, though things had always stopped there.
She glanced over at him. He had been good-looking back in the day, but he was nothing then compared to the man he had become—the man she had just watched throwing bales of hay around like they were pillows rather than seventy-five pounds of dead weight. If things had been different, if she could have ignored the pull of reality, she could have stood there all day and watched him sweat.
He brushed past her, leaving the room, and he still carried the sweet scent of hay, horses and leather. The heady aroma made her lift her head as she drew in a long whiff of the man she had once loved.
It wasn’t that she hadn’t been in relationships, it had only been a few months—wait, a year—since her last thing. It hadn’t quite been a Facebook-official relationship. No, it had been more of a burger-and-a-beer/Netflix-and-chill kind of thing. No real feelings beyond lust and the occasional need for a back rub. It had been great until he had suddenly disappeared, and two months later she had seen the guy’s engagement to another woman splashed across their tiny paper, the Mystery Daily.
The news hadn’t hurt so much as caused her the emotional whiplash that came with being so quickly replaced. A month after the engagement announcement, she still hadn’t gotten an invite to the wedding that nearly the entire population of the small town had received. She had always resigned herself to the belief that everyone knew everyone’s business in Mystery—yet a few had still asked her why she hadn’t gone and she had been forced to tactfully remove herself from the conversation.
“You okay?” Wyatt surprised her as he touched her shoulder ever so lightly.
How long had he been standing there?
She nodded, thankful he’d pulled her from her thoughts. “What do you think they were looking for in here?” She motioned around her sister’s cabin.
“First, we don’t know if this was a they kind of situation. Maybe your sister did this. There’s no proof that her death was anything unnatural, or more than a—”
Suicide.
He didn’t need to finish the sentence to inflict the pain that came with the word.
“My sister wouldn’t kill herself. You knew her. You saw her almost every week. Do you really think that she could do something like that—or like this?” She waved at the strewn couch cushions. “No one turns over their own place.”
He looked away, but she could see in the way his eyes darkened that he was already thinking the same thing.
The desk where her sister’s laptop normally sat was conspicuously empty. But the printer was still there, and there was a wastebasket on the ground, its contents strewn across the floor like everything else in the cabin. She pulled away from Wyatt’s touch and picked up one of the balled-up pieces of paper. Uncurling the wad, she found an email. It was dated November 27—one week earlier. She didn’t recognize the email address or the long bits of code that her sister included in the printout. It looked like it had been pulled from the printer before it was done, and long dabs of ink were smudged down the paper’s length.
“What’s that?” Wyatt asked, sidestepping her as though he was trying his best not to touch her again.
“I dunno... It looks odd, though,” she said, flipping the page so he could see.
It was probably nothing. She crumpled the paper in her hands and, picking up the garbage can, dropped it in. Maybe she was looking too hard and trying to see things that were not really there—she glanced at Wyatt—especially when it came to him.
He bent down and picked up another of the papers. He sucked in a breath as he looked over the page.
“What is it?”
He held the paper and didn’t move, almost as though if he stood still she wouldn’t have asked the question.
She stepped closer and looked over his shoulder.
The email was almost identical to the one she had picked up, but instead of black smudges of ink, the message was there in its