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CHAPTER ONE

Death was my living.

The weight of the decay hung heavy in the air, and the victims laid before me were more than the remnants of lives once lived. As the coroner for King George County, I bore a solemn burden—a relentless duty to speak for those whose voices had been silenced too soon. Justice was my pursuit, a grim companion that shadowed my every step.

But amid the blood and broken bodies, a disquieting truth gnawed at my soul. The capacity for cruelty in mankind was boundless, a monstrous force that defied comprehension. Each case whispered of the malevolence lurking behind human eyes, a reminder that darkness resided not just in the world but within the depths of our own hearts.

“You okay, Doc?” Detective Cole asked, his voice pulling me from my thoughts. His concern was evident in his eyes, a rare softness that contrasted with his usual tough exterior. “You don’t look so good.”

“I had a rough night,” I lied, adjusting my gloves. “Didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

Cole didn’t look like he believed me, but he was nice enough not to say anything. I liked Cole. He was a solid cop with a good sense of humor and the kind of baggage that most cops carried around with them—meaning he tended to go through relationships like discarded tissues and he was no stranger to a drink or three when he was off duty.

He was living with my assistant, Lily, and for the first time since I’d known him seemed serious about a monogamous relationship. He was in his usual uniform of Wranglers, a white dress shirt, and a sport coat. His badge was visible on his belt and his Stetson was in place. But he was looking a little rough around the edges himself.

“I’ll be fine,” I assured him and then gave him a pointed look. “What about you? You don’t look so hot yourself.”

“Pulled an all-nighter,” Cole said. “I caught the Ransom Club shooting over in King George. A couple of barely legal idiots decided to get into a fight over one of the waitresses. Idiot number one pulls a knife. Idiot number two pulls a bigger knife. The bartender tried to get them to take it outside, but one of the guys takes a swipe at the bartender and slices his arm to the bone. Bartender gets pissed and shoots them both with the .45 he had under the counter. Idiot number one is dead. Idiot number two will be lucky to walk again. I’d just wrapped things up and was heading home when this call came in.”

That was a pretty good excuse as far as excuses went for looking like hell. I was going to have to stick with lying. In truth, I’d discovered I was pregnant about a week ago, and the shock still hadn’t worn off. Jack and I had struggled for so long to conceive that I’d almost given up hope. When I saw those two pink lines on the pregnancy test I couldn’t believe it, so I visited a good doctor friend I’d worked with at Augusta General to get a thorough checkup. I was definitely pregnant. But I’d been sick as a dog the last few days, and joy and fear waged a silent war within me as I struggled to balance my duties with the knowledge of the new life growing inside me.

“You can take off once we clear the scene,” Jack said, coming in from the other room. “Jaye and I will take this one.”

“I’m going to take you up on that,” Cole said. “Lily is working today, and I’ve got a soft bed and blackout curtains calling my name.”

I tuned out Jack and Cole’s conversation while I turned my back to them and acted like I was studying the blood-spattered walls. I caught my reflection in the large gilded mirror across from the bed and had to do a double take to make sure it was me. No wonder Cole had been concerned. My normally pale skin had a sickly pallor and my eyes seemed unusually large in my face, my pupils dilated so much that my gray eyes looked black. My chin-length black hair was pulled back into a stubby ponytail.

I caught Jack’s worried gaze in the mirror, his blue eyes meeting mine. I took some deep breaths, just keeping my gaze steady on his while he and Cole continued to talk. Jack was my rock, and he’d been my anchor in many of the storms in my life. He was a man who commanded attention no matter what room or circumstance he walked into.

He’d dressed that morning in sand-colored BDUs, and he wore a black polo with the King George County Sheriff’s Office logo embroidered over the breast. His weapon was holstered at his side, and a black windbreaker concealed it. He’d gotten a haircut a few days ago, so his thick dark hair was cut close enough that there was no detection of the slight curl that appeared the longer his hair grew, and he had a short growth of stubble from not shaving for the last couple of days.

The low chatter of the crime-scene techs as they finished taking pictures and sweeping the room for evidence filled the air. Yellow evidence tags dotted the plush carpet of the master bedroom like macabre confetti. I was the last piece of the crime-scene puzzle. The CSI team was waiting on me to do a preliminary exam of the bodies and get them moved back to my lab so they could dust for fingerprints. All I had to do was not throw up first.

I breathed through my mouth, trying not to taste the coppery scent of blood that was thick in the air along with the underlying smell of decay. I’d never live it down if I contaminated the crime scene by vomiting everywhere. I could feel Jack’s worried gaze on my back as I moved, and I knew if he wasn’t careful he’d let the cat out of the bag. We’d agreed to keep the pregnancy just between us for now.

“What do you think, Doc?” Cole asked. “Gives a whole new meaning to a happy ending, huh?” He attempted a wry smile, but it fell flat against the somber backdrop.

“You could say that,” I said, staring at our first victim with pity.

“Death rarely brings dignity,” Jack said.

“Yeah, but somehow this seems even worse,” Cole said. “Talk about the honeymoon from hell.”

I knew what he meant. There was something profoundly sad about this scene. A newly married couple who would have been beautiful and vibrant in life lay gray and cold in separate rooms of their honeymoon villa at The Mad King Resort. A wedding night that should have been filled with passion and promise had ended in violence and blood.

Victim number one—the husband—was a dark-haired man with vacant eyes and a short dark beard, sprawled across the king-sized bed of the master bedroom. Unlike what you’d expect from a groom on his wedding night, he was fully clothed in what appeared to be an expensive tailored suit. A single gunshot wound marred his temple, the exit wound having painted a gruesome Rorschach pattern on the pristine white comforter on the bed.

“Exit wound indicates a through-and-through,” I said, pulling on a fresh pair of latex gloves. “Going to need to recover the bullet from whatever it embedded in.”

I knelt beside the bed, my eyes scanning methodically over the victim. The CSI techs had already photographed him from every angle, placing small yellow numbered markers next to items of evidence. I carefully checked his pockets, finding a platinum money clip with several hundred-dollar bills, untouched. His wallet sat on the nightstand, designer watch still on his wrist. The wedding band on his left hand gleamed under the bedroom lights, probably not worn for more than twenty-four hours.

“Not robbery,” Jack noted, circling the room with measured steps.

I nodded, examining the body more closely. “Lividity and blood pattern indicates he was moved into this position.” I pressed my gloved fingers gently against his jaw. “Full rigor. Consistent with death occurring approximately seven to eight hours ago.”

“Why move him?” Cole asked. “The killer comes in and does the job stone cold, shoots the guy in the head. Then he moves the body so he’s propped on a pillow?”

“Could be staging,” I said.

Making a small incision near his liver, I inserted a thermometer to get an accurate core-temperature reading. “Body temp confirms that timeline. So around midnight to 1 a.m.”

“That tracks with their check-in time,” Cole said, flipping through his notebook. “Manager says they arrived just after midnight.”

I completed my examination of the scene around the victim, bagging his hands to preserve any trace evidence, and carefully checking under his fingernails. No defensive wounds. No signs of a struggle. The kill had been quick, efficient.

“Any weapons?” I asked, looking around the room.

“Found a 9mm halfway kicked under the bed,” Jack said.

“Maybe the guy put up a fight,” Cole said.

“The shot was fired at close range based on the powder stippling,” Jack said. “If he tried to fight it wasn’t for long. Let’s check on the bride.”

We moved through the spacious living area of the villa, past the untouched champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries on the coffee table. Two suitcases sat just inside the front door, still packed. The sliding glass doors to the deck overlooking the Potomac were unlocked, the curtains billowing slightly in the morning breeze.

The second bedroom was at the opposite end of the villa. When we stepped inside, the contrast with the master bedroom was jarring. Where the husband’s death had been neat and precise, this room told a different story.

The bride—Chloe Vasilios according to Cole’s notes—lay on the floor beside a rumpled bed. She was in a half state of undress, a designer evening gown pooled around her waist, the bodice unzipped and hanging loose. One shoe remained on her foot, the other tossed near the bathroom door. Her blond hair was matted with blood, spread around her head like a twisted halo.

“Multiple gunshot wounds,” I said, crouching beside her. “One to the center of the forehead, execution style. Additional shots to the chest, throat, and—” I paused, noting the pattern of wounds on her lower body. “Two shots to the pelvic region.”

“Overkill,” Jack said, his voice tight. “First shot would have been fatal. The rest were making a statement.”

“Or ensuring she was dead,” Cole suggested.

“No,” I disagreed, gesturing to the wound pattern. “Look at the precision of the groupings. The forehead shot, then the throat, followed by the three chest shots center mass. The pelvic shots are next. This wasn’t panic or ensuring death. This was almost ritualistic. Very purposeful.”

I pulled out my measuring calipers from my kit and carefully examined each wound.

“These entry wounds are significantly smaller than the husband’s. Different caliber weapon.”

“That’s not good,” Jack said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Two killers,” Cole said.

Jack crouched beside me, his eyes scanning the scene. “The carpet is soaked with blood under her, but there’s minimal spatter. First shot was likely to the head, an instant kill. The rest were postmortem.”

I nodded, carefully turning her head to examine the entry wound in her forehead. “The bullet is still inside. No exit wound.” I looked closer at her face, wiping away some of the blood with a sterile gauze. “Slight powder stippling around the entry wound. Close range, but not contact.”

I continued my examination, checking her hands, which were unmarked. No defensive wounds. No signs she’d struggled against her attacker. I examined her neck, finding slight bruising that was just beginning to form.

“Bruising on the throat,” I said. “Premortem based on the coloration. Someone may have restrained her before shooting.”

“Why the separate rooms?” Jack asked.

“Maybe she was using this room to change,” I said, noticing a small carry-on suitcase open and spilled out onto the floor.

“If it was me I’d eliminate the biggest threat first, which would be the husband,” Jack said. “Maybe sexual assault was the goal. Guy who offs the husband gets excited and drops his gun. Other killer forces bride into this room at gunpoint and she’s uncooperative, hence the bruising on her throat. She’s half undressed, but something made them pull the trigger. And then keep pulling the trigger.”

I carefully collected fingernail scrapings, hair samples, and swabbed the visible blood for later DNA analysis. I checked for signs of sexual assault but found none. The way her dress was partially removed suggested the beginning of undressing rather than an assault.

“There’s no outward signs of sexual assault,” I said. “Her underwear is still intact. But I’ll be able to check more thoroughly once we’re back in the lab.”

I carefully bagged her hands and feet to preserve any additional evidence.

“We need to check for additional shell casings,” I said, scanning the floor. “None of the bullets passed through.”

The CSI techs moved in with their equipment, meticulously combing every inch of carpet, checking behind furniture, and under the bed. One of them called out, “Found something!”

He held up a small brass casing with tweezers. “Twenty-two caliber. Expensive brand, not your standard ammunition.”

“Professional grade,” Jack commented, examining it without touching. “The killer missed one. He took all the other shell casings with him.”

A second tech called out from near the sliding glass doors that led to a large deck that overlooked Popes Gorge. “Door’s unlocked from the inside. Could be the killer’s exit route.”

Jack nodded and walked over to examine it, careful not to disturb any potential evidence. “Perfect escape route. No cameras on this side of the property, direct access to the wooded area behind the resort.”

I completed my preliminary examination and prepared both victims for transport. “I’ll need to get them back to the lab for the full autopsy. These bullets might tell us a lot more once I recover them.”

“The reservation was made under the names Theo and Chloe Vasilios,” Cole said, reading from his notebook. “Oliver Harris—the resort manager—said the couple checked in just after midnight. They were only booked for one night and a car was supposed to show up for them this morning to take them to the airport. The driver alerted the manager once they didn’t show up to the car.”

“Nothing unusual about their arrival?” Jack asked.

“Harris said they looked like they’d been drinking some, her more than him,” Cole said. “She was unsteady on her feet. He also said Mr. Vasilios seemed anxious to get to the room. Harris drove them here in the golf cart and a bellman followed behind with their luggage.”

“There are several suitcases still by the front door,” I said.

Jack walked the perimeter of the room again, his trained eyes missing nothing. “This was planned. The killers knew they were coming, knew the layout of this villa, and struck quickly after their arrival.”

“How’d they get in?” Cole asked. “Front door was locked when the manager came by this morning.”

“Could have been hiding inside already,” Jack suggested. “Or came in through the sliding doors off the deck.”

I finished bagging and tagging the evidence, preparing both bodies for transport back to my lab. The CSI team continued processing the scene, looking for additional shell casings, fingerprints, and any other traces the killers might have left behind.

“Birth control pills and a prescription bottle of Zoloft in her toiletry bag,” Cole reported, returning from the bathroom. “The Zoloft had Theo Vasilios’s name on it. Twenty-five milligrams.”

“Anxiety meds,” I said. “Maybe wedding jitters. But he’s at least two hundred pounds. Twenty-five milligrams is usually the starting dose when just getting acclimated to the medicine. For a guy his size, I would have started at fifty milligrams at minimum.”

“Can it affect sexual function?” Jack asked.

“Sure,” I said. “Not ideal for a wedding night.”

“But it might explain the separate rooms,” Jack said. “We need to find out everything we can about Theo and Chloe Vasilios. Their lives, their connections, their enemies. Someone wanted them dead badly enough to orchestrate this.”

“And they wanted to send a message,” I added, looking at the woman’s body bag. “The way she was killed—it feels personal.”

I took one last look around the villa. What should have been a sanctuary of love and new beginnings had become a tomb. Two lives ended before they’d truly begun their journey together. The champagne would never be drunk. The suitcases would never be unpacked. The honeymoon would forever remain in a bloody memorial. In the silence of that desecrated space, I made the same promise I always did—to speak for those who no longer could, to unravel the truth behind their violent end. To bring justice to the dead.