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Luke met himself in the mirror.

Fear etching his face, he raked his hand through his hair staring at what he’d become. He was no longer a husband, a father, a law enforcement officer.

Now he saw one thing.

A suspect.

He shut his eyes and felt a clamp of panic. He thought of Carrie. He thought of Emily growing up here, playing in the backyard, learning to ride a bike. He envisioned their new life before his guilt clouded it.

But wait, just stop. Stop this!

How did he know he wasn’t being paranoid about something that never happened in the storm? How did he know he wasn’t reading something into it because of the incident in Los Angeles? Seriously, how could he make a connection between last night and an unidentified dead woman?

But he had to convince himself, he had to be certain. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the damning evidence he’d plucked from his SUV’s grille.

He looked at the slip of pink fabric with the button.

This will prove it.

***

Luke got ready, then headed for the sheriff’s office.

On the way, he took long, slow breaths. At his locker he moved quickly, getting into his uniform, buckling his duty belt. He unlocked his gun and studied it before he holstered it, suited up and signed out a marked unit. Ruby, the civilian office manager, tilted her head, assessing his face.

“What happened to you, Luke?”

He touched his chin where the blood from small cuts had coagulated.

“Shaved a little too fast.”

“Looks like you crawled through barbed wire.”

Luke grimaced and headed out to his car. The death scene was near, located inside the northern edge of Clear River. It fell within the jurisdiction of the Clear River Police Department, with support from the county sheriff’s office.

Emergency vehicles, lights flashing, were clustered at a strip mall parking lot. Shingles, wooden crates and take-out bags were scattered along the street from the storm. Traffic was inching by. A Clear River cop stood in the middle of the road waving rubberneckers through.

Luke stopped on the shoulder.

Hesitating, he slid the plastic sandwich bag holding the fragment of fabric from his pocket. Looking at it, thinking how it held everything for him, he tensed before sliding it back into his pocket. Then he got out, striving to remain calm.

Investigators were concentrated on the parking lot near a mini-mart. It was flanked by a diner and an auto accessories shop. The businesses were closed, the area cordoned with yellow tape.

The victim was in the middle of the lot, covered by a tarp.

Luke found his supervisor Don Fowler huddled with other senior officers next to a line of police vehicles outside the tape. Scrolling through his phone, he turned to Luke, nodding.

“All right,” Fowler said. “Here’s what we have. Deceased is a white female in her twenties. Clear River detectives say she attended a house party last night, argued with her boyfriend then wandered into the storm, possibly under the influence.”

Luke glanced at the yellow tarp covering the body. Clear River crime scene people and medical examiner staff wearing coveralls worked next to it, photographing and analyzing the scene.

“Luke?”

“Yes.”

“You with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I said we’d like you to take the east side of the road, go north door-to-door canvassing for witness statements, any camera footage. Log it, and deliver what you get to Clear River PD downtown.”

“Yes, sir,” Luke said. “Do we have a possible cause, a timeline or what she was wearing? It may help.”

“No.” Fowler shook his head. “No indication yet on cause. No other information than what I gave you, which is not to be shared. It’s background.” He turned to the forensic workers. “They’ll tell us more when they can.”

Luke got his tablet from his car and started north toward a gas station on the east side, Fowler’s words echoing in his mind.

…wandered into the storm, possibly under the influence…

Luke estimated this scene was a little over two miles from Fawn Ridge, the spot where he’d struck something. Could someone have walked that distance in a storm after they’d been hit?

He didn’t want to believe it.

But he knew from traffic courses he’d taken with the LAPD that the body reacts to trauma by producing a lot of adrenaline to cope with injuries. And there were cases where injured people, even those hurt badly and in shock after a crash, had wandered a great distance.

It was possible.

Luke’s stomach knotted, thinking how he needed to know what the dead woman was wearing, when a roaring staccato noise combined with air brakes filled the air. A semitrailer growled to a halt near the strip mall. Luke looked back at the traffic cop in the distance waving at the rig to keep rolling through.

Since he was closer, Luke trotted toward the cab, noticing the words Ramble Tamble on the plastic bug deflector.

“You can’t stop here, buddy,” Luke called up to the driver’s open window over the grumble of the idling diesel. “Keep moving.”

The door opened. The driver climbed down quickly, a bearded bear of a man. His face was in torment, embodying urgency; ignoring Luke, he hurried toward the scene.

Luke rushed to block him.

“You need to move your truck, sir.”

“That’s my daughter!” The man, nostrils flaring, pushed against Luke. “I was going to Dallas—I got word she didn’t come home!”

The man was strong, like a defensive tackle, forcing Luke backward as other cops ran to help.

“Let me see her!”

The officers and deputies, four including Luke, eventually got the truck driver to the back of an ambulance at the scene where detectives talked to him.

For a moment, Luke saw him raise his head to the sky, shaking it with a hoarse, pained groan.

Luke looked away.

Having come face-to-face with the father’s agony, fear roiled in Luke’s heart, nearly erupting when he turned to resume his assignment. That’s when fate intervened, as if his conscience had reached out, pulling his attention to a snap and a sudden gust. It lifted the side of the tarp, and like the previous night, he saw a flash—this time he saw the woman’s body, her shoes, her jeans.

And her pink top.