Page 22 of Paranoid

Fine. Rather than argue, Rachel slid her Ford into an empty spot near the gymnasium. Her kids piled out of the Explorer, Harper flipping up the hood of her jacket, Dylan bareheaded, earbuds still in place, as he dashed across the wet lawn to a side door.

When had her children grown up? How had the years passed so quickly since they were blond toddlers whose squabbles had been about toys and pretzels, toddlers who had looked at her with adoring, trusting eyes? Wasn’t that just a few years ago? Before they’d both become secretive?

They’d been happy then, she thought with more than a bit of nostalgia. A young family of four—

A horn blasted behind her and she realized she was actually taking up two spots on the street, the blinker of her SUV still flashing as she’d daydreamed. She held up an apologetic hand and eased onto the street while the driver nosed into the spot, nearly hitting her. In her rearview, Rachel saw five kids clamber out of the silver sedan. The driver, a pretty blond girl, quickly tossed a cigarette onto the wet pavement and stubbed it out before running to catch up with the rest of her friends just as the first bell sounded.

And so it was. Her kids ditching her as she’d ditched her own mother. How many times had she told Melinda to park two blocks away from the school?

What was the old saying?

What goes around, comes around?

Well, amen to that.

CHAPTER 5

Cade turned off the main highway and wound through a development of cookie-cutter houses that had been built in the mid-nineties, all two-story, all with double-car garages out front, all with landscaping that had matured.

At one end of a cul-de-sac was the Sperry home. Like the other houses, it had a small bit of yard pressed up to the front walkway with a few bushes and flowers that were starting to bloom. A honeysuckle vine ran up a trellis, but the grass was patchy and yellowed from animals using it as a toilet.

Two cruisers with lights flashing blocked the drive, and crime scene tape stretched across the sidewalk, while uniformed officers kept a group of neighbors at bay. The crime scene techs had arrived, their van visible, and a rescue unit had been deployed. Cade parked down the street, jogged through the rain, and flashed his badge at one of the officers.

On the porch he signed into the scene and slipped on shoe coverings, then walked inside.

The body of Violet Sperry was sprawled across the marble tiles of the foyer. Wearing pajamas, she was splayed at an awkward angle, one leg bending backward at the knee, a bone protruding near one elbow, blood congealing around her.

His stomach turned over.

He recognized her despite a broken and bloodied nose, bruised face, and eyes covered by a thick piece of blue tape.

Dear God.

He’d seen his share of dead bodies in his work and during a tour of duty in Afghanistan, but this . . . His back teeth clenched hard.

Photographers were taking digital pictures and a videographer was filming while other techs dusted for finger- or footprints and still others searched and vacuumed for trace evidence.

Across the room he spotted Kayleigh in black pants and a short black rain jacket, her red hair tucked back beneath a baseball cap. She eased down the stairs around a tech dusting for fingerprints and headed toward him. Slim and fit, a dusting of freckles across her nose, her eyes wide and intelligent, she offered him a fleeting smile.

“Homicide?” he asked. “You’re sure?”

“Oh, yeah.” She was leaning down, staring at the body, nodding. Emotionless. “Unless she was into some kind of kinky stuff that included taping your eyes shut.”

“You never know.” But his attempt at dark humor didn’t hit home. In fact, it backfired as she glanced at him, eyebrows inching upward, in silent question about his own proclivities.

He ignored the tightening in his gut. “So what have you got?”

“She was supposed to be alone last night,” Kayleigh said, straightening. “The husband was out of town, and they don’t have kids. From what we can tell, she was already in bed. Watching TV—it was still on. Her phone, TV remote, and iPad were in the bedclothes, like she’d just tossed them aside. There was a wineglass and bottle on the nightstand.”

From another room he heard the distinct bark of dogs.

“Hers,” Kayleigh said, glancing to the hallway off the foyer. “Three prized little . . . spaniels of some kind.” She fluttered her fingers in an I-don’t-know gesture. “Not cockers, I don’t think, but close. King something or other . . .”

“King Charles. But the Cavalier comes first,” the tech who had been dusting the railing supplied. Thin and balding, wearing gloves and safety glasses, he added, “Cavalier King Charles. Cute dogs. Locked in crates in the laundry room.”

“Whatever,” she said. “Big name for little dogs.”

Cade said, “They—the dogs—were . . . where? With her?”