Page 5 of Salem’s Fall (Dark Seasons Thriller #3)

“Your fiancée’s body was found on the grounds of your Beacon Hill estate,” Quinn says.

“The reports state that her body was mutilated. Ms. Van Buren had multiple deep lacerations across her body, carved in such a way that investigators believe they were intentional symbols—symbols tied to occult rituals.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat as the photos make their way around the table and land in front of me. I’ve already read all the public details available, but the pictures from the DA’s files are far more horrifying than any images my mind could conjure up.

That poor woman…

The crime scene is filled with symbols. Vivienne Van Buren’s slaughtered body is marked from head to toe—intricate designs etched onto her skin—while the same ominous patterns stain the floor and walls, drawn in her fresh blood.

The symbols are intricate, twisted, with no clear meaning.

At least, not one that anyone can easily ascertain.

Every amateur sleuth and true crime podcaster from Boston to the Berkshires who’s been covering the case since last fall is convinced the symbols prove this isn’t just a crime of passion or domestic dispute.

They believe it points to something far darker.

“We’ll have to be very careful with the media. They’ll be ruthless,” Mark says, leaning forward, almost eagerly. “They’re going to milk the occult angle for all it’s worth, especially with the murder taking place so close to Salem’s Fall and Halloween right around the corner.”

Damien doesn’t flinch as he looks at the photos. He eyes the images of his dead, brutalized fiancée with the same level of interest someone might have scrolling through their Instagram feed.

“We’ll need to address your alibi,” Quinn says to Damien, pressing on.

“The prosecution will argue for more than just a crime of passion due to the… severe nature … of the killing.” He swallows hard.

“They’re going to try to prove premeditation.

They’ll say it takes time to make marks like that on a body.

Lots of time to think while cutting. But if we can establish a clear timeline and alibi, we might be able to discredit their case. ”

Damien smiles, but there’s nothing warm about it.

“My alibi is simple,” he says. “I was at the All Hallows Gala, like I am every year. Blackhollow Industries is the biggest donor to the New England Historical and Cultural Heritage Museum. Vivienne got sick that night—bad case of stomach poisoning. She stayed in.”

“That’s good.” Mark, the suck-up, nods along approvingly. “Very good.”

Quinn, however, looks suspicious.

“I was there that night, Blackhollow,” he says. “I don’t recall seeing you after the band came on around eight p.m., and the coroner is estimating the murder took place shortly before midnight.”

“Gee, Quinn, I didn’t realize you were keeping such close tabs on me,” Damien says, lifting a dark brow.

Quinn ignores the jab. “Can anyone attest to your attendance at the Gala closer to the actual time of the murder?”

“Of course. I had company later that night.” Damien’s smile sharpens. “There was a woman. Blonde. Gorgeous. She was… enthusiastic.”

I gasp, fingers pausing over my keyboard, unable to hold in my shock and disgust. “You were with another woman just hours before your fiancée’s murder?”

Quinn shoots me a silencing look across the table. I freeze.

Shit.

I can tell I’m in trouble. I’m just a junior associate. I’m not supposed to speak much at these client meetings, and I’m definitely not supposed to chastise the client, but seriously? How gross can you get?

Damien shifts next to me and holds my stare, as if challenging. “It’s not like I knew Vivienne was going to die that night.”

“But… but you were going to be married?” I ask, unable to control the judgmental tone in my voice. I can’t help it. I don’t like cheaters.

“James—” Quinn says my name with a warning.

“It’s okay. Nothing to worry about.” Mark grins reassuringly at Damien. “We see cheating all the time. Our job isn’t to make judgments,” he says, trying to soften things, the sneaky weasel.

“I was not cheating.” Damien flinches. It’s the first time I see him show any real emotion. “Infidelity is unbecoming.”

Quinn’s brow furrows. “But then what?— ”

“Vivienne and I had already called it quits,” Damien says. “She was planning to move out that weekend.”

“And this woman at the party. What’s her name so we can question her?” Quinn asks.

Damien shrugs. “I can’t recall. It was a party. These things happen.”

My stomach turns at Damien’s lack of shame, his casual dismissal of whatever beautiful woman he’d spent the night with.

How could he not remember her name ? Is he that detached from reality?

The more I learn about the cold man sitting beside me, the more I wonder what he’s really capable of.

I start to get the feeling he actually could be guilty of murder.

Maybe even worse things…

Mark, though, seems to find Damien’s apathy inspirational. “Ah, the perks of being Damien Blackhollow, huh? Must be nice.” He chuckles and raises his coffee cup like it’s some kind of toast. It makes me want to punch him in his smug face.

Damien, to his credit, doesn’t dignify Mark’s comment with a response.

“The woman, whatever her name, won’t help your case,” Damien says, turning back to Quinn. “But I’m sure you’ll manage. You are the best in the business, after all, aren’t you?”

“We’ll find another way,” Quinn says, nodding along. “We can try requesting security footage from the party, if they still have it. It might capture those entering and leaving. If we can establish you were still there past midnight, it’ll strengthen our timeline. The tighter the better.”

“Good,” Damien replies. “Spare no expense, but keep my involvement to a minimum. I do have a business to run.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to take up too much of your valuable time,” Quinn replies smoothly, just a hint of irritation beneath his polished tone .

My gaze keeps going back to the murder scene photos on the table. Something about the symbols gnaws at me, an uneasy feeling that I can’t shake. “These markings,” I say, peering closer at the pictures. “They’re not random. They must mean something , right? Do we know what?”

“James, let’s stick to the order in the outline,” Mark says with a frown, obnoxiously jabbing a finger at the document on his computer screen. “Quinn and I are leading this conversation for a reason.” He turns to Damien with a tight smile. “I apologize. She’s still quite green.”

Damien’s lips twitch. “Oh, is she?”

As much as I hate to admit it, I know Mark has a point.

I’m out of line and there’s a hierarchy here, but I want to prove myself to everyone, especially Quinn.

I want them all to see that I’ve got a reason to be at this table too, and my gut is screaming there’s something important about these symbols.

I swallow hard and decide, screw it. No guts, no glory, right?

“But it’s exactly like you said, Mark,” I say sweetly, ignoring Mark’s jaw as it drops to the floor with indignation.

“The media are going to push the occult angle because it’s so sensational, and so, the prosecution will have to explore it too.

We need to know if there’s any connection between Damien and these symbols.

” I look right at Damien, steady and unflinching, searching his face for any reaction.

“If there is, we should know about it now, before they find out.”

I half expect Damien to brush me off like he’s done with everyone else, but he meets my gaze with something that feels almost like respect.

“You’re asking if I’m a witch?” His voice is low, almost teasing.

“No, of course not. Witches aren’t real.” I blush a bit. “But I think you know what I’m getting at. Does the prosecution have anything that can tie you to these symbols? ”

For a moment, the room feels impossibly still. Then, with a dark chuckle, Damien replies, “Very good. I can see why Quinn keeps you around.” He shakes his head. “No, nothing they’ll be able to directly connect me to anyway. That’s a dead end.”

Quinn doesn’t look convinced. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“What about the missing engagement ring?” he asks, voice deceptively casual. “You wouldn’t know the whereabouts of that, would you?”

My pulse kicks up a notch, and I lean in closer for Damien’s answer.

When Vivienne Van Buren was first murdered, the media made a big deal about her missing ring—a seven-carat canary diamond, reportedly worth over a million dollars.

The initial speculation was that her death was the result of a botched robbery, that the killer had taken the ring and fled.

But with no other signs of forced entry and nothing else missing from the home, that theory had always been weak at best.

Damien exhales, the barest hint of amusement flickering across his face. “Quinn,” he drawls, “I could buy ten of those rings and then go shopping for a new yacht before lunch. What exactly would I gain from keeping it?”

“Fair point,” Quinn says, watching Damien carefully.

“Though I’m not sure the DA will see it that way.

Obviously, with your arrest, it’s clear they’ve decided to tank the robbery angle.

They’ll likely use the missing ring against you.

They’ll say you took it yourself, hoping to mislead the authorities, send them running around in circles. ”

Before Damien can respond further, Holly bolts up from her computer, her face pale.

“Quinn, you need to see this.” Her voice shakes as she reads from her screen. “There’s been a leak to the press. They’re going nuts. They found the murder weapon. Some kind of knife, buried behind the new Blackhollow Industries building on Congress Street.”

Quinn rushes to Holly’s side, his eyes skimming over her laptop. “Did you know anything about this?” he asks, whirling on Damien.

“Of course not,” Damien says, looking remarkably unbothered by this alarming turn of events. “I employ hundreds of people at that location. Could’ve been any of them.”

“Shit.” Quinn’s eyes narrow at Damien as he reads the article out loud. “Says it’s an exceedingly rare Black Obsidian Bloodstone Athame that was sold last year to one Mr. Damien Blackhollow for $120,000 at the New England Historical and Cultural Heritage Museum’s annual fundraiser.”

“So?” Damien shrugs. “I like to support the local arts.”

Quinn’s lips thin. “This is bad. Very, very bad.”

“I don’t see why,” Damien says. “Anyone could’ve stolen my knife, used it to kill Vivienne, and then planted it at the new building to frame me.”

“It has your fingerprints all over it,” Quinn says.

My stomach drops as I pull up the article on my computer.

It’s all right there in black and white and none of it looks good for our case.

Finding a murder weapon is bad enough, but one this rare and with physical evidence that ties directly to the suspect?

That’s going to be a major hurdle for us to overcome.

This case is looking worse and worse by the minute.

“Does it now?” Damien asks, his voice soft but dangerous. “Oh well. I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Quinn. That’s why I hired you. Looks like things are about to get interesting.”