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Chapter Four

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Lady in the Death House

Jefferson County, Colorado

Deputy Sheriff Cynthia Veracruz guided her SUV up the long drive to the last house on Platte River Road, trying to repress her irritation.

She was going to be late for dinner again, and all because some weekenders had freaked out when a random guy strolled onto their precious vacation property. Probably just a hunter who accidentally wandered out of the national forest. But it was an election year, and some of those weekenders voted, so her boss had her out here knocking on doors, warning people there might be a “shady character” in the area.

At least the wildfire had veered away. It had been touch and go this morning, and there’d been a scary half hour when it looked like they might have to evacuate the entire area. But the wind had ticked up, thankfully, pushing the fire east and clearing away the worst of the smoke and ash.

Cynthia parked in front of a small red house with blue trim that had seen better days. She’d been meaning to check on Mrs. Abbott anyway, especially with the fire coming so close. Two birds, one stone and all that.

Walking up to the front door, Cynthia noted that the gutters needed a good cleaning. Best to handle that before the snows came, and they were already overdue. Maybe she’d send Bill out this weekend, have him muck them out as a favor.

Developers had been sniffing around this property for years, but Mrs. Abbott was one of the last holdouts. She refused to sell and move into the retirement community her kids wanted to stick her in. Said she’d been born on this land and would die on it. There weren’t a lot of folks like her left.

I’ll get Bill to check the steps, too , Cynthia thought as she carefully made her way onto the porch. Some of the boards looked almost rotted through. If Mrs. Abbott fell and hurt herself, all the way out here on her own…Cynthia shook her head. Maybe those Abbott kids weren’t wrong. Winters were tough up here in the mountains.

“Mrs. Abbott?” she called out, rapping her knuckles against the door. “It’s Cynthia Veracruz.” She waited a few beats, then knocked again. “Hello?”

Frowning, she cupped her hands and peered through the window. It was dim inside; all she could make out was the narrow hallway. There didn’t seem to be any lights on, even though twilight was falling. Cynthia felt a prickle of concern. Turning, she scanned the yard more carefully. No car , she realized belatedly. Millicent Abbott tooled around in an ancient Subaru Outback, and she made a point of never driving after dark due to her cataracts.

Perhaps she’d had car trouble? Or gone to the store and was arriving home later than expected? She could even have evacuated, although Cynthia had a hard time imagining Mrs. Abbott leaving unless the fire was on her doorstep.

Should she call it in?

Cynthia bit her lip. It seemed silly to raise the alarm just because an old lady was out driving past dark. She’d take a lap around the property just to ease her own mind. Then she’d wait in the car for Mrs. Abbott to return. Bill would be less irritated about her lateness if it was for a good reason.

Picking her way carefully through the high grass—it was late in the season for ticks, but you never knew—Cynthia rounded the corner of the house. Old statues peeked out of the overgrown lawn: Cynthia reflexively crossed herself as she passed the Virgin Mary. Should she have Bill give the yard a mow when it would be covered in snow soon? Might as well. She added it to her mental to-do list.

The back door was wide open. Seeing that, Cynthia stopped dead. Someone had waded through the grass to the back porch, flattening a path that led all the way to the tree line. “Mrs. Abbott?” she called out, unclipping her belt holster. “Anyone in there?”

No answer. Shady character , Cynthia thought as she pulled out her sidearm and braced it in front of her, slowly approaching the open door. “Sheriff’s department!”

Cynthia gave the door a wide berth, circling around until she could see inside. It opened into a mudroom, where stacks of old boots were piled below hanging parkas and wool scarves.

Cynthia drew a deep breath: Maybe Mrs. Abbott had left the door open by mistake?

Or someone else had.

Deciding, she clicked her radio and said, “This is Veracruz, I’m at the Abbott place on south Platte. Looks like someone might’ve broken in.”

A pause, and then the dispatcher responded, “Got it, Cynthia. You need backup?”

“I’m gonna take a look inside,” Cynthia said. “But yeah, probably not a bad idea to send another car.”

“Cole’s close. He’ll be there in five.”

“Thanks, Reina. I’ll keep an open channel.”

“Roger that.”

Cynthia eased inside, swiping her boots clean on the mat. An atavistic tremor stirred at the base of her spine: Something felt off. The house was too quiet, the air weighted—

She nearly stepped in a dark pool that extended into the hallway from the kitchen. Cynthia drew a deep breath, bracing herself, and then edged around it to peer inside.

It took a few seconds for her brain to make sense of what she was seeing. A few more to get a grip on herself—she was a professional, and this wasn’t her first dead body, not even the first time she’d seen the corpse of someone she knew.

But it was the first time she’d seen anyone completely eviscerated. Crossing herself again, Cynthia muttered a prayer for poor Mrs. Abbott.

“Sorry Cynthia, I didn’t copy that. Everything okay? You find Mrs. Abbott?”

She’d forgotten she was on an open channel. “I found her. And we’re going to need more than Cole. She’s been murdered, Reina, and it’s bad. Real bad. You better tell the boss. And put out an APB for her car, okay?”

A beat, then Reina gravely confirmed, “Roger that.”

Cynthia went back outside to wait in her patrol car. She sat there for a minute, her mind oddly blank. Whatever had done that to Mrs. Abbott wasn’t human. Couldn’t be.

Sirens in the distance. Cynthia drew a deep breath and checked herself in the rearview mirror. She barely recognized the person staring back with terror in her eyes. The truth was, whatever had done this, she never wanted to come face-to-face with it. Deep down, she hoped it had driven Mrs. Abbott’s Subaru far away from her and everyone she cared about.

Shit. Bill . Cynthia dialed her cell phone, absently noting that her hands were shaking. “Hey, honey?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m gonna be late. And, um, could you make sure the doors and windows are locked? I’ll explain later. Just do it.”