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Detective Heinwright stood on the second floor of the Wultz home and tried to understand what was going on.

The coroner’s stretcher was in the hall, Perla’s body on top of it, her body bag half-unzipped. He stood a few feet from the bag and looked at her face, thinking.

The coroner, a woman with bushy eyebrows and a southern accent he had always found irresistible, came out of the bedroom, a blue-and-white-plaid face mask on. “Good morning,” Hazel Grooms said cheerfully.

“Not the best I’ve had,” he said, watching as she zipped up the body bag, then pulled her face mask down to her chin. “What time’d you get the call?”

“Around three thirty. Nature of the beast. People don’t like to die during business hours. Especially like this.” She patted the bag with something akin to affection.

“What’s your gut tell you about the scene?”

Hazel laughed. “Oh, it’s a mess of one. I don’t envy you your job, that’s for damn sure. But in terms of the vic, this one’s an exciting one.”

“You mean the cut throat?” He shrugged. “Not the first I’ve seen.”

“No, not that.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “Put a pair of gloves on; you’re going to want to see this.”

Intrigued, he reached into the pocket at the top of the gurney and withdrew a set, then pulled them on his wide hands. Nodding at her, he gestured for her to continue.

Unzipping the bag, she parted it so that he could clearly see Perla Wultz’s face. The brunette was pretty, but in an unconventional way. Her nose was perfect and straight, her mouth full, skin smooth—but her jawline was a bit too square, her angles a bit too harsh. The image was also marred by the blood, which was all over her lips and chin, the wound of her neck slash gaping open in a way that made her look practically decapitated.

He grimaced, but Hazel’s smile grew even wider. She crooked her finger, beckoning him closer. “Feel this.” She reached into the open cut and probed the incision. “Here.” Grabbing his hand in hers, she pressed it against the inside of the wound.

“I don’t know if—” He stopped, understanding what she was trying to show him. “Right here?” he asked, running his fingers back and forth over the thick ridge.

“Yeah. You know what that is?”

“No.” He pulled his hand free as soon as she released it, slightly nauseous by the sight, much less the feel of it.

“It’s scar tissue. Same angle, same area. Old, old scar tissue, probably from a decade ago, maybe longer.”

“Meaning what?” She couldn’t be saying that ... But her brow raised in a knowing way that made him second-guess his doubt.

“Meaning that this isn’t the first time she’d had her throat cut.” Her mouth curved in a cocky smile. “Seen that before, big boy?”