Page 23

“Were there hearts torn out?” I asked him.

Colton tipped his head back in surprise, maybe. Shit, that probably wasn’t the normal question people asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied slowly, eyes narrowing to look at me more closely. His gaze made my nose itch. He was thinking, scrutinizing, coming to conclusions about my interests.

“The animal that killed your parents is long dead, Haddie.” He spoke gently. As if I were about to break. Or perhaps he questioned my sanity. Whatever the reason, the tone was familiar. Not in the temporal sense, but it was how he’d spoken to me in the last weeks we were together. After my parents died. Like I was delicate and crazy.

“It would be long dead by now.” He talked to me as if I were a preschooler.

I sipped my coffee. “You’d think.”

“Haddie—”

“It’s Hadley,” I interjected. “Ms. Harris, if you’re so inclined.” I motioned to his car. “You’ve got an animal to track down, I assume.”

Colton’s lips parted as if he wanted to say more. Argue more. Maybe change me into a completely different person with a blink of his eyes, conjure up a different homecoming.

“This isn’t over, Hadley,” was what he eventually said.

I tilted my chin up. “This was over thirteen years ago, Colton.” I refused to break eye contact or retreat.

He sighed again, long, and full of a fatigue I was ignorant of. For a second, I wanted to know. What happened to him while I was gone. Why he stayed here. What kept him up at night.

For a second.

Then I remembered who I was. What my life had become. It did not include an old flame, especially one with a badge.

I continued my stare down, refusing to move, submit, or give him any glimpse of hope that this would be a reunion.

Colton lasted longer than I thought he would, long enough for even my resolve to stutter. But he blinked first, shaking his head and moving to his car.

He opened the door, resting his forearm on it and turning his head. “I don’t know why you’re here, Hadley, but I have a feeling it is going to cause you pain. If not, a fuck of a lot of trouble.”

I showed my teeth. “Pain and trouble are the only things that keep me sharp, Colton.”

He looked me over appraisingly, as if he were taking my measure. Again, he shook his head then got in his cruiser.

I gave him a finger wave as he left, appalled to notice that my finger was shaking.

Naturally, the first place I went to after Colton’s visit was the coroner’s office. It was where I would normally go on any other job since there was a chance the bodies were still on site. I’d flash a forged badge of a government agent, pretend to be a reporter, an intern, a vapid social media influencer looking for content. Whatever might get me a look at the scene, the bodies.

Yet I couldn’t rely on my usual methods of fraud and federal crimes to get me what I needed this time. I had to do something horrible—pretend to be friendly. It took me about an hour to gather the things I required, intentionally waiting a little longer to allow time for the bodies to be transported.

Then I parked on the street, getting out of my car with all of my supplies and a ready-made story. But not a reliable fake identity. I had to do this as Hadley Harris. My neck itched uncomfortably without a façade to hide under.

The coroner’s office was a small, brick building, two blocks down from the town square—which was meticulously maintained with flowers, seasonal décor, and a gazebo. The presence of something like a coroner’s office did not fit the vibe.

No one liked being reminded of death.

Not even, apparently, the county, who obviously looked like they didn’t put a whole lot of funding into the place. The sign out front was faded, sun-bleached. You could barely read the lettering. Weeds choked the walkway, snaking through cracks in the concrete, poorly patched with mismatched cement.

I stepped in front of what were meant to be automatic doors, waving my hand like an idiot until they groaned open as if they were in the throes of death.

My boots squeaked on the faded linoleum floors, yellowed with age. The reception desk was sparse, with old flyers and a plastic ficus gathering dust in the corner.

The receptionist looked barely old enough to order a beer, with jet-black hair adorned with various clips, platform, thigh-high boots visible because both her feet were propped up on the desk in question. Her fishnet stockings were full of holes, and her dark rimmed eyes were focused on her phone.

“Yeah?” she mumbled, not looking up.