Page 87 of The Darkest Chase
I know full well it wasn’t the bottle.
Truth is, it took everything in my power not to fucking eat her whole when she showed up on my doorstep in that gauzy little dress that let me see the freckles on her shoulders, strewn around the soft curves of her tits. Every last dot made me want to bite her.
To taste her.
To sink my teeth in until she screams.
She looked so innocent. My own Little Red Riding Hood.
And I’ve never felt more like the big bad wolf.
I need to keep my hands to myself—because she is innocent, and the only thing I can do is taint her.
I’m terrible with fragile things.
Right now, I also need to keep my mind on the job, instead of thinking about this ache in the pit of my stomach that makes me want to go find her for no other reason than the fact that I can.
I know I can, and she’d just look at me with those wide blue eyes, like she sees something in me I can’t see myself.
As we reach the bottom of the slope and break through the trees, we nearly trip over the victim’s bag.
Looks like it went tumbling free as he fell and landed several feet away. I put down an evidence marker and leave it where it is until I can photograph it later.
We make our way to the fallen man, flanking him and avoiding the blood as we bend for a better look. Henri pulls several nitrile gloves from the breast pocket of his uniform, shakes them out, and offers me a pair.
“Thanks.” I snap the gloves on and then carefully grip the man’s chin. He’s got sandy-brown hair and a scruffy hipster beard.
His eyes are wide open, pale brown.
There’s a sort of quiet shock etched on his dead face. Like he was startled right before the lights went out.
I gently turn his head left and right.
There’s a little stiffness.
“Rigor. He’s been dead for a few hours, at least. No other signs of trauma. So the impact is definitely the cause of death.”
I carefully settle his head back in the exact position where I found it, then fish my phone from my pocket and start snapping photos. Henri frowns.
“No bloating, not seeing any discoloration,” he says quietly. “Damn, so when? Maybe this morning?”
“Late last night,” I answer, carefully capturing his position and the blood spread with my phone. “There’s dew on his skin. It hasn’t rained, but there’s liquid pooled in the corners of his eyelids and under his neck. Plus, the blood looks like it’s been congealing for at least six hours.”
“I will never get over how you notice things like that, mon ami.” Henri stares at me in awe.
“Check his clothes. If they’re damp, you’ll see I’m right.”
Henri carefully pushes up the flap on the breast pocket of the man’s red and black plaid flannel shirt. “Yep. Just a lil’ wet, but there. Oh—” He whistles softly as he fishes a soft black leather billfold out of the victim’s pocket. “What do we have here?”
He flips open the billfold. In the small laminated window, an ID peers out at us. He arches both brows and offers it to me.
I snag it with two fingers.
“Brian Newcomb of California,” I rattle off. “Time to find out what Brian was doing in Redhaven so far from home.”
It doesn’t take long to track down Mr. Newcomb.
Within a couple hours, we’ve marked, photographed, and packed up the crime scene, transferring the body over to Raleigh’s morgue and a proper workover by the Raleigh PD forensics team.