Lovely Bad Things

As I reach the hotel entrance, I spot Devyn in a silver Honda Civic parked along the curb. She waves me over, and I pocket my phone before I lean into the open passenger-side window.

“Get in,” she says, her face animated and voice clipped.

“What for? What’s going on?”

Her dark eyes pin me with disbelief. “What do you mean, what’s going—?” Taking a forced breath, she releases her severe grip on the steering wheel. “Halen, if we want to beat the feds to the crime scene, we need to leave now.”

A new level of dread tightens my chest. “Which crime scene?” I ask, my words measured.

“The scene discovered less than an hour ago.” Her pretty features draw together as her gaze holds mine.

I push away from the car and glance around the town teeming with federal agents, media, crime zealots.

I could walk away right now.

Whatever awaits me at that scene… I don’t have to know.

“Halen—”

Her urgent tone heightens my unease, and I duck my head into the window. “What scene?” I ask again.

“It might be another uncovered ritual site,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t have a lot of details yet.”

The vise around my chest loosens a fraction. That would make sense, at least. My profile stated there may be a number of practice scenes in the killing fields.

“Devyn, I’ve been fired,” I tell her honestly.

She arches a sculpted eyebrow. “Oh, so you’re freelance now?”

I stall. “I suppose.”

“Okay, then you’re hired,” she says. “Officially hired by the Hollow’s Row Police Department as an expert forensic psychologist…blah blah.” She waves her hand impatiently. “However you want to phrase it. Now, get your ass in the car.”

I don’t think she technically has the authority to hire me, but I fear arguing with her. And despite every muscle in my body aching, a small part of me is curious, even elated. “Yes, ma’am. Oh”—I glance back at the hotel—“wait here for like, five minutes. I need to grab my kit.”

I make quick work of gathering my supplies, which were already packed. What gives me pause is the bag I have stuffed in the safe. After a moment to weigh the potential consequences, I shove my anxiety down into the roiling pit of my stomach and remove the satchel, then I meet Devyn at her car.

“I can’t believe you haven’t heard yet,” she says, flipping through radio stations on the dashboard.

“Fired, remember?” I stress. “I spent a good part of the day in debriefing getting my ass handed to me.”

“Well, you’re the one who had to go and be a hero.” She sends me a tight smile, and I appreciate that she’s trying to make light of a dire situation instead of interrogating me with invasive—and degrading—questions like others have.

I don’t think I could handle lying to her right now.

But the truth of the matter is, there are no heroes. The victims are still missing, with no leads on how to locate them.

We pass a news crew as she maneuvers her car between two large SUVs. “Damn. The feds have already pissed all over the scene.”

As she unbuckles her seatbelt, I say, “Wait.”

Her brown eyes dart to mine. “Halen, we do not have any more wait time. Let’s go.”

Pulling in a steadying breath, I bolster my nerves and reach between my feet to grab the satchel. “I know I ask for a lot of favors.”

Her abrupt laugh fills the car. “Are you serious right now?”

“Deathly.” My pulse quickens as I glance down at the bag in my lap. “I need you to process some evidence for me,” I say, my serious tone sobering her expression. “This would be of a personal nature. The results given only to me.”

She hesitates a full three seconds before reaching across and taking the bag. “Keeping evidence from the feds?”

I bite the corner of my lip. “Something like that.”

With a lengthy sigh, she pushes a button to open the trunk of her car. “Then we should probably keep it out of their sight.”

Before she opens the door, I touch her arm briefly. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says. “I’m about to work my new expert consultant to death on this case so we can bring the victims home. You sort of work for me now.”

A smile lifts my mouth for the first time today. “Lead the way, boss.”

As we exit the car and look around the marshland, I realize it’s a different access point to the killing fields. There’s a boardwalk that leads through the reeds.

“Public hunting,” Devyn says to me, reading my inquisitive expression. “Not that anyone is ever really fined for hunting anywhere they damn well please, but this keeps the reports on gunfire down to a minimum.”

I nod slowly, my attention being diverted to a group of suits congregating around the entrance of the boardwalk. Agent Alister homes in on me right away.

His facial features reflect the provoked countenance he maintained for the better part of my debriefing. “No,” he says, heading us off. “This scene hasn’t been processed yet, and civilians”—he sends me a stern glare—“aren’t getting access.”

While Devyn duels with Alister over jurisdiction, I set my case down and stare out over the marsh, curious about the distance between this section of the killing fields and the ritual crime scene.

Then one word delivered from Alister drifts to my ears, and my whole body ices over.

Blood rushing my veins roars in my ears. Sounds are muffled to a low drone. I touch my chest, recalling too late that I somehow forgot to put my necklace on—and I can’t calm my mounting heart rate.

My legs are moving before my mind catches up to my actions. I dip beneath the yellow caution tape and hit the boardwalk at a sprint.

“St. James!” Alister shouts.

His quick footfalls pound the planks behind me.

As I near the taped-off section of the marsh, the sight nearly levels me. I come to a full stop, breathing heavily through the pain tearing into my side. Alister reaches me, but he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t touch me.

The crime scene petrifies me where I stand.

Between two gnarled trees reaching toward the sky, the intricately woven string creates a webbing to display severed tongues. They’re strung in such craftsmanship, it’s obvious who put them there.

The overman.

But that’s not what has my heart battering my chest wall, and the terrified, angry tears threatening to fall from my eyes.

I fight the blurring offenders back as I clear my vision to take in every detail of the scene.

A male body has been erected amid the webbing of discolored tongues. The head has been decapitated and placed near the feet in the depressed reeds. The arms of the victim are staged in a ma

The face has been painted in black-and-white strokes to resemble the skull that appears on the face of the death's-head hawkmoth.

“The Harbinger killer,” I say, my voice a weak rasp.

Catching his breath, Alister says, “You’re no longer employed by CrimeTech, Halen. Therefore, no longer a consultant on this case.” His use of my first name so informally states his feelings clearly. “Also, considering how closely you worked the Harbinger case before—”

“Dr. St. James’s services were recently retained by the HRPD,” Devyn says, cutting him off.

I can’t stop staring at the victim…at the face of a skull. I’ve fallen through a wormhole.

Talk , I mentally will my mouth to move. Open your mouth . I can’t fall to pieces right here. Not now. Not with what I’ve done… I can’t let Devyn fight my battles.

“The fact that I worked so closely on the Harbinger case is exactly why my expertise is needed here.” I inhale a fortifying breath, even as the ground beneath my feet all but gives way.

Devyn arches an eyebrow in satisfaction before she ducks under the crime-scene tape and claims a location to set up.

Bending over, I pull in a breath and close my eyes.

“Halen…?”

“I’m okay,” I say, chewing back the bile rising to my throat.