Touch of Red Read online

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author

  Laura Griffin

  “DELIVERS THE GOODS.” —Publishers Weekly

  Praise for AT CLOSE RANGE

  “An emotional, exciting page-turner. Griffin deftly balances the mystery and the love story.”

  —The Washington Post

  “A compelling mystery that will grip the reader from the start with her crisp storytelling, natural dialogue, and high-stakes tension . . . fiercely electric.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Explosive, seductive, and totally empowering . . . At Close Range has it all.”

  —Romance Junkies

  Praise for DEEP DARK

  “It is the perfect blend of mystery, suspense, and romance. . . . It is fast paced, with great writing and crime scenes that will make you want to keep your light on when you go to bed.”

  —Cocktails and Books

  “Deep Dark is a book to be devoured and savored with each new development. It is the perfect combination of mystery, terrifying suspense, and hotter-than-hot romance.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “I encourage you to check out [Deep Dark], which combines sizzling attraction with terrifying suspense.”

  —The Amazon Book Review

  Praise for SHADOW FALL

  “An expert at creating mystery and suspense that hooks readers from the first page, Griffin’s detailed description, well-crafted, intriguing plot, and clear-cut characters are the highlights of her latest.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Great lead characters and a spooky atmosphere make this a spine-tingling, stand-out novel of romantic suspense.”

  —BookPage

  Praise for BEYOND LIMITS

  “A page-turning, nail-biting thriller from the very first scene to the very last page.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Beyond Limits has daring escapades, honest emotions, and heart-stopping danger.”

  —Single Titles

  Praise for FAR GONE

  “Perfectly gritty. . . . Griffin sprinkles on just enough jargon to give the reader the feel of being in the middle of an investigation, easily merging high-stakes action and spicy romance with rhythmic pacing and smartly economic prose.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Crisp storytelling, multifaceted characters, and excellent pacing. . . . A highly entertaining read.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4 stars)

  “Be prepared for heart palpitations and a racing pulse as you read this fantastic novel. Fans of Lisa Gardner, Lisa Jackson, Nelson DeMille, and Michael Connelly will love [Griffin’s] work.”

  —The Reading Frenzy

  “A tense, exciting romantic thriller that’s not to be missed.”

  —Karen Robards, New York Times bestselling author

  “Griffin has cooked up a delicious read that will thrill her devoted fans and earn her legions more.”

  — Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author

  Praise for the Tracers Series

  EXPOSED

  “Laura Griffin at her finest! If you are not a Tracer-a-holic yet . . . you will be after this.”

  —A Tasty Read

  “Explodes with action. . . . Laura Griffin escalates the tension with each page, each scene, and intersperses the action with spine-tingling romance in a perfect blend.”

  —The Romance Reviews

  SCORCHED

  “Has it all: dynamite characters, a taut plot, and plenty of sizzle to balance the suspense without overwhelming it.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4½ stars)

  “Starts with a bang and never loses its momentum . . . intense and mesmerizing.”

  —Night Owl Reviews (Top Pick)

  TWISTED

  “The pace is wickedly fast and the story is tight and compelling.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “With a taut story line, believable characters, and a strong grasp of current forensic practice, Griffin sucks readers into this drama and doesn’t let go.”

  —RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)

  UNFORGIVABLE

  “The perfect mix of suspense and romance.”

  —Booklist

  “The science is fascinating, the sex is sizzling, and the story is top-notch, making this clever, breakneck tale hard to put down.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  UNSPEAKABLE

  “Laura Griffin is a master at keeping the reader in complete suspense.”

  —Single Titles

  UNTRACEABLE

  “Taut drama and constant action. . . . Griffin keeps the suspense high and the pace quick.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

  * * *

  Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.

  For Abby

  CHAPTER 1

  It was like any other Wednesday night. Until it wasn’t.

  Samantha Bonner had just finished sweeping up. She’d emptied the dustpan and sanitized the sink and wiped down the pastry case. The burned smell of coffee beans hung thick in the air, overpowering the vinegar solution she’d run through the machines. But it was quiet. She stood for a moment and let the silence surround her, glad to be free of the acoustic-guitar music that had been looping through her head all day.

  Sam grabbed her purse and locked up. Crossing the rain-slicked parking lot to her car, she darted a look into all the dark corners. It was a safe neighborhood, but you never knew.

  She pulled out of the lot, relieved to be on her way home after pulling a double shift. Raindrops pitter-pattered on her windshield as she made her way through downtown. She switched the wipers to low, and her phone lit up with an incoming call. Amy.

  Sam stared down at the phone a moment. Then she put the call on speaker.

  “Sam? Can you talk?” Amy sounded undone. More than usual.

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s Jared. He wants to move back in.”

  “He called you?”

  “He came by to drop off Aiden. I didn’t let him in or anything.”

  Sam didn’t respond as she pulled up to a stoplight. In most areas, Amy wasn’t a pushover. But her two-year-old boy missed his daddy, and his daddy knew it. He used the kid as leverage.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Amy said now. “And I just want to talk through it, figure out what I’m going to tell him. Can you come over for a bit? I can make us some coffee.”

  The mere thought of coffee made Sam want to retch. “Sure,” she said anyway. Amy was sniffling now, and Sam didn’t have the heart to say no.

  “Or we could talk on the phone,” Amy said. “You’re probably busy. Tonight’s your night off, isn’t it?”

  “No, I closed up.”

  Sam slowed for a bend in the road. Stately oak trees and manicured lawns soon gave way to weeds and chain-link fences. Then came the railroad tracks. White-collar to blue in less than a mile. The people in Sam’s neighborhood commuted to work at all hours and didn’t stop for lattes on the way.

  “I’ll be over in a little.” Sam turned onto her street. “Give me twenty minutes.”

  “Are you sure?” Another sniffle.

  “I’m sure.” Sam pulled into her driveway and rolled to a stop in the glow of her back-porch light.

  “Thanks, Sam. I mean it. I just need to hash this out. I me
an, what if he’s legit this time? I owe it to Aiden to at least think about it.”

  Sam kept her skepticism to herself. For now. She slid from her car and noticed the white bike propped against her back deck as she walked up the driveway.

  “Sam? You there?”

  “I’m here.”

  She mounted the steps and spotted a blur of movement. Pain exploded at the base of her skull.

  Sam dropped to her knees and pitched forward. A big arm wrapped around her neck, hauling her back. The smell of tobacco registered in her brain, filling her with bone-deep fear as the arm clamped around her windpipe.

  “Sam?” Amy’s voice was far away.

  Pain roared through Sam’s skull. She struggled to move, to breathe. A glove-covered hand tipped her head back, exposing her neck.

  No.

  Sam clawed at the arm, trying desperately to buck, to kick, to scream for help. No, no, no! From the corner of her eye, she spied her phone on the ground. She tried to call out but the cries died in her throat.

  “Sam, are you there?”

  Fear became panic as she saw the glint of a blade.

  “Samantha?”

  • • •

  Brooke Porter beat the detectives, which surprised her. But then again, she’d made good time. When the message had come in coded 911, she’d dropped what she was doing and rushed straight over.

  She parked beside a police unit and grabbed her evidence kit from the trunk as she surveyed the location. It was a small bungalow, like every other house on the block. In contrast to its neighbors, this home had a fresh coat of paint and looked to be in decent repair. Potted chrysanthemums lined the front stoop, where a uniformed officer stood taking shelter from the cold drizzle.

  Brooke darted up the sidewalk and ducked under the overhang. The officer was big. Huge. Brooke had met him before, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember his name.

  “Jasper Miller,” he provided, handing her a clipboard. “Your photographer just got here.”

  So, he knew she was with the Delphi Center. The San Marcos Police Department typically called Brooke’s lab in to help with their big cases.

  Brooke scribbled her name into the scene log. “You the first responder?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded at the driveway. “Victim’s around back. Looks like she was coming home from someplace, and he surprised her at the door.”

  Brooke eyed the little white Kia parked in the driveway. She wanted to see things for herself and draw her own conclusions.

  “Medical examiner’s people got here about five minutes ago,” Jasper added.

  “And the detectives?”

  “On their way.”

  She handed back the clipboard. “Thanks.”

  Brooke picked her way across the stepping-stones in the grass, trying not to mar anything useful—although the rain had already done a pretty good job of that. At the top of the driveway several uniforms stood under a blue Delphi Center tent that had been erected beside the back porch.

  Brooke’s stomach tightened with nerves as she lifted the crime-scene tape and walked up the drive. She noted the chain-link fence, the thick shrubbery, the trash cans tucked against the one-car garage. Plenty of places for someone to hide.

  A camera flashed as she reached the tent. The Delphi Center photographer had already set up lights and started documenting the scene. Brooke unloaded some supplies from her kit. She zipped into coveralls and pulled booties over her shoes, then tugged on thick purple gloves as the uniforms looked on silently.

  Beat cops thought she was an oddity. She showed up at death scenes with her tweezers and her flashlights and her big orange goggles. She plucked bits of evidence from obscure places and then scuttled back to the lab to do her thing . . . whatever that was.

  The detectives got her. Well, maybe not totally. But they’d at least learned to appreciate what she could do for them. Which ones had been assigned to this case? And where the hell were they?

  Brooke pulled her long dark hair into a ponytail. She picked up her evidence kit and sucked in a deep breath to brace herself before ducking under the tent to take her first look.

  Blood was everywhere.

  “Holy God,” she murmured.

  A woman lay crumpled at the back door, her neck slashed open to the bone. Her hair, her clothes, even the wooden decking beneath her, were saturated. Dark rivulets had dripped down the stairs and were now coagulating in little pools on the lower slats.

  “Watch your step.” She glanced up at the ME’s assistant crouched beside the body. He was reading a thermometer and making notes on a pad. “It’s slippery.”

  Brooked walked up the stairs and eased around him, taking care not to step in any puddles. Maddie Callahan stood beside the door, photographing a scarlet arc against the white siding.

  Arterial spray.

  She lowered her camera and glanced at Brooke. “The detectives here?”

  “Not yet.”

  The breeze shifted, and Brooke got a whiff of blood, strong and metallic. She glanced again at the gaping wound and stepped back to grab the wooden railing.

  Maddie looked at her. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  Brooke should be immune to this stuff by now. But that neck.

  She steadied herself and looked around. A set of blood-spattered car keys lay near the victim’s hand. Brooke glanced at the woman’s face, partially visible beneath blood-matted blond hair. Brooke didn’t see a weapon near the body. Any trail the killer might have left as he’d fled the scene had likely been obscured by rain. The back door stood ajar. Had he fled through the house?

  She turned to the ME’s assistant. “Was this door open like this when you arrived?”

  He glanced up, looking annoyed. “Yes. We haven’t been inside.”

  Brooke turned to the victim again. Her head lolled weirdly to the side, and flies were already hovering despite the cool temperature. Brooke stepped past the ME’s assistant and slipped into the house.

  She found herself in a dark utility room that smelled of fabric softener. The room was small but clean, without so much as a scrap of laundry on the floor. She switched on her flashlight and swept it around. No footprints.

  She stepped into the kitchen, maneuvering around an open pantry door.

  “Was this open, too?” she asked Maddie.

  “That’s right. And I haven’t shot the kitchen yet, so don’t move anything.”

  Brooke stood still, giving herself a few moments to absorb the scene. She always tried to put herself in the perpetrator’s shoes. Had he been in here? If so, what had he touched?

  The kitchen was dim except for a light above the sink. Using the end of her flashlight, Brooke flipped a switch beside the door, and an overhead fixture came on.

  No dirty dishes on the counter or food sitting out. Eighties-era appliances. A drying rack beside the sink contained a glass, a plate, and a fork. On the counter beside a microwave was a loose key and a stack of mail. She stepped over to read the name on the top envelope. Samantha Bonner.

  Brooke zeroed in on the key. It was bronze. Shiny. Unremarkable, except that it was sitting there all by itself.

  In the breakfast nook, a small wooden table was pushed up against a window. A brown bottle of root beer sat on the table unopened. Just below room temperature, judging from the condensation.

  Brooke returned her attention to the pantry. Soup, soup, and more soup, all Campbell’s brand. It was like looking at an Andy Warhol painting. Chicken. Tomato. Cream of mushroom. The shelf above the soup was stocked with paper goods. The bottom shelf was filled with healthy cereals and gluten-free crackers and a package of those pink and white animal cookies with the colored sprinkles.

  “Brooke?”

  “Yeah?” She leaned her head out to look at Maddie.

  “Just finished shooting the back door if you want it.”

  “I definitely want it.” Brooke returned to the utility room. She put on her orange goggles and switch
ed her flashlight to ultraviolet, searching the floor for any fluids that might not be visible to the naked eye.

  Nothing.

  She examined the knob a moment, then selected a powder from her kit. On the porch outside, the ME’s assistant was busy covering the victim’s hands with paper bags for transport back to the morgue.

  Brooke glanced back at the kitchen, her attention drawn to the key again. It looked like a house key, and she wanted to know if it fit this door. But she couldn’t touch it until Maddie finished her photos.

  Brooke opened the jar of powder and tapped some into a plastic tray. Using her softest brush, she loaded the bristles and then gently dusted the knob. She worked slowly, methodically. When she finished dusting, she cast her light over the fluorescent powder and was pleased to see a pristine thumbprint on the side of the knob.

  “Maddie, can you get this for me?”

  “Sure.”

  Maddie stepped over and photographed the knob from several angles. When she finished, she moved into the kitchen with her camera.

  Brooked took out a strip of clear polyethylene tape and carefully lifted the thumbprint off the curved surface, taking care not to smudge it. She picked out a black card for contrast and gently placed the tape against the card.

  One lift done, probably a hundred to go. She closed her eyes a moment and inhaled deeply. When she got laser focused, she sometimes forgot to breathe.

  Brooke heard the detectives before she saw them—two low male voices at the front of the house exchanging clipped police jargon.

  Sean Byrne and Ric Santos. She’d know them anywhere.

  Brooke labeled the card and tucked it into her evidence kit. So, Sean and Ric on this one. They were experienced and observant. Sean noticed everything she did, even when he seemed to be interviewing witnesses or talking to other cops. He observed where she spent her time and how, and if she lingered in a particular spot, he always asked about it later.

  Brooke noticed him, too. With his athletic build and sly smile, it was hard not to. But mostly she noticed his attitude. He had an easygoing confidence she found attractive. Nothing ever seemed to rattle him.

  Of course, being a cop, he also had an ego.

  The voices grew louder as the detectives neared the kitchen. Brooke didn’t look up, but she felt a jolt of awareness as Sean stepped into the room. His conversation stalled, and she could practically feel his gaze on her.