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There are so many people in this world desperate to be seen.

Are you one of them?

A simple glance at your phone would be your answer. How many of those pictures stored are of your face, your clothes, your hair, or your smile? Do you feel confident in all of them? Or behind those painted eyes, are you hiding the pain and fear you feel daily?

The misery.

The loneliness.

Is it why you ended up this way?

Reaching my hand toward the young woman’s face, I closed my eyes to feel her terror, my fingers sliding into her hair, gripping the silken strands as I tilted her lovely face to mine. She’s screaming in my head, her blue eyes now cloudy. At one time they had been bulging with mortal fear. How quickly had your time come? How easily? How, sweet Teagan, did you die?

What would all your admirers say now if this were the last picture posted to your timeline?

Beyond her feet and lower body where blood had pooled and bruised the skin with the purple stain of livor mortis, her body is clean. Skull crushed in at the left temple and her orbital bone shattered beneath one dead eye, she is untouched save for the dead leaves that have fallen from the trees to catch in her blond hair. The bruising wouldn’t be noticed until the makeup, liberally applied, was scrubbed clean.

Makeup.

Time and care was taken with the body. One week between the day she was last seen and the morbid discovery made by kids who were looking for a place to be alone.

I step back and take in the image left for any person who happened to wander by, a girl strung up like an abandoned doll, her limp arms tied at the wrists, one to each tree at her sides.

Beyond her, the placid serenity of Grey Lake lies dormant. No wind dares disturb the mirror surface. No rain falls to dot the expanse of deep dark water. Only a mist hangs in the air, droplets clinging to Teagan’s pale skin like the dew that weighs on the petals of delicate flowers.

She doesn’t smell of flowers from where she hangs. Only perfume and the rot of flesh, an offering to nature, naked and displayed - a pittance paid to cruelty and violence as her soul is snatched away. The intense silence suffocates me except for that scream that echoes like a phantom through the trees, carried and quieted by the wind rustling the leaves.

She couldn’t have been here long. Animals had yet to discover her and take what they could scavenge.

I stared at her again, despondent. Spending time alone with the body, I was allowing crystal clarity to awaken and excite my mind -

“Are you done jacking off to those photos yet, or did you want me to leave you alone with them for a little longer?”

Torn from my thoughts, my head lifted to lock eyes with the stern amber stare of Detective Simon Nichols. A heavyset man with tight shoulders that strained his wrinkled white shirt, he leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers at his stubbled chin.

The years hadn’t been kind to him, not in this mountain town nestled close to Seattle, yet still far enough away to be secluded.

Only the rich lived here in Winter Ridge with their exorbitant square footage, their prep school brats and a small police force that had seen better days.

Simon, together with the rest of the force, carried the weight of wealthy, agitated parents who wanted to know why two years had passed and yet no one had been sent to death row as payment for stealing the life of their precious daughter.

Their indignant rage was a constant scratch in Simon’s ears, just like his voice was scratching at me now.

Shrugging, I cocked a brow and noted Simon’s sly grin behind a stern expression. It was at odds with his disturbingly playful banter.

“I’m serious. I could light some candles and play soft music. Might help the mood with the way you’ve been gawking at the picture of a dead, naked teenager for the past half hour.”

He paused, his distrustful gaze giving me the once over before returning to my face.

“Tell me you didn’t get into this career just so you could get your rocks off on images of victims.”

The photo I’d studied fell silently to the top of the pile.

“I assume, based on your behavior since I’ve arrived at the station, that you’re not happy to have me assigned to this case.”

“I think it’s unnecessary,” he shot back, his beefy hand reaching up to shove at thinning blond hair.

Simon’s chair creaked beneath his weight, the only sound in the room that broke the tense bursts of silence between us. The air was charged with electric fury, its vengeance walking like fingertips down my spine.

“I’ve had a handle on it since the day her body was discovered. It’s only a matter of time before I put the jackass who killed her away for the rest of his pathetic life.”

It was too bad for Simon that his piss poor attitude didn’t intimidate me; not after the men I’d encountered in the few years I’d spent with the FBI. Still, I wouldn’t wave the red flag at a bull with his stomping hooves and flared nostrils. I wasn’t the type to get in any man’s face. Not when I could gain the advantage by sneaking up behind him.

Without immediately responding to his comment, I rounded the table that separated us and leaned against it, close enough to look down into Simon’s narrowed eyes. Crossing my arms over my chest, I chose to disarm the situation rather than egg him on.

I’d offered to act as a consultant on the Teagan McKay murder because I would be in town for the next few months. The case had intrigued me ever since the body was found and a beaming smile of the town’s darling prom queen was plastered over every front page with the grim reminder that nobody in this world is safe.

At the time I’d offered, Captain James Spitz had accepted gratefully. Judging by the scowl now adorning Simon’s face, he didn’t share the gratitude and enthusiasm.

“Tell me what I don’t know about this case, Simon. I’m not here to question your process in solving this crime. I’m only here to help you put away whatever sick son of a bitch killed the girl. So let me help you or get out of my way.”

Simon scoffed as he glanced at the wall behind me. If this had been the first time we met, I would assume Simon’s defensive posture was simply a mask for the failure he felt in not solving the case, but we’d known each other for years and had never been the best of friends.

We both grew up in Crayton, a smaller town a half hour south of Winter Ridge. We were just two of the forgettable faces caught in a rundown suburb of modest homes. Two latch key kids created by the long commutes and laborious hours our parents worked just to make a living.

The view in Crayton was picturesque, but the schools, stores and other community facilities told a tale of the economic collapse that occurred a decade past, as well as the already struggling families who broke beneath it.

His family broke more than mine, only because my parents made their money on the certainty of suffering and crime together with the bodies that piled up as a result of it. Suicide went up when the economy tumbled. Crime went up right beside it. We stayed afloat due to the misfortune of others, even if we were shunned for the sudden opportunity.

Standing from his seat, Simon stepped close, the heat of his breath brushing my face, the scent of cigarette smoke acrid against my nose.

“You’re only here because Spitz thinks you’re the next best thing after your father. But we both know you weren’t shit when you were a weird ass kid, and you definitely ain’t shit now.”

If we’d still been in high school, he would have shoved me away after making his snide statement, but he knew better than to touch a federal agent.

“This shouldn’t even be your jurisdiction. Her body never crossed state lines.”

Standing to my full height, I silently reminded him I was no longer the scrawny, quiet kid who could be pushed around. Simon was smart to back down.

Grinning to see defeat weighing on his shoulders, I directed him to the reason I was here.

“Tell me what you already know, and I’ll keep it in mind when reading the rest of the file.”

He slammed his hand against a wall, the jarring sound not doing much to ruffle my feathers. He would accept my help eventually; it was only a matter of time.

How weak does a man’s ego need to be to refuse to admit he’s cornered? How much time is necessary for that same man to set aside his petty defenses and accept the help being offered?

Seconds passed, tension thickening the stale air of a conference room littered with the morbid reminder of death.

“Soren Callahan killed her.” So adamant that he knew who took Teagan’s young life, Simon was unwilling to consider another suspect.

Spinning on his heel, he glared at me as if it had been my hand that prevented him from proving he was right.

“I know it was him. That sick fuck has been running kids all over Winter Ridge and the neighboring towns doping them up and daring them to risk their lives for the fucking fun of it. The crime rate around here only dropped in the past two years because I found a way to put his ass in prison.”

“Which he’s being released from this morning.”

My reminder of Soren’s completion of his two-year sentence drove blood to the surface of Simon’s cheeks.

“Only because his fancy suit lawyer was able to get him a lenient sentence for the drugs he was selling. I wouldn’t be surprised if he beat and displayed Teagan’s body to cover up an overdose.”

“There were no drugs in her system. At least, not according to the medical examiner’s report.”

Simon dropped into a seat across the room, his head falling into his hands as the adrenaline of his hatred of me dissipated.

He was exhausted, this case chasing him to bed each night to continue its gripping reign in his dreams.

“Yeah, and that’s the only reason I didn’t charge him with murder when I arrested him for the drugs.”

“So, tell me what you know.”

Resigned to the fact that I was consulting on the case whether he liked it or not, Simon spilled like a busted dam, the cold, stale floodwaters of his thoughts carrying with it the horrid details of the case as it flowed across the room on what sounded like a single, defeated breath.

“Teagan McKay was found naked, bound and displayed between two trees at The Pointe on the morning of April third. Her body was just hung there, like some screwed up scarecrow, or Jesus, or some shit. She was a few weeks away from graduating high school and had been reported missing five days prior to the discovery of the body. Two kids found her when heading out to the secluded area to make out or whatever the hell it is they do out there.”

I leaned against the table, folded my arms over my chest. Although I knew much of the story of Teagan’s death, I hadn’t yet learned all the intimate details. Judging from the lines deepening over his face, there were plenty.

Rather than interrupting him with my thoughts, I remained silent and allowed the floodwaters to keep flowing.

“From what we know, her body hadn’t been there long. Several groups of people had been at The Pointe during the time she was missing. So, whoever killed her had kept her alive for at least a few days. Judging by the condition of the body, she wasn’t tortured, not physically anyway. Her death was a result of a head injury caused by blunt force trauma. It wasn’t a single blow, though. Her death had been violent.”

Nodding, I made a mental note of the details, sorting them and adding more imagery to the picture I was creating in my mind of what happened.

Simon exhaled a deep breath, the angry heat in the room replaced quickly with a cold chill.

“There was no evidence of sexual battery on the body as far as the medical examiner could tell, but she was bathed before being displayed. Her body was so clean there wasn’t a speck of foreign DNA or dirt found on her. Her hair was washed and brushed, and her makeup was done before she was strung up. Whether that was pre or post mortem, we’re not sure. We assume post because there was no dried blood in her hair or on her skin from the violence she suffered.”

I’d made the same inference while examining the photos and imagining myself at the scene where the body was found. Still, I wouldn’t say as much only to set Simon back on the defensive.

“Based on that, what leads you to believe Soren Callahan is the killer?”

It was like leading a horse to water while stroking the precious ego that kept him moving.

In many ways, Simon was as volatile as the criminals he chased every day. Here was a man who knew failure. Here was a man willing to do anything to pretend he was as good as every person who surrounded him. But was he a man willing to resort to crime to make others believe it as well?

He’d already found one reason to put Soren behind bars, and I had to admit the reason was valid. But was Simon also willing to fabricate evidence in an effort to prove he was right?

Only time would tell.

Body relaxing against his seat, Simon ran two hands through his hair before pinning his eyes on me.

“My brother, Tristan, knows Soren and his friends. He dated a girl by the name of Kendall Warner for a few years in high school. They were two grades below Soren, making them sophomores while he was a senior. Although I haven’t officially listed Tristan as a witness in the files because I don’t want him involved in this case, he’s been a source of information regarding the pledges and what Soren makes them do.”

This was the first bit of information I didn’t know. I was a dog with a stick, grabbing onto it with sharp teeth and the refusal to let it go. “Pledges? What do you mean by that?”

He laughed, a snide, short chortle that expressed his belief that he was smarter than me.

“Ah, so the fancy FBI guy doesn’t know everything after all? Why am I not surprised?”

“Pledges?” I asked again, refusing to take the bait and enter into a pissing contest over who was the better investigator.

Shaking his head, Simon relaxed more, his seat groaning to take the weight.

“Soren runs some kind of rich kids club. Tristan was never involved in it, but apparently Kendall got a bug up her ass and wanted to be part of the in crowd. From what she told him, kids are willing to do anything to be part of that circle, and Soren gets his kicks by challenging them to do messed up tasks in order to be accepted. Like a twisted fraternity. Tristan wasn’t sure about all the rules, but whatever they did to Kendall was enough to force her to drop out of Winter Ridge Prep and be homeschooled for the rest of the year. She only agreed to show her face at the school again after Soren was arrested and his friends had graduated and left for college. His eyes met mine.

“They fucked her up, Jonah. Bad. And based on that, I’m assuming whatever happened to Teagan was another screwed up task gone wrong.” The picture was becoming clearer.

“So you’re assuming that Teagan died for one reason, but that her body was staged-“

“To cover up what really happened,” he answered for me. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking. Whether she was a message to other pledges or what, I’m not sure. I don’t really care at this point. I just want Soren Callahan behind bars.”

Finally understanding his train of thought, I tapped my fingers on the table and pushed away from the edge.

“So then I need to talk to Tristan.”

Anger returned, his pale cheeks glowing volatile red. “Leave him the fuck out of this.”

A normal man would have taken pause to that tone, would have held up his hands as if to surrender.

I wasn’t a normal man.

“His name won’t appear in any official document, but if I’m to help, then I need to speak with the same people as you. Perhaps a non-family member might extract more information. I’m sure you’ve already thought of that, though.”

Nodding, Simon was happy to accept the idea as his own.

“Fine. He’s working at Bailey’s Diner tonight. You can talk to him there. But don’t you dare mention his name anywhere in a report. Soren Callahan is getting out of prison as we speak. The last thing I need is him taking an interest in my brother.”

“Understood.”

Calming down at the agreement, Simon waved his hand as if dismissing me from the room. Before I could exit, he called out, his voice gruff with warning.

“Anything you learn, you’ll immediately report to me.”

It was a demand more than a question. I turned to look at him.

“I mean it, Jonah. We’re not competing on this case. It’s mine to solve. You’re nothing more than a consultant.”

Inclining my head, I silently appeased the bull while walking through the doorway with the intent to visit the crime scene before speaking to Tristan Nichols.