River of Bones by Dan Padavona (books you need to read TXT) 📕

conclusions about gang hits and murderers in the forest.”

“I hear you. But I still want to speak to LeVar.”

Raven removed the cap and brushed the hair from her eyes.

“LeVar left the Kings in April. He had nothing to do with this.”

“But he’ll know if the Kings trafficked drugs through the park, or dumped bodies.”

“LeVar never killed anyone. That darkness isn’t inside my brother.”

Darren hopped down from the boulder and offered his hand. She studied him for a moment before accepting his aid. Her thighs screamed now that she was on her feet again.

“I believe in LeVar. But he spent time around some bad guys.”

“Don’t remind me.”

He rubbed his neck.

“Ready to call it a day?”

“I have another two miles in me, Ranger Holt.”

“Sure you do.”

“I mean it. Don’t slow down on my account.”

He draped an arm over her shoulder.

“How about we walk back to my cabin and pull the curtains over the windows?”

Heat flickered through her body.

“That’s my kind of exercise. Lead the way.”

Darren led Raven off trail and through the woods, taking a shortcut back to the cabin. Dried leaves crunched underfoot, and chipmunks scurried in their wake. Ten minutes later, Raven recognized where they were. A line of cabins poked out of the trees, where families enjoyed the forest on a pristine summer day. The ranger’s cabin sat at the end of the row, a stone’s throw from the welcome center. As their hiking shoes scuffed through the grass, a perturbed voice called from behind.

“Ranger, if I may have a word with you.”

Darren swung around. The man waddling past the charcoal grills was on the wrong side of two-hundred pounds. The wide-brimmed hat covering his bald head hadn’t prevented his face from turning pink beneath the sun. He wore tacky shorts covered with an explosion of plaid.

“Who’s that?” Raven whispered.

“Paul Phipps,” Darren said from the corner of his mouth. “He rented cabin six with his wife. They both have a lot of Karen in them.”

“They always wish to speak with the manager?”

“And I’m the manager.” Darren cleared his throat as Phipps strode to them. “Mr. Phipps. Everything satisfactory with cabin six?”

“I should think not. My wife had two-hundred dollars stolen from her wallet. What sort of establishment do you run here?”

Darren flashed a look of concern.

“You keep your cabin locked while you’re away, I hope.”

“Of course I keep it locked. Did someone paint buffoon on my face?”

Raven coughed into her hand so Phipps wouldn’t see her laughing.

“You’re certain she didn’t misplace the money?”

Phipps drew in an exasperated breath.

“The cash never left her wallet until now.”

“When did this happen?”

Phipps yanked the hat from his head and slapped it against his leg.

“How should I know? It could have happened while we were asleep, or while we sat beside the lake. Don’t you have security cameras?”

“We don’t have issues with thievery inside the state park.”

“You could have fooled me.” Phipps placed his hands on his hips. “I suggest you stop wasting time and phone the police. Every minute wasted makes it easier for the thief to get away.”

Raven shared a glance with Darren. If someone stole money from the wife’s wallet—and Raven wasn’t convinced Phipps’s wife hadn’t misplaced the cash—the thief wouldn’t stick around. Before Darren replied, a sheriff’s department cruiser pulled in front of the welcome center. Phipps gave Darren a confused look.

“They’re working on another case in the park,” Darren explained.

“Well, this is the last time my wife and I visit Wolf Lake State Park. Seems the park is nothing but a criminal activity playground.”

Deputy Lambert, frazzled and sheepish, crossed the lot to where Darren and Raven stood.

“How was your morning with the dragon lady?” Darren asked.

Lambert shook his head, as if clearing cobwebs.

“I’m glad it’s over. They cleaned up the dig site and brought the evidence back to the lab.” The deputy’s eyes fell upon Phipps. “Is there a problem?”

Phipps threw up his hands, ready to boil over before Darren cut in and told Lambert about the stolen money.

“And we need to investigate now, while the crime scene is still fresh,” said Phipps, drawing an eye roll from Darren.

Raven thought Phipps watched too many crime scene investigation television shows.

Lambert interviewed Phipps’s wife and checked the lock on the door. With Phipps hanging over his shoulder, Lambert scrutinized the windows, searching for signs someone broke inside. He found none. When Lambert asked Phipps to fill out a report, the camper’s face turned beet red.

“That’s all you can do? Why should I waste my time filling out a report, if you can’t find the thief who stole my wife’s money? Cops.” He sniffed. “We’d be better off with a private investigator.”

“Or Matlock,” Darren said under his breath.

Raven snorted.

“Raven is a private investigator,” Lambert said, eager to push Phipps off on someone else.

Oh, great.

“Consider yourself hired,” Phipps said, extending his hand.

Raven accepted it with trepidation.

“You want a private investigator to find your money?”

“And to catch the guilty party.”

“You understand our rate is fifty dollars per hour?”

“I’ll pay whatever it takes. I want this rapscallion caught.”

“Rapscallion?”

“Burglar. Thief.”

“Mr. Phipps, a day’s worth of investigating will cost more than the money lost.”

“That’s not the point. We can’t let thieves run rampant in a civilized society. If the sheriff can’t catch him, it’s up to you to uphold justice.”

Raven sighed.

“All right, Mr. Phipps. Let’s get started.”

* * *

The air pouring through the blower chilled Chelsey’s skin inside the doctor’s office. Her gown stopped above her knees, and despite her efforts, she’d buttoned the back crooked, causing the gown to hang off one shoulder. A stack of magazines sat on a corner table—People, Time, Sports Illustrated, and something about parenting. Pamphlets on the wall promised to help her cope with heart disease, stroke, and various forms of cancer. She looked away when her pulse thrummed.

A knock on the door caused her to flinch. She tugged at the gown hem as it rode up her thighs. The doctor was in his thirties with short, sallow hair and glasses with designer frames.

“Ms. Byrd,” he said, staring at