Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (books to read in your 20s female TXT) 📕

would’ve gotten you fresh stuff, but I didn’t want to leave you,” he says. “How you feeling?”

“Great,” I say. “Better once I’m out of here.”

“The doctor talked to me. They’re pulling your IV, all your head CTs were good, so they’re kicking you out. He says to avoid strenuous activity. I’m going to say that means no sex, no kettlebells, and no foot pursuits. Anything else ought to be okay, right?”

“It bugs me you put sex first in that list, Javi.”

“Love, the way we do it, it deserves to be first.” He grins and kisses me. Long, warm, sweet. A little bit hot, but he’s trying to hold it down. “Good news, I don’t have to go back to training. No sense burning more helicopter fuel getting me back again at this point.” That’s a relief. I like having him here always, but especially right now.

Getting dressed hurts, but it also feels like getting control of my life back. Gun, badge, purse. I top it with a jacket and pull on my low-heeled leather boots, and I feel like myself again. Moving around is helping with the aches and bruises.

The sunlight hurts my eyes. I slip on sunglasses and try to ignore the throbbing headache as I plug my phone into Javi’s rental car charger. The battery flashes a red image as the phone starts powering; it’ll take a few for it to restart.

“So catch me up,” Javi says as he puts the car in gear. “What the hell is going on in this town? A lot, right?”

“Yeah, you leave, and look what happens.”

“I’m serious. Two dead kids, three dead adults, you getting nearly killed, Gwen harassed again. Seems like a lot, right?”

“It is,” I say, and then I repeat it, thinking hard. “It is a lot. Especially for a small town like Norton.”

Any piece of this could stand on its own, but adding all of it together seems like . . . seems like a plan.

But I don’t know what it means. Any of it.

I’m lost in my thoughts, and we’re at the edge of Norton when I think to check my phone. I have missed calls and texts. No surprise there. I start looking through them.

Prester called me at three in the morning. What the hell?

I immediately dial the phone as we pass the city limits sign, and the town’s in our rearview mirror. Two rings, and then a click as it picks up. I expect to hear Prester’s deep, laconic voice.

Instead, I hear Sergeant Porter’s. “Kezia?” He doesn’t sound like himself. I hear a tremble in his voice that shouldn’t be there.

I go cold and still. My voice, when I speak, sounds unnaturally cool and calm. “What’s happened?”

“He’s dead, Kez. Prester’s dead.” His breathing is ragged. I feel something crush inside me. God. God, no. “Been dead for hours, looks like. I shouldn’t be answering this phone. Shit. Call me direct.”

He hangs up. I just sit there, gripping the phone, staring at the trees whipping by. Javier’s asking me what’s going on. I can’t answer. I can’t.

I pull up Porter’s number in my call list and dial. He answers on the first ring. I drag in a breath and let it out. “Where is he?”

“His car,” he says. “He’s in his car. They’re processing it right now. Chief’s on it. But you should be here.”

“Where the fuck is here?”

“Sorry. His house. He never made it out of his car last night.”

I don’t reply. I hang up and turn to Javier, but I’m not really looking at him. Or anything. I’m seeing Prester’s face the way it was last night. The way he looked last time I saw him. “Prester’s house,” I say. “Now. Go. Go.”

He drives like a madman, and it’s still not fast enough for me.

When I see the shadow of my partner’s body still in the car, I feel my knees go weak. Javier catches my arm and steadies me, and I press against him for a few seconds until I can get myself right.

The chief is standing off to the side, talking to Sergeant Porter, but he breaks off when he sees me come up to the tape line separating crime scene from lookie-loos . . . only there aren’t any, not yet. Prester’s house is isolated, an old farmstead, plain and well kept. Been in his family a hundred years, give or take. I’ve eaten at his table. There’s no one waiting inside, no grieving widow. His wife passed a few years back. He’s been alone awhile. “Kez,” he says. “You shouldn’t be here. Go on home.”

“What happened?” I ignore the rest of it. I let go of Javi and duck under the tape before anyone can stop me, and even though part of my brain is screaming at me to stop, I walk toward the car. They’ve already marked footprints in the dirt, and I’m careful to stop outside that perimeter. A forensic tech—Lewis, I think, can’t really tell because I can’t focus—murmurs at me to stay back.

I couldn’t go closer if I tried. But I force myself to look at Prester.

The body is a mannequin made of flesh. The face is ashy and relaxed and calm. It’s wearing Prester’s suit, the same one he had on when he left my room. His second-best. I can see the small fray at the left-hand tip of his lapel.

“Somebody killed him,” I say.

“No, Detective, we don’t think so. There’s no sign of violence on the body, no blood, no sign of strangulation, nothing like that. It looks like he drove in here and just . . . died,” the chief says. He’s very gentle about it. “We both know he hasn’t been well, Kez. I’m sorry.”

“Prester tried to call me at three this morning. What time did he die?”

The coroner—Winston, my God, again—says, “I can’t tell you that exactly. Somewhere between two and five, that’s my best guess right now. If you say he called at three, then from three to five. That helps narrow it