Fatal Fame (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #8)

Prologue

Ten years ago

But the call he got that Monday morning made his stomach tighten in a way no snapped cable ever had.

“Mr. Hale? This is Janet Morrison from High Peaks High School.”

“It’s Rebecca. She didn’t show up for her first class. No call, no message, nothing. That’s… well, it’s not like her.” Janet’s voice was full of concern that wasn’t quite panic, but close. “You’re listed as her emergency contact, so I thought I’d check with you.”

Walter’s brow furrowed. “She was at the church potluck Saturday night. Seemed fine. Maybe Jacob’s sick.”

“Even if he was, she would have called,” Janet said. “Becca always calls.”

Always. That was true. Rebecca was thirty-nine years old and still called if she was running five minutes late, and still sent thank-you notes for birthday presents. She was a teacher, reliable to her core. If anything defined his daughter, it was her sense of responsibility.

“I’ll give her a ring,” Walter said, ending the call.

He tried Rebecca’s number first. Three rings, then her recorded voice: Hi, you’ve reached Becca Hale. If this is about Jacob’s homework, try bribing him with pizza. If this is about anything else, leave a message and I’ll get back to you.

The lighthearted joke made his lips twitch despite the unease crawling over him. Jacob was fifteen now, tall, mouthy, and bright, the spitting image of his mother at that age.

“Denise,” Walter called to his wife, who was folding laundry in the next room. “School can’t reach Becca.”

Denise appeared in the doorway, towels in her arms, reading his face. “Did you try her cell?”

“It went straight to voicemail.”

“Maybe Jacob’s sick and she forgot to call in.”

Walter nodded like he believed it, then tried Jacob’s number. Same result: voicemail. He thumbed out a quick text, Call me. School’s looking for you.

Ten minutes. No response.

By then Walter’s coat was already in his hand. “I’ll drive over.”

The trip took twelve minutes, just long enough for him to cycle through excuses. Maybe they’d gone to urgent care. Maybe her phone died. Maybe the car wouldn’t start. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Rebecca’s street was quiet, as Mondays always were. Kids were in school, parents at work, only the leaves skittered across the pavement in the October wind. Her Honda CR-V sat in the driveway, dew beading on the hood beneath golden leaves. If she’d gone anywhere, she would’ve taken it.

Max, her golden retriever, bounded toward him from the side yard, tail wagging, ears back. Walter bent to scratch behind his ears, then frowned. The dog should have been inside.

The porch steps creaked as he climbed them. Saturday’s paper still sat in its wrapper on the porch swing. Sunday’s too. The mailbox was crammed with circulars. He rapped hard on the door. “Becca? Jacob? It’s Dad.”

Nothing.

All the curtains were drawn. Rebecca hated closed curtains, she loved light, loved mornings. This house looked like it was still asleep.

Walter found the spare key on his ring, the one she’d given him years ago when Jacob started staying home alone after school. He slid it into the lock, hand suddenly slick with sweat.

The door opened on silence. Not the benign quiet of an empty house, but something dense and wrong, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Becca?” His voice sounded thin. “Jacob?”

The living room was dim. Walter took one step inside and froze.

The coffee table was overturned, couch cushions scattered like debris. Rebecca’s reading glasses—always slipping off her head—lay crushed on the rug. One of Jacob’s sneakers sat by the fireplace, laces tangled.

Walter swallowed. His feet carried him forward despite the voice in his head telling him to stop.

He flicked on the overhead light.

And his world collapsed.

Rebecca was lying near the kitchen doorway, the green sweater she’d worn to the potluck two nights ago soaked dark across the chest. Her hair fanned across the floor, matted with blood.

Her arms were twisted up, the skin crosshatched with gashes—defensive wounds.

She’d fought. God help her, she had fought hard.

Her eyes stared glassy at the ceiling, wide in terror, frozen in that final moment.

“Becca,” Walter croaked.

Then his gaze tracked the smear of red across the hardwood, handprints dragging toward the far wall.

Jacob was there, slumped as though someone had thrown him.

His math book lay open beside him, pages freckled with droplets.

Blood had seeped across the ink until the equations blurred into a grotesque watercolor.

His face was tilted toward the ceiling, almost peaceful in stillness, except for the ruin above his temple. Blood and something thicker had splattered in a halo against the wall behind him. His throat… Walter’s mind refused at first to make sense of the dark, ragged line slashed deep across it.

He dropped to his knees, a raw animal sound tearing from his chest.

“No,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “No, no, no.”

He forced shaking hands to his pocket, pulled out his phone, smeared now with blood from the floor. It took three tries before he managed to hit 9-1-1.

“911, what is your emergency?”

Walter’s throat worked. “My daughter,” he stammered. “My… my grandson. They’re… oh, Jesus—” His breath broke into sobs, the words strangling out between them. “They’re dead. Someone’s killed them. There’s blood everywhere.”

He could hear the dispatcher’s calm voice trying to ground him, asking for the address, for details, but the words didn’t stick. His gaze was locked on Rebecca’s ruined arms, Jacob’s open book, the obscene sprawl of crimson across the ordinary room.

The dispatcher promised units were on the way. Sirens would come. People would fill the house with questions and tape and evidence bags. But none of it would matter.

Walter Hale had walked into his daughter’s home expecting to find her late for school. Instead, he had stepped into hell.

And hell, he knew, had no solutions.