Chapter 2
The thing about death scenes was that they always told a story. You just had to know how to read them.
Detective Dax Mercer stood in the center of Thomas Crane’s home office, hands in his pockets, and read.
The overturned chair. The rope marks on the ceiling beam. The body—now removed, but he’d seen it. Crane hanging there, face purple, eyes bulging. The medical examiner had ruled it suicide within an hour. Case closed. Move on.
Except nothing about this scene said suicide to Dax.
He crouched down, studying the floor. The carpet showed drag marks—subtle, but there. Someone had moved furniture recently. The desk was positioned wrong, too far from the window. And the rope burns on the beam were inconsistent with the body weight distribution.
Dax had seen plenty of death. Too much of it. Enough that it rarely got to him anymore. But sloppy work? That pissed him off.
This was murder dressed up as suicide. And everyone was buying it.
He stood, his knee clicking—one of many souvenirs from his time in the service. The July heat made his scars itch beneath his long-sleeved shirt. He never wore short sleeves anymore. Didn’t need people staring. Didn’t need their pity or their questions or their thank-you-for-your-service bullshit.
He’d done his duty. Lost friends doing it. Come home with more metal in his body than he’d left with. That was the end of the story.
“Find something, Mercer?”
Dax turned to see Officer Pete Newbery in the doorway. Young guy. Eager. Thought every case was exactly what it looked like on the surface.
“Maybe.” Dax didn’t elaborate. No point until he had proof.
“ME already ruled it suicide. Captain wants us to wrap this up.”
“I’m sure he does,” he said dryly.
Pete shifted his weight. “You think it’s something else?”
“I think Thomas Crane was a healthy fifty-two-year-old man with no history of depression, a successful business, and a wife who says he was in good spirits the night before he died.” Dax gestured at the scene. “And I think this setup looks wrong.”
Pete’s brows pinched in the middle. “Wrong how?”
“Just wrong.” He didn’t know how to explain it, so he didn’t bother trying. Dax moved toward the desk, careful not to disturb anything. “Did anyone check his files? Computer? Phone records?”
“Captain said not to waste resources on a suicide.”
Of course he did. Captain Darius Holloway was a good man, but he was overworked and understaffed. He wanted clean, simple cases that closed quickly. A prominent businessman committing suicide was tragic but tidy. No investigation needed. No media circus. No budget concerns.
But Dax had never been good at tidy.
“I’m checking anyway,” he said.
Pete looked nervous. “Mercer, if the Captain said—”
“Then the Captain can tell me himself.” Dax’s tone made it clear the conversation was over.
Pete retreated. Smart kid.
Dax turned his attention back to the office. Crane had been a real estate developer—successful, by all accounts. This office reflected that: expensive furniture, framed awards on the walls, photographs of completed projects.
But the desk was messy. Papers scattered everywhere. File drawers hanging open. Either Crane had been searching for something before he died, or someone else had been searching after.
Dax pulled on latex gloves and carefully sorted through the papers on the desk. Property deeds. Contract negotiations. Bank statements. Nothing immediately suspicious, but something nagged at him. Some pattern he couldn’t quite see yet.
His phone buzzed. A text from Carson Black, the department’s lead detective: Heard you’re still at the Crane scene. Captain’s not happy.
Dax ignored it, putting his phone back in his pocket. Carson would understand. They’d worked together enough times. Carson knew Dax didn’t let cases go just because someone wanted him to.
He opened the desk drawers one by one. Standard office supplies. Business cards. A flask of whiskey—good stuff. In the bottom drawer, he found a locked metal box.
Now that was interesting.
Dax examined the lock. Simple combination type. He could probably crack it, but that would require authorization he didn’t have. Not yet. He pulled out his phone again and took pictures of everything—the box, the desk, the scattered papers, the whole office from multiple angles.
Evidence. Even if no one wanted it.
His phone rang. Carson.
“Yeah,” Dax answered, short and to the point. He didn’t bother hiding his annoyance.
“Captain wants you back at the station. Says you’re wasting time.”
“It’s not suicide.”
“Got proof?”
“Working on it.”
Carson sighed. “Look, I get it. But you can’t go rogue on every case. You already have a reputation for being difficult.”
Difficult. That was one word for it. Asshole was another. Dax had heard them all. He’d stopped caring somewhere around his third deployment, when the Taliban had blown up his convoy and killed three of his best friends while he survived with just scars and nightmares.
Difficult was the least of what he was.
“I’ll be back when I’m done,” Dax said and hung up.
He continued his methodical examination of the office. Crime scene techs had already processed it—badly, in his opinion—but Dax had been in enough war zones to know how to read a space. How to see what wasn’t there as much as what was.
And what wasn’t there was a suicide note.
People who planned to kill themselves usually left notes. Not always, but often. Crane had a wife, grown children, employees, friends. If he’d been in enough pain to take his own life, he would have wanted to explain. To apologize. To say goodbye.
But there was nothing.
Dax was photographing the ceiling beam when he heard it. A soft click from outside. Like a camera shutter.
His body tensed automatically—combat instincts that never quite went away. He moved to the window and looked out.
A woman stood in the backyard, pointing a camera at the house. She was taking pictures of the office window. Of the exact spot where Crane’s body had been found.
What the hell?
Dax was out the back door in seconds.
The woman didn’t notice him at first. She was focused on her camera, adjusting settings, taking shot after shot. She was young—maybe thirty—with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Casual clothes—jeans and a light-blue T-shirt. Pretty, if you noticed that kind of thing.
Dax noticed. Then immediately wished he hadn’t.
“This is a crime scene,” he said, his voice hard.
She jumped, nearly dropping her camera. When she turned to face him, her eyes were wide. Light brown, almost amber in the sunlight.
“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was still here.”
“That’s why you’re trespassing? Because you didn’t think anyone would catch you?” His tone was sharp, forbidding.
Her expression shifted from startled to defensive. “I’m not trespassing. I’m standing on public property.” She gestured to the property line. “This is city easement.”
Technically true. Dax’s jaw tightened. “And taking photos of a private residence because...?”
“I’m a journalist,” she said, matching his tone.
Of course she was. Dax felt his already thin patience evaporate completely. Journalists. They were all the same—vultures circling tragedy, exploiting grief for clicks and ratings.
“Then you know you need permission to photograph private property. And you definitely need permission to photograph a death scene.”
“I’m not photographing the scene. I’m photographing the house.” But her expression said she knew exactly what she’d been doing.
Dax took a step closer. He was a big man—six-three, two hundred pounds of muscle and scar tissue. He knew how to use his size to intimidate when necessary. Usually, he felt bad about it.
Right now, he didn’t.
“Delete the photos.”
“Excuse me?”
“Delete them. Now. Or I arrest you for interfering with an investigation.”
She raised her chin, meeting his glare with surprising defiance. “There is no investigation. The medical examiner ruled it suicide. Case closed.”
How the hell did she know that? The ruling had only come down an hour ago.
“That doesn’t give you the right to—”
“I have every right to photograph anything visible from public property. First Amendment. Look it up.” She clutched her camera protectively. “And I’m not deleting anything.”
Dax’s hands clenched into fists. He wanted to argue. Wanted to pull rank. Wanted to do something to wipe that stubborn expression off her face.
But she was right. Legally, she hadn’t done anything wrong. He had no grounds to arrest her or confiscate her camera.
That didn’t mean he had to like it.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Quinn Barrett. I write for the Portland Tribune.” She said it like he should be impressed.
He wasn’t.
“And what’s the Portland Tribune’s interest in a suicide in Blackridge, Washington?”
Something flickered across her face. Pain, maybe. Or anger. “Thomas Crane was murdered. Just like my father was murdered. And I’m going to prove it.”
The words hit Dax like a physical blow. Not because they shocked him—he’d suspected murder too. But because of the conviction in her voice. The absolute certainty.
This woman wasn’t just a journalist looking for a story. This was personal.
“Your father,” he repeated slowly.
“David Barrett. He died ten years ago. Car accident, they said. But it wasn’t an accident.
He was investigating real estate fraud. I think Thomas Crane was going to expose it.
And now they’re both dead.” Her eyes burned with intensity.
“So no, Detective, I’m not going to delete my photos.
I’m not going to walk away. I’m going to find out who killed them. ”
Dax’s mind raced. David Barrett. The name was vaguely familiar. He’d only been with Blackridge PD for five years—before that, he’d been deployed overseas. But he could look it up. Check the old case files.
If this woman was right—if there was a connection between her father’s death and Crane’s—then this was much bigger than a single suspicious suicide.
But that didn’t mean he wanted or needed a journalist in his way.