Chapter 2
A Texas Ranger for over two decades, Vince Cooper had seen his fair share of nasty crime scenes. This one, however, lodged under his skin.
A woman who hadn’t deserved such a violent end lay still beneath the harsh investigative lights. Blood pooled on the living room hardwood where she’d bled out from a slashed throat. Fingers numbered nine. The rest of the house was spotless.
The evidence team had been working diligently for over an hour. Except for Debra Wilson’s lifeless body, there were no leads yet. No forced entry, no droplets in the hall, no bloody footprints, and no apparent motive.
Tonight’s call seemed routine; an anonymous woman had requested a welfare check.
She’d been paying attention. The house had been dark for days. No cars coming and going. And she’d noticed the Wilsons’ cat, which didn’t usually wander.
Coop stopped at the end of the driveway, gaze sweeping the quiet street.
No one was out at this time of night, but neighbors likely watched from behind drawn curtains and cracked blinds.
One of them had made that call and refused to give a name.
Someone troubled enough to care but wary of authorities.
He wanted to understand both her caution and her concern.
Coop took off his Stetson and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Even after dark, the heat and humidity clung to everything like a damp blanket.
What he wouldn’t give to be home right now, reclined, cold beer cracked open, game on low.
Instead, he started across the street toward the only house still lit. It was a small place with white siding, wind chimes tinkling lazily in the breeze, and a couple of potted plants drooping from the heat. It looked cozy, quiet, and normal.
He stopped halfway across the street and cocked his head. A high-pitched wail cut through the stillness. Not a siren. Not a kid. A smoke alarm. His head swung toward the little house; a floodlight in need of a new bulb glowed dimly at the rear corner.
Quickening his pace, he headed toward it. His boots thudded on the pavement, the alarm growing louder and shriller. He was climbing the steps, debating whether to knock or kick in the door.
He didn’t get the chance to decide. A cat bolted off the porch with a hiss as the door burst open. Then a smoking metal disk shot past his face and hit the boards with a violent clatter. It came to a spinning stop an inch from his boots.
Coop stared at what appeared to be a decorative stove cover—warped from the heat, metal charred, paint melted—then at the woman in the doorway.
“Oh my gosh,” she gasped, coughing and fanning her face with an oven mitt as a cloud of smoke billowed behind her. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t expect anyone to be standing there!”
She barely reached his shoulder, maybe late-thirties, flawless skin, and gorgeous.
But she was dressed as if she’d come from a concert, circa 1970s, in a gauzy purple dress, a black lace choker hugging her throat, and boots laced up the front.
Wisps of honey-blonde hair had escaped whatever had tried, and failed, to contain them.
Dispatch had described the anonymous caller as “a bit flighty,” and there had been mention of a cat. He was pretty sure he’d just found her.
Inside, the alarm shrieked on like a dying banshee.
“Ma’am,” he said, raising his voice to be heard, “is there a fire?”
“No! Well… sort of! I turned on the wrong burner again!” she said, still waving the mitt and coughing. “It’s fine! Everything’s fine!”
It was absolutely not fine.
She darted back inside. Coop followed because the last thing he needed tonight was a second crime scene.
Acrid haze that burned his nose and stung his throat filled the kitchen. Herbs hung drying near the stove. Or they had been drying, before being sacrificed to the havoc she’d unleashed. But there were no visible flames.
He strode to the sink and threw the window open. He also flipped on the exhaust fan over the stove. When he turned, she had dragged a chair under the alarm and climbed up.
“Ma’am, I wouldn’t—”
On her toes, stretching and trying to pry off the alarm cover, the chair wobbled.
Coop responded on instinct, catching her around the waist and lifting her off the chair before it toppled.
She yelped, body going rigid the instant he touched her. Not startled, braced. When he set her on the floor, steadying her until her boots found traction, she pulled away as soon as she could, looking unsettled.
His suspicion flared at her reaction. Was it him or the badge? He couldn’t reason it out with the alarm shrieking, however.
“I’ll get it,” he said, reaching up to pop off the cover.
Almost instantly, blessed silence fell over the room.
She sighed, sagging with relief. “Thank you. That was loud enough to make a statue cringe.”
Maybe not flighty but quirky. He moved back a step, giving her space. “You’re Erica Stevens, correct?”
“That’s me,” she said, brushing her hair out of her face. Up close, she looked younger than he’d first thought, with hazel eyes that seemed too bright for the smoky room.
“Lieutenant Cooper, Texas Rangers.” He flashed his badge. “I have a few questions about your neighbors.”
Her brows lifted. “I’ve only lived here a few months. I’m embarrassed to say I barely know my neighbors.”
“This is about the Wilsons across the street. I’m sorry to tell you, there has been a tragedy.”
Her breath faltered, and she swayed, one hand clutching her stomach as if she were about to be sick. He’d interviewed dozens of witnesses, close relatives, and strangers. Her reaction was raw in a way that didn’t match barely knew them.
“Ms. Stevens?” Coop moved forward, ready to catch her.
She shook her head. “I need air.” Then she bolted through the house.
Coop followed, not sure whether she was about to faint, throw up, or both.
On the front porch, she gripped the rail and bent forward, breathing in deep, shaky gulps. He stayed close without touching, near enough to catch her if needed.
“Are you all right? You went pale fast.”
“It was—the, um—the smell.”
Her voice faltered. Could’ve been nausea; could’ve been scrambling for an excuse.
“It hit me wrong,” she said between deep breaths. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”
Maybe. But Coop had seen plenty of people react to bad news. This wasn’t shock. It was something else. Something she didn’t want him to see.
With her breathing more controlled, she stood and leaned against the rail. But her gaze drifted past him, turning vague. She said, without inflection, “She’s dead.”
His spine went rigid. How did she know? He hadn’t said anything yet.
He turned as the coroner’s van pulled in across the street. That explained something, at least.
“How well did you know Mrs. Wilson?” he asked, tone even and gentler.
“Only enough to smile and wave when we passed.”
He reached into his pocket for the family’s photos. “Mind if I show you a few pictures?” Without waiting for an answer, he handed her the first: forty-three-year-old Debra in a navy business suit, smiling at the camera.
“That’s Mrs. Wilson,” she whispered.
He flipped to the next one. Debra with her husband. “Ever seen him?”
“Mr. Wilson,” she supplied. “I didn’t see him as much. He seemed to keep odd hours.”
The last photo was of Cheyenne.
Her reaction was immediate. A sharp inhale. A trembling hand to her mouth. “This can’t be. I saw her tonight. Still breathing.”
Coop frowned. “I just left the crime scene, Miss Stevens. I assure you, Debra Wilson is deceased and has been for several days. We’ll have to wait for the coroner’s confirmation on how long.”
Erica blinked, startled. “Debra? I thought we were talking about Cheyenne.”
Relief crossed her face, but it vanished almost instantly. Her gaze darted away as if she suddenly couldn’t look at the photo. Color drained from her cheeks. Whatever she’d just realized hit her hard.
“How well do you know Miss Wilson?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral.
“I wouldn’t say I knew her. I’ve seen her around the neighborhood.”
Coop homed in on the discrepancy. “You said you saw her tonight. Where, specifically?”
She hesitated, a beat too long. “You won’t believe me.”
“Why would you say that?”
“It always starts out that way.”
Coop studied her and her strange answer for a moment then urged, “I’m open-minded. Try me.”
The photo shook in her grip, barely noticeable, but he did. Seconds passed, and he thought she would refuse. Instead, she said in a whisper, “I’ve seen her in my dreams.”
Coop didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Experience had taught him to keep his face neutral and to control his reactions, but dammit, not tonight.
He’d dealt with “dreamers” before: the well-meaning ones, the attention-seekers, the unstable ones. He didn’t have the patience for it. Not after the scene he’d just walked out of. Not with a girl missing.
Erica Stevens didn’t look unstable. And she didn’t seem to be putting on an act. Everything about her said she’d rather be anywhere else.
So, he’d indulge her until he could figure out what kind of dreamer she was.
Coop extended his arm toward the swing. “I’m going to need you to have a seat and tell me everything.”
The chains groaned, and the wood creaked beneath them as they settled in. She sat stiffly, hands clasped in her lap, staring out at the dark yard as if regretting what she’d already told him.
Coop kept his voice low and even. “Start from the beginning. Tell me about the dreams.”
She pulled in a shaky breath—steeling herself—before she answered. “They weren’t clear at first. Just impressions. Fear. Cold concrete. Shadows and odd light.”
Her voice changed, becoming soft and distant, as if she were slipping somewhere else. “Tonight, I saw her.”
Coop’s pulse ticked up. “Are you sure it was Cheyenne Wilson?”
Erica nodded. “She’s hurt. Her face is swollen, and her wrists…
” She swallowed. “The zip ties were so tight, they cut into her skin. I would have called it in sooner, but I didn’t know who she was at first. Not until she looked in the mirror.
” Her voice thinned; her eyes rose to his, beseeching.
“You have to find her, Lieutenant, before it’s too late. ”
Coop leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Tell me what else you saw.”
“She was in a filthy bathroom,” she whispered. “Terrified. Exhausted. Trying to stay alert.” Her fingers curled as if she felt the bite of the plastic. “Her T-shirt was torn.” She raised a trembling hand to her chest. “She has a crescent moon tattoo with three stars. Right here.”
That detail wasn’t in the photo he’d shown her. From the location, it wasn’t something a neighbor would know from passing someone on the street.
“A crescent moon usually symbolizes transformation. And stars often represent hope.” Her voice softened. “I doubt Cheyenne imagined this was the change she was choosing when she picked it.”
“What else did you see?” he pressed.
She shook her head. “I sensed her fear. And the feeling that she’s running out of time.”
Coop studied her for a long moment. “You understand how unusual that sounds?”
“I do. But you have to understand, I didn’t ask for this.” Her chin lifted, unshaken by his doubts. “But it’s real.”
Coop rose slowly, looking toward the Wilson house before returning his attention to her.
“I’m going to need you to come down to the station and give a formal statement.”
She huffed a humorless laugh. “How did I know you were going to say that?” Without argument, only weary acceptance, she stood. “I’ll be right back. I need to lock up and grab my purse.”
He watched her disappear inside. Coop didn’t know what she was—a liar, a psychic, or something in between. But he knew one thing. He hoped she was making it up. Because if she wasn’t, time may have already run out for Cheyenne Wilson.