4
“Emma at the stable?” Noelle asked Max the next morning as she followed the scent of coffee into her kitchen and found him pushing buttons on the espresso machine. Eighteen-year-old Emma had come to live with them two months ago after Noelle met the parentless teen on a case.
“Yes. She’s feeding everyone breakfast before she makes her own,” said Max, and kissed her as he pressed a to-go coffee tumbler into her hand.
The stable that Noelle had thought would never be used at her new home now housed an ancient horse, two donkeys, and five pygmy goats. Noelle was guilty of adopting the donkey pair. She’d felt that old Harley, Emma’s horse, needed some companions.
Emma had added the goats, rescuing them from a farm whose owner had passed, and not told Noelle until they were stashed in her stable. “They’re small,” Emma had said with a guilty expression as she’d tried to grasp a wriggling goat. “They don’t take up much room.”
Room wasn’t a problem. The stable wasn’t really a stable; it was a facility.
A huge, modern facility. It had heat and air-conditioning.
Huge stalls and a covered arena. It’d been built by the house’s previous owner, who’d once considered having a dozen horses.
So he’d designed it for two dozen. Emma’s Harley had been the first horse to ever use it.
“She takes good care of the animals,” said Max, getting his own coffee cup ready on the Italian machine.
Noelle sipped her coffee—an Americano with three shots.
It’d been a late night. “She does.” She leaned against the counter and enjoyed the view of Max as he frowned at his open laptop on the giant kitchen island.
He was easy on the eyes. Tall, dark, and very handsome.
And had amazing arms and shoulders. He’d completely shaved his beard after half of it had been burned off in an explosion a couple of months ago.
It’d started to grow back in, but to his shock, the hairs on one side were mostly gray, making his face appear lopsided color-wise.
He’d grumbled about shaving each morning, but the task wasn’t enough to outweigh resembling a yin-yang symbol.
Noelle hadn’t planned on getting involved with the FBI agent.
But here they were. Involved.
After two marriages, Noelle had decided she preferred being married to the Deschutes County Sheriff’s Department. Until Max entered her life last January because she’d been the primary suspect at the center of an FBI cold case murder investigation.
Not how most people meet.
She’d been drawn to him. And vice versa. Now all his belongings were in her place.
And it felt as if he’d always been there.
It was good. Her house now felt like a home. Warm. Safe. Lived in.
She’d gone from living alone on the giant estate to living with a teenager and her orange cat, along with Max and the growing menagerie in the facility. The transitions had been seamless.
Noelle had never been happier.
Emma’s cat, Cornbread, rubbed his cheek against Max’s leg and meowed, staring up at the agent.
That cat almost loves him more than it loves Emma.
Cornbread liked Noelle, but she didn’t get the headbutts and soulful eyes he gave Emma. He didn’t come running when he heard her come in the front door as he did with Max.
Noelle slung her bag over her shoulder, ready to head to work. Max’s sport coat was draped over a tall stool at the island. They often left home at the same time, but Max was intent on his screen. She glanced at it, spotting a certain name in the body of the work email.
“Still not wrapped up?” she asked.
The man in the email had been a violent militia leader who’d murdered several people and then taken local officials and their families hostage a few months ago.
Emma had been one of the captives. The militia leader had died when Max put a bullet through his eye as the man pressed a gun against Emma’s head.
Max had been cleared and was back to work, but the fallout from the incident continued.
Noelle never wanted to hear about the case again.
Unlikely.
Emma had struggled with PTSD. She’d been kidnapped and held hostage, and she’d watched a close family friend die in addition to seeing the leader die violently right next to her.
She’d been in therapy since then and had only recently dropped her visits from every week to once a month.
Emma also frequently visited Evan’s sister’s ranch, home of Furry Friends Rescue, which housed dozens of rescue animals, from newborn kittens to disabled dogs and a blind donkey.
Charlotte, Evan’s stubborn wedding-party-dress-code-rebel niece, also lived there.
Noelle believed the time with the animals had helped Emma more than the therapy video sessions. It was one of the reasons she’d not protested the five pygmy goats, but she had given Emma a stern warning that her property was not to be turned into a chaotic rescue like Furry Friends.
“I don’t know if the case will ever fully go away,” said Max, closing his laptop. “Something new pops up every week because so many people were involved. One of the militia members has filed a suit against the FBI for the trauma he experienced.”
Noelle stared in shock. “The militia members chose to be there. They carried the guns. They followed their asshole leader. They held the victims hostage.”
“He says the stress of having agents point weapons at him as he surrendered has taken away his ability to be a productive member of society. And a good husband and father.”
“Uh-huh.” It had been an incredibly stressful situation; Noelle had been there. But the man needed to take responsibility for his actions.
Max slipped on his sport coat and grabbed his mug from the machine. “Ready?”
She followed him through the door to the garage, and then her phone rang. “It’s Evan,” she told Max.
“I’ll catch you later.” He gave her a kiss and headed toward his department Tahoe, which was dwarfed by her giant garage. Beside it, her 4Runner appeared even smaller.
She stepped back inside the home for quiet. “What’s up, Evan?” she asked.
“We’ve got an ID on the most recent victim from yesterday. Sydney Beason. Age thirty-nine. Dr. Ruiz pulled the serial numbers off the implants last night and sent them in. He got the results back this morning.”
“Already?”
“It’s nearly eleven on the East Coast.”
“Has she been reported missing?”
“No, and Ruiz thinks she’s been dead around a week. He’ll have a better idea later this morning.”
“Cause of death?”
“He hasn’t done the autopsy yet, but there is that bullet hole in her head.”
“Do you have an address for her?” asked Noelle.
This poor woman.
“I do. It’s local. I’ll text it to you and meet you there in a half hour.”
“Does she live with family?”
“Not sure,” said Evan. “It appears she’s divorced. I have a different address for the husband. We can go there next.”
“Maybe we should go to the ex’s first?” Spouses—and ex-spouses—should be interviewed immediately. Family was always investigated first.
“I want to look at her home,” said Evan. “And he might be at work. I’ll get a deputy to track him down but not approach. That’ll save us some time when we’re ready to talk to him.”
“Sounds good.”
Evan ended the call.
Noelle opened his text and saw that Sydney Beason had lived in Bend.
Okay, Sydney. Why hasn’t anyone reported you missing?