CHAPTER ONE
No death could have been more profound.
The girl’s face cold, the injury precise, the small town waking to grief on Sunday. He’d framed the death as poignantly as the image that inspired it, the girl’s arms wider than the heavens, the gold-and-crimson shawl falling to her shoulders, her head held in place by a scarlet ribbon that swept across her nape to loop around her pale white wrists. A separate ribbon bound her feet in their neat red shoes, her legs locked together at the ankles, her blue dress hitched up.
No fresh blood, but even with the missed detail, perhaps this served her better. Her body was stiff, her blue eyes open and unseeing, a touch of frost on her delicately formed brow, another pale dusting on her lashes. The frost would melt under the hot summer sun, and then the girl’s skin would glow with her inner radiance.
Her clothing enhanced that radiance: the blue dress, the two-toned shawl. The diamonds pinned to her breast and shawl, the kerchief tucked into her belt.
If it had to be done, he would pay her the homage she deserved.
Her body in the foreground against a field of bright gold.
The door that beckoned worshippers to pray.
Ah, holy Mother of God. Those pensive, staring eyes.
Why had he done this to her?
CHAPTER TWO
Inaya Rahman parked behind the sheriff’s rig, an oversize SUV with a massive push bar upfront and a shiny Starling County decal on the hood. The cars parked across the street had left a gap behind the mobile lab and ambulance. The sirens were quiet, the rack lights turned off, a hush around the perimeter, where the police were setting up a cordon.
She slid out of her car neatly, her Denver Police badge conspicuous on the waistband of her slacks. As a detective, she was not in uniform, dressed formally in a sharp blue blazer and a buttoned-to-the-throat white blouse. She had to be. She was forcing her way into an insular group, as wary of the sheriff’s reputation as the sheriff would be of hers. The Community Response Unit of the DPD was about as popular with law enforcement here as police oversight had been in Chicago, her former placement. The CRU was small, floated outside the existing police structure, and could be assigned to any case that called for police accountability. In the aftermath of national protests against police brutality, the thinking behind CRU was to offer complete transparency to overpoliced communities. And to bring in new investigators where complaints had been filed against an officer whose conduct was under review.
Inaya’s presence would inform the sheriff he was about to be removed because of a backlog of complaints against his substation. The complaints weren’t just about excessive force by Blackwater deputies; they also encompassed sustained harassment of minorities that the sheriff had refused to respond to. He’d object to being taken off the case, and he’d probably resist. She wouldn’t let that stop her. She was ready to do her job, and eager to get back to real police work. For the past few months, she’d been working on community outreach, visiting expos and fairs, talking to students and local council members to get a feel for how effectively the police were serving the public. It was important, trust-building work, but it wasn’t what she had trained for—it was what she’d had to accept. Maybe she’d needed the change; events at her past placement had led to the collapse of a case of national importance, followed by a very public breakdown. The fallout had caused her to flee to Denver, but now she was growing impatient with the downgrading of her duties, eager to put her skills to use. Enough of being condescended to. Enough of being overlooked.
She straightened a seam on her blouse, her shoulders back, her chin raised. She couldn’t undo past mistakes; she could only use what she’d learned to move forward.
This was a new city, a new job. A chance for her to start again.
As she neared the building, her steps faltered in her court shoes. A tent screened the front of the two-story building from view, a house with narrow dormers, its porch in need of repair. Inaya knew this house. It was a local mosque that served the Muslim community in Blackwater Falls, Castle Pines, and several of the smaller mountain towns. A crowd was beginning to gather on the sidewalk; she acknowledged a few of the women she knew before moving past them.
A muscle-bound patrol officer was guarding the entrance to the tent. His bulk made him perfect for the job. He shifted to block her entry, despite the fact that he could see her badge.
“And who might you be?” He made the most of his limited authority, his arms crossed over his chest.
She ignored his attempt to discourage her, showing him her ID. “Detective Inaya Rahman, CRU. I was called to the scene.”
His ID was obscured or she’d have used his name to emphasize his lack of courtesy.
He scowled down at her, crowding her a little. “I’m not sure the sheriff would feel the need to call you.”
He was right, but she wasn’t going to tell him she was here to take over. Instead, she countered, “I’m not sure why you’re standing in my space.”
She did know why, of course. She was young, female, and dark-skinned, a newcomer or an outsider, depending on how he saw her. He’d rely on that, boxing her in, and ignore the fact she outstripped him in rank if she gave him any leeway.
“If you’re in any doubt, please call the sheriff. Or you can check with Lieutenant Seif, the head of Community Response. He knows Sheriff Grant. I’ll wait while you confirm his orders.”
She turned back to face the crowd, pretending to be at her ease. Privately, she worried she was late, which would put her at a disadvantage.
The officer lost interest. He pulled back the flap with a flourish, aiming another dig.
“The sheriff will put you in your place.”
“No need.” She chose to misunderstand him. “I can find my own way.”
As soon as she sealed the flap behind her, the hum of activity from the sidewalk subsided. Law enforcement officers congregated in the outer area, blocking her view of the mosque’s main entrance, a beautiful golden door imported from Morocco.
The sheriff of Blackwater Falls, a formidable man in his fifties, stood by the women’s entrance, surrounded by his officers. After a glance at her badge, he ignored her. The uniforms followed suit, speaking in hushed tones.
Sweating a little under her smart blazer, Inaya smoothed the tight French braid that had taken the place of the headscarf she’d worn most of her adult life. As a cop, the scarf put a target on her back, and though it wasn’t as modest, keeping her hair confined made her feel as if some part of her courage had survived. She scanned the tent, hoping to catch sight of Lieutenant Seif, her immediate boss. He reported to higher-ups, but was always in charge at the scene. She turned as the huddle of men at the front parted, giving her a clear glimpse of the mosque’s main door. She looked up. Then farther up.
She caught the dead girl’s eyes, stared at the sweet blank face.
The girl’s arms were stretched out above her head, her blue dress slightly raised to display a pair of neat ankles bound with fine blue satin. A shawl over her hair trailed down to a gash at her side. The arrangement of the body was unmistakable, the cloak an inadequate substitute for the young girl’s hijab.
Merciful God in Heaven.
Her recognition of the girl was instant.
Her name was Razan Elkader. She was a Syrian girl from the local community whose scarf had been stripped from her head, the shawl substituted as a travesty. It left the girl exposed in a way others could never understand.
Inaya’s hand trembled as she raised it to touch the hem of the robe.
Go with God, be with God now, little sister.
She stopped short of touching the girl, her entire body racked with tremors. Lieutenant Seif came into view, heading in her direction. She swallowed the constriction in her throat, her pulse erratic, her eyes burning with the urgent need to cry.
A soundless scream scraped her mind.
Not this, not this, not this.
Her tattered composure gave way. She fainted at the dead girl’s feet.
CHAPTER THREE
Inaya splashed her face with cold water in the mosque’s restroom, shaken by the scene she’d caused. The sight of the girl’s body shouldn’t have shocked her; she’d seen death before. She was experienced, even hardened, yet she couldn’t be detached—she saw her own fate in Razan.
Her mind reconstructed the scene. The icy flesh of a girl nailed to the door of the mosque in a gruesome emulation of the Crucifixion, wrists and ankles pinned, a broad gash to the right side of the body, the five holy wounds mapped out on the girl’s body, anointed by a scarlet ribbon. If not a desecration, then a hate crime, perhaps both.
She was shivering despite the summer heat when someone rapped at the door.
Her mascara was smudged in patches beneath her eyes, her head was sore from where she’d struck it when she fell, but the knock was insistent. She opened the door to find Waqas Seif frowning down at her. His cold dark eyes dissected her appearance as she slipped into the hall. He shook his head at one of the patrol officers who’d ventured inside, the gesture telling him to leave, the door to the women’s entrance still ajar.
“What was that, Rahman?” The clear bite of Seif’s voice cut through the fog that shrouded her. She blinked several times, scrubbing at her cheeks with the remnants of a paper towel. She firmed her shoulders, though she was far from recovered. She had to move past it if she was going to prove herself. She’d prepared to work in the field again—she couldn’t let herself be intimidated.
Maybe Seif sensed her reaction, because he repeated the question, the edge sharper this time.
Seif was much taller than she was, the color of his eyes densely black, his well-cut hair the same shade, with just a hint of curl. The modeling of his face reminded her of the portrait of a famous Persian mystic, otherworldly and enigmatic. The image was dispelled when he spoke in the incisive tones of a cop.
Inaya focused on the knot of his gray tie. He tended to dress in monochromes, as if that minimized his restless energy. He was five years older than she was, but his unforced authority made that distance unbridgeable.
They’d interacted very little over the six months she’d been in Denver. She didn’t know the details of his work; though they were on the same team, their cases didn’t overlap. Apart from community outreach, she was working through a stack of complaints filed against cops who used force to subdue kids in school. They were called “school resource officers,” and as in the world outside of school, excessive force was usually applied to Black or brown students. The complainants in these cases called out not only police bias, but the policy itself.
Inaya was meant to either retrain or remove the officers who were named in these complaints, a task that could blow up in her face.
“That wasn’t the impression I was hoping you’d make on Sheriff Grant.”
Seif’s acerbic comment brought her back to the present.
If he’d asked her to account for her loss of composure with a hint of empathy, she might have explained herself.
Her stomach clenched and a familiar blend of guilt and self-loathing rose to the surface of her thoughts. She deliberately slowed her breathing, letting her lungs fill with air while she counted down in her head.
It’s not going to happen again. I’m safe; my family is safe. There’s nothing he needs to know, nothing I need to confess.
“You’re right, I’m sorry. Blackwater Falls is a small community; I knew Razan a little.” She wiped her forehead. “We’ve taken over—why do we have to worry about the sheriff?”
Seif didn’t move, but somehow his presence encroached into her space. The line of his lips was flat, the groove at the edge a warning.
“He’s an important man here. Be careful about throwing your weight around.”
Inaya experienced a flutter of alarm. She hadn’t handled the crime scene well, and Seif could probably tell she was nervous, but it was reasonable to want to know what his plan of attack was. She wasn’t going to let him bully her just because she’d asked a question.
“Fair enough, but my priority is this community. That’s why we’re here, right?” She made a sweeping motion that encompassed them both. “Hiring people like us isn’t just window dressing, is it? Because no police department can afford that in this day and age.”
He ignored the buzzing of his cell phone. “Subtlety is more effective than a frontal assault. Didn’t they teach you that in Chicago?”
She flinched from the harsh words. Oddly, her reaction defused his temper.
His voice was a shade less sharp when he continued, “You’re a resident here. You know the community. Liaise with them; speak to their concerns. Be careful about sharing too much about the investigation, as with any other homicide.” He underlined the last words.
“You’re not staying?”
He smiled a sharklike smile. “Can’t you handle things on your own? You live here, don’t you have any insights?”
“Of course.” She turned to look at Razan, her body on display. “The obvious conclusion is that this was a hate crime.”
His gaze settled on hers, probing, judging. “Do you usually accept the obvious?”
Inaya stiffened her spine. “You may not be aware that there’s been some trouble with the Resurrection Church here in Blackwater.” She spoke with a forced calm.
“The evangelical church?” Seif looked beyond her to the window. In Denver, the church complex would have occupied an entire city block; here, it took up a stretch of land near the foothills, west of Titan Road. The church paid for officers to regulate traffic on Sundays, a connection Inaya had noted as a matter of course. It was one of many things she’d observed about her new home.
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
