See How They Hide

Book 6: Quinn & Costa Thriller

by Allison Brennan

Genres: Police Procedurals; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

No matter how far you run, some pasts never let you go…

Two people were murdered—at the exact same time, in the same gruesome manner, bodies covered in the same red poppies…but on opposite sides of the country.

With Detective Kara Quinn investigating in Oregon and Special Agent Matt Costa in Virginia, the Mobile Response Team digs deep to uncover more about each victim. What is the link between the two, and why were they targeted?

Yet their search unearths more questions than answers—until they meet Riley Pierce, the only person still alive who might be able to help them find the killers.

Soon, it becomes clear this case is nothing like they’ve seen before as their investigation leads them to the hallowed grounds of Havenwood—an eerily beautiful place rooted in a terrifying past.

As more bodies turn up, all tied to the same community, Kara and Matt are desperate to piece the puzzle together before Havenwood’s leader sacrifices everything to keep her secrets buried.

A Quinn & Costa Thriller

Book 1: The Third to Die
Book 2: Tell No Lies
Book 3: The Wrong Victim
Book 4: Seven Girls Gone
Book 5: The Missing Witness
Book 6: See How They Hide

Release date: January 7, 2025

Publisher: MIRA Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

PROLOGUE

The wind howled and whistled through the trees late that winter night in the tiny town of South Fork, Colorado, blowing loose snow across roads and fields, creating mountains and valleys. If the wind stilled and the clouds lifted, by morning the town and trees would sparkle in the sunlight. Jesse could hardly wait to get out and take the sled to town, talk to people face-to-face instead of on his computer screen. He was naturally a social person, but his job kept him glued to his computer most of the day—and his vocation kept him glued to the computer most of the night.

At midnight, Jesse shut down his computer and stretched. He was done.

He hoped once Rina was out, Thalia could relax. They couldn’t do this forever. He couldn’t do it forever. At the beginning, he was all in. Now? He had doubts there was anyone left who wanted to be saved. Each one was harder than the last.

They all needed to de-stress.

He glanced down at the dog bed in the corner where Banjo, his eight-year-old Saint Bernard, looked at him with tired brown eyes.

“Five minutes,” Jesse said. “You know you need to go, and if you go now, I’ll be able to sleep in.”

As if understanding what he said, Banjo sighed dramatically as only large dogs could and slowly got to his feet. Jesse ruffled his neck and said, “Really, you’re going to complain about a little cold with that nice fur coat you wear?”

He grabbed his warm jacket off the hook by the door and put it on.

Jesse had inherited the cabin from his grandfather and over the years he’d installed better insulation, a more efficient woodstove, updated the kitchen, and enclosed the porch. This helped keep the heat inside and prevented snow and mud from being tracked into the house. In the summer, Jesse removed two walls so he could enjoy the fresh air. As his little sister said, he was much handier than the stereotypical computer geek.

The porch also kept the worst of the chill off him when Banjo did his business.

Jesse stood just inside the doorway, his hands stuffed into his pockets, as Banjo lumbered to a section of pine trees to the right of the house, his big, wide paws sure-footed in the snow. Jesse lost sight of his dog, then counted to one hundred. Banjo wouldn’t wander, but sometimes even familiar smells distracted him, or a rabbit hopping through the snowbanks.

When time was up, he called, “Banjo! Come, Banjo!”

It was another thirty seconds before Banjo came out of the trees. Finally. Jesse hadn’t wanted to put on his boots and go after the dog in the icy cold.

“You have the fur coat, not me,” Jesse said as Banjo walked by him and shook his fur while he licked his lips. Great, Jesse thought. It wouldn’t be the first time Banjo found himself a midnight snack in the woods. “You’d better not have eaten anything that will make you puke.”

Banjo ignored him and went back to his dog bed, where he heaved another sigh as he settled himself down.

Jesse locked up, double-checked the windows, stoked the stove—it would be out by morning, but it didn’t take long to heat up the place, and he had ample wood stacked in the grate.

He’d just started up the wide ladder to his loft when he saw a light outside the large picture window. As he turned to look, the light went out. It hadn’t come from the highway, which was so far from his house that he couldn’t hear or see traffic, and his driveway wasn’t plowed, so no one could drive in, unless riding a snowmobile. He hadn’t heard any vehicle at all. His closest neighbor was a good half-mile hike down the drive, on the plot of land where the highway met their private road. The widow, Mrs. Chastain, was in her seventies, and wouldn’t be out this late. If she needed help, she would call him. While cell service was spotty, the phone lines were buried and rarely, if ever, went out.

Might be nothing. But his racing heart told him he shouldn’t assume anything.

He was glad he’d already turned off the lights in the house, so no one outside would be able to see him move about through the windows. He backed off the ladder and headed to the closet next to the front door. He had a shotgun, which should be enough of a threat if someone was up to no good. He never had trouble here, but considering his night

work, he was always alert.

Thalia’s paranoia had rubbed off on him.

He looked out the small window embedded in the heavy front door. No vehicle, large or small. No flashlight bobbing among the trees. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He checked the lock again; it was bolted closed.

He passed his office and glanced inside; Banjo was asleep on his bed, unmindful of Jesse’s rising fear. He loved Banjo, but maybe he should have opted for a more security-conscious German shepherd.

Jesse crossed through the kitchen to the side door. A large window looked out. He checked the lock. Secure. A durable lock led to the enclosed porch, but the porch itself had a flimsy bolt that he used only to prevent the wind from pushing open the door. There was nothing of value on the porch, and theft was rare in Rio Grande County.

Faint security lighting at each corner of his cabin illuminated the grounds for ten feet. Thalia had been wanting him to install an elaborate security system, but even if he did, he was well outside of town, so what would be the purpose? It would take at least fifteen minutes for the police to make it here, and they wouldn’t be able to use his driveway in the winter.

At first, Jesse didn’t see anything that stood out. He was about to turn away from the window when something caught his eye.

Footprints.

There were two distinct trails of footprints in the snow just inside the circle of light. They led from the grove of trees to the right and continued past his house. They hadn’t been there when he let Banjo out earlier. He could still see Banjo’s paw prints, though the wind had partly covered them.

These footprints were fresh. The wind hadn’t had time to conceal them.

Heart thudding in his chest, he racked his shotgun. It took him two tries because his hands were shaking. It was nearly one in the morning, below thirty degrees, and two people were walking around his house.

Destroy your computer.

The thought came to him suddenly. There was only one reason someone might be here with ill intent: information.

He ran to his computer and hesitated. If he destroyed it now, all his work for the last two months would be gone. Thalia depended on him—and he would fail her. But more people would be in danger if he didn’t destroy the data, so he really had no other choice.

As he was about to fire at his computer, he heard a gunshot. Then another. And another.

He aimed his shotgun for the doorway, taking a quick glance to his right to make sure that Banjo wasn’t in the line of fire.

Banjo hadn’t budged. But his chest moved up and down as he slumbered. Was he drugged?

Jesse remembered when Banjo came in he’d been licking his lips. He wasn’t a guard dog; if he’d encountered a person outside, he wouldn’t bark. He rarely even barked at wild animals.

Someone had drugged

his dog.

There was no time—he couldn’t let anyone access his computer. He turned his shotgun to the hard drive and pressed the trigger. Plastic and metal exploded; a piece of shrapnel—a twisted metal chunk from the inside of his computer—flew out and cut his face. He barely registered the stinging pain as he turned the shotgun back toward the door in self-defense.

A man and a woman stood there. Before he could rack it again, the man fired a pistol, hitting him in his shoulder. His shotgun sagged in his limp arm. As he struggled to straighten it, the man shot him again, hitting his biceps, and Jesse’s weapon fell to the floor.

The woman stared at the computer. “That is unfortunate,” she said, “but you know what we want.”

“It’s all gone,” Jesse said, gritting his teeth against the pain. He put his right hand over the shoulder wound, trying to press down to stop the bleeding.

“The information is in your head. You will tell us everything we want to know.”

“Never.”

She smiled, but there was no pleasure in her expression. It was a smile of evil.

“Yes, Jesse, you will sing like a bird. Evan, how long do you think it’ll take?”

Evan, a tall, skinny man wearing a knit cap and parka, said in a deep voice, “Twenty minutes, give or take.”

The woman said, “Set the timer. I don’t think it’ll take twenty minutes.”

Evan looked at his watch, pressed a button.

Then the woman turned her attention to his dog.

He couldn’t stop the cry that escaped. He wanted to be brave. For Thalia, for Rina, for all the others.

But he wasn’t.

“Don’t touch him,” Jesse said, his voice quaking in fear and anger.

“No,” she said, stepping toward him, “it won’t take me more than ten. And then we wait. Thalia will be here soon.”

MONDAY

1Ashland, Oregon

Kara Quinn savored the hot coffee as Ashland detective Ken Kinder drove them to the apartment where the victim, Jane Merrifield, had lived.

“You are my savior,” she said. She needed the caffeine jolt after the early morning flight from DC; it was a bonus that it tasted rich and delicious. “I like your sheriff, but his coffee is disgusting.”

Ken patted a large thermos sticking out of the center console of his sedan. “My wife takes care of me. I’m happy to share.”

She glanced over at the beautiful small campus filled with grassy areas and mature trees. Southern Oregon University bordered Siskiyou Boulevard and had been built up and into the base of the mountains, the tops of which couldn’t be seen through the fog.

She’d never gone to college, instead attending the LA Police Academy right after getting her GED. And while she’d been undercover at several colleges over the years, she’d never had the urge to attend. Still, it was a lovely campus. Maybe she could talk to Matt and they could find a case that would necessitate her going undercover at a university again. That might be fun, especially if it was a place like this.

Though not SOU. After all, she was investigating a homicide. A highly unusual double homicide where one victim was in Virginia and one was in Oregon. Hence, the FBI involvement. She was both surprised and pleased at the positive reception she and her partner, Michael Harris, had received when they walked into the Jackson County Sheriff’s Department in Medford. They were happy to have the extra help.

“It’s not the first time a college student has died,” Ken said after a moment of silence as they both drank his wife’s coffee. “I had a case a few years back where a girl was killed by her boyfriend, and another where two roommates got into an argument while drinking and one pushed the other off a three-story balcony. While no less tragic, they’re straightforward and easy to solve. But this case...the more we learn, the less we know.”

Early last Sunday morning, eight days ago, two people had been murdered at the same time in the same manner: Robert Benson, a married forty-seven-year-old antique store owner in rural Weems, Virginia, and twenty-one-year-old single college senior Jane Merrifield in Ashland, Oregon. Nothing seemed to connect the two victims, and no one would have thought to look at the cases together, except for two facts: both victims had their throats slit and the killers had littered the bodies with hundreds of dried red poppies.

Killers, because they died within the same one-hour window and there was no conceivable way one person could have committed both crimes.

Because of the unusual death scene, Dr. Catherine Jones, a forensic psychiatrist who worked with the Mobile Response Team, had been brought in to consult on the Benson homicide. Catherine scoured the NCIC database for like crimes, and on Wednesday the murder of Jane Merrifield popped up. Jane’s body had been found at a nearby park early Sunday morning. All the key forensic details matched.

That’s when Catherine asked the MRT unit to coordinate the two investigations. Catherine was working closely with the FBI crime lab at Quantico, focusing on the psychology behind the flowers and looking at similar crimes. So far, she had next to nothing. Though the science was way over Kara’s head, she knew that at a minimum, the lab could identify the region where the poppies were grown.

But the oddest fact in a series of odd facts was that, when Denver PD went to inform Jane’s family of her death, no family could be found. The address listed on her college emergency form belonged to someone who had never heard of the Merrifields.

“Thanks for taking me to Jane’s apartment,” Kara said. She would have preferred to

go alone, but since they were working on a task force and wanted to maintain the already good relationship local law enforcement had with their own FBI office, playing nice went with the job.

“We went through her place, but maybe you’ll see something we missed. There was no sign of violence—we don’t believe she was taken from her apartment. Her roommate and the roommate’s boyfriend were at his apartment all night. When they returned, they assumed that Jane was at work. Didn’t suspect anything until police came to the apartment Sunday morning.”

“I read your reports—everyone you talked to said Jane was polite, friendly, quiet.”

“Nice was the word everyone used. Her roommate, Ashley, has lived with her since the beginning of the term, but Jane has had the apartment since she started college three and a half years ago. That’s why we really want to talk to Riley Pierce. She knew Jane since she was a freshman.”

Riley Pierce was studying abroad in France, which included an internship at an art museum. She and Jane had lived together for three years.

“I’ve left a couple of messages,” Ken continued. “She might not know anything of value for our investigation, but Ashley said Riley and Jane were best friends, and Ashley is subletting the apartment from Riley.”

“Do you want me to get my team on it?” Kara asked. “The FBI has some cool resources, like access to the American Embassy and things like that. Maybe getting an official visit from a bigwig telling her to call you will help.”

Ken grinned. “I like the way you put it. I think Agent Tucker is working on that.”

“I’ll follow up, make sure it’s a priority,” Kara said. “Riley might know how to reach Jane’s family.”

Kara messaged Ryder Kim, their team analyst and Expert-of-all-Things, and asked him to follow up on Riley Pierce, mentioning that the local FBI agent may have already started the process.

Jane and Ashley lived in an off-campus apartment a mile south of campus. Ken pulled into the small parking lot behind a sixteen-unit building. Dozens of bikes were locked on racks along the backside of the apartment. The bottom units had patios, while the upstairs units had wide balconies. All doors faced the rear.

“Ashley Grant, twenty-one, junior,” Ken said as he approached the ground floor apartment marked 1B. “She was upset when we first talked to her, didn’t have much information about Jane, other than her work and school schedule.” He knocked and took a step back. Flowers blooming in colorful ceramic pots framed each side of the door and a cheerful sunflower sign proclaimed “Welcome!” under the Judas hole.

The local police had done a good job vetting Ashley and her boyfriend, David Martinelli. Ashley was originally from Reno, David a fifth-year senior from Portland. Both had part-time jobs—Ashley in the admissions office on campus, David at the mall in Medford. Neither had criminal records.

Police had also talked to every neighbor in the building. The last person to have seen her was her upstairs neighbor, who briefly spoke to Jane when she returned from the grocery store at 6:15 Saturday night.

She was dead six hours later.

Ken had called ahead and Ashley, expecting them, opened the door almost immediately. “Did you find the person who killed Jane?” she asked, though her voice suggested she had little hope for answers. “I haven’t heard anything on the news, but...” She shrugged.

“We are investigating every lead,” Ken said. “Ashley, this is Kara Quinn with the FBI. We have a few follow-up questions, as I said on the phone.”

Ashley opened the door wider for them to enter. “Everyone is kinda on edge,” she said. “Ashland is totally safe. I’ve never known anyone who was...well, murdered. It doesn’t happen here, you know? It’s hard to wrap my mind around it. Now we never go anywhere alone, and my boyfriend is staying over every night. Until we know what’s going on, he’s going to just move in, you know?”

I know, Kara thought sarcastically.

“Caution is wise,” Ken said, “but I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Ashley.”

The apartment was small but neat. A wide counter with four stools separated a narrow kitchen from the living area. The living/dining combo room had overflowing bookshelves, a bean bag chair, two love seats covered with an array of colorful pillows, and a television mounted to the wall. Doors to the right and left went to the two bedrooms.

Kara confirmed what they already knew from Ken’s first interview with Jane’s roommate. Ashley had nothing else to add and seemed genuine in all her responses.

Kara said, “We need to look at Jane’s room again.”

“Right. Sure.” She motioned to the door closest to the kitchen.

Kara walked to the threshold of Jane’s room and opened the door. Before entering, she let her eyes sweep slowly across the room. There was a lot a cop could tell about a victim by observing their personal space. Most people didn’t think to clean up a mess or hide things they didn’t want others to find. Most people expected to come home every night.

Jane’s bedroom was sparse. Kara didn’t have a lot of stuff, but Jane’s room seemed almost sterile.

A twin bed—neatly made. A dresser. Desk and chair. Single bookshelf filled with books. Neatly shelved books, perfectly lined up. None with titles Kara recognized, except a Bible on the top shelf. No flourishes anywhere.

Nothing super personal, like pictures of friends and family or sticky notes with reminders. Two motivational posters decorated one wall, but they could have hung in any classroom or doctor’s office. One, a mountain with a hiker on top and a Booker T. Washington quote: “You measure the size of the accomplishment by the obstacles you had to overcome to reach your goals.” The other, a sunset over an ocean and a quote attributed to Christopher Columbus: “You can never cross the ocean until you have the courage to lose sight of the shore.”

They were pretty pictures, but did the quotes mean anything to Jane? Kara would

normally dismiss such signs, yet they were the only two decorations on the wall, framed, side by side, each perfectly aligned.

Kara walked around the room. The posters could be seen from the bed and the desk chair. Sleeping or working, Jane would see the words, the images.

They meant something to Jane Merrifield. Could they help Kara find her killer?

From behind her, Ken said, “Our people went through here, but there wasn’t much to find.”

“She was twenty-one,” Kara said. “No concert tickets tucked into the mirror frame, no pictures of friends tacked to the wall, no mementoes or knickknacks.” Kara pulled a book from the shelf. The cover didn’t speak to her, but it looked like Little House on the Prairie for adults, with a woman in old-time garb gazing wistfully at a dry field.

Not something Kara thought a young adult would read. The other books were similar. The small print on the back cover indicated inspirational romance.

Okay, Kara thought. A nice, tidy, sweet, religious young adult. Who would want her dead?

“She lived here for three and a half years,” Kara continued. “Accumulated next to nothing. Do you have kids?”

“Three. Two girls and a boy. I see where you’re going and I agree—for a college student, this is unusual. But I don’t know that it’s suspicious.”

“Do you know if she went to church? She has a Bible and some other religious books.”

“Ashley said Jane didn’t go to church, but if she did without her roommate’s knowledge, it wasn’t often. I have an officer going around to the churches in the area and asking about her, but so far no one has recognized her.”

Kara opened the dresser drawers. Clothes neatly folded. Nothing that shouldn’t be here. No papers or sex toys or hidden photographs.

Closet, the same. She didn’t have a lot of clothes, but what she had were hung neatly by type of garment. A single warm jacket. Two sweaters. Four shirts. Two nice slacks. Two dresses. Four pairs of shoes lined neatly on the floor. The top shelf had more books and a small black suitcase. Nothing out of place, except that there wasn’t much here.

Desk, the same. Except

Kara pulled out a small box from the bottom desk drawer and opened it. It was a jewelry box without jewelry, but this was where Jane stored everything personal.

“We didn’t miss that,” Ken said, sounding defensive even though Kara hadn’t said anything. “I assumed they were reminders of friends or family, but there are no names or phone numbers to verify. We took photos of the contents, assuming her next of kin would want it.”

“I’m trying to get a sense of Jane. All this—” she waved her arm around the room “—says something. And this—” she put the box down on the desk “—also says something.”

What, she wasn’t quite sure, but she’d figure it out.

The box held several photos, letters, and a wooden bird. Beautiful, detailed craftsmanship—the wings had individual feathers carved, the definition in the veins visible even though the carving fit in the palm of her hand.

Most of the pictures were of Jane and a girl with dark red hair who Ken said was her former roommate, Riley Pierce. The only photo of Jane with someone else featured a teenage boy. Jane herself was not more than sixteen in the picture. The boy had dark curly hair and pale eyes. Their heads tilted toward each other. Both were smiling. The background was a forest, but it could have been here in Oregon, back where she grew up in Colorado, or any number of other places.

Kara flipped the picture over—no names or dates. The photo had been taken by an instant camera, the colors faded, the edges bent as if the thick picture had been in a pocket for a long time.

“Does this place look familiar?” she asked Ken, holding the photo out to him.

“Those are pine trees, but I couldn’t say where it was taken.”

“I’d like to take the box, if you don’t mind. Maybe our forensic shrink can glean something from this.”

He nodded. “The sheriff said to give you anything you need.”

As Kara was putting everything back in, she felt something slick against the side, wedged into the box seam. She pulled it up. Pressed between two sheets of thin plastic was a preserved red poppy, practically invisible against the dark wood of the box.

Okay, this is creepy, Kara thought.

There was nothing to indicate why Jane had the poppy preserved, what it meant, who had given it to her. But it was in the box, and her body was found covered with hundreds of red poppies.

Definitely creepy.

Ken frowned. “Honestly, I can’t tell you whether that was in the box or not when we first came in here.”

“It was wedged down the side, see?” She put it back. She couldn’t even see it unless she angled the box just right in the light. “I’m going to take a video of the room for our shrink.”

“I’ll wait outside.” He closed the door behind him.

Kara took pictures of the room, the bookshelf, then a three-sixty video.

Jane Merrifield didn’t have a large footprint. She didn’t leave much behind. Did the boy in the picture kill her? Maybe an ex-boyfriend? Someone else? A stranger?

According to Ken’s interview with Ashley, Jane was a homebody. She went to class, worked at a local bakery three mornings a week, and spent a lot of time reading.

Why did it feel like Jane Merrifield was a ghost even before she was murdered?

 

2Ashland, Oregon

When Kara stepped into the living room, Ashley was sitting on the couch, her laptop on her crossed legs.

“Um, Detective Kinder went outside,” Ashley said.

Kara sat across from Ashley. She put the box on the table and asked, “Have you ever seen this before?”

Ashley shrugged. “Once or twice. Jane sometimes had it on her desk—it’s a pretty box. I commented on it, asked where she got it. She said a friend made it for her when she was little.”

“Did she talk to you about her childhood?”

“Not really. She was an only child. She never talked about her parents, and I didn’t pry. I mean, not everyone has a good relationship with their mom and dad, you know?”

Kara knew. She hadn’t spoken to her parents in years.

“You know,” Ashley continued, “Jane was always sort of sad even when she looked happy, if that makes sense.” She shrugged.

“Do you have an example?”

She thought, then said, “I invited her to come home with me for Thanksgiving. She didn’t want to, but I pushed—I knew she’d have fun, and she finally agreed. I have a huge family—aunts and uncles and lots of cousins. We play games and have tons of food and my uncle Ted always drinks too much but he’s a funny drunk, and my aunt May sings Christmas carols—she has an amazing voice, and we do a scavenger hunt. It’s always a blast.

“I didn’t think Jane was having fun because she just sort of hung back, you know? She talked to people, but only when they talked to her first. But when we drove back here the next day, she said she had the most fun she’d ever had in her life. And...I think she meant it. It wasn’t hyperbole. I kind of thought then that she had a rough childhood, you know? Like maybe her parents were mean or abusive. She told me I was lucky.”

“And other than Riley Pierce, she didn’t have any close friends?”

“She was friendly with everyone, but, yeah, no one she hung out with regularly. She planned to move to France when she graduated. I don’t think she wanted to.”

“Why?”

“She loves it here. Said she never wanted to leave, but that she promised Riley that after they graduated, they’d both live in France. They were really close, like sisters.”

Kara pulled out the pressed poppy. “Have you seen this before?”

Ashley tilted her head. “That’s a poppy—they’re everywhere.”

“It’s a red poppy.”

“I mean, I’ve seen them growing, but I haven’t seen that poppy.”

“Did Jane ever talk to you about flowers?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

The police had withheld the information about the red poppies, and Ashley showed no sign that the flower held any significance for her. But it was important to the killer. Kara now realized it was also important to the victims.

Kara put the pressed poppy back in the box, closed it, and thanked Ashley for her time. She joined Ken outside. He was standing next to his sedan in the thick fog. A light, misty rain had started to fall.

“All good?” Ken asked.

“Yeah.”

“Something wrong? ...