ONE
The Christmas season would never be the same—not that it had been normal for the past seventeen years, but there had always been a ringing bell of hope. Until a few hours ago, when four words numbed Poppy Holliday’s faculties and the bell stopped tolling.
They found her remains.
Those words had resounded through her head as she drove through the misty December night to Gray Creek, Mississippi, less than two hours from the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation in Batesville, where she worked with the cold case unit and now lived. But on that chilly, late night in November when Cora had gone missing, Poppy had lived in Gray Creek. She’d been seventeen—a senior—and Cora had been fifteen, a freshman at Gray Creek High.
Poppy switched on her brights, then gripped the steering wheel tighter as the lights illuminated the dark road. But nothing illuminated her internal dark void. Tears filmed her eyes, and she blinked in rhythm with her windshield wipers. If only she could turn a switch to swish away the pain like the wiper blades cleared the tiny flecks of sleet from the windshield. Like her lashes swept away the salty tears.
She slowed as she took the sharp turn. Out here on the country back roads, hitting deer was the leading cause of death.
What or who had killed Cora?
Her sister’s remains had been found along with her purse and wallet, which held Cora’s student identification card.
Another round of tears—of grief mixed with fond memories—slipped down Poppy’s cheeks and then she sobered as she approached the Weaverman property, which lay on the outskirts of Gray Creek. The once-thriving farm had been secluded and abandoned for years. The only evidence left was a silo and old pump house—where Cora had been for seventeen years and one month. The original house had been torn down long ago.
Earlier today, a few teenage boys had decided to play Truth or Dare, which landed one of them down the old, dried-up well in the dilapidated pump house with a rope tied around his waist and his friends egging him on. He’d gotten more than he bargained for when he discovered the remains. At least they’d had the brains to call the sheriff’s office and report it.
After seventeen years of weather and time, not much would be left to identify, but a DNA test was being done, and with the purse, identification card and a few tattered remains of clothing, Poppy and her family were convinced it was Cora.
She parked at the edge of the road, her headlights spotlighting the yellow crime scene tape rattling in the unusually wintry weather for the South. Forecasters called for a white Christmas, but a lot could change in a week. Already, snow had fallen twice this month—a dusting, really. Enough to close schools but not to build snowmen or forts. Poppy and Cora had constructed a few of those when Dad had been stationed at Fort Myer in Virginia. She’d done it for Cora, who’d loved frigid temperatures. Poppy had never been a fan of weather under sixty-five degrees, but she had been a fan of besting her four older brothers in a competition.
Tack, her oldest brother, had stayed behind in Texas when the family had moved to Gray Creek to care for Grandma. He was living his dream as a Texas Ranger in the unsolved-homicide unit. Poppy was most like him, even professionally. Neither admitted their draw to cold cases had been born from Cora’s disappearance. Tack had been the one to inform Poppy of the news earlier today.
Not Dad. Not Mom.
Tack had insisted Dad’s reason for not calling was he didn’t want to leave Mom’s grieving side. But Poppy knew better.
When her family had returned to Texas the year after Cora vanished and Grandma died, Poppy stuck around and attended college at Mississippi State, then went on to the police academy, landing a job after at the Desoto County Sheriff’s Office before transferring to the MBI cold case unit in Batesville. She’d loved her time at the SO, but one of her more rotten choices of getting romantically involved with Liam—a sheriff’s deputy—had pushed her transfer to the MBI. Moving back to Texas instead would have been too difficult. Her brothers never blamed Poppy for Cora’s death, but the accusation that pulsed behind Dad’s steely eyes and Mom’s cries when Poppy was around let her know fast they did find her at fault.
And Poppy agreed.
Her remains should be at the bottom of the well. Poppy had been the rebellious daughter, jumping into potentially dangerous situations like a kid in a lake on a summer day. Poppy had been the back talker and limit pusher. Cora had been sweet and kind and obedient. The easy child. The good child. The favorite—and rightly so.
Standing in the wind, her thin red sweater doing nothing for warmth, Poppy surveyed the property. Overgrown weeds. Bare trees. The entire place reeked of decay and neglect.
Like Cora’s body.
Poppy pushed her bangs from her eyes, and released past hurt and frustration without restraint. No one was here to witness the depth of grief in her sobs or the unending guilt. No matter how hard she’d worked to pay for her sins, nothing she did washed them away. Nothing washed away the shame. Not tears. Not closing other cases—and she closed more cases than anyone on her team. They called her competitive, and to some degree they were right, but with every case she solved, she expected a measure of peace for what had happened to Cora—for the part she’d played in Cora’s disappearance and ultimately her death.
But peace never came. Not one ounce.
Gently, she touched the frosty plastic crime scene tape and slipped underneath into the scene that she’d observe with the eyes of a detective when the sun rose in the morning. Tonight, she was here as a broken sister who needed to be where Cora had lain all these years. Tonight, she needed to unleash all the pain, allowing the wind to carry it away before daylight, when she would refrain from shedding tears among her colleagues as they combed the well for possible evidence connected to Cora’s demise. By the time officials had made it out here tonight, it had been too dark and manpower too little to station someone to keep guard, though Poppy had pushed the issue with Sheriff Pritchard, who promised drive-bys.
Cora, did you willingly come out here that night? Did someone force you here? Were you alive when you were tossed away like trash?
As she slid down the old cinder-block walls, the smell of earth and must filled her senses. She ignored the cobwebs, spiders and rodents that would surely be inside. She wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees and rested her chin on them.
When she thought she had no tears left, a fresh wave erupted.
It should have been her at the bottom of this well.
I’m sorry, Cora.
Sorry wasn’t even close to a satisfactory response, but she whispered it each time she thought of Cora. And that was every day.
Finally, the cold seeped into her bones and she stood, retrieving her Maglite and flicking it on. She forced herself to shine the slim beam of light down the well, to inspect as much as to keep moving, keep her blood circulating to warm up. Unable to see the bottom, she shivered and spun around as a chill not associated with the temperature launched down her spine. The feeling of eyes invading her private moment raised hairs on her bare neck, and she silently listened for any sound of human movement outside the pump house.
Wind and fallen leaves blowing. Nighttime creatures hunting. But it felt like something else—someone else—was also on the prowl. Or maybe the thought of Cora’s end and the terrifying scenarios accompanying the finality of her sister’s life had her imagination creating shadows that weren’t truly out there in the darkness.
Her phone rang and she startled at the shrill timbre. Glancing at the caller’s name, she cringed. Another frigid gust in her crummy day—Rhett Wallace, unit team member and all-around Boy Scout. A stickler for rules, an overthinker and entirely too attractive for his own good—which might be the biggest annoyance to Poppy. At times, his presence was a distraction, so she managed to be careful of letting it happen often.
Answering, she didn’t hide her irritation for being attracted to him. “It’s almost eleven o’clock. What could you possibly need?”
Rude? Yes, but necessary.
If she lowered her carefully crafted wall of indifference toward Rhett, Poppy was terrified she’d gravitate to places she had no business going. Acting as if he meant nothing to her personally was far easier than allowing herself the possibility of exploring how she could feel about Rhett aside from being her unit partner.
She’d save his bacon, professionally. In a heartbeat. And that’s as far as it would go. Besides, Poppy wasn’t exactly Rhett’s favorite person. The man was a pillar of patience and politeness—except where Poppy was concerned. He’d made it abundantly clear on an almost daily basis that Poppy flared his temper and ate away at his composure.
She was to Rhett what orange juice was to freshly brushed teeth.
That’s the way she liked it. The way she needed it. The way it was going to be.
“Well,” he said in his put-on patient tone, “I thought you might need a friend.”
She wouldn’t say they weren’t friends. They were mostly friendly when they weren’t bickering, and they could work well together—when the work was done Poppy’s way. “I don’t.”
“Okay,” he said with a strained voice, “the truth is I drew the short end of the stick and get to aid you in the investigation.”
That sounded more like truth, but to be honest, she could use a friend. “Colt called you?” Their unit chief didn’t love the idea of Poppy investigating her sister’s cold case, but he also knew how much it meant to her. Not that long ago he’d reopened and investigated his best friend’s unsolved homicide, and she’d reminded him of that more than once until she basically wore him down. Poppy was good at that—wearing people down. It worked to her benefit on most occasions when suspects or witnesses were hiding information.
“Yes, he told me you weren’t going to back down. And since I know that stubborn tone and defiant glare—which no doubt you gave him—I get to be present to remind you that you aren’t Doc Holliday, you’re Poppy Holliday.”
“Oh, I’m gonna be somebody’s huckleberry, Rhett. Make no mistake about that,” she said, referencing the iconic Wyatt Earp movie Tombstone—a beloved film they had in common. “I’m not backing down. No one will investigate this case like me.” She wasn’t called Bulldog, in an appreciative manner, by her colleagues for nothing. “I’m going to turn over every rock—even the pebbles—and I’m going to squeeze myself into every nook and cranny. When I get done, this case is going to be closed and whoever killed my sister will rot away in a prison cell until kingdom come. No other option.”
Rhett sighed. “I’m with you, Poppy.” His tone bore compassion and understanding, and—complete agreement. “In every nook and cranny. Under every rock. We’ll do everything you’ve said. With—”
“Within the legal bounds and without kicking up dust like a gun-totin’ law dog. I know this. I don’t want the perpetrator to get off on a technicality because I didn’t go by the book. I’ll go by the book.” She didn’t say which book. But Rhett didn’t need to know that.
She could see him now, pinching the bridge of his perfectly straight nose and slowly shaking that dark-haired head of his. “I’m about fifteen minutes out from Gray Creek. I reserved a room at the B&B you’re staying in. Found it odd it’s not booked up with it being the week before Christmas. Owner seemed nice, though.”
“She told me they blocked the week before and of Christmas because they might be traveling, but her plans fell through. When I told her why I needed to reserve a room at least through Christmas, maybe longer, she gave it to me. I can be persuasive.”
Rhett snorted. “You mean a nag and whiner.”
“Says you. Either way, it works.” Poppy stepped outside the pump house. That cold, thorny feeling scraped her nerves again, and she surveyed the surrounding woods as the knee-high grass rustled against her legs.
“Poppy, you there?”
“Yeah,” she said absently, “I’m out at the scene.”
“You shouldn’t be out there alone,” he said.
“I’m capable of taking care of myself and not messing with evidence.” She bit back a huff as she strained her eyes against the inky atmosphere.
“I didn’t mean for those reasons,” he murmured.
Rhett had lost a sibling when he’d been a kid too. She didn’t know all the details, but he would be able to at least relate to her grief. Understand her pain to some degree. But why did it have to shake the tough foundation she’d taken years to lay? “I appreciate that,” she said with less bark. “I needed to, though, you know? Alone.” Surely, he’d get that too.
A beat of silence. “I do. I’ll be there in less than fifteen minutes. Meet you at the B&B?”
“Sure. I’m wrapping up here anyway.” They ended the call and Poppy rubbed her arms. Winter was the worst. She pocketed her cell phone and headed for her car. It was going to take more than its heater to warm her up, though.
She paused one last time and scanned the property. When it came to danger, her gut was usually on point. If someone was out there, they were well hidden in the shadows. Chances were no one was. No one knew she’d be here. But still, Poppy was on edge.
Hurrying to her car, she unlocked it, retrieved her cell from her back pocket—she’d made one too many accidental calls—and tossed it in the drink holder, then grabbed her coat. She barely had one arm inside the sleeve when a powerful force knocked her to the ground. Poppy flipped onto her back as the attacker loomed over her, his dark, heavy coat blurring his build, his knit cap covering his hair and the gray wool scarf hiding the lower half of his face.
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