Drawing in a breath, he distanced himself from the waiting crime scene. He’d learned distance when he’d been eleven. Against his mother’s orders, he’d decided to be the first of the Morgan boys to climb Miller’s Falls. He’d been inches from the top, feeling mighty proud of himself, when a rock under his right hand had given way. He’d fallen fast and hit hard.

When he’d awoken, stars twinkled in the sky and he’d been perched on a ledge, his arm twisted and broken. Pain had sliced through him and his heart pounded like a fist. He’d tried to sit up, desperate to get away from the edge, when a portion of the ledge crumbled under him. He’d realized if he kept moving or panicked, he’d die. So he’d closed his eyes and stepped back from the fear. He’d called for help until his voice was raw, finally, he’d stopped. He’d slowed his breathing and steadied his heartbeat. In the quiet of his mind, he’d found a refuge away from fear.

He’d lain on that rock for nearly three days, never moving as the crows circled, rain drizzled, and bugs crawled over him. When he’d been rescued, he’d been so calm the searchers had thought he was in shock. Later, when he’d faced his first crime scene, he’d stepped back again and returned to the emotionless place that allowed him to see clues that others, overcome with emotion, missed. This talent, honed to cutting sharpness, resisted corralling more and more. In recent years, personal relationships had suffered. He’d lost touch with too many. And worse, he didn’t care.

“Iceman. Ice on the outside. Ice in his heart,” Georgia had declared at the most recent family Christmas celebration. A few glasses of wine in her, she’d bemoaned the trials of love. Stone sober, he’d suggested she overrated love. That comment had earned him the “Iceman” moniker.

“Alex.” Deke’s voice rushed across the sparsely furnished living room.

“Yeah.” He turned from the pictures to see Deke standing in the doorway, backlit by the bright sunlight shining in from the kitchen.

“The victim is Deidre Jones, isn’t it?” Alex asked.

“Yes.”

Yesterday, he’d smelled the lies on her like overdone perfume when she’d challenged him at the TBI offices. He knew he’d hit some kind of nerve with his questions, and she was hiding something big. He’d been right but didn’t relish the victory. “What happened?”

“She was stabbed multiple times. She’s in the kitchen.”

Dozens of questions rattled in his brain, but he silenced them all. Look first. Then ask. His old man had said that a million times. Don’t let anyone else’s analysis cloud your perspective.

He moved past a couch and a coffee table. On the table sat a half glass of water, red lipstick on the rim. No furniture beyond the couch, other than a television and a small end table with a lamp on top.

He imagined Deidre had clicked on the light and sipped her water when cop radar prompted a return to her purse to retrieve her gun. Had it been a knock at one of the doors?

Alex shifted his attention to the kitchen and moved carefully past the breakfast bar. He saw his sister, Georgia, dressed in a Tyvek suit and booties, her red hair tucked into a surgical cap as she leaned over the body, snapping photos. Blood pooled around the body and under Georgia’s feet. Judging by Georgia’s equipment and grim face, she had been here several hours documenting the scene. He knew this because she would never have stepped into the blood and disturbed the evidence until it was well documented.

Georgia’s body blocked a full view of Deidre, but he caught a glimpse of one pale arm, slashed and cut. The upturned palm, gashed and gaping, conjured images of Deidre blocking the blade with her arms and grabbing the knife’s edge. She was a tough woman. Could hold her own against most men. How had this killer gotten close enough to stab her?

Georgia rose up, moistened dry lips, and turned from the body. A glance up at Alex revealed anger mingling with sadness.

Refusing to acknowledge the liquid emotion in Georgia’s eyes, he took his first hard look at the body.

Deidre lay on her back, her arms and feet splayed. She was fully dressed in the pantsuit he’d seen her wearing when she’d faced him in the lobby at TBI. Knife cuts had slashed the white silk top, cutting into flesh and soaking the delicate fabric with the dark ruddy brown of blood. Knife wounds slashed through her pants, cutting deep into flesh.

Who the hell would do this to her? What the hell had she gotten herself into?

Sympathy warmed in the pit of his belly. She might not have been totally clean, but she’d done good work as a cop, and that counted in the big scheme. Loyalty for a fallen comrade threatened to melt the ice before he summoned cold winds to burn it away. Later, after the killer had been caught, he’d allow anger. Outrage. But not now.

Alex turned from Deidre’s body and faced his brother. “Who found her?”

“Leah Carson.”

“What?” He was rarely caught off guard. “Leah Carson?”

An open notebook in one hand, Deke clicked the end of a pen in the other. “Yeah, ain’t that something? Your date found the body.”

He’d seen her at the clinic yesterday. What was the time? Four? “Why was she here?”

“Deidre missed running practice this morning, and when she didn’t answer her phone, Ms. Carson came by to check on her.”

He’d been at the park this morning, watching the group run. He’d noted Deidre’s absence but hadn’t worried too much. She’d missed before. Cops always missed because of the job. But this morning he’d been drawn to Leah and her dogged determination to keep up with the group. Even when it was clear she’d finish dead last, she’d kept moving.

Alex folded his arms. “Continue.”

“She saw her purse inside through the front window. Front door was locked so she walked around to the back. It was ajar.”

Georgia met his gaze. “Did you know they ran together?”

“Yes.”

Georgia eyed him closely, shooting him a demanding look.

Alex disregarded the silent demand. “How’s Ms. Carson doing?”

Deke shrugged. “She’s rattled. Siting in the back of a squad car.”

An urge to go to Leah surprised Alex. And the struggle to refrain surprised him more. The case first. “What happened?”

Georgia stepped out of the blood pool onto a tarp, where she rolled her head from side to side. Crime scenes like this one could take days to process. So much data to be collected and sorted, and Georgia wouldn’t leave until she’d found every trace. “Leah apparently came into the house through the back door, saw the victim in the kitchen, and then ran to the bathroom, where she threw up. She called nine-one-one from her cell outside.”

The image of her fragile frame, pale and drawn, chipped at the ice. More pity flickered. Another struggle to contain.

Lines of worry etched deep in Deke’s face. “No signs of forced entry. Nothing appears to have been taken from the town house, but we’ve got a call in to her sister. She’s coming in from California and won’t be here until very late tonight. Gun, money, credit cards all appear to be in her purse.”

“Where’s her husband?” Alex asked.

“Haven’t contacted him yet,” Deke said. “You said they were getting a divorce? Not friendly, correct?”

“That’s what I’ve heard. I don’t have details.”

Hands resting on his hips, Deke shook his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts. “I know her husband. He’s a sheriff in a small town about twenty miles north of Nashville. Given the basic facts, he’s at the top of my suspect list.”

“That’s a logical conclusion.” When a woman was murdered, statistics proved it was someone she knew and at one time loved.

“Signs of sexual assault?” Deke asked Georgia.

“None from what I can tell,” Georgia said. “The medical examiner will have to make the last call on that.”

“The bedrooms weren’t disturbed, but there’s a window in the back bedroom that’s slightly open. My guess is the killer came in through the window and surprised her.”