“How long ago was that?”

“It’s been kind of ongoing, I think.”

Taking her arm, I guide her toward the door. “What’s the neighbor’s name?”

“Seymour.”

“Is that a first or last name?”

“I don’t know. He just goes by Seymour and my dad didn’t like him much. That’s all I know.”

I nod. “Did your father have any kind of connection to anyone with the name Hochstetler?”

She looks at me blankly. “Not that I know of.”

“Did he keep money or valuables here at the house?”

“I don’t know. He probably kept some cash on hand. And there are plenty of nice things in the house. He remodeled the place after my mom divorced him.”

“How long ago did they divorce?”

“Oh gosh, eight years maybe?”

“Any tension between them?”

She shakes her head. “Divorce is probably the best thing they ever did for each other.”

“Did he have any work done on the house recently? Or hire any casual laborers? Anything like that?”

“Did that remodeling six or seven years ago.” She shrugs. “He’s handy and liked to tinker, so he did a lot of the work himself.”

“Does your dad have a cell phone?” I ask, knowing that many times it’s helpful to check incoming and outgoing calls.

“He just upgraded his iPhone.”

“You’ve been a big help, Mrs. Harrington.” I motion toward Glock. “Officer Maddox will walk you to your vehicle. This is a crime scene now, and we need to protect any evidence.”

A round of fresh tears well in her eyes. “My poor dad. Shot like some old dog.”

I give Glock a nod and he gently ushers her toward the door. “This way, ma’am.”

I watch them disappear into the rain and then tug out my cell and hit the speed dial for Tomasetti, knowing he can get a crime scene unit out here faster than I can. Worry flickers inside me when he doesn’t pick up, but I presume he’s in the shower or on another line. I call my dispatcher instead. “Call BCI and request a CSU. Tell them we’ve got a possible homicide.” I give her the address. “Check County records and get me the names and contact info of Michaels’s neighbors. I’m particularly interested in a neighbor with the first or last name of Seymour. See if he’s got a sheet.”

“Okay, Chief.”

I ring off in time to hear the coroner call my name. I walk back over to where he’s kneeling next to the body, his gloved hand hovering near the bullet wound. “I’m guessing, Kate, but I’d venture to say the slug penetrated the stomach. If that’s the case, there’s no way he walked from the house to the barn after sustaining this wound.”

I scan the interior of the barn, trying to get my mind around what might have transpired. “Is it possible Michaels was already hanging, perhaps by his own hand, and someone entered the barn and shot him?” I ask the doc.

“Possible, but doubtful,” he replies. “There’s only a small window of time that he was alive, after he was hanged. Once the carotid artery and jugular veins are blocked, unconsciousness would have occurred within minutes. Death may have taken another ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Maybe someone shot him to disable him and then strung him up,” Glock says as he comes through the door.

“Hell of a way to kill someone,” Maloney adds.

I look down at Dale Michaels’s body. “Unless maybe someone thought he deserved it.”

CHAPTER 4

It’s nearly 4 A.M. when I arrive home, exhausted and in need of a shower. Once the coroner’s office transported the body to the morgue, Glock and I spent three hours searching both the barn and the house. As is always the case when murder is suspected, the question of motive is forefront in our minds. That question was addressed, at least in part, when we found eighty bucks and a gold class ring lying in plain sight on a night table. In the study, there was a sleek MacBook Pro, which I sealed in an evidence bag and sent to the lab. A flat-screen television in the living room. All those items are coveted by thieves: they’re valuable, easy to transport, and quick to sell. And I was able to comfortably rule out robbery as the motive.

One item of interest that we didn’t find at the scene was Dale Michaels’s cell phone. I even dialed the number, hoping to hear the ring, but to no avail. Often, it’s helpful to know with whom the victim spoke in the days and hours before death. According to his daughter, the cell phone should have been somewhere on the premises. Did he leave it somewhere? Lose it? Or did someone take it?

Another thing we couldn’t explain was the locked house. If Michaels had been working or tinkering on some project in the barn, why would he lock the door? Crime is relatively low in Painters Mill and, for the most part, throughout Holmes County. Neither Glock nor I could think of a logical reason why Michaels would lock the house if he was going to the barn. In addition, there was no evidence that he’d been working on any kind of project in the barn. There were no tools out of place, nothing being repaired. We finally landed on the possibility that he may have been in the barn to feed and water the chickens. Still, why lock the house?

It was after 2 A.M. when the CSU arrived. I’d turned the scene over to them and was about to leave when I realized we hadn’t yet looked at Michaels’s Lexus. It was there that I found our first clue: blood in the trunk. Initially, we had surmised Michaels was accosted in the barn, shot, and while he was incapacitated, hanged from the rafters, all of which would have taken a good bit of time and effort. The discovery of blood in the trunk—which was later determined to be human—changed everything and raised a slew of new questions.

If the blood is determined to be Michaels’s, how did he end up in the trunk of his own car? Did someone accost him on the highway, put a bullet in him, throw him in the trunk, then transport him back here and string him up in the barn?

We also discovered tire tracks in the barn. The crime scene unit took plaster copies of the tread, but they looked to be a match to Michaels’s Lexus. Because the vehicle was part of the crime scene, I had it towed to the sheriff’s department impound, where it will be processed by the CSU.

Because of the late hour, I’d considered spending the rest of the night at my house in Painters Mill, if only for a shower and a couple hours of sleep. I still own the place and most of my furniture is still there, including my bed and a few linens. But by the time I left the scene, all I could think about was getting home and spending a few hours with Tomasetti.

The house is dark except for the back porch light and the bulb above the stove, which he keeps on for me when he knows I’ll be arriving home late. I let myself in, anticipating a shower, a warm bed, and the feel of him solid against me as I drift off to sleep. The aroma of homemade spaghetti—onions, green peppers, and garlic—still lingers when I enter the kitchen, and I smile because I like this new life I’ve stepped into. The domesticity. Having someone I can count on. Someone I look forward to seeing at the end of the day. Someone I love …

Leaving my boots next to the door, I set my keys on the counter and drape my holster and jacket over the back of a chair. I’m midway to the stairs where our bedroom is when a voice comes out of the darkness.

“Kate.”

I startle and spin. I spot Tomasetti’s silhouette against the living room window. He’s standing ten feet away, something in his hand. I have a sort of sixth sense when it comes to his frame of mind, and I know immediately something has changed since I left a few hours ago. There’s an edge in his voice that unsettles me. Something else in the way he’s standing there, not moving.

I start toward him, suddenly needing to touch him. To make sure he’s really there. That he’s okay. That we’re okay. “I thought you’d be sleeping.”