PRAISE FOR VICTOR METHOS

  The Secret Witness

  “A red-hot suspenser aimed at readers for whom a single serial killer just isn’t enough.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  An Unreliable Truth

  “A straight-A legal thriller with a final scene as satisfying as it is disturbing.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  A Killer’s Wife

  An Amazon Best Book of the Month: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense

  “A Killer’s Wife is a high-stakes legal thriller loaded with intense courtroom drama, compelling characters, and surprising twists that will keep you turning the pages at breakneck speed.”

  —T. R. Ragan, New York Times bestselling author

  “Exquisitely paced and skillfully crafted, A Killer’s Wife delivers a wicked psychological suspense wrapped around a hypnotic legal thriller. One cleverly designed twist after another kept me saying, ‘I did not see that coming.’”

  —Steven Konkoly, Wall Street Journal bestselling author

  “A gripping thriller that doesn’t let up for a single page. Surprising twists with a hero you care about. I read the whole book in one sitting!”

  —Chad Zunker, bestselling author of An Equal Justice

  OTHER TITLES BY VICTOR METHOS

  Shepard & Gray Series

  The Secret Witness

  The Grave Singer

  Desert Plains Series

  A Killer’s Wife

  Crimson Lake Road

  An Unreliable Truth

  Neon Lawyer Series

  The Neon Lawyer

  Mercy

  Other Titles

  The Hallows

  The Shotgun Lawyer

  A Gambler’s Jury

  An Invisible Client

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2024 by Victor Methos

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781662516245 (paperback)

  ISBN-13: 9781662516238 (digital)

  Cover design by Faceout Studio, Molly von Borstel

  Cover image: © At World’s Edge, © AndreyUG, © Realstock / Shutterstock; © Marcos Appelt / ArcAngel

  The heart of another is a dark forest, always, no matter how close it has been to one’s own.

  —Willa Cather

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  Solomon Shepard stood under the morgue’s dim yellow light, his pulse echoing as he approached the cold gurney.

  Beneath a gray sheet, a lifeless body was hidden, with only dainty painted toenails and an intrusive toe tag in sight. The air was thick, carrying a nauseating mix of damp latex and bleach.

  The soft tingle of a bell sent chills down Solomon’s spine. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, coroners would tie bells to the cadavers’ ankles to prevent accidental burial of the living, and the sound made Solomon wonder what might be lurking in the shadows.

  The morgue was far colder than even the icy weather outside, and Solomon exhaled heavily, watching as his breath formed a ghostly mist in the air.

  The sound of another bell echoed through the silence.

  Solomon knew he was alone down here, but the sound made him turn anyway, his heart pounding even faster as he tried to identify the source of the noise. At this time of night, everyone had gone home, and Solomon had snuck down to the morgue, his heart racing with anticipation.

  The door to the morgue had been open, and he’d overheard several ME’s assistants joking that there was no reason to lock it. No one wanted to go into a morgue, and no one ever came out.

  Solomon looked over to the bodies lined up against the walls, all covered in gray sheets.

  Tomorrow, there would be a final check of their information, and then they would be stored in the fridge: a giant metal box with shelves. The body Solomon had come down here for was one of these.

  He could have revealed each face beneath the sheets, but fear stopped him. He didn’t want to see her changed by death without preparing himself.

  Solomon fixed his eyes on the gray sheet that covered the body before him. He could tell it was large even without looking underneath, and the stench of death was suffocating. He forced himself to approach the gurney and read the name and cause of death on the tag: Nicolas Williams, dead from a self-inflicted shotgun wound to the face. Solomon was grateful he hadn’t pulled back the sheet first.

  Moving on to the next body, he noticed it was slimmer, almost delicate. The tag read Bethany Castle, a young woman who had been murdered three days ago. The details of her death were gruesome—twelve stab wounds on her torso while almost decapitated—and Solomon wondered if it was a domestic murder. Most young women who were murdered were killed by their husbands or boyfriends in their own homes.

  Another bell echoed in the morgue. Solomon’s head whipped around. The room seemed darker, the smell more pungent, a mix of formaldehyde and bleach that threatened to make him gag. The ringing came again, closer to the door.

  He wanted to know what was making the sound, but the draw to the bodies was too much. He had to see her with his own eyes.

  He moved across the room to the two bodies lined up against the far wall. One of the gray sheets had a faint wet stain along the chest in the shape of a Y. Solomon checked the tag: Stephen Brown, who had died in a hit-and-run, suffering skull fractures and internal bleeding.

  His heart pounding, Solomon turned to the last body, feeling the air grow thinner so that it was hard to breathe. He inhaled deeply and pulled back the sheet, only there was no one there.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he spun around. He was met with a pale, cracking corpse with dirty-blonde hair highlighted pink and falling out in clumps. The mouth opened, and blood flowed over the lips.

  Solomon jolted awake and screamed.

  “Son of a biscuit!” the Uber driver shouted, nearly losing control of the car.

  The tires screeched as Solomon flew against the door, his cane tangled in his legs. The sedan came to a sudden stop, and the driver sat motionless, breathing heavily. His fingers were wrapped tightly over the steering wheel, and his chest was heaving.

  Solomon struggled to find his voice, his heart still racing. Finally, he managed to say, “Sorry.”

  The driver took two deep breaths and replied calmly, “If you could not fall asleep the rest of the ride, that’d be great.”

  The car pulled up to the main gate of his home, out in the middle of nowhere, the nearest neighbors miles away. The first time he’d been here, he was immediately struck by the wild and rugged landscape. The sprawling estate was surrounded by thickets of untamed grass and patches of dense shrubbery that seemed to encroach from all angles. The darkness tonight was made even more ominous by the bare, shadowy trees looming over the property.

  “You live way out here in this giant house by yourself?”

  Solomon gazed up at the silhouette of the house. “It’s better I’m alone. Thanks for the ride.”

  As the car pulled away, Solomon was left in the eerie silence. On quiet summer nights, he often kept his bedroom window open so he could listen to the soothing sound of the water as it flowed through the rocky bed of a nearby stream. But now, as the winter had taken hold, the stream was silenced, its gentle flow replaced by a frozen expanse.

  The darkness seemed to surround him like a living thing, and he felt an icy finger run down his spine at what might be lurking beyond his sight.

  As he punched in the code to his gate and went inside, he couldn’t shake the image of the corpse he had seen, and felt a shudder run through him.

  2

  Billie Gray woke to the sound of footsteps outside her bedroom.

  She glanced at the alarm clock and saw that it was just past 3:00 a.m. Her grandmother always called this time “the devil’s hour,” claiming that ghosts and de mons were stronger then. Billie found her grandmother’s folklore amusing, but she wondered if there are things in the world that are older than people, and that haven’t left.

  She reached for the Glock 9 mm that lay on her nightstand, a weapon she had never kept there until earlier this year. Her ex, Dax, had become increasingly obsessed and harassing, forcing her to take out a stalking injunction against him. But the day after the injunction had been granted, she received over one hundred texts, Facebook messages, and voice mails from him. As a law enforcement officer, she knew that there came a point in every stalking case when the law was powerless. When the stalker no longer feared incarceration, it became a waiting game.

  Billie let her eyes adjust to the darkness before she got out of bed. She looked down at herself and realized she was wearing only underwear and an oversize T-shirt. She couldn’t have looked less intimidating if she tried. She slipped on a pair of jeans that was lying on the floor and picked up her 9 mm.

  Deputy Aaron Watkins stuffed a sandwich slathered in chocolate-hazelnut spread into his mouth, chewing loudly. His partner, Dave Garcia, watched him with a mixture of disgust and amazement.

  “What?” Aaron asked through a mouthful of food.

  “Did your girlfriend make that for you?” Dave asked, nodding toward the sandwich.

  “No, I made it myself. Why?”

  “It’s like something a child would eat when their parents aren’t home,” Dave said.

  “You’re just jealous that I don’t have to worry about maintaining a girlish figure like you and I still get the ladies,” Aaron said, patting his ample belly.

  “Whatever.” Dave flexed his muscular biceps. “That’s what two hours a day at the gym will do. You know you’re welcome to join me.”

  “Waste of time,” Aaron said dismissively. “We go when we go, and two hours a day jumping around won’t change that.”

  Dave smirked, a sly glint in his eyes. “When you’re clutching your chest at fifty, I’ll remember this chat,” he said.

  Aaron was staring out the windshield at the sheriff’s house, where they had been assigned to keep watch throughout the night. The sheriff’s ex had threatened to kill her and then himself, and the department wasn’t taking any chances.

  “This is what you get when you have a woman in charge,” Aaron said.

  “I don’t know, Billie’s not so bad. Gets things done like her old man did.”

  “She’s an ice queen, and one day it’s going to bite her in the ass.” He licked his fingers. “Hey, why don’t women need to wear a watch?”

  “Why?”

  “Because the stove has a clock.”

  Dave shook his head with a chuckle but looked back out at the house. He listened to his partner chew for a moment before asking, “What are we going to do if this guy actually shows up?”

  “We’ll ask him to leave,” Aaron said, smacking his lips.

  “He’s insane. He’s not going to listen to us.”

  “He will. At least the first time.”

  “And what if he comes armed and looking for more than just a talk?”

  “Well, that’s why I . . .” Aaron trailed off, his attention suddenly drawn to something outside the windshield. “What was that?”

  “What’d you see?” Dave asked, leaning forward to look.

  “I think I saw someone moving inside the house,” Aaron said, his hand sliding to his holster.

  Billie glanced out into the hallway, which was dark and quiet. She opened the flashlight function on her phone and shone it down the corridor.

  Keeping most of her body hidden behind the doorframe, she peeked around the other side of the hallway and saw nothing. She then stepped out, her bare feet sinking into the soft rug that covered the wood floor. As she made her way down the hall, she flipped off the safety of her weapon.

  The kitchen smelled like lime-scented cleaner, but it was still a bit musty. She flicked on the light and saw a half-empty glass of wine on the counter. She didn’t remember leaving it out, but the sleeping pills she had been taking lately were affecting her in strange ways when mixed with alcohol.

  She crossed the kitchen and entered the living room. The blinds were rattling softly from a breeze, and she realized that the window was open. She must have left it open; the alarm was supposed to turn on once everything was secure, which meant that her alarm had been off all night. “Stupid,” she muttered to herself.

  She closed the window and returned to the kitchen. After placing her weapon on the dining table, she poured the remaining wine from the glass down the drain and rinsed it off. She stared at her reflection in the smooth surface of the glass. The pink strands of hair that mixed with her blonde stood out more than anything else. Her face looked twisted and malformed, a grotesque mirror of what she felt on the inside.

  A knock on her door made her heart jump into her throat. “Who is it?” she yelled.

  “Sheriff? It’s me, Aaron Watkins,” a muffled voice said from behind the front door.

  She went to the door and saw one of her deputies standing there with chocolate smeared on either side of his mouth.

  “I saw someone moving around and thought I would check on you.”

  “I’m all right, thank you,” she replied. “I guess I left a window open and the rattle of the blinds woke me up.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t remember leaving it open?”

  “No, I’m usually careful to check these things,” she said. “But I must have been distracted.”

  She didn’t want to tell him about the pills and alcohol because she didn’t want anyone to know about her struggles with insomnia.

  Most of her thoughts at night were consumed by two men in her life—one who had said he never wanted to see her again, and the other who had threatened to kill her because she refused to see him.

  I sure know how to pick ’em.

  “Mind if I have a look around, Sheriff?” Aaron asked, gesturing toward the house. Billie glanced behind him and saw another of her deputies parked in a cruiser across the street.

  “No, really, it’s fine,” she said, feeling a bit annoyed. “I hate that you two have to spend the night sitting out there anyway.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” he replied. “How would it look if you got attacked and I was sitting right out there.”

  Billie watched his face, and his words didn’t match his eyes or expression. There was something almost gleeful about it. He knew she was frightened and he enjoyed it.

  Billie sighed, but she knew he was right. The district attorney, Roger Lynch, had insisted that she have a unit assigned to protect her. She suspected that it had more to do with how bad the optics would be if something happened to her on Roger’s watch than with actual concern for her safety.

  “I can protect myself, Aaron, thanks,” she said. “But if it means that much to you, go ahead.” She opened the door all the way so that he could come inside.

  Watkins nodded and started to wander through the house, flipping on lights as he went. Billie went into the kitchen, trying to shake off the unease that had settled over her. She didn’t like having someone else in her house, even if it was one of her own deputies.

  “You want some coffee?” Billie said, going to her coffee maker on the counter.

  “I’ll take a cup if you’re making it,” Aaron replied.

  Billie mumbled to herself, “Sure, won’t be going back to sleep anyway.”

  She sat at the kitchen table and let Aaron finish poking around the house. She knew that no one was there because Dax would wait until she was isolated and alone before making a move.

  Aaron came back into the kitchen, his thumbs tucked into his utility belt. “All clear,” he said. He picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip. “Good coffee. Thanks.”

  Billie was about to ask him to sit when the small radio on his shoulder crackled to life. “422,” a voice said.

  Aaron pressed the call button. “422, copy,” he responded.

  “We have a 10-98 and deputies are requesting backup,” the voice said.

  “Backup for a suicide?” Aaron asked.

  “Roger that.”

  Billie took a sip of her coffee as she listened. The only reasons someone would request backup at a suicide were if more than a suicide was suspected or if the suicide was someone who would receive media attention. A celebrity or politician. Something where every move the police made would be scrutinized. Within the department, they called these cases “red carpets” because, before computers took over, clerks would organize the documents in any cases that got media attention into red folders.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29