Blood on Copperhead Trail - Paula Graves

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voice-mail message.

      Instead she heard only the sound of breathing and, faintly in the distance, the rustle of leaves.

      “Hello?” she said into the receiver.

      The breathing continued for a moment. Then the line went dead.

      “Did she answer?” Ivy asked.

      Laney shook her head. “But someone was on the other end of the line—”

      Ivy’s phone rang, the trill jangling Laney’s taut nerves. Ivy shot her a look of apology and answered. “What’s up, Antoine?”

      The detective’s brow creased deeply, and she darted a look at Laney so full of dread that Laney’s breath caught in her chest.

      “On my way,” Ivy said and hung up the phone. “I’ve got to run.”

      “What is it?” Laney asked, swallowing her dread as Ivy dug in her pocket for money, carefully not meeting Laney’s eyes.

      “Someone called in a body. I’m heading to the crime scene to see what we can sort out.” Ivy put a ten on the table. “Ask Christie to box up my order and put it in the fridge. I’ll pick it up later.”

      Laney caught Ivy’s arm. “Where’s the crime scene?”

      Ivy’s gaze slid up to meet hers. “Up on Copperhead Ridge.”

      Chapter Two

      “What’s she doing here?” Doyle Massey asked Ivy Hawkins as she crossed to where he and Detective Antoine Parsons stood near the body.

      On the other side of the yellow crime-scene tape, Laney Hanvey stood with her arms crossed tightly over her body as if trying to hold herself together. Her face was pale except where the hike up the cold mountain had reddened her nose and cheeks. Her blue eyes met his, sharp with dread.

      Ivy looked over her shoulder. “Her sister went hiking up here over the weekend and didn’t show up this morning when she was supposed to. I couldn’t talk her out of coming.”

      He dragged his gaze from Laney’s worried face and nodded at the body. “Female. Late teens, early twenties. Do you know what the sister looks like?”

      Ivy edged closer to the body, trying not to disturb the area directly around her. “It’s not Janelle Hanvey. It’s Missy Adderly. No ID?”

      “Not that we’ve found. We’ve tried not to disturb the body too much,” Detective Parsons answered for Doyle.

      “TBI on the way?” Ivy asked.

      It took Doyle a moment to realize she was talking about the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. He’d have to bone up on the local terminology. “Yeah.”

      Doyle found his gaze traveling back to Laney Hanvey’s huddled figure. He left his detectives discussing the case and crossed to where she stood.

      She looked up at him, fear bright in her eyes. “Chief.”

      “It’s not your sister.”

      A visible shudder of relief rippled through her, but the fear in her eyes didn’t go away. “One of the Adderly girls?”

      “Detective Hawkins says it’s Missy Adderly.”

      Laney lifted one hand to her mouth, horror darkening her eyes. “God.”

      “Your sister was hiking up here with the Adderly sisters this weekend?”

      Laney nodded slowly, dropping her hand. “They left Friday night to go hiking and camping. My mother said Janelle and the girls had planned to be back home first thing this morning so Jannie and Missy could get to school on time.” Her throat bobbed nervously. “Jannie’s senior year. She was so excited about graduating and going off to college.”

      “She’s a good student?” he asked carefully.

      Laney’s gaze had drifted toward the clump of detectives surrounding the body. It snapped back to meet Doyle’s. “A very good student. A good girl.” Her lips twisted wryly as she said the words. “I know that’s what most families say about their kids, but in this case, it’s true. Janelle’s a good girl. She’s never given my mother any trouble. Ever.”

      There’s always a first time, Doyle thought. And a good girl on the cusp of leaving home and seeing the world was ripe for it.

      “Was it an accident?” There was dreadful hope in Laney’s voice. Doyle felt sick about having to dash it.

      “No.”

      She released a long sigh, her breath swirling through the cold air in a wispy cloud of condensation. “Then you may have three victims, not just one.”

      He nodded, hating the fear in her eyes but knowing he would be doing her no favors to give her false hope. “We’ve already called in local trackers to start looking around for the other girls.”

      “I called her cell phone. Back at the diner. Someone answered but didn’t speak.” Laney hugged herself more tightly.

      Doyle felt the unexpected urge to wrap his own arms around her, to help her hold herself together. “Could it have been your sister on the other end?”

      “I want to believe it could,” she admitted, once again dragging her straying gaze away from the body and back to him. “But I don’t think it was.”

      “Did you hear anything at all?”

      “Breathing, I think. The sound of rustling, like the wind through dead leaves. Nothing else. Then the call cut off.”

      “Anything that might give us an idea of a location?”

      “I don’t know. I can’t think.”

      “It’s okay.” He put his hand on her shoulder, felt the nervous ripple of her body beneath his touch. She was like a skittish colt, all fear and nerves.

      He knew exactly what that kind of terror felt like.

      “No, it’s not.” She shook off his hand and visibly straightened her spine, her chin coming up to stab the cold air. “I know the clock is ticking.”

      Tough lady, he thought. “You said you heard rustling. What about birds? Did you hear any birds?”

      Her eyes narrowed, her focus shifting inward. “No, I didn’t hear any birds.”

      “What about the breathing? Could you tell whether it was a man or a woman?”

      “Man,” she answered, her gaze focusing on his face again. “He didn’t vocalize, exactly, but there was a masculine quality to his breathing. I don’t know how to explain it—”

      “Was he breathing regularly? Slow? Fast?”

      “Fast,” she answered. “I think that’s what was so creepy about it. He was almost panting.”

      Panting could mean a lot of things, Doyle reminded himself as a cold draft slid beneath the collar of his jacket, sending chill bumps down his back. It could have been a hiker who wasn’t in good shape. Might not have been anyone connected to this murder or the girls’ disappearance, for that matter. Maybe someone had found the phone, answered the ring but was too out of breath to speak.

      Or maybe he was breathing hard because he’d just chased down three teenage girls like the predator he was.

      He tried not to telegraph his grim thoughts to Laney Hanvey, but she was no fool. She didn’t need his help imagining the worst.

      “She’s not alive, is she?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “But the odds are—”

      “I’m not a gambler,” he said firmly. “I don’t deal with odds. I deal with facts. And the facts are, we have only one body so far.”

      “Who’s

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