LITMIR.BIZ

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Innocent faces glued to smartphones, earbuds firmly embedded in ears, an insouciant walk; these kids didn’t seem to have a care in the world. What if she wasn’t cool enough for them?

      “Right. There’s the thing to worry about. Being cool.”

      She settled at the desk and opened her laptop. Debated putting in her own earbuds; decided she was being silly. She knew her lesson plan cold, but giving it one more look wouldn’t hurt; she hated using notes. Regardless of the doubt she was feeling, she was here to engage these young doctors, intrigue them, but also allow them a glimpse into the real world of forensic pathology. Not the exciting, tumultuous world they saw on television, but the bloody, messy, heart-wrenching process of dissection, both of bodies and of lives. To show them the hardest truth of all: the dead have no secrets.

      But the living do.

      Forget the notes. Maybe she’d just read for a bit, settle into her office. Adjust to the sights and sounds of her new life.

      She was deep into an article on forensic ballistics when a soft knock pulled her from her review. She looked up to see Xander in her doorway, a grin on his face.

      “Hey,” he said.

      Her stomach flipped, as it always did when he caught her unawares. A biological response to an emotion none truly understood. An emotion she was grateful for, because she knew the depth of it had saved her from sinking into the deepest abyss.

      Alexander Whitfield. Known to his parents and family as Moonbeam, or Xander Moon. A true misnomer for a tough former army ranger. And Xander was still a ranger through and through: intense, alert, always combing the background for unseen threats. Romantic, and a fatalist. Just like her.

      He was a different man now than the one she’d met several months before. More open, more forgiving. Happier. They’d settled into a version of domestic bliss, splitting their time between her Georgetown town house and his cabin in the backwoods of the Savage River Forest.

      He’d separated from the army the previous year after the terrible cover-up of a friendly fire incident that had killed one of his best friends. He’d run to the woods, disengaged from the world and would have stayed there, lost and alone, if it weren’t for Sam. Two broken souls, made whole by their joining.

      Xander wasn’t fully ready to reenter the world, but he was coming back, a bit at a time. Though he’d done his best to hide it, she knew he was happy she had turned down Baldwin’s job offer.

      “Hey,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

      “I thought I’d bring you lunch. I know how you can lose yourself in your work. What is it today? Blood spatter?”

      “It’s eerie how you do that.” She turned the laptop around and showed him the article. “I was just starting the section on backspatter.”

      He didn’t pale, but his lips tightened together in a grim line. He’d spent most of his life behind the trigger; he was more than familiar with the concept.

      Sam glanced at the screen, saw the full-color image of a man at the wrong end of a shotgun and slammed the laptop closed. “Sorry. What’s this about lunch?”

      Xander’s dark hair flopped onto his forehead. “You’re not one of those M.E.s who can eat a tuna sandwich standing over a corpse, are you?”

      “Highly unethical behavior, tuna eating. I’d stick with cookies or crackers myself. The crumbs are easier to brush away.”

      He laughed, deep from his belly, which made her smile. She loved his laugh.

      “I wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating crackers.” He glanced over his shoulder at the open office door. “Maybe we should inaugurate your office.”

      He kissed her, long and lingering, and she was damn close to saying lock the door when another knock sounded, this one accompanied by a high-pitched throat clearing. They jumped apart like teenagers caught making out on a porch, and Sam smoothed her shirt down—good grief, one of her buttons was undone; how had he managed that?—before turning to see who’d so rudely interrupted them.

      It was one of her new T.A.s, Stephanie Wilhelm, a slight blonde with a sharp sense of humor to match her highly unorthodox look—today a black Metallica concert T-shirt under a black men’s pin-striped jacket and dark jeans tucked into leather combat boots. Sam liked the girl. Her independence among the clones had landed her the coveted T.A. position in the first place.

      “Forgive me, Dr. Owens, but this letter arrived for you. It’s marked urgent. I thought I should bring it to you right away.”

      Her words were directed to Sam, but her eyes were locked on Xander, who was sitting on the edge of Sam’s desk, arms crossed on his broad chest, vibrating in amusement as he watched her fumble with her button.

      “Thank you, Stephanie. I appreciate it.”

      “If you need anything else...” She dropped off, winked lasciviously.

      “Out,” Sam said, and Stephanie left with a grin.

      “I’m hot for teacher,” Xander said, and Sam swatted him with the letter.

      “Quit it. The last thing I need is a reputation for looseness among my students.” She sat on the desk next to him and opened the letter. Thick strokes of black ink, the words slanted to the right. A man’s handwriting.

      She read the first line, felt the breath leave her body. “Uh-oh.”

      Xander caught her tone. “What’s wrong?”

      She scanned the rest of the letter. “You need to hear this.” She read it aloud, vaguely noticed her voice was shaking.

      “Dear Dr. Owens,

      If you are reading this letter, I am dead. I would be most grateful if you would solve my murder. I know how determined you are, and talented. If anyone can figure out this mess, it’s you.

      I’ve compiled a list of suspects for you to look at, and set aside some money to cover your expenses. I fear your life may be in danger once they find I’ve contacted you, so I urge you to take every precaution.

      Yours,

      Timothy R. Savage”

      “Let me see that.” Xander took the letter from her, barely touching the corner between his thumb and forefinger. Sam watched his face as he read it, saw the darkness draw over him like a shroud.

      “Who the hell is Timothy Savage?”

      “I have no idea. But it’s a pretty sick joke. Who would do such a thing?”

      “I don’t know. John Baldwin, maybe? Trying to draw you into a case against your will?”

      She opened her mouth to deny the possibility, but stopped herself. She’d known Baldwin for many years. He was engaged to her best friend. He was a good man, a no-nonsense cop in addition to being a talented profiler. He wouldn’t resort to manipulation. Would he?

      “No. It’s not him.”

      Xander shrugged. “Where’s the envelope?”

      In her surprise, she’d dropped it on the floor. She pulled a tissue from the box on her desk and picked it up, careful not to directly touch any part of it. Ridiculous, she’d already gotten her prints all over it, so had Stephanie and countless others, but she had to treat it as evidence now.

      “Return address is Lynchburg, Virginia,” she said. “Let me plug it into my laptop, see if it’s real.”

      He read the information to her, and she entered it into Google. The name Timothy Savage popped up, along with a map of his address, and a death notice from the local Lynchburg paper.

      “Oh, no. Xander, Timothy Savage really is dead.”

      Xander breathed hard out his nose. “Then Sam, honey, you better call Fletcher. This might not be a joke, after all.”

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