LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘What’d we miss?’ Harper gestured to the crowd of cops. ‘Any ID on the victim? Is it a tourist?’

      ‘Nobody’s saying anything,’ he said. ‘The tape was up when I got here. They’ve kept it quiet on the radio – there’s no chatter. I almost missed it myself. I heard some chit-chat about the coroner that let me know something was up, otherwise I’d still be home.’

      ‘You called Baxter yet?’ she asked.

      He shook his head.

      ‘Don’t have enough to tell her.’

      Bonnie listened to all of this, but said nothing. Her fine eyebrows were drawn together as she watched the police. They were shining flashlights on something lying on the cobblestones.

      In the eight years Harper had worked at the newspaper, this was the first time she could remember Bonnie being at a crime scene. It felt strange. This wasn’t Bonnie’s world. She was an artist – bartending paid for the paint. Murder wasn’t her business.

      It was Harper’s.

      She’d been a crime reporter since she’d dropped out of college to take up an internship at the Savannah Daily News when she was twenty years old. Ever since then she’d spent her nights investigating the city’s worst crimes. Murder no longer turned her stomach as it had early on.

      When she looked at a body now, all she saw was the words she’d need to describe it.

      In the distance, the crowd of officers shifted. Squinting, Harper saw a small woman in a dark suit, crouching low.

      ‘Daltrey’s lead detective?’ She glanced over at Miles.

      ‘Looks like it.’ Raising his camera, he took a speculative shot, pausing to check the image on the screen.

      It wasn’t terrible news. Daltrey wasn’t the easiest detective to work with, but she wasn’t the worst, either.

      Anyway, none of them were very easy to work with anymore.

      A rumble broke the stillness, and they all turned to see a white van with the word FORENSICS UNIT on the side rolling up to the crime tape, its tires stuttering on the cobbles.

      Its cold, bright headlights swung across the cluster of investigators, lighting up the scene like a film set.

      They all saw the body in the same instant. The young woman lay sprawled on her back on the uneven cobbles. She wore a dark T-shirt with a knee-length skirt.

      Harper couldn’t make out her face from where she stood but one thing was certain – this was no gang-banger crime.

      Lifting his camera, Miles fired off a rapid series of shots.

      Harper stood on her toes to get a better look. Something about the woman was familiar.

      Beside her, Bonnie made a stifled shocked sound.

      ‘Don’t look at the body,’ Harper said.

      But Bonnie didn’t look away. Instead, she leaned against the crime tape, pushing hard enough to make it bow.

      One of the uniforms pointed his flashlight at her disapprovingly.

      ‘Hey, you – get back.’

      Harper turned to ask her what the hell she was doing. The last thing she needed was for Bonnie to piss off the cops. Things were bad enough with them already.

      But the complaint died on her lips.

      All the color had left Bonnie’s face.

      ‘Oh my God, Harper,’ she said, staring at the body in the street. ‘I think that’s Naomi.’

       Chapter Two

      Before Harper could tell her she was wrong – she had to be wrong, it didn’t make sense and they couldn’t see the body properly from here – the uniformed cop beat her to it.

      ‘Did you say you know the victim?’ He raised his flashlight, shining it on Bonnie’s face.

      Her pupils shrank to pinpricks in the harsh light.

      ‘I think … maybe.’ Her voice was unsteady. ‘Her shirt – does it look like mine?’

      The cop shined the light on her black T-shirt. Across the front, it read: ‘THE LIBRARY: FROM BEER TO ETERNITY’.

      He was young. They always put the young ones on the late shift. He hadn’t yet learned to hide his thoughts. Harper could see the truth in his face.

      She squinted at the body in the distance.

       Was that really Naomi? It couldn’t be, could it?

      She’d only been working at the bar a few months, but Harper knew enough about her to know she was an unlikely victim. Bookish and a bit shy, she eschewed the short skirts that Bonnie preferred. Amid the crowds of art students that favored the bar, with their brightly colored hair and eclectic clothing, she’d seemed quite conservative. In that way, she stood out. That, and the fact that she was gorgeous – high cheekbones, cat-shaped eyes, a perfect figure.

      She never seemed to try to be noticed, but everyone noticed Naomi.

       Who killed a girl like that?

      ‘Stay right here,’ the cop ordered, swinging his flashlight to take in all three of them. ‘None of you moves.’

      Turning, he ran across to the official cluster.

      A moment later, the detective Harper had noticed earlier broke loose from the group at the foot of the stairs and walked toward them with the uniformed cop.

      She was dark-skinned, about forty years old, no taller than five foot four. She wore a simple navy suit with a white blouse. Her hair was short and no-nonsense straight. She ducked under the crime tape with the ease of an athlete.

      ‘Which one of you thinks you know the victim?’

      Detective Julie Daltrey’s tone was crisp and official. Her eyes skated across Harper’s face without a flicker of acknowledgement that she’d known her for years. That they used to gossip and joke at crime scenes like this one.

      Hesitantly, Bonnie raised her hand. ‘Me.’

      Harper watched as Daltrey took in Bonnie’s blue-streaked ponytail, her miniskirt, and black work T-shirt.

      ‘Your name, please?’

      ‘Bonnie Larson,’ she said, after a fractional pause.

      Daltrey wrote this down in a small notepad.

      ‘Who do you think that is?’ Daltrey gestured with the notepad to the body on the ground.

      Bonnie’s throat worked. Her hands clenched at her sides.

      ‘I … I thought … I mean, I think it’s Naomi.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Naomi Scott.’

      Daltrey had been a cop a long time. Her expression gave nothing away as she wrote something else and then raised her eyes to meet Bonnie’s again.

      ‘What can you tell me about Naomi Scott?’

      Bonnie blinked. ‘I don’t …’

      ‘Anything you know,’ the detective encouraged her. ‘Who she is, where she works, how old she is.’

      ‘She works with me at The Library,’ Bonnie said, uncertainly. ‘We’re both bartenders. She’s at school during the day. Law school.’

      Daltrey made a note.

      ‘Please,’ Bonnie said, her voice faltering, ‘tell me it isn’t her.’

      The detective paused, as if deciding what to say. When she spoke, though, she delivered the news quick

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