A shared past could be the biggest threat...

Sheriff’s deputy Dylan Armstrong has every intention of helping Bailey Covington when she becomes a serial killer’s latest obsession. What he hadn’t counted on was the intense connection he still shares with the reclusive park ranger. After years apart, Dylan never expected that one look would stir up every feeling from their past. But exploring their attraction will have to wait if they want to find a killer’s means and motive before the savage predator strikes again.

USA TODAY Bestselling Author

USA TODAY bestselling author DEBBIE HERBERT writes paranormal romance novels reflecting her belief that love, like magic, casts its own spell of enchantment. She’s always been fascinated by magic, romance and gothic stories. Married and living in Alabama, she roots for the Crimson Tide football team. Her eldest son, like many of her characters, has autism. Her youngest son is in the US Army. A past Maggie Award finalist in both young adult and paranormal romance, she’s a member of the Georgia Romance Writers of America.

Also by Debbie Herbert

Appalachian Prey

Appalachian Abduction

Unmasking the Shadow Man

Bayou Shadow Hunter

Bayou Shadow Protector

Bayou Wolf

Siren’s Secret

Siren’s Treasure

Siren’s Call

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Murder in the Shallows

Debbie Herbert

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90525-5

MURDER IN THE SHALLOWS

© 2020 Debbie Herbert

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Many thanks to all of you who have purchased this book! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. It was such a privilege to visit the Okefenokee Swamp while researching this book and experiencing all of its wild beauty firsthand. I’d also like to dedicate this book to my wonderful agent, Ann Leslie Tuttle of Dystel, Goderich & Bourret LLC, for all of her encouragement on this and every project we’ve worked on together over the years.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Wild. Mysterious. Primordial.

Bailey throttled the ATV’s accelerator, describing to herself the view she saw along Trail Ridge. She smiled in satisfaction as the wind whipped away the sweat clinging to her face and bare arms. Even though she hadn’t discovered the Okefenokee Swamp until her teen years, she considered herself a true “swamper” in spirit, if not by birth. The primitive wildlife refuge had been a personal haven during her troubled adolescence, a place to soothe her battered mind and body. It still brought her peace.

An eagle soared above, its huge wings spread as it swooped down to the top of a nearby pond cypress. Quickly she gathered her binoculars for a closer look. An unfortunate squirrel dangled from the bird’s marigold beak. But, hey, we all had to eat—including baby eaglets. As a park ranger, she’d often witnessed the relentless need to hunt or be hunted, to kill or be killed in the eternal quest for survival.

She brought the ATV to a stop and hastily noted the location and time in her log. Tracking eagles and gopher tortoises was a part of her duties in monitoring protected species. That done, she lifted her binoculars again in time to spot the adult eagle bringing the food to the giant nest that housed his mate and two eaglets.

Heat scorched her arms, and the humidity blanketed her skin. She swiped perspiration from her forehead and clutched the ATV keys, ready to move on.

Loud staccato warbling pierced the air, and several sandhill cranes soared upward, crashing through a clump of saw palmettos. Appropriately known as the “watchmen of the swamp,” these birds let out a distress cry that alerted other creatures. More birds took flight, and even a couple of deer grazing along the blackwater shore went running for cover. Curious, she raised her binoculars and scanned the area from which they’d come but saw nothing unusual. Perhaps an alligator had lumbered near their nest. But normally, in that case, the cranes would hover above, squawking at and even swooping down on the gator to drive it away from their eggs or hatched babies.

Bailey hopped off the ATV and made her way down the embankment toward the wide, swampy patch of water that, several miles ahead, formed into a canal that led to the Suwannee River.

The sound of something dragging across the sand was followed by a loud swish of water. Perhaps she’d been right. It was a sunbathing gator returning to the water trail. Near the white sand shore, Bailey caught sight of the disturbance.

Not an alligator. It was a man. Dressed in camo, he navigated a long, slender johnboat, sluicing a paddle through the waters.

“Hey, there,” she called out in a friendly greeting.

He didn’t turn around, and she frowned. Why hadn’t he answered? Was he illegally hunting gators or turtles?

“Hey,” she called out again, determined to check his fishing license. “Hold up. Park management here.”

His head turned slightly, allowing her to glimpse only a distant profile, but his olive-colored brimmed hat shaded the upper part of his face. Instead of turning around and obeying her command, he pulled the engine throttle and sped off.

Anger flushed her face. The man was definitely up to no good, but he had her at a disadvantage and knew it. She’d never catch up to him in the twisting, winding waters. Bailey pursed her lips, frustrated as he slipped out of reach. By the time she fetched a boat, he’d have disappeared like a snake in high cotton. Her gaze swept the area, looking for a trotline or other signs of illegal activity, but there was only the drag mark of his boat in the sand and muddy footprints by the water’s edge.

Her gaze traveled further, and she squinted at the railroad bridge, nearly overgrown by reeds and marsh grass. Had he gone for a hike on the Thirteen Bridges Trail? Usually, that place attracted a younger crowd drawn by the old ghost story—and a place to party. But she might as well take a look anyway and see if the mystery man had left any clues as to his identity.

It’d been months since she’d last walked the trail. She trod heavily on the near-rotten bridges—merely old crossties over wetland—and recalled the legend about a wailing woman searching for her lost baby. Supposedly she and her infant had been murdered out here not long after the Civil War.

Personally, Bailey thought it a bunch of nonsense, brought on by inebriated, highly suggestible kids—although she considered herself fairly open-minded about the supernatural. How could she not be? Her best friend, Lulu Atwell, was an older Seminole woman who told her tales of Native American lore that often defied rational explanation.

At the end of the trail, the tiny abandoned church still stood. She pushed open the door, surprised at its resistance. Given its age and condition, it should have been falling off its rusty hinges.

She squinted at the sudden darkness. Only two small grimy windows admitted filtered sunlight. Stale, moldy air twitched her nose. Her eyes adjusted, and she focused on two metal cots in the twenty-foot by thirty-foot room.

What the heck? This old place had always been empty, except for the occasional beer and liquor bottles strewn over the rough pine floor, relics from parties. But this?

Prickles washed down her spine as her mind immediately jumped to a story that had dominated the news for a couple of weeks. Two young women, sisters, had been reported missing. They were last seen kayaking away from the outfitter store in Folkston, Georgia—her town—located only seven miles southeast of an Okefenokee Park entrance.

This couldn’t be related to those women—could it? No way.

Still, she couldn’t shake off the weight of dread that crushed her lungs. Bailey squared her shoulders and marched to the beds. Thin, urine-stained mattresses lay atop the rusting cot frames, and she pulled up one of them.

A bundled strip of gray cotton was stuffed along one of the railings, looking like a mummified mouse.

Oh, no. As she looked at what appeared to be a gag cloth, bile rose in her throat, and her hand beelined for the leather sheath of her knife at her waist. But she wasn’t thinking of the missing women. Instead, her mind leapfrogged to the past. As much as she’d suppressed those memories, they now flooded in.

And she was there. Sixteen years old and lying on the damp concrete basement floor, her face and body grinding into the cold concrete with its faint scent of mold. Above, the whistling snap of a belt before it descended. And as much as she tried to brace for it, she could never prepare for the burning sting. Or the screams muffled behind the dirty piece of cloth gagging her mouth.

No, no, no. That was long ago. I’m all grown up and safe. Even as she repeated the mantra to her trembling inner child, her body refused the comfort. Bailey ran out the door, leaned against the side of the church and vomited. That done, she breathed deeply—long, slow breaths—as she took in her surroundings. The eerie beauty and isolated environment of the swamp assuaged her anxiety as nothing else could. It was her sanctuary. Always had been, even during those dark days.

Resolutely she pushed away from the rotting boards and squared her shoulders. Nothing could erase her past misery, but if someone had been hurt in this abandoned ruin, she’d do everything in her power to bring the abuser to justice.

Bailey pivoted, reentered the building, and went to work. A damn shame there was no cell service in this remote area, but her cell phone wasn’t entirely useless. She dug it from her pocket and videoed the entire room from top to bottom. She noticed not another clue of foul play, but if this place was a crime scene, no doubt forensic experts would find microscopic details that she could not. And she was positive something bad had happened here. A heavy energy pervaded the church, seeping into her bones with the chill of certainty.

Briefly she debated collecting the gag cloth for safekeeping but decided against it. Best to let law enforcement gather it and keep it uncontaminated in their chain of evidence. It should be safe enough where it was. Unless... She recalled the man speeding away in the boat. Innocent outdoor enthusiast or illegal fisherman—or something worse? It was possible the man could return.

She shook her head and left the evidence as it was. Instead she walked around the building to check for anything else unusual. At the back of the church was a graveyard of over a dozen crumbling headstones with mostly unreadable etchings. A rusted metal fence sectioned off a patch of long-forgotten graves. Purple pickerelweed and yellow-eyed grass choked the monuments to the dead.

Next to the cemetery was a maze of waist-high boxwoods that formed a labyrinth. Many believed that walking labyrinths was a gate to one’s inner self, that its circular structure, combined with its spiral, meandering paths, led to a meditative peace and awareness. Had the mystery man traversed through here for his own nefarious purposes? Could there be another surprise in store?

In the interest of thoroughness, she’d take a look. Besides, she’d always been curious about the maze. She’d heard that no teenager, no matter how drunk, had ever dared to enter, as it was also—no surprise—believed to be haunted. General legend had it that to enter meant you’d be forever lost. No one returned alive.

Bailey entered the maze, boots scrunching against river pebbles that made up the path. Only a handful of weeds managed to push through the stones. The old English boxwoods that lined the maze were slightly overgrown but must have been a miniature variety not to have totally grown together over the years. Dutifully she walked the curves, searching left and right for foreign objects or anything out of place—a wrapper, a tissue, a sock. Soon, she’d reached the end of the labyrinth, where a large tea rose shrub bloomed at its center.

She inhaled the unexpected floral bouquet before her—but spiritual enlightenment? Nope. She felt none of that. Then again, searching for crime evidence probably emitted too many negative vibes, especially after the horrible memories that’d resurfaced only minutes ago. Turning to exit, she caught sight of silver glimmering from a nearby tupelo tree. What could this be?

Bailey pushed through one of the boxwoods and strode to the tree for a better look. The bit of silver flashed in the sun from high above, tantalizingly out of sight. Again, armed with the cell phone, she turned on the camera and zoomed in.

The lens of a small security camera blinked back at her.

Bailey gasped and took a step backward. “What the heck?” she muttered.

Nothing about this old chapel and graveyard was valuable. Besides, this was a wildlife refuge, not private property. No one had a right to set up surveillance equipment. Maybe it had been left to catch teenage trespassers? No, that didn’t make sense. If park management had bothered to initiate security measures, she’d have been the one to install the camera and monitor its feed.

Which meant...she wasn’t sure exactly what, but it couldn’t be good. On its own, the discovery would have been perplexing, but when combined with the discovery of the cots, and the gag, it could only mean trouble.

And that man in the boat—was he connected to all this? Again, Bailey silently cursed that she hadn’t had immediate access to her own boat.

What if you had? an inner voice taunted. What might he have done to you? She swallowed hard. Her mind leapfrogged to yet another dreadful realization. The man hadn’t just seen her in person. She was now recorded on his camera. Not like I’m defenseless, she reminded herself, patting the knife at her waist. She was no longer a scared, trapped teenager at the mercy of her foster father.

The roar of a motor pierced the relentless cacophony of insects. She whipped around, trying to pinpoint the direction. The rumble came again, closer. Another ATV, she decided. Nobody was allowed to ride through here without specific authorization. So either this was another park employee or someone more ominous. Had the man in the boat circled around and landed? Was he now driving toward her?

One thing she knew for certain: she wasn’t going to wait to find out. Bailey scrambled to the front of the church and sprinted toward her ATV parked near Trail Ridge, only twenty yards away. The other vehicle was almost upon her as she cranked the engine and hit the accelerator. If it turned out to be another employee, she’d look foolish, but for now, safety trumped pride.

Risking a quick glance in the mirror, she saw a man in dark sunglasses. The determined set of his jaw, along with the increased speed and direct aim of his ATV, told her that he meant to overtake her. The question was...why?

Unfortunately, the winner in this chase would come down to who drove the faster vehicle. Sadly, her decade-old, bottom-of-the-line ATV would be no match in this contest. The park had a limited budget, and speed was never a consideration in purchasing a serviceable ATV to roam the swamp.

He passed on the left and frowned, signaling her to stop.

Bailey tamped down her uneasiness as she regarded the interloper. He was dressed all in brown, some kind of uniform evidently, but not the park’s. For the second time that day, she caught a glint of silver in the scorching afternoon sun. Only this time, she didn’t need to zoom in with her cell phone to see it.

Pinned to the shirt on his right upper chest was a six-pointed star badge—the Charlton County Sheriff’s Office. Whew. Bailey hit the brakes and jerked to a stop. How could they have known she was on her way to call them once she reached her cabin? Unless this area was already under suspicion and they were watching it. Which could explain the security camera. They might have placed it there in the hopes of nabbing a person of interest. Perhaps this officer observed the man exiting the chapel and then slinking off in his boat. Naturally he’d come to investigate.

The moment he turned off his ATV and faced her, Bailey quipped, “You’re a day late and a dollar short.”

His forehead creased, and he removed the dark sunglasses. Olive green eyes, the color of faded camo, regarded her in consternation. “Excuse me?”

“I said you’re a little late. Your man’s already slipped away by boat.”

His frown only grew deeper. “Man? What man? I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

This time it was her turn to frown and regard him in confusion. Bailey cocked her head to the side. “Haven’t you been watching the old church?”

He gazed over his shoulder at the abandoned structure and then faced her again. “Nooo,” he said with a slow, deep drawl. “What makes you think that?”

“But...” She bit her lip, puzzled. In her seven years as a ranger, she’d encountered law enforcement officers only three times. Once, when a local child with autism had gone missing—thankfully, he’d been discovered hours later, unharmed and swimming in the alligator-and snake-infested Suwannee River. The second time had been when a camper had suffered a heart attack, and his family had sent out an SOS flare in the dark of night. The third, of course, had been the recent massive descent of cops, firefighters and volunteers who had combed as much of the 438,000 acres as was humanly possible to search for the missing women.

“Why are you here then, Officer...” Her glance fell to the stitched letters under his badge, searching for a name. Horror closed her throat as she read it. Dylan Armstrong.

For the second time that day, the worst memories of her life resurfaced in an unexpected floodgate that, once opened, refused to recede. She hardly ever thought about that troubled time in her life, yet now, in the space of less than an hour, fate had punched her in the gut twice.

Coincidence?

Bailey believed in many things—that places like that old church contained a certain energy left from its history, that the Okefenokee held mysteries deep within its primitive fortress, that certain plants and animals often appeared at critical moments as messages from the universe. But most of all she believed in signs—not coincidence. And the fact that her past had twice been thrust in her face in rapid succession was a bad sign indeed.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” he asked, exiting his ATV and standing directly in front of her. He wasn’t frowning now. Instead, his forehead was creased with concern. Those unusual olive-colored eyes—so like the elder Dylan Armstrong’s she remembered—appeared kind and trustworthy, inviting her to accept his help.

But she wasn’t going to be fooled. Not again. Not ever again.

He opened a bag tied to the back of his ATV and pulled out a water bottle, then thrust it into her hand. “Perhaps you’re overheated? Dehydrated?” he suggested. “Happens all the time out here. Drink this, you’ll feel better.”

Anger replaced surprised horror and she shook her head. Did he take her for an incompetent idiot? For God’s sake, she was an experienced ranger and knew to stay hydrated in the smothering heat. And even if she was thirsty, she’d never accept anything an Armstrong had to offer.

“I’m perfectly fine,” she answered icily, effectively cutting off his overture. “What are you doing riding the land? Did you obtain a special permit?”

“Of course I did.”

She’d just see about that. Bailey turned the ATV key and the motor roared to life. “Good day, Officer.”

“Hey, wait a minute. What did you mean about the man speeding—”

His words were drowned out as she throttled the accelerator and the ATV wheels spun in the dirt, spraying clumps of soil onto his uniform pants. She watched him through the rearview mirror as he scowled at her, hands on his hips. But he made no move to follow, and the tightness in her chest eased as she drove around a bend and his tall form disappeared altogether.

She’d head straight to headquarters and report everything she’d seen at the church to her supervisors, as was her duty. In turn, it would be their responsibility to contact the sheriff with those findings. If Armstrong complained about her odd behavior today, she’d insist that she’d bypassed him in order to report everything directly to her own supervisors. The sheriff’s office had their chain of command, and she had hers.

With any luck, she’d never have to set eyes on Officer Armstrong ever again.

Chapter Two

What the heck was that woman’s problem?

Dylan brushed the dirt from his pants and climbed back on his ATV. He briefly considered overtaking her again—no doubt he easily could—but then what? Listen to more of her crazy talk? An encounter with a man had spooked her. His gaze drifted to the church. It stood abandoned as always. Another few years and the perpetual damp of the swamp, combined with the aggressive kudzu, would reduce the place to rubble.

His fingers twitched on the throttle. Annoyed as he was, he’d seen a moment of pure fear in her wide eyes. Come to think of it, he’d seen the woman around town a few times. Cool as ice, that one. He’d run into her at the grocery store once and had idly taken in her long, toned legs as she bagged apples in the produce aisle. Some sixth sense of being watched must have alerted her to his attention, and she raised her eyes, catching him gawking. Unfazed, he’d offered his customary breezy smile and waved. Instead of responding to his innocent flirtation with a smile—a reaction that, frankly, he was used to from women—she’d pulled her full lips into a tight line, abruptly turned her back on him and jerked her shopping cart in the opposite direction.

Jeff Aiken, his best friend since preschool, had hooted with laughter and nudged him with an elbow. “Don’t think she was impressed with you, dude. You’re losing your touch.”

“Who is she?” he’d asked, checking out her shapely ass.

“Bailey something-or-other. Heard she works at the park and lives near it like a hermit. Not exactly friendly.”

“That’s a shame.” He’d shaken his head, eyes still on the woman, lips curled in a rueful grin.

Jeff had grabbed a six-pack of beer and tossed it in his cart. “Stop acting like you’re still in junior high, and let’s get a move on.”

The memory jogged him to action. Abruptly Dylan changed his mind and gave chase, the wind whipping his face as he accelerated. Bailey what’s-her-name wasn’t getting away so easily this time. If the ice queen was rattled, he wanted to know the reason.

In less than five minutes, he spotted her, riding as fast as that run-down ATV could manage. He gunned the motor, and her head swung around for an instant before she faced forward again, never slowing. Dylan drew alongside her and motioned her to stop. Surprisingly, she obeyed. He exited his ATV and approached where she sat, her arms crossed and her lips pursed just as they were at the grocery store long ago.

“Appears we got off on the wrong foot, Bailey.”

Surprise melted the stone-wall face, and she narrowed her eyes. “How do you know my name?”

He lifted his palms and shrugged. “Folkston’s a small town. We bumped into each other once before.”

“If you say so.”

At her quirked brow, he realized she had no memory of the grocery store incident, which sent his ego into a nosedive. Still, he gave a determined smile, pushed the sunglasses to the top of his head, and held out a hand. “Dylan Armstrong, Charlton County Sheriff’s Office.”

She hesitated a moment, then reluctantly took his extended hand. He tried not to notice the effect of her smooth, warm palm in his grasp or imagine her sleek, tanned body hidden under the khaki uniform—it was hard enough not to stare at her exposed long legs in those shorts as she straddled her ATV.

“Bailey Covington,” she said in exchange, withdrawing contact a beat too soon for politeness. At least she hadn’t wiped her hand afterward.

“You didn’t give me a chance to explain why I’m here,” he said in his most professional voice, determined to keep his gaze from sweeping down to her legs. “I’m sure you’re aware of the two women who’ve gone missing in the area. We’re still searching as much ground as we can with limited manpower.”

A shame that the chopper and boats they’d initially used had proved fruitless in the search. Too many places to hide in this wilderness.

“Of course I’m aware of the missing women.”

“So, this mystery man of yours, do you think it’s related?”

“Possibly. I’m on my way to make a report of what I found today, just in case.”

He strove for patience. “Mind sharing?”

“I’m sure my supervisors will be more than happy to allow yours full access to the report. See you around, Officer Armstrong.”

With that, she again started the ATV and took off in a cloud of dirt, leaving him staring after her.

Rude, yes. But instead of being irritated, he inexplicably grinned. Never one to back away from a challenge, Dylan flicked his sunglasses back down and returned to his ATV. “Go on and run. You haven’t seen the last of me, Ranger.”

WHEN DYLAN ARRIVED at the station, Jeff, his old friend and now a sheriff’s deputy, glanced up from the paperwork on his desk and nodded at the sheriff’s door. “Boss wants to see you ASAP.”

Bailey’s report must have already been filed and read. That was quick. Dylan knocked briefly on the closed door before striding inside.

Sheriff Franklin Chesser was frowning at his computer screen. “Weren’t you patrolling today on Trail Ridge?” he asked with no preamble. “You didn’t see any unusual activity?”

“Only an encounter with a closemouthed, annoying park ranger. I assume you’re reading the report that she told me she would file with her boss?”

Chesser turned the monitor so that it faced him. “Take a look at this video she filmed.”

Two bare metal cots were haphazardly strewed in the otherwise stark interior of the church. The lens zoomed in on a dirty strip of cloth lying on a rusted metal frame. The footage shook as Bailey Covington exited the church and scanned the area outside. The final shot was of a security camera perched in a nearby treetop. Then the monitor faded to black.

He and Chesser eyed one another uneasily.

“Think it has anything to do with the missing women?” he asked his boss.

“Can’t help but make that leap.” Chesser replayed the video, and they watched again in silence.

Chesser closed the video. “I have to be realistic, though. Could be squatters using the cots, and that camera might turn out to be a poacher’s.”

“Maybe,” Dylan agreed.

A dubious silence hung in the room.

“Going to call in the state police again?” Dylan finally asked.

Chesser sighed and drummed his fingers along the scarred pine desk. Dylan understood his dilemma. When Mary Thornton and Amy Holley first went missing, it was determined they were last seen renting kayaks at an outfitting store at the Suwannee Canal entrance. State police had responded en masse. Dozens of them, along with local volunteers, had combed the river where the women had set off. Several boats and even a chopper had searched for six days.

All fruitless. They hadn’t unearthed a single clue.

“Let’s do some preliminary work first. I’ve already spoken with the park manager, Evan Johnson. You and the ranger who filmed this can work together collecting evidence and canvassing the area for more. Bring back that camera, and let’s see what we’ve got.”

“I don’t need the ranger for any of that.”

“It’s called interagency cooperation, Dylan. Politics. Forging partnerships. Besides, she could prove helpful. Johnson claims she knows the swamp like the back of her hand.”

“Not like I’d get lost out there,” he muttered. “I’ve lived here all my life.” It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Bailey again—he did. But Dylan resented the implication that he needed her assistance.

“Johnson’s the territorial type and wants his ranger to be involved in the investigation. Not a bad idea, either. If those women, or their bodies, are out there in the wilds, she’ll know better than anybody how to track them. Take one of our dogs, too. See if you can pick up a scent.”

“I could collect evidence a whole lot quicker without her,” Dylan muttered again in protest.

“Go,” Chesser said, using a voice that brooked no more argument. “Everyone else is busy catching up with other cases after spending so much time on the search. Bring back the evidence, and we’ll take it from there.”

“I’m on it.” Dylan shoved to his feet.

“Thanks, kid,” Chesser said gruffly. “You know I think of you as my right-hand man. Job will be yours one day soon. Your dad was one of the finest cops in the whole state of Georgia.”

“No hurry.” Dylan meant it, too. He was more than content to work as a deputy and learn all aspects of the job before running for sheriff. He’d already spent over three years on beat patrol and then five more years as captain of the K-9 unit before landing his current position. He wanted to win an election on his own merits, not on his late father’s name and connections.

Dylan quickly collected a beagle, Ace, from the K-9 unit along with a plastic evidence bag filled with two swatches of the missing women’s clothes. Ace settled into the cruiser with him, brown eyes dancing with excitement, muscles taut and quivering in anticipation.

“Going to earn your keep today, boy,” he said, smiling at the beagle’s happiness. Ace had always been his favorite dog to work with.

At the park entrance, he obtained special permission to borrow one of their jeeps and, beagle in tow, returned to the abandoned church. At least Ace was enjoying the outing. His black nose was lifted high in the air, taking in the scents, tail thumping loudly on the seat. Compared to being cooped up in a kennel, this was doggy nirvana.

The late-afternoon sun scorched Dylan’s skin, and his dark brown uniform felt suffocating as he gathered the collection kit. Lucky for Bailey, her uniform was lighter colored, and she had the option of wearing shorts instead of pants. Speaking of the she-devil, Dylan spotted her slowly roaming the churchyard, mucking up footprints or whatever evidence might actually be at the scene. He suppressed a sigh and approached on foot, the beagle trotting at his side, eager to get to work.

Bailey watched them, no welcoming smile on her face for him or his dog. Evidently she wasn’t thrilled to be working with them, either.

“We meet again,” he said pleasantly.

“Might want to keep an eye on your dog,” she replied in a flat greeting. “Hungry gators and venomous snakes, you know.”

He kept his polite smile in place. “Nice to see you again, too.”

“I’ll show you where the camera’s located.”

Ace offered a friendly yip, but Bailey ignored him and abruptly turned, leading the way to the back of the church.

He trudged through the brackish plants, Ace close at his heel, sniffing away. Bailey came to a sudden standstill and pointed up at a tree. “There’s the camera.”

“Hold this for me a sec.” He thrust the clothing sample bag and evidence kit in her hands.

“Why? What are you—”

“Going to take that thing in,” he answered, snapping on a pair of plastic gloves and grabbing an empty baggie.

“You think that’s wise?” she asked, frowning deeper and casting a wary eye on Ace.

“Did you think we’d just leave it here?” he asked, eyeing the tree for a moment before he found a toehold and pushed up onto the first low limb.

“But if you take the camera, won’t it spook the owner from returning?”

“Can’t leave it and do nothing.” Dylan climbed higher until he came eye level with the camera, which was fastened onto the end of a branch with zip ties. He dug a utility knife from his pocket and inched forward on the limb.

Ace barked and scratched at the tree, not happy at being left behind.

“You could do surveillance instead of removing the camera. See if he shows up again,” Bailey suggested, shouting to make herself heard from several feet below.

“Kill me now,” he muttered. She might not mind living and working outside in the boondocks, but as for himself, he couldn’t imagine anything more miserable than camping in this snake-infested land, slapping at bloodsucking skeeters and biting flies all night in the suffocating humidity.

He popped open his knife blade and slashed through the tie, then carefully bagged the equipment before scrambling back down the tree. Bailey’s hands were on her hips, her look reproachful.

“Hey, if you want to hang around here day and night to see if someone shows up, then more power to you,” he said.

“Maybe I will.”

She lifted the chin of her heart-shaped face, a stubborn gesture he secretly found more amusing than annoying.

“Don’t get any wild ideas,” he warned. “It’s not safe for you to attempt something dangerous out here all by yourself.”

“And to think I’ve managed this job on my own just fine for the past seven years.”

“Have you ever been out in the wilds with a possible kidnapper before?”

“Well...no. Not that I’m aware of, anyway. But who knows what lurks out there?”

Apparently the woman hated to admit a possible vulnerability, but Dylan had to allow that he was the same. “I’m not questioning your courage,” he said gently. “Not many people—man or woman—are cut out to work in a swamp full of reptiles.”

Something fierce flashed in her eyes before she shuttered an emotion brewing below the surface. “My guess is that the reptiles are far safer than some humans.” With that cryptic remark, she nodded at Ace. “Want to check out the church before your dog roams further out?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He followed her to the front of the building, doing his best to keep his eyes from drifting down and staring at her butt, and keep his brain focused on the job at hand. As Jeff had once said, he wasn’t in junior high anymore. Not like he hadn’t seen plenty of action over the years, either. Maybe it was Bailey’s total lack of interest in him that roused a primitive need to make her respond to him.

Inside the church, he breathed a sigh of relief at the slight drop in temperature. Ace trotted past them both to get to the cots. Bailey hastily swept to the side to avoid the brush of fur against her legs.

Sudden understanding flashed. “Are you afraid of dogs?” he asked.

Her reply was much too swift and charged with vehemence. “’Course not.”

She was lying.

“Ace, come,” he demanded, snapping his fingers and pointing to the door.

The little beagle swiftly complied, even if his chocolate eyes protested the order. Ace planted himself in the doorway, his body taut, eagerly awaiting the signal to search. Dylan faced Bailey in time to catch the slight whoosh of breath escaping her throat, signaling relief.

Keep Ace from drawing too near Bailey again, he mentally noted. Ace would never harm her, but even if he told her so, it wouldn’t take away her fear. Whatever encounter she’d had with a dog in the past, it must have been bad to be leery of a beagle—they were like the teddy bears of dog breeds.

Bailey cocked her head at the cots. “What do you think? Suspicious or not?”

“The sheriff suggested it might be squatters or hunters using this place. Catch many trespassers out here?”

“It happens. But it’s not hunting season, and I’ve never come across something as permanent as cots. It’s always blankets or sleeping bags.”

She stepped to one of the cots and leaned over, pointing at the strip of cloth on the metal frame. “And then there’s this.”

Dylan gathered the cloth, placed it in a separate baggie and took close-up photos of everything.

“My fingerprints are on the mattresses,” Bailey admitted. “I flipped them over looking for clues.”

“I’ll make a note of it and get your fingerprints, so we can rule you out in a search.” He dusted black powder along the metal frames and mattresses, then stood and scanned the room. There were traces of dusty footprints inside, but they were blurred and of all sizes. Nothing distinctive. This place must still be a hangout for bored teenagers.

“Maybe the cots are for—” he hesitated a beat and plunged on “—you know, overly hormonal teens using this place to party.”

Skepticism etched Bailey’s face. “Kids today don’t use it near as much as they did back in my day. But I understand that particular motive can’t be ruled out.”

Had she ever used this location for such a purpose? he wondered. But he tamped down his curiosity with determination.

“Now what do we do?” she asked.

“Time to let Ace do his thing.”

Dylan swore the beagle grinned in happy anticipation. He withdrew the bag containing the cloth swatches. Bending on one knee, he held the swatches out, and Ace’s black nose twitched as he sniffed experimentally.

“Seek,” he commanded.

Ace made a beeline to the cots and whimpered as he placed his paws on the mattresses and barked.

“Bingo,” Dylan whispered. This was the first big break in the case—and an ominous one at that. But after two weeks, no one expected the women to show up unscathed.

“Those women were here, then,” Bailey softly stated, eyes focused on Ace.

“Appears so. I’ll load the mattresses onto the jeep, and at the station, we’ll cut them open to see if there’s anything inside. We’ll also check for blood and other DNA markers.”

“I want to be there when you do.”

He shrugged. “Suppose that’s fine. Your boss made it clear he wants you involved in the investigation. But lab samples will be sent to Atlanta, and our forensics sample work is usually undramatic.”

“I didn’t know that. Just inform me if there’s any major finding, then.”

“Of course. I’m going to have Ace sniff around outside and see what we can find.”

This time, Dylan led the way. The beagle ran past him and, nose to the ground, drew them to the side of the building and then behind. Ace methodically made his way to the labyrinth.

“I did a quick walk-through earlier,” Bailey offered. “Nothing jumped out at me, but there could be something small I missed.”

Bees happily hummed around the gallberry plants and swamp gum trees, oblivious to the violence that had potentially been perpetrated in the maze. But he was getting ahead of himself. Perhaps the women had merely made a pit stop along the riverbank when they spotted the church and then had simply explored the area.

At the dead end, Ace hurried to the blooming tea rose bush and frantically began digging. White sand sprayed into the air.

A buried body or two, perhaps?

Unguarded, Bailey glanced at him, her brows raised and her blue eyes filled with dread.

“Why don’t you wait for me in the church?” he suggested.

Wordlessly, she shook her head and switched her gaze back to Ace’s frantic pawing. Slivers of gold glinted in the waning sun. Dylan knelt and picked up a thin chain with his gloved hands, recollecting a detail from the case. Both of the missing kayakers had been wearing gold necklaces. One had a cross on it, and the other woman’s had a claddagh. He’d bet anything there was a murderer on the loose and in possession of both those charms.

“A trophy,” he breathed.

Bailey was beside him, her shoulders brushing against his. The contact warmed the cold chill that had prickled down his spine.

“I thought killers kept trophies to relive their crimes,” she said.

“They do. Not sure why a chain was left behind and buried. If this is a trophy, and we don’t know that it is, the suspect will have some warped reason in his sick head. Maybe to mark the spot where he killed one or both of them.”

“As good a reason as any, I suppose.” He felt her tremble beside him. “Though I’m still going to hold out hope both women are alive.”

He held no such optimism. Not that he needed it to sustain him in a serious crime investigation. Instead, it was the need for justice that drove him.

Work completed, Ace lay down and awaited the praise due him.

“Good boy.” Dylan patted him and then rolled the necklace in the palm of his gloved hand before sealing it in an evidence bag. The sun beat down on his back, and the honeybees droned as they collected nectar. The scent of roses perfumed this unholy spot where two women might have met their death. He and Bailey grew quiet, a shared moment of respectful silence.

Violent death had possibly marked this spot. Now to test that theory and stop a killer before he struck again.

Chapter Three

“Sounds like a tough day. A creepy day.”

As usual, Miss Lulu succinctly summed up everything in her tidy, no-nonsense way. Bailey rocked on the older woman’s front porch glider, bare feet dangling, and sipped from a mason jar of sweet tea. In the deepening twilight, fireflies danced and glowed like drunken pixies. For the first time in hours, she felt relaxed.

“It wasn’t the most fun I’ve ever had at work,” she allowed.

“Could be dangerous,” Lulu warned. “You living alone in the middle of nowhere.”

Bailey snorted. “You’ve been doing the same most of your life. Besides, we have each other for neighbors.”

Their cabins were nearly a quarter mile apart, and Bailey was glad to have her as a neighbor. They were kindred spirits, even if over three decades apart in age.

Lulu nodded, smoothing back her black hair shot through with silver. “And we have our shotguns. In case of trouble.”

Bailey dearly hoped she’d never have need to use the weapon. Until a couple of weeks ago, she’d only imagined raising it in case of an encounter with an aggressive black bear.

Much as she’d enjoyed the evening and the supper of duck fried rice and collards, it was time to shove off. Lulu always retired early and rose with the sun.

“I’ll get the dishes,” Bailey offered. As Lulu started to stand from the rocker, Bailey gestured for her to stay. “I’ve got it. Least I can do after all your cooking.”

Ignoring Lulu’s grumbling, Bailey reentered the cabin. She filled the chipped enamel sink with hot water and a squirt of dishwashing liquid. Truth be told, she enjoyed washing dishes. As her hands soaked in the warm water and fragrant pink dishwashing liquid, she gazed out the window. It was like a prayer, a meditation, as she cleaned and rinsed each plate before placing it, glistening, in the drying rack. But the piercing headlight beams of an approaching truck dispelled her peace. This wasn’t exactly a hospitable stretch of road she shared with Lulu. Unpaved and wracked with deep mudholes, it led nowhere.

Faint consternation gave way to deep misgiving when the truck stopped abruptly halfway between her and Lulu’s cabins.

“Expectin’ company?” Lulu asked, entering the kitchen to stand by her side.

“Not hardly. You?”

They both watched and waited, but no one emerged from the vehicle.

“Nope. I don’t like this,” Lulu muttered. “Not after what you found in the church today.”

“Where are your binoculars? I can’t make out who it is.”

“Binoculars, heck. I’m gettin’ my shotgun.”

“No need for all that,” she chided, though she’d be lying if the thought of a loaded weapon didn’t offer some comfort. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

Lulu reluctantly thrust the binoculars into her hands.

Bailey raised them. At the familiar shock of sandy hair, she groaned.

“Who is it?”

“One of Charlton County’s finest. Name’s Dylan Armstrong.”

“What’s he doing parked here?”

“That’s what I aim to find out.”

Lulu’s dark eyes narrowed. “You sure it’s safe?”

Another reason she felt close to this woman. Their mutual mistrust of lawmen. Lulu had never enlightened Bailey as to the exact reason for her mistrust, but she’d assumed Lulu had suffered from the same callous treatment she’d once received while seeking help from the law. Treatment she’d experienced thanks to Deputy Sheriff Dylan Armstrong Senior.

There it was. A third time in one day that she’d been forced to recall a past she’d rather forget.

“Everything’s fine,” Bailey assured her. “I’ll send him on home.”

“Take this with you.” Lulu nodded at a covered plastic bowl filled with leftovers.

“You don’t have to—”

“Take it.”

“Still got enough for Holt if he drops by later?”

“Maybe. He was due to finish his latest tour yesterday. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him today though.”

Holt Rucker, Lulu’s special friend, worked as an expedition guide through the swamp and other wilderness areas. His schedule was erratic, but it seemed to suit his needs and unencumbered lifestyle. “Surprised he isn’t already over,” she said.

Lulu raised a brow but didn’t comment. Bailey couldn’t figure out the exact nature of their relationship. Holt often slept over, but Lulu refused to categorize him as a boyfriend and never complained about their casual arrangement. Evidently, the older generation had their own version of “friends with benefits.”

“I made plenty of food.”

Bailey knew when she was beaten. “Yes, ma’am. Guess I’ll head on back and tell my stalker to hit the road.”

Outside, the scent of gardenias and honeysuckle wafted through the air, soothing her jitters at the coming confrontation. She’d barely made it to the dirt road when his engine turned over and the headlights cut through the darkening sky. What was he doing out here? She hadn’t asked for protection. Unless there was some break in the case already?

The truck skidded to a stop by her side, and the passenger door flung open.

“Hop in, Bailey. I’ll give you a lift.”

“Why are you here?” she asked bluntly. “Any news on the missing women?”

“I wish.”

She stood unmoving. “Then why?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Just keeping an eye out for you. Saw you head over here so I parked halfway, trying to keep an eye on both cabins. Don’t get all huffy.”

“There’s no need.” She didn’t want to be beholden to any man, especially this one.

“Come on, Bailey. You know better. You were seen today.”

“From afar. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and my hat kept my face shaded.”

“Still, there can’t be that many female forest rangers in the park. Correct?”

“Just me,” she begrudgingly admitted.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to get your name from the park website, and then...” He let his voice trail, allowing her to follow the silence to its logical conclusion.

She had to admit that Dylan was right. With the internet, nothing seemed safe or private these days.

“I have a shotgun. I’m good.”

“Okay. Just humor me, then. Get in the truck, and I’ll save you a few steps.”

Sighing, Bailey climbed in. If she didn’t, she’d be arguing with him all night. At least that yipping dog wasn’t on board. True, the beagle had sported a friendly, eager face, nothing like her foster father’s trained attack Dobermans, but she respected that the animal still had a mouth full of sharp teeth. Once bitten, forever shy.

Dylan whipped the truck around, and she balanced the plastic dish in her lap as they rumbled toward her cabin, which was almost as rustic as Lulu’s—with the exception that Bailey’s had an air-conditioning unit. After a long day of patrolling the wildlife refuge, the last thing she wanted was to return to a hot, stuffy cabin in the evening.

He parked in front of her house and stared into the gathering darkness.

“Now what?” she asked.

“You invite me in?”

She let out a laugh. “Are you seriously inviting yourself to spend the night?”

“Not the way it sounds.” Even in the dark, she detected a flush on his neck and face.

“Go home, Dylan. We might be working together, but I don’t know you well enough for sleepovers, and your truck’s going to get mighty uncomfortable.”

“Wouldn’t be my first stakeout. I’ll survive.”

Stubborn, stubborn man. She opened the door and slid out. Guilt pricked her for an instant, but she hardened her heart. If he wanted to act like a fool, that was on him. “Have you even eaten supper?”

Immediately she wanted to kick herself for asking. This wasn’t her problem.

He picked up a bag of trail mix from the dashboard and rattled its contents. “A complete meal of protein, carbs and fats.”

Impulsively, she thrust the plastic container at him. “Here’s real food. If you don’t have any plastic utensils in your truck, I can bring you out some.”

“I’m all set.” Dylan flipped open the glove box, revealing a stash of napkins, salt and pepper packets, a bottle of hot sauce and plastic forks. “Never know when these might come in handy.”

Her conscience clear, Bailey shut the door. “Still say you should head on home.”

She felt his eyes on her as she walked across the yard and opened the cabin door.

“Might want to start locking up your place,” Dylan called out.

Bailey didn’t bother responding. He was right, but she’d managed to figure that out on her own without his advice.

Was she really at risk? The unknown man had viewed her from a distance, after all. He’d seen her general body shape and long hair pulled into a ponytail. In the bedroom, Bailey let down her hair in front of the dresser, letting the brown locks flutter a good six inches past her shoulders. She was past due for a haircut, anyway. Bailey retrieved a pair of scissors and commenced cutting.

Five minutes later, she critically surveyed her handiwork. It would do. The bobbed length lay halfway between her chin and ears. A practical summer cut that would be cooler and also fit her wash-and-let-it-be style.

Like most evenings, Bailey plopped into bed and read, although tonight getting into the book proved difficult. Every so often, she swept aside the curtain and spotted Dylan still parked outside in the truck. At last, she turned out the light, determined to fall asleep. The morning work would start at dawn.

Familiar night noises of cicadas, frogs and owls lulled her unease. She touched the leather cord around her neck and ran her fingers over the charms Lulu had strung on it for blessing and protection—a crow feather for strength, power and wisdom, two turquoise beads representing friendship and an obsidian arrowhead for a hunter’s alertness. Four items total, four being a powerful number symbolizing the four moon phases. As she sank into the gray oblivion of sleep, she hoped they’d keep her safe.

EXCITED BARKING.

The pungent scent of wet fur, an ominous growl and then nearby panting. Hot kibble-breath.

The dogs were almost upon her.

Bailey sprang to wakefulness, cotton bedsheets clutched in her hands. Blood pulsed in her ears as she searched the darkness for her location. She was home. Safe in her own room. Quickly she rose and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. As the tap filled her cup, she stared out the window over the sink. Moonglow tinged the trees and grass with a silver hue. With a start, she remembered Dylan and padded over to the den to look out the front window.

His truck was in the same spot, but she couldn’t see him. Perhaps he’d lain down in the seat to sleep? Some protector. Come morning, she’d be sure to give him a hard time. Her hand found the smooth barrel of the shotgun she kept lodged near the front door. Its hard, cool surface reassured her that she could take care of herself if need be.

Instead of returning to bed, Bailey threw on a T-shirt and shorts and headed to Dylan’s truck, determined to send him home. If he drove off now, he could still catch a few hours’ sleep in a comfortable bed before they began another search. She rapped sharply on the driver’s side window. “Dylan?” she called, not wanting to scare him—not too bad, anyway.

No answer. Man slept like the dead. What kind of cop did that on a protection detail? She peered into the back seat.

Empty.

Chills skittered down the back of her neck and spine. She slowly turned to face the cabin. A man was crouched near the swamp hibiscus by the east wall. Dylan? Impossible to make out from the inky shadows. An urge to angrily confront him warred with the fear that this might be someone else entirely. Although, did it matter who lurked there? What did she really know about this Dylan Armstrong? Precious little. Except for the fact that his father had been a no-good, heartless liar who’d turned his back on a terrified teenager who’d sought his help.

She cursed herself for not taking her shotgun. A weapon was no good if she forgot to carry it in the middle of night. Especially after she’d been warned she might be in danger.

The figure straightened and approached. He stepped away from the shrubs and into the wide expanse of the lawn, and the moonlight glinted on his sandy hair.

“What are you doing outside, Bailey?”

As if he had the right to question her movements. Resentment coupled with a healthy dose of cynicism kept her on guard. “What are you doing creeping around my cabin?” she countered.

He was close enough now that she saw the flicker of annoyance in his eyes. Well, he was no more irritated than she. Dylan had no business—

“Someone was out here,” he said, cutting into her indignant thoughts. “I saw movement and heard noise in the shrubs. Which, by the way, are way too tall and need trimming. A giant could hide in that jungle.”

She ignored his bossy commentary and cut to the chase. “What noise?”

“A rustling not caused by the wind. I climbed out of my truck, and whoever it was took off for the woods out back. You didn’t hear me yell for him to halt?”

No, there’d only been the nightmare.

“So, he got away,” she breathed, uselessly fixing her gaze on the dark tree line.

“At least I noticed him before he torched your cabin.”

Her heart skipped and squeezed at that bit of news. “How do you know his intention?”

Instead of answering, Dylan motioned for her and walked back toward the cabin. Through the damp grass, she followed, arms hugged about her waist. Within ten yards of the shrubs, she halted abruptly. A gasoline odor permeated the night air, overpowering the sweet smell of honeysuckle and gardenia. Under one of the shrubs was a discarded gas container.

She rubbed her arms against the wave of cold that swept her from head to toe. If Dylan hadn’t been here...

Unless he’d been the one who doused her cabin with gasoline.

She tried to think rationally, warring between what was either paranoia or a healthy suspicion. But why would Dylan have done such a thing? Yeah, she had no use for his father, but it didn’t mean that the son was a killer trying to deflect suspicion from his murderous secrets by playing a hero.

“I guess thanks are in order,” she said reluctantly.

A rueful smile played on his lips. “Must have killed you to say that.”

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