On Her Father's Grave (Rogue River #1)

On Her Father's Grave (Rogue River #1)

Kendra Elliot



Chapter 1


Stevie Taylor parked her car between a police cruiser and the ambulance, recognition washing over her. The grounds surrounding O’Rourke’s Lake hadn’t changed in thirteen years. Beat-up cars and older 4x4s crammed every inch of shoulder along the twisting road to the hidden lake. The teens had left beer bottles and soda cans on the vehicles’ hoods, and chip bags scattered in the dirt.

Apparently O’Rourke’s was still the place to party away from the prying eyes of parents and police.

But tonight, on this Memorial Day weekend, sadness hung like a heavy fog over the recreation site.

Someone had died during the fun.

Stevie was to start her new job as a Solitude cop tomorrow morning, but Roy had called her in, desperate for another warm body to help interview the swarm of upset teens at the lake. Their schoolmate Hunter Brant had died and according to Roy, Hunter was a popular football player from the tiny Solitude High School and had been partying with a big group. News of his death had rocketed through the teenage social network and too many teens were crowding the scene.

Stevie stepped out of her car and the moist, lightly decaying odor of the lake triggered old memories. How many evenings had she illegally drunk and hung out with her friends here during high school? No one had ever died at the lake. An old rumor claimed one kid had drowned two decades before her class’s time and had started haunting the surrounding woods. It was the type of tale teenagers exchanged over campfires along with alcohol, trying to scare one another.

Tonight’s death was real. Chief of Police Roy Krueger’s voice had cracked during their call. “I don’t know what happened yet, Stevie. But this is going to hit our town hard.”

Solitude was a tight-knit town. It stood on the bank of Oregon’s Rogue River, which was currently swollen and churning from the spring’s heavy rains. The small town was halfway between the southern Oregon Coast and Interstate 5, the major freeway that ran from Mexico to the northern US border. Basically, Solitude was the middle of nowhere. The closest big city was Portland, a solid four hours away. Solitude had a main street with the usual small businesses, but no retail chains. Growing up here meant a life of outdoor recreation, family, and friends. Residents waved as cars drove by. Neighbors called to ask about your cold when you didn’t show up for church.

Stevie had loved it and hated it.

Her weapon weighed heavy on her belt as she followed the worn path between the tall firs toward the lake. Memories and a far-off hum of conversation guided her steps. She swore as she realized she’d left her flashlight in her vehicle. The sun hadn’t set, but it would before long. It’d been an unusually hot day for May, and she understood the teens’ desire to cool down and blow off steam at the lake.

The path opened up and the lake spread out in front of her. A gentle slope ran down to the water, creating a solid dirt beach. She paused, startled that the chief considered this a “big” group of teens. About thirty huddled in groups, colorful towels thrown about their shoulders. Some parents had arrived, consoling their kids.

I’m not in the big city any longer.

Stevie had worked cases in Los Angeles, where hundreds of people made up the crowds at crime scenes.

She didn’t want to ever do it again.

A cop moved within the groups, talking quietly and taking notes. Off to the far right, a few four-wheeled ATVs were positioned in a half-circle to shine their headlights on a group of men gathered around a motionless body on the ground.

Stevie felt the weight of curious gazes. To the teens she was an outsider, maybe to some of the adults too. Moving past the groups, she scanned the young faces; she didn’t recognize a single one, but deep inside she wished she did. That was one of the reasons she’d returned to Solitude. She’d grown weary of living in a giant sea of unknown people in the big city. Feeling isolated and adrift, she’d ached for familiar faces.

She strode to the group of cops studying the body at their feet. The male teenager was blond, wearing long shorts and a tank top. He wasn’t wet, so not a drowning. No visible blood or injury.

He looked like he was sleeping.

What happened?

Roy’s big bulk turned to greet her.

“There she is. Thanks for coming out, hon.” Solitude’s new chief of police looked like Santa dressed in a cop’s uniform, and usually his jolly attitude matched his exterior, but tonight the smile on his round face was distracted and strained.

She made a mental note to talk to Roy about how he addressed her in public. Sure, he’d been her father’s best friend all his life, and this was small-town America, but he needed to be professional in front of her new coworkers.

“Evening, Chief.” She used his title instead of “Uncle Roy,” the nickname she’d called him by for thirty years. He wasn’t her uncle, but he’d always felt like one. Roy blinked, his bushy brows coming together. “Hello,” she greeted the other men.

“Good to have you back in town, Stevie,” answered Kenny Fox. He winked at her, his smile honest but sad in his lean face. She and Kenny had known each other since elementary school. The other cops nodded at her. Two EMTs hung back from the group, packing away their equipment, their initial services unsuccessful. The slump to their shoulders made Stevie’s heart contract. They moved slowly, waiting to perform their next duty: transporting the body to the morgue. The entire group was solemn.