The Silence (Columbia River #2)(2)

Ray continued talking. “The last episode is a real tearjerker.”

“Ava had the show on the other night.” Mason had stealthily watched from behind the safety of a book, pretending to read instead of watch the emotional makeover show. “I think she watched that one.” As if he could forget. He’d held his face completely stiff to fight back tears as the five costars had kindly rebuilt the self-confidence of a man his own age.

Fifty wasn’t far ahead in Mason’s future. A humbling number that didn’t match how he felt on the inside.

“Yeah, I already texted with her about it.” Ray sighed. “Fucking brutal show.”

It was normal that Mason’s fiancée texted with his partner. When Mason couldn’t help her choose between roses or peonies for their wedding flowers, Ray was stoked to share his opinion. Same with discussions about women’s boots or the latest rom-com. Mason appreciated their friendship.

The men halted at the kitchen entrance, the origin of the smeared blood trail before them.

Mason looked up. More arcs of blood streaked the ceiling and one wall. The kitchen’s tired wood floor was marbled with smears and small pools of blood.

“Guess the rubber mallet damage wasn’t sufficient in here,” said Ray. “He used it again in the bathroom.”

Or he simply felt like it.

Mason could almost feel physical echoes of rage in the room. He wondered what the mallet hitting the skull had sounded like and fought back a shudder.

He spotted the broken window not far from the back door and stepped carefully around the blood, the booties covering his cowboy boots muffling the usually sharp sounds of his tread.

“Glass pieces are outside,” Ray said.

“The break wasn’t from someone trying to get in.” Mason pointed at the arcs of blood near the window. “I think someone hit it with the mallet. Could have been accidental. Maybe not.”

“I can’t think of a reason to break the window from the inside,” Ray said.

Mason agreed. Why break the window when you could unlock the door to get out?

He opened the door, which led to a small concrete patio. A large grill stood in one corner, and the faint odor of char and barbecue reached him. He inhaled deeply, hoping the smell could drive away the scent of death. The June afternoon was hot, creeping into the high nineties. Unusual for this early in the summer. The small patch of lawn had more dry, brown areas than green, and a weathered gray fence surrounded the small backyard, hiding it from the adjacent homes.

“How’d the neighbor spot the broken window?” asked Ray.

“I’d like to know too.” Someone would have to deliberately peer over the tall fence to see the backside of the home. Mason had asked an officer to bring the neighbor back for an interview.

“Mason, Ray.” Medical examiner Dr. Gianna Trask stood in the doorway behind them. “They told me you were here.”

Both detectives had worked with the ME before. Her husband was the brother of investigative journalist Michael Brody. Mason didn’t know how to label his testy relationship with Brody. Not friendship. Not acquaintanceship. What do you call having a mutual respect but high suspicion of each other? The reporter would be at Mason and Ava’s wedding. Along with Gianna and her husband.

Hands were shaken, greetings exchanged.

“I haven’t looked at the body yet,” Dr. Trask said. “But judging by the green face of the patrolman who let me in and the mess in the kitchen, it’s a bad one.” Her voice was light, but her dark eyes were grim.

“Keep an eye out for a missing finger,” Ray said.

One of her eyebrows shot up. “Noted.” She stepped back inside, leaving the door open a crack.

“Back to work,” said Ray. “More house to cover.”

Mason sucked in a last inhalation of the faint barbecue scent, wishing he could make it last.





2

FBI special agent Ava McLane downed the last of her coffee and put the mug in the dishwasher, the new appliance triggering a smile. When do I stop feeling giddy about appliances? The stainless-steel dishwasher matched her new six-burner stove and wide commercial refrigerator. She and Mason had been without a kitchen for nearly four months as contractors ripped out the 1980s-style kitchen and then discovered problem after problem. The plumbing. The electrical. The dry rot.

The old Tudor home they’d purchased last year had turned into a money pit. Issues in the kitchen were just the beginning of problems found throughout the entire home. How it had passed inspection, she didn’t know. Mason had wanted to hunt down the inspector, but Ava had reminded him that this was the home they’d fallen in love with and would have bought no matter what the inspection returned. He’d grumpily acquiesced and sent another payment to their contractor.

She would smile all she wanted at appliances. Remodels were hell.

Ava had worked from home that morning, finishing up reports on the case she’d closed the previous week, and had promised her supervisor, Ben, she’d be in the office by noon. She checked the time and grabbed her bag as Bingo whined. She spun to give the dog a goodbye hug and stopped. He was utterly still, his attention directed at the front door.

The doorbell rang, and Bingo uttered a low woof of warning.

“Good boy.” Ava gave him a head rub. He was an excellent watchdog, knowing with no training—at least no training from her or Mason—when to sound the alarm and when to stay quiet. More than a year ago, the stray had chosen Mason as his person and become a permanent part of the household.