“Shit. Go. I’m on my way.”

Then I’m through the window, rushing toward the fallen woman. Too dark to see. An unpleasant smell I don’t want to name. Thinking of carbon monoxide, I dart to the door, flip the bolt lock, yank it open. Light and cold air flood the room. I cross to the woman and kneel.

“Rebecca.” I set my hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

I know immediately I’m too late. The feel of her skin, even through my gloves, isn’t right. Hard. Lifeless. Like frozen meat.

Gently, I push her onto her back. A wet sound against the wood floor. Blood on her chest. Face ghastly pale. Blue lips gaping. Flesh pinkish-blue on the right side of her face. Not bruised, but the beginning of livor mortis.

Not enough light to tell if she’s been shot or stabbed, but it’s a devastating wound. I scramble back, nearly trip on the foot stool, catch my balance just in time.

Lifting my skirt, I yank the .22 Mini Mag from the holster, spin to face the kitchen doorway.

I don’t think there’s anyone there, but the last thing any cop wants to do is walk into a scene to help someone and get shot because she didn’t clear the place. I’m not taking any chances.

“Who’s there!” I shout. “Get out here! Keep your hands where I can see them! Do it now!”

The house is dead silent.

No one there.

Craning my head right, I glance at the male. He’s lying in the kitchen doorway. Toes up. He’s wearing work boots. Trousers. My hands and legs shake as I cross to him. He’s face up. One eye open and staring. The other at half mast. A black hole for a mouth. Shattered teeth. Perfect half circle of blood around his head, stark against the floor. A shotgun lies next to him, the muzzle a few inches from his head.

At first glance this looks like a murder-suicide situation. Levi shot his wife, then turned the gun on himself. But one of the golden rules of any investigation is to never take anything at face value.

I step back, keenly aware that I’ve contaminated the scene. My face is hot, my back covered with sweat. I dial Suggs as I head toward the door.

“They’re dead,” I say when he picks up.

“Aw, man. How—”

“Dan, they’ve been shot—”

“What?”

“There’s a shotgun on the floor. It looks like a murder suicide. But … I don’t know.”

“You see anyone?” Even over the phone I hear the groan of his cruiser’s engine, telling me he’s rushing to the scene.

“No. I haven’t looked around, but I don’t think there’s anyone else here.”

“You okay?”