My brother is rude enough to leave me hunting for a dead body by myself when most would say for the Love family, such a thing should be a family affair. But I handle it. I flag down one of the CSI guys, who points me through a squared archway. The fact that CSI is here, in from Hauppauge, a trip that with communication and travel would take at least two hours, and I was in the air only forty-five minutes ago, may or may not tell me that my brother hesitated before he called me. I’m not sure that tells me much about his motives, but I will find out. He can bet his ass I’ll climb inside that pretty little head of his and rip everything I need right out. Keeping him in line is my sisterly duty.

Setting aside Andrew for now, I enter what looks like a basic high-end den. The décor theme seems to be ridiculously expensive leather furnishings that look just like the less expensive alternative brand that in this town would be shunned around these parts.

The Hamptons is all about judgement.

This room is about judgment.

What it’s not is the keeper of the body. Voices lift from just beyond yet another archway and I begin following them. What hits me in that moment is my complete absence of anticipation. Not that long ago, the moments before I’d set foot in the presence of a dead body, adrenaline would surge with the certainty that death would soon consume me. That feeling is gone and I don’t even remember when that happened. For a moment, I’m back on that beach from years ago now, drugged and insane with emotion, stabbing my attacker as Kane tried to question him.

I changed that night. I tried to run from it, but I never had the chance. Maybe because I didn’t actually change at all. I simply lost the ability to fully contain what was already inside me. But that is for later. For now, I enter a large kitchen and hit the motherload.

Right there between the kitchen table and a granite island lies the deceased, a thirty-something woman in a wedding dress: brunette, obviously tall, even in a fetal position, with blood staining her mouth, neck, and the front of her dress.

I flash my badge at the two people standing over her: a tall, dark-haired man I age to about thirty-six, in a Officer’s uniform and a pretty, also thirty-something, blonde female.

“Special Agent Lilah Love,” I say, and I don’t always say the special. It just feels too special, but what the hell. “I’m here at Police Chief Love’s request,” I add.

“The big time Special Agent Love, profiler and sister to the police chief,” the man says. “Yes. We expected you.”