She forced a laugh. The person in the bed still didn’t move. Didn’t react. Was he okay? She took another step forward and peeked around the edge. Froze.

Martin lay on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. His pale chest was naked except for the hunting knife protruding from it.

Bile rose in her throat.

No, no, no.

Darby slapped her hand over her mouth, swallowed repeatedly and backed away. She whirled and ran down the stairs, catching herself on the railing to prevent herself from falling. She grabbed her coat, stuffed her feet into her snow boots, dashed out of the front door, ignoring the frigid air that stung her wet cheeks. Down the steps, around the side of the house, fumbling to unlock her truck with the key fob that was thankfully in her coat pocket.

She huddled inside the vehicle, breathing hard, and turned the ignition, beyond grateful when the engine started even though the block heater wasn’t plugged in. She slammed it into Reverse but stamped her foot on the brake.

Where would she go?

What about poor Martin?

She couldn’t leave him that way. Oh my God. Martin was dead. Tears blinded her eyes, and she dug a hand into her pocket, relieved to find her phone.

Her hands shook as she brought up recent calls and pressed Quentin Savage, a friend who was also a Unit Chief at the FBI. She closed her eyes. He was going to be so mad with her, so disappointed, so hurt, but at least he’d know what to do.

“Darby?”

She froze, glanced at the screen. Somehow, she’d misdialed and Eban Winters was now on the line. But maybe it hadn’t been an accident. Perhaps it was cowardice—the idea of disappointing Quentin or Haley burned like acid in her throat. But so did the thought of driving this man away for good.

“Darby? Are you okay?” Eban asked.

The sound of his voice always made her yearn for his presence. He calmed her. Made her feel safe. Made her feel other things she wanted to explore. But couldn’t. Because he wasn’t interested. He’d made that abundantly clear. And now it was too late.

“Darby.” His voice became more insistent. “Is everything okay?”

Because over the last seven months she’d called him when situations overcame her. When her anxiety was too high to talk to Quentin, or Haley, and the only lifeline she had left was this man with his beautiful voice and reluctant lips. God, he would hate her doing this to him.

She already hated herself.

“Darby?” His tone turned sharp. “Are you there? What’s going on?”

“Eban.” Her voice trembled. Tears flooded her vision. “I think I might have killed someone.”

Chapter Two

“Who’s the victim?” Detective Signy Torgerson had pulled up into a maelstrom of flashing lights and police activity along Lawlor Road. She eyed a young redhead sitting in the back of a police cruiser, staring out at her with huge, haunted eyes.