That he’s hot as hell, clearly. And good in bed, to boot.

She came all the way awake with a jerk. Oh, no. Oh, no! She’d slept through her alarm. And the ringing was real: her cell was jangling. She squinted at the phone’s screen. 5:05 a.m. She was supposed to be at the office in fifteen minutes. Crap.

The number belonged to Sergeant Moreno. This couldn’t be good. Of all the days to be late. Oh, she was going to get reamed. She sat up, cleared her throat, braced for the attack.

“Graham.”

“Get dressed and meet me at Gentry’s Farm. We found her.”

* * *

Holly stood in the middle of the fallow field on the edge of the forest in the middle of Gentry’s Farm off Highway 96 where they’d discovered the body, waiting for Moreno to wave her over. She prided herself on being tough as nails when it came to death and dismemberment—she’d caught her fair share of gruesome car accidents, and people died all the time and she was almost always second or third on the scene; dead bodies were simply a way of life in law enforcement—but homicide was rare in these parts, and she hadn’t ever been on the scene of an intentional murder. Not like this. In some ways, she felt like she knew Sutton Montclair. She mourned with her at the loss of her son. She felt anger for her at her treatment by the news blogger. She was maybe even a teensy bit jealous of her once-happy marriage to her excessively handsome husband.

And now she was dead, partially covered in brush, decomposing for all to witness. It bothered Holly. Tremendously. Both that the woman was dead, and that the team she’d been working with had been right about the husband.

She’d heard the rumblings when she pulled up and signed into the scene. Now she waited to see for herself whether the rumors were true. If they were, it was rather clear Sutton Montclair hadn’t been the agent of her own demise.

She’d most definitely been murdered.

And everything they had pointed directly at Ethan Montclair.