The sun was coming up, peeking through the large row of oak trees to her east, casting strange, grotesque shadows across the roped-off area. People milled around; there was no urgency. The forensics team were collecting soil and insects from under and around the body—their composition would tell them how long the body had lain here, hidden practically in plain view. Chances were she’d died soon after disappearing in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, but it was possible she’d been held someplace first and then killed. From what Holly could gather from the comments floating past, there was a lot of decomposition for this early in the year. But they’d had a number of hot days in a row, and a couple of storms, so Holly wasn’t too surprised. She’d spent a week studying at the Body Farm, up in Knoxville. She knew just what a muggy atmosphere could do to a body.

There were multiple jurisdictions on-site in addition to Franklin Police, namely two agents from the TBI and two deputies from the Williamson County Sheriff’s Office. The foursome had been enjoying a pre-eighteen-holes breakfast together at Grays on Main to talk about a case and “came on by” when they heard the news. But there would be no jurisdictional fights: this case already belonged hook, line, and sinker to the Franklin Police, and the body was found well within their borders. Anyway, the body would go to the morgue in Davidson County no matter who was the lead. And she would be there, side by side with Ethan Montclair, as he identified his wife.

They hadn’t told him, not yet. They wanted to be sure. Holly was going to head over with the preacher and Moreno to do the notification shortly—and the arrest, Holly, you’ll be arresting him moments after he learns the news—and she wanted to get a good look at the body first.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, a whistle. Moreno was gesturing for her.

She picked her way into the copse carefully, eyes on the ground, making sure she didn’t tread on some unseen, uncollected bit of evidence accidentally.

The smell hit her first. Deep, intense, rancid, and rank. Wet, musky, rotted meat left in the sun too long. She steeled herself for the first look.

Moreno was waiting, hands on hips. “Tell me what you see.”