This was farm country, for pity’s sake. Two and a half hours away from St. Louis and the types of crime that plagued all big cities. In the three years she’d been doing autopsies for the county coroners, homicides had been few and far between.

After all, if you couldn’t be safe deep in the heartland, where could you be safe?

Despite that little pep talk, she kept her weapon in hand—where it would stay until she was behind the wheel of her car and locked inside. It never hurt to be careful . . . as she’d learned the hard way.

She exited through the wide back door in the small foyer off the work area, filling her lungs with the warm June air as she gave the dim parking lot a swift perusal.

No beer-drinking teens in sight.

So much for that theory.

Nor was anyone else about. Whatever the source of the noise she’d heard from inside, it was gone.

More proof that letting her imagination give her a case of the shakes had been silly.

She closed the door behind her, tested it to make certain it was locked, and strode toward her Civic.

Six feet away, she came to an abrupt halt, stomach lurching.

Apparently the noise she’d heard hadn’t been innocent after all.

And despite her original suspicion that it had come from inside the cooler, this had been done by someone very much alive.

Backing up, she groped in her purse for her cell. Punched in 911.

And kept her finger on the trigger of her Beretta.

Sheriff Nate Cox hung a right into the parking lot of Larktree Mortuary and circled around to the back.

First call he’d ever gotten to a funeral home—but there’d been a ton of firsts since he’d been elected to the job four months ago.

A Larktree cruiser came into sight, and Nate pulled up beside it. Thank goodness local police were willing to respond to 911 calls until he or one of his deputies could arrive. With only seven of them providing 24/7 coverage for more than 750 square miles of territory, it wasn’t unusual to be twenty minutes away from a crime scene, even with sirens blaring and a heavy foot on the gas pedal.

But despite the courtesy response, the mortuary was beyond the town limits—and therefore outside the jurisdiction of the local cops. Meaning this case was going to land on his desk.

He slid out of his patrol car as the officer walked toward him from the shadows of the protective roof that shielded the back door of the building. Over the man’s shoulder, Nate squinted at the victim, who remained near the exit, purse gripped in front of her, posture taut. Though he couldn’t distinguish any features in the dim light, she appeared to be on the young side.

“Matt Jackson.” The fiftyish officer stuck out his hand.