“Dad? You out here?”

Belinda listened for a response, but it was difficult to hear anything above the incessant pound of rain against the tin shingles. There were a dozen or so places where water dripped down from the leaky roof to form puddles on the dirt floor. At least the chickens had plenty to drink.

The barn was a massive structure with falling-down horse stalls and high rafters laced with cobwebs. As kids, she and her brother had played out here; they’d even had a pony once. But neither she nor her brother had been interested in animals, and once her father had gotten his real estate company up and running, the place became a workshop where he tinkered with cars. The workbench with the Peg-Board back was still there, but the tools were covered with dust. A dozen or so boards were stacked haphazardly against the wall. The old rototiller stood in silhouette against the window where dingy light bled in. When her brother was twelve years old, he’d nearly taken his foot off with that thing.

The loose dirt from the floor stuck to her shoes as she crossed to the workbench. Belinda called out for him one final time and started for the door. She was midway there when something to her right, on the other side of a fat beam caught her attention. Cautiously, she moved closer and looked up, found herself staring at the leather soles of shoes and the hems of slacks. She stumbled back, her eyes taking in legs and then the torso of a man. One arm hanging down. Neck bent at an unnatural angle.

A sound she didn’t recognize tore from her throat. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that thing hanging from the rafters was her father. That he was dead and she was sad his life had ended this way, and without so much as a good-bye. But the shock of seeing his lifeless body, so grotesque in death, overrode any impending sense of grief or loss.

“Dad! Oh my God! Dad! What did you do?”

Screaming, Belinda Harrington turned and sprinted through the door and into the pouring rain.

CHAPTER 2

John Tomasetti is standing at the kitchen counter chopping green peppers when my cell erupts. I’m sitting at the table with my laptop open, pretending I’m not watching him, drafting an e-mail to Mayor Auggie Brock, and absently wishing diplomacy wasn’t such a big part of my job.

“Saved by the bell,” he says.

I toss him a sideways look as I rise and go to my cell, which is about to vibrate off the counter. I catch it on the third ring. “Burkholder.”

“It’s Glock.”

Rupert “Glock” Maddox is one of four police officers that make up my small department. A former marine with two tours in Afghanistan under his belt, he’s well trained, level-headed and laid back, traits I admire greatly, especially in law enforcement. He usually works first shift, but I vaguely recall he’d traded with another officer for a couple of nights this week.