Uneasy with my back to the door, I snatch up my Maglite and get to my feet. “Ten seven nine,” I say, requesting the coroner.

“Ten four.” Another short hiss of static. “You okay?”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I go with, “Suspect at large.”

“Description?”

“No.” I peel off the glove and tuck it into my pocket. “Call BCI and get a CSU out here to the scene. Tell T.J. to set up a perimeter.”

“Copy.”

“Get Glock out here, too.”

“Will do.”

Keeping an eye on the door and the hall beyond, I shift the beam back to the tub. The shower wall is splattered with arterial spray. Julia Rutledge seems to stare at me from within that deathbed. I can’t meet her gaze. The wet-iron stench of blood is stifling in the small space, and my stomach jitters. The urge to leave the room is strong, but I don’t concede to it.

I shift my light to the faucets at her feet and see signs of a struggle. Several long smears of blood mar the tile, as if she’d lashed out with her feet.

“Sheriff’s Department! Sheriff’s Department!”

I startle at the shout, swing my beam to the door. “Back here!”

Another flashlight beam joins mine, and then a Holmes County deputy steps into the bathroom. “Chief?”

I recognize him as Deputy Frank Maloney, and I holster my .38. “I’m okay.”

He averts his beam to avoid blinding me, but there’s enough light for me to see his eyes widen at the sight of the blood before he pulls his cop’s mask into place. “Holy shit.” He takes a step back.

“Coroner’s on the way.” I let out a breath, surprised when it shudders slightly. “Frank, she was alive when I arrived.”

“She ID anyone?”

“I tried, but … I think she was out of it. Said something about a ghost.”

His gaze meets mine, but there’s no hint of a cop’s black humor in them. The hairs on my arms prickle, and for the first time in the course of my career, I feel threatened. Not by some crazy guy with a knife, but by something intangible and dark.

“Aw, hell.” He glances at the body. “You see anyone?”

“No.”

Head bent to his lapel mike, he sends out the code for homicide. “Unknown perpetrator at large.” He motions toward the body. “You know her?”

I nod. “Julia Rutledge.”

He edges closer to the bathtub, sets his beam on the body. “Damn.”

A macabre scene dances in the beams of our flashlights. I can’t help but think that just a few hours ago, Jules Rutledge was a lovely, vibrant woman who seemed to be enjoying her life. Now her mouth sags open, her lower jaw jutting slightly. Her head is cocked to one side, and from where I’m standing, I see a horrific wound high on her chest.