The victim was female and naked, her flesh frozen to a grayish-blue hue, her facial structure shattered beyond recognition. Blood marred the snow all around her. The techs had worked all morning to gently uncover her and the surrounding area without causing damage.

Laurel Snow crouched on the craggy bank of Witch Creek, a hidden tributary of the Sauk River in northern Washington State. Icy snow clung to her knit hat and pinged off her snow boots. “There’s not enough blood here. The mutilations happened post-mortem,” she murmured, looking up at FBI Agent Walter Smudgeon, who had bent to study the ax.

He straightened. “Not much blood on the ax.” He turned, his wide cheeks ruddy, his belly hanging over his belt. “Broken face and stolen hands. Somebody definitely wanted to keep her from being identified.”

Laurel scrutinized the ligature marks around the woman’s neck. “She was strangled. We’ll know more after the autopsy.” She studied the woman’s hair, which was black with a clear demarcation of gray—maybe three or even four weeks’ worth. “She was due for a hair appointment.”

“What does that mean?” Walter wheezed.

Laurel stood. “I’m not sure.” Her phone buzzed from her pocket, and she ignored the caller. Again.

“What’s with the flowers?” Walter asked.

“It’s interesting,” Laurel said, the wind burning the exposed skin on her face and ears. “I think these are black dahlias.”

“Black? Those are red,” Walter said, pulling his winter coat lower to cover his wide belly, his jowls moving as he spoke.

“They’re burgundy colored, and I believe they’re black dahlias,” Laurel repeated, a sense of isolation cutting through her, even as state crime scene personnel worked efficiently around her. She tilted her head toward Captain Monty Buckley, who was photographing the petals closer to the creek. “Did you find the personal locator beacon?”

The victim had activated the PLB, which sent a distress call through satellite to emergency services around midnight the night before, but searchers had to wait until light because of the devastating snowstorm that had only just abated. The second search team had found the body, which had already been mostly covered with snow and ice, except for her feet, which lay in the moving creek, shoved carelessly beneath a jagged layer of ice.

Monty looked up, his eyes blue and his hair a silvery gray that was turning more white from his recent cancer treatments. “Not yet.” He surveyed the snow still gently falling to cover the earth in every direction. “It’s a long shot that we’ll find it at all.” He grimaced at the flowers. “What’s up with the red petals? Some symbolic thing?”

“I believe they symbolize betrayal,” Laurel said, clicking through her memory of a book she’d read years ago. “We can conduct more research later.”