See Her Die (Bree Taggert #2)(2)

Opening it quietly, she slipped outside and jogged across the snow to the woods. She peered around a tree trunk, looking for the figure. She spotted the dark shape emerging from the trees near the lake.

The figure wasn’t carrying a backpack. Had Harper stashed it somewhere? What was she up to? Alyssa followed, keeping her distance, but also keeping the figure in sight. She’d walked maybe a hundred feet when the silhouette turned toward her.

The shape of the figure didn’t feel like Harper. She was thin. This shape was too large, too wide—more masculine.

Panic welled in Alyssa’s chest.

Could that be the campground owner, Phil? Someone could have seen smoke rising from the cabin’s chimney and called him. The campground was closed. No one was supposed to be there. Maybe it was Phil, coming to chase them out of the cabin. That might be the reason Harper had run.

Bitterness tasted sour in the back of her throat. If that scenario was true, then Harper had saved her own ass and left Alyssa to face Phil alone. And she’d still stolen from Alyssa.

Bitch.

Now what?

If it was Phil . . . He was in pretty good shape, but he was old. She could probably outrun him.

He retraced his steps—heading right for her.

Phil?

The man’s posture wasn’t annoyed or angry. He moved with intention.

She ducked behind the tree and waited, holding her breath. A tiny sound croaked deep in her throat, as if something had broken. Pressing her back into the tree, she prayed he hadn’t heard. The wind blew through the trees, kicking up snow dust. Where is he? Slowly, she peered around the tree trunk and froze. He was barely thirty feet away.

She withdrew. Tears ran down her cheeks, feeling as if they were freezing on her face.

Please don’t find me.

A footstep crunched in the snow. Was he closer? She risked another peek from behind the tree trunk. Two blasts sounded over the snow—and fear paralyzed her. Her mouth opened. Slapping her hand across it, she stifled the scream before it left her mouth.

For a few precious seconds, her feet felt glued in place; then she shook off the shock, whirled, and ran.





CHAPTER TWO

Sheriff Bree Taggert reached toward her nightstand and killed the ringer on her phone. Tilting the screen, she read the display. The call was from dispatch. She glanced at her eight-year-old niece, Kayla, pressed against her side, but the child hadn’t stirred. A large white-and-black pointer mix, Ladybug, lifted her head from its resting spot on Bree’s ankle. Vader, Bree’s black cat, occupied the second pillow, as far away from the dog as he could get. The sprawling child and animals left Bree with approximately eight inches of mattress. Trying not to wake Kayla, Bree half slid, half fell out of bed. Clutching her phone, she scrambled for the bathroom before it rang again.

She closed the door and answered the call in a low voice. “Sheriff Taggert.”

“We received a 911 call reporting multiple shots fired at Grey Lake Campground.” The dispatcher gave the address.

Adrenaline blasted the grogginess from Bree’s head. A few gunshots in the woods would not rate a dark o’clock phone call to the sheriff. “Casualties?”

“One victim reported, a female. The caller, also a female, was whispering and not speaking clearly.”

“Is she still on the line?” Bree knew from personal experience that 911 operators tried to stay on the phone with callers until law enforcement arrived. She suppressed that memory before it interfered with her concentration. Her compartmentalizing skills had been working overtime since her sister had been murdered back in January.

“Negative,” the dispatcher said. “She was worried the shooter would hear and hung up.”

The banished memory resurfaced and soured Bree’s empty stomach. “How many units are responding?”

“Three. ETA for the nearest car is twelve minutes.”

Too long. They must be on the other side of the county.

The graveyard shift was bare bones in the upstate New York sheriff’s department Bree had been appointed to lead just three weeks before. Day shift wasn’t staffed much better. Her deputies were spread across the huge expanse of mostly rural Randolph County.

“I’m on my way.” Bree ended the call, swigged mouthwash straight from the bottle, spit, and slipped out of the bathroom. She opened the closet. The dog watched as Bree changed from her flannel pajamas to dark-brown tactical cargo pants, a base layer tank top, and a tan uniform shirt. After tugging on wool socks, she opened the biometric gun safe she’d mounted on the top shelf. She strapped her baby Glock to her ankle, threaded her utility belt through the loops on her pants, and added her Glock 19 to its holster.

When she’d been a Philadelphia homicide detective, she’d worn only a gun and badge. As sheriff, she didn’t need the full twenty-five pounds of standard patrol gear when she wouldn’t even leave her office most days. But she carried a few small essentials in addition to her gun: handcuffs, pepper spray, an expandable baton, and a combat tourniquet.

Two months ago, she’d seen how quickly a person could bleed to death.

As Bree headed for the door, the dog jumped off the bed. The mattress shifted and dog tags jingled. Bree held her breath, but her niece continued to snore. Ladybug followed Bree downstairs. The sun was an hour from rising, but a light glowed in the kitchen. Bree smelled fresh coffee as she rushed into the room, trying not to trip over the dog, who was far too large to be underfoot.