Cross Her Heart (Bree Taggert #1)(10)

Who else could Bree call? When Bree had seen them over the summer, eight-year-old Kayla hadn’t had a phone, but Luke had been bent over his most of the trip.

If you were a better sister and aunt, you’d know your nephew’s number.

But Bree wasn’t, and she didn’t. She saw Erin and the kids once a year when they visited her. She hadn’t been able to put aside her own issues to see them in Grey’s Hollow.

Her boots thudded on the porch as she walked back to the front of the house. The deputy had gone back inside. With ten acres of land, Erin had no neighbors in sight. The closest house was a half mile down the road. Bree pulled out her phone and called her brother again. Her call switched to voice mail, and she left him another message. Adam not responding didn’t alarm her. He often neglected to charge his phone. He was an artist. If his creativity was on, he might disconnect for days. He had a habit of taking off for weeks at a time to paint. He might not even be in town.

There was only one way she could get immediate answers. With one last glance at the closed front door, Bree slid back into her car and drove toward the sheriff’s station. The town of Grey’s Hollow was too small to fund their own police department and relied on the county sheriff for law enforcement.

The dread in her chest expanded until it constricted her lungs. She would not breathe easily again until she saw her sister and the kids with her own eyes.

At seven forty-five, the day was brightening, but the overcast sky clouded the sunrise. Bree turned into the entrance of the Randolph County Sheriff’s Station in Grey’s Hollow. She stepped out of her car, gave two reporters delivering live updates a wide berth, and walked into the squat, brown brick building. Looping the strap of her small crossbody purse over her head, Bree approached the counter separating the lobby from the front office. Two men in suits conferred on one side of the lobby.

More reporters?

Something was definitely going on.

An older woman in a heavy cardigan greeted her. “Can I help you?”

Bree said, “I’d like to speak with the sheriff.”

Forget the chief deputy. She’d go to the top.

The woman took off her reading glasses. “Regarding?”

Bree swallowed, lowered her voice so no one but the woman would hear, and watched for a response. “Erin Taggert.”

Recognition lit the woman’s face. She knew Erin’s name. Bree’s belly cramped.

This was not good. Not good at all.

“Your name and agency?” the woman asked. The woman correctly assumed Bree was a cop, which Bree would totally take advantage of.

“Bree Taggert.” She pulled her badge from her pocket. “Philadelphia homicide.”

The woman clearly noticed that Bree’s last name matched Erin’s. Something that felt uncomfortably like pity crossed the woman’s face, but she quickly wiped it away. “Wait here, please, Detective.” She turned and walked down a hallway.

The door behind Bree opened, and a man entered, a German shepherd at his side. The man moved like a cop, but Bree’s attention fixed on the dog. A K-9 team?

Bree’s anxiety grew. She’d been waiting all night for answers but now dreaded getting them. The dog’s presence wasn’t helping. She moved to the end of the counter, as far away from it as she could get. With some distance between them, Bree breathed a little easier. Her attention shifted to the man. In his midthirties, he was six three, a lean two hundred pounds, and broad shouldered. With piercing blue eyes, reddish-brown hair, and a couple days of stubble on his heavy jaw, he reminded her of a Viking. He was also familiar. She knew him from somewhere. She met his eyes, and he recognized her too.

They had definitely met before, but where?

Nerves had short-circuited her brain.

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the woman returned. “Detective, you can come on back.” She ushered Bree to an open door marked with the word SHERIFF. Bree barely noticed several uniformed deputies working on computers as she passed their desks. “Chief Deputy Harvey is acting sheriff. We don’t have an actual sheriff at the moment.”

Bree hesitated at the threshold. She knew instinctively that once she crossed it, her life would never be the same.

A man around thirty sat behind a huge desk. He rose as she entered, shook her hand, and gestured toward a guest chair. “I’m Chief Deputy Harvey.”

They both sat. His chair was as jumbo-sized as the desk, and he seemed lost in it.

“My name is Bree Taggert.” Bree pulled out her badge again. “Philadelphia homicide.”

“Are you related to Erin Taggert?” He leaned an elbow on the arm of his chair.

“She’s my sister.” Bree pulled her hand into her lap, her fingers curling around her badge until her knuckles turned white. She told him about Erin’s message the previous night and finding the deputies searching the house this morning.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Your sister was killed last night. I’m sorry for your loss.”

The news fell over Bree like frost. Her body went cold, her brain numb. For a full minute, she just sat there, staring at the chief deputy. His mouth was moving, but she heard no words, as if her head was full of static.

He got up and walked around the corner of the desk to crouch in front of her. “Ms. Taggert?” He raised his voice. “Are you all right?”