Right Behind Her (Bree Taggert #4)(7)

Adam pointed to something long and dirty-white half buried in the mud.

“It’s a bone.” Bree squinted. “Probably from a deer—or a dog.” Her stomach turned. They were standing near the place her father had put down the dog that had attacked her. Daddy had made her watch, after telling her she was responsible both for the attack and for the dog’s death because she’d wandered too close. She’d been five.

This is why we have rules, Bree. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind. An involuntary shiver passed through her. In her head he sounded like a character in a Stephen King novel—downright psychopathic. Was her recollection accurate, or was her imagination adding detail?

Did it matter?

Psycho or not, Daddy had been a lazy man. The dog had been large, and he’d probably buried it close to where it had fallen.

Bree scanned the shallow ravine and saw a few more bones seemingly exposed by the runoff. “It looks like this area flooded recently. There’s a stream on the other side of those trees.” She nodded toward the woods. “And we did have some big storms in the past few weeks.”

Adam shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a dog or a deer, Bree.” He waved to a spot about five feet away.

There were a few more bones. Wait. Bree moved closer to a large, rounded object wedged under a rock. She didn’t want to believe what she was seeing.

Bree straightened, suddenly light-headed. The implications of their discovery swirled in her brain. “It’s a skull.”

“Is it human?” Adam asked, but from the tone of his voice, he already knew the answer.

A stick poked through one of the empty eye sockets. The remains weren’t canine.

“Yes. It’s definitely human.”





CHAPTER FOUR

Matt Flynn threw the toy out into the pond on the rear of his property. The young, pure black German shepherd plunged into the lake and swam hard for the floating toy. She ignored the squawking ducks that half flew out of her way. Greta was 100 percent focused on her quarry. She caught it in her teeth, turned, and swam back to Matt. She ran out of the water, spit the toy at his feet, and shook. Water sprayed in every direction. Laughing, Matt wiped a drop of pond water off his face. She stood in front of him, tongue lolling.

“Good girl,” he praised her, then poured water from a stainless-steel bottle into a collapsible bowl. She lapped up half the water.

Matt was fostering the young shepherd for his sister’s dog rescue. With keen intelligence and a strong drive to work, Greta had been difficult to place as a house pet. Matt had been tempted to keep her as a foster fail, but he recognized all her pain-in-the-butt traits made her a perfect K-9 candidate. By the end of the month, she would be old enough to be paired with a deputy and sent to K-9 training, provided Bree could raise the money for her training and equipment. With July ushering in sweltering temperatures, he was using the month to get Greta accustomed to water and burning off her seemingly endless energy. He shouldn’t have worried, though. Greta was fearless.

Matt picked up a towel and rubbed the excess water off her coat. Then he stuffed his gear into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. After clipping a leash onto Greta’s collar, he commanded her to heel in German. “Fuss.”

Matt’s former K-9 partner, Brody, had been imported from Germany and already obedience-trained in that language, so Matt was accustomed to using German commands. He also felt using foreign words helped avoid any confusion on the dog’s part, especially in the early phases of training. The dog was unlikely to hear the words from anyone other than the trainer.

She fell into step at his side as they walked through the large meadow and into the grassy rear yard that led up to Matt’s back porch. His restored farmhouse sat on twenty-five acres, and the summer sun was afternoon-high. Greta was nearly dry by the time they reached the backyard. They walked past the kennels where Matt had planned to train K-9s before his sister had filled the entire building with canine rescues. He waved to his childhood friend Justin, who was walking a timid pit bull around the yard. Justin worked for the rescue. Justin had suffered terrible tragedy and was battling a drug addiction. He and the dogs were healing each other.

Matt went into the house. A second German shepherd, this one a traditional black and tan, rose from his bed and greeted Matt with a wag of his feathery tail.

Matt stroked his head. “I’m sorry, Brody. Next time you can come swimming with us, or even better, I’ll take you after Greta leaves for the academy.”

A few years before, Matt and Brody had been a sheriff’s department K-9 team. A shooting had ended both of their careers. A bullet in Matt’s hand had limited his dexterity—and his marksmanship. He could shoot a rifle, but his accuracy with a pistol had been compromised. Now, he consulted as a civilian criminal investigator, a position that did not require him to carry a handgun. Brody was simply getting older, although the shooting certainly hadn’t helped the aging process.

Greta tried to nose her way between them, but Brody held his ground. Matt lifted Brody’s big head and looked into his deep brown eyes. “Don’t worry. She’ll be out of your hair in September.” After she was accepted into the training program, Greta would live with her new handler.

Brody let out a long-suffering sigh and gave his temporary houseguest a side-eye. The older dog liked Greta, but she also annoyed the hell out of him.