Page 39 of Hunter or Hunted

Mitchell raised a shoulder. “It looks like dirt to me, man.”

That still didn’t explain why a shovel so small, so lightweight, could lift that much snow without breaking. Or without leaving marks on Delilah’s hands. Wouldn’t they have at least been red with inflammation? Or callused, if she did it often?

“Well, did forensics take any samples?” Edwards asked. “Maybe they could test them. See if there was rust in the snow, and if there was⁠—”

Mitchell’s snort cut him off. “We can do DNA, we can do fingerprints. But we don’t have the money for forensics like that. Even if we did, there was no reason to take any samples. It got warm for a day or two, so anything on top of that snow probably melted by now. We can’t go back and get samples anyway.”

A black hole opened in the center of Edwards’s chest. “Alright. Rust aside, who really thinks to bring a shovel to the place where they’re getting ready to kill themselves? If they’re thinking about the height of the snow, if they’re concerned with their comfort on their way to end their lives, why wouldn’t she have worn snow boots?”

Mitchell’s shoulders fell, a deep breath escaping his nostrils. “You and these damn shoes.”

“I know, I know. There are plenty of reasons she could’ve been wearing them, but⁠—”

“Look, can I level with you, kid?” Frowning, Mitchell’s brown eyes grew sympathetic.

Sympathy was better than apathy. Edwards nodded.

“Suicides never make sense,” Mitchell said. “They do to psychologists, maybe to a few family members and close friends. But for us? They don’t make sense. We’re out here every day trying to keep people from getting hurt. So seeing someone do it themselves—it gets you all mixed up. You start looking for pictures in the clouds and Jesus’s face on a piece of toast, because it doesn’t have clear-cut explanations. Not the kind that makes sense to us. Is this the first suicide you’ve seen?”

Second, counting Sarah. And Edwards had never been sure if that was suicide either. Sebastian had never seemed to believe so.

“First I’ve worked on, yeah,” Edwards said. “And I hear you, sir. Maybe it has taken a little bit of a toll on me. But something just isn’t adding up here.” He licked his dry lips. “Have we looked into her ex? Evan?”

“I did, and he’s got a solid alibi.” Mitchell shrugged. “Lives all the way in Missouri. No recent flights, and he clocked in and out of work the day before, the day of, and the day after. No way he got all the way up here, killed her, then all the way back down in time to get to his nine-to-five.”

Edwards’ shoulders slumped. Maybe Mitchell was right. Maybe Edwards was looking too deeply into all of this because of Gwen. Because of Sarah.

Maybe Delilah had killed herself.

“Right,” Edwards murmured. “You’re probably right. Just wish there was something I could do, you know? Some way to fix it. Nothing’s gonna bring her back, but if something were to come out later, and I hadn’t done everything in my power to make sure it really was a suicide—Well, I don’t know how I would sleep at night.”

“Hey, I get it. And I don’t mind if you keep looking at it.” Mitchell straightened and headed toward Edwards. He pressed a consoling hand to the young officer’s shoulder. After a gentle squeeze, Mitchell continued past him. “If you find something that looks like more than writing in the clouds, let me know. If we have any reason to believe that this is something other than a suicide, we’ll investigate and prosecute to the fullest extent of the law.”

“I appreciate that, sir,” Edwards said, following behind him. His eyes stayed on the photo. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Mitchell said. “And happy holidays.”

13

GWEN

The shifting of the bed woke me.

Sebastian sat on the edge, facing the wall. His bare back faced me. And what a nice back it was.

Until the other night, I had never seen him without a shirt. I always assumed the T-shirts and flannels were so big and heavy to hide parts of himself he wasn’t proud of. But those must’ve just been his style, because sure, he had a bit of a dad bod. Certainly couldn’t call him a gym rat with muscles of hard stone.

His chest was soft enough to lay on without something bony jutting into me, yet firm and toned beneath the surface. This angle made it clear that, while his life did not revolve around looking like a movie star, he took good care of himself.

As he pulled a green T-shirt over his frame, I tried to remember everything we’d said yesterday. It was all there. I hadn’t blacked out, but I didn’t know how he felt about it all in the aftermath. In the moment, I hadn’t given as much thought to each word that came out of my mouth as I usually did, and guilt pinched my chest.

What was I supposed to say?

I landed on, “Morning.”

When he turned my way, I braced for a glare or a snap. He smiled instead. “Good morning. How’d you sleep?”

Heavy. Soundly. If I had any dreams last night, I didn’t remember them. “Pretty good. Did you?”