J.T. Ellison - Field Of Graves

“You think it’s the same guy?”

“I don’t know. Until Sam finishes the post and we run all the evidence, there’s no way to know. But the posing, the staging, the sexual assault—we may be dealing with more than a simple predator.”

“A serial,” he said, and she heard the teeniest bit of excitement in his voice.

“Possibly. And that, my friend, is top secret information. I’ll be there shortly. Be good.”

“You, too. Oh, hey. There’s a big front headed our way. We’re supposed to have bad weather for the next few days. Be careful.”

Taylor clicked off the phone, tossed the cigarette under the wheel of a relatively new Mustang convertible. Lincoln wasn’t kidding. The sky was darkening, and she could smell the storm; the dry tang of rain getting stronger by the minute. She looked to the west, saw the first lightning strike. Maybe the storm would improve her mood; she always loved a good rain.

Knowing she could put it off no longer, she headed back in to give Sam the bad news.

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