Carla Cassidy - Scene of the Crime - Bridgewater, Texas

“You might want to get somebody over to Miranda’s house to fingerprint the windows,” Jenna said.

“Why?”

“I think somebody came to visit while I was there today.”

“What?” He looked at her in alarm.

As she explained what had happened, a new uneasiness swept through Matt. Had the killer returned to the scene of the crime?

“I just got the sensation that I wasn’t alone in the house, but it may have been my imagination working overtime.” She picked up her water glass and took a sip.

“Do you suffer from an overactive imagination normally?” he asked.

She smiled wryly. “Never.”

Matt frowned and stared at her. “Both of the victims were brunettes with blue eyes—just like you.”

Scene of the Crime:

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Carla Cassidy is an award-winning author who has written more than fifty novels for Harlequin Books. In 1995, she won Best Silhouette Romance from RT Book Reviews for Anything for Danny. In 1998, she also won a Career Achievement Award for Best Innovative Series from RT Book Reviews.

Carla believes the only thing better than curling up with a good book to read is sitting down at the computer with a good story to write. She’s looking forward to writing many more books and bringing hours of pleasure to readers.

Cast of Characters

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Jenna Taylor—The FBI agent wants to solve her best friend’s murder but instead finds herself the next target.

Sheriff Matt Buchanan—A killer walks his streets. Is he smart enough to save the women who live in his town and the beautiful FBI agent who is under his skin?

Miranda Harris—The first victim of a serial killer.

Carolyn Cox—The second victim of a serial killer.

Leroy Banks—Did the busboy hide a killing rage?

Dr. Patrick Harris—The town’s veterinarian and a man with a secret past. Would he kill to keep his secrets?

Bud Carlson—Did Miranda reject his bad-boy advances, and did that rejection result in her murder?

Special Agent Jenna Taylor looked up the quiet residential street, then down the other way. Seeing nobody around, she carefully pulled aside the crime scene tape that was stretched across the front door of the small ranch house.

It was wrong, she knew what she was doing was wrong, but she didn’t intend to touch anything, wouldn’t do anything to compromise the crime scene.

She was surprised to find the door unlocked. She frowned, marveling at the sloppy work of whoever was in charge.

The faint smell of death lingered in the foyer even though she knew the body of the victim had been removed forty-eight hours earlier.

The first thing she saw as she stepped into the foyer was the horrendous painting of a rustic old red barn with a pond in front of it.

The sight of it threatened to unravel the tight control she’d kept on her emotions since she’d heard about the murder.

She’d painted the picture years ago in the very first art class she’d taken. It held all the flaws of an amateur; the water was too blue, the trees a single shade of green. Jenna had been going to trash it, but Miranda had insisted she loved it and wanted to keep it.

Over the years it had become a running joke between them. No matter where Miranda moved, no matter what her circumstances, the painting was always the one thing constant in her life.

Jenna steeled herself as she stepped into the living room. The essence of Miranda filled the room, from the colorful throw pillows on the red sofa to the plethora of flourishing plants in front of the windows.

Miranda had loved color and life. She made friends easily and trusted in the goodness of people. She and Jenna had been polar opposites, and yet they had been as close as blood sisters.

Jenna had been told very little about the crime, only that Miranda had been murdered and her body had been found in the bedroom. Jenna hadn’t spoken to any of the local officials yet. She’d wanted to come here first, see the scene without anyone tainting her first impressions, without anyone giving her theories about the killer. It was how she worked best—completely alone.

She’d been surprised that there hadn’t been a patrol car out front, a guard to keep looky-loos away. That, coupled with the unlocked front door made her slightly ill. The local law in this po-dunk Texas town probably didn’t know the first thing about conducting a murder investigation.

It didn’t matter. Jenna would see to it that the guilty party was brought to justice. That was her job and she was damn good at what she did.

As she moved down the hallway toward the master bedroom, she reached for the cool emotional detachment that had served her well all of her life. She didn’t think about the murdered woman being Miranda.

It was a victim, nothing more. It was the only way she could do her job effectively.

Still her stomach clenched as she reached the door to the master bedroom. It was closed and for a moment she stood before it and drew a couple of deep, slow breaths.

The doorknob was cool beneath her fingers as she turned it and pushed open the door. Evening shadows were already filling the room and although she would have liked to turn on the light, she fought the impulse, not wanting to draw attention to her presence here.

The king-size bed stood before her. It had been stripped of sheets and blankets and only an ugly rust-colored stain remained in the center of the mattress.

This was where Miranda had died. She’d come to this town to begin to build a new life and instead had been killed in her bed.

As she stared at it, the unmistakable click of a gun sounded from somewhere behind her.

She whirled around and reached for her weapon, but stopped as she saw him. He stood in the shadows by the closet, a tall, dark-haired man with broad shoulders and a gun leveled at her chest.

It was a known fact that often a murderer will revisit the scene of his crime and this man with hair as dark as midnight and hard, cold eyes the color of the gun he held in his hand, looked like he could put a bullet through her heart, then go enjoy a nice cold beer with his buddies.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded, as if she were in a position to demand anything.

“I think that’s my line.” His voice was sexy deep and although his tone was relatively light, the sharp gaze of his eyes belied the easy tone.

“Special Agent Taylor, FBI,” she replied.

“Sheriff Matt Buchannan, and nobody called the FBI, so what in the hell are you doing here on my crime scene?”

“I’d feel a lot better about discussing all this if you didn’t have that gun pointed at me.” She didn’t know if he was the sheriff or the killer, but she definitely wished he’d point his gun in another direction.