The Killer You Know

“What can you tell me about the victim?”

“It’s the damnedest thing. Good kid. Comes from a great family. Her name is Rhia Daniels, sixteen, popular, pretty. Cheerleader, academic scholar, volunteers at the animal shelter, hell, she’s the poster child for the all-American teenager. We’re running into a brick wall as to who might want to hurt the poor girl.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Silas murmured. “What do you know about the family?”

“Solid. Good people. They didn’t deserve something like this.”

How many times had he thought the very same thing when delivering bad news to grieving parents?

No one deserved to lose a child.

Mankins switched gears. “How’s your mama? She still in Florida?”

“Yes, sir. Loves the sun, sand and the fact that when it rains, it’s sunny five minutes later.”

“And your dad?”

“He passed a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man. How about your brothers?”

Silas knew polite conversation was expected but he had little interest in chewing the fat. He kept his answers short. “All well. Thank you.”

“It’s a damn shame your family didn’t stay local. The Kellys are good folk.”

Port Orion had lost its charm after Spencer died. His parents split and soon as the boys were done with school, the Kellys put Port Orion in their rearview.

Too many memories.

Too many unanswered questions.

He rose. “Thank you for your indulgence. I’ll try to stay on the peripheral. When is the autopsy scheduled?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll check in afterward.”

“I wish it were under better circumstances, but it’s good to see you again,” Mankins said. “You turned out pretty good.”

Silas accepted the comment with a subtle nod and a definite burn in his cheeks. Sheriff Mankins had been one of the people who’d seen a kid eaten by grief and guilt instead of the little shit that everyone else thought he was.

And now, seeing Mankins again, brought back all those feelings he’d long since put to bed.

He’d never properly thanked Mankins for his help. But now wasn’t the time. Silas wanted to keep things professional.

“It’s good to see you,” Silas offered by way of goodbye then saw himself out.

He drew a deep breath once outside the station. It felt as if an elephant was sitting on his chest.

Silas hadn’t expected to see Mankins still serving as sheriff. But hell, nothing changed in Port Orion it seemed, so why would he assume that Mankins would be retired?

Port Orion wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime. Aside from Spencer’s abduction and murder and now this young girl, Port Orion was the picture of tranquility.

But what Silas had learned through his investigations with the FBI was that nothing was perfect. There was no perfect family, no perfect town.

Everyone had secrets they didn’t want to share.

Every place had dark shadows.

So Silas was going to do what he hadn’t been able to do back when he was thirteen—throw some light on the shadows...and rattle some closets to see what skeletons fell out.

Port Orion was about to have its bloomers blown up.

* * *

Quinn arose early, as she always did, and hustled down to Reba’s, her favorite diner, for breakfast. She had a standing order of coffee and Reba’s bestselling zucchini bread. Quinn liked to tell herself that she was getting her greens by eating zucchini bread for breakfast but deep down, she knew it was just delicious cake.

And she was okay with that.

She walked into the cozy diner and smiled at the waitresses, noting every familiar face that was always in the diner at this hour—Bill, Nancy, Georgia, Edwin—but her gaze skidded to a stop at one particular person who was certainly not local. Talk about tall, dark and mysterious.

And easy on the eyes—in an intense sort of way.

Black, austere wool coat, slicked back dark hair and an air about him that said, I’m not friendly so don’t even try, which pricked Quinn’s need to know more.

Either he was part of the Trenchcoat Mafia or he was a Fed.

Quinn was putting her money on a Fed.

And what exactly was a Fed doing here in Port Orion? Well, there was one way to find out.

She scooped up her order and went straight to his booth, sliding in on the opposite side with a smile.

“You’re not from around here,” she said, going straight for the obvious. “So who are you?”

He looked up and she was hit with stormy gray eyes that mirrored the skies when it was about to drop a bucket of water on the land. Her usual witty comebacks died on her tongue as she was momentarily stunned by the energy coming off him in waves.

“You first,” he countered, holding her gaze, taking her measure as surely as she’d tried to take his.

Remembering herself, she smiled brightly and extended a hand across the table, which he accepted briefly then released quickly. “Quinn Jackson. Reporter for the Port Orion Tribune and my Spidey-sense is telling me that you are a federal agent.”

“Your Spidey-sense is not wrong,” he answered, though his gaze had narrowed a bit. “And to what do I owe the pleasure? Are you part of the welcoming committee?”

“Not at all. I’m curious as to why a federal agent is in town, right when our poor town is being overrun by strangers because of the recent murder of Rhia Daniels, a pretty, little cheerleader girl, who, at first glance, was universally loved. Seems highly coincidental, right? I mean, what does the FBI care about a murder in a small town?”

He took a slow, measured sip of his black coffee. Quinn grabbed six tiny cream buckets and dumped them into her own coffee, adding about five packets of sugar.

She liked her coffee...less like coffee.

“What did you say your name was?” Quinn asked, blowing on her coffee.

“I didn’t.”

“Ah, that would explain why I still have no clue as to who you are. Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?”

A brief smile lit up his mouth before he answered. “Special Agent Silas Kelly, FBI.”

Triumph at being right sang in her voice. “See? I knew it. Now my next question...what the hell are you doing here?”

“I used to live here.”

“Yeah? When?”

“My entire family was born here.”

“Hmmm, I’ll have to verify that statement from different sources. Back to my original question...what are you doing here? It has something to do with Rhia’s death, doesn’t it?”

“Perhaps.”

“Cryptic,” Quinn stated with a frown. “Okay, I’m going to assume that you’re here because of Rhia’s murder. So what’s so special that the FBI is getting involved? Government conspiracy? Not likely. Aliens? Probably not. Some connection to a different case? I can’t imagine. So you’ve got me stumped. Help a girl out and give me a hint.”

“I’m not here to give interviews, Miss Jackson.”

“What are you here for?”

“That would be my business.”

“So this is a personal trip, not official?”

He hesitated and she capitalized on his minute pause. “Aha! Let me guess...you are here on semi-official business but you’re not taking over the investigation, which means you’re here on a fact-finding mission,” she finished, pleased with herself. “Tell me I’m not wrong.”

But he couldn’t. All he would say was, “You can believe what you wish.”

Well, this was going nowhere.

“Let me tell you what I think... I think—” she began, fishing a little “—that Rhia Daniels was killed by someone that the FBI is interested in.”

“Everyone is entitled to their opinion...or speculation.”

“So you’re really not going to tell me anything, are you?” When he graced her with a sardonic expression, she said, “All right. Fine. Play it your way. I mean, we could work together and help each other out, but if you’d like to go it alone in a small town where the locals are wary of strangers...then I guess that’s your choice. But don’t come crawling to me when you get stonewalled at every turn.”

“I’m not a stranger.”

“Yeah, but how long has it been since you’ve been gone?”

“Fifteen years.”

“A lot can change in fifteen years.”

She left him with that thought.

And a smile.

With any luck, that seed she’d just planted would sprout and grow wild.

Chapter 3

Pastor Forrest Simms was in his office when two members of his flock came in, eyes and noses red from uncontrollable weeping.

Violet and Oliver Daniels, Rhia’s parents.

“Pastor,” Violet started, turning to her husband and clutching at his jacket. “I can’t tell him. You do it.”

Oliver nodded gravely and swallowed before saying, “We wanted to tell you before you heard through the grapevine... Rhia is dead.”

Forrest felt the blood drain from his cheeks. “How?”

“She was murdered. Someone took our Rhia away. Who could do such a thing?” Violet was seeking answers that Forrest couldn’t give her.

His gut churned as he searched for something to ease their heartache but his thoughts were crashing into each other. He leaned on platitudes to get him through. “She’s in a better place. She’s with Our Father. Take comfort in that where Rhia is, she is loved by the Almighty and knows only peace.”

“I want her back,” Violet wailed, sobbing against her husband’s chest. “She was my baby. My miracle baby. And now she’s gone. Who would do such a terrible thing to such a sweet girl?”

Oliver tried to hush his wife but he was barely hanging on himself. He looked to Forrest with an apology. “We’re sorry for interrupting your private time, Pastor. We just wanted to share the news personally, on account of how close you and Rhia were. She really looked to you for spiritual guidance and we will always keep you in our hearts for that.”

Forrest nodded, his discomfort making his skin itch as if a thousand fire ants were biting him. “She was a lovely girl.”

Violet nodded and Oliver walked with his bereft wife out of the office, leaving Forrest alone for a brief moment before Gladys, his secretary came in, her expression one of shock.

“Rhia Daniels? Did I hear that correctly?”

“Yes.”

Gladys fluttered her hands like a bird trying to take flight and then pressed her hands to her chest as if she was going to faint. “What is this town coming to? The wickedness is overwhelming. I mean, just the other day I was at the grocery store and someone stole cash right out of my purse when I had my back turned. The nerve! And now a murder?” She shuddered, adding, “This brings up so many bad memories. Hasn’t this town suffered enough?”

Forrest nodded, knowing that Gladys was referencing the death of Spencer Kelly almost twenty years ago. He and Spencer had been in the same grade. His death had been a major blow to the community.

Then Gladys thought of something. “Oh goodness, that must be why I saw all those news vans milling around downtown. That means the restaurants are going to be full. Darn if I’m going to get a table tonight now.”

“Gladys,” he admonished and she was immediately contrite.

“Excuse me, Pastor. Where is my head? I don’t know what’s wrong with me. We should host a gathering so people can come and grieve for poor Rhia.”

Forrest knew that was the right thing to do. But he struggled to say the words. Rhia was, indeed, a special girl. He didn’t know if he was ready to face all the grieving friends and family.

But he also knew with everyone in a lather about a potential murderer in their midst, he had to tread cautiously.

“That’s a beautiful idea, Gladys,” he finally murmured with a faint smile. “Please make the necessary arrangements. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I feel the need to pray. My heart is heavy.”

“Yes, of course.” Gladys quickly left the room and Forrest exhaled a shaky breath.

Rhia.

No more flirty smiles from across the pew.

No more struggling with his guilt.

His hands were still shaking.

He just had to get through the next few weeks.

God would provide solace and understanding.

Please, forgive me.

* * *

Silas checked into the hotel and, after making quick work of hanging his clothes and setting up his toiletries, he loosened his tie and sank into the small chair by the window.

Condensation gathered between the window panes from the damp air. Silas could already feel the cold creeping into his bones.

You’re tired, he rationalized. He wasn’t about to let his imagination start messing with him.

There was still time to head out to the scene.

Doing something was preferable to staring at the peeling wallpaper while he waited for his brother’s case file.

Grabbing his coat, he scooped up his keys and headed for Seminole Creek.

The road was bumpy just as he remembered. Only the locals swam in Seminole. It was difficult to find and easy to miss.

But in the summer it was the best place to hole up, drink a few beers and make out with your girlfriend away from prying eyes.

Except Silas had never much cared for the place after Spencer had been found there.

None of the Kelly boys hung out at Seminole after that.

The fact that he could still remember the way was a testament to how it was burned into his memory for all the wrong reasons.

You had to climb down to the actual creek from a short embankment, which was something someone else had known, too.

A Jeep was parked on the shoulder.

Silas pulled up behind the vehicle and climbed out, his gaze sharp.

Woodland creatures skittered behind ferns and tall trees flanking the wide creek bed. His breath plumed in frosty clouds as he surveyed the area.

Nothing had changed.

But then nothing changed in Port Orion it seemed.

It was as if the town had been caught in a time loop. Nothing moved forward or behind—everything was static.

He climbed to the top and looked down.

A huge rock jutted out across the water, a popular jumping point above a deep spot on the creek bed.

Spencer’s voice echoed in his mind.

“Silas, watch me!”

Spencer, the precocious shit, had wanted to prove himself. He was going to jump from the high rock, like the rest of them.

Their oldest brother Sawyer didn’t approve. “It’s too high for him.”

“Stop babying him,” Silas had shot back. “You practically pushed me off this rock when I was his age.”

“I can do it,” Spencer boasted to Sawyer with a tiny amount of pleading. “C’mon, let me try.”

Silas wanted to see Spencer jump. Everyone babied Spencer and he was sick of it. Why were the rules always different for Spence? “Go on, I dare you, you little mama’s boy,” Silas had taunted with a grin. “You’re too chicken to do it.”

Before Sawyer could tell him not to, Spencer flipped Silas off and then leaped from the rock, screeching like a little girl the entire way down.

Silas had laughed until Sawyer had picked him up and tossed him off the rock to join Spencer, saying, “You made him jump. You can make sure he’s okay.”

Silas’s balls still ached from the awkward way he’d landed in the water.

Yeah, his brothers had thought that was hilarious.

The memory of that day faded and Silas returned to the present only to see that aggressive reporter, Quinn Jackson, nosing around the crime scene.

“Hey,” he called out. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is an active crime scene.”

Quinn looked up, caught, and tried blinding him with a bright smile as if that was going to work.

The young woman was nice to look at. In another time, another place, he might even be tempted to get her number, but in this current circumstance, he had zero interest so that pretty smile was wasted on him.

“You can’t be down here,” Silas told her sternly as he joined her. “Exactly what do you hope to accomplish aside from contaminating a crime scene?”

“Hold on, there, Mr. Grumpy Pants, I’m not stupid. I’m not touching anything on the other side of the tape, I’m just trying to get a feel for the scene. It helps for my story.”

Silas narrowed his gaze, seeing her for what she was—a soulless shell of a person who only cared about her story.

Much like the reporters who’d ruined Spencer’s case.

Over-eager, aggressive and completely disinterested in how their meddling affected the outcome of a case.

“Get out of here before I call your boss,” Silas growled. “Try to show some respect for the girl who died.”

Quinn stiffened, taking immediate offense. “Excuse me? I knew that girl. I took her picture plenty of times for the paper so don’t lecture me on something you have no moral ground to stand on. You are the trespasser here. Try to remember that.”

“Her family is grieving,” Silas returned, disgusted with all press. “The last thing they need is some nosey reporter digging around, contaminating the case. Now, get out of here.”

“This is public land,” Quinn said, lifting her chin, her eyes flashing. “I can be here all I want as long as I don’t cross the tape. So deal with it.”

Silas shook his head. Reporters were all alike. Intent on their own purposes, and damn anyone else.

“What are you here for?” Quinn asked.

But Silas disregarded her question and walked away, prepared to tune her out. If she refused to leave he couldn’t make her, but he didn’t have to be polite and suffer idle chatter.

Quinn took the hint but he sensed she was put out. Small town—she wasn’t used to being on the outside of a local issue. She probably got what she wanted by using charm and sweetness but he got the feeling Quinn was more than she seemed.

Quinn’s surface was a cultivated act that she’d honed over the years but past the superficial layer of candy was nothing but rock.

He’d have to watch out for her. She was going to be trouble.

Silas gave her a covert glance, catching her scribbling notes in her notepad, her nose pinking from the chill.

What was she writing?

The creek, high for this time of year, rushed over rocks, creating small whitecaps. Although Seminole was technically a creek, it was quite wide and deep in some areas.

The gurgle of the water as it traveled was soothing to some—but Silas didn’t care for it.

Rushing water reminded him of Spencer’s murder.

Swearing mentally at his inability to stop his brain from throwing too many pieces from his childhood into his way, he realized without the report, he was wasting his time at the crime scene.

Maybe he’d already known that at a core level but he had to come to test himself.

He didn’t see the raw, lush beauty of Seminole Creek—he saw the place someone had dumped his brother’s body.

Oppenshaw had probably been right; his thought process was too cluttered with shit from the past to be of any use here.

But he wasn’t leaving.

Hell, he couldn’t if he tried.

The pull to remain was too strong.

Without another word, he left Quinn behind at the scene. It was getting dark, anyway. If she wanted to stumble around without any light that was her business.

He needed food, a shower and bed.

In that order.

Tomorrow he was attacking this case with his head on straight.

Chapter 4

Quinn knew when the FBI agent, Silas Kelly, had left the scene, because she found herself releasing the breath that must’ve been pent up inside.

There was something about the austere man that troubled her.

He wasn’t friendly in the least.

But that wasn’t it.

Okay, so he was good-looking. Older than her by close to ten years, but he wore his age well.

His skin was clear, his eyes sharp.

If she was being honest, he probably could double as a model or something.

But that wasn’t what was pulling at her, either.

Quinn sensed something beyond the stoic face, the stern glance.

Pain.

The man was hiding something really painful, something that he preferred to keep private.

Which, of course, only pricked at her need to know more.

Her uncle Leo was always telling her that she was the cat that curiosity eventually killed.

A little morbid but probably true.

What could she say? She loved uncovering details that others would rather hide.

Such as...why was an FBI agent poking his nose into a local case that, on the surface, had absolutely no connection to anything with federal jurisdiction?

Time for a little fieldwork. Someone in town had to know more about Silas Kelly.

Seeing as the sheriff was being unaccountably mum on the subject of this recent murder, she’d just have to go to a different source.

The one man she knew who knew everything about Port Orion was right under her nose.

Uncle Leo.

Pocketing her pen and pad, she wandered a few more times up and down the bank, steering clear of the tape, and when she found nothing that stood out, she followed Silas’s lead and left the scene.

Just in time, too. Her nose felt ready to fall off.

Quinn popped into the diner to grab some soup—minestrone for her and chowder for Uncle Leo—and went home.

The best way to get her uncle to start talking was to ply him with his favorite foods.

Chowder was his weakness.

“I’m home,” she called out, carrying her bags of goodies. “And I’ve brought something yummy.”

Leo hollered from his office. “I’ll be right there. I can smell the chowder already!”

Quinn chuckled and found some bowls to ladle up their portions. She broke off some sourdough bread and liberally buttered it so by the time Uncle Leo appeared she had everything ready to go.

“You are an angel from heaven,” he said, sinking into the chair at the table, his eyes as round as the soup bowl. “How did you know that I was craving chowder?”

Quinn pretended to think then answered, “Because it’s a day that ends in Y.”

“Clever girl,” Leo quipped before dipping in, his expression of glee tickling her.

Uncle Leo was like a father to her but cool like an uncle. She liked to call him her funcle.

After a few bites, Leo leaned back and eyed Quinn with suspicion. “All right, out with it, missy...what’s on your mind? You always bring me chowder when you want something.”

“Not true,” she protested but she couldn’t help the smile because it was true. “Maybe I just love seeing you happy and I know chowder is the way to your heart.”

“Exactly,” he returned drily. “What do you need?”

Since there was no further point in denying it, Quinn said, “Okay, since you asked... I need information.”

“Is this on the record?” he said semi-seriously. “Because I don’t need to be quoted on nothing.”

“Off the record,” she assured him. “I just need to know some Port Orion history.”

Leo lost his seriousness. “Oh, then. That’s easy. What do you need to know?”

Quinn jumped right in. “So, there’s an FBI agent in town, seemingly interested in the murder of Rhia Daniels, and he says he’s from here but I don’t know him. I mean, he’s older than me, but I thought you might have some insight.”

“What’s the name?”

“Silas Kelly.”

At the mention of the name, Leo’s gaze shuttered and he shook his head. “Sad story there. Hard to believe he came back.”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s an FBI agent interested in the Daniels case for?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I was hoping I could find out by learning who he is to this town. Can you help me?”

“I don’t know much more than what was told in the papers,” Leo said, tearing off a chunk of bread to dunk in the chowder.

“Yeah, but surely there must’ve been chatter. Just tell me what you remember.”

Leo fidgeted, seeming lost for a minute. Finally, he roused himself when he realized Quinn was still waiting.

“Sure, sure. Okay, well, it’s a terrible story. Here’s what I remember. The Kelly family used to live here. Good family. Good people. But then something bad happened to the youngest Kelly boy and nothing was ever the same again.”