The Echo Killing: A gripping debut crime thriller you won’t be able to put down!

‘Could you answer it?’ Harper looked at him pleadingly.

Smith shook his head.

‘Harper, no. Trust me – all those two crimes have in common is a girl coming home from school.’

His tone was firm – irrefutable. But she knew that wasn’t true at all.

She wasn’t sure how to play this. She couldn’t explain what she knew without revealing she’d seen the crime scene. And then he was going to want to know how exactly she’d managed that.

But she didn’t have much choice.

‘Are you sure? Whitney was found in the kitchen, right?’ She tried to sound confused but not challenging. ‘Naked and lying on the floor. Stabbed repeatedly. Lieutenant, that’s exactly like my mother.’

His eyes widened. She could sense him preparing an argument, so she launched into all the questions that had filled her mind in the last two hours.

‘What kind of knife did he use? Was it the same kind used on my mother? Have you compared the cases? If it’s the same guy, why—’

‘Harper stop.’ Smith’s big, craggy face reddened. ‘How the hell do you know where the body was found? None of those facts have been released to the press and I’ll be damned if Blazer told you. That man would sooner kiss a rattlesnake than talk to a reporter.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she argued. ‘What matters is whether the same person killed Marie Whitney as—’

‘Enough,’ he snapped, cutting her off again. ‘You don’t get to ask the questions. I do. Now, you have somehow accessed information you should not have about a murder case under investigation. As head of the homicide division I am ultimately responsible for that crime scene. And I will know who gave you those details, or I will be on the phone to your editor to get her over here to explain for you.’

Harper swallowed hard.

Now and then she got small glimpses of what it must be like to be a murder suspect interviewed by him. His narrow blue eyes were so steely and penetrating it hurt to look at them. It was as if he could see through her to her soul.

‘I saw the crime scene,’ she confessed.

Smith rubbed his forehead tiredly.

‘Oh, wonderful. And how, exactly, did you manage that?’

‘Through the window,’ she said. ‘I happened to get a quick glance. That’s it.’

‘Happened to get a quick glance?’ Smith cocked his head, eyeing her with open suspicion. ‘Which window?’

‘One of the back ones.’ She tilted one shoulder. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Hell, yes, it matters. Because the only way to see through those windows …’

With a silent apology to Miles, Harper said, ‘… is with a long-range camera lens from the backyard of a helpful neighbor. Yes. And that is not illegal, Lieutenant. As you well know.’

His mouth snapped shut.

There was a pause as they both sat staring each other down across the vast desk.

Finally, he blinked.

‘Harper, why did you do that? This isn’t like you.’ The anger had left his voice, replaced by weariness. ‘You know you’ve got no business spying on an active homicide investigation.’

This time Harper didn’t have to think up a good lie.

‘I saw Camille,’ she said. ‘I saw her standing next to you, and it was like looking at myself. I had to know if the crimes were the same. And they were.’

The lieutenant sagged in his seat.

‘It’s not the same,’ he insisted. ‘That girl isn’t you.’

‘Lieutenant, please.’ Harper leaned forward. ‘I have to know why this crime scene looked so much like my mother’s. I don’t want to fight with you. I need to understand what’s happening. This is for me, not the newspaper. For me.’ She pressed a hand hard against her chest. ‘Do you think the same person committed both murders? Is my mother’s killer back?’

Deep lines scored the skin above Smith’s eyes as he studied her with grave understanding.

‘I’m so sorry, Harper,’ he said gently. ‘The same person did not commit both murders.’

Some tiny strand of hope or fear that had wrapped itself around Harper’s heart from the moment she first saw Camille standing on the street hours earlier, let go. And she hated to see it leave.

She felt numb. She’d been so sure.

‘You’re certain?’ Her voice was airless.

‘I’m certain.’ He leaned forward. ‘Now, look. I’m not denying there are striking similarities with your mother’s case. But there are differences, too, Harper. Significant differences.’

‘What differences?’

‘The type of weapon used, the angle of the wounds, the force used in the attack – it all indicates a different person committed this crime,’ he said. ‘This person is taller than your mother’s murderer. He’s heavier. The wounds were less efficient, more tentative – Whitney had more defensive wounds, so she had more of a chance to fight. This all points to a different killer.’

He spoke with confidence. Evidence was where he was comfortable. It’s where all detectives are most at home. Building a case from a hundred microscopic individual strands, like an architect designing a building one pencil-stroke at a time.

Harper couldn’t argue with evidence.

‘There are enough differences in this scene to reassure me that those superficial similarities are no more than coincidences,’ he continued. ‘Listen, if you stick around in this business long enough, you get to see the same kind of murder happen again. There are only so many ways to kill.’

Harper tried to think of something to say, but all the fight left her. She kept seeing Marie Whitney – her hand flung out, fingers curled. And her own mother, still and cold.

‘Oh,’ she said softly.

‘Harper,’ the lieutenant looked concerned. ‘Are you OK? You need something? Some water?’

‘No …’ she told him. ‘I mean … I’m fine.’

It wasn’t true. She wanted to ask him about what Blazer had said, about the killer being a professional, and what did that mean but, suddenly, she felt suffocated in this windowless room. She had to get out.

She stood abruptly, shoving the chair back so hard it skidded harshly on the floor. Smith looked startled.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, backing to the door. ‘I have to get to the newsroom. Deadlines.’

Smith nodded. ‘Of course.’

But he stood up behind his desk, as if deciding whether or not to follow her as she fumbled with the door.

In the open doorway she stopped and looked back at him. He hadn’t moved, but his eyes were worried.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Really.’ Remembering their agreed lunch plans, she added hurriedly, ‘I’ll see you Sunday, OK?’

Before he could reply, she yanked the door open and ran out into the hallway, rushing to the security doors and out into the warm summer night.

Chapter Twelve

Five hours later, just after midnight, Harper stood in front of a converted warehouse on a cobblestoned lane at the edge of the river squinting at the numbered buttons in the dark.

The light above the door had gone out two weeks ago and no one had fixed it yet. One of these days she was going to come down here with a screwdriver and replace that damn bulb herself.

Finding number twelve, she hit it hard and waited, staring at the camera above the door. Her right leg jittered with ill-concealed impatience.

Now that she was here, she wanted to get this over with.

‘Jackson.’ Through the tinny speaker, Miles’ voice sounded crisp and cautious.

‘It’s me,’ she told the camera. ‘Obviously.’

With a deep, mechanical clunk, the heavy steel door unlocked and swung silently inward.

Inside, she crossed a spacious, empty lobby, past over-sized pots holding glossy palms and ficus trees that seemed small in the cavernous space. The owners had kept the original pitted and worn stone floor, polishing it up to make it look a bit more like a home and less like what it had been for more than a hundred years – a giant holding area for crates of cotton and tobacco, sweet potatoes and sugarcane.

Even now, despite all the developer’s efforts cleaning and glossing and polishing, she thought she could detect the faintest scent of ancient field dust in the artificially cooled air.

The elevator opened as soon as she pressed the call button. They’d gone for a post-industrial look here, with walls made of sheets of metal that looked like someone had punched it repeatedly until it behaved.

As the lift rose, she leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes. Her stomach grumbled loud enough to be heard above the elevator’s pulleys. She hadn’t eaten anything since her interrupted lunch at Eric’s. There’d been no time.

Once she’d returned from the police station, she’d spent hours putting together a complete news package about Marie Whitney for the final edition. DJ had stayed late to help.

The headline – Murder Shocks Peaceful Neighborhood – was mediocre, in Harper’s opinion. But it was, at least, accurate.

Miles hadn’t told anyone about Harper’s behavior at the crime scene. Now, she was here to give him the explanation she’d promised.

On the fourth floor, the doors swept open with a soft shushing sound, revealing a dimly lit, wide hallway with exposed brick walls. The door to number twelve stood ajar.

She walked in, shutting the door behind her. A husky blues singer’s voice streamed from speakers.

‘Hello?’

The loft apartment had soaring ceilings and a floor made of wide planks of reclaimed oak. Huge windows lined one wall, framing the glittering lights of downtown Savannah and the undulating dark swirl of the river.

The living room, dining room and kitchen were all one space. His furniture was modern – leather and chrome. Most of the lights were turned down low, except in the kitchen, where Miles sat at the table in the bright, clean glow of a pendulum light.

Glancing up at her, he tilted his head toward the fridge. The wire-framed glasses he wore for close-up work glittered in the light. If he was still angry at her, it didn’t show on his face.

‘Grab yourself a beer.’

He’d spread the internal parts of a camera out on clean, white paper and under a bright light was working with an array of complex tools, meticulously putting it back together.

He did this regularly; said it helped him think.

A police scanner on the counter next to the fridge buzzed and crackled loud enough to be heard above the music.

Harper pulled a bottle from the fridge.

‘I’m surprised to see you,’ Miles said, as she popped the lid with an opener he’d left on the counter. ‘Figured you’d be at Rosie’s.’

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