Page 17 of Risky Passion

"Decomposition suggests two to six weeks in the ground. Female victim. I'd place her in her mid-fifties to early sixties."

I whistled low. "Her age could mean that she was actually an orphan who lived here when the place was still operating."

"Let's stick to the evidence, Detective Foster." Whitney's scowl was visible even behind his face shield.

I rolled my eyes. Overlooking us, Onyx whined softly from her position at the edge of the pit. Her tongue dangled from the side of her mouth, her whole body moving as she panted. She wouldn’t shift into shade, though. Onyx was eternally loyal.

"The body is wrapped in a silver tarp, which is still intact." Whitney carefully pulled back a corner, revealing the woman's neck and shoulders. "The body is a woman, and she is positioned facing upright. She has long blonde hair which was positioned to drape over her shoulders."

As I watched him methodically collect samples with probes and seal each one in a sterile tube, I fought to keep my questions locked behind my teeth.

Whitney peeled back the next section of tarp to reveal the woman’s upper chest. His light caught something, and a moan rumbled from his throat.

“What?” I asked, frustrated by his lack of communication.

I leaned further over the pit, dirt crumbling under my hands.

He pulled the tarp back further, revealing a splash of dark red against silver.

"Dried roses. She was buried with a bunch of roses on her torso." He sat back on his heels, and even through the hazmat mask, I could see his professional detachment crack. "Someone took their time with this one."

"The person who buried her cared about her. Don’t you think?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.

"The facts are that red roses were placed over her crossed hands. Nothing more can be established." Whitney's tone could have frosted glass.

Cantankerous bastard.

As he lifted the stalks, dried petals crumbled off and fell like dark snow into the rotting white blouse the woman had been wearing when she was buried.

I kept snapping photos, trying to contain the electricity humming through my veins and keep my questions in check.

"I need to get this body back to the morgue." Whitney shook his head. "Call Parker. Check his ETA."

I backed away from the pit, pulling out my phone while Onyx pressed against my leg. As I scratched behind her ears, I jabbed Parker's name on the screen.

"Jaxson." Parker's familiar drawl came through. "I'm kind of in the middle of?—"

"I found a body at Angelsong,” I blurted. “A fresh one. It’s an adult female, wrapped in a tarp."

I studied the woman's face, wondering what secrets she knew that got her killed.

"What the fuck." A crash echoed through the phone, followed by shouting.

“Whitney’s here with me. He says the body’s been in the ground just a few weeks, months at the most.”

“Jesus.” More voices erupted in the background, urgent and sharp.

"What's going on there?" I asked.

“A Border Force plane dropped off radar after a Mayday.”

My throat went dry. “Shit, who was on the plane?”

“Tory.”

"Christ. Has her plane gone down?"

Whitney looked up, sealing another specimen bag. Soil and decomposition stained his latex gloves nearly black. His jaw worked beneath his mask, but he didn’t talk.

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