Page 61 of Dirty Valentine
My stomach clenched, bile rising in my throat despite all my years of examining the dead.Margaret’s mouth gaped open in an eternal scream, the cavity dark with congealed blood that had pooled and dried in rusty brown streaks down her chin and neck.The killer hadn’t just removed her tongue—they’d displayed its absence, propping her jaw open with something to ensure the mutilation would be the first thing anyone saw.
The precision of it made my skin crawl.Where the tongue should have been was only a ragged cavity, but the muscle had been severed cleanly at its base with surgical skill.No tearing, no hesitation marks.Someone had known exactly what they were doing.
“A tongue for her testimony,” I murmured, my professional training overriding the visceral horror even as my hands trembled slightly.“She spoke against them, so they silenced her permanently.”
The mill seemed to breathe around us, old wood creaking in the silence.Dust motes danced in the shafts of light, and somewhere water dripped with metronomic persistence.Every shadow could hide evidence.Every corner could conceal?—
A sound from the shadows near the far wall—the scrape of shoe on stone.
Jack’s hand snapped to his weapon with the speed of pure instinct, the Glock clearing leather before my eyes could track the movement.My own hand found the Beretta at my back, though I kept it holstered, watching Jack’s reaction to gauge the threat level.
A figure emerged from behind a massive gear assembly, moving with the unsteady gait of exhaustion or shock.Richard Blackwood stepped into a shaft of light, and I barely recognized the usually polished businessman.His expensive suit was torn at the shoulder, the fabric stained with dirt and something darker that could have been blood.His silver hair stood at odd angles, and his pale eyes held the wild look of a trapped animal.
“It’s not what it looks like.”
CHAPTERTWENTY
It’s notwhat it looks like.
“Step away from the body,” Jack commanded, his Glock already in his hand with that fluid economy of motion that meant his brain had shifted into tactical mode.“Hands where I can see them.Now.”
Blackwood’s hands went up like he was surrendering to more than just Jack’s weapon.“I didn’t—she was already—someone called me.Last night at ten oh-seven.I know the exact time because I was watching the news and looked at the clock when my phone rang.”
“Stop talking.”Jack’s voice carried that particular tone that made smart men shut their mouths and criminals confess just to avoid whatever was coming next.
“The voice was distorted,” Blackwood rushed on anyway, desperation overriding common sense.“Electronic.Like those voice-changer things.They said Margaret had found something—documents that could prove my family wasn’t part of the conspiracy.That we tried to stop it.”His voice cracked like expensive crystal under pressure.“Said she wanted to meet me here at two o’clock to share it before going to the police.When I got here five minutes ago, the door was open.I found her like…like that.”
“Face the wall,” Jack said.“Hands against it, feet spread.”
While Jack controlled Blackwood, I kept my hand on the Beretta at my back, scanning the shadows for any other surprises.The mill felt alive around us, every creak of ancient wood making my nerves fire.The killer could still be here, watching us discover their handiwork.
“Call it in,” Jack told me, never taking his eyes off Blackwood.“Full response.CSI, backup, the works.”
My fingers were steady as I pulled out my phone, though my pulse hammered against my ribs.“This is Dr.Graves at Hawthorne Mill off River Road.We need immediate backup, CSI team, and the medical examiner.We have one deceased, one detained at scene.”
“Copy that, Dr.Graves,” the dispatcher responded.“Units are en route.ETA four minutes.”
Jack patted Blackwood down, checking for weapons while I kept watch.“Your phone on you?”
“Right jacket pocket,” Blackwood said.
Jack retrieved an iPhone in a leather case, handling it carefully to preserve any fingerprints.The screen showed numerous missed calls and texts, probably from Blackwood’s wife wondering where he’d disappeared to this afternoon.
“The voice,” Jack said.“Male or female?”
“I couldn’t tell.”Blackwood’s words tumbled over each other in his desperation to explain.“They said Margaret had found documents in the courthouse archives that could protect my family.That she’d discovered who was really behind these murders and had proof that would stop us from being next.I was supposed to meet her here at two.When I arrived, the door was open.I went in and found her like…like that.I was checking to see if she was really dead when you arrived.”
I studied Blackwood as he spoke, noting the details that would matter later.His torn jacket and disheveled appearance made sense now—he’d stumbled through the dark mill, maybe tripped over equipment in his shock at finding Margaret’s body.The scrapes on his knuckles looked fresh, probably from catching himself when he fell.
The sound of sirens grew closer, and within minutes, the quiet mill became a hive of controlled chaos.Cole’s pickup truck arrived first, followed by Martinez’s sedan, then two patrol units.The rain had picked up again, drumming against the restored cedar shake roof that the historical society had painstakingly re-created using Colonial-era techniques.Despite the authentic restoration, water still found its way through the centuries-old stone walls where mortar had worn away—preservation could only do so much against time and weather.
“Quite a scene,” Cole said, taking in Margaret’s displayed corpse with the grim expression of someone who’d seen too much death.“Want me to take Blackwood?”
“We need to secure him as a witness,” Jack said.“Cole, take Mr.Blackwood outside.Get a preliminary statement while we process the scene.”
Cole nodded and approached Blackwood.“Mr.Blackwood, I need you to come with me.We’ll need a full statement about what you’re doing here and what you saw.”
“I already told you—” Blackwood started.
