long it was going to take to get rid of the intruder. He’d been thoroughly enjoying spending time with Lynne and was anxious for her to return to their lunch.
Then the man had mentioned the crimson ribbon, and the words he’d dismissed for years whispered through his mind.
Crimson blood stains the pure white snow. Life spills from warm to frozen. Don’t look. The pain is gone.
Those were the words at the end of each letter his father had received from his mysterious pen pal. The letters Rudolf had been convinced came from a serial killer, and Kir had been convinced were the work of some nutjob.
What actual killer would write to a sheriff, even if he was retired, Kir had argued when his father would call to say another letter had arrived at his house. And where were the bodies? You couldn’t be a serial killer if you weren’t actually murdering people.
Kir told his dad it was far more likely that someone was playing a cruel game. Or perhaps it was someone sick in the head who imagined he was a killer. Stuff like that happened all the time.
“Kir.” A slender hand touched his arm. “Kir. Is something wrong?”
“Crimson blood stains the pure white snow,” he murmured, still lost in his escalating fear.
“What?”
He shook his head, focusing on the woman who was regarding him with a worried expression. “The letters.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
He waved an impatient hand toward the front door. “The guy who was just here.”
“Parker Bowen? He’s the local newscaster.”
Kir grimaced. He’d barely spent two minutes in Bowen’s company and he already didn’t like him. He had a slick charm that usually hid a devious personality. But that wasn’t what was causing his racing pulse. “He said they found the body naked except for a crimson ribbon around her neck,” he said.
Her lips slowly parted. “You didn’t know poor Sherry, did you?”
“No.” With jerky movements, Kir returned to Lynne’s office to grab his leather jacket. “I need to go look for those letters.”
“Letters?”
“I’m sure my dad didn’t throw them away,” he muttered. “They have to be in the house somewhere.”
“Wait.” Lynne appeared beside him. “Are you leaving now?”
Kir swallowed a sigh. He’d spent last night and most of this morning anticipating his lunch with Lynne. It’d been the only way he could bear the grim task of packing up his father’s belongings. And if he was honest, he was eager to spend some time discussing the past with someone who had shared it with him. Lynne might not have been his best friend growing up, but they’d gone to the same school and enjoyed the same local hangouts.
He’d devoted so much effort to blocking out the broken man his father had become that he’d forgotten there had been good times in this town. He needed to make sure that they were the memories he took back to Boston.
“I’m sorry, I know we didn’t get to finish our lunch,” he said, his regret genuine.
“Don’t worry about it.” She stepped toward her nearby desk, which was nearly buried beneath stacks of files. “Obviously you’re upset. I’ll drive you home.”
“There’s no need.”
She glanced back at him, her expression still worried. No doubt she was thinking that his father’s sudden death was making him a lunatic. And maybe he was.
“Kir.”
“I’m fine,” he assured her as he walked toward the door, pausing to glance back at his companion. “Make sure the doors are locked while you’re here alone.”
She thankfully didn’t look at him as if he’d lost his mind. She simply nodded her head. “I always do.”
Kir lingered, oddly reluctant to leave. Then, clenching his teeth, he forced himself to turn and walk out of the clinic. As much as wanted to spend a few hours in Lynne’s company, he couldn’t shake his sense of foreboding.
It was almost as if his father was whispering in his ear, warning him that danger was stalking the women of Pike.
Two hours later, he had just finished boxing up the papers from his father’s file cabinets when there was a knock on the door. He froze. Did he answer it? Or did he pretend he wasn’t there?
He wasn’t in the mood for the condolences of a well-meaning neighbor, or more likely, the intrusive demands of the real estate agent he’d hired. In fact, all he wanted to do was find the damn letters and set his mind at ease that they had nothing to do with the dead woman.
Unfortunately, whoever was outside