Poor Britta. Sympathy for the woman filled her. Britta needed her privacy, and Mercy wondered what this exposure would do to her psyche.

Asshole. Chuck Winslow had no idea of the emotional trauma his article could cause the woman.

Or did he?

“What is it?” Kaylie asked. “You look like you want to strangle someone.”

“I do. Chuck Winslow would do just fine.”

“He doesn’t mention you,” Kaylie said helpfully.

“No, but he’s mentioned a woman who’s been through enough.”

“Britta Vale? It sounds like the police need to investigate her.”

“That’s my point. There’s nothing concrete to back up what he’s implying about Britta. It’s all speculation from a man who desperately wants out of prison. I’ve talked to her twice.”

“Well, that’s horrible. What’s she like?”

Mercy turned to her niece, wondering how to best describe the unusual woman. “She’s different. The trauma from her past has stripped away all the bullshit that people hide behind . . . the fake layers . . . the socially correct facades. Her essence is what’s left, and it’s very strong. She’s scared at times but determined. Blunt. Self-sufficient. I like her,” Mercy admitted with some surprise.

“What are you going to do about her now?” asked Kaylie.

“I’ll check in with her. Wait . . . I don’t even have a cell phone number for her. Both times I’ve talked to her in person. I’ll have to drive out there.” She grimaced, not knowing when she’d find the time.

Kaylie frowned. “Don’t put it off. It sounds like she’s alone and needs people like you who understand her.”

Admiration for her sensitive niece touched Mercy, and she hugged the girl, kissing her on the forehead.

“Damn, you’re a good kid.”

“I know.”

SIXTEEN

“I’m starting to despise this case.” Mercy’s heart was a thick lump in her throat.

“Me too,” agreed Truman. Until now, he’d been silent beside her during the drive.

Mercy had received a 2:00 a.m. phone call—never a good thing—with a report that a family had been murdered in their home. A neighbor had found the family when she went to investigate why their dogs were howling.

Truman had been in bed next to her when the call came in and had insisted on accompanying her to the scene.

Her headlights lit up the one-lane gravel road, and the falling rain looked like liquid silver. Up ahead she spotted several county vehicles and a home with all its lights on. She parked behind a county unit, got out of her SUV, and pulled up her hood against the rain. Frantic barking sounded from behind the home. Mercy didn’t see a fence around the house and assumed the dogs were tied up or kenneled. She and Truman checked in with the deputy manning the scene log, bootied up, and then looked for Detective Bolton, who’d made the call to Mercy. A pair of deputies stood in the kitchen making small talk. They nodded at Mercy and Truman as the two of them entered, and one went to get the detective.

The home was nice, Mercy noticed. Someone had updated the flooring with wide plank boards, and stainless-steel appliances shone in the kitchen. Not high-end appliances, but definitely newer models. The cabinets had been painted white, and the countertops were granite and uncluttered. Time and money had been spent to remodel the home.

A family lived here. Books for children and adults filled a bookcase. A football, Star Wars figures, and two lightsabers were scattered on the rug next to the large sectional. A professional photo showed four smiling faces as the family posed in the middle of a golden wheat field.

The family name was Jorgensen. Father, mother, two sons.

Mercy studied the photo. Everyone looked happy. Her breath caught at the way the mother wrapped her arm around one of the boys, pulling him close, joy on their faces. Family. Love. Togetherness.

Gone.

Evan Bolton appeared from the back of the house. He’s become the Angel of Death. Mercy only saw him when someone had died.

He must think the same of me.

Bolton greeted the two of them, and she noticed he didn’t mention Truman’s presence at a scene outside the Eagle’s Nest jurisdiction. She took it as a sign that he’d grown to trust the two of them.

“My evidence team isn’t here yet,” Bolton told them. “But we’ve confirmed the front door was open. My men have cleared the house and immediate area around the home. No sign of anyone or a weapon.”

“The neighbor came over in the middle of the night because the dogs were barking?” The late-night visit felt odd to Mercy.

“The neighbor was very worried. She said the Jorgensen dogs are usually no problem, but tonight they wouldn’t stop howling. She called the Jorgensens and they didn’t answer. The backs of the two homes are about five hundred feet apart, but the neighbor’s driveway goes out to a different road. It takes a few minutes to drive from one house to the other. When she got here, she saw the door was ajar and the dogs were going wild in their kennel. She stuck her head in the door and called for the family.” He shook his head, looking glum. “No one answered, so she went in and found them.”

“Where is the neighbor?” asked Mercy.

“I talked to her, and then she went back home with one of my officers to get some warmer clothing. She was wearing a nightgown. They should be back any minute. She was pretty shaken.”

“Does the home have a camera security system?” Truman asked.

“No. The neighbor does, but the cameras cover the front of her home. Nothing catches the road or the back of her house.”

“Still worth a look,” Truman said. “The killer might have cut through her property.”

“Agreed,” answered Bolton.

“What do you know about the family?” Mercy asked.

“Ray and Sharla Jorgensen. Their boys are Luke and Galen. According to the neighbor they were eight and ten.”

More murdered young children. “Let’s take a look,” she said, steeling herself.

The first bedroom belonged to the boys. Twin-size beds stood against opposite walls and between them was a wide low table on a Seattle Seahawks rug. A giant Lego city with skyscrapers and a sports stadium covered the table—an impressive project. Mercy forced herself to look at the children. Someone had pulled back the covers of both boys, and they lay on their sides as if they were still sleeping. One’s head was so soaked with blood, Mercy couldn’t tell the color of his hair. The other was blond. Both boys had suffered blows to the head and mouth.

She blinked rapidly, comparing the children to the photo in the living room.

Truman’s gaze was expressionless, his emotions tucked away, but she spotted a brief flash of sorrow and sympathy as he glanced at her. The lump in her throat grew larger, and she couldn’t speak. Instead she gestured for Bolton to take them to another room.

As they walked the narrow hall, behind her she heard Truman curse under his breath.

The parents’ large bed had a cream-colored velvet headboard. Ray Jorgensen’s side of the bed had multiple blood trails going up the headboard. He’d been hit several times. Sharla was on the floor. Her pillow had spatter from her husband, and her blood had soaked into the carpet and splattered on the side of the nightstand.

“It looks like she woke up while her husband was being killed and tried to get away. The killer caught up with her,” said Bolton.

“The MO looks the same as the Hartlage family,” Mercy said. “The injuries are the same, and their attacks happened in their beds.”

“But the bodies weren’t left behind,” Bolton pointed out.

“Maybe the dogs or the neighbor scared him off before he could finish,” suggested Truman. “Or he’s abandoned that part of his plan. Moving bodies is a lot of work.”

Mercy crouched next to Sharla. The woman’s eyes were open and starting to cloud. Shock and terror were frozen on her face.

Did she know what was happening?

Her mouth was bloody, several of her front teeth broken or missing.

Why does he do that?

“I heard you’re looking at some old cases in conjunction with the remains found on March Mountain,” said Bolton, his gaze locked on Mercy.

She exchanged a glance with Truman.

“Those cases were solved. The guy is in prison,” Mercy stated as she stood up.

“Then why are you going through them?” Bolton asked. His expression stated he knew Mercy was holding back.

Mercy gestured at Sharla’s mouth. “Because the two families that were killed two decades ago had the same injuries. And he killed complete families in their beds by bludgeoning them.”

Bolton pressed his lips together as he slowly nodded. “Copycat?”

“I don’t know. Grady Baldwin, who was put away for them, claims he didn’t do the murders.”

“Of course he’d say that. Did he leave the families in their beds?”

“He did.”

“But you found a family’s bones in a culvert? That’s very different.”

“And we haven’t confirmed it’s the Hartlage family. The daughters have been identified, but not the adult remains.”

Bolton stared at her. “The parents could have left town after killing and dumping their kids?”

“Possibly. But there was blood found in all the beds in the home.”

“If I was trying to make people think I was dead, I’d leave behind some blood,” Bolton stated.

“The blood splatter at the Hartlage home was consistent with a victim in each bed.”

Bolton relaxed a fraction. “That’s hard to fake. I guess if they were really organized, they could have put an animal in each bed and beat it.”

Mercy had attended a blood spatter seminar that demonstrated exactly that. The instructor liked to use pigs.

“We don’t have lab results on the blood yet, but no animal fur was found in the beds. We have toothbrushes and hair from the bathrooms of the home, so we’ll be doing DNA analysis at some point. I still hope to find the parents’ dental records. It’s much quicker to confirm identity.”