to her knees, Michele touched her mother’s shoulder. “Mama?”
Roberta moaned. Her eyes blinked open.
Relief rushed over Michele along with a wave of nausea. She hung her head to stave off the passing sickness and dug in her pocket for her cell phone.
A face flashed through her mind. Without weighing the consequences, she punched Speed Dial for a number she should have deleted ten months ago.
He answered on the second ring.
“Criminal Investigation Division, Fort Rickman, Georgia. This is Special Agent Jamison Steele.”
The memory of his warm embrace and tender kisses washed over her. For one sweet, illogical second, she felt safe.
“Hello?” He waited for a response.
“Jamison—”
A sharp intake of air. “Michele?”
“I need help.” Rubbing her free hand over her forehead, she tried to focus. “I’m at Quarters 122. In the Buckner Housing Area. Contact the military police.”
“What happened?”
“One of the wives... Her husband’s in Afghanistan. He’s in my father’s brigade. She was hosting a potluck for the brigade wives. Someone broke in—”
Jamison issued a series of commands to a person in his office. “I’m on the way, Michele. The military police are being notified. I’ll be there in three minutes. Are you hurt?”
“I...I’m okay. It’s Yolanda Hughes.”
Michele swallowed down the lump that filled her throat. “Yolanda’s dead.”
* * *
Heart in his throat, Jamison pulled to the curb and hit the ground running, weapon in one hand, Maglite in the other.
Stay calm. Ignoring the internal advice, his gut tightened when he stepped into the house and spied Michele on the floor with her arm around her mother.
For an instant, he was once again the man who loved Michele more than anything. Swallowing hard, Jamison shoved aside any lingering hope for a future together, a future that had died when she walked out of his life.
Raw fear flashed from her blue eyes and cut through his resolve to remain neutral. Ten months ago, her smile had lit up his world. Today Michele’s face was as pale as death and furrowed with pain.
Head buried in her daughter’s shoulder, Mrs. Logan cried softly. Michele nudged her gently. “Jamison’s here, Mama.”
The older woman glanced up, her eyes red and swollen. “Oh, Jamison. Yolanda... A man raced past me and out the back door. I...I tried to stop him.”
“Did he hurt you?” His gaze fell on Michele. Tousled brown hair hung around her oval face.
“We’re both a little bruised. Nothing serious. But Yolanda—” Unable to continue, Michele raised a trembling hand and pointed to the living area.
“Stay where you are,” he cautioned, struggling to remain objective. “The ambulance is on its way.”
A rank, coppery smell greeted Jamison as he entered the living room. He aimed his light over the blood that had soaked into the thick carpet, blackening the fibers.
His gut twisted at the tragic sight.
The victim was an African-American female. Probably mid- to late-thirties. Shoulder-length brown hair. Dark eyes wide open. The look of terror etched on her face.
A deep laceration had severed her carotid artery. Massive blood loss pooled under her upper torso.
Kneeling beside the woman, he felt for a pulse, yet knew full well life had been heinously snatched from Yolanda Hughes. Her wrist was supple and still warm. No rigor mortis. Not yet.
He tried the light switch, then played the Maglite over the living room. His gaze settled ever so briefly on the family photograph above the mantel. The deceased was smiling warmly, her hands on the shoulders of a man in uniform. Major’s rank on his epaulets. Two children. A boy and girl.
The dread of finding the children dead roared through Jamison. He strode back to the hallway. “Mrs. Hughes had kids?”
Michele held up her hand, palm out. “They’re at the Graysons’. Lieutenant Colonel Grayson is my father’s executive officer. The two families are close. The Grayson kids invited Benjamin and Natalie to stay with them tonight.”
Breathing out a sigh of relief, Jamison moved quickly into the kitchen and edged open the back door. He stepped outside and studied the darkness, knowing the killer was long gone.
Retracing his steps, Jamison headed toward the flickering candlelight and checked the dining area before he scurried up the stairs to the second floor. Sirens screamed in the distance.
Finding nothing out of place and no one upstairs, he returned to the main landing and ensured that Michele and her mother were all right before he opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. Three military police cars screeched to the curb. An ambulance followed close behind. Across the street, neighbors came out of their homes and stared with worried expressions at the activity.
Jamison directed the military police. “The victim’s in the living room, first floor. Two children are spending the night with friends. Husband is deployed. Colonel Logan’s wife and daughter are in the hallway and need medical attention. The electricity is down. Get some temporary lighting in there ASAP.”
A military policeman began to cordon off the area with crime scene tape.
“Someone go door to door,” Jamison ordered. “Question the neighbors. See if anyone saw anything suspicious.”
“Roger that, sir.” A stocky military policeman motioned for another MP to join him, and the twosome hustled to a nearby set of quarters.
The medics raced up the front steps. Jamison followed them inside. One man moved into the living area. The other two knelt beside Mrs. Logan and Michele.
Assured they were being adequately cared for, Jamison returned to the porch to oversee the bevy of activity. A young military policeman approached him.
“Sir, the power line to the house appears to have been severed. The on-post maintenance company has been notified. They’re sending someone to fix the line.”
“Dust for prints first.”
“Roger that, sir.”
“How long until he arrives?”
“They said he’d be here shortly.”
“Did they give you an exact time?”
“No, sir.”
A car pulled into the driveway. CID special agent Dawson Timmons—a tall blond with a thick neck—climbed onto the sidewalk. Favoring his right leg,
