The dead man lay sprawled on the mountain ridge at Dead Man’s Bluff, his eyes blank, his arm twisted at an odd angle.
He’d probably broken it in the fall. Blood matted his graying hair from where he’d hit the rock as he’d gone over the edge of the ridge.
Sheriff Harrison Hawk cursed. Dammit, he’d recognized him immediately.
Waylon Granger.
The man his mother blamed for his sister’s disappearance eighteen years ago. They’d never been able to prove he was at fault, though.
And now he was dead; they might never know the truth.
Curiosity over what had happened nagged at Harrison. Granger was a known drunk, and a mean one. Even his daughter, Honey, had left home after high school graduation to escape the bastard.
What was Granger doing here at Dead Man’s Bluff?
This was the teenage hangout—just as years ago he and his friends had been drawn to the swimming hole and dark mines with the mysterious ghost stories that surrounded them, the local high schoolers still frequented it.
The two thirteen-year-old boys who’d called in the body sat hunched by Granger’s rusty pickup, their young faces etched in horror.
The scent of death hit Harrison, the summer heat accentuating it.
Memories of the night his little sister, Chrissy, had gone missing bombarded him. The years since hadn’t dulled the pain or trauma. It felt as if it had happened yesterday.
He was seventeen at the time and supposed to babysit his siblings that night while his parents attended a party. Instead, he’d sneaked out to meet his buddies at this very place.
He inhaled sharply. He’d thought Lucas, fifteen, would watch their thirteen-year-old brother, Dexter, eleven-year-old Brayden and their ten-year-old sister, Chrissy. But Lucas had a friend visiting and hadn’t noticed when Chrissy and his youngest brother, Brayden, sneaked out. Dexter claimed he and Chrissy had argued because he was playing video games and she kept interrupting. Brayden and Chrissy rode their bikes to the bluff to see what Harrison was up to.
While they were exploring, Brayden tripped and sprained his ankle. Chrissy went to get help. Brayden thought she’d run to Honey Granger’s, but Honey denied seeing her that night.
The sheriff organized a search party, and they’d searched the mines and town and dragged the swimming hole. But they hadn’t found her.
Someone claimed they’d seen Granger’s truck drive by, casting suspicion on him. Granger denied picking Chrissy up or having any contact with her.
Desperate for a big-sister role model, Chrissy had taken a shine to Granger’s daughter, Honey. But Harrison’s mother didn’t like Honey and had forbidden her from hanging out with the teenager.
Honey’s father didn’t allow Honey friends or visitors, so Harrison’s mother suggested that the man had caught Chrissy on their property, lost his temper and done something to her.
The boys’ voices sounded from Granger’s truck and dragged Harrison back to reality. The taller one stood and walked toward him, his eyes wide with fear. “C-can we go home now, Sheriff?”
Harrison felt for the boy. He and his friend were only kids and had no business being out here by themselves. The mines and bluff were dangerous.
Hopefully they’d learned their lesson.
Unfortunately neither had seen anyone else at the bluff. They’d been horsing around, throwing rocks off the ridge when they noticed the vultures, then spotted Granger’s body on the ledge below.
“Yeah, but be careful. If you think of anything else you saw, call me.”
The boy nodded, then jogged over to his bicycle. His friend joined him, then the two of them began pedaling as fast as they could to get away. Tonight they’d probably be glad to go home to their parents.
A siren wailed in the distance, indicating the rescue team and crime team were approaching. Once they recovered Granger’s body, they’d transport it to the morgue for an autopsy.
Although most likely Granger had been drunk and had simply slipped and fallen, Harrison had a job to do. Whether or not he liked the man didn’t matter.
He had to verify that his death was accidental.
His stomach knotted. He also had to call Honey and deliver the news that her father was gone. It was one conversation he dreaded.
* * *
HONEY GRANGER WIPED perspiration from her forehead, the Austin summer heat stifling as she studied her latest project—a brick ranch built in 1960 that she was renovating.
The scent of dust and old weathered wood blended with the hint of new pine she’d bought to replace the rotting boards on the kitchen floor.
Adrenaline pumped through her. Taking dilapidated, run-down houses that had been left for dead and refurbishing them was challenging but stimulating. She loved transforming the ruins into something beautiful, and had built a successful business out of it.
She’d been trying to do the same for herself for years—take the battered girl who’d run from Tumbleweed, Texas, and make her into something to be proud of. Sometimes she thought
