at the thought, something twinged inside her. Was that really the way she liked it? Or was it just the only way she knew?
Resolutely, she pushed the question away. A long time ago, she’d adopted her grandmother Jessica’s philosophy: it is what it is. You took what life gave you, and you made the best of it. That was exactly what they’d been doing for the last fifteen years.
Reaching the back corner of the house, she stopped and let her gaze slide slowly across the vista while contentment chased away the moment of discomfort. The house sat at the top of a hill, with a steep slope starting at the distant edge of the garden. Off to the east rose the slim spires of downtown Tulsa. Just beyond the lower hilltops to the northeast, the town of Cedar Creek sat, compact, a small space crammed with rooftops, power lines and the grid of neatly laid-out city blocks. The valley just past the garden was green with oaks, red cedars and hickories and dotted with gnarled deadfall that indicated too many years since the last cleansing wildfire.
It was a peaceful, quiet place. Until she noticed she wasn’t alone. The quiet remained, but the peace disappeared in an instant.
One of the half dozen lounges around the pool was occupied. From this angle, all she could see was tousled dark hair above the chair back. It wasn’t unusual to find some clients at home when they arrived, but she’d never seen this client before. His name was Carlyle. She’d taken care of his yard for three years, had planned and planted his garden, but she’d never met him or spoken to him. Like most of their well-heeled customers, he didn’t communicate directly with the help if he could avoid it.
Mila hesitated, then cleared her throat. He didn’t move. Rolling her eyes at her reluctance to leave her safe, unnoticed spot, she forced herself to put the equipment down, then crossed the stepping-stones to the patio. “Excuse me.”
No response.
“Lawn service, Mr. Carlyle.”
Still nothing. She rubbed her grubby palms on the legs of her jeans. The dampness of the denim reminded her that she’d started work at six this morning and hadn’t been dry since. She wasn’t in any condition to approach one of their wealthiest clients.
The deep breath she took was filled with the sweet fragrance of the flowers and a whiff of chlorine from the pool, both expected, plus something else. A tangy, bitter, familiar something that rose like a phantom from long-ago nightmares, that made her muscles go taut and a knot harden in her gut like stone.
The air was utterly still, without even a hint of a breeze to ruffle the dark hair. The oversize chair with its teak frame and plush cushions hid the rest of the person from view, but it couldn’t hide the puddle that had collected underneath the chaise. It was fresh and thick and so out of place on the imported rainbow stone, its vivid red hue an obscene contrast with the peaches, tans and purples.
As she stared, something plopped onto the surface of the blood. Her brain reacted to the ripples, making her aware of the humming of insects. Bees in the garden, she told herself, even as a fat fly lifted off the blood, circled a time or two, then landed again.
Her mind went blank. Her shoulders rounded, her chin drooping. A long time ago, she had believed that if she shrank into herself, if she physically made herself small enough, no one would see her, no one would notice her, but it had rarely actually worked. They had always seen her—her father, at least. Her mother, it seemed, had never noticed her.
The others had seen her. The victims. Even when they were dead, they’d still seen her. Admonished her. Pleaded with her. Blamed her.
She forced a shaky breath. She wasn’t a kid anymore, and they were all dead. There was nothing they could do to her now, nothing here she couldn’t handle. Probably nothing she hadn’t seen before.
Alejandro’s mower roared louder as he drove toward the fence on her side of the house, then after a rumble that vibrated the ground beneath her feet, he made a tight turn and headed back. He wouldn’t hear her if she called. No one ever had. Not even when she screamed.
Nausea rising inside her, Mila forced herself to take a step, another, another, angling off to the left side, the side closest to the gate in case she needed to make a sudden exit. Each step brought the person in the chair into better view, until she could see his feet, his bare legs, the khaki of his shorts. A man, yes. Maybe Mr. Carlyle, maybe not.
Definitely a dead man. The gaping wound that stretched across his throat from one ear to the other left no doubt about that. Neither did the terror in his open eyes. Terror that she’d seen before, on the victims, on her grandmother, on herself.
Oh, God.
Dear God, not again.
* * *
Ninety percent of the city of Cedar Creek fell within the rectangular boundaries plotted by its founders over 125 years ago, making it a neat little box that was easy to navigate. Sam Douglas had been born and raised in those twenty-five square miles, gone off for a stint in the army, then come back to work for the Cedar Creek Police Department. He knew every block like the back of his hand, except for the neighborhood he was turning into.
It was a forty-acre section of high-dollar houses on big lots that overlooked the town while security guards and tall iron fences kept out the common folk. The area had fallen under county jurisdiction until five years ago, when the city council got wind that it was being acquired by some luxury developer. The council had moved fast, extending town limits to incorporate the former ranch and getting a nice increase in tax dollars from it. Even though incorporation meant police and fire protection, this was the first call Sam could remember requesting police presence within the hallowed compound.
“Hawk’s Aerie.” Cullen Simpson, the department’s newest hire, snorted. “Who comes up with these names?”
“People who make more money than you and me, bud.”
Simpson snorted again. “I’d rather have a nice little house in Texas than a big fancy one looking down on Cedar Creek. They could’ve at least built in Tulsa, where there’s more to do.”
“Easier to be a big fish in a little pond.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” Sam showed his credentials to the guard at the gate, then drove slowly down the street. Simpson was from a wide spot in the road in north Texas, so he should have understood the fish comment. Maybe he was just too damn young. The more time Sam spent on this job, the older he felt. He was pretty sure he was going to feel ancient tonight.
There was only one street in the development, splitting five hundred feet in to form a loop with four houses in the middle and six on the outside. The middle houses were just as large as the outer ones, but the lots were smaller, only two or three acres. Even on the lofty premises of Hawk’s Aerie, there was best, and then there was best of the best.
“That must be it there.” Simpson pointed ahead, where two police cars, a fire engine and an ambulance were parked. There was also a decrepit pickup truck towing a trailer and bearing a sign saying Happy Grass Lawn Service on its side.
The only happy grass Sam had ever come across was the weed he’d smoked back in his younger days. Who did come up with these names?
He pulled his pickup to the curb, shut off the engine and climbed out as he looked at the lawn service crew idling by their truck: three men gathered together, one woman a dozen feet away. Two of the men were smoking, but none
