Chapter 2

Nadia's POV

"Family of the victim?"

A flashlight beam cut through the darkness. Just as the patrolman lifted the tape, a woman in a dark trench coat stepped out of the shadows.

"Detective Cora Briggs, Homicide." She stopped in front of me, her sharp eyes scanning me from head to toe. "Ma'am, this is an active crime scene. Let me see some ID. What’s your name, and why did you say your husband is here?"

"Nadia. Nadia Hartley." I met her gaze, speaking through gritted teeth. "I’m looking for my husband, Reid Hartley. Let me in. Whatever mess that bastard got himself into, I’m seeing him tonight."

Briggs's tone hardened. "Then answer me this, Mrs. Hartley—where was your husband supposed to be tonight?"

"He told me he was pulling an all-nighter at the office," I said coldly. "Clearly, he lied."

"Then why are you out here in the middle of nowhere? This is private property." Briggs's eyes narrowed.

"Because I tracked him."

I didn't care about saving face anymore. "I’ve suspected him of having an affair for months. He’s been hiding money and guarding his phone with his life. For our anniversary last month, I gave him a custom belt—with a micro-GPS chip inside. Half an hour ago, it pinged here."

The professional suspicion vanished from Briggs's face, replaced by a heavy, almost pitying look.

She turned and gestured to a CSI tech. A moment later, a tech in latex gloves walked over holding a transparent evidence bag.

"Is this the belt?" Briggs asked softly.

The searchlight hit the plastic bag. Dark brown calfskin, a solid brass buckle engraved with "R&N"—the exact one I picked out. Only now, the pristine leather was caked in a horrifying layer of dark, muddy sludge.

Blood. The belt looked like it had been dragged through a slaughterhouse.

My stomach violently violently. "Yes... I bought that. What happened to him?"

"Mrs. Hartley, listen to me." Briggs stepped forward, blocking the wind. "I am so sorry. Your husband... didn't make it."

My mind went entirely blank. A loud ringing started in my ears. "What did you say?"

"We found him in the stables back there," Briggs said, her voice steady but grim. "The scene is littered with empty liquor bottles. The belt was unbuckled. The Medical Examiner’s preliminary theory is that he consumed lethal amounts of alcohol, stumbled into the stables disoriented, spooked the horses in the dark, and was... severely trampled to death."

My legs gave out. All I could think of were his recent complaints about work stress and money.

"Was the pressure too much? He kept telling me we were broke, that he was breaking down!" I covered my face, sobbing hysterically. All my anger shattered into pure, agonizing guilt. "I shouldn't have pushed him! I didn't know he was so stressed he’d drink himself to death!"

I lunged forward, trying to break through the tape, but two burly officers caught my arms, holding me back.

A minute ago, I was plotting how to leave him penniless. Now, I was being told he was dead. The whiplash tore my sanity to shreds.

"Mrs. Hartley, calm down!" Briggs gripped my shoulders. "The deceased was wearing the belt you just identified! And..."

She paused, her tone blunt. "We can't make a visual ID. His face... was completely obliterated by the hooves. The ME is pulling fingerprints, but it will take time."

His face was destroyed? Unrecognizable?

I abruptly stopped struggling. My body went rigid. The fragmented clues violently collided in my brain:

A lethal allergy. An unbuckled belt. An obliterated face.

"I need to see the body," I croaked, staring at Briggs with bloodshot eyes. "Now. Until I see that corpse with my own eyes, I refuse to believe my husband is dead."

Briggs stared at me for five long seconds. She sighed and waved off the cops holding me. "Stay close. Brace yourself."

I stumbled over the gravel, following Briggs toward the medical examiner’s van parked in the shadows of the barn. The closer we got, the heavier the stench of copper and gore became.

The ME stood by the open rear doors, looking down at a black body bag resting on a gurney.

The zipper was pulled down.

I forced myself to look—just a fleeting glance.

I slammed my hands over my mouth, turned, and fell to my knees in the muddy tire tracks, vomiting up my dinner and every ounce of bile in my stomach. Violent, full-body shakes overtook me.