That’s not the real cover, BTW. Just something I put together on Canva.
Okay, so here we go. The first few chapters are early release to paid subscribers, and later release for free subscribers. After Chapter 5, all chapters go behind a paywall.
CHAPTER ONE
The last time I spoke with Heidi, she’d seemed fine.
Heidi called me out of the blue and left a voicemail, begging me to call back. It had been years since we’d met during my deployment. Heidi worked for a government-contractor who shipped in supplies, whereas I was part of an intelligence team, armed with a rifle, ammunition, and a dash of people skills. Our paths crossed enough to shoot the shit a few times, but I couldn’t say I really knew Heidi well. Still, it was me she called, so I called her back, and she asked me out to lunch.
Our phone conversation started with the usual niceties—“Been ages. How are you?” Yes and shitty.—but her tone struck a hint of desperation when she said, “There’s something I’d like to run by you. It’s been bugging me. From our time in the sandbox.” When I asked her what it was, she said the topic required an in-person meeting, and I let it go at that.
As tight-knit as the military community is, I hadn’t received a call from anyone I’d served with for several years now. We all had scattered across the globe to some extent—with many of my peers eventually winding up in the DC area. The job market was good, having military service was a plus. Given the wealth of potential contacts, why would Heidi choose to call me?
“You just always struck me as a straight shooter,” she’d said. I don’t think she was referring to my accuracy on the rifle range. It also didn’t completely answer my question.
I was still skittish meeting people in public since the pandemic. The days when houses and apartments served as isolation chambers, were still not far behind us. My health worries were complicated—physically and mentally compromised from my time serving as a Marine. Though the world had slowly opened back up, I thought long and hard before taking any unnecessary risks. In many ways, my life since my deployment felt like a series of mini-risk assessments.
We made arrangements to meet the following day at a nearby deli with outdoor seating. I arrived five minutes early and waited.
Heidi never showed.
My texts to her were delivered, but unread, and my calls went straight to voicemail. Lacking a home address, I did a 411 search on the name “Heidi Sternberg” and came up with an address north of mine in Aspen Hill.
Heidi lived in a well-maintained three-story brick garden apartment. The complex was made up of strips of buildings, separated by parking lots. The sight of a police cruiser near Heidi’s building did little to lift my hopes …
Neither did the evidence van, parked near one of the dumpsters.
The lot was well-packed with cars whose owners continued to work from home. Somehow I managed to squeeze my Fiesta into an empty spot. I grabbed a mask from the glove box and left the car, donning it en route to an open set of stairs that led to the basement and upper floors. One of the mailboxes announced that Heidi lived in 3A, so I trudged up the steps. My stomach further sank when I saw that 3A was crossed over by fresh yellow crime scene tape.
I approached the officer standing guard at the door. Roughly my age, early 30s, he was nearly a senior citizen compared to his apple-cheeked Gen Z partner, who was busy rounding up witness statements.
The door swung open as a CSI tech exited and ducked under the tape—long enough for me to glimpse the other technicians encased in white roaming around the apartment. As the door shut, I got a sick feeling about what might be on the other side.
“Excuse me,” I addressed the guard. “I was supposed to meet the person who lives here for lunch. Someone I haven’t seen for a while, but who I once worked with. If something’s happened to her, I’d like to know what.”
I tried hard not to think about an old case. One in which I’d shown up at my clients’ house only to find them butchered and left to rot in a basement that resembled an abattoir.
The officer nodded acknowledgment, then—after conferring with someone by radio—turned to me and said, “Wait here. Detective Sully will be with you shortly.”
The name Sully hit me like a gut punch. Detective Sully. Homicide. Sully was a fair cop. Even if she had once nearly accused me of murder.
Again the door opened, revealing Sully, masked, but otherwise as well-tailored as ever. “Erica.” She uttered my name in a slightly confused way, as if trying to recall who I was. Clearing her throat, she said, “Ms. Jensen, you say you know someone who lives here?”
“Yes. It’s been years, but she called me yesterday. And we were supposed to have lunch, but when she didn’t show—“
Sully held up a hand. I stopped talking. She took a moment to pick the right words. “Was that person named Heidi Sternberg?”