Flowers on Her Grave Read online

  Flowers on Her Grave

  An absolutely addictive mystery and suspense novel

  Jennifer Chase

  Books by Jennifer Chase

  Detective Katie Scott Series

  Little Girls Sleeping

  Her Last Whisper

  Flowers on Her Grave

  * * *

  Emily Stone Series

  Compulsion

  Dead Game

  Dark Mind

  Dead Burn

  Dark Pursuit

  Dead Cold

  * * *

  Chip Palmer Series

  Scene of the Crime

  Body of the Crime

  * * *

  Standalones

  Silent Partner

  * * *

  Short Stories

  First Watch

  Never Forgotten

  Available in Audio

  Little Girls Sleeping (Available in the UK and the US)

  Her Last Whisper (Available in the UK and the US)

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Hear More from Jennifer

  Books by Jennifer Chase

  A Letter from Jennifer

  Little Girls Sleeping

  Her Last Whisper

  Acknowledgements

  For Orrin and Eleanore—I miss you

  Prologue

  Stepping from the main hiking trail, the park ranger took a moment in the shade to catch his breath and stomp the caked dirt from his hiking boots before beginning his search of the camping ground. Just as he was finishing the last dregs of his water, the static from his walkie-talkie interrupted the quiet of the forest around him.

  “Rob, are you there yet? Over.”

  Pressing the button, he replied. “Just got here. Over.”

  “See anything? Over.”

  Looking around the campsite, he saw a pot with remnants of soup, two bottles of water, and a blue tent. Everything looked normal, until he saw some blue shreds of fabric tangled in the low-lying bushes. Curious, he walked over to them, leaned down, and pulled one of the long pieces of fabric out of the brush between his fingers. Something dark spattered the end of the fabric.

  “Rob? You there? Over,” headquarters asked again.

  “I’ll get back to you. Over,” he said, securing the walkie-talkie to his belt.

  “10-4. Out.” And then the radio went quiet.

  Rob turned, searching the nearby area. “Hello?” he called out. “Hello?” he said again—this time louder. “Cynthia? Cynthia Andrews?”

  No response.

  Rob scanned every tree and bush within the vicinity, but there was no sign of the missing grad student. Perhaps the girl’s family was right to be concerned that she hadn’t contacted them in several days.

  He let out a sigh and watched as a light breeze swirled dust clouds on the dry earth in the distance. And that’s when he saw it. The shredded remains of a tent. His first thought was a bear attack, but few inhabited this area. His hand twitched at the gun in his holster, readying himself for what, or who, he was about to encounter as he approached.

  Camping gear was scattered around the area: a large canteen lying on its side; two extra gallons of water; several packets of freeze-dried foods; a small skillet and a boiling pot. Ten feet away there was an open journal lying next to a pink hoodie. He pulled out a small digital camera and took several photos to see if Cynthia’s family recognized anything as hers—if it came to that. He’d watched enough forensic shows to understand documentation was extremely important for any type of search or investigation.

  Reaching for the sweatshirt he flipped it over to find one of the sleeves stained with dark blood, almost brown in color. He dropped the garment on the ground in horror as the forest closed in and a flock of birds burst from the trees above him.

  Eyes darting, he noticed large heavy footprints moving north accompanied by a set of smaller, barefoot prints heading in the same direction, as one followed the other—or chased.

  He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck and down his arms as he followed the trail through clustered pine trees. Deep into the woodland the footprints disappeared, replaced by divots and drag marks, the obvious signs of a struggle in the dirt.

  Where did they go?

  The wind, picking up, whipped and whispered through the trees forcing a shower of pine needles and cones to drop around him. He spied an area where small branches had been broken and followed the trail into a clearing where he was surprised to find ropes tied around a large tree trunk in unusual knots.

  Slowly, filled with dread, he walked around the tree.

  What he saw on the other side would be burned into his memory forever, he thought. The excessive violence. The horrifying, gaping wounds. The terror in her glassy eyes. It took every ounce of strength he had to take in the devastating scene before him.

  The young woman, barely clothed in a workout T-shirt that read “No Pain, No Gain” and a pair of panties, had been bound to the tree with ropes across her chest, hips, and thighs. Her arms were fixed above her head, which now flopped forward limply. In between the restraints were wounds, huge slices down each side of her stomach, allowing her intestines to spill out. It was unclear if the wounds were caused by her killer or wild animals. Chunks of her thighs and calves were missing.

  Rob stepped back as her hair stirred in the wind and stuck against her face, caught in her slightly open mouth. He ran back to the original base camp and fumbled for his radio. “Dispatch, we need the police up at the first camp area from Dodge Ridge as soon as possible. We have… there’s a…” He couldn’t find the words. He cleared his throat and tried it again, “Dispatch, we have a dead body.”

  One

  Wednesday 0900 hours

  The motto that had been drilled into me during basic training was to never show weakness or hesitation before going into battle. Every day a new complication would try to drag me down and expose my fears. A sound mind and a firm focus are a soldier’s closest friends, so I treat them as though my life depends upon it.

  “I really don’t know what to say,” Katie said, sitting in the oversized leather chair with her arms crossed in front of her. She knew her body language expressed hostility. That wasn’t her intent, but now she was on the spot, she felt cornered.
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  She was in a neatly organized therapist’s office decorated in every tone of beige, probably carefully chosen to soothe the clientele. Around her there were four large leather chairs instead of a traditional couch, and a small round coffee table with a box of Kleenex strategically placed nearer to the client. A floor-to-ceiling shelving unit covered one wall showing off large framed photographs—a family of five, a military man on location somewhere, a sweet little girl posing with her pony—a glass figurine, a small vase of fresh flowers and some brochures about trauma and loss.

  “There are no right or wrong answers here,” said the psychologist, Dr. Megan Carver, in a quiet voice. She came highly recommended, with considerable experience in treating clients with anxiety, depression, and post-traumatic stress disorder. She had warm, dark eyes and the relaxed way she wore her chestnut hair loosely pulled away from her face made her seem like a close friend ready to listen. “This is just a preliminary meeting to see if we make a good fit to work together. I can answer any questions or concerns you might have, and, if you feel comfortable and ready, then we can begin discussing what has brought you here.”

  It sounded so simple, but for Katie this request was more problematic than it seemed. Most things in her life were more complicated than they appeared. Lifting the lid on her carefully suppressed trauma might cause more harm than good, but it was the only way she could think of to make the terrifying recurring images stop, to keep her focus on her work and move on with her life. Deep down she knew there was no secret formula to stop the flashbacks and anxiety she suffered daily, but she had to try.

  “May I ask how you found me?” said Dr. Carver.

  Katie hesitated. Her nerves twitched to get up and leave, but an instinct told her to stay and hear what the doctor had to say. “I read your reviews and did a background search.”

  “I see,” she said. “Credentials are important to you?”

  “Of course. It can reveal a lot about someone—or not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if someone—I’m not saying you—exaggerated their credentials that says a lot to me about their ethics.” Katie tried to soften her words, reminding herself that she wasn’t interrogating a suspect at the Pine Valley Sheriff’s Department.

  The therapist looked at her notes. “It says here that you’re a detective, newly appointed.”

  “Yes.”

  “And before that you did two tours in Afghanistan.”

  “Yes. I was part of a military K9 team.”

  “I see.”

  Katie noticed that the psychologist didn’t react. Perhaps it was due to the many clients she had counseled over the years, nothing would seem shocking to her, but she calmly reread several pages of notes and took time to phrase her questions carefully.

  “I’m here to help guide my clients, to help them to see where the anxiety is seeded and work collaboratively to eliminate the source and move on to a productive life.” She gave a slight smile, keeping eye contact, and then politely waited for a response.

  Katie let out a breath. Uncrossing her arms, she leaned forward. “Dr. Carver, I apologize if I seem uncooperative to you. I’m concerned that news of my visit here will get back to the sheriff’s department, and… I simply can’t have that. This is private, deeply personal and separate from my work, and I would like to keep it that way.”

  “Please be assured that whatever you say and whatever we talk about will not leave this room. It is completely confidential. None of the information we gather will ever be shared.”

  “Thank you. I’m paying for these sessions from my own pocket, and not through work insurance. That is very important to me.”

  “Of course. I understand,” she said. “Now, tell me, have you confided in someone before coming here? Like… a family member or a friend?”

  “You mean does anyone know I’m here today?”

  Dr. Carver nodded.

  Katie recalled recent conversations with both her uncle, who was the current Pine Valley Sheriff, and Chad, her oldest friend. “My uncle and my… I guess you could call him my boyfriend. We haven’t talked in any detail, but they both, on separate occasions, have urged me to talk to someone about my experiences adjusting back into society after my tours.”

  “No closer family members?”

  “My parents are both…” she began. “They are both deceased.”

  Dr. Carver studied Katie for a moment. “Tell me about a typical day for you.”

  “About work?”

  “Just any day—what it’s like for you, and how you handle these difficult feelings.”

  “I don’t know…” Katie’s voice trailed off.

  Dr. Carver put down her notepad and kept Katie’s gaze. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. Just know that it’s a safe place here. No judgment. Nothing leaves this room. Understand?”

  Katie nodded. No matter how hard she tried to find fault with the psychologist, she couldn’t; her discomfort was her own doing. The only time she was truly able to manage her symptoms was while she was at work. She’d never let anything get in the way of protecting the innocent, but for how long that would last, she didn’t know. Her acute anxiety had a life of its own, and could strike at any time.

  “In your own time,” the therapist said patiently.

  “Well…” Katie began. Her voice sounded hollow in the room and she was extremely self-conscious, but she pushed through her discomfort. “I’m a police detective and I’ve been recently promoted to head the cold case division at the Pine Valley Sheriff’s Department. It’s been challenging, but I love my work. I feel like I’m actually making a difference and helping families—giving closure to them.”

  “Do you work alone, or with a partner?”

  Katie smiled. “The last two cases I’ve had a partner—Deputy McGaven—he was assigned from patrol.”

  “How was it working with someone?”

  “It’s good. We cover more ground, bounce theories around… it’s nice there’s someone who has your back.” Katie looked down and realized that she was gripping the chair arms tightly and immediately loosened them.

  “I see,” she said. “How do you feel about working as part of a team?”

  “I’ve always worked with someone. Either on police patrol, in the military, and now as a detective. It’s the nature of the job.”

  “I’m sure that’s a considerable amount of stress having the responsibility of someone else. How do you handle it?”

  Katie felt the familiar tingling sensation under her skin and her body temperature rose. “I don’t know… I just deal with it…”

  “Explain a bit more to me.”

  “I don’t know… it comes with the panic and anxiety. I usually acknowledge it and work through it, I guess. I have to in order to do my job.”

  “I see. What happens just before you begin to feel these symptoms?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Katie, her patience waning, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to get up out of the comfortable chair and leave without a word—and never come back.

  “Does it happen at home? While you are interviewing a suspect? Consoling a victim or their families?”

  Katie was stumped at first. She had never thought much about where the anxious feeling came from. It was obvious that stress was the trigger, but she had had flashbacks on other occasions. She closed her eyes for a moment as the sounds and smells of the battlefield bombarded her mind and startled her senses. Taking a deep breath, she forced her focus to return and opened her eyes to find Dr. Carver patiently waiting for her to answer. “The easy answer is stress, of course. My symptoms creep up when I’m feeling tense… like when we’re just about to close in on a suspect, or when I’m not sure what direction to take the investigation in.” Katie stopped, shocked at herself for divulging such personal information to a complete stranger.

  “Does it happen every time when obvious stress is involved?”

  “No.”

  “Does it
happen when it’s not work related?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Is it when you’re alone?”

  “Well, I do live alone, if you don’t count Cisco, my dog.”

  “Is he a therapy dog?”

  “No, just my partner in Afghanistan. My uncle pulled some strings and was able to have him released and sent home to me when I left the army.” She smiled, once again forcing her hands to ungrasp the armrests, feeling Dr. Carver’s eyes on her.

  “Katie. Is it okay to call you Katie, or do you prefer Ms. Scott?”

  “Katie is fine.”

  “Katie, I think that’s enough for now. I want you to go home and really think about what you want from these sessions and how you’d like to proceed—if at all. Journaling is helpful.”

  Katie remained quiet as many emotions and thoughts flooded her mind—from never coming back again, to telling the psychologist about the memories that had been impossible to shake.

  Dr. Carver rose from her chair. “It was so nice to meet you, Katie.” She handed Katie her card. “Please give me a call when you’ve figured out what you would like to do. I’ll wait to hear from you.”