Final Vow, page 6
It’s how I met Wilder, actually. I remember noticing him across the conference table, dark hair and sharp clothes, looking slightly out of place among us small-town cops. Now we’re dating.
Life takes strange turns. Sometimes they’re good ones.
And sometimes they’re not. My brother Daniel was safe for a few precious months after we helped him and my sister Rachel escape. Then a young man named Noah Cross—posing as a fellow defector, but really the son of one of my father’s most ruthless enforcers—used Daniel’s trust against him and lured him back. Most mornings I wake up wondering if Daniel’s even alive.
Pulling up to the sheriff’s station brings me back to the present moment. It’s a brick building that houses the county’s crime lab, evidence storage, and the medical examiner’s office in the basement. I’ve been down there more times than I’d like.
Hanks parks and we head inside, Shadow trotting beside me. The officer at the basement desk—a gray-haired guy who’s probably been here since before I was born—looks up from his crossword puzzle and gives us a nod. His eyes drop to Shadow. “Hello, handsome.”
Shadow’s tail wags. He knows a compliment when he hears one.
“Mind if he waits with you?” I ask. “We’re here to see Beth.”
“Not at all.” The older officer pats his thigh. “C’mon, boy. Keep me company.”
Shadow looks up at me, seeking permission. I give him the hand signal to stay and then scratch behind his ears. “Good boy. I’ll be right back.”
He settles beside the desk with a soft grunt. My chest squeezes as his eyes follow me through the doors.
The fluorescent-lit hallway immediately puts me on edge, the harsh light bouncing off white walls and white floors and stainless steel surfaces until I think I can actually feel the migraine forming. The smell of antiseptic and chemicals and something underneath turns my stomach. The air is chilly enough to raise goose bumps on my arms.
Hanks glances at me. “You good?”
“Fine.” The clinical sterility of this place always sets my teeth on edge. And knowing that bodies lurk behind all these doors makes it hard to breathe.
But I square my shoulders and follow Hanks down the corridor.
Beth meets us at the door to the autopsy suite in her pristine white lab coat, her curly dark hair pulled back in its usual high ponytail. “There you are.” She waves us in. “I was just about to text and see if you’d gotten lost.”
“Traffic,” Hanks says.
“Ah.” Beth grins. “One of the perks of working down here with the dead at all hours—no rush hour.”
I know she means it as a joke, but my pulse spikes at the image of her here alone, surrounded by the dead, before the sun’s even up. But Beth crosses to the far side of the metal table without hesitation, unbothered by the body beneath the white sheet. A rolling cart waits beside her, laden with scalpels, forceps, and sharp tools with teeth.
I fix my gaze on Beth instead.
“Thanks for rushing this through,” Hanks says, pulling out his notepad.
She waves off the gratitude. “Of course. Bride murdered on her wedding day? That jumps to the front of the line.” She lifts a clipboard from the cart and scans her notes. “Okay. Let’s see what our girl can tell us.”
She folds back the sheet to expose Samantha’s upper body. I force myself to look.
It’s worse than yesterday. The bruising around her throat has darkened to deep purple and black, the finger marks more distinct against her pale skin. Her face has lost all color, waxy and strange in the harsh light.
My chest tightens. Twenty-eight years old. She was supposed to be on her honeymoon right now.
“So.” Beth gently pulls on Samantha’s lower eyelids, revealing tiny pinprick red dots on the whites. “Petechial hemorrhaging. Classic sign of strangulation, which I can confirm is the cause of death.”
She returns to looking at her notes, tapping a pen against the clipboard. “I found fibers on her dress. Poly-wool blend, a mix of black and gray.” She holds up a small evidence bag, and I can just make out the tiny threads inside. “Common in suiting material. Men’s suits, specifically.”
My pulse quickens. “So we’re looking for a male suspect?”
Beth tilts her head, considering. “Not necessarily. I checked the fibers against the groom’s suit, and it was a match.” She pauses. “But same for the groomsmen. And likely many of the male guests and staff. Anyone in a dark suit could have transferred those fibers.”
Hanks frowns. “So it doesn’t tell us much.”
“Not yet.” Beth sets the evidence bag aside. “If she hugged any of these men or brushed against someone in passing—easy transfer. I can’t say definitively that the fibers got on her during the struggle.” She sighs. “Speaking of which, as we initially suspected, there doesn’t seem to have been much of one.”
Then she leans closer, her gloved hand hovering above the throat bruising.
“I spent some time with these marks.” She traces the air above one of the finger impressions. “The spread between thumb and fingers suggests a larger hand. Not huge, but bigger than mine.” She holds up her own for comparison, which is admittedly fairly petite. “Bigger than Samantha’s. Consistent with an average-to-large male hand, though I can’t rule out a larger-framed woman.”
The women closest to Samantha, including Maryanne Grant, are all fairly small.
Beth pushes her glasses up her nose and gestures at Samantha’s neck. “See here? The bruising is clean. No ring impressions anywhere—no hard edges, no indentations from a band or setting. Whoever did this either doesn’t wear rings or took them off beforehand.”
So, likely unmarried. Women tend to wear more rings than men. Another indication that this might be a male perpetrator, especially an unmarried one. Is Samantha’s jealous ex unmarried?
I glance at Hanks and catch the slight narrowing of his eyes. He’s thinking this over too.
“Aside from the strangulation and this bruising, she doesn’t have many injuries. No defensive wounds, no skin under her nails, no torn clothing.”
Hanks scratches his stubbly chin. “Aside from a guest with some scratches on her arms that she claimed were from gardening and a friend of the groom’s with abrasions on his palms from a hiking fall, no one had any injuries that could have been caused by Samantha fighting them off.” We’d spent half the night in Hanks’s office going through the photos and witness statements, looking for anything that stood out.
“It suggests she was surprised and quickly overpowered. I’ve confirmed there was no sexual assault.” Beth pulls the sheet back up, covering Samantha’s face, and some of the tension eases from my shoulders. “And nothing was apparently stolen—her engagement ring was still on her finger, all her jewelry accounted for.” She consults her notes. “Including an expensive necklace. The clasp was broken, but it was still on the bed beside her.”
So burglary likely wasn’t a motive.
Hanks shifts his weight. “What’s your take, Beth?”
She sets down the clipboard and folds her arms, her expression thoughtful. “As I mentioned yesterday, strangulation is usually personal. Motivated by rage. Hatred.” She pauses. “Between the hand size and the bare fingers, I’m cautiously leaning male. But I want to stress cautiously.”
“It’s more than we had an hour ago,” Hanks says.
She indicates the evidence bags on the cart. “I’m sending the fibers and screenings to the lab for further analysis. Maybe they’ll find something more specific. But for now, that’s all I’ve got.”
Hanks tucks his notepad back into his jacket. “Thanks, Beth. Appreciate it.”
“Anytime.” Her warm smile returns.
We leave Beth to her work and step back into the corridor. The air is still cold and the lights are still too intense, but at least I can breathe without tasting formaldehyde.
Shadow scrambles to his feet, tail wagging, the moment he sees me come through the double doors. The older officer looks up from his crossword with a grin.
“Good as gold,” he reports.
“That’s my boy.” I crouch to rub Shadow’s ears, and he licks my chin. “Thanks again.”
We hurry to the elevator. Hanks jabs the Up button, and the doors slide open with a tired ding.
“Maryanne mentioned the bride had some issues with vendors,” I say as we step inside. Shadow sits at my feet. “But it seems like you’d have to be pretty fed up to commit a crime this violent.”
“Agreed.” Hanks punches the button for the main floor. “I think we’re looking at a friend or family member. Someone close.”
“Or that jealous ex Benji mentioned.” I lean against the elevator wall, thinking. “Grayson Taylor. He wasn’t among the people we interviewed yesterday.”
“Nope.” The elevator groans upward as Hanks crosses his arms, thinking the case over. “We need to find our victim’s phone.”
It didn’t turn up in a sweep of the bridal suite or on her person.
“And go over that gate footage,” I add, yawning. “Hopefully Martha has sent that over by now.”
Hanks snaps his fingers. “Forgot to tell you, she did. I put Brooks on watching it.”
The doors slide open, and we step out into the main corridor of the sheriff’s station. Compared to the basement, the natural light filtering through the windows feels almost luxurious. I take a breath that doesn’t smell like chemicals and death.
But all thoughts of the dungeon-like morgue evaporate when I spot Wilder coming down the hallway toward us. He looks handsome in charcoal slacks and a matching blazer that fits like it was tailored for him. It probably was. His dark hair is neatly styled, and when he sees me, his serious expression softens into something warmer.
“Eden.” He hurries over to us. “Hanks.” He grins down at Shadow, who’s shamelessly begging for pets, and ruffles his fur. “Hey, buddy!”
Hanks gives him a nod.
“What’re you doing in Warrenton?” Wilder asks.
“Paid Beth a visit.” I try to keep my voice light. “You?”
He grimaces slightly. “Checking in with Theo about some labs.” His gaze searches my face, and I know he’s reading me the way he always does—noticing the tension in my shoulders, the tightness around my eyes. He knows how much I love the morgue. “You okay?”
I grin. “Better now that we’re back up here.”
“This have to do with the case you canceled on me for?”
“Yep.” I manage a small smile. “Believe me, I would rather have been with you than needing to go down there.”
He smirks. “That’s not saying much.”
I laugh, and some of the morgue’s chill finally leaves my bones.
Wilder glances at Hanks, then back at me. “Well, I’d better let you go. Good to see you. Always makes my day better.”
Shadow’s tail wags, and Wilder grins, crouching once more to scratch behind his ears. “And you too,” he adds to my dog.
Wilder stands and gives my hand a quick squeeze. His palm is warm against my fingers. “When this case settles down, I’m hoping to get a rain check on that Italian dinner.”
“Deal.”
He holds my gaze a moment longer than strictly necessary. Then Hanks clears his throat.
“All right, lovebirds.” The detective’s tone is gruff, but I catch the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Wilder releases my hand and steps back, slipping easily into professional mode. “Good luck. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
CHAPTER 9
As Hanks, Shadow, and I drive back to Nightfall, we decide that talking to Samantha’s people is our next step. I call her mother, who agrees to speak with us at their hotel. Hanks pulls into his usual spot behind the station, and the three of us make our way the short distance down Main Street on foot.
The blue of the ocean peeks out between quaint shingled buildings. It’s Sunday, and the sidewalks are crowded—tourists in sandals and sun hats, families with strollers, clusters of high school kids freed for the summer and looking for trouble. The boutiques and restaurants have their doors propped open, wind socks spiraling in the ocean breeze, sandwich boards proclaiming specials in colorful chalk.
The sun is now bright overhead with just a hint of fog remaining. A perfect July day on the Oregon coast. The kind of day that should be spent at the beach, not investigating a murder.
The Nightfall Inn sits at the south end of the main drag, right where the shops give way to beach access and public parking. It’s a three-story building, long and rectangular, clad in weathered gray shingle siding with a dark metal roof. It’s been here forever. Not fancy, but reliable.
We skip the lobby and instead scan the lettering on the buildings until we locate Building B. There’s an elevator, though it looks like it’s seen better days, so we take the external stairs to the second floor and head left along the railed walkway. Shadow’s nails scrape on the worn cement, and the breezeway smells like cleaning products and the freshness of the sea. Room 214 sits at the end.
Hanks knocks, and footsteps approach. The door opens, and a man in his sixties stands in the gap—gray hair, stubbled chin, with a lined tan face bordering on burnt. His eyes are red-rimmed, the bags beneath them deep purple.
“Mr. Winters?” Hanks asks.
He nods and steps aside. “Come in.”
We file past him, down a short hallway with a bathroom to the left, followed by a small kitchenette that opens to the living area. The room is clean but hasn’t been updated since the early 2000s. The walls are faded mustard, an ivy-patterned wallpaper border running along the ceiling.
The sliding glass doors lead to a balcony with a view that should be stunning, the beach stretching out below with families building sandcastles and kids splashing in the shallows. But the curtains are pulled, sheer fabric filtering the light into something dim and sad.
Kim Nelson is curled up on the couch, wearing an oversized sweatshirt and leggings. We weren’t expecting her to join us, but I’m glad she’s here. She may be better able to answer some of our questions than Samantha’s parents.
Kim’s dark hair is pulled back in a messy bun, her drawn face bare of makeup. Without the careful styling from yesterday, she looks younger.
On the couch beside her sits a woman I recognize from the photos we reviewed last night: Helen Winters, Samantha’s mother. Garcia interviewed her and Samantha’s father, but both were so distraught after that we held off on questioning them further, so this is our first time meeting our victim’s parents. Helen has a white bob haircut and a soft, round face—the kind of woman who probably gives great hugs. She rests her hand on Kim’s arm, offering comfort even as she’s drowning in her own pain.
“Please, come in,” she says, her voice hoarse.
Kim wiggles her fingers at Shadow, and his tail wags. I give him a small nod, and he pads over to her, accepting the pets she offers with grave dignity.
Bill Winters moves to stand beside the couch, one hand resting on his wife’s shoulder, while Hanks and I settle into the remaining armchairs. Shadow finishes his greeting and returns to my side, lying down by my feet.
“Mr. and Mrs. Winters, Ms. Nelson,” Hanks begins.
“Helen and Bill is fine,” Samantha’s mother says.
Kim looks up, her eyes still wet. “Just Kim.”
Hanks introduces us, and then I lean forward. “We know this is an incredibly difficult time. We’ll try to make this as quick as possible, but we’d like to ask you just a few questions. Is it all right if I record this?”
Helen nods, dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled tissue, and I start the audio recorder on my phone.
Hanks skims his notes. “First, how long will you be in town?”
Bill exchanges a look with his wife. “We were supposed to leave today, but it feels wrong to go home without Sammie. We’re trying to extend, but everything’s booked.”
Kim presses her lips together. “I’m hoping to stay too.”
“Where’s home?” Hanks asks.
“Austin,” Bill says. “Moved somewhere warm after Sammie graduated from high school.”
“Chicago,” Kim answers.
“We’ll make sure Samantha is released to you as soon as possible,” Hanks says, his gruff voice soft, “so you can take her home.”
Helen presses the tissue to her mouth, quietly sobbing. Bill’s hand tightens on her shoulder.
Hanks consults his notepad. “Benji mentioned that an ex-boyfriend of Samantha’s had been in contact with her recently.” He fixes them with a hard look. “Grayson Taylor. What can you tell us about him?”
“Oh my God.” Kim slaps a hand over her mouth. “I completely forgot about Grayson yesterday!” She shakes her head. “Why didn’t I think of him sooner?”
Helen rubs her shoulder. “We were all in shock, dear.”
Bill’s expression darkens. “Not a fan of that guy. Never was, even back when Sammie was in high school. Don’t know what she saw in him.”
Kim lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh. “I do. He was the bad boy and a grade ahead of us in school. All the girls thought he was cute.” She rolls her eyes. “Until we figured out he was a jerk. Still can’t believe what a loser he turned out to be.”
“How long did they date?” I ask.
“Just a few months,” Kim says. “Sophomore year.”
Helen nods. “Sammie broke it off. She got too busy with dance to have a boyfriend.”
“She also realized he was demanding and rude,” Kim adds.
Hanks makes a note. “Did she keep in touch with him over the years?”
Kim scoffs. “No way. It was so random when he reached out. I think he saw her post about the engagement and was delusional enough to think he could get her back.”
