the dispatcher and clerk at the front counter.
“I’m glad to have the help,” Burton said. “I ran that wound pattern through the National Crime Information Center and got a match with a case up near the Great Dismal Swamp in North Carolina. Another one down in the Everglades, although not identical to ours, has similarities.”
“So we might be hunting a serial killer.” Mel nodded. “I knew the wound pattern seemed familiar. I also logged onto NCIC, with the same result.”
Frowning, the burly man shook his head. “Damndest thing. Anyway, I asked the Atlanta office to bring you in on this. Brunswick office is our usual contact, but you’re already here.”
He laid a manila folder on the desk. “Copies of the reports are in here. Bottom line, we found nothin’ new.”
“What do you need from me?”
“For starters, you can back me up at the press conference. I guess you noticed the crowd out front. Dr. Milledge did the autopsy first thing this morning. I’m thinking somebody at the hospital couldn’t help flapping their lips.”
Mel and the sheriff exchanged a glance of mutual frustration. She said, “Judging by the chatter at lunch, I’d say you’re right.”
Some people in the café, The Goddess’s Hearth, had speculated about the murder as some kind of satanic ritual. They might be on track. Those blaming otherworldly creatures absolutely were not. What was it with this town and woo-woo?
“There’s other strange factors we’ve managed to keep a lid on,” Burton said. “Report’s in the file, but I’ll go ahead and tell you, most of Miss Baldwin’s blood was gone, and what was left had a strange substance in it Milledge couldn’t identify. Like the Great Dismal case.”
Mel shook her head. “Curiouser and curiouser, as the saying goes. But you think the yard is the murder scene, even with no blood?”
“We do.” Rubbing his chin, he added, “There’s signs of a struggle in the grass. Anyway, Milledge recommended a toxicology consult, so I phoned the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. Their top choice is a fellow who’s just an hour or so away.” His glance shifted past her. “And here he is.”
Before Mel could turn around, a man spoke in a rich, clear baritone behind her. “Good morning, Angela, Corey,” he said to the clerk and dispatcher.
A shiver of recognition rocked through Mel. But surely this couldn’t be Stefan Harper. She risked a quick glance over her shoulder at the man strolling around the end of the counter and into the territory reserved for those with badges and weapons.
Oh, God, it was him.
Her heart skipped a beat. A buzz filled her ears, and she lost the thread of the sheriff’s comments. Stefan Harper. Voice of an archangel, hands of a sex god. Or so she’d once described him, back when she’d thought he was the one person who loved her completely, who was wholly in her corner.
Her mistake.
“Hey, Stefan.” Sheriff Burton walked forward to meet him.
Mel turned hastily back to the desk, toying with the paper in the file. She was over him, had been for years. So why wouldn’t her breathing settle? It must be the shock of seeing him. It could only be that.
Instead of the jeans and T-shirt combo he’d favored in med school, he wore a charcoal suit that fit as though it’d been tailored for him. Otherwise, he hadn’t changed in the past nine years. Same thick, dark hair neatly combed but in need of a trim. Same strong chin and straight, aristocratic nose. Same serious brown eyes with gold glints that never showed in photos.
Same generous mouth so adept at rousing her body.
Breathe, damn it .
“Thanks for coming,” Sheriff Burton said, his gravelly voice a sharp contrast to Stefan’s almost liquid one. “I don’t guess you’ve had a chance to go to the hospital yet.”
“No, sorry. I’ll listen in on the press conference from the back, then talk to the crime scene unit before I go to the morgue. Milledge agreed to meet me