Not the sort of place a double homicide of this nature was expected to happen unless there was a robbery, or the owner was involved in some illegal activity. Drugs, prostitution, human trafficking. There were all sorts of possibilities.

But what the hell did the new hotshot DDA have to do with it?

Kerri made her way into the stockroom. The evidence techs were already doing their thing. Falco and the ME hovered near the bodies. Other than the two vics, this back portion of the building held what one would expect. Supplies for the store as well as a walk-in humidor. The first she’d seen. There was an employee area near the rear exit. The lockers McGill mentioned and a long coatrack that extended from the lockers to the door of the restroom for employees. A narrow row of well-stocked shelving separated the area from the rest of the space. A round table with chairs—two of which had been used to secure the victims—stood in one corner. The employee break area, she supposed.

Moore glanced up from his examination of Leo Kurtz. “Detective, long time no see.”

Kerri smiled. “I took a vacation with my daughter during her spring break. The first one I’ve taken in far too long.”

“She called me every day,” Falco added.

Moore laughed. “A truly dedicated detective can never fully let go of work.”

Kerri couldn’t deny that allegation. She’d always found putting work on the back burner more than a little difficult. Moving on to business, she asked, “You have an estimate on time of death?”

Moore’s assistant came through the rear exit with a gurney. Falco had obviously shared the need to be discreet. Hopefully the assistant had moved the vehicle fondly referred to as the meat wagon around back as well. The fewer people who noticed that detail, the better.

“For now, I’m going to say between ten last night and two this morning. I’ll have something more definitive after I’ve done a thorough exam.”

“We’re in the ballpark,” Kerri agreed. “The employee who found the bodies this morning worked until ten thirty last night.”

Moore nodded. “Falco says we’ll need something on these two rather quickly.” He looked to Walsh. “I suppose he’s the reason.”

“He is,” Kerri confirmed.

“The chief will probably be giving you a call,” Falco warned.

Moore chuckled. “I’m confident he will.”

Deep in the pocket of her jacket, Kerri’s cell vibrated. She stepped over to the break area to take the call.

A glance at the screen and recognition flared. Her daughter’s school. Her brain instantly cued a shot of adrenaline and a burst of apprehension. “Devlin,” she said rather than hello.

“Ms. Devlin, this is Joslin Farrington.”

The assistant to the head of the school. Kerri held her breath. “Has something happened to Tori?”

Haunting memories from last year—Amelia’s murder—ripped through Kerri.

“No.” The single syllable sounded oddly uncertain. “She’s not hurt or anything, Ms. Devlin.”

A pause while Kerri’s heart rate raced higher in spite of the news.

“However, we do need you to come to the school as quickly as you can. It’s quite urgent.”

Rather than demand more information, Kerri said, “I’m on my way.”

Heart pounding, head spinning with the possibilities of all the awful things that could happen at school these days—even a posh private one—Kerri jerked her head at Falco, and he joined her near the door between the stockroom and the front retail space.

“What’s up?”

“Tori’s school called. Something’s happened. I have to go. Now.”

“Go,” he urged. “I’ve got this.”

“Thanks.”

“Call me,” he said to her back. “Let me know what’s going on.”

Kerri didn’t take the time to respond. She had to go . . . she had to go now.

3

11:50 a.m.

Brighton Academy

Seventh Avenue

Birmingham

In the twenty minutes required to reach Tori’s school, Kerri had imagined a dozen ways that her daughter could be in trouble. She’d turned the radio to a local channel and got nothing. She’d resisted calling dispatch since an explanation would be required if she asked questions about any calls to the location.

My daughter’s school called. I think she’s in trouble. Have any codes been issued for Brighton Academy?

Kerri exhaled a lungful of air as she made the final turn from Twenty-Fourth Street onto Seventh Avenue. The air immediately sucked back into her chest on a vicious gasp. Three BPD cruisers as well as a fire and rescue vehicle littered the street in front of the school’s main entrance.

Kerri didn’t remember parking . . . had no idea if she’d locked her vehicle or even closed the door. Heart in her throat, she was on the sidewalk and bounding toward the main entrance before her brain caught up with the rest of her. A uniformed officer stood at the double doors.

“I’m afraid the school is on lockdown, ma’am,” he warned as she approached.

Kerri shifted her jacket to reveal the badge clipped to her belt, and the uni immediately opened one of the two doors.

“Straight ahead, Detective.”

Inside, Kerri hurried down the hall, past the rows of bulletin boards filled with news postings and announcements of upcoming events. The bright overhead lights reflected against the shiny terrazzo floor. The bulletin boards transitioned into surprisingly good watercolor paintings posted on the clean white walls. Any other time she would have paused to check coming events or to admire the artwork. She couldn’t take the time now. She had to know if Tori was okay.

At the far end of the main corridor, where the wide stairs led up to the second floor, more uniforms were stationed. A long strand of yellow crime scene tape looped from one side of the corridor to the other, blocking the entrance to the staircase and the exit to the inner courtyard beyond it.

What the hell happened here?

Kerri’s heart was thudding ineffectively by the time she reached the door to the school’s main office. She walked inside. The lobby was empty save for Detective Wayne Sykes and Nile Foster, the head of the school. The two men were apparently waiting for her. She looked from one to the other. “Where’s Tori?”