Deserves to Die by Lisa Jackson Read Free Book Online

Set in a death mask, her face was a grayish hue, and beneath the glaze of ice, her eyes were wide and fixed, seeming to stare straight into his soul.
    “Eli?”
    His father’s voice barely registered. He felt as if he might be sick. “No . . . oh . . .” His insides turned to water. “Dad!”
    Screaming before he could stop himself, Eli nearly toppled out of the saddle as Jetfire, nostrils distended, reared, then spun and took off at a full gallop, racing through the trees and across the pasture-land, his hooves throwing up clods of snow. Over the rush of wind in his ears, Eli heard his father shout and the dogs begin to howl and bark, but all he could do was hang on to the reins and saddle horn as the horse tore up the rise toward the house. The world went by in a blur of white, but all Eli saw, indelibly etched in his brain forever, was that mutilated hand reaching for the sky.
     

Chapter 4
     
    Y ou’re a chicken.
    That irritating voice inside Pescoli’s head wouldn’t leave her alone, even though she’d tried to immerse herself in the autopsy report she’d found on her desk this morning.
    She’d had the perfect opportunity to tell Santana about the baby after he’d met her at the top of the stairs, kissed the damn breath from her lungs, and for the first time in their new house, made love to her right on the hard subfloor of their master bedroom. Okay, there had been a sleeping bag, but still.... The sex had been intense, maybe even a little rough, but filled with the passion she found exhilarating. Afterward, as she’d snuggled up against him, both their naked bodies shining with sweat, she should have screwed up her courage and let him know that he was going to be a father later this year. But she hadn’t, content to hold him tight, feel his strength, and listen to his heartbeat as she stared through the open French doors and watched the nightfall.
    Every time she moved in her desk chair, her rump ached and she was reminded of Santana and how animal their union had been. Their lovemaking had always been that way—playful and utterly primal. And yet, before, during, or even after, she hadn’t uttered a word about the pregnancy.
    With an effort, she focused on the autopsy of a man in his late forties, who may or may not have been the victim of a homicide. Derrick “Deeter” Clemson had died of wounds he’d received after a fall off a cliff. The question was whether he’d made a mistake and his death was accidental, if he’d leaped intentionally down nearly one hundred feet of timberland, or if he’d been helped in the fall by his bride of six months. The autopsy report didn’t give any clear answers, and she was slightly distracted by the noise filtering through her doorway, that of Blackwater on the telephone in Grayson’s office.
    She hadn’t shut her door yet and could hear Blackwater. Undoubtedly at his desk down the hall, he was having a one-sided phone conversation with someone it sounded like he was trying to impress. Either someone higher in the department or a reporter, she guessed. Maybe even that cockroach Manny Douglas, of the Mountain Reporter or, worse yet, Nia Del Ray from KMJC in Missoula.
    Blackwater was making noises as if he were about to hang up, so she rolled her desk chair to close her door. She didn’t need him poking his head in again and giving her another gung ho speech.
    Her hand had just come off the knob when the door was flung open and Selena Alvarez burst in, her expression grim, her jaw set. “Let’s roll,” she said without preamble. “Looks like we’ve got a DB at the O’Halleran ranch.”
    “Dead body?” Pescoli rolled her chair back to her desk, got to her feet, and reached for her jacket and sidearm. “Who?”
    “Jane Doe.”
    “What happened?” Sliding her arms through her jacket’s sleeves, she was on Alvarez’s heels as they walked crisply down the hall toward the doors leading to the parking lot. Blackwater, whose door was ajar, looked up