Chapter 1
The air-conditioning in the Austin precinct hummed a low, vibrating note that Frankie felt in her teeth. It was a dry, recycled cold that did nothing to mask the smell of the station: floor wax, old coffee, and the faint, metallic tang of filtered air.
Frankie Castillo sat across from Marla Devine. In the press, Marla was the "Garden Path Killer." Here, she looked like a woman who had simply run out of things to say.
Angelo Thorne leaned against the cinderblock wall, his arms crossed over a chest that looked like it was made of granite. He didn't do "quiet" well. He was a man of evidence, of DNA swabs and security footage. To him, this room wasn't a theater; it was a cage, and the tiger was already caught.
"Tell her about the car, Angelo," Frankie said, her voice barely a whisper. She didn't look back at him. She kept her eyes locked on Marla’s steady, unblinking gaze.
Angelo shifted, his leather holster creaking—a sound that usually made suspects jump. Marla didn't flinch.
"Blue Honda Civic," Angelo barked, stepping into the light. He threw a grainy surveillance still onto the table. "Spotted three miles from the trailhead where Daniel Price was dumped. Registered to you, Marla. We found his blood in the trunk. Not a drop—a smear. Like someone tried to wipe it away and gave up halfway through."
Marla glanced at the photo as if it were a boring postcard. "I live in Texas, Detective. People bleed. I volunteer at a trail where people trip and scrape their knees. Maybe I gave him a ride."
"A ride to his grave?" Angelo leaned over the table, his shadow swallowing Marla’s small frame. "We found the garrote in your garden shed. Wrapped in a silk scarf that matches the one you're wearing in your profile picture. It’s over. Just give us the why so we can go home."
Frankie watched Marla’s reaction. Or rather, the lack of one.
"That’s the thing, Angelo," Frankie interrupted, her voice cutting through his aggression. "It’s too loud."
Angelo turned, frowning. "What?"
"The evidence. It’s shouting," Frankie said, finally breaking eye contact with Marla to look at her partner. "Marla is a yoga instructor. She’s meticulous. Her house is spotless, her books are alphabetized. You’re telling me she killed three people and left a bloody car and a murder weapon in a shed with no lock on it? In her own signature scarf?"
"People get sloppy when they're panicked, Frankie," Angelo snapped. "Don't overthink the obvious."
"She isn't panicked," Frankie countered. She reached out and gently took Marla’s hand. The woman tried to pull away, but Frankie held on, turning Marla’s palm upward. "Look at her hands, Angelo. Daniel Price was six-foot-two and a varsity swimmer. The ME said he fought for his life. He would have clawed at his attacker. He would have left marks."
Frankie pointed to Marla’s forearms, visible beneath her pushed-up sleeves. "Smooth. Not a scratch. Not a broken fingernail. Marla isn't the killer, Angelo. She’s the cleanup crew."
Marla snatched her hand back, her composure finally fracturing. "I did it," she hissed, her voice trembling. "I killed him. I killed them all. Isn't that enough for you?"
"No," Frankie said, leaning in until they were inches apart. "Because while you’re sitting here playing the martyr, the person who actually did it is out there scrubbing the real crime scene. You think you’re saving Leo, don’t you? You think if you take the fall, he gets a second chance."
At the mention of her brother’s name, Marla’s face went ghost-white. She looked at Angelo, then back at Frankie, her eyes filling with a sudden, desperate terror.
Angelo saw it too. He straightened up, his cynicism wavering for the first time. "Leo? The brother with the assault priors?"
Before Marla could answer, the door swung open. A sergeant stood there, looking annoyed. "Castillo, Thorne. Clear out. Public PR just called. They’re pulling the plug on this interview—lawyer's here and he's screaming civil rights."
Frankie stood slowly, gathering her recorder. She looked at Angelo, who was staring at Marla with a new, troubled expression.
"She’s hiding him," Frankie whispered as they walked toward the door.
"Maybe," Angelo muttered, though he sounded less sure than he had five minutes ago. "But we have a car full of blood and a weapon. The DA isn't going to care about 'intuition' and 'clean fingernails,' Frankie. They want a conviction, and Marla just gave them one."
The door clicked shut, leaving Marla alone in the cold, humming room.
——-
The Texas heat was thick enough to chew, reflecting off the hood of Angelo’s unmarked Ford. He leaned against the driver’s side, squinting through his aviators at the station doors while Frankie paced a three-foot line on the melting asphalt.
"You’re doing that thing again," Angelo said, his voice a lazy drawl. He wasn't rushing her; he was watching her like a scientist observing a chemical reaction. "The 'Castillo squint.' Your brain is moving so fast I can practically hear the gears grinding from here."
Frankie stopped mid-stride, her heels clicking sharply. "It’s the hands, Gelo. Did you see her hands? Not a scratch. Not a broken nail. Daniel Price was a swimmer—he had twenty pounds on her and a reach like a crane. You’re telling me he didn't even graze her?"
Angelo popped a piece of gum, his expression unreadable behind the tinted glass of his glasses. "I’m telling you the DNA in the trunk says she’s our girl. The DA is already picking out his tie for the press conference. It’s a layup, Frankie. A beautiful, easy layup."
"Since when do you like easy?" she challenged, stepping into his space. "You’re the best detective in this precinct because you hate easy. You look for the stitch that doesn't match."
Angelo let out a short, dry chuckle and pushed off the car. He stepped closer, towering over her but with a smirk that took the edge off his height. "Flattery? Careful, Castillo, you’ll ruin your reputation as a hard-boiled cynic." He lowered his voice, his teasing tone shifting into something more focused. "Look, I saw it too. The way she didn't flinch when I brought up the garrote? Most people look away. She stared at it like she was memorizing a grocery list. It’s too clean."
"Because she didn't use it," Frankie whispered. "She’s the shield. She’s protecting someone."
"Leo," Angelo supplied. He didn't dismiss the name this time. Instead, he pulled a small notebook from his pocket and tapped it against his palm. "The brother. History of 'episodes,' a temper like a brushfire, and currently 'out of town' visiting a cousin who doesn't seem to exist. It fits your theory, Frankie. It really does."
"Then why aren't we pulling his phone records?"
Angelo sighed, the heat finally seeming to weigh on him. He reached out and gave her shoulder a supportive, albeit heavy, pat. "Because 'fitting a theory' doesn't get me a warrant when the sister is sitting in there screaming her own guilt from the rooftops. I’m on your side, Frankie—I always am—but give me a thread I can actually pull. You find me one piece of physical evidence that puts Leo at that trailhead, and I’ll be the first one to slap the cuffs on him."
He opened the car door, the blast of trapped heat escaping the cabin. "But until then? Stop pacing. You’re going to give yourself heatstroke, and I’m not carrying you back inside."
Frankie looked at him, a small, frustrated smile tugging at her mouth. "You're a pain in the ass, Thorne."
"And yet, I'm the only one who buys you better coffee than that sludge in the breakroom," he teased, gesturing for her to get in. "Come on. Let’s go over the crime scene photos one more time. Maybe your 'vibes' can find something my polaroids missed."
