P A M E L A | C R A N E

A single picture exposes a truth deadly enough to kill for.

Disgraced photojournalist Shari Catalano built her new life on a lie. There’s a reason she can’t trust her instincts or her friends. Because someone close to her found what she keeps sealed in a hidden room, and they’re using it to torment her. 

When her friend vanishes and the evidence points to Shari, finding her stalker becomes a matter of life or…life in prison. From behind her vintage camera lens, she watches the quiet suburban street that suddenly feels staged, every neighbor a suspect. Then a stranger turns up in Doomwood Falls, so she snaps a picture and develops the film.

What she sees in her darkroom chills her to the bone. 

Exposing it could be deadly. Because Shari has a secret too, one that explains why she never allows her own picture to be taken, and why nowhere is safe to hide.

Now someone is watching Shari. They discovered what she’s done. And they know what she’s running from. 

She’s taken one photograph too many.

“Put on a neck brace before reading, because the twists are so good you’re guaranteed to get whiplash!” ­­– reader review ★★★★★

Prologue

It takes a lot to ruin a brisk hike under an autumn-colored canopy, but hiding a body usually does the trick. For the record, I didn’t set out this morning to conceal a murder. It just sort of happened. Things like that seem to “happen” a lot to me lately.

Sunlight slices through the burgundy and goldenrod remains of leaves clinging for dear life above me. The dirt footpath that winds along the shore of Doomwood Falls dips and curves around the massive roots of hibernating trees. I inhale the woodsy scent, but it’s no use. The panic itching under my skin still persists. 

I thought a walk might ease the growing tension between my shoulders, but after the week I’ve had, I’m not sure anything will help. The hit-and-run. The break-in. The police interrogation. The fistfight… It’s all too much for one person to handle, and the package I received has me constantly on edge. I have an ominous feeling my past has clawed its way back to me.

I’m almost on the other side of the river when something large floats toward me, giving the distinct feeling that it’s about to complicate my day. As if it could get more complicated. Most people see nature and think serenity. I see it and start planning my alibi. 

The current nudges whatever it is toward me, while rocks disturb its path as it bumps against them. A branch snapping behind me yanks my attention away. The sound reminds me that I’m probably being watched, as I have been since my neighbor disappeared a week ago. But her disappearance is the exact reason I’m here, because my gut tells me I’m close to finding her and this place holds the clue I’m searching for. 

Another crack is followed by the rustle of leaves.

“Is someone there?” I call out, hoping to scare away a predatorial animal… or predatorial human. Nothing would surprise me these days.

Of course no one replies, and I can’t see anything through the dense brush. So I return my attention to the water’s murky surface, which shimmers innocently in the fading daylight. But it’s just a facade masking a sinister truth about Doomwood Falls: This town is full of secrets. Even the name Doomwood Falls zaps an icy shiver down my spine. 

The lump floats closer, then snags on a branch jutting out from the shore. At first I think it’s a log, but it’s not quite the right shape or color. It dislodges itself and the river spits it out, depositing it onto the pebbled bank downstream. Mud suctions my boots as I squelch toward it. Only when I’m a few steps away do I comprehend what I’m seeing. 

A ragged gasp catches in my throat as the definitely-not-a-log spins slowly around to face me, a gruesome dance in the current’s lazy embrace. It’s a body. Facing downward, a head lolls on the waves with long, dark hair matted in river sludge. Both arms are outstretched in a gesture of surrender. The clothes are nearly translucent, and the skin peeking out between folds of fabric is an unnatural, sickening shade of gray.

I don’t move, not at first. Then I inch closer with a morbid curiosity like a leash pulling me forward. Is this… no, it can’t be my missing friend. I stoop down, but the face is pressed into the muck, showing only the back of a head and curve of a neck. But the waves of ink-black hair are the right color—or terribly wrong color, if this is who I fear it is…

Closing my eyes, I can’t allow the worst-case scenario to surface in my brain. Instead, an awful silence replaces it, all my usual ADD thoughts now replaced by the lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub of my racing heart. I crouch with a foolish flicker of hope that the woman might still be alive, so I flip the body over with a grunt.  

Nope. Definitely dead.

Debris masks her face, so I kneel to wipe it aside, revealing features that are unrecognizable. The flesh has been picked apart by fish, or the Loch Ness monster, or whatever lives in these waters. Whoever this woman is has been dead in the water too long. 

A glint catches my eye, and not it’s not her face that my eyes are drawn to anymore, rather something else on the body. A gut-wrenching realization steals the air from my lungs as my gaze travels downward and lands on something so shocking it sends me butt-first onto the ground. 

What I’m looking at is impossible, but it’s right there in front of me. I jump to my feet and remove the object with shaky fingers. I pocket it with a dreadful realization that this is more than just a random drowning I’ve stumbled on. This was intended for me. And if anyone finds this body, any hope of a future for me will unravel. This woman’s death was planned to put me behind bars… or six feet under, whichever comes first.

Panic takes hold and spurs me to action. I have no choice but to disappear with this evidence, because although I could plead my innocence in this person’s murder—and yes, I am now one hundred percent sure it was murder—I’ll definitely be convicted for it. Especially because I have a prior record.

I recall the snap of wood behind me moments ago and scan the woods. Has anyone witnessed me here tampering with this body? I listen for human sounds: breathing, footsteps, cell phone alerts, anything that might reveal someone else is here. Nothing but silence. An eerie, suffocating silence. It’s just me and this dead woman. Hopefully. 

Now what?

I should run. I could turn around, get back in my car, and flee for another town. Or another state. Heck, to be safe I should probably pick another country. But my feet are rooted to the spot, two heavy anchors in the soft earth, because I’m tired of running. I consider an unthinkable option and take a step toward the body, then another as the wet ground sucks at my soles. Then I do something very stupid.

I touch the body.

Just the sleeve at first. Then the arm. It’s cold, stiff, and heavier than I expected. The flesh is waterlogged, and I have a horrifying image of skin sliding off the muscles and bone as I grab both arms and start dragging her back into deeper water. By now something primal has taken over, and I don’t know what I’m doing until I’m doing it. 

I scramble up the embankment and grab a large rock. Then another and another. My limbs move on autopilot, like I’ve done this before—burying the evidence. In a way, I suppose I’m a pro at this now. 

With my palms blue and bleeding and my nails caked in mud, I keep collecting handfuls of rocks until I figure it’s enough. Then I pull the corpse deeper into the river at my waist level, while my heart punches at my ribs. The cold seeps through my sleeves, through my skin, into my bones. But I keep pulling her deeper while my boots slip and slide further in. 

When I reach as far as I can safely go, the body groans, a soft, gassy sound of protest that bubbles up to the water’s surface. I yelp and let go, imagining her eyes popping open as she comes to life, but that’s not what happens. The bubbles eventually stop, and she’s still dead. 

Now submerged up to my chin, I drop the largest stone onto her chest cavity. It lands with a sickening splash, and the body sinks about an inch. Not even close to where I need it. Taking the handfuls I’ve got tucked into the folds of my shirt and pockets, I jam more rocks under the waistband of her pants, into her pant pockets, down her sleeves… shoving them anywhere they’ll fit while watching the body sink below the surface, slowly, like it’s thinking about it.

I return to shore for more handfuls, loading her with rocks again and again until finally she disappears. And then she’s swallowed whole.

I heave myself back up to shore and collapse onto the dirt, breath gone, muscles shaking. I’m not relieved, because I know what’s coming. Someone’s going to find the body eventually. And when they do, they’ll come looking for me. And what will I do then? I’ll do what I’ve been doing since I first arrived in Doomwood Falls. I’ll disappear, just like that body. Well, let’s hope it’s not exactly like that body, because I’d prefer to make it out of this alive. 

Placing my hand into my pocket, I touch the object—still there. It’s evidence that ties this crime to me, but it’s also a clue. I don’t know who killed this woman or why, but if I do know anything, it’s how to survive.