(Three months earlier)

I knelt down next to the cold slab of granite, pressing my hand against my daughter’s name.

Annemarie Taskill.

My fingers traced the carved dates that forever marked the beginning and the ending of her short life.

Six months had passed since her murder. The media sensation her death created had died down somewhat, lost in the flurry of new stories fighting to win more shocking headlines. Annmarie was just a vague memory to those seeking bigger and more intoxicating stories. For that I was thankful.

Although the murder of a child certainly retained the story’s strength, thrill-seekers had moved on. After months of hiding, I finally had some quiet time alone with my girl without the raucous of camera crews and helicopters interrupting us.

I sat on the grass next to her small grave marker and hung Annmarie’s necklace over the thick slab. My father had made the piece of jewelry for me before I was born. Annmarie loved the stained-glass pendant so much I’d given it to her for her fourth birthday. My only regret was that my father had never seen her wear it. 

When the light hit the glass just right it cast a magical image below that always made me think of my father. He’d been a master jeweler and a gifted artist. In a world haunted by darkness, he had been my one bright light. I missed him almost as much as I missed Annmarie.

I tucked my feet underneath me, toying with the pendant, watching the images dance across the grass below. I was grateful for the remote area of the cemetery where I’d chosen to bury Annmarie. It afforded me, and her, the privacy we hadn’t had in a long time. I wanted my daughter’s afterlife to be more peaceful than the one she’d had on earth.

“Excuse me ma’am,” someone called behind me.

I jumped. God, not another reporter, please. I glanced up and saw a man standing close by.

He was smoking a cigar and wore a full suit, a black trench coat, and a fedora hat, even in the warm Texas heat. Something deep in my stomach clenched in warning, like it had just before Annemarie’s murder.

“I’m sorry to bother you ma’am. My name’s Miller, Deputy Hal Miller.” He stepped closer.

Releasing the pendant, I stood, dusting off my jeans. “This is a private area. How did you get here?”

His eyes narrowed and a slow grin spread across his mouth. “Not too private, I guess.”

Something vile churned in my stomach. Maybe he was another interloper, wanting to make a quick buck on my daughter’s death.

I fisted her hands, preparing for a fight. “What do you want?”

“Like I said, my name is Miller, Deputy Miller. I’m with the Texas Rangers.”

“The baseball team?” I asked.

He chuckled. “No ma’am. The law enforcement agency of Texas.”

“Oh.” I let my gaze roam over his small form. I had a difficult time believing the Texas Rangers would recruit someone like him. He looked nothing like Chuck Norris from the TV show, Walker Texas Ranger. And his accent was off. He definitely wasn’t originally from Texas and something in my stomach tightened.

“Can we talk somewhere in private?” he asked.

I glanced over my shoulder at the expanse of field. “It doesn’t get much more private than this.”

He laughed but there was little amusement.

“How did you find me?” I asked becoming increasingly perturbed. Law enforcement had ceased interviewing me weeks ago.

“I’ve been in contact with the local police department and they shared the details of your daughter’s case with me.”

Why would the Austin Police Department or the FBI share anything with a Texas Ranger, I wondered. None of this was making any sense.

“First, I want to offer my deepest condolences on your losses,” he said.

“I only lost one person I loved.” I corrected. “My daughter. The death of my ex-husband does not count as a loss to me.”

He nodded. “I understand, please forgive me.”

“You still haven’t told me what you want,” I said with more force.

I was growing impatient with this man. He’d interrupted the only quiet time I had with my daughter.

“I need to speak to you about a very important matter,” he said. “It concerns the murder of your daughter.”

A bolt of anxiety shot through me from head to heel, leaving me lightheaded. What did this man want?

As if understanding my unease, he pulled out a wallet from his trench coat, opening it and holding it out for me.

I stood in place, hands folded around my waist as I studied the wallet. On one side was a large silver circle with a five-point Texas star with the words “Texas Ranger” engraved at the bottom. On the other side, protected by a clear sleeve, was a photo ID.

I glanced up and studied his face, his beady eyes holding my gaze before I studied the photo again. The I.D. said his name was Halbert J. Miller but something still felt off.

He moved around me to the tree I stood beside. “I bet this old beauty is at least two hundred years old.”

I couldn’t care less how old the tree was. I wanted this man gone. “Look Mr. Miller—”

“Deputy Miller,” he corrected.

“Look, Deputy Miller,” I said sarcastically, “you still haven’t told me why you’re here and what you want with me.”

He pushed off the tree and folded one hand under his arm, scrubbing his chin with the other. “What if I were to tell you that your daughter’s death wasn’t a murder/suicide at the hands of your ex-husband but two separate homicides?

I stood, slack-jawed, white spots invading my vision.

He stepped closer, his hands falling to his sides. “What if I told you your ex-husband didn’t drown your daughter in the bathtub, killing her before killing himself?”

I recoiled in shock at the reminder of the way my daughter had been murdered.

“What if I told you one person killed them both? A double homicide.”

The white spots spread, blinding me as my world spun and flashed to black.

I stood in a large field but this time it wasn’t filled with budding flowers and flowing grass. This place was overgrown with weeds obstructing my view. “Annmarie,” I shouted. “Annmarie!”

Nothing.

No sound. No memories. Only darkness. Again.