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Jonathan Farrell noticed the police tape marking off a section of the field to his right and glanced quickly to the passenger seat. Thankfully, his girlfriend showed no sign of having seen the crime scene, he was sure she would have said something if she had.
“Where are you taking me?” Cynthia Potter asked, a touch of concern in her voice as the car turned off the narrow road they were driving along; the dark path they were now on looked as though it belonged in a horror movie. “This doesn’t look like the kind of place we should be.”
“Don’t worry, it looks worse than it is,” Jonathan told her. “When the sun’s out – it was typical, he thought, that after a sunny weekend, this evening had to be cloudy – this area looks great, trust me, I’ve been here before.”
“With other girls?” Cynth
