Cade Rylan hated crime scenes, not for the blood — he’d seen worse — but for the silence that lingered afterwards. The Crane residence was too quiet, as if the storm had swept the life out of the place along with its owner.
He stepped into the library, eyes scanning every surface. Judge Crane sat in his chair, face slack, skin pale, his brandy glass resting exactly where it should be. Nothing overturned. No forced entry. No sign of struggle.
The rookie detective muttered, “Heart attack?”
Cade crouched beside the chair, pulling on gloves. “No. Look at the neck. Silk fibre residue. Whoever did this made it look peaceful. It wasn’t.”
He’d been on her trail for months — a phantom who chose her victims with surgical precision, all of them predators in positions of power. No fingerprints. No
