CHAPTER SEVEN
Harley slipped on a pair of sunglasses as she drove, protecting her eyes against the late morning sun that baked the asphalt and cast shimmering waves of heat across the broken, stunted landscape on either side. She watched the scenery change from scattered junipers to cane cholla. It was a brutal beauty, a land of endurance where only that which could withstand the heat and the sand would survive.
And oh, how Harley had missed it during her years on the East Coast.
Callaway nodded and made murmuring sounds of agreement, his phone pressed to his ear as he spoke with Frank Isidore, the forensic pathologist in charge of conducting autopsies on the four cavern victims. He had tried switching to speaker mode, but Isidore—who, by the sound of it, was old enough to be Harley’s g
